The Getaway God (7 page)

“Emotional?”

“Clingy. However, when I explained the gravity of the situation to the commanding officer, he was happy to allow us to assist in the investigation.”

“You pulled rank, didn't you? Got all federal. Maybe threatened to bring in Homeland Security.”

“I didn't have to. As I said, the commander was a reasonable man.”

“LAPD is a lot of things, but I don't remember reasonable.”

“The chief is Sub Rosa, so he understands how important our investigation is.”

“Having fun, fatty?” says the Shonin. “Does he always waste time like this?”

“He's a child,” says Wells. “A misbehaving child. That's why I'm so reluctant to give him this.”

The Shonin laughs a grumbling laugh. Like rocks in a tumbler. I hope I don't hear him do it again.

“We're getting early Christmas gifts? Are you my Secret Santa?”

Wells reaches into a jacket pocket and takes out a folded piece of leather. Hands it to me. Inside is a card with my name on it and the Golden Vigil insignia.

“This is official Vigil ID. If a situation develops with local law enforcement, show it to them. It won't work in little Podunk towns, but it will in L.A. and you're not going anywhere anytime soon, are you?”

“Not with a ‘Get Out of Jail Free' card, I'm not.”

“Do not even begin to think about abusing the authority afforded to you by this identification.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. But LAPD does know that I'm a car thief, so the thing might actually come in handy.”

Wells takes back the ID.

“Speaking of your previous criminal activities, understand this. This identification is only good while you work for this organization. My organization. You get cute, you go off the reservation, and I'll throw you to the wolves. Do you understand me?”

“I'm a team player, sir. I won't let you down.”

“See that you don't,” he says, and hands me back the ID. I put it in my pocket before Wells can take it away again.

The Shonin crooks his finger at me and says, “Come over here and see what real mystical forensics looks like.”

I go over. He waits on the other side of a table holding Hobaica's body.

“The man's name is Joseph Hobaica. He's thirty-­eight years old, and by the cross around his neck, a good Catholic boy.”

“Wow. You and your mystical powers found his driver's license and a first communion present. You're goddamn Kreskin.”

“Language. He runs the distribution company where you witnessed the ceremony,” says Wells.

“Was that even a ceremony? It just looked like some kind of elaborate suicide pact to me.”

“You know damned well it was an Angra offering ritual. Stop being a smartass.”

“What I'm saying is, the all-­beef church aside, the whole thing looked kind of thrown together. There weren't any ritual objects. They didn't have time to do an invocation before I got there. They didn't even have decent suicide instruments. What kind of Gods want a life offering made with something you can get at a hardware store?”

“Do you have any brilliant theories?”

“I think they were freaked out and desperate. I could smell it on them. Maybe they were offering themselves to their freaky God, but they were also splitting town. Just like all the other suckers clogging the freeways.”

Wells nods.

“You might actually have a point there.”

“But you're wrong about there being no ritual objects. Did you see the amputated limbs hanging among the circle?”

“They were a little hard to miss.”

The Shonin goes to a table nearby and throws back a blue hospital sheet revealing arms, legs, hands, a whole buffet of body parts.

“These are what Marshal Wells's men brought back from the scene. Four arms. Four legs. Four hands. Four feet. You get the idea.”

“Yeah, they butchered two poor slobs or two of them committed suicide before and let themselves be cut up.”

The Shonin shakes his head.

“You were closer to right on your first guess. The marshal and his men saw this collection of wretched humanity and logically assumed that with this particular inventory of parts, they were the remains of two bodies.”

“But there're more, aren't there?”

Wells goes to the table and pulls the sheet back over the limbs.

“The Shonin expressed some doubts after examining the remains, so we ran DNA from each limb. There are parts of twelve bodies here. I seriously doubt they butchered twelve of their own members just so that thirteen more could commit suicide.”

“So, what are you saying? They're part of some kill-­crazy Charlie Manson gang?”

“You'd like it to be that simple, wouldn't you, lazy boy?” says the Shonin.

Wells picks up a manila envelope from a nearby desk.

“This isn't the first time we've seen this kind of corpse desecration. Limbs severed and mixed together.”

“I saw something like that in Hobaica's head. Body parts in the fire.”

Wells opens the manila envelope. Looks at a ­couple of pages.

He says, “Have you heard of a killer called Saint Nick?”

“I think maybe I saw something when Kasabian was channel-­surfing. A killer running around in the rain. So what? L.A. cranks out more serial killers than shitty sitcoms. He sounds like cop business to me.”

“To me too until yesterday,” says Wells. “Do you know why they call him Saint Nick?”

“Because it's close to Christmas?”

“Half right,” the Shonin says. “He's Saint Nick because he likes to give his victims a little cut.” He laughs.

“You mean he chops them up?”

Wells nods.

“And removes some of the parts. Different combinations of limbs and organs with each killing.”

“Why?

“We don't have a motive yet,” says Wells. He tosses the manila envelope back on the desk. “But we found some notes and coded e-­mails that lead us to think that this Angra bunch wanted to die by his hand. They thought they'd draw him out by imitating him.”

“That explains all the mystery bodies.”

“Right.”

“But he never showed up,” says the Shonin. “Hobaica was afraid that they'd been rejected by their God.”

“So, this Saint Nick guy is an Angra worshiper?”

“Who knows?” says Wells. “But this bunch thought he was, and when they felt rejected they did the only thing that made sense to them.”

“To prove their loyalty to the Flayed One, they sacrificed themselves imitating Saint Nick as best as they could,” the Shonin says.

I say, “Hobaica told me he was waiting for me. How did he know I was following him?”

“You're so fat he saw you coming a mile away,” says the Shonin.

“I saw that in your report. You're certain he said that?” asks Wells.

“He saw me standing in a slaughterhouse with a knife to his throat. Yeah, the moment is pretty well imprinted in my brain,” I say.

“That's bad. It means at least this one Angra cult is working with a psychic. And if one has a practicing psychic, it probably means they all do.”

“I have a slightly different theory.”

“What's that?”

“You have a mole in the Vigil.”

Wells comes over to me.

“Are you trying to be offensive? This isn't just a law enforcement organization. It's a holy calling.”

“What this bunch did was a holy calling too. To them. You think you're immune to bad influences in the ranks? Stop a moment and think who you're talking to. I'm a bad influence on bad influences, but at least I'm up front about it. If an asshole like me has Vigil credentials, who else does?”

“I do not believe one word of this malarkey,” says Wells. He doesn't say anything for a minute. “But it can't hurt to get new security clearances on all the personnel.”

“I left my résumé in a hole in the ground in Yamagata four hundred years ago,” says the Shonin. “Happy hunting for that.”

Wells looks at me like he's thinking of taking the ID back.

“Get out of here for now,” he says. “But keep your phone on. I might need you later. I want to sort this Saint Nick thing out fast.”

“What about the 8 Ball?” I say. “Shouldn't the bag of bones be working on that instead of playing medical examiner?”

“Unlike some ­people, I can multitask,” says the Shonin. “So fuck you, round boy.”

“Please,” says Wells. “The profanity. You're a holy man.”

“Your nephilim is right about himself. He's a bad influence. Go home and infect your friends.”

“Don't leave yet,” says Wells. “I need you to go and see Marshal Sola.”

“Julie Sola is back in the Vigil?”

“Marshal Sola is with us again. And she has some papers to go over with you.”

“What kind of papers?”

Wells smiles.

“Part one of your psych evaluation.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everybody goes through it. I did it. Marshal Sola—­”

“How about Aelita?”

That stops him cold.

He says, “You will go to Marshal Sola, do her paperwork, and pass the evaluation or you don't get paid.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Watch your language. And this is nonnegotiable.”

I start out but stop and look back at the Shonin.

“Hey,
muertita
. You know what an Ommah is? I heard a Jade say it.”

“You're involved with a Jade and you don't know what an Ommah is?”

“I lost my library card. Just tell me what it means.”

“It's an old word. Arabic. It means ‘mother.' The Ommahs are the Jade matriarchs. They control the whole Jade world. Set the rules. Tell them where to go and what to do.”

“When to have kids?”

“Especially that. Breeding is very important to Jades. They like to keep their lineage clean and controlled. It's why they go for such a high price.”

“What do you mean a high price?”

“At market. When they're sold. There are few Jades in the world. They live short, exciting lives and are gone. That's why they're so expensive.” The Shonin laughs. “How do you not know these things?”

“Thanks,” I say, and leave. As the door closes I can hear the Shonin.

“Seriously. How dumb is that boy?”

Apparently, dumber than even I thought.

To hell with Wells and his inkblots. I need a drink.

I go outside and call Candy. No one answers, so I leave a message that I'm going to Bamboo House of Dolls and that she should meet me there if she's feeling better.

The rain still pounds down. A ­couple of agents under an awning palm their cigarettes when I come out. They whisper to each other and quietly laugh. Yes, I'm a commander of men.

Six Vigil agents in expensive golf clothes play a round under oversize umbrellas. Disguised spooks playing a fake round of a brain-­dead game in a billionaire's playpen in a monsoon while around them, the city reaches population zero. If the Angra have a sense of humor they won't be able to invade. They'll laugh themselves stupid and wait for us to die off pretending that nothing is wrong.

I
STEP THROUGH
a shadow and come out in front of Bamboo House of Dolls. It's my Sistine Chapel. My home away from home. The best bar in L.A. The first bar I walked into after escaping from Hell. It's a punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy and the Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees and hula girls around the liquor bottles. And there's Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. On the jukebox, Martin Denny is playing an exotic palm-­tree version of “Winter Wonderland.”

It's a small, damp afternoon crowd in the place. Smaller than usual. Few civilians. Mostly Lurkers. Three gloomy necromancers play bridge with a Hand of Glory filling the fourth seat. A ­couple of blue-­skinned schoolgirl Luderes play their favorite scorpion-­and-­cup game. A table of excited Goth kids throw D&D dice and cop discreet glances at the crowd from the back of the room. Games for everyone. A necessary distraction when the sky is falling. Still, it's Christmas and the mood isn't bad.
It's a Wonderful Life
crossed with
Night of the Living Dead
.

Carlos serves drinks wearing a Santa hat.

“The salaryman returns,” he says when I sit down at the bar. “How's life behind a desk?”

“If anyone ever actually gets me to sit at a desk you have my permission to shoot me.”

Carlos pours me a shot of Aqua Regia from my private supply.

“It's not so bad,” he says. “Take me. The bar is sort of my desk. I come in at pretty much the same time each day. Do my prep. Serve my bosses—­you ungodly things—­and go home tired and satisfied knowing that I've kept America watered and prosperous for one more day.”

“You're a saint. When you die they'll name a junior high after you and your reliquary will be full of shot glasses and lime wedges.”

“Don't forget a boom box. I need my tunes.”

“The difference between us is one, you're the boss. Two, you can throw out anyone you want anytime you want. And three, you have a jukebox by your desk. Me, all I have is a dead man in Liberace robes and a cowboy with a stick the size of a redwood up his ass.”

Carlos pours himself a shot and leans on the bar.

“Why don't you have a drink and listen to the carols? That always makes me feel better.”

Someone comes in and Carlos stands, looking serious.

“Be cool,” he says, and goes to the end of the bar, where two uniformed cops have come in. The three of them speak quietly. Too quietly for me to hear over the jukebox. After a minute of chatter, Carlos hands one of the cops a Christmas card. The card is misshapen. Bulging. There's something inside it. The three of them nod to each other and shake hands. One of them glances at me and stops like he thinks we might have gone to high school together. A second later, he turns and heads out with his partner.