As we approached the apartment door, I flinched when something heavy hit the wall, the thud echoing through the hallway. I heard shouts, both male and female.
“Damn,” Goodwin said. “Do we break down the door?”
I shook my head, but put my hand on the holster of my gun. With my other hand, I knocked on the door.
“This is the police. Do you require assistance? Open up.”
There was no response to my order, but I heard what sounded like dishes smashing.
Nodding to Goodwin, I shifted so that my back was to the door. Glancing behind, I aimed at the spot just below the doorknob and kicked backward. We’d practiced doing it this way a few times in the academy.
The wood, a flimsy pine, splintered under the force of my kick. The knob snapped away from the latch, and the door swung inside, smashing against the wall with a loud crack.
Goodwin, standing on the other side of the door with his gun drawn, swiveled toward the opening, dropping into a crouch. He put one foot out to stop the door from swinging back toward us and obscuring our view.
“Police. We’re coming in. If you have any weapons, drop them on the ground now.”
I pulled my gun and stood a pace behind Goodwin, scanning what I could see of the apartment from the door. There wasn’t anyone in my line of sight, but I could hear someone screaming.
“I’m going to kill you, you crazy bitch!”
Immediately, I tapped Goodwin’s shoulder to let him know I was right behind him, and that we needed to get in there fast.
He sprung up and took a few measured paces inside, gun raised.
“I repeat: this is the police. Everyone stop what you are doing and get down on the ground.”
We made our way through a short hallway into a living room, and that’s when Goodwin shouted, “Don’t move!”
I rushed in to back him up; and peripherally, I took in everything in the room.
It was a typical low-rent apartment. None of the furniture matched, and what little there was of it looked beaten-up and second-hand.
We were trained to look for people hiding behind couches or around corners; if you weren’t careful, someone could pop out and attack you when you had your back turned.
There were only two people there.
A very tall, heavyset man wielding a bloody kitchen knife was standing over a woman, who was lying on her back on the floor. There was blood pooling around her legs. Her stomach was swollen, and I realized she was giving birth.
The man swung one leg over the woman, and held the knife above her head.
“Back off, cop,” he growled. “You have no idea what she’s doing? She’s insane, don’t you get it?”
It was then that I noticed the woman’s hands were tied to the kitchen table. She was screaming, though whether from the pain of childbirth or from the fear of impending death, it was unclear.
It was obvious the man was having some kind of psychotic episode.
“Put the knife down,” Goodwin yelled.
“I can’t. You don’t understand. I have to stop her.”
The woman uttered a cry that sounded like she was being ripped in two, and I saw that the baby was crowning.
Goodwin said, “Let us help her. The baby’s coming right now. Back away and we can help.”
“You can’t help. You can’t stop her. Let me do what I have to do.”
The woman screamed one more time, and the baby’s head came out of her.
At that moment, the man lifted the knife high. His eyes were fixed on the woman.
Goodwin fired two shots into the man’s torso before he could stab her. The man grunted, flying back off his feet and into the wall. The knife fell on the floor beside the woman.
As Goodwin raced over to help her, I hurried to the man, my gun pointed at him, and checked to see if he was still alive. He was, but his breathing was shallow; he’d be dead in a matter of minutes.
The woman screamed as the baby’s shoulders appeared. After quickly untying the woman’s wrists, Goodwin positioned himself to help deliver the infant, getting down on his knees in the blood around her legs.
“You’re safe now. Come on,” he said to her. “One more push and he’ll be here.”
Sucking in a ragged breath, the woman gritted her teeth and strained. Goodwin, one hand on the child’s head, one hand under his back, said, “There he is,” as the baby emerged.
“No!” the man hollered. He lunged up with his hands outstretched, fingers curled into claws. He paid me no mind; his target was the woman.
Instinctively, I fired, and before the bullet hit, I knew it was a kill shot. Blood spurted from his chest.
The sudden scream from behind me did not come from the woman, but from the baby. My stomach churned at the horrendous sound. Surprised, I couldn’t breathe for a moment; it was as if a powerful hand were squeezing my lungs.
Goodwin fell backward, slipping in the woman’s blood, and almost dropped the baby. He managed to keep hold of him, but ended up in a sitting position, cradling the baby in his lap.
The woman screamed. She sat up and slapped Goodwin.
Then, blood sprayed from his neck. It was then I realized it hadn’t been a slap. The woman had picked up the knife.
A look of dumfounded surprise came over Goodwin’s face as he tried to gulp for air. Slowly, he turned his head to me, as if to ask me what had happened.
His mouth moved, and a bubble of blood came out as he tried to speak. I thought he said my name, “Frank,” but I couldn’t be sure.
Then the light went out of his eyes, and he slumped to the floor, the baby lying on top of him.
Shocked by what I’d just seen, I was slow to react.
The woman, ignoring me, raised the knife high above her head. Eyes on the baby, she brought her arm down in a swift motion.
Two bullets shot out of my gun, both striking her in the head.
There was a wet thud when her body hit the floor, but the only sound I heard was the continuing cries of the baby I had just made an orphan.
Chapter Two
And Semjaza, who was their leader, said unto them: “I fear ye will not indeed agree to do this deed, and I alone shall have to pay the penalty of a great sin.”
And they all answered him and said: “Let us all swear an oath, and all bind ourselves by mutual imprecations not to abandon this plan but to do this thing.” Then swear they all together and bound themselves by mutual imprecations upon it.
–Book of Enoch 6:3-6
The cell phone rang, and I sprung out of bed. It felt like there was a steel ball inside my head bouncing off the inside of my skull. I moaned and reached for the phone before it rang again, accidentally knocking over the half-bottle of scotch I’d been working on last evening until I passed out.
I cursed, “Crap,” then managed to click the answer button before the ringer went off a third time.
“Hollingsworth,” I said, my tongue still thick from sleep and alcohol. I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock. “It’s two in the goddamn morning. Somebody’d better be dead.”
“Frank, it’s Verne. I know you’re on leave, but you should get to the station right away. It’s hitting the fan.”
“Let me guess … I.A.D.?”
“Yeah, a couple of suits showed up half an hour ago waving a warrant in my face.”
My heart twisted. “Oh?”
“They’re going through your desk right now. It’s only a matter of time before they subpoena you. I think it’d go better for you if you got in front of it.”
A little over twenty-five years as a cop, and I’d only ever had to discharge my weapon on two occasions. When I’d shot and killed Stella Markowitz and her boyfriend, Jared Tomko, it had been my first day on the job, and it had almost been my last. It wasn’t guilt over their deaths, but for Scott Goodwin’s. If I’d reacted faster, or secured the knife, he might be alive today.
The second time I used the weapon, I killed a monster. Lawrence Bukowski had been a
bad seed to begin with. What no one would understand is that it took the bastardized possession of a fallen angel to make him truly evil.
I had no regrets putting him down, but I couldn’t explain the circumstances that led to me firing a bullet into his brain.
I fully expected to be raked over the coals by Internal Affairs. I gave as many answers as I could in my official report, but it was obvious they didn’t like what I’d said.
Captain Verne Ritzik had been superintendent of the precinct for the past ten years, and in all that time, he’d given me as much room as I needed to get the job done. The one time he’d said anything to me about it was, “Just be sure you don’t hang yourself.”
Now, I thought I’d done just that.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Thanks for the heads-up, Cap. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
* * *
If I was going down, I was determined to put my best foot forward. After shaving the three-day growth off my face, I took a hot shower and got into the suit I wore on court days.
Popping a few painkillers to try to silence my screaming head, I got in my car, pushing the wrappers from the last late-night cheeseburger run I’d made off the seat. I started the vehicle, and headed for the station.
It had been a few weeks since I’d seen Kyle Chase and his friends off to Colorado. I told them I’d contact them if I got any information on the International Society of Exorcists—so far I’d come up empty.
I hadn’t been back to the station since going up to Wisconsin to tell Chase’s wife he was dead. After sending my report in through email, I’d contacted a friend in the county assessor’s office to drop a dime on the Society of Exorcists’ holdings, most of which had been ill-gotten. Most government districts were cash-strapped, and they’d jumped on the information.
They, in turn, had tipped off the I.R.S., who quickly froze all accounts associated with the Society and its members.
With Father Webber dead, the organization didn’t have anyone to pick up the pieces or fight the seizures. If there were any priests who hadn’t been killed on the cargo ship when it sank, they were making themselves scarce.
I had some leave accumulated, and took it to recover from my run-in with Lawrence. At least, that was my official reason.
I’d spent the past week hitting the streets, talking to every informant I’d ever used and called every cop I’d ever worked with, but there’d been no sign of Father Putnam—Father Webber’s second-in-command; the man who’d killed him and the other priests by sinking the cargo ship in Lake Michigan.
I’d about given up finding Father Putnam in Chicago. I figured he’d most likely skipped town. Without any leads, my frustration got the better of me last night.
At half a dozen glasses of scotch in, I’d thought about quitting the force and heading off to find Chase and the others. I would devote all my time to fighting the Watchers. They’d killed Vanderburgh. It was the second time I’d lost a partner, and I needed payback.
Cutting ties wasn’t the answer. I would lose most of my contacts and resources if I quit. Even though I might not have much pull outside of Chicago, I still knew a lot of people throughout the country in the police community.
If I were put on administrative leave, suspended, or fired, many of my colleagues wouldn’t be able to take my calls anymore, even if they wanted to.
The best way for me to help Chase and the others was to keep my badge. Somehow, I had to convince Internal Affairs that everything I’d done over the past weeks had been above board, that I’d acted within the bounds of the law, that Lawrence Bukowski had been a righteous kill.
Putting myself in IA’s position, I tried to think about what kind of questions they would ask me. I recalled what I’d written in my report, the parts I’d left out. No stranger to the interrogation room, I thought about the holes I could punch in my own story.
By the time I pulled up to the station parking lot, I thought I was well prepared for anything they could ask about Lawrence’s death.
* * *
The noise level decreased noticeably the moment I entered the squad room. Everybody knew what was up. Sometimes, I thought there was more gossip in the precinct than high school.
My first instinct was to head to my office and get it over with. Maybe I could catch the investigators off-guard and figure out what they were after.
Captain Ritzik spotted me and stepped out into the hallway. “Hollingsworth.” He gave me a sympathetic nod and waved me into his office.
I hesitated and looked down the hall, as if I could see through walls.
Entering the captain’s office, I took the seat opposite his desk when he pointed to it.
“It was a good shooting. He would’ve killed me.” Even as I said it, I knew I was wasting my breath. I didn’t need to defend myself to him.
The captain shooed my words off. “Don’t sweat it. I.A.D. will beat their chests and make you feel like an asshole for a few days.” He smirked. “I read your report; it’ll hold up. Stick with it and the most you’ll suffer is the mandatory visit to a shrink’s office.”
“You think?”
He cocked his head. “The only hitch I can see is that he didn’t have a weapon; but considering all the damage he did with his bare hands…” Once again, he made a dismissive gesture. “That psycho killed one of our own and how many civvies? We should pin a damn medal on you, if you ask me.” Jerking his head toward the door, he added, “Everyone else feels the same way.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thanks, Captain.”
“No problem.” He pointed to my face. “How’re you holding up?”
I put a hand to my forehead. There were blister marks where Lawrence’s hand had touched me; when he’d tried to suck the life out of me. The doctor told me the scars would probably never go away. There were spots on the side of my head where the hair would never fully grow back, either.
“I’ll live.”
“It’s an improvement,” he joked. “Anyway, it’ll give you something to brag about to the ladies.”
“Like I need any help in that department.” I forced a smile.
“Right.” The captain chuckled, but then he grew somber.
“What’s up?”
He ran his fingers through the thinning hair on the side of his head and sighed. “Been going on thirty-five years. Myrtle and I have been watching the weather channel. San Diego has a great climate.”
“Retirement? The hell you say.”
“Yeah, I know.” He shrugged. “Things have been changing so fast in the last ten years; I don’t think there’s room for old fossils like me anymore. Nowadays, everything’s on computer. Databases, emails, smartphones… Don’t get me wrong, when you and I came up, it took weeks to get a fingerprint analysis. Now, IAFIS can spit out a match in half-an-hour.”
“It’s better for everyone,” I said. “Except the crooks.”
“The problem with getting older, it gets harder to roll with the times. It’s one of the reasons I put in for captain. I figured if I couldn’t keep up on the street, at least I could supervise.”
“Yeah. I get you.”
The captain made a sour face. “It’s tough trying to lead someone who knows more than you. Hard to keep up with all the technology.” He shook his head. “That’s one of the reasons I developed my style of leadership. Delegate and disappear.”
“I always appreciated that, Captain.”
“For the most part, it worked well, but lately there’ve been signs from above that maybe it’s time for a different approach, all things considered.”
“Are you talking about me?”
He made a small gesture with his hands. “Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t change anything, but what went down raised some serious red flags at headquarters. They think, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten out of hand if there had been more direct control.”
I sat straighter in my chair. “I hate to think anything I did is spilling over on you.”
<
br /> He waved his hand. “Like I said, I’m getting a little long in the tooth. It’s time.”
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“I’m not.” He smiled. “Myrtle is overjoyed. She’s been getting cruise brochures.”
“When are they pushing you out?”
“I put in my sixty-days’ notice yesterday.”
It was then that one of the IAD officers knocked on the captain’s door.
“Detective Frank Hollingsworth?” the man asked. “Could you come with us, sir?”
As I stood up, I mumbled to the captain, “Who knows, I may be joining you.”
Chapter Three
And they were in all two hundred; who descended in the days of Jared on the summit of Mount Hermon, and they called it Mount Hermon, because they had sworn and bound themselves by mutual imprecations upon it.
–Book of Enoch 6:6-7
Detective Aaron Kravitz didn’t shake my hand when he introduced himself and his partner, Detective Peter Owens.
Both of them were at least ten years my junior, but they held themselves with the confidence and conviction of their position. There was no place in the course of their duty for idle chitchat or other pleasantries.
You don’t become friends with the people you’re investigating.
They led me to the elevator and up one floor to a conference room, which alarmed me. I fully expected to be taken to an interrogation room, or at least a private office.
When we got there, Kravitz motioned for me to sit on one side of a large round table while he and his partner took up position on the other side. Owens opened his briefcase and extracted a file. He leafed through the pages as if he hadn’t memorized every word in it.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“How long have you been working for the Society of Exorcists?”
So, it was to be an interrogation. They were trying to throw me off my game.
“I never worked for them. I got tips from them from time to time.”
“What kind of tips?”
“The first time was the Casanova Killer. Father Webber contacted me. One of his colleague’s parishioners had an encounter with him and survived. He gave us a few ideas about where we might catch up with him. It was a long shot, but it panned out.”
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 81
