Diabolical (9 page)

“See what who looks like?”

“Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.”

He watched the frozen image of himself stare back in stereo. He wasn't certain how to respond. He really hadn't known what she was talking about, until that last comment.

“That knowledge you've always had, that you were different. And I don't mean just physically. That the world was designed by and for other people, people you understood only the way a human might understand creatures he observed in the wild, or in a zoo.”

The trill of a siren grew loud, then just as quickly began to recede. The woman paused briefly to let the noise pass.

“Well, you are different, Morris. You're literally one in a million. A hundred million, actually.”

“Different how?”

“You were born without a soul. And that allowed you to bring a little bit of Hell with you into this world.”

A long silence between them. Then Morris said, “And how do you know this?”

“You might say it takes one to know one.”

“You're saying you don't have a soul?”

“We'll get into that later. For now, I just want you to know that you're here for a purpose, Morris. I can show you that purpose.”

“What's in it for you?”

“Maybe I just want to do a good deed, help my fellow man.”

“Bull crap. Everyone does what they do for themselves. They just want everyone to think they're doing it for others.”

“What a refreshingly candid display of your sociopathy! I regard this as a breakthrough in our relationship. What's in it for me is irrelevant. You wouldn't understand if I told you. What matters is what's in it for you.”

Another siren warbled, rising in pitch as it approached, descending as it passed into the distance.

“You never answered my question. Do you want to see him?”

Morris blinked. He started to respond, then stopped, not knowing what to say. The woman seemed to accept that as a yes. She reached into a purse and retrieved a small round piece of glass that at first he took to be a monocle. She held it out to him and realized it was reflective. A mirror set in a bronze frame. Some lettering was inscribed on the back, too small and faint for him to read. But he could make out a symbol etched in the center. It looked like a bird with scorpion's tail.

“Hold it facing this way.” She pulled her thumb over her shoulder at an angle as she looked in the opposite direction. “Shut your right eye and look into it.”

The object felt heavy in his hand, almost alien in its unexpected heft. He hesitated, then did as she'd instructed. Right eye closed, left hand holding out the mirror. Nothing.

“Adjust the angle left and right until you get it.”

He tilted the mirror one way, watched it pan across some trees, a swing set, a water fountain. He was starting to tip it back when he felt himself jump back in his seat, his body reacting almost before the image registered.

“And there he is,” the woman said.

Morris stared at the glass, fixated. Realizing it was a reflection, he glanced over his shoulder, then at the mirror, tossing his head back and forth several times before fixing on the image again. He wasn't certain whether he was frightened or elated. Or if this was even real. Maybe he was laying on a hospital gurney, his mind awash in a trauma-induced chemical soup. Maybe the bus had gone off a cliff.

“Here's what's in it for you,” she continued. “A chance to be the scion of a new royal line, to take your rightful place as a crown prince in a new order. And all the perks that go along with it. Sex, for example, with women as sinfully hot as me—well, close, anyway—if you want it. I'm throwing that out there, even though I have a hunch you'll pass, because you won't be able to butcher any of us. But there will be plenty of other violence expected of you. And mayhem. Lots of mayhem, with you at the center of it.”

Morris set down the mirror and turned to let his eyes roam the area. He could see the trees, the swing set, the water fountain. Nothing else.

The woman was talking again, but Morris wasn't listening. Then something she said got his attention. He looked over to her and asked her to say it again.

“I said, if that's not enough, I should probably point out that you're a wanted man. Those sirens you've been hearing? They're for you. Your DNA has been matched with specimens found at two separate scenes. Seems someone mailed a swab of your saliva to the detective in charge of your last homicide. It came with a note explaining who it belonged to. An anonymous phone call a little while ago tipped off the same detective that you just arrived into this town. By bus. They must have just got word here. I imagine the police switchboards were lighting up.”

“You're saying if I don't do what you want, you'll turn me in, is that it?”

“No, Mr. Sankey. That was just a stick meant to dangle a carrot off of. You can run off and be a fugitive if you want. But what I'm offering is to get the police off your back. Permanently. To let you shape the world that is to be, a world suited for someone like you. Aren't you the least bit intrigued about fulfilling your destiny?”

Morris looked down at the mirror. “What do I have to do, exactly?”

“First, you have to put your particular talents to work in sending a certain troublemaker to Hell. You're uniquely qualified for the job.”

A moment later she added, “You, and your guardian demon over there.”

HATCHER SWUNG A LEG OVER THE CONCRETE BENCH AND reached over the concrete table. Vivian slid her cell phone out of the way to make room for the pair of coffee cups. The phone was in a small leather case with a wrist loop. Hatcher hadn't had a phone in a while. He could think of lots of reasons they came in handy, but the reality was they seemed to bring him nothing but trouble.

A voice inside his head chided him that the same could be said of women. Especially considering the bombshell this one had just dropped.

“So, Bartlett kidnapped my nephew.”

He paused, letting his own words sink in. The notion sounded more believable the way he'd put it, minus the sugarcoating. Vivian lowered her head. Even trying to soft sell it, she seemed more disturbed by the thought than he was. And she was right to be. By any objective measure it was beyond the pale. Susan Warren had been a few months pregnant with his brother Garrett's child last he'd seen her. That would make it still a baby. Bartlett wasn't messing around.

Hatcher said, “And that's intended to ensure my cooperation, I suppose. Did it ever occur to them that kidnapping is a federal offense?”

“I didn't use the word, Jake. ‘Kidnapping' makes it seem like he's the bad guy and you can just call the police. I don't think it's that simple.”

She gazed up at him with glassy eyes, the sea breeze wrapping strands of hair across her face that she repeatedly had to hook with a finger and slide back over her ear. Except for the serious cast to her lips, she had the soft, sultry look of a woman who'd just had sex. She'd protested that they needed to talk first, that she had things she needed to tell him, urgent things, important things, but the taste of her, the scent of her, the feel of her when she'd kissed him had been too much, and he'd practically ripped her panties off. Hatcher could still smell her on him, smell the fleshy, earthy scent on his lips from when he'd gone down on her. He knew that was probably just his imagination, but it didn't make it any less real. Sort of like the way knowing some things weren't imaginary didn't make them seem any more real.

“But you also know that's exactly what it is,” he said, lowering himself onto the cold rough slab.

“Well, of course I know it's not good. I'm afraid for the boy, for his safety. And I didn't even find out about it until a few days ago, until Edgar more or less confirmed it. But I don't think William will harm him. Not unless he believes he has no choice.”

“People only convince themselves they have no choice when they know the one they're about to make is wrong.”

Hatcher's cup made a grainy, scraping sound as he slid it closer. He picked it up and absently swiped his hand across the surface of the concrete. A gust of wind pelted his eyes with a few invisible bits of sand, forcing him to turn away and blink.

The first streaks of daylight crawled overhead from the east. The morning air flowing in from the Pacific was cold enough to bite. Cyclists and joggers were starting to appear on the Strand fifty yards away. A guy in gray sweats was stretching his back. Hatcher wasn't sure which beach this was. They'd walked a long way before they found a place open for business.

He wiped the back of his hand across his face and lifted the coffee to his lips. The steamy heat felt good on his face but made him think twice. Better to let things cool down before you commit. Always good advice. Almost always.

He started to say something, then stopped when he saw the way Vivian was looking at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He set the coffee down. “Tell me.”

“It's just . . .” She smiled with her eyes even as her lips formed a tight little frown. Hatcher thought he caught her chin quivering. “Your eyes were watering.”

“It was just sand.”

“It looked like you were crying. I've never seen you cry. I don't think I could have even pictured it till now. Couldn't have imagined how it would look.”

“But I wasn't.”

“I know. That's not the point.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Hatcher checked his response. The hot liquid burned his tongue and stung a spot on the roof of his mouth. Damn it—he knew he should have waited. He hated that feeling.

“You're angry. I know. You want to go and hurt someone.”

Hatcher grunted. It didn't take a genius to figure out she would much rather be talking about
them
, about the future of their relationship, about the months apart and the feelings they shared and the violent and tender sex they just had in that motel room. But this wasn't the time for that. Of course, it hadn't exactly been the time for sex, either. Priorities and emotions don't always play nicely.

“You make it sound like I'm prone to random acts of violence.”

“Okay, you want to go hurt William.”

“Wanting to hurt someone and hurting them aren't the same thing.”

“Maybe for most people. Please, Jake. Don't. Don't respond that way. It won't help. He may be going about this wrong, but I'm worried the threat is real.”

The sky was brightening by the moment. Hatcher scanned the distance for anything suspicious. The morning denizens seemed split between those on two wheels and those on two running shoes, both tending to be dressed in a uniquely California look of sweatshirts, running shorts, and knit beanies. The only one who drew Hatcher's attention was the guy in the gray sweats stretching about a hundred yards away. Seemed to be doing an awful lot of it and very slowly, the way someone trying to look like he was doing something would when all he was really doing was hoping he wouldn't stick out.

“Explain it to me again,” Hatcher said.

“What part?”

“The whole thing. Start with why you think I can do anything about this.”

“Because you've dealt with the Carnates before. And because, like I told you back at the motel, William is convinced the Hellion is your brother Garrett.”

“Okay, stop right there. You're acting like they formed a fan club or something. The Carnates used me. I was a pawn to them, and I'm sure they hate me for spoiling their big event. If anything, I'm the last person anyone would want as a point man if they're involved. And that stuff about Garrett, I don't know what to make of that. I never even met him. Not when he was alive, anyway.”

“Jake, you don't understand. Nobody else—at least, nobody I know of—has the kind of experience with the Carnates that you do. Hardly anyone knows a thing about them. William and his men seem to know only what I could tell them, which wasn't much. Before that, they had only heard the most vague of rumors, combined with what William knew. I just don't think they know what they're up against.”

“And yet he thinks the Carnates will want to stop this Hellway from opening,” Hatcher said, stating it as a question without asking one. “That they'll want to help me stop Garrett—who's now a Hellion, whatever that means—from causing a demonic jail break.”

Vivian gave a tilt to her head and hitched a shoulder. She broke eye contact and stared at the cup of coffee in front of her, thinking.

“That's what he told me, yes.”

The tension coming off her was palpable. This was more awkward then he'd anticipated. It was clear she had things she wanted to say, but couldn't. It was just as well. She'd left to go back to New York months ago to wrap up some matters with her former order and tend to some personal issues, but Hatcher knew there'd been more to it. Much more. And now they were picking up right where they'd left off, baggage and all. The big question loomed, hovering like a swollen storm cloud. If she came right out and asked him, something he doubted she would do, he wouldn't know what to say. He didn't think he'd ever loved anyone. Not his parents, not any girlfriends. Some fond feelings, maybe some fantasies, but that was about it.

But Vivian was definitely in love with him.

She'd come across the country for him, to thank him, she said, to pour her soul out to him about what happened in the way all those letters she wrote couldn't.

The letters. Hers were the only ones he'd opened. He still wasn't sure why. Not Amy's, not his mother's, not those from some lawyer or the one from the
New York Times
. But hers, he did. Perhaps out of simple curiosity.