Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (8 page)

He gave it back for further use. “You are the two halves together, Jim.

The good and the bad in equal measure, capable of great reserves of kindness and profound depths of depravity. Thusly, both sides found you acceptable. We and...the other...both believe that when you are presented with the seven opportunities, you will influence the course of events according to our values. We for the good, they for the evil—

with the outcome determining the fate of humanity.”

Jim stopped mopping up his face and focused on the Englishman. He could dispute nothing of what had been said about his character, and yet his brain remained scrambled. Or maybe he had a concussion, thanks to Colin, the knuckle-cracking motherfucker.

“So do you accept your destiny?” Nigel said. “Or does all end here?”

Jim cleared his throat. Begging wasn't something he was used to.

“Please...just let me see my mother. I...I need to know she's okay.”

“I'm so sorry, but as I said, only the dead may pass to the other side.”

Nigel's hand came to rest on Jim's shoulder. “What say you, man?”

Byron came in close. “You can do it. You're a carpenter. You build things and you rebuild things. Lives are constructions just the same.”

Jim looked at the castle and felt his heartbeat in his busted nose.

If he took everything at face value, if everything were true, if he were some kind of savior, then... if he walked away, the only peace his mother knew was gone. And as attractive as he might find the emptiness and timelessness of nonexistence, that was a cold exchange for where she was now.

“How does it work?” he asked. “What do I do?”

Nigel smiled. “Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins.

Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.”

“And if they don't...”

“The other side wins.”

“What is the other side?”

“The opposite of what we are.”

Jim glanced over at the table with its white linens and sparkling silver.

“So...we're talking about a bunch of ass-scratchers sitting on Barcaloungers watching
Girls Gone Wild
and drinking beer.” Colin laughed. “Not hardly, mate. Although that is an image, indeed.”

Nigel glared at his buddy and then looked back at Jim. “The other side is evil. I shall let your mind summon the appropriate reference, but if you should want a place to start, you have but to think of what was done to your mother and know that those who hurt her enjoyed it.”

Jim's gut clenched so hard, he leaned to the side and dry-heaved.

When a hand smoothed over his back, he had a feeling it was Bertie.

And he was right.

Eventually, Jim's gag reflex cut the crap and he got his breath back.

“What if I can't do this?”

Colin spoke up. “I shall not lie—it is not going to be easy. The other side is capable of everything. But you shall not be without resources.”

Jim frowned. “Wait, the other side thinks I'm going to be a bad influence? During the crossroads of these people?”

Nigel nodded. “They have the same faith in you that we have. But we had the advantage of reaching out to you.”

“How'd you manage that?”

“Coin toss.”

Jim blinked. Right, because...that's how they did it at the Super Bowl.

Focusing on the gates, he tried to see his mom not as how he'd left her on that kitchen floor, but as these princes said she was. Happy.

Relieved of burden. Whole. “Who are the seven people?”

“For the identification of this first one, we shall give you a bit of help and make it obvious,” Nigel said, getting to his feet. “Good luck.”

“Hold on a minute—how will I know what to do?”

“Use your head,” Colin cut in.

“No,” Bertie said, cradling his wolfhound's face, “your heart.”

“Just believe in the future.” Byron pushed his tinted glasses up on his nose. “Hope is the best—” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Just tell people what to do. It cuts down on the conversation, freeing up time for more worthwhile pursuits.”

“Such as cheating at croquet?” Colin muttered.

“Will I see you again?” Jim asked. “Can I come to you for help?”

He didn't get an answer. Instead, he got another jolt that sure as shit felt like two-forty...and abruptly found himself shooting through a long, white hallway, the light blinding him, the wind blasting him in the face.

He had no idea where he was going to end up this time. Maybe it was back in Caldwell. Maybe it was Disneyland.

With the way things appeared to be going, who the fuck knew.

As night fell, Marie-Terese gripped the handle of the nonstick pan and slid a spatula around the edges of a perfectly round pancake. The thing was just ripe for the flipping, a pattern of little bubbles forming on its creamy surface.

“You ready?” she said.

Her son smiled from his supervisory stool on the other side of the countertop. “We're going to count, right?”

“Yup.”

Their voices joined together in the three, two...one. Then with a flick of the wrist, she sent the pancake flying and caught it dead in the center.

“You did it!” Robbie said as the sizzle rose up.

Marie-Terese smiled through a stinging sadness. Seven-year-olds were spectacular with approval, capable of making you feel like you were a miracle worker over the simplest of victories. If only she deserved the praise on the big stuff. “Would you get the syrup, please,” she said.

Robbie slid off the stool and padded over to the fridge in his slippers.

He was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and a Spider-Man hoodie. His bed had Spider-Man sheets and a Spider-Man duvet, and the lamp he read his Spider-Man comics by had a Spider-Man shade on it. His previous obsession had been SpongeBob, but back in October, as he'd prepared to leave six years old in the dust, he'd declared that he was a grown-up and that henceforth gifts should be of the webbed-crusader variety.

Right. Got it.

Robbie pulled open the fridge door and grabbed the squeeze bottle.

“Do we always gots to do as much grammar as we did today?”

“That would be 'have to' and yes, clearly it's needed.”

“Can't we do more math?”

“Nope.”

“At least I gots pancakes for dinner.” As Marie-Terese glanced over at him, he smiled. “Have pancakes.”

“Thank you.”

Robbie hopped back on the stool and changed the channel on the little TV next to the toaster. The mini-Sony was allowed to be on during breaks from schooling, and the biggie Sony, which was in the living room, could be on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and nights after dinner until bedtime.

Sliding the pancake onto a plate, she fired up another one, pouring the Bisquick in with a ladle. The kitchen was too small for a table, so they used the overhang off the counter as one, tucking stools beneath it and sitting at the stretch of Formica for every meal.

“Ready to flip number two?”

“Yup!”

She and Robbie counted it down together, and she executed another Flying Wallenda with the pancake...and her beautiful angel of a son smiled up at her like she was the sun in his world again.

Marie-Terese delivered his plate to him and then took a seat in front of the salad she'd made herself earlier. As they ate, she glanced over at the stack of mail on the counter and knew without opening it what the bills would add up to. Two of them were big boys: She'd had to put both the private investigator she'd used to find Robbie and the law firm she'd hired to get a divorce on a payment plan, because $127,000

wasn't the kind of thing she could write a check for. Naturally, payment plans involved interest, and unlike credit cards, default wasn't an option: She was taking no chances that P.I. or those lawyers would try to find her. As long as she paid on time, there was no reason for her current location to come to light.

And she always sent money orders that were mailed from Manhattan.

After eighteen months, she was about three-quarters through what she owed, but at least Robbie was safe and with her, and that was all that mattered. “You are better than her.” Marie-Terese refocused. “Excuse me?”

“That waitress just dropped all the food on her tray.” Robbie pointed to the little TV screen. “You would never do that.”

Marie-Terese looked over at an ad featuring a harried woman having a bad day working at a diner. Her hair was a frizz bomb, her uniform spackled with ketchup, her name tag off-kilter. “You're a better waitress, Mom. And cook.”

Abruptly, the scene changed so that Harried Waitress was now in a pink bathrobe on a white sofa, submerging her aching feet in a vibrating pool. The expression on her face was pure bliss, the product obviously relieving her aching soles.

“Thanks, baby,” Marie-Terese said roughly.

The commercial flipped into order-now mode, an eight-hundred number appearing under the price of $49.99 as an announcer said,

“But wait! If you call now, it will cost you only $29.99!” While a red arrow started to flash next to the price, he demanded, “Isn't this a steal?” and the happy, relaxed waitress came back on and said, “Yes, it is!”

“Come on,” Marie-Terese cut in. “Time for a bath.”

Robbie slid off the stool and took his plate to the dishwasher. “I don't need help anymore, you know. I can take my own bath.”

“I know.” God, he was growing up fast. “Just make sure you—”

“—do behind the ears. You tell me alia time.”

As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress...and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.

That would be absolute heaven.

***

Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.

Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.

He'd only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank.

God.

Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes—and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he'd been punched.

Abruptly, Nigel's aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory:
Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by
these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be
made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose
righteousness over sin, we prevail.

Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh...and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?

Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette.

Hello.

Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission...how the hell did he proceed—

“You're awake.”

Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell...who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had...yeah. “How you feeling?”

The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.

Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.

“Hello?” DiPietro waved. “You in there?”

Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV

suddenly showed a price of $49.99— no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that...considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.

“Shit, no,” Jim muttered. This was the guy?

On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed,
Yes, it is!

DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. “You need a nurse?”

No, he needed a beer. Or six. “I'm cool.” Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.

“Listen,” diPietro said, “I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?”

Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers '-comp action against his corporation.

Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.

No wonder she'd sought out someone else.

And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.