The Soul Hunter (25 page)

“Slow down and spell them all for me.”

I wrote them all down and underlined the common suffix. “Cherubim and Seraphim end the same way. Do you think they could all be angelic tribes or orders or something?”

“I guess it’s possible.”

“Most of the tribes you see in the Old Testament end in ‘ite.’ Canaanite, Hittite, Jebusite.”

“Good point. I never noticed the distinction.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Hang on a second. I’m taking notes.”

I sipped tea while I waited for him to catch up. It was tepid by now.

“Okay. I got it,” Eli said. “There are lots of strange stories that describe the Anakim. Do you know about the books of Enoch?”

“Book? Or books?”

“Either. But technically there are five parts—written in…some language. Transcribed eventually into Latin and Greek.” I listened while he scanned his notes.

“Is it part of the Apocrypha? The Catholic Bible?” I asked.

“It’s apocryphal, but Jewish, not Catholic.” He flipped through pages. “I can’t summarize all this for you. I’ll fax you the references. It’s pretty freaky stuff. Levy said that Enoch references the rape from Genesis 6. And that the demons taught the women spells and sorcery and stuff like that.”

“Did he mention Anael at all? Anything about angel worship?”

“Anael is associated with Anakim. That’s all he said. But he did mention the Watchers.”

I felt the room get cold. Cold and dead.

“Who are the Watchers?”

“It’s the word for demons in the book of Enoch.”

“Watchers? Am I hearing you right?” I asked, scribbling furiously.

“Yes. Watchers.”

I wrote the phrase “Anael watches” in the margin and underlined it.

“I found a few things,” I said. “But this was all on Internet sites, so who knows if it means anything?”

“About Anael?”

“Listen to this.” I scanned my pages. “Anael is supposedly the angel of the second heaven, whatever that is.”

“That’s from Enoch. He went through all seven of them.”

“Is that where ‘seventh heaven’ comes from?”

“Search me.”

“Anael is apparently the guardian of Friday. And the angel of love.”

“Please don’t tell me the moon is in the seventh house.”

“Sadly, yes. And Jupiter aligned with Mars.” I laughed.

“Is this the dawning of the Age of Aquarius?”

I groaned. “I hope not. I barely lived through it the first time.”

“Make love, not war, baby,” Eli said.

“Speaking of war…Anael is also apparently one of seven archangels. I think there are only two mentioned in the Bible. Michael and Gabriel.”

“Write down Uriel,” Eli said, spelling it for me.

“Uriel? Never heard of him.”

“He’s the one that led Enoch around in heaven. His tour guide. According to the book of Enoch, anyway. And he’s supposedly the one that delivered the message to Noah about the coming flood.”

I wrote it all down, took another sip of tea, grimaced, and pushed the cup away. “Enoch sounds important.”

“I’d spend some time on him if I were you.”

“I’ll go down to Perkins this afternoon.”

“Oh. One more thing about the Anakim.” I heard him flipping papers.

“What?”

“They were known by some phrase…” he kept flipping.

I tapped my pen against the desk, impatient as usual. “And the phrase would be?”

“Wait for it… I’m looking, I’m looking… Ah! Here it is.” He cleared his throat. “Wearers of necklaces. The Anakim were known as the wearers of necklaces.”

T
he thing about ghosts and haunts in the movies is that they’re easily satisfied. Basically they’re interested in geography. You’ve built your house on a graveyard, or some kid was murdered in the bathtub upstairs in your Victorian-era dream home. Or maybe one twin got whacked and keeps wandering around your living room in a permanent bad mood, playing
Blue Skies
in the middle of the night on your aunt Betty’s upright piano. Something like that. The point is, their primary goal is for you to leave them alone so they can haunt their little square of land in peace.

They’re parasitic, not predatory.

Demons, it seems, have far grander ambitions. They’re not content to scare you half out of your mind. Or out of your house, for that matter. They do seem interested in forcing you to forego your concern for your property values and give them their space. But they rarely have the courtesy to announce the rest of their agenda. And, perhaps worst of all, unlike ghosts and other less formidable spooks, demons are portable. Like my sanity, it turns out, they can come and go at will.

And that, among other things, is what makes the little devils so dangerous.

I stared out my window at the sun, which was giving up the fight and slipping behind the trees for the day, and thought about Peter Terry, picturing the sky full of creeps like him.

It was five thirty. My normally tidy desk was littered with open reference books and pages of hastily scribbled notes. I sighed and slumped back into my chair. I had arrived at information overload. I couldn’t crack one more book tonight. Bridwell library down at the other end of campus at Perkins School of Theology opens at ten on Saturdays. I promised myself I’d be first in line in the morning.

I needed to call it a day and go home to my new pet. Melissa was probably sick of her hutch by now and craving organic carrots. I cleaned off my desk, organized my notes and stuck them in my bag, and locked my office for the night.

I considered calling Jackson and McKnight on my way home but decided quickly against it. What was I going to say? I think a demon killed Drew Sturdivant? Quite possibly she was being watched by an angel named Anael? This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius?

That’s the thing about this stuff. If you talk about it out loud, you sound like a screwball.

Martinez might find my theories semi-credible, because of the chaplain thing and the
curandero
bit. I still needed to get a copy of the video anyway. I put in a call to the DPD switchboard and left a message for him as I walked to my truck in the dimming light.

I decided to make one quick Drew-related detour on the way to my house.

Harry Hines Boulevard in Dallas is home to many perfectly reputable businesses. Warehouses, discount shopping centers, wholesale fabric outlets, automobile repair shops. Anything that doesn’t require easy accessibility or attractive walk-up appeal might be found on Harry Hines.

Unfortunately, Harry Hines is also home to a wide and fairly disgusting variety of “adult” businesses (as though real, emotionally mature adults would actually go to such places). Any deviant
sexual activity one desires is within easy reach. On demand and on a budget.

I drove my truck past prostitutes dressed for August rather than January slouching on street corners in sequined halter tops and teeny skirts, all big hair and platform shoes. They looked cold and sad to me. I wanted to stop and take them to Denny’s for pancakes and find out how they’d gotten here. I couldn’t imagine any amount of money that would possibly be worth selling yourself off like that.

I drove past Caligula, thinking I should probably go in and check it out, maybe talk to the owner, see if anyone knew anything about Drew I hadn’t already learned on my own. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The thought of walking into a place that was crawling with men who were crawling with desire to see a woman crawling naked along a stage floor was too much for me. For once in my life, I backed away. I just wasn’t up to it.

Instead I drove around on Harry Hines until I spotted Critter Cars. I pulled into the lot at ten after six.

The lot was small, by car lot standards. Maybe a half acre or so sandwiched between a pawnshop and a discount denim outlet. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The gate was shut and padlocked. I walked up and peered through the fence.

“Can’t give you much of a trade-in on that truck,” a voice said.

I turned around. An attractive woman of maybe fifty was standing with one foot in a red Lexus convertible parked in the driveway next door, the car door open, lights on, engine running. She was dressed for a cocktail party, her long fur coat swinging open to reveal a tiny black minidress.

“Oh, I’m not looking to trade it in.”

She shut the door and walked over to me, her hand extended. “Kay Basieri,” she said.

“Dylan Foster. Do you work here?”

“I own the place. Just locked up. I’d be glad to show you something if you know what you want. Browsing, I don’t do after closing. You’d have to come back tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I just wanted to take a look around.”

She studied me. “You don’t look like our typical customer.”

“Who’s your typical customer?”

“People with bad credit.”

“What’s the interest rate? Just out of curiosity.”

“Fifteen percent add-on.”

“What does that mean?”

“Prime plus fifteen percent.”

“That makes it about…”

“Twenty-three percent, give or take. Cash only.” She reached into her bag and lit a cigarette with a thin, gold lighter. “The property’s not for sale.”

“I’m not here to check out the property.”

She took a drag and looked at me, waiting for me to state my business.

“I’m looking into a murder. I understand a girl’s body was found around here?”

“Cops have already been here.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Reporter?”

“No, just a friend.”

I shivered. Once again, I’d left the house that morning without a coat.

She must have taken pity on me, because she said, “I’ve got a few minutes. No sense standing out here in the weather.”

She stubbed out her cigarette, locked her car, and opened the padlock on the gate. She swung the gate open, its wheels protesting with loud creaks. It was a big job for one person, much less a 100-pound woman in a cocktail dress and three-inch heels. Kay
Basieri manhandled that thing without breaking a sweat, closing it behind us and locking us in. She didn’t even snag her stockings.

We stepped inside the office, a single-wide trailer complete with space heaters, window unit air, a water cooler, and a waiting area with tramped-down shag carpet. A tall counter with a window in the center dominated the room. She unlocked the inside door, motioned me to follow her behind the counter, and locked the door behind us. She offered me a seat at the desk, switching on the space heater behind her with her foot.

The credenza behind the desk held a picture of a longhaired guy in a tropical print shirt laughing at the camera. He held a beer in one hand and made a peace sign with the other. I could see a beach and blue water behind him.

“He looks like he’s having fun.” I pointed at the photo.

She grinned. “That’s Critter.”

“I take it Critter is a nickname.”

“Party Animal was too cliché. My late husband.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. The only happily married couple we knew and the son of a gun up and died on me.”

“Heart attack?”

“Cancer. Went just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Still haven’t forgiven him for it.” She took out a pack of Virginia Slims, lit a new cigarette, and crossed her legs. “I threw the coffee out or I’d offer you some.”

“No thanks. But I appreciate your staying. You look like you’re on your way somewhere.”

“New Year’s Eve party.”

“It’s almost February.”

“We like to wait until the crowds have cleared.”

I smiled. “I hate crowds.”

“You and me both, honey.”

I renewed my commitment to myself to get some friends. I
hadn’t even gone to a New Year’s Eve party on New Year’s Eve. What a loser.

“Were you here when they found the body?” I asked.

She shook her head. “One a.m., give or take. The dog handler found it. He does random checks throughout the night.”

I looked around. “Where’s the dog?”

“She comes in at seven.”

“A.M?”

“P.M. A handler brings her and then picks her up twelve hours later.”

“So it’s not your dog?”

She shook her head and tapped her ashes into a waiting seashell.

“A rental.”

“I’ve never heard of renting a dog before.”

“A guard dog,” she corrected me. “She’s an employee, not a pet. She works the night shift.” She opened her top drawer and handed me a business card.
Junk Yard Dogs—guard dogs for sale or rent. Results guaranteed. Expert handling.
”

“Does she have a name?”

“The dog? Elaine.”

“You’re kidding me.”

She exhaled a blue stream of smoke. “Nope.”

“So the handler has a key to the lot?”

She nodded. “I lock up at six. The dog handler comes at seven, opens our padlock and puts Elaine inside the fence, gets her set up with water and everything. She has a heated bowl for cold weather. Then he locks the gate behind him and adds his own chain and padlock.”

“Do you have the key to that lock?”

“Nobody but the dog guy has that key.”

“Any way a person could have gotten past Elaine to put Drew’s body in the trunk of one of your cars?”

“Only if they broke the lock and then shot Elaine first. That dog would tear my arm off if I tried to get in. And I own the place.” She blew another stream of smoke. “She found the body.”