* * *
Beverly Simon had been in the water long enough that her fingers and toes had pruned and the lavender scent of the bath oil had calmed her nerves about as much as it was going to. Which wasn’t much. Her stomach was a pit of writhing snakes.
She took slow, deep breaths and tried to envision herself surrounded by a calming white light, but it wasn’t working. The inexplicable feeling of dread had been with her since the visions she’d had during Abby Strane’s visit. They hadn’t ended there, either; intermittent images still flashed, though they weren’t as clear as the earlier ones.
Just keep breathing. Slow, deep, calming breaths.
A shrill chime broke the silence. Snapping upright in the water, heart pounding, she saw her phone sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter. A text. Beverly drew herself out of the water. The cool air felt good against her wet skin and she didn’t bother drying off, just wrapped a towel around herself and checked her phone.
Trevor. She let her shoulders slump. He wanted to know what he should do with the personalized clock the Hamiltons had given them as a wedding gift. Did she want it or should he toss it out with the rest of the “shit” she hadn’t bothered to take with her when she up and moved to that “godforsaken podunk town?”
She stared at the phone, wondering what would happen if she simply didn’t reply. He’d come looking for me. Trevor Keece, half-gentleman, half-tyrant, was unpredictable; he required finessing.
Beverly and Trevor had both grown up in Snapdragon, California, and though she’d seen him in passing, she’d never officially made his acquaintance until the night they’d both attended a fundraiser for the homeless. They’d exchanged fleeting glances and nervous smiles all night. He’d looked so handsome in his three-piece suit, dark hair combed back. The next several months were a blur of romance: horse-drawn carriage rides, dinners by candlelight, and even a two-week trip to Paris.
There was just one problem with Trevor Keece: He had a fondness for the drink, and when under its all-too-frequent influence, the fun-loving Dr. Jekyll turned the reins over to his much less affable counterpart. He had never hit her, not while they were dating, anyway. Trevor was more of a wall-puncher, a vase-thrower, a door-slammer. Still, when he’d proposed, Beverly had declined, saying she wouldn’t marry a drunk.
Her mistake was that she’d believed him when he’d sworn off the booze. Not because he’d told her she was more important to him than the drinking, not because he’d said he couldn’t envision the rest of his life without her and that he’d do anything - anything - to make her happy, but because he’d put the work into it. He put himself through rehab and started A.A. When he received his ninety-day sobriety chip, she’d agreed to marry him.
Two months - and one black-eye later - she packed her things into a U-Haul trailer and was on the highway before he’d even gotten home from the Trumpet Hotel, where he was general manager. Beverly had found her new apartment - and shop - for rent online beforehand.
Prominence was a little place, but it was affordable. And it was far away from Snapdragon where, as long as Trevor Keece was alive, she’d never have any peace. So she’d left, filed for divorce, had her last name officially reverted, and opened up The Psychic Sidekick, where she made a humble living doing what she believed she was born to do: give guidance. To help other people. Clearly, her psychic gifts didn’t work so well on her own life.
That had been nine months ago.
Beverly decided to ignore the text, resolving that she was done with men for good. Or at least for a while. Trevor was the latest in a long string of bad relationships. She’d do just fine on her own.
She set the phone down and began drying her hair. Staring at herself in the mirror, she thought a new hairstyle was in order. She didn’t fuss much over things like dyes and manicures, but maybe an appointment at Vang’s Bangs for a new look would keep the spinstery feelings at bay. I’m only thirty-four, she told herself. It’s too soon to feel like an old maid. A moderately young maid, maybe, but not an old one. Her reflection smiled back at her.
Then the smile crashed. Images flashed - images so powerful, so brutal, that she clutched the counter for balance. Her towel dropped to the floor and the room spun.
Beverly sees his shadow. He stands in a darkened alleyway, walking stick in hand.
He turns and faces Beverly and she hears bells jingling. At first, they’re distant, but as he nears, their volume rises, rises. He’s close now, right in front of her.
New images:
The ice-white glint of wet teeth as his mouth curls into a smile - a smile that isn’t sane. Blood gushes out from between those straight, white posts, like water bursting through narrow cracks of a dam.
A cloven hoof hits the earth in a cloud of dust as lightning flashes and thunder cracks.
The bells ring out terrible, cacophonous sounds so loud Beverly feels them in the back of her throat, in her teeth.
Disembodied laughter - deranged, lunatic giggling - swells around her, competing with the thunder and the roar of the bells.
The man stands before her now, his face shrouded in black shadow beneath a tall hat. He raises his head toward the light, revealing a face that is as handsome as it is terrible. It is the kind of face that will drive her mad if she looks too long, and yet she cannot look away.
He removes his hat and gives her a small, graceful bow. When he uprights himself, she sees that he is nude from the waist up. His bloodstained lips part and a forked tongue spills from his mouth like a satiny, wet strip of unspooling red ribbon. The tongue drops impossibly low, moving in strange jerky motions, leaving glistening trails on his naked torso as it explores the ridges of his muscled body like an animal scenting something. It pauses at the nipples, flicking them with the points of its forks. Pinpricks of blood form where the tongue has pierced that tender skin.
The tongue pauses, as if catching a new scent. It perks up, seeming to sniff the air around it. Both forks pointing at her, it stops.
And then it shoots straight for Beverly’s throat.
Her own scream shocked her. She teetered against the bathroom counter, catching her balance, staring at the tiled floor. Covered in cold, clammy sweat, she raised her head and stared at her own reflection in the mirror. Hers was the face of a hunted animal - her eyes haunted and wide, her lips white with terror, her skin drained of color.
Then the mirror cracked, dividing her face into two disparate halves.
Beverly Simon slipped to floor, cradled her knees, and wept.
The Whisperers
Sunday morning, Alejandro perched on Madison’s roof. The house sat alone on a small rise, overlooking the town of Prominence. The property was surrounded by leafless trees and green pines that thickened as they led toward the tall mountains behind them. Before him Prominence spread out on the high desert floor, a series of straight intersecting streets thick with businesses in the center of town and thinning out to the homes that edged its borders. It wasn’t an attractive place - it was too dry and cracked for that - but there was a certain beauty in its simplicity. Alejandro knew somehow that he wasn’t a local.
I must have been visiting. Maybe I have family here. Or friends. Why can’t I remember?
But that didn’t feel right either. He had no idea what had brought him to Prominence.
Yesterday, after returning to the house and adding the fish to the stone-edged garden pond - and being told in no uncertain terms that no, he could not go swimming with the koi - Madison had taken him to a place called the Wal-Mart and purchased more comfortable garments for him. After that, she’d spent the afternoon looking at pictures and words in her lap-screen and asking him questions about his likes and dislikes. He had a few answers: He knew that he liked Madison, animals, honey, and clouds. And he did not like wearing garments or being near people - especially people in hospitals.
But when she asked about his past, Alejandro had no answers for her, and he’d become frustrated. According to the lap-screen, Alejan
dro had episodic amnesia and needed medical attention. Again, Madison had asked him to let her take him to the hospital, and again, Alejandro had refused. He knew what hospitals were: Hospitals were full of sick people who needed help, and this made Alejandro very tired, though he did not understand why.
By the day’s end, he had become irritable and the new garments hadn’t helped his sour mood at all. Though Madison had allowed him to change into his hedgehog hoodie and a new pair of soft cotton sweaty-pants, he did not like the feel of fabric; it smothered him - it was infuriating. And hot.
Even the gray shorts were irritating. Last night, Madison had explained that these were “boxers” and that while it was okay for him to sleep in them, he needed to wear something over them during the day. While he understood that he must not roam unclothed, he could not understand why every inch of him should be concealed at all times. He had not been able to sleep in the hot body casings and had slipped the boxers off and dropped them to the floor. And now, while Madison still slept, he took advantage of the solitude and, unclothed, tried to locate the source of the disembodied voices.
The whisperers.
He’d first heard them at the hospital as they drove past it yesterday. They were loud, insistent, but they’d dissipated once they drove away. But they had left him very tired.
He hadn’t heard any voices again until last night and these, he knew, were not coming from the hospital. They came from all over the town. They’d begun quietly but grew in strength as the night deepened. He’d wanted to follow them then, but refrained, doing his best to ignore the whispers.
But they would not be ignored.
Soon, they were overlapping and much too loud for Alejandro to sleep through. He’d spent many hours listening, focusing on one voice and following it, trying to understand. He realized the whispers had one thing in common: they wanted help. Help with the kids, help with a math test, help with a growth on one woman’s breast, help with finding money, advice for funeral arrangements. Help, help, help! The requests had tugged at him on an innate level, and he felt he really ought to do something to assist them - but what? I do not even know who I am! And they were just so exhausting.
The whisperers did not go silent until very late, and finally, he had slept.
When the sun came back, they resumed their chatter, though with much less intensity. He strained to hear them now over the guttural calls of at least a dozen ravens that had gathered on the roof around him. Alejandro glanced at an especially brave one and smiled as it inched closer. A great bird circled the sky above him and, a moment later, was joined by another. He knew they were red-tailed hawks and wondered how he knew. He seemed to know a great many things, but there were other things, like Madison’s lap-screen and the teevee, that he could not comprehend.
The hawks coasted overhead, calling to him. But Alejandro wasn’t interested in the birds.
Though the whispers were spread out much thinner now, they were still there, and they were still sad. Alejandro tried to relax but he could not.
He gazed down on the many rooftops. The chill morning breeze soothed his bare skin, but the scent of the recent storm still lingered and as he raised his face to test the air, he knew another one was on its way. A bad storm, he thought, and he did not like the feel of it, not at all.
His gaze was drawn to the tall church several miles away. From here, he saw the stone tower, its large golden bell glinting through the gray dusk of morning. There was something about the building that made Alejandro grit his teeth. It is a very bad place.
A cool wind moved over him. He looked down at Madison’s property; the rain would do nothing to help the dead rose bush below, but he worried it might upset the koi. He watched as several deer neared from the trees behind the house. Soon, a few fluffy gray rabbits appeared as well, bounding in starts and stops as they approached. A ground squirrel peeked out from his den. A sparrow landed next to him.
The breeze caressed Alejandro’s face.
Yes. The storm is close. Very close.
* * *
The ring of her phone woke Olivia LeBlatte. She swiped it off the night table and squinted, unable to make out the caller.
“Golden Hedgehog Realty,” she said in case it was a client. “Olivia LeBlatte speaking. How may I help you this morning?”
She was about to hang up when a man finally spoke. “Ms. LeBlatte.” She didn’t recognize the voice. “I have some news for you about St. Agatha’s.”
St. Agatha’s? “Mr. Willard?” She sat up.
“Yes, of course,” he said as if he expected her to know who the hell was calling at - she looked at the clock - six-twenty in the morning.
She put on her best business voice and reached for the floor, feeling for her purse. “What about St. Agatha’s?” She found the black Gucci bag, fumbled around inside it, pulled out her Virginia Slims.
“I’ve received a call from a gentleman in Moonfall last night. A Mr. Jones.”
Olivia cradled her phone to her ear and made a winding hurry-it-along motion with one hand.
“He’s interested in purchasing the property. Very interested.”
The Virginia Slim tumbled, unlit, from her lips. “A buyer? Are you serious?” She hadn’t even known the place was for sale.
“A potential buyer, Ms. LeBlatte. Until the paperwork is signed, I count on nothing.” A long pause. “I am depending on you, Ms. LeBlatte, to drive the final nails in, as it were.” His low sluggish chuckle dripped smug assholiness.
God, how she hated Draven Willard. Descended from the infamous Joseph Willard, founder of Prominence, Draven believed himself superior to the rest of the town. Even the way he lived - in that grand, gated, flat-roofed hacienda of glass and stone built into the side of the mountain. It reeked of snobbery and condescension. The only time he ventured to town was to attend - or more accurately, control - the town council meetings.
“Oh, he’ll buy it, Mr. Willard. You can count on me.” When Olivia LeBlatte set her mind to something, it happened. It did give her pause, however, that Draven was actually selling the place. Renting it was one thing, but letting it go was something no Willard had been willing to do. It was strange. Maybe he’s having financial problems. She doubted it though and it wasn’t her place to ask questions. The property would earn her a fabulous commission and that was enough for her.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “Now then, Mr. Jones is already on his way and is due in town in two hours. He’ll need an hour to get settled, so I’ve made an appointment for you to meet him at the church at ten.”
“Will you be joining us?”
“I have other commitments. I’m sure you can handle this.”
“That’s fine. And what was his name again?” She grabbed a pen and paper.
“Mr. Jones. That’s the only information I have.”
She jotted it down. “Mr. Jones at ten.”
“Very well. I’ll expect a detailed account of the meeting afterward.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“Good.” He paused. “And for God’s sake, Ms. LeBlatte, do not show up smelling of cigarettes.” He ended the call, which was probably for the best.
How dare he tell me how to do my job!
She retrieved the renegade Virginia Slim from her lap and lit up, not only to spite him, but because she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to enjoy her morning cigarette. It was the only time of day she wasn’t rushed - even on Sundays.
She took a long pull and blew a thick cloud of smoke into the air. Of course I won’t go smelling of cigarettes! People were too uptight about smoking these days - Olivia thought it was ridiculous - but she was no fool. What kind of barbarian does he think I am?
* * *
Nick Grayson stared into the screaming face of Janet Leigh.
The gray morning light filtered through the putrid green curtains, casting the bedroom in a sickly shade of bile, lighting up the framed Psycho poster he’d hung last night - which he had no memo
ry of doing.
He sat up. “Shit.” His head throbbed and he buried it in his hands, waiting for the pain to ease up. He knew the symptoms. At the moment, his memory wasn’t clear, but hangovers didn’t lie, and he knew that despite his best intentions, he’d done it again. He’d gotten drunk.
As he padded to the bathroom, slivers of memory made their way back to him. They came like blurred photographs, fuzzy at the edges. He’d set up the grill and made himself a couple of burgers. By then, he’d started his second six-pack. After eating, he’d continued to drink, even as he broke out his guitar and riffed some Zeppelin. He vaguely remembered opening up some of his boxes and hanging his Hitchcock posters - he recalled putting a framed poster of Rear Window - his favorite - in the living room.
He stood at the toilet for an eternity, then went in search of aspirin. Whether he’d unpacked them or not last night was anyone’s guess.
In the kitchen, he opened several cupboards. Nothing here. Generally, he liked to keep the painkillers near the sink and glasses, but his drunk self had a different way of doing things than his sober self. He turned to head back into the bathroom and paused.
In the living room, behind those ghastly drapes, he saw a human silhouette. Frozen in place, he blinked, staring. There was the head, and there were the arms. The height and broadness of shoulders made it clear the form was male. A very tall, impossibly broad-shouldered male.
Sudden panic gripped Nick. Where the hell did I put my gun? He took a tentative step toward the tall figure. “Who’s there?”
The drapes wavered, just a little, and the form was gone. It hadn’t disappeared, exactly - there’d been no fleeing or evaporating. The intruder simply wasn’t there anymore.
Hallucinations? How much did I drink last night? The thought frightened him.
For what must have been the hundredth time, Nick Grayson told himself he wouldn’t drink tonight. Not tonight, and not ever again.
The Angel Alejandro Page 8
