Home of the Braised (3 page)

He expected a response from us, that much I could see. I got the impression he wanted us to drive away and never come back. When we didn’t comply, he waved his staff in the air and shouted again, loud enough for me to hear him clearly through the closed windows, “Go away. Get away. Run before they see you!”

He spoke with a bit of an accent, one I couldn’t place. Eastern European, I thought. He brought his face right up to the glass between us, coming almost close enough for his crooked nose to touch the clear pane. Close enough for me to see the dirt in his pores.

“Get. Out. Now. Don’t you understand?”

As much as I knew I should, I couldn’t tear my gaze away. His expression shifted and he stared at me with panic and fear.

“Gav, we have to help him,” I said. “But I don’t know how.”

“He may be high.” Gav shifted in his seat, as though to open his door. “I’ll see if I can get him to move along.”

“No.” I grabbed Gav’s arm, even as I maintained eye contact with the peculiar stranger. “You’re still healing. We don’t know what this guy is capable of, and we don’t want to risk you ripping your stitches.”

Gav relaxed enough for me to know that he wouldn’t do anything rash. I let go and leaned toward the window. I sensed that the wayward man was waiting for acknowledgment from me.

“Thank you,” I shouted back. “We understand.”

He studied us a moment longer, then stepped away from the door, nodding as though his mission had been accomplished. He pivoted, lifted his staff in the air, and took off running down the street.

I TWISTED TO WATCH THE MAN’S SWIFTLY
departing figure. “I wonder what spooked him.”

“We’ll never know,” Gav said. When I turned back, he opened his door. “At least the coast is clear, now. You ready?”

Gav took two seconds longer than I did to get out of the car and when he didn’t grab his cane, I pointed. “You forgot something.”

He scowled at the apparatus stowed behind the driver’s seat. “Not this time. It’s enough that Evan knows I was hurt. I don’t need him feeling sorry for me.”

“He’s your friend; he’ll understand.” When that didn’t sway him, I added, “You’re supposed to use the cane for another couple of weeks. Doctor’s orders.”

He wagged a finger. “Doctor’s
suggestion
.” Gav took a breath, walked a few steps away from me, then turned. “See? Like new. I don’t need the cane. And I don’t need Evan to pity me.”

“If you say so.”

Gav and I fell into step together, heading north. I pretended not to notice his occasional wince.

There were few trees on this street, and the scrawny ones that remained cast ghostly shadows on the evening sidewalk. As we made our way closer to Evan’s storefront, I asked a couple of questions, discovering that Evan was younger than Gav by a few years and that he’d been married once. That union had ended right about the same time Evan had started his new career. His wife apparently hadn’t shared Evan’s vision about ministering to the disenfranchised. She’d tried to talk him out of giving up their successful life, and when she’d failed to convince him, took off.

“That had to hurt.”

Gav stopped about four feet from the building. He kept his voice low. “When she left, he fell apart. I worried for him. I thought he might give up his dreams for this ministry in order to win her back. But his calling was strong. Once she was gone for good, however, he made his peace with the situation. It seemed to me that once free of her constant nay-saying, he was able to create the life he’d envisioned. It hasn’t been easy, and it took him a long time to get settled, but Evan has done well. He seems happy.”

“Seems?”

Gav’s mouth curled to one side. “Evan keeps a lot to himself. Every so often I get a glimpse inside, but he can be hard to read.”

“And you have no idea what kind of trouble he needs your help with?”

I’d expected Gav to laugh at that. Instead, his eyes tightened. Like when he didn’t use his cane. “I guess we’re about to find out.”

The building was old, its first-floor façade reminiscent of an old-fashioned bookstore—the kind you might expect to see in London, with leather-bound first editions proudly displayed in the front windows. This was different, however. Shabby.

The door was set back a few feet from the sidewalk, centered, and painted shiny black, as were the frames surrounding the bowed, mullioned windows that flanked it. The window glass was covered with faded, water-stained butcher paper, taped three-quarters of the way up. There was enough of an opening to allow light, but not enough for someone of even Gav’s height to see in.

There were no signs out front, and no welcome mat. The small walkway to the door was paved with tiny, cracked tiles, which wore a patina of grime.

“How long has it been since you’ve been here?” I asked.

Gav didn’t answer. He grabbed the knob and pushed at the door. It opened easily, and I half expected an overhead bell to tinkle and announce our arrival. I kept behind him as he strode into the wide, dimly lit space. It was silent, stuffy, and . . . empty.

Gav stopped about a quarter of the way in, rotating in place as though to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. “This is odd.”

Built in the early part of the last century, the building felt echo-y and smelled like a musty antique store. I looked up at the high, tin ceiling. Someone had painted it white a very long time ago. Cracks and water marks stained the corners. Everything about the space was sad and lonely. This was where people came to find help?

I caught a whiff of the cigarette butts before I saw them. Spilling out of freestanding chrome ashtrays, the kind that were oh-so-popular in ’60s fashion-conscious homes, there were way too many butts than could have been collected in a single day.

Under the graying scent of cold tobacco, I detected yet another familiar smell. Human and warm, it reminded me of body odor, but overwhelmingly sour and stale. Rotten eggs, maybe.

I reminded myself that people on the fringes of society—people like the wild-eyed man we’d recently encountered—didn’t always have access to conveniences we took for granted, and didn’t always shower regularly. Body odor shouldn’t surprise me. It didn’t really. But the scent in here contained something else.

I struggled to shake off my sense of unease.

Gav was feeling it too, I could tell. His gaze darted to the corners, then around, then back toward the door we’d just come through. “Very odd.”

The scarred wood floor creaked as we walked around and waited for someone to show up. Faded posters from last century’s blockbuster movies covered the walls from waist to about eye height. Behind them, the paint was crimson and cracked. Higher up, A
INSLEY
S
TREET
M
INISTRY
had been hand-lettered unevenly across one wall.

Behind the posters, chunky white lines slashed up and down the red walls. These were straight plaster-cracked lines, leading me to believe that large pieces of built-in furniture had been ripped out at some point. To our right, a dozen folding chairs were set up in a circle, and to our left was a sad attempt at a library—four weather-beaten, pressboard bookcases crammed with distressed paperbacks. The overhead fluorescent fixtures flickered and buzzed. Otherwise the place was utterly silent.

Gav met my gaze. “I don’t understand this,” he said. Raising his voice, he called, “Hello?”

No answer.

“Strange,” he said again, making his way to a large bulletin board on a tripod. “Evan is always here. And when he goes out he leaves a note.”

I stood behind him, reading the advertisements that promised help and understanding. That offered solace in the form of church services and food.

Gav looked around. “Evan?” he called again.

When there was still no answer, he started for the back door. “There’s an apartment this way. Evan lets people stay here from time to time. It’s not much: a kitchen, a bedroom, and a small bathroom. Maybe he’s busy back there and can’t hear us.”

Gav’s words felt as empty as this building. There was no one here. We both knew it. “Could Evan have simply forgotten to leave a note this time?”

“I suppose,” he said, reaching for the glass knob.

I placed a hand on his back in an effort to slow him down. “It feels wrong to be wandering through someone’s place without permission.”

“Evan’s not going to mind,” he said. “He’s not the kind of guy who—”

His next words were lost when the door swung open. I don’t know if Gav stopped talking, I stopped listening, or both. I sucked in a hard breath of surprise, then wished I hadn’t. My hand flew to my face, covering my mouth and nose from the room’s hot, acrid stench.

Gav stiffened then shuddered. We were so close—touching—I felt the reaction run through him as though it had run through me. Maybe it had. His training took over in an instant. He swept an arm sideways, stopping me from taking another step into the room. His words were icy sharp. “Get back, Ollie.”

Too late.

Three, no, four. No, wait. Five men lay on the floor, bound and gagged. In a breathless second, I knew they were dead. My instincts kicked in. I had to check. I desperately wanted to be wrong.

“Ollie, no,” Gav said.

I’d started past his outstretched hand, but he was faster than I was. He grabbed my upper arm and hauled me close with an urgency I didn’t understand. “Back in the other room,” he said. “Now.”

Holding me tight, he spun and started back the way we’d come.

“But what if they’re still alive?”

“They’re not.”

I chanced a look up at his grim expression. I knew better than to fight. “What’s going on?”

He walked fast, the corners of his mouth revealing the pain I knew must be shooting through him with each step. If he hadn’t been holding, half dragging me along, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up.

“Slow down, Gav. You’ll rip your stitches,” I said.

We’d almost made it to the door when it swung in toward us. Five men, one woman. All wearing suits and bright-white gas masks over their faces. The leader’s body language suggested he was as surprised to see us as we were to see him.

Gav stepped in front of me protectively, a human shield. “Who are you?” he asked.

The first guy pointed to the man directly behind him. Wordlessly, he then pointed to us and gave the unmistakable hand signal to get us out. The second man complied immediately. He grabbed Gav and indicated to a third man to grab me. The man held tight, but not enough to hurt. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to scream.

A blurred second later we were outside and the man’s grip on me loosened. A little.

The two men pushed us toward a dark cargo van that was double-parked at the curb. My guard said, “Get in.” The other one similarly urged us to hurry. Their white masks and mechanized voices made me feel as though I was a member of the
Star Wars
rebel alliance being shuttled into custody by the Imperial guard. Except they weren’t restraining us, exactly; it was more like we were being shepherded.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Gav’s hand found mine. He gripped tight as he sized up the van idling quietly in the dark. I’d been dragged into a cargo van much like this one before. It was not an experience I cared to repeat. I pulled back, my instincts telling me to get away now. Just then, the van’s side door slid open to reveal equipment inside and a man at the controls.

“Gav?” I asked in a small voice.

He didn’t look as alarmed as I would have expected, given the circumstances. I’d say his expression was puzzled rather than panicked. Leaning close to my ear, he whispered for me to follow his lead.

At that he stopped short, causing the Imperial guard behind us to bump into his back. “Who’s in charge here?” Gav asked. He didn’t let go of me. His voice was strong and brave, but I felt him tense.

The guy in front of us turned around. He lifted the mask, allowing me to see his red, sweaty, furious face. “Agent Gavin, we are here on assignment. If you and your friend don’t want to suffer ill effects of a toxic substance, I suggest you cooperate.”

Gav looked as though he’d been slapped. “Nick.”

“Get in,” Nick said.

The words
toxic substance
bounced around in my brain. Five dead men, no blood. That harsh smell. Had they been killed by an airborne pathogen? Like anthrax? Had we breathed in some of that as well?

Night had settled while we’d been inside and there were no pedestrians on the street. None that I could see, anyway. That meant that no one noticed as we clambered into the side of the van. Not good. Not good at all. Nick and the other man who’d escorted us out tugged their masks back into place and rushed to return to Evan’s building. The others in their group had now been on their own in that death cell for at least a minute or two. What was going on?

The lone agent in the van sized us up. His job, apparently, was to keep an eye on all the expensive equipment and to watch the proceedings remotely. Slightly built with colorless hair, he wore thick glasses but no protective gear. There were several monitors behind him. Three were live feeds, sending footage of those poor, slain men as the masked team checked them for life signs. From the monitors’ perspectives, I had to guess that cameras were mounted atop three of the gas masks.

The man inside the van waved us into the tight space that looked like a prop from a big-budget Hollywood spy movie. “Agent Gavin,” he said by way of greeting. “I thought you were still on medical leave, sir. Didn’t know you were in on this one.”

“I’m not,” Gav said. “What’s going on?”

The guy turned to me, holding an instrument that he waved around my head and hands. He then wiped a damp pad under my nose and another across my fingertips. I fought the urge to pull away. “You’re probably safe out here, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure.” He examined the small pads and said, “You’re clean.”

“Hydrogen sulfide?” Gav asked.

The man gave a somber nod. “That’s our best guess.” He waved the instrument over Gav, swabbed him, and gave him the all clear, too.

“Agent Taglia,” Gav said. “You want to tell me what happened in there? Evan’s dead. Along with four other people.”

Taglia closed his eyes for the briefest moment. When he opened them again, he gave a quick nod, as though deciding he would set that fact aside to think about later. I knew that sentiment. I’d done the same thing myself any number of times.

“Anyone else you recognized?” he asked.

“We weren’t in there long enough. When I saw them lying there and put that together with the scent—”

“Good thing you got out quickly. Chances are the chemical dissipated by the time you got there, but it never hurts to be safe. What are you doing here anyway?”