The blond took center stage, her snow-white tresses so long they touched the floor, even as she climbed a brass pole. On both sides of her, the other two swung their heads, making hypnotic helicopters of their hair - Midnight and fire, midnight and fire.
Music thumped so hard Madison felt the vibrations in the table. And in her teeth. She watched, entranced, as the blond reached the top of the pole, scissored her legs around it, and tossed her head back. Her hair moved like a white rushing river, pouring down, streaming onto the stage, and by some magic trick, it continued to grow, flowing until it spilled over the stage and onto the floor.
The crowd, silent until now, gasped as the platinum hair made its way, like a living thing, across the floor, spreading around the table legs and customers’ feet like water sluicing around rocks.
How the hell are they doing that? Madison looked at Dette, who stared at the floor, laughing, squealing, and pulling her feet up as the traveling tendrils reached her. Shawn Barzetti, also laughing, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
The pale silky strands flowed, smooth as moving glass, past Madison’s feet. It was unbelievable - she’d never seen a magic trick like this.
Bobby stared in awe. The rest of the room did the same, laughing, gasping, and oohing and ahhing.
Madison watched, awestruck, as the river of hair disappeared into the cracks of the checkered floor, like spilled milk obeying the laws of gravity.
When she looked back to the stage, the three women no longer looked anything like nuns. Somehow, they’d managed to strip down to sequined red thongs and skimpy, matching bikini tops - the hair trick had been a diversion. Each woman now wore a pair of shiny thigh-high platform boots with tall, square heels. There was a body-type for every taste: The brunette was athletic, lithe and toned, the blonde was softer, curvier, and the redhead was warrior-like with rippling muscle.
The stage lights flashed as they closed their eyes and moved to the music, bending forward, placing their hands on their knees, and swaying left to right, right to left in time with the beat. Their eyes popped open revealing yellow irises with reptilian slits. As one, their mouths opened and snake-like tongues, purple and forked, spilled from their lips.
The crowd gasped and recoiled, but cheered when the women retracted their “tongues” and turned to wiggle their bare backsides. In perfect unison, they dropped into splits, their barely-concealed crotches touching ground. As one, they leaned onto their backs and raised their legs high in the air, opening and closing them - open, close, open, close - slower and slower.
The dance music morphed into the whine of nervous violins, then the rise of flutes and the crash of cymbals - A Night on Bald Mountain, Madison realized. Overhead, the lights darkened, turning the room gray and stormy.
As the instruments rose in volume and tempo, the black-haired beauty smacked her boots together. Her heels clacked, and a crash of thunder boomed. White lights flickered like lightning. The blond clacked her boots, then the redhead, both of them bringing little storms of their own.
As the lights pulsed overhead and thunder growled and cracked, Madison heard wind howling. The temperature dropped and she felt the soft tap of water on her bare arms - rain! - just a sprinkle. The crowd broke into wild applause.
This is unbelievable! Madison stared at the ceiling, saw no source for the pseudo-rain, saw nothing except the lights and the painted angels, saints, and haloed beings that had always been there. As the lights danced, the paintings seemed to move - angels flew, halos wavered and beamed, and several Mother Marys seemed to bob and float, their blue cloaks glittering and rippling as their outstretched hands reached for the audience. Their hollow eyes were wide and unblinking, their tipped heads twitching and jerking like junkies in withdrawal.
* * *
“Help me! Dear God, help me!”
As he ran, Alejandro felt there was another person within him. He was still himself - whoever that was - but a new part of him was in charge, a part that was driven by something unfamiliar, something that abided by different laws.
He came to an unfamiliar neighborhood and sprang onto a window ledge and hoisted himself to the roof of a single-story house. The gravelly shingles were rough under his bare feet as he sprinted and leapt onto the roof of the house next door.
The voice grew steadily louder now. “Help me! Dear God, help me!”
He raced across several more roofs then landed in a crouch. He ran into the street, paused to look around. Less than a block away, he saw the glowing red, white, and green sign.
7-11! He took off, knowing he’d find the desperate whisperer there.
The lot was empty, save one vehicle parked beneath the anemic glow of the faded sign. The air was warm on his bare skin, the ground sticky and rough on his feet. He strained to hear, but the voice was silent.
“No!” The scream wasn’t in his mind this time.
Alejandro sprinted around the 7-11 to a dark narrow alley between the building and a high chain-link fence. Briefly, he recognized the Dumpster he’d seen in his vision, but it was what was happening on the ground beside it that brought him to a stop. At first, he struggled to make sense of it.
A man hunched over something, his broad back jerking as he plummeted his fists downward. At either side of him a woman’s legs kicked out at the air. She was missing a shoe. The attacker’s pants were pooled around his ankles, and when Alejandro saw the man’s bared buttocks, he ran, grabbed the man’s jacket and yanked, hurling him off the woman.
The man crashed to the ground, but was quick to his feet, yanking his pants up and reaching inside a pocket for something small and silver. A knife.
The woman scrambled up, tried to run, but realized she was at a dead end. She was perhaps thirty years old, pretty. The man was not pretty - not at all. Beard stubble sandpapered a blunt jaw, his nose was flat, and his teeth were haphazard, as if they’d been shoved into his mouth and left there as an afterthought. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll just keep walking, buddy.” He flashed the small knife, lightly bouncing from foot to foot, ready to pounce. “Just keep walking.”
Alejandro was aware of new scents - spicy and musky and fetid. These were the odors of the man: excitement, arousal, and rage. Another smell, bitter and sharp, also laced the air. This was the smell of terror. Her terror. He glanced at the weeping woman. Her white hands quaked over her lips, stifling her cries.
Alejandro did not like the smells. “You were hurting this woman,” he said to the attacker.
“I wasn’t giving her anything she didn’t want.” He spat, the wad of saliva splatting on the ground several feet from her. His eyes, black as ink and hard as flint, glinted like the blade of his knife.
Rage buzzed through Alejandro and before he knew what he was doing, he had the man by the collar, lifting him from the ground.
The man’s arms flailed and Alejandro felt the searing heat of the blade as it grazed his bare abdomen. “Put me down, motherfucker!” The man was a foot off the ground now.
“Look at me.” Alejandro’s voice was flat, calm as the sea, and punctuated by an plume of white frost.
“Put me down!” The attacker’s blade arced through the air and grazed Alejandro’s biceps.
“Look at me.”
When the man’s wild gaze snagged on Alejandro’s, he went still so quickly and so completely that it was as if he’d gone catatonic.
“Look at me.” Alejandro was aware of that other part of himself again, and now it was stronger. It brewed within him like a swirling tempest, roiling and rocking in his solar plexus, growing there and moving up into his head, behind his eyes. He needed to let it out and as he held the man’s black stare, he did. The storm within him shot from his eyes like invisible bolts of lightning - he felt jagged searing heat as it burned its way free.
The attacker’s eyes went wide. The blood drained from his face, leaving him the color of a whitewashed fence, and his mouth peeled back to form a guttural scream. Blood began
to drip from his nose and tears spilled from his eyes. He brought his hands to either side of his head, shrieking and beating as if his eardrums were bursting or his brain was swelling. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was too late. The storm was inside him now.
“Be gone from here.” More white frost carried Alejandro’s words. He released the man and he fell into a heap on the asphalt.
He crawled away from Alejandro, scuttling for distance, unable to find his feet. His eyes were not sane. His mind, Alejandro knew, had been shattered.
“Leave.”
The attacker found his feet and took off, staggering as his knife clattered to the ground.
The familiar part of Alejandro returned, and he felt a moment of panic. What did I do? Heat scorched his body and something buzzed on the surface of his skin, at the ends of his nerves. His breath came in ragged gasps. A whimper from behind him broke his trance.
The woman was crying, the scent of her fear a noxious cloud. “What … happened?”
Alejandro didn’t know the answer, but he was certain of one thing. “He will not bother you again.”
The woman stared a long moment. “Th - thank you.”
“You will be all right now.” Alejandro turned and ran.
* * *
“It was him!”
In mid-Serenity Prayer, the A.A. members’ heads snapped up to stare at the woman who’d burst through the door.
Her long dark hair was a ratted mess full of leaves and dirt. Her torn T-shirt exposed the beige bra beneath, and tears left jagged skid marks down her face. “It was him!” Her hands trembled at her throat, and her eyes bulged.
Nick broke the circle and went to the woman.
“It was him,” she said. Her lips moved but she made no further sound.
Nick put an arm around her quaking shoulders. “I’m Nick Grayson, Chief of Police. Why don’t we go sit down somewhere private and you can tell me what happened.”
The relief in her eyes was evident. “You - you’re the police?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nick ushered her away from the gaping A.A. members and led her to an empty room several doors down. He helped her into a chair at a long table. “I’m Nick Grayson.”
“Darcy. Darcy Cromwell.”
“Relax, Darcy, take a deep breath and hold it a moment.” Nick sat across from her. He watched her, noting the clammy, pale skin, the fast shallow breaths, and the wide dazed eyes. She might be in shock. “Are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“No. I’m just … a little rattled.”
“Are you having any chest pains, any-”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Take another breath. It’ll calm you down.”
Her breath slowed and some color rose into her cheeks.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
There was a knock and Father Thomas Wainwright peered in. “Can I help?”
“Maybe some water,” said Nick.
The priest nodded and left.
“It was him,” said Darcy.
“Who?”
“The Disrobed Daredevil.”
Nick leaned forward. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, no, not at all. He saved me.”
Tom returned with a paper cup of water.
She gulped it down. “Thank you.”
The padre turned to leave, but Darcy looked at his collar and said, “Please stay.”
Tom sat beside her.
“I was being followed,” she explained. “I ran … and he started chasing me.” Heavy tears spilled from her eyes.
“Did you get a look at him?” asked Nick.
“Yes. I don’t know his name. He lives at the Pitts. I’ve seen him around.”
“The Pitts?” asked Nick.
Tom said, “Those are the apartments at the edge of town. The locals call them the Pitts.”
She took a breath. “He was going to … to rape me. In the alleyway.” Her color was close to normal now and as she rested her hands in front of her, Nick noticed they were steadier. She looked from Nick to Father Tom. “He’s that middle-aged overweight guy with a beard who hangs around the park all the time.”
Tom looked at Nick. “Festus Crawley. A local pariah. He’s had some trouble with the law in the past.”
“Thank God he didn’t rape me,” said Darcy. “Before he could … the other man showed up. The man in gray boxers, the one from the papers.” She paused and her gaze was far away. “He did something that … that stopped him …”
“What do you mean?” asked Nick.
“I - I’m not sure. He lifted him right off the ground, then told him to leave. The guy started screaming, then beating at his own head … then he just ran off.”
Nick watched her. “Okay, Darcy. I’m going to put an APB out for Crawley right away, then I’m going to take you to the station to file a report. Is that all right?”
She nodded.
“One of the officers will give you a ride home and make sure you’re safe. Unless you want to go to the hospital-”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Darcy, I’m going to find this … other man, the one who rescued you, and talk to him, too. Maybe he can help.”
“He’s a hero,” she said. “He saved me. Please thank him for me.”
Mephistopheles
Draven Willard pulled his panther-black Audi into the parking lot of what used to be St. Agatha’s. What used to be mine. He felt sick to his stomach - felt an urge to turn around, go home, and never come back. For a moment, he considered doing just that. It wasn’t as if there was anywhere to park, anyway - it was a full house, and that only enraged him more. Prominence was a town full of scuzzballs and now they were all inside the church. His church.
What was I thinking? That man, Jones … he coerced me into this. It wasn’t my fault. I need to get the property back. He pulled the Audi out of the lot - not one single place to park! - and idled on the road, looking up at the flashing lights, cringing at the irritating thump of shit they called “music” these days. He noted the flashing pitchforks above the door, the pulsing red Mephistopheles sign with its devil horns and pointed tail. Jones had absolutely desecrated the place. This is sacrilege! Not against God - Willard had no use for false idols - this was a blasphemy against him, against his family.
But I sold it willingly. There’s nothing I can do about it. Molten rage bubbled at the thought. “Like hell there’s nothing I can do,” he muttered. “Like hell.” There had to be laws against the kind of persuasion tactics Jones had used on him. Draven hadn’t even put the place up for sale, for Christ’s sake! Jones had called him out of the blue, and the next thing he knew, Draven had agreed. He’d never considered it before - and never would have - but once Jones contacted him, it was as if Draven couldn’t get rid of the place fast enough. It was strange, too strange. What was I thinking? He slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
A new idea struck: I’ll say I sold it under duress! His excitement faded fast. That would be hard to prove. No, the answer was simple: He’d talk to Jones. Surely the man would see reason. St. Agatha’s had been in the Willard family for over a hundred and fifty years. Jones could understand that, couldn’t he?
He wanted to shut the car off and go take care of it right now, but it was as if an invisible hand was pressing at him, urging him away from the place, and the mere thought of entering turned his stomach sour. No. I won’t go inside. I’ll call Jones tomorrow and straighten it out. If that didn’t work, Draven would call on his army of lawyers.
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the voice from the overheads. “Let’s give a big, rocking applause to our Ladies of the Night, Hell’s Belles!”
Olivia LeBlatte cringed against screams of the crowd. She’d seen no sign of Mr. Jones and, as entertaining as the show had been thus far, he was the only reason she’d come. Adding to her foul mood was California’s no-smoking laws. This is a nightclub, for Christ’s sake! It’
s discrimination!
Beyond the gnawing need for nicotine was something else - something she couldn’t describe. These past days, it was as if she couldn’t get enough of … anything. Not enough sleep, not enough fried fatty foods, not enough cigarettes or coffee … and not enough sex. It was getting worse by the day.
There was something else, too. She was irritable - no, downright mean - mean enough she began to worry she’d offend the wrong person and get herself into trouble. It wouldn’t do for a woman in public relations to mistreat people. I just need a cigarette. She was about to get up and step outside when a short, balding man pulled a chair out at her table. It was Jeffrey Gimple - who liked to handle his own rentals. Stingy little prick.
“Mind if I sit here?” His voice, raised above the music, was extra whiny and nasal. It was standing-room-only, which explained why the little toad dared approach.
She made a suit yourself gesture and ignored him. She hated Jeffrey Gimple, and she hated his wife, Nedra, even more. It was Nedra who, seven years ago, had voted Olivia off the bowling league. She claimed that Olivia’s glasses of wine during the games spread the wrong message. “She makes me uncomfortable,” Nedra had whined. “She makes us look bad. We’re a Christian league, for Joseph’s sake!” Olivia had heard the news - after the fact - from teammate Marion Busby who, Olivia was sure, had been in Nedra’s corner all along. Fake bitches, all of them. But Nedra Gimple was the ringleader. Olivia had never forgiven her for the bowling league incident - and she never would. She crossed her arms and smirked.
As the emcee urged the patrons to “get more drinks while the getting’s good,” Mr. Gimple leaned in and half-yelled, “I meant to come earlier but I’ve been having some stomach problems.”
Mr. Gimple always had diarrhea, or a bleeding ulcer, or polyps, and he liked to tell the world. “Where’s Nedra?” She didn’t even care that she sounded snide.
Gimple frowned. “She stayed home. I’m afraid she caught my bug.”
“Gee, I sure hope she doesn’t die.”
The Angel Alejandro Page 24
