The Getaway God (13 page)

“You suffered plenty. I'll give you that,” I say. “But if we're going to get along you've got to give me something. The difference between us isn't who suffered more. It's who chose it. You chose to suffer. Me, I was just standing there and Hell opened up and swallowed me. Eleven years of torture, rape, slavery, and fighting monsters, that's not the nothing you want to make it out to be.”

“I never said it was nothing. I'm saying you don't carry your suffering with grace.”

“And you get to decide what grace is?”

“I've been dead, remember?”

“So have I. Think about this. Maybe what you're claiming is grace is you just wanting me to be more like you. You never knew me before and you don't know me now. Maybe I'm what grace looks like when God forgot you and you crawled out of Hell on your own.”

“See? You're still complaining.”

“And you're still bragging. You had four hundred years to sit around and think about how you were going to save the human race, and you fucking loved it. Every minute of suffering. You're no better than Lucifer at his worst. You're up to your eyeballs in the sin of pride.”

“You're going to talk to me about sin, Abomination?”

“I'm talking to you about ego. You poisoned yourself once and now you're doing it again, you show-­off. In L.A., you're what we call a one-­hit wonder.”

“And you have the grace of a three-­legged elephant.”

“That's the best you can come up with? My mom used to call me that.”

The Shonin's kettle boils.

“Your mother sounds smart.”

“She had her moments.”

He nods and stirs his tea.

“Are you ladies done?”

We both turn to the door. Wells is standing there.

“I don't know whether I should send you to your corners for the next round or take away your toys and put you in a time-­out.”

“No harm done,” says the Shonin. “We were just discussing ontology.”

I look at him.

“We were?”

“I was,” he says.

“You were slapping each other like a ­couple of biddies at the old folks' home fighting over the last dish of banana pudding. You're done. Kiddie time is over. Grown-­up time starts now. Understood?”

“Sure,” says the Shonin.

“Whatever.”

Wells comes over and glances at the Shonin's notes. They're in Japanese. He frowns.

I say, “What did the Dreamers want?”

“What do any of us want?” says Wells. “Order. The little one, Brown, says it's getting harder to hold reality together. Poor kid. She barely eats. Her sleep is abysmal. Her parents want to pull her out of the Dreamer program.”

“That would be a disaster right now,” the Shonin says.

“That's what I told them. Mom listened. I don't know about dad.”

Stark goes to the whiteboard. Stops when he sees a check mark next to Akkadu's name. He looks at me. I don't like it.

“What happens if they take her out?”

Wells shakes his head and walks around the room.

“Brown said they're barely holding reality together as it is. Without her . . .”

He shrugs.

“We've had reality rips here before, but it sounds like the next one could be like a dam bursting.”

“Why L.A.?” I say. “I mean, why is the shit coming down here?”

“We're sitting on a major power spot,” says the Shonin. “A great part of the imagination of the world is attached to this city. Also, the Qomrama Om Ya is here. And you.”

“Me?”

“You do seem to attract these things,” says Wells.

I've wondered about that myself a few times. Do I have the bad luck to show up at the right time and place for Armageddons or am I a shit magnet that brings the monsters down on anyone in my general vicinity?

“And you love it,” I say. “You secretly want it all to end 'cause you think you're going to get Raptured and that idea gives you a salvation hard-­on.”

“Language,” Wells says.

But he doesn't deny it.

“I have something for both of you to do besides standing around catfighting and playing Marian the Librarian. There's been another Saint Nick killing. At least it looks like Saint Nick. You two are coming with me to check it out.”

“Shouldn't we stay here and study the Qomrama?” says the Shonin.

“That would be nice, if you have time between rounds. But this isn't an ordinary killing. From the first reports, the scene sounds something like what Stark found in the meat locker. I want Stark there to see how well it matches and I want you there,” he says, looking at the Shonin, “to keep an eye on him.”

“You won't be coming?” I say.

“Of course I'll be coming. But I'll be busy doing actual forensic work. I'll leave the pixie stuff to you two. But I'll want a basic assessment on the scene. Is this another Angra-­related killing?”

This time I take out the Maledictions. Smoking is a good way to get away from these two for a minute.

“Another thirteen dead? That sounds like the Angra right there.”

Wells shake his head. Gives me a grim smile.

“Not thirteen this time. Last number I heard was eighty plus. It's hard to tell, what with all the body parts mixed together.”

I'm glad Candy didn't come with me today.

“When are we leaving?”

“Go out and have your cigarette. We'll be done packing by the time you finish it.”

Wells starts out of the room, then turns back to us.

“The killing took place at Greendale House, an upscale funny farm. Where the rich tuck away their embarrassing relations. We're going to be meeting the head of the facility. Is there any chance of you wearing a suit?”

“Not much.”

“Silly of me to ask.”

“Kind of.”

W
E HEAD OUT
in a caravan of three Vigil SUVs modified to cut through the flooded streets like icebreakers. Candy didn't answer when I called to tell her I might not be home for a while. I probably didn't even need to call, but I can't tell time anymore. With the constantly dark skies it feels like midnight all the time, even though I know it's the middle of the afternoon. I've heard that it's becoming a problem for some ­people, the ones susceptible to light. Seasonal affective disorder. Without sunlight, some ­people go into hibernation mode. Depression is up. The Vigil has its own stockpiles of drugs because L.A. is running out of every upper, mood stabilizer, and antidepressant known to man. Smack chic is a thing of the past. Who need drugs to stare at your shoe all day? Living half asleep all the time, it's easy. Meth is the new drug of choice, or coke for those with money to burn. And prices are going up, up, up. I should have invested that money the Dark Eternal gave me in coca-­leaf futures and the plastic surgeons who are going to have to repair all the septums movie stars are burning out trying to stay awake.

We head north on the 110 toward Pasadena. Pull off on a side road and head onto a winding private road not far from Huntington Hospital. It's one of those funny places you find in even the poshest towns. Sort of a secret street backstage behind the world. Not quite an industrial district, but where deliveries and the help arrive for all the shiny places you see on the street.

We pull into a parking lot beside what looks like a two-­story office building. Poured concrete exterior. Big mirrored windows. There's no name on the front. Not even an address. It looks like just the kind of discreet place you'd want to store crazy Aunt Sadie when the attic got full.

Our three vans pull up in a line. Wells gets out first in a clear plastic raincoat.

“You too,” he says to me. “But keep your mouth shut. You're here to observe.”

We splash through the rain to the hospital's front door under a concrete overhang. The guy waiting for us doesn't look like the head of a hospital. More like an accountant who found out that his boss has been embezzling money and investing it in porn and nuclear weapons. His coat and shoes are expensive, but it doesn't look like he's combed his hair since Halloween.

“You're the ­people?” he says when he sees us.

“We are indeed,” says Wells. “I'm Marshal Larson Wells and this is one of my associates.” He doesn't introduce me. “You just leave everything to us from here on out.”

The guy looks so relieved I think he's going to cry. Even through his suit, his raincoat, and the rain I can smell his fear sweat.

“I'm Huston Aldridge. The head of the facility. I don't have to go back inside with you, do I? I don't want to go back in there,” he says.

“No, sir. You don't.”

Aldridge nods.

“The board has already decided to close the hospital. There's no earthly way to make it habitable again.”

“Is your staff out of the building?”

“Staff? What staff? There are the ones on holiday. The rest are in there. No. There's no one alive inside, if that's what you mean.”

“I'm very sorry for your loss,” says Wells with all the sincerity of a Hummer salesman. He wants to ditch this sniveling civilian and get his mitts on the place.

I say, “What kind of security does the place have?”

Wells gives me a look, but lets the question pass.

“Ample. I thought. Not many ­people in the city know it, but years ago this was a holding facility for prisoners on their way to or from county jail. We kept some of the old gates and cells in place.”

“Sounds homey.”

Wells steps in front of me.

“Do you know how many ­people are inside?”

“It was a holiday weekend, so, thankfully, the number of staff was low. Some patients who could went home with their families for Christmas. The last count I'm aware of was sixty-­six patients plus twenty-­four staff.”

Wells nods, keeping up the good-­cop routine.

“Right. Any unusual incidents lately? Hirings? Firings?”

“Magic?” I say. “Evidence of a haunting?”

“What?” says Aldridge.

Wells says, “What my associate means is did anyone, patients or staff, see anything unusual, anything they couldn't explain?”

“Nothing that I know about. It's usually quiet this time of year. Visits are down. ­People have other things on their mind.”

“Do we need keys to get around inside?”

Aldridge shakes his head.

“What's the point? Everything is wide open.”

“Thank you, sir. We'll be in touch,” says Wells.

Aldridge says, “How did they do it?”

“They?”

“Of course. No one person could have done what's inside. It would take a large surgical team. More than one, probably. A dozen ­people working at once.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You understand that the facility will be on total lockdown once we're inside. Is that all right with you?”

He looks out at the vans in the pouring rain.

“I'm not going back in there,” he says. Then, “Why aren't the police handling this? Why federal agents?”

“The police have their hands full keeping rubber ducks from blocking the sewers,” I say. “Besides, eighty bodies inside? I don't think cops can count that high.”

Wells grabs my arm hard enough to leave a mark.

“Go over there and wait by the door.”

I go. Wells and Aldridge shake hands. The doctor glances at me over his shoulder then heads for his car and drives out of there as fast as he can.

Wells comes over, but won't look at me because maybe he'll strangle me if he does.

“I wanted you there with your mouth closed because you're supposed to have a good sense of these things. Was Aldridge telling the truth?”

“If you mean was he scared shitless, yeah. If you mean did he do the deed inside, I doubt it. You don't think he's Saint Nick, do you?”

“At this point, I'm open to any possibility.”

Shit.

“No. That guy stank of PTSD. He couldn't kill anything bigger than a housefly.”

“All right,” he says.

“Why did you want me to read the guy for lies? Don't you have your own supercharged lie detectors?”

“Yes. I just wanted to hear what you had to say.”

“If I implicated him.”

“Right.”

“Then I'm on your list of suspects.”

“Not necessarily,” says Wells. “Though you do have a history of decapitation.”

“Meaning I'd be in the clear if I shot more ­people. I'll have to remember that.”

“I'm not accusing you of anything.”

“You're just open to possibilities.”

“I want this chaos ended,” he says. Without turning around, he waves his arm and the side doors on all three vans slide open. Vigil agents in transparent raincoats pile out and start unpacking gear. Two other agents wheel a crate on a dolly.

I open the front doors and let them in. Wells follows us. Once we're inside, one of the agents takes a crowbar from the side of the dolly and pries open the crate. Surrounded by a plush interior, like a piece of prized family porcelain, is the Shonin. He puts out a bony hand to me.

“Help me out of here, fatty. I'm an old man.”

I want to yank the prick to his feet, but I'm afraid of pulling off his arm. I give him a hand and let him pull himself upright. He adjusts his conical headdress and looks around the lobby.

“Not bad,” he says. “In my day, some families took their unstable relatives deep into the woods and left them there to die. Some became
tengu
. Most were just fox food.”

“Can you smell?” I say.

He nods.

“I can smell this place.”

The stink of the place is like a kick in the face. Shit, sweat, piss, and the disinfectant they used to try and mask it all. But riding on top of it all is the sweet reek of bad meat and the coppery aroma of blood. Wells pulls a surgical mask from his pocket and slips it on over his head.