Rusty Nails (The Dade Gibson Case Files) Page 3

  Of course, he had changed with the times and learned to adapt. He could kill very efficiently with things like out-of-control eighteen wheelers, drive-by shootings, cocaine, serial murderers, alcohol, and AIDS. But he needed a new base of power, a new foothold. That, more than any other reason, is why he wanted to rebel. Things needed to be shaken up, and he was just the one to do it.

  Humans needed to be frightened again and would be if he had any control over the way things turned out. If only he could get his hands on that rumored supply of Rusty Nails....

  The addiction was the key to everything.

  Samael knew all too well the allure of the crucifixion drug and wondered what his life would have turned out like had he not succumbed to the temptation. At one time (and he hated this memory even though it was true), he had felt guilty for all the death and destruction he had caused over the centuries. True enough, his actions had caused millions of souls to fly to heaven where they would spend eternity in bliss. Yet, he had also sent millions to the fire as well. And just as there was no way a righteous soul could ever be denied the pleasures of heaven, the damned could never be freed from their torments. Samael could have chosen to give any of those souls a few more hours, days, weeks before freeing them from their prisons of flesh and bone. Even a few more minutes to repent of their sins and save themselves. But more times than not, he had delighted in the fact that their time was up and laughed as he pushed them into oblivion.

  Those memories haunted him until he found the blessed needle. Then, he was back to his old self again, and killing was a joy.

  But sometimes, when his supply of Rusty Nails was running low, the guilt of what he had done would return. It was almost enough to drive him crazy and make him scramble for a needle.

  It was enough to make him doubt himself, to doubt his purpose. How could he expect to be master of Heaven when he wasn’t even master of himself?

  Samael pushed that question out of his mind as he poured himself a large decanter of wormwood liqueur. He wasn’t really that thirsty, but he did need some answers. As leader of a massive rebellion that encompassed nearly a quarter of Heaven’s angels, Samael should have been privy to a network of intelligence. But the death angel’s spies were more concerned with chasing away their own guilt than learning the secrets of the guilty. That was one of the downsides to have an entire army of addicted seraphim.

  Samael paced back in forth in front of the bar while peering into the glass of green liquid. He was looking for some very specific answers and hoped that he would find them in the swirling emerald depths.

  The liqueur didn’t respond immediately. Samael frowned. He started to hurl the glass against the wall and then stopped when he saw a face staring back at him from the glass.

  “Who are my enemies in this war?” he asked, hoping to divine answers.

  The face he saw in the drink belonged to a rugged man sitting at a desk, polishing a pistol with a damp handkerchief.

  It wasn’t this fellow’s time to die. If it had been, Samael could have produced the name as easily as he could have recited the names of the last five people he had sent to their demise in a tenement fire on the other side of the world.

  “He’s got a good fifty years left in him,” Samael said with some disappointment.

  But Samael’s influence was far reaching and the scene zoomed in for a tighter shot of the desk. Samael squinted to read the name written on the business cards that were scattered like a deck of Tarot across the scarred blotter.

  “Dade Gibson,” Samael said with a wry smile as he made out the name. “I believe I’ve met some members of your family.”

  Dade, however, was oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. He was too busy admiring his own reflection in the gleam of his pistol.

  “What’s your role in all of this?” Samael asked.

  This time the wormwood drink showed Dade with someone that Samael recognized all too well. The private investigator was seated at one of the scorpion-filled tables in The Zodiac Club. Also seated at his table was a beautiful woman that didn’t ring any bells for Samael. Yet, it was the third person at the table that made Samael bare his fangs and dream of unleashing another round of Bubonic plague on the world that would make the outbreak in the middle ages look like a mild case of the sniffles.

  “Well, well,” Samael snarled. “It looks like you and Mama have been getting pretty friendly with each other. That’s your first mistake. And just so you know, I realize she’s trying to double-cross me. I would make her bleed from her pores if I wasn’t still using her for my own purposes. Of course, you’ll bleed right along with her when the time’s right.”

  The green liquid sloshed and swirled in the goblet. Samael stared into the drink, hoping for more answers.

  “Is that my only enemy?” he asked. “Or are there more?”

  The image that appeared in the glass this time was instantly confusing. Samael had absolutely no idea what kind of message the vision was trying to convey. A small boy stared back at him, seeming to look right through him with eyes that were too intense for a child.

  “A boy?” Samael asked. “Who is this?”

  Strangely enough, he couldn’t get a read on this kid. There was nothing about the boy to indicate who he was or why he might be a threat.

  Samael wondered if the vision could be wrong about this or if the oracle was simply being cryptic.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “If this child is my enemy, he will die like all the rest.”

  In fact, just seeing the two scenes side by side was enough to trigger an idea. On one hand, you had a private investigator with a penchant for guns. On the other, a child who needed to be assassinated. From that point, the answer was simple deduction, really.

  Chapter 6

  The hotel Dade was living in while he finished moving into his office was a simple little spot in the road that had cable, a coffee maker, and one of those little tables with the complimentary note pad, golf pencil, shower cap, and matchbook. It wasn’t a bad place, despite the call girls that used it for an hour or two and all the drug deals that went down there from time to time. But it wasn’t that great either. Thankfully, this place was about to be little more than a bad memory. His office would be finished soon, and he could live there until he worked out other living arrangements.

  In fact, this was his last night here. Liz had stopped by to pick him up. They were going to celebrate by having dinner at Adam’s Ribs, a local barbecue joint that everybody raved about. On their way out to his car, Dade swung by the front desk just long enough to check his messages at the front desk and was surprised by what he found.

  “You have a package, sir,” the balding desk attendant said as he rummaged underneath the counter.

  “Package?” Dade said, looking at Liz with some confusion.

  “Yes sir, a woman delivered it only a few minutes ago.”

  “What kind of woman? Describe her.”

  “Nice woman. Red hair. Very charming. Southern drawl. Is there some sort of problem here, sir?”

  “Um, no, not at all,” Dade said, his mind spinning possibilities. Reluctantly he accepted the package, holding the wrapped box away from him as if it were full of poisonous spiders or a vial of biological contagion.

  “Stay behind me,” he told Liz as they quickly headed back to his room. “If there’s something dangerous in here, I want you to be safe.”

  “What do you think it is?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But Louise Hartwell sent it, and I’m sure she didn’t wrap it with love.”

  Once the elevator doors opened, he stepped out, carefully looking up and down the hall to make sure that no one was waiting on him. Thankfully, his floor looked deserted. Liz carefully unlocked the door to Dade’s hotel room, and he cautiously stepped inside, keeping low, his gun held out in front of him like a cross to ward off vampires. Nothing moved saved for the rustling curtains that hung above the roaring air conditioner.<
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  It was an ordinary sneaker box, they discovered, once the paper had been torn away, and Dade hesitantly tipped the lid off with the barrel of his gun, fully expecting something to jump out at him with fangs bared. A thin line of sweat ran down into his eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

  “Now I know how those bomb squad guys feel,” he said, studying the mound of white tissue paper. “So far so good, though. I don’t hear anything ticking, and I haven’t heard anything hiss.”

  Carefully, he eased the barrel of the gun into the crinkled up packing paper and pushed it aside. He nearly dropped the gun when he saw the noose.

  No longer worried about getting bitten by anything poisonous or accidentally tripping a wire, Dade reached his hand into the box and pulled out the thick length of rope. Liz’s eyes went wide at the sight. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand either,” Dade said as he pulled out the photograph of his dead sister, Jane, and another photograph of a man that looked so much like Dade that he had to be his father.

  “There’s more than money riding on Richard Edgemore’s bones,” the message on the back of one 5x7 glossy read. “The fate of your family’s souls depends on your success. I told you that you would cooperate. We could have done this the easy way. Blame yourself for that.”

  “This picture was taken a couple of days before Jane killed herself,” Dade said quietly. “The other was taken the week before my father left us. How could she have gotten her hands on these?”

  “I don’t know,” Liz said. “But why use this to threaten you? It’s not like your sister is in any real danger now. She’s dead. And what about your father? Is he dead too? You’ve never said much about him since we’ve been together.”

  “I don’t know if he’s dead or not,” Dade admitted. “I haven’t seen him or spoken to him in over ten years. I guess this picture tells me all I need to know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Liz said, hugging Dade close to her. “This is terrible.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Dade said. “He’s been dead to me for a long time. Still, he was my father, and I loved him once.”

  “I still don’t understand what kind of threat this could be.”

  Dade shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my line of work that you would have a hard time accepting. Believe me, death isn’t the end of pain for some people. For some, it’s just the beginning. I’m sure that’s one thing Louise Hartwell and I could agree on right now.”

  Chapter 7

  Shaken by the contents of the package, Dade gathered up what few belongings he had left in the hotel room including the noose and the pictures of his father and sister. “It’s one thing to threaten me in a nightclub,” Dade said. “I can deal with that. It’s another thing altogether to threaten me and my family in the place I’ve been calling home. That’s where I draw the line.”

  “So you believe that she can do something to the souls of your sister and father?” Liz asked.

  “There’s a lot more to this woman than meets the eye. We’ve already established that. She may have more tricks up her sleeve. I can‘t afford to risk it.”

  “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” Liz insisted.

  “I promise,” Dade said. “Now, can you do me a favor and check me out of this flea trap while I load the rest of my things into the car?”

  Liz did as she’d been asked and took the room key to the front desk. She knew when to give him some space. After opening that package and the wounds that had gone with it, Dade probably needed some time alone to think things through.

  It was while she was standing there, enjoying the cool night breeze, that she happened to see Louise Hartwell getting out of her car. Liz felt the urge to run to Dade and drag him down here. But she didn’t want Dade to do anything stupid, and that is exactly what would happen if he knew that Louise Hartwell was skulking around the parking lot. Besides, Louise had a pistol jutting up unnaturally from the waistband of her jeans. If Dade were to see her now, quite likely there would be a shootout, and he might not be the one to walk away. Liz couldn’t bear the thought of that.

  She watched as the heavyset woman waltzed up to one of the doors, inserted a key into the lock, and went in with a nonchalance that suggested she’d gone to this very room a hundred times before. She looked both ways and over her shoulder before entering as if fearful of being seen. Hoping that she could take a little of the burden off of Dade by investigating this herself, Liz waited a few minutes until she was fairly certain that Mrs. Hartwell wasn’t going to rush out in a hail of bullets. Then, she crept as close to the window as she could, praying that no one would mistake her for a peeping tom.

  Alone and unaware that she was being watched, Mrs. Hartwell began methodically removing her clothes and laying each article out on the small table beside the air conditioner. Thankfully, the obese woman didn’t remove everything. She left her bra and panties on. The handgun went underneath one of the pillows. The next five minutes were spent pacing back and forth in front of the television until the stranger with the eerie yellow eyes and the black leather trench coat arrived.

  “Come on in, honey,” Liz heard Mrs. Hartwell say. “Door’s open.”

  Liz watched as the stranger shucked his overcoat, revealing gorgeous maroon wings that looked like they’d been dipped in blood. The look of surprise on his face was proof enough that he hadn’t expected to walk in and see Mrs. Hartwell in such a state of undress. There was a certain burning hunger in his eyes, but it was obvious by the way he steered clear of the big woman that his hunger had nothing to do with her.

  “You’re not why I’m here,” the seraphim said, pulling a wad of money out of his jacket before throwing it down. “Don’t play games with me. I’m not doing anything like that with you this time.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a killjoy. You just come over here and let me take care of you for a while. Call it my way of providing excellent customer service.”

  The massive angel shrugged and went to Mrs. Hartwell reluctantly. Liz watched as he kissed Louise Hartwell methodically on the lips and quickly dropped the roll of cash on the night stand. It was obvious that he wasn’t into Louise Hartwell’s idea of fun.

  As the two made out on the bed, Liz strained to see some imperfection in the angel’s costume, some flaw or seam or zipper that would make this fanatic seem a little less real. Yet, try as she might, she couldn’t point out anything that would suggest this was someone dressed up like a seraph. At first sight, she had simply assumed that this was some drug-crazed freak from The Zodiac Club looking for a good time. Now she was starting to wonder if she might have been mistaken. All the years spent going to church with her grandmother had instilled in her a certain belief in angels. She just never thought the day would come where she would see one being seduced on a ratty mattress in some seedy hotel room.

  The angel’s hands were trembling ever so slightly as he touched Louise Hartwell. Liz was reminded of the way Ali looked on most of his TV interviews these days. Only this wasn’t Parkinson’s. It was need. Pure and simple.

  “Stop,” the angel said, pushing Mrs. Hartwell away. “I need what I came for. There’s your money. Now give it to me.”

  Louise smiled and draped the bed’s comforter over her massive bosom in a sudden show of faux-modesty. “Well, aren’t you just all business and no play today,” she said.

  “The nails,” the angel insisted, hammering his fist down on the small scarred table.

  “Keep your wings on,” Louise said as she leaned over to the dresser and pulled a syringe out of the top drawer.

  “Give it to me,” the angel said, snatching the syringe out of Hartwell’s hand.

  “That’s quite an expensive habit you’ve got,” Mrs. Hartwell said. “You’re going to deplete my supply if I don’t regulate how much I let you have each time.”

  “You can get more,” the seraphim replied as he started toward the door.

  “It’s not that easy,” she p
rotested. “There are complications.”

  Liz felt like she was in the middle of a suspenseful movie, eagerly waiting for what would happen next. The point in the movie where everyone jumps at the carefully-timed symphony crescendo occurred when a strong hand gripped Liz’s shoulder. She was certain that she was going to be staring straight into the midnight glare of a police badge when she turned around. She was pleasantly surprised, however, to see Dade, smiling at her and shaking his head.

  “What are you watching?” he asked.

  “Louise Hartwell’s inside with an angel. Here. Take a peek.”

  Dade glanced around the parking lot to make certain that no one had spotted them and then eased to the window, his eyes growing wide as he took one look at Mrs. Hartwell.

  “Is that a real angel?” Dade asked.

  “Seems to be,” Liz said. “The wings look real enough.”

  “Interesting,” Dade said. “We meet with Louise Hartwell at a club that specializes in angel enthusiasts. Then we see her selling drugs to one in a seedy hotel room. Could there be a connection? The magic eight ball says ‘yes.’”

  Inside the room, the angel cocked his head to one side as if listening to an ultrasonic dog whistle. For a brief terrifying moment Liz was sure that he heard them and slapped her hand over Dade’s mouth. She held her finger forcefully up to her lips. Dade nodded in understanding. The seraphim waited for a minute more before returning his attentions to Mrs. Hartwell.

  Having obtained what he came for, the angel wasted no time putting his leather overcoat back on, hiding his wings from the outside world. Pocketing the syringe, he stormed toward the door. Louise called him back as he was reaching for the knob.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You forgot this.”

  The angel never saw the gun until it was too late and lazy feathers were floating through the air like daffodil petals.