Diabolical (20 page)

Hatcher didn't respond. The road seemed to ramble in front of him, like a carpet rapidly unrolling, keeping one step ahead of his beams.

“I know you don't believe me, but it's true.”

“Thanks again for checking, Amy.”

“You're welcome. Again. Can I ask you a question?”

“Maybe.”

“That baby . . .”

“It's not mine, if that's what you're asking.”

“I know. I was going to ask if you'd seen him yet. Your nephew.”

“No.”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, maybe you can soon.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he was born in Orange County. That's right by where you are, right?”

“Born here, huh?”

“Yes. You didn't know that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

“Don't be. You were.”

He dropped the phone on the seat next to him.
Isaac Garrett Rohner.

The name bothered him. He wasn't sure why. It tumbled over and over in his mind as he drove, like the contents of a dryer.

Isaac Garrett Rohner
.

He picked up the phone, pulled up the call log, hit send. Amy answered.

“That didn't take long.”

“How did you know he was my nephew?”

“Because of what the birth certificate said.”

“What did it say?”

“That the father was Garrett Nolan. Your brother.”

Hatcher thanked her again and she grumbled a good-bye. A few minutes later he was turning onto the alley lane behind his place. He parked tight against the wall of a garage and put the car into park.

Rohner.

Why was that name bugging him? He pulled the envelope Edgar had left for him from his pocket, checked the glove compartment for a pen. Nothing. Just a brochure and a folded rental contract. He checked the seats, then the middle console, flipped down the visors, finally found one beneath the driver's seat.

The tiny light above the rear view mirror focused a yellow glow toward his lap. The envelope was folded into a stiff and bulky rectangle. He scratched a few test lines on it to make sure the ink flowed, then wrote the name.

He stared at his own writing for almost a minute, then below it, he wrote:

A few moments later, he wrote:

He flipped the envelope over and wrote it again.

His hand moving almost automatically, he wrote another name a few inches lower.

Hatcher picked up his phone, redialed.

“First I couldn't get you to call, now I can't get rid of you.”

“One more thing,” he said. “I just need one more thing.”

He told her what he wanted to know, then stared down at the envelope, studying the names.

Jesus,
he thought.
I really am stupid.

 

 

MORRIS FOLLOWED THE MAN THROUGH A LIGHTLESS TUNNEL deep beneath the church, holding on to his coat. He'd never been anywhere so swollen with darkness, where the tarry mass of shadows enveloped him like a liquid, a tangible substance soaking every crevice, a presence he could feel as he swam through it, filling his lungs with each breath. Darker than sleep. Almost as dark as his thoughts were when he was able to relax and allow them to roam free. Almost.

“Why did you turn it off?” he said. He'd whispered the words, but they took on an artificial volume in the confines of the tunnel, magnified by the surrounding walls.

“The light bothers them.”

Morris didn't know what he meant by
them
, but decided there was no point in asking. He would find out eventually.

Less than a minute later Morris felt a change. The lightless air seemed to expand around him, a sensation of space, coupled with a shift in ambient sounds, a stretching of echoes. He felt the man ahead of him—Perry, he'd told Morris to call him, but he didn't say it like it was his real name—straighten up.

“Wait here,” Perry said, placing a hand on Morris's arm. Morris let go of Perry's coat.

Morris realized his own Hand was tingling. Blood pulsed through it, forcing him to flex his digits. Something was exciting it.

Several yards away, a flash of light ignited, the sizzle raking through the silence. For a moment, Perry's front half was aglow, illuminated by the tiny flame of a match, which he lifted to the end of a torch. The torch lit with a whump, tossing shadows across every surface, where they shuddered in spasms.

They were in a chamber. Morris didn't know much about architecture or history, but it looked ancient to his eyes. Ancient and enormous. The size of an arena. A wide circle of polished stone, with arched passageways at regular intervals and a vaulted dome ceiling. There were images on the ceiling that were hard to make out.

In the center of the chamber stood a round platform of rock, carved from the substrate of the floor, a chair of solid stone perched on top of it.

Perry set the torch in a wall mount and moved to another. The area brightened with another whump.

The images above gained detail. Morris stared at them, trying to discern the particulars. Another whump, and they came into full view.

Devils, frolicking in a sea of fire, their faces barely containing their glee. Eyes more intense than the fire licking their hooves. The heads and arms of people were reaching from the flames, and Morris understood it was on them the devils were prancing, hopping from one to the other, smashing them down to drown in the blaze, to drown and burn forever. Demonic creatures lined the perimeter of the scene like gargoyles, batlike faces staring down, drawn in such detail they looked three-dimensional.

Morris felt a powerful twinge in his Hand. Then he saw something that caused him to rub his eyes with his other hand, and look again. He could have sworn one of those gargoyles had blinked.

And just like that, they leaped. All of them, at least twelve, hurling themselves from twenty feet, plummeting down toward him. A shower of creatures dropping like paratroopers. The shock knocked him off his feet. He lay there on his side, instinctively closing up into a defensive curl, knees pulled in, arm raised to protect his face.

The things landed around him with a feline grace, leg muscles bulging with coiled power, absorbing the impact.

Dozens of eyes gleamed in the torchlight, regarding him with something more intense than curiosity. Slowly, the things began to close ranks.

He snapped his head in the direction of Perry, found him looking on dispassionately. An ambiguous smile played across the man's lips.

The things closed in. What began in Morris's throat as a plea came out a mere groan. Taloned hands gripped his arms, yanked him to his feet. Within a few seconds, his scream died out, the force behind it dissipating. They weren't ripping at him or biting him or slashing his throat. Now that he was on his feet, they were gently stroking him.

No, he realized. Not him. His arm.

“Go ahead,” Perry said. “Show it to them.”

Morris swallowed. His Hand was throbbing insanely. The sensation had been overshadowed a moment earlier, drowned out by his survival instincts. Now it was impossible to ignore.

He took a hold of his jacket with his other hand and tugged the clawlike appendage from his pocket. The creatures made a strange noise as he unfurled its prongs, tiny grunts erupting like exclamation points as he flexed it open and shut. Sounds of reverence.

The Hand was practically humming now, purring with a satisfaction beyond anything he'd ever felt. Whereas killing and maiming sent thrilling sensations through his nerves, this seemed to supercharge him with a feeling of well-being, of purpose. Of belonging. His entire body was like a tuning fork in reverse, absorbing the intoxicating series of vibrations that emanated from it.

Low on their haunches, the creatures seemed transfixed.

“If you're through being admired,” Perry said, pulling a cover of dark cloth off a large section of wall. It was smooth and black and polished to a sheen so slick it was practically mirrored. “I'm going to need a small amount of blood.”

“Blood? You mean, mine? Why?”

“It's complicated. Blood is like a scent marker. And a lubricant. Relax, I only need enough to mark this once. Then you'll be recognized.”

Perry smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “Just think of it as lending me a hand.”

HATCHER SAT IN A BOOTH NEAR THE BACK OF THE DINER AND waited. He'd told her to be there at noon. It was now quarter past.

A small pocket of gas gurgled across his stomach. The burger hadn't tasted bad, and he'd really needed something, but now it was feeling a bit dense in his belly.

The few remaining fries on his plate didn't look like they would last much longer no matter how slowly he tried to eat them, so he ordered a cup of java. Lots of cream, lots of sugar. The waitress pointed to a small silver pitcher and a container stuffed with packets of sweeteners. She was smiling, but she clearly wanted the table. The lunch crowd was heavy.

His appointment showed up before his coffee, a green sun dress clinging to her curves beneath long, straight hair so black now it shimmered blue, like raven feathers in a summer Kansas field. He saw her cross in front of the windows before walking through the doors. It only took her a moment to spot him.

The waitress escorted her to the booth. Jake stood and gave her a hug. She declined a menu and asked for an iced tea as she slid onto the banquette.

“Jake Hatcher,” she said, shaking her head. Her smile seemed genuine.

“Hello, Susan. Looks like you're holding up well.”

“I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.”

Hatcher shrugged, offered a what-can-I-say frown as he tilted his head. Back in New York, he'd told her he would call when the coast was clear, leave her a message how to reach him, but he never did. He told himself it was the right thing to do, that it was a way to keep things from getting weird, and her from getting hurt. But he knew those were rationalizations. Following up wasn't his strong point, and he would readily admit putting it that way was being generous.

“I hope your sister isn't too pissed.”

“She'll get over it. Judging by what she wrote, she was mostly scared.”

Hatcher nodded. “Sorry. I didn't want her to know more than she needed to.”

“How did you find her?”

“I had Amy—Detective Wright—check on your family. As a favor. You remember her, from New York. I figured you would let someone know how to get in touch with you. It seemed like a sister would be the most likely.”

“Detective Wright?” Susan arched an eyebrow. “She doing favors for you now?”

“It was the first I'd spoken to her since that whole . . . thing up there.”

“Yeah, I followed what I could in the news.” Her gaze dropped to the table. He could tell by her tone that she'd pieced together some of what happened after she'd left. If he had to lay money, he'd bet it all that she figured out what he'd done to that cop. Not the details, maybe, but the gist of it. After all, she knew exactly what Maloney had done to Frederick. Had seen his throat-slashed body, soaking in a pool of blood.

“I wasn't sure if it was safe,” she added. “I've been very careful. I pay everything in cash. Use ATMs, and never the same one twice. Fortunately, I've got a lot of money in the account, so I haven't had to work. I even sublet an apartment, so it's not in my name. Nothing is.”

“I understand. And your sister didn't admit a thing. Insisted she hadn't heard from you, had no idea where you were or how to get in touch with you. I just told her my name and where I wanted you to meet me.”

“She has a private e-mail address I use. Untraceable, I think.”

The waitress returned with his coffee and her iced tea. Hatcher poured some cream from a miniature pitcher, then tore open a few sugar packets and watched the granules disappear into the cloudy surface.

She was putting on a good front, he told himself. Maybe she'd been warned not to say anything. Or maybe she believed what Vivian had suggested, that the boy was being protected. That it was for his own good. It was hard to tell.

“How are you holding up, Susan?” he asked. “Or is it Nora now?”

“Nora? How did you find out about that?”

“I was told I should look for Nora Henruss. It took me a while, but eventually it hit me. Same number of letters as Susan Rohner. And when I saw it wasn't just the same number, but the same letters arranged differently, that sealed it. It was you I was looking for.”

“I used one of those internet anagram makers . . .” Susan furrowed her brow, her lips bulging a bit as she mulled what he said. “Why were you looking for Nora? I haven't used that name in months.”

“Because of Isaac.”

“Isaac? What about him?” She paused, eyes almost bulging. “Is he in danger?”

“That's what I'm trying to figure out. I need you to tell me what you know about who has him, where he may be.”

“I . . . don't understand.”

“The people who took him, the ones holding him. Bartlett and his gang. I need you to tell me everything you know about them.”

She stared blankly, her eyes searching his face. “Who?”

Hatcher shifted in his seat, pushed his coffee out of the way.