The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  “You're going to feel woozy for a little while, I'm afraid.”

  Hatcher tried to focus his eyes. The pounding in his head didn't help.

  “Try not to struggle. There's an IV in your arm. To hydrate you. Help keep your electrolytes stable.”

  “Would you mind crushing up a couple dozen aspirin and tossing that in?”

  “Yes, I'm sure you have quite a headache, too. Sorry about that. The dosage was calculated with care, but it presumed you'd be wearing a shirt.”

  The man was sitting on a wooden bench, bent forward, hands clasped loosely together, arms resting across his knees. He regarded Hatcher with a look that seemed one part compassion, two parts something else. Curiosity, maybe.

  Hatcher's mouth was dry enough to feel brittle. He cleared his throat. “Amy.”

  “If you're referring to your companion, she's fine, as far as I know. Left right where she was. I apologize for the violence. The bean bag was meant for you. The etorphine paintball shells were intended as a back-up. You'll have to forgive the young men I sent. I doubt it was overzealousness as much as nerves. I take full responsibility.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk. Then, after you hear me out, perhaps you'll understand why I had to bring you here.”

  Hatcher clenched and unclenched his eyes a few times. The blurring started to lessen. He could see some of the man's features. He was slim, angular. Thinning hair receding into curves separated by a peninsula of long strands. A few more blinks, and his vision cleared more. Young eyes, Hatcher noted. Despite the crow's feet.

  “We could have talked at the hotel. I've heard sometimes people even do it over food.”

  “I would have liked that very much. But no, I'm afraid. I have reason to believe showing my face in public may not be wise.”

  “Well, if you brought me here to talk, you might as well get it over with.”

  The man nodded. “First, I must again apologize for what transpired. Given what was known, and the risks involved, I really went about it in the safest way there was. That said, I'm prepared to remove your restraints, if you will promise me you won't attempt to retaliate. Honestly, I bound you like this for your own good. Hard as that may be for you to believe.”

  “You want me to pinky swear or something?”

  “Just give me your word. Listen to what I have to say, all of what I have to say, then you can go. But no violence, please.”

  “Do you really think a promise made like this is worth anything?”

  “Probably not. But my impression is that you are a man of honor, I thought it was worth a try.”

  “Been called a lot of things. Don't recall that ever being one of them.”

  “Just so we're clear, I'm going to release you so we can talk under better conditions. From what I know of you, your background, you are likely to pride yourself on knowing when someone is being truthful. So, please, look at me and make that assessment when I tell you that any attempt at violence against me would end badly for you. Quite badly. That's not intended as a threat.”

  Hatcher said nothing. He didn't have enough energy to focus like that, and even if he did he knew it wouldn't be worth much. The ability to read body language and spot indications of deception – something he was highly adept at – wasn't the same as being a lie detector. People could mask their non-verbals, especially for a short time when they were hyper-aware of being analyzed. Even so, something about the man's demeanor, his calm, measured tone, his easy pose, struck a chord.

  There was also the fact he wasn't feeling particularly ready to start anything, anyway.

  “I'm not going to attack you. But I'm only agreeing to stick around long enough to hear what you have to say, then I'm leaving. And all bets are off if someone tries to stop me.”

  The man slapped his hands against his knees and stood. “Fair enough.”

  The straps fell away as the man undid them and Hatcher felt his weight drop to his legs. The man pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the zip ties around Hatcher's wrists. Hatcher tried to stand, felt the blood rush into his legs. The man steadied him and helped him up.

  “My name is Micah.”

  “I can't say I'm pleased to meet you, Micah.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn't be. Come. Let me show you around.”

  The first few steps were shaky, and each footfall seemed to knife through his body and stab his brain. Things improved by the time he reached the doorway, his balance steadying, his circulation normalizing.

  But then he stepped through and wondered if he was still unconscious. They emerged onto a hillside, the details glowing a blueish silver in the moonlight. Paths and plateaus and ridges. Buildings made of stone and clay. Torches lighting doorways, candles guttering in openings with no glass.

  Micah stepped in front of him, sweeping an arm out from one side of the hill to the other. “Welcome, Mr Hatcher. To Armageddon, USA.”

  Chapter 15

  “It's a Doomsday Cult,” Bartlett said, interrupting. He slapped his hand on the table for emphasis. Sahara Doyle looked over to him and waited, a pinch of forced patience in her eyes. He nodded for her to continue.

  “Yes,” Sahara said. “Well, regardless of how you characterize it, they are definitely up to something. I was apparently their next target.”

  Amy chewed on the information. She ran her gaze from one end of the room to the other. It was set up like a strategy center – one long conference table in the middle, a dry erase board centered along the side, opposite the window that overlooked the rec area where she'd blown a hole in the wall. There were several maps hung on one end with red circles and yellow flags, a clear plexiglass map on a wall table with numbers and words scribbled in magic marker, and three flatscreen TVs running news channels on mute. Along the shorter end wall, a mostly bare counter with a closed laptop and a metal supply cabinet.

  “And you're saying these people have Jake?”

  “It's the only thing that makes sense,” Bartlett said. He was seated at the end of the table, near the wall of maps. One of his men, the tall black one, stood off to the side. Amy tried to remember what Bartlett had called him. Calvin, maybe. That sounded right. Other than those two, she and the psychic were the only others in the room, several of Bartlett's other men visible through the wide interior window, milling around the rec area, cleaning up. “We already had information they were going to make an attempt on Ms Doyle here.”

  Amy's hand was raw and sticky from where she'd peeled off the duct tape. She looked down at it, thought about the dead-man's switch. A complete bluff. The ingredients of her makeshift bomb sat on a shelf against the wall next to a lonely laptop. Bartlett had shaken his head and smiled grimly while inspecting it.

  “And you say you've been following this... cult, monitoring their activities for months now?”

  “Yes, but it hasn't been easy. We only recently learned where they're holed up.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Some place in Connecticut. An old religious theme park. Abandoned.”

  Amy nodded, though she had a hard time envisioning a religious theme park, let alone an abandoned one. “What got them on your radar?”

  Bartlett flicked a glance at the psychic. “For some time now, we've been involved in certain operations, pursuing leads to track down unusual activity. Disrupt the various pieces of what I fear is part of a scheme to finish something set in motion a couple of years ago.”

  “Couple of years ago. You mean, the stuff Jake was dragged into. He told me the whole story, about how you made it sound like you were trying prevent the end of the world. Or something.”

  “You might call it that,” the general said, shrugging. “Maybe the beginning of a new one, ushered in with a totally different catastrophe of Biblical proportions. Either way, I don't want to find out.”

  “And this
group, that's what they're trying to accomplish? The end of the world?”

  “Frankly, I have no idea what their actual plans are. I only know they're leaving fingerprints in suspicious places. Their leader's recruitment pitch seems focused on a coming apocalypse of some sort. If they'd confined themselves to some compound in Idaho and stocked up on canned goods and ammunition, we wouldn't be discussing them. But for whatever reason we discovered they were looking to get their hands on a woman who just happens to be famous around the world as a psychic. And I don't need to remind you that someone grabbed Hatcher around the exact same time.”

  Amy passed a glance to Sahara, who sat sphinx-like a few feet away. “But why? I don't think he knew they existed. I certainly didn't.”

  “You're thinking like a police officer,” Bartlett said. “Worrying about proving motive. You could drive yourself insane, trying to understand the mind of a fanatic. We're not going to court. When you're dealing with hostile forces, you can't afford to concern yourself with the details of your opponent's intentions. We have to look at their capabilities. Concern over enemy intentions opens you up to being manipulated, sent down rabbit trails, falling for disinformation and phony intel.”

  Amy looked through the blinds, watched the men sitting around, shooting glances toward the window, talking to each other out of the sides of their mouths. A few were still sweeping up the mess with brooms and trash cans. Lonnie was one of them. Young men in short sleeves, camo trousers.

  Bare arms. An adhesive bandage on each, just below the crook of their arms, the white of a cotton ball protruding.

  She looked over at Calvin, same thing. Adhesive bandage, cotton. The others had all had one, too. That was what had seemed odd to her before.

  “Why all the band-aids, General?”

  Bartlett's brow furrowed. He glanced at Sahara, annoyed. “This may come as a surprise to you, Detective, but these young men have a strong sense of community spirit. We've been holding blood drives. Community service. Some of the men are trained medics. We go around regularly and set up donation spots.”

  “Admirable,” she said, not quite believing it, but seeing no reason not to. “I heard about that from a local.”

  “I find it helps keep the men invested. Reminds them of what matters, why sacrifices must be made. That sometimes blood must be shed for the greater good, the way Christ gave of his.”

  “You talk like you're fighting a holy war, General.”

  “Because a war is exactly what it is. Asymmetrical, unconventional, in many ways unprecedented. But most definitely a war. And, I would add, a war we can't afford to lose. I would call that holy, wouldn't you?”

  She shifted her gaze squarely to Sahara. “You agree with this?”

  “I wish I didn't have to. I don't like thinking of it that way, placing human terms, martial terms, on spiritual matters. It would seem to trivialize it. But I can't really say it's inaccurate. I confess I spoke similarly when I met with your Jake. The problem I have is that I'm a reluctant warrior in these things. Pressed into service, you might say.”

  Bartlett rolled his eyes. Apparently, he had little regard for anything less than a highly motivated warrior.

  Amy had heard enough. Almost an hour of it, sitting there, listening to what sounded to her like a portion of lies served in a casserole of half-truths. She'd been tired when she first sat down, bonking from the adrenaline drain. Once she'd realized Hatcher wasn't there, she'd progressed through stages – confusion, denial, anger, then a debilitating fatigue. But now she was starting to feel wired, perked up by a sense at least one of them was hiding something. Hiding something meant guilt. Her mind was whirling. She kept picturing Sahara Doyle leaving her office, marching out like a queen with her court. She stared through the blinds, watching Bartlett's men. Strength in numbers.

  “Can we back up a little bit?” Amy eased her chair back from the table and rotated it to face Sahara. She slid to the edge of the seat. “Explain to me again how you got here?”

  “You'd have to ask him.” Sahara nodded to the general.

  Perhaps it was fatigue, wearing away all doubt, perhaps it was something that clicked in her subconscious during the prior hour of semi-informative palaver, but Amy felt herself overwhelmed with a sense of certainty, a certainty she knew was premature, unwarranted and completely speculative. She decided to run with it.

  “I'm asking you.”

  “I told you,” Bartlett said, interjecting. His tone crept up a notch. “We approached Ms Doyle here and requested she allow us to protect her. We had reason to believe she might be in danger.”

  Eyes still on Sahara, Amy said, “Frankly, General, even if you believe that, I don't.”

  Sahara Doyle said nothing. She held Amy's gaze without blinking.

  “And,” Amy added, “neither does she.”

  Bartlett sat up in his chair, leaning forward against the table's edge and clasping his hands. “What are you saying?”

  “Tell me how you got this information, again?”

  “We have our sources. And because I want to continue to have them, I don't go around naming them.”

  “Sources. Like, some supernatural snitch network? I was an NYPD cop for twelve years, General. I worked informants left and right. And since I doubt you have some witch or Carnate or demon or whatever in your pocket, and even more certain you don't have someone undercover in any of those circles, what you're really saying is, you got a tip. I'm going to venture it came from what you would consider the inside. If it were inside this cult, you'd have known about Hatcher. There's only one other inside I can think of. One of her people.”

  Bartlett tightened his mouth, one side of it turning up. It was a forced expression, a mask. He was hiding his reaction. Amy knew she was onto something.

  “A tip, from an inside source who contacted you, not the other way around. Let me guess, some vague story about how she heard about you from a friend who had a friend whose brother was in the Army, heard you were battling dark forces, or something like that. She played you.”

  “Let's assume you're getting the facts right. Why would she do something like that?”

  “That's exactly what I was hoping she would explain.”

  “I'm not exactly sure what you're accusing me of,” Sahara said. “Arranging my own friendly abduction by General Bartlett?”

  “More or less.”

  “And you base this on what?”

  She was on a roll now, she could feel it. The general himself had nailed it, prompting an epiphany. She didn't have to worry about evidence, about satisfying some lazy-ass DA from a connected family who graduated at the bottom third of his class and whose major concern was being the mayor's golden boy, didn't have to worry about a boss or precinct captain or even a friggin' jury. She only had to worry about being right. Hatcher’s world. She'd thought she'd understood it, but now realized she'd failed to appreciate one aspect. It wasn't without rules. It was simply governed by different ones. Ones she was starting to learn, to even appreciate. Ones that rewarded initiative and wits and instincts.

  “On the fact that when something seems like a remarkable coincidence,” she said, turning to Sahara, her voice brimming with confident energy, and more than a hint of indignation. “It's usually not a coincidence at all. You arrange to have Jake track you down in Vegas, give him some message that sends him to New York to hunt for clues, then you just happen to get picked up by the general's men not hours apart from three guys smashing into our hotel room and kidnapping him. You set this up.”

  “I had absolutely nothing to do with him being taken. That's the truth.”

  “Oh, I'm not talking about that part. But you wanted Bartlett to come find you. You're the one who arranged that 'source'. You wanted him to go get you.” She shot a sideways glance at the general, letting him know the next words proved a point. “What I want to know is, why?”

>   The woman said nothing. Amy eyed her, then looked over to Bartlett, who was staring at the table, reading something visible only to him. He was not the type to look shaken, but she figured this was close enough.

  “You can go ahead and say what's on your mind, General. I'm pretty sure I already know.”

  He raised his eyes from the table, his look intense and curious. “Then perhaps you can explain it to me.”

  “Fine. Your source is someone on team Doyle. If I had to guess, I'd say it was the tall brunette I saw in the lobby yesterday.”

  “I've never seen her,” Bartlett said. “But that's not inconsistent with what I know.”

  “So, you get an inside tip... no wait.” Her thoughts were sprinting now, rushing to make connections, fill in holes. “You wouldn't act on information like that without vetting it first. Not unless it was from a known source who's given you reliable information in the past. Yes, this was a tip, but not the first from this informant. She's given you information before. That makes even more sense.”

  Bartlett tipped back in his chair, genuinely interested. “And why is that?”

  “Because, General, the renowned Sahara Doyle has been the one feeding you those tips all along.”

  Sahara sat up, took in a long breath. The sound of someone growing bored. “It's not what you think.”

  “It's not? I saw you leave with an entourage yesterday. You knew someone was after you.”

  “And how is that inconsistent with what the general said?”

  Bartlett spoke up. “She has a point, Detective. You're right. Our source was on the inside. I admit that's an impressive deduction. But she was upfront that her information came from Ms Doyle. I don't see how this makes a big difference.”

  Amy paused. She was following the right trail, she knew it. She just had to keep a hold of that thread of thought, not let it slip out of her mind's grasp.

  “Wait a second. This source of yours, did she tell you where this information came from? How Sahara knew?”