Thomas Sniegoski - Where Angels Fear to Tread

“What is it?” the man demanded.

“I don’t know, but if you want to sign for it, you can see for yourself,” Mathias said, wearing his mask of harmlessness.

The door slammed closed and Mathias could hear the man and woman talking again. Then came the sound of the chain being moved and the door opened wide to reveal a scruffy middle-aged man wearing shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt, a filthy NASCAR hat perched atop his head, with long straggly hair like straw creeping out from beneath.

“I’m the resident,” he said.

He held out a filthy hand, but instead of holding an envelope, Mathias had withdrawn his Glock, which he was pointing at the man’s face.

“Sorry,” he said with a sneer. “Guess I don’t have a certified letter after all, but I do have this loaded gun.”

The man’s hands flew into the air. “What the fuck!” he exclaimed, slowly backing away from the door.

Mathias gestured for Febonio and Wallace to follow him inside, leaving Cole and Yelverton to watch the perimeter.

The woman immediately began to screech as Mathias closed the door behind him with his foot.

“What the fuck do you want? Get the fuck out of here!” she hollered. The child was crying all the louder now; a little boy or girl—Mathias couldn’t tell—no older than two.

Febonio pointed his weapon at the child clutching at its mother’s leg and brought a nicotine-stained finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you want, but if you see it, take it,” the man said. “We don’t even live here.”

Mathias was taken aback. “You don’t live here?”

“Naw,” the man said. “Friends of my old lady here do. . They asked us to watch the place while they’re away.”

Mathias had been in places of unnatural power before, and this didn’t feel like one of them. Had Poole screwed up? he wondered. He looked around. The place was certainly nothing special from what he could see.

Wallace came around a corner, finished with checking the place out.

“Anything out of the ordinary?” Mathias asked.

The man shook his blocky head. “Looks like a fucking pigsty to me.”

“What do you want?” the woman asked again, her voice shaking with fear and anger. She had picked up the crying child and was cradling it in her arms.

Mathias ignored the question, pulling his phone from his pocket. He had other things to concern himself with right now, such as the possibility of disappointing his mistress.

She didn’t like to be disappointed, and he so hated to be the one to give her bad news.

Delilah was waiting for the phone to ring.

She sat in the backseat of another Range Rover, trying not to stare at the phone on the seat between her and Clifton Poole. But no matter where she looked, her eyes always returned to the phone lying silently beside her.

If only Poole could be so silent.

The Hound muttered incessantly, rocking back and forth, still clutching the infant-shaped vessel that had once contained her prize. Ever since she had forced him to lay his hands upon it, he had refused to let it go.

Poole had been driven nearly mad by his contact with the vessel, but he still seemed to be useful. Between bouts of screaming and crying, he had been able to tell that the object, which had been stored within the container of metal, was very aware that they, or rather she , was looking for it, and was doing everything in its power to hide its trail.

But Poole was good, very good, and was able to lift a reading even though the object’s vast amount of power threatened to utterly destroy his mind.

Delilah hoped he would live long enough to receive the funds that were owed him for his services. He certainly was earning them.

He had demanded maps, and she had obliged him, laying map after map of the entire charted world down upon the floor before him. And after some time, and a great deal of pain, the Hound had found what he believed to be the location of her precious heart’s desire, and it had brought them here, to the United States.

To Palatka, Florida.

The phone suddenly rang and she gasped, picking it up and quickly placing it against her ear.

“Did you find it?” she asked immediately.

“Not exactly,” Mathias replied, and Delilah felt the world drop out from beneath her.

“What do you mean, not exactly?” she snarled, glaring at Poole. She was tempted to order him to stop breathing; that would certainly fix him for his incompetence.

“Perhaps you should come inside,” Mathias suggested. “And bring Poole along.”

Delilah broke the connection, letting the phone drop from her hand.

“Poole,” she said.

The man immediately stiffened, his gaze slowly turning toward her.

“You’re coming with me,” she commanded.

The driver was already out of the truck and opening her door to the sweltering Florida air.

Poole followed, still clutching the metal container forged in the shape of a child, still mumbling beneath his breath, as he trailed his mistress up the overgrown path to the dilapidated house.

Mathias averted his gaze.

“I’m sorry, mistress,” he said.

Delilah strode into the room, her eyes scanning the paltry location.

A woman held a child in her arms, placating the little boy with animal cracker after animal cracker. “Who are you people?” the mother demanded. “Is this about the weed Ron sold? Because if it is. .”

“Janie, shut your fucking yap,” the filthy man said, scowling.

“Be quiet,” Delilah snapped, and Ron was compelled to shut his mouth at once. She then looked back to the woman.

The child smiled warmly, offering Delilah one of his half-eaten treats.

She approached the mother and child, her anger and disappointment partially dissipating with the child’s attention.

“I used to have a little boy just your age,” she told the little one, reaching out to stroke the side of his head. “He died of pox while I cradled his tiny body in my arms,” Delilah continued, remembering in a violent slash of recollection the death of one of her sons.

Janie twisted her child away from Delilah’s affections, her eyes filled with a mother’s rage. “Don’t you touch him.”

Delilah remembered that rage. She had used it to fuel her survival through the ages.

And there was so much of it, so much pain.

She often wondered how much damage her pain would do if it were somehow turned into a weapon and unleashed upon the world.

“Have Poole come in,” she said, turning away and focusing on Mathias.

Her head of security went to the door and opened it. “Bring the Hound,” he said.

Yelverton dragged the wild-eyed man through the doorway. He looked around, his head bobbing as his entire body began to twitch.

“What the fuck’s wrong with him?” Ron asked.

The little boy started to laugh, clapping his cookie-covered hands together as Poole dropped violently to the floor, the vessel clattering from his grasp.

Mathias moved to haul the man up, but Delilah stopped him.

“Leave him,” she commanded, watching as Poole thrashed and bucked upon the floor.

“Maybe we should call 911 or something,” Ron offered, fear in his eyes. “Looks like the poor bastard’s having a fit.”

In a way the man was correct; Poole was indeed having some kind of fit as his body attempted to lock on to traces of Delilah’s prize, and by his reaction, it had most definitely been here.

“What is it, Poole?” she asked, striding closer as he lay on the floor moaning, his hands reaching for the vessel.

“Hiding,” the man croaked, dragging himself toward the metal container. “Trying so hard. . trying so hard to mask its trail. . but it was here. . ”