Monstrous

by Sawyer Black

  Randall’s expression went from tart to angelic. “Because once damned, a soul is past redemption. It’s marked, and there’s no mistaking the stain of damnation. And I don’t see that on you. Yet. You’re still clean, Henry. There’s hope if you’re not wasteful.”

  “But he’s still out there! The murdering fuck.”

  “What happens when you kill him, Henry? What then? Do you have a plan, beyond revenge? Do you just follow him up the chain of corruption?”

  “Why do I need a plan? He’s dead. The fucker’s off the streets. His Christmas is canceled, and he can’t hurt anyone else.”

  “But who are you to judge him? ‘Judge not, that ye shall not be judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged. And with what measure ye mete, it shall me measured to you again.’”

  Henry said, “Don’t even go there.”

  “Go where?”

  “With the Bible shit. Sorry, Randall, never been one for fairy tales.”

  “So even after everything you’ve seen and suffered through, you still don’t believe?”

  “Oh, I believe. But not in the Bible as God’s Word. The book was written by men, and correct me if I’m wrong, but holy shit, men are pretty much responsible for every atrocity in our long and miserable history. So forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about these men who claim to be speaking on behalf of God.”

  Patiently, Randall said, “So when will it be enough, Henry?”

  “Enough what?”

  “Killing. When will you have killed enough to sate yourself?”

  “When the last murdering fucker is dead. Then I’ll quit.”

  “Why stop there? Why not continue, kill all the bad guys in the big wide world?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Henry growled. “Maybe if someone from your team had been doing this from the get-go, bad shit wouldn’t be happening to innocent people.”

  “No.” Randall shook his head. “That is the wrong answer, Henry. Besides, you can never kill them all. Nor can you calculate the costs of your deeds. Every action has an equal reaction. This is an immutable law, whether or not you realize it.”

  “What sort of reaction? One less asshole in the world? Maybe a mom or kid goes to bed without a bruise? Whoa, big loss. The universe couldn’t possibly give a shit. Way I see it, I’m scrubbing the world shiny.”

  “Is that what you’d say to the families who lost their children at the church tonight? That you’re turning the world into a better place?”

  Henry flared and flew toward Randall, surprising himself with a sudden swing of his fist.

  The angel blurred into motion, dodging Henry’s blow. He sent an arc of bluish-white light from his hands which slammed Henry back to the grass.

  Lying flat, though not wounded beyond his pride, Henry yelled, “The church wasn’t my fucking fault!”

  “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to yourself, Henry. Even if you did nothing directly, you know it was connected. You feel it inside, no different than I do. You killed two of their men. Did you really think they would have no response?”

  “Like that? Shooting up a fucking church? Killing innocent children? No.” He shook his head. “I never thought any terrorist shit would go down. You can’t lay that at my feet.”

  “You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with. The hornet’s nest you’ve disturbed.”

  Henry stood. “You’re right, Randall. I don’t have a fucking clue. Maybe that’s because no one tells me shit! So why don’t you be an angel and tell me what in the Hell I’m involved in?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Oh, wait, don’t tell me. There are rules?”

  Randall looked at him with a maddening calm, smoothing his skin and making Henry want to punch the serenity from his face.

  “What good are you?” Henry shouted. “You could’ve warned me about all this before I went off with Boothe.”

  “I tried. I told you not to trust him.”

  “You didn’t explain why I shouldn’t trust him, though! Context, Randall! How am I supposed to make the right decision with nothing to go on? You could’ve given me an idea about what he was planning, or let me know I’d wind up looking like a freak show! That I’d become a monster! That I’d …” Henry stopped, unable to continue.

  Randall looked down at his folded hands. “That you would cause a massacre?”

  Henry’s air left his lungs in a rush, and he fell to his knees, crying into his hands as images of dead children stared back from the memory.

  Randall rested a hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry wanted to shake it away and tell the old man in white to fuck the Hell off. But his touch was as comforting as if it had been his father’s. He might have lost it all, broken down and sobbed into the man’s chest, if the sting of shame didn’t prohibit it.

  “It isn’t too late, Henry.”

  Henry looked up, meeting the angel’s eyes. “Tell me what I’m up against, Randall. What sort of monsters would shoot up a church? Who are these people targeting my wife? And don’t you fucking dare tell me that you can’t say.”

  His eyes filled with sympathy, Randall pulled his hand from Henry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Henry screamed into the night, letting what was left of his rage consume him. He stood, glaring at Randall. “Why? Why any of this? You said you’re looking out for my soul, but you won’t give me the basic information I need to make the right choices.”

  “I’ve told you enough to make a decision. That is all I can do, and all you truly need.”

  “No,” Henry roared. “It’s not enough!”

  “It’s enough to decide whether you want to take the road to Hell or Heaven.”

  “It’s not enough to save my family! I have to stop these people!”

  “You’ll never bring her back,” Randall said.

  “Bring who back?”

  “Her.”

  It was then that Henry realized Randall hadn’t brought him to just any cemetery, for the angel was pointing to a headstone freshly engraved with his daughter’s name.

  “Is she still in Purgatory?” Henry said, barely holding his voice steady. “Have you seen her?”

  “I’ve seen her, yes,” Randall said gently. “Would you like to go back, Henry? Would you like to return, so you can spend some time with Amélie before she is judged, just the two of you together?”

  Henry knew what Randall was doing but would’ve agreed, anyway. He wanted to scream with a deafening Yes! at the angel’s offer. He longed to be with Amélie, to close his eyes here and open them wherever the angel was willing to take him. If only he could get the image of Burg Spires littered with the broken bodies of its children from his mind.

  Children.

  Crying parents.

  A river of honest blood.

  All because of me.

  “I want to,” Henry confessed. “But who will protect Samantha?”

  “Trust in God.”

  Henry looked back at Amélie’s grave. “He’s done a bang-up job so far.”

  “I can have her protected, Henry. Boothe has his minions, but I have resources of my own. Let me help you. Don’t let him force you to do something you can never undo. Save your soul, Henry.”

  Henry turned from the headstone, his head swimming in indecision and bearing the weight of the world’s woes. He began to walk away from the angel.

  Randall asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Consider my offer, Henry. Reject Boothe while you still can.”

  Henry longed to lay his head somewhere and sleep through this latest nightmare.

  He felt inches from death on his way to the apartment, so spent he could barely slip through the shadows. He ambled across darkened alleys, wondering how long it would be before he finally found his way uptown.

  Hours seemed like days before he feebly climbed the side of his building, collapsing onto his fire escape as the sun lit the early morning sky.

 
; He crawled into the loft, then over and into the California king. He didn’t even bother to undress, but simply pulled the covers up to his chin and tried not to think of Samantha in danger, Amélie finding insanity in The Forgotten, or the atrocity he might have caused in pursuit of those that brought harm to his family.

  He closed his eyes, fell asleep, and for the first time since his death, Henry dreamt of nothing.

  CHAPTER 27

  Henry woke to déjà vu.

  Boothe was back in the apartment, sitting at the edge of his bed, watching TV in his bedroom while balancing the remote on the end of his finger. The demon popped the remote into the air, caught it, muted the volume, then turned to Henry.

  “Good morning, Hooded Angel. Did you have sweet dreams?”

  Fuck you.

  Henry said nothing.

  Boothe shrugged and turned the volume back up. “Ooh,” he said, pointing the remote at the TV, airing someone’s cellphone video footage of Henry, running without his hoodie like an animal into the dark. “That’s a terrific shot of you, Henry. Makes you look a little like Gollum, minus the charm.”

  Henry was surprised by the familiar face on-screen, the man with the tear-swollen eyes the cop had been speaking with at the door when Henry made his escape. He was being interviewed, seemingly on location, at the police station. He wore a dark jacket and tie. His look said cop in neon.

  Why are they talking to him?

  The reporter introduced the man as Detective Michael Stone. He’d been off-duty at the church when the three assailants stormed inside. Gunfire erupted while he was in the restroom. He came out too late. The gunmen, which witnesses said were dressed in black hoodies and dark jeans, had killed twenty-six people in less than a minute before escaping.

  Dark jeans and hoodies? What the hell? They tried to set me up?

  Stone emerged from the bathroom to find his seven-year-old son, Stephen, dead. As his story ended, Public Information Officer Nanette Ramirez joined the interview, discussing a person of interest they were looking for. The screen showed a few photos of Henry, stills from the cell phone video shown a moment before. Ramirez stressed that the police would not elaborate if they suspected that the man in the hoodie was also the Hooded Angel, or if the church massacre was tied in any way to the vigilante attacks throughout the city.

  Boothe clapped his hands in mock applause.

  “Person of interest, Henry. You’ve gone from Hooded Angel to Person of Interest! Congratulations. This might be the most attention you’ve ever managed to nab. Far better than that execrable Sitting at the Back of the Bus.”

  Henry finally said what he’d been thinking since opening his eyes. “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t be upset with me, Henry. You’re the one who allowed yourself to be seen.”

  “I didn’t do anything, Boothe. And I didn’t let anything happen! Those fuckers went to a place of worship to kill Sam, then shot up the entire church! Is that what you wanted, why you set me down this path of revenge? Because you’re a goddamned demon who feeds on creating as much misery as possible? Who the Hell are these monsters, and why are they targeting my family?”

  “Disgruntled fans of your work?”

  “Seriously.” Henry ignored Booth’s attempt at humor. “Who are these people? Right after I killed the second fucker, he laughed and straight-up told me they were hitting the church. Oh, and I might add, this was right before he went all suicide on himself. You know what sort of sick fuck it takes to do something like that? Who are these people? Mobsters? Terrorists?”

  Boothe shook his head. “Sorry, Henry. I can’t help you there.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Does it really matter?”

  “Of course it does!” Henry stared at the demon, sick of his bullshit and the endless death. Done being manipulated. He thought of Randall’s offer again. Reject Boothe and he would protect Sam.

  Would he, though? Could he?

  Well he can’t do worse than Boothe is doing. She was almost killed at the church!

  “I’m finished,” Henry said, making his decision before he’d had a chance to think too much more about it.

  Get out now. Get out fast. End it now.

  Boothe smiled as if Henry told a joke. “Finished with what?”

  “Finished with killing. I’m done doing your dirty work.”

  “Henry, Henry, Henry. It’s not my dirty work. These men killed you and your sweet Amélie.” He stood from the bed and dropped his voice to a whisper. “They raped your wife.”

  Henry snapped, leapt from the mattress, and shoved a finger in Boothe’s face. “Don’t you fucking talk about them, ever again!”

  Boothe took a step back, his smile never faltering. “You’re much too close to quit.”

  Henry pointed at the television. “I’ve had enough death. Those bodies in the church. The families slaughtered. That’s on me! Randall was right.”

  “Randall?” He didn’t sound surprised. “Ah, I see. The angel’s been churning your guilt.”

  “And what are you churning?”

  “Me?” Boothe feigned offense. “I churn nothing, because I don’t need to. Our goals are the same. I want what you want. There’s no need to manipulate you, Henry. As far as those people in the church are concerned, all I can say is, get over the guilt. This isn’t your fault, Henry. It was their time. Everyone dies, some earlier than others. If you want someone to blame, blame your benevolent God.”

  Henry had a hundred questions, all different versions of the same thing. What in the Hell do we have in common? or Why should I trust you? Instead, he simply said, “Get out.”

  “What?”

  “Leave. I’m done, so that means you’re finished.”

  Boothe’s gentle laugh slithered under Henry’s skin.

  “No, Henry, you’re not. Being nearly finished and entirely finished are not the same thing. You are nearly finished. Besides, you can’t very well kick me out of my loft.”

  “You said it was mine, and you owe it to me for bringing me back in this.” Henry waved a hand across his twisted body. “Like I said, I’m done.”

  “No,” Boothe said, still smiling. “You aren’t.”

  “Yes. I. Am.”

  “You’ll come around, Henry. I know you. Better than you do, since I’m not afraid to look in all the darkest corners.”

  “No, Boothe, I’m finished! Done with you and everything. Find someone else to do your killing.”

  “Why would I do that when you’re so good at it, Henry?”

  Stop saying my fucking name!

  “Fuck you, Boothe. I’m done.”

  “Henry, stop denying what you truly are. Embrace it. Allow yourself to thrive on the power. We both know you want these men dead, so why do we dance? Even Randall knows it, for Heaven’s sake, and he’s dimmer than a ten-watt bulb. You, Henry, were meant for this. Delight in the experience.”

  Randall’s words echoed through his head. Henry wondered if he could truly trust the angel. Could Randall protect Sam? Could he reunite Henry with his daughter, and would they be together in Heaven? It seemed too good to be true, yet, the man was an angel.

  An angel wouldn’t lie, would he?

  “I reject you, Boothe.”

  The demon laughed, throwing his head back and clutching his stomach. “Ah, Henry, that’s rich.” Boothe cleared his throat, straightened his raspberry tie, and said, “I reject you, Boothe!” The same voice that Eddie Murphy used to impersonate uptight white guys. He laughed again, shaking his head, practically begging Henry to punch him in the face.

  Henry nodded and crossed his arms. “I don’t know what happens next, and I don’t care. I don’t need your apartment, and I don’t need you. Return me to Purgatory or send me to Hell, I don’t fucking care. I’m done dancing.”

  The laughter finally died on Boothe’s lips.

  “And what about your poor suffering Samantha? Shall I call Ezra home? Tell him his services are no longer required because you
decided to roll the dice on your beloved’s safety?” He paused and pointed his index finger in the air, as if conjuring a spark of brilliance. “Or perhaps I can tell him it’s finally fine to go inside. He does get so very hungry.”

  Henry wasn’t buying it. “Bullshit. I spent time with Ezra. He may be a monster, but he’s not that kinda monster.”

  “You willing to bet what you think you know versus what I am certain of?”

  “I’ll trust God to protect her.”

  Boothe laughed yet again, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Why don’t you ask Officer Stone how he feels about God? On second thought, maybe you want to stay away from him at the moment, as he’s busy forming a lynch mob to find you.”

  Henry said nothing.

  “How long do you think you can stay out of sight, Henry? How long before the cult strikes again? Maybe next time they won’t miss your pretty wife.”

  Cult?

  Henry’s heart stopped mid-beat, frozen in his chest. “What?”

  “What ‘what’?” Boothe repeated, seeming confused.

  Instinct said Satan’s Little Helper had suffered a slip of the tongue in mentioning a cult. But Henry’s cynicism said that Boothe had dropped the word intentionally, playing Henry like he had from the get-go, trying to draw him back. Henry felt like a rat drawn to cheese despite the trap. “What do you mean cult?”

  “Did I say ‘cult’?” Boothe shrugged. “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea why I said that.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Boothe?”

  “No, no, you don’t want to know, remember?” A wave of his hand. “You want to reject me. So go ahead and do that, Henry. After all I’ve done for you. Risking my eternal soul to save you from Trackers. You reject me? Fine, but stop pretending you’re better than me. We’re one and the same, Henry, and no lies you tell yourself will change that fact. So you go on and pretend you’re this perfect little angel. But you feed on death. Cease your murders and you will die. Again. And this time you’ll go straight to Hell.”

  “What?” Henry said.

  But Boothe had vanished.

  One day, I’m going to kill that fucking demon.

  “I don’t care, Boothe! Do you hear me? I don’t FUCKING CARE!”