It was a night effect
My legs felt stronger, or at least less of a nauseating burden to operate. Part of it, I’m sure, was the water I drank, which was slowly being absorbed through my GI tract, increasing my blood volume, in addition to the tireless efforts of my bone marrow, which cranked out red blood cells as fast as it could. But most of it, I think, was the sense of excitement and purpose as the three of us departed the sanctum. We were off to face some kind of evil, I knew not what, and I felt significantly better than I had an only a few hours before.
It wasn’t until we were halfway there that I began to seriously engage with all of the possibilities that might be waiting for us, things I had never and would never have contemplated even a few days before but which now seemed so palpably real that I very quickly began to lose the confidence I’d carried around with me ever since that summer in Atlanta, when I first faced evil and terror.
I watched from the back of the Jag as Dench cleaned and loaded his revolver.
“Shouldn’t we all have weapons?” I asked.
We had found the Jag right where it should have been, parked in a private spot around the corner, and we drove straight downtown. Milan was again behind the wheel. I got the impression that was never up for debate. The big engine roared and we caught every green light and made it to the bridge in what had to be some kind of record, which only quickened the uncertainty that gripped me.
Dench locked the cylinder and clicked the safety with well-practiced speed.
“No, seriously,” I said. “Shouldn’t we all have weapons? What are we walking into?”
“A town in Poland,” Milan teased.
“Funny.”
“You scared?” she asked.
“Actually. Yeah. A little.”
“Good,” Dench said. “You should be.”
“Do we know what we’re up against?”
“A warlock,” he replied.
I mouthed the word to myself. Warlock?
Milan saw it in the rear view mirror.
“Tell me, Doctor,” she asked, “do you believe in saints?”
“Saints?” I had to think for a second. I’d never considered the possibility. “I’m not Catholic, if that’s your question.”
“It’s not.”
“You mean like guys who can walk on water and heal by touch and all that?”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “Whatever they may do, a saint is human. Probably the most human of any of us. And no human is all good or all bad. But some people at least try, genuinely an in difficult, often painful ways, to stoke the light inside them, just as others seek the dark. The difference is that saints rarely know what they are, whereas one knows is one is a warlock.”
I looked down at the gun. “Are we getting to the part where we all have weapons?”
“This isn’t gonna do much good,” Dench said, slipping the big revolver into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“It did plenty at Granny’s,” I suggested.
“Just stay behind us,” Milan advised. I think she was frustrated — partly at me and partly at herself for not being able to explain things like the chef. “Do exactly as we tell you.”
Milan hit her blinker and went to turn right, but a patrol car with flashing sirens was parked at an angle in the road, blocking enough of it to let everyone know they weren’t supposed to go that way. It looked like some kind of terrorism thing. I saw another set of flashers at the other end of the block. But it was damn near two in the morning, and while the roads certainly weren’t deserted, there weren’t many cars. Milan navigated a no-turn lane and merged back into traffic and headed to the south side of the block. The building we wanted faced a pedestrian square, along with two others, which would be easy enough to cross on foot.
At the first chance, she double parked and hit the hazard lights.
“The cops are right around the block,” I objected.
“Don’t worry,” she said as the both of them hopped out. “We won’t even get ticketed, let alone towed.”
“Wait.” I leaned far over the driver’s seat until my head almost hit the wheel and popped the trunk. I climbed out and walked around to it and lifted the bat from the side, the one studded with bent nail heads. I gripped it like I was getting ready to take the plate.
“Happy?” Milan asked.
I nodded. “Oh yeah.” It was hefty. I’d played a little ball in high school. I figured I could do some real damage with that.
Dench shut the trunk and the three of us walked across the wide sidewalk and up the steps to the elevated square. There was a fountain at the center, although it was silent then. At the edge of the space on two sides were a pair of corporate sculptures, part of a set apparently. They had swoops and angles and didn’t seem to stand for anything at all, but they were confident in that, which seemed to me about right symbolism for where we were.
The buildings around us were mostly dark, the workers having gone home hours before. But a few dedicated souls were still there, and the sporadic lighting made the towers look like giant oblivious servers, doling fate in bits and dollars. My eyes ran to the top of the skyscraper across from us. The top was obscured by a deep violet fog backlit by floodlights on the roof. I’d read about it once. It was a night effect. It happens in the city sometimes. Refraction of light from the water droplets creates a violet glow. I knew it was just optics. It wasn’t anything sinister. But that’s not how it looked.
I was a few steps ahead of the others before I realized they had stopped. The far side of the square was cordoned with yellow caution tape.
“Shit.”
It stretched around the entire front of the building in a hundred-foot arc, which seemed excessive. I saw a couple uniforms milling about, including a portly guy just past the far stairs. He was nearly as wide as he was tall and his arms swung out a little as he walked.
Dench looked at me as if he was waiting for something.
“Right,” I said and handed him the bat.
He took it and I walked across the square and past the fountain and stood at the top of the wide stairs down. Yellow tape was wrapped around the railing at the center and stretched away at an angle in both directions. Something had definitely happened in our building. I saw what looked like a couple detectives, and there was a mess of TV vans parked irregularly on the street, the same street the patrol cars were blocking.
“That’s something else, huh?” a voice asked behind me.
A man in an expensive suit and dark overcoat stood from his seat on the edge of the fountain. I saw no reason why I shouldn’t have noticed him before, but I hadn’t.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The sky.” He nodded.
“Oh. Right.” I looked at it. “It’s a night effect, I think. Something about droplets in the fog and all that.”
“Looks damned creepy to me. You with the police?”
“Not exactly. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “It’s just, you don’t look like an investment banker.”
I may not have, but he certainly did. He had the coiffed hair and leather gloves and tie pin and everything.
“You work there?” I motioned to the building across the square.
“I did,” he said with exaggeration. “But this is the kinda thing that makes you wanna move to a new office, if you know what I mean.” He paused. “Or at least bargain the landlord way down on the lease.” He smiled in jest.
“Any idea what happened?”
He shook his head. “Just that someone met a very messy end, judging from the crew and equipment that just went up the elevator.”
“Crew?”
“Hazmat and all that. Are those friends of yours?” He nodded to Dench and Milan, hanging at the ends of the square.
I wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“None of my business,” he said. “I know. It’s just, you guys don’t look like reporters either.”
“We met a few days ago,” I explained. It was the most honest answer I could give that didn’t make me sound completely insane — way better than “They sold me out to a witch. But it’s cool. They got me out before she was able to plant me in her blood garden.”
“Really?” he said, as if surprised by the concept. “That’s great. I can never find time for that kind of thing. Bit married to the job, I guess.”
“You don’t have friends?”
His eyes turned up in thought. “People in my line of work have two kinds of others in our lives: potential clients and potential adversaries. Not much room between.”
“What work is that?”
“Hey!” The portly cop suddenly noticed us. Apparently we were too close for comfort because he started up the stairs with an air that suggested he was gearing up to exercise his authority.
“Hey there.” I walked down and lifted the plastic tape over my head.
He raised a hand. “Come on, pal. You guys know the rules. No reporters past the line without an escort.”
“I’m not a reporter. We were just — ” I turned to the man behind me, but he was gone. I didn’t see him anywhere in the open square.
The cop put his hand on my arm. “Why you guys always gotta make things difficult? Is that part of the job interview or something?”
“Hold up.” I kept my feet and pulled free of his grasp. “I’m with the feds, hoss. Working with DoH.” I handed him my identification. “We’re investigating some recent illnesses. You might have heard about it.”
He squinted at my credentials. “That thing on TV?”
I nodded. Down the steps near the front of the building, a news crew began recording a segment. A bright light on top of a heavy camera lit a solemn young African-American woman in too much makeup and a staid coat.
He handed my ID back to me. “Got something to do with this?” He motioned to the building.
“Well.” I glanced back to Milan and Dench, who had retreated back down the stairs on the far side of the open square. “It might,” I said. It was the truth, but it felt funny all the same.
“Well, good luck, buddy. It’s a total mess up there.” He waved me off with both his hands, like he wouldn’t want my job.
“Mess?”
“Some guy. One of them 99-percenters. Tried to blow up the offices of a capital investment firm. You know, ‘take back the economy’ and all that. Left a note and everything. Only he cocked it up. All that waste of space did was embarrass his family and make a lotta work for everybody else. Bits of him are hanging from the goddamned ceiling. The EMTs can’t even find all the pieces!” He shook his head. “I feel sorry for the poor schmuck down at the ME’s office who’s gonna have to put little Humpty Dumpty back together.”
“I hope it’s Pratt,” I said.
“Huh?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I don’t suppose you have a name on the vic.”
“Yeah. Alonso White. Some do-gooder from Spanish Harlem.”
I turned to look at my companions, but they were no longer in sight.
He saw my face. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just fighting a little food poisoning.” I’m sure I looked pale. I motioned to the building. “You know what, sounds like you guys have your hands full. I’ll get the details at the office in the morning. Thanks.”
“Wait!” he called to me as I walked back the way I came.
I stopped, wondering how fast I’d be able to run with a dodgy stomach.
The cop took a few steps toward me. “You guys gonna find the bastard who killed that kid?”
I smiled. “You bet.”
A cold breeze whipped across my legs and reached under my shirt with icy fingers. I got goosebumps as I walked back to the car.
We were too late.
Just like that, our adventure was over.
Milan pulled her jacket around her as I approached. She read it on my face. “It’ll be long gone by now.”
I assumed she meant the doomsday book. The three of us looked up at the fog-shrouded building together for a long minute. I didn’t know what to say.
“We should get back,” she said.
I nodded. I’m certain she was worried about what they might find in Etude’s bed when they got back.
“Can we give you a lift somewhere?” she asked.
“Actually. I think I’m gonna go for a walk.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
I nodded again. “Yeah. Thanks.”
I turned to the building again as the engine started. What had happened up there, I wondered, in that violet glow? Had he been surprised? Or had they explained to him what was coming? Had he begged for his life? Had he struggled? Were there candles and dark robes, or were they all dressed in Armani suits, stopping in the conference room for a snack between late night calls with Tokyo? Had they simply killed him? Or had they eaten him, too? Had they joked about women and talked sports as they rinsed the blood from their hands in the executive washroom? Were they picking him out of their teeth as they drove home? Did they feel full? Powerful?
I started walking.
“Dr. Alexander,” Milan called.
I stopped.
“Take care of yourself.” She said it like she meant it.
I heard the car roar and pull away as I turned up the street. I don’t even know how far I walked. I just kept going. I stopped at an all-night diner and had half a burger and two milkshakes. I called Marlene to let her know I was okay. It was the wee hours of the morning so she didn’t answer. I was glad. I called Ollie and left a voicemail on his work line. I said I was fine and they could call off the dogs, if there were any, and I’d catch him up later. I crossed the Manhattan Bridge as light broke over the horizon. I stopped halfway and watched the sunrise.
I hadn’t saved them. Any of them.
I went back to my hotel. I tried to sleep, but I could do little more than doze. There was something sharp nagging my mind, like a tiny splinter. I knew I had all the pieces. I just couldn’t figure it out. Somehow I just knew. A poking, pricking, mosquito of a feeling.
I’d missed something.
I’m posting the chapters of my forthcoming hardboiled occult mystery in order until the book is released in early 2018. You can start here: I saw my first dead body the summer we moved to Atlanta.
Sign up here to be notified when the book is released.
The next chapter is: The problem was me
[image error]
