Thomas Sniegoski - Where Angels Fear to Tread

His hands finally closed around the vessel, and he fought to stand.

“It was here,” he screamed again, hurling himself across the house toward a cabinet in the corner. He smashed the panes of glass in the cabinet door, scattering the gaudy knickknacks displayed inside.

“It was here,” he said again, and again, his eyes scanning the contents of the cabinet.

It had become deathly silent in the room; all eyes were riveted on the crazy man as he stood before the cabinet. Holding the vessel beneath one arm, he reached inside and fumbled about.

“It was here.”

He stumbled backward, his eyes darting here and there.

“I can. . I can hear it. . I can. .”

His eyes fell upon a drawer just below the cabinet door. He reached out and yanked it open. There was all manner of refuse inside, from take-out menus to old calendars, but that wasn’t what the Hound was searching for.

It wasn’t what was speaking to him.

And then the man became very still, his hand deep inside the drawer.

“What is it, Poole?” Delilah asked. “Did you find something?”

He turned toward her, an insane look upon his pale features. Slowly he withdrew his hand, clutching a colorful pamphlet.

“There it is,” he said over and over again, his body slumping as he held out the paper. “There it is.”

Delilah strode toward him and took it. It was an informational flyer about Franciscan Hospital for Children in Boston.

“Do you know what this is?” Delilah turned to the woman holding the child.

“It’s the hospital where Deryn and Carl took their kid,” Janie said.

“Deryn and Carl,” Delilah repeated.

“They’re the ones who really live here,” Ron said. “We’re just house-sitting ’til they get back.

“And they’re still in Boston?” Delilah asked.

Janie nodded. “Why? Who are you fucking people anyway?”

“Janie, shut up,” Ron said, rising from his chair.

“Don’t you fucking tell me to shut up,” Janie shrieked. “I want to know who they think they are coming in here and pulling guns on me and my kid and. .”

Their bickering annoyed Delilah, distracting her from the excitement of what she’d just learned.

“Both of you be quiet,” she said, rubbing her brow with a perfectly manicured hand.

Janie and Ron were silent, and Delilah could see the deep, primal fear in their eyes as they struggled to understand why they suddenly couldn’t speak.

“Much better,” Delilah said, turning her attention back to the pamphlet. “So Deryn and Carl are in Boston, and they’ve taken their child here. . and my prize?”

Poole nodded. “Yes, it’s there. It’s there with the child.”

She then looked at her soldiers, who watched her with cautious eyes. “This is good,” she said with a wide smile that was returned by each of the mercenaries. She showed them the pamphlet. “This is where I’ll be going next,” she added.

She glanced back at Ron and Janie, and their little boy smiled at her. Her heart practically melted. She turned and held out her hands to him, and he did the same, leaning forward in his mother’s arms.

Janie instantly reacted, pulling her child back.

This made Delilah angry.

“Give him to me,” she commanded.

And though it was apparently excruciating to do so, Janie handed the baby boy to her.

The child was laughing, playing with the gold chains that hung around Delilah’s neck. She had no idea what his name was, but she really didn’t care. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d decided to keep him and give him an entirely new name.

“I think I’ll call you Maximilian,” she said, bouncing the boy in her arms. “Max. . Do you like that name?”

Janie let out an animal-like moan, throwing herself toward Delilah and her child.

“Come no closer,” Delilah bellowed, stopping the woman in midstride.

“I’m going to give him a better life,” she explained. “A much better existence than anything you and that hopeless wretch of a father could provide for him.”

The woman’s face twisted as she struggled to speak.

“Go ahead,” Delilah said. “You can thank me if you like.”

“You fucking bitch,” Janie screamed from the very depths of her soul. “Give me back my son.”

How ungrateful and rude, Delilah thought.

“Your old mother has quite the filthy mouth, doesn’t she, Max,” Delilah said as the child continued to squeal happily, grabbing at her chains.

“I think it’s time for Ron to put himself to good use,” she said, her cold gaze falling upon the man in the NASCAR hat.

“Kill her,” Delilah said with a sly smile. “And don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to.”

The weak-willed were always the easiest to manipulate. Ron didn’t even hesitate. He lunged forward and wrapped his strong hands around Janie’s throat.

“That’s it,” Delilah said, bouncing the child who was now watching his father kill his mother. “This is how Daddy shows how much he loves your old mommy,” she said in a soft voice. She kissed the top of Max’s head as Ron drove a thrashing Janie to the floor of the living room.

Ron was moaning now, trying to stop himself, but he had a better chance of holding back a tidal wave than trying to defy Delilah.

“Are we ready to go to Boston?” she asked the baby in her sweetest voice. The child cooed excitedly, arms flapping, as Delilah glanced at Mathias and headed for the door.

She stopped as she heard a pitiful cry behind her, then turned to see a pathetic Ron, kneeling beside the strangled body of his wife, his cheeks flushed from the exertion of murder.

“No,” he managed, reaching out for his child.

She smiled at him, holding the baby she called Max all the closer. “He’s mine now,” she said, kissing the side of the child’s head. “And when we’re gone, I want you to burn this place.” She looked about the disheveled interior with a scowl, then turned and headed out the door that Mathias held open. “Burn it to the ground.”

She was singing a Mesopotamian lullaby to her new baby when the house at the end of the path exploded, fingers of fire and thick black smoke reaching up into the sky in a futile attempt to blot out the bright Florida sun.

“Will you help me, Mr. Chandler?”

Remy heard Deryn York’s plea again, echoing through his mind as he took a right into the visitor lot of Franciscan Hospital for Children, pulling into the first empty space he could find.

How could he resist? This case reeked of the bizarre; one of those weird ones that Mulvehill loved to give him shit about. The missing child was drawing pictures of herself being taken by her father weeks before it happened, never mind the fact that she had drawn him as an angel, and Marlowe, and had even managed to get down his telephone number and address.

There wasn’t a chance he would have turned this one away.

He pulled a wallet photo of a six-year-old girl in an Elmo sweater from his shirt pocket and gazed at it. According to Ms. York, it was taken at Sears last Christmas, but Zoe’s sad, vacant stare was a sharp contrast to the usual childlike excitement of the season.

What are you really looking at? he wondered.

Then placing the photo back in his pocket, he headed toward the hospital’s main entrance in the still-sweltering heat.

The automatic doors slid open with a hiss, and a cold blast of air-conditioned air flowed out to greet him. He stepped into the small lobby just as an ear-piercing scream filled the air.

To his right, in the reception area, Remy caught sight of two very nervous-looking parents with a little boy about Zoe’s age. They were trying to coax him deeper into the hospital, but the child’s body was rigid as he rocked rapidly back and forth, and every time they placed a hand on his shoulder, he began to scream and flail wildly.