by Speer, Scott
“When you see these people saved by Angels, do you sometimes not think about the Angel or the Protection? I mean, do you ever think about the other people? People that maybe got hurt. People that maybe got killed. Do they deserve to be saved any less?”
He looked up from his mug right into Maddy’s eyes. She gazed at Ethan, sensing the invitation of the moment, but stood silent, tongue-tied. After another second, Ethan’s face broke out into a smile. “Sorry. I guess I’ve been hanging around Tyler too much.”
“It would be easier to ignore them—the Angels, I mean,” Maddy said, thinking of Jackson and picking her words carefully, “if everyone didn’t talk about them all the time.”
“Seriously. I’m so glad you feel the same way,” Ethan said, still looking at her. Was he blushing? “What I mean is, I knew we had a lot in common.”
Now it was Maddy’s turn to blush. Sensing her discomfort, Ethan got up.
“Well, I gotta get going. Thanks again for the coffee.”
“Anytime,” Maddy managed to say, and took the mug from him.
“The other reason I came by was to say I really hope you can make it to my party,” he said very softly, leaning forward so she could hear him over the noise of the customers. With that he turned and left.
Maddy watched him until he disappeared from sight.
Maybe she’d be able to forget Jackson Godspeed after all.
• • •
When Kevin’s finally closed, Maddy had nearly run herself off her feet. Worse, her nerves were raw. Kevin sat in the office, adding up receipts at the till.
“Biggest weekday night . . . ever,” he said, typing in figures on his calculator. He looked up at her over the rim of his glasses. “Or any night, for that matter.”
“Sleep tight, Kevin,” she said as she passed him. Despite everything, she was glad he was happy. She walked out the back of the restaurant and up the adjoining yard to the house. It was an unusually clear night in Angel City, with a light, crisp autumn breeze. She went straight up to her room, peeled out of her uniform, and threw on an old shirt, a lace-trimmed tee from Anthropologie she’d found with tags still on at Goodwill. By now she’d worn it into the ground. Her best pair of jeans were finally dry from the wash and she laid them over the back of her desk chair, along with her gray hoodie. She didn’t often have the chance to get new clothes, so she took good care of the things she did get so they lasted longer—even if a lot of the time they came from Target. She ran a washcloth over her face in the bathroom and fell into bed, utterly exhausted. Outside her window the Angel City sign glowed, casting its pale fingers of light into the dark room.
She tried to just go to sleep and not think, but the thoughts came anyway. They gathered like storm clouds in the emotional tumult of her mind. Jackson coming into school and the feel of his presence in the dusty classroom. The evening shift in the diner and the incessant talk of him. That conversation in the back room that her mind kept returning to, and what she had felt.
Then there was Ethan, with his easy way about him and how comfortable he made her feel. Why couldn’t she let him in? He was nothing but nice to her. Why was she so self-destructive when it came to friendships, keeping everyone out except Gwen? Thinking about her conversation with Ethan, she realized something: it was the only time tonight she had forgotten about Jacks. Well, she would never see Jackson Godspeed again. And she was happy about that, she thought. After an hour of staring at the ceiling, she finally felt her mind slipping into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jackson looked in the rearview mirror. His sharp blue eyes met him, filled with uncertainty. He wasn’t used to that look—and neither was the world. He was Jackson Godspeed, after all. He was confident. He was trained. Nothing could shake him. Or so he had thought.
Jacks tried that uncertainty on for size. It felt strange, like the stiff tuxedo he wore once a year at the gala black tie Angel charity event his mother put on. His iPhone beeped again and he turned it to silent. It’d been going off steadily for a couple hours, but he’d just been ignoring it. Knowing it couldn’t be her.
That night Jacks had eaten a quick dinner at home, then left, telling his mom and Mark he was going out to meet Mitch. But instead of meeting up with his friend he’d driven out toward the Santa Monica Pier. Halfway there he had just parked. He’d needed to think. The occasional car crawled past sleepily on the dark residential street. Nobody around seemed to recognize him, and so no one bothered him.
The school—Jacks leaned his head on the steering wheel. He still couldn’t believe Maddy’s fury. He had gone there to apologize, and she wouldn’t even talk to him. Who did that? He was just trying to do the right thing.
• • •
After leaving Angel City High, Jacks raced across town to a press junket for the Guardian nominees at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Driving there after his jarring encounter with Maddy, Jacks felt like he was in a dream—everything was blurry and distant and muffled. His phone rang. It was Mark. He decided to take the call.
His stepfather was calling to let him know the ACPD had cleared him of any connection with Theodore Godson’s disappearance. They’d investigated Jacks’s alibi and decided his story checked out. His stepfather told him to get back to preparing for the Commissioning.
“Thanks, Mark,” Jacks said. He supposed he should’ve been more relieved. The last thing he needed was to get tied up in a potential murder investigation. But he wasn’t. As strange as it seemed, what had happened at the school with Maddy continued to weigh on him. “I’ve gotta go now; I’m pulling up to the junket. Think I’m late.”
“Sure thing, kiddo. Call me after,” his stepfather said.
Darcy was borderline panicked when Jacks arrived. “Where have you been!?” she whispered harshly under her breath as she whisked him toward the suite where he’d be giving interview after interview after interview. She looked ahead, flashing a thousand-watt smile at the journalists eagerly eyeing Jacks. “Well, our star is here!”
“Sorry, Darcy. I had some, uh, business to take care of,” Jacks whispered, thinking back to the Angel City High classroom.
“Jacks, this is your business!” Darcy had responded under her breath. Jackson looked at all the photographers and journalists, hungry for their story. This time he blocked out that disconnected pang before it had a chance to reach his gut.
The interviews all pretty much went the same. How do you feel about becoming the youngest Guardian ever? Who do you think your first Protections will be? Will you be getting a lottery Protection your first year? What does it mean for you to be a Guardian? They’d all had to sign documents agreeing not to ask about the incident at the diner the night before, per Mark.
Jacks repetitively answered the questions as each interviewer came one by one into the suite. Occasionally, Jacks sipped from a water bottle. Even the most hardened reporters were starstruck in his presence, fumbling over their words and blushing. Jackson usually pretended not to notice, but this time he actually didn’t. After a while it was like he wasn’t even really answering the reporters himself, that instead he had drifted away and someone who looked like Jacks was taking questions. Yes. No. Very excited! Can’t wait for the responsibility. Just part of being a Guardian. The click and whir of the shutters, the lights, the microphone attached to his shirt, recording his every syllable: it all began once again to seem unreal. His mind focused on what had seemed real that day: Maddy.
Finally, a reporter’s question broke him out of his dazed state, bringing him back to the hotel suite.
“Can you repeat that?” Jacks asked, for the first time actually noticing the man in front of him, an overweight middle-aged reporter sweating in a cheap white cotton shirt and polyester tie. He was poised over a stenographer’s pad and a pencil.
“I asked, how do you feel about the growing movement in America that is questioning a lot about the Angels and what’s going on here in the Immortal City?”
“Jacks, you don’t hav
e to answer that—” Darcy said, getting up. The reporter had broken from the agreed-upon fluff questions.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Jacks said, waving Darcy back. “What, you mean the HDF? The guy who said he was going to start a ‘War on Angels’ and picked the Godspeeds out as number-one offenders?” He laughed. “Those guys are completely nuts. If we worried about every—”
The reporter looked at him confidently and finished his sentence. “—‘crackpot with a video camera, an Internet connection, and an opinion.’ I’m familiar with your statement. No, Jacks, I’m not talking about the HDF, but about mainstream America. As you know, Ted Linden was just elected to the U.S. Senate as an independent, running on a largely anti-Angel platform. He’ll be the first senator to go without Protection in twenty years. He wants full transparency between the Angels and the government, and some say he even wants to end protection-for-pay in America.”
Blood rushed into Jacks’s face. “I—” He was cut off.
“These interviews are over.” Darcy stood up again and walked briskly to Jacks, pulling his wireless mic off. “As you all know, Jackson has an extremely busy schedule this week. Thank you all for coming.” She glanced daggers at the reporter. He had a faint grin on his face as he slowly put his pen and pad away.
“Jacks, really, you should’ve just let me deal with that jerk. That’s what you pay me for, right?” Darcy said after they’d left the room. She escorted Jacks toward the lobby, where his car was waiting at the valet.
Jackson just nodded silently, already forgetting the man’s question, not even seeing the crowd of paparazzi dashing over to get his picture, his mind drawn back to a classroom and a girl’s voice.
At home that night, Jacks was almost silent, eating his dinner without even looking at the TV. He’d skipped one of the events set up for the nominees. Mark was apparently working late at the office, so it was just his mom and Chloe around. His little sister talked most of the time, which was just fine with Jacks. He was tired of answering questions.
Restless, but not exactly sure why, Jacks told his mother he was going to meet Mitch and had gone out driving into the Angel City night. Mark still hadn’t returned home by the time Jacks left the house.
• • •
Now he found himself sitting in his car maybe thirty minutes later, maybe an hour, maybe two—he didn’t even know. He’d come to the pier to clear his mind. But his thoughts kept returning to the girl. Maddy. Why hadn’t she accepted his apology? Why was she being so stubborn? He just wanted to make it right and be done with it. Move on.
But if he was honest, he knew there was something more. Something that had gotten under his skin. Something about her eyes and her nonchalant beauty, beauty she clearly didn’t even notice, the opposite of Vivian. He thought about what he had felt the night before when they touched. Even though she was human.
He tried to press the thoughts from his mind, but they wouldn’t go away. When he thought of her, she seemed to make everything else instantly seem so small.
At last Jacks came to a decision. He turned the key in the ignition and the Ferrari fired to life. He pulled a U-turn, the headlights throwing momentary sheets of light on the slumbering white stucco homes in the otherwise pitch-black night. When he reached Sunset Boulevard, Jacks whipped his car to the right and headed back toward Angel City, his taillights steaming in the quiet night.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Up ahead, Sylvester could see a throng of reporters on the sidewalk and spilling out into the street, lit by the bright lights of their camera crews. On the other side of the street a line of police officers corralled a crowd of tourists who were watching, videotaping, chattering. Overhead, news choppers circled, trying to get the best view of the scene.
The detective pulled up in his unmarked cruiser, looking out at the scene beyond his windshield. He drew a long breath, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his face. He wished he didn’t have to deal with the press. He wished he wasn’t back on Angel Boulevard for a second straight night. And, most of all, he wished what was waiting for him underneath that white sheet wasn’t what he expected.
Blinking red and blue light reflected off the silent palm trees, the closed tourist shops, and the gleaming stars of the Angels. Police floodlights bathed the famous street in a harsh, menacing glow. He got out of the car.
Reporters clamored to him as he fought his way toward the tape. “Detective, can you confirm this is the second murder on the Walk of Angels in the same week?” one asked.
This sent a murmur through the crowd. “A second murder?”
Another reporter shouted, “Are the two murders related? More gang violence? And when are you going to release the names of the deceased?”
Sylvester raised his hands to the crowd, trying to calm them. Wind whipped against his coat as he cleared his throat.
“I can neither confirm nor deny that any homicide has taken place, and we are not releasing any information at this time. The incident from earlier in the week is still under investigation.” He waved off another explosion of questions and ducked under the tape, chewing on his lip.
Sergeant Garcia was waiting for him on the other side.
“Okay, what have we got, Bill?” He had to shout over the buzz of the choppers.
“What?” Garcia put his hand to his ear.
“I said, what have we got?” Sylvester shouted.
“Come take a look,” Garcia said.
He led Sylvester over to the sidewalk and its gleaming stars. Another white sheet was laid over the concrete. This time Sylvester crouched and lifted the sheet himself.
Another pair of Angel wings. Grisly and severed. Just as before, they were laid neatly one across the other, directly over an Angel Star. Sylvester listened to the drone of the choppers as it mixed with the roar of the crowd beyond the tape. He stared at the wings on the pavement in front of him and knew, without a doubt, the magnitude of what was happening. An Angel being mortalized and likely murdered was rare and extremely serious. But its happening twice, and in one week, was unprecedented. He lowered the sheet, removed his glasses, and polished them.
“Someone is cutting off their wings, sir.” Garcia’s voice had a hysterical edge. Sylvester nodded, his face grim. “Sir? Someone is cutting off their wings—”
Sylvester placed a firm hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “I can see that, Bill. Any body?” Garcia shook his head. Sylvester lifted the sheet again and read the blood-splattered name below the wings. “Ryan Templeton.”
“We contacted the Archangels. No one’s heard from him in a few days.”
“And this is the same spot as before?” Sylvester asked, looking around.
“Sir, look where you’re standing.”
Sylvester looked below his feet and read the name of the next Angel Star out loud.
“Theodore Godson.”
“And now Ryan Templeton,” Garcia said. “The very next star.”
“They’re being mortalized in the order of their stars,” Sylvester said slowly. Wearily. He returned his glasses to his face.
The sky roared as another chopper passed close by overhead, its naked spotlight splashing over the scene. Sylvester scowled up at the sky.
“Bill, would you please do me a favor and get those news choppers away from here?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Garcia said. He keyed his radio and began shouting orders.
Sylvester stood. His gaze drifted down the sidewalk and down the stars. He looked at the names and stars on the sidewalk, stars that extended as far as he could see. He imagined an endless body count.
Kneeling down, the detective examined the name of the Angel on the next star.
Garcia read his mind. “No contact with anyone since this afternoon. Could have taken a long trip up to Santa Barbara, turned off his cell to get some peace and quiet, or . . .”
Sylvester cursed under his breath. “And this one?” He motioned to the space on the sidewalk where the next star was. It was blank. Workmen ha
d roped it off, preparing to put a name on it.
“Still don’t know. One of this year’s Commissioning class. We’ve got calls in to the Angels on this one, but they’re not exactly being helpful.”
Crossing under the tape and through the crowds, Sylvester walked out into the middle of Angel Boulevard. Away from the scene, it was quiet. Gusts of wind blew a few crumpled papers end-over-end down the street, while a homeless man pushed a shopping cart and hummed to himself. The detective took a look around. It was empty. Yet even at this hour a few straggling tourists still videotaped the sidewalk while shop owners packed up their displays. Angel figurines, plastic wings, bumper stickers that read “I WAS SAVED IN ANGEL CITY.”
He heard Garcia shuffling up behind him. Sylvester continued staring down the street.
“What is it, Detective?” the sergeant asked.
“You don’t just kill an Angel out here with the whole world watching.” Sylvester pulled his keys out of his coat pocket. “Come on, Bill,” he said as he walked toward his car. “We’re not at the murder scene.”
