by Brian Fuller
Cassandra watched him leave with her hands on her hips. “Good riddance,” she muttered under her breath. Her frumpy housewife attire was all part of the plan, but Trace was unsure if the haggard look on her face was part of a disguise or a remnant of the chilly car ride. Trace hiked up his pants, finding the low-riding jeans quickly becoming an annoyance.
“Time for some quality time with Mummy, Billiam,” Cassandra said as they meandered casually away from the house and down the street.
“Shouldn’t we stay close, Mom?” Trace asked.
“If this is what I think this is, then no,” Cassandra answered. “We’ll scare them off. And you can drop out of character now, Jarhead.”
“Who would we scare off?”
“When I was doing time as a beat cop—”
Trace’s eyebrows went up. “You were a cop?”
“Is that so weird to you? Anyway, thieves would read the papers and look for funeral announcements and then rob the house when the family was at the viewing or the funeral. Total bastards.”
“That’s low.”
“Yep.”
They walked in silence for some minutes with no real path or plan until 10:07 a.m. neared and Cassandra led them to a discreet vantage point behind a monstrous SUV parked forty yards down the street. She stopped and started fake listening to her phone. Trace watched the house through the tinted windows of the SUV. At precisely the time indicated in the vision, a nondescript gray van drove up the street and backed into the Preston’s driveway. Two men in jumpsuits piled out, walked to the front porch, and tested the door. It opened; the Prestons had forgotten to lock it.
“Yep. Just as I thought,” Cassandra said.
“So what now?” Trace wondered.
“We call the cops,” she replied, starting to dial the phone.
Trace couldn’t believe it. He swiped the phone out of her hands. “Call the cops? Are you serious? So the Occulum has this vision, and we get this assignment to come over here so we can call the cops? We’re Ash Angels. These jerks are robbing a family who just lost a daughter. Do we really want them to come home to police cars and missing stuff?”
Cassandra’s face scrunched up. “What’s your problem, Jarhead? Give me my phone before I discipline your baggy teenage butt right here!”
With a quick pull, Trace ripped the battery out of the phone and stuffed it in his pocket. “Here’s your phone!” he said, tossing it back before sprinting toward the Preston’s house.
Cassandra’s mouth dropped open, and she yelled at him to come back.
He ignored her. It was time to make a difference.
As he had discovered during training, running as an Ash Angel was pure joy—no exhaustion, no cramped muscles, no ragged breathing, just a dead-on sprint that could last forever. He hopped the three steps to the door, still slightly ajar, pushing it open and walking in as if he owned the place.
Walking down the beige tile entryway and scooping a phone from its base in a nearby living room, Trace followed the sound of the nervous, gruff voices. As he emerged into an open kitchen–family room area, the two thieves in jumpsuits regarded him with surprise, setting down the fifty-inch flat screen they had just pried loose from its mount above the fireplace. Both were scroungy lowlifes who appeared exhausted from waking up before ten to rob a house.
Trace tossed the phone to the one on the right. He juggled it but kept it from falling to the floor. “Call 911 and tell them the house is being robbed.”
“We’re not robbing the house, kid,” the one on the left lied easily. “We’re taking the TV in for repair, so why don’t you just run along. It’s real nice, you looking out for your neighbors and all, but this ain’t none of your concern.”
Trace smirked and nodded. “Riiiiight. So a family from a nice neighborhood asked a couple of slime bags in an unmarked van to come pick up their TV while they were attending the funeral of their daughter who died of leukemia three days ago. Start dialing. It’d be nice if the police could pick you two up before the family gets back and actually has to see you.”
The two men turned to each other as if waiting for the other to figure out what to do. The man with the phone threw it on the leather couch across the room.
“And if we don’t, what are you going to do, you little piss ant?”
“Beat your face in until you beg me to stop. So what’ll it be, guys?”
A trace of doubt flashed across their faces before their testosterone took hold and they laughed, only a hint of nervousness remaining.
The larger of the two, a bald, slightly overweight man with protruding eyes, strode over to Trace. He stood a full six inches taller than the teenage-sized Trace, who stared back unblinkingly.
The thug looked down menacingly, breath hinting at an early morning beer. “You wanna say that again, little punk?”
“Sure. I will beat your face in until you beg me to stop. I’ll let you hit me first. I mean, assaulting a juvenile. Wonder how long you’ll get to play prison bride after that.”
A light knock on the door distracted them both.
“Oh, Billy, dear, are you in here?” Cassandra called sweetly.
Trace did his best whiny, scared teenager voice. “Mom! Mom! These two guys said they’re going to hurt me if I tell anyone they’re robbing this house! What do I do, Mommy?”
Cassandra walked forward, turning on her actress mode. “They did?” She pulled the BBG from her ample black purse and pointed it at them.
“Whoa, lady!” the thief in front of Trace exclaimed, stepping back with his arms raised.
“You bothering my boy?” Cassandra said.
“No, no!” the man said, glancing back at his partner. “Your boy thinks we’re robbing the place, but we’re just here to get the TV to the repair shop. It’s just a big mistake!”
Cassandra looked disgusted and lowered the gun a foot. “Oh, really? And what’s the name of your repair company?” The two thugs looked at each other, nonplussed. “That’s what I thought. So what’s the plan, Billy Willy Puddin’ Pie?”
“First make them hang the TV back up,” Trace suggested.
“Shouldn’t we leave it for the police, honey?”
“No,” Trace replied. “The family has gone through enough without having to deal with an attempted robbery and the police asking questions and searching the house to make sure nothing else was taken.”
Cassandra cocked her head to the side. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She waved her gun at the men. “Put it back. Fast!” She put a little crazy back into her voice, and they snapped to it.
“When they’re done,” Trace said, “bring them out to the van. I’m going to go check it out.”
Trace left the house and opened the van. As expected, it was a mess of beer cans and trash. The middle and rear benches of the vehicle had been stripped out to allow room for cargo, a couple of televisions, a computer, and four laptops occupying about half the space. Two cases of beer sat behind the front seat, a bag of marijuana in the glove compartment, and a stash of well-traveled pornography under the passenger’s side seat.
An idea, cruel but satisfying, crept into Trace’s mind.
Cassandra shepherded the two crooks out the door, closing the door behind her. Trace clambered into the driver’s side door. “Put them in the back, Mom.”
“Sure thing, darling Billy.”
In moments, they were pulling out of the driveway, Cassandra in the passenger side with the gun trained on the two cowed thieves. Trace hoped no one in the neighborhood had seen the van at all and there would be no indication that the attempted robbery had ever taken place.
“So, Billy, what now?” Cassandra asked, eyes curious but intense.
“Well, there’s a case of beer behind the seat. Have them start drinking. Then call Dad and tell him we’ll be about half an hour. Oh. Here’s your battery.”
Cassandra played along as they drove around, forcing their captives to drink beer at an accelerated rate. By the sweat on their faces,
Trace could tell they were freaked out, and he expected them to start begging for mercy at any second. He drove around the suburbs until he found what he wanted: an elementary school. He drove a hundred yards away and parked the van on the side of the road.
“Can I have the gun for a minute, Mumzy?”
“Sure, Sweetie Cakes. This is your show.”
Trace trained the weapon on the thugs. “Listen up, dumbasses. You do what I say and no one gets hurt. I’ll even let you get your van back. Strip. All of it. Cassandra, there’s a marker underneath the map and pot in the glove compartment.” He turned back to his reluctant captives and thrust the gun at them. “Do it, or I’ll burn your van down with you in it!”
They complied. He took the marker and gave the gun back to Cassandra. “Okay, turn your backs to me. If either of you moves, Mom will blow a hole in you so big you could throw a football through it.” With a smile, Trace drew a swastika on each of their backs. Cassandra’s eyes shot wide, and she stifled a laugh.
“What’d you draw?” the big man asked, craning his head.
“Get out!” Trace ordered after he was sure no traffic was coming.
“You heard him!” Cassandra added.
After opening the rear doors, they clambered out, covering themselves for modesty.
“Your van will be down the street. Come and get it!” Trace taunted, closing the doors. He hopped back behind the wheel, turned the car around, and sped past the school about a hundred yards in the other direction. “Now call the cops,” he told Cassandra. “Tell them a couple of men are streaking past the elementary school.”
They got out of the van as Cassandra called it in. A few moments later they sprinted down a nearby street and ducked into a park. A call to Goldbow came next. When she finished, she regarded Trace and shook her head, trying hard to keep a serious face.
“Do you have any idea how many forms you’re going to have to fill out?” she finally asked.
“Nope. So you were a cop. How much time will they get for a naked, drunken streak through a school zone with swastikas on their backs and then trying to get away in a van full of pornography, stolen goods, and marijuana?”
“It depends on if the cops buy their story about a mom and her mean kid forcing them to do it.” She exhaled. “You are so busted, Jarhead. Ramis is going to have your head . . . and mine.” Her tone lost its mirth and started to carry the same weight and anger as always. “Start morphing into something different in case the police come looking for us.”
The morphing proved unnecessary as Goldbow pulled up in the Taurus a couple minutes later. They hopped in, and when they pulled up to the intersection, they had the pleasure of seeing the two men up against the van in handcuffs as naked as the day they were born.
Prescilla averted her eyes. “Oh, dear.”
When Cassandra told the tale, doing her best to infuse it with a disappointed tone, she got nothing but laughter in response.
“Trace,” Goldbow said proudly, “that is the best thing I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. You are the man! Well, at least until we get back to Trevex . . .”
Chapter 8
Allison June Parker
Trace’s self-satisfied glow had dissipated to a weak glimmer by the time they pulled into the parking lot of Trevex D. The four-story brick building hovered ominously over him like his angry father used to do, trying to intimidate him with its bulk. During the short ride back to Trevex, the general mirth in the car had quickly faded, Cassandra’s mood souring as she cataloged the different forms Ramis would shove down their throats the minute he found out what Trace had done. Even the supportive Goldbow turned sober. Prescilla, the only completely innocent one of the group, hummed unconcernedly as she embroidered.
Goldbow killed the engine and pulled out the keys. “Cassandra, let’s hit the range together after—”
Cassandra cut short his request by stepping out and slamming the door. Then Trace understood. These two had not just been partners in the field; Cassandra and Goldbow had been a couple. Was that why she’d quit the Ash Angels? Because of something Goldbow did? Prescilla shook her head at the emotionally overwrought pair, lips turned up in an amused, elderly smile.
Trace thought of asking Goldbow about their history, but the Michael bailed out in a huff, the car rocking as he slammed the door shut. Goldbow paced for a minute with his hands behind his head and then leaned against the Taurus, gaze pegged to the distance. Prescilla tsked and put her angel away.
Setting aside the Cassandra puzzle, Trace dredged up his will to face unknown consequences. If they tried to treat him like some sort of idiot child, he thought he might just walk out of the AAO. He breathed in just so he could express his lack of enthusiasm with a depressed exhale as he got out of the car. He had caused problems for his superior, and anyone in the military knew that making trouble for a superior was stupid. What had taken hold of him outside the Preston’s house?
As he trailed Cassandra toward the building, he wasn’t sure if he felt bad about his vigilante heroics because he had broken the rules of the Ash Angel Organization or because he had done something morally wrong. He jogged to catch up to his long-striding trainer, who yanked open the glass doors without a look back.
Goldbow and Prescilla followed slowly several yards behind.
“Look, Cassandra, I didn’t want this to end in a lecture from Ramis. How is this going to go down? Do you have to report what happened?”
She threw up her hands. “Of course I have to report what happened! All of us will fill out a 155-TER, the Training Evaluation Report, which we would have done even if you had been a good little boy and let me call the cops. That report will go up to Ramis. Depending on his availability, he will read them within a few hours to a few days. When he does, rest assured you and I will be getting an angry phone call from Athena, if not Ramis himself. Then the laughter will disappear and the forms will multiply like rabbits, and I mean the ugly, mean kind of rabbits. So enjoy yourself today. You and your ego are about to get ripped a new one, probably right after I get ripped a new one.”
She headed for the women’s locker room at a blistering pace.
“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Trace called after her.
“And you won’t be training with me tonight!” she yelled back. “So just hang out with the rest of the Cherubs!”
Trace glanced up as the classroom door squeaked open and Athena entered with her ever-present clipboard. She had ditched her older, motherly looks for a severe, female-executive vibe in a black pantsuit, sharp glasses, and pulled-back black hair.
Their instructor, Ganymede, stopped her dry lecture on the international operations and reach of the Ash Angel Organization while Athena whispered to her. It was 1:10 a.m. the morning after his ride-along.
Trace exhaled and leaned back. The interview with Ramis had arrived.
Athena turned toward the class and with a disapproving scowl singled him out, beckoning with her index finger. He felt like a kid called to the principal’s office despite having morphed back to adult size. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to let himself be treated like a child.
“Good luck, Trace,” Prescilla offered as he stood and walked out to a great deal of whispering.
The story of his adventure had spread throughout the Cherubs and the staff almost instantaneously, probably thanks to Prescilla, who showed an adeptness for gleaning and nurturing the gossip grapevine. Oddly, what had worried and gnawed at Trace’s conscience for hours had turned him into a folk hero. Even the instructors who knew he was going to get busted smiled at him when he passed. He tried to keep his head from inflating; a giant pin in the form of Archon Ramis awaited. He seemed like the type that would take pleasure in popping any self-inflation from an upstart Cherub.
The decidedly cold Athena had nothing more than “Follow me” to say as they navigated beneath the rectangular fluorescent lights to the elevator that would take them underground to the offices he had heard about but never seen.
A special key was required, and after Athena had inserted it and punched the well-worn U button, she turned to her clipboard and scribbled some notes on a form. Every once in a while she would glance at him and write more. Was she noting how repentant he looked?
The doors slid open. A fuming Cassandra, dressed as formally as Athena, waited to get on. Trace thought about saying hello, but she refused to make eye contact with him as he and Athena exited. The elevator swallowed his trainer. Athena shook her head and frantically wrote on her clipboard while mindlessly walking the hallways of the underground center.
Unlike the utilitarian cinder block and bland tile building above them, the offices of the administrators and bureaucrats were modern and well appointed. A plush plum carpet graced their feet as they passed tan walls decorated with famous art pieces in the classical style. Mellow piano music filled the entire area from in-ceiling speakers, and recessed vaults held larger pieces of art and various artifacts.
Trace felt out of place. Everything about the Ash Angels had seemed so gritty and outdated. Clearly there was another side he had missed, and he wondered how many Ash Angels worked in environments like this. Did the instructors have offices down here too?
Athena led him to a finely appointed lobby with leather couches, a glass coffee table, and a rack full of procedural training manuals.
“Wait here, Trace,” Athena ordered sternly. “The Archon will be with you shortly.” She retired to her office and shut the door, undoubtedly to let Ramis know the unruly child had arrived. Too antsy to sit, Trace wandered around the room, staring at the fake plants and tasteful office art.
Expectedly, Ramis made him wait, and Trace passed the time thumbing through a computer security guidelines manual. Finally, Athena exited her office.
“The Archon will see you now,” she informed him, leading him to a more finely appointed door with a substantial golden plaque that read “Archon Ramis.” She opened the door. “Trace Evans is here to see you, as requested, Archon.”
“Thank you, Athena. Hold any calls lower than priority three.”
