Our Lady Chaos, page 12
part #5 of Bloodletter Series
“Sure, sure,” said Tom. “But as I told you, I can’t help you there. They weren’t from Genosgwa.”
“You’ve said.” Dan cast a shrewd glance at Tom. “Are you sure you haven’t seen them since 1979?”
“Since 1979? I don’t recall ever seeing them, Dan. As I said—”
“Yes, yes!” snapped Dan. “They weren’t from here. But, I’ve got to tell you, Tom, my instinct says you are hiding something.”
Tom laughed and opened his mouth to reply, but when the phone rang, he held up an index finger and walked into the kitchen. “Walton,” he said into the receiver.
“Tom? It’s Benny Cartwright.”
“Why, hello. What can I do for you today? I’m pressed for time. I’ve got a reporter in the other room asking about that mess over to Oneka Falls back in ’79, so we’ll need to keep this short.”
“He’s no reporter, Tom. He’s one of the demons from the fight at the lake house. Get out of there. Get out now.”
“Message received. I’ll drive over there as soon as I can. Could you call me back at some point, though?”
“Go to a hotel or something, Tom. Somewhere outside of Kanowa County. I’ll call you there.”
The line went dead before Tom could say anything else, and he cradled the receiver, staring at it for a moment. How did he have my number? Hasn’t been listed in the directory since the late sixties. With a shake of his head, he turned.
Dan Delo stood in the doorway, watching him.
Tom smiled. “Sorry, Dan. I need to cut this short. Could we pick this up later?”
“Sure. If you could just let me know where those survivors are.”
Tom froze, staring into the young man’s eyes. His face hardened into the familiar lines of the expression he’d worn when dealing with problems as police chief. “I guess we’ve been miscommunicating, son.” His voice crackled with authority, and he expected Dan to apologize, to back off, but he didn’t.
Instead, Dan Delo took a step closer and narrowed his eyes. “I guess we may have, Tom. I guess we may have.”
Tom’s hand flew to his hip—the same hip on which he hadn’t worn his .357 Magnum for years and years. He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his own eyes. “I’m not sure what you hope to accomplish, Mr. Delo, but let me assure you: I’ve dealt with far more intimidating men without buckling. You’re wasting your time.” Tom shrugged. “And besides, I really don’t have the answers you want.”
Delo’s face slackened, losing all traces of expression. He stood stock still for a moment, then lifted his chin. “You’ve never dealt with anything like me, Walton,” he hissed.
Tom laughed and relaxed. “Son, do you have any idea how many people have said that or something similar over the years?” He backed up until his butt rested against the leading edge of Janet’s fancy countertops. He lay his palm on the cool stone surface. “Look, Dan. I don’t know where those three kids have gotten off to. It’s been years, and I wasn’t lying when I said I never even met them back in 1979.”
Delo hitched his shoulders. It was a peculiar motion, as if he were stretching invisible wings. Tom slid his hand along the counter, closer to the block of knives Janet kept near the stove. “We can set up a time to talk about the investigation. If it will help with the article, I mean,” said Tom.
Dan cocked his head to the side, staring at Tom’s face.
“If I remember anything about those three kids, I’ll jot it down. But there’s a matter I have to attend to, and it won’t wait.” Tom lifted his hand from his hip and gestured toward the front door. After a moment, Delo nodded and turned away, and as he did, Tom drew one of the carving knives out of the block and slipped it point-down into his back pocket. “Give me a ring later in the day, and we can set up something for later in the week.”
“Sure, sure,” muttered Delo. He walked to the front door, and, without waiting for Tom, opened it and stepped through, leaving the door swinging open.
By the time Tom reached the door, the young man had disappeared. With a shake of his head, Tom closed and deadbolted the door, though he had no expectation that a mere deadbolt could stop Delo from coming in if he wanted. Not if Delo was a demon.
Tom turned and jogged to the master bedroom where the first thing he grabbed was his .357. He packed a bag, and ran to the garage, not bothering with the trunk, but slinging the suitcase on the passenger seat. He lay the big pistol on top of the bag and hit the garage door opener.
Half of him had expected to find Delo there, blocking his exit with a vehicle or something, but the drive was empty. Tom threw the car into reverse and backed out into the street.
He didn’t notice the large hawk circling his house.
3
“And what about Sally?” LaBouche asked. “Have you wormed your way into her good graces yet?”
Nicole sighed and stretched her right arms over her head. Her left arms stroked LaBouche’s chest and cheek—a sensation that had taken a while to get used to but now soothed him the way a mother’s caress could soothe an infant. “She’s a tough one,” she murmured in his ear.
They lay together in the giant custom-sized bed LaBouche had commissioned years earlier but had ordered moved from Rochester to his new house—the one Chaz had occupied—in Oneka Falls. He nodded and sighed as the muscles in his neck relaxed.
“Yes,” he said. “And she has hidden depths, concealed strength. You must be careful.”
Nicole laughed. “As you may have mentioned sixty billion times.”
“I’m serious, Nicole. She’s far older than she appears, and despite her—”
“LaBouche, I know. You’ve told me before. Plenty of times.”
He grunted but let it go. He had told her a million times before, and one more time would neither help nor goad her into being more careful. “I worry,” he said.
“Yes,” said Nicole, her husky breath tickling the hole in the side of his head that served him as an ear.
LaBouche shivered at the sensation.
“Now, pay attention to me, LaBouche,” Nicole whispered and slung her leg across his thick torso.
After a moment, she was all he could pay attention to.
4
“Tell me, Sally. How are things progressing in Oneka Falls?”
Sally shrugged, then see-sawed her hand in the air. “LaBouche is making progress, but as far as finding the hunters, I get the feeling he and his minions have hit a wall.”
Brigitta’s expression hardened, and Sally inclined her head.
“It’s not for lack of trying. He has Harper working long hours, and he sent Dan Delo out to speak with the old police chief, but those efforts have produced nothing worth noting.”
“This distresses me.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Sally.
“LaBouche is not without merit.”
“No, Mistress. He’s good at what he does.”
“Then they’ve either fled or are better at hiding than we are at finding them. At any rate, I have other resources looking at the problem.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Sally grimaced. “Nicole continues her pathetic attempts to draw me into her confidence.”
“And you shall let her, Sally,” said Brigitta.
Sally shuddered and twisted her face away. “Is there no other way? I detest her—she reeks of sex and LaBouche all the time. How can you—” She snapped her mouth shut.
Brigitta chuckled low in her throat. “LaBouche isn’t my lover, Sally. He’s a sperm donor. I don’t care what he and Nicole get up to—provided she never conceives.”
Sally nodded.
“Or if she does, as long as she miscarries.”
Sally smiled. “I promise you that, Mistress.”
5
When his mobile rang, Tom fumbled for it, almost swerving into the wrong lane. He snatched it as it tried to slide off the bench seat, then spent a few seconds tapping the “accept” button that wasn’t really a button, but a swipe thingy. “Goddamn piece of crap!” he hissed as he raised the phone to his ear. “Walton.”
“Chief, it’s Benny again. Try not to freak out, but the demon who called on you at your house is following you.”
Tom’s gaze snapped to the rearview mirror, but the road behind him was empty of traffic in both directions. “Not certain where you’re getting your information, Mr. Cartwright—”
“Plain old Benny will do, Chief.”
“—because no one is following me. No cars on this road except me.”
“Yeah, but he’s still following you, Chief. He’s above you.”
Tom pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it, then pursed his lips and put it back to his ear. “As I recall, Benny, you spent a few years in Millvale.”
Benny laughed. “Yes, I did, but I did that to hide from the demons. Mike Richards is here with me. Would you rather talk to him?”
Tom shrugged. “No, I guess not.” He leaned forward, searching the part of the sky visible to him for helicopters, but saw nothing.
“Tom, listen to me. You won’t be able to perceive him. He’s a demon, and he’s tracking your car from the air, but he’s blurring your perceptions.”
“Blurring my perceptions.”
“Yes. They can manipulate our senses—except with Toby. He can pierce their best efforts.”
“Okay,” said Tom. Maybe this one should still be in Millvale, demons or aliens or whatever notwithstanding.
Benny chuckled. “I understand why you might think so, Chief, but—”
“Think what?”
“You were just thinking I should be back in Millvale. Don’t worry; I’m not offended. And whether they are demons in the biblical sense or aliens out of a sci-fi horror show doesn’t matter. What matters right now is your safety.”
“My safety,” Tom repeated.
“Yes. That particular demon has frustration issues. Mike says to tell you the last time we frustrated him he dropped a tree in front of Mike’s car.”
“Uh…okay.”
“His name is—”
“Claimed he was Dan Delo, a reporter or intern for the Democrat and Chronicle out of Rochester.”
“Yes,” said Benny. “And that is his real name—at least the name he uses when he thinks of himself. Delo is a winged demon, what Toby calls a ‘traditional,’ though he’s purple instead of red and has—”
“Benny,” said someone on his end of the line.
“Right. Chief, we can help you, but we need time to travel to your area. What we want you to do is drive around without a particular destination in mind, but so you’re able to jump on I-86 in Alleghany in about an hour. Can you do that?”
“Are you asking me to lead a demon with frustration issues on a wild goose chase, Benny?”
“It will take time to get there, Chief.”
Tom squinted at the sky ahead of him. “I don’t know.” All he could think about was Janet and the grandkids.
“I understand. But before we can get your family to safety, we need to provide for your physical safety. We’ve already dispatched a team.” The line hissed and popped for a few seconds. “Besides, nothing actively threatens them at present. You, on the other hand…”
“I understand,” Tom said, putting on his turn signal and slowing to take the next right. “But, son?”
“Yes, Chief?”
“Please get out of my head.”
“Sorry. Occupational habit. I’ll call again as we draw near.”
“Anything else?”
“Mike says not to stop, not for any reason. If Delo throws a tree, swerve, he says.”
“Got it.” Tom thumbed the disconnect button and lay the phone to the side of his pistol, then went back to fruitlessly scanning the heavens as he drove.
6
Chris Stanton sat surrounded by LCD panels of all sizes. Each screen showed real-time trading data from all over the world. Take-out containers littered the floor around him, and an air mattress and pillow lay strewn behind him.
His eyes burned, but that was nothing unusual. His once-tan skin had first paled and then gone sallow, and the yellow tinge he now detected when he bothered to look at himself hinted at jaundice or worse. He’d lost the paunch that had troubled him when Brigitta called, but not by exercising and eating right. He did have an original diet plan guaranteed to cause weight loss, though. Should write a diet book, part of him thought. The other part, the smart part, focused on tracking a series of suspicious trades.
He’d been at it for eleven months. He almost never left the office, and when he did, he returned in short order. Atrophy had taken its toll on his muscles, and poor nutrition had taken its bite, too.
At least he didn’t have to spend much time with Sammy. She’s probably glad, he thought. Bitch.
He opened his eyes wide and shook his head to clear the irrelevant thoughts from his mind. Focus! Almost got him this time.
To his employees, he’d taken on a sort of Howard Hughes mythos. They all believed in his ingenuity, in his ability to forecast the markets with a scary percentage of profit. They thought his obsession with the markets lent him the vision, the understanding. They assumed he was the next Warren Buffett.
He wasn’t. Brigitta’s friend was the genius. Chris watched his trades and mimicked them, betting heavily on the guy’s past success rate. So far, it had earned him and his clients millions.
But he’d come no closer to identifying the anonymous genius.
The man traded through the same houses for a while—just long enough that Chris thought he’d caught up to him—but the guy always switched to another trading house, another market, as soon as Chris got close. Then it took Chris anywhere from a few days to a few weeks to even find the guy’s new trades.
Whoever he was, it appeared as if he had the ability to read Chris’s mind. As if he had the power to predict the future.
7
Mike drove east through Allegany on I-86, then pulled off on St. Bonaventure’s first exit. He turned left on Fall Road, then swung around and parked on the shoulder. “Okay,” he said to Benny.
Benny saluted, a cell phone pressed to his ear. “Okay, Tom. We’re ready. Timing will be critical, so make sure you tell—” He paused and peeked at Mike in the rearview. He pointed toward the highway. “Yes, we’re on our way now. Once we get back on the interstate, though, we can’t slow down and wait.” He switched the phone to the other ear. “Yeah, okay.”
Mike glanced at Shannon next to him. She reclined in the seat, her head against the headrest. As if she could feel his gaze, she nodded. Mike hit the accelerator, ignoring the stop sign at the end of the road and piloting the SUV under the interstate. He gunned it up the on-ramp for the west travel lanes.
“Yes, go ahead and jump on, but stay in the slow lane and let us overtake.” Benny reached from the backseat and squeezed Shannon’s shoulder. “No, Tom, trust me. He won’t be able to stick with us once we get close enough.” Benny smiled. “Yes, ‘that beautiful woman will pull one of her tricks again.’”
8
Dan Delo watched the old police chief merge into westbound traffic on I-86 and grinned. Finally, he’s tired of all this fucking around. He did not understand why the man had driven in circles—there was no way he could be aware of Dan’s presence, and there was no sign of the hunter, the one who could see past their visages.
He flew a thousand yards above and behind the old man’s boat of a car. His excitement mounted.
Off to the side, a bird shrieked and veered toward him, and Dan dropped his wingtip to curve away. It happened from time to time when he traveled as a bird—he invaded a local predator’s territory or attracted a mate. He glanced at the hawk and shifted his visage to that of a bald eagle, but instead of driving the thing off, the bird shrieked a challenge and dove at him, talons extended.
Dan swerved to meet the attack head-on; he had nothing to fear from a hawk, after all. He reached for the bird, planning on crushing its skull in his fist and letting the bird drop onto the travel lanes. Hopefully, he would hit a truck and cause a big accident.
But the hawk flew right through his outstretched hand.
“Oh, no,” he muttered. He turned his attention back to the interstate. The old man’s car had disappeared. “That tricksy bitch!” he screamed. “LaBouche is going to kill me.”
9
It frustrated Mason beyond measure. He’d tried—he’d worked hard to find the five people LaBouche had named, but it seemed as if they’d walked into a different dimension. He’d asked LaBouche to send someone to talk to Tom Walton—half in the hope that Tom would let something slip and half in the hope that at least Tom’s murder would entertain him.
He’d given up watching the hunter’s properties in Rochester, had given up trying to catch him paying the mortgages. He was far too slick.
But not Tom. Tom Walton is old, tired. Plus, he wasn’t all that bright even in his heyday.
Even so, there had been no word, and boredom had latched onto Mason’s mind. He flipped his laptop open and opened a Google page. He typed “demons” in the search box and hit the enter key. It was something he did to pass the time—a habit almost as old as the Internet itself.
He skipped past the videos of songs about devils and evil, past the dictionary entries and Wikipedia pages. He skimmed past the biblical references—he’d combed through those before—scrolling rapidly until he started seeing the interesting pages. Pages with titles like “Monsters are REAL!” and “Demonic possession—it really happened!” He enjoyed reading the “true” accounts of demons almost as much as he enjoyed reading speculation about Abaddon and why he’d disappeared.
For the last few months, Mason had loved getting on the forums for various sites claiming to be the authority on all subjects paranormal and starting flame wars. Most of the time, it was easy pickings—he’d just pick a thread in which the poster claimed to be an expert and reply with a preposterous fiction about the author’s sex life. His screen name was Abaddon, of course.
It wasn’t art, but it was fun.
He skimmed the list of sites, reading the titles of threads and checking the web addresses of the sites themselves. The sites came and went, seemingly with the tide, and there was always something unique.
