Diabolical (14 page)

“Probably, but I'll call you back in a day or two.”

“That your way of saying, ‘don't call me, I'll call you'?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly wishing the call could be different, that he could be different. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I'll explain some other time. Call me if you find something.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Amy.”

“One more thing, Hatcher.”

He listened, waiting for her to finish the thought.

“I never believed Dan committed suicide,” she said. “Not for a second.”

Hatcher struggled for a response until he realized the phone had gone dead in his hand.

 

 

PERRY CHECKED HIS WATCH AS HE EXITED THE FREEWAY onto San Rafael and turned right on Colorado. Knowing he was on schedule seemed important. He just wasn't sure what the schedule was for.

All he knew was he wanted to step back into his old life, immediately. Go back to being who he was, what he was. Forget as much of the past night's events as he could. Go back to the Game.

He turned onto Melrose, and almost as soon as it merged into Sixty-fourth Avenue he saw the church on the left.

There was a lot across from the building that was almost empty. He pulled into it and parked. The car whined as its systems shut down and was still whining when he picked up one of the envelopes from the seat next to him. He counted the wad of bills inside, ticking through them with his thumb. Then he did the same to the cash in the other envelope. It was a lot of money, but a fraction of what he was willing to pay to be free of this.

He read the note one more time before stuffing it into one of his pockets along with the envelopes and getting out of the car. The early evening air was cool, but heat rose from the asphalt beneath his feet as he retrieved the long duffel bag from the back of his car. He stood there looking down at it, feeling its uneven weight, simultaneously thinking about and trying not to think about its contents for several moments. Then he shut the trunk and crossed the street.

Perry had always considered places of worship to be a joke, but even he had to admit the Victorian architecture of this one was impressive. Nestled among trees on a lush residential hillside, the building appeared to be an example of nineteenth-century Gothic revival with hints of Spanish and other influences, sporting rugged, dark sandstone, Tudor-style timbering and a five-story clock tower as its centerpiece. Arched windows and a steep roof completed an Old World look.

A sign identified it as the Church of the Ascension. A white shield with a red cross and blue design in the upper left quadrant. It looked familiar to Perry, but he wasn't sure of its meaning.

He followed a circular drive and ascended through stone archways onto a large porch. The main entrance seemed to be to an oversized set of double doors to his right. He wasn't certain whether to knock. He tested the thumb latch, found it wasn't locked. That seemed to answer the question. He tugged the door open and entered.

The interior was dark after the brightness of the late sun. A feeling of foreboding settled over him. He had never gone to church, not once in his life. He'd always assumed it to be nothing more than a way for the masses to fill worthless time, part of the ritual habit of sheep. He was forced to concede that the events of the prior evening might require him to rethink many things, but he didn't intend for that to be one of them.

Even so, the hard, sterile stillness of these surroundings was discomfiting. Wooden parquet floor, walls of pressed dark brick, arched redwood ceiling; it all seemed so . . . alien. Like a museum exhibit showcasing life on another planet.

His instructions were to take a seat in the nave near the altar. He wasn't certain what a nave was, but as he wandered further into the building, he assumed it was the main area with all the wooden benches. On the way to the aisle he passed an ornate fountain with a white marble statue, a long-haired child with wings. The child was kneeling, holding a cross. He could feel its eyes on his back as he made his way toward the altar.

There is no God,
he reminded himself. Whatever the explanation for what happened last night, it wasn't that. He muscled his thoughts along, moving them past the subject, telling himself he'd have plenty of time to figure all that out. Right now, he just needed to get this over with.

He took a seat in the second row of pews, setting the duffel bag down in the aisle. A large stained-glass window dominated the area beyond the altar. It was almost impossible to take his eyes off it. The liquid colors seemed to blaze like neon. He wasn't certain what the scene depicted, but the most prominent image had large bat wings. He supposed it was an angel. But it reminded him of what he'd experienced, so despite the attention it demanded he forced himself to lower his head and stare at the floor.

The day had been the most harrowing he could ever remember. He woke that morning on the sofa in his bedroom coated in blood, his mind still reeling from the prior night. Darin's dismembered body was in his bed, wrapped in cellophane. The kid's arm, the tattooed one, had been cut off, bundled in towels, and placed in a duffel bag. The note on the coffee table left explicit instructions on how to dispose of the rest of the body. Instructions for that, and for what to do next. Instructions for his entire day. Instructions he didn't dare ignore. The final task was to show up here and wait. With the cash. And with the arm.

That arm sent feelings through him he could only shake off with a shudder. It wasn't the thought of a severed limb that bothered him. He'd cut off many in his life, some from living subjects who screamed and pleaded as volcanoes of blood erupted from their wounds, but just thinking about this one induced something akin to a panic attack. At times when he'd looked at it, it seemed . . . different. There was something wholly unnatural about it, not just its appearance, but its texture, its musculature, its very presence. Other times, it just looked like an arm.

But he couldn't think about it without being reminded of that terrifying figure that came through the mirror, stretching out over him. It was an image that kept rushing into his head faster than he could bail thoughts of it out. He didn't want to think about that thing, or what it meant; not at all, not ever. That wasn't part of the Game, that wasn't part of anything he accepted. There was no Hell in his reality. And he'd always known,
always
known, that his awareness was supreme, absolute, defining. God Delusions were for those pieces of meat who existed to populate his world, whose purpose was to provide him meaning, to serve as his entertainment.

Unless . . .

He clenched his eyelids shut like teeth and tapped his forehead against his knuckles. Faces of all the young men he'd murdered were popping into his thoughts like raindrops on a window. Memories once so elusive, so fragile, that he would prompt himself with photos and objects to help him retain them, now were coming unbidden, vivid like never before. Visions of hellfire and damnation took shape alongside them, endless parades of unspeakable horrors, of indescribable tortures presided over by the demonic figure from his mirror. He began to rock back and forth, trying to clear everything away.

His head snapped up. A middle-aged man with dark hair, salting at the temples, was in the aisle looking down at him. Colorful robe, gold trim. A cross hung down the front of his garments on a large chain.

“I'm sorry,” the man said. “I didn't want to interrupt you.”

Perry rubbed his eyes, glanced around the church. He swallowed.

“Interrupt me?”

“Your prayer. It seemed so intense. I'm Father Medina. The rector.”

Perry nodded. He scrambled to reorient himself, to remember his instructions. “I'm, uh, from the Foundation,” he said, following the directions contained in the note.

The priest nodded. He had dark eyes, darker than his hair, and a round face with broad cheekbones. The man's expression remained pleasant, but even in Perry's distracted state he thought he detected something beneath it. Something like distaste.

“I assume you have a donation.”

Perry removed one of the envelopes from his pocket and handed it to the man. He could hear the intake of breath, prelude to a sigh, and watched as the priest peeked inside before letting his hand fall to his side, gripping the envelope tightly.

“The church greatly appreciates the Foundation's generosity. Please remember to check the door.”

Perry stared up at the man, unblinking, but said nothing.

“When you depart, that is. After I close. I assume you want time to reflect in solitude. I normally leave about fifteen minutes from now.”

Perry recalled his instructions. The note said to wait in the nave until after sunset, which was almost an hour away. It hadn't mentioned anything else.

“Yes,” he said, because it seemed like the thing to say.

The priest tensed his lips into a grim smile, gave a single nod, and began to cross in front of the altar. “Exit through the tower entry here. It will let you out if you press on the bar. The door will lock behind you. Please make sure it's completely shut.”

“Okay,” Perry said. He watched the priest start to leave again, then blurted out, “How did you know?”

Father Medina paused under an archway and looked back, his brow folding into a quizzical expression. Perry immediately regretted asking, an accidental spillover of all the paranoia and involuntary curiosity bubbling inside him.

“Know?”

“That I would want . . . time alone. To reflect.”

“Because,” the priest said, pushing open a large door, sounding both puzzled and wearied by the question. “That's what all the others have wanted.”

“OH, FUCK, MAN,” DENNY SAID. “YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME.”

Hatcher frowned. “Wish it didn't have to be this way. Don't really have a choice.”

“How long did you say?”

Denny was leaning over the bar, pretending to wipe it with a small towel. He liked to play bartender sometimes, and this was one of them. But Hatcher knew he never actually tended customers, even when the place was busy and shorthanded. Especially when the place was busy and shorthanded.

“I don't know. A week or two. Maybe less. Maybe more.”

Hatcher had driven down to the Liar's Den just before seven to tell Denny he was going to be taking some time off. He figured he owed him that much. He told Vivian to meet him there on the hour, but it was a couple minutes after now.

Denny leaned an elbow on the bar, surveying the few patrons seated at tables.

“I knew something was up when you disappeared last night. You're the only fucking guy I can count on, you know that? The only guy, and now you're just walking on me. Leaving me in the lurch.”

That was a hard one to refute. Mostly because it was true. At least technically. He was the only guy Denny could count on, because none of the waitresses were guys. One other bouncer was always late, another was brand-new, and the only male bartenders were part time.

“If I can come back sooner, I will. We'll watch one of those Mark Specter DVDs you're always wanting to show me.”

“Yeah, sure.” He flashed a sullen look, then seemed to perk up. “You really gonna come back? You bugged out on me last night.”

“I know. I'm sorry. Something unexpected came up.”

Denny snapped his fingers, then stood up and reached into his pocket.

“You want to see it now?”

“I don't really have time to watch a DVD, Denny. Not now.”

“No, not that. The gun.”

Hatcher had to think a moment about that. “You mean that little toy thing? Looked like a monopoly piece?”

A grin stretched across Denny's jowly face and he withdrew his hand from his pocket, pulling out a key chain. It was connected to a miniature holster that looked like brown leather. He flicked open the strap with his thumb, unsnapping it, and removed a miniature firearm. It was the kind of thing Hatcher imagined you'd find in an expensive hobby shop, a place that specialized in tiny replicas. A classic-looking revolver, like a stainless-steel Smith & Wesson with a wooden grip. Denny stuck out his hand, displaying it in his palm.

“What d'ya think?” he said, beaming. “It's real.”

Hatcher studied the tiny metal object. “What do you mean by ‘real'?”

“It's a Swiss mini-gun.” Denny leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. “They're illegal here,” he said, popping his eyebrows as if he'd been waiting to say those words all day.

“Looks like you took it off an NRA Barbie.”

“Ha! This ain't a toy!”

“Wait a sec . . .” Hatcher raised his eyes to look at the man. “You're saying this is a functional firearm?”

Denny nodded. “I looked it up on the web, thinking it was a joke. But it's not. It fires a 2.34-caliber bullet. It came with a dozen of them.”

Hatcher wasn't inclined to believe it, but the more he looked at it, the more details he noticed. Like moving parts. And a serial number. Hatcher couldn't imagine who would buy such a thing. You'd need a perfect shot from rather close range, and even that was unlikely to do much damage. It would be like firing a pellet gun. Only less accurate.

“I'd be careful trying to fire that thing.”

Denny shrugged. “My brother got a bunch of stuff from a guy who owed him. I was thinking maybe I could use it for self-defense.”