The Wrath of Angels cp-11

by John Connolly

  But the letter was problematical. The return address was a box number that did not exist, and the envelope contained only two sheets of paper. One was a list of names, the other an unsigned covering note which read:

  I have made errors in my life, and I am afraid. I have confessed my sins, and seek to make reparation for them. I believe that the names on this list may be of interest to you and one of your clients. Please believe me when I tell you that it represents only a fraction of the information I have available to me. I know of the Believers. I know of the Army of Night. I can give your enemies into your hands, hundreds and hundreds of them. If you wish to talk further, you can contact me at the number below from November 19 for one twenty-four hour period, beginning at 00.01 a.m. on that date. Should I fail to hear back from you during this period, I will assume that I was mistaken in my approaches. You are not the only ones in a position to act upon this knowledge, and you are not the only ones with whom I have shared it.

  Typed below the letter was a cell phone number. When the number was tested, it was discovered not to be in operation. It was still not in operation when November 19 arrived, and passed. This was the source of considerable frustration to Eldritch & Associates, as a cautious investigation of the individuals named on the list, most of whom had not previously come to the firm’s attention, revealed that a number were indeed compromised, and had apparently willingly colluded in their own damnation. Some accompanying documentation that followed by mail a few days later, apparently from the same sender, confirmed this view. They had sold themselves in return for influence and advancement, for favors financial and sexual, and sometimes simply for the satisfaction of secretly doing wrong. The letter had promised a treasure trove of further information once contact was made; instead, there was only silence.

  The law firm of Eldritch & Associates was an operation that prized documents, as any good law firm should. It knew the value of paperwork because a thing set down on paper was difficult to erase, and the fact of its existence could not be denied. Mr Eldritch liked to say that nothing on a computer screen really existed. He distrusted anything that did not make a noise when it was dropped, but he was no Luddite: he simply prized secrecy and confidentiality, and the success of the firm’s mission was predicated on its ability to leave no trace of its actions. Dealings and communications conducted through the Internet left a trail that an idiot child could follow. Thus it was that there were no computers at Eldritch & Associates, and the firm did not accept submissions or messages by email or other electronic means.

  Even the firm’s phone was rarely answered, and, when it was picked up, assistance of any kind was seldom forthcoming. A caller who contacted that venerable institution in the hope of securing advice or aid relating to difficulties with the law would usually be told that the firm was not accepting new clients at present, and rarely did the name of Eldritch figure in any but the most esoteric of cases: disputes over ancient wills in which some or all of the relevant parties had by then activated wills of their own through the workings of mortality; property dealings that related to houses and plots largely unwanted and generally regarded as unsaleable, often linked by some connection, either peripheral or direct, to crimes of blood; and, most infrequently, offers of representation on a pro bono basis for those involved in the most heinous of crimes, although in each case the defendants had already been found guilty in a court of law, and the approach by Eldritch & Associates typically involved only a carefully worded commitment to investigate the circumstances of the conviction. The interviews would be conducted in person by Mr Eldritch himself, a vision of old world refinement in dark pinstripe trousers, matching waistcoat, black jacket, and black silk tie, all overlaid with a faint patina of dust, as though the lawyer had been roused from the sleep of decades for just this purpose.

  Only occasionally did someone comment upon the fact that Mr Eldritch bore a striking resemblance to an undertaker.

  Mr Eldritch was a consummate interrogator. His particular interest lay in cases where unanswered questions remained: questions of motivation and, more specifically, of suspicion about the involvement of unknown others in the commission of crimes, men and women who had somehow avoided attracting the attention of the law. He had discovered that self-interest was the great motivator, and the possibility of a sentence reduction, or the avoidance of the needle in a bare room, tended to loosen tongues. True, one had to mine a great weight of lies to uncover a single gem of truth, but that was part of the pleasure for Mr Eldritch: one had to test the acuity of one’s processes on a regular basis if one were not to become physically old and mentally slow. Being old was bad enough. He couldn’t afford to relinquish his faculties as well. Mr Eldritch enjoyed these sessions with the criminal kind, even when he emerged from them without useful information. They kept his mind keen.

  Nobody ever won a reprieve from the death chamber, or a reduction in sentence, because Mr Eldritch took an interest in his case, but then Mr Eldritch never made any such specific promises. In fact, those who spoke with him couldn’t quite recall why they’d agreed to do so in the first place once Mr Eldritch had gone on his less-than-merry way, and eventually they seemed to forget about him entirely, either of their own volition or through, once again, the actions of mortality, state-sanctioned or otherwise.

  But those of whom they spoke with Eldritch – accomplices, employers, betrayers – frequently lived to regret the fact that the old lawyer had taken an interest in their existence, although their regret was destined to be as short-lived as they were. In time a caller would come, trailing nicotine and vengeance. He would have a gun, or more often a blade, in his hand, and as their lifeblood warmed his cold skin, his eyes would scan his surroundings, seeking some small remembrance of the occasion, a token of a sentence carried out, for collecting is an ongoing obsession, and a collection can always be added to.

  And so it was that when no response could be elicited from the phone number supplied with the list of names, efforts were made to discover the identity of its owner. Although Mr Eldritch had no fondness for computers, he was willing to employ others to use them on his behalf, just as long as their unnatural glow did not sully his own environment. The number was traced to a cell phone that was part of a batch supplied to a big box store near Waterbury, Connecticut. An electronic search of the store’s sales records came up with a date and time of purchase, but no name, indicating a cash payment. Security footage from the premises was stored digitally, and proved to be as easy to access as the store’s inventory. An image of the woman was found: fifties, brunette, rather masculine in appearance. She was timed leaving the store, after which footage from the exterior cameras was examined. Her car was identified, and its license plate checked. The plate led, in turn, to her name, address, and Social Security number, since the State of Connecticut required the presentation of a Social Security card to issue a driver’s license. Unfortunately, by the time Eldritch & Associates had obtained all of this information, Barbara Kelly was already dead.

  But now they had a name, and the Collector could begin his work.

  Most smokers have an impaired sense of smell, as smoking damages the olfactory nerves in the back of the nose as well as the taste receptors in the mouth located on the tongue, the soft palate, the upper esophagus, and the epiglottis. The taste buds on the tongue sit on raised protrusions called papillae. Examined in a microscope, they resemble fungi and plants in some exotic garden.

  The Collector had noticed some diminution in his capacity to taste in recent years, although since he ate sparingly and unostentatiously he regarded it as only a minor irritant. The ongoing damage to his ability to smell he found more troubling, but as he wandered through the wreckage of Barbara Kelly’s home, taking in the damage caused by fire and smoke and water, he was pleased to be able to discern among the conflicting odors the unmistakable porcine stink of roasted human flesh.

  He stood in the ruins of the kitchen and lit a cigarette. He was not worried about being seen. The poli
ce were no longer concerned with personally securing the scene, contenting themselves with signs and tape to keep away the curious, and the house was sheltered by trees from its neighbors and the road. He twisted the head of his flashlight and commenced a slow and careful examination of each room, starting and ending with the kitchen, his worn but comfortable shoes splashing through puddles of dirty water. His fingers searched dresses and jackets stinking of smoke, underwear and stockings that would eventually be destroyed, towels and medicines and old magazines, all the detritus of a lost life. He found nothing of interest, but then he had expected as much. Still, one never knew.

  He went outside. The woman’s car had been found fifty miles from her house, burned out. A second vehicle, a red SUV, was discovered closer to the house, also burned out, and with its plates missing. The chassis number revealed that it had been stolen from Newport two days earlier. Curious. It suggested that Barbara Kelly’s killer had arrived in one car and departed in another, perhaps because the first vehicle had broken down.

  No signs of forced access, so she had invited her killer in. That suggested it might have been someone known to her. On the other hand, she must have been aware that by sending out the list she was taking a considerable chance. These were not ordinary individuals for whom she worked, and they were very, very careful. They were particularly adept at sniffing out betrayal. She would have been wary of any approaches, whether from strangers or known associates. The background check on Kelly had revealed her sexual orientation. Women in fear tended to be less wary of other women, a small psychological chink in their armor that Kelly’s lesbianism might have further compounded.

  A woman, then? Perhaps. But then the situation had changed. At some point, Kelly had made a break for her car, but was pulled back inside. No, dragged back inside: there was grit embedded in her heels.

  He returned to the kitchen. The flames had scoured it of blood, but this was where she was tortured and left to die. The oven and range were electric. A pity: gas would have been so much more effective. Instead, her killer had been forced to use the contents of the liquor cabinet to start the fire. Messy. Amateurish. Whoever was responsible had planned for a different outcome.

  The kitchen was surprisingly neat, especially given the damage to the rest of the house. The surfaces were marble, the cabinets polished steel, and all of the kitchen utensils appeared to have been hidden away behind their doors. He reconstructed it in his head, seeing it as it was while its owner was still alive: pristine, sterile, with nothing out of place; apt surroundings for a woman who had hidden so much about herself.

  He squatted beside the sink. The coffee pot lay on its side, its glass blackened but unbroken, although the plastic on the rim had become fused to the kitchen tiles. Could the firemen have knocked it over? Possibly, but the fact that it was stuck to the floor suggested otherwise. He looked around. The larger knives were kept on a magnetized board by the oven, directly above the silverware drawer. No reason to be over there, unless you were preparing food.

  How did you run? How did you escape, even temporarily? The Collector closed his eyes. He had a good imagination, but more importantly he had a finely honed understanding of the relationship between predator and prey in any range of given situations.

  You couldn’t go for the knives: that would have been too obvious unless you were cooking, and there was no indication that this was the case. So what do you do? What would be normal behavior, even as your suspicions were perhaps becoming aroused?

  You would offer a drink. It was cold and wet on the night that you died. You could have suggested liquor – brandy or whisky – but you would have wanted to stay alert, and liquor would have dulled your responses. The one who was planning to hurt you might have declined for the same reason. Something hot, then: in this case, coffee.

  You go to the kitchen. Maybe you’re not yet worried – but, no, you probably are. You’ve made a mistake allowing a potential threat into your home, but you haven’t revealed your fear. You’re tamping it down because as soon as it’s sensed, action will be taken against you. You have to act normal until an opportunity presents itself to strike and defend yourself.

  You make that opportunity.

  Let’s say that you threw the contents of the coffee pot, and you must have hit your target because you bought yourself enough time to get to your car, but not enough to escape. Scalding coffee, probably to the face. Painful. Incapacitating. But you still didn’t manage to get away. Not just one attacker, then, but two or more. No, just two: if there were three, you would never have made it so far.

  Eldritch & Associates had obtained a copy of the medical examiner’s report on Barbara Kelly. It revealed, in addition to the various cuts on her body, a wound to her cheek that appeared to be the result of a bite. Human flesh was a notoriously undependable substance for the recording of bite marks. The reliability of the bite mark record could be affected by the status of the tissue under analysis, the time elapsed between the bite and the creation of an impression, the condition of the skin damaged by the bite pressure and the reaction of the surrounding tissue to it, the size of the wound, and the clearness of the marks. The fact that Kelly’s face had been badly scorched by heat caused further difficulties, and meant that there was no possibility of obtaining DNA samples from saliva, or even of making a reasonable comparison based on dental analysis should a suspect be found. What was interesting, though, was the fact that the bite radius was comparatively small, with the first premolars and second premolars absent from both the upper and lower jaws.

  Barbara Kelly, it seemed, had been bitten by a child shortly before she died.

  The likelihood of a woman being present increased. Yes, it was possible that Kelly might have admitted a man with a young child, but why not take the next logical step and disarm her entirely with a woman and a child?

  Why would a child bite a woman?

  Because you threatened, or actively hurt, its mother.

  That was how you got away, thought the Collector. You used something in the kitchen, in all likelihood the coffee pot, to attack the mother, then ran. It was the child that came after you, distracting you for long enough to allow the woman to recover and drag you back inside. Well done. You must have come close to surviving.

  The Collector thought that he might have been quite interested to meet Barbara Kelly. Of course, his interest would have been both personal and professional. If, as he believed, she was responsible for the corruption of so many souls, then he would have been forced to take a blade to her, but he admired her for the battle that she had put up at the end of her life. He knew many people labored under the illusion that they would fight to stay alive under such circumstances, but he had ended too many lives himself to believe that such responses were not the rule, but the exception. Most went to their deaths without a struggle, frozen by shock and incomprehension.

  He wondered what she had told them at the end. That was the other thing: nobody resisted torture. Everybody broke. It was nothing to be ashamed of. The difficulty for the torturer lay in figuring out the truth of what one was being told. Scourge a man for long enough, and if you ask him to tell you that the sky is pink and the moon is purple, that day is night and night is day, he will swear to it on the lives of his wife and children. The trick in the early stages was to cause just enough pain, and to ask questions to which the answers were already known, or were easily verifiable. Every study required a baseline.

  So what did she have to tell? Well, she had promised in her letter that there were more names to be given, and she had more information to provide, but the kind of people who would inflict that level of pain on another human being and then leave her to burn were hardly on the side of the angels and were therefore unlikely to be sufficiently interested in the identities of those like themselves to kill for them. No, they would be more interested in curbing the supply of such information. They would want to know whom she had approached, and what she had already given them, and she would have told them
because the pain would have been too much for her. Her killers now knew, therefore, that Eldritch & Associates had been provided with a list of names. They might move against Eldritch, which would be unwise, or they might seek to limit the damage caused through other means, perhaps by silencing those on that particular list.

  Then there was the small matter of who else might have been approached by this woman. There were few candidates who could be trusted enough. In fact, the Collector could think of only one.

  But then, the old Jew could take care of himself.

  The Collector finished his cigarette and carefully doused the tip in a pool of water before slipping the butt into the pocket of his black coat. The Collector regularly wore a coat, regardless of the weather. Excesses of heat or cold had little effect on him, and anyway, a man always had need of pockets: for cigarettes, a wallet, a lighter, and an assortment of blades. He looked to the north, where Eldritch was probably still sitting in his office, poring over papers. The thought brought him pleasure, even though they had argued earlier that day, and Eldritch and the Collector rarely exchanged a harsh word. On this occasion, the Collector reflected, it was a matter of conflicting philosophies, a belief in preventive measures coming up against the lawyer’s requirement for evidential proof of the commission of a crime. In the end, though, it would come down to the blade, for the man with the blade always has the final word.