The Hell You Say - The Adrien English Mysteries 3

The voice on the phone rasped, “Bones of anger, bones of dust, full of fury, revenge is just. I scatter these bones, these bones of rage, enemy mine, I bring you pain. Torment, fire, death the toll, with this hex I curse your soul. So mote it be.”

I handed the receiver to Angus, who was facing out the “We Recommend” stand by the counter. “It’s for you.”

He took the receiver and put his ear against it as though expecting an electric shock. He listened, then, hand shaking, he replaced the receiver and stared at me. Behind the blue lenses of the John Lennon specs his eyes were terrified. He licked his pale lips.

“Look, Angus,” I said. “Why don’t you talk to Jake? He’s a cop. Maybe he can help.”

“He’s a homicide detective,” Angus muttered. “Plus he doesn’t like me.”

True on both counts, but I tried anyway.

“He doesn’t dislike you, really. Besides, you’ve got to talk to someone. This is harassment.”

“Harassment?” His voice shot up a notch. “I wish it was harassment! They’re going to kill me.”

A customer lurking in the Dell Mapbacks coughed. I realized we were not alone in the bookstore.

I gestured to Angus. He followed me back to the storeroom that served as my office. So far we’d had a grand total of three customers browsing the shelves on this gloomy November day. I half shut the door to the office, turned to Angus.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” I sort of knew what the hell was going on, so I added, “Exactly.”

I thought my tone was pretty calm, but he put his hands out as though to ward me off. “I can’t talk about it,” he gabbled. “I mean, if I talk about it, if I reveal the secrets of the —” He swallowed The Word. “They’ll kill me.”

“I thought they were already trying to kill you?”

“I mean physically kill me.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. I sounded like Jake.

Angus caught the skeptical note in my voice. “Adrien, you don’t understand. You’ve never — they know where I live. They know where I work. They know where Wanda lives. They know where Wanda works. They —”

“Why don’t you leave town for a while?” I interrupted. “It’s nearly Christmas. Why don’t you…take a vacation?”

“It’s November.”

“It’s after Thanksgiving.”

Angus had worked at Cloak and Dagger Books for the past year, but I knew little about him beyond the fact that he was finishing up an undisclosed undergrad program at UCLA which seemed to entail an awful lot of courses in folklore, mythology, and the occult. He was twenty-something, lived alone, and was a decent, if irregular employee. Lisa, my mother, insisted that he was on drugs. Jake, my sometimes lover, was convinced that he was a nutcase, but I tended to believe he was just…young. I studied him as he stood there in his baggy black clothes, like an émigré from the dark side. He was shaking his head in a hopeless kind of way, as though I still didn’t get it.

“Yeah,” I said, warming to the idea. “Why don’t you take Wanda and split for a week or two? Let this all blow over.” I dug through the desk drawer for my checkbook.

Not that I believe throwing money at a problem solves the problem — unless the problem is lack of money. And not that I ordinarily recommend trying to run away from your problems, but this particular problem rang a few bells for me. Or so I thought at the time.

Angus stood silent while I wrote out the draft. I tore it off. When I handed it to him, he stared at it. He didn’t say a word. Then, as I watched, a tear slid down his face and dropped on the check. He gave a great shuddering sigh, started to speak.

I cut him off. “Listen, kiddo, do us both a favor. Crank calls from the crypt are bad for business.” I headed for the door.

* * * * *

“You did what?” said Jake.

I had been about ten minutes late meeting him at the car dealership on East Colorado Boulevard. My ten-year-old Bronco was on its last legs, and Jake seemed to believe that I was incapable of making an informed buying decision unless he was my informant.

“Gave him eight hundred bucks. Told him to take Wanda Witch away for the holidays.” I gazed at the rows of sleek sports cars and rugged-looking SUVs gleaming in the tequila sunset. Palm trees rustled overhead. Tinny Christmas carols issued from the loudspeakers in not-so-subliminal messaging.

I watched Jake’s blond and buff reflection materialize behind me in the windshield. “Eight hundred bucks? You have eight hundred bucks to throw around?”

I shrugged. “I’ll write it off as his Christmas bonus.”

“Uh-huh.” I felt him study my face. “Well, Mr. Trump, is there any point in our going inside?”

“Did you never hear of the great American tradition of financing?”

He snorted. I met his tawny gaze. “How the hell is running away supposed to solve anything?” he asked, and for a second, I thought we were talking about something else entirely.

“I wasn’t looking for a long-term solution.” Before Jake could answer, I added, “I doubt if I need one. They’re kids. They have the attention span of…what is it? One minute for each year of life. We’re looking at twenty minutes of terror. Tops.”

Jake’s lips twitched, but he said, “These kids are all part of a witches’ coven based out of Westwood?”

I stroked the hood of a silver Subaru Forester. “New meaning to the words ‘Teen Spirit,’ huh?” I studied the sticker price on the window. “From what I’ve picked up, they all took part in a class on demonology or witchcraft about a year ago. I guess somebody inhaled too much incense during the lab.”

“They went off and started a coven?”

“I’m guessing. It’s not like Angus has been forthcoming on the subject. Revealing Count Chocula’s secrets carries a stiff penalty.”

of glowing chili peppers, but maybe I was subconsciously influenced by the Mexican restaurant across the street. I remembered I hadn’t stopped for lunch.

about three balanced meals

right for you,” he observed, watching me linger over the

“Sure.”

How about a coupe? How about

“Used?”

of cars to a blue two-door. Tinted windows,

“Believe it or not, this kind of shit can get way out of hand. Hollywood PD turned up a Jane Doe in the

mean, like,

was mostly kidding, but Jake said thoughtfully, “I kind of wish you hadn’t sent the kid out of town. I’d have liked

protested. “He’s a bit odd, granted,

used that cop tone when I exhibited signs of civilian naïveté. “You’ve employed him for a few months, that’s all. You hired him through a temp agency.

necessary for

listening. “There’s this whole satanic underground we’ve been hearing about since the ’80s. There might not be evidence of an organized movement like certain religious groups claim, but we’ve seen plenty of injuries and deaths resulting from people taking this stuff seriously. And plenty of people turning up in psych wards. It’s ugly and violent, but a lot

this scares the hell out of Angus, and he gets it out of his system.” I tried to picture myself behind the wheel of

* *

docs, Jake and I went across the street to grab dinner at the cantina. I had traded in the Bronco, and since the dealership was going to install a stereo system in the new vehicle, I needed a ride

steadily, as though he were being paid by the chip, gaze fastened on a wall planter bristling with plastic

“Everything okay?”

mid-reach for his Dos Equis. “Sure.

know. You

a mouthful of beer, eyes on

one. Jake was deeply closeted. He claimed it was because he was a cop — that the job was tough enough without having to go to war with the guys who were supposed to be on your side — but I’d come to believe that it was more complicated. Jake despised himself for being sexually attracted to men. Though he had been a good friend to me and was a physically satisfying lover — when he was around — there was a certain tension between us that I sometimes

damn shame, because I cared for

S/M scene. I thought — hoped — maybe he was less active in

was dating a woman, a female cop named Kate Keegan. He’d been seeing her longer than he’d known me; I didn’t think it was just a cover relationship. But he didn’t discuss it much with

I hear Chan’s writing a

Chan, had joined Partners in Crime, the weekly writing group

“Yeah, a police procedural.”

“Is it any good?”

“Uh, well…”

basket of chips

* *

Gabriel Savant. Savant wrote the Sam Haynes occult detective series, sort of an update on the old Jules de Grandin and John Thunstone pulps. I’m not a big fan of horror, but I had skimmed Savant’s latest in an effort to facilitate discussion should the question-and-answer session peter out too fast. Not that I expected a problem. After an initially lackluster career

arranging the front display of Savant’s latest, The Rosicrucian Codex, wondering if I had enough bottles of four-dollar champagne, when I received another call from

battered, beaten, torn. I prick at thee as if a

of pricks,” I interrupted, “You’re wasting your time. Angus

himself. There was a pause,

was blocked. Not a surprise,

later that afternoon I got another caller requesting “Gus.” This time the voice was feminine, dulcet-toned. In all the time Angus has worked for me, I’ve only known one female to call him, and that was his girl friend, Wanda. Wanda is not dulcet-toned. She sounds like she was

answer to the query. “He’s not

fretted. “I’ve got to talk to Gus. It’s,

an emergency, but

“What?”

I said, “Look, he’s gone.

she

Maybe he’ll phone me once he gets settled. You’re

Of course! And I’ve got to talk to him. He wants to talk to me, believe

you leave your name and number, and if he gets in touch with me, I’ll let

she said coolly, “Sure. Tell him Sarah Good called. He knows the

666?

of my rueful expression in the mirror across from the counter. Sarah Good. One

side, at least the kids were getting

* *

miscalculated both the champagne and how much help I would need. I’d never seen so many teenagers in black lipstick

reading. Especially people who looked as though a book would be their last choice of entertainment. I just hoped the evening wouldn’t end with

travel agency to lend a hand

officially late, and the natives were getting restless. There was a line of women waiting to use the washroom and a nasty argument about the origins of the swastika brewing near the “cozy corner.” A local reporter tried to interview me about my involvement in

an entourage, entered the store. Three leggy ladies dressed more like succubae than minions of a

Nice work if you

Friedlander said, because the next instant, the Prince of Sales had appeared. Gabriel Savant stood over six feet tall and was built like a male model — in fact, he looked like the male half of the illustration on a historical romance: unruly raven hair falling over his tanned forehead, piercing blue eyes, flashing white smile. Were there rhinestones in his teeth? Certainly something shone in his right earlobe. He wore

navigated his star

Friedlander said

“We try,” I said.

course you do,” Gabriel encouraged. He glanced at his handler. “Bobby, what

uneasily. Along with that musky aftershave of Gabe’s wafted a mix of mouthwash and bourbon. Mostly

champagne making the

this over with.” He strode over to the antique desk I had set up. Enthusiastic applause from the waiting