The Getaway God

  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 umbrella
s. 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.

  “What was that?”

  Carlos says, “Exactly what it looked like. Protection. But for real. Do you know how many cops are left in the city? They’re splitting town just like everybody else. The cops that are left, they need a little extra motivation to answer the phone if there’s trouble.”

  “A nice racket.”

  Carlos shakes his head and throws back his drink.

  “The price of doing business in L.A.”

  He pours us both another round and holds up his glass for a toast.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  We clink glasses and drink. I shake my head.

  “I can’t believe it’s Christmas again. How do you ­people stand having the same holidays over and over? In Hell they only have holidays when Lucifer feels like it, so it’s always a surprise and all the little goblins are giddy as kindergartners.”

  “You going back to the old country for the holidays?”

  “Yeah, I’m Hell’s Secret Santa, bringing all the good little imps coal and fruitcake.”

  “How do you tell the difference?” says someone behind me.

  I turn and find Eugène Vidocq, besides Candy probably my best friend on this stupid planet. He doesn’t like talking about his age and swears he isn’t a day over a hundred and fifty, but I know he’s well over two hundred. He’s also immortal. And a thief. And after being in the States for more than a hundred years, he still has a French accent thick enough to slice Brie, a last remnant of his home that he won’t ever let go of.

  He claps me on the back and nods to Carlos. Orders a ­couple of drinks. He isn’t alone. Brigitte Bardo is with him. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek. Brigitte is Czech. She was a skilled zombie hunter back in the day and used to do porn to support her hunting habit. These days she’s working her way into regular Hollywood films. But it’s slow. She still has an accent and it’s, you know, the end of the world, so there’s fewer films in production. When she’s not auditioning, she helps out at Allegra’s Lurker clinic.

  Carlos brings Vidocq whiskey and Brigitte red wine.

  “Where’s Candy?” she says.

  “She wasn’t feeling well. Did you find anything wrong with her when she stopped by yesterday?”

  “Nothing that I know of. She just took her Jade potion and left. She seemed fine.”

  “Maybe I should call her again.”

  “Leave her alone. This time of year can put ­people into odd moods.”

  “Don’t I know it,” says Carlos. “It was just about a year ago that you wandered in here the first time. You were looking a little bleary, Mr. Stark.”

  “As I recall, I’d just crawled out of a cemetery and was wearing stolen clothes.”

  “You always make an impressive entrance,” says Vidocq. “As I recall, after your return you were going to shoot me the first time we saw each other.”

  “Total misunderstanding. And sorry.”

  He holds up his glass.

  “Whiskey under the bridge.”

  “You kicked a bunch of skinheads’ asses for me, remember?” says Carlos. “I didn’t know about any of you Sub Rosas or Lurkers back then. If those fuckers came in here these days, I’d give them a faceful of this.”

  He holds up a potion from behind the bar.

  I look at Vidocq.

  “One of yours?”

  “You’re not the only one who barters for drinks,” he says.

  “Rumor has it you’re doing some freelance work for the Vigil these days too. How does it feel to be back?”

  Vidocq shakes his head. Regards his drink.

  “Strange. As strange as I bet it is for you.”

  “I’m still not sure it’s the right thing to be doing, but if I wasn’t working for them I don’t know if I’d be doing anything at all.”

  “Confusion. Strange alliances. God’s new deluge. These are the things the world has been reduced to. Apocalypse. Le merdier. So let’s drink to the void.”

  Brigitte sighs and picks up her wine.

  “You boys are too grim for me. I’m going to find more congenial company.”

  I say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a drag.”

  “You’re never a drag, Jimmy, but I see a studio friend I met when I first came here. A girl must maintain her connections, mustn’t she? Maybe I can be in the last movie before the world ends.”

  “Now who’s the drag?”

  She shrugs extravagantly.

  “Knock ’em dead,” I tell her.

  I turn back to the bar and pick up my drink. I haven’t had a cigarette in hours. My lungs are aching for abuse.

  “Tell me the truth. Are we good enough for this? Look at us. What a bunch of fuckups.”

  “What choice do we have?” says Vidocq. “Who else will do this if not us?” br />
  “The government.”

  “Save us from our saviors.”

  I sip my Aqua Regia and Carlos moves off to serve other customers.

  “I don’t trust the Vigil much more than the Angra. What’s more important to them, saving the world or controlling whatever’s left when this is over?”

  Vidocq looks at his hands. Flexes his fingers. He looks good for two hundred. Not more than his forties.

  “I was twenty-­five when I faced my first apocalypse. When the bloated corpse of the eighteenth century rolled into its grave, making way for the wonders of the nineteenth. You should have seen Paris. Half the city praying, flagellating, and prostrating themselves before Notre-­Dame and images of the Madonna. The other half whoring and drunk while fireworks burned brighter than all of Heaven.”

  “I wonder which group you were with?”

  “The Madonna and I had parted ways many years before that, I’m afraid.”

  I look around the room and spot Brigitte sitting at a table with a group of network executives decked out in designer faux-­military gear and safari vests like they’re running off to a Brentwood Red Dawn key party. But like a few million others, they’re just headed out of town with the family jewels sewn into the lining of their bulletproof trench coats. Brigitte laughs as the gray-­haired alpha wolf exec lays some of his survival gear on the table. Lengths of paracord. Sapper gloves. A multicaliber pistol. Condoms in Bubble Wrap. A multitool with more moving parts than a Stealth bomber. Watching her smile, I wonder if Brigitte is pulling out of her depression or if she’s just an actress playing at being all right.

  “There were suicides and riots. Fury and ecstatic joy, and all for the same reason. The world would end or be transformed, and unlike now, in this age of science and desperate rationality, there was nothing we could do about it. So each of us did what made sense. Drink. Pray. Stay with loved ones or sail off to the ends of the earth.”

  “And here you are.”

  “And here I am. Alive and not quite yet mad.”

  He finishes his drink and holds up the empty glass for another.

  “The point is that I believe we will survive. Or enough of us will to make the world worth fighting for.”

  “It better be. I’m not kickboxing monsters so the Vigil and Homeland Security can turn L.A. into one big It’s a Small World ride.”