Hell's Detective

by Michael Logan

  “Yes. I gave him a very nice notebook and a satchel to keep it in so he could write the first draft as he goes along.”

  “Bring him to Benny’s in an hour. Make sure he has the notebook on him. And bring the manuscript too.”

  When I arrived at Benny’s at the appointed time, the bar was deserted save for Enitan and Franklin—and, of course, Benny, who sighed when I interrupted his attempts to build a house out of playing cards to order a Ward Eight. The bored gang members clustered outside as I settled into a booth next to the fence, drink in hand, and nodded at Franklin.

  “Enitan told you about the manuscript?” Franklin said, his voice hurried.

  I examined him, searching for tics that would indicate whether he was genuinely excited at this academic discovery or keen to see if I’d swallowed the story. “Seems we got lucky.”

  “There’s nothing lucky about it,” he said. “Enitan owns nearly every book in the city.”

  “What’s your take from a religious history perspective?”

  “It’s certainly fascinating. I’ve never heard anything like this before. Then again, there’ve been so many belief systems down the ages that even a lifetime’s research would barely scratch the surface. It’s a shame the rest of the manuscript was missing. It would help if we knew which culture the box came from and had more information on exactly what it’s supposed to do and when. These myths usually have some specific time frame associated with them. I don’t suppose we could find the author?”

  “As I told you, I do not remember buying this,” Enitan said. “And the name of the writer does not sound familiar.”

  That’s because it’s made up, I thought. Franklin’s words seemed too measured, his body language too controlled. He lavished eye contact on me, his face sat unnaturally still, and his hands were folded in his lap—to stop them from jerking into the nose tugs and ear pulls that gave away lies, I suspected.

  “So we agree we don’t know a lot, as usual,” I said. “Given what we do know, does it sound feasible?”

  “If I didn’t know the box was real, I’d dismiss it as another myth, and not a very convincing one. But what’s in the document ties up with what you’ve found out. I’d say there’s a strong possibility the box is what the manuscript says it is.”

  “And what is that exactly? All we know is that it’s called the Oblivion Box. Maybe it has a bottle of gin and a handful of Quaaludes inside.”

  Franklin leaned forward, talking ever faster. “Would they list somebody’s stash in a book about apocalypses? Would you keep alcohol and pills in a box that talks to anybody who touches it? I think we can assume it’s a doomsday weapon.”

  Now I could see the angle for planting the manuscript. He wanted me to believe that the box was incredibly dangerous. Before too long, he would suggest I give it to him for safekeeping. “You think I shouldn’t give it back?”

  He didn’t bite right away. “I think you should ask yourself to what use a demon would put such a device.”

  “She’s had the box for a long time and done nothing. Why use it now?”

  “Like I said, every religion and myth has a specific moment set aside for Armageddon—certain events or portents, a certain era. The time could be approaching.”

  “So you’re saying if I give the box back, I could bring about the end of the world?”

  “I’d say that sums it up.”

  I was now nearly certain that Franklin was playing me, but I had one more check to carry out before accusing him.

  “Shit!” I shouted, banging the table hard. As my left fist came down, drawing Franklin’s gaze, my other hand flicked over my untouched cocktail. The liquid sloshed over the table and poured into Franklin’s lap. He jumped up and tugged at his sopping wet trousers.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Got a bit carried away.”

  “It’s understandable,” he said.

  “There’s paper towels in the gents,” Benny said. “On the house.”

  “You’re too kind, but I’ll let it dry.”

  I hadn’t given Benny the full picture, but I’d clued him in on my suspicions over Franklin and that I needed him out of the way for a few minutes. I gave Benny an encouraging nod as Franklin peered at his soggy groin.

  “This is a classy establishment,” Benny said, rounding the bar and grabbing Franklin’s shoulder. “Think I want it to look like my customers piss themselves and sit in the mess? Clean yourself up.”

  For a moment, Franklin clutched at the table, something close to anger flaring in his eyes. Then he gave in and let Benny usher him toward the toilet, walking like a bandy-legged cowboy. As soon as the toilet door closed, I delved into the satchel, which contained two pens and the notebook.

  “Get the manuscript out,” I told Enitan, who obliged.

  There wasn’t much in the notebook: a few lines on books to read, a few doodles, and an appallingly phrased first paragraph that told me Franklin was no writer. It was enough. I placed the notebook and the manuscript side by side.

  “What do you see?” I asked Enitan.

  He flipped through the pages of the notebook and frowned. “I see enough to make me glad I did not give him an advance. He has done nothing the last few days.”

  “Not true. He wrote Apocalypse Myths and Their Origins. Look at the handwriting.”

  Enitan looked from one document to the other, and a light came on in his eyes. “They are the same. You were right.”

  “My favorite words.”

  I left the documents on the table where Franklin could see them and drew my gun. At least I knew one more thing about the Administrators. Franklin had died when Jake had stabbed him in the eye—a murder I now knew to be a smokescreen. The same rules that governed us applied to them, which meant a bullet would put him down for a while. I crossed my legs, leaned my wrist on my knee, and waited for him to finish toweling himself down. He came out, giving himself one last scrub, and looked up to see my gun pointing in his direction. His eyes flicked to the notebook and manuscript, then back to the weapon. I thought he was going to stick to his story even though I had him dead to rights. He surprised me by not trying.

  “Crap,” he said. “You figured it out.”

  “It’s an annoying habit of mine. The book turning up so soon after you got access to Enitan’s library was too convenient. You should have waited a few more days before planting it or hired somebody to sell it to Enitan. Shame really—you were doing so well.”

  “We don’t have a few more days,” he said, his voice shifting from reedy and halting to a deeper, more confident tone.

  “Why not? You going on holiday? I suppose you would get the chance to do that, seeing as how you’re an Administrator. The one who had Jake hire Sebastian to steal the box.”

  “I made the mistake of engaging Jake’s services, yes. But I’m not a filthy demon.”

  “Really? Then explain how you knew the box was there and how you were able to tip off Sebastian to the right time to steal it. Not to mention how you stopped the Ammit from munching him up.”

  Franklin strolled over to the bar and leaped up onto a stool. He was no longer hunched as though trying to present a smaller target to the world, and his eyes were narrower. He sat with his legs open, one arm draped over the counter like a world-weary barfly. I almost didn’t recognize him. “I’m going to sit here so you don’t get nervous, okay? I need to explain something. You’re going to want to listen carefully.”

  “I’m all ears, but first tell me your real name.”

  “Franklin will do fine. You’re right—I’ve been living up at Avici Rise. But I’m not one of them. I am, to put it in human terms, a double agent.”

  I glanced at Enitan, looking for some reflection of the cynicism I was feeling. He looked like he was enjoying the scene. “Oh, this is going to be good. Who’re you with, the CIA’s special supernatural unit?”

  “Similar agency, different employer. Think of Hell as the KGB. In that case, who would be the CIA?”

 
“You are an angel?” Enitan asked, his eyes wide.

  Franklin touched his left index finger to the tip of his nose. I had to give him credit. Caught out in one fake persona, he’d slipped seamlessly into another. Still, I was curious to hear where he was going, and keeping him talking would buy me time to work out what to do next. “You don’t look much like an angel to me.”

  “Does Laureen look like a demon?” He had me there, so I said nothing and let him continue. “I’ve been in deep cover for a long time, posing as an Administrator, as you euphemistically refer to the demons. My job was to keep an eye on what they were up to, in particular with regard to a certain box. Recent developments required I take a more active approach and steal it. Unfortunately, I was unable to gain access to Laureen’s safe.”

  “Couldn’t you have used your laser eyes to melt it open?” I said, making no effort to hide my skepticism.

  “You’re mixing me up with Superman. We don’t have as many powers as you’d imagine, and I’ve always been dreadful with technology. Don’t let this unwrinkled face deceive you. I’m very old. When you get to my age, it’s hard to keep up. So I hired somebody.”

  “You didn’t choose very well, did you?”

  “I didn’t have many contacts in the field of robbery,” he said, shrugging, “so I hired the first insalubrious braggarts I came across. They found Sebastian for me—who, as you are aware, turned out to be a very good thief but also extremely dishonest.”

  “A dishonest thief? Whatever next? A corrupt politician?”

  He ignored my jibe. “When Sebastian went missing, I remained keen to get the box. I needed to be sure it stayed out of Hell’s hands. So I sent Jake and friends out looking, although I had little hope of success. As you pointed out, they’re useless. But I knew Laureen would be pursuing her own avenues of research. I kept tabs on her and discovered she was planning to hire you.”

  “So you decided to increase your chances of success by cozying up to me.”

  Franklin spread his hands. “People spoke highly of you. It appeared you were the best hope. And when I asked a few questions myself, I heard that beneath your tough shell lurked a soft core, so I decided to play the ingenue in need of rescue. Jake did get carried away. He was supposed to beat me up and let you pile in to the rescue. I didn’t appreciate being stabbed in the eye, although it worked out okay in the end. It got me out of the bar faster, which meant I didn’t bump into Laureen. Oh, and I must apologize for their behavior last night. I didn’t order that. They were intended as a diversion to keep you from looking too closely at me. They got carried away again, as they appear wont to do.”

  “Very kind of you to tell me all this,” I said. “What was your plan? Wait until I found the box and then take it yourself?”

  “I merely intended to nudge you in the right direction. Feed you information about the true nature of the object, hence the manuscript, until you decided to do the right thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t give it back to Hell, obviously. All the myths about Armageddon are wrong. God doesn’t want to punish all sinners or destroy the world to build a new one. Noah and the flood was fiction. God wants humanity to flourish and work through its problems. Satan, jealous and bitter, seeks to destroy God’s work. This box is his doing alone. Inside truly is the end of the world. A lasting end, souls and all. And the time has come for Hell to open it.”

  “How exactly will this end the world? Seems to me it’s too small to hold a bunch of nukes.”

  “Size isn’t everything. There are dimensions within dimensions, worlds within worlds. What you see as a simple box could contain a whole universe. But the truth is, we don’t know exactly what is inside. It’s their invention. We only know it will wipe out the Earth.”

  “Why now, though?”

  “They have all their portents. We’re well into the new millennium, and the world’s in shambles. All the planet’s little wars are joining hands. Radical Islamists are rampaging through the Middle East, carving out a new caliphate, while the West drops bombs willy-nilly to no effect. You’ve got terrorists gunning down infidels in shopping malls, restaurants, churches, and offices across Europe and the US. Russia’s flexing its muscles again. Genocide and ethnic cleansing have become so common that a maniac has to kill at least a million to get noticed. Droughts, floods, earthquakes, and tsunamis wipe out tens of thousands every year. You’ve got all kinds of nasty diseases cropping up. There are ever more people and ever fewer resources to go around. And that’s just the big stuff: War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. The Four Horsemen have ridden out and brought a few friends. So Satan has given the go-ahead to open the box. That’s why Laureen wants it back in a hurry. He’s coming in a few days, and they plan to take it upstairs for the closing ceremony. I’m trying to stop them.”

  I ran a finger under my collar and signaled Benny, who was listening with a look of consternation on his face, to bring me a drink. I’d hardly paid attention to the list of woes. Franklin had said we were well into the new millennium, but how far? Ten years? Twenty? If I’d had to guess at how long I’d been in Lost Angeles, I would have settled on two decades maximum. I didn’t want to know how much longer it was in reality.

  Franklin said nothing for a while, giving me time to swallow half of my drink. The booze hit my stomach and rebounded into my head. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the matter at hand rather than the length of my internment. Franklin was starting to sound increasingly convincing. His tale made a twisted kind of sense, but I’d already been taken in once before and wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.

  “So you want me to give you the box?”

  “That would be ideal. Primarily, I don’t want you to give it to them.”

  I looked down and noticed the rest of my drink had disappeared. I retained no memory of drinking it—just as half my miserable existence down here had disappeared in the mists of time. “I hate to rain on your parade here, but if they created it, couldn’t they make another one?”

  “Maybe. But they’d need time, and that would give us a chance to intervene. The forces are assembling as we speak.”

  “How do I know this isn’t another story you’re telling?”

  “You don’t. But if I’m telling the truth, and you return the box, the end of the world will be on you. Yes, you’ll face no further Torments, and bully for you, but you’ll have seven billion other deaths on your conscience. And not just deaths. Their souls will be destroyed, which means no afterlife for them. Could you live with that?”

  I lit a cigarette, inhaled the calming smoke deep into my lungs, and ignored his thorny question. “You’re asking for a big leap of faith here, and you haven’t exactly distinguished yourself in the field of honesty. Prove you’re an angel. Turn some water into whisky.”

  Franklin walked across the room in measured steps, his gaze never leaving mine, until he stood over me. “No. Like you said, Kat, this is about faith. Do you put your faith in Hell, the regime that slathers vile sin on this city, that sends the Torments each evening, that unleashes a beast to condemn every soul to an eternity as a tortured wisp of sand? Or do you put your faith in God, your creator, who stands against them?”

  I could see nothing now but his eyes. They seemed to tunnel deep inside me, seeking out the dark crevices of my soul.

  “I believe you’re a good woman, Kat, even if you’re working for the wrong side. I choose to put my faith in you, as God puts his faith in humanity. I’m not going to try to persuade you any further. I’m going to call off Jake, if I can find him. What happens next is up to you.” He wrote down a number in the notebook and pushed it across the table. “Once you’ve made up your mind, call me.”

  The gun lay slack in my fingers as he turned his back on me and walked out the door. A shocked silence blanketed the bar—broken when Benny clicked his tongue.

  “I knew he was a wrong ’un,” he said. “You can’t trust a man who never buys a drink.”

&nbs
p; “This is very bad news,” Enitan said, snapping the notebook shut. “I will not be getting my best seller.”

  When I didn’t react to his attempt at levity, Enitan rested his hand on mine. I was glad of the contact, which brought me back to the moment: to this seedy bar, where the only two people I could call friends were looking worried. It was strange. In the context of my existence, surrounded by the supernatural, Franklin’s story should have been perfectly believable. But Lost Angeles had become normality, its bizarreness and cruelty part of my everyday life. I’d swallowed my discovery of the Ammit, as I’d seen it with my own eyes. This revelation, however, remained words. I had Franklin’s say-so as evidence, and the end of the world was so vast a concept that I couldn’t begin to imagine it. Plus some of Laureen’s behavior didn’t make sense in his telling of events. If this was about putting a full stop on humanity, Laureen surely wouldn’t have entrusted the retrieval of the doomsday device to me. If Satan was prepared to obliterate an entire planet, what would it matter if his lackeys first tore Lost Angeles apart to get what he needed?

  The problem was that even though I no longer trusted Franklin and his story appeared farfetched, I couldn’t discount his version of events. Laureen had given no motive for the theft of the box. Franklin’s explanation provided a compelling motivation. Finally, his willingness to walk away and put his faith in me challenged my skepticism the most. Deep down, though, I knew that the reason I didn’t want to believe him was rooted in selfishness. If he was telling the truth, I wouldn’t be able to give the box to Laureen. That meant I would be once more condemned to murdering the man I loved every night of my life.

  “Do you believe him?” I asked Enitan.

  “That is not the question we should be asking.”

  “What question should we ask?”

  Enitan squeezed my fingers. “Can we afford to run the risk of not believing him? As far as I know, I still have family in the world. My children. My grandchildren. I wish them to die fat and old in their beds, a lifetime of happiness and good deeds behind them.”