The Keys of Solomon (17 page)

Yes, it was going to be a good day. A very good day!

*   *   *

Falco reached for the doorknob, hesitated, then pressed his ear to the door. He could hear Sam rummaging around in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors in frustration.
He's probably more pissed than hungry. Can't say I blame him.
Falco made it back onto the bed just as the recurring headache reasserted itself. A blinding pain generated at the base of his skull and arced through both temples before finally settling behind his right eye. He seized his head between both hands and curled into a fetal position, and with his remaining strength, willed the nausea away.

When the pain finally subsided, Falco realized he was drenched in perspiration. Every muscle in his upper body ached with fatigue, as if he had just finished a marathon. He wondered if he had lost consciousness. It was an unsettling thought, especially with Enrique DeLorenzo on the way, and Little Stevie unaccounted for.

Falco struggled to a standing position and made his way to the bathroom. As he washed his face, he could hear Sam through the walls, slamming kitchen cabinet doors and muttering loudly.
Yep, the kid's pissed
. Falco also knew the worst was yet to come. He had told the boy of Enrique's impending visit, but not the why.
When he finds out, this suite's going to be very crowded.

Falco toweled off his face and made it back to the bed without another attack. As his head continued to clear, he considered the upcoming meeting. Enrique was playing mind games by saying he only wanted to meet and assess the Conner kid in person before deciding the boy's fate. It was a half-truth at best. Enrique wasn't an operations supervisor. In fact, he had never served a single day as a strategist or tactical operator. While it might be true that Enrique wanted to meet the boy, Falco knew it hadn't been his idea to fly into Phoenix.

Aside from the obvious—a face-to-face meeting with Sam—there was another reason for Enrique's visit. Falco had been given explicit orders to terminate Sam, and those orders did not allow him to exercise personal discretion. When Falco reported that Sam was still alive, it had sent a major ripple through the ranks. The Hierarchy was forced to ask if the boy had really saved Falco's life, or if perhaps Falco was now in thrall to the undeniably powerful Offspring.

The Hierarchy needed a trusted Shield to make the final determination. Falco also knew a full complement of experienced killers were now within striking distance of the hotel. If Enrique decided Falco was enthralled, neither he nor Sam would live through the evening. On the other hand, if Enrique gave him the benefit of the doubt and the interview with Sam went well, Falco would live and the boy would be conscripted into service to the organization. Either way, from the moment Sam Conner arrived on the roof of the university maintenance building, his life would never, ever be the same.
Wait a minute. I never asked him
why
he was on that roof. I … I remember asking him why he helped me, but not how he knew I was up there. How did he know?

A quick rap on the door interrupted Falco's thoughts. “Come in.”

Sam opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. The boy's eyes were red and swollen. “I need some air. I'm going outside.”

Falco shook his head gingerly. “That's not a very good idea, kid.”

“Save it, dude,” said Sam. “If I intended to cut out on you, I'd already be in Sun City. Or, the way you were snoring, halfway to Mexico City. Now, I'm gonna buy some cigarettes, then take a walk up to the parking deck. If your chickenshit snipers wanna pop a cap in me, now's the time, big shot. But I'm not spending another goddamned second in this suite.”

“Kid, if I thought you were going to run, I'd kill you myself. Count on it. The only way you can prove you're not one of the bad guys is to sit tight.”

Sam's eyes widened in surprise. “After I … you … forget it! I'll be back in a little while!” Without waiting for an answer, he did an about-face and left the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Jesus!
Falco grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table and entered the contact number for the surveillance team. A few seconds later, an unfamiliar voice answered.

“Hello, Mr. Falco.”

A woman?
Female operators weren't unheard of, but they were extremely rare. Falco checked the digital display to make sure he had dialed correctly. He had.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Listen, the Conner kid is headed to the parking deck to walk off a case of nerves. Tell the shooters to back off the cross-hairs and give him some space.”

There was a slight hesitation on the other end, then, “You know he's not allowed out of your suite. The consequences have been explained to him?”

“Oh, I told him, all right. Now I'm telling you. Leave the fucking kid alone. We both know someone is flying in to interview the boy, and that someone won't like it if he finds a cold corpse instead of a living, breathing skinny-ass kid. Besides, if Sam Conner really wanted to escape, I'm not sure your entire team could stop him.”

“But … but—”

“Look, he should be coming out onto the deck in another couple of minutes. So if I were you, I'd stop with the dumb fucking questions and get the word out to the rest of your team. Unless, of course, you want to explain the bullet holes to some highly placed Shield.”

Falco grinned when he heard an abrupt
click
.
Not so much as a “goodbye” or a “kiss my ass.” Well, whoever she is, she isn't stupid.

*   *   *

The elevator was filled with tourist types, people dressed for the spa or the golf course. Sam made his way through the throng to the rear, ignoring hesitant nods and forced smiles. Perhaps it was something in his eyes or the expression on his face. Or maybe it was his grimy jeans or torn Godsmack 2003 T-shirt. Whatever the reason, the crowd gave Sam plenty of room on his way down to the lobby. It was a sharp contrast to the way people usually reacted to him. Not that he cared. He was in no mood for small talk with strangers.

Once in the lobby, Sam fished in his pockets for cash. He had spent most of his money buying supplies for the suite, and it didn't take long to calculate his meager net worth.

Stuffing the small wad of bills back into his pocket, he pulled a debit card from his wallet. When he finally located the ATM, he hesitated. He knew his bank account was precariously low and would remain that way until new grant money was awarded in January. He could always transfer some money over from savings, but …
Ah, screw it. With demons and assassins hunting for me, it's not likely I'll be around for the spring semester anyway.

Sam withdrew the balance of his account in fifty-dollar increments and shoved the money into his wallet. With cash already on hand, that brought his total to $784.72. Not a fortune, but hell, he'd traversed middle America on far less. When it came time for him to make his break, he'd head straight for his mom and Kat. Once they were together, Sam was sure he could get them all safely to Mark and Janet.

And I'll do it with or without Joriel's help
. There. It was out. All the other factors surrounding Sam's current predicament combined didn't bother him as much as the sudden reappearance and equally sudden disappearance of Joriel.

From Sam's earliest memories a presence had been with him, providing constant companionship, protection, and mentoring. For much of his life Sam had simply called the ghost in his head
the Voice.
Then, two years ago, as Sam hid inside an abandoned factory in Knoxville, Tennessee, the Voice finally provided a name: Joriel.

It was then that Sam first learned about the existence of guardian angels, and his own remarkable heritage. Not that it really mattered to Sam. Joriel could have been a figment of his imagination, an alien from Mars, or a talking hamster. He didn't care. The Voice had been a part of his life since birth and was largely responsible for shaping him into the kind of person he was—and the kind of person he would become. He and Joriel were inseparable, or so he thought. That same night in Knoxville, Joriel disappeared. She resurfaced briefly a couple of days later while Sam and Michael fought to close the Veil, but disappeared again after only a few seconds. No “good-bye” or “I'll be back soon.” Just … gone. More than two years without a word.

The crushing sense of loss was, at times, more than Sam believed he could bear. Then, just over twenty-four hours ago, while standing in a driving rain and facing a psychotic human mountain, Sam heard the familiar, sweet ring of wind chimes. Joriel! He nearly fell to his knees and gave thanks for the answer to his countless prayers. And now, when he perhaps needed her more than at any other time in his life, she was gone, again.

That's cool. I don't need her! I'll get Mom and Kat to Mark's place if I have to carry them on my friggin' back! From Mark's place we can … can … well, we'll worry about that when the time comes.

For the next several minutes, Sam wandered aimlessly about the massive lobby. In the center of the floor, a lush jungle of palms, ferns, and exotic flowering plants surrounded a sculpted waterfall. In the pool beneath the fall, koi and ornamental carp swam in lazy circles, occasionally breaking the pattern to chase a floating piece of popcorn or corn chip. On the far side of the lobby, he located the courtesy shop.

The clerk behind the counter, a cute Hispanic girl near his own age, gave him a wide, cheerful smile, and the world seemed a couple of shades brighter.

“Hi! What can I do for you?”

Sam leaned on the desk and looked up at the menu display and nearly choked as he read the list of exorbitant prices.
Three dollars for a lousy Mountain Dew, two bucks for a small bag of chips … Holy crap! Six bucks for a pack of cigarettes!

The clerk tapped him lightly on the back of his hand and whispered, “Other customers are waiting. Can I help you find something?”

Sam mumbled an apology and stepped to the side. “Sorry, but no thanks. I think I just gave up smoking. Again.”

As he headed for the front of the building, Sam pulled the last bent Marlboro from the crumpled pack and tucked the cigarette behind his ear. When he told the girl he was giving up the habit, he wasn't kidding. Since returning from Tennessee, he'd gradually cut back on smoking, going from more than a pack a day to perhaps a pack per week. He'd been doing well with it, and now seemed like the perfect opportunity to go cold turkey. Pulling a disposable lighter from his pocket, Sam muttered, “Time to play ‘Taps' and bury the last soldier.”

Outside, afternoon shadows crept across the face of the building. One of the doormen waved a polite greeting and Sam realized he recognized the man. He had been on duty the night Sam and Falco staggered out of the Honda, both drenched to the bone and looking more dead than alive. The man had given the pair a peculiar look but asked no questions. Instead, he offered to assist Sam and his “drunk uncle.” When Sam declined the offer, the doorman smiled and gave him a wink, then called for a valet to move Sam's car to the parking deck.
Parking deck! I left my laptop in the car!
He took off at a jog for the elevators.

*   *   *

Several minutes later, Sam sat behind the wheel of the Honda and lit his last cigarette. Everything, including the computer, was exactly as he had left it; a disarrayed mess, but all present and accounted for, nonetheless.

The car was parked on the third tier of the deck, which offered a spectacular view of the valley. In the distance, a halo-shrouded sun settled on the horizon just to the west of Squaw Mountain, a towering peak that overlooked south Phoenix. There was something about the mountain that Sam had always loved, a sense of tranquility, and quiet, ancient wisdom. Sam had the same feeling whenever he visited the Superstition Mountains, or the Salt River Canyon. It was possible, he supposed, that his affinity for those special places came from the stories his grandmother, Nanna, used to tell. However, Sam wanted desperately to believe that magic still existed in the world. A benevolent god had made it so, according to Nanna. Now, Sam only needed evidence that one existed.

God, I miss Nanna. She always made me feel … normal.
Sam looked down at the logo on his T-shirt. No, the elevator passengers hadn't shied away because of his dress, or even the scowl on his pale, freckled face. They moved away because they instinctively knew he wasn't one of them. He was different, out of his element, and alone. It was a remarkable paradox. Sam could attract perfect strangers to come to his aid with a subconscious thought, yet he couldn't make friends except under the most freakish of circumstances. He could count his true friends on one hand and have several digits to spare. Of course, things were decidedly different now, and none of them had changed for the better. In the past people only shunned him because he was different. Now they wanted to kill him.

Sam stepped out of the car and walked over to the retaining wall. He took a drag on the cigarette, blew a smoke ring, and watched it spiral out over the street below. Traffic was heavy along Marriott Drive as the unsuspecting masses went about their business, oblivious to the horrors now loose on earth. Ordinary people living out mundane lives in a world that's anything but ordinary or mundane. And somewhere out there along the street, men waited patiently to put a bullet in his skinny ass.
Are they hunting Mark, too? Paul Young? Michael Collier's baby?

Sam took another drag on his cigarette.
Maybe I should just cut back instead of quitting cold. If I'm real lucky, cancer will get me before some sniper.…

He didn't finish the thought. A hostile mental blast slammed hard into Sam, and sent him staggering away from the concrete wall. A sudden rush of vertigo sent the world tilting on its axis, and Sam reached out blindly for the hood of his car. For several seconds, it was all he could do to stay on his feet. It had been a long time since he'd felt a probe this strong, and he knew this wasn't a case of some malevolent entity simply passing through the area. This was no random search.