“I think seeking comfort in a crisis is something people do.”
Meaningless, he knew. The type of pablum intended to gloss over an issue. But it was the best he could muster under the circumstances without just plain lying. And he didn’t want to do that.
“Is that what that was to you? A form of charity?”
“No,” he said, realizing that, at least, was true. “I needed it.”
She seemed to consider his words for quite a while. Then reached out to touch him. “You’re a good man, Jacob Hatcher.”
He rubbed her arm gently, thinking, I wonder if you’d say that if you knew.
The phone indicated it was after nine p.m. He glanced at it again as Susan took it from him, then reached across his body and placed it on the nightstand next to him. With a firm hand she pressed him down onto the bed and pulled close, raising his arm over her head to lay her cheek on him and intertwining her fingers through his.
“You’re getting closer, aren’t you?”
“It’s hard to say. Maybe.”
“If anyone can find him, you can. You found me, didn’t you?”
Hatcher listened to those words repeat themselves in his head. It was true, he did find her. But not without help.
“That name,” he said. “Nora Henruss. When did you use it?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I met you at the diner, you said you hadn’t used that name in months. When was the last time?”
“I used it to rent an apartment, right before Isaac was born.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Because I had to show them ID at the hospital. Give them a Social Security number. And my address.”
“You were that paranoid?”
“I was a little paranoid. But I almost stayed put anyway. But then I got a call from my doctor’s office. His secretary wanted to know if I’d gotten the flowers from my sister. The florist tried to deliver them to the hospital.”
“But she didn’t send any flowers.”
“No. Fortunately, I never told my sister where I was, other than on the West Coast. And I had given the hospital a phony address. But it spooked me. So I moved. Switched phones. Covered my tracks to be safe. Changed names again. Found this sublet. I pay in cash. Cable and electric included.”
Smart gal, Hatcher thought. Good instincts. Too bad he’d been stupid enough to lead them right to her.
But something about that was bothering him, something just out of reach. His thoughts circled it, trying to close in, but before they could pounce into the brush and drag it out, that digital voice droned out the brand of the phone again.
Another text. Hatcher pressed his way through the screen until it popped up.
Sand Dollar Inn. Room 9. One hour.
“You have to go, don’t you?”
Hatcher glanced over to Susan. Her body caught the glow from the phone, giving her an artistic, vaguely pornographic look, like a centerfold. He suddenly found himself wishing he didn’t have to leave her, wishing he could stay and hold that body, touch it, kiss it. Absorb the warmth of it as he tried to create something meaningful with its occupant.
But he had to find her son, and he didn’t know how much time he had left, if any. And what did that say about him? Wanting her like this? What kind of man does that? It didn’t matter what he said earlier, sleeping with her had been wrong.
He needed to drop thoughts of sex, purge his mind of what happened, and focus on the boy. Sex was a distraction. It clouded judgment, muddied priorities. Stoked emotions that could be hard to control. A boy’s life was at stake, and possibly much more. The last thing he needed to be thinking about was sex.
A moment later, another text came through:
I’ll be in bed, waiting for you.
THE SAND DOLLAR INN WAS A FEW BLOCKS FROM THE SANTA Monica Pier. It was an enclosed square of single-story strips, a dozen rooms per building, rimming a motor court. The most prominent feature of the drive-through entry was a large Coke machine.
Hatcher pulled into the parking lot of a fast-food place across the street. He watched the entry for a while, then went inside and ordered a burger and a coffee. He took a seat near the front window.
The burger was a bit soggy. He bolted it, wiped his mouth, then stared through the glass. If she was already there, she would have to leave at some point.
His options were limited. He could go to the room, see what happened. That, he knew would be unwise. His experience with Carnates was that they were ridiculously strong for their size, possessed amazing reflexes, and were all but impossible to injure. They were also almost impossible to resist. Something about their demon-hybrid physiology, their genetic perfection, equipped them to give off overpowering pheromones. That, coupled with their stunning looks, made them especially dangerous. If Deborah or another one of them was in there, in bed, probably naked, he would have a hard time focusing on the task at hand. And if he didn’t end up having sex with her, she’d probably just kick his ass.
Yes, that option was definitely unwise, but he still had to fight himself to keep from choosing it.
The other option was to wait her out. Keep a close eye on the entry to the motor court, watch for any nubile women driving out, especially crazy hot ones. The problem with that was he had no idea how long he’d have to sit there. If she really was waiting in bed, she may just go to sleep. That would mean loitering until morning, without really knowing if she was even in there.
He was leaning toward a compromise option. Waiting around for a couple of hours, then, if nothing happened, heading over to look around. Play it by ear.
Something was telegraphing to him that the situation wasn’t right. He couldn’t pin the feeling down, reduce it to a thought, but it was definitely there. Fernandez must have held back about planning to meet her later. Was that due to loyalty? Or just stress? And could he have gotten ahold of someone after Hatcher left? Told them what happened? Hatcher doubted it. The guy was too busy getting his ear sewn on. And something told Hatcher Officer Fernandez wasn’t the best team player to begin with. Maybe the text just meant she’d gone to find him somewhere he normally would be, and couldn’t.
But the feeling wouldn’t let up as Hatcher peered out the window, watching the bugs flit around the fluorescent glow of the light above the reception window across the street, next to the bright red-and-white vending machine.
“Excuse me, mister.”
Hatcher swung his head at the voice. It was an old man, maybe late seventies, wearing a few too many layers of clothing under a black wool beanie and carrying a shoulder pack. He was unshaven, with leathery, sun-worn skin. Dirt lined the creases in his neck like grout.
The old man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Is that your PT Cruiser out there? You left the lights on.”
Hatcher looked the man over, waited for some hint of a scam. The hardship story about running out of gas or losing a bus ticket or having a paycheck stolen, followed by the inevitable request for money.
“Just thought you’d like to know,” the man said, before shuffling off.
Strange, Hatcher thought. How could he forget to turn the lights off? He started toward the side entrance, then stopped. The derelict-looking old guy was at the counter, ordering something. Hatcher thought for a moment, made a decision. He headed toward the entrance on the opposite side and pushed through it.
The night air was cool. The sound and smell of traffic rose to greet him as he curled around the door and walked toward the back of the parking lot. He circled around the drive-through lane and stepped beyond the reach of the menu lights into the shadows separating the restaurant’s parking lot from an adjoining lot to the rear. He slowed down and walked until he found a decent vantage point that would let him see past the edge of the building to where his car was parked. The front of the car was dark. No lights. The homeless guy had lied.
Before he could react, he heard the cock of a weapon behind him. A flash of red caused him to flinch and raise a ha
nd to protect his eyes. He looked down at his chest, saw a single red dot. Front and back. They weren’t taking any chances.
“Don’t be stupid.”
He heard a vehicle pull behind him, throaty engine, the scraping crunch of tires loud as it circled close.
The voice behind him said, “You’ve got two weapons trained on you.”
He knew that voice. He thought back to the first time he’d heard it, at the bar. First inclinations tend to be right, he told himself.
“Why do I picture you counting them on your fingers with your lips mouthing the numbers?” he said.
“Turn around slowly and get in, smart ass.”
Hatcher turned. Edgar came to a stop a few feet to his right. A black Hummer idled directly ahead.
The back door of the Hummer opened, and General Bartlett leaned out, beckoning him in with a wave.
“Will you please just get in, before someone spots us?” the general said.
Hatcher scratched his neck, glanced over at Edgar. He was aiming a Beretta nine mil, with laser grips. He dropped his eyes to his shirt, saw the red dot hovering over his sternum. Another dot scribbled below it. A sniper, hidden in the darkness.
“I’m not sure being spotted would be such a bad thing right about now,” Hatcher said.
Bartlett dropped his head, let it swing from side to side. “Good Lord, Hatcher. Do you honestly think we want to kill you? We could have put several bullets in you and driven off before you even knew you were dead. So please, just get in the damn car.”
Hatcher shot a look at Edgar and stepped forward. “Since you said please.”
The inside of the Hummer smelled like cologne. Hatcher slid into the rear passenger seat. Edgar got into the front on the same side. The driver was little more than a kid. Blond, clean cut. Hair cropped tight in a way that screamed military.
The Hummer pulled around the parking lot, heading away from where Hatcher had parked, and left on a different street.
The general gestured toward Hatcher’s lap. “Please, buckle your seat belt.”
“I’m good.”
“I must insist.”
Hatcher watched Edgar stare back at him from over the headrest. He knew that Beretta was aimed at him through the seat. The belt was just a way of making sure he couldn’t move too quickly.
Fine, Hatcher thought, pulling the belt over his body and latching it. I can be patient.
“Where are we going?”
“There’s something I want you to see.”
They drove in silence for over twenty minutes. Hatcher stopped paying attention to the route after the first few. Fernandez’s phone had a GPS map. And since they weren’t blindfolding him, he could just remember the street and number later, if necessary.
When they arrived, he decided it wasn’t going to be necessary.
The driver pulled into what Hatcher took to be an abandoned warehouse; plain cement construction, industrial windows, a faded sign for a furniture company Hatcher had never heard of. Formerly abandoned, he realized.
Inside, it was bustling.
The interior was an open layout, two stories high. Six more Humvees, reconstructed military surplus from the looks of them, were parked inside being worked on. The far corner was caged off with reinforced wire mesh and a steel-grate door, housing racks of automatic weapons. Crates were stacked high against the walls. At least two dozen men in battle dress trousers and khaki shirts were tending to various tasks, working on creepers beneath the vehicles, cleaning weapons on tables, taking inventory of supplies. Four of them were on a set of mats, practicing hand-to-hand drills and knife work.
Hatcher realized a number of these were probably the same men he’d seen at the cave.
Edgar got out first. He opened the door for Hatcher to do the same. When the general followed, the men all stopped what they were doing and stood at attention.
Bartlett waved a hand in the air, a gesture that looked almost affectionate. “As you were.”
Hatcher followed the general to a door on the opposite side of the vehicle. He realized they had parked next to an artificial wall about ten feet high, running the length of the warehouse. Not just a wall, he realized, a large enclosure. As he drew close, he could smell the paint, noticed the surface still had that clean, moist look. The whole thing had probably been constructed within the last few weeks.
On the other side of the door was an office space. PC workstations, printers, a copier. No frills, no personalization. The upper half of the interior wall of the space was partition glass, revealing what lay beyond. No question what it was. He’d seen many in his time.
A war room.
The set up was functional. A large conference table rimmed with laptops dominated the center of the room. Five flat-screen TVs were arrayed across the top of the far wall, each running satellite news feeds from different networks. A pair of lecture hall dry-erase boards were mounted to the wall below them, names and times listed on one side in marker. An enormous map of the continental United States dominated the wall to the right, covered in a clear panels of Plexiglas peppered with handdrawn arrows and circles and numbers. To the left, blown-up satellite photos of mountain topography hung like posters. Red Xs marked certain locations, with numbers inked next to them that looked like longitude and latitude designations. To the right, a map of L.A., with four Xs. Hatcher could tell one of the Xs was the house on Mulholland. He assumed another was where he was standing. He wasn’t sure about the other two.
A tall black man in fatigues was standing in front of one of the posters, holding a digital tablet in his hand and speaking into a headset. His neck was bandaged. Hatcher recognized him as the guy from the motel room, the one he’d given a shot to the throat. He had to think for a moment before he could come up with a name. Calvin, the general had called him. Calvin glanced over and made eye contact when Hatcher entered. Considering the blow to his Adam’s apple, Hatcher thought the man didn’t look especially upset to see him. But he didn’t look thrilled, either.
Hatcher let his gaze drift the room, ran it over the walls as the general strode past him toward the head of the table. He gestured for Hatcher to have a seat.
Looking at the map of the U.S., Hatcher said, “Are you planning a coup?”
Bartlett bristled, then forced the kind of smile a parent might give a petulant child. “This is serious business, son.”
“What business are we talking about?”
“That’s what we’re here to discuss.” He waved his hand toward a nearby chair. “Please.”
After considering his options, Hatcher pulled out the chair and sat. Edgar took a seat a few chairs away. Calvin remained standing a few feet behind Bartlett, like an adjutant.
“Why don’t we start with why Vivian is dead.”
Bartlett’s eyes jumped to Edgar. Hatcher shifted to face him. Edgar shrugged and shook his head.
“That one has us stumped,” Bartlett said. “But the truth is, she had her own agenda.”
Hatcher wanted to react with anger, but the general’s voice was too sympathetic. He scanned the man’s face for signs of deception. There was some guarding, for sure. A definite attempt to control his nonverbals. But Hatcher couldn’t say the man was lying. Then again, it was very hard to tell with some people, especially outside of an interrogation.
“What kind of an agenda?”
“None of us is sure, but we believe it had something to do with you. We know she had contacts with the Carnates that she didn’t report.”
Hatcher said nothing. Could Vivian really have been up to something? Something he knew nothing about? His mind sifted through a sudden flash of recollections. There had been some signs, he had to admit. But it was difficult in the extreme to read someone you were involved with. The emotional nature of conversations tended to mask indicators, and you tended to ignore tells, unconsciously if not consciously, wanting to give the person the benefit of the doubt. Wanting to believe them. Failing to spot things you otherwise would.
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br /> “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“What I told you before is mostly true—”
“Mostly.”
“Yes. Mostly. What I told you about a portal to Hell being opened, what Vivian told you about your brother likely being involved. But there are things I left out.”
“What kind of things?”
Bartlett swiveled his chair slightly, looking to Calvin.
Calvin stepped forward. “The Carnates are the ones trying to open the passage.”
“What a shocker. Why didn’t you want me to know that?”
“Because Edgar has managed to gain their confidence. They believe he’s working with them.”
Hatcher looked at Edgar. “Is that so?”
“That’s so,” Edgar said. “They love me.”
“I have no idea what the hell is going on, but you’re bat-shit crazy if you believe that.”
Edgar started to protest, but Bartlett silenced him with a hand. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I can’t see a Carnate trusting anyone. They playact. They pretend. But they don’t trust. And they only love you the way a stripper loves a guy who keeps feeding her C-notes for lap dances and buys her eighty-dollar bottles of white wine and ginger ale.”
“I see,” Bartlett said, nodding. “Edgar, why don’t you explain the situation?”
“They don’t trust me in that way. They think they’ve co-opted me.”
“Co-opted you. Let’s back up.” Hatcher shifted back to face Bartlett. “What do you have going on here?” He waved a hand, indicating the room. “What is all this?”
“This is our operations center.”
“For what kind of operation?”
Bartlett leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingertips gently against one another over his lap. He looked to Calvin.
“Our objective is to find the gateway and destroy it.”
“How did you even know about it? About the Carnates?”
“Let’s just say, I heard a message,” Bartlett said. “From above.”
Tongues, Hatcher thought. He remembered what Vivian had told him. How he’d heard someone speaking in tongues. The fact it was probably true didn’t make it seem any less weird.
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