Where Angels Fear to Tread (19 page)

"You know, the Seraphim," the man added sarcastically.

The woman returned to dabbing the wounds with a cotton ball, when the old man gently moved her hands away. Slowly, carefully, he made his way toward Remy, and the milky film that covered his eyes told Remy he had been right. The old man was indeed blind.

"You're Remy Chandler, right?" the powerful old man said, extending a large hand in greeting.

Remy moved closer, placing his hand in the old man's calloused paw.

"I am," he said. "And you are Samson."

The old man's lips parted to reveal a wide yellow smile as he pumped Remy's hand enthusiastically.

"Yes, I am," he said with a laugh. "The one and only."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

D
eryn began to awaken, thinking everything was all right.

She was back in Florida with her beautiful daughter, Zoe, and Carl . . . Carl was just out of the picture.

Maybe he was dead.

That thought brought her closer to consciousness, swimming up from the deep darkness where she had gone when . . .

She remembered the attack and awoke in a panic.

The room was set in a semigloom, rays of the sun creeping in from behind a sheet that had been placed over the window.

Deryn immediately sat up on the mattress, searching for her daughter. She hoped that at least one part of her dream was true, but it wasn't.

She felt groggy, and as she bent her arm, she experienced a bit of pain and remembered that the men who took her had given her a shot of something. Deryn strained her eyes as she studied the crook of her right arm, rubbing the thumb of her left hand across the sensitive area where she'd been stuck.

Crawling off the mattress that had been placed in the center of the room, she stood unsteadily. The room was large, but empty. It had beautiful hardwood floors and high, vaulted ceilings. It was what she imagined the rooms in one of those fancy Holly-wood mansions would be like.

She held her hands out in front of her and crossed the room toward the white door that seemed to glow, suspended in the gloom. Her heart raced, and her thoughts were electric as she tried to figure out who would have done this to her—and why.

Try as she might, she couldn't think of a single reason . . . other than maybe something Carl had done to really piss off someone.

He could most certainly do that.

Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest that it hurt as she gripped the crystal doorknob. She was certain it wouldn't turn. But miraculously, it did.

Cautiously, she opened the door and stepped out into a long, carpeted hallway. A set of stairs was at the end of the corridor to her right, and she quietly moved toward them, past other closed doors, wondering whether Remy Chandler might be behind one of them, but afraid to find out. She stopped at the top of the stairway, listening, eyes darting about as she searched for signs of her attackers.

Seeing nothing but an elaborate entryway below her, Deryn carefully took hold of the dark wooden banister and slowly descended. Her heart began beating painfully fast again as she stepped from the final stair onto the black-and-white marble floor, and saw the front door before her. She lunged toward it, reaching for the knob and silently praying for the same kind of luck she'd had upstairs.

"Deryn?" a friendly voice called from somewhere behind her.

She froze, her hand gripping the cool metal of the brass handle. She almost answered but managed to stop herself.

"Deryn York, is that you out there?" the woman called out again. "Please, come join me in here."

Deryn had no idea why, but she did as the woman asked, letting go of the door and abandoning her chance for escape. She moved toward the left of the stairs, and down a short hallway to a small room—a sitting room—on the right. Slowly she entered to find an attractive, dark-haired woman sitting in the center of a high-backed love seat and pouring from a silver tea set.

"There you are," she said with a wide smile. "Would you care for some tea?"

A low moan followed the woman's question, and Deryn noticed a man slumped in a floral wingback chair at the other end of the love seat. He was dressed in a navy blue jogging suit, his complexion deathly pale. He seemed to be staring off into space, emitting groans from time to time.

"Oh, pay no attention to him," the woman said, waving with a bejeweled hand. "Come, sit beside me, and we'll talk about your daughter."

"My daughter?" Deryn asked, not sure she had heard correctly. "Did you say my daughter?"

"Yes, I most certainly did," the woman said. "Come—sit—before I lose my patience."

Deryn entered the room, her footfalls muffled by the elaborate oriental rug that covered the floor.

"What do you know about my daughter?" she demanded. "Who are you? Why was I . . . ?"

The woman interrupted her, laughing melodically. "There will be plenty of time for questions," she said, pouring tea into a china cup, which she placed on the table in front of the love seat. "We'll have a bit of refreshment first, and then we'll get down to business."

The woman smiled again, sipping from her own cup.

Silently Deryn sat on the other end of the love seat, staring . . . waiting.

"Do drink your tea," the woman instructed.

The man in the sweat suit shifted suddenly in his chair, bending forward to bury his head in his hands, softly screaming.

The woman ignored him, turning slightly to stare at Deryn with a powerful intensity.

And suddenly Deryn wanted her tea. She picked up her cup and took a sip, making a face as she set it back down on the saucer.

"Sugar?" the woman asked, setting down her own cup and picking up the sugar bowl.

"Who are you?" Deryn demanded.

The woman placed the sugar bowl close to Deryn's hand.

"My name is Delilah," she replied. "And your daughter has something that I want."

The man had begun to thrash, falling from the chair to the floor, his spastic movement nearly kicking over the coffee table.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Poole," Delilah scolded. "Have a little bit of control."

Deryn watched the man, feeling herself grow more and more afraid. "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

"Mr. Poole has a rather odd talent . . . an affliction really," Delilah explained. "He can read the psychic impressions left upon things, telling where they've been and, with the right incentive, where they are."

She looked at the man who was still lying on his stomach at the foot of the chair. "Isn't that right, Mr. Poole?"

Poole remained silent, twitching as he lay there.

"You said," Deryn began, addressing Delilah, "you said my daughter has something you want?"

Delilah nodded, and she picked up the silver teapot and refilled her own cup. "I wasn't sure at first, but after my trip to Florida, I'm certain it's she."

"Your trip to Florida?" Deryn asked. "Where . . ."

"Never mind about that, Deryn," Delilah said forcefully. "We have to find your little girl and get her back into your arms, don't we?"

Just the thought of holding Zoe made Deryn smile.

"I—I would really love that, but . . ."

Delilah held up one hand, bringing the teacup to her lips with the other. "No buts then," she said, taking a sip and setting her cup down once more. "That is what we will do. And when we find her, you will have your daughter back, and I will have what I want."

Delilah smiled so wide that Deryn imagined it must have hurt.

"What could she . . . What does Zoe have that you . . . ," Deryn started to ask, curious how her six-year-old daughter could have something that this fine woman so desperately needed.

"That is of no concern to you," Delilah said. "I doubt she even knows she has it, and when we find her, I will take it, and she will be none the wiser."

Deryn thought of Remy Chandler again. He was helping her, but at this stage, she didn't even know if he was still alive.

But this woman—this Delilah—seemed to know how to find her little girl. "How?" Deryn asked desperately. "How are we going to find my baby?"

Delilah was smiling again, but her smile quickly disappeared when she looked at Poole still lying upon the floor. "Get up now, Mr. Poole," she commanded.

Deryn felt a cold chill run up and down the length of her spine as Poole climbed to his knees with a grunt, staring with pleading eyes at the beautiful woman.

"We're going to find Ms. York's little girl," Delilah told him.

And he started to sob. "I . . . I need . . . I need to rest before . . ."

"There will be plenty of time for rest once the child is back in the custody of her mother," Delilah scolded, turning her gaze toward Deryn.

"Yes, please, Mr. Poole," Deryn said. "Please find my little girl."

Poole met her eyes, his face damp with tears. "She doesn't care about your child," he said, his eyes glistening with emotion. "All she cares about is . . ."

Delilah was a blur as she jumped up, yanked the man into the air by the front of his sweat suit, and slammed him back into the chair.

"Don't make me regret using your services, Mr. Poole," she snarled, still holding him by the twisted fabric of his nylon top.

"Kill me!" the man screamed. "Kill me now, you fucking bitch!"

"I'll do worse than that," she said, giving him a violent shake before letting him go.

Deryn sat silently, not sure exactly what was happening, but caring only about finding her little girl . . . finding her Zoe.

Delilah turned to her, that smile again stretching her features.

"Sorry about that," she said with a polite chuckle. "Mr. Poole and I have been working quite closely for the last few days, and we've started to wear on each other's nerves."

She held out her hand, and Deryn noticed how long and delicate her fingers were, and how sharp the scarlet nails seemed to be.

"Come here, Deryn," Delilah commanded.

Immediately, Deryn stood, walking around the coffee table, to stand before Delilah.

"Your hand, Mr. Poole," Delilah ordered, and the man offered his trembling appendage. "Take it, Deryn York."

Deryn reached out, but skittishly pulled her hand back. "What is he going to do?" she asked.

"He will read the psychic impressions left upon you by your lovely daughter," Delilah explained. "A mother's love for her child is a very powerful thing, and, hopefully, he will be able to follow those impressions through the ether to locate her present whereabouts."

Deryn hesitated, then grasped the man's cold, clammy hand. "Will it hurt?"

Mr. Poole began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

"If you think I've got a table for you assholes, you've got another think coming," the Asian man waiting inside the entrance to the China Lion said, slapping the menus in his hand against the side of his leg.

Samson let out an enormous laugh, pushing past his daughter and son to embrace the little man.

"Kenny, how the fuck are you, my little yellow brother?"

Kenny hugged back. "Haven't seen you in a while—I thought the food finally killed you."

"Not a fucking chance," Samson said, releasing the man.

"Table for four?" Kenny asked, holding up four fingers.

"Four it is," the big man agreed.

Remy still found it hard to believe the man was blind, but he guessed a life as long as Samson's had allowed him time to adapt, and from watching Samson move and interact with his surroundings, he certainly had.

He felt the hand of Marko, Samson's son, upon his back, as they all followed Samson and Kenny to the back of the Market Street restaurant.

"Hope I didn't hurt you too bad when I decked you," Marko said, walking beside him.

Remy heard Carla, the blind man's daughter, chuckle. For the briefest moment, in response to their lack of respect, he imagined reaching out with a hand bathed in the fires of Heaven and burning away the man's face, before moving on to the girl.

The Seraphim seemed to laugh from somewhere deep in the darkness of his being, but Remy ignored it.

"I can take it," he said instead, forcing a smile, while bringing a hand up to move his jaw from side to side.

Marko laughed, slapping Remy on the back as they entered a private dining room. Kenny pulled out a chair for Samson, guiding him into it and handing him a menu. The restaurant owner then pulled out the other seats, Remy taking the one to the left of Samson, and dispersed the rest of his menus.

"Any specials tonight, Ken?" Samson asked.

"Yeah, you get no food poisoning," the little man said as he briskly walked from the room.

Samson liked that one, laughing until he started to choke and cough.

Marko and Carla were looking at their menus. Remy had had no intention of eating, but the place did smell pretty good.

A cute waitress with a less-than-stellar grasp of the English language filled their water glasses and took their drink orders. Samson and his kids ordered Tsingtao beer, and Remy chose a Seven and Seven.

As they waited for their drinks, Remy decided he'd been patient long enough. Back at the Boys Club, he'd tried to get Samson to fill him in, but the big man had refused, saying he had to eat before he dropped dead.

Their drinks arrived, and they put their dinner orders in. Soon after that, three servings of Chinese dumplings arrived, which were promptly pounced upon by the table's residents.

"So, do you think you might be able to tell me what's going on now?" Remy asked finally, taking a sip of his drink. It tasted strongly of Seagram's, just the way Mulvehill and he liked a Seven and Seven. Remy was sure that if the China Lion were more in the neighborhood, Steven would be a regular, but Lynn was a little too far even for excellent Seven and Sevens.

Samson stabbed a dumpling with his fork, dipped it in the special soy sauce, and brought it to his mouth. The dark sauce dribbled from the corners of his mouth, down into his white beard.

"We thought you might know some stuff that would be helpful to us," the big man said, noisily chewing on the dumpling.

"So I'm guessing your kids' driving through the motel wall wasn't an accident?"