The Lucifer Messiah (15 page)

“I was. For a long time.”

“So? Where were you? Other than Italy, of course.”

“Russia,” he said to the city outside.

Maggie was forced to pause. She hadn't expected that response.

“Russia? Whatever the hell for?”

“I guess you could say it was a trip of,
self-discovery.
Or
something like that. I didn't stay long.”

The view of the gray urban landscape blurred in his eyes. It faded into the vista of a hundred other cities.

“Okay, where else? Thirty years is a long time.”

He rattled them off at random, naming them as the memory-pictures passed through his head.

“Czechoslovakia, Egypt, Ireland, South America, Hong Kong. You name it. Anywhere I could go to forget about you, and Vince.”

“And?”

“And no matter where I went, and no matter what I did, I never could. All I could think about was you and Vince, living happily ever after.”

The words hung in the air between them for a long while. The dull, heavy silence told him that he had said the wrong thing, but he wasn't exactly sure why. She told him after a painful sort of chuckle.

“Happily ever after? Not exactly.”

Sean turned back from the window. The skin around her eyes was starting to swell. Red, wet splotches were forming in them.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to … what did happen with you two? You're not together anymore?”

“What happened? A lifetime happened, Sean. Thirty years happened. You can't walk in after all that time and ask what happened.”

He nodded. He knew he deserved that one.

“You were married?” he said, in a softer voice. It felt like the only way to take things down a notch. He had no
idea what to say to comfort her.

She responded in kind.

“Yeah, in 1922, after Vince got out of the Navy. He became a cop, you know.”

“I heard. Never thought he'd do it. Italian cop. Guess I figured he'd end up on the other side.”

“I'm not sure there were sides in those days. After Volstead half of the kids you guys grew up with ended up bootlegging. Even the cops were in on it too, from what Vince told me. He used to drink more than anybody else I knew, even then. By the time they repealed it, he was drunk most of the time. That finally did him in, but it took a while. He managed to stay on the job until they forced him out, seven or eight years ago.”

“Did you have kids?”

“Two. Mary and Michael.”

She almost smiled, but something was holding it back.

“Two kids. Where are they now?” he asked.

“Mary was born in the spring of 1924. We buried her in the winter of '25.”

“I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

“Michael was born five years later. Vince took Mary's death hard. I think he used it as an excuse to drink even more. Michael drowned, God rest his soul, in 1938. I think that was really the end for me and Vince. He stayed in our old apartment, and I ended up moving back in here with my mother. She passed away in '44.”

She was right. He had missed out on a lifetime.

“You're still married, though?” he asked. There was a
ring on her finger that sparkled, even in the dim, even after thirty hard years.

“Yeah,” she said, as though it were nothing more than an afterthought.

“So you still love him?”

Maggie shook her head, and she sighed. Not as an answer, but merely to take a moment while she thought of one. Sean stayed still. He almost regretted asking. When she started again he was about to interrupt her, but something about her expression, the emptiness of it, maybe, told him to let her finish.

“It's hard to say. All the years between us. Everything that's happened. Sometimes I wish I could say I didn't love him, and sometimes I don't know if I ever really did. Doesn't that just take the cake?”

“No. Actually I understand that completely,” he said.

Strangely, the comment seemed to come from nowhere in particular, and not from Sean's place along the sill. When she turned around, Maggie saw only the slightly open window.

Sean was gone.

Again.

A
RGUS WAS BACK AT HIS ADOPTED CATHEDRAL.
T
HERE
were many others with him now. Galanthis had merely been the first to join Charybdis, Arachne, and himself beneath the shelter of the ruined Catholic structure. Through their efforts, over a dozen newcomers had now come into temporary residence there.

Even as the Bleecker Street Haven became crowded with others of their kind, his loyal followers gathered here instead, in secret, out of view of the Morrigan or any of her agents.

Some were busy at work, setting up makeshift places of rest along the walls, in the eaves and behind the confessionals. They were not using tools of metal or wood. Clear slime and sticky, plaster-like ooze were their only utensils.

Whether from that, or from something else, the place was beginning to stink. It was an almost syrupy reek, a hint of something stewing in the moist, warm air. Organic, but putrid, like crab apples rotting on wet autumn grass.

The smell didn't bother Argus in the least.

“The reunion is well along,” the child-who-wasn't said, having to rest only a moment after entering. “The Haven in Greenwich Village is already filling up with those of us who have answered the call. I spoke to the heads of six other refugee houses, Paris, Leningrad, Baghdad, Hong Kong, Cairo, and Toronto. Most report the same thing, their ranks are depleted from the War and the few who have come here are all that remain of their covens.”

“And what of Lucifer?” Arachne asked, helping her master with his cane as he sat down. Yellow lesions had grown up like weeds through the soft skin of his forehead and cheeks. Some were dripping pus that mixed with sweat. His tie was undone.

“No one is speaking of him. For fear of the Morrigan, I'd guess. Many still place their faith in the Keeper,” Argus answered, out of breath.

He was missing two of his front teeth, which filtered his words through a lisp. Every time he inhaled he looked as though he was going to puke, but his stomach was empty.

“They will not join with us then?” she questioned.

“No. Those of us who have gathered here will make our move without outside help,” the ancient child said.

“That changes nothing,” Charybdis broke in. “We've always known that if we were to do this, we would be acting on our own. We've never counted on outsiders for help before.”

“Except perhaps for your beloved,” Arachne replied.

“Yes. Have you spoken with Scylla?” Argus asked.

He was trying to resist the urge to pick at the scabs on
his tiny fingers. One of his nails looked like it was about to fall off, undermined by the decay festering beneath.

The African woman shifted in her footsteps. Her face betrayed her uncertainty, despite the confident tone of her voice.

“I have. I cannot say what impact my words have had, however. You must remember that Scylla has spent nearly three decades bent on a single-minded course, much as I was when you first took me in. Since our parting she has hunted Lucifer like an animal, seeking any clue to his location, determined to avenge herself. It will take more than a kiss from me to turn her from that mission.”

Argus gave in. He pried the hanging nail free. It came loose with barely any resistance; just a few tendrils that clung to his diseased finger like stringy, wet cheese.

“Nevertheless, if she chooses to join us, the decision must be made soon. The full season is very nearly upon us. The Morrigan will come to the Bleecker Street Haven to announce the location of her feast within a day,” he advised, tossing the dead piece of his old self to the floor.

“I will try to sway Scylla to our cause. But nothing will matter if we do not find Lucifer,” Charybdis said.

“Of that I am all too aware,” the sickly child replied.

Pat Flanagan had gone by Vince's apartment as soon as he'd gotten word. The crime-scene guys had still been milling around when he'd arrived, measuring, photographing,
and chronicling where the three bodies had been.

Bloodstains and chalk lines marked the sidewalk in a silent reflection of the morning's events. Even the stray bullets and skull fragments were marked, and there were a lot of both.

A pair of tire tracks had been cordoned off along the curb, with yellow rope draped between two squad cars.

The apartment itself was empty, which was pretty much how he'd expected to find it. There was dried blood on the couch, but the door had been locked from the outside. Otherwise, there wasn't much to go on. If Vince wasn't dead, he had to have gone somewhere, or been taken somewhere. He had an idea where, but he didn't tell anyone. He wanted to make one stop first.

The Sunset Club was closed when Flanagan pulled up. But he banged on the door long enough and loud enough that someone came to open up. To his shock, it was Sam Calabrese himself.

“Salvatore, what a surprise. You here all by your lonesome self?” He had known the man for many years, and he knew exactly how to needle him.

This time, however, his gibe seemed to have no effect. Pat let himself in, but Sam didn't seem to mind. The place was dark, and empty. All the tables were pushed up against the walls, revealing the ruts of old scratches on the black and white floor. The bar was cleared out. Only a
few bottles were left along the mirror, just the cheap stuff that nobody ever drank.

“I am alone, if that is what you mean. Is that what you came here to ask? Is the department suddenly concerned enough to check on my welfare? Or do you have other business this day?”

Sam was dressed in a silk robe and slippers, and he seemed to be sweating. His jowls were fuller than usual, as though stuffed with food, but he didn't appear to be chewing. Flanagan ignored the details, and took a seat at the bar.

Sam remained standing.

“Now really Sammy, after all these years, do I need a reason to come see my favorite bookie?” Again, the joke fell upon a blank stare. “Actually, I do have a business-related reason for my visit. We scraped a few of your boys off the pavement this morning.”

Calabrese said nothing.

“But you already knew that, right? Should I guess that this place is so quiet because all your other boys are too broken up about Paulie and his buddies to come in today?”

Sam wasn't rattled. If Pat hadn't known him better, he might have actually believed him.

“We're in the process of making some changes. The club will be closed for the foreseeable future. Does that answer your question?” Calabrese replied.

“My first one, anyway. How about my second one?”

“Go right ahead, but please be brief.”

“I'm wondering if you can help me find someone.”

“Unlikely.”

“Don't speak too quickly there, Sam. I think you know my friend. Vince Sicario?”

“Of course. Frequent customer. Is he lost?”

“Funny. Still got a sense of humor, good.” Flanagan dropped his own feigned smile then, and he lit a cigarette. “Let me put it to you this way. We both know Vince has been in here recently, and we both know he's been
entangled,,
so to speak, with some of your guys.”

Calabrese remained stoic. Flanagan blew his first long puff of smoke directly into the fat man's face. He dropped his shoulder to lean in close.

“I don't begrudge a man an honest debt, and I've known Vince long enough to know he ain't exactly no kind of angel. But I'll just say this, anything happens to him, and I find out your guys are connected—then my guys are gonna come down so hard on this little operation of yours that you'll be lookin' up to see those fancy
Eye-talian
shoes o' yours.

“Capisce?”

Calabrese, who had seemed to inhale the Parliament smoke with unusual relish, breathed deeply in the wake of his visitor's statement. His answer was quite a bit more agreeable than Flanagan had been expecting. That bothered him.