Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

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dissed either. Before she could react, we were joined by Natalie, looking fetching in an

unnervingly short iridescent blue shift. She had glittering blue flowers in her hair.

“Wow, you look spiffy,” she informed me.

Spiffy? Did that translate to “not bad for an old guy?” I said, “You look spiffy too.”

We all laughed gaily, and I wondered where the hell the bar was. As the latest influx of

guests separated us from our parental units, Natalie said, “Our plan is working beautifully.”

“I can see that.”

“Daddy’s over the moon.”

I glanced back at the stoic-looking Dauten.

“So where’s this mystery man we’ve heard about? Lisa said he’s a detective.”

“Did she?” I glanced around. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.”

“Oh, the drinks are fabulous!” She chattered blithely on while I steered her to the bar.

She continued to chatter while we sipped our drinks. I was watching the crowd, mulling the

possibility that I might actually be the only gay person in the entire gathering, when her

smile faded.

“Uh-oh.” Her hand fastened on my arm. “Let’s go say hi to Lauren.”

Lauren, looking like Hollywood royalty, stood with a giant Ken doll. At least that was

my first impression. When he moved, I realized only his hair was plastic. They seemed to be

arguing in that intense, but expressionless way that couples do in public, but as soon as

Lauren spotted us she forced a smile.

“We were beginning to think you had gotten lost,” she greeted me.

“No such luck.”

Her smile was perfunctory. “Brad, this is Adrien, Lisa’s son. Adrien, this is my

husband –”

Brad said curtly, “Excuse me,” brushing past.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Laurie,” Natalie began, but Lauren cut her off sharply.

“Don’t say it!” Her eyes glittered with a mix of fury and tears. At my expression, she

blinked rapidly, forced a smile. “He’s under a lot of pressure. That wasn’t personal. So! You

didn’t bring anyone?” She looked past me to the ghost at my shoulder – my usual escort.

“He had to work.” For now and forever.

“Adrien’s being mysterious about this guy,” Natalie said. She shook her head

disapprovingly. “You need to lay down the law, Adrien.”

No pun intended? I said, “Are you an expert?”

“I’m an expert in what not to do,” Natalie said cheerfully. She and Lauren did one of

those wordless exchanges. She wrapped her arm around mine and gave me a quick hug: a

disarming gesture.

“Come on and meet the rest of the family.”

“There are more of you?”

They laughed at my ill-disguised horror, and I did Lauren a favor and let Natalie drag

me off.

There really weren’t an unreasonable number of relatives; in fact, the majority of the

guests were business and social acquaintances of both Dauten and Lisa. There were a number

of beautiful male and female versions of Natalie and Lauren who turned out to be cousins.

Apparently the good-looks gene skipped a generation, because Dauten’s brother and a

sister – pretty much indistinguishable – looked like Bill.

With the exception of Lauren’s socially-challenged spouse, they were all nice enough,

although I don’t think I imagined the curious looks. I wasn’t sure if they were on Lisa’s

behalf or my own, but it didn’t matter. Odds were I’d never have to see any of these folks

again. It was an easy, if boring gig. I switched on automatic pilot, gliding along shaking hands

and making small talk.

Our duty done, we circled back toward Lauren, who looked less like a beautiful statue.

Natalie tilted her head, appraised me smilingly. “What do you think of us, Adrien? We

can’t read you at all.”

“I think you’re all…amazing.”

“Hmm.” She gave me an unexpectedly shrewd look. “I don’t think we should take that

at face value.” And before I could respond, “You know, Em’s right. You do sort of look like

that actor. The one in A Place in the Sun.”

“Elizabeth Taylor?”

She giggled, then had to report this witticism to Lauren, who smiled vaguely, her eyes

following the progress of her husband, who was now at the bar.

The bar sounded like a good idea, but I didn’t want to rub shoulders with my soon-to-

be brother-in-law.

And that’s when I noticed Oliver Garibaldi.

He was talking to Lisa. She laughed, her voice rippling across the pool. He gazed at her

with that enigmatic hooded gaze. I wouldn’t say it all fell into place, but I did recognize a

piece of the puzzle – with a stab of alarm.

“Excuse me,” I said to Lauren and Natalie, and cut my way through the space heaters

and strategically placed futons and giant pots of flowers.

Lisa smiled as I reached them. “Oh, Adrien, have you met Oliver?”

“Yes. How are you?”

Oliver said, “We meet again.” I was struck again by that light, fruity voice. You

expected God-like John Huston tones.

“This handsome stranger is my son,” Lisa informed him.

“I didn’t realize you knew each other,” I said to Lisa.

“Oliver is an old friend of Bill’s.”

Garibaldi said smoothly, “We met many years ago. We share interest in a number of

worthy causes.”

“What causes?”

Lisa laughed. “Adrien writes mystery novels, you know. He’s terribly clever. And

terribly curious.” She patted my shoulder. “My clever grown-up son.”

“I did not realize.” Garibaldi smiled, reminding me of a phrase I’d read describing

Aleister Crowley: “eyes that could spoil everything.”

“Did you ever find your friend?” he inquired.

“My friend?”

“The mystery novelist who disappeared. You thought he had been abducted?”

“Abducted!” Lisa would certainly have pursued this, but she was distracted by the

appearance of yet another bosom buddy from yet another charity committee. Departing, she

squeezed my arm, said urgently, “Darling, we must talk before you leave tonight. Don’t

forget.”

I nodded. Replied to Garibaldi’s inquiry, “No.”

“No? No word at all?”

“You mean like a postcard from the Great Beyond?”

He stared at me. “Perhaps he wished to disappear,” he said at last. “It happens, you

know. Have you never wished it were possible to leave the past behind? To erase your

mistakes, your missteps. To start completely fresh.”

“I don’t think he disappeared voluntarily.” I drained my glass.

“Perhaps not.” He shrugged, a sort of these-things-happen gesture. “Did you find out

any more about this…Black Sable?”

“Blade Sable.” I smiled. “Apparently it’s the junior branch of a larger organization

called The Scythe of Gremory. Kind of like the Cub Scouts.”

Again, a long moment passed without a word from Garibaldi. Then he smiled that twist

of wine-stained mouth. “The Scythe of Gremory. Fascinating. And what purpose does the

Scythe of Gremory serve?”

“I’m not sure they’re what you’d call a service organization,” I said consideringly. “I

don’t think they go in for baking cookies, for example, or contributing to children’s hospital

funds – although they may supply patients.”

The pupils of his eyes were enormous, making the entire eye appear black. He might

have answered, but we were joined by a truly striking brunette. She reminded me of one of

those Botticelli angels, plump, white-skinned, with raven black hair parted down the middle.

“My fiancee, Dr. Ava Wilding.”

Ava and I shook hands. She had a rock on her left finger that looked like the Hope

diamond and a silver star on a chain about her long, white neck. I wonder if she knew about

the red-haired nymphs. Then again, maybe she liked red-haired nymphs.

“You two look awfully serious.”

“My love, this is Adrien English, soon to be William’s stepson. Adrien was asking if I

had ever heard of a religious sect called the Scythe of Gremory.”

Ava raised her brows. “Had you, my love?”

These two should have taken the show on the road. Their timing was impeccable.

“But all is not bad news,” Garibaldi said, apparently changing the subject. “I see that

your other friend has been released by the police.”

“Angus Gordon? Yes. His alibi held up.” I hadn’t seen Angus since the night after his

release from jail. Nor had I seen the investigators hired by Martin Grosser. Or the police.

Even the newshounds seemed to be seeking fresh meat. It was as though everything were in

a holding pattern.

“That must be a relief to you,” Ava said. “Nothing hurts us more than when bad things

happen to the people we love.”

Stillness washed through me.

“The pendulum swings between a tear and a smile,” Garibaldi said. “Perhaps it is true of

the Scythe.” He gave one of those French shoulder lifts.

Ava sipped her drink and said, “You run a bookstore, don’t you? I think that’s what

Lisa said. In Old Town?”

I said, “Yes. Cloak and Dagger Books.”

“Is business good?”

“It could be worse.”

“Things can always be worse.” She smiled like a Renaissance courtier, glanced at

Garibaldi. Winked. Winked?

Garibaldi said, “This sect, the Scythe of Gremory – if such a group existed, you must

realize what a premium they would place upon discretion. It would not be easy to find

someone willing to…”

“Betray the secrets of the guild?”

“Just so. One who broke the oath of loyalty would be harshly dealt with.

Inquisitiveness would not be welcome.”

“How do these groups separate curiosity seekers from true seekers?”

He was silent. Ava took a sip from her champagne and gazed at the star-scattered sky.

She looked rather bored.

“There you are!” Natalie, looking more and more like an escapee from A Midsummer

Night’s Dream as the evening wore on, joined us. “You’re supposed to dance with Lisa.”

I made my excuses and let her drag me away through the forest of shoulder-high pots

of trees, past the swimming pool, and up the stairs. All the time I was thinking that only in

mystery novels was the obvious answer wrong. How many times had Jake jeered at my

efforts to over-complicate crime in my own writing?

The one person who had no reason to lie to me was Angus, and according to Angus, the

benefit of belonging to Blade Sable and the Scythe of Gremory was material as well as

spiritual. Putting aside for a moment the promise of all the world’s lost treasures – and sex

with the world’s most desirable women – what were the more obvious perks of

membership? Money, power, influence, social position. And in order for any of that to

happen, the highest echelon had to consist of a tight network of well-connected A-listers.

The single well-connected occultist A-lister I knew was Oliver Garibaldi. Which meant I

could pretty well discount everything he’d said to me before this evening as a pack of lies.

That wasn’t the alarming part. The alarming part was that he knew that I was belatedly

adding two and two together – and he was not concerned by any answers I drew. It kind of

reminded me of that famous exchange between Holmes and Moriarty.

All that I have to say has already crossed your mind…

Except that I was not Sherlock Holmes. I wasn’t even Watson.

I did my duty on the dance floor and escaped. After a time, I found myself at the bar

again with Bill Dauten.

Bill nodded owlishly. “Enjoying yourself?”

I nodded back. I wasn’t as tight as Bill, but I was drinking too much. That seemed to be

happening a lot again. I wondered if I should be concerned, then decided that since I was

questioning it, probably not.

“Business good?” he inquired.

“Pretty good.”

“It’s a good time of year.”

“Yep.”

He was silent. I tried to think of polite ways to ask if he was tied into a demonic cult.

“So,” I said. “How long have you known Oliver Garibaldi?”

Bill stared at me solemnly. “Oliver and I go way back. He’s a good man to know. Very

useful man to know. Very influential.” He nodded, watching me with his bear-like eyes.

“Very good man to know.”

Swell.

After that we seemed to have run out of things to say. Bill ordered us each another

drink. “Your mother wants you to be happy. That’s the main thing,” he said finally,

apparently continuing an earlier imaginary conversation.

“I’m happy.”

He nodded wisely, patted me on the back with his massive paw, departed.

Starry, starry night above and below. I took a moment to enjoy the spectacular view of

the city lights beneath us when Lisa joined me. “Darling …”

Uh-oh. I knew that wheedling tone of old.

“No,” I said. “Whatever it is, no.”

She gave one of those shimmering laughs. “Oh, Adrien. Now this is serious. What

would you think about hiring Natalie?”

“I would think that I was having a very bad dream. Why?”

“Weeeell, Nattie needs a job. She doesn’t seem to have any direction. It’s ever so

worrying for Bill. And meanwhile, you’re working yourself to death in that awful little shop,

so this would really solve two birds with one stone.”

“Solve two birds? Now there’s a euphemism.”

“Don’t change the subject, Adrien. I’m thinking of what’s best for you. It frightens me

to see you so…fine-drawn.”

“I’ve already hired someone,” I said.

“What does that matter? You can hire as many people as you like, can’t you? And

Nattie would be wonderfully useful to you. She’s such a smart girl. And she’s family.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t want to hire her.” Not that my heart didn’t go out to

anyone saddled with the nickname Nattie.

A frown appeared between Lisa’s elegant brows. “That’s a strange comment. How is

hiring your perfectly charming sister any worse than employing That Boy, when anyone

could see he wasn’t normal.”

“Who is?” I muttered, and drained my glass.

She sighed. “Now you’re being silly. I’ve already told Bill that you would, so please

think about it.”

Off she sailed, with the unassailable poise and grace that won her rave reviews in Swan

Lake. I decided I needed another drink and headed for the bar, negotiating my way through

the strategically arranged mattresses and space heaters and potted trees.

On my return journey, I spotted Emma seated on a puffy cushion by the pool. Her hair

was piled on her head, long tendrils framed her face. She wore something pink and frothy

and absurdly formal. She looked bored out of her mind.

“Hi,” I said, drawing up a pillow and lowering myself.

“Hello,” she said gloomily. She was staring at the dancing on the upper level. The music

drifted down. “Fools Rush In.” Probably not her trip. Not mine, either.

On the landing above us, I caught a glimpse of Lisa and Dauten lumbering by in a

foxtrot. Sort of like the dancing bear and his trainer. Nah, that wasn’t fair. He wasn’t bad for

such a mammoth. Lauren and her husband moved stiffly in and out of my line of vision.

My wandering thoughts were recalled by Emma’s abrupt, “Why do you call her Lisa?”

“I just always have.”

She made a disapproving face. “She told me to call her Mummy .”

I blinked. “Did she?” I said finally. This was followed by several long moments of total

and probably none too healthy self-absorption before it registered that the cheese mite

looked unhappy.

“Is that a problem?” I inquired.

“My mom’s dead,” she said flatly.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged a bony shoulder. “Lisa’s okay. But she’s not my mom.” Her eyes met mine

on a sideways slant.

“Maybe she could be a friend to you, though. Me too, maybe.”

She nodded primly. Tucked a long strand of shiny hair beneath one small ear.

I had no idea what to say to her. She didn’t seem much for small talk. I shook the ice in

my empty glass. “Can I buy you a drink, kid?”

She giggled.

Chapter Twenty-four

The holiday garland stretched across the empty street was unraveling in the wind

when the taxi let me off in front of the shop at three a.m. I let myself in, sliding back the

ornate security gate, pausing in the darkness and silence. The Christmas lights twinkled like

little colored stars amidst the bookshelves. Tired, but too wound up for sleep, I went back to

the stock room and logged onto the computer.

Nothing interesting in e-mail. I yawned, scratched my bristly jaw.

On impulse I logged into blackster21’s e-mail, and found a message from

[email protected]. Wasn’t aeternus Latin for everlasting or eternity?

Hmmm. You’ve Got Hell!

I clicked on the e-mail, waited, wincing, for my computer to lock up. The e-mail

opened.

Dear Blackster21,

Those that have a common quality ever seek their kind.

6:00 a.m. 9182 Hobb Street.

Six a.m. on a Sunday. These people truly were fiends. I connected to the Internet and

plugged in the address. It brought up a list of references to a Satanic Grotto, but when I

clicked on the URL, the web page came up as unavailable.

I dug out my Thomas Guide, searched for Hobb Street.

East LA. Wow, it really was Hell. I glanced at my watch. I could grab a couple of hours

sleep before I’d need to head over to the Mondrian to retrieve the SUV.

I typed a note to Jake, offering my theory and telling him where I was going. I saved it

in my e-mail drafts folder. Then I went upstairs and dug out my Grandmother Anna’s gun.

After two uneasy hours of sleep, I got up, pulled on Levi’s and a bulky sweater, and

phoned a taxi, which let me out in front of the hotel.

West Hollywood looked like a ghost town. I got into the Forester and pulled onto

Sunset. No sign of a red Corolla; hopefully, Jean had abandoned tracking my real-life

adventures. Either that, or she wasn’t so dedicated to stalking me that she was willing to

sacrifice beauty rest.

The sun was up by the time I got across town. The wind blew hard; trash swooped and

cart wheeled along the street as the Santana scoured the city.

I slowly cruised Hobb Street, keeping an eye out for 9182. Graffiti marked the walls

and sides of buildings.

I spotted the building from down the street. It was an old structure painted a vivid

purple, probably a nightclub at one time. There was a startlingly well-drawn, life-like

painting of Baphomet, the winged humanoid goat symbol used by Satanists, on the parking

lot side of the building. The windows were all boarded and covered with iron bars.

Interestingly, though just about every flat surface on this street was covered in graffiti,

the grotto had not been defaced by so much as a pen mark.

There didn’t appear to be a sign of life on the entire block. An abandoned doughnut

shop stood on one side, and on the other, an auto body repair place surrounded by a tall

fence topped with rolls of barbed-wire. A disgruntled rottweiler paced along the fence.

I tucked the gun into the waistband of my Levi’s beneath the bulky sweater, got out,

and went around to the front of the church. I tried the door. It opened. I stepped inside.

The deep gloom was broken by a candle on the ledge of a boarded window. A black

candle. This must have originally been the front lobby. I went through to the main room,

following the trail of flittering candles.

I saw that the walls of the building were covered in ornate artwork, but I couldn’t

make it out, although there were several sets of eyes painted in phosphorescent colors. It was

cold and stank of pot and incense and bad plumbing.

There was a stage in the front of the main room. A chair was placed in a giant

pentagram. Black candles burned on the outermost points of the pentagram.

Oliver Garibaldi sat on the chair. As I made my way toward him, he smiled. It was an

uncanny smile.

“Ah. As I expected,” he greeted me. “I am never wrong about these things.”

I’m never wrong? Who besides Republican presidents and evil masterminds can say

that with a straight face?

“Thanks for the invitation.” I looked around myself curiously. “Not sure why I thought

it would be more…plush.”

“Humble beginnings.” He smiled again, the candlelight throwing shadows across his

rough features.

“Humble beginnings? Is that what it’s about?”

“What do you wish it to be about?” He shook his head. “Persistence such as yours

deserves reward, but I’m afraid you will be disappointed with the truth.”

“Try me.”

“What did you wish to know? Ask me whatever you like. We have nothing to hide.”

“Then why the cloak and dagger stuff?”

He laughed. “But you love the cloak and dagger stuff, as you call it. Everyone does.”

“So there’s no penalty for betraying secrets?”

“There is a penalty, of course. Not the penalty you seem to imagine. We don’t kill

people because they choose to abandon their faith. To find themselves on the outside is

usually punishment enough.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement in the deep shadows of the room. I

realized that we were not alone in the room and felt a tingling at the back of my scalp.

Into my distracted silence, Garibaldi added, “Surely you understand the need for

discretion. Death is often the price for nonconformity in our society.”

“Speaking of death,” I said. I made an effort not to look into the crowded shadows. The

gun was a comforting weight against my back.

He laughed with genuine amusement. “When your delightful mother informed me that

you wrote mystery novels, I at once understood both your inquisitiveness and your

conviction that a dark and deadly secret waited to be revealed.”

I’ve never understood why in TV crime shows the sleuth makes a point of arguing with

the villain and revealing all the reasons why he thinks the bad guy is guilty. I thought my

best bet of walking out of there in one piece was to allow myself to be convinced of

Garibaldi’s blamelessness. I took it as a positive sign that he was bothering to chat.

I said calmly, “So Blade Sable wasn’t involved in these ritual deaths? But then why lie

about its existence, about the existence of the Scythe of Gremory?”

“Because people hate and fear what they do not understand. Tell me of a great religion

that has not faced persecution by nonbelievers and infidels. Add to this the fact that we are

extremely successful, and I think you will understand why I wish to protect the anonymity

of our members.”

“I think I can understand that.”

“Yes. As I can understand your desire for knowledge, for the truth at all cost. You

remind me of myself many years ago. That is the great difference between our religion and

the others. We don’t lie to ourselves.”

“When you say that you are extremely successful…”

“Ours is an invitation-only membership. Most exclusive. Many of our older members

are wealthy or well-established in their chosen profession, but this is not the criterion for

membership. We seek those with a desire for the truth, with – like yourself – a questing

spirit. We look for persons of intellect and reason, persons of quality.”

I hated to interrupt the sales pitch, but when he paused for breath, I interjected, “That’s

flattering. But you’re not Satanists, correct?”

“No.”

“But you do worship the demon Gremory?”

He hesitated. His eyes swerved to the shadows, and I grasped that, unlike Garibaldi,

some of the congregation might not have outgrown their need for that old-time religion,

complete with fortune-telling demon dukes.

“Worship, no. The demon is a tool, a facet of magic.”

“You do believe in magic?”

“We all believe in magic. Those who deny its existence the most fiercely are those who

most believe.” He made an easy movement as though brushing aside cobwebs. “Magic is as

real as love or oxygen or anything else that is real, but cannot be seen.”

I didn’t see any point in debating this. I tried to figure out how to ask him who he

thought had killed three people and written Gremory’s sigil in victims’ blood, if not one of

his own disciples. He said, “You’re a young man, and yet I sense that you’ve had cause to

consider your own mortality.”

He might have learned that from Lisa or even Bill Dauten, but I had a sudden visual of

Velvet standing at my desk holding the vial of my heart meds.

“On occasion.”

“Do you believe there’s anything beyond this existence?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does it matter to you? Would the knowledge change any choices that you’ve made?”

“No.”

He nodded, as though this were the answer he had expected. “You have learned to live

within the moment. What if it were possible to have all that you wanted on this Earthly

plane? Wealth, power, sex…”

“In exchange for?”

“What do you have to offer?”

I grinned. “My immortal soul?”

He smiled too; his teeth looked sharp and yellow in the candlelight. “And we accept. It

is the requirement of every religion, is it not? Is there any faith that does not demand

spiritual commitment? But we are a bit more pragmatic in our approach. That is the secret of

our success: practicality.”

Sprinkled with terrorism and vacuum-packed to seal in evil.

“Does that translate into dollars and cents?”

He smiled. “No more than you can afford, no more than membership in any exclusive

organization would cost you. Tithing is a time-honored tradition, is it not? I think you will

be pleased to learn that there are less tangible resources we most value. You possess many of

these: creativity, imagination, energy, and contacts.”

“What would I be required to do with these resources?”

“Nothing that you were not willing to do. As you surmised last night, we are a kind of

service organization, a network, not unlike the…er…Lions Club.”

Or maybe the VFW? It would be hard to think of a more foreign war than the one for

souls.

I said – and I didn’t have to fake sounding genuinely troubled – “But wasn’t Kinsey

Perone the Adept of Blade Sable?”

He looked a tad irritated. “Adrien, my dear, I have no idea who Kinsey Perone was. I

know that she was not a member of Blade Sable. I know each and every one of my sons and

daughters. Perhaps she had hopes of joining us one day, but my understanding is that she was

an unstable girl. Unstable personalities are attracted to us as they are attracted to

fundamentalist religions everywhere.”

I nodded thoughtfully.

“Shall I tell you what I think, what I have believed since the day you came to my home

seeking answers? I think you are searching for that which is missing in your own life. I think

that is what this quest to find an imaginary murderer is really about.”

“Inquiring minds want to know.”

He said gently, “Always the joke, the flippant comment, the laughter that keeps the

wall intact. But behind the wall, I sense a great emptiness, loss, loneliness…”

My mouth was unexpectedly dry. The tug of his personality, his certainty, his calm was

overwhelming. My pulse sped up with a mix of anger and fear.

“We could help you, my dear. That is what we do. We help our brothers and sisters

realize their dreams – most dreams are easily realized, did you know that? Most people do

not long for much that is not attainable through a certain amount of focus and effort.

Everyone wants something.”

I said interestedly, “Can you guarantee perfect health?”

He studied me, then smiled that unnerving smile. “But that’s not what you most want,

Adrien.”

* * * * *

I called Jake from a phone booth in a gas station a few blocks away from the Little

Purple Chapel.

As I waited for his cell phone message – no way was he going to be live and in person

at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning – I tried to figure my best angle. Obviously I couldn’t

tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I was still floating scenarios when Jake’s voice said crisply, “What’s up?”

“I –” I floundered.

His voice dropped, he spoke close to the phone. “What’s wrong?”

Jesus, it was just Jake. Not exactly cause for cold sweat and stomach cramps. I said, “I

think there’s a place in East LA you need to check out.”

“Why?”

“There’s a possibility that it might be where they killed the Perone girl. She wasn’t

killed at the scene, right? None of them were. So there’s a chance this might be the place.”

“Did you get that from the kid?”

“The kid?”

“Angus,” he said tersely. “We know he spent Wednesday night with you. Did it not

occur to you that he was being watched?”

“Not by the cops.” I added, although I wasn’t sure why, “I let him sleep downstairs. He

didn’t have any place else.”

“You seem hell-bent on getting roped into this investigation.”

Which would endanger Jake. Got it.

I said, “Yeah, something Angus said makes me think this might be the place. Can you

get a search warrant?”

He didn’t answer that, saying instead, “Do you know where he is?”

“Angus? No.” His words sank in. I felt a tingle of alarm. “You don’t think something

happened to him?”

“I have no idea. We lost him shortly after he left the bookstore.” He said into my

stricken silence, “Relax. My thought is he ditched us.”

I let my breath out on a long sigh. All at once I was very tired. I wanted to go home

and sleep for a year. The problem was, unless I was mistaken, I had been made an offer I

could not refuse. From now until this mess was resolved, I needed to sleep with one eye

open.

“Will you try to get a search warrant?”

“You sure there’s something to find?”

“I’m not sure, no. But I think there’s a strong possibility.”

He was silent.

“I also think that there may be a chance that Gabriel Savant is alive. If so, they could be

holding him there.”

I waited, knowing that it all hinged on how much he trusted my instinct and my

judgment.

“Why did you wait till now to tell me this?” he asked finally.

Right, he thought I’d been sitting on this information since Wednesday. I said, finding

it unexpectedly hard to get the words out, “I was afraid you’d…misread my reason for

calling.”

Silence. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well. I’ll see what I can do. No promises. What’s

the address?”

I gave him the address, clicked off before he could.

* * * * *

I rounded the corner to pull into the back parking of Cloak and Dagger when I noticed

commotion out front of the bookstore. I pulled to the curb, got out, joining the crowd

outside my front step.

Three women in white gauzy dresses stood inside a large ring of white candles. They

were chanting.

By the power of She