Angel City (23 page)

“No. It was the same. It looked like the angel jumping off the bridge in Paris. The one I saw on the news, before you pulled the plug. It wasn't the exact same picture, it was a drawing, but it looked almost the same. And there were words under the drawing:
Older Than Dreams
.”

“Why do you call it an angel?”

“What?”

“You called it a drawing of an angel. Why?”

“Because that's what he called it . . . the angel who saved Paris. Then he said the angels were coming to protect the one who'd save the world. It was gibberish, Anne. And yeah, it's the kinda thing I could imagine, I admit it. But I know it happened, because Max saw it first.”

“What did Max see?”

“The shirt. He pointed to it, that's when I saw it.”

“You sure he wasn't just reacting to you?”

Katherine thought about it, then she rolled her eyes and waved her hands in front of her face and laughed.

“Yeah, you're right.” And she started singing a long-ago Motown tune:
“Just my imagination . . . runnin' away with me, now.”

Officer Jannsen looked at Max, stared at him.

Katherine stopped singing.

“Attention, loopy mom on medication going for laughs here. Don't you want to sing along?”

Officer Jannsen didn't answer. Katherine tapped her shoulder.

“Okay, let's try this one:
Ground Control to Major Anne.
C'mon, Seb and Luc, everybody sing.”

No response.

“My singing can't be that bad.”

Officer Jannsen touched Katherine's arm.

“Tell me what happened again, Kat. Tell me exactly as you imagined it.”

Katherine did.

Officer Jannsen listened.

It wasn't until they crossed over the Bridge of the Gods, back into Washington State, that Katherine finished the story. Officer Jannsen pulled out a small black notebook and started writing.

“What are you doing, Anne?”

“Making notes of your description of the man with the saxophone.”

“Standard procedure?”

“Yes.”

“You know, the more you say ‘standard procedure,' the more I think something's way out of whack.”

Officer Jannsen stopped writing, looked at her.

“Listen, Kat, you had a conversation with someone, and I just need to make sure he's not a threat.”

“How can he be a threat? He didn't come after me, I walked to him.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you walk to him?”

Katherine thought about it.

“Because me and Max were waiting for you and we heard music. He was playing the Doobie Brothers, come to think of it. Just caught my ear. And then Max did one of his pointy things, and we walked over. And why are you asking me the same questions, Anne? You're making me dizzy.”

“I'm trying to confirm whether or not Max experienced a sighting, too.”

“‘A sighting?' Jeez, the guy was a little out-there, but he wasn't a friggin' little green man just off a UFO.”

“Sorry, my English was turned around. I meant to say, Max saw him the same time that you did.”

“No. Max saw him before me.”

“Did he interact with Max?”

“I told you already, remember?”

“How? What happened? Did they talk, did he touch Max?”

“Oh for cripes sake, now the guy's supposed to be a perv?”

“Kat, I'm just asking questions.”

Katherine stared at her.

“And your questions sound like you're saying I was imagining the guy, or that you don't trust me to be on my own with my son in public.”

Katherine looked up front to the Swiss Guard riding shotgun. He had his own set of rearview mirrors, and she watched his eyes dart from the 3-D display to the road ahead.

“Hey, Lieutenant Worf—I mean Luc—you saw me talking to him, didn't you?”

She watched Luc's eyes connect to Officer Jannsen for two seconds, then back to her.

“
Oui, Madame Taylor.
I saw him.”

Katherine smiled at Officer Jannsen.

“There you go. Lieutenant Luc Worf, chief security officer of the
Starship Enterprise
, confirms the sighting of one saxophone-playing alien in downtown Portland, Oregon.”

“I'm not saying you didn't see him, or that I don't trust you.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Katherine stared at her, waiting for a response. She watched Officer Jannsen smile with that knee-weakening look of hers.

“I am saying I need to know everything that happened, and what was said, between you and Max and the little green man with the saxophone, just off a UFO.”

Katherine's jaw dropped, then she laughed.

“Wow, Anne, not bad. In the funny bone department, I mean.”

Katherine looked at Max. His head was tipped to the side and his mouth was open and he was making that little puffing sound with his lips that he always did when he was sleeping in the car. Katherine lifted his blanket from the seat and tucked it around his legs, adjusted the headrest of his car seat to make him more comfortable. She looked at Officer Jannsen, saw she was looking at Max. And she saw the
way
Officer Jannsen was looking at Max, as if knowing that he was completely defenseless, and in the blink of an eye . . .

Katherine shuddered. “Okay. Ask away,” she said.

They went through it three more times. And each time, Katherine repeated the saxophoneman's words about angels being in a whole lot of hurt just now. But it was Katherine remembering the saxophoneman talking about a miracle happening, right here, right now, that caused Officer Jannsen to write feverishly in her little black book.

“Anne?”

“Yes?”

“It's really okay—all us fruitcakes see angels.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I'm joking. And you're making me dizzy because I'm still telling you the same thing over and over again. And we're in Stevenson and Granny's Gedunk Ice Cream Parlor is up ahead. And you promised me a chocolate milk shake on the way back.”

Officer Jannsen checked the road, then made eye contact with the guards up front.

“All clear?”

The guards scanned their toys on the dashboard.

“Looks fine,
Chef
.”

“Pull up in front. Notify Control we're stopping.”

As the truck pulled up to the curb, Max woke up and looked out the window, instantly recognizing where he was.

“Gnnny!”

“That's right, buster, it's Granny's. And that means ice cream.”

“Skeem!”

“You bet. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.”

“Skeemskeem!”

Katherine undid the shoulder straps and lifted him from the car seat. Officer Jannsen got out, walked around the truck, and opened Katherine's door. If Max could fly, he would've taken off out the door.

“Hold on, buster,” Katherine said. “You don't have your wings yet.”

Officer Jannsen reached Max. “Here, I'll take him.”

Max kicked his little legs and waved his arms as he was passed over. Katherine climbed out and they went into the shop. Granny herself was behind the counter and saw them coming.

“Well, land's sakes, look who's here!”

“Gnnny!”

“Hello, there, Max. You just keep getting bigger. And how are you girls?”

“Doing just fine, Granny.”

Officer Jannsen clucked her tongue.

“One moment, you need to take Max. I must go back to the truck.”

Max kicked his legs and waved his arms on the way back to Katherine.

“What's up?” Katherine said.

“I forgot to see what the protection detail would like. Order me a double dark chocolate.”

“You're actually trusting me to order the milk shakes? All by myself?”

“See, I do trust you on your own.”

Officer Jannsen walked to the Explorer, her back to the shop. The guard riding shotgun saw her coming, opened the door. Officer Jannsen handed over her notebook.

“Good pickup telling Madame Taylor you saw him, Luc. I want you to get on to Berne, give them a readout of my notes. Advise them Madame Taylor and the boy have experienced a sighting. Also, ask them to run a search of mobile activity in Pioneer Courthouse Square during the time Madame Taylor was there. I want confirmation about the crowd. And while you're waiting for an answer, Google a description of the T-shirt with the message on it. The message is in my notes.”

“We already ran it,
Chef
.”

“What did you get on the crowd?”

“It was a flash mob.”

“A what?”

“Texts go out to mobile phones. ‘Everyone meet here, or there at this time.' The phone logs confirm it.”

“What about the shirt?”

Luc nodded to the 3-D display. There was an image of a poster. The picture of “the angel” falling through the fog in Paris two weeks ago, psychedelic lettering across the top and bottom:
Older Than Dreams Tour . . . Locomotora . . . Aladdin Theater, Portland.

“A rock concert?”

“They're from Finland, and they're using the image from the Paris operation to promote their concert.”

“What kind of music?”

“Post-rock. No lyrics, just instruments, harmonics, and drones, very loud. According to Google, Locomotora is on the cutting edge with a very eclectic following. People travel the world to attend their concerts. That's who made up the flash mob. Thing is, Locomotora rarely have concerts.”

“So we have a flash mob following a rock band, Madame Taylor and her son, and the saxophoneman all coming together at the same moment. Not to mention the picture from the Paris operation.”

Officer Jannsen looked back at the shop, saw Katherine through the windows. She was holding Max while Granny gave him a taste of this and that.
He really does love his skeem,
Officer Jannsen thought. She turned to the guards.

“There must be a line of causality running through it somewhere.”

She watched the guards look at each other.

“What is it, gentlemen?”

“Es gibt einen,”
Corporal Fassnacht said.

“You saw it as it happened?”

“No,
Chef
, but we know what it is. We were only waiting for the proper moment to discuss it with you.”

Officer Jannsen noted they didn't say “report to you.” Meaning they were coming very close to disclosing confidential information they had been ordered not to discuss with anyone.

“What can you tell me?”

“Marc Rochat was the last person to see the saxophoneman.”

“Are you sure of this?”

The guards nodded.

“That's why we went ahead and ran a search,” Luc said.

“Go on.”

“After Marc Rochat began to awaken to his duality, the two of us were assigned to tail him, keep an eye on him. Before he died, he made a trip to Vevey.”

“The medics?”

Luc nodded.

“On the way back, at the train station in Lausanne, we noted Rochat talking to someone who wasn't there. HQ matched our report with a meeting he had with Monsieur Gübeli a few days later. Marc Rochat told him he talked to the saxophoneman.”

“What did they talk about?”

“Angels being in trouble,” the corporal said.

Officer Jannsen nodded, taking it in. Either she was being set up in some field test to check the manner of her thinking, or the guards were telling her something they shouldn't. She checked the street, coming and going cars.

“That's the thing about lines of causality, gentlemen. Find one, there's always another. That's always been my experience.”

“Yes,
Chef
.”

“From the looks on your faces, you know what the next line is.”

“Yes,
Chef
.”

“Did you know this information before today?”

The guards didn't answer. Confirmed they were talking out of school and that was all she was going to get.

“Show me,” she said.

“You may not believe it.”

“If I had a problem with working in the realm of the unbelievable, I wouldn't be in this line of work, gentlemen.”

Luc swiped the screen, another poster from the band:
Older Than Dreams Tour . . . Locomotora . . . Le Jazz Café, Lausanne.
Written in the same trippy script, above and below a picture of Lausanne Cathedral, lit up against a dark and stormy night.

“When was this concert?”

“Three nights before the battle at Lausanne Cathedral.”

Officer Jannsen felt herself wobble a bit.

“I'll be damned.”

“Chef?”

“
Ich vill verdammt sein.
But for the moment, gentlemen, the sentiment seems more appropriate in English.”

Flash Traffic

tdc: +p441-01sbc+

Ex: Blue4/GrovMil

Eyes Only: Dragon6/SUTF

Subject: Portland

Please review notes re: SAXMAN sighting/flash mob.

Request brief and guidance.

Flash Traffic

tdc: +k995-97cfr+

Ex: Dragon6/SUTF

Eyes Only: Blue4/GrovMil

Subject: Portland

Sighting: SAXMAN apparition confirmed by HQ.

Purpose:

1) Identity confirmation re: BLUEMARBLE/SWANLAKE as part of light scan test; 2) Warning of impending intersecting lines of causality re: death. Flash mob identified as protective cover surrounding SAXMAN by deep asset MAGIC BUS

Guidance:

Flash Traffic

mml: +p003-46twt+

Ex: Magic Bus

Eyes Only: Dragon6/SUTF

Subject: Dream Catcher

Vision ex: DREAM CATCHER

Subject: Impending Lines of Causality re: Gospel of Matthew 2:10/Deep Asset, Paris Operation

M
ONSIEUR, ARE YOU AWAKE NOW?”

The voice had been calling from the far beyond, then coming closer, then pulling back the veil of unconsciousness. Harper opened his eyes. Nothing but the absolute dark and an unfolding notion of
Where the fuck am I?

“Monsieur? Are you awake?”

“Who are you?”

“It's me, Gilles Lambert.”

The name sounded familiar, just.

“Is there anyone else?”

“
Non
, monsieur. Only you and me.”

Harper skimmed back through his timeline. Was something of a blur. Again.

“So . . . where are we?” Harper said.

“In a cavern, under Paris.”

“A cavern. Under Paris.”

“Oui.”

Silence.

“Gilles?”

“Oui?”

“I'm having a bit of trouble seeing things.”

“Because there's nothing to see, monsieur, there's no light down here.”

“Yes, well, that too. Look, I need to ask a rather stupid question.”

“D'accord.”

“What the hell am I doing in a cavern under Paris?”

“You don't remember?”

“Like I said, I'm having trouble seeing . . . remembering, I mean.”

“Because they drugged us.”

“They? Who are they?”

“The priest and the other one.”

An auto-injector slamming into his thigh, then something warm rushing into his blood. He could see the two of them, the priest with the cut-up face and the other one with the oddly shaped head. He could hear the priest's voice . . .
receive your portion of the divine sacrament . . . Holy Father, welcome thy servant in thy justice . . .
Harper ran the words. He'd heard them, some of them, somewhere. Wasn't from the Catholic Mass, wasn't from any Catholic prayer he knew.

“Bloody dreaming it, maybe.”

He tried to move his arms and legs. They felt like lead.

“Qu'avez-vous dit?”

“What?”

“You said something.”

“No, I didn't say anything. Just the way our voices are echoing in this place.”

“Oh.”

Harper struggled to sit up. He rested his back against the stone wall.

“Dark place this, isn't it?” he said.

“
Oui
”

“Any idea what the time is?”

“I don't know. I have a watch, but I can't see it.”

Harper checked his own watch. The phosphorescent paint on the sweep hands had faded completely.

“Same here. Means four to six hours, at least.”

“I don't know, monsieur, I really don't know.”

. . . really don't know, don't know, don't know . . .

Silence.

“I hate to ask another stupid question, Gilles, but what happened to the bloody lights?”

“There are no lights in the tunnels. We had lamps, but the priest took them from us and smashed them.”

“Right. And who was this bloody priest?”

“His name was Astruc. You cannot remember what happened,
mon père
?”

Harper raced through the blurred images on his timeline. The images were there. But with no ambient light to fuse with, the radiance in his blood was breaking down into inert matter. He was badly in need of a hit. He patted the pockets of his windbreaker and trousers looking for his smokes, for a second wondering what he was doing in a windbreaker, and where the hell was his coat? He felt some spare change, no fags or sparks.

“Look, Gilles, I need some light, any light. You don't happen to have— Hang on, what did you just call me?”

“Mon père.”

“I thought what's-his-name, Astruc, I thought he was the priest.”

“
Oui
, but earlier, he said you were the priest, before we came down here. He said you were an expert in ancient languages from Lausanne University.”

“What?”

“He said you were sent by the Holy Father in Rome to investigate what I found in the tunnels, and to protect me from evil. That's what he said. I believed him, I believed you.”

“So what happened?”

“Pardon?”

“If I was supposed to protect you from evil, how did we end up like this?”

“They had guns.”

“The priest had a gun?”

“And the other one. Goose was his name. You tried to stop them, but they threatened to kill me, so you surrendered. It was very confusing, I can't quite remember it.”

Harper flashed an image of the odd-looking kid, Goose. Then a standoff . . .
Notre Père
and drop the fucking gun. Something close to it, anyway.

“Right. Any rate, got a match?”

“I did, in my backpack. And some spare candles. But I can't find it, not in this dark.”

Harper flashed Goose and Astruc cleaning out the cavern before they took off.

“No, they took it. I saw them take it. Your backpack and all the candles.”

“You did?”

“Just before I went out.”

“Oh. I was hoping, perhaps, it would still be here.”

“No. It's gone.”

. . . it's gone, it's gone, it's gone . . .

Silence.

“Tell me, Gilles, is anyone coming to get us?”

“Non.”

“Why not?”

“No one knows we're down here.”

“Of course not. Look, you'd be doing me a huge favor if you ran a few things by me, just till I get a grip of the picture.”

“
Je compris.
It took me time to remember things, too. What do you wish me to tell you,
mon père
?”

“Whatever comes to your mind. And stop calling me
mon père.
It's confusing the hell out of me.”

“Oui,
mon . . . sieur. What should I tell you?
”

“Freeform it, that's the best way. Remind me who you are, for starters.”

“I'm a file clerk in the mayor's office of the fourteenth arrondissement. I guided you, all of you, to this place.”

Harper flashed back again, saw himself with Gilles Lambert, Astruc, and the other one named Goose entering the cavern. Small headlamps strapped to their heads, four beams of lamplight reflecting off the black glasslike stone. Then Goose, setting candles about the floor, Gilles Lambert telling them to turn off their lamps. Harper saw the immense cavern with the rows of coves cut into the walls. He stopped, jumped further back in time. The big man with the blue lenses over his eyes, telling Harper that Gilles Lambert was the best cataphile in Paris, knew the tunnels like the back of his hand.

“That's right. You discovered the cavern a few weeks ago.”

“You remember it now?”

“Let's just say it sounds familiar. We came here to see something, a crime scene of some kind, yeah? Mutilated bodies.”

“
Oui
, they were here when I found this place weeks ago. Their heads were gone, and their skin had been sliced off. It was terrible to see.”

“The bodies weren't here, though,” Harper said. “They'd been taken away. The cavern was empty.”

“C'est vrai ça.”

“Right. Got it. So at the risk of sounding like a complete dolt, what are we doing here?”

“Because . . . because of you.”

“Me?”

“There was a pillar in the center of the cavern . . .”

Harper saw it. Looked like a supporting pillar, but it was only an illusion. The cavern was supported by the walls, and the pillar rose to a perfect point almost touching the center of the dome, as if pointing somewhere
up there
. Harper snapped back to nowtimes. Gilles Lambert's voice still echoed through the dark, telling the tale.

“The priest told you to put your hands on the pillar. That's when you fought with them and took a gun from the little one, Goose. And that's when the priest threatened to kill me, unless you surrendered and put your hands to the tablet drawn on the pillar. I've never seen such a thing, monsieur. You touched the tablet and you said ‘This is the watcher, it is the hour,' but you said it in French. And a door opened in the base of the pillar. And there was a wooden chest inside, very old. The priest removed something from the chest.”

The something flashed through Harper's eyes . . . one or two frames . . . then it was gone.

“What was it, can you remember?”

“A sextant. That's what you called it. And you said it was for finding your position at sea. It's all so very strange.”

Harper rubbed the back of his neck.

“Listen, Gilles. Give me time to recover. We'll figure something out, we'll get out of here.”

. . . out of here, out of here, out of here . . .

Silence.

“Monsieur?”

“Yes?”

“Who are you?”

“Me?”

“If you are not a priest, who are you?”

Those bits on his timeline fell into place.

“My name is Harper, Jay Harper. I do security work for Guardian Services Limited out of Switzerland. I was asked to check up on this Astruc character.”

“You're a detective?”

“More or less.”

“So you knew about all this before. You knew what would happen to me last night.”

“No, I was flying blind on this job.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means . . . it means I knew fuck-all. It's the way my agency works sometimes. It's a sort of disguise.”

“Oh, I see.”

. . . I see, I see, I see . . .

“Are you going to kill me, monsieur?”

“Am I going to what?”

“At first, after I woke up, I thought you were dead. You weren't breathing, not at all. But suddenly you mumbled something about killing them, killing all of them. It sounded like you were talking in your sleep. Then it sounded like you were having a nightmare. I was afraid you might wake up and kill me.”

Harper laughed a little, thinking,
Our kind do not sleep, our kind don't dream . . . But it seems we do babble whilst mightily drugged.

“What did you say, monsieur?”

“Sorry?”

“You said something, just now.”

“No, I didn't say anything, I was thinking.”

“Oh. I thought I heard something.”

“No, I told you, it's just the way our voices are echoing in this place.”

. . . echoing in this place, in this place, this place . . .

Silence.

“So, you're not going to kill me?”

Harper laughed again, this time thinking how his laughter must sound to a frightened man sitting somewhere in the absolute dark. Right up there with ghoulies and ghosties and other long-legged wackos that kill in the night.

“Be a stupid thing for me to do, wouldn't it? So far, you're the only one who really knows what's happened down here.”

“But I don't,” Gilles Lambert said. “I don't know anything. I'm terribly confused. I was betrayed by my confessor, the man I trusted with my soul. I believed you were a priest, sent to protect me. I was tricked. And then, I saw such strange things . . .”

“Gilles.”

“. . . and I saw you open the pillar by touching it, as if your hands were keys. And that thing, that sextant thing . . . what was it doing down here? I've been sitting here thinking none of this could have happened, but I saw it with my own eyes. Please, tell me, what is happening?”

Harper thought about it. In the absolute dark, the man was losing his grasp on reality. Didn't mean Harper could help him. Not yet. Maybe it would come to that, but not yet.

“It's a complicated case. I don't really understand some of it myself. Even if I did, I couldn't tell you what I know.”

“But . . . but why not?”

“Because that's the way it is in my job.”

“But you must tell me!”

“Mate, you need to stay calm.”

“Calm? I've been left to die in this evil place. Why this torture? Why didn't they just kill me?”

. . . why didn't they just kill me, kill me, kill me . . .

Harper listened to the man's voice, the way it echoed in the dark. And he asked himself the same damn thing. Couldn't come up with an answer that made sense. Then again, since when did murdering wackos make sense? Maybe these murdering wackos thought their victims would find this mise-en-scène a more entertaining way to die. Wake up in the absolute dark, think you're dead, find out you're still alive. Now the pain begins. Harper had to admit, it was as creative a method of murder as it was twisted. But he kept the thought to himself and sat quietly. After five minutes—could've been fifty—Harper heard the sound of human tears.

“Gilles?”

“Please, monsieur, I don't want to die like this.”

Harper listened to the man's voice again, counting the cycles of slow, dense, reverberating sound. He'd heard the same fearful sound a billion times through the ages, in thousands of languages—
I don't want to die like this
—and through the ages, Harper watched them die.