Mercury Rises (23 page)

She made her way to a door that she was fairly certain was the one she had followed Nybbas through the last time she was here. Opening the door, she found herself in the cubicle maze that had once been the center of Lucifer's efforts to corrupt humankind. It was completely deserted, prompting Christine to wonder what had happened to the thousands of demons who had toiled away like diabolical telemarketers, tempting mortals to give in to their baser instincts. No doubt a few of them had gotten jobs producing reality shows on TV.

Christine threaded her way through the cubicle maze, with its Formica desks littered with dusty old computer monitors and headsets, trying to retrace the path she had taken before. Let's see, she thought. Left at the "Corruptor of the Month" board, right at the poster of the lone mountain climber selling "PERSISTENCE," left at the cartoon of the two nerds in hell, with the one nerd saying to the other, "Hot enough for ya?" And...I'm completely lost.

She found herself in an unfamiliar array of cubicles, staring at a sign that read: "There is no 'I' in team, but there are two in PERDITION. Lucifer is WATCHING."

Great, now what? she thought. Try to find my way back to the warehouse portal or press on and possibly get even more lost? Damn it, I know it's around here
somewhere
.

She was startled by a voice behind her. "Enjoying your little excursion?" it said. "Good grief, you mortals should be required to wear tethers."

She turned to face the source of the voice, but she realized with a sinking feeling that she already knew who it was: Perpetiel, cherubic escort and kibitzer
par excellence
. The pudgy, near-naked angel buzzed over the cubicles toward her, flapping his small, birdlike wings. "Don't you know the left-hand rule?" he asked, condescendingly.

"The left-hand rule?" Christine asked.

"For navigating mazes," Perp explained. "It would come in handy in a situation like this. Did you know that there's no biological difference between a puma, a cougar, and a mountain lion?"

"Yeah, you told me that one before," Christine said.

Perp seemed taken aback. "Before when? I just got here."

"The last time we met," said Christine. "In the planeport."

"I think I would remember if we met before," said Perp. "Speaking of which, did you know that people are more likely to remember you if you wear the same outfit every day?"

"I did know that," said Christine. "You told me that one as well."

"Really?" Perp asked. He seemed genuinely confused. "You're sure it was me?"

"Pretty sure," said Christine. "You were wearing the same outfit."

"Huh," replied Perp. "Do you know how to make mock hollandaise sauce?"

"I think so," said Christine. "You told me that one, too."

"Ooh!" Perp shouted excitedly. "Can you tell me? Because I've forgotten. This way!"

Perp buzzed off over the cubicles, and Christine did her best to follow him, darting left and right to avoid obstacles in her path. Perp didn't seem terribly concerned with whether she was keeping up; the only way she could keep him in sight was to occasionally shout one of the steps in making mock hollandaise sauce. He would then stop for a moment, say something like, "Stir constantly until thick and smooth, yes!" and then dart away again.

At long last they reached the second portal and Christine collapsed in exhaustion. "Need...a minute," Christine gasped, lying on the floor, covered in sweat. Perp observed her piteously. "I suppose you have a newfound respect for escort angels who work for tips," he sniffed. "Not so easy, is it?"

Christine gritted her teeth. "If the cats aren't sleeping on the radiator," she gasped, "turn down the heat."

"Hey!" Perp exclaimed. "That's mine! You're stealing my tips!"

"Yeah," said Christine. "And I'll keep...stealing them if you...don't slow down and...shut up."

"Hmph," Perp grunted. "Then I won't take you where you need to go."

"Yes, you will," Christine retorted. "Uzziel sent you...down here to get me. You'll be in trouble if you...return empty-handed. When ants travel in a straight line, expect rain...When they scatter, expect fair weather."

"OK, OK," grumbled Perp, pressing his hands over his ears. "Just stop it! Stop taking my tips!"

Christine smiled and got to her feet. "Good," she said. "Let's go see Uzziel."

They went through the portal to the planeport and then walked to the portal that went to the Courts of the Most High, where Uzziel's office was located. Perp led Christine sullenly across the dazzling, azure-skied plane to a great crystal pyramid-shaped building in front of which a sign announced "Apocalypse Bureau."

"Well, I suppose you can make it from here," Perp sniffed.

"Yes," Christine said. "I think so. Um, thanks, Perp. Oh, and one more thing: I was wondering if you could tell me how to get red wine out of cashmere."

"Ha!" replied Perp. "You and every other mortal!" With that, he zipped away.

Christine walked up the granite steps into the lobby of the Apocalypse Bureau's headquarters and told the receptionist she was there to see Uzziel. After some discussion about whether she had an appointment and whether she thought she could just walk in off the street and expect to see a very busy seraph with a lot of Very Important Concerns to attend to, she was told to take the elevator to Level Four, where Uzziel's office was located. She walked up to a door bearing a golden plaque that read "Deputy Assistant Director Uzziel" and knocked. After a moment, a tall man with a devilish smile opened the door.

"Do you have an appointment?" he asked.

Christine nearly fainted again. It was Mercury.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Eddie and Cody took the BMW back to Eddie's hotel.

"I suppose you'll go home now," said Eddie, as they stood in the Wilshire's lobby. "Move on to the next case."

"Not sure there's going to be a next case," Cody replied. "I meant what I said back at Katie Midford's house. I think my obsession with the so-called 'secret history of Los Angeles' may have more to do with my own issues than anything else. I've seen a lot of weird stuff as a PI, but in the end, none of it ties together. I need to move on to a more realistic job."

"Like acting," Eddie said, with a straight face.

"Ha!" Cody exclaimed, not realizing Eddie was serious. "At least with acting, you're
supposed
to play make-believe. You're not trying to get at any ultimate truth. You just make shit up."

"I always thought that good art was its own sort of truth," Eddie mused.

Cody grinned. "Fucking writers," she said. "I'm going to get a drink." She strode to the bar and Eddie followed.

After they had each tossed back a couple of gin and tonics, Cody announced that she was going to the ladies' room. Eddie nodded and beckoned for another drink. As he lifted the third drink to his lips, a familiar voice spoke behind him.

"You've gotten a bit off track," it said.

Eddie spun around on his barstool, a look of shock on his face. "You!" he gasped.

A balding middle-aged man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a frumpy suit stood before him. He had met this man once before, at Cob's Pub, in Cork. "How's the report coming?" the man asked.

"Oh," said Eddie. "It's, ah, done, basically. I have it in the car. Do you want to see it?"

"Not necessary," said the man. "I have faith in your abilities. I assume you constructed a compelling story, with likable characters and a satisfying resolution?"

"Well," said Eddie. "I don't mean to toot my own horn..."

"Why not?" asked the man. "Whose horn would you prefer to toot?"

"Um," replied Eddie uncertainly. "I'm sorry?"

"You should be," said the man. "Why are you tearing around Los Angeles trying to find a nonexistent book when you've got a perfectly good one of your own?"

"The publisher wasn't interested in a book about angels," Eddie explained. "They said maybe after the final Charlie Nyx book..."

The man sighed. "Eddie, your book
is
the final Charlie Nyx book."

Eddie scowled. "No," he said. "This is the book about Mercury and Christine and the Apocalypse, remember? The seventh Charlie Nyx book is still out there somewhere."

"No, it's not," said the man.

"How do you know?" asked Eddie.

"Because I wrote the other six," said the man.

"
You
wrote them?" Eddie asked in disbelief. "Wait a minute. Who
are
you?"

"I've gone by many names, Eddie. You probably know me best as Culain.
Saint
Culain if you're nasty."

"What?" Eddie gasped. "No. No, that's...absurd! You were supposed to be..."

"I was supposed to be what?"

"And Culain...he's been dead for a thousand years!"

"Hmm, yes," said the man, nodding. "Every identity has to end eventually. Especially the higher profile ones."

"So...what? You're an angel?"

The man shook his head. "Just a man. A man who's been around for a long time."

Eddie was speechless. Who was this man who had commissioned the writing of Eddie's account of the near-Apocalypse? Where had he come from? How did he know so much? And who was he working for? Eddie's shock was turning to anger.

"You...told me you were above the archangels," Eddie said at last. "You lied to me. You're just...a
man
."

A wry smile crept across the man's lips. "It's true that I'm a man. As to who's above whom, well, that depends on your understanding of the hierarchy of the Universe. The fisherman is above the fish, but it's not the fish who follow the fisherman."

"Wonderful," Eddie grumbled. "Riddles. The fact is, you tricked me."

The man laughed. "Tricked you, yes. The way you tricked Harry Giddings into proclaiming the Apocalypse. Got him killed, too. Along with a hundred and forty-four thousand other people. But I'm sorry, I interrupted your tragic story of being deceived into writing a best-selling novel. Go on."

"I'm not going to sit here and take the blame for that anti-bomb going off in Anaheim," Eddie retorted.

"You can take the blame wherever you like," said the man. "The hotel has room service, in case you'd like to enjoy the blame in your suite."

"What do you want from me?" Eddie demanded.

"Eddie," the man said pityingly, "I don't want anything from you. Focus on what I've
given
you: a riveting story about the end of the world. I even put the Finch Group on your trail, so you'd have an in when it came time to publish it. What are you waiting for? I thought you wanted to be a writer, not some kind of second-rate muckraker. No, worse than that: a plagiarist. A common thief. I had higher hopes for you, Eddie."

"Hey, Eddie," said a woman's voice from behind them. It was Cody. "Making friends at the bar, I see. Who's the..." She trailed off as they turned to face her. Her face went pale.

"No..." she whispered. "It can't be. You're...dead."

"You know this guy?" Eddie asked. "He's a bit of a pain in the ass. He's been going on about how I'm supposed to publish this book that I..."

"Hi, sweetheart," said the old man warmly. "It's really good to see you."

When Cody spoke again, it was a barely audible whisper, consisting of a single word.

"Dad?"

TWENTY-NINE

Jacob awoke to find himself strapped into a plush leather chair, the hum of jet engines filling his ears. To his right was a small oval window that showed only an endless expanse of blue. The small table in front of him bore coasters featuring the logo of the Finch Corporation.

He could only assume that something truly horrible was happening to him. He had never seen a movie in which a government scientist regains consciousness on a private jet miles above the ocean because his friends had noticed he was getting a little burned out and thought he could use a surprise jaunt to Bermuda. His suspicion that nefarious agents were at work in his present situation was bolstered by the fact that the last thing he could remember was being in a mysterious tunnel hundreds of feet underground.

He sighed and stared out the window. A fluffy wisp of cloud drifted past. This is nice, he thought. Nice plane ride. Nice plane.

"Can I get you something to drink?" asked a uniformed flight attendant who had approached his seat.

"Sure," said Jacob. "Diet Coke?"

"Pepsi OK?"

"It'll do."

The flight attendant smiled and walked away.

Jacob stared out the window some more. My head hurts, he thought. Should have asked for some aspirin.

After a moment, the flight attendant returned with his Pepsi.

"Thanks," said Jacob, taking the drink. "Also, I'm sorry; could I get some aspirin?"

"Tylenol OK?"

"It'll do."

The flight attendant smiled. "Would you like to know where you are?"

"Airplane, right?" said Jacob.

"Yep," she replied.

"Good enough," said Jacob.

The flight attendant smiled and walked away.

Jacob looked out the window again. He didn't see any reason to rush things. Clearly he had been kidnapped and taken aboard an evil tycoon's private jet to be flown to a secret hideout to be used as a pawn in some sort of malevolent scheme, but there would be plenty of time for that.

After a few minutes, an older, balding gentleman in an expensive gray suit walked up and sat down in the chair across from him. He handed Jacob a small paper packet. "Tylenol," he said. In his other hand, he held a brown accordion folder that appeared to be stuffed to capacity.

Jacob smiled, tore open the packet, and downed the pills with a sip of Pepsi. He returned to staring out the window.

"My name is Gardner Vasili," said the man. "I suppose you're wondering where you are."

"Airplane," said Jacob, still absently staring out the window. "The stewardess told me."

"Right, but aren't you a bit curious..."

"Let me ask you something," said Jacob. "Do you know who I am?"

"Of course," said Gardner Vasili. "Jacob Slater. Forensic blast expert for the FBI We've devoted quite a lot of resources to..."