by Alex Gates
“Why not come here and tell us? What did you believe the sheriff’s department could do?”
Gladas hesitated, swallowed, and said, “Later that night, on the news, I heard about a man that had gone missing on the American River about a mile downstream from where my nephew and I had seen the shadow.” Gladas adjusted his tie once again. “Like you said, not only is it embarrassing, but it’s hard to come to a place like this when lives are on the line. Why wouldn’t any sane person go to an established law enforcement agency first?”
“Did they listen to you? The sheriff’s department?”
“They made a note of my report and dismissed—” his cell phone chirped in his pocket, and he removed the device to check the caller. Holding up a finger, he said, “Excuse me,” and left the room.
“He seems nice,” I said to Xander. “How the hell did you find him so soon?”
“Much like you, I have trouble sleeping. I just utilize my extra time a little more productively than drinking tequila.”
“Hey,” I said, pointing at him, “don’t you dare speak down on tequila. Yeah, she’s a bitch who hits harder than a fifty-pound sack of nuts, but she also takes care of me.”
“I’ll share what I discovered with you later. But through some legwork, I found Gladas’s name and number in police records. I’m not sure why he reported what he saw, though, unless the kid’s parents asked him to. As a Demi, he’s not quite a Nephil, and he can interact with Sheep at will.”
“So, what are you hoping to get out of him if you’re not asking any questions about Circe or Hecate?”
“Nothing,” Xander said.
I glared at him. “Nothing? He’s are only fucking lead. We can’t just let him”—I meant to say walk, but the metaphor was too easy,—“off the hook.”
“If we start revealing what we know and he tells Circe or Hecate, or if he decides to take it into his own hands—remember, he is still a Demi—what are we going to do about that? We have to play this slow, Joey. We can’t keep rushing into scenarios blind.”
Before I had the chance to respond, Gladas knocked on the door. Xander called him in, and the Demi returned to the chair Xander had offered him.
“Sorry about that,” Gladas said, glancing at me and curling his nose. “That was a colleague. I told him I was meeting with you today, and he wanted to know how it went. After I told him what we’ve discussed so far, he said we should inquire your services.”
Xander cocked his head at that unexpected wrinkle. Gladas was volunteering information and cooperation. How could Xander say no to that? Unless Xander meant to follow through with what he’d just told me and dismiss Gladas out of mistrust.
“Gladas, we dedicate a lot of time and resources to our work. We’re not a criminal justice enterprise. We’re a private investigative agency and a business. With that said, you need to know two things before inquiring our services.”
“Ha! That’s what your mom told me the other night. Thing one, she has herpes. Thing two… well, I don’t think you, as her son, need to hear about her accomplishments.”
“If I suspect criminal activity,” Xander said to Gladas, “not rooted in the supernatural, or otherwise as something that law enforcement is more equipped to handle through the criminal justice system, I will uphold my civic duty and hand over the case. Your name will never be revealed as an MIS client to the public, though.”
After a second of consideration, Gladas said, “I’m okay with that. I guess I have to be.”
Xander turned his mouth into his shoulder and coughed, then he cleared his throat and said, “Secondly, taxpayers don’t fund this agency. If you inquire our services, than you pay for our time. We’re priced steeply for a reason. Each detective at MIS is provided one case at a time, and they’re not allowed another case until their current one is resolved. That’s why we’re the best at what we do—better than the Seekers, and better than the Collectors. That’s why our clearance rate is so high. We dedicate 100 percent of our time and resources into providing answers to your questions.” Xander cleared his throat again. “Not only will you finance every resource we consume—including meals and travel—but you’ll pay our wages for all the time spent on the case.”
The Demi nodded and licked his lips, rubbing his palms on his slacks. “I understand.”
“Very good,” Xander said, smiling in a feeble attempt to ease the tension. He slapped his thighs.
“Gladas,” I said, “can you riddle me an answer?” I covered my mouth with a hand and thought for a second—I was in a professional office, after all. I had to practice thinking before speaking. “Why would you and your friend want to finance an investigation that has next to nothing to do with you. I mean, it’s safe to assume your only connection to this”—I used air quotes for emphasis—“river monster is a shadow you may or may not have seen. So, why—and now it’s my turn—fork over the expenses? What’s in it for you?”
Gladas looked at Xander, though he answered my question. “I have the money to help, as does my friend. And we want to help, if it means making this city a better and safer place to live. If no one else is willing to acknowledge the dark truth, that doesn’t give us the right to keep our heads turned. Besides, I’ve acquired a certain fortune throughout my life, but I’ve failed to create a family. I can’t think of a better way to spend that money.”
“I’m technically homeless right now,” I said. “I’m not begging or anything, but if you needed to get rid of cash, I can help you.”
Gladas had taken one too many cues from Xander. Ignoring my comment, he said, “The possibility of saving a few lives far outweighs a new truck or a trip to Maui, don’t you think?”
Xander glanced at me, as if he expected me to respond.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked, shrugging. “You’ve ignored every other comment I’ve made. Actually, scratch that. You know what? Gladas has me drowning in tears over here. I’d advise pro bono on this one. I mean, what would Jesus do? That’s what I always ask myself.”
After a long silence, Xander stood from the edge of his desk and walked around to the back. He grabbed a pen and a pad from a drawer. “Gladas,” he said. “I’ll contact a few people to make a little more sense of this case. I’ll also check for any theories of a single human killer on the shores of the American River over the past decade.”
“The American River Killer,” I said. “It has a solid ring to it.”
“Once I’ve ironed out a few wrinkles, I’ll give you a call. We’ll proceed from there.”
“How long until I hear from you?” Gladas asked, standing from the chair and buttoning his jacket.
“This afternoon at the earliest. Monday morning at the latest.”
“Thank you,” Gladas said to Xander, reaching across the desk and shaking his hand.
“I would get up,” I said, “but I just don’t care to.”
Gladas nodded at me, as if thanking me for some reason, then turned and exited the office.
I reassembled Bambico after her cleaning and placed her back into my duffle bag, removing Henrietta to start the process again. Xander dragged his chair back around his desk and sat behind his computer, squinting at the screen while pounding on the keyboard.
“You know that’s bad for your eyes,” I said.
“What?”
“Squinting like that. Also gives you headaches. And it makes you look like you’re pushing an infant out your butthole. You ever think about getting glasses? It’ll probably help with the whole nerd thing you’re going for.”
Xander rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his massive frame. “What do you think?” he asked, placing his hands behind his head.
I paused to think about what I thought. “I think that tomatoes taste better when they’re pan fried, but they leave a nasty mess on the pan, and I hate cleaning that up. So, I never fry my tomatoes, which makes me a little sad.”
Old Buzzkill McGee didn’t even bat an eye. Apparently, h
e had learned to tune out my commentary. I wondered how he did it. I wouldn’t mind that skill—drowning out my thoughts. The silence would be welcoming amongst the constant chatter. Anyway, he didn’t have a single comment about cooked or uncooked tomatoes, which irked me since I’d shared my deep and personal thoughts about them. Instead, he leaned his head further back and stared at the ceiling.
“Do you trust him?”
“Who? Gladas? How do you not trust a face like that? Imagine if Brad Pitt had strolled into this room today. Would you be asking if I trusted him? Not at all. And, in my humble opinion, Gladas has the better jawline. So, what’s not to trust?”
“Most people that come in here don’t want law enforcement catching wind of their problem, or law enforcement has dismissed them already. Either way, they’re nervous about their claim—nervous that we’ll out them to law enforcement, or nervous that we’ll dismiss them if they tell their complete story, as the police or sheriff’s department has probably already done. Not only that, but he was almost too agreeable with the finances, as if he doesn’t plan to pay out.”
“So, you don’t trust Gladas because he barely hesitated long enough to scratch his balls when you told him about that condition, and he wants to pay you a shit-ton of money? That’s the gist of it?”
Xander sighed. He leaned forward, stood from his chair, and ambled toward the bookshelf filled with coffee cups. “It’s deeper than that. It’s about my pact.”
“Oh, Lord save us all,” I said.
“You know how it works.”
I did, but his explanations and my understanding were super vague, and I only became more confused when he tried to clarify. I understood he worked under the guidance of the Archangel, Gabriel, whatever that meant, and he didn’t have innate magic. His divine pact imbued him with power against darkness and evil. Whenever he tried to explain it to me, his abilities sounded a lot like a superhero’s—faster and stronger than your average human—with a lot of luck involved, similar to Luke Skywalker getting shot at by an army of Stormtroopers.
“You’ve told me,” I said, tapping Henrietta against my temple, “only a handful of humans throughout history have received an Archangel’s blessing, right? Moses. Jesus, of course. Joan of Arc. Van Helsing.” I clicked my tongue, reaching for more names. “Cotton Mather. And you. Am I missing anyone?”
“A few. But that’s not the point. You know it’s rare to receive it. But what else do you know about it? Do you know how it works?”
“I won’t lie to you, Jesus Number Two. I have a clue, but at the same time, I don’t have any idea. I do have a feeling you’re about to enlighten me, though.”
Prepare yourself for an expository monologue, here. If you need to pee or refill your popcorn, this might be a good time to leave the auditorium.
“Everything is intuitive with it,” Xander said, turning from the bookshelf. “That’s why we’re instructed to meditate—to pray. It clears our minds and allows us to connect with our Seraphim—our Archangel. That’s how Samson knew when to pull on the columns. How Jesus knew how to feed five thousand and walk on water. We hear when we need to hear, but we have to know how to listen.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I said. “Quick question, though. Should I be taking notes on this? Will there a be quiz?”
“My sacred pact is meant to level the playing field between good and evil. If I fight for justice, I’m not protected by Gabriel, though I’m granted an edge. If a Demon ever reenters the world, I’ve offered myself to Gabriel to possess my body and fight against the darkness. Until then, I’m used to prevent that from happening—and he speaks to me, directing me to my purpose.”
“Wow,” I said. “Can you baptize me now, or do I have to take classes?”
“There was a feeling when Gladas—”
“You felt that, too? Thank Jehovah. I thought I was the only one who felt something for Gladas. He’s a very handsome man.”
Moving the single-sided conversation forward without any recognition that my voice had occupied the room, Xander said, “A feeling that Gabriel is pulling me in a certain direction.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you do all that listening practice.”
“As soon as Gladas returned to my office after the phone call, as soon as he asked for my help, my Seraphim spoke to me loud and clear.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking about Xander’s whole following God’s direction and purpose-filled life mumbo jumbo—that he’s fruitier than a hazelnut on an Oregon dairy farm. And you’re absolutely right. In all honesty, he’s about two grapes shy of a fruit platter, if you know what I’m getting at. And his whole “Jesus is my BFF” and “God is my safari guide through this dangerous little jungle called life” gig grew quite irksome, quite often. It’s like, ‘I get it, dude. You have a hard-on for red letters in a book no one has read in a thousand years. Good for you. But also, shut the humdinger up about it. Literally no one—wait, let me recount for good measure—yeah, okay, no one cares about it.’
Rant over.
“Will Gabriel ever speak you off a cliff?” I asked. “Or maybe into a busy intersection? I’m not saying I want you to die, so please don’t take it that way. But at the same time, I kind of, sort of want you to die.”
He sighed. “In all honesty, I don’t trust the story Gladas told the authorities about his nephew. I don’t trust his willingness to pay us. Not one bit. It feels too contrived. Circe turned him into a Demi, and right now, it feels like they’ve created an alliance. I trust Gabriel’s direction with all my heart, and he’s telling me that I can’t accept this case. At least, not from Gladas.” Xander’s eyes had glossed pink.
A quiet concern in my heart had started screaming, and I wanted to scream right back at it. Instead, I sat rigid on the couch and set Henrietta in my lap. “What the hell are you saying exactly?” Xander was lucky the gun probably wouldn’t fire with the Nephilim runes scribbled across it, and that I’d dissembled it, and that it had no ammunition—otherwise, I might have placed a bullet right through his face.
“You have to understand where I’m coming from.”
“Well, try your darnedest to help me.”
“I intuit, but it’s also more than that. I just know things. Just like Moses knew how to use his staff to part the Red Sea. I just know. I know because I see what to do—because Gabriel grants me sight when he speaks to me. He implants visions in my head.”
“What do you know right now?” I asked. “What do you see?”
“That’s the thing. I know I’m not supposed to take the case from Gladas, but I can’t see further than that. I don’t know why. But I have to…” He wiped a tear that broke from his eye and ran down his cheek.
“Fucking say it. Let me hear you say it.” I stood and drifted closer to Xander without even knowing it.
“I can’t… follow this lead to find Mel,” he whispered.
“The only fucking lead we have.”
“I can’t go against Gabriel’s direction.”
I found myself standing within striking distance and didn’t squander that convenient coincidence. I drove my right fist across his jaw. He must have anticipated it—he rolled with the punch, but part of it caught him across the chin and staggered him back into the bookshelf. Coffee cups toppled and fell, spilling black liquid across the shelf and floor. I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around him, trying to drag him to the ground. Xander had about fifty pounds on me, mostly in the form of defined muscle mass. He resisted my assault without much effort and shoved me away.
“Joey!” he roared. “Enough!”
I panted. My body trembled.
He straightened his jacket and wiped coffee off his slacks. “Listen, this isn’t easy for me. I know you’re in a tight spot right now, and you need support. I’m still here for you. Understand that. But I have a greater purpose I must fulfill. That’s part of my pact. Sacrificing friends, family, possessions, my body for whatever Gabriel asks of me. My pact was never to recei
ve magic in exchange for servitude to a Nephil. It was always to unite the world and make it a better place. And even if I don’t understand the why, I still have to do it. I can’t just abandon my oaths like—”
You did, he meant to say, but he had stopped himself from uttering the words.
I chewed on my tongue and scratched my nose. “Fuck off. I’ll find Hecate myself.”
I pivoted away from him and stormed out of his office.
7
After slamming the door to the office building, I stood on the sidewalk and stared at the blue sky. Why couldn’t it just rain? It was almost worse that the weather remained beautiful this late in the year, while my life fell into turmoil and chaos. It should have just fucking down-poured like it was supposed to. Why didn’t life just act like its supposed to act? I mean, in a world of unpredictability, we count on the predictable. Hours, days, months, seasons. You get the picture. So, when it’s supposed to fucking rain, why doesn’t it rain? The sunlight does nothing more than expose the beauty of a world that is so damn ugly.
Speaking of ugly.
“You okay?” one the agents disguised as a bum asked me.
I glared at the two of them. “Do I look okay? I mean, really, do I? I have a hole about the size of a golf ball going from my stomach through my back. My face looks like a piñata about to take its last hit. I’m more hungover than a bachelorette in Miami. I haven’t slept in seven fucking years. Oh, and to place that nasty little cherry on the top, I’ve lost my wife and daughter and home and possessions, and I may have just lost my only friend because I need everyone around me to feel just as shitty as I do.” Glancing at the sky again, I screamed, “If it would only fucking rain, I might get my wish!”
Neither of the disguised men said a word in response.
“This whole thing you got going on,” I said, referring to their disguise, “it’s incredibly offensive. So, fuck off.” Panting, I headed down the sidewalk.
Sorry for all the F-bombs in this scene. I’m just really pissed and tired and hurting. If Xander or the winter weather aren’t going to share my pain, maybe you can.
