Natural Born Angel (25 page)

Jackson gently put his hand up to her cheek. “This isn’t about the money, or any of that,” Jacks said. “It’s about basic Angel rights, Maddy.”

“I’m just. . . I don’t know,” Maddy said, a tumult of emotions fighting inside her. “There’s just so much going on.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress. Think about that. There’s a lot of change happening. And you’re taking on a lot of responsibility. You just met the people whose lives you may one day have to save. Don’t add more pressure than is necessary. Just enjoy your first year as a Guardian and worry about the other stuff later, once you’re settled in.”

Maddy had to admit she had been feeling a bit more on edge than usual. Maybe Jacks was right. She couldn’t tell any more. For the moment, she just let Jacks hold her to him, the wind lashing against them, sending her hair streaming in all different directions as she pressed in closer. But her mind flitted back to the conference room, to the entitlement of her Protections. And how she was feeling like she was failing at her goal before she’d even begun. She was becoming a Guardian like all the rest.

Jackson gazed down at her. He seemed to be weighing his words. He took a deep breath.

“Maddy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. . .” Jacks said, his voice trailing off quietly.

The Angel looked down expectantly at Maddy. But her eyes were far off. She was distracted, her mind turning over and over what happened back at the NAS headquarters earlier in the day.

“I just can’t believe how
arrogant
they were,” Maddy said, slowly coming back to the present. She looked up at Jacks. “I’m sorry – did you say something?”

“No, nothing,” Jacks said stiffly. “It was nothing. I was just telling you it’ll be OK.” He pulled her closer again. “It’ll be OK.”

She wanted so much to believe him.

D
etective Sylvester put on the second pot of coffee of the night, stretching his back and yawning as the hot water percolated slowly through the machine. Outside his apartment, the voices of a couple arguing echoed up from the otherwise empty street. It was late already. But he still had hours of work ahead of him.

Some holiday
, he thought to himself, shaking his head and smiling slightly.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Sylvester walked back to his living room. Stacks of files that Sergeant Garcia had delivered sat on his coffee table and on the side tables. A number of books were scattered next to his couch, with bookmarks and notes poking out. There were two tall stacks of newspapers behind the sofa. In the background, the TV played non-stop on the news channel at a low volume. As a new report came on, he turned the volume up.

“Just days before the election, there have been more calls for investigations into the ties between the violent Humanity Defence Faction and anti-Angel Senator Ted Linden’s presidential campaign. This comes after officials identified the culprit in the bombing of an Angel office as a high-level HDF operative with ties to Senator Linden’s political party. Election officials say this could derail Linden’s bid, along with his Immortals Bill and newly formed Global Angel Commission, for good.”

Sylvester turned the volume on the TV back down. He took a strong pull of the coffee and looked at all the paperwork. The leads. The dead ends. He’d taken some paid holiday time off. Everyone understood, after his work on the bombing case, which was now “solved”.

He’d basically moved his office to his apartment. This way he could work his cases – all his cases – away from the prying eyes of Captain Keele. When was the last time he had slept? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter, anyway. This was too important.

No rest for the wicked.

The detective’s eyes drew to his wall. A large global map, the kind you might see in an old high school classroom, hung there. All across the map were markings in different colours, in different countries and cities. The markings each had a date and a note. There was also a large map of downtown Los Angeles taped to the wall, with a series of notes and red
X
’s.

On the world map, there was a marking in the blue of the Pacific Ocean off California. It had the earliest date of any of the markings: “F-16 Downed”.

There were marks all over the map, even Antarctica, where an electrical accident with a generator at an observation station had killed ten workers. The map also included one neat marking on London – the St Pancras derailment – and another on Beijing – “Apartment Fire/Collapse”.

There was one other marking, this one with a question mark, directly in the middle of Angel City: “Bombing of Angel Administration Affairs Offices”.

After Sylvester had learned of DeWitt’s death and that the FBI found incriminating evidence of the bombing and Humanity Defence Faction materials, law enforcement had considered the case solved. The investigation now moved to a higher-level investigation into the HDF on conspiracy charges. It was time to infiltrate the leadership with undercover officers and confidential informants. The Angels were special counsel for the operation. William Beaubourg would likely be drawn in. It could get ugly. But it was out of Sylvester’s hands now.

Captain Keele was happy just to get one more case solved. It was good for stats. And what was good for stats was good for the captain’s promotion to police commander.

The only problem was Sylvester didn’t consider the case solved. Not at all.

He didn’t voice these doubts to Keele before going on “vacation” – the captain would have a meltdown if he knew Sylvester was still investigating a closed case. Only Garcia knew. Every day he brought the detective new photocopies of documents and files from headquarters to chew through.

Something wasn’t adding up – a constant knot in Sylvester’s stomach was telling him that. Almost every day Sylvester was putting another red mark on the wall map. Dark Angel sightings that the media attributed to religious hysteria. Terrible accidents with no precedent. And then the continuing trickle of homeless disappearances downtown. Captain Keele had decided there was no pattern, no evidence of murder. The cases had been kicked over to Missing Persons. The files would probably sit there for months before anyone got to them.

And now the pinning of the bombing on the HDF. It had to be a set-up. But for what? And for whom? How did it all tie together?

Still sipping his coffee, Sylvester looked at an article he had printed off the
New York
Times
website and then walked to the map with the marker. He made a new mark on the map, just off the coast of Brazil: “Ferry Accident”.

Yawning, Sylvester walked over to the couch and extracted a liquorice container from underneath some files. The tub was empty. Shaking his head, Sylvester walked to the coat rack by the door and put on his overcoat. He left the light on; he’d only be gone a few minutes.

It was a cool Angel City evening, the streets quiet and nearly empty this late, except for the occasional homeless person or drunk club-goer stumbling her way back home. A black Maserati suddenly roared past on the quiet street and was gone as quickly as it came. A light mist hung in the air, seemingly swirling around the street lights. Sylvester reached the corner news-stand. He nodded to the familiar, overweight man working behind the counter as he walked in. The detective grabbed a bag of liquorice, along with the early edition of the
Angel City
Times
– sometimes he still liked to have the physical paper. All kinds of Angel tourist merchandise and trinkets were crammed around the store: little teddy bears with “I
Angel City” sweaters, maps to Angel houses, little mugs with the Angel City sign printed on them.

“Late night, detective?” the man behind the counter asked in a thick accent. He wore a brown polyester shirt, unbuttoned, with a white wife-beater under it.

“Something like that, Chas,” Sylvester said. “How’s business?”

“Oh, you know, can’t complain.”

Sylvester nodded, tucking the liquorice and paper under his arm as he walked out of the store. The arguing couple had disappeared, and the street was almost totally silent as Sylvester reached his apartment building and walked up the stairs to the second floor. His hands automatically found his keys in his pocket and unlocked the deadbolt.

It wasn’t until he opened the door and stepped into the pitch-black apartment that he realized the light had been turned off.

Sylvester’s hand instinctively went for his gun.

“Looking for this, detective?” a voice from the dark said. Straining his eyes, Sylvester could see the metal of his gun glinting in the reflection from the street light shining in the window. He cursed himself – he’d taken his holster off earlier in the night. “Turn on the light,” the voice said.

Sylvester flipped the switch, and the apartment was flooded with light. A man in a navy blue windbreaker was sitting in the chair facing the door, training Sylvester’s own gun on the detective. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and he needed a shave.

“Take a seat,” the man said, motioning with the gun to the couch.

Sylvester walked to the sofa and sat down, his mind racing.

“Don’t worry, this is just a precaution. I’m not here to hurt you.” The man’s eyes scanned the apartment nervously.

“What are you here to do, then?”

“Talk.”

“I’m listening.”

The man walked to the curtains and drew them, but left a crack open so he could see out. He moved his chair closer to the window. “It’s about Jesse DeWinter.”

Sylvester’s pulse raced, but he kept his demeanour calm. “What about him?”

“I was his partner in the bombings.” The man looked the detective directly in the eyes as he said it.

“HDF?” Sylvester said.

The man laughed. “If you believe that— ”

“I never said I did,” Sylvester cut him off.

The intruder nodded in respect. “What I have here is . . . a game changer.” He pulled a thick manila envelope from his coat and placed it on the one free spot on the coffee table. “Phone logs, a CD with recorded calls, photos. Everything I could get.” The man looked at Sylvester with serious, sad eyes. “I put it together after they killed Jesse.”

“They?” Sylvester’s heart was pounding in his throat.

“Yes, ‘they’, detective. ‘Them’. Whatever you want to call the murderers,” the man said, looking out of the window. “
The Angels
.”

“What do you mean? As revenge for the bombing?”

The man looked at Sylvester like he was the stupidest person in the world.

“No. They hired us, detective.”

The detective’s world became fuzzy for a moment as he realized what the man in front of him was saying.

“What do you mean? How. . .” Sylvester struggled to make sense of what he was being told.

“Archangel Charles Churchson came to us with the job. It was to have stayed just between us, for ever. Bomb the offices. Head to Costa Rica on Angel money. That way, Jesse and I could still fund the cause. The cause will take any job. Angels or humans. Our operating expenses are . . . high. But we didn’t know all those workers were going to be there. I don’t know if Churchson did or not. But the whole deal was supposed to be clean. That was until Churchson decided he couldn’t trust us any more. That’s when Jesse tried to find an out. Through you, detective. But he was too late.”

“But why would Churchson set up a bomb on his own organization?” Sylvester asked.

“Power. And politics.”

“Of course. . .” It all made sense. “He could claim the humans were turning against them and they needed to prepare to defend against the ingrates. Charge them more. And keep Angel City for Angels.”

“And also discredit the mainstream anti-Angel movement,” the man said.

“The presidential election’s on Tuesday. Senator Linden. You know what this could mean.”

“It could mean a lot of things,” the man said. “Like I said, game changer. I sent a copy of what’s in this packet to the ten biggest news agencies in the country. All across the country, news editors will be getting to work and discovering this. People will know the truth. I’m sorry I ever became involved now. But it was supposed to be clean. The building was supposed to be empty. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

Sylvester let all of what he had just learned sink in. “Who does this touch in the Angels? How far does the corruption go?”

“We only dealt with Archangel Churchson, and as far as I know, that’s as far as it goes. I know he has some allies. But he also has many enemies.”

Sylvester thought of Jackson’s stepfather, struggling to maintain control in the Archangels’ organization.

After a moment, Sylvester looked at the tired, weary man across from him. He’d obviously been on the run for some time. “Why come to me? I could arrest you.”

The man smiled. “You forget: I have the gun,” he said. “Plus, Detective Sylvester, I’ve heard that even though you’re police, you’re honourable police. The cause keeps its eye on you. It knows the work you’re doing,” the man said. There it was, Sylvester thought, the
cause
again. “And I’m leaving, for ever. If anything happens to me . . . I just don’t want it to fade away. Get swept under the rug.” He looked at Sylvester. “Can you promise me that?”

Sylvester nodded.

“Thank you,” the man said. He looked out of the window again. “I need to go, detective. It’s time.” He placed Sylvester’s gun on a side table. “I trust you won’t be needing to pick this up until I’ve been gone at least five minutes, let’s say.” He smiled.

As the man stood up, zipping his windbreaker, he nodded nonchalantly at the global map on the wall. “I see you have the seven now, detective.”

“Seven?” Sylvester said.

The man began reciting from memory: “‘And then when the seven burn across the earth, evil will rise upon you from the West.’”

“
The Book of Angels
,” Sylvester said. “I know the passage. The controversial final revelations. They’re famous. But their source is also in doubt. Still, many have spoken of a battle between good and evil. What do you mean I have the seven now?”