The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

Hatcher thought about the man, a respected if resented Major General, a man who'd planned and fought wars all his life, a man of faith, of God, who'd let his religious zeal sweep him into a crusade against the forces of Hell. The opportunity to beat the ultimate evil, the enemy of Heaven, too profound a chance to pass up. Somewhere along the line, he'd lost all perspective. The hubris didn't just keep him from being rational, it made him blind to what he'd become. It was as if he'd formed his own religion with its own rules.

  “They needed a champion of Hell's choosing, one he thought could defeat those demonic attack dogs. Raum chose me. I was the perfect dupe, blind to the obvious. I was so intent on trying to find out who was behind it, I didn't give enough thought to the possibility I was part of it. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now. Goes to show you, paranoia isn't the same as brains.”

  Amy dimpled her cheeks, shaking her head. “And the point was to overthrow the Devil? Take his place?”

  “As far as I can tell. That's what Bartlett was counting on, that it would allow the Prince of Darkness himself to be summoned and bound. Bartlett secretly planned to blow the place, but Sahara was always ahead of the game. This was Raum's big chance to take over, and her big chance to cash in. She probably was promised she'd be the most powerful person on Earth or something.”

  “What about the boy? From what Calvin said, he may have been kidnapped years ago.”

  “He was a part of the ritual. I can't say I'm exactly sure why he was so important. But Sahara and that other guy down there, they sure wanted him dead, and Raum didn't seem too thrilled when he realized it wasn't going to happen, either.”

  “And Micah? Was he involved?

  “Pretty sure the answer is yes,” he said, dropping his gaze away for a moment. “But not of his own accord. I'm certain he was the body hanging over the blood, wrapped like a mummy. I'm guessing something about him, about his unusual makeup, made him the only suitable candidate to hold a demon as powerful as the one they needed to bind. And I'm the one who told him to hand himself over to them.”

  “Hey, no one told him to kidnap you,” she said. “You do something bad, you can't complain when something bad happens.”

  “Yeah,” he said, thinking, if it were only that simple.

  A long sigh escaped as her expression let him know none of it made any sense. “When you’re all rested up, you're going to have to fill in a whole lot of holes, because I don't understand half of it.”

  “I'll do my best,” he said, wondering how easy that would be “But don't expect me to know it all.”

  She leaned forward and jutted her chin, looking down at his lap. Her voice was soft when she spoke. “Did you read it?”

  He nodded. The pocket leather notebook, resting on the folds of his hospital gown, contained about fifty pages of neat, handwritten text. All from Vivian.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I read it. Do you want to?”

  “I don't know. Do I?”

  “No.”

  “Will you be...?”

  “No. No, of course not. She's gone. As long as she's not suffering eternal damnation because of me, she can stay gone.”

  Amy offered a sad, somber smile, reached out and put her hand over his. He was grateful she didn't seem inclined to ask any more questions, probe him more deeply. For now, at least. Because the one thing he couldn't say, the one thing it wouldn't be honest to say, was that his conscience was clear.

  It wasn't.

  A woman in hospital garb – these adorned with a flower print – entered the area with some forms. Amy intercepted her, telling her Hatcher was still woozy from brain trauma and she'd handle the paperwork. She winked at Hatcher on the sly, making a crack that went over the woman's head about how he didn't have much in the way of brains to begin with, so he needed his rest. The two of them began discussing admission details and consent forms. Hatcher's gaze dropped to the book in his lap. He opened it to the first page again.

  Dearest Jacob,

  I do not know how to tell you so many things that I know I must.

  Her long letter, which is all he could think of it as, was an apology. And an explanation. A confession. An indictment. A good-bye.

  She had woken in a church, naked. A priest found her, startled. She did not know what day it was. She did not know how long she'd been gone. She had remembered being a nun, but not having left the order. All she knew of her time at the edges of Hell were what she dreamed; dreams of being torn and mauled, violated and defiled, over and over, of seeing Hatcher through the barrier separating life and after-life, of watching him make the decision to close that barrier, to seal her in, forever. To consign her to a fate that was not ready to take her.

  Weeks passed in a fog. Her memory started to return in pieces, memories of him, of what she'd done, the deal she'd made, to try to save him from that same fate. As soon as she was strong enough, together enough, she rushed to find him. Tracked him to a rental property, a new place, only to see him walk out the front door with Amy, her kissing him as they reached their car, a long kiss, a meaningful kiss. She knew then she had made a terrible mistake. Many terrible mistakes. She vowed she would not make another. She would not destroy his happiness. Whatever feelings they had for each other, passion, lust, fondness, even love, she knew they did not bring him true happiness. Relief from sadness, perhaps. But not happiness.

  So she retreated, sought out the one person she thought she could turn to, one she had betrayed, but a betrayal that was unselfish, done for reasons she thought he could forgive. And he did. Bartlett took her in, avuncular in his generosity, fatherly, even. He told her she would have to re-earn his trust, but that he forgave her actions, understood them. Respected them, even.

  It was much later that he came up with his plan. By the time she learned that Hatcher would be involved, she was a virtual prisoner again. She believed his assurances that Hatcher would survive, that he would prevail, that it was his destiny. That the Devil could be defeated. Defeated in such a way that Hell would be left in chaos, that mankind would have years, maybe decades, free from all that influence, or free from the same degree of influence, and have a chance to rediscover morality, to eschew the material for the spiritual, to step back from its fall from Grace.

  I have no choice but to believe him, believe in this cause. If you are reading this, then it means you have prevailed, one way or another, and I was right to believe, to choose to believe, even if I feared it wasn't true. Because I will never not believe in you, Jake Hatcher. You, a man who knew in his heart he was damned for all eternity, who I am certain has always known that, whether it is true or not, and still chooses to do good, to fight for what is right. Not for his salvation, not for his God, but simply to do what a good man must. That is a man after God's own heart. I am only sorry I could not get such a man to love me as I love him.

  Good-bye, Jacob. I hope she loves you the way I did. The way I always will.

  Vivian

  Hatcher heard Raum's voice whispering to him, a recording playing in the back of his head. ‘This is all pieced together from your imagination... What she's going through is much, much worse.’

  “An orderly is getting a wheelchair,” Amy said. “Hospital policy. I told her it was fitting, since you're an emotional cripple. I don't think the woman has much of a sense of humor.”

  “Maybe you're related.”

  “Oh, ha ha.” She gestured to the book on his lap. “Is that going to be your bedside reading material from now on?”

  Hatcher gave it one more look, turning it over in his hands. “No. Why don't you hold on to it? Keep it somewhere in case we need to check it at some point.”

  “Good answer.” She took the notebook from him and put in her pocket. “If you told me you were going to throw it out, I would have known it meant something to you.”

  Hatcher frowned, shook his head. “Say, you said she took off in the c
amper...”

  “It wasn't my idea, if that's what you're asking.”

  “No, I know you better than that. But she gave you that first. I'm just wondering how that went down.”

  Amy shrugged, hooding her eyes. “She told me she had to leave, begged me to unhook the towline and let her drive off. I told her that she put you through Hell, thinking that's what you had done to her. She told me it was all in here...” She patted her back pocket. “And she apologized. To you and to me, she said.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That was the gist of it. You want to know what she was wearing? How good she looked?”

  “Amy. You know that's not what I mean. You know I prefer redheads.”

  “Ha.”

  “I'm only asking because I'm curious about you. I'm having a hard time picturing how this conversation went.”

  Her eyebrows shrugged, her mouth sinking into a frown meant to show she didn't see why any of it should matter. “I warned her there was a dead body in the camper. She said she'd abandon it as soon as she could. I told her to wipe her prints off.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “No, it wasn't. The last thing I would want is her being arrested. Guess who her first call would be?”

  “I stand corrected. Are you sure you didn't give her a piece of your mind? For all we went through? All I put us through?”

  “You mean, all she put us through?” She stepped forward, kissed him on the forehead. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Do I?”

  “No,” she said. She shook her head, the hint of a smile playing across her lips. “No, probably not.”

  Chapter 45

  ONE MONTH LATER

  Hatcher turned onto the side street and coasted to a stop along the curb. He bent down, looking out the passenger window, then checked the map on his phone. He shifted the truck into park and got out.

  The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence rimmed with barbed wire. A metal sign shouted a warning of NO TRESPASSING, listing a penal code section below it and a number for the LA County Police Dept. He walked onward to the nearest gate and pushed. It opened.

  The moon was high, just bright enough to create patterns of shadows in the darkness, to distinguish structures from openings, walls from alleys. An institutional array of buildings, draped in the sterile stillness of a place long abandoned. The concrete was layered with debris, dead grass fanning from cracks, new grass pushing out behind it. Eyes blinked from steps and windowsills, lithe, compact shapes darting between shadows. Howls and screeches cut the stillness like razors, one grey cat sprinting across the pavement and disappearing through the fence. The loser, apparently.

  He made his way as instructed, his boots crunching the scrabbly, pebble-strewn concrete with each step. He continued that way, counting off the buildings until he found the one he was looking for.

  It was a bit different than the others. Still institutional, but with an Art Deco façade, layered overhead moldings with hard-edged, symmetrical lines, a parapet of flat sections rising in squared-off angles to a higher center, and entrance with slanted shapes of polished inlay fanning like a geometric arc. Huge letters mutely shouted the word AUDITORIUM.

  The doors were boarded, sturdy planks of wood covering what was once glass. Hatcher moved to farthest door on the left and pulled on the handle. It opened.

  He pulled out a small, heavy flashlight and turned it on. The lobby was littered with trash: pieces of wood, parts of furniture, old clothes. He crossed to a pair of double doors where one was propped open.

  A multi-purpose hall with a stage. Chairs, wood on metal – old-school institutional – were scattered about, stacked and tipped. Clumps and lengths of various material staked out ground in random patterns. The air was thick and smelled of must. He swept the light across the room. It crawled over various objects, cast distorted shapes against the walls, until he saw it flash upon a figure in the corner. She sat in one of the chairs, legs crossed – most of them showing.

  “You're late,” she said.

  “I don't think so.”

  She hitched a shoulder, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “Eh, maybe not. It just seemed like one of those things you're supposed to say for this kind of rendezvous. It is nice to see you can follow directions when you want to, by the way.”

  “Speaking of things we're supposed to say, we have to stop meeting like this. Only when I say it, I actually mean it. What do you want, Deborah?”

  “After all I've done for you,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Not even a ‘thanks a lot, Deb’ or a ‘how can I return the favor, Deb’. No, it's right to ‘what do you want, Deborah’. It's enough to make a gal start to feel unappreciated. I trust you read the papers. Or whatever you call the Internet equivalent these days.”

  Hatcher knew what she meant. He'd seen the story, or stories, about the four missing cops. Speculation about them having been involved in a variety of malfeasance. Dick Leslie making public pronouncements about the need to clean up the NYPD, even though he wasn't formally a candidate yet.

  “Look, I'm here, aren't I? Afraid that'll have to do. Not many guys with a history like I have with you would show up at a texted address with a time and the message, Bring a flashlight.”

  “Oh, you'd be surprised. I've had plenty of men show up to see me with far less of an invitation than that, to whom I've been far less... solicitous.” Deborah smiled. “Surprised your worser half let you come. Does she do that often, let you come?”

  “I don't think you brought me out here for sexual banter. At least, I hope not.”

  “One of these days, I'm going to loosen you up. Then we'll have some real fun. The type you can't even imagine.”

  “Imagining is as far it's ever going to get. And I'm three seconds away from turning around and heading home.”

  “Don't kid yourself, Hatcher. I haven't begun to test the limits of your self-control. And we both know she has no idea where you are right now. What did you tell her? That you had to help a friend? Or did you just leave her sleeping, hoping to be back without her realizing you ever left?”

  “Nice seeing you, Deborah. I'll show myself out.”

  “Quit being so dramatic. Fine, I'll get to the point. Even if you can be such a stick in the mud, sometimes.”

  Hatcher said nothing. Deborah reached over and pulled on something. A small lamp on the table next to her popped on. The thick shade created a dim zone of yellow light, barely illuminating her. Hatcher lowered the flashlight.

  “How much of it have you figured out?”

  “Most,” he said. “Can't say I have a good read on your role in all of it. Whether you were in on it and couldn't bear to lose me as your favorite cat toy, or if you were on the outside making guesses. Or somewhere in between.”

  “Let's just say some of my sisters had been very busy. And we don't all get along.”

  Hatcher nodded. “Feeding Sahara Doyle information about Carnate-related business operations, making her look truly psychic, gaining Bartlett's trust. Funding his scheme through those raids. Or her scheme, I should say. An inside job.”

  “I'd say that's more or less accurate. You're brighter than you'd like to admit. Sometimes.”

  “The perfume was a hint. Neutralizes the pheromones or something. That told me some of you were involved.”

  “Yes. They figured Bartlett or his men might catch on if the attraction was overpowering. And, of course, they needed to fool you. Knew your weakness, too. Which, if you'll recall, I tried to point out to you.”

  He did. In the basement of the motel, the phantasm of Lori, the one who looked so much like Vivian. The one Raum had shown him, letting him think it was her. Two years, faded recollection. He'd seen what he'd expected to see. What he'd wanted to see.

  “Why not just tell me? Why make me go through all that?”

&nbs
p; “You assume I knew what was going on. I didn't. I had a few suspicions, heard a few things that had me go hmmm. But I wasn't sure of the who or the what. We're a loosely organized group, Hatcher. We relate to each other out of necessity more than anything. There's seniority, some leadership, but cliques predominate. Some have formed autonomous chapters. Some participate when convenient, keep their distance when not. I was one of the ones they were ripping off. I had no idea Bartlett was up to anything more than raiding and looting some of my interests, and that maybe it was an inside job.”

  “And that stuff with Dick Leslie?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn't the only one of us with whom he had dealings. I just happened to be his favorite. He paid well. That was about it. But I have a good idea who got in his ear that you were a threat.”

  “If you really didn't know, here's what I don't get. If they needed me, or someone like me, for this spell to work, why did they have those dirty cops grab us? How could they know we'd be able to escape? With your help, I might add.”

  “Good question. I think it's pretty obvious they didn't. Know, that is.”

  Hatcher let that replay in his head for a moment. “You're saying they didn't really want me there. They just wanted Bartlett – no, not only Bartlett, Sahara, too – to expect me. To start the ritual, plan on me defeating the six demons, or whatever. Only they were hoping for a different ending. Something that would happen if I hadn't steered it in a certain direction. Something Sahara didn't know about. Something maybe Raum didn't even know about. Am I close?”

  She hitched a shoulder. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I can't say you're wrong.”

  “And that's why I'm here. You need my help, is that it? Some kind of Carnate civil war is heating up? Sorry, Deborah. Thanks for your help, but after all you put me through in the past, I think it's reasonable, if not generous, to just call us even and leave it at that.”

  “Do you know what this place is?” she said, producing a cigarette from a case and holding up a lighter, indicating the room with it. “This used to be called the LA Poor Farm. Not this building, the whole campus. Society's rejects were housed here, made to work the fields, grow food. Eventually some of the buildings became used as hospitals, and the county discovered it was a good place to warehouse the sick, large and out of view. More and more, the sick and dying occupied the buildings you passed. One of them was an asylum. The Hollydale Mental Hospital.”