George Chesbro: Two Songs This Archangel Sings

"Shit. You're going to go looking for him, aren't you?" "Well, not right now. I've got a lecture to deliver, remember? See you later, brother."

The university was a lot closer than my apartment, so I went directly there and managed to be only twenty minutes late. From the looks of the packed auditorium, just about everyone had hung around considerably longer that any of my graduate students would have if I'd been late for a lecture. Walking through the building to the appropriate backstage entrance would have taken another three or four minutes, so I made a grand entrance from the rear of the auditorium. Holding a still-wet oil painting by the frame in one hand and a gym bag containing two towels, a change of socks, and ten thousand dollars in cash in the other, one unshaven and thoroughly grimy dwarf dressed in an orange sweat suit and dirty sneakers marched briskly down the center aisle and up onto the stage. There was scattered, uncertain applause as I set down the gym bag and painting, then stepped behind the lectern and up on the stool placed there for my convenience. I found myself looking out over a sea of puzzled and disapproving police-officer-type faces. To my right, ten rows back, I spotted the university chancellor; he did not look pleased. Next to the chancellor sat the head of my department; she did not look pleased, either. Garth had obviously arrived too late to get a seat, because he was standing up at the back, leaning against a windowsill. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was shaking his head as he rolled his eyes heavenward. Showtime.

There was nothing to do but apologize for being late, leave the matter of my somewhat unconventional appearance a mystery, and get on with it-which is what I did. Fortunately, lurid tales of sex and violence, however professionally and flatly offered, are always crowd pleasers, and sex and violence were what this talk was all about; the crowd of cops and academicians seemed pleased. I thought I had a few valuable things to say to them, and they seemed to agree. My audience sat attentively through a dry presentation of charts, statistical tables, graphs, and maps as they listened to stories of the grisly, blood-soaked scenes and episodes that had spawned the data. This was the stuff of nightmares in which I had been immersed for the better part of a year and a half, since what I thought of as my return to the real world from our parents' farm, where Garth and I had spent six months recuperating from our mind-bending and body-breaking excursion into a terrifying world of criminals, fools, and madmen.

Garth and I, with a lot of help from a decidedly odd assortment of friends, had managed to survive the Valhalla Project, and the experience had brought two close brothers even closer together. However, what could very well have been a sneak preview of the end of the world as we know it had changed both of us forever, initially plummeting us into a deep depression. We'd emerged from that bone-deep melancholy when we'd finally realized, and accepted, the fact that there was nothing to do but go on with our lives, immerse ourselves in our work, and try to be decent and just men.

For me, immersing myself in work had meant attacking the riddle posed by the mind of the so-called serial murderer: the rogue individual who roams across the face of the nation killing dozens of faceless strangers-men, women, and children-at random and without warning, with no more motivation than an ephemeral sexual thrill associated with the torture and murder of others. Financed by a number of generous grants awarded to me on the basis of past performance, I'd crisscrossed the country, visiting scenes of violence and then prisons, logging more than a thousand hours of taped conversation with convicted serial murderers who'd agreed to talk with me. What I hoped were a few fresh insights garnered from this research was what I shared with this audience, and they rewarded me at the end with a standing ovation that lasted almost five minutes.

If I was getting a bit gamy, and I was certain I was, no one at the sumptuous buffet and reception following the lecture seemed to notice-or at least they didn't mention it as I stood in a corner of the reception hall shaking hands and chatting with the many people who came up to wish me well, congratulate me, offer their own opinions, or simply ask questions. To my surprise, quite a few people had seen me perform in the circus years before, or they had heard about it, and they wanted to talk about this. Others were curious about my dual career as a private investigator, had read about some of the bizarre cases in which I'd been involved, and wanted to talk about that. I wanted to talk about neither and always steered the conversation quickly back to serial murderers. Since my involvement with the beasts of Valhalla, my past was something I preferred not to discuss.

Not until that moment had I realized this was a trait I shared with Veil Kendry. It occurred to me that he had suffered his own Valhalla Project, and I wondered what it could have been. The answer, I thought, could be in the painting.

After a half hour or so the well-wishers started to drift away toward the food and drinks, leaving me alone for a few moments. Garth emerged from a crowd of cops at the other end of the hall and came over to me.

"Great job, brother," Garth said as he gripped both my arms. His dark brown eyes glowed with pride. "God, you're such a ham."

"Is that a compliment or a complaint?"

"It's an opinion formed from careful, lifelong observation."

"Thanks. I think."

Garth pointed down at the painting propped against the gym bag at my feet. "This is the painting you talked about?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yeah."

"Then you did take it out of the apartment." There was a distinct scowl in his voice.

"Obviously."

"Not a good idea at all, Mongo. What about the money?"

"It's in the gym bag."

"Even a worse idea."

"You're probably right."

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I took the painting because I'm convinced Veil left it for me, and because I think it could provide answers to why Veil did what he did, what his problem is, and maybe what he wants me to do for him. I think the cash was meant to be a retainer."

"Thinking that doesn't make it yours, Mongo."

"I'm aware of that. I took the money because it's probably safer with me than it was up in the loft. I'm putting it in the bank for him."

"Damn it, Mongo, this is none of your business. You're leaving yourself open to a lot of grief-legal and otherwise."

"I don't think I'm needed here anymore," I said, picking up the painting and gym bag and turning toward the door behind us. "Let's go someplace where we can talk."

Garth held the door open for me, then followed me out into the curved corridor that arced around the reception hall. I walked to my left, kept going until we found an empty office.

"There's something else you should know," I said as we entered the office and Garth closed the door behind us.

"What's that?" Garth asked in a flat voice as I set the painting and gym bag down against the wall.

"Veil's armed. He has nunchaku-"

"Nunchaku are illegal in New York State," Garth said in the same flat tone.

"Yeah, but he's also got guns. I should have mentioned it when we talked on the phone. I'm sorry."

Garth sighed heavily, bowed his head slightly, and ran the fingers of his right hand through his thinning, wheat-colored hair. "You're damn right you should have mentioned it to me before," he said, anger in his eyes and voice. "Veil Kendry may be a friend of yours, but armed like that he's breaking the law and poses a threat to the public. You had no right to withhold that information."

"I know. What can I say? When you're right, you're right. I was concerned that-"