Fallen Angels 05 - Possession (27 page)

“Handle it?”

“Well, yeah. Those things weigh a ton.”

“My dad taught me how to ride a long time ago. He had a Harley, too—has, I mean.” She stared down into her mug. “So, yeah, the breakfast is a peace offering. I’m really sorry about how I behaved last night. I just … it came over me. Everything exploded in my head—I shouldn’t have gone at you like that. You didn’t deserve it, and I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

He looked into her eyes. “You don’t have to apologize. And I don’t blame you. This is not easy shit you’re dealing with.”

“It’s just hard to be so … in the dark about, like, everything.”

“You don’t remember?”

“How I ended up down there? Not really. I mean, I’ve got details up until I walked into the supermarket. After that? It’s a fog.”

Mixed blessing, he supposed. And he hoped it was the same for when she’d been in Devina’s—

“But I remember everything about that wall,” she said hoarsely. “Everything. I still swear I was stuck in that black prison for centuries.”

Damn it.

She helped herself to the last piece of toast, but then only took one bite before putting it aside. “I think that’s part of why I’m struggling. It’s all I’ve got, that … experience … with those others who were suffering. I close my eyes and it’s what I see and hear and smell—the stench and the twisting agony, the years of time passing.” As her voice cracked, she brushed under one eye as if clearing a tear. “It’s eating me up—and I thought that going to my parents’ would reconnect me, but it just reminded me of everything that I’m not anymore. I’ve got to have something concrete to put my feet on, but there’s nothing, is there.”

Basically what she’d said to him last night in the dark.

Jim took a page from her book and stared into his coffee. “Are you sure you want to know.” As she went utterly still, he looked over at her again. “Before you answer, think about it carefully. Some kinds of knowledge you can’t get rid of.” Abruptly, he thought of all the men he’d killed, some of whom up close. “Once it’s in your mind? It’s like a tattoo on your brain. It’s a permanent thing and you can’t go back.”

“Tell me,” she whispered without hesitation. “Even if it’s horrible … I have to know. I’m still a prisoner even though I’m out here—I’m still trapped, but it’s the ignorance now. There’s no context to anything, no structure, nothing but questions no one is answering. My mind … is eating itself alive.”

Shit, she was too young to feel like that. And he knew exactly where she was; he’d walked miles in those shoes, and not only was it hard, it had hardened him. Set his emotions in concrete.

He didn’t want that for her. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all. It’s not like it’s going to give me cancer, and I kind of like the smell.”

He leaned to the side and took his lighter out of his back pocket. A second later, he had a Red between his lips and was taking a drag.

On the exhale, he noticed that his hands were stilling. Funny, he hadn’t been aware they were shaking.

“I don’t know everything.” He reached behind him to the counter, snagging an ashtray and putting it by his empty plate. “You need to be clear on that. I’m in the dark about a lot of shit.”

Which was a reminder, like he needed one, that he didn’t have much free time here. Still, he felt compelled to get her on as even a keel as he could. It was only fair—and she hadn’t gotten a lot of fair lately.

The war would have to wait just a little longer.

“So tell me,” she said, arms tightening around herself.

Jim opened his mouth, searched for words … and had no luck. There was another way, though. More dangerous, but it would more likely get her what she was looking for than any conversation they could have.

Jim got up abruptly. “I gotta go talk to my boy for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

He stalked out of the kitchen and hit the stairs. Up on the second floor, he rapped his knuckles on the bathroom’s closed door. “Yo, Adrian.”

From the other side, the response was something along the lines of, “What do you think this is, a
Rocky
movie?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“I gotta leave.”

“You’re kidding me.” He should have known better than to think Adrian’s departure had been about the polite. “And where the hell are you going?”

The door opened. Adrian was fully dressed, with wet hair. “I gotta go.”

Jim took the guy’s arm in a strong grip. “Where.”

Ad narrowed his eyes. “While you’re with your girlfriend down there? Worrying about her? I’m taking care of business. And that’s all you need to know—unless you’re planning on getting back in the game?”

“Oh come on, that’s bullshit.”

“Is it. Really.” Adrian ripped free and limped in the direction of his room. “I’m thinking it’s not.”

“So where are we?” Jim demanded as he followed the guy into his private space. “What’s going on?”

Adrian just shook his head as he went over to his bureau and shrugged into a holster. “You ready to play ball? Because, again, until you are, there’s no point in wasting my breath, is there.”

With a curse, Jim thought of Sissy, sitting in that kitchen, relying on him to be the compass in her fucked-up world. She had no one else. “Look, I just need to get her up and rolling. This has been a shocker, okay—”

Adrian wheeled around as he popped a forty in under his arm. “Fuck you, Jim. I’ve lost my best friend, and some other pretty heavy shit. Permanently. So first off, do
not
tell me what’s shocking to her, and second? Excuse me if I’m not real impressed by your caretaking side. You want to masturbate to the Hallmark Channel—knock yourself out. But then don’t question me about where I go or what I do to keep things on track—or make like I owe you an operational update. Ain’t going to happen.”

Jim dragged a hand through his hair. “One day, Adrian. Gimme one day.”

“So you can do what? Get mani-pedis together and go to the mall? Fuck that—”

“I just need one day, and then I’m back. I promise.”

The other angel cursed under his breath as he picked up his crystal dagger and tucked it into the small of his back.

“You have my word on it,” Jim said roughly. “I’ll be a hundred percent all in. I just need you to do something for me in the meantime—”

“Annnnnd the sonofabitch wants something. How perfect—”

“Adrian. Please.”

Ad looked around like he was hoping to find some sanity somewhere. Finally, he muttered, “What do you need me to do?”

When Jim finished the ask, Adrian just stared at him.

After a long, tense moment, the angel said, “You owe me. We clear? I do this for you, you owe me.”

Jim stuck out his palm. “On my honor.”

It was harder to go back into the parking garage than she’d thought.

As Cait entered the facility and took her pink ticket, the gate rose and … that was about it. Her foot refused to leave the brakes and her SUV stayed right where it was, as if her Lexus were afraid of what was up there, too.

The flashbacks were intense enough to have her release the steering wheel and grip her thighs, her body bracing itself even though her doors were locked and it was daylight and there was no way whoever or whatever it had been was still—

Beep!

Her eyes shot to the rearview mirror. Behind her, a woman in a minivan was looking as stressed as anybody who no doubt had a carload of kids, too many appointments, and no privacy in the bathroom would be.

Cait hit the gas and began the ascent, giving herself all kinds of pep talk. But as she got closer and closer to the top floor, her body was flooded with
no
. Which was really pretty crazy. Again, it was broad daylight, and people were all over the place, getting in and out of cars. No isolation, no darkness.

“Nope. Not doing this.”

Wrenching the wheel to the side, she rerouted, heading for the
exit
arrows that would ultimately take her down instead of up.

She had to use all her self-control to keep from punching the accelerator and going all Jeff Gordon on the escape.

At the bottom, she presented her ticket to the woman in the kiosk and began to explain to her adrenal gland that she was about to get out of here. Really. Like, for sure—

“Wait a minute,” the ticket taker said. “Did you just come in? Or am I getting another misread?”

“I, ah—I forgot my phone. Have to go home.”

The woman batted the air in front of her. “Oh, honey, I know all about that. You go through. There’s a minimum of an hour, but we’ll just pretend you were never here.”

Amen to that. “Thank you so much. It means … a lot.”

The ticket taker beamed like doing a good deed had made her day.

And didn’t that make Cait feel like crap about lying—but was she really going to explain why she was panicking?

And what do you know, it looked like God Himself approved of her decision to leave her car on the street—twenty yards past the garage entrance, there was a vacant metered space. Backing the Lexus in, she grabbed her purse and checked her new hair in the mirror.

Wow. Even after a two-hour painting class and a breezy, slightly humid day? The stuff was hanging like a champ, the color glowing, the layers bringing out the natural curl.

As scrambled as she was inside, it seemed bizarre that her image was so collected.

Getting out, she locked up and found—bonus—that there were twenty-three minutes left on the meter—so she only had to put one dollar and seventy-five cents on her credit card.

“Once more with feeling,” she said as she walked toward the Palace Theatre’s sign.

As she went along, she fussed with her yoga pants and her loose J.Crew barn coat. Chances were good G.B. would be in something casual, right? No way they would make him practice in a tuxedo.

Crossing over that mosaic stretch in the pavement, she opened the door to the foyer. The first thing she smelled was floor cleaner, and over in the corner, there was a polisher plugged into an outlet, standing at attention as if ready to be called back into service.

“Careful,” a man in a navy blue uniform said as he came out of the lobby. “Just finished waxing it.”

“Thanks.” She hiked up her purse on her shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. But I’m supposed to be meeting someone here? I’m a little late—”

“Yes, you are.”

Cait turned. It was the receptionist from the night before, the one from the glass office who’d lost it all over G.B. Dressed in something short and tight, she was propping open the door of that staff-only corridor next to will-call—and the good news was, she didn’t appear to be as angry as she had been, but she wasn’t any sort of Suzy Sunshine, either.

Matter of fact, that expression of haughtiness and superiority rubbed Cait like barbed wire.

“Follow me,” the woman said in a bored voice.

You know, you had to wonder why people did jobs they hated, Cait thought as she headed across the slippery floor.

Although in this economy, you took what you got, she supposed as she stepped through into the corridor.

“He’s very busy, you know,” the receptionist announced as she strode off like something was on fire down the hall. “G.B. is a
very
busy guy.”

Then why did he ask me to come, Cait thought dryly. “I can imagine.”

“He’s the most talented one here. But then, he works so hard.”

“Uh-huh.”

By this time, they were already passing by the glass office, the receptionist’s high heels making like a snare drum—to the point where you had to wonder how she stayed upright.

Thank God for flats. And the gym.

As they went deeper and deeper into the theater complex, things began to clutter the hallway, a controlled chaos of props, stray chairs, and lighting equipment taking up space as the corridor widened. Double doors began to crop up with signs like R
EHEARSAL
I and M
USIC
III mounted over them, and then a fleet of bulletin boards appeared, one every ten feet or so, their faces covered with schedules, notices, ads for take-out places.

Suddenly, the receptionist with the attitude disorder stopped short with no notice. As she pivoted on her stillies, she smiled with enough condescension to strip paint off a car door. “You can’t go any farther—they’re doing a read-through onstage. But I’ll let him know you’re here.”

As she sauntered off, her chin was up, her body moving with a sinuous strut—like she was used to being stared at.

“Wow,” Cait muttered as she leaned in and checked out the nearest bulletin board. “I can
so
see why they hired that for reception.”

But at least how the woman behaved was her own issue. And with any luck, Cait would never have to see her again.

Lifting a production schedule out of the way, she eyed a flyer for a Chinese place, and then a B.C. comic strip that made her smile, and … a couple of business cards from a psychic down on Trade Street.

For no good reason, she thought of the vibe from the night before as she’d run for that elevator.

Funny, there had been two times in her life when she’d been as afraid as that. One had been a couple of summers ago, when she’d been waterskiing on Saratoga Lake and had gone outside the boat wake just as they were heading into a turn. Momentum being what it was, she had shot forward, her speed overtaking her skill in the work of a moment. When she’d lost her balance, the initial impact had been so violent, it had felt as though she’d crashed into pavement—and then things had gotten nasty. The skis had popped off her feet in a messy fashion, twisting her ankles, wrenching her in midair as she had bounced like a skipping stone across the water’s surface.

The PFD had kept her from sinking when things had eventually slowed down, but she’d ended up facedown in the water. Stunned, in pain, unable to coordinate her arms or legs, she had opened her mouth for air and gotten nothing of the sort.

A friend had dived in at just that second and rolled her over in the nick of time.

The terror had come that night. Lying in a bed at that stuffy cabin she and Teresa had rented for the week, she had passed out from pain meds, discomfort, and exhaustion—only to wake up screaming in panic.