End of Days (9 page)

The man shook off the plaster and charged Jericho. His forearm smacked Jericho's jaw, and he reeled back. With surprising swiftness for a big man, the intruder scooped up the Glock.

Jericho's hand clamped the man's wrist and they locked in a frenzied struggle for the gun. There was a
click
as the hammer cocked. Jericho roared, jerking his arm up as the gun went off.

The attacker stepped away, staring at Jericho. When he lifted the gun, blood spurted from a large, fuming hole in his chest. Slowly, the man tumbled down the stairs. As he fell, Jericho snatched his Glock.

Jericho heard a woman shouting and raced down the hall. He burst through the closed door, and saw the blond girl brandishing a poker at an attacker armed with a knife.

Immediately the attacker dove through the bathroom and headed down the hall. Jericho followed, almost slipping on the wet, bloody floor in the bathroom. The man scrambled up a rear stairway. Jericho tried a quick shot. The gun was empty. He hurried after the attacker and caught up to him on the roof.

The man whirled and swiped at Jericho with his knife, backing toward the edge of the roof. Suddenly he bolted for the edge with Jericho right behind him. Jericho reached for the man as he leaped, His fingers hooked a gold chain, which snapped as the man vaulted across the wide gap to the roof next door.

Jericho watched the attacker jump from one roof to another before finally scuttling down a fire escape to the street. He looked at the gold chain in his hand.

There was a small amulet dangling from the chain. Jericho examined it closely. The enameled crest showed a red heart on a black background. A silver sword pierced the crimson heart.

The sword had the same shape as the attacker's silver dagger.

Then Jericho remembered something.
The wet, bloody floor in the bathroom …

*   *   *

Detective Marge Francis studied the body floating in the bloody Jacuzzi with professional detachment.

“Eighteen jets, variable speed. That's what I call dying in style,” she muttered. She gave Chicago a weary scowl. “What kind of girl lives in a place like this anyway?”

“Orphan, actually,” Chicago said. “Both parents killed in a car accident. The nurse was her godmother, and after their deaths, she became sole guardian.”

Detective Francis beamed approvingly. “I think it's adorable the way you talk like a real cop.”

As they bantered, Jericho wandered into a small library area. He was struck by the impressive collection of religious books, including a group of books on heraldry. One of them had a curled sign on the cover that he had seen before.

Jericho removed the book and put it in his pocket. Then he walked over to the bedroom and surveyed the signs of struggle. He was also interested in Christine York's private world. The stuffed animals on the bed suggested a little girl was hiding inside a woman's body. Jericho's gaze went to the dresser and he noticed a music box.

As Jericho picked it up, he caught a glimpse of something in the mirror. The bathroom door was partially open and Jericho saw Christine York. She was taking a pill.

Christine looked up and saw him watching her. Slightly embarrassed, Jericho fumbled with the music box. The lid popped open and a tiny ballerina began to twirl to the tinkling music.

Christine came out of the bathroom, holding a prescription bottle. “Calms me down,” she said, extending the bottle. “Want some?”

“No thanks—I drink.” Jericho tried to turn off the music box, but couldn't figure it out. He gave her a sheepish smile. “My little girl had one just like it.”

Christine took it from his hands and stopped the music. “Yeah? You rummage through her stuff without asking?”

Jericho's smile faded. “When I was looking for something.”

“And what are you looking for?” she challenged, green eyes meeting his.

“A connection,” he said softly.

Christine's eyes wavered and she half smiled. “Most days I don't feel connected to anyone.”

She was quite beautiful when she wasn't breaking balls, Jericho noted. Extraordinary actually, with her lithe dancer's body and classic face. But there was a calm intensity about her, as if she were on some unspoken mission.

“I noticed a lot of religious books in your library,” he said evenly.

“They're my mom's.”

“Is she a big believer?”

Christine looked up. The challenging look had returned. Then she smiled. Perhaps she remembered that Jericho had just saved her life.
More likely it's the pills,
he thought.

“No big believer,” she said softly. “It's just kind of a hobby with her.”

“Do you know a priest named Thomas?”

Jericho watched her face closely, but there was no visible reaction.

“No…” she said, somewhat confused.

But as Jericho began to pace, trying to fit the pieces together, it suddenly dawned on Christine what he was implying.

“Is that your connection?” she asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Religion?”

It was Jericho's turn to challenge. His cobalt blue eyes regarded her with cool certainty. “I've seen a lot of attempted murders,” he said quietly. “But no one's ever performed the last rites before.”

Christine wrapped her arms across her chest as if chilled. Aware that she already had too much to think about, Jericho backed off. He idly began picking shards of broken glass from the bed.

“Don't bother,” she said with a rueful smile. “Can't imagine I'll actually sleep tonight.”

“Neither will I.”

She seemed surprised. Their eyes met, and this time they saw each other.

“Christine?” The voice shattered the mood.

Christine moved to the door. “In here.” Jericho turned and saw a sleek, expensively dressed woman, a couple of face-lifts over forty, enter the room. She pulled Christine into an embrace, then looked her over from head to toe.

Must be Mabel Rand, her guardian,
Jericho speculated.

“They told me what happened,” she said breathlessly. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“I'm all right, but Carson…” Christine began to weep.

“I know,” she murmured, embracing Christine. “I know.” As she rocked Christine in her arms, Mabel smiled at Jericho. “I'm just so thankful you came along when you did.”

Jericho didn't believe her. There was something unnerving about her cold smile and blank, unblinking eyes.

*   *   *

The hungers of the flesh temporarily satisfied, the green-eyed man allowed Donald Abel to escort him to the temple. They left the cab and walked down a side street a few blocks below Times Square. They stopped in front of an abandoned movie theater. The plywood covering the glass doors was sprayed with bizarre graffiti.

Donald went to a side door and pushed it open. The green-eyed man went inside. He had hoped for better from Donald, but it fulfilled the main requirement. It was totally anonymous. At one time it had been a fine theater, built to accommodate both live vaudeville and film. Donald shut the door and led the way between the dust-caked chairs to an area behind the movie screen.

They followed a trail of symbolic graffiti to a door marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
and down a short stairway into a torch-lit chamber. There was an altar at one end and the walls were painted with stark satanic talismans.

The green-eyed man sat on the altar while Donald made a furtive call on his cell phone. Dr. Abel was arranging a meeting with their woman of destiny. From her loins would rise the dark prince of the new millennium.

From Donald's apologetic smile as he approached the altar, the man guessed there was a delay. But he did not accept the news Donald stammered in his ear.

Time to reshuffle my staff,
the man decided.
Dr. Abel has been coasting since the girl was born.

Without responding to his head priest's lame report, the man stood and strode out of the chamber.

Heart racing with sudden fear, Donald watched him leave. A damp layer of sweat soaked his shirt as the man walked up the stairs. Donald's heartbeat boomed louder and something pressed down on his chest, like a giant foot squeezing his ribs. Panicked, Donald realized he was having a coronary.

An instant later his heart burst.

The man kept walking, his anger mollified, but not his sense of purpose. If anything he was more intent on consummating his unholy tryst with Christine.

“I'll handle the details personally,” the man said under his breath. “The mountain will go to Christine.”

C
HAPTER EIGHT

Detective Francis assigned two men to guard Christine York's home. Parked behind their police car was a Cablevision van.

Jericho and Chicago were inside the van on their own private stakeout. Chicago thought it unlikely anyone would try again, but Jericho had a feeling.
And so far the Big Cat's been right,
Chicago thought, flipping through
Time
magazine. The cover story was headlined: “Signs of the Apocalypse.”

Jericho checked the empty street, then pulled out the book he'd taken from Christine's home. It was a leather-bound history of medieval heraldry. The symbol embossed on its spine looked familiar.

Chicago was fascinated. “I didn't think you knew where the library was, let alone have a card.”

“There's a lot about me you don't know,” Jericho said, studying the illustrations closely.

“I had a date tonight,” Chicago reminded. “Y'know, not the inflatable kind … a real one. Not that you'd care.”

Jericho didn't look up from his book. “Hey, Bobby, remember your first blowjob?”

“Yeah,” Chicago said warily.

“How did it taste?”

“Fuck you.” Indignantly, Chicago went back to his magazine. Jericho noticed the headline and took it from his hand.

“Doesn't seem right, that's all,” Chicago ranted. “These people have more money than God, and we're sitting here for free.”

Jericho scanned the apocalypse article, then returned the magazine to Chicago and began flipping through the book. He took it page by page, and within minutes he found it.

The illustration was an exact replica of the amulet Jericho had snatched from Christine's attacker. Jericho took the amulet from his pocket and compared it to the crest pictured in the book. A perfect match.

Then he read what it represented. “Wait here,” he told Chicago. “I'll be back.”

Mildly curious, Chicago watched Jericho mount the steps.

From the upstairs window, Mabel was watching as well. She was trying to reach Donald Abel, but his cell phone was dead. Despite the fact that he had saved Christine's precious life, Mabel didn't like Jericho. And she especially didn't like him calling on Christine.

On the other hand, when Christine saw Jericho at the door she felt an unexpected rush of excitement.

She opened the door a crack. “Change your mind about the pill?”

“I found something.”

Christine studied his sculpted, unsmiling expression. He seemed serious. She stepped back and opened the door.

Mabel anxiously called down to her. “Christine, what are you doing?” she demanded. “Why is that man here?”

“Just a few minutes, Mabel,” Christine called back in a calm, slightly bored tone, as if this happened often. She gave Jericho an apologetic smile. “She loves me to death, but she's a little overprotective.”

“Parents should be,” Jericho said, knowing Mabel was monitoring every word.

From the van, Chicago watched Jericho go inside, then went back to his magazine. He didn't notice the shadowy figure at the end of the street.

*   *   *

Mabel stood listening as Christine led Jericho to the library. She moved down the stairs to get a better view.

“Look at this,” Jericho put the amulet on the library table. Christine plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and sat down. She picked up the amulet and studied the enameled red heart pierced by a silver sword.

“I took that from one of your attackers,” Jericho told her. “The one with the knife.”

“Did you show this to the police?”

He seemed amused by the idea. “If I did, it would just end up in a small plastic envelope, on some very big shelf.”

“That's pretty cynical,” Christine countered, trying to save face. She didn't like being treated like a naïve victim.

Jericho shrugged. “I've put a few envelopes on that shelf myself,” he confided. “I used to be a cop.” He opened the book and set it in front of her.

The illustration showed the pierced red heart worn by her attacker.

As Christine read the text, a cold, familiar dread drifted over her like a damp fog. Jericho's voice over her shoulder was oddly reassuring.

“This amulet is from an obscure Masonic order, and a former sub-herald of the Templar Knights of St. John,” he explained. “Very secret, very zealous…”

Outside in the darkened hallway Mabel crept closer, senses sizzling with anxiety and recognition. He was close …
very close.

*   *   *

The shadowy figure moved swiftly down the street. Chicago was too absorbed in
Time
magazine to notice. From time to time he would glance at Christine York's house, but he was satisfied the area was secure.

One of the cops in the squad car was asleep, the other was eating a hero. However lax the security, the green-eyed man knew he couldn't approach Christine York's home without being stopped.

It's a damned inconvenience,
the man reflected. He stepped back into the shadows and unzipped his fly. Moments later a widening stream of foul-smelling liquid began snaking across the narrow street.

*   *   *

“This secret order awaits the return of the Dark Angel to earth,” Jericho told Christine. He reached over her shoulder to point out a line of text.