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.”

influenced by the Mexican restaurant

make time. He was appalled by my eating habits, being one of these fitness fanatics who believes the rule about three balanced meals

shop around, you compare prices, you get the vehicle right for you,” he observed, watching me linger

“Sure.”

another gas guzzler. How about a coupe?

“Used?”

tone, a muscle tugged at the corner of his mouth. Reluctantly I moved down the aisle of cars to a blue two-door. Tinted windows, power sun roof, Bose speakers. The price was right, too. Climate controlled. What did that mean?

hand. Hollywood PD turned up a Jane Doe in the Hollywood Hills about a month ago. Word is she was the victim of

like,

said thoughtfully, “I kind of wish you hadn’t sent the kid out of town. I’d have liked to talk to

can’t think Angus is involved in that,” I protested. “He’s a bit odd, granted, but

signs of civilian naïveté. “You’ve employed him for a few months, that’s all. You hired him through a temp

necessary for working in a mystery

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

it out of his system.” I tried to picture myself behind the wheel of the coupe, gave it up,

* *

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 back to my place. Jake let himself be

we waited for our meal, I watched him put away two baskets of tortilla strips. He munched steadily, as though he were being paid by the chip, gaze fastened on a wall

“Everything okay?”

crunching, he paused mid-reach for his

know. You

swallowed a mouthful of beer,

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

was a damn shame, because I cared

he’d been active in the S/M scene. I thought — hoped — maybe he

Keegan. He’d been seeing her longer than he’d known me; I didn’t think it was

hear Chan’s

joined Partners in Crime, the weekly writing group

“Yeah, a police procedural.”

“Is it any good?”

“Uh, well…”

the basket

* * *

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

display of Savant’s latest, The Rosicrucian Codex, wondering if I had enough bottles of four-dollar champagne,

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

wasting

— caught himself. There was a pause, then a click

but the number was blocked. Not a surprise, I guess. I knew,

caller requesting “Gus.” This time the voice was feminine, dulcet-toned. In all the time Angus has worked for me, I’ve

in answer to the

“I’ve got to talk to Gus. It’s, like,

emergency,

“What?”

it.” I said, “Look, he’s

she faltered, “I’m

approach. “Can I get your name? Maybe he’ll

a party-girl laugh. “Well, ye-aah! Of course! And I’ve got to

I do,” I said with equal sincerity. “But he’s gone. Skipped. I’d like to help, but…hey, why don’t you leave your name

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

666?

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

the kids were getting some history

*

only in the store. I realized I had seriously miscalculated both the champagne and how much help I would need. I’d never seen so many teenagers

who looked as though a book would be their last choice of entertainment. I just hoped the evening wouldn’t end with broken furniture or the building struck by

next door, I bribed the girls closing the travel agency to lend

about the origins of the swastika brewing near the “cozy corner.” A local reporter tried to interview me about my involvement in a murder case

part of an entourage, entered the store. Three leggy ladies dressed more like succubae than minions of a reputable publishing house entered. A plump, bespectacled man drew me aside and introduced himself as Bob

you could get it,

catch most of what 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

navigated his star in my direction. “Of course,

Friedlander said

“We try,” I said.

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

with that musky aftershave of Gabe’s wafted a mix of

brand-X champagne making

“Oh, God, let’s get this over with.” He strode over to the antique desk I