The Hell You Say (25 page)

“Just the cut and the manicure, really.”

“Maybe we should dye your lashes,” he mused.

“No. Really --” As I spoke, the manicurist, bent industriously over my fingers, sniffed dolefully. A tear drop splashed hotly on my hand. I met Paolo’s gaze in the mirror. He said cheerfully, “Don’t mind Jemma. She got dumped too.”

“Sorry, Jemma.”

She nodded without looking up.

“Just the cut,” I reiterated to Paolo.

He pouted. “You are so butch, sweetness.”

Oh, yeah. Watch out, Arnold, ’cause I’ll be back. With a great haircut and skin smoother than a baby’s butt.

Paolo reached to clip a stray hair, and I noticed his ring. A chunky silver ring with what I first took to be a leaf design. A moment later, I realized it was the All-Seeing Eye.

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“Are you into that stuff?” I inquired. “The occult?”

“Hmm?” He tilted his head, studied me. Snipped again. “Not actually. I used to know a guy.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

He whacked me lightly with his comb, like a fan-wielding Regency debutante.

“Sex magick, sweetness. Very kinky.” He made a face. “Too kinky, actually. Peter was one thing, but his friends…ultra creepy.”

“Peter? Peter Verlane?”

Paolo smiled an Oracle of Delphi smile. “Oh-ho, you know him.”

Talk about six degrees of separation.

“No. I’d like to.”

“Drop your shoulder. Better. He’s not your type, sweetness -- although he did have a thing for older guys.”

Older guys…

“I’m interested in the -- er -- the occult. That sex magick stuff.”

“No! Are you really?” He leaned his head and thoughtfully nibbled his comb. “I think I still have his number. Tell you what. Let me try something new with the do, and I’ll give you Peter’s number.”

* * * * *

I wondered if Paolo would be able to put me in contact with Peter Verlane. I wondered if he was the right Peter Verlane. How many occult-involved Peter Verlanes were there in Los Angeles County? If Paolo did get me Peter’s number, would I act on it? Hadn’t I convinced myself yesterday evening that hanging up my deerstalker would be my wisest move?

The night air was scented with flowers and cooking. A group of carolers entertained a crowd as I walked through the courtyard, past the apartment buildings and fountains and boutiques decked out for the holidays.

Once again I had that weird feeling of being watched. I paused in front of one of the shops, watching the reflections of people passing to and fro behind me, smiling and laughing, toting their shopping bags. No one seemed to be paying me any attention.

I caught my own image in the window, momentarily startled. The change was subtle, but definite. Not bad. Maybe that lavish tip hadn’t been too much after all.

I started walking again.

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I wasn’t really hungry, and there was nothing I needed to buy. I settled for a cup of hot cocoa and listening to the carolers finish off their evening’s performance with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” It’s not that great a song for caroling, and I found the message sort of depressing, although the crowd seemed to enjoy it.

I finished my cocoa, found my car, and drove back to Cloak and Dagger.

Pulling into my parking place, I waited a minute to make sure there was no one lurking by the side entrance. Turned off the engine.

I got out, locked the car. As I went around to the side door, I felt a twinge of unease. I glanced behind myself. Nada. I put my key in the lock, thinking that something didn’t feel right. I turned the key and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

Behind me, I heard the scrape of a sole on asphalt. I spun around as someone whispered, “Adrien…”

Angus stepped out of the shadows of the building.

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My heart paused. Paused. The feeble parking lot lights swirled, and I reached out for the doorframe.

Bad timing.

“Adrien, it’s me,” a voice said from a long way off.

The ground tilted back the other way. I rested my cheek against the peeling paint, breathed deeply of night air tasting of smog and trash, waiting for things to level out.

“Are you okay?”

I got control of myself. Opened my eyes. The continental plate seemed to have steadied once more. Look, Ma, no hands! I nodded. “Great,” I managed. “What are you doing here?”

Angus hugged himself against the cold, his thin hands looking skeletal against the dark flannel shirt. “They released me. My alibi held.”

“Why are you here?” I repeated.

His glasses winked blindly in the lights above the parking lot. “I need a place to stay.”

I stared, uncomprehending.

“I can’t go home. It’s a crime scene. My landlord won’t let me back anyway.”

“What about Wanda?”

He shook his head. “She’s staying at her parents. They don’t want me.” He swallowed.

“It’s over for us.”

Welcome to the Heartbreak Hotel. I could have shown more sympathy for a fellow sufferer. I said, “There must be someone…”

“There’s no one I can trust. Only you.”

I wished I felt the same way.

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Moving aside, I let him into the shop. He walked onto the main floor, staring around at the tall shelves hungrily, as though he had been gone a million years.

I shut the side door, leaned back against it. I felt shaky, but otherwise okay -- all things considered. It occurred to me that I needed to get the locks changed.

As I stood there, clearly unsure of what to do next, he said pleadingly, “Can I crash here?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But why? You helped me before --”

“Angus….” I raked a hand through my beautiful new hair cut. “That was before I realized that you were involved in murder.”

“I have an alibi!”

No protestation of innocence, unfortunately. I said, “You have an alibi for Kinsey’s death. Her murder was designed to implicate you, to punish you. It doesn’t absolve you from the other two murders.”

“The police released me.”

Again, no plea of innocence. Why did I always work so hard to avoid seeing what was right in front of me? Wearily, I said, “Because they haven’t been able to pinpoint the dates that Karen Holtzer and Tony Zellig died. They can’t connect you -- yet.”

He licked his lips, then gave a weird giggle. “Well, guess what, Adrien, I’m not their lone suspect!”

“I know. And I know I have you to thank for throwing suspicion my way. You told them you thought Jake and I were involved, didn’t you?”

“Thought? It doesn’t take a detective.” He looked away from me. “Anyway, it was that bastard Riordan I wanted to get, not you.”

“But you expect me to put you up now?”

He stared at me dumbly.

“Is there a reason I should involve myself any further in this goddamned mess?”

His pale mouth quivered. “Adrien, I’m begging you. Let me stay the night. I’m scared.”

Me too, I thought, but I was supposed to be the grown-up.

“Please…”

He did look terrified, and he probably knew better than anyone if he had reason to be.

“One night,” I said finally. “And you’re going to have to sleep down here.”

“Thank God,” he whispered. He looked toward the front windows -- the dark street beyond -- and shivered.

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

“Have you eaten?” I asked finally.

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He shook his head.

“Come on.”

I took him upstairs and defrosted one of the steaks I’d bought for a dinner with Jake that was never going to happen.

While the steak cooked, Angus sat at the table drinking a beer. He had lost weight in jail. He looked like an undernourished adolescent. Harmless, vulnerable.

I asked, ““What happened to Holtzer and Zellig?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

He shook his head. Wiped moisture from the corner of his eye.

“How would you have gotten involved in that?”

He gave me an impatient look. “Someone like you wouldn’t understand.”

“Because I’m gay?”

He tittered. Shook his head.

Maybe it was a silly question. I’d learned from my research that it wasn’t only lonely, ignorant, insecure, or troubled kids who were lured in by the promises of charismatic cartoon-character-like evil. One point most of the experts stressed was that people don’t join cults, they join interesting groups that seem able to satisfy their desires and dreams. Members were recruited based on skills and abilities and the needs of the group. That’s why it wasn’t unusual to find doctors and lawyers and CEOs and movie stars involved in some of the more powerful and sophisticated cults. Cult members rarely understood the hidden agenda of their leaders. Everyone has their vulnerabilities. Cult recruiters knew exactly how to exploit them.

I contemplated Angus. He was already tipsy with exhaustion and nerves. One beer had oiled him nicely; I was pretty sure that a second one would slide him right over the edge. I went to the fridge, uncapped another brew, and put it before him.

He smiled gratefully.

I let him drink a while before asking, “When you understood what was happening, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“No one would have believed me. I didn’t have any proof. Not real proof.” At my expression, he said defensively, “I tried to quit. You know that. But they don’t allow it. They can’t allow it.”

I wasn’t buying. I wanted to. I would have felt a lot better about everything if I believed that Angus was truly an innocent.

“You could have talked to the police. You should have talked to Jake.”

“He thinks I’m a freak.”

And your point is?

But I didn’t say that. I said, “When did you realize what was really going on?”

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“Really going on? I don’t know what’s really going on. I never have. I thought we were…” He did it again, tailed off before he actually revealed any useful information.

“You thought you were what?”

At my tone his face quivered. Tearfully he said, “It was very powerful, very spiritual, so don’t make jokes about it. Don’t mock what you don’t understand.”

“I won’t. I’m not.” I thought it over. “I mean, it’s not like you actually sell your soul to the Devil, right?”

“Adrien!” he shrieked, jumping to his feet and knocking over his glass.

I jumped too. “What? For Christ’s sake!”

“Don’t make fun of it!”

My jaw dropped. “Are you telling me…?” I couldn’t complete it, it was so ridiculous.

“It isn’t how you make it sound. It’s a commitment, a pledge, an oath of honor.”

Beer dripped onto the hardwood floor. I grabbed a towel and began to wipe the table.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. And in return for selling your soul?”

He said huskily, “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.”

“What does that mean? What did you get out of it?”

“You don’t get it immediately. You have to…you have to pay your dues. You have to….”

“Work for it?”

He glared at me. “Someone like you can never understand.”

“Help me understand. Are you telling me you joined this group and you…sold your soul to Satan?”

“No. Of course not. We all made a pledge to serve His Grace. In return, He will grant us whatever we want. Money. Great jobs. Beautiful women.”

Angus got Wanda and ten dollars an hour at Cloak and Dagger. Maybe he should ask for his soul back.

“When you say “His Grace,” are you talking about Satan or a person?”

“His Grace,” Angus snapped. “My Lord Gremory, the fifty-sixth Duke of Hell.”

Ah, yes. The house demon. “Gotcha. But there must be someone in charge. Someone human.”

“Each Blade has an Adept. Only the Adept can know the Master.”

I felt a tingle of alarm. “How many Blades are there?”

“Three Blades edge the Scythe of Gremory,” quoted Angus mechanically. “Sable is the blade of the first cut. Silver blade cuts deepest. Scarlet is the blade that deals the death blow.”

The smell of burning steak broke the spell. I muttered an imprecation and grabbed the pan off the burner.

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Three blades. Whatever happened to Flower Power? No, it had to be knives, blades, scythes. What was with kids these days?

“How many members per scythe?”

Behind me, Angus said, “Thirteen.”

“Do you know the members of the other blades?”

“That’s not permitted.”

“So thirteen of you took part in killing --”

“No! Adrien, I keep telling you I didn’t have anything to do with it. It was a rumor that got started within the group.”

“It wasn’t entirely a rumor. Bodies are turning up.” I set his steak in front of him, and after a moment’s hesitation, dug a fork and knife out of the silverware drawer.

“But we weren’t all involved in it. We aren’t all on the same level, you know.”

High school, college, the office, evil cults, everywhere you go, there’s that social hierarchy to contend with.

“But you know who’s behind it.”

He began to carve his steak. “I don’t know who’s behind it. I’m not even sure who all took part in the sacrifices. I know that I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t be a part of that. I wanted to resign, but they wouldn’t permit it. They told me I was a traitor. Even the other ones who wanted out called me a traitor.”

“Then why --?”

“I made a pledge. In blood. My blood,” he hastened to add at my expression. He rested his utensils on the table edge, gazing at me earnestly. “Adrien, they think I’ll return to the fold. I won’t. But I can’t break my oath.”

“Why would they think you might return to the fold?”

“That lawyer. Martin Grosser. He’s part of it. He’s the one who got me off.”

“How do you know that? Did Grosser say so?” I tried to picture that conversation.

“Not in so many words.”

“How many words did he use, and what were they?”