Where Angels Fear to Tread (7 page)

The woman closed the door behind her, nervously moving her bag from one shoulder to the other.

"Umm," she said, uncertainty in her tone. "You're Remy Chandler, right? The private investigator?"

"Yes, I am," Remy said, smiling kindly. The woman looked about to snap. "Is there something I can do for you, Ms. . . . ?"

"York," the woman replied, her sandaled feet scuffing across the hardwood floor as she stepped farther into the room and extended her hand toward him. "Deryn York."

Remy shook the woman's warm and clammy hand.

"Why don't you have a seat, Ms. York." He directed her toward the chair in front of his desk, then headed back for the coffeepot.

"Coffee?" he asked her. "I've just made it."

"Yes, thank you," she said, pulling at the front of her skirt so it just about touched her knees.

Remy realized he had only one clean mug, the other one being sort of dusty.

"Let me just rinse this out," he said, going to the tiny bathroom across the room. "It's really warm out there today," he said, raising his voice over the water in the sink.

"Yeah," she answered, "hot as Hell."

Y'know, Hell is a place of extremes. . . .

"It certainly is," he replied instead as he left the bathroom. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Oh, just sugar, please."

"How many?" he asked, pouring her a cup, and placing it on the edge of the desk in front of her. He went around his desk and opened the center drawer where he'd recently seen a few packets.

"Do you have six?" she asked.

"Six?"

She smiled self-consciously and shrugged. "I like it really sweet."

Remy counted the packets in his drawer. "I only have five," he told her.

"That's fine," she said. "Five should be good."

He set down the sugar packets. "Here you go," he said.

"Thank you." She immediately ripped open the packets one after another, pouring their contents into the dark brown liquid.

"So, Ms. York," Remy said, sitting down in his chair and taking a sip from his mug with the picture of a black Labrador retriever, "what can I do for you?"

She sipped her own coffee and made a face. Obviously it wasn't sweet enough.

"I called your home last night," she said, setting the mug carefully down on the edge of his desk, "but I didn't leave a name . . . or much of a message really." She laughed nervously.

"I thought that might have been you," Remy said.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I really didn't know what to say, and I had no intention of even coming here, but . . ."

"But here you are," Remy finished for her.

"Exactly," she responded. "You're all I have left . . . my last resort."

"Okay then." Remy grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. "What's brought you here, Deryn York?"

She took another sip of coffee, perhaps to fortify herself, before starting to speak.

"My daughter," she said, her eyes becoming misty. "My daughter, Zoe."

"All right," Remy encouraged her. "Take your time and tell me what happened." He was trying to make her feel comfortable; the tension was spilling off her in waves. "Are you from this area?"

Deryn shook her head. "Originally I'm from South Carolina, but we moved to Florida about five years ago."

"You and your daughter?" he probed.

"And my husband," she added, reaching for the coffee again. "We've since separated, but I can't seem to get rid of him. He insisted on coming here with Zoe and me, even though I didn't want him to."

"So you've moved here from Florida?"

"Not permanently," she quickly corrected. "I hate the cold, but I heard the best doctors are here, so I didn't really have a choice. As soon as they figure out what's wrong with Zoe, we'll go right back home."

Remy nodded, taking a drink of his coffee. "Your daughter is sick then?"

Deryn stared down into the contents of her mug. "The doctors in Florida say she's probably autistic," she explained quietly, then looked up at Remy. "But Carl wanted to be sure, and he said the best doctors are here. He's from here originally."

"Where were you taking her?"

"Franciscan Hospital for Children." She stopped, reaching down into her bag and removing a pack of cigarettes. Without even asking Remy if it was okay, she placed one between her lips and lit it with a disposable lighter.

"I can't believe how fucking stupid I was," she said, dropping the lighter and package of smokes back into her bag. "Oh, is this all right?" she asked, suddenly conscious of what she was doing.

"It's fine," Remy said, not wanting to upset her. They were finally getting someplace, and he didn't want to cancel the momentum. "Why do you say you were stupid?"

"Because I trusted him," she said angrily. "I let my guard down." Deryn feverishly puffed on the cigarette, forming a toxic cloud around her head in the too-warm office. "I wasn't feeling well, so I stayed at the hotel and let Carl take Zoe to an appointment. And that's the last time I saw them. It's been six days." Deryn choked back a sob, bringing a hand to her mouth.

"There hasn't been any contact with Carl since he took Zoe?" Remy asked.

"No," she said miserably, finishing the smoke and dropping the butt into her coffee mug where it hissed faintly.

"Have you contacted the police?"

"Yes, once I realized what the son of a bitch had done. There's a warrant out for his arrest."

"And you have no idea where he might have taken your daughter?"

"I don't have a clue."

Remy stood and grabbed his mug. "Would you like another cup? I can rinse yours out."

"No, no thanks," she said with a nervous shake of her head. "I'm good."

Remy refilled his cup and returned to his desk. "So tell me about your relationship with Carl," he began. "Was it an amicable split or . . ."

"We only stayed together as long as we did because of Zoe," Deryn explained. "We thought a baby would help us, but with her being different and all . . ." Her voice trailed off and she looked as though she had the weight of the world upon her shoulders.

"Does Carl have any history of violence?" Remy asked. "He wouldn't want to cause Zoe any harm, would he?"

"Oh no," she said quickly. "Carl really is basically a good guy. We both had kind of screwed-up childhoods, but we managed to get beyond that. We were good parents, Mr. Chandler."

"Except that Carl has taken your daughter."

"Yeah," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "But maybe if I had paid better attention, this could all have been avoided."

"Ms. York, you can't beat yourself up about—"

"I need to show you something, Mr. Chandler," Deryn interrupted, pulling her bag up onto her lap.

Remy leaned forward, curious, as she withdrew a handful of folded pieces of construction paper from inside the bag. Carefully she unfolded them, looking at each before handing them to Remy.

He looked at the first. It was obviously a child's drawing, done in crayon, crudely depicting a little girl and a man leaving what appeared to be a hospital. The next picture was of the same girl and man, only they were in a car. The man was in the front seat, driving, while the child stared out the back window, yellow circles beneath her eyes—probably falling tears, Remy guessed.

"Zoe did these?" he asked, looking up at Deryn.

She nodded. "About three weeks ago."

He was looking at the drawing again when the woman's words permeated his brain. "Three weeks ago?" he repeated. "So your husband must have been preparing her for this?" He waited as Deryn shook her head no.

"She drew those pictures without any knowledge of what her father was going to do," the woman explained. "But she knew he was going to take her, Mr. Chandler, just like she knew I would be coming to see you."

Deryn leaned forward and handed him one last drawing.

Remy's eyes widened in surprise as he studied it. Zoe had drawn a childlike depiction of the front entrance to his brownstone, a person standing in front with a black dog on a leash. He was certain the person was himself—the feathered wings were a dead giveaway—and, moreover, floating in the air, written in a small child's handwriting, were his address and telephone number.

Mathias stopped the Range Rover halfway down the dirt path, just close enough to see the bungalow ahead.

Poole had eventually proven his worth, using information he derived by touching the Vietnamese vessel, as well as extensive maps of the entire world. According to the Hound, Delilah's prize would be found here, in Palatka, Florida, of all places.

It wasn't exactly a place that Mathias imagined finding an object that could quite easily change the course of the world, but perhaps that was the point—no ancient temples surrounded by worshippers ready to die in its defense; instead, a run-down bungalow in the backwaters of Florida.

Ingenious.

He removed the Glock pistol from the holster underneath his arm and chambered a round.

"Are we ready?" he asked the other four men on his team.

They grunted their responses as each prepared his own weapons. Febonio, Yelverton, and Wallace, in the backseat, put rounds in the chambers of their hand weapons, while Cole, in the front passenger seat, flipped off the safety of his Mac 10 semiautomatic machine gun.

Mathias hoped it would be enough. They had no idea what they were walking into.

"Let's go," he said, turning off the engine and stepping out into the tropical heat.

Mathias led the way up the rocky dirt path. A mutt tied to a rusting swing in a backyard overrun with weeds began to bark ferociously at their approach, and Mathias was tempted to put a bullet in the mangy beast. But they had to appear harmless; no sense in alerting those inside of potential danger.

As they neared the falling-down porch, he motioned his men to step back out of the line of sight and walked up the four cracked concrete steps to the front door. He could hear the sounds of a television from inside.

He took a quick glance over his shoulder to be sure his team was in position, then rapped loudly on the dented, rusted aluminum door.

Mathias waited, listening to the sounds from inside. The volume on the television went down, and that was his cue to knock again.

Now he could hear muffled voices coming from inside—a man, a woman, and at least one child. The door suddenly opened a crack, and half a face peered out, glaring at him over a short length of chain.

"Yeah?"

Mathias could smell the stink of beer wafting from the man's breath. "Hi," he said with his biggest, fakest, nice-guy smile. "Is this thirty-seven Nautical Way?" he asked, reading from a wrinkled piece of scrap paper he pulled from his jacket pocket.

"Who wants to know?" the man asked.

He could hear the woman in the background whispering. A child started to cry, and she instantly barked for it to shut up.

A mother after his own heart.

"I'm from Destination Delivery, and I have a certified letter for thirty-seven Nautical," Mathias said, pretending to reach inside his jacket for the envelope.

"What is it?" the man demanded.

"I don't know, but if you want to sign for it, you can see for yourself," Mathias said, wearing his mask of harmlessness.

The door slammed closed and Mathias could hear the man and woman talking again. Then came the sound of the chain being moved and the door opened wide to reveal a scruffy middle-aged man wearing shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt, a filthy NASCAR hat perched atop his head, with long straggly hair like straw creeping out from beneath.

"I'm the resident," he said.

He held out a filthy hand, but instead of holding an envelope, Mathias had withdrawn his Glock, which he was pointing at the man's face.

"Sorry," he said with a sneer. "Guess I don't have a certified letter after all, but I do have this loaded gun."

The man's hands flew into the air. "What the fuck!" he exclaimed, slowly backing away from the door.

Mathias gestured for Febonio and Wallace to follow him inside, leaving Cole and Yelverton to watch the perimeter.

The woman immediately began to screech as Mathias closed the door behind him with his foot.

"What the fuck do you want? Get the fuck out of here!" she hollered. The child was crying all the louder now; a little boy or girl—Mathias couldn't tell—no older than two.

Febonio pointed his weapon at the child clutching at its mother's leg and brought a nicotine-stained finger to his lips. "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Listen, I don't know what you want, but if you see it, take it," the man said. "We don't even live here."

Mathias was taken aback. "You don't live here?"

"Naw," the man said. "Friends of my old lady here do. . . . They asked us to watch the place while they're away."

Mathias had been in places of unnatural power before, and this didn't feel like one of them. Had Poole screwed up? he wondered. He looked around. The place was certainly nothing special from what he could see.

Wallace came around a corner, finished with checking the place out.

"Anything out of the ordinary?" Mathias asked.

The man shook his blocky head. "Looks like a fucking pigsty to me."

"What do you want?" the woman asked again, her voice shaking with fear and anger. She had picked up the crying child and was cradling it in her arms.

Mathias ignored the question, pulling his phone from his pocket. He had other things to concern himself with right now, such as the possibility of disappointing his mistress.

She didn't like to be disappointed, and he so hated to be the one to give her bad news.

Delilah was waiting for the phone to ring.

She sat in the backseat of another Range Rover, trying not to stare at the phone on the seat between her and Clifton Poole. But no matter where she looked, her eyes always returned to the phone lying silently beside her.

If only Poole could be so silent.

The Hound muttered incessantly, rocking back and forth, still clutching the infant-shaped vessel that had once contained her prize. Ever since she had forced him to lay his hands upon it, he had refused to let it go.

Poole had been driven nearly mad by his contact with the vessel, but he still seemed to be useful. Between bouts of screaming and crying, he had been able to tell that the object, which had been stored within the container of metal, was very aware that they, or rather
she
, was looking for it, and was doing everything in its power to hide its trail.