The Angel Alejandro Page 4

  “Sounds great.”

  On the corner of Quicksilver Road and Gold Dust Drive, they pulled into the potholed lot of a blocky, aging cafe. A crooked sign that read “Spastica’s” hung above the door, the faded wood seeming to have trouble supporting it.

  Inside were a handful of small empty tables and a counter that sported sugars - real and fake - straws, and flavored creamers. They stood behind the only customer - a brunette whose flowery perfume competed with the acrid smells of bad coffee and cigarettes. She wore a red blazer over gray dress pants and her hair was pulled into a tight, glossy bun. As she placed her order, Nick gave her a quick, but thorough, ogling. Nice backside.

  She turned around, a tall cup of coffee in hand. “Gentlemen.” She had the kind of Kathleen Turner voice that told Nick she was a heavy smoker.

  “Ms. LeBlatte, meet Nick Grayson, our new chief of police. Nick, this is Olivia LeBlatte, the best realtor in town.”

  Olivia LeBlatte held out a long-fingered hand. “What Officer Pullman means is I’m the only agent in town worth doing business with.”

  Nick noticed the Golden Hedgehog Realty logo on her blazer. She was pretty in a cookie-cutter sort of way with busy eyes and a sharp nose and chin. “Nice to meet you, Chief Grayson. I assume you’re renting?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  She broke the handshake and reached into a shiny black bag. Withdrawing a business card. “When you’re ready to buy, look me up.”

  Nick pocketed the card without looking at it. “Will do.”

  With that, the realtor left, taking her cloud of perfume and cigarette stink with her.

  Waiting for the barista who was slowly wiping down the counter, Pullman tipped his head toward Nick. “The coffee tastes like ass, but it does the job.”

  The counter girl looked up at them with utter boredom.

  “Good day, Ms. Cassel.” Pullman flashed her a smile.

  The barista was an early-twenties blonde with a spattering of tiny pimples on her round cheeks, and greasy hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail. Her mouth was a battlefield of too many teeth, and the nameplate on her brown “Spastica” apron read “Stardene.” Stardene? Must be Mormon. Beneath this was a small red pin that displayed a female superhero.

  “The usual,” said Pullman.

  Stardene Cassel stared.

  “An iced mocha.”

  Her gaze drifted to Nick.

  “This is Nick Grayson,” Pullman said. “He’s the new chief of police, so you treat him right, Stardene.” He gave her a wink.

  Stardene’s eyes - as glazed as the aging donuts in the display case - moved from Pullman to Nick as she continued mouth breathing.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Stardene blinked.

  A real party-girl. “I’ll have a really big black coffee. Really big.” He reached for his wallet, and Stardene startled him by actually speaking. “It’s on the house. It’s always on the house.” Stardene turned to prepare their orders.

  When they returned to the cruiser, Nick took a hit of coffee and grimaced. “Jesus Christ Almighty. This tastes like-”

  “Ass. Like I said. But it’s free for the PPD.” He eyed Nick’s cup. “It’ll give you the shits, too, so drink it slow.”

  “Wonderful.” Nick decided he’d rather pay for his coffee than drink Spastica’s burnt sludge.

  “So,” Pullman turned the cruiser onto Quicksilver Road. “Tell me about yourself.”

  Nick set his coffee in a holder. “Well …” he stared out the window at a run-down trailer park, “I was on the Crimson Cove force for sixteen years-”

  “I know that much. What I mean is, tell me about yourself.”

  Prominence clearly didn’t see many new faces and Nick hoped he wasn’t expected to regale the townsfolk with fascinating tales of life beyond the city limits. He’d hate to disappoint.

  Pullman took a left into a residential area. “Have any hobbies?”

  Nick didn’t want to tell him about his rock collection. “I like grilling.”

  “Suspects?” Pullman chuckled.

  “And meat. I like music, too.”

  “You play?”

  “A little guitar.”

  “Movies?”

  Nick grinned. “Big Hitchcock fan. Huge.”

  “Good stuff.” Pullman nodded, the peppering of blond stubble on his chin glinting as the sun peeked out from behind a cloud. “Married?”

  Nick stared out the window. “Twice divorced.” The suburbs were comprised of a couple of modest-to-sad residential areas, a few more trailer parks and a spattering of expensive homes dotting the hills above the town proper. “You?”

  “I never married. Just not the marrying type, you know?”

  Nick nodded. “I do. I just wish I’d figured it out earlier, too. Would have saved me a lot of headaches.” And money.

  “I don’t really think it’s natural, to be honest.” Pullman took a right that wound past a blond brick church and an almost full-sized grocery store called “Tyreese’s.” Evidence of last night’s storm puddled in ditches, intersections, and potholes. Lots of potholes. He’d need to talk to the city about that.

  Pullman went on. “I mean to be with one woman for the rest of your life.” He frowned at Nick. “It’s just not reasonable.”

  Nick wasn’t sure he agreed. Despite the fact that both of his marriages had failed due to his inability to keep it in his pants, he liked the idea of settling down. That was one of the reasons he’d wanted the job in Prominence; to start over; to change his ways. To slow down on the booze and go easy on the women.

  The road meandered and circled back around. Almost everything was nondescript and, despite the winter chill, faded by the desert sun.

  Pullman pointed to the shops on Cameo Road. “There’s Querida’s Bakery - great scones there. And there’s O’Riley’s Rocks.” Pullman must have seen Nick’s eyes light up. “You a rock collector?”

  Busted. “A hobby of mine since boyhood.”

  “Me, I go in and just see a bunch of rocks and useless trinkets, but I’ll tell you what, the tourists sure love that place.” He turned to Nick. “I mean, who pays for rocks? I don’t get it.”

  Nick chuckled, already knowing he’d be the place’s most loyal customer. He made a mental note of the address, though he doubted he’d have any trouble finding it again. A few buildings down, he read the sign in the first floor window of a two-story red brick building. “The Psychic Sidekick?”

  Pullman gave a hearty laugh. “Another tourist trap. That’s run by Beverly Simon. Claims to be a psychic. Nice lady, though. Doesn’t give us any trouble, so we just leave her alone.” He took a right, and Nick noticed a little yellow cafe called “Roxie’s Diner.” Suddenly hungry for an all-American breakfast and a cup of decent coffee, he took note of this address as well. They passed more shops - a bookstore called “The Book Buddy,” a few convenience stores and gas stations, and a hair salon called “Vang’s Bangs.”

  “Mmm … Evelyn Vang.” Pullman gave Nick a knowing look. “Wait’ll you lay eyes on that little beauty.” He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night.”

  Nick laughed and they took another left onto a road called Killakee. His smile fell as a tall stone church with a bell tower came into view. It loomed like a sentinel, ominous against the backdrop of the angry iron-gray sky, out of place in the otherwise ordinary desert town.

  “And this,” Pullman slowed the unit, “is St. Agatha’s. It’s been abandoned for two years now. They built a new church - St. John’s - and moved after the last incident.”

  “Incident?”

  Pullman brought the cruiser to a stop in a patch of gravel in front of the church. “Well, the place has had its share of disasters but this last one was too much, I guess. A kid by the name of Marsh, Brandon Marsh - the butcher’s son - went in one Sunday and started shooting people up with a Hi-Point 9mm carbine.” He shook his head. “Seven killed, about a dozen serio
usly wounded. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Shit, indeed. But there’s nothing holy about this place. Never was. This was where old Joseph Willard first set up camp. He built his hotel here in 1882 - the finest one in the county - till it burned down. And in 1918, when they built St. Agatha’s, there were a lot of accidents and deaths.” Tipping his head, he stared up at the stone monstrosity. “Old St. Agatha’s got a lot of blood on her hands. The entire property does. In fact, your predecessor broke his neck in there.”

  “Clark Burton? I thought he retired.”

  Pullman shook his head. “Not Clark. There was one after him. He was Chief for about three months. He went into the church to investigate a break-and-enter call and he didn’t come back. They found him at the foot of the altar with his neck broken.”

  “Did someone-”

  “There was no proof it wasn’t an accident.”

  Nick could see a small cemetery at the side of the church that wound around back. It was gated by black wrought iron strangled in dead vines. Nearby stood a two-story white frame house - the rectory. The white trim needed repainting, weeds needed trimming, but otherwise it was in good shape.

  “So, after the shooting, Father Thomas moved the congregation - and himself - into the new church. He didn’t want anything to do with this property.”

  “And not one mark of graffiti to be seen. That’s unusual.”

  Pullman laughed. “Even the vandals don’t mess with St. Agatha’s. They know better.”

  Nick suppressed a chill. The great stone edifice seemed to stare down at them, its gaunt facade a grimace of hostility. Its windows were like eyes, and it seemed there was intelligence in them - and hate. He knew it was nonsense but he couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched. And judged.

  The angles of the church were all wrong - too extreme, too harsh - and they didn’t fit quite right. It disturbed the eye and set his teeth on edge. Nick Grayson didn’t believe in “evil,” not exactly, but there was a vibe around the place - a kind of reaching aura - that could only be described as that: Evil. He noted the For Rent sign in front. “No takers, huh?”

  “Not a one. I doubt it’ll ever sell. Let alone rent.” He paused. “Ready to head back?”

  Nick was more than ready to leave. “Yeah. I still need to unpack.” He tore his gaze from the church but continued to feel the heat of its hateful glare as they pulled away.

  Confessions and Clairvoyance

  The mountains sprawled to the west. At each landmark, Madison pointed and looked at Alejandro for signs of recognition. He shook his head or shrugged, recalling nothing. Madison was becoming discouraged, but when the two-story Prominence General Hospital came into view, Alejandro stiffened. “I do not like that building.”

  “The hospital? Is it familiar?” She slowed the car and idled in front of it.

  “No. I was not in there.”

  “Are you sure? I really think we ought to take you in. Get you a check-up, anyway. And you might recog-”

  “I will not go in there.” He continued staring.

  Madison half-considered going in anyway - for herself, if nothing else. What if I have a concussion? But she hated hospitals almost as much as Alejandro did.

  “Do you hear them?” he asked.

  “Huh? Hear who?”

  “The voices.” His face was grave.

  “You’re hearing voices?” Great. He’s a loon. I knew it.

  Alejandro ignored her question. “Go away from here.” He tugged at his shirt collar, appearing uncomfortable as he stared at the hospital. “We must leave.”

  The guy was clearly upset. She put the blue Volkswagen Beetle into drive and as they put the hospital behind them, Alejandro visibly relaxed.

  Moments later, she pulled into the gravel lot of the Sandman Motel, a faded motor court. A bright yellow Camaro - and the smiling Tweety Bird decal in the back window - looked out of place in its grungy surroundings.

  Madison’s headache had gotten worse, spreading out from the wound to encompass her whole head, and she hoped like hell the Sandman Motel would jar Alejandro’s memory so she could get home and sleep off the pain. “Does this look familiar?”

  Alejandro shook his head and tugged at his shirt collar.

  “Nothing?”

  Another head shake.

  She sighed. “All right. Let’s go in and see if that changes.”

  The Sandman Motel, renowned for its low prices and illicit business dealings, was a blue stucco dive. A sun-bleached Coke machine sat by the office door looking like it hadn’t been used in a decade.

  Bells jingled and the scents of stale air and disinfectant antagonized Madison’s throbbing head.

  A young woman sat behind the counter, reading a book. “Welcome to the Sandman.” Her eyes widened as they settled on Alejandro. Madison refrained from rolling her own. Her father’s khakis and white aviator shirt fit the guy nicely, but this degree of ogling was out of bounds.

  But there was no denying that he was ridiculously attractive. With his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his tanned forearms were strong, corded with muscle, and even in the gray light that streamed through the Sandman’s grimy windows, the fine dusting of hair on his arms shone golden.

  “Are you two looking for a room?” The young woman’s voice broke Madison’s train of thought - which was only taking her to dangerous places anyway.

  “No. We were just wondering if you recognized this man.” Madison gestured at Alejandro, who grinned.

  The woman behind the desk - her nameplate read Carly - tilted her head.

  “The thing is,” said Madison, “he’s new to town and he got a little lost and forgot where he was staying. We’ve been checking around to see if anyone remembers him.”

  “I’m a tourist.” Alejandro made the announcement with pride, the meaning of the word clearly lost on him.

  Carly giggled. “I wasn’t here yesterday, but I would remember him if I’d seen him.” Her eyes roved, prowling over him. “I’d definitely remember.”

  Pain thumped through Madison’s head and for a moment, her vision blurred. She rubbed her temples. “Is the manager here?”

  “Sure. Let me go get her.” Carly turned and knocked on a splintering door behind her. “Paulette? There’s someone here to see you.”

  Madison slapped Alejandro’s hand away as he made another attempt to touch her hair. “Quit it.”

  “She’ll see you now.” Carly gestured them inside.

  The manager’s office was a claustrophobic box, redolent of Lysol and decades-old tobacco. Paulette the Manager - a hefty, well-groomed blonde in her mid-to-late forties - sat behind a cluttered desk in a ratty office chair. It squeaked and groaned as she leaned forward and gestured at two metal folding chairs facing her.

  They sat.

  Alejandro tugged at his shirt. Despite the nice fit, he clearly didn’t like it.

  Paulette’s eyes moved between them, lingering on Alejandro. “How can I help you?”

  Madison recited the same story she’d told the clerk, her head aching more with each word.

  Paulette stared at Alejandro through narrowed eyes, as if she were in deep concentration.

  “Where are you from, young man?”

  Alejandro tugged his sleeves. “I’m a tourist.”

  “From where?”

  Madison realized she hadn’t prepared an answer. “Uh, well …”

  “I’m a tourist,” Alejandro repeated. “She told me so.” He nodded at Madison.

  Paulette looked skeptical. “What’s your last name?”

  “Alejan-”

  Madison cut him off, snagging the first name that came to her. “Esperanza.”

  Alejandro nodded, clearly pleased with his new last name.

  Paulette crossed her arms and leaned back, appraising them with a humorless smile. “I don’t know who you’re trying to fool here, but I wasn’t born yesterday. There is nothing Alejandro or Esperanza about this man a
t all. I don’t think I need to point out the flaws in your cover.”

  Madison glanced at the golden-haired guy next to her. “Not all Hispanics are dark-haired, you know.”

  Paulette shook her head. “They are around here. I’m not buying it.”

  Damn it. Why didn’t I say Smith or Johnson? “All right,” said Madison. “We don’t know his name. And we don’t know where he’s from. Last night, I was patching my roof and I had an accident-”

  “You were patching the roof in the storm?”

  “Yes. But that’s not the point-”

  “Why the hell were you-”

  “I fell and hit my head, and this man saved me, okay?” Madison hooked a thumb at Alejandro, who nodded and beamed. “I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up this morning and saw him. He has no memory of who he is or where he came from.” She didn’t mention he’d been naked - or that she could swear she’d seen him somewhere before - that would only muddy the waters.

  Paulette leaned forward, her hands resting in front of her. “Young lady,” she said with a sigh, “why haven’t you contacted the police?”

  Madison’s irritation was growing. “It’s complicated. I’m willing to contact them but only if I have to.” She was tired, her head was pounding like a marching band, and the thought of Sergeant Clint Horace made her stomach curdle.

  Paulette looked suspicious. “I see. You’ve had some trouble with the law?”

  “It isn’t that. It’s some old parking tickets of my mother’s that-”

  “I get it.” Paulette held up her hand. “I get it.” Her eyes settled on Alejandro and seemed to go far away. “I’ve had some trouble myself.” Her posture changed and she lowered her head.

  The room seemed to grow warmer and Madison watched, stunned, as the woman’s eyes filled with tears. What the hell is going on?

  “I was young. Stupid.” Paulette’s eyes implored Alejandro. “I was on my way home from a club. I’d been drinking. I didn’t set out to drive home, but my friend deserted me.” Her face crumpled and she lifted a hand to her mouth.

  Madison glanced at Alejandro and realized she was invisible to him. He watched the sobbing woman, his eyes intent and warm.