Immortal City ic-1 Page 22

  On Sylvester’s computer screen were gruesome images of the crime scenes. Disembodied wings. Glistening blood splattered over the famous stars of the Walk of Angels. He studied the images, scrutinizing them for details that he had missed. As he did, the glitz and glamour of the boulevard seemed to mix and blur with the blood and carnage in a very unsettling way.

  He flipped to a prison photo of a man with an unkempt beard and an otherworldly look in his eyes. William Beaubourg. Sylvester had interviewed the three arrested HDF members at the Tombs jail downtown, trying to figure out what they knew about the murders and Beaubourg’s current whereabouts. After being released from San Quentin prison earlier this year, Beaubourg had immediately disappeared, releasing videos on the Internet that talked about the coming “War on Angels.” The jailed operatives seemed to hint to Sylvester that the HDF was behind the Angel murders. But were they just trying to gain notori-ety for their cause? Sylvester was unable to piece together what Angel would be helping the HDF. But he couldn’t rule them out.

  And then there was Mark. Sylvester was still hunting for hard evidence — all the dots weren’t connecting to point to Mark Godspeed as the culprit. But Sylvester’s gut told him that the Archangel was somehow involved. The detective had already cleared Jackson. His alibi had entirely held up, and he had been seen in public during the time at which forensics figured Templeton was murdered. Plus Sylvester’s long-honed intuition told him the Godspeed kid was clean.

  Unlike most of the Immortal City.

  But Mark: the way he had almost totally discounted Sylvester’s findings, even basically threatening to discredit the detective. How he merely wanted to cover up the murders, not help with the investigation. Was he going for a strange power play among the Archangels? Was managing this panic somehow going to allow him to consolidate control? Sylvester thought back to Mark’s actions almost twenty years before. With those actions in mind, Sylvester would put nothing beyond him. There was no way he could be trusted.

  Sylvester flipped through more files, rubbing his burning eyes. He leafed through a stack of reports Garcia had gathered from locals living near the crime scenes.

  Anybody who thought they had seen something strange had been interviewed. Most were nothing of interest, just fancies of worried people, but he took the time to scan through them anyway. One of the reports he stopped on was from a homeless man who had been sleeping in a doorway next to Theodore Godson’s star on the night of the first incident.

  The report was several pages long and appeared to be nothing more than the rant of a drunk or a drug addict. Sylvester groaned, pulling the report out of the stack and setting it aside.

  Then he stopped. Something on the page had caught his eye. He looked at Garcia’s neat handwriting. There was that word again.

  Beast.

  He began reading. The man described seeing a black, shimmering beast on the boulevard that night that had seven heads and horrible, twisted horns. But then again the man went on to say the beast looked nothing like the alien spaceship he had seen the previous week. Sylvester sat back in his chair and thought. The witness was clearly unreliable, but the description was familiar to him. And specific. The man had counted seven heads.

  He felt a sudden surge of adrenaline as his mind made the connection. He slid the tub of Red Vines off the file box and dug around until he found what he was looking for. His King James Bible. He flipped the book open, paged through to Revelation, and started to read.

  It took him only a minute to find it. Revelation 13:1.

  He read it twice to himself to be sure: And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.

  A beast, he thought. He sifted through the reports again, reading them with new eyes. He picked out key phrases from the interviews, felt a strange presence at night, and sinking feeling of terror in the dark. They weren’t just worried. They were feeling something. Sensing that something was wrong. He was convinced. Something as old as time itself, something terrible and forgotten — a myth — was in fact real. And it was loose in the city. His intuition had been right the whole time. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew it as surely as he knew anything. He reached back into the file box and rifled around again until he pulled out a small, ornamental box made of brass. The outside had a series of engravings between small jewels inset in the metal. He looked at it and took a deep breath.

  Suddenly a voice from behind startled him.

  “Sir?”

  He turned to see Garcia.

  “What is it?”

  “You better come see this,” the sergeant said.

  “Jackson Godspeed flying out of his Commissioning?

  I heard. But I’ve ruled him out already.”

  “You’ll want to see this anyway.” Garcia’s expression was grave. Sylvester set the box carefully on the desk in front of him and rose out of his chair.

  They walked down the hall together, their bodies throwing long shadows in the amber glow of the emergency lights. Garcia led him to the TV in the waiting room, where several people had already gathered to watch the ANN special report. A serious-looking anchor was announcing the breaking news.

  “Angel City police officials won’t comment at this time,” he said, “but in what may turn out to be the story of the year, Jackson Godspeed has been linked to the series of gruesome Angel attacks on the boulevard this week. And amid the outcry in Angel City, Senator-elect Ted Linden has called for special hearings on Capitol Hill around what he calls the ‘Angel Question.’”

  Sylvester turned to Garcia.

  “Jackson? Who did this?”

  “Wasn’t me,” the sergeant said. “And it wasn’t anyone on our team, either. I checked.”

  Sylvester turned and walked quickly back down the hall. Passing his station in the bull pen, he walked back toward the offices and burst into Captain Keele’s office without knocking. The captain, who was signing some paperwork, barely raised an eye as Sylvester came in.

  “Oh good, David, we were just about to have you join us.” He motioned with his pen behind Sylvester. “These gentlemen are here from the NAS. From the Council’s Disciplinary Department, I’m sure you’re. . familiar with it?”

  Sylvester looked behind Keele. He could just make out the outline of two large figures in the darkened office. They seemed imposing, ominous. He couldn’t see their faces. He turned back to the captain.

  “Sir, Jackson Godspeed has nothing to do with this.

  That is a totally unrelated situation.”

  “You yourself had him questioned—”

  “And quickly ruled him out.”

  The captain regarded Sylvester patiently.

  “They seem to think otherwise, Detective. They say they have good reason to suspect him, and I’m inclined to believe them. I think they have more experience in these matters, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sylvester looked at the captain in disbelief.

  “Then show me the evidence,” he countered. “They can sit down with me at my desk and show me what they’ve found. If I think it’s relevant to the case, I’ll share what we know from the crime scenes.”

  Captain Keele leaned forward in his chair, the leather chirping.

  “David, how long have we known each other?”

  “A long time, sir.”

  “Good. Then you can trust me when I tell you to just leave this one be,” he said. “Let this go.”

  Sylvester was furious.

  “This is my investigation—”

  “Actually, it’s not,” the captain said, his voice turning impatient. “The chief and I are handing the investigation over to the NAS. They’re simply more experienced and better prepared to handle this sort of thing than we are. The department will, of course, still be involved, but in an auxili-ary capacity. You’ll be providing them with any assistance they need, and they will be making the decisions. Understood?”
>
  Sylvester glanced at the two shadowy figures again.

  They had not moved since he entered.

  “These orders didn’t happen to come directly from Mark Godspeed, did they?” Sylvester asked.

  The captain looked down at his desk.

  “Sir, whatever’s doing this is extremely powerful, and extremely dangerous,” Sylvester said. “Something terrible is out there, something from another world, and I’m getting closer to finding it. This investigation is too important to be used as a public relations stunt for the NAS. In fact, there is reason to believe high-standing members of the Archangels might be involved in this violence.”

  The captain’s gaze flickered briefly to the agents standing in the back. His expression was almost embarrassed.

  “David, I think I made a mistake when I pulled you off your light duties. I can see now that you’re not emotionally equipped to handle something like this at present. Starting Monday, you’ll resume your work downstairs. Now I want you to go home and get some sleep. You look like you need it. That’s all.”

  Sylvester turned without saying anything and left the office.

  He walked slowly back down the hall to his temporary cubicle and sat. His computer monitor had clicked over to a colorful screen saver. He removed his glasses and polished them.

  After a moment Garcia appeared from the hall again.

  “I heard,” he said.

  “Go home, Bill,” Sylvester said. “Your wife and daughter haven’t seen you for days.” Garcia looked regretful, but nodded in assent.

  “For what it’s worth, sir, you did a hell of a good job on this one.”

  Sylvester looked up.

  “You proved a lot of people wrong, sir, including me.”

  Garcia hesitated a moment longer, then turned and shuffled away down the hall.

  Just as he was getting closer to the truth, the NAS was pulling him off the case. Mark Godspeed was pulling him off the case.

  Sylvester sat back in his chair and stared at the small box he had set on his desk. A minute passed. Then two. Suddenly he sat forward and began scooping up files and papers and stuffing them into his satchel. He threw in his Bible, along with a handful of Red Vines from the tub. Then he picked up the small box again, opened the lid, and looked inside. Appearing satisfied at what he saw, the detective snapped it closed and put it in his pocket. Standing, he pulled on his overcoat from the wobbly rack in the corner and prepared to face the weather outside.

  It was going to be a long night, and he had work to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jacks kept a watchful eye on the sky as they worked their way across the city, using side streets to avoid Angel Boulevard, then cutting up north toward Maddy’s house.

  The power outage, if anything, had worked to their advantage. Inky blackness covered all of Angel City. It was much easier to go unnoticed in the dark. Twice Jacks had pulled them into alleys to wait as helicopters passed overhead.

  By the time they arrived at the house, rainwater had soaked through Maddy’s shoes and socks. She was shivering. They stayed out of sight and worked their way around to the kitchen window. Maddy peered in. There was Kevin, face drawn with concern, lighting candles and placing them around the house. The beginnings of a fire crackled in the fireplace. Maddy felt a lump rise in her throat.

  “Is he alone?” Jacks whispered.

  “I think so.”

  Jacks touched her shoulder, and she turned to him.

  “Maddy, are you sure we have to do this?” His tone was uneasy. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  Jacks nodded reluctantly. “Okay, let’s give it a try, then.”

  They slipped around to the front porch and Maddy knocked quietly at the door. Kevin came at once. He was wearing his plaid robe over an undershirt and slippers.

  Maddy did her best to still her shaking body. The raindrops clung to her hair.

  “Hi, Kevin,” she said.

  “Maddy,” he breathed. “Thank God. Come in out of the rain.”

  He pushed the door open and saw the world’s most famous Angel standing on his doorstep. Anger flickered in his eyes, but not surprise. There was something else, too. A kind of deep tension Maddy had never seen in her uncle before.

  Kevin looked from the Immortal to his soaked niece and back again.

  “You too, young man,” he said finally.

  Once they were inside, Kevin pulled Maddy quickly into an embrace. She couldn’t remember the last time they had hugged like that. Jacks waited quietly, seeming to sense the rarity of the moment.

  “I was so worried,” Kevin began to growl, anger edging the relief in his voice. “Are you okay? They said that—”

  “I’m fine, Kevin,” Maddy said. “I want you to meet—”

  “I know who this is,” Kevin said. His tone wasn’t unkind. But it wasn’t warm either. He didn’t offer his hand.

  With everything that had happened, Maddy hadn’t had much time to think about how her uncle would react. She watched nervously as Jacks smiled and said hello.

  “You’ll want to get out of those wet clothes and get dry,” Kevin said. Then he turned to Jacks. “I think I have something that will fit you too. Why don’t you come with me?”

  Maddy went upstairs to her room, peeled out of her sodden clothes, and showered. There was still hot water in the lines and it burned painfully — and wonderfully — against her cold skin. She thought about Jacks’s words on the rooftop again. And the kiss. Could he actually be telling the truth? Was it possible he had feelings for her? She had never allowed herself the thought, and now she tested it delicately. It felt. . wonderful. That’s what she was afraid of. It felt too good to be true.

  When she got out, she lit a candle and took stock of her injuries in the mirror. She had a deep bruise forming on the shoulder where Jacks had shoved her, and she also had a raised discoloration under her shoulder blades that was tender to the touch. She must have hit the light pole harder than she thought. She dried off, put on clean jeans and a dry hoodie, and went downstairs.

  Maddy sat in the living room toweling her hair dry while she waited for Jacks to emerge from the downstairs bathroom. Kevin had found something for him to put on in a box at the back of his closet and sent him to change. She looked anxiously around the room, from the embarrassing school photos on the wall, to the secondhand furniture, to the old, boxy TV. Compared to Jacks, they were staggeringly poor. She quickly got up and scooped up a pile of Kevin’s laundry that was sitting on top of the couch. She tried to ar-range the magazines on the coffee table like she had seen in fancy offices, until she noticed the magazines were Family Circle and Reader’s Digest. She sighed. It was hopeless.

  Jacks came out of the bathroom wearing Kevin’s old jeans and a tattered shirt, which, on him, looked like an advertisement for worn-out vintage chic. He crossed the living room and, to her relief, passed the wall of photos without inspecting them. If she got out of tonight alive, she thought, she vowed to stash them forever.

  “I like your place,” Jacks said, looking around. “It’s homey.”

  “Thanks,” Maddy said sheepishly, and grabbed a stray pair of Kevin’s underwear from the couch. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

  Maddy and Jacks sat down at the table while Kevin took down three mugs from the cupboard. The gas for the stove was still flowing, and he prepared fresh cups of tea for all of them. Outside, the rain fell constantly against the roof, filing the kitchen with its soft murmur.

  “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” Jacks said as he accepted his cup.

  “It’s just Kevin,” Maddy’s uncle said. He handed Maddy a cup, then busied himself around the kitchen again.

  The hot liquid scalded her tongue as she drank, and the warmth spread down through her chest.

  “They’ve been calling, you know,” Kevin said.

  “Who?” Maddy asked.

  “Everyone. ANN, Angels Weekly, MSNBC, and some blogger. Vuitton. . some
thing. I thought about unplugging the phone, but I was afraid you might try and get in touch. I was worried.”

  “I told you, I’m fine,” Maddy said, and looked at Jacks. “He saved my life.”

  “That’s not exactly what they’ve been saying,” Kevin said evenly. “But I’ve heard a lot of things tonight.”

  Maddy watched Kevin as he took out more candles from under the sink and set them around. She drew in a long, deep breath. At last her lips parted.

  “My parents, Kevin,” Maddy said, her voice small but firm. “I want to know the truth.” Kevin froze where he was standing with his back to her, then struck a match and lit one of the candles.

  “What do you want to know that you don’t know already?” he said, without turning.

  “Jacks told me he could save me because he saw I was in danger, like a premonition. Well. .” She took a deep breath. “I’ve had premonitions all my life, and always when something bad is about to happen.” Kevin still didn’t move, but stood listening. “I’ve always just explained it away to myself or tried to ignore it. I figured I was just, I don’t know, different. A freak.” She swallowed down the beginnings of another lump that was threatening in her throat. “Now I think maybe there’s more to it, and maybe you’ve been keeping something from me.”

  “Maddy, don’t you think you might be imagining—”

  “I’m not,” Maddy said sharply. “I’m done pretending it doesn’t happen, because it does. It happened today when I was almost crushed by that car. I saw it all happen in my head first, and that’s impossible.” From the corner of her eye she could see Jacks’s astonished expression. He had set down his cup and was scrutinizing her intently. “So. Who were they, really?” she asked quietly.

  Kevin turned and met her gaze. Jacks’s eyes darted between them. Kevin brought one of the candles over and set it in the center of the table. Then he sat looking at the flame, his glasses reflecting the flickering light. Maddy realized she was holding her breath.

  “I wondered if this day would come,” he said at last. “I thought it might, but not this soon, and certainly not under these circumstances. I told your father it wasn’t fair that I’d be the one to have to tell you, but he said he was glad it would be me. That I had always been good with you. Now, I’m not so sure.”