Diabolical (16 page)

The woman didn't move. The harp music kept playing. The water kept trickling.

He started to speak again, but she flung up a hand, showing her palm. She held it that way for almost a full minute before lifting her gaze and directing it toward him.

“You were saying?”

“I did as you asked. You didn't tell me he'd be so quick to get violent. What was I supposed to do? You said you didn't want anyone to see my hand.”

She ran her eyes down to his shoes, then back again. “You don't look beat up to me.”

“A cop showed up. He started questioning him. I got out of there.” Morris thought for a moment. “Was that something you arranged?”

She stood, ignoring the question. “What did you find out?”

“What you wanted me to. It worked.”

“Are you sure?”

Morris nodded. “I heard it, plain as day. Like a loud whisper in my ears. I'd never heard that before. The whispering.”

“But you did. You just didn't realize you were hearing it. Like the subliminal messages department stores send out, telling you not to shoplift.”

He wondered what subliminal messages he was hearing now through that piped music. Not ones telling him not to shoplift, he was pretty sure of that.

The harp finished its melody, started a different one.
Shoplifting.
The word reminded him. He removed his right hand from his pocket, wresting it through the tight opening, and held it out. At the end of his wrist, two impossibly long, unnaturally thick fingers unfolded, resembling a pair of arachnoid limbs.

The Hand.

Ectrodactyly, the doctors had called it. Lobster Claw Syndrome was the term most people used, though he'd always thought that was a stupid name since his looked more like a sloth's claws than a lobster's. Morris's was a severe case, manifested in a unilateral malformation of the right hand. His mother had tried to persuade him to have it altered surgically after finally locating a specialist willing to try, practically begged him from the time he was a small boy. He had steadfastly refused, telling her that was the way God had made him, and that no one should interfere with His will. But that was merely talk meant to shut her up. He'd never believed in God, not that he could remember.

And besides, he'd hated his mother. The way he saw it, she was the one who did it to him. If she hadn't been such a whore, he wouldn't have been born this way. He wouldn't have been born at all.

“What the hell is this thing you gave me, anyway?” he asked. Something that looked like an ancient marble, rough and petrified, sat in the narrow depression that was his right palm.

The woman produced a small leather pouch from a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt and took the object from him. She cinched the pouch closed with it inside. “You don't need to know.”

He didn't like that answer. “It looks sort of like an eyeball.”

“Does it, now?” She crossed the room and set the pouch in a small wooden box. “Okay. Tell me.”

Morris slid his hand back into his pocket and told her. She listened.

“How very, very interesting,” she said, after a long pensive pause.

“Really? I was thinking you might be disappointed.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because that's a strange thing to have as your innermost fear.”

The woman smiled. “Not when you're convinced you're going to Hell, it's not.”

Morris thought about that, decided he didn't care. He had a more pressing matter on his mind.

“I'm overdue,” he said, feeling the itch in his Hand. “You promised.”

“You're going to need to control yourself. Just a little while longer. Maybe if things go well tonight, we can arrange something.”

“What's happening tonight?”

“There's something I need you to do for me. Something I believe you'll find quite interesting.”

“And what would that be?”

“Very simple,” she said. “I want you to go to church.”

HATCHER FLINCHED. VIVIAN PRESSED THE COTTON BALL TO his forehead, unperturbed.

“
Ouch
. You know, that really hurts. I'm not kidding.”

Vivian dropped the cotton onto a washcloth, picked up a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. She reached for another ball, held it against the opening, and gave the bottle a quick tip.

“Hush,” she said. “You always hurt the one you love.”

Hatcher wasn't certain how to respond to that, whether it was intended to get a laugh or start a discussion, so he said nothing. He was leaning sideways across the bed, propped up on an elbow. It was a nice room, with clean sheets and upscale décor. Lots of polished marble and deeply colored woods and shiny smudge-free surfaces. A balcony that overlooked the ocean. The Santa Monica pier was maybe a two-minute walk. Given the price of dirt in that area, he guessed one night in that room was as much as he paid for rent in a month. Maybe more.

The general was taking good care of her. Expensive care. That was troubling.

“I don't like seeing you like this,” she said.

Shrugging, Hatcher said, “Is this where I say something like, you should see the other guy?”

“Didn't you say he was a cop? If he's as bad off as that monster Sherman, I'm sure he's in the hospital.”

Hatcher started to respond, then stopped. It occurred to him just how conflicted Vivian must have been. Sherman was the one who'd abducted her for his boss, Valentine. She was the pure heart to be raped and dismembered by a creature of Valentine's own creation, an animal designed to be possessed by a demon. During that fight on the roof, she must have been hoping Bartlett's guy would take the shot. Even though that wasn't her nature.

“What?”

“Nothing. You're sure Bartlett's not in this hotel?”

She placed a hand on his face, pulled her finger and thumb apart to spread the skin around his eye flat.

“Positive. Close your eye.”

He held up a palm and waved her off. “Let me do it.”

“You wouldn't be able to see what you're doing. You have to clean these scrapes. They're filthy. Are you sure you won't let me take you to a doctor?”

“You stood next to me while I washed my face,” he said. “How filthy can they be?”

She inspected his eye without looking into it. “Very. I can see dirt in the cuts. Little specks of grime and rock and God knows what.”

“Hydrogen peroxide would be better.”

“I don't have any hydrogen peroxide. I have alcohol. Now close your eye.”

Hatcher bit down on the inside of his mouth and closed his eye. He flinched again when she wiped the ball across his skin. It stung, kept stinging after she was finished. She blew on it, gently. The stinging disappeared.

Her breath was moist and sweet and cool. Her skin felt warm next to him and soothingly smooth where it touched him. It was an unusual feeling, having her fuss over him. A sort of pleasant discomfort. He wasn't sure which dominated, the pleasure or the discomfort. He'd had medics stitch him up, doctors look him over, nurses relieve his pain. But he couldn't remember anyone taking care of him like this. Tend to his needs out of affection. It occurred to him Amy probably would have. Then he killed her lieutenant, and any chance they had to be together splattered on the sidewalk with him. He'd decided it would have been too much of a risk to see her again. Not for him, but for her.

He tried not to think about that.

“There,” Vivian said. “At least I don't have to worry about you getting an infection.”

Hatcher opened his eye, blinked it a few times. “You do realize ‘no pain, no gain' only applies to weightlifting.”

“Tell me what happened, again.”

“I got rousted by a cop.”

“But why?”

“I'm not sure. He saw an altercation between me and another guy. But I don't think that was it.”

“What kind of an altercation?”

“Somebody's been asking around, looking for me. He caught up to me as I was heading to the car. I didn't like his attitude.”

“What did he want?”

“I don't know. The cop stepped in before I could find out.”

“Maybe you should file a complaint. With the police department. Police officers shouldn't be going around beating people up.”

“I don't think you get how these things work. Besides, I don't even know his name. I'm not sure he was even wearing his nameplate. This was a setup. It has something to do with the Carnates. That much I know.”

Vivian said nothing. A shadow seemed to sweep across her face, like a cloud passing overhead. She dropped her eyes.

“Relax. We knew they'd play games. I just have to figure out what their angle is.”

She replaced the cap on the bottle of alcohol and pushed herself off the bed. She brushed her dress off, then carried the bag of cotton balls and the bottle into the bathroom.

“I don't like you getting hurt,” she said, her voice carrying from around the corner.

“I made contact, by the way,” he said, thinking there was no way he was going to get into that story any deeper than he had to. “With the Carnates. Earlier. Before this happened.”

A pause. The sounds of movement from around the corner stopped. “And?”

“Does the name Nora Henruss mean anything to you?”

“No.” She stepped out, leaning past the wall to look at him. “Why?”

“She has something to do with my nephew. That's all I know.”

Vivian said nothing. She withdrew back into the bathroom, shut the door. A trail of light spilled across the carpet from the clearance below it.

“What do they want from you?” she asked. Her voice was muffled coming through the door.

Hatcher got up and walked over to the door. “The Carnates? It's hard to say. The one I talked to today had been in New York. They're up to something. One thing is for sure, they can't be trusted.”

Seconds passed before she responded. She cracked the door a bit, just enough to peek through. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the way you know they're lying is that their lips are moving.”

“But what if you were giving them something they wanted? Wouldn't they honor a deal?”

“You never can be sure
what
they want. I mean, what they
really
want. I learned that the hard way. And I wouldn't trust them to honor anything. Ever.”

She blinked. The point of her chin twitched. “Even if they were your only hope?”

“Why are you asking this?”

“Because I'm worried about you getting hurt. What do you
think
they really want?”

“I don't know, but they seemed to know an awful lot about my nephew. I need to speak with Bartlett.”

“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Jake.”

“Maybe what wasn't such a good idea?”

“Any of this. Let's just go. Leave. Go somewhere far away. Miami maybe. Or Maine. Or one of those islands in the Caribbean. Just you and me.”

“What's gotten into you? This morning you were giving me a John Wayne speech, telling me to cowboy up.”

“This is starting to scare me, Jake. I'm getting a bad feeling.”

“I've just got to find my nephew, make sure he's safe. Then we can talk about our next move.”

She paused, letting the door bleed open a little wider.

“But maybe we should just leave this to William and his men. They can protect him.”

“You were the one telling me he was in danger.”

“Yes, I know, but now I'm not so sure. I just . . . I mean, really, there's no reason to believe William would hurt the boy.”

“Did Bartlett threaten you?”

“No. I just . . .”

“Look, Vivian—I've had a hell of a day. Just tell me what's going on.”

She peered intently through the divide, her focus shifting from his left eye to his right and back again. He realized she'd been holding her breath when he heard a lengthy sigh escape and she lowered her gaze.

“Nothing,” she said. “I'm just worried about you.”

“Speaking of Bartlett, if you want to get this over with, maybe we should quit tiptoeing around. Tell him I want to meet again.”

“He won't agree to it.”

“Why not?”

She backed away from the door, out of view. “Because he thinks you'll start trouble. Maybe kill someone.”

“You could say you need to see him. I could just show up. Take it from there”

“He's too cautious for that to work. I don't even know where he is. We just talk by phone, until he wants to meet. Besides, he would have his men there. Someone would get hurt. You're hurt enough as it is.”

“I need to have a talk with him.”

“He won't do it, Jake. I doubt he'd even meet with me now under any circumstances.”

“Then why is he paying for your room?”

No response. Hatcher retreated to the bed, sat at the foot of it, resting his face in his hands. A few moments later, she emerged wearing a matching set of lingerie. Slinky, with frilly trim. The kind modeled in catalogs by airbrushed sexpots with angel wings and a halo. Demi bra, thong panties. All white.

“This is unexpected,” he said, standing up.

“I thought maybe you'd like it.”

“You thought right.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Suddenly invigorated.”

“Be honest.”

“Tired,” he said. He rotated his shoulder. “Sore. And generally miserable. But I'll manage.”