The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  Hatcher pressed the key fob to unlock the car door. He made Amy cross behind the vehicle to get to the passenger side, not wanting her getting anywhere near Deborah. She tightened her eyes at him but said nothing.

  He opened the door and stood there, waiting for Amy to get in. He looked over at Deborah. “Last chance,” he said.

  She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “Are you really that dense, Hatcher? Instead of asking me all these things, why don't you ask yourself a few questions. Like, did you find what you came here to find? If not, why do you think someone sent you here?”

  “Because they didn't want me somewhere else.”

  The face she made, eyebrows arched, jaw slack, chin stuck forward, was like schoolyard taunt to make someone feel stupid.

  “But that doesn't make sense,” he said, catching her hint. “If I'm so dangerous to their plans, why not just kill me? Why send me on a wild goose chase and try to get some dirty cops to do it?”

  “Maybe you're not as easy to kill as you think,” she said, dropping the cigarette and grounding it out with her pump. A long stream of smoke billowed from her lips. “Maybe you're under someone's protection.”

  “Protection? Whose?”

  Deborah shrugged. She put a hand on the cement floor of the dock behind her and her legs made a sudden, graceful arc as she cartwheeled up and over, her feet smoothly touching down. She finished not like a gymnast, but like a finishing school graduate who'd done nothing more than take a step back.

  “We all have to serve somebody, Hatcher,” she said. She turned and looked over her shoulder as she walked toward the door. “Whose bidding have you been doing lately?”

  Chapter 29

  The Citation got them to Tucson by mid-afternoon. They had a rental waiting. A small sedan, nicely equipped.

  “It's a shame these private charters don't give us miles,” Amy said, pulling the seat belt across her lap and fastening it. “We'd have a free trip around the world by now.”

  Hatcher hummed in agreement, adjusting the mirror and then the seat before starting the engine. The flight had cost almost eighteen thousand dollars, but flying commercial would have cost them hours he knew they couldn't spare. And they would have had to ditch the weapons. “You're going to have to navigate,” he said.

  Amy nodded. “I'm still not sure I understand all of it.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  There were so many gaps in his knowledge he wasn't certain where to begin. It was all a trick, it had to be. A ploy to keep him as far from Bartlett's silo as possible. It was the only thing that made sense. Amy was thinking the same thing, but they hadn't had much of a chance to work through all the knowns and unknowns. They'd been too tired to think straight, too spent after the ordeal with the East River Boys, and they crashed for a few hours in a motel until it was late enough in the morning to start trying to arrange a charter, then slept again most of the flight. Even so, they were both still operating on a deficiency, wired and jittery. He knew that wasn't exactly conducive to figuring things out.

  The airport was a small, regional one. The general aviation charter area didn't even have a parking lot. He'd paid over the phone to have the car waiting near the hangars. He pulled the car out of a side gate that had its own guardhouse. The guard waved him through, not caring at all who was leaving, only who might try to enter.

  “You really think Sahara is in on it?”

  Hatcher frowned. “The fact she sent you to find me certainly doesn't weigh against it.”

  “Okay,” Amy said, clasping her hands in front of her face like she was trapping her nose between her palms. She paused for a moment to think. “Let's assume she is. What about Bartlett?”

  “It's hard for me to imagine, but who knows? This is supposed to be some plot to depose the friggin' Prince of Darkness himself. Maybe the crazy son of a bitch thinks backing a coup is God's will or something.”

  “So, that would mean Deborah tried to point you in the right direction from the start.”

  Hatcher watched the road. The sun was almost directly in front of them, low in the sky. He thought about the map. “It looks that way.”

  “I don't care. I still don't trust that woman.”

  He swung his head to look at her. “I hope you don't think I do.”

  “There's something going on between you.” She held up a hand. “Before you protest, I'm not saying you've done anything. I'm saying there's something there.”

  “She certainly enjoys jerking me around, if that's what you mean.”

  “It's more than that. She has some weird thing for you, I can understand that. What I don't understand is the way you are with her. It's like you like having her taunt you.”

  “Amy, I don't—”

  “Maybe I'm just being possessive. I'll give you that. But like I said, it's weird. It probably wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't know about those pheromones they give off. She's a sexpot as it is, and I don't like the idea that she's turning you on that way whenever she's close. And I don’t like how you seem to find reasons to let her get close.” She pulled a foot up and tucked it under one leg, then leaned deeper into the seat. She stared out the window at the bright landscape. “They should at least make a perfume that does what those pheromones do, so it would be fair. Or maybe a cologne that neutralizes it.”

  Hatcher felt himself react. He was suddenly more awake, more focused, as his head snapped to look at her. “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing. Just grumbling.”

  “No, about perfume. You said something about perfume.”

  “That I wished they could bottle something like those pheromones you told me they give off?”

  “No, after that. Neutralize it, you said.”

  “I meant for you. Cologne or something. It was a joke.” She adjusted herself in the seat, sitting up and shifting to face him. “What? You look like you just thought of something.”

  Hatcher nodded, eyes back on the road. He held up a finger, gesturing for her to let him think. Perfume. Sahara Doyle's assistant, the statuesque brunette, had given off a strong, citrusy fragrance. So had the clerk at the hotel in New York where Deborah had led him. Same scent. Two very attractive, some would say flawless, young women. But neither giving him reason to believe they were Carnates. “I think this may have just gotten a bit more complicated.”

  Chapter 30

  The setting sun bathed the large billboard in an orange light and Gabriel could see just clearly enough through the dirty glass and cruddy screen of the camper door to make out what it said. ‘Welcome to New Mexico’

  Of course, they were traveling in the opposite direction, so he knew that meant they'd just left it. Gabriel had to think what state was next, couldn't be sure. But then he saw a sign for an Arizona Welcome Center on the side of the highway, the side they were on.

  Arizona, he thought. He'd seen a movie on that little TV, or part of a movie, anyway, before the reception faded out, that took place in Arizona. A western. There had been a gunfight.

  He looked down at the knife. This would be the place, he told himself. This would be where he made his stand.

  Mrs Norman had been careless. It wasn't uncommon for them to pull the truck over and enter the camper for some reason during the drive, especially to use the toilet. Or sometimes if it was too hot or cold, or raining or snowing, they would eat at the tiny table. They rarely ate in restaurants. Gabriel concluded they did not like leaving him in the camper for that long in a parking lot in broad daylight where other people who passed close by might hear him shouting or pounding. Not that he'd ever done that, but he'd certainly thought about doing things like that, and he figured they must have expected he would. They always picked remote motels, and parked at the far end of almost vacant lots.

  But the truth was, he wouldn't have tried anything. He knew the Normans weren't like others.
He knew they were different, even though he didn't know anyone else to compare them with. He could tell from the TV shows he watched, or tried to watch whenever the reception allowed. He could tell from the books he read and reread. They had killed that family, those two boys he'd played with. They had killed his mother and kept him prisoner. They were not normal people in any way. They were the Bad Men. And getting someone's attention, pleading for them to let him out, would likely get that person killed. He would not know how to warn them. Would not know what words to use. It was better to not try at all.

  So he had waited, waited until he was ready to do something himself. Success occurred when preparation met opportunity. Many of the novels he had read, some of them numerous times, involved violence. He studied those scenes carefully. Some of the television shows, too. He decided that what separated the violence that worked from the violence that failed was hesitation. One of the characters in a book had even said so. He told himself he would not hesitate. All he needed was the opportunity.

  That opportunity was not far off. At the last stop, Mrs Norman had brought in some oranges and sliced them into quarters on the table. She also cut a block of cheese into chunks. She did this using Mr Norman's knife. She was still doing it when Mr Norman finished urinating in the tiny toilet and then paused at the door to the camper, looking down at her, and told her not to take too long. Something passed between them, Gabriel thought. Something unspoken. The way they held eye contact, the way Mr Norman just stood there motionless before abruptly turning to leave.

  Gabriel wondered if they were having a disagreement about something. He had never heard them argue, not seriously, anyway, but he could not hear most of their conversations. They either took place in motel rooms while he was locked away for the night, or while on the highway, with the revving engine and hum of the road drowning out any chance at eavesdropping.

  Whatever it was, he knew it was something distracting enough that it made her sloppy. She finished slicing the cheese, placing the pieces into one plastic container and the orange slices into another. Gabriel watched from the bunk, wishing she would just leave so he could go back to reading or trying the TV again. She stepped to the tiny little sink, pumped the handle a few times, then rinsed the knife blade and placed it on the counter. Then she repeated the process and washed her hands. She searched around a moment for something to dry them on, then retrieved a napkin from her purse. She pressed the lids onto the two containers and used the napkin to wipe the table. Then she picked up her purse and left the camper. He could hear her fumble with the lock after closing the door, could see her shadow moving down through the opaque window, as if she had to put everything on the ground to free her hands. A few seconds later, a door to the truck squeaked, the camper rocked, and the engine rumbled to life.

  Gabriel stared at the knife for a long time, watched it rattle on the counter. Any moment, the truck would coast to a stop, and Mr Norman would rush back, unlock the door, and shove his scowling face into the doorway. He'd eye Gabriel angrily, then snap his eyes to the sink area, where Mrs Norman would have told him she'd left it.

  But the truck didn't stop. It throbbed along the highway like it always did, the whine of the engine filling his ears. The knife gently rattling in place.

  It was a trick, he told himself. A test. Some of those paperbacks contained them, one character leaving something for another character to find, to see what the other character would do. But that didn’t make sense to him. What was the test? To see if he left it where it was? To see if they could trust him? No, that couldn't be it. They didn't trust him. And he didn't expect them to, because he wasn't trustworthy.

  No, this was something else. He pictured Mr Norman, driving. No knife in his sheath. Would he notice? Yes, but maybe not right away. But maybe that didn't matter. Maybe he assumed she put it in her purse. Her purse was big enough. Barely, but big enough. Maybe he would never expect her to make a mistake like that.

  Maybe this was the opportunity.

  The truck drove for another two hours before taking an exit. Gabriel's eyes hadn't left the knife for more than a few moments the entire time. It was a big knife, but not overly so. He didn't know much about knives, had seen a few on television. But he knew this one was big enough. The blade was longer than the distance from the base of his palm to his longest finger. It had a rough handle that looked like it was carved from some kind of tree, but felt harder than wood. He touched the tip of the blade to his thumb, then jerked it away. The point was sharp; sharp enough a bubble of blood bulged out of his thumb. He wiped it on his pants. They were filthy anyway.

  Taking action meant acting with the Three Ps: purpose, passion and planning. He'd read those sections, knew what those things meant. Purpose meant having a goal. Passion meant giving it your all. And planning meant thinking through the steps that would allow you to achieve your goal if you gave it your all.

  He hefted the knife, pictured himself using it. His purpose would be to escape. He would have no problem giving it his all. His plan was to kill the Normans. This would be his opportunity.

  The camper started to take on that dull glow it always did at sunset as the truck rumbled along. They were no longer on an interstate, now traveling along a desolate byway. The terrain to each side was harsh. Open flatlands with rugged-looking growth. Large tubular cacti and small prickly plants forming clumps that dotted the landscape. Gabriel had no idea where they were headed, but it was not unusual for them to take roads that lead them far away from other people. Especially after they had killed someone.

  And they had definitely done that. Mr Norman had left the truck parked somewhere, engine running. Gabriel had overheard enough over the years to know the Cup told them where to go, then who to look for. They usually didn't question it. The Cup would tell them a place, then they would go there, Mrs Norman would shake it again a few times, and it would tell them who the person would be. From what he could gather from the snippets he'd picked up, it would be someone who would not be missed for a while – the Cup made sure of that for them – and it would be someone carrying cash. Gabriel hadn't seen who the Cup had selected, but he did hear Mr Norman tell her to count the money when he got back into the truck. The truck had been idling, it's rumble just loud enough that he couldn't hear much else.

  And now they were driving through the desert, probably to find a tiny motel in the middle of nowhere. That was an expression he'd read in one of the novels, and the very next day he'd heard it on a TV show. The middle of nowhere. He'd laid there on the bunk, thinking about that for at least an hour, what that meant. It was where he lived, all the time. The middle of nowhere.

  And that was where he would make a stand. He'd read that in one of those books, too. He liked it. It made him picture himself tall, standing over the Normans as they groveled for his mercy.

  The truck slowed, veering, and started bouncing as it moved. Gabriel pressed his face to a window and looked. The sky was darkening beneath the Darkness, and he realized there was no sliver of light left directly overhead, no patch of sky untouched by it. The Darkness was all there was, with nothing escaping the reach of its shadow. He suddenly had the sense that once the sun finished setting, there would be no light anymore. Not come morning, not ever.

  The camper bounced again, more violently this time, knocking Gabriel to the narrow floor. He dropped the knife and it clattered along the linoleum and slid back to the rear door. He scooted after it on all fours, then the truck bounced again and he cut himself trying to grab it. He clutched it tightly, holding it flat against his chest.

  Music. Loud, thumping vibrations of it, coming from the cab. The Normans occasionally listened to the radio, mostly people talking, news programs, but usually not very loud and never audible to him while the truck was driving. But this he could hear even from the floor of the camper near the door, far from his spot for listening up by the bunk.

  Gabriel didn't know much about music, on
ly the little bit he could pick up on TV. This music was very harsh sounding, lots of jarring noise, someone screaming words out over the notes. He did not know what to make of it. He tried to look out the windows, but night had fallen and the Darkness had taken over. He could perceive light, or lights here and there, but the windows were too dirty, the screens too cruddy to see through with the Darkness blanketing everything.

  He climbed up onto the bunk, the music so loud there it made it difficult for him to think. He squeezed the knife with both hands. Something was going to happen, one way or another. He had no choice but to sit, and wait.

  Minutes passed. Then the music stopped. It didn't seem to end, or fade out, it just stopped. The camper was layered in shadow. There was a light, but something made Gabriel afraid to move. He sat there, cloaked in darkness, and listened. There was a sound from the door, a clicking, a scratching. Then the door opened. Someone turned on the interior light.

  Gabriel shielded his eyes. He blinked away the brightness and saw it was Mrs Norman. Her head was down, as if she were deep in thought, and she seemed to be studying the floor. After a few long moments she raised her head and looked at him. She was wearing a gray trench coat, buttoned all the way down, and had both hands thrust into the pockets. She wore a serious expression, lips tight, eyes both disapproving and curious. For a moment, he panicked, realizing he had the knife. But even though it was in his hand, it was flat on the bunk, and she didn't seem to be able to see it.

  The woman stood there for seconds stretching into more seconds and looked at him, like she was expecting him to do something. She took a few steps toward the bunk and stopped. He looked into her eyes, but she only gazed at him more generally, her eyes floating over him without holding contact, like she was looking at something incapable of looking back. She removed one hand and held it out, opening it, showing him something. A small stick, a twig, sat on her palm.

  They stayed like that for several beats, Gabriel not knowing what that meant, what she was trying to tell him, the woman looking both impatient and uncertain. Finally, she closed her eyes and dipped her head. Then she turned and leaned over the sink.