The Angel of the Abyss Read online

  Chapter 9

  The detective stared down at his pad, rubbed the side of his nose with his pen. Amy glanced at the clock on the night table again.

  “You sure that's all?” he said, raising his eyes. He was a squat man, early forties or so, with a stubble of gray hair surrounding his scalp but not quite covering his crown. His eyes were wrinkled and bloodshot and heavy with the look of world-weariness Amy had seen a lot of on the job.

  “Yes,” she said.

  The man nodded. He dropped his gaze back to his pad, tapped it with the side of the pen. After a few moments he looked over his shoulder at the uniform in the hallway and the tech dusting the door frame.

  “Nothing you want to add?”

  Amy shook her head, studied the carpet. “I told you everything.”

  “And you have no idea who it was?”

  “None.”

  He looked her over, uncertainty in his eyes. “Why don't you let me drive you to the hospital?”

  “I'm fine.” She waved her hand, touched her brow. “I just need to get some sleep.”

  “Right.” He tapped the pad a few more times. The pen rattled. A cheap ballpoint. “This boyfriend. The one you checked in here with. You sure he wasn't here when it happened?”

  “Positive. He's on his way to Vegas. Look, Detective Lowry, I've given my statement, answered your questions. Like I told you, I'm one of you guys. Is it too much to ask for a little professional consideration here? Nothing is missing. Like I said, they must have run away when I screamed.”

  Lowry blinked. “After they knocked you out with a beanbag round. Happens all the time.”

  “I don't know why, okay? They probably heard the elevator or something. Got spooked. Or maybe they had the wrong room. Are we done?”

  The detective stood, frowning. “We'll get out of your hair.” He glanced over his shoulder again, then leaned forward. He handed her a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else, maybe something you, uh, left out.”

  She took the card and slipped it into her purse. Lowry didn't quite move to the door, milling around the room expectantly, so she stood and corralled him out with her body language. A night manager sporting a bad comb-over and a Russian accent was waiting to show her to another room, one he kept insisting would, of course, be complimentary. She pretended to listen as he apologized and promised that her belongings would be brought up right away. She thanked him for the new room, though she wasn't going to be using it. If they took more than a couple of minutes with her bags, she'd call later to have them held at the front desk. Or not.

  They slowed near the elevators and Lowry asked the man if he could have a word with Amy in private. The detective put a hand on her shoulder and guided her a few steps away.

  “You need to think long and hard about what you're doing here. And this is professional consideration, believe me. I'd be dragging you to the precinct otherwise and leaning on you until you quit feeding me bullshit. I'm not stupid. You shouldn't be, either.”

  The elevators opened. She forced a smile and pulled away from him, stepped into the car with the manager, getting a whiff of his cologne she could have done without. She watched the detective shake his head and turn away as the doors closed. He was definitely right about one thing. She needed to think long and hard about what she was doing – starting with what she was going to do next.

  The manager ferried her to her new room, slobbering profuse apologies a few more times and assuring her things were entered into the system in such a way no one could know where she was. She thanked him and shut the door while he was still talking about her not hesitating to call the front desk for anything she needed.

  She pressed back against the door, let her purse slide from her shoulder and took several much needed breaths, cradling her ribcage. Each breath caused her to flinch at the slightest expansion of her chest. Broken rib? She wasn't sure. Whatever it was, she told herself she could handle it, urged herself to ignore the pain and think.

  She'd reacted quickly when she realized the police were on the way, made up a story on the spot, stuck to it when they showed. It didn't matter whether they bought it, what mattered was getting out of there. Whatever had happened, she couldn't have the police involved, slowing things down and asking a million questions, couldn't have the FBI waltzing in and taking their sweet time evaluating the kidnapping part, asking even more questions. They wouldn't believe most of it, anyway. And even if they did, all they'd end up doing would be getting Hatcher killed. Or at the very least they'd make it impossible for him to finish what he started in the time he had. She'd just lectured him about trusting her. Now she had to live up to that demand. And that meant not sabotaging his plan.

  Time to put that brain to use. She was confident she'd done the right thing – assuming the right thing meant doing what Hatcher would have wanted, which was not exactly a given. But she had no idea what her next move should be.

  Who took him? The Carnates? She understood little about them, wasn't even sure how much of what Hatcher had told her was even believable. He didn't seem to believe half of it himself. But regardless, it wouldn't make sense for them to have done it. He'd just been to see Deborah a few hours ago, and if they'd wanted to take him, it would seem that was the time to do it. And these were men who’d broken into the room. Not big or brawny men, but definitely men. Even clad in black ninja outfits, she could tell the difference. Different shape, different movement.

  Men.

  Three days. She opened her purse and pulled out the map. It was a print-out from a GPS navigational website, on regular copy paper. Hatcher had taken it out of an envelope left for him. She moved to the bed and pressed it flat, rubbing out the creases. It didn't show much detail, just a star designating an area outside of Tuscon. Whoever printed it made sure they scrubbed it of any further identifying data.

  She rummaged for her iPhone, poked at it until she was able to pull up a screen map of Tuscon. She centered in on an area approximating the star on the print-out and zoomed until it showed nothing but a stretch of desolate highway. She switched to a satellite mode, scrolled with as much focus as it would allow. Ghost town, Hatcher had said. Something like that would have to be noticeable. Structures in the desert. She kept looking. Nothing.

  She yanked the phone to her chin and stared at the room. Think, Amy. She did a browser search for ghost towns near Tuscon. A few tourist attractions, nothing really aligning with the map. She drilled her eyes into the screen, tap-tap-tapping the side of phone, pondering other possibilities.

  Another search. Tucson west abandoned. She added the nearest highway from the map to the search string.

  She puffed out her cheeks. Lots of results. Abandoned airfields, abandoned mines, abandoned railroads. Hadn't Hatcher said something about mines? She went to tap one of the entries when another caught her eye at the bottom. She scrolled down. The summary indicated it was a directory page. She touched it.

  Abandoned Titan II Missile Silos Now in Private Hands.

  Thoughts started to click. Military. Remote. Fortified. Secluded. All features she figured someone like this General Bartlett would want. And a quick scroll revealed there just happened to be one where the star on the map showed.

  She grabbed her purse and headed out the door, thumbing her phone to open her travel app before she even reached the elevator.

  Chapter 10

  The truck bumped into park and a moment later the camper stopped vibrating. Gabriel heard the creak of the doors, felt the thump when they shut. He looked out the window, shading his eyes. Slanted parking, tables and benches. Nothing else in sight. A rest stop.

  Mrs Norman carried the bucket of fast food and a pair of cardboard plates over to one of the tables and sat, Mr Norman a few steps behind her. As she set the bag down Gabriel saw she had the Cup. Mr Norman slid onto the bench opposite her. He was carrying two large plastic drink containers
with straws. Clipped between his fingers was something folded. It looked like a map.

  Gabriel watched them eat. Fried chicken, maybe ten pieces. He knew how it would go. If there were any left when they were full, they would give them to him. If not, they would get him a burger. Something from a drive-through, off the dollar menu most of the time. Some days, they'd bring him a soft drink and some fries with it, others they wouldn't.

  He liked chicken, but the worst case was the most likely. They'd decide they were full with one or two pieces left, and that would be all he would get. Usually wings.

  Gabriel looked up at the Darkness as they ate. It stretched out above, blacking out the horizon, only a tiny sliver of sky remaining beyond its reach. It cast its long shadow over everything below, like an eclipse. If the Norman's noticed, they didn't give any indication.

  The meal didn't last long. Mr Norman ate several pieces, maybe four, Mrs Norman had three. By Gabriel's count, there might three left for him.

  They talked for a few minutes, then Mr Norman pushed the plates and the bucket to the side. He unfolded the map and spread it out on the table. Mrs Norman picked up her Cup, the black one, bound in leather, carved with symbols that reminded Gabriel of hieroglyphs he'd seen on TV. She pulled the cover off the Cup and whispered something into its mouth. Then she shook it three times and dumped its contents onto the map.

  The objects were hard to make out at that distance, but Gabriel had seen them before, peeking through this same window at a better angle on a different day. One looked like the tiny foot of a bird. Another was a small bone Gabriel thought might be a finger, though he knew that was just a guess. There was something else, too, a dark lump, desiccated and dented. He wasn't sure, but he thought it was another animal part, an organ of some sort, perhaps. At least he hoped it had belonged to an animal.

  There were also two teeth. He could tell those had not belonged to an animal. He had wondered if they came from those boys.

  The objects splayed across the map and the Normans studied them. Mrs Norman returned them to the Cup one at a time, placing her finger on each spot as she did. Then she repeated the process two more times. After the third time, Mr Norman slapped his hand down on the table like that was that and Mrs Norman scooped up the objects into the Cup without the same concern as before. Mr Norman folded up the map and stood. They left the table, neither of them reaching for the bucket, or even bothering to clear the trash.

  Gabriel lay back on the bunk, listening as they climbed into the cab, the camper rocking from the shifting weight. They had a particular destination now, not just a direction. The next time, the Cup would tell them who the victim would be. Then they would do what they do and they would have money.

  And then Gabriel would get his hamburger from the dollar menu. Possibly with fries.

  Chapter 11

  The morning already gone, Amy was plotting where to go next, working through her frustration while getting her hair done.

  Buying a gun proved to be a lot more difficult than she'd anticipated. Frickin' Arizona. Supposed to be nothing but yahoos in cowboy hats. She'd thought they'd be available in vending machines.

  The irony wasn't lost on her. In New York, where buying a gun legally was next to impossible, she could have worked her way into a back-alley transaction within an hour. Yet out here, in a state with a reputation for practically issuing them to children, she couldn't buy one legally or convince anyone to bend the rules. Tears didn't work. Craig's List didn't work. One shop even threatened to call the cops when she suggested a better price if they would just forgo the paperwork. Maybe it was because Tucson didn't have any alleys. It had golf courses instead.

  So she'd back-burnered that and moved to the next item on her list. “Now, let's see how you turned out.”

  The colorist turned the chair around to give her a full view in the large mirror. Amy stared. She belatedly noticed her mouth was open. She tried to be casual about shutting it.

  “Wow,” she said.

  A stylist working on a woman's bangs two chairs over paused to give a look, stepping away from his client for a better view and giving a long, low whistle. He smiled widely and winked at Amy's reflection.

  Amy tightened her lips and glanced down. When she looked back up, she saw her cheeks had turned almost the same color as her hair.

  “I'd say we definitely found your shade. What a hottie! You even got Dar over there to wolf at you, and he's gay as they come!”

  She couldn't help but grin. She wasn't sure whether she qualified as a ‘hottie’, but the look was certainly different.

  The colorist walked her to the salon's front counter and totaled up the charges.

  “You trying to catch someone's eye, missy?” She was a large black woman with braided bronze locks that flowed down to her shoulders off of tight corn rows. Her name was Monique. Amy had listened to her talk about her family for over an hour. A younger brother who was hoping to play football at ASU, two nieces she was practically raising herself and, of course, her baby boy. Amy hadn't said a whole lot about herself, and nothing at all that was true, but she'd tried to be a friendly listener, even though she hadn't actually heard much of it. She did recall one thing, though.

  “Sort of,” Amy said. She signed the print-out, added a generous tip. She was already trying to think of her next stop, turning to leave, when an idea hit her. She paused, giving the woman a long look, and then lowered her voice. “Let me ask you something. Remember how you said you wanted to give your son a great birthday present?”

  “Course I remember, sweetie. One of the things I'd do if his daddy would just pay what he owes.”

  Amy took a breath and leaned in close, figuring it was worth a shot. “Monique, how'd you like to make a quick thousand bucks?”

  * * *

  The Tucson sun made her long for tinted windows.

  She pulled the rental car, a Ford Taurus, off the highway and into the truck stop parking lot. A frigid blast of AC gusted out the vents, but it was only managing to give her a chill rather than cool her down. The back of her thighs were sweating against the seat and the top of them were singeing in the sun as it burned through the glass. These had to be the shortest shorts she ever recalled wearing, but she didn't think she had much choice. The plan, what there was of one, called for a certain kind of dress. She had to take what the mall had to offer.

  One piece of good luck. The fanny pack holster she'd found in the supermarket-sized place called the Shooter's Sports and Outdoor Emporium hadn't required any ID. It was plain black nylon with a velcro perimeter that allowed it to be yanked open, exposing the pistol and offering an easy grab from the elastic strap securing it. She placed her hand on it, feeling the compact mass of the Glock 19 through the material.

  In the end, it was the story, not the money. Cliched, but effective. Fleeing a stalker, scared out of her wits, no one to turn to. She just needed something to make her feel safe, she said. Empowered, like she was in control again. Sisterhood prevailed.

  Monique bought her a gun, as requested. Nine millimeter. One box of hyrda-shock rounds. Amy wrote down the exact model and told her it was the type a friend had recommended to her a few years ago, before this new boyfriend from Hell had come into her life and wouldn't leave, isolating her, controlling her, abusing her. Ultimately forcing her to run away, change her appearance. Monique understood. All too well, given the way she responded. Understood, and empathized.

  But not enough to stop the ten Benjamins from changing hands.

  Amy angled the rearview mirror down and ran the lipstick over her lips. She smacked them together, then let them part with a pop. Scarlet hair, vermilion lips. She barely recognized herself.

  A little eyeliner, some lipliner, a dab of shadow. She took a breath and stared at her reflection.

  I hope you know what you're doing.

  She stood a moment outside the car to adjust to
the feel of her heels. The wedges she bought had to be at least an inch higher than anything in her closet. A little wobbly the first few steps, but after that not enough for her to worry anyone would notice. She reminded herself to let her hips swing. She was a whore, after all.

  She corrected herself: commercial sex worker.

  The rush of crisp air was bracing as she walked through the door. Cold air on dry skin. Very dry skin. It amazed her how so much heat could produce so little perspiration, except those spots where her skin was cooking against a synthetic leather bucket seat. The backs of her legs already felt as though she'd only imagined the puddle she'd been sitting in. She'd only walked maybe fifteen yards through the parking lot, but even the cloth of her shorts was bone dry, just like her blouse.

  The truck stop had a general store connected to a diner, all of it open twenty-four/seven. In the far corner were doorways to restrooms. A sign above the door indicated showers could be purchased.

  Amy walked past a rack of fireworks with a magic-marker sign that said LEGAL!, coupled with ‘outside city limits’ in smaller lettering below it. Next to that was a stand of DVDs and next to that a display of CDs. She nodded to the young Hispanic gal behind the counter chewing gum and headed toward the back where the diner was, passing a large assortment of goods along the way. There were gaudy lighters and sleek carbon knives and wallets with snapping folds beneath glass next to the register. To her right were aisles of soap and shampoo and razors, of candy and protein bars and beef jerky, of potato chips and Doritos and Fritos and Funions. She passed shelves of oil and transmission fluid and air fresheners, but stopped just beyond the last aisle. She took a step back. Charcoal. Lighter fluid. Ponchos. Compasses. Deep-Woods Off.

  Camping supplies.

  She took another step back and entered the aisle, slid her gaze down the shelving until she saw it, then glanced around the rest of the store. The place was definitely well stocked. Must have served more than just truckers, unless maybe truckers used more stuff than she realized. She stood there for several moments, thinking. She ticked off a checklist in her mind. Yes, yes, yes, maybe, yes. Within a minute of searching, she changed the maybe to a yes. She carried several items to the counter. One more item beneath the glass caught her eye.