Read San Francisco Night Online
Authors: Stephen Leather
San Francisco Night (7 page)
Nightingale had just climbed into bed when his cellphone rang. He glanced at the display. It was Wainwright. “Jack? Where are you?”
“In bed? My motel.”
“Did you tell Mitchell where you were staying?”
“Sure. But he didn’t want to come back with me. I’m seeing him tomorrow.”
“Get out of there now,” said Wainwright. “Call me from your car.”
The line went dead. Nightingale rolled out of bed, dressed, grabbed his belongings and hurried out of his room, taking the back way to get to his car. As he left the car park, he narrowly missed hitting a black SUV. Nightingale realised he’d forgotten to switch his lights on. He flicked them on and accelerated away from the motel. He drove for five minutes before calling Wainwright. “What’s going on, Joshua? What’s the panic?”
“Mitchell’s dead. A cop on my payroll just called me to say they found his body on Alcatraz. Or what was left of his body, it was missing a lot of pretty essential parts. They’re thinking he was chewed up by a boat propeller. I’m thinking he wasn’t.”
“I saw him get on the ferry, back to the mainland.”
“So whoever killed him dumped him back in the sea. I’m not happy about this.”
“I’m not thrilled, either.” He stopped at a red light and tapped the steering wheel impatiently, then realised he didn’t actually know where he was going.
“I sent you to take care of him,” said Wainwright.
“He wouldn’t go with me. He said he felt safer on his own.”
“Well that didn’t work out well for him, did it?”
“Joshua, I could hardly march him back at gunpoint.”
“You should have persuaded him. But that’s water under the bridge. Looks like they had questions for him and my guess would be he answered them. Which means they know all about you. And me. I’m pretty safe, you, not so much. I doubt they’ll welcome interference, so watch yourself. Find yourself a new hotel.”
“Joshua, I might have a problem. I gave Mitchell one of my credit cards.”
“Shit. A skilled Adept could track you through that pretty easily, no matter what name is on it. Jack, you’re going have to watch your back. These people don’t fool around and you’re in their sights now.”
“I hear you,” said Nightingale, ending the call. The light turned to green and he drove off in search of a place to stay.
Nightingale booked himself into a cheap hotel just off Market Street. He shoved a chair under the door handle before undressing and climbing into bed. But he slept fitfully and woke up every time he heard footsteps outside. He climbed out of bed at eight o’clock the next morning, showered and shaved and grabbed a coffee and a Danish before heading back to the hotel car park. He walked around for a good ten minutes before he was sure the car wasn’t being watched but his heart was still pounding like a jackhammer as he unlocked the door and climbed in. He switched on the
He walked by the Porsche and saw that the driver’s door was ajar. The front door of the house was firmly shut though and he rang the bell twice, before walking around the side of the house. There were French doors that opened onto a small terrace. Nightingale tried the handles and the doors opened. He stood and listened for a full minute before stepping inside.
“Anyone in here?’ he shouted, just to cover himself. His voice echoed but there was no reply and he stepped into the living room. He quickly went through the house. It was expensively furnished with plenty of black leather furniture, thick cream carpets, high ceilings and top-end appliances. Mitchell had an extensive collection of books, but none of them dealt with the occult. Nightingale had no real idea what he might be looking for, which always made a search more difficult. There was no sign of a computer or a laptop, but there was space on a the desk in the study where one might have been. There was no iPad or smart phone but there was a PlayStation 4 plugged into a massive TV and a collection of games scattered across a coffee table.
There was a dining room with a long black wooden table and eight matching chairs. A pair of silver candelabras stood at either end, but there was no tablecloth or places laid. There were another two candelabras on a black sideboard, either side of an ebony case containing solid silver cutlery. He pulled open the sideboard doors but there was only expensive crockery inside.
He went upstairs. Mitchell’s master bedroom also came with cream carpet. There was a huge bed with black sheets and quilt cover. A giant TV hung on the wall opposite. Nightingale opened the closets on a large selection of designer suits, hand made shoes and shelves full of shirts, many still in their wrapping. He rummaged in pockets, looked under shirts, even checked inside shoes, but found nothing.
“Come on, Lee,” he muttered to himself. “Help me here. Give me something to work on.”
Nightingale checked the wardrobes and closet space in the other two bedrooms, bathroom cabinets, drawers and even looked under the beds. Nothing. He went back downstairs.
He thought back to his years as a police officer. He’d been on dozens of drug searches and it had always surprised him how predictable dealers were when it came to hiding their wares. Toilet cisterns, loose floorboards, freezers. The floors in the house were solid hardwood and not easily lifted and all the toilets were plumbed into marble walls, but there was a large fridge-freezer in the kitchen, a stainless steel German model that was almost big enough to walk into.
There were a dozen or so frozen steaks, each the size of a dinner plate, and underneath them a Tupperware container containing a small leatherbound book, the cover scuffed with age. Nightingale sat down on a stool by the breakfast bar and opened the book.
It appeared to be gibberish at first sight, but Nightingale had seen something similar before. It was mirror writing, as used by Da Vinci to write his diaries and by generations of Satanists to hide their activities. Nightingale tried to make out a few words, then realized he was looking at reversed, Latin. He slipped the book in his raincoat pocket. Finding a way to decipher it could wait till he got back to his hotel. He shivered. It had gone suddenly cold in the kitchen. There was an air-conditioning unit set into the wall but it didn’t seem to be on. He buttoned his coat and headed for the front door.
As he stepped into the hallway he realized that his breath was feathering in the cold air. He stopped, frowning. His hands were cold and he blew on them, then realized his feet were freezing, too. He stamped his Hush Puppies on the hardwood floor , but it didn’t warm them and it didn’t make any sound. A wave of fear swept over him, the hairs on his neck stood on end and his stomach started to cramp. The urge to panic and run became almost uncontrollable as he spotted a wisp of yellow smoke at the bottom of the front door. His eyes widened as the plume of smoke grew larger, thicker and darker until he could hardly see the door at all. The temperature dropped even further and he began to shiver uncontrollably. He backed down the hall as the smoke began to coalesce.
His legs had gone numb and he could no longer feel his feet. He took a step back and almost stumbled. Ice was forming on the walls. The smoke was shimmering as if it was made of ice crystals. Something formed within the cloud. A face, but not a human face. Then a claw, but not the claw of any animal Nightingale had ever seen. Another face formed, a girl, crying, then it disappeared and lower down a mouth filled with teeth appeared, snarled and then vanished. Nightingale shivered, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The shifting cloud was closer now, so close that he could almost touch it.
He retreated along the hall, and into the living room, slamming the door behind him. He pushed an armchair against the handle, then watched in horror as the yellow smoke reappeared on his side of the door. Within seconds the smoke started to coalesce again. Faces. Shapes. Talons. A shifting mass of horror. Ice began to form on the walls and his breath was feathering as soon as it left his mouth. Nightingale staggered around one of the sofas and as the solidifying cloud followed him. He stumbled towards the door, flung it open and hurtled down the hall and into the kitchen.
Nightingale became aware of a dog barking, in the distance but getting closer. There was a knife block by the sink with half a dozen wooden-handled knives embedded in it. Nightingale pulled out a carving knife just as the swirling cloud oozed into the kitchen.
He held the knife in front of him, swishing it from side to side. The barking was louder now and then a Rottweiler came hurtling down the corridor and hurled itself at the cloud. As soon as the dog penetrated the fog it went silent and seemed to explode into a pulpy mass of fur, blood and bone that slopped to the floor.
Nightingale stepped forward and slashed at the cloud. A face formed, an old man with parchment-like skin and watery eyes, then it faded and something lizard-like snarled at him. He slashed the cloud again, taking care not to touch it with his hand, but the blade had absolutely no effect. Nightingale took a step back. A few fragments of a spell surfaced in his memory and he struggled to say the words but the fog kept coming towards him.
Nightingale tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer but it was as ineffective as the incantation he’d tried. The fog was almost on him now, and it gave a roar of what might have been triumph as grinning faces swirled at its centre.
Nightingale threw the knife at the cloud and then stumbled around the island in the center of the kitchen and into the hallway, his mind racing. Spells hadn’t worked, neither had the Lord’s Prayer, and the knife had been useless. He ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door but within seconds smoke began oozing underneath it. He rushed into the dining room as the smoke started to solidify. He pulled open the ebony box and grabbed a fish knife. Stainless steel hadn’t done any damage but silver would sometimes accomplish what a regular blade couldn’t.
As he turned he felt the air go suddenly colder and he turned to see the cloud oozing into the room. His hands were sweating so he wiped his right hand on his raincoat before gripping the handle tightly. Nightingale stepped forward, thrusting the knife into the cloud. There was a loud roaring sound from somewhere within the cloud, then a face appeared, a young girl with her mouth open in pain which quickly morphed into a bald man with a scarred cheek and yellowed teeth, screaming for all he was worth. Green slime gushed from the fog over Nightingale’s hand. He thrust the knife deeper into the fog but then it slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Nightingale dashed to the table and grabbed the nearest candelabra, holding it by the candle holders. He thrust it into the cloud and this time there were a dozen screaming voices - men, women, children and animals. The fog began to swirl around and Nightingale pushed the candelabra. It seemed to meet resistance and the screams intensified. Nightingale pushed harder and there was a bright flash of blinding light, then a rent appeared in space and the cloud disappeared with a wet sucking sound. The candelabra clattered to the floor. Nightingale got to his feet but then he felt the strength drain from his legs and he put a hand against the wall to steady himself for a minute or so. It was only when he was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands that he realized the green slime had vanished from his coat. It was as if the terrifying creature had never existed.
Nightingale fumbled to get his car door open, climbed in and sat there panting, trying to regain his composure. He looked across at the house but there was nothing out of the ordinary, no hint of the horrors that it had contained. He switched on the engine with a trembling hand, then drove away. He waited until he was a mile away before calling Wainwright on the hands-free. The young Texan picked up on the first ring. “Listen, Joshua, when your guy went around to Mitchell’s house, everything was okay, right? Nothing happened?”
“What do you mean?” asked the Texan.
Nightingale explained what had happened the previous day.
“You’re a lucky man, Jack, Mitchell could have had brass candelabras,” said Wainwright once Nightingale had finished. “Elementals can be vicious sons of bitches, I’ve heard.”
“What the hell is an Elemental?”
“They’re summoned from Hell, to the bidding of whoever calls them,” said Wainwright. “There are four types – earth, fire, water and air. Sounds like yours was a water one. Silver kills them. And gold. Base metals aren’t so effective. Lead kills the air one, I think. Fire kills earth. Trouble is there isn’t much known about their weaknesses because whenever they’re summoned they usually kill the object of their affections.”
“I wondered if maybe Mitchell was using it as a sort of guard dog but if it wasn’t there when your guy went round then someone else must have set it up. The Apostles, maybe?”
“To get Mitchell if he went back?”
“To get Mitchell or anyone else snooping around, such as yours truly. Damn near worked, too.”
“You really need to be careful. Even if that first Elemental was just a guard dog, if they have that credit card, they could send another, targeted just for you.
Now a
re you any closer to finding out what the hell’s going on?”
“A little.”
“The clock’s ticking, Jack. These people need to be stopped.”
“I’m on it, Joshua. Mitchell gave me two names. Lucille Carr and Kent Speckman.”
Wainwright let out a long whistle. “No shit? They’re Apostles?”
“That’s what Mitchell said. I’m doing some digging as we speak. Also I have a diary he left behind, it’s in Latin, but I’m planning to get it translated pretty soon.”
“Be careful, Jack.”
“Careful is my middle name,” said Nightingale. “Actually that’s a lie. My middle name is scared shitless.”
“You hide it well.”
“We’ll see.”