Diabolical

by Hank Schwaeble

  Son of a bitch.

  The plate of mirror was tilted diagonally across the space, reflecting the other half and for anyone looking down creating the illusion of a complete square. But really, only half the space was visible. The other was just a reflection of it.

  Hatcher pressed his fingers against the glass, tapped it, tried to slide it. It wouldn’t budge, so he smashed it with one of the drill batteries.

  Behind the mirror was a leather pouch. Hatcher reached in and pulled it out. Something solid and flat. He undid the tie on the pouch.

  The tablet was dark and smooth. It was the same shape as the one he’d seen in the motel, but the engraving was sharper, more detailed.

  Hatcher pulled out his phone. There was one bar of reception. He thumbed through the screens and called the number that had texted him.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “You want me to send you a picture of it?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Hatcher looked down at the tablet. “Destroy it?”

  “In that case, I guess I’ll go see the boy’s mother. Don’t fuck up, Hatcher.”

  The line clicked off and the phone went silent. Hatcher examined the tablet again, lifting it closer to his eyes and angling it toward one of the lamps. There were flecks of something embedded in it, possibly some type of metal.

  His head snapped up. Something had moved, something near the entrance to the cave. There’d been a sound, like small rocks tumbling.

  He put the tablet in the pouch and turned out the lamps. He grabbed the flashlight and the pouch, left everything else. Keeping the flashlight off, he moved toward the dim glow of morning.

  The brightening sky was visible even before he reached the mouth. He paused at the incline, listening. Nothing. No more dislodged rocks cascading across anything. No noise at all.

  He climbed out and stepped into the light. The brightness made him squint. He thought about walking to his car, then changed his mind. He reached into the pouch and removed the tablet. If he was going to destroy it, there was no sense in waiting. But then he thought of Edgar, how eager he’d sounded. That gave him pause.

  “Hold it!”

  Hatcher looked over his shoulder. A guy with an M4 was positioned on the rocky slope over the mouth, crouched and aiming. Out of the corner of his eye he caught another off to the side, wedged in a prone position between two boulders.

  “Don’t fire! Repeat—do not fire!”

  Bartlett stepped out from around a curve in the hillside. He was forcing a smile, but his eyes looked nervous. He held his palms out like he was the one with rifles pointed at him.

  “Hatcher, nobody needs to get hurt. Just put it down.”

  Hatcher stared at the man, then glanced down at the tablet.

  “What?” he said, hefting it into the air, acting as if he might drop it. “This?”

  Bartlett’s arms shot out stiff and the whites of his eyes jumped into view.

  “Please, you don’t understand what you’re holding.”

  “I don’t, huh? And why would that be? Maybe because you lied to me about it? About your plans for it?”

  “Okay, yes, perhaps I was less than forthcoming.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Just put it down. I’ll explain everything.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve had more than my share of explanations from you.”

  “You’re upset. I understand. But face facts. You have two weapons trained on you. There’s nowhere to go. I promise we’ll let you walk off if you just put it down.”

  Hatcher looked at the tablet again, then hoisted it high above his head. He expected Bartlett to flinch, but instead the man merely pressed his lips tight and shook his head slightly.

  “You won’t let your men shoot me because I might drop this. I’m thinking that’s just one of several reasons I shouldn’t put it down.”

  “Hatcher, that tablet is the key to everything. It’s the only bargaining power we have. If you break the seal, it’s useless.”

  “Tell your men to toss their weapons.”

  “I can’t do that, Hatcher.”

  Hatcher pressed the tablet slightly higher. “Do it, or they won’t have a reason not to shoot me anymore.”

  “If you’d just let me just explain—”

  “You can explain after they put the weapons down and march into the cave.”

  “Then you promise you’ll listen?”

  “I’ll let you talk till you’re blue in the face.”

  Bartlett eyed him for a few seconds, one eyebrow slightly bent. Then he glanced at his men and gave a stern nod. They each placed their rifles on the ground and climbed down to the front of the cave. They paused to give Bartlett another look, then they shuffled inside, stopping a few feet past the entrance.

  “Tell them to keep walking until they can’t anymore.”

  Bartlett glanced past Hatcher into the cave. “You heard him. Do it.”

  Hatcher kept an eye on Bartlett, waiting until he couldn’t hear their scraping footsteps as they descended.

  “Now,” Bartlett said. “Let’s talk.”

  “Sure. But one thing first.”

  Hatcher gripped the tablet with both hands, raised up on the balls of his feet, and slammed it down against the rocky ground in front of him.

  A piece of the tablet broke off, and a crack ripped down its middle.

  Bartlett stood, dumbstruck. He gazed mutely at the tablet, blinked as his eyes followed the crack up and down. He swallowed.

  “Now, you can talk all you want.”

  The general said nothing. He licked his lips a few times as he stared. His chest noticeably heaved with each breath.

  “It’s over, General.”

  Bartlett’s eyes drifted up to meet Hatcher’s. There was none of the anger or hatred Hatcher expected. The man’s gaze conveyed nothing but what seemed like a deep sense of alarm.

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It isn’t over.” Bartlett’s eyes sunk back to the ground. “It’s just beginning.”

  Hatcher watched the man watch the tablet. The general looked like someone trying to will a dead thing back to life. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have any idea what I went through to find that? That tablet was the only thing stopping them.”

  “Stopping who? The Carnates?”

  Bartlett spoke as if he hadn’t heard what Hatcher had asked. “Now they’ll be able to open it. God only knows what will be unleashed.”

  “If you’re really so upset about it, why were you negotiating to let them have the tablet?”

  “I . . . had a plan.”

  “What kind of plan.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He mopped a palm down his face. “Nothing matters now.”

  The man didn’t so much sit as he crumpled slowly to the ground. He lowered his head between his knees. Hatcher wondered for a moment if he might be weeping, but then he spoke.

  “Go, Hatcher. Just leave. Whatever happens to you now, know it’s all your doing.”

  Hatcher stood there for several breaths, then started in the direction of his car. After a few yards he heard Bartlett say something.

  “What was that?” Hatcher asked, turning to face him.

  The general kept staring through his legs at the ground. “She warned me. About you. I was foolish not to listen.”

  “Who? Vivian?”

  But Bartlett didn’t answer. He just peered down into the earth as if he had X-ray vision, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from all the things going on beneath the surface.

  CHAPTER 19

  EDGAR WASN’T ANSWERING HIS PHONE.

  Hatcher sped back to town, almost running off the road more than once. He must have tried Edgar two dozen times, starting before he even reached the car. He texted him that it was done, pulled over, and texted him again around the halfway point.

 
Whether or not Bartlett was telling the truth, Hatcher decided he didn’t care. As long as the Carnates didn’t have the boy, it wasn’t his problem. Bartlett struck him as one of those people who convinced himself of things, someone who believed his own bullshit. They were the best liars, because they didn’t always realize they were lying.

  But without Edgar answering the phone, he couldn’t be sure about the boy. That bothered him.

  He tried calling Susan. No answer there, either.

  The only thing he could think to do was head to where she was.

  It was mid-morning when he pulled up to the curb. He didn’t see her car anywhere on the street, but it could have been parked in the back. He headed straight for the front door and knocked. No answer.

  He tried the knob. Locked.

  Standing on the stoop, he considered going around to the rear, trying the patio door. But what was the point? If she were home, she’d answer. Not having any idea of where else to go didn’t make her more likely to be there. Still, he was reluctant to just leave.

  A car pulled up to the curb behind his and a heavyset woman with red hair got out. She offered a wary smile and headed toward the town house a couple of doors down. The one where Isaac had been snatched.

  “Excuse me,” Hatcher said, stepping to within earshot as she flipped through a set of keys. He stopped at a safe distance so as not spook her. “Have you seen Susan?”

  “Susan?”

  Hatcher tugged a thumb over his shoulder. “The woman who lives there.”

  “No. I mean, not today.”

  He thanked her and took a step toward the car before turning back.

  “I was here the other day when it happened. How’s your roommate?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The woman who was injured. Is she okay?”

  Her eyes gazed blankly back at him. “I don’t understand. Who was injured?”

  “Don’t you have a roommate? Or maybe a relative staying with you? Someone who was hurt?”

  “I live here by myself. The other day, you say? I wasn’t even here. I’ve been out of town.”

  Hatcher felt something cold settle in his stomach. “Was someone watching your place?”

  “I don’t really feel comfortable answering these questions. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Jake. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to scare you. I just need to find the woman who lives there. When I was here the other day, I thought someone was injured in your unit. An ambulance came.”

  “Couldn’t be mine. Nobody’s been here.”

  With a look that indicated she felt vulnerable, she slipped inside and shut the door.

  Hatcher stared at his shoes, not liking where his thoughts were going. He got back in the car and drove.

  What did Susan say? She had a bag at the train station, ready to go.

  Hatcher pulled out his cell phone, tried Edgar again. Nothing. He drove on autopilot, thinking. He thumbed a call to information, managed to find a number for the NYPD. He didn’t have her card, and didn’t have her number in this phone, so he had to go through several connections.

  He almost sagged in relief when she picked up.

  “Amy,” he said.

  “Hatcher? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you. You never called back.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I tried to track you down. I called the number you’d used last time over and over.”

  “I changed phones. Look, Amy. I need you to check something for me. It’s about Susan.”

  “Hatcher, are you even listening? I’ve been trying to reach you, and frantic probably isn’t too strong a word.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. What is it?”

  “Remember when I said I found your nephew’s birth certificate in Susan’s file?”

  “Yes?”

  “That struck me as strange. I mean, why? Why would someone put it there?”

  Hatcher said nothing.

  “So I checked, and it turns out a copy of it came in the mail, referencing Susan’s file. Technically, she’s still wanted on a material witness warrant.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “I don’t know, but that’s not the point.”

  “Okay.”

  “That bugged me enough that I dug a little more. I checked with vital records out there, and it—”

  “The birth certificate was fake?”

  “No, it was real. But here’s the thing—it wasn’t the only record they had. There was also a death certificate.”

  “What?”

  “A death certificate. Hatcher, Isaac Warren died shortly after he was born.”

  HATCHER DROVE BACK TO VENICE BEACH. HE PARKED A FEW blocks away and walked to the Liar’s Den. He had nowhere else to go.

  It was almost noon, so the place was locked. But Denny unlocked it after about five minutes’ worth of pounding on the door. He was winded.

  “Jesus, man. Some bosses would get pissed.”

  “I need a favor, Den.”

  Denny pulled his head back a bit and pinched his lips together. “You coming back to work?”

  “Not yet. I just need to use your computer.”

  “You’re killing me, man,” Denny said, shaking his head and looking down. For a moment, Hatcher thought he was going to get some excuse about it not being a good time or it not working, but then Denny stepped out of the way and let him in.

  Hatcher followed him through the bar toward the back.

  “I really wish you could work tonight. I’m shorthanded.”

  “Sorry, Den. I would if I could.”

  Denny mumbled something over his shoulder as they entered his office. He pointed toward a monitor and keyboard on a desk.

  “That computer I gave you not working?”

  Hatcher hesitated as he circled the desk. “I can’t go back to my place right now.”

  “Doesn’t your cell phone have internet?”

  “No,” Hatcher said, realizing he hadn’t even considered that. “Not mine.”

  Denny shrugged. “Who’s that guy been looking for you, anyway? He came by again.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t have time to deal with it right now.”

  The screen lit up when Hatcher touched the mouse. He clicked on the browser icon and waited.

  “Well, I really wish you’d come back to work. That other guy quit, bitched about not getting any days off. And Lori bugged out right after you.”

  Hatcher wished Denny would leave him be, but it was bad enough showing up like this. He didn’t need to antagonize the guy. There weren’t many other people he could turn to.

  He pulled up Google and typed in a search for the Church of the Ascension. Several came up, so he narrowed it to Los Angeles. He found the link, clicked on it.

  There it was, the church he’d been taken to. He read through the history. Not much. He did another search, this time adding the words “underground” and “tunnel.”

  Several conspiracy websites came up. They seemed to all be talking about lizard people and underground cities. One article talked about a vast subterranean tunnel system and said the only known remaining entrance was beneath the church.

  “Is this going to take a long time?” Denny asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Hey, when you’re done, you want to watch the latest Mark Specter video? I just got it.”

  “Next time. I promise.”

  The portly man sighed. He stayed quiet for a while as Hatcher read but eventually asked another question.

  Hatcher glanced up from the screen belatedly. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “I said, did you know Lori was just going to up and leave?”

  “No.” Hatcher lowered his eyes again, scrolled down the screen. “Why?”

  “Because she stopped showing up right after you checked out on me. Thought maybe you two snuck off together.”

  It took a few seconds for the words to reach him as he scanned more text about underground L
os Angeles.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Man, you must really be out of it. I said, she disappeared right after you checked out on me.”

  Hatcher said nothing. He let his gaze drift off Denny and float out to the middle of the room.

  “I always thought you had a thing for her,” Denny added. “Caught you checking her out more than once. And I don’t think I ever caught you doing that to anyone else.”

  Lori. Blonde Lori. The one who reminded him so much of Vivian.

  “Can’t says I blame you, man,” Denny continued, “she was hot. A little trashy, but hot. That’s what hurts, since she was good for business. You know, one guy told me he could’ve sworn she used to be a call girl. Some fancy escort service. Thought she’d done some porn, too.”

  “When did she disappear?”

  “I don’t know, a day or two after you did. Like I said, I was wondering if there was some connection. You know, maybe you and her . . .”

  Hatcher sank back in the chair. Lori missing. Vivian dead.

  He forced himself to picture Vivian—what was left of her—on the hotel room bed. Body parts drenched in blood. Severed head propped on a pillow. Blonde hair, stringy with blood, draped over her face.

  Lori missing. Vivian dead.

  You live in a world of illusions, Hatcher.

  Lori missing. Vivian dead. Or . . .

  If you’d only open your eyes.

  Vivian missing. Lori dead.

  The body and right arm of a whore.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Denny said. “You look like you just saw a ghost or something.”

  Hatcher pushed himself off the chair and headed out of the office.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  DETECTIVE WRIGHT ANSWERED ON THE THIRD RING.

  “Hello, Amy.”

  “Hatcher. I’m sorry I had to drop such a bomb on you earlier.”

  Hatcher shut the door to the rental car and slipped the key into the ignition. “Not your fault. But I could use some help.”

  “What do you need?”

  “There was a murder at the Royal Plaza hotel in Santa Monica a few days ago. Mutilation. Very bloody.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need to know if they’ve IDed the victim. I think it may have been a girl named Lori. Worked with me in Venice Beach at a place called the Liar’s Den.”