The Scarlet Gospels (12 page)

The stink was overpowering. There were fresh tears welling in Harry's eyes again, but he hadn't time to clear his vision. The thing was out of the bath swinging its left arm back over its right shoulder as it lurched toward Harry. As it did so, Harry opened the sheet and threw it high and above the fetid waters of the enemy's head. The sheet landed on the creature and clung to it like leaves on a wet sidewalk.

The creature was clearly disoriented. Whether Harry had actually blinded the beast for a moment, which seemed unlikely, or he'd simply confused it for a short time, the effect was the same. The thing swung its hammer-hand high, intending to shear off Harry's head, but in the four or five seconds between the blinding and the blow Harry had dropped down onto his haunches and out of the hammer's path.

The beast's blow missed Harry by inches, but for the first time since walking into this vision Harry felt the healing wounds from the Hell Priest's hooks break open with the sudden movement. His hand went down to the injuries in his thighs and the blood spilled down the sides of his legs and onto the linoleum beneath him.

Harry dragged his bleeding ass across the floor in the hopes of putting some distance between himself and the hammers. Only when his spine hit the tiled wall and he could go no farther did he dare look up at the foe. The sheet had proved more valuable than he'd expected; soaking up the gray filth that churned between the woven hairs of its head and back, the sodden sheet clung relentlessly to the creature, much to its visible frustration.

The creature reached up trying to rid itself of the burden, but its hands were made for murder, not for tending shrouds, and in its frenzy it threw its whole body back and forth, causing some of its fluids to escape the fragile cage of its making.

The creature stumbled and, for a single heart-quickening second, Harry feared the creature was going to fall on top of him, but it reeled around and fell the opposite way, striking the door. The falling weight of water and filth in the ungainly body of the thing was enough to knock the door from its hinges so that it toppled out onto the carpeted landing.

The fall tore a zigzag laceration up the side of the creature, and dark liquid matter poured forth from the wound and was instantly absorbed by the carpet that sat beneath its protesting body. Harry watched in fascination as the creature bled out, leaving behind only a corpse of hair and feces that vaguely resembled a human form.

As Harry struggled to pull himself to his feet, he heard Dale's voice.

“Harry? Are you all right?”

It sounded as though Dale were in the room with him. Harry, still in shock, scanned the room with his eyes and saw the wallpaper flicker like blown candle flames. Harry sighed.

“Gimme a break,” he said. “There's no fucking way I'm dreaming.”

And then he woke up.

 

11

“I've called Miss Bellmer,” Solomon said as Dale and Harry sat down in the living room with their strongest drinks of choice to talk about what had happened during the last few days. Solomon, a man no younger than seventy-five, was lanky and tall, with a shock of gray hair. He stood nearly a foot taller than Dale and was easily thirty years his senior. “Have you any enemies, Mister D'Amour?” he asked.

“I lost count before I graduated high school,” Harry said.

“Really now?” Dale said, a hint of arousal in his manner.

“Well, that settles it,” Solomon continued. “Something followed you down here and decided to have you murdered while you were away from your usual protectors.”

“Protectors?”

“The folks in your life who know who you
really
are,” Dale offered.

“I guess that would be Caz and Norma.”

“That's it?” said Solomon. “You don't trust a lot of people, do you?”

“Most of the people I used to trust aren't around anymore.”

“Oh, honey,” Dale said. “I'll be your friend.”

“I'm sorry,” Solomon said.

“It's fine,” Harry said. “Some die too soon. Most live too long.”

Before anyone had time to reply, somebody rapped sharply on the front door.

“That'll be Miss Bellmer,” Solomon said. “You two stay here.”

Solomon went to open the front door and Harry's Unscratchable Itch started its familiar song. Harry squirmed in his seat.

“What on earth's wrong, Sol?” Harry heard Miss Bellmer saying out in the hallway. “You look troubled.”

“Oh, no more than usual,” Solomon replied.

“Well, thank the Lord for small mercies. How's the patient?”

“He's doing fine.”

Upon which words Solomon brought Miss Bellmer into the room. Freddie Bellmer looked more than a little surprised to see Harry. Aside from her reaction, Harry noted that Miss Bellmer had a beautiful face: high cheekbones, huge, dark eyes, and lips so perfect they looked carved. But he also saw that there was something about her height (she was easily as tall as Solomon) and her clothes (though brightly colored and voluminous, they carefully concealed the shape of her body) that created a distinctive ambiguity about her.

“Your tonic seems to have done its job,” Solomon said.

“So it has,” Miss Bellmer said.

“Detective D'Amour, meet Miss Freddie Bellmer,” Solomon said. “She's been a friend of mine since … well…”

“Since before I was
Miss
Bellmer,” she said. “As I'm sure your patient has already deduced. Isn't that right, Detective?”

Harry shrugged as he rose to shake Bellmer's hand. “I'm off duty.”

Dale snickered. Bellmer smiled an abundant smile, which somehow felt like a denunciation to Harry. She took Harry's hand in hers. Her calloused hands belied her dainty handshake.

“You are a lot livelier than the last time I saw you,” she said.

“I have a strong constitution.”

“Without a doubt. But I do have a warning for you, Mister D'Amour. I didn't just look at your physical wounds; I looked at the important things too. The will. The soul. Lord, but you must have had some hard times. You're nothing but one big psychic scar. I never saw such a mess in all my life.”

“Takes one to spot one.”

Dale tried hard to cover up a smile, but he was clearly enjoying the show.

“Grow up, Dale,” said Miss Bellmer. “You stupid queen.”

“At least this queen can still tell you to suck his dick,” Dale said.

Now it was Harry who tried covering a smile.

“Children. Play nice,” Solomon said.

Miss Bellmer sighed, her hand going to her brow. “Sol, darling, do you by any chance have some vodka in the house?”

“Coming right up,” Sol said, and he went in search of vodka, leaving Miss Bellmer to pick up her conversation with Harry.

“So how do you feel?” Miss Bellmer said.

“Alive,” Harry said. Then he leaned in close to Miss Bellmer and whispered, “No thanks to you. Admit it; you were surprised to see me when you walked in. I remember your voice. I remember what happened when you visited me. And something tells me that if that disgusting beast in my dream had caught me, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. So what I'd like to know is, to whom did you sell your soul, and for how much?”

Miss Bellmer smiled, cleared her throat, and said, “I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective.”

“Very convincing,” D'Amour said as he turned away from Bellmer and made his way carefully back to the couch.

“Freddie, you may want to reapply your blush, dear. You've gone white as a sheet,” Dale said.

“Fuck off, Dale,” Bellmer said, her voice deepening. “As for you, D'Amour, I'd tread lightly if I were you. I've got powerful friends in high places. Very fucking high. I'm protected.”

“Take it from me,” Harry said. “They really don't care about little people like us. We're cannon fodder to them.”

“You don't know who they are.”

“Whatever you say,
sir
. I promise you, come the day, you'll be out in the rain the same as me.”

Harry's response had sown sufficient doubt in Miss Bellmer's head to silence her.

Bellmer's lips were pinched tight as though she was doing her best not to give D'Amour any more rope with which she could be hanged.

“I've never seen you so quiet, Freddie,” Dale said, happy to fan the flames. “What's the matter, doll? Cat got your cock?”

Bellmer wagged a long, well-manicured finger at the two men. “I've got something special lined up for a whole bunch of people. And you're both on the list now. Mutts like you go straight in the ground. I'll make you dig the hole yourself. Then I'll kick you in, and cover you up. Neat. Cheap. Anonymous.”

“Christ almighty,” said Dale. “Where did that come from?”

“You already tried to kill me once,” said D'Amour. “If you try it again, I might not like it.”

“We'll see how much you like it when you're eating dirt, motherfucker. Take my advice. Go the fuck home.”

“Freddie?” Solomon said. “What's come over you?”

Solomon had emerged from the kitchen with an unopened bottle of vodka and four shot glasses and had caught the tail end of her speech. Freddie turned and saw the disappointment on her old friend's face.

“Sol,” Bellmer said, attempting to compose herself. “I came to warn you. This man's dangerous. I think—”

“
I think
you should leave,” Sol said.

Freddie Bellmer took a moment to digest Solomon's words. When it was clear he was not going to rescind them, she whipped her long straight hair over her shoulder and consulted her watch, which looked minuscule on her broad, thick wrist.

“Look at that,” she said, trying to maintain a modicum of composure. “I'm late for my next patient.”

And, without saying good-bye, she was out through the door. There was a moment of silence, and then Dale spoke.

“I always knew he was a cunt.”

 

12

Harry took the noon flight out of New Orleans the next day. He had tried to offer Solomon and Dale some money for their many kindnesses, but of course they wouldn't take a cent, and Harry knew that to press them would only cause discomfort, so he made his thanks and gave them his card before going back to a rainy, gray New York.

When he got home, he was pleased to find everything just the way he liked it. His apartment was chaotic, and his kitchen was littered with beer cans and boxes of Chinese food that had turned into little ecosystems of mold. He left it all for another day. What he wanted most was some more sleep, this time he hoped without the potentially fatal dreams. He took off his jacket and shoes as he staggered to the bed, and dropped down onto it. He was barely in the process of pulling up the cover when sleep overwhelmed him and he sank into its depths unresisting.

After sleeping almost twenty-six hours, Harry slowly allowed his aching body to familiarize itself with the state of wakefulness, and after a healthy interlude of inner debating he got up out of bed and made his bleary-eyed way into the bathroom.

As the water poured over him, Harry imagined that it cleaned him not only of his body's naturally collected oils but also of the events of the past few days. And as the water did its best to sluice away Harry's memories, his thoughts went to his wounds. He looked down and saw that his thighs looked almost totally healed, though he knew he was going to have a couple of shiny new scars to show for it. All in a day's work, he thought.

A half hour later—showered, dressed in clean clothes, and carrying a comfortably concealed, fully loaded revolver—he was out on the street, heading toward Norma's place. He had much to tell her. The rainstorm had moved on, and the city sparkled in the late summer sun.

His mood was good, even optimistic, which was rare. Goode may have lied about more than a few things, but at least the money in his lockbox was real and, because of it, Harry could finally pay the back rent he owed—three months' at least, perhaps four—and maybe even buy a pair of shoes that didn't leak. But after that, he'd be back to square one.

The problem with being a P.I. whose career was periodically hijacked by forces beyond his control wasn't that unnatural forces left him covered in dust and blood; it was the fact that they typically didn't pay well. That said, there was an undeniable pleasure to be had from knowing something about his beloved city's secret life that other people didn't, mysteries that the expensive beauties who gave him chilly looks if they caught his admiring gaze, or the high-octane executives with their thousand-dollar haircuts, would live and die never knowing.

New York wasn't the only city in the world that had magic in its blood. All the great cities of Europe and of the Far East kept their own secrets as well—many more ancient than anything New York could boast—but there was nowhere in the world that had such a concentration of supernatural activity as Manhattan. For those like Harry who'd trained themselves to look past the glorious distractions the city offered, evidence could be seen just about anywhere that the island was a battlefield where the better angels of human nature perpetually warred with the forces of discord and despair. And nobody was immune.

Had Harry been born under a star less kind, he might well have ended up among the city's nomadic visionaries, his days taken up with begging for enough money to buy some liquid oblivion, his nights spent trying to find a place where he could not hear the adversaries singing as they went about their labors of the dark. They had only ever sung one song within earshot of Harry, and that was “Danny Boy,” that hymn to death and maudlin sentiment that Harry had heard so often that he knew the words by heart.

On his way to Norma's, he stopped in at Rueffert's deli and bought the same breakfast he'd bought there whenever he was in the city every day for the better part of twenty-five years. Jim Rueffert always had Harry's coffee poured, sugared, and hit with just a dash of cream by the time he'd get to the counter.