Book and Blade: Book One of the Hand of Perdition (4 page)

He went to his closet and found his pants and shirt. His shirt still had the hole from the gunshot in it. He slipped on his pants and shoes on as quickly as he could, which was tricky with one arm in a sling. There was no way he could get his shirt on, so he settled for wearing his sweatshirt stretched over his sling, but it worked when he zipped it up. He pulled the hood up out of habit. Now all he had to do was jump out of the window.

He pushed open the window and leaned out for a look. It was a standard rooftop. He saw what looked like a rooftop access shack a hundred feet away. He could only guess an access door was on the other side. But of course there was no reason for it to be open. This wasn't a movie. How the hell was he going to get off the roof? He was beginning to think this was a bad idea when the door opened again behind him.

Cooper was standing there. He looked surprised for a moment, but quickly recovered and reached for his gun. Christopher jumped.

He landed hard and stumbled to the ground twisting so he fell on his good shoulder. He bounced up as quickly as he could, but his bad shoulder screamed in protest. He sprinted to the shack not taking the time to look up at this room. Cooper would be at the window in seconds. He felt exposed and expected at any moment to feel a bullet in his back. Just a few feet away from the wall he heard the report of the pistol. A piece of roof nicked his leg as a bullet hit inches from his foot. Christopher threw himself around the corner putting the rooftop shack between him and Cooper, but not before he looked back. Cooper was climbing out of the window.

He didn't wait to see if Cooper made it to the ground. There was a door on this side. It looked like it hadn't closed all the way, like the last person to use it hadn't been paying attention. It opened easily and Christopher ran through it, making sure it shut and locked behind him.

He was shivering with fear as he made his way down the stairs. Halfway down the second flight he heard Cooper banging at the door, trying to open it. He took the last few steps jumping three at a time.

He lurched out the door at the bottom of the stairs and into the hallway, surprising an orderly. Behind him he heard a muffled bang and knew that Cooper had found a way through the door. Might have even shot it open. Christopher didn't miss a beat as he ran down the hall looking for a way out. His shoulder ached, but he didn't have time to think about that now. He shoved passed a family gathered around a boy in a wheelchair to get to the elevator, mumbling "Sorry," as he dove into the elevator car and pushed the ground floor button repeatedly. As the doors to the elevator closed Cooper came through the door. Christopher saw him looking around. Christopher crouched lower behind the family, ignoring their odd stares, until then the doors closed and the elevator started going down.

Christopher knew he had only bought himself moments. Cooper would figure out where he had gone and take the stairs. As soon the elevator's doors opened he shoved past the family and out into the lobby. He had banged his shoulder a couple of times and it was on fire. It felt like a hammer pounded inside his skull. He was running scared, but he knew he had to keep moving. He ran through the lobby doors and into the night beyond.

Twenty feet away from the hospital entrance he paused. He realized he had no idea where he was headed. Getting out of the building had been his only plan. After a moment's thought he realized his decision was made for him. He had nothing, so he had to make his way home. His wallet, phone, everything was there. Hamlin had told him they had taken his bags from the train to his family’s… his house while he was in a coma. Of course that’s also where the guy trying to kill him will expect him to go. Either way he couldn't stay standing in the middle of the hospital driveway. He ran off through the exit and under the Broadway Bridge trying his best not to jostle his shoulder too badly.

He decided he needed to get ahold of Hamlin. Let him know that he was heading home. It was a risk, but he had to trust somebody. This was not the kind of situation you can handle by yourself. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have proof now.

He walked a block down the street to a diner. He looked back a couple of times, but didn't see Cooper following him. Inside, despite the way he looked and the odd looks he got, they let him use their phone for a local call. In a few moments he was connected to Hamlin.

"This is Detective Hamlin."

"Your boy Cooper just tried to kill me," Christopher said.

"Christopher! Is that you? What the hell happened? I just got a call saying shots were fired at the hospital."

"Like I said, Cooper just tried to kill me. I had to jump out of the window and run over the roof."

"Where are you? Are you safe? I can send a car to pick you up," Hamlin said.

"Fuck that, I barely trust you at this point let alone random patrolmen. Did someone get Cooper?"

"Not yet, there is still a lot of confusion on what happened and nobody can find him. Look, we need to talk."

"Yeah," said Christopher, "but I can't stay here. And I have to at least stop by my house, I don't have any money or ID. I'll grab a cab. You be waiting outside my place so you can pay the driver."

Christopher hung up the phone and then asked the counter girl for the number to a cab company. Five minutes later he was in the back of a cab heading to his parents’ house—his house now. His shoulder hurt, he was freezing in the cool night air and he was heading into what might be a trap. He was scared as hell. What the hell had happened to him? How did this happen? It was like something out of a bad movie.

It all started the day he had met that thing in the basement of the school dorm. The memory suddenly became clear to him, like it had just been waiting for the right moment. He remembered everything. The crazy story, the book, the pocket knife. The memory made him shudder. Looks like he wouldn't be able to help whatever was in that basement, his father was dead now. But that thought gave him no relief. He felt as if the thing’s mission still lay heavily on him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Christopher had the cab drive slowly past the house. He saw a parked car out front, but he could also see Hamlin in the front waiting. Nothing else seemed off or out of place. Still, Christopher crouched behind the cab door and took a long moment to see if anything was amiss. After he had satisfied himself that everything seemed normal, he had the cab pull over. Hamlin paid the driver and they went into the house.

Hamlin went in first with gun drawn. He told Christopher he needed to clear the house and make sure there were no surprises waiting for them. Christopher waited inside the foyer as Hamlin cleared the home. The detective went slowly and meticulously through each room, finally arriving back at the entrance to tell him it was all clear. In the living room with the shades drawn Christopher quickly told him everything about that night.

"Just to be clear," Hamlin said, "Cooper was new to me, and I had no idea he was on Ambros’ payroll, but you got to understand not all cops are corrupt like that, not even most cops. You got to trust us to make this right."

"I'm talking to you aren't I? I can't survive this on my own, so I knew I had to trust somebody."

"I can get a couple of guys stationed out here to protect you," Hamlin said and held up his hands before Christopher could protest. "These are guys I have known for years. I'll talk to some captains and get them reassigned. If you trust me, then you can trust them."

Christopher leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.

"While you make your calls I need to go find some ibuprofen."

Christopher went to the upstairs bathroom. Whoever had brought his bags had left them in the entrance way. He grabbed them as he headed up. The brownstone was a nice home with rich wood accents and dark hardwood floors. High ceilings and crown molding highlighted every room. His father had always wanted everything to be in tip top shape and maintained the house as he did everything in life, impeccably. His family had died here. No, had been murdered here. Walking through the house now he felt like a stranger, like he was disturbing something. He imagined it might be what one felt like walking through a mausoleum by themselves. He did not think he would be able to stay here for very long.

He dropped his bags in his bedroom then hunted for painkillers in the bathroom. After lucking out and finding some Vicodin left over from his mother’s dental surgery, he went back into his room and dumped the backpack on his bed.

Amongst the half-complete school papers that may now never be complete, gum and an unopened Red Bull can, the book and pocket knife fell out onto the bed. As soon as he saw them the fear he had felt in the boiler room came back, the memory of the intense stare, the blood seeping out of the creature’s stomach between its fingers. Why hadn't he told anybody? He couldn't think of a good reason, just like he couldn't think of a reason why he had ignored it for the past couple of weeks. Nobody found that dying thing in the boiler room. Maybe it didn't die? Maybe it would come for the book and knife now that his father was dead? The thought of that creature coming to this house to collect his things scared him more than having another one of Ambros’ hitman come after him.

He picked up the knife. It was a simple Swiss Army knife, with a bottle opener and screwdriver as well as many other features. Nothing remarkable. He pulled the blade out, and somehow accidentally cut himself. It was a shallow cut. He had lost his grip and it twisted in his hand and like a snake biting, it cut him. It was a shallow cut, but it was enough for him to yelp and drop the knife onto the bed. He examined the wound. Blood welled up in it, but only a little. He stuck his thumb in his mouth.

As he sucked on the wound he became aware once again of the voice in the back of his head. The background mumbling became more insistent. He looked down at the book and realized that although the voice was in the back of his head, he felt a sudden certainty that the voice was coming from that book. Without even realizing he had picked it up, it was in his hands. He rubbed the cover gently, it seemed like his senses were stronger, and the feel of the book more intense—as if the book was more real than everything else around him, the only important thing left.

He remembered the warning the thing had given him, to not read the book, that doing so would do something to him, something that he was not meant for. He was too weak, it had told him. But there was a need inside of him and it was growing. He couldn't describe it, just something said he should do it. Something in him that needed this tool to make things right.

But nothing could be made right again. His mother was dead, his father, everyone that was important to him was lost, even Courtney. No, no book can make things like that right. It was just a stupid book and pocket knife given to him by a crazy, albeit creepy, man.

Still his fingers gently scratched at the edge of the cover as though they might open it of their own accord. Perhaps just a quick look? Maybe just check the table of contents? What could that hurt?

"Christopher?" Hamlin called from downstairs.

Christopher jumped and drop the book back onto the bed. He shook his head as though to dislodge the cloud that had formed inside his skull. It left quickly, and with it the voice receded back to the dark corner of his mind where it belonged.

"Yeah?" He called back.

"I got it all arranged, they'll be here in an hour or so. I'll stay here until then. Also I went ahead and ordered a pizza. Don't know about you, but I'm fucking hungry."

"Yeah, sure. That sounds good to me," Christopher called down.

To help clear his head he looked out the window. Below on the street a lone street lamp left a pool of light on the ground. Somehow this made him feel even lonelier. Then he caught movement from the edge of the light. He ducked back behind the wall, cursing his stupidity.

They could have been waiting for him to just stick his head out and then shoot him with some sort of sniper rifle. But something about what he had seen made him peek around the edge. After a moment he could make out the shape in the shadows. That was what had caught his attention. It was a slight shape, a feminine one. Not the image of a thug.

It was a girl, maybe his own age, hard to tell in the shadows. She had dark hair and was dressed in dark clothes. From his window it looked like part of her neck and chin were obscured by something. It could have been shadow, or possibly a tattoo.

He was almost positive he had seen her before. Then in clicked. On the train. She had been on the train when he left Boston. He had glanced at her briefly. She was pretty and the tattoo on her neck had been striking, even if he hadn't been able to make it out. But Courtney was on his mind and besides, she had not struck him as his type, so he had mostly ignored her. Was she following him? Why? Coincidence?

But what bothered him the most was that she was looking directly up at his window. He jumped back and closed the curtain. Probably just a homeless girl. She didn't look like a threat, but he would let Hamlin know just in case.

He took one last look at the book and then headed downstairs. He just hoped nobody would try to kill him for the rest of tonight.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Two hours later Hamlin was gone, replaced by two officers by the names of Gillard and Lee. Lee positioned himself outside in an unmarked car so he could keep an eye on the approach. Gillard took up position in the front room where he had a view of the hallway and the stairs. Christopher eyed them carefully, he didn't want to trust them, but he also didn't have much choice. Hamlin vouched for them and their replacements, who would be coming in the morning.

After introductions they kept to themselves and Christopher had nothing to do with himself. He walked the upstairs hall of his home, moving from one photo frame to another. He saw his mother laughing at a BBQ with friends. He remembered the BBQ. His dad had burnt the burgers, and coming far short of perfection had almost ruined the day for his dad. As hard as he was on Christopher, he was harder on himself. There was a photo of Christopher and his sister standing on the beach, he was holding her hand. She was five years younger than him, so she must have been about four when the photo was taken.