The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven

by Harmony L. Courtney

  Tears began to form in Uncle Masao’s eyes, and he let them slide down his cheeks unabashedly. “But enough of this; it was not what you asked me. Forgive me,” he said, bowing his head a moment. “I studied Hebrew for three semesters of college, and then again, on my own, I have tried to learn more,” he said.

  “Nevertheless, the years have slipped past me… too many years since I was young and learning things for my father, as well as myself. However, this golem, I will form again. This Hebrew that I love, I will see if the pieces fit, and if they do not, then we will know that we have found something Aramaic, instead.”

  He stood back up and moved toward the mirror once more. “What do you say we finish this tonight? If there is anything more, I should like to find it all at one time so we may proceed, as we are able. Are we agreed?”

  Edward, stunned by the even-toned revelation Masao had just delivered to them, moved to follow suit. His hands shook as he slid the dust-spattered gloves over the contours and juts of the wood once more. Within minutes, he was able to find a rhythm again, in spite of the headache that was beginning to fester underneath all of the new information that his mind was processing.

  “Are you alright,” Paloma asked him, barely nudging his shoulder at a moment when his hand was lifted from the wood. “Maybe I should-“

  “I need to do this,” he said, interrupting her. “I traveled through this mirror; it was given to me by the woman who left two of those messages inside. Jason and I have researched it more than you, though your help has been appreciated… and I just… I need to do this,” he said, feeling faint. With a sigh, he turned to her and their eyes met. “But I can’t.”

  Suddenly, all eyes were on him, and his stomach began to revolt against the pizza he had chosen for lunch, twisting in knots and threatening to explode.

  Without another word, he made for the door, praying he would make it. Praying his headache would go away, that he wouldn’t be sick very long, that they would be forgiving and understand that as much as he wanted to continue, he had to step away. As much as he needed to be there, he had to leave; his thoughts were spiraling within him, churning now as much as the contents of his stomach, and thankfully, he made it to his destination just in time.

  Lord, what’s happening to me? And why, now that we’re really onto something, am I getting ill all over again? Why is it that, now that there are new findings, I can’t even be there to participate in them all?

  Edward washed his hands, tossed the gloves he’d been wearing in the laundry basket, and turned to head back upstairs when he heard Jason shouting for him.

  “Two more, right next to each other, but both empty, my friend,” he said. “Just so you know what’s happening. They were on the side you were working on, a few inches below where you had to… pause.”

  Great, Edward thought. Well, at least they were empty.

  Two

  Seal Beach, California… December 28, 2024

  Romeo spied out the curtains to the blue Cadillac that was parked indiscreetly across the street, not for the first time in the past several weeks. He had seen it at the barber’s, and at the grocer’s; he’d seen it at the bank, and even at the hospital when they had left after a few of Angus’s checkups.

  From what Brice had told him, the car, indeed, belonged to Calico’s brother – or rather, Rosemary’s brother – Felix. The woman at his side, Jasmine, was a former schoolmate and emotional torturer of theirs, and now his wife.

  “Why don’t they approach us,” he asked himself in the darkness, thankful Calico and Angus were both sleeping, finally.

  They’d had a long day, and an even longer few weeks. Calico’s nightmares had returned, and then, at Christmas, after the service they’d gone to, she’d told him she didn’t think there would be as many. Something about peace and forgiveness that extended beyond her own capacity, but that still, had somehow enveloped her in its arms like an embrace. A forgiveness for Arthur, and for herself for walking into the Reynolds house. A forgiveness for God that she didn’t even realize she needed to give, though she knew, deep down, was her interpretation of things and not God’s intent.

  Romeo sighed, let go of the curtain, and headed to the kitchen to wash his hands. Just as he was about to turn on the faucet, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock: 11:06.

  Please, God, help my family to be able to sleep through whatever this is, he prayed as he hurried toward the door. A knock ensued just as he was reaching it.

  Romeo took a deep breath, unlocked the door, and opened it, expecting to meet Felix and Jasmine finally, face to face: instead, it was Brice and Melody Marshall.

  Since Camellia wasn’t with them, he assumed they’d gotten a babysitter in order to come over for this unexpected visit.

  The silver-haired pair – Brice, tall and muscular; Melody, several inches shorter, plump, and curvy – smiled at him apologetically as he ushered them into the room. Tonight, they wore matching white jackets and jeans; Romeo couldn’t distinguish the color or type of shirts they wore underneath.

  “We’re sorry to barge in on you like this, so late, and we would have called but didn’t want to wake the baby up,” Brice began, his voice deep and mellow. “I’ve done some more checking on the Jenkinses, and it turns out, they’ve actually moved here. They aren’t just stalking you part-time, my friend, but they’ve fully committed to observing whatever they can of your lives, whether we like it or not, which means-”

  “I’m not uprooting my family; please don’t tell me you’re even thinking that we should be the ones to move simply because-”

  “I’m sorry, Romeo. I know this is where you grew up. I know you both love it here, and want to raise Angus here. And you’re right… you shouldn’t have to move, but in the best interest of the safety of your family,” Melody said in a near-whisper as she settled in on the couch, “we think it might be the best thing.”

  “And what makes you think that if they can find us here, they couldn’t find us somewhere else,” Romeo asked as he watched Brice take a seat near his wife. He himself remained standing, trying to gauge what else might be coming at him, even as the doorbell rang a second time.

  In the background, he could hear Angus begin to call out unintelligible words in his sleep, and prayed the boy would stay asleep as he approached the door a second time.

  At four, Angus was beginning to become more aware of what was happening to him, and, like his mother, had nightmares when things changed too drastically. Romeo and Calico had agreed long ago that, for the sake of their son, they would do their best to ease him into anything that might frighten him into terror-filled dreams.

  At least, until he reached a more understanding age. Ten, perhaps twelve.

  Angus’ health was just too fragile to add anything like that to his understanding of the amalgamation of what was affecting their lives.

  What is this, Grand Central Station, he thought as he pressed his ear to the door. “Who is it,” he called, barely above a whisper.

  “Roscoe Judd Ballard, Sir. There’s been an incident,” he heard the disembodied voice of their client say on the other side of the door.

  What’s he doing outside of the hotel? And how does he know where we live, Romeo thought as he hastily opened the door and pulled the man inside before closing it as quietly as possible.

  And at that moment, Angus began to cry.

  Romeo ran a hand through his hair, wishing that life would just calm down long enough for him to think. He had to think.

  There was no way he was moving his family if he didn’t absolutely have to. So what was he going to do?

  “Take a seat,” he instructed, not bothering to look at anyone else as he made his way toward the hall. Could he reach his son in time, before Calico awakened, too?

  Romeo headed toward his son’s room, quietly lifted him to his shoulder, whispering assurances to him as he carried him into the living room, well aware of the weight his son had gained in the last six months as he finally began f
illing out a little.

  And just when he thought he’d accomplished the impossible – allowing his wife to sleep while there were three people in the house more than usual – he heard her bare feet padding out behind him as Angus began to settle down.

  “What is this I hear about moving,” he heard her asking as he pulled a chair in from the kitchen to sit on, then another for her.

  “Who’s moving,” Roscoe Judd asked, a confused frown contorting his not quite fleshy face, making one of the extra chins that had been liposuctioned away fleetingly reappear.

  “They are,” Brice said, pointing toward Romeo, and then Calico in a back and forth motion.

  “Nobody,” Romeo said at nearly the same time as he readjusted Angus on his shoulder. “Not if I can help it.”

  Three

  Salem, Oregon… December 28, 2024

  “Reynolds, you have a visitor waiting,” Arthur heard as he shifted in his seat, making him jump.

  The pencil in his hand went skidding across the drawing he had been working on, ruining both: a broken tip, and a bright red mark through the message he’d just finished sketching out.

  Arthur winced at the pain in his shoulder; an everyday reminder of being shot after shooting Andrea Juarez and killing both she and her baby. Not that he complained about it; what was the point? Most people in here wouldn’t even know he’d been shot, except for when he showered.

  He refused to give in to the pain; not his shoulder, and not the occasional phantom pain that ran through his hand to remind him of the nail he’d lost. Reminded him of the blood that had been underneath the rest of them on that hand that had condemned him as the murderer of a woman he knew was still alive.

  As the door clanked open, he readied himself to follow Officer Montana as he led the way through the corridors until finally, they were at the last door.

  He hadn’t had a visitor in over three years. Who could be coming to see him now? And for what?

  Sweat began to form on his upper lip and around his hairline, and he shook his braids back in an effort to calm himself. “Ya know who dis be, Off’cer, who done come see me?”

  He looked down at the officer, who stood nearly a foot shorter, hoping for a positive reply.

  “You weren’t expecting someone to visit today,” the officer asked him. “Then it’s got to be someone on your approved list, that’s all I can say,” he said, pressing the buzzer to open the door. He led Arthur through the door, then stood with him a moment as Arthur scanned the room.

  A waving hand caught his attention, and he started.

  Seriously?

  What was he doing here?

  Mark watched as Arthur moved toward him; the hint of frustration across his full lips, the furrowed brow of puzzlement and confusion, and the cocky tilt of his head all vying to be seen as prominent before he moved to sit down across from him in the plastic chair provided.

  Mark sat in the chair on the left row, and Arthur on the right, the rows differentiated by color. Guests sat on the north row and prisoners on the south. Was that intentional, or coincidence?

  “Never thought I be seein’ da likesa you, ‘gain,” Arthur finally said a few moments after he settled into his chair. A man in the aisle behind him tapped him on the shoulder, and he ignored it with a quick hand motion. “Whatever it is, not now,” he said in a whisper before he returned his attention to Mark.

  “I never thought that I’d be visiting you again, either, to be honest,” he told his former friend. “But there were some things that I just… I needed to ask you, face to face, if you’ll let me. Some things I wanted to tell you, too.”

  “Did ya fine her,” Arthur asked, his voice sharp as a razor. “A’cause if not, we gots nothin’ to say, do we, Mark? I means, ya gotta admit dem Scripchures ya sent are nice but dey borin’, too, and all dat junk about how ya fo’give me and God wants to, too; how Jesus done died fo’ me? Dat’s in da clouds, man. I ain’t never gonna need ya to fo’give me, ‘cause ain’t never done nothin’ to ya, have I? Did I lead ya astray, Man? Did I bully ya ta look fo’ her? Not dat I’s recall… not one bit.”

  Mark took a few deep breaths and folded his hands in an attempt to stay calm. If he showed Arthur he was nervous – if he started pulling threads from the seam of his pants, or rubbing at invisible lint, then it’d be all over.

  I knew this was going to happen, God, I knew it, and here we are, with all this on the table for the world to see. I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to ever see his mug again, and here I am, God, so show me what to say; what to do, he prayed. Because to be honest, I want to just walk right back out that door and never look back, like I said I’d do in that letter so many years ago.

  “Well, aintcha got nothin’ ta say,” Arthur said again, interrupting Mark’s thought process.

  “Arthur, let me just say that first of all, to answer your question, no. I haven’t found Rosemary because Rosemary is dead. End of story; let it go. She died wherever you left her to die, and that isn’t something either of us can change. She’s gone. She’s history,” Mark said, trying to curb the anger welling inside of him. He forced his voice to remain low and smooth despite the topical matter; despite that his voice tended to be high in general.

  He surprised even himself with how low it was in this moment. Had it ever been so before? That was a miracle in itself, considering that if their conversation was overheard, he may as well look forward to potential charges against himself, as well.

  Lord, do I have what it takes to admit the truth to this man? Do I have what it takes to tell him I’m who it was that found Andrea and Rosemary that night, and I did nothing? I gave them something to eat and fled like a chicken!

  “And second, you do need forgiveness; we all do… certainly including myself. But I’m not here to preach to you; I’m not here to bust your self-prescribed ideals and paradigms. I’m here to ask you a few questions, and I want the truth. I want the truth because there are people who need closure, and they didn’t have the strength to come today to see you. I did; somehow, though not under my own strength, but I did,” he continued, his voice a little louder, as Arthur went to stand, then sat down again, his facial features flattening out in anger. “Only by God am I here, Man. Don’t you see that? And only by God do I not only have questions, but a confession of my own.”

  “Nah, Man. Dis ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ God. God done abandon me in here and lef’ me here like some crim’nal, like I dine did somethin’ wrong, an’ I know Rosemary be alive,” he whispered back. “An’ whacha mean, ya gots a confess’n? You think I be a pries’ or somethin’?”

  Mark squeezed his hands even tighter and clenched his teeth, just for a moment, as he tried to calm back down. Getting angry all over again, or worse yet, chickening out for the hundredth time from this conversation, is not going to help either of us, he thought. “Arthur, I mean it. And to prove it to you, I’ll even say what I need to say first, and then get to the questions. Fair enough,” he asked, holding out his hand to shake, though he knew he might be busted for it.

  But they hadn’t hugged, and they certainly hadn’t kissed. Shouldn’t a handshake be seen in a similar light, as long as it was brief like those other points of contact for face to face?

  Arthur looked around, his eyes narrowing as they concentrated on Mark once more.

  Arthur’s height, alone, was intimidating, but add in what Mark knew he was capable of; add in those small brown eyes that consistently made him just a little uneasy, in conjunction with the large but compact lips that flattened whenever instant his mood shifted negatively, and Mark was more than a little on edge.

  Arthur huffed out a breath and quickly reached for Mark’s extended palm. “Fine,” he said, then let go as both men put their hands back down. “’Less’n I don’ like da quest’ins, and den, I be outa here. I gots otha things I c’ be doin’, ya know.”

  Resettling himself as far back as he could in his chair, Mark reclasped his hands, took a deep breath,
and proceeded.

  “It was me.”

  A confused look came over Arthur’s face again. “What was,” he asked.

  “The light that was left on that day, in the-“

  “Man, ya gotta be…,” Arthur nearly yelled before he paused, strung a few swear words together in a lower register. “Naw, dis can’t be real, Man. Ya gots to be…”

  He clamped his mouth shut; his wide nose twitched a few moments as he did his best to contain himself, eyes so narrow his lashes rounded together like lions’ manes, thick and black around the barely-visable centers of his eyes. “It can’ta been,” he said again, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Dis is jus’ surrea’, Man. I mean, I aksed-”

  “I know you did, and I lied, and I’m sorry,” Mark said, interrupting. “But what would you have said if it was the other way around? What would you have said,” he asked, the pitch of his voice rising again in panic. “I could have lost everything: my new job, my license, my new and budding romance with Eugenie, my friends and my brother. And for what? Trying to help someone that I didn’t have the guts to free,” he said, not caring anymore who heard him.

  He could feel eyes boring into his back, and eyes from the officer’s desk nearby, and still, he didn’t stop. “What I did was just as wrong as what you did. And in some ways, maybe more, although I did what I thought was right… to the degree that my conscience would allow me and my fear didn’t argue, I did what I could. And you know what? It wasn’t enough.”

  The officer behind the desk came toward them, a notepad and pen in one hand, his radio in the other. As he approached, Mark noticed his name: also Mark. Mark Worthington.

  Worthington, who stood close to 6’3” and three hundred pounds, with deep, dark skin, a cue ball-bald head, and large, startlingly green eyes, sat down in the vacant seat next to Arthur and looked Mark over a moment before speaking.

  “Is there a problem here, gentlemen? It seems your conversation is getting out of hand, and I, for one, wouldn’t want to see things escalate,” he said, “get my meaning.”