Where Angels Fear to Tread rc-3

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Delilah hoped he would live long enough to receive the funds that were owed him for his services. He certainly was earning them.

  He had demanded maps, and she had obliged him, laying map after map of the entire charted world down upon the floor before him. And after some time, and a great deal of pain, the Hound had found what he believed to be the location of her precious heart’s desire, and it had brought them here, to the United States.

  To Palatka, Florida.

  The phone suddenly rang and she gasped, picking it up and quickly placing it against her ear.

  “Did you find it?” she asked immediately.

  “Not exactly,” Mathias replied, and Delilah felt the world drop out from beneath her.

  “What do you mean, not exactly?” she snarled, glaring at Poole. She was tempted to order him to stop breathing; that would certainly fix him for his incompetence.

  “Perhaps you should come inside,” Mathias suggested. “And bring Poole along.”

  Delilah broke the connection, letting the phone drop from her hand.

  “Poole,” she said.

  The man immediately stiffened, his gaze slowly turning toward her.

  “You’re coming with me,” she commanded.

  The driver was already out of the truck and opening her door to the sweltering Florida air.

  Poole followed, still clutching the metal container forged in the shape of a child, still mumbling beneath his breath, as he trailed his mistress up the overgrown path to the dilapidated house.

  * * *

  Mathias averted his gaze.

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” he said.

  Delilah strode into the room, her eyes scanning the paltry location.

  A woman held a child in her arms, placating the little boy with animal cracker after animal cracker. “Who are you people?” the mother demanded. “Is this about the weed Ron sold? Because if it is. .”

  “Janie, shut your fucking yap,” the filthy man said, scowling.

  “Be quiet,” Delilah snapped, and Ron was compelled to shut his mouth at once. She then looked back to the woman.

  The child smiled warmly, offering Delilah one of his half-eaten treats.

  She approached the mother and child, her anger and disappointment partially dissipating with the child’s attention.

  “I used to have a little boy just your age,” she told the little one, reaching out to stroke the side of his head. “He died of pox while I cradled his tiny body in my arms,” Delilah continued, remembering in a violent slash of recollection the death of one of her sons.

  Janie twisted her child away from Delilah’s affections, her eyes filled with a mother’s rage. “Don’t you touch him.”

  Delilah remembered that rage. She had used it to fuel her survival through the ages.

  And there was so much of it, so much pain.

  She often wondered how much damage her pain would do if it were somehow turned into a weapon and unleashed upon the world.

  “Have Poole come in,” she said, turning away and focusing on Mathias.

  Her head of security went to the door and opened it. “Bring the Hound,” he said.

  Yelverton dragged the wild-eyed man through the doorway. He looked around, his head bobbing as his entire body began to twitch.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with him?” Ron asked.

  The little boy started to laugh, clapping his cookie-covered hands together as Poole dropped violently to the floor, the vessel clattering from his grasp.

  Mathias moved to haul the man up, but Delilah stopped him.

  “Leave him,” she commanded, watching as Poole thrashed and bucked upon the floor.

  “Maybe we should call 911 or something,” Ron offered, fear in his eyes. “Looks like the poor bastard’s having a fit.”

  In a way the man was correct; Poole was indeed having some kind of fit as his body attempted to lock on to traces of Delilah’s prize, and by his reaction, it had most definitely been here.

  “What is it, Poole?” she asked, striding closer as he lay on the floor moaning, his hands reaching for the vessel.

  “Hiding,” the man croaked, dragging himself toward the metal container. “Trying so hard. . trying so hard to mask its trail. . but it was here. . ”

  His hands finally closed around the vessel, and he fought to stand.

  “It was here,” he screamed again, hurling himself across the house toward a cabinet in the corner. He smashed the panes of glass in the cabinet door, scattering the gaudy knickknacks displayed inside.

  “It was here,” he said again, and again, his eyes scanning the contents of the cabinet.

  It had become deathly silent in the room; all eyes were riveted on the crazy man as he stood before the cabinet. Holding the vessel beneath one arm, he reached inside and fumbled about.

  “It was here.”

  He stumbled backward, his eyes darting here and there.

  “I can. . I can hear it. . I can. .”

  His eyes fell upon a drawer just below the cabinet door. He reached out and yanked it open. There was all manner of refuse inside, from take-out menus to old calendars, but that wasn’t what the Hound was searching for.

  It wasn’t what was speaking to him.

  And then the man became very still, his hand deep inside the drawer.

  “What is it, Poole?” Delilah asked. “Did you find something?”

  He turned toward her, an insane look upon his pale features. Slowly he withdrew his hand, clutching a colorful pamphlet.

  “There it is,” he said over and over again, his body slumping as he held out the paper. “There it is.”

  Delilah strode toward him and took it. It was an informational flyer about Franciscan Hospital for Children in Boston.

  “Do you know what this is?” Delilah turned to the woman holding the child.

  “It’s the hospital where Deryn and Carl took their kid,” Janie said.

  “Deryn and Carl,” Delilah repeated.

  “They’re the ones who really live here,” Ron said. “We’re just house-sitting ’til they get back.

  “And they’re still in Boston?” Delilah asked.

  Janie nodded. “Why? Who are you fucking people anyway?”

  “Janie, shut up,” Ron said, rising from his chair.

  “Don’t you fucking tell me to shut up,” Janie shrieked. “I want to know who they think they are coming in here and pulling guns on me and my kid and. .”

  Their bickering annoyed Delilah, distracting her from the excitement of what she’d just learned.

  “Both of you be quiet,” she said, rubbing her brow with a perfectly manicured hand.

  Janie and Ron were silent, and Delilah could see the deep, primal fear in their eyes as they struggled to understand why they suddenly couldn’t speak.

  “Much better,” Delilah said, turning her attention back to the pamphlet. “So Deryn and Carl are in Boston, and they’ve taken their child here. . and my prize?”

  Poole nodded. “Yes, it’s there. It’s there with the child.”

  She then looked at her soldiers, who watched her with cautious eyes. “This is good,” she said with a wide smile that was returned by each of the mercenaries. She showed them the pamphlet. “This is where I’ll be going next,” she added.

  She glanced back at Ron and Janie, and their little boy smiled at her. Her heart practically melted. She turned and held out her hands to him, and he did the same, leaning forward in his mother’s arms.

  Janie instantly reacted, pulling her child back.

  This made Delilah angry.

  “Give him to me,” she commanded.

  And though it was apparently excruciating to do so, Janie handed the baby boy to her.

  The child was laughing, playing with the gold chains that hung around Delilah’s neck. She had no idea what his name was, but she really didn’t care. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d decided to keep him and give him an entirely new name.

  “I think I’ll call you Ma
ximilian,” she said, bouncing the boy in her arms. “Max. . Do you like that name?”

  Janie let out an animal-like moan, throwing herself toward Delilah and her child.

  “Come no closer,” Delilah bellowed, stopping the woman in midstride.

  “I’m going to give him a better life,” she explained. “A much better existence than anything you and that hopeless wretch of a father could provide for him.”

  The woman’s face twisted as she struggled to speak.

  “Go ahead,” Delilah said. “You can thank me if you like.”

  “You fucking bitch,” Janie screamed from the very depths of her soul. “Give me back my son.”

  How ungrateful and rude, Delilah thought.

  “Your old mother has quite the filthy mouth, doesn’t she, Max,” Delilah said as the child continued to squeal happily, grabbing at her chains.

  “I think it’s time for Ron to put himself to good use,” she said, her cold gaze falling upon the man in the NASCAR hat.

  “Kill her,” Delilah said with a sly smile. “And don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to.”

  The weak-willed were always the easiest to manipulate. Ron didn’t even hesitate. He lunged forward and wrapped his strong hands around Janie’s throat.

  “That’s it,” Delilah said, bouncing the child who was now watching his father kill his mother. “This is how Daddy shows how much he loves your old mommy,” she said in a soft voice. She kissed the top of Max’s head as Ron drove a thrashing Janie to the floor of the living room.

  Ron was moaning now, trying to stop himself, but he had a better chance of holding back a tidal wave than trying to defy Delilah.

  “Are we ready to go to Boston?” she asked the baby in her sweetest voice. The child cooed excitedly, arms flapping, as Delilah glanced at Mathias and headed for the door.

  She stopped as she heard a pitiful cry behind her, then turned to see a pathetic Ron, kneeling beside the strangled body of his wife, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of murder.

  “No,” he managed, reaching out for his child.

  She smiled at him, holding the baby she called Max all the closer. “He’s mine now,” she said, kissing the side of the child’s head. “And when we’re gone, I want you to burn this place.” She looked about the disheveled interior with a scowl, then turned and headed out the door that Mathias held open. “Burn it to the ground.”

  She was singing a Mesopotamian lullaby to her new baby when the house at the end of the path exploded, fingers of fire and thick black smoke reaching up into the sky in a futile attempt to blot out the bright Florida sun.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Will you help me, Mr. Chandler?”

  Remy heard Deryn York’s plea again, echoing through his mind as he took a right into the visitor lot of Franciscan Hospital for Children, pulling into the first empty space he could find.

  How could he resist? This case reeked of the bizarre; one of those weird ones that Mulvehill loved to give him shit about. The missing child was drawing pictures of herself being taken by her father weeks before it happened, never mind the fact that she had drawn him as an angel, and Marlowe, and had even managed to get down his telephone number and address.

  There wasn’t a chance he would have turned this one away.

  He pulled a wallet photo of a six-year-old girl in an Elmo sweater from his shirt pocket and gazed at it. According to Ms. York, it was taken at Sears last Christmas, but Zoe’s sad, vacant stare was a sharp contrast to the usual childlike excitement of the season.

  What are you really looking at? he wondered.

  Then placing the photo back in his pocket, he headed toward the hospital’s main entrance in the still-sweltering heat.

  The automatic doors slid open with a hiss, and a cold blast of air-conditioned air flowed out to greet him. He stepped into the small lobby just as an ear-piercing scream filled the air.

  To his right, in the reception area, Remy caught sight of two very nervous-looking parents with a little boy about Zoe’s age. They were trying to coax him deeper into the hospital, but the child’s body was rigid as he rocked rapidly back and forth, and every time they placed a hand on his shoulder, he began to scream and flail wildly.

  Remy slowed his pace as he passed by and caught the child’s eye. Almost immediately the little boy settled down.

  It was a strange fact that many physically or mentally challenged humans seemed to possess a unique gift of sight, as if their disabilities in the natural world somehow made them more sensitive to the unnatural. Very often they were able to glimpse the other side, and those who lived just beyond the veil.

  This little boy could see Remy for what he truly was.

  Angel.

  And he seemed to like what he saw.

  Taking advantage of the sudden calm, the boy’s parents hustled him by, his gaze tracking Remy as they passed.

  Remy smiled, then turned to the reception window.

  “May I help you?” a receptionist asked, sliding back a glass pane and looking at him with unblinking, laser beam eyes.

  “Good morning,” he said, flipping open his wallet and showing her his identification. “My name is Remy Chandler. I’m a private investigator working a missing person’s case, and I was hoping to speak with Dr. Parsons.”

  The woman’s glasses hung on a chain around her neck, and she placed them on her face so she could scrutinize his license. “Missing person?” she asked.

  “Yes, a little girl, Zoe Saylor. I believe she is, or was, a patient of Dr. Parsons’.”

  The receptionist removed her glasses and gazed up at Remy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler, but the laws of patient confidentiality won’t allow us to acknowledge that a child has or has not received care at this hospital.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but the child’s mother did call Dr. Parsons this morning. . ”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler,” she said with a dismissive smile, handing back his identification. “Have a nice day.” Then she slid the window closed as she reached for the trilling phone.

  That was it; Remy was dismissed. It was as if he were suddenly invisible, and that gave him an idea.

  Remy stepped back, as if he planned to leave. Then, glancing around to be sure no one was watching, he willed himself unseen. It was an angelic talent that had proven quite useful over his many years, but it bothered him to use it. Anything that fed the power of the force he kept locked inside him was never a good thing.

  Remy walked past the reception desk toward a bank of elevators, where he found the hospital directory. Dr. Parsons’ office was on the first floor, so he headed down the corridor where he had seen the parents take their child, perusing the names over the doors until he found PARSONS.

  The door was ajar, and he peered inside to find a middle-aged African American man with graying hair sitting at his desk looking over a file. Willing himself visible, Remy tapped his knuckle upon the door.

  “Yes?” the man asked, looking over the top of a pair of bifocals balanced precariously on the tip of his nose.

  “Dr. Parsons, I’m Remy Chandler,” Remy began as he pushed open the door to stand fully in the doorway. “I’m a private investigator.” He pulled out his wallet again and showed the man his identification.

  “Mr. Chandler, you’ve already been told we can’t speak to you,” the man said with a hint of irritation.

  “I guess news travels fast around here,” Remy chuckled. “Look, I have only a couple of very simple questions. Your patient’s confidentiality won’t be affected, I promise. Besides, Zoe Saylor’s mother did call to give her permission for you to speak with me.”

  Parsons closed the file and stood. “A telephone call is not good enough, Mr. Chandler. We must have the parent’s permission in writing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a consultation.” He turned to one of three filing cabinets against the wall near his desk and stuffed the file into the second drawer.

  “I just need to know if Zoe’s father was
acting strangely on the day you last saw her or if he said anything out of the ordinary to anyone on your staff. Please, Dr. Parsons, even the smallest piece of information could be helpful,” Remy begged.

  The doctor slammed the file drawer closed, then grasped Re-my’s arm by the elbow and guided him toward the door. “If you’d like, I can ask security to escort you out,” he said tightly.

  Not wanting to cause a scene, Remy simply thanked the doctor for his time and headed down the hall. As soon as he was certain the doctor wasn’t watching him, he willed himself invisible again and walked back to the office.

  Dr. Parsons had gone, so he quickly let himself inside and went directly to the file cabinets. Zoe’s file was in the top drawer of the last file cabinet. Pulling it out, he carried it to the doctor’s desk and began to thumb through the surprisingly thick file.

  He found page after page of test results, therapy evaluations, and dated doctor’s notes, none of which proved helpful. But then in the back of the file, he found something familiar—childish drawings in crayon. Zoe certainly did like to draw.

  Remy flipped through the illustrations, searching for something, anything, he could consider a clue. And then he found it—a crude drawing of a brown-skinned man dressed in what seemed to be green scrubs. Above the figure, the name Frank was scrawled in a child’s hand.

  Frank was in quite a few of the later drawings as well, and in one, he was even in the car with Zoe and her father.

  Remy went back to the beginning of the file and began to search for any mention of Frank. He found it. Frank Downes was an occupational therapy assistant who had frequently worked with Zoe.

  Remy closed the file and returned it to the cabinet.

  He’d found his first good lead; now it was time to find Frank.

  Carl Saylor’s daughter was an angel.

  He glanced over at the little girl, sitting in the front passenger seat of his 200 °Chevy Cavalier as they drove south on I-95, on their way to. .

  Where? Where were they going? He wasn’t entirely sure.

  Carl knew he shouldn’t have taken her, but it had felt right.