Where Angels Fear to Tread

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Deryn began to awaken, thinking everything was all right.

She was back in Florida with her beautiful daughter, Zoe, and Carl . . . Carl was just out of the picture.

Maybe he was dead.

That thought brought her closer to consciousness, swimming up from the deep darkness where she had gone when . . .

She remembered the attack and awoke in a panic.

The room was set in a semigloom, rays of the sun creeping in from behind a sheet that had been placed over the window.

Deryn immediately sat up on the mattress, searching for her daughter. She hoped that at least one part of her dream was true, but it wasn’t.

She felt groggy, and as she bent her arm, she experienced a bit of pain and remembered that the men who took her had given her a shot of something. Deryn strained her eyes as she studied the crook of her right arm, rubbing the thumb of her left hand across the sensitive area where she’d been stuck.

Crawling off the mattress that had been placed in the center of the room, she stood unsteadily. The room was large, but empty. It had beautiful hardwood floors and high, vaulted ceilings. It was what she imagined the rooms in one of those fancy Holly-wood mansions would be like.

She held her hands out in front of her and crossed the room toward the white door that seemed to glow, suspended in the gloom. Her heart raced, and her thoughts were electric as she tried to figure out who would have done this to her—and why.

Try as she might, she couldn’t think of a single reason . . . other than maybe something Carl had done to really piss off someone.

He could most certainly do that.

Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest that it hurt as she gripped the crystal doorknob. She was certain it wouldn’t turn. But miraculously, it did.

Cautiously, she opened the door and stepped out into a long, carpeted hallway. A set of stairs was at the end of the corridor to her right, and she quietly moved toward them, past other closed doors, wondering whether Remy Chandler might be behind one of them, but afraid to find out. She stopped at the top of the stairway, listening, eyes darting about as she searched for signs of her attackers.

Seeing nothing but an elaborate entryway below her, Deryn carefully took hold of the dark wooden banister and slowly descended. Her heart began beating painfully fast again as she stepped from the final stair onto the black-and-white marble floor, and saw the front door before her. She lunged toward it, reaching for the knob and silently praying for the same kind of luck she’d had upstairs.

“Deryn?” a friendly voice called from somewhere behind her.

She froze, her hand gripping the cool metal of the brass handle. She almost answered but managed to stop herself.

“Deryn York, is that you out there?” the woman called out again. “Please, come join me in here.”

Deryn had no idea why, but she did as the woman asked, letting go of the door and abandoning her chance for escape. She moved toward the left of the stairs, and down a short hallway to a small room—a sitting room—on the right. Slowly she entered to find an attractive, dark-haired woman sitting in the center of a high-backed love seat and pouring from a silver tea set.

“There you are,” she said with a wide smile. “Would you care for some tea?”

A low moan followed the woman’s question, and Deryn noticed a man slumped in a floral wingback chair at the other end of the love seat. He was dressed in a navy blue jogging suit, his complexion deathly pale. He seemed to be staring off into space, emitting groans from time to time.

“Oh, pay no attention to him,” the woman said, waving with a bejeweled hand. “Come, sit beside me, and we’ll talk about your daughter.”

“My daughter?” Deryn asked, not sure she had heard correctly. “Did you say my daughter?”

“Yes, I most certainly did,” the woman said. “Come—sit—before I lose my patience.”

Deryn entered the room, her footfalls muffled by the elaborate oriental rug that covered the floor.

“What do you know about my daughter?” she demanded. “Who are you? Why was I . . . ?”

The woman interrupted her, laughing melodically. “There will be plenty of time for questions,” she said, pouring tea into a china cup, which she placed on the table in front of the love seat. “We’ll have a bit of refreshment first, and then we’ll get down to business.”

The woman smiled again, sipping from her own cup.

Silently Deryn sat on the other end of the love seat, staring . . . waiting.

“Do drink your tea,” the woman instructed.

The man in the sweat suit shifted suddenly in his chair, bending forward to bury his head in his hands, softly screaming.

The woman ignored him, turning slightly to stare at Deryn with a powerful intensity.

And suddenly Deryn wanted her tea. She picked up her cup and took a sip, making a face as she set it back down on the saucer.

“Sugar?” the woman asked, setting down her own cup and picking up the sugar bowl.

“Who are you?” Deryn demanded.

The woman placed the sugar bowl close to Deryn’s hand.

“My name is Delilah,” she replied. “And your daughter has something that I want.”

The man had begun to thrash, falling from the chair to the floor, his spastic movement nearly kicking over the coffee table.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Poole,” Delilah scolded. “Have a little bit of control.”

Deryn watched the man, feeling herself grow more and more afraid. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Mr. Poole has a rather odd talent . . . an affliction really,” Delilah explained. “He can read the psychic impressions left upon things, telling where they’ve been and, with the right incentive, where they are.”

She looked at the man who was still lying on his stomach at the foot of the chair. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Poole?”

Poole remained silent, twitching as he lay there.

“You said,” Deryn began, addressing Delilah, “you said my daughter has something you want?”

Delilah nodded, and she picked up the silver teapot and refilled her own cup. “I wasn’t sure at first, but after my trip to Florida, I’m certain it’s she.”

“Your trip to Florida?” Deryn asked. “Where . . .”

“Never mind about that, Deryn,” Delilah said forcefully. “We have to find your little girl and get her back into your arms, don’t we?”

Just the thought of holding Zoe made Deryn smile.

“I—I would really love that, but . . .”

Delilah held up one hand, bringing the teacup to her lips with the other. “No buts then,” she said, taking a sip and setting her cup down once more. “That is what we will do. And when we find her, you will have your daughter back, and I will have what I want.”

Delilah smiled so wide that Deryn imagined it must have hurt.

“What could she . . . What does Zoe have that you . . . ,” Deryn started to ask, curious how her six-year-old daughter could have something that this fine woman so desperately needed.

“That is of no concern to you,” Delilah said. “I doubt she even knows she has it, and when we find her, I will take it, and she will be none the wiser.”

Deryn thought of Remy Chandler again. He was helping her, but at this stage, she didn’t even know if he was still alive.

But this woman—this Delilah—seemed to know how to find her little girl. “How?” Deryn asked desperately. “How are we going to find my baby?”

Delilah was smiling again, but her smile quickly disappeared when she looked at Poole still lying upon the floor. “Get up now, Mr. Poole,” she commanded.

Deryn felt a cold chill run up and down the length of her spine as Poole climbed to his knees with a grunt, staring with pleading eyes at the beautiful woman.

“We’re going to find Ms. York’s little girl,” Delilah told him.

And he started to sob. “I . . . I need . . . I need to rest before . . .”

“There will be plenty of time for rest once the child is back in the custody of her mother,” Delilah scolded, turning her gaze toward Deryn.

“Yes, please, Mr. Poole,” Deryn said. “Please find my little girl.”

Poole met her eyes, his face damp with tears. “She doesn’t care about your child,” he said, his eyes glistening with emotion. “All she cares about is . . .”

Delilah was a blur as she jumped up, yanked the man into the air by the front of his sweat suit, and slammed him back into the chair.

“Don’t make me regret using your services, Mr. Poole,” she snarled, still holding him by the twisted fabric of his nylon top.

“Kill me!” the man screamed. “Kill me now, you fucking bitch!”

“I’ll do worse than that,” she said, giving him a violent shake before letting him go.

Deryn sat silently, not sure exactly what was happening, but caring only about finding her little girl . . . finding her Zoe.

Delilah turned to her, that smile again stretching her features.

“Sorry about that,” she said with a polite chuckle. “Mr. Poole and I have been working quite closely for the last few days, and we’ve started to wear on each other’s nerves.”

She held out her hand, and Deryn noticed how long and delicate her fingers were, and how sharp the scarlet nails seemed to be.

“Come here, Deryn,” Delilah commanded.

Immediately, Deryn stood, walking around the coffee table, to stand before Delilah.

“Your hand, Mr. Poole,” Delilah ordered, and the man offered his trembling appendage. “Take it, Deryn York.”

Deryn reached out, but skittishly pulled her hand back. “What is he going to do?” she asked.

“He will read the psychic impressions left upon you by your lovely daughter,” Delilah explained. “A mother’s love for her child is a very powerful thing, and, hopefully, he will be able to follow those impressions through the ether to locate her present whereabouts.”

Deryn hesitated, then grasped the man’s cold, clammy hand. “Will it hurt?”

Mr. Poole began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

“If you think I’ve got a table for you assholes, you’ve got another think coming,” the Asian man waiting inside the entrance to the China Lion said, slapping the menus in his hand against the side of his leg.

Samson let out an enormous laugh, pushing past his daughter and son to embrace the little man.

“Kenny, how the fuck are you, my little yellow brother?”

Kenny hugged back. “Haven’t seen you in a while—I thought the food finally killed you.”

“Not a fucking chance,” Samson said, releasing the man.

“Table for four?” Kenny asked, holding up four fingers.

“Four it is,” the big man agreed.

Remy still found it hard to believe the man was blind, but he guessed a life as long as Samson’s had allowed him time to adapt, and from watching Samson move and interact with his surroundings, he certainly had.

He felt the hand of Marko, Samson’s son, upon his back, as they all followed Samson and Kenny to the back of the Market Street restaurant.

“Hope I didn’t hurt you too bad when I decked you,” Marko said, walking beside him.

Remy heard Carla, the blind man’s daughter, chuckle. For the briefest moment, in response to their lack of respect, he imagined reaching out with a hand bathed in the fires of Heaven and burning away the man’s face, before moving on to the girl.

The Seraphim seemed to laugh from somewhere deep in the darkness of his being, but Remy ignored it.

“I can take it,” he said instead, forcing a smile, while bringing a hand up to move his jaw from side to side.

Marko laughed, slapping Remy on the back as they entered a private dining room. Kenny pulled out a chair for Samson, guiding him into it and handing him a menu. The restaurant owner then pulled out the other seats, Remy taking the one to the left of Samson, and dispersed the rest of his menus.

“Any specials tonight, Ken?” Samson asked.

“Yeah, you get no food poisoning,” the little man said as he briskly walked from the room.

Samson liked that one, laughing until he started to choke and cough.

Marko and Carla were looking at their menus. Remy had had no intention of eating, but the place did smell pretty good.

A cute waitress with a less-than-stellar grasp of the English language filled their water glasses and took their drink orders. Samson and his kids ordered Tsingtao beer, and Remy chose a Seven and Seven.

As they waited for their drinks, Remy decided he’d been patient long enough. Back at the Boys Club, he’d tried to get Samson to fill him in, but the big man had refused, saying he had to eat before he dropped dead.

Their drinks arrived, and they put their dinner orders in. Soon after that, three servings of Chinese dumplings arrived, which were promptly pounced upon by the table’s residents.

“So, do you think you might be able to tell me what’s going on now?” Remy asked finally, taking a sip of his drink. It tasted strongly of Seagram’s, just the way Mulvehill and he liked a Seven and Seven. Remy was sure that if the China Lion were more in the neighborhood, Steven would be a regular, but Lynn was a little too far even for excellent Seven and Sevens.

Samson stabbed a dumpling with his fork, dipped it in the special soy sauce, and brought it to his mouth. The dark sauce dribbled from the corners of his mouth, down into his white beard.

“We thought you might know some stuff that would be helpful to us,” the big man said, noisily chewing on the dumpling.

“So I’m guessing your kids’ driving through the motel wall wasn’t an accident?”

“I told them to follow you.” Samson shrugged.

“And what’s this information I might have?” Remy asked. There was one dumpling left, and he stabbed it with his fork.

“Methuselah thought you might have something,” Samson said. He wiped the sauce from his beard, then picked up his bottle of beer.

“Methuselah?” Remy asked.

“You were at his place the other night, asking about the mark.” Samson set his beer down and rubbed the back of one of his large hands.

“Yeah, I was,” Remy said, breaking the dumpling in half with the side of his fork and popping the piece into his mouth. He chewed for a bit before continuing. “I was curious if anyone had ever seen something like it.”

Marko and Carla chuckled as they sipped their Chinese beers.

“All right, so I’m guessing you guys know something I don’t,” Remy said. “How about we all be big kids and share.”

Their dinners arrived. Carla got the Szechuan chicken, and Marko had ordered some sort of spicy shrimp dish served inside a half of a pineapple. Samson’s dinner had something to do with duck and Paradise, and Remy relied on his old standby, General Tsao.

They dug into their meals, Remy still waiting for his answers.

“It’s her mark,” Samson finally said, feeding the crunchy fried skin of the duck into his mouth.

“Excuse me?” Remy asked, his fork holding some of General Tsao’s chicken midway to his mouth.

“The kiss marks,” Samson stated in explanation. “They’re her mark . . . Delilah’s.”

Remy dropped his fork. With the inclusion of Samson in the puzzle, he should have known.

“Really,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “She’s still around too, is she?”

“Oh, she’s around all right,” Samson said with a nod, reaching into his mouth to pick a piece of duck from his teeth. “I’ve been trying to kill that bitch for years.”

He grabbed his beer and tipped it back, discovering with disgust that it was empty. “Hey, Kenny!” he bellowed toward the doorway. “Another round, you yellow bastard!”

“You can all go fuck yourselves,” the owner replied.

Samson got very serious, his large, sausage-sized fingers intertwining at his chin. “I was born to be the champion of the Israelites,” he said quietly. “To deliver my people from the tyranny of the Philistines. All I had to do was abstain from alcohol and not cut my hair.”

The waitress returned with their drinks.

“Guess that was supposed to prove I was totally dedicated to God,” the big man said as he brought the fresh beer to his lips. He drank nearly half of it before taking the bottle from his mouth again.

“Making up for lost time,” he said, and then belched.

The kids thought this was a riot.

“I killed a lot of Philistines in my time,” he said, flexing and unflexing his gigantic hands. “And had a lot of women, but nothing compared to her.”

“Here we go,” Marko said, rolling his eyes. “I’m going out for a smoke.” Carla said she would join him, and they both left the table.

“Fucking kids,” Samson growled. “No sense of history.” He took another pull from his beer.

“So I’m guessing the her that no other woman compared to is Delilah.”

“And you’d be correct,” the big man agreed. “I fell in love with her on first sight. She was from a little village in the valley of Sorek. I was passing through there on the run from some Philistine jerkwads trying to make a name for themselves by taking me down.”

He laughed, lifting his beer. “Yeah, good fucking luck with that.

“I hadn’t planned on hanging around, but she had this certain quality. Once I was with her, I couldn’t imagine being without her.”

Samson grew quiet. Remy could tell that the old man’s memory was still good enough to remember all the details, both the pleasant and the unpleasant.

“I shared everything with her,” he said, still ashamed at how he’d been taken. “Told her about God’s mission for me, and how I could be stopped only one way.”

“The hair?” Remy said.

Samson nodded.

“So, could you please explain to me what the fuck is up with that?” Marko asked as he and Carla returned to the table, stinking of cigarette smoke. “You cut your hair and lose your strength? I don’t get it.”

“It’s a God thing,” Remy said. “I swear He comes up with the stuff off the top of His head.”

“Exactly,” Samson said. “Those were His rules, and I was supposed to stick to them.”

“But Delilah betrayed you,” Remy said sympathetically.

The old man clutched his beer bottle in a tightening grip. “Oh yeah, she did that all right. It just goes to show how you never really know a person,” he said.

He finished his second beer before coming up for air.

“The Philistines had pulled her aside and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. Eleven hundred silver coins for the secret of my strength.”

He shook his shaggy head, his white hair, in a ponytail now, swinging back and forth. He felt for his fork and picked it up, then began to work on one of his duck legs.

“She cut my hair while I was asleep, after a good schtuping—if you know what I mean.” He made a fist and brought it back and forth. Remy knew what he meant.

“With the hair gone, my deal with God was canceled.”

“God’s a dick,” Carla said, tipping back her beer.

“He is pretty anal about His rules,” Remy said in a weak attempt at defending the All-Father.

“The rest you probably know,” Samson said, feeding strips of duck meat into his mouth. “The Philistines captured me, blinded me, and used me as a slave to grind their grain.”

Samson tore what remained of the leg from the duck carcass and brought it to his mouth.

“I just bided my time, praying to God every moment I had, swearing to serve Him for as long as He wanted me. He must’ve seen that I still had some good years left, and He gave me a little gift. He let my hair grow back overnight.”

“Dad fucked up those Philistines good,” Marko said, doing the fist bump with his sister.

“I did at that,” the old man said wistfully. “Brought their whole friggin’ temple down around their pointy ears.”

The kids raised their beer bottles in salute to their father.

Remy finished his second drink, tipping the glass back so that some of the ice would fall into his mouth. “And what about Delilah?” he asked, crunching on the ice. “I’m pretty sure her story doesn’t end there.”

The large man shook his head again. He dropped the duck leg bone down onto his plate, wiping his greasy hands on his napkin.

“Not by a long shot,” Samson said. “She took off after I was captured, and nobody really knew what happened to her. Probably started a new identity elsewhere, but it didn’t change who she really was . . . and whom she betrayed.”

Samson turned his blind eyes toward Remy.

“She didn’t just betray me; she betrayed God.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “And you know He hates to be fucked with.”

The cute waitress came into the room to clear the table. There wasn’t all that much remaining of the meals, but Marko asked for the leftovers.

“God cursed her,” Samson said in a voice softer than usual. “Cursed her to live eternally, always knowing that what she had . . . always knowing that whatever she loved would die.”

“And the mark?” Remy asked.

“Now, that’s the interesting part,” Samson said. “It seems that after God cursed her, she went through a bit of a change. Delilah became less human and more demonic with each passing century. She changed physically. She had the ability to command the weak-willed, and to feed off the souls of her victims. She became a succubus.”

“She leaves her mark when she feeds on their souls,” Remy said, finally understanding.

“The ultimate hickey,” Marko said.

“So you’re still looking for her?” Remy asked.

The waitress came back into the room with the bagged leftovers, asking if anybody wanted coffee or dessert. Marko and Carla ordered the fried ice cream, while Samson ordered another beer and Remy asked for a cup of tea.

“I swore to God that I would serve Him for as long as He wanted,” Samson said. “And my job is to find that soul-sucking bitch and put her out of His misery.”

“All this time though, and you still haven’t found her?”

“The bitch goes dormant,” the strongman explained. “As if she’s ceased to exist. A hundred years have been known to go by until she starts to use her twisted gifts again. I can feel it in my bones; makes them ache something awful. And I’ve been feeling pretty awful of late.”

The waitress brought the desserts and drinks, and asked if they’d like anything else.

They all said no and thanked her. She told them she’d be back shortly with the check.

“She’s been active all right,” Remy said as he dunked the tea bag in his mug of hot water.

“And now you know why we picked you up,” Samson said, pointing at Remy with his beer bottle. “So, that case you’re working on, give me some details.”

“It’s a missing person’s case,” Remy said as he brought the mug of tea to his mouth. He took a sip of the hot liquid. “A six-year-old child. And it seems as though Delilah might be looking for her as well.”

“She’s been known to steal a few in her travels,” Samson explained. “Raises them as her own; they grow up to serve her and all that. Of course, she feeds on their souls to make them more obedient.”

Remy shook his head as he held on to his mug, warming his hands. “Seems a little more complicated than that. I think the child is gifted.”

“What, she can spell well or do math problems off the top of her head?”

“No, the I-think-she-can-see-the-future kind of gifted.”

“That could be useful,” Carla said, licking her spoon clean of ice cream.

“But what would she need that for?” Samson asked. “There are seers all over the planet. What makes this kid so fucking special that it’s brought her out of hiding?”

“I guess that’s the million-dollar question,” Remy said, sipping his tea. “I’m not sure if this means anything or not, but both Mom and Dad were once involved with a cult called the Church of Dagon.”

“Dagon?” Samson asked, blind eyes squinting. “The Philistines worshipped a god named Dagon. Matter of fact, it was a Dagon temple I brought down on top of their worthless heads.”

“The parents were supposed to provide a host body for Dagon in the form of their unborn child, but the ATF saw things a bit differently and broke up the party before the old god could take up residence.”

The waitress brought the check on a small plastic tray and left it by Samson’s right hand.

Remy reached for it, but Samson swatted his hand away.

“I got this,” he said. “Marko, take care of this and I’ll pay you back.”

Marko laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said as he took the check from his father.

“Disrespectful punk,” Samson growled.

“So do you think there’s some kind of connection between this church business and Delilah?” Remy asked.

“If there is, I can’t see it, pardon the pun,” the blind man said with a chuckle. “But it’s good info, just in case.”

“Delilah’s goon squad took my client,” Remy said. “I need to find her yesterday.”

Samson nodded in agreement. “We’ll keep our ears open. If we hear anything, you’ll be the first person we call.”

“Thanks,” Remy said. “And thanks for dinner.”

“No problem,” the big man said. “Just remember to keep us in the loop if you should come across any promising leads.”

“Will do,” Remy told him.

Carla and Marko got up to pay the check and have another cigarette, leaving Samson and Remy to themselves again. The room was silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

“Married?” Remy asked, breaking the quiet.

“Who, me?” Samson said.

“Yeah, I thought with the kids, maybe . . .”

The big man chuckled. “After what I went through? I’d never trust another one of them. I’ll fuck ’em, but I won’t marry ’em.”

He got a good laugh out of that, but Remy could sense a certain sadness in the man’s words.

“Do you still love her?” Remy asked him.

Samson went stiff, his last beer almost to his mouth. “I should smash your fucking angel face in,” he said with an animalistic growl.

“Answer the question . . . truthfully.”

Samson downed the remainder of his beer, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, I love her.” He scowled. “I love her enough to want to strangle the life from her body with my bare hands. If that’s not love, I don’t know what the fuck is.”

Marko and Carla dropped Remy back at the Nightingale Motor Lodge to pick up his car. They’d driven by the side of the building for a look, only to find the area cordoned off with wooden horses, the hole in the wall covered with sheets of opaque plastic that seemed to breathe in and out like some kind of gigantic, artificial lung.

Samson’s kids got quite a kick out of the damage they’d caused.

They left Remy at his car, reminding him to give them a call if he should hear anything about where Delilah might be holed up.

The ride home was uneventful; the radio tuned to some talk show that he wasn’t really listening to. His brain was caught in a loop, turning what few facts he had round and round inside his head.

Parking was particularly bad, so he was forced to park on Cambridge Street, and walk all the way up the hill, to his house on Pinckney Street.

Remy let himself into the brownstone to the sound of the most ferocious dog in the world. Marlowe barked like crazy, bounding from the living room to greet him at the door.

From the ruckus he was making, Remy knew Ashley was still there, and Marlowe was protecting her.

“Hey, Ash,” Remy said as he came in, closing the door behind him. “Sorry I’m so late.”

He found Ashley sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, her schoolbooks spread out all around her.

“Hey, Remy,” she said sleepily.

“Were you working or dozing?” Remy asked, standing in the doorway.

“A little of both really,” she said. The television was on, and she grabbed the remote to shut it off.

He went into the kitchen, Marlowe at his heels. “Did Ashley let you out?” he asked.

“No,” the dog told him.

Remy opened the door and let Marlowe out into the backyard.

“I just let him out,” Ashley bellowed from the living room.

“He told me you didn’t,” Remy said.

“Well, he’s a big fat liar then,” she said.

“How dare you call my faithful canine companion a liar,” Remy said, opening the screen door to let the dog back inside. “I bet she hasn’t given you any snack either,” he addressed the Labrador, knowing full well she probably had.

“No snack,” Marlowe said, sitting down at Remy’s feet, his tail sweeping the floor.

Remy got a few dog cookies from a monkey cookie jar on the counter.

“He’s had a bunch of treats too,” Ashley called out again.

“I know she lies,” Remy whispered loud enough for Ashley to hear as he gave Marlowe two cookies, which he promptly inhaled.

“Lies,” Marlowe agreed, hoping Remy would give him some more.

“That’s enough for now, buddy,” Remy said, reaching out to pat the dog’s square head.

“All right, I’m getting out of here,” Ashley said sleepily, standing in the doorway, her overstuffed book bag slung over her shoulder.

“Thanks for coming by,” Remy told her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. Removing two twenties, he gave them to her. “Here ya go.”

“What’s that for?” she asked with a scowl, not taking what was offered.

“Your pay,” he said. “Take it.”

“No thanks,” she said, walking to the door. “This wasn’t an official gig,” she told him.

“I’ll catch you later then,” he said.

“You do that,” she agreed, giving him a smile that he was sure melted teenage boys’ hearts all over Boston.

She was opening the door when she stopped.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey what?” Remy answered, about to make a pot of coffee.

“Who’s the artist?” she asked, and gestured toward the living room.

He remembered he’d been going over Zoe’s drawings last night and had left them out.

“A little girl who’s gone missing,” Remy said. “She’s pretty good, eh?”

“Pretty freaky,” Ashley stated. “I can’t believe some of the stuff she drew.”

“Anything particularly freaky?” he asked.

“The one of that hand thing,” she said. Ashley dropped her bag at the door and went back to the living room. Remy and Marlowe followed her.

She had picked up the pieces of paper and was going through them. “When I first saw the drawing, I couldn’t believe it, y’know? Why would a little kid be drawing something like that?”

Finding the drawing, she handed it to Remy. The picture was of what looked like a hand, with a stick, or nail, going through the center, blood dripping down the wrist from the entry point.

“Do you know what it is?”

“What, you don’t?” she asked. “Don’t tell me there’s something I know that you don’t?”

“Keep this up and I’ll never call you again at a moment’s notice to take care of my dog,” he said in mock seriousness.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler, sir; I’ll be good.”

They laughed, then turned their attention back to the drawing.

“Seriously, what is it?” Remy asked.

“It’s a statue out in front of the old Boston archbishop’s mansion in Brighton,” she explained. “When Mom was working for Catholic Charities, she used to take me there for special meetings and luncheons and stuff, and I used to see this creepy statue right out in front of the building. I think it’s supposed to be Jesus’ hand or something like that.”

Remy continued to stare, ideas starting to formulate.

“I think the church is supposed to be selling the building to Boston College,” she continued.

“I think you’re right,” Remy said.

“All right, I’m leaving,” she said, walking to the door again.

Remy said nothing and did not move.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said sarcastically, opening the door and hauling herself and the heavy book bag out into the hall. “I can get the door and this two-ton book bag perfectly fine all by myself.”

“Take it easy,” he said, responding to the teenager on the most rudimentary level.

The detective’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“Why would she have drawn this, Marlowe?” he asked.

The dog had climbed up onto the couch and was watching him.

“Why this?” he asked. “She must’ve seen it,” he said. “It must mean something if she drew it.”

The Labrador lowered his face between his paws and sighed. He wasn’t at all interested in anything Remy had to say, not unless it had something to do with food, or a nighttime walk.

He’d left his cell on the kitchen table and went for it. From a wrinkled piece of napkin scrawled on at the China Lion, Remy read and punched in the number Samson had given him. It rang three times before being answered.

“Yeah,” said a distinctly female voice.

“Carla?” Remy asked.

“No, this is Carol.”

“Is Samson there?” Remy asked, concerned that he might have the wrong number.

“Yeah, wait a second,” Carol said. A hand was placed over the phone, and he heard the girl call for her dad.

Another kid? Remy mused as he waited.

He paced around the kitchen, listening to the vague sounds from the other end. He could hear scuffling and the distant sound of music, something old, like big band music.

“Yeah?” Samson boomed.

Remy held the phone slightly away from his ear.

“It’s Remy.”

“Miss me already?” the old man asked, and laughed a rumbling laugh.

“Sure, that’s it,” Remy said. “I think I might have something.”

The voice on the other end became suddenly serious.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Think I might have a location . . . the old archbishop’s mansion in Brighton.”

“And what makes you think this?” Samson asked curiously.

Remy had again walked into the living room, and was staring down at the drawing of an impaled and bleeding hand.

“Let’s just say my source is pretty good.”

The old man was silent for a bit, and Remy was about to ask if he was still there, when he spoke.

“We should probably move on this pretty quick,” he said. “Delilah is not the nicest of people . . . if you could even call her people anymore. The longer your client is with her, the smaller her chances are of . . .”

“Why don’t we meet in about an hour?” Remy said. “There’s something I need to do before we do this.”

“An hour it is,” Samson said. “Just want you to know if this is what we think it might be, it isn’t going to be a walk in the park. There are a lot of people willing to die for that bitch.”

The ancient warrior’s words slowly sank in.

“I understand,” Remy told him. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

There was nothing more to say, and the phone went quiet in his hand.