Jonathan Nasaw - The Boys from Santa Cruz

“What are you doing here?”

“The Council sent me. They are mightily p.o.’d.”

“The Book! I left the Book in the barn!”

Sammael had winked broadly. “Lucky for you, you have friends in low places. Bear in mind, though: this is a one-time only deal. You fuck up again, you’re on your own. Oh, and by the way, you stink to high heaven, as the saying goes. Better get out of those clothes before they arrest you as a health hazard.”

Then he was gone, and in his place, lying on the bucket seat, had been a perfect copy of the Book, identical to it in every aspect but one. This simulacrum was perpetually on fire, bathed in lambent blue flames that flickered and danced like heat lightning across its surface, but like the flames of the burning bush in Exodus, failed to consume it, or even scorch the leather upholstery on which it lay.

There were several messages on the answering machine in Skip’s kitchen. The last was from Warren Brobauer, thanking Skip for his work and sacrifice on the family’s behalf, hoping he was recovering from his ordeal, and notifying him that, insofar as the authorities finally seemed to have the situation in hand, his professional services were no longer required.

The apartment, meanwhile, was a wreck. Yellow tape, fingerprint powder, overturned furniture, chalk marks, evidence flags. Maybe the maid could come in a few days early next week, Skip started to tell himself, then remembered suddenly that she was dead-that was her blood in the hallway. And she wasn’t just a maid, anyway-she was Anna. Anna of the warm brown eyes and the thousand-watt smile and the valiant broken English; Anna who’d washed his underpants and scrubbed his toilet for five years; Anna who’d been gunned down and stuffed into a closet like a sack of old clothes. So to hell with Warren and his money and his good wishes, thought Skip-Epstein Investigative Services was in this one for the duration, client or no client.

“I’m going to change my clothes,” he told Pender. “Feel free to help yourself to the good Scotch. It’ll go to waste otherwise.”

“You don’t drink?”

“I can’t,” Skip called over his shoulder as he limped down the hallway. “It’s all the acetaminophen in the Norco I take. My doctor says if I have one drink, even a beer, my poor liver will go belly-up like a dead salmon.”

After washing down two of the aforementioned Norco with a slug of tap water, Skip changed into a clean pair of chinos and a freshly laundered (by Anna!) blue oxford-cloth shirt, and retrieved the kidney holster containing his 9mm Beretta Parabellum from the shoe box on the top shelf of his closet before returning to the kitchen.

“You have a license for that thing?” Pender wanted to know.

“Sure do,” said Skip, clipping the holster to the back of his belt.

“Any good with it?”

“Pretty good. How about you?”

“As far as the Bureau’s concerned, I’m range-qualified,” said Pender. “But you remember those two shots I fired to scare away the buzzards yesterday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I missed the sky. Twice.”

Leaving Marshall County one step ahead of the law, Asmador had driven north, for no particular reason, and after stopping at the Wal-Mart to purchase a complete change of clothes-another denim shirt, another pair of jeans, another denim jacket-he’d spent Friday night in a rustic, trailer court-style motel with detached bungalows just outside of Red Bluff.

The square, low-ceilinged, wood-paneled room had been furnished with twin beds covered with musty old striped blankets, and had smelled of Pine-Sol and mold. Asmador had smelled of sweat and corpse until he treated himself to a long, hot shower. He’d slept poorly, dreaming of soaring vultures outlined against a scarlet sky, and had awakened in the dark. The only light in the room issued from the television, where the image of the Poison Angel grinned out at him from behind what looked like a news anchor’s desk.

“And in news of the Underworld,” Sammael had reported “authorities in the Blasted Land tonight revealed the identity of your next victim.”

Asmador had sat up, openmouthed with astonishment, as the redheaded demon jerked a thumb in the direction of a rectangular inset in the upper-left corner of the screen, where one of the names from Luke Sweet’s fantasy revenge list was written in letters of fire.

“And bear in mind,” Sammael had added, forming an imaginary pistol with his hand and aiming the forefinger-gun barrel directly at Asmador, “if you fuck up again, things are gonna get mighty hot for you.”

Then he’d pulled the imaginary trigger with his middle finger, and ka-whoooosh! a ball of fire had shot out of his fingertip and through the television screen, heading straight for Asmador, who’d shrieked and thrown up his forearm to shield his eyes.

But the fireball had never arrived, and when he’d uncovered his eyes, the room had been dark again, save for the ghostly afterglow of the television screen, and relatively quiet, save for one last peal of demonic laughter.

Charles Mesker’s parents lived on the second floor of a converted motel in a blighted neighborhood only a few blocks from the Boardwalk. Suspicious looking characters loitered under shattered streetlights; a strung-out looking hooker tottered on high heels toward the Buick as it pulled up to the curb, then turned away without explanation.

Skip rang the bell and announced himself as Special Agent Pender, FBI, while the real Pender went around behind the building to make sure Charles didn’t try to sneak out the back way, over one of the second-story balconies. After a minute or two, he rejoined Skip in the entrance lobby, which had the thinnest, drabbest, unhappiest-looking carpet either of them had ever seen. They took the stairs up to the second floor, where Gerald Mesker, white-haired and professorial-looking in a shawl-necked cardigan, met them at the door and asked to see their credentials.

Pender tinned him, introducing Skip as his colleague, Mr. Epstein. Mesker, who’d taught mathematics at UC Santa Cruz from its founding in 1965 to his retirement a few years earlier, ushered them into a low-ceilinged studio apartment and seated them in cheap matching side chairs with low arms and scratchy upholstery. His wife, Helwidge, a round-faced, apple-cheeked Santa’s wife in loose-bottomed granny jeans and a high-necked blouse buttoned to her chin, served them coffee in delicate blue willow china cups and saucers that looked sadly out of place in the sparsely furnished room.

“When did you last see your son Charles?” asked Pender, after some minimal small talk.

“We visited Charlie three weeks before he died,” said Gerald Mesker, seated next to his wife on the convertible sofa that doubled as their marital bed.

“It’s hard to say whether he recognized us or not,” Helwidge Mesker confided in a hoarse whisper. “But I prefer to think he did, and that he knew we still loved him and cared for him.”

“I’m sure he did,” said Pender, taking out his pocket notebook and well-gnawed pencil stub. “By the way, who was his psychiatrist?”

“Dr. Hillovi,” said the professor. “Fredu Hillovi.”

“Do you happen to know how I can get in touch with him?”

Mesker shook his head. “I don’t even know if he survived the fire-I’d read he was badly burned.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Pender’s homely mug was radiant with sympathy as he glanced around the dismal little room. There were two framed photographs of son Charles on the sofa side table. One was of a teenager in a Boy Scout uniform; he had an archer’s bow in one hand and was holding up a blue ribbon in the other. The other was a candid snapshot of a hulking, middle-aged man with a low forehead and a thousand-yard stare. “It must have been quite a strain, financially, keeping Charles in a private facility.”