Diabolical (10 page)

And after he wrote back, they kept coming. Not e-mails, a privilege he refused. Not phone calls. Letters. He never thought of himself as the letter-writing kind of guy. But he kept responding.

She wrote of her faith and her doubts, of her gratitude and her fears. She urged him over and over to not give up hope, to not believe his soul was lost.

He didn't have the heart to tell her whatever happened to his soul happened long before he touched the demon-prince known as Belial.

His last letter to her was supposed to be a farewell and a thank-you. But then she showed up in Phoenix, found him bouncing at a bar, not too different from the one he bounced at now. She said she wanted to talk, to actually say the words, face-to-face. And he listened, listened to her explain the fear she'd experienced, the transformation she'd undergone, how her faith evolved from one indulged by dedication to her Order to one demanding a personal quest for answers, answers well beyond the scope of any convent. Within a couple of days she was touching his hand often, caressing his face, and she confessed she had strong feelings for him, feelings she wanted to explore. He'd resisted at first, but she'd dismissed his concerns about her emotional state, insisted she wasn't confused. Told him she felt a connection.

So he let himself become involved, and the inevitable question presented itself, the one about whether he felt the same thing for her. He didn't know the answer. It felt good to be with her, to be in the moment when they made love. But he couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear, because he wasn't sure. He didn't even understand why someone like her would want to love him. He certainly didn't love himself.

When she told him the desert wasn't for her, and that she'd always wanted to live in Los Angeles, he said okay and packed up the few belongings he had. A couple of months later she left, told him there were things she needed to take care of back in New York, and he couldn't help but think it was because he wouldn't say the words.

As if picking up on his thoughts, Vivian smiled in the sad, sober way only a woman can. She reached across the table and patted his hand, taking a sip of her coffee. Hatcher let his gaze drift over her shoulder to the guy in the sweats again. Still stretching, but a second after Hatcher looked his way he bent down and picked up a basketball. Started dribbling toward the cement courts separated from the Strand by chain links.

“What are you looking at?” Vivian asked. Hatcher appreciated that she didn't turn to look herself.

“Not sure.”

“If you think you see one of William's men, you're probably right. They're keeping an eye on me. For my own protection.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Honestly, Jake, I'd be surprised if some of his men
weren't
nearby. He thinks I might be in danger. He doesn't leave much to chance.”

Danger.
Hatcher pondered how many times in his career a man like Bartlett would have used the pretext of danger to justify his actions, to manipulate others, sometimes entire populations, to fall in line. Times when the biggest danger to those he was “protecting” was actually Bartlett himself. For years he had been a high-ranking commander of a world power engaged in global conflicts. That was the nature of the beast.

“How does he even know anything about this? About the Carnates, what happened in New York . . . about any of this?”

She sucked in a terse breath, released it audibly. As if she'd been dreading this part. “Through glossolalia.”

Hatcher stared at her. “Are you actually going to make me ask?”

“He said a message was sent to him in church. His church. Assembly of God. It's not uncommon for members to spontaneously start speaking in tongues during services.”

“Now that's just fucking great.”

“Jake, please.”

Hatcher took another sip of his coffee. “Sorry.”

“He said one day a woman stood up, and he suddenly understood what she was saying. Same with the next one, and the next. One by one, people in the congregation would stand up, two or three during a sermon. Other members would offer an interpretation, but he realized they were all wrong. He could understand everything they said, clear as if they were speaking English. But he didn't dare say anything.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the message instructed him not to.”

“And from the mouths of random babblers came orders to kidnap Garrett's son? To stop him from opening some door to Hell?”

“Like I told you, William seems to think of it as protective custody. That's the term I heard. I would be willing to bet anything he
believes
that's what it is.” Vivian paused. “How about the boy's mother? Have you heard from her, Jake? Do you know how to reach her?”

“No. I haven't spoken to her since before you and I even met.” He took a long gulp of coffee, draining the cup before crushing it in his fist. He tossed it at a nearby trash receptacle. It fell short and bounced off the wire mesh.

“I take it
she's
not in ‘protective custody,' ” he said, lowering his tone at the sound of his own sarcasm. “Maybe they just considered her collateral damage. Have they mentioned her?”

Vivian stared at her hands. “I don't know where she is. Or if anything's happened to her.”

“But they nominated you to explain it all.”

“No. That was my idea. I was scared how you'd react. I wanted to tell you myself.” She raised her eyes to meet his again. “And it was an excuse to be alone with you.”

Hatcher shifted focus to the guy in sweats. He was still shooting baskets. He supposed Vivian was right, that having someone nearby wasn't unexpected, wasn't even that big a deal. But that didn't mean he had to like it. He kept the guy in the corner of his eye.

“Do they know about us?” He remembered the way Mr. E had made that comment about having a hand in her divorce. The words certainly reeked of innuendo, but there was also an ambiguousness to them that smacked of fishing.

The question seemed to surprise her. She took a few seconds to mull it over, then shook her head.

“I don't think so. No, I would say definitely not. William sought me out based on the message. He didn't seem to know anything else.”

Hatcher dropped his chin and gave his head a different sort of shake, weary and exaggerated. “The ‘message.' The one in tongues.”

“Yes. After what we've been through, Jake, all the things that we've witnessed, I don't think you should be so dismissive. He knew about what happened. Knew where to find me.”

“All right, so why you? Assuming the glossy-lollypalooza stuff—”

“Glossolalia.”

“—assuming it's all true, what do you have to do with this?”

“I don't know. Neither does he. Not that he'll admit. According to him, the message said I was in danger and that he needed to find me.”

“Did it also tell him to sic Sherman the Tank on me?”

“No. I'm so sorry for that, Jake. He didn't want to get you involved. The message told him to organize a team and not tell anyone about its purpose. But I knew I had to get you involved, knew it because of your nephew, and because you're the only one I trust to deal with these kinds of things. I had to convince him you were the key. I told him that's why the message told him to find me, because I knew how to find you. He didn't want to do it.”

“Why not?”

“From what I could tell, he had you checked out. Maybe even knew something about you before. He kept saying you were a loose cannon. That you wouldn't be willing to take orders. I didn't know anything about the plan to have Sherman confront you, not until it was about to happen. I don't know where they got the idea.”

The sun was over the horizon now, creating an explosion of golden colors. Southern California was the only place Hatcher had ever been where the air was cool and the sun was warm virtually every day, the only place where you could wear a bathing suit or a leather jacket and be equally comfortable. There were a lot of things people could bitch about when it came to SoCal, from the politics to the traffic to the obsession with appearances, but the weather wasn't one of them.

“And you really want me to do this?”

“No, Jake. I don't. Not even a little. But I know you have to. I know it in my heart. I'd do anything to believe you could walk away and that everything would turn out all right. I've prayed about it more than you would even believe. This is the only way. It's all part of God's plan.”

Those lines had been rehearsed, that much was clear. Hatcher pictured her practicing in front of the mirror. She probably had for days. And right now, she was wondering how she did. Searching his eyes for a sign. Rather than look away, he let his gaze fold into hers. The blue was so pure, so uncommon, they looked artificial. Like some visual prosthetic fashioned out of cubic zirconium. She didn't have a movie star's face or a porn star's body or even the kind of gorgeous hair that gets a woman noticed. But those eyes were otherwordly, he had to admit.

“What makes you so sure?” he asked.

“I just know it. You're one of God's warriors, Jake.”

“Please, Viv. In case you weren't listening when all that crap was going down, I'm going to Hell. According to Valentine and those gals in Satan's Harem everyone suddenly wants me to start making nice with, there's nothing anyone can do to change that. So if He really wants me to be in His army, I'd say He needs to work up a better benefit package.”

“Please don't talk that way. You can't believe there's no hope . . . you just can't.”

“To be honest, I don't know what to believe, but let's be logical here. In for a penny, in for a pound. Cherry-picking what you want to believe out of it is a form of denial.”

“I don't understand how you can be so . . . calm about it all. Don't you understand what it means? To be damned? To spend eternity, all of forever, stretching out to infinity, in never-ending torment?”

“No, I hadn't really thought about it. But thanks for reminding me.”

“You don't know how much it hurts to hear you joke like that.”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

Her gaze sank into her cup, like she was trying to read something at the bottom. “Does it scare you?”

“Vivian, honestly, I try keep it out of my mind.”

“Maybe they were just trying to get in your head. Sap your will, crush your psyche. Maybe it was a cruel lie, and that's all.”

“Valentine sure seemed to believe it. Besides, whether any of it's true or not, I don't think God needs someone like me to be His special agent. There are plenty of people out there with military backgrounds who are in church every Sunday, guys who would literally kill for such an assignment. Sucking up to command has always worked in the past, so I don't see why it shouldn't now.”

“But don't you see? The fact you fought for what was right, fought to prevent that evil man from fulfilling his plan, even though you didn't necessarily believe you were saving your own soul, that's what makes you such a warrior for Him. He knows your heart, Jake. He knows the kind of person you are, that you don't act out of an expectation of being rewarded in the afterlife. You're better than that. Better than most of those people who sit in pews out of self-interest.”

His neck popped as he twisted it. The motion was uncomfortable, sent a twinge radiating into his back. He was sore, and the soreness was just beginning.

“Even if all that's true, what do you expect me to do?”

“I expect you to do what God put you here to do. To follow your conscience. To use your God-given abilities to help people. Your nephew's life is at stake, whether because of William and his men or whoever he thinks he needs to protect him from. But if William is right—and I think he is, Jake, at least partly—this may be much, much bigger than that.”

Hatcher said nothing. His gaze drifted over the concrete surface of the table. It ended up resting on the cell phone.

“Vivian, I wouldn't know how to find the Carnates if I wanted to. They're not exactly in the phone book.”

“You found them before. You're good at that kind of thing.”

“I literally wouldn't even know where to begin.”

“Why do you keep looking at my cell phone?”

It took a second for the question to register. It was true, he had been staring at her cell phone. He wasn't sure why. He raised his head but found himself looking past Vivian again. The guy in the sweats shooting hoops. Something had caught his eye, maybe a few times now, but he wasn't sure what.

“Jake?”

Just as he started to pull his gaze back to her, he saw it once more. A glint. He watched for it this time. The guy put up a shot, trotted over it recover it, then turned to dribble away. There it was again. A tiny flash of sunlight. Reflecting off his ear.

He looked down at the cell a final time. He gestured with his chin toward it, lowered his voice when he spoke. “Did they happen to give you that, by any chance?”

Vivian started to speak, then stopped. “Why?”

He picked up the phone, slid it out of its leather jacket. “You said you were pretty certain they didn't know about us?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, yes. I don't think so.”

The phone was new. He ran his finger over the top, pressed a button to wake up the screen. He groped around the menu until he found the call log. Last call listed was from a private number. The entry indicated it ended less than a minute earlier.

Hatcher's head snapped up. A basketball rolled slowly across the cement court until it gently bumped against the chain-link fence. The guy in the sweats was gone.