Sleeping Late On Judgement Day (23 page)

“There,” she said, nervously quiet. “On fence.”

Something was indeed hanging on the fence, and it did look quite a bit like a bat, except that one wing was much larger than the other, and the body itself looked more like some kind of slug, except with a lot of furry legs. As I approached, the little beast turned its head all the way around on its shoulders, so that it faced me even with its back toward me. It looked a bit like one of those tree-climbing, branch-tapping critters, a potto or a loris or something, if pottos and lorises were made of mucus and had one really large eye in the middle of their faces.

“You are the most stubborn, frustrating, self-absorbed man I have ever met,”
the thing on the fence said in a voice that, despite the distortions of demon-throat and -mouth, was unmistakably Caz's
. “And remember, I've spent centuries in Hell, so I've met some pretty irritating men. And did I mention your insanely swollen idea of your own capabilities?”

“I'll take this,” I told Halyna. “It's for me. Long-distance.”

Y
OU ARE
the most stubborn, frustrating, self-absorbed man I have ever met. And remember, I've spent centuries in Hell, so I've met some pretty irritating men. And did I mention your insanely swollen idea of your own capabilities?

For one thing, you are very, very hard on nizzics. The one you re-programmed, to use your modern word, is ruined. It sits on top of the candle flame all day, shivering and moaning. If you feel the need to reply, and I'm sure you will—because when have you ever kept your mouth shut, even when you needed to?—you can just burn a little white camphor under this one's nose, and it will be ready for a new message. Please don't do what you did to the last one. You have no idea how hard it is for me to get hold of these and get them to you.

Now here's the important part: You CAN'T get me out of here, Bobby. Don't even think about it. You had every piece of luck imaginable last time, but you still barely made it back to the world. Eligor wanted something out of you, so you survived. That won't happen twice. I'm serious. Don't do anything. Let it go. We would never work out, anyway. In real life, you'd leave me, or I'd throw you out before a year had passed. We're too different, and I'm not just talking about the Heaven and Hell difference.

Take care of yourself, you stubborn, terrible, wonderful man.

 • • • 

Later, sent back in reply:

 • • • 

<
Are you even paying attention, you squishy little crooked-wing bastard? Then sit up straight, sniff your camphor, and look like you're listening or you'll get the box like the last guy did.>

 • • • 

Okay, it's about two hours since I got your message, Caz. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find white camphor after midnight, even in Jude? I finally found an Indian grocery store that's open twenty-four hours.

What do you mean, we couldn't be together? Do you think I really like being who I am and living the way I live? I went to Hell for you, don't you think I could learn to wash dishes and keep my mouth shut while you watched stupid reality television shows that you liked and I hated? I don't claim to be perfect. There's probably a sliver of room for improvement.

In fact, my number one goal these days is to try living like any old suburban working stiff. I'm not joking, Caz, I'm really not. I'd give my wings and halo—okay, I don't have either of those, but you know what I mean—to be able to lie in bed with you all day, to make love and read the Sunday papers (if people still print actual newspapers). My bosses could tell me, “Thousands of souls aren't going to get to Heaven if you leave your job,” and I'd say, “Yeah, sorry to hear it. Just send my severance package to my home address. I'll be in bed for at least the next month.”

Seriously, don't you think you'd be willing to give that a try? You and me, a boring ordinary couple? Walk into a party together and not worry some ancient Old World demon is going to jump out of the guacamole and try to kill us? Go on vacation without worrying that the apocalypse will start as soon as we're away from our desks? I could happily spend years kissing up one side of your body and down the other. I'm not exaggerating. I dream of you all the time. I would love to lick, bite, and suck on every inch of your chilly skin. You are like a giant coconut Popsicle, pale and cold and sweet. Oh, but warm inside. So warm.

Don't you dare give up on me, woman. Don't you dare give up on us.

I
DON'T WANT
to seem like the kind of guy who's always complaining (even though I am) but when I first started out in the angel business I really thought there would be more harping, clouds, and streets paved with gold, rather than Dear John messages from my girlfriend in Hell and six a.m. calls from worried werepigs.

Actually, it was more like five-twenty when my phone rang, and I could ratchet my eyes open just wide enough to recognize the number for Fatback Central.

“George,” I said, “welcome back.” I think I made those sounds, anyway. I'm not a morning person even on my good days.

“Bobby, I've been hacked. I mean robbed. I think someone was in my house.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We just got back yesterday. Javier's grandson was in charge while we were gone, but he went out one night even though we told him not to. Somebody's been into all my stuff.”

“Slow down. What stuff?”

“My computers, my voice mail—all that stuff from you, Bobby.”

“Shit, you're kidding. All our communications, emails, everything?” This was disaster on a huge scale. I'd been doing business with George for years, and only about half of it was legitimate, by Heaven's standards. Also, most of the illegitimate stuff had happened in the last year.

“No, no, not everything. It's okay—I'm not an idiot, Bobby. I took my drives with me. But everything that came in while I was out of town, because all the emails were copied to my home system. All your voice messages, too. It was meant to make sure I wouldn't lose anything. I'm sorry.” He went quiet for a moment. “I think I've checked it all. I can't be positive, but I don't think they got anything that would let them hack into my main records.”

Even if it was only the last couple of weeks' worth of stuff taken, it was still fairly catastrophic, because Donya Sepanta's name and a ton of research about her had all been there, not to mention research into the Black Sun Faction and some other things. Was Anaita behind this burglary? I almost hoped she was, because there was no way she could use it against me, not without opening herself to some very painful questions from the other ephors and heavenly authorities in general. It was more likely, though, that the neo-Nazi boys were trying to find out what I knew about the horn. “What happened?”

He told me Javier had already located tire tracks, probably from a Jeep or Land Rover, which led right onto the property from a disused fire road. It sounded like the bad guys had pretty much waited until the coast was clear—in this case, until grandson Steven snuck off with some friends to go see some 90s hip-hop group at the Catalyst in Santa Cruz, leaving the house and barn unguarded. Then the bad guys had swept down for their little smash-and-grab, or in this case, smash-and-hack. “Did they take anything else? Money or valuables, or anything unusual?”

“Nothing. Just information, and most of it from you.”

“Did you call the police?”

He laughed in a not-happy way. “When should I have them drop by? When I'm a giant pig? Or during regular working hours, when I have a human body and the brain of a giant pig? My family doesn't call the police for anything.”

George was beginning to feel the approach of the dawn, so I told him I'd get up to see him when I could—not that I thought there was anything I'd find there, but just because I felt bad about it. It wasn't George's fault he'd been haunted and now home-invaded, it was mine. He was kind enough not to point that out, but I felt I owed him a visit.

“I don't have a car right now, though, so it might take me a few days.”

“What happened to your ride, Bobby?”

Under the circumstances, I didn't think it would make him feel any better to know that the same people who'd been in his house had slipped a giant murder-slug into my car, so I just told him it was in the shop.

One thing I never figured on in this angel business was how much I'd have to lie. It's a very lucky thing I'm good at it.

I did my best to get back to sleep after George and I hung up, but I probably managed only an hour's actual unconsciousness before nine o'clock rolled around, which was when the Amazons woke me up with breakfast. They'd walked to the nearest fast-food place and brought me back a slice of pure madness called a Breakfast Taco, accompanied by a bag of soggy Good Mornin' Taters. I actually ate this meal, and then did my best to pretend I didn't want to run to the bathroom and immediately recycle it. The women meant well, but they hadn't yet learned that the incredible bounty of America also spawned horrors Man was not meant to experience, especially in the early hours of the day.

 • • • 

I hadn't noticed anything immediately noteworthy in Oxana's pictures from Anaita's house, so I had the Amazons send them to Clarence for further study. Then, once the Breakfast Taco had passed the make-or-break point in the digestive process, and I knew I could leave the house safely, I set out for Orban's semi-legitimate gun shop and vehicle emporium. I wandered far enough from the apartment to be out of the blocked zone, called a cab to meet me out on University Avenue in twenty minutes, then started walking.

I had to go to Orban because the number one problem at this moment—number one out of about four hundred or so—was my lack of car. See, I can't do rentals anymore under my own name because, well, because I tend to break them. Not on purpose, it's just that stuff keeps happening to me. You may have noticed. Strangely and unfairly, the rental companies keep track of things like that. I'd had to use a fake ID to get the Chrysler we drove to Anaita's house, and I didn't want use those too often.

Also, I'm always a tiny bit more cautious with a car I haven't paid for, and even a half-second hesitation might be a problem. I once rammed a six-legged something-or-other with a car that belonged to one of the other guys in the Harps, back in the Counterstrike Days. I saved both our lives, but he still made me pay for all the bodywork. So I was going to have to go back to Orban to get another vehicle, but I was worried. I'd planned out what to do with the cash I'd made from selling my Matador, and although I still had a lot of the money, I already knew I'd have to give a lot of it back to Orban for things that went bang and things that went boom; I couldn't really afford another big chunk of it for something that went vroom-vroom. But what choice did I have? You can't fight neo-Nazis and powerful angels using only the SJTD bus system.

It's true. I swear I'm not just being picky.

Anyway, by the time I hiked out to University the cab was already waiting. The driver was a slightly schlubby-looking guy with glasses and a beard, the kind you can usually find in almost any bar explaining why everyone else is wrong about everything except him, but as long as he didn't expect me to talk libertarian politics, I didn't care. I spent the first part of the ride trying to read the instruction pamphlet for my new phone. The only problem was that it was in Serbo-Croatian, and mine is a little rusty.

“Nice day, huh?” the driver said. Since it was raining lightly, and gray and cold, I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but I nodded. “I mean, it could be worse,” he added. “Am I right?”

I didn't know about him, but the only way I could imagine things being much worse at the moment was if this guy had a bugbear in his trunk, too, but I just nodded again. “I guess.”

“Me, I always try to remember that it could be worse. You know, like I could be in Hell or something.”

I stiffened and snuck a look at his face in the mirror, but he was chewing on a toothpick watching the traffic go past at the intersection where we'd stopped at a red light. “You worry about that much?” I asked.

“Not too much. But it's good to remember. I mean, some people don't know when they've got it good. Know what I mean? We never know what's going to happen. And we never know until it's all over who our real friends are. Or our real enemies.”

Now I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable, although it was far from the weirdest conversation I've ever had with a cabbie. Still, I shifted a little bit so I could reach my gun easily. The Belgian FN had gone in the car fire, but I still had my good old Smith & Wesson revolver, my sofa gun, now back on the starting team. It was a bit depressing, actually. I couldn't remember the last time I had gone anywhere unarmed.

We slid onto the Bayshore and headed north toward the Salt Piers and Orban's place. I had almost stopped worrying about the driver when he suddenly said, “You sure this is where you wanna go?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Oh, I don't know. It's just the kind of place . . . well, people probably know you there, know you go there, I mean. So some other people might be watching.”

I carefully set the muzzle of my.38 against his neck so he could feel it against his bare skin. “I don't like you much, pal. I think you're going to pull off at the next exit. Right?”

He wasn't very upset, or at least he didn't seem that way. Maybe I wasn't the first passenger to have this reaction. He carefully moved into the right lane and we exited on Marsh Road, heading out toward the edge of the Baylands Preserve. Before we left civilization behind entirely, I had him pull over in front of what was probably an abandoned cement plant, a great pale cube set behind razor wire. On this ugly gray day it looked like the kind of place that might house a concentration camp instead. When the driver stopped the car, he remained very still. Smart.

“I'd prefer not to shoot you,” I said. “Because I'm just that kind of dude—agreeable, friendly, interested in others. However, if you don't explain this weird shit you're talking to me, I may just have to shoot you a few times anyway, working my way up from the expendables to the oh-god-not-those. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly,” he said. “I guess I'm getting better.”

“What the fuck, if I may be so bold, are you talking about? Because you're not about to get better, you're about to be very unwell. This thing is jammed full of thirty-eight caliber semiwadcutters, and if I shoot you in the neck they'll probably pop your head right off like a grape off a stem.”

“I've always admired how well you do this,” he said. “You must practice.”

“Talk! And not bullshit!”

“You really don't recognize me?” He sounded thrilled, and all of a sudden I realized what was going on.

“Temuel?”

“I probably should have talked about sports—isn't that what these kind of people do? But I don't really know anything, and I would have got it wrong.”

“What the hell are you doing, Archangel? If you don't mind me asking? Because you just freaked me right the fuck out, and I was about to pistol whip you.”

“See? I love that. It sounds so authentic! How do you whip with a pistol?”

I fell back in the seat. I know, I still couldn't be one hundred percent sure it was Temuel and not some especially tricky, well-informed demon, but seriously, who else would be such a dweeb? “Why are you here, Archangel?”

“I thought it was time we had a talk. Some very worrisome things are going on, and—”

“Hang on. Why are
you
driving the cab I ordered? How did that happen?”

“Please, Bobby, give me a little credit. Do you really think an archangel can't get his hands on a cab when he wants one?”

“Don't bullshit me, please. How did you know I called for a cab?”

No answer. His eyes caught mine in the mirror for a second, then he looked away. I could swear I saw something that looked like shame.

“You told me you took
all
the tracking software and surveillance doo-hickeys out of my phone.” I don't know why I was angry. What had I expected? “You gave it back to me, and said it was clean. You told me you took that shit out!” I'd only figured out that particular bit of management treachery after Clarence had shown up at Shoreline Park when there was no way he could have known Sam and I were there.

“I did.” Temuel seemed agitated. “I swear by the Highest that I told you the truth. I took out or disabled all those things in your phone.”

“Yeah, well, that's bullshit,” I began, then realized that he might actually be telling the truth. Because I wasn't using that phone anymore. What was in my pocket was my new, clean Serbo-Croatian Cubby Phone. “Hang on—how
did
you know?”

“I can't tell you. You'll have to trust me.”

“I beg your pardon? Is this the comedy portion of the evening's entertainment? Damn you, just tell me what's going on!”

“Please don't talk to me like that.”

For just a moment, I heard something in his voice I hadn't heard before, a steeliness, perhaps even a cold, hard anger under the mild words. It reminded me that whatever else he was, Temuel was an archangel of the Lord God, and I had been talking to him like he was a street punk. “Look, I'm sorry. I'm under some stress. And I'm up to here with secrets.”