The Everything Box (13 page)

QAPHSIEL'S NOSE ITCHED. HE'D TOSSED AND TURNED
all night and when he finally awoke, he realized that he'd rolled away from the sycamore where he'd gone to sleep and was back in the bushes again.
Always the damned bushes.
He scratched his nose and arms. It had happened so many times before that he didn't even bother getting up. He just rolled out of the bush and back under the tree. Along the way, he felt every twig, rock, and crushed beer can through the threadbare sleeping bag. He'd found the bag in the abandoned zoo in Griffith Park. Full of empty cages and walkways, it's where he slept most nights. Sure, he could pull gold out of thin air, but even the seediest motels would rather have a wad of crumpled twenties than a fistful of extremely questionable shekels.

The night was clear and cool, but something pressed warmly against his back. He wriggled around in the sleeping bag, banging his head against the trunk of the sycamore, and finally managed to get out the map. He sat up with his back against the tree and opened it.

“Oh, my.”

He'd never seen anything like it. Lines of force flew across the map's face, swirled around and ducked under each other, only to
become tangled somewhere else. Stars shot across it. Several mortal shapes glowed with celestial energy. They collided at a single space, then flew apart, like miniature supernovas. One point pulsed a bright heavenly gold. Qaphsiel knew exactly what it was: the box. And it was moving. That meant he was right and the box was still in L.A. On the other hand, it meant that the Abaddon and Caleximus worshippers were also right. Qaphsiel bit his lip. He'd missed his chance so many times before, but this was different.

He wished there were some other angels nearby that he could show the map to. He missed them all, but Raphael most of all. Qaphsiel slept by the old tiger cages in the zoo because they reminded him of his friend. Raphael had invented tigers. Gabriel had just come up with zebras and everyone in Heaven was on a stripes kick.

He looked at the sky and wondered what they were doing in Heaven right then. He'd be back soon. He'd never been surer in four thousand years.

Just follow the box, blow this dump, and head back home. Simple as that.

Qaphsiel looked back at the map and watched the golden pinpoint move, marveling at its beauty.

And then it went out. One minute it was there, shiny like a beacon home, and then it was gone again to only God knew where, and that guy had never been any help at all in the first place.

Dismally, Qaphsiel folded the map the way he had thousands of times before and stuffed it back inside the sleeping bag. The good news was that there were still lines of force around Hollywood. He'd just go back to his original plan and follow them until they led somewhere. Everything was going to be fine, he told himself. Just fine. He lay back down.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” he yelled at the stars.

But eventually he got back to sleep.

WOOLRICH'S OFFICE WAS UPSTAIRS IN THE MANAGE
MENT
wing in the headquarters of the Department of Peculiar Science. While the rest of the building was outfitted in the typical cubicle hell of any business office, the upper floors looked more like an old-fashioned gentlemen's club. The walls were papered in warm colors, and expensive carpets covered the floors. At each turn of the hall was an antique chair and table that no one ever used, but it gave the place a bit of extra, if existential, class. It was also very quiet upstairs. While the rest of the building was a constant clamor, the management floor was a quiet haven, a bureaucratic chapel of silence. That's how they liked to think of it, Nelson knew. But he didn't buy it.

“It isn't a chapel up here. It's a morgue. Ever notice how you never see anyone in the halls? Spook City. That's why it was so easy for Carl and his buddies to possess all these bigwigs. Half of them are already on the slab, but they don't know it.”

“Quiet,” said Bayliss. “Someone will hear you. I'm not going down for your big mouth.”

“No one's going to hear us. Watch,” said Nelson. He held his arms
straight out, crucifix-like. “I hereby declare myself to the service of Satan. Come and take me, you pointy-headed sex monkey.”

“Shut up! What is wrong with you?”

Nelson dropped his arms to his sides. “See? Nothing. No bolts of lightning, no vengeful angels, no hall monitors handing out demerits.”

Bayliss shook her head. “Even sober you're a menace to yourself and others.”

“Relax. All the offices are soundproof. Big Brother isn't listening.”

“Of course they say that. What better way to encourage unstable agents to say what they really think?”

Nelson looked Bayliss over. “Are those new shoes?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You always wear new shoes to big meetings.”

“I do not.”

“Yeah. You do. It's your tell. It's a sign you're nervous. Don't try for a career in poker.”

“Anyway, you're never sober unless there's a meeting.”

“That's not a tell. That's not wanting to waste good booze on bureaucrats.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Nelson smiled. “Your passive-aggressive side is coming along nicely. You'll have one of these offices before long.”

Bayliss shook her head. “I don't want to be management. I like fieldwork.”

“More fool you. I can't wait to sit behind a desk and be waited on by my own mook.”

“You'll be a mook before you get one.”

“Dream on,” said Nelson.

They stopped at an office with the silhouette of an animal on the door. None of the offices had numbers or names. The only way to tell them apart was by the image on the entrance. This particular office sported the outline of something spiderlike, but with horns and tentacles. Bayliss made sure to knock near the silhouette, but not on it. It looked like it might bite.

There was an electric
click
and the door opened a few inches. Bayliss stepped aside, making sure Nelson had to go in first.

“Come in and have a seat,” said Woolrich.

Nelson and Bayliss did as they were told. Bayliss started to cross her legs, but got self-conscious about her new shoes and put both feet firmly on the floor.

Woolrich looked a lot better than the last time she'd seen him. His face wasn't the deathly pallor it had been during the exorcism. A little color had returned, and there wasn't any green oatmeal dribbling out of his mouth—that was nice—but she could tell he wasn't 100 percent back to normal. The left side of his face twitched every now and then like it was trying to make a break for it. It was hard not to stare at, but Bayliss did her best by looking only at Woolrich's eyes. But that made her self-conscious. She was going to look like a crazy person if she fixed him with a Charlie Manson death stare. Okay. Play it cool. Look at his desk.

On the corner was a small fishbowl, inside of which something like a little human brain with fins was swimming laps.

Fuck it,
Bayliss thought, and crossed her legs.

“Thanks for getting here so promptly,” Woolrich said.

“Yes. It's remarkable for you, Nelson,” said Salzman, Woolrich's assistant. “Either you're bucking for my job or this new partner of yours is a good influence.”

Nelson nodded. “You nailed it, Salzy. Punctuality is my new spirit animal.”

“Punctuality maybe, but your timing isn't everything it could be, now is it?”

Nelson's eyes narrowed. “Can you say that again, only this time in English?”

Bayliss watched the two men spar, still not sure where to look. She didn't like Salzman, though it wasn't anything personal. She was just never entirely comfortable around mooks. Sure, they looked like regular people, but like all the walking dead, their eyes were pale and slightly milky. Bayliss finally settled her gaze on Woolrich's desk. She knew the problem was hers, not Salzman's.
Prejudice begins at
home,
her mother would say.
Self-improvement every day, in every way, makes the angels smile.
Bayliss made a mental note to check the office newsletter for any upcoming seminars. Carpooling with the post-life, or maybe an undead mixer. Something like that.

“May I ask why we're here, sir?” she said.

“I'm glad someone is interested in the topic at hand,” said Woolrich. He knitted his fingers together and looked serious. “Would you like the bad news or the extremely bad news?”

“Um . . .”

“The bad news,” said Nelson. “I can tell Herman Munster over there is super anxious for us to hear the really bad news. Let him wait a little while longer.”

“I don't mind,” said Salzman. “I have all the time in the world.”

“Peachy.”

Woolrich cleared his throat. “If you two are finished.” He looked from Nelson to Salzman and let his gaze settle on Bayliss. “The bad news is this: the augury department got it wrong. Not very wrong, but wrong enough.”

“Wrong about what, sir?” said Bayliss.

“This Cooper you've been surveilling, been up to anything, has he?”

Bayliss and Nelson looked at each other. Nelson said, “Well, he's planning a robbery . . .”

“Wrong,” said Salzman.

“Yes. Wrong,” said Woolrich. “He's already done the robbery. Last night.”

Nelson sat up. “But how is that possible? The swamis told us he was putting together an operation for the night of the new moon.”

“Well, he changed his mind. Or something scrambled the psychics' readings. Whatever it was, he's already committed the crime and is in possession of the object.”

“Oh, crap,” said Bayliss.

“Yeah,” Nelson said.

“If that's the bad news, what's the extremely bad?” said Bayliss.

“It's your fault,” said Salzman.

“How is it
our
fault?”

“Yeah. How is it her fault?” said Nelson.

“Because he was your case. You were supposed to be watching him and you dropped the ball,” Woolrich said.

“But we only did it because we were told it was tonight,” Bayliss said.

“That's no excuse. You should have been watching him,” said Salzman.

“We have other cases,” said Nelson. “And Bayliss is right. We only took our eyes off him because there was supposed to be nothing going on.”

“Where is Cooper now?” said Woolrich.

“He's been staying with his jailbird buddy, Morton.”

“I suggest you find this Morton or, better yet, Cooper and clean up this mess. The object is the department's responsibility. You need to get it for us.”

“By any means necessary,” said Salzman.

Bayliss felt a little cold inside. “By any means, you mean . . .”

“Any
.
”

She looked at Nelson. He shrugged.

“You ever shoot anybody?” he said.

“No.”

“You'll love it. It really clears out the sinuses.”

Bayliss looked at Woolrich. “Do we have to shoot him?”

Woolrich scratched his cheek, trying to cover up a twitch. “Shoot him. Don't shoot him. Cut off his head and turn him into a Christmas ornament, I really don't care. Just get the object. Forget all your other cases. Take care of this.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bayliss.

“Yes, sir,” said Nelson.

Woolrich leaned back in his chair and glanced at a trophy on the wall. A head mounted on a plaque. Bayliss looked too. The head wasn't quite human, it was more like . . . actually, she wasn't sure what it was, but there were a lot of heads on a lot of plaques on the walls. Either Woolrich enjoyed collecting rare zoological species or he just really liked killing things.

He shuffled some papers on his desk and spoke softly. “You know,
there are alternatives to continuing with your current jobs. For instance, because of the high mortality rate, they're always looking for new recruits in the Transdimensional Arachnid Department.” He raised a finger toward a photo of himself standing next to a black widow spider that came up to his shoulder.

“And, of course, we're always looking for a few good people in the mook department,” said Salzman with a toothy undead grin.

Woolrich nodded. “I think my assistant's point is simply that there are plenty of opportunities for you both if fieldwork doesn't pan out. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bayliss.

“Got it double,” said Nelson.

“We're done here. Salzman, would you see them out?”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Salzman came from around the desk and held out a hand in the direction of the door. Bayliss and Nelson got up and followed the dead man.

“Just one more thing,” called Woolrich. The three of them stopped by the open door. “Which one of you punched me in my nether regions the other day?”

Bayliss and Nelson pointed at each other.

“Well, that clears that right up. Dismissed.”

As Salzman ushered them through the door he said, “See you crazy kids soon. I'll bring the bone saw.”

Nelson turned to him. “You should really consider those teeth-whitening strips. I'm only mentioning it because we're colleagues.”

Salzman winked at them the way a shark winks at a guppy before swallowing it and closed the office door.

Bayliss and Nelson walked to the elevator.

“Do you think he means it?” said Bayliss. “About the spiders and mooks?”

“Who? Captain Twitchy? Nah. He's just trying to make his quota of diabolical prick points.”

“I could use a drink,” said Bayliss.

“I could use a brewery. Let's get out of here.”

FAST EDDIE SAT WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL AT A
table in a strip joint called La Belle Captive. Racer X and Harrison had been drinking shots with him for the past two hours. The name of the place made Racer X suspicious. He didn't speak much French, but he was sure the word
captive
meant the same thing in every language. So far, the only thing captive had been his wallet, but he kept his eyes open for anything fishy.

Harrison seemed cool, but Racer X's head swam. However, he refused to let on that he was drunk. He was afraid Fast Eddie might find another elevator shaft to push him into.

“It was a good job,” Eddie said. He'd been saying it every few minutes since they'd been at the club. Racer X noted that at first Eddie had been merely saying it. Now he was growling it like a bulldozer someone was running on meth instead of gasoline.

A pretty redhead in a cutoff
Little Mermaid
T-shirt sat down next to Racer X. “Hi. I'm Ariel,” she said.

“Ariel. That's a pretty name,” Racer X said.

“Thanks! What's your name?” said Ariel.

“His name is fuck off,” said Fast Eddie. “All our names are fuck off. So fuck off.”

Ariel shoved her chair back and stood. Racer X reached into his pocket with drunk numb fingers and handed her a twenty.

She looked at it and said, “Thanks. At least there's one gentleman at this table.”

“He's not a gentleman. He's making a charitable donation to the Home for Wayward Skanks,” said Eddie. Ariel gave him the finger. As she walked away he shouted, “He's going to need a receipt for that twenty.” Drunk, Fast Eddie's laugh was like a hacksaw and an angle grinder making sweet love.

Harrison shook his head. “You're in a mood and a half tonight,” he said.

Fast Eddie swallowed his shot. “It was a good job.”

“Yeah. It was,” Racer X said. “Sucks that it got all twisted up like it did.”

Eddie shook his head. “Not bad luck. Bad associates. What was Coop doing there?”

“Working, by the look of things,” said Harrison.

“Exactly,” Fast Eddie said. “And what are the odds of us both working the same building on the same night at the same time?”

“You think he knew we were on the job?” said Racer X.

“No question. What I want to know is what he was after.”

A brunette sat down at their table.

“Hi. I'm . . .”

“Not interested,” said Fast Eddie. “Tell the other girls this is a business conference, not prom night at Hayseed High. And tell the bartender to send over another round of drinks.”

“Sure thing. Should I have him spit in all of them or just yours?”

“Dealer's choice, sweetheart,” said Fast Eddie as she stalked away.

Racer X leaned forward. “Eddie, man, we've been here all night and you've brushed off like a dozen girls. What are we doing in a strip club if we don't want to meet them?”

Fast Eddie waved a dismissive hand. “I can enjoy tits without wanting to talk to them,” he said.

Racer X looked at Harrison. His brother shook his head slightly, telling him not to poke the bear. Racer X took the opportunity to shut up.

“So, what happens now?” said Harrison. “Are we going to hunt down a new job?”

Fast Eddie shook his head. “No. The other job isn't over yet. We didn't get the goods, so there was no payday. That's unacceptable.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I don't give a Tallahassee fuck what you Girl Scouts do, but I'm going to find Coop. I'm going to ask him questions and other things.”

“What kind of other things?” said Racer X.

“I'm going to make his slow demise a personal priority.”

Racer X ran the words over in his head a couple of times to make sure he'd heard them right. Then he turned and looked at the girls. There were a lot of them. Drinkers, too. If he bolted for the door right now, he could get lost in the crowd. But what would happen then? Stupid question.
Then I'll be a loose end. On the same list as Coop.
He didn't know what kind of demise Fast Eddie had in mind for the other thief, but he'd seen the contents of Eddie's tool bag. Now he wished he hadn't. Now he wished he'd worked a little harder at his online trade school classes. By now, he could be repairing air conditioners in Miami, sipping mai tais with pretty girls, and not sitting next to a psychotic car crusher waiting for a tray of drinks he knew would have more spit in them than booze. He closed his eyes and pictured clean white beaches and blue water, and knew that he absolutely, 100 percent wasn't going to cry.