Alders shook her head and turned away as her eyes misted. “Captain Armstrong said he had no choice but to put me on administrative leave until they can run a full investigation.”
I started to say “I’m sorry” again, but she cut me off with a chopping motion of her hand.
“I need to get cleaned up,” she said, walking out of the room toward the bedroom. “You can use the shower after I’m done.”
Despite wanting nothing more than to allow myself to pass out for a few days, the moment I heard the sound of water running from the other room, I heaved myself out of the chair.
Trying to stay as silent as I could, I headed back out Alders’ front door, shutting it behind me and ensuring it was locked. At the top of the landing, I paused, making sure she hadn’t noticed me leaving. I didn’t want her to come looking for me.
Quickly, I went down the stairs as fast as my throbbing legs could handle.
Once outside, I looked for the nearest subway line. I thanked my lucky stars the entrance was only two blocks away.
Chapter Eleven
And then Michael, Uriel, Raphael, and Gabriel looked down from heaven and saw much blood being shed upon the earth, and all lawlessness being wrought upon the earth.
–Book of Enoch 9:1-2
I felt bad about ditching Alders in her time of grief. It was a crappy thing to do to a fellow officer, but the last thing I needed right now was to have someone without official status escort me around the city. Besides, the less she knew about what I was really here for, the better. She had her own problems.
There was also a part of me that wanted to avoid dredging up the past. The day her father had died had been the darkest of my life. It was better not to dwell on it. She wanted answers, but I didn’t want to be the one to supply them.
I spotted a bank machine near the ticket counter, and withdrew enough cash to get me where I needed to go. Paying for a ticket, I headed for the Eastern Parkway train to Crown Heights, where I got out and walked—leisurely—two blocks south.
Putnam had given us the address of Brigson’s apartment. A detective wasn’t supposed to assume anything; you had to double-check and triple-check everything yourself, but I didn’t have high hopes of finding the geneticist there. He’d only moved in a little over a week ago when Putnam had hired him; he probably didn’t have much there in the way of personal effects.
First thing, I found the building manager and produced my Chicago PD badge, flashing it too quickly for him to examine it in detail.
“Name’s Hollingsworth,” I said to the man, who was dressed in dirty jeans and a grease-stained, white T-shirt that was stretched to the limit by his rotund waistline.
Running the back of his hand across his mouth to wipe away a line of what looked like pizza sauce, the manager said, “Yeah, so what?”
“I’m looking for Clarence Brigson. I understand he lives here.”
“Ain’t seen him in a few days, but that ain’t no big thing. I don’t see most of the tenants outside of rent day, ’less they got some kinda problem they need fixed right goddam now.” He sucked on his teeth, probably trying to unwedge a morsel of food from them. “What’d he do? Didn’t peg him for a troublemaker.”
“He’s missing from work; his employer reported it.”
“Right,” the manager said. “I remember a priest coming around yesterday…”
“That’s him.” I jerked my head toward the apartments. “I’d like to go into his place, have a look around.”
“You got a warrant or something?”
“No, but it might really help us find him.”
The manager looked torn, and I didn’t think it was because of any reluctance to invade Brigson’s privacy; he was probably thinking about the rest of his uneaten pizza.
“Fine.” He reached to a lockbox attached to the wall and grabbed a master key. “But I ain’t got all day. You know?”
“I just need you to open the door for me,” I said. “I’ll make sure it’s locked when I’m done.”
“All right.”
He led me down the hall to the last room on the floor, and opened the door, stepping back to let me in. “Don’t mess with nothin’,” he said.
“I won’t be long.”
Grumbling under his breath, he ambled back down the hall to his apartment and the pizza cooling inside.
Sure enough, my earlier assumption was right. Aside from some clothes hastily thrown in a four-drawer dresser, and some toiletries in the bathroom, there weren’t any personal items to be found in the studio apartment.
On top of the writing desk was a modem, but no laptop. There was no way to tell whether Brigson was the type to take his computer with him when he went to work, or if someone had stolen it.
Underneath the desk, the garbage can held a few snack wrappers and empty soda cans.
The kitchenette had few items; a case of soda, some condiment jars, and leftovers from fast-food joints. A paper bag held boxes from a Chinese food order. The receipt stapled to the bag was from three days ago.
It was a dead end.
I left, making sure the door was locked, and went back to the manager’s apartment.
Still chewing on a piece of pizza, he growled, “Whassit?”
“I’m done, thank you.”
He waved at me as if shooing away a fly.
Stepping back out onto the street, I got my bearings and headed east for another block, then south for two.
Less than an hour after I left Alders’ place, I arrived in front of the pharmacy where Brigson had bought his prescription of aripiprazole.
Whereas many businesses I’d passed had closed early, the pharmacy was packed with customers. I imagined grocery stores were experiencing the same kind of panicked stampede from people attempting to stock up during times of emergency.
I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the pharmacy counter at the back, ignoring the protests as I cut the line.
There was only one pharmacist. She was a trim, older woman, her silver hair pulled back in a bun, and she looked like she’d been dragged through a ringer.
Pulling out the half-empty prescription bottle I’d taken from Putnam’s office, I showed it to her.
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” I said, “but I’m looking for someone.” I flashed my police badge—again, too quick for her to figure out it was from Chicago, not New York. “He got his prescription filled here. Clarence Brigson. He’s very tall and skinny, wears glasses and is balding. Late forties.”
The pharmacist’s eyes flashed in recognition. “Yes, I remember him. The first time he came in, I thought he was very nice and pleasant. Said he was new to the neighborhood and asked if I knew which restaurants were good.”
“The first time? How often did he come in?” I asked.
“Just one more time. It was … let me think.” She moved over to the computer and typed something into it. “Ah, yes. He was here two days ago to get his prescription refilled.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I remember he said he was in hurry.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, his friend kept telling him they were running out of time.” She cocked her head. “It was odd because I wouldn’t have thought Mr. Brigson would be friends with someone like that.”
“Like what?”
“Mr. Brigson dressed like he worked in a lab—I know the type. His friend looked like—pardon me—a member of a street gang. He wore some kind of kerchief on his head; maybe he was balding or something. Lots of tattoos on his arms and all around his neck.”
“Did he wear any insignia?” I asked. “A flag or patch on his jacket or something to tell what gang he belonged to?”
“I can’t remember.” She pointed to a video camera on the ceiling behind her. “You can have a look at the tape if you’d like.”
“That would be perfect, thank you.”
She opened the door to let me into the back office, and pointed at the security system. “Do you need me to show you how to use i
t?”
I shook my head. “I’ve used these before. Thank you.”
Closing the door behind me—partly for privacy’s sake, and partly to shut out the cacophony of raised voices demanding their prescriptions be filled right away—I sat down in front of the security computer and opened the playback feature, starting with the feed from two days ago.
I did a lot of fast-forwarding, pausing, and rewinding until I got to the section where Brigson and another man approached the pharmacy counter.
There was no sound, but I easily deduced what took place.
Immediately, I noticed that Brigson seemed nervous, which confirmed what the pharmacist had said. I got my first look at the geneticist. A fairly nondescript, middle-aged man, he dressed conservatively and wore glasses.
It was the friend who caught my attention.
It was not so much that he appeared to be a typical member of a street gang, but what got my heart beating faster was that he held himself in that certain way.
It was the confidence of evil.
He was one of them: a Watcher. I knew it just as I knew the man in the terrorist video from last night was also possessed by a fallen angel.
There were two of them now. And if there were two, there could be more. It could be an infestation.
After Brigson got his prescription filled, he and the Watcher turned to leave.
I was so distracted by trying to figure out how the Watchers had tracked down Brigson, I almost missed the clue.
On his way out, Brigson casually reached out toward a shelf, and then, just as casually, retracted his arm.
Immediately, I hurried out of the back office and pushed my way around the crowd of patrons.
“Did you get what you came for?” the pharmacist asked, but I didn’t answer. I fixed my eyes on the spot on the shelf where Brigson had motioned, and I hoped…
When I got there, I noticed it was the pain-relief section. At first, I wondered if he were pointing to a product that would provide me with a clue, but the answer was much less cryptic than that.
Brigson was, apparently, a fan of children’s fables.
Behind the packages of analgesics, there was a crumpled piece of paper; it was better than any breadcrumb.
I reached over and grabbed it. When I smoothed it out, I saw it was a receipt for a deli shop: more specifically, the one just down the street from Putnam’s office.
Shoving the receipt in my pocket, I made my way to the exit.
When I stepped out of the pharmacy, Alders was standing there on the sidewalk, her arms folded over her chest, glaring at me in fury.
Chapter Twelve
And they said one to another: “The earth made without inhabitant cries the voice of their cryings up to the gates of heaven. And now to you, the holy ones of heaven, the souls of men make their suit, saying, ‘Bring our cause before the Most High.’ ”
–Book of Encoh 9:2-4
I was so stunned, seeing her there, that I was dumbfounded. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. She’d changed into jeans and wore sneakers. She’d put on a black shirt under a loose, zip-up hoodie, which was also black.
She hissed, “What kind of an ass just up and leaves without a word?”
Finally finding my tongue, I asked, “How did you find me?”
“It’s kind of what I do; you know, being a police officer and all.” When I continued to stare at her in confusion, she said, “I heard you leave, so I followed you. It’s not like it was all that hard to catch up to you.” She shook her head. “I was on the same damned train as you.”
I blanched. I hadn’t noticed her.
“So,” she continued, “are you going to tell me what you were thinking? I mean, we’re kind of in this together, aren’t we?”
“No,” I said. “We aren’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What that means is, there’s a lot more going on here than you can imagine. And even if I had the time to explain it to you, you’d never believe a word of it.”
“I’ve got news for you; you’re not going anywhere until I get some answers. And believe me; you’ve got a lot more to explain than why you scurried off like of rat.”
I knew she was referring to the promise I’d made to tell her about the day her father died. It was still something I didn’t want to relive.
In a flash of inspiration, I figured the best way to get her to be the one to want to get as far away from me as possible was to give her what she thought she wanted: the truth.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you what’s really going on with all this.” I swept my hand around to encompass the city. “You want to know who this terrorist is?”
She scrunched her face up. “You know who he is?”
I nodded. “He’s what they call a fallen angel, and he’s not the only one. There’s at least one more in New York that I’m aware of. There are probably plenty more. We rooted out an enclave of them in Chicago a few weeks ago; there were six of them there. Putnam and his exorcists call them Watchers. From what my colleagues have found out, there are dozens of them all over the country; eventually, there will be anywhere up to two hundred of them … and they’re powerful.
“They’re growing stronger and getting more organized. Obviously, they’ve reached some kind of critical mass and are now beginning to make their presence known.
“I’m here trying to stop them before they destroy the world. Putnam and his organization tried to capture them in Chicago and failed miserably. A dozen priests died, and twenty fallen angels escaped their prisons to wreak havoc on the world.
“I have no idea how to end the threat, but Putnam believes his geneticist has the solution. I’m trying to track him down.”
I gave her a flat look. “There, now you have it. So I guess you think I’m the crazy old detective who’s witnessed one too many crimes and has burned out. Now he’s gone off his rocker, and is in a self-deluded state. Time for a psych-pension, right?”
Fully expecting her to react in horror—or even pity—at my rant, I was surprised to see that she maintained an unaffected expression.
“What?” I asked her, flicking my eyes around to see if any passers-by had witnessed my outburst. If they had, they quickly made themselves scarce.
Alders was slow to respond. “My mother was always a deeply religious person. Even after my father died, she never lost her faith; if anything, she became more devout. She went to church sometimes three or four times a week to pray, and volunteered for every function she could. Our house had crosses and statues all over, and if I failed to say grace before a meal, I wouldn’t get to eat that meal.
“All my life, I heard nothing but religious talk. Saints, sinners, angels, demons, heaven and hell. And you know what? In all that time growing up with her, I’ve never seen anything that would lead me to believe a word of it. It’s all fantasy. I’ve been on the force for three years, and yes, I’ve seen how horrible people can be to one another, but never for a moment would I assign fault to some power beyond their control.
“Basically, ‘the devil made me do it’ just doesn’t cut it. So, spare me the gibberish. If you’re really some kind of religious zealot, and you believe in all this hocus pocus, then you have every right to do so, but don’t lay it on me. All I care about is the facts.”
Wrapping up her diatribe, she pointed a stiff finger at the pharmacy. “Let’s cut through the bull, and just tell me what you found in there.”
Obviously, she wasn’t going to be dissuaded from following through on this hunt. In a way, her veracity and tenaciousness made me admire her more. Both were excellent qualities in a cop.
“Come on,” she said when I didn’t immediately respond, “you said it yourself. The best way to get back in my captain’s good graces is to break this case open. Are you going to spill or not?”
I took a deep breath and said, “Fine, but we have to go back to Gowanus.”
* * *
We took a bus back. Durin
g the ride, Alders kept giving me these sidelong looks as if she were expecting me to have a breakdown at any moment.
She wasn’t the only one who seemed wary. The other riders on the train cast suspicious glances at each other. I suspected they were eager to get home from work without incident. Whenever anyone who dressed slightly out of the ordinary got on, the others eased away, giving that person a wide berth.
There were a few muted conversations on the bus. I overheard one person say that they had a cousin in Flushing who’d just been attacked by his neighbor, someone who’d taken advantage of the situation to resolve a long-standing feud over a borrowed, but never returned, lawnmower.
Someone was watching a newsfeed on their smartphone, and I could hear the announcer advising everyone to stay home unless there was an emergency. The next story he told was about a mob that had formed on Wall Street in Lower Manhattan; the main theme of their protest was that corporate greed had led the city to the brink of apocalypse.
Behind me, a lady in a business suit mumbled to her friend that she was packing up the moment she got home, and heading for her sister’s place in Poughkeepsie until things settled down; she just hoped the Brooklyn Bridge wasn’t backed up.
I had to admit, as far as terrorist strategies went, this one was up there. With a single stroke, the fallen angel had created mass panic throughout the city. He’d managed to tie up practically every police precinct. I could only imagine how many emergency calls were going through every hour. Between people looking for help, or others looking for trouble, all the hospitals, clinics, fire stations, and government offices were most likely swamped. The city was being taxed to the limit.
When Alders asked why we were heading back to Gowanus, I described to her what I saw in the video at the pharmacy. We spoke in low voices.
“Tell me,” she said, “what does a geneticist have to do with all this?—and please, stick to the facts and spare me the religious hokum.”
Sighing at the tone of her voice, I answered. “Well, in Chicago, there was a corporation called Enoch Enterprises. On the face of things, they were a medical equipment supply company, but that was a front for their true business: human experimentation. Apparently, they’d identified a particular genetic trait in some people that indicated they had potential to be a host for a—” I gave her a sharp look, and saw that she pursed her lips in disapproval before I could say it.
The Complete Book Of Fallen Angels Page 87
