by Graham, Jo
Father Mira had straightened things out, though. He’d blessed Nelo, given him prayers to say to ward off the weakness in his legs, and told Mrs. Gabarra to take him back to the settlement house, too, and give him more milk like the ladies there said. It’s not the evil eye that’s at issue here, he’d said, it’s the evil tongue. That’s how the demons catch you, they tempt you to say things you’d never mean if you only drew breath before you spoke. The next time you would say such a thing, recite an Ave first. Our Lady will protect you from evil. A part of him, the part of him that would always be six years old, standing in the beeswax-and-incense-smelling nave while the grown-ups shouted, and wished the priest were still alive to ask about all of this. Except that then he’d have had to explain about Alma, and that Father Mira would never have tolerated. Especially since Lewis couldn’t honestly say he repented of anything about it.
The cab pulled into the circle at the end of the terminal, and they both climbed out, Mitch leaning back to pay and add a tip that made the cabbie touch his cap before he pulled away.
He straightened, looking up at the tower, and Lewis said, “Ok, now what?”
Mitch gave him a crooked smile. “Isn’t this where we go beat somebody up?”
“I think it helps to know who to hit,” Lewis said, and Mitch laughed.
“I’m kind of off hitting people anyway, after last night.” He tipped his head to one side. “Let’s talk to Nomie first, he pretty much knows everything.”
“Nomie?”
“Nomie Jones,” Mitch answered. “He manages the hangers here. He was Gil’s mechanic, he’ll take care of us.”
“Ok.” Lewis trailed after him through the terminal, listening with one ear to the drone of engines overhead. They found Nomie in the hanger’s main machine shop, supervising a boy with a face red from sunburn and acne as he broke down the motor of a ratty-looking Jenny. Jones himself was a skinny dried-up little man with the weathered face of a jockey. He gave the red-faced boy a last dubious look, but stepped willingly enough into the relative cool of the hanger itself. A steady breeze came in the open doors, cool on the skin: out of the southeast, Lewis knew without thinking, and perfect for flying. There had been three or four bright shapes against the clear blue as they crossed the tarmac, and at the far end of the hanger, a girl in jodhpurs was standing with her hand on the wing of a bright yellow two-seater, nodding her head earnestly as the pilot gave last-minute instructions. Jones saw where he was looking and gave a cackle of laughter.
“Listen, Nomie,” Mitch said, before the older man could say anything. “I need a favor.”
“What’s in it for me?” Jones asked, but Lewis thought there was a certain wariness beneath the teasing tone.
“My undying gratitude,” Mitch answered, and Jones grinned, but the wariness didn’t leave his eyes.
“Then I’m your man.”
“I need to find out if a particular person caught a flight east, probably yesterday,” Mitch said. “But maybe today. You know anybody who’d be able to tell me that?”
“Maybe,” Jones said. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“We had some trouble night before last,” Mitch said, carefully, “and that led to some more problems last night. Major Ballard ended up shooting a man.”
“No shit,” Jones said. He sounded impressed, Lewis thought, but not particularly surprised. “I know a guy in the DA’s office might be able to help with that.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said. “I’ll take you up on that. But right now we’re trying to find out about the guy who set us up.”
Jones paused. “Janie might know.”
“Can we ask her?” Mitch asked.
“I’ll introduce you,” Jones said dubiously. “She’s a nice girl, Cap.”
“And I’m a nice guy,” Mitch said. “And so’s Lewis.”
Janie turned out to be a nicely-rounded brunette in a pretty flowered frock and high-heeled pumps tied with rose-colored ribbons that matched her nail varnish. The flower in her hat was the same delicate color. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and Jones handled her like a kitten that hadn’t quite found its feet. She worked in the tower, she said, in answer to Mitch’s careful questions. Oh, not in the tower, just in the office, but all the tickets came through there. Mitch gave her his best smile, and she allowed as how she could probably check that for him, see if Mr. Davenport had taken a flight.
“Give me five minutes,” she said, with a smile that would have put most movie stars to shame, “and as soon as Miss Barnes is out of the way, I’ll check the flight logs.”
“And I’ll buy you your milkshake,” Mitch said. “Since you’re missing your break for me.”
“Chocolate, please,” she said, with a giggle, and skittered away. Mitch watched her go, his expression almost wistful.
“She’s a nice girl,” Jones said again, and Mitch gave him a look, his expression suddenly weary.
“I’m not likely to forget it, Nomie, am I? Let’s get the kid her milkshake.”
Lewis trailed after them through the lower level of the terminal, feeling distinctly useless. Mitch was a lot better at making nice with pretty secretaries — they liked him better anyway, all soft southern accent and courtly manners, the easy charm of a born gentleman. Lewis didn’t have the looks to pull it off, too swarthy, too foreign, with none of the suave grace of a Valentino to mitigate it.
Outside, the engine noises changed, and he stopped under one of the open arches to watch a big trimotor line up on the runway. The pilot was good, brought her down with only a single bounce, and taxied sedately up to the terminal. The door popped open, stairs unfolding, and the passengers began to clamber down, while a couple of guys in company coveralls began hauling suitcases out of the baggage compartment in the tail.
“Western from Salt Lake,” a voice said at his elbow, and he turned to see a tall man in a green work shirt, his tie tucked into the buttons. He was obviously a pilot, and Lewis nodded.
“Nice landing.”
“Frank’s good,” the other man said, with only a hint of envy. “Who are you with?”
“Gilchrist Aviation,” Lewis said. “Out of Colorado Springs. Yourself?”
“Milton Air. I’m on the San Francisco run.”
Ok, Lewis thought. Status established. “Fokkers?”
“Fords. We’ve got one Kershaw Terrier, but those babies are expensive.”
Lewis nodded. “Yeah. But solid. Easy on the passengers.”
The other man gave him a second look. “You guys fly one? I’m Steve Garvey, by the way.”
“Lewis Segura.” They shook hands, and Lewis went on, “My boss says they’re cheaper to maintain in the long run.”
“Wish I could convince Landis of that,” Garvey said.
“Say,” Lewis said. He could feel himself tensing, made himself relax and smile. “I don’t suppose you were flying yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Garvey gave him a curious look.
“Did you take an older guy, wavy hair going a little gray? Sharp dresser?” That was a guess, since he’d only seen him in the white robes of the ritual, but Lewis was willing to bet Davenport dressed every bit as well as Jerry. “Traveling alone.”
“Nope, not me.” Garvey shook his head for emphasis. “How come?”
“He talked to us about passage back east,” Lewis said. The lie came easier than he’d expected. “We gave him a fare, but he hasn’t gotten back in touch. I’d like to know if we should wait around or not. Otherwise we’re going back empty”
Garvey shook his head again. “I haven’t carried anybody like that. But one of the other guys might have.”
The story seemed to work, and Mitch and Jones were still sitting at one of the little tables, Janie between them trying to look grown up. Lewis wandered back through the hangers, stopping in every bay, but none of the other pilots remembered carrying anybody matching the description. One of the mechanics, a gangling redhead, allowed as how he might have seen a guy like
that at the telegraph office, but that was all. Lewis thanked him anyway, and started back toward the terminal. The telegraph office was still open, and he hesitated by the door, but couldn’t come up with a good excuse for asking. Western Union guarded its patrons’ business.
Mitch and Jones were still at their table, though Janie had disappeared, presumably heading back to work, and Lewis’s steps slowed. He hated going back with nothing, and he glanced again at the Western Union office. In the magazines, guys were always digging telegrams and half-finished messages out of the trash, but he couldn’t see himself getting away with that. Maybe it was time to try this seeing thing again. It had worked before. He rested his shoulder against one of the arches, let his eyes cross just a little, trying to picture what had happened the day before, what the redhead had seen. He felt his breath slow, the engine noise receding, caught a glimpse of — yes, Davenport at the counter, passing two slips to the clerk. And then the image was gone, and he swayed, dizzy, before he caught his balance. He pressed his hand hard against the concrete of the arch. If he was going to try this, it was probably time he asked Alma to teach him properly….
“I know what you are doing,” a woman’s voice said, in Spanish.
He looked up, startled, and an older woman in a maid’s uniform locked eyes with him.
“You should know better.” She had one hand in the pocket of her apron, and he knew she grasped her rosary.
“I’m sorry,” he said, in the Spanish of his childhood, and her eyebrows rose.
“Then you most certainly should know better —”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “But it’s important, señora, I promise. I’m trying to prevent harm. A grave evil.”
He wasn’t entirely sure where those words had come from, but they seemed right. The woman regarded him a moment longer, then nodded, slipping her hand out of her pocket. “What do you seek?”
“A — man,” Lewis said, with just enough hesitation that he thought she understood. “Older than I by some years, gray at the temples. A well-dressed man, I think, and traveling alone. I need very much to find him.”
She was silent for a moment. “There was such a one yesterday. I clean the offices here, you understand, and I was at the telegraph when he came in. A dark one, that, so I made myself very small. But he was here, and he sent two telegrams — which I think you saw? But I do not think he took an airplane.”
“Thank you,” Lewis said. Impulsively, he caught her hand, squeezed it gently. “Thank you very much.”
She colored, and for an instant Lewis saw the girl she had been, young and slim and bright-eyed. “Be very careful, my son,” she said, and turned away.
Lewis made his way back to join the others, knowing from their expressions that their luck hadn’t been much better. At Mitch’s nod, he pulled out a chair and joined them.
“Any luck?”
“Just with Janie,” Jones said, with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, and Mitch sighed.
“He didn’t buy a ticket under his own name. He might have been using someone else’s, or he might have hitched a ride off the books, of course.”
“I don’t think so,” Lewis said. “I asked around the hanger. Nobody there had carried anybody like that. He was here, though, and sent a couple of telegrams.”
“How the hell did you find that out?” Jones demanded.
“I found somebody who saw him,” Lewis said. “So I don’t have any idea who it was to, or anything like that.”
“That’s not much,” Mitch said, and sighed. “Jerry said he lived in Glendale, this is probably the closest Western Union office.”
“Yeah.” Lewis rested his elbows on the table, glad to be off his feet. “Ok, now what?”
“Back to the hotel,” Mitch said. “And hope Al and Jerry turned up something better.”
Chapter Ten
Alma and Jerry didn't talk much on the way to Henry's house. There wasn't really a conversation she wanted to have in front of the cabbie. Everything she could think of would end with "Don't you think Gil would have said that it is our problem?"
Of course Gil would have. He would have considered it work put before them, a mess that had landed on their doorstep, and hence their problem. If you sign up to save the world, it isn't always exactly convenient. You do the work that is set before you. That's the company plan.
She'd been lazy since Gil died, lazy and demoralized. That wouldn't do in the long run. They had to get back up on the horse and try again. If that's what Jerry was doing, she ought to back him up, not provide an impediment. After all, she expected as much from him.
It was with that in mind that she got out of the car in Henry's drive, the houseboy coming down to hold the door for her and then for Jerry in turn. Miss Patterson was nowhere in evidence, and Henry came to meet them just inside the door himself.
"About last night," Jerry began.
Henry cut him off, leading them at a quick pace toward his office. "It's all settled. I've sent a man to Union Station to check on outbound trains, but of course it's too much to expect that Davenport would still be hanging around the station. He's had hours, and it's a busy terminal. Hell, he may have even left yesterday."
Jerry's jaw clenched, and not entirely from stumping down the hall at Henry's pace, so Alma forestalled him. "Yes, we'd thought of that. We've sent Mitch and Lewis to Grand Central."
"Oh, good." Henry looked pleasantly surprised as he rounded his desk, and Alma shut the office door behind them as Jerry sank into the chair. "They'll be able to get more out of aviators than my man will."
"Yes, that was what I thought," Alma said patiently. Henry never would have doubted that Gil had two brain cells to rub together, but she was, after all, only a girl. Even if that was calling mutton lamb, as she was thirty-eight.
"The real question isn't where Davenport is," Jerry said. "But what he plans to do."
"What it plans to do," Alma said.
Henry sat down on the other side of his desk, running one hand through his hair distractedly, and Alma thought that Henry really did look distressed. He might prefer the glamour to the actual work, but he did have a sense of responsibility. "And how are we supposed to guess what an infernal entity thousands of years old wants?"
"Not simply blood," Alma said logically. "If it just wanted to kill, the thing to do would be to lie low in Davenport's body and commit murders under the radar."
"Do we know it hasn't done that?" Jerry asked. "This is LA. Surely there are unsolved murders?" He looked from one of them to the other.
Henry swallowed. "We don't know that," he said finally. "What we do know is that we have to catch that thing and stop it before Davenport can do anything else."
"It's not Davenport," Jerry said, shaking his head as though bothered by a pesky fly. "It doesn't matter about him, don't you see? And that's why the police can't stop this. They can arrest Davenport, but the entity can jump to a new body. They'll take Bill Davenport away in handcuffs, and tomorrow one of the policemen will be its host. Only we won't know who. This thing can keep jumping from one host to another, so it doesn't matter who they arrest. It's going to keep doing this until we banish it or bind it."
Henry put his elbows on the desk. "How do we do that?"
"I don't know yet." Jerry's eyes were frank. "But I do know we'd better not lose track of him."
"If he left by plane," Henry began.
"He could have gotten a long way since yesterday," Alma said. "But fortunately we still have the tablet."
"A material link," Jerry said, as Henry frowned. "The entity was once bound by the tablet, so the tablet can serve as a material link for an operation intended to find it."
Henry nodded slowly. "Ok. What do you need me to do?"
"A candle would be nice," Alma said. "And an atlas." She glanced around the bookcases in his office. "I expect you have an atlas?"
"Of course," Henry said, getting up and rummaging around on one of the shelves. "What else? Do you want to use th
e temple?"
Jerry looked at Alma, then shook his head. "Not if it hasn't been cleaned since Davenport used it. We're fine in here. I assume you've got regular house wards?"
"Of course," Henry said, setting a taper in a bronze Mexican candlestick down on the desk beside the Motorist's Atlas of the United States.
Alma let out a deep breath and sat down in the chair as Jerry got up, trying to compose herself. He put one hand on her shoulder briefly, and she smiled up at him. "Just like old times," she said.
Jerry nodded, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a steel handled penknife. He flicked it open one handed, the sharp blade catching the light of the candle flame as Henry pulled the curtains at the window. "Which way is…."
"That way," Alma said, nodding toward the door.
Jerry smiled. Jerry's lack of a sense of direction was a long standing joke. He turned around, his back to her, facing east, and she heard him take a deep, centering breath. Henry sunk back into his desk chair, and Alma closed her eyes. This part was Jerry's, and she had best use the time to relax.
Another breath, and Jerry began, the Hebrew syllables falling resonantly from his lips. "Ateh malkuth ve-gevurah ve-gedulah le-olahm." She did not need to see the movement of the blade tracing patterns of fire across his body. She could feel it like a familiar whisper, like the rustle of silk. "Amen." She could feel the knife lift again, marking the pentagram in the air, feel it like the glow of the candle before her.
The sound of his footsteps was muffled by the thick carpet, but she felt him pass her, journeying clockwise around her to face the bookcase to the south. Again the movement of the knife, blade channeling will.
Another set of steps, now to the windows that let over the swimming pool, his back to Henry as he inscribed the symbol to the west. It felt like a breath of rain, as though a cool wet wind had stirred the curtains, and Alma bent her head. The first time she'd seen this she'd been frightened. Gil had reached over and squeezed her hand. Now it was comforting.