Текст книги "The Hell Yo "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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Wilmer said, “Somebody has to stay here. We can’t leave the caterers wandering

around the house.”

“Why would they?”

I watched twin pairs of Levi’s-clad legs stroll past. That’s all I could see of them. They

passed down the hallway toward the kitchen, continuing to argue.

Crawling out on the other side of the table, I darted through the opposite door.

Herringbone wood floors and an elegant white fireplace. No furniture. A giant inverted

pentagram had been painted in blood-red at the center of the room.

That ought to give the caterers something to talk about.

I deduced from the conversation I’d overheard that those two were the only ones in

the house – or at least the only ones officially in the house. All the same, I kept an ear tuned

as I crossed the room and entered the next hall.

A large staircase rose before me. I ran lightly up.

When I got to the top level, I hesitated, trying to figure which direction to go. I started

to the left, then remembered that now that I was upstairs, there was strong possibility my

footsteps could be heard from below. I tiptoed into the first room, wincing at each creak of

the floor.

In the failing light I could barely discern that the room was carpeted in cream-beige

tones and empty of furnishings. A large window overlooked the pool. I peered down at

Betty, who was still arguing with Wilmer. He stood out of my line of vision.

Thatta girl. Don’t give up without a fight .

I proceeded through a lavishly appointed bath – as the real estate guides say – into the

next room, also empty. It was getting too dark to see. Another reason to hurry.

There were six bedrooms and four baths in all, each of them empty. By the time I’d

finished my search, Betty and her companion had disappeared from the garden.

I crept to the head of the staircase and looked down. Nothing to see. I listened. Hello

darkness, my old friend…

Damn. Where were they?

How much time did I have? I peered at my watch in the gloom. I’d used up thirty

minutes already.

I needed to search the downstairs floor, but I was out of time. The longer I spent

prowling these rooms, the higher the odds that I would be discovered. Besides, I couldn’t

believe that they would stash a prisoner on the ground floor with caterers and cleaners on

the premises. Even the upstairs had been a stretch.

I’d been wrong. Again.

I crept down the main staircase, tiptoed along the hall that led back to the kitchen. I

made my way across the slick tile floor like I was treading a mine field. Every second, I

expected to hear someone raise the alarm.

At the door leading onto the garden I hesitated, listening. I didn’t want to stroll outside

and run into Betty or Wilmer. My gaze fell on an unobtrusive door to the left of the pantry. I

had assumed it was a broom closet. Now I wondered.

I left my post at the door and sneaked back, easing open the door, expecting a wall of

brooms and pails and mops to come crashing out like in the cartoons.

But the closet was empty. In fact, it felt too big for a closet. I felt around for a light

switch. The dull overhead light came on, and I was staring down a flight of steps to what was

most likely the basement.

Just like that, I knew I’d been right.

I tiptoed down the stairs and found myself on the outside of a door with an old–

fashioned handle. Very cautiously, I turned the knob. It was locked. Big surprise.

I rattled the knob. Someone spoke on the other side. I couldn’t make out what he said,

but he wasn’t yelling for reinforcements, which was probably a good sign.

With an uneasy glance over my shoulder, I pulled out my pocket knife and undid the

screws holding the old-fashioned escutcheon in place. I didn’t have time to be subtle. The

door knob fell out.

I opened the door.

The room was a store room. Junk was piled from floor to ceiling. Enough space had

been cleared in the center of the room for a cot. A man lay on the cot. He was talking to the

ceiling.

It was Gabriel Savant.

“Hey,” I whispered.

He continued to hold forth with the shapes in the plaster ceiling.

I walked over to the cot and stared down. He stopped talking and gazed up at me with

bloodshot, dilated eyes.

“Savant,” I said. “Can you walk?”

“I know you,” he said. “I remember you.” He began to hum the melody to the old

Johnny Mercer song, “I Remember You.” Off key.

“Shhhhhhhh!” I squatted for a closer look at him. One look at his eyes told me all I

needed to know. He was drugged out of his skull. No way could I waltz him out of there on

my own.

Savant smiled at me.

“You’re the bookseller. Avery. Avery…I’ve forgotten your last name.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. I flicked open my cell phone, relieved to see I had a signal. I

rang Guy.

“Where are you?” he answered. “There’s a catering truck pulling into the gates.”

Keeping my voice low, I said, “They’ve got Savant locked in the basement. He’s totally

stoned.”

“You need to get out of there,” Guy said vehemently. “Now.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. I’ll call the police. Get out of there now. Go!”

“I’m going to try to –”

“No!”

His panic silenced me.

“…a distant bell…” crooned Savant.

Fiercely, Guy said, “If they find you, they won’t let you leave. They can’t. Don’t you

realize what today is?”

“Friday?” Then it hit me. “December twenty-first.” Winter Solstice.

“Yule,” agreed Guy.

“Is the blue sedan still parked out front?”

“What? Yes! GO!”

“I’m on my way. Call the cops,” I said and rang off. So I still had both Betty and Wilmer

to contend with. The arrival of the caterers wouldn’t help, if we got ourselves locked up in

this soundproof basement – or taken to another location before the cops arrived. I smacked

Savant’s gaunt cheek lightly. “Savant? Gabe, wake up!”

He stopped singing. Peered at me. “Wah…wha?”

“We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”

“Wha – where?”

“Not far.” I wasn’t sure I could get him up the stairs, and I was damn sure I couldn’t get

him across the yard without being seen. Frankly, I doubted I could get him across the yard at

all, but maybe I could stash him somewhere safe on the grounds. Just until the cops arrived. I

was afraid to leave him in the basement in case someone decided practicality was preferable

to ritual and dispatched him when they heard the sirens.

I draped his arm around my neck, levered him to his feet. He hugged me.

“Always liked you,” he said.

“Yeah, not now.”

“When my life is through…” he sang.

“Shut up, for God’s sake,” I told him.

He chuckled, then rolled his head back on his shoulders and bellowed, “…and the

angels ask me to reeeecaaaaaaaall…”

I slapped my hand over his chapped mouth. “Shut. Up .”

He began to laugh. His whole body shook with gusts of giggles. His eyes ran. Snot blew

out his nostrils on my hand.

It wasn’t easy, but I got him up the stairs, one lurching step at a time. I half-dragged

him through the kitchen, hauled him out the back door, expecting every moment to hear

shouts of discovery behind us. We stumbled drunkenly along the cobblestone walk until I

spied the half-shed where the trash bins were kept.

I unlatched the gate, lowered Savant behind the battered bins. He stretched out and

prepared to go to sleep.

I got out from behind the bins, eased shut the gate, and started back across the yard.

There was no hint of sirens in the chilly night’s breeze. Maybe Guy couldn’t get hold of Jake.

Maybe Jake figured this was one way of eliminating a potential leak in his private life.

Or maybe Guy hadn’t called.

I ran past the black and silent pool and the spectral white marble slab.

Rounding the corner, I came face-to-face with Harry Potter.

No, it just looked like Potter in the gloom. It had to be Wilmer aka Peter Verlane.

Verlane was as startled as I was. “Hey!” he cried out after a second. I took advantage

and shoved him into the pool.

He went in yelling and splashing, making waves and racket enough for a Sea World

main attraction. Lights flared on around the pool courtyard.

“Hey!” shrieked Betty from somewhere behind me.

I ran for the front, past the bewildered-looking caterers with their trays of stuffed

shrimp and crab puffs.

Peter Verlane squelched after me.

As I reached the tree-lined driveway, headlights slid along the banks of rosebushes, and

a car rolled silently through the tall gates. A black Mercedes. For a moment, I froze in that

spotlight.

The driver braked for half a second, then accelerated.

I jumped to the side. I landed lightly in the grass and picked myself up, ready to run.

The car turned sharply, braked, and reversed, heading back my way.

Peter Verlane materialized out of the darkness, sprinting past me. He reached the gates,

swinging them closed. They clanged shut before I could reach them.

“Are you nuts?” I panted. “The caterers are right over there.”

He glared at me defiantly.

The Mercedes purred up behind us. I turned, and Oliver Garibaldi got out of the car.

He wore a red-lined cape. Maybe he thought it was Halloween. Maybe he’d planned on

doing magic tricks. He stared at me with eyes like black holes in his face.

“I am disappointed,” he said.

“Don’t be,” I said.

Betty Sansone came puffing up. She leaned against the tail of the Mercedes. “Savant’s

gone,” she said.

Garibaldi turned to me. I shrugged. He pointed at me, abracadabra style. “You will die.”

“So will you. That’s life.” I turned to the gatekeeper. “Get out of the way.”

Peter looked to Garibaldi. Garibaldi seemed momentarily nonplussed, as though he

couldn’t understand why I hadn’t died to order. The other car door opened. Ava got out.

“Grab him!” she commanded.

Peter and Betty moved forward, then stopped as the familiar sound of sirens in the

night came wafting on the breeze. Betty turned and pelted back toward the house.

Garibaldi stretched out both hands as though he planned on levitating me. “Spirits of

the Abyss, Lords of Hell, cast your darkness on his shell. Break him, burn him, in the night,

destroy my enemy with thy might –”

“Open the gate, Peter,” Guy’s voice said from the other side of the iron bars, and Peter

spun to face him.

That prosaic request seemed to throw Garibaldi momentarily off his stride. He swung

around, the cape gently unfurling in his wake.

“For Christ’s sake, stop him!” exclaimed Ava. And when no one moved, “Pull

yourselves together .”

For Christ’s sake? I bit back a shaky laugh. “Come on, it’s over,” I said. “The cops will

be here in less than a minute.” I walked toward the gate. Motionless, Peter blocked my way,

one hand gripping the metal bars.

“Peter,” Guy said urgently, “Don’t make it worse. Let him out.”

“No,” cried Ava. “Listen to me!”

“Lady, get real,” I said. “Or do you think you can kill me, Guy, Savant, and the

caterers – and the cops won’t notice?”

Peter moved aside, swinging open the gate, and squeezing out past Guy. He

disappeared into the night, his footsteps fading as he ran.

Garibaldi said to me, “Death and despair is your future now.”

“Blue denims and prison food are yours,” I said and slammed the gate behind me.

“Are you okay?” Guy asked. He put his hands to my face as though examining me for

signs of bewitchment.

“Yes. Thanks to you.”

“I’m sure you’d have come up with a Plan B.” He seemed to recall himself, letting me

go.

The blue sedan screeched up the drive, swerved around the Mercedes, and began to

honk furiously for us to open the gate. Ignoring this, I said to Guy, “Savant is stashed in the

shed with the trash bins. Have the cops use luminol when they examine the sculpture by the

swimming pool. I think it’s an altar.”

His eyes looked stricken. Then he said, “What do you mean? Where will you be?”

I said, “Will you do me a favor? Keep my name out of it, if you can?”

“What are you talking about? They all know you were here.” He gestured to the

frantically honking Betty, and Garibaldi and Ava who were arguing furiously across the top

of the Mercedes.

“I don’t think they’re going to have much to say to the cops. The last thing any of them

want is another witness to testify against them.”

Guy’s eyes were colorless in the moonlight. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. And for reasons that I can’t go into, I’m pretty sure the cops won’t push you to

offer my name up. There’s plenty here to convict them all without me.”

“But…if I take credit for finding Savant….”

“You might be able to redeem yourself in the eyes of the faculty and parents who

believe this was your fault.”

The sirens were getting louder.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “Or this will be moot.”

“Adrien, this is…”

I said, “Merry Christmas, Guy.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

I was trapped in a Perry Como Christmas special.

It had started at the crack of dawn. Dauten, mini-cam in hand, shouting stage

directions like Cecil B. de Mille, gathered us around the towering Christmas tree and filmed

us taking turns opening our presents – an embarrassing wealth of presents – not a tie in the

bunch.

“Everyone look at Emma. Look surprised, Emma!” Dauten would command. Or, “I

missed that! Adrien, pretend to open that one again.”

But I’d have been lying if I said I wasn’t touched. Natalie and Lauren and (according to

the card) Lauren’s inexplicably absent husband had gone in on software called Journey to the

Wild Divine, a kind of video game with biofeedback sensors. Emma had made me a colorful

assortment of bookmarks. Dauten and Lisa had bought me a ticket for one of those Atlantis

all-gay cruise ship vacations. Everything had been so carefully chosen and was so eagerly

offered; it was excruciating.

The gift exchange segment was followed of necessity by sharing a “wee dram” with

Bill. Then we had to comparison shop the booze. Luckily, while we could still walk, the

traditional suicide feast was served.

This was followed by charades. Yep, charades.

I kept that frozen smile in place, despite the headache, despite the indigestion, despite

the nerve-shattering shrieks of laughter and screams of delight. I knew how Scrooge must

have felt spending that first Christmas at his nephew’s: a smiling shipwreck victim sharing

supper with cannibals.

From dawn to dusk there was no letting up of the relentless holly-jolliness, and every

single moment I tried to tune out, to think back over the events of the past week, one or the

other of my self-appointed family members would make an effort to re-engage my flagging

interest.

Didn’t anyone want to take a nap or go for a walk or watch TV? No, they kept

hovering. Did they have me on a suicide watch? And here I thought I was coping so well.

It wasn’t until Emma finally went off to play the piano that Lisa said very casually, “We

saw Jake on the telly last night. He’s certainly getting a lot of press. I expect they’ll make him

Chief of Police one of these days. Have they found That Boy yet?”

She meant Angus. Peter Verlane had been picked up within hours of the police raid on

Garibaldi’s Bel Air estate. “They think he’s in Mexico, maybe,” I remarked.

“So you’ll have to hire someone at the bookstore, won’t you?”

“Yes, and I don’t want to talk about it now.”

She smiled a fleeting satisfied smile, leaning back against the sofa cushions. Emma,

seated at the piano, plinked out “My Favorite Things” for the third time in a row.

“Unbelievable,” Bill remarked, “that Oliver could have been involved in that stuff – in

murder – it’s absolutely unbelievable.”

“I believe it,” Lisa said. “He was always a tad too…intense. Something in his eyes…”

She shivered delicately.

“When I think of the possible ramifications,” Bill said. “Some of the deals he was part

of.” He knocked back another snootful of Laphroaig and held the bottle up for me.

I shook my head.

“He took a lot of people in,” Lisa said. “As for Ava…any woman who would even think

of wearing red satin to her wedding is a danger to herself and the community.”

“I heard on the news that they found over a hundred scrolls in his wine cellar. Scrolls

written in blood by people selling their souls to the Devil.” Natalie’s eyes sparkled with

ghoulish delight. Come to think of it, maybe she was a good fit for the bookstore.

“Fifty-six,” I said. “They didn’t just sign their souls away. They signed off on property,

making Garibaldi the beneficiary of their wills.”

“So bizarre.”

Lauren, who had been rather subdued all day – pining perhaps for her missing, life–

sized Ken doll – said, “Human sacrifice. That’s the part I can’t believe. And in Bel Air, of all

places. How many people did they kill to honor their so-called demon?”

“Who knows? So far they’ve confessed to five, including the girl they left at Angus’s to

try and implicate him.”

“He was already implicated,” Lisa reminded me too sweetly.

I ignored this. Over at the piano, Emma began “My Favorite Things” yet again.

“He was obviously insane,” Bill said. “Oliver, I mean. It’s amazing he never showed any

sign of it. You wouldn’t believe the genius the man had for business.”

I opened my mouth, but thought better of it.

“Adrien, you look so much like your father,” Lisa said suddenly.

The rest of them studied me with interest. Bill reached over, poured me another shot

from the bottle of his magic elixir Laphroaig.

Lisa prattled on. “It’s uncanny. Of course, he has my eyes. And my nose. And my

hands. And he gets his love of the arts from me.”

I bit my tongue – one of the two things I was truly sure were my own.

The phone rang, mercifully halting what appeared to be the “Chopsticks” version of

“My Favorite Things.”

Natalie said brightly, “I guess we’ll see all the details on Sixty Minutes .”

“There’s a guy on the phone asking for you,” Emma called.

Before I had time to acknowledge the surge of disbelieving hope, she corrected herself.

“I mean his name is Guy.” She was smiling, finding that amusing.

How had Snowden managed to track me here? Witchcraft?

Emma waited at the phone like a junior PA, ready to jettison this unsolicited call if I

said the word.

I glanced around. Everyone in the room seemed to be looking at me, smiling at me,

waiting for me to decide.

Oh, well, what the hell.

I took the call.

Josh Lanyon

Josh Lanyon is the author of three Adrien English mystery novels. THE HELL YOU

SAY was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award and is the winner of the 2006

USABookNews awards for GLBT fiction. Josh lives in Los Angeles, California, and is

currently at work on the fourth book in the series, DEATH OF A PIRATE KING.