The Keys of Solomon (18 page)

As the disorienting fog receded from his mind, Sam opened his mental radar and checked the virtual screen. Nothing.
Impossible! It's got to be there. Anything that hits that hard has to leave a signature.
Sam widened the search grid, pushing out some five miles. Still nothing.
This just isn't possible. Is the son of a bitch hiding? Maybe it's found a way around my radar!
Just the thought of such a possibility sent a hard shiver through his body. It had long been his greatest fear, that somehow the Enemy would find a way past Sam's early-warning system.

Unwilling to accept that dismal prospect, Sam took a couple of deep breaths and focused his will. Probing and
reaching
were two very different actions. The former was subtle, an extension of his mental radar, and carried minimal risks of detection.
Reaching
, however, provided a much greater chance for catastrophe. A probe was little different from ringing someone's telephone, long distance. A
reach
carried over extremely long distances, but it also left a distinctive path back to the sender. Something like an ethereal neon vapor trail, it was highly visible to the Enemy and marked the sender with a kind of psychic irradiation. The Enemy would have little trouble identifying Sam as that sender, and even less trouble following the trail back to its source. This particular Enemy was very powerful and had already pinpointed Sam's general position. Thanks to the gunmen watching the hotel, running wasn't an option. Therefore, Sam needed additional information on this latest threat if he wanted to survive. A probe was the safest option.

He sat down inside the Honda and locked the doors. Next, he reclined the seat and made himself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. His heart still racing, Sam tried to relax, willing his pulse to slow. Thoughts of his mom and Kat only heightened his anxiety. He took another route, turning all of his attention to Charlie Hastings. His mind's eye captured every delicate feature of her face, the scent of her hair and skin, the warmth in her eyes and in her heart. Charlie. The love of his life.

After a couple of minutes, Sam was ready. Closing his eyes, he pulled up the psychic signature of the Enemy: a miasma of nauseating waves, ripples, and distortions in the fabric of time and space. Next, he drew upon his memories of that terrible odor, of rotten eggs, wormy meat, and stale cat piss. After a moment, the odor took form and he added that to the signature. A “picture” took form in his mind, a living portrait of filth, disease, decay, and death … every vulgarity known to man, and many that weren't, were firmly entrenched in his mind. Sam pushed the probe to the south in a tight cone.

Moving tentatively over the broad landscape, Sam's tendrils of focused mental energy briefly touched, then bypassed dozens of psychic imprints, some far stronger than others, yet nearly all of them human. He paused as his probe touched one particular signature that felt disturbingly familiar. Sam had found Little Stevie.

A little shaken by finding the murderous man-mountain in the company of demons, Sam paused to collect his composure. Little Stevie wasn't human, nor was he a demon. Yet, there was a sense of familiarity. Something about Little Stevie reminded Sam of another monster, a crazed long-dead killer named Petey Scanlon. There was a connection between the two men, Sam was sure of it, but what that connection was eluded him.

When Sam resumed his search a few minutes later, he detected the demons he had first sensed from back in the suite. The small gathering hadn't moved from the spot where he had found them earlier, and their numbers hadn't changed. Sam ignored them and pushed on. After several minutes with still no signature he could match to the Enemy's probe, Sam grew worried. Maybe, he thought, they
had
found a way to block him. If that's so, the demons could come at him from any direction, at any time. He would be defenseless.

No. I'm just not looking hard enough, that's all. Got to keep looking.
Sam took another deep breath, then slowly exhaled. The image of the Enemy signature was still firmly entrenched in his mind, and he pressed forward, first narrowing the scope of the search by several degrees, so that the probe no longer resembled an ethereal cone, but rather a wide, psychic fan. If he was going to locate the source, it would have to be soon. Past searches had come easily, and without a great deal of conscious effort. He was now searching well beyond any distance he had ever attempted. Perspiration beaded along his forehead and trickled into his eyes. Breathing was difficult, as if a heavy weight rested upon his chest, crushing the air from his chest. And for a brief moment, he had it! An incredibly powerful signature of the Enemy radiating from a point some forty miles to the south.

So many … so damned many of them!

The tremendous effort required to maintain such a contact drained the rest of his already shaky physical and mental reserves. Finally, frustrated and afraid, Sam released contact, shut down his radar, and leaned back in the car seat. It was a sickening thought, but he had to face the obvious. Either it was a single entity and the most powerful he had ever contacted, or there was a gathering of creatures, similar to that back in Abbotsville. Regardless of the scenario, it spelled extremely bad news for someone.

Sam opened the car door. For the moment, there was little to do except wait for Falco and his superiors to make the next move. It was time to go back to the apartment and deal with Falco. Sam reached into the back seat for his laptop, but his hand stopped short of the black nylon carry case. A thick manila envelope lay atop the case and large block letters in red ink left no doubt as to the intended recipient.
FOR LUCKY SAM.

Stunned, Sam stared at the envelope, afraid to pick it up. He had thoroughly searched the car upon reaching the parking deck. There was no way he could have missed this. No way …

FOR LUCKY SAM.

Only two people had ever called him that, and one of them had been dead for nearly a decade. Sam picked up the envelope, and hefted it in his hand.
Thick but not too heavy. About the size of a … No. No way
. He tore open one end and dumped the contents into his lap. It was a dog-eared Rand McNally Road Atlas. The same one he had used during his trip to Tennessee.

CHAPTER 12

Phoenix, Arizona

Sam tossed the atlas onto the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa. For several minutes he stared at the thick, tattered book of state maps. There was no doubt in his mind it was the same road atlas. He knew every smudge, tear, and stain. Two years earlier, he had traveled nearly thirty-eight hundred miles with that atlas stuffed into his duffel bag. The last time he had seen it, it had been tucked away in a dresser drawer in his bedroom back in Sun City. He had considered more than once tossing it out with the garbage, but each time he tried, something had stopped him. Back then, he attributed his hesitancy to some kind of warped nostalgia. Now, he wasn't so certain.

This is crazy, just plain friggin' crazy. Someone goes to my house in Sun City, steals the atlas, brings it to Phoenix, and plants it in my car while I'm standing less than ten feet away.
As ridiculous as the scenario sounded, Sam had learned long ago to avoid the word
impossible
. He had seen too much, experienced too much, to ever again believe anything was truly beyond the realm of possibility. He also knew there really was an explanation, and it began with the hand-lettered words on the face of the envelope:
LUCKY SAM.
Horace left it. But why?

He reached for the book, then stopped.
Man, I really don't want to look at it. I really, really don't.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it aside and chided himself.
Pick up the damn book, Conner! Hell, after Abbotsville, everything else is a piece o' cake. Right?
He picked up the atlas and thumbed through the pages. When he reached the back cover, he realized he had been holding his breath, as if half-expecting the boogeyman to jump from the pages and tear out his throat. He flipped through the pages again, looking for a specific map: the state of Tennessee. When he finally located the page, he stared at the red circle someone, probably Horace, had drawn around the tiny hamlet of Abbotsville more than two years earlier. The rest of the page seemed unchanged, and Sam exhaled in relief. He had no reason or desire to visit the Veil again.
So, why bring the book to me now? Wait …

Flipping back to the front, Sam located the map of Arizona. He had missed it on the first pass, but now it leaped off the page and slapped him across the face. Someone had drawn a bright red circle around the city of Casa Grande, a small city just off the interstate that connected Phoenix and Tucson. The word
AIRPORT
was written in neat, block letters.

Casa Grande has an airport? A nice little town, but nothing special. Of course, Abbotsville had probably been a nice little town at one time.

Casa Grande was a little less than an hour's drive from Phoenix, and from what Sam could recall, it was an unremarkable community. Unlike Abbotsville, it had no history of mass lunacy. In fact, the community's major claim to fame was an ancient ruin left behind by early Native Americans, aptly called Casa Grande, or “large house.” It was this adobe settlement that gave the city its name. Other than that, the only other local landmarks were the abandoned open pit copper mines and nearby Florence State Prison, some twenty miles to the east.
Why … Oh, shit!

Casa Grande was nearly due south from southwest Phoenix, the same general direction Sam had probed. It was a stretch, but was this Horace's way of telling Sam the Enemy that had zeroed in on him earlier was in Casa Grande? Was he now supposed to go there and confront the monster much as he had done in Tennessee? He didn't have nearly enough power to pinpoint the Enemy over that distance. Determining the general location was one thing, but in order to get a hard fix on them, he would have to throw caution out the door and
reach
.

He could have an answer within seconds by
reaching
, and determine not only the precise location but also the number of Enemy. Both Joriel and Horace had repeatedly cautioned Sam against using the power to
reach
unless it was a dire emergency. Maybe this was the type of emergency Joriel meant.
Only one way to find out.
Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Clearing his mind as best he could under the circumstances, he started to
reach
for his angelic companion, the Voice.

Not long ago, Sam's attempts at
reaching
would have amounted to little more than a mental scream, heard over hundreds of miles by anyone or anything with the “gift.” During the past couple of years, his inherited supernatural abilities had increased exponentially, though his control over some of those abilities was still shaky at best. However,
reaching
for Joriel was unlike a general call for help. He supposed it was a result of his lifelong bond with her, or perhaps she had always been near enough that he hadn't needed to “scream” in order for her to hear the
reach
. Regardless, he was growing desperate.

“You look like a young man deep in thought.”

Surprised by the unexpected interruption, Sam released his mental focus. When he opened his eyes, he saw Falco standing in the bedroom doorway. Sam thought the man still seemed a little unsteady, but his eyes appeared clear and there was some color in his cheeks for the first time since the battle atop the university maintenance building. Falco gave Sam a short wave as he slowly made his way through the living room and into the kitchen area. Seconds later, Sam heard the man rummaging through drawers and overhead cabinets.

“What are you looking for?” asked Sam.

“Coffee. I don't suppose you came across any while you were … never mind. Found it. What time is it, anyway?”

Sam checked his watch. “A little after five.”

Falco grunted. “Anytime now,” he added in a quiet voice.

“Any time for what? What's that supposed to mean?” asked Sam.

“Just thinking that it's about time for the evening news,” replied Falco. “Mind turning on the television? MSNBC or CNN, please.”

Sam didn't believe for a moment that Falco's former remark had anything to do with the news, but he did as he was asked. Turning on the set, he surfed through the channels until he found CNN. The current story was about a massive train derailment in Spain. A haggard-looking on-scene reporter soberly explained that a dozen terrorist groups had come forward claiming credit for the disaster as a camera panned to take in the body-strewn wreckage.
I guess demons come in a lot of different shapes and sizes these days,
Sam thought.

The next story caused Sam to sit up on the edge of the sofa. A caption at the bottom of the screen read, “Vatican Murder-Suicide.”

“Man, that's something you don't hear every day,” said Sam. He started to turn up the sound when a sharp knock came at the front door of the suite. Startled, Sam turned off the set and came to his feet just as Falco entered the living room. Sam backed away from the front door, inching toward the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony and the fire escape.

Damn, I'm jumpy
.

“Take it easy, Sam. There's nothing to be afraid of.” Falco unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. “Come in, Enrique.”

Sam held his ground near the glass doors as Falco stood aside and allowed the visitor to enter.

So this is Enrique. Shit's about to get interesting
.

The man was younger than Sam had expected, and handsome as any movie star. Dressed for the cover of
GQ
, Enrique set down his suitcase and gave Falco an affectionate hug, as if greeting a favorite relative. Falco returned the hug, though a bit reluctantly, thought Sam. Afterward, Falco limped to the kitchen. Enrique turned to Sam.