The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh - Страница 56
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“I have an alibi!”
No protestation of innocence, unfortunately. I said, “You have an alibi for Kinsey’s
death. Her murder was designed to implicate you, to punish you. It doesn’t absolve you from
the other two murders.”
“The police released me.”
Again, no plea of innocence. Why did I always work so hard to avoid seeing what was
right in front of me? Wearily, I said, “Because they haven’t been able to pinpoint the dates
that Karen Holtzer and Tony Zellig died. They can’t connect you – yet.”
He licked his lips, then gave a weird giggle. “Well, guess what, Adrien, I’m not their
lone suspect!”
“I know. And I know I have you to thank for throwing suspicion my way. You told
them you thought Jake and I were involved, didn’t you?”
“Thought? It doesn’t take a detective.” He looked away from me. “Anyway, it was that
bastard Riordan I wanted to get, not you.”
“But you expect me to put you up now?”
He stared at me dumbly.
“Is there a reason I should involve myself any further in this goddamned mess?”
His pale mouth quivered. “Adrien, I’m begging you. Let me stay the night. I’m scared.”
Me too, I thought, but I was supposed to be the grown-up.
“Please…”
He did look terrified, and he probably knew better than anyone if he had reason to be.
“One night,” I said finally. “And you’re going to have to sleep down here.”
“Thank God,” he whispered. He looked toward the front windows – the dark street
beyond – and shivered.
I opened my mouth, then shut it.
“Have you eaten?” I asked finally.
He shook his head.
“Come on.”
I took him upstairs and defrosted one of the steaks I’d bought for a dinner with Jake
that was never going to happen.
While the steak cooked, Angus sat at the table drinking a beer. He had lost weight in
jail. He looked like an undernourished adolescent. Harmless, vulnerable.
I asked, ““What happened to Holtzer and Zellig?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
He shook his head. Wiped moisture from the corner of his eye.
“How would you have gotten involved in that?”
He gave me an impatient look. “Someone like you wouldn’t understand.”
“Because I’m gay?”
He tittered. Shook his head.
Maybe it was a silly question. I’d learned from my research that it wasn’t only lonely,
ignorant, insecure, or troubled kids who were lured in by the promises of charismatic
cartoon-character-like evil. One point most of the experts stressed was that people don’t join
cults, they join interesting groups that seem able to satisfy their desires and dreams. Members
were recruited based on skills and abilities and the needs of the group. That’s why it wasn’t
unusual to find doctors and lawyers and CEOs and movie stars involved in some of the more
powerful and sophisticated cults. Cult members rarely understood the hidden agenda of their
leaders. Everyone has their vulnerabilities. Cult recruiters knew exactly how to exploit them.
I contemplated Angus. He was already tipsy with exhaustion and nerves. One beer had
oiled him nicely; I was pretty sure that a second one would slide him right over the edge. I
went to the fridge, uncapped another brew, and put it before him.
He smiled gratefully.
I let him drink a while before asking, “When you understood what was happening,
why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“No one would have believed me. I didn’t have any proof. Not real proof.” At my
expression, he said defensively, “I tried to quit. You know that. But they don’t allow it. They
can’t allow it.”
I wasn’t buying. I wanted to. I would have felt a lot better about everything if I
believed that Angus was truly an innocent.
“You could have talked to the police. You should have talked to Jake.”
“He thinks I’m a freak.”
And your point is?
But I didn’t say that. I said, “When did you realize what was really going on?”
“Really going on? I don’t know what’s really going on. I never have. I thought we
were…” He did it again, tailed off before he actually revealed any useful information.
“You thought you were what?”
At my tone his face quivered. Tearfully he said, “It was very powerful, very spiritual, so
don’t make jokes about it. Don’t mock what you don’t understand.”
“I won’t. I’m not.” I thought it over. “I mean, it’s not like you actually sell your soul to
the Devil, right?”
“Adrien!” he shrieked, jumping to his feet and knocking over his glass.
I jumped too. “What? For Christ’s sake!”
“Don’t make fun of it!”
My jaw dropped. “Are you telling me…?” I couldn’t complete it, it was so ridiculous.
“It isn’t how you make it sound. It’s a commitment, a pledge, an oath of honor.”
Beer dripped onto the hardwood floor. I grabbed a towel and began to wipe the table.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. And in return for selling your soul?”
He said huskily, “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.”
“What does that mean? What did you get out of it?”
“You don’t get it immediately. You have to…you have to pay your dues. You have
to….”
“Work for it?”
He glared at me. “Someone like you can never understand.”
“Help me understand. Are you telling me you joined this group and you…sold your
soul to Satan?”
“No. Of course not. We all made a pledge to serve His Grace. In return, He will grant
us whatever we want. Money. Great jobs. Beautiful women.”
Angus got Wanda and ten dollars an hour at Cloak and Dagger. Maybe he should ask
for his soul back.
“When you say “His Grace,” are you talking about Satan or a person?”
“His Grace,” Angus snapped. “My Lord Gremory, the fifty-sixth Duke of Hell.”
Ah, yes. The house demon. “Gotcha. But there must be someone in charge. Someone
human.”
“Each Blade has an Adept. Only the Adept can know the Master.”
I felt a tingle of alarm. “How many Blades are there?”
“Three Blades edge the Scythe of Gremory,” quoted Angus mechanically. “Sable is the
blade of the first cut. Silver blade cuts deepest. Scarlet is the blade that deals the death blow.”
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