The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  “Like I told you. We don't have much time. Finding Deborah is the best chance we have. I just hope your info is good.”

  Amy nodded, leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “As long as you don't hold it against me if I end up clawing a certain someone's eyes out.”

  “Are we talking bra and panties in the mud? You think I'd hold that against you?”

  “Very funny. Speaking of good money, I've been meaning to say something... we need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  She looked around with her eyebrows stretched, twisting her mouth. “Do you see any reason not to? Besides, you're stuck in the car and can't walk away. I can't think of a better time.”

  Hatcher said nothing. He had an idea where this was going.

  Amy shifted in the seat to lean against the passenger door and face him. “Let's start with this. How much did you pay for these binoculars?”

  “Three grand,” he said, shrugging.

  “Hatcher!”

  “I needed them, like, yesterday. Getting stuff delivered to street corners in the middle of the night costs money. And they're night vision.”

  “You can't keep spending like this. Between the plane and the car and the hotel, that's another five thousand.”

  “So? We still have a few million left, don't we?”

  “We have two point nine six million, give or take, and at the rate you've been burning through it that will last about another six to eight months.”

  “I think that's a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “No, it isn't. You gave almost six hundred thousand to your friend Denny.”

  “He's a good guy, you said so yourself. And I didn't give it to him, I bought out his brother so he would own the bar. That means free burgers and beers for life.”

  “And you spent almost four hundred thousand paying off your mother's mortgage – the mother you won't even talk to, by the way.”

  “Hey, you've seen the stories about foreclosures. Would you want her coming to live with us?”

  “I'm trying to be serious here.”

  “I know, I guess I just don't understand why this is an issue. Didn't you tuck away two million, like we talked about? Tax free bonds or whatever?”

  “That's not the point.”

  “Then I'm not sure what is. I thought we'd both agreed the only proper – the only moral use of that money would be to undo what Valentine had done, that it was just dumb luck he'd left it to me because he thought he'd be occupying my body, so there was no reason not to spend what it took. Now that I think of it, I haven't even spent all that much in the last few months. Why the sudden concern?”

  Her eyes blinked and glistened in the low light. She held his gaze for an extra beat. “It's just...” She turned her head away, and it only took a moment of the silence that followed, sitting in that rented car in Tribeca at almost 2AM, for him to understand. She didn't care about Valentine's money or the way he was spending it. Until now it was all just tilting at windmills, him indulging his conscience, her indulging him. Maybe the idea that he could feel so obligated to righting a wrong was even touching to her, proof he was a good person, comforting in those moments of doubt about whether she'd made the right choice. But to her, blowing through all that cash was supposed to be a catharsis, a cleansing ritual. Once it was done, it would be done, and they would get on with the business of living, the business of having a life together.

  Now it finally hit her that his efforts hadn't been merely symbolic, that it wasn't a pointless exercise borne of guilt, doomed to go nowhere, destined to accomplish nothing. After a year and a half of tracking down mystics and psychics and all manner of supernaturalists for leads of any kind, after all the globe-trotting and jet-setting, near and far, the investigating and researching and digging, she finally figured out, whether by logic or her gut or simply the distress in her heart, that it was never going to be like that, that at some point it wouldn't be a dead-end path, going through the motions for the sake of checking off another block. He could practically smell the doubt coming off her now, thick and sharp. She had to be wondering what else she'd been wrong about.

  He took in her profile as she stared out the window like he was seeing her for the first time. Or the first time in a long time. The faint light was just enough to make her skin glow pale, setting it off against the shadows around her, and he felt part of himself make an awful, silent confession. He had loved her in the cruelest way possible, just enough to let her feel it, just enough to make it real. And just enough to betray her. He had stopped himself from loving her more, from loving her enough to see what he was doing to her. Raum was right, the smarmy, evil son of a bitch. He was a selfish bastard. Christ, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Nothing else even came close. How could he have been so stupid? “Amy—”

  She jerked forward, pointing. “There he is!”

  A man leaned against a cab to pay the driver just past the intersection a full block over, almost a hundred yards away. The cab pulled away and he started walking in their direction on the opposite side of the street.

  “That's the guy?”

  She nodded. “Dick Leslie.”

  Hatcher watched the man walk to the corner and wait, shooting a look to one side, then the other before crossing.

  “Right. The ex-prosecutor or whatever.”

  She shot him an incredulous glance, then bounced her gaze back to the man on the street. “He used to be the Manhattan DA. He narrowly lost the gubernatorial primary last time around, and he's a favorite for winning the open Senate seat. Speculation about him announcing his candidacy has been in the news for weeks.”

  “And your guy knew he'd be here?”

  “Didn't you listen to anything I told you on the plane?”

  “Sure I did. Most of it, anyway.”

  She sighed, watched as the man stood at a corner on the far side of the block, glancing in various directions, trying very hard to be casual about it.

  “There was a task force on corruption watching him. Your girl Deborah showed up in some photos. It was brought to my attention after Lt Mahoney took his... dive. She was a person of interest, and someone recognized her. But since it was ruled a suicide, that ended up going nowhere when we couldn't find her. I'm thinking Leslie put the brakes on anyone looking too hard.”

  “But how did they know he'd be here now?”

  “They didn't. The task force disbanded. Political pressure shut it down when word leaked to the wrong people. But the guy who used to run it told me they still keep tabs on him from time to time, off the books. They think he's a first-class scumbag. Slippery, cautious, but a scumbag nonetheless.”

  “And that guy knew he'd be here?”

  “No, he just knew he swings by this address a lot. Three or four times a week. Or used to. On the sly. They assume it's a woman. I took a leap, because of what I know about her.”

  Hatcher thought about that. “And you were just betting he'd show?”

  “No.” She opened the passenger door. “I was betting she would. And if she didn't, I was going to start knocking on doors. I'll be right back.”

  “Whoa, don't you think—”

  The door shut before he could finish and she was already moving, cutting across the street in a brisk walk, taking a diagonal directly for the man. When she'd halved the distance, she waved an arm above her head, picked up the pace. Hatcher could hear her voice as she called to him, but couldn't make out what she said.

  The man slowed warily. He looked past her, gaze settling on the car, then dipped his head and walked across the street to avoid her, heading back the way he’d come.

  Amy said something and the man stopped. He ran a hand through his hair. Then Amy said something else and started walking back toward Hatcher. She made it just close enough to make eye contact with Hatcher and for him to catch her s
mile when the man called out for her to stop. She did an about face and walked back.

  They talked for a couple of minutes. Leslie tossed his hands, rolled his head a few times in disgust. Amy seemed to confine her gestures to either pointing or counting. Then the man stared at the sidewalk and neither seemed to speak for a while. He pulled something out of his pocket, held it for a moment, then handed it to her. Hatcher picked up the NVD from his lap. He had to angle it just right to avoid overpowering the lens, the wash of streetlight near them a bit too much, but he managed to get a view. The scope was equipped with a stabilizer. Far better than what he'd used in the field years earlier. No distortion, no figures bouncing out of the frame with every twitch. Even the image was better, achromatic, bright. No having to separate shades of green. It probably only cost him four times what it was worth.

  He finally settled the lens where he needed it and he tried not to move. They were looking at a cell phone. The man scraped a hand down his face and nodded. Amy touched the screen a few times, looked at it, touched it some more. He clamped down on her arm when she turned to leave, causing Hatcher to sit up and grab the door handle, but even without the night-vision he quickly saw it was only the man's way of making one last plea. Amy jerked her arm away and he held his palms up, a gesture of apology. He had the look of a man asking for divine intervention.

  She made a final comment, one that caused him to sag a bit, then turned on her heels and headed back toward the car. The man watched her, swung his head low then started heading the other way.

  “She's not there,” Amy said, slipping into the passenger seat and closing the door. “But he got a text from her that said she would be. About a half an hour from now. Apparently, the entire third floor is a loft. He doesn't think she lives there, just uses it when she wants to.”

  “You're sure he won't try to give her a heads up?”

  She made a face. “Doubt it. He's scared out of his gourd. Besides, I took his phone. He won't risk calling her from his regular one.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Amy's lips spread into a thin smile, revealing the even line of her teeth. “That NYPD got a tip the place was bugged by one of his political enemies. And that if he wanted his name kept out of the papers in connection with it, he'd just keep his head down and his mouth shut.”

  “And he bought it? Just like that?”

  “Well, it helped that I knew about a prior... indiscretion of his. Something to do with an underage girl who became suddenly uncooperative after what I'm sure was a sizable cash payment being made. I happened to mention that. I may have also hinted that I played a key role in keeping the lid on it for him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, hell no. But he doesn't know that.”

  “So, we wait?”

  “We could, but I have a better idea. He let it slip that he sometimes texts her to meet him at this little hotel in SoHo. It's not very far. We could send her a message and change the venue. Have some more people around.” She raised her hand and twisted the phone back and forth. “It's not like she won't think it's him.”

  “You think he's heading there?”

  “No. He had the deer-in-the-headlights look. You could practically see him imagining his political future flushing. I guarantee you he's heading straight home to be extra sweet to his wife.”

  “And since we have his cell phone, we might have a window before he can warn her. Get her to meet us there, thinking it's him, remove the home-field advantage. I like it. But why would he want to go to a hotel, rather than here? Wouldn't that increase the chances someone would see him? Put two and two together?”

  “Funny you say that, because I had the same question. He hemmed and hawed, didn't want to tell me. But after I dropped a few hints about maybe letting the press in on some of it, he said it was because sometimes being there scared him.”

  “Scared him how?”

  She shrugged. “Something about being with her at her place that made him lose control. Especially at her place. He just didn't want to leave. Said he's missed meetings, even had the police looking for him. So once in a while he tries to tone it down a notch or two. Meets in a room he knows she won't want to stay in for long, that he knows someone will kick them out of at least the next day.”

  Hatcher stared out at the row of dark buildings receding down the narrow, shadowy street. “And yet, he still comes back to see her. Even though it scares him.”

  “Yeah, well, why not?” She buckled her belt and sat back in the seat. “You did.”

  Chapter 7

  The SoHo Garden Hotel was a few blocks north, a tall stone-block box wedged between two other tall boxes of brick and rock, each sporting masonry work of slightly differing colors and textures. The only thing setting the hotel apart from the other buildings was a sleek revolving entrance of glass and polished metal, flanked by two potted trees with evergreen leaves Hatcher could easily imagine being decorated for Christmas in the coming weeks. If they even did that kind of thing anymore in New York.

  The lobby was compact and shiny and bright, lots of smooth surfaces and mirrored finishes. The floor was white marble, waxed to a sheen, the reception counter was a curved piece of stainless steel with a glossy granite top. Embedded florescent lighting in the walls shimmered off silver walls, glistened off glass accent tables.

  A woman stood behind the counter, staring down at something, making marks with a pen. Amy walked up to her.

  “We'd like a room please.”

  The woman raised her head, offered a business-like smile. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore an oversized pair of glasses that dwarfed her face. Hatcher eyed her intently. She was too young, too pretty for such a frumpy look, her features too soft.

  “Certainly. If you don't have a reservation, I'll just need you to fill out a registration card.” Before Amy could respond, Hatcher nudged her out of the way, spreading his arms out and leaning as close against the counter as he could without being obvious. He could feel Amy's irritation radiating, almost heat against his side, but except for a grunt she didn't say anything.

  “Do you have anything with a king-size bed?” he asked. He inhaled deeply through his nose, careful not to be conspicuous about it.

  The woman slid a piece of paper and pen toward him. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Hatcher nodded. He waited for it, policing himself, collapsing his thoughts into a sensory inventory. Nothing. She fit the profile, but a profile was just a set of characteristics, not evidence. Carnates were physically perfect females, the unusual hybrid offspring of a demon and a human. Their unique genetic structure made them all but irresistible, sexually. The powerful pheromones they gave off created a magnetic attraction, a carnal allure that pulled like gravity and was just as relentless. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt. Flawless bone structure, athletic, shapely beneath her serious and unflattering attire. But just a woman. Every Carnate he'd ever been this close too had ignited an involuntary, almost overwhelming sense of yearning, a physical desire that ached down to the bones. All he got out of smelling this one was a whiff of familiar perfume.

  He filled out the form and paid. The woman slipped a pair of cards into a small fold-over and told him to take the elevator, pointing them to a confined area around the corner. “You'll need your key card to use it,” she said. “Just hold it up to the black pad and the elevator will take you to the proper floor.”

  “We may have a guest coming,” he said. “Can we arrange for you to send her up when we know for certain?”

  “Certainly. Just ring the desk and leave her name.” They thanked her and headed to where she'd pointed.

  Amy pressed the button. “Do you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?”

  “Sorry. Something didn't seem right.”

  “You think she's one of them?”

  “Not anymore. But I had to check.
”

  She made a face, nostrils flaring, and stared at the elevator doors. “I'm not sure if I like the idea of you shoving me aside every time you see a hot gal so you can see if she gives you an instant erection.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “Well, gee... when you put it that way.”

  They stepped into the car. The doors closed. Hatcher removed one of the key cards and tapped it against a black touchpad. The elevator shuttered, then moved.

  Hatcher looked at Amy, who was already looking at him. “Does that feel like we're going down?”

  Amy blinked. “What's our room number?”

  Hatcher opened the card holder. Blank. He looked up. For the first time, it struck him the car they were in had no floor indicators, no illuminated digits or other markers.

  “Uh, Hatcher?”

  He lowered his eyes and she gestured with a jerk of her chin. It took him a second, but then he saw it. A symbol on the elevator doors, barely visible. Subdued, in military terminology. The doors were polished metal, with a silvery matte finish. The symbol in the center, half on one side of the door seam, half on the other, was slightly less reflective.

  It was a circle, with what looked like an overlapping triangle surrounding something resembling a three-pronged swastika.

  Before he could speak, the elevator decelerated, then stopped. Another ding. The doors spread apart, splitting the symbol down the middle.

  Blackness. Complete, utter blackness. The darkness was so pitch, Hatcher felt the urge to put his hand out, check if it was solid. No, he thought. Semi-solid. Viscous. Something you'd be able to feel envelope you, like liquid. The light from the elevator didn't seem to penetrate it. He ran his gaze from top to bottom. No, that wasn’t quite true. Some light did escape, but there was nothing for it to illuminate. Even the floor was black, something non-reflective. Carpet, maybe.

  Amy gulped audibly. “I so wish going to the hotel had been your idea.”

  Hatcher stared at the inky opening, thinking. Another elevator had taken him down to somewhere off the map before, only this wasn't quite the same. There were lights last time, not many, but enough to navigate. A tunnel, deep underground, beckoning him to follow it, a path to some nether region. Chambers that were part of a subterranean system far below the city. This was different. They hadn't traveled nearly as far down as he did then, maybe just to a basement level. Beyond that, there was something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. A difference in the quiet, maybe. The feel of still being in a building.