Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  “Impressive,” Lena said.

  “I learn from the best. Though it’s not quite as impressive as what you did outside of Grand Central when you sent all that red destructive energy into a nuclear explosion in the sky.”

  She admired the show for a while. Then, still gazing into the night sky, she sighed heavily.

  “Nick, it’s important you complete this assignment if you want to pass probation and start on the real work.”

  “I’ll get her to do it one way or another, okay?”

  “Wait.” She stepped back and gave him a probing look. “You’re not getting attached, are you?”

  The word attached felt like an icepick stabbing him, but she mustn’t know.

  “Hardly! I don’t think I could ever feel anything but scorn for this sort of mortal.”

  “What sort?”

  “You know, the kind that leads millions of people astray. And looks like something the cat dragged in, you might be interested to know. And smells even worse. ”

  The bell of a fishing boat tolled in the distance. Briny air filled Nick’s senses, soothing air. Lena smiled.

  “Just focus on your assigned baddies, okay?” She made a pouty face. “I know it’s difficult changing jobs so abruptly. That’s why I’m going to give you a little more time to complete these assignments so you can be fast-tracked to a promotion.”

  “Good. I hate babysitting these humans. They can be so...”

  “Irritating?”

  “To say the least.”

  “Infuriating?”

  “More often than not.”

  She stared out into the inky ocean as if searching for more adverbs.

  “Irresponsible, small-minded, arrogant...evil!”

  Taken slightly aback, Nick gave her a thin smile.

  “Right, well…They’re all made in the image of the Father, aren’t they?” he said. “There’s got to be some good in them.”

  For a moment her expression softened, giving way to an almost child-like innocence that seemed to transform her into someone he barely recognized.

  “What is it, Lena?”

  “Nothing...You just reminded me of someone.”

  “Really? Who?”

  Sounding vulnerable—which in itself was astonishing—she whispered, “Nick, what is it you want, more than anything else?”

  He gave it some thought. Despite the connection they seemed to be making, he didn’t feel comfortable opening up to her.

  “I don’t know, really. I was hoping a job change might help me find out. How about you?”

  She set her lips, didn’t look at him, and when she answered him her words came reluctantly—apparently she didn’t feel any more comfortable opening up than he did.

  “I just want to be able to make sense of everything. I want a world where things are in order. Where the evil this entire race of humans is so capable of is eradicated. Where those who deserve to be in charge are, and those who do wrong are brought to justice.”

  “A tall order indeed. I suppose you’ve some idea about how that can happen?”

  Finally, her eyes met his. “Together, we can make it happen.” She put her hand on his, a gesture that felt disturbingly intimate. “It’s all about being aligned.”

  “With what, or whom?”

  “Those with the power to help.” Gradually, the innocence and vulnerability ebbed like the tide pulling out. Her feisty sensual charm returned with a vengeance in her posture, her eyes, her curling lips. “You’re in a good position to make a difference, Nikolai.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  She put her hand around the back of his neck. Pulled his face down so close their lips nearly touched.

  “But make no mistake, you gorgeous creature. If you fail, after all the latitude and special treatment you’ve been shown...”

  She was as lethal as she was alluring. Fight or flight. Nick pulled away, grabbed her wrists, and held her in place.

  “I don’t respond well to threats.”

  “Mmmm...that’s good, because I’d rather motivate you with rewards.” She moved in close to whisper in his ear. “Go and check on your third assignment, then come back to suicide girl later in the morning. You’ve got till midnight to persuade her.”

  Nick could hear her laughing as she vanished from his construct.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  MARIA HADN’T ANSWERED LITO’S CALLS for two days now. Her condo in Mission Valley looked like it had been ransacked. No sense trying to use the GPS to track her location, she knew to shut off her cell phone.

  He entered the condo with his spare key. Maria never liked that he kept a copy, but since he paid for everything she couldn’t really argue. And besides, he’d only used the key once, to scare off a USD college punk who had gotten the idea in his empty head that he could spend the night. For just a moment Lito was back when life was simple, when all he had to do was to punch a bully in the face to teach him not to mess with his baby sister.

  Awwwwwwk!

  A raven gawked down at him from the eaves dripping with last night’s rainwater. It cocked its head, stared at him with one glassy eye, and proceeded to mock him. Repeatedly. Every caw seemed louder and more disdainful.

  He swore and reached around his back for his gun. All the anger he felt for Alfonso coalesced for a brief moment into a focused beam of hatred aimed at the hideous raven. But the thought of awakening the neighbors at 7:15 AM with the crack of a Baretta Bobcat convinced him to restrain himself.

  “Next time, little diabolo.” He smiled. “Next time.”

  Lito locked the door and walked to his red 135i. Owning a Beamer wasn’t something he really cared about, he only did it to keep up the image of success and power. He did like that smell of fine leather, though.

  But as he climbed into the cockpit, the smell brought little comfort—he was too aware of the empty passenger seat.

  Got to find a replacement for Alfonso.

  But who? Until he learned of Alfonso’s flirting with the Suarez syndicate, there’d been no one else he trusted.

  As he drove out of the parking area, the foreboding bass line palpitations from the Confutatis Maledictis movement of Mozart’s Requiem poured forth from the speakers. The bright morning sun hid behind a gray cloud even as Lito put his sunglasses over his eyes, from which a solitary tear rolled down his cheek.

  Rapt in the power of music, Lito never noticed the black Cadillac following him.

  At the top of his lungs, he sang with the male chorus:

  Confutatis

  Maledictis

  Flammis acribus addictis...

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  HOPE LAY AWAKE IN THE KING-SIZED BED in the hotel room so graciously purchased on the handsome stranger’s dime. She stared at the rectangular glow on the wall now changing from orange to bright yellow as the rising sun cast its light through the window.

  Wrapped in the sheets, she was completely naked, wishing she could simply enjoy how clean everything felt, how nice the rose-scented pillows smelled, how good her skin felt after her first shower in a week—all thanks to that generous man who’d saved her.

  Had this been another time, another life, she might well have thought more about the nice man’s looks: beautiful eyes, chiseled features, and oh yes, very strong arms.

  But no.

  She allowed no such thoughts, not since the final nail was hammered into the coffin of her soul several years ago. Never again would she allow herself to desire anything other than to escape the miserable life in which anyone she’d ever allowed into her heart had either beaten, molested, or otherwise betrayed her.

  The one drop of rain in that barren desert had been taken away and along with it, Hope’s will to live. Being rescued by a Clive Owen-ish hero couldn’t change that—he’d only prolonged her pain.

  She sighed, reached for the phone, and dialed.

  “Good morning, front desk. How can I help you?”

  “Couldn’t sleep a wink last nigh
t.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms...Matheson. Is there anything we can get you?”

  Clive had said to put everything on his credit card.

  “I need a bottle of Ambien. They’re sleeping pills.”

  “Of course. We can call in a prescription for you and have them delivered.”

  Prescription. Right. The last doctor she saw refused to give her any because he thought—he knew she was suicidal. Which was why she’d not been to any kind of doctor, even though as a homeless person for nearly a year she probably could have gotten to one through public assistance. Too complicated, too much trouble.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Is there anything else, perhaps?”

  “It’s all right. I’ll try something else.” Which was to say, another method of ending it all. She hung up, hugged the pillow to her chest, and curled into a fetal position. Whoever said “it’s all in your head” had no idea what it meant to be truly depressed. The physical pain radiated from her gut all through her chest—the last place it went was her head, though that hurt like the devil too.

  She wanted to keep it from getting too messy in this fancy hotel room, what with its thick white carpet, cherrywood furniture, and pristine marble bathroom. But she’d have to go the gruesome route of mirror shards and crimson bathwater.

  She’d cut herself before, so she wasn’t worried about how it would feel. It was the thought of all that blood flowing from her wrists into the tub that made her stomach clench. She had to do it, though. And no point putting it off.

  Hope climbed out of the bed, put on the soft white robe she’d try to keep away from any of the blood—no sense in ruining it—and looked for something heavy enough to smash the mirror.

  An odd euphoria rushed through her, lightening her mood, making her heart beat rapidly.

  It’s almost over.

  Maybe that’s why she seemed almost excited.

  And in the privacy of her locked hotel room, she would not fail again.

  There.

  On the polished desk sat an antiqued brass paperweight that looked really heavy. She lifted it: it was. This would do nicely.

  She wound back her arm to hurl it at the mirror—

  A knock on the door.

  The paperweight slipped out of her hands and hit the floor with a thud.

  “Room service,” a woman’s voice called out. But she hadn’t—

  She opened the door to find a young lady standing there with a white paper bag in her hand.

  “For you, ma’am.” And she left.

  It was from a pharmacy. On closer inspection she saw that it was in fact a prescription for Hope Matheson. She tore the bag open and found a large orange vial with a safety cap, on its label her name printed along with the name of the drug Zolpidem Tartrate (Ambien) 10 mg and the instructions: Take as needed.

  As needed?

  There must have been at least sixty pills in the bottle.

  Had the front desk managed to find a way to get it for her after all?

  Perhaps someone was looking out for her.

  Someone who understood her pain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  LENA KNEW WHAT SHE’D DONE wasn’t appropriate. Helping Nick complete his assignment didn’t represent the best method of ascertaining his capabilities or loyalty.

  Having shed the appearance of the hotel’s housekeeping staff, she strode out into the lobby turning more than a few heads, men and women alike. The whiny little human had been the low-hanging fruit among Nick’s three assignments, the one he was close to completing without her delivering the pills. But she wasn’t going to take chances with so little time before the Cabrillo Stadium event, just days away. Anyway, Morloch need never know about her helping Nick. As long as the goal was reached, what did it matter how?

  Evaporating from physical perception as she walked through the exit and onto the sidewalk, Lena paused. Something didn’t feel right.

  She’d been watching Nick carefully since he brought Hope to the Broadmore. Though he denied it vehemently, he fancied this mortal. That was why he’d hesitated to help her meet her demise. And of course he lied about it. Lena expected nothing less from angels of his stock. They were not above subterfuge, something Lena had good reason to know all too well. That made him the perfect candidate.

  With one leap, she launched herself onto the hotel’s roof. It was only a few stories, nothing like a New York skyscraper but a fine spot for perching invisibly while she thought about angels who lied, angels who got entangled with humans…

  This had to be a passing thing for Nick. He couldn’t be developing genuine feelings for a human. How could a superior being see humans as anything but barely sentient mammals? Cruel, filthy animals.

  A sharp pain burrowed into the center of Lena’s ribs. Odd, she rarely felt pain. And it brought an irritating wetness to her eyes.

  #

  “Oh, my Lord, Punkin’!” George Walker stands at the open door and drops his lunch pail. He rushes over to his nine-year-old daughter, who sits alone at the kitchen table, dabbing cuts on her bruised face with a white towel stained with blood. “What in the world happened to you?”

  “Nothing, Daddy. I…I just fell down, is all.” She tries to smile but winces in pain. She’s never been a good liar anyway.

  “Where’s your momma?”

  She points at the closed bedroom door.

  George takes the towel, rinses it, wrings it, then gets down on one knee to gently press it against a swollen bump above her eye.

  “You so brave, Punkin’. I’m proud of you. Now you can tell me the truth.” Tears stand in his eyes as he struggles to be strong for her. “It was them boys from school, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “I said, you can tell me the truth.”

  “I am, Daddy. Wasn’t no boys this time. It was Courtney.”

  “Big fat Courtney?”

  “She and her eighth-grade friends. They see me coming home, minding my own business, then they go and say I’m a freak and ask me, how come no one ain’t never seen your momma—you even got one? And Courtney says I got one all right, she went and married a nigger.” She puts her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Daddy. I hate that word, but that’s what they say.”

  George pulls her tight into his arms.

  “Don’t you pay them girls no mind, you hear? They just need some proper education. Don’t pay them no mind, and—”

  “I did like you told me! I kept walking. But then Fat Courtney smacks me upside my head. I still didn’t say nothing, just kept walking even though the slap hurt. But then she goes on, hitting at me and saying niggers and white folks ain’t got no business making freaks like me for babies and she won’t shut up and…and...”

  Holding her arms, George leans back and looks her straight in the eye. “You didn’t. Did you, Punkin’?”

  “I didn’t mean to, I swear.” She sniffles, holding back a sob. “I just tried to give her a little shove ‘cause she was all up in my face, spitting when she talked. But she fell down real hard and started cussing at me. That’s when I knew I done wrong, so I held back how mad I was, like you always tell me to, and I didn’t fight back. I just waited till they finish whupping me, then ran home.”

  George scrutinizes his daughter. “You hurting anywhere? Anything feel broken?”

  “Nah, Daddy. You know they can’t really hurt me—not that bad, anyway.” Her head slightly bowed, she glances up with a little smile he doesn’t like. “But I can hurt them.”

  “No, sweetie. Don’t even think about that.”

  “Why, Daddy? I ain’t the only one, they do this to all the black kids in town. And just because I’m mixed, different, they do even worse to me. I hate ‘em!”

  “Now, Punkin’—”

  “I do, Daddy. They’re so mean.”

  George takes another look at her bruises and cuts. The bleeding has stopped, the swelling has gone down a little. Still on his knees, he hugs
his daughter and nods to the sofa.

  “Come on, let’s sit.”

  A moment later, she’s leaning into him on the comfortable old couch with its plump stained cushions.

  “You know, those mean kids? They all the Lord’s children too, Punkin’. And even though they do some pretty rotten things, they all been made in his image.”

  “You saying God’s mean?”

  George laughs, something he’s done rarely since her mother got so sullen and quiet.

  “Oh, no. No, that ain’t what I mean at all. I’m saying everyone’s got some good in them deep down because we all made in His image. The bad stuff? That’s just garbage we picked up—from our parents, from our bad choices. That’s in our nature too.”

  “Is it in my nature, Daddy?” Her eyes meet his, desperately seeking absolution—for what, George cannot fathom. “Am I just like them—you know, deep down?”

  Before he has to answer—which he’d rather not—the bedroom door swings open.

  “Enough, George!” Lucretia stands there, flaxen hair flowing past her shoulders like sunlight, lovely features marred by her perpetual scowl. “Are you just going to coddle her like that until she becomes as feeble as you?”

  “Honey!”

  She covers her mouth, whispers, “Sorry,” and retreats into the bedroom, swinging the door shut behind her.

  #

  The buzzing hornet in her back pocket causes Lena to check the caller ID. Yuri, her eastern bloc liaison.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Do you know how hard it is to get this stuff out of there and into the States?”

  “Not my problem. What’s the current status?”

  “Package is en route. One last stop for processing, then they’ll be delivered.”

  “They’d better be, Yuri.”