A Ghost of a Chance (20 page)

Keenan shifted his head slightly and then lifted it. “That wasn’t a dream.” It was a statement, but not a very firm one.

“No, son.”

Keenan squinted up. “You’re Amos.”

“Yes. It was the only way I could convince you.”

“Convince me of what?”

Keenan sat up and scanned the area. Everything looked exactly as it did before. In fact, it hadn’t changed at all; the flames engulfing his car were absolutely still and the lights on top of Thompson’s cruiser weren’t moving. Everything was frozen.
Neat trick.

When he saw Thompson still sprawled in front of the cruiser, he got up the rest of the way.

“Scratch that right now,” he said. “Is Thompson all right?”

“He is asleep.”

Keenan twisted his head to the angel. “Asleep?”

“We have to go now.”

“Convince me of what?” Keenan repeated and crossed to the cop.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel for, but placed two fingers on the side of Thompson’s neck. A steady, slow throb pulsed against the pads of his fingers.

“Convince you to sacrifice yourself. To save them.”

Keenan just nodded. Things were coming into focus and he was beginning to see some logic in what was going on. But his head was simply too full of holes to figure it all out. He decided to exercise his vocal chords, but they weren’t cooperating either.

“So, Dabria is the succubus. I get that. Reggie is the bad guy. I get that too. And you’re Amos, the angel. Reggie got you to come back somehow, right? Why?”

“Dabria escaped him two centuries ago. He needed me to lure the succubus out of hiding.”

“How?” Keenan shot back at him. He didn’t know what to think. As far as he was concerned this fellow could have made the whole frickin’ thing up, Keenan could simply be dreaming, or Thompson had actually had him committed yesterday and this was all a fantastic drug induced hallucination. The bets were about even.

The angel didn’t speak. Instead, he gathered up his arms and a lightshow came out of every orifice. Keenan had to shade his eyes.
All it needs is Led Zeppelin
, Keenan thought disjointedly.

“You doubt my validity?” the angel bellowed. Wind bellowed along with him, and Keenan suddenly found it almost impossible to stay on his feet.

“Fuck no!” he shouted back. “I just want to know why you came back to earth when you knew he would catch you!”

The lightshow stopped abruptly and Amos looked at his hands. “A fair question,” he replied quietly. “Actually, it’s a little embarrassing. He prayed to me.”

That prompted a nervous laugh from Keenan who slapped his hand over his mouth to stop it. Amos looked irritated, but continued. “I thought it was Dabria. She was in trouble again. She said the demon had found her. Anyway, I panicked. When I couldn’t get the archangel to grant me another visitation, I…” He looked at the bottom of his robe.

“You skipped out,” Keenan said for him.

Amos’ hot glare had little force and faded into a shrug. “Yeah.” He zapped a small rain cloud above his head absently and then rung his hands. “He used me to lure Dabria back to him.” Leveling his eyes just above Keenan’s, he added, “To seduce you.”

“Yeah, I got that. But why me? What does he want?”

“I’m not entirely certain of his motivation, but I know why he picked you. He needed the seed of a powerful psychic. He’s using it to create the… ultimate being. I guess you fit the bill.”

That made Keenan chuckle. “Son of a bitch,” he said shaking his head. “Reggie told me in the bar, about you, Dabria, the Cambrian, all of it! Great. Me the father of the ultimate being. Man, did this guy get his wires crossed.” Keenan put his hands on his knees and surveyed the lonely highway. “He said he wanted my flesh. Don’t suppose you know what he wants with it, do you?”

Amos shrugged. “My guess would be so he can become human. Being a demon has its disadvantages. For one thing, you are incorporeal… not to mention invisible. That makes it difficult to function normally in the physical universe. I believe he wants to raise this creature himself.”

“Yeah.”

“You have absolutely no reason to, but you have to trust me, Keenan. We need you to stop him. And we need to find that baby.”

“How am I supposed to do that exactly?”

Amos rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, by dying, to be honest with you.”

Keenan pulled his head back. “Fuck that!”

“You don’t know all of it and I haven’t got time to explain. Suffice it to say that without your sacrifice, everyone’s dead. You, me, your ghost friends, Dabria, and your corporeal friends too, in the end. If Azazel completes his plans, the earth and humankind is dead in twenty-five years, maybe less. It’s all up to you.”

Keenan wasn’t convinced, but the urgency of the situation was nagging the back of his neck. The flames on the car were defrosting and he figured he was running out of time. Maybe he’d just go back and see what happened. God, he wished he could talk to Constance…or Isabella. He pulled in a deep sigh to relieve the pressure. It just made his ears crackle.

“Where’s Isabella? What did you do with her?” he demanded.

“She’s fine, son. Safe. I needed her to get you to come to the church. You’ve got to trust me.”

Keenan didn’t answer him and looked at the cop instead. “Can you help me get Thompson into the cruiser?”

Amos shrugged and turned back into a cloud. “Just leave him here and I’ll take you back. It would be faster that way.”

“Not on your life, buddy. Who knows, I might need rescuing later.”

Keenan got his arms under Thompson’s and lifted with a groan. The man was as solid as a rock.
Man! You need to lay off the weights, big boy.

Amos disappeared and Keenan struggled to get the cop into the back seat. Thompson’s position on the hard plastic bench was probably going to give the poor guy a stiff neck, but it beat the alternative.

Keenan got behind the wheel of the cruiser and sent one forlorn look at his Jeep.
Goodbye, old friend.

Everything came to life at once and Keenan could feel the heat from the flames even through the windshield. He put the cruiser in gear and searched the road before easing it in. There wasn’t a soul around…bodied or disembodied.

Chapter Seventeen
Descending into the Pit

It took him a while to figure out all the controls on the cruiser. Lights lit up the dashboard in flashing blues, reds, greens, and yellows. The soft dash lights were doing nothing to help him. It reminded him a bit of his very first car, a 1966 AMC Rambler with push button ignition and shifting. Futuristic, he had called it. This was more like the space shuttle.

Keenan had no idea what he had in mind. After failing to get his wits in order, he settled for just going along for the ride. The impulse to turn tail and run was stomped by his responsibility. It was a first for him. Maybe it was time to be a hero. He’d been just about everything else in his life.

When he got to the church, there were cops everywhere. He counted at least seven cars. Holding his breath they wouldn’t look at the cruiser too closely, he eased on by without making eye contact. He drove three blocks away and parked it.

Thompson was snoring like a rumbling jigsaw in the back when Keenan pulled the keys from the ignition. Going to the back door and opening it, he tried again to shake Thompson awake, but it was impossible. Whatever Amos gave him had knocked him out but good.

Keenan slipped the keys into Thompson’s breast pocket. He then searched the cop’s belt for a flashlight. It came out of its sling without any trouble. Keenan stashed it in his coat pocket, grateful it was smaller than some he had seen on other cops.

Something caught his eye and an interesting idea blossomed in his head. Being a pacifist, he did something he thought he’d never do; after some finagling with the holster, he lifted Thompson’s Glock and examined it.

It was a lot lighter than he expected and the finish was more like plastic than metal. When he found the trigger, he realized with a jolt that the weapon had no safety. Made sense, since cops needed their guns to shoot fast.
Just point and click.
The thought gave him a rush and he decided it was probably best not to think about it much. Macho had never been a requirement for him, but the touch of cold death in his hand made him feel like a man.

“Baby!” he said to the Glock.

Keenan stuffed the gun into the back of his belt. It was a little like a bad PI movie. Not that a gun would be any good against ghosts, demons, angels, or what have you; it just made him feel a little better having it.

He got back into the front seat and searched the dash for a way to turn off the lights. He finally found the button below the laptop and slid it to the off position. The lights blinked out.

The night was cold around him when he closed the cruiser doors searching the street for any sign of cops. His breath came out hazy white and the streetlights in the distance looked misty. Otherwise, the street was clear.

Keenan had no idea what he was doing. The thought of going back to the church sucked the life out of him. He was scared, but something else was niggling the back of his thoughts.
Dabria
. The story Amos told him had reached deep inside his guts and given them a hard twist.

He never thought of himself as much of a hero; hell, he figured a lifetime of hauntings got him out of
that
chore. But he was having distinct heroic feelings now. It was weird to find out that heroism and stark blind terror were so similar. Made him respect cops and firemen a whole lot more.

Winding his way slowly down the abandoned street, Keenan made out blue and red lights blinking in and out as he got nearer to his destination. By the time he got there, only two sets were still moving. The cops were leaving.

Standing behind a skinny tree that probably didn’t hide him very well, Keenan waited until the two cops finished talking. The streetlights had all gone out as he passed, so he was hoping the darkness would conceal him.

The cops finally got into their respective cars and headed out, but not before the last one relocked the fence. They sped off down the street.

Keenan approached the church making sure there weren’t any more of them lurking around. There wasn’t a soul visible anywhere.

When he got to the fence, he was relieved to see that the cop hadn’t fastened it tightly. Keenan was able to get himself through the opening, but only after he got stuck. Sucking in and pushing hard, he burst through and landed on his ass. Compared to the other pains of the evening it was slight.

Keenan pulled himself up, searched the street again, and slid to the side of the building.

When he got to the door, he found it locked and swore under his breath. Now what was he supposed to do?

Scanning the building, Keenan spotted an enclosed fire escape leading up to the roof. There was a locked cage around it, but he thought he could climb it. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. 2:30 a.m. Swallowing his disappointment, he thrust the phone back into his pocket and whispered, “Piss.” All he wanted was for this night to be over.

Scaling the cage was easier than expected. It was almost completely gone on the opposite side, and he was able to squeeze through the opening to get to the ladder.

The ladder was plenty difficult, however. The years had rusted through half of the rungs, but he didn’t know which until he reached them. Twice he almost fell to the ground, once several hundred feet up. His arms and legs were weak from all the evening’s abuses and his hands were giant slabs of meat against the rough rusted metal. He was sure his palms were hamburger by the time he reached the top.

Keenan had never been fond of heights. A fact, unfortunately, he had forgotten in all the excitement. When he hauled himself up and over the top of the ladder, he landed on a small platform protruding from the roof. It prefaced one of the stained glass windows. The smell of roofing tar soaked his senses.

He made the mistake of looking down. The faraway ground came rushing up into his eyes and his head started to spin. Keenan did the only thing he could think of. Falling to the rooftop, he curled into a fetal position until the dizziness passed.

Testing the roof with his foot, he forced himself to clamber across the slippery accordion tile riding it up then down. Several times he slid down the roof, twice almost going over the edge, but, except for the bruises trashing his arms, legs, and elbows, he was still in one piece when he reached the gaping hole in the roof and peered into the darkness.

Suspended just below was a large pipe about four inches in diameter. It had a big hole in one side where water poured out to the floor below. Moving his butt as close to the edge as possible, he touched the pipe with his foot and gave it a good push. It was as solid as rock.

Getting on his stomach, he inched over and pulled Thompson’s flashlight out of his pocket. It took him a couple of seconds to figure out he had to turn the head to make it work. The crumbling tiles under his stomach were weakening. Thoughts of a long fall to his death were paramount in his mind, but he forced them back by putting tar-laced air into his lungs. All that did was make his head spin, so he gave it up. There was a kind of freedom in succumbing to the inevitable that made him feel better.