Damnable
CHAPTER 16
THE MUTED SOUNDS OF THE CITY SEEMED DISTANT WITHIN the confines of the car. Wright was feeling a bit cramped. Uncomfortable. It was all she could do to sit still.
“Pretty tony neighborhood, huh?” Reynolds said.
Wright nodded. “It certainly is.”
“Well, the rich ain’t like you and me. They have more money.”
“Will Rogers,” Wright said.
“Good one.”
She glanced over at the younger detective. He was chewing another piece of gum, sitting back in the passenger’s seat, loose and composed, bantering like some old pro. His red hair was pulled across his head in waves.
“What’s gotten into you, Reynolds?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re just acting so much more relaxed than you usually do.”
His mouth widened and curled at the edges. “Well, if you want the truth . . . you might say I’m not a very trusting person. And for some reason, I’ve never trusted Maloney at all. Not even a little. There was always something that didn’t seem quite right. Now, just as I realized why, I also realized that you’re not like him. I think I can actually trust you. So, I’m letting my hair down.” He smiled broadly at her. “So to speak.”
“That’s very flattering, but let’s not drag the lieutenant’s name through the mud like that, okay? He may act like a jerk once in a while, and sometimes his passions get the better of him, but I don’t think he’s a bad guy. And no, I’m not going to tell him about anything you said. I just don’t want you to think it’s fine to bad-mouth him that way. Scandalous words can tarnish a reputation.”
“Whatever you say, Detective. Want to go see if our man is in?”
Wright nodded and they got out of the car and crossed the street, heading toward Winslow Tower. It was a majestic building, standing tall among other majestic buildings in an area known for its stratospheric rent. As they reached the far sidewalk, Reynolds stuck an arm out across Wright’s body, signaling her to stop. He nodded in the direction of a limousine with tinted windows emerging from the parking garage adjacent to the tower.
“Recognize that?” he asked.
Wright watched the car slowly turn away from them onto the street. “Should I?”
“It’s the limo Lucas Sherman was driving when he was arrested the other night.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m the one who inventoried the contents. I’m almost positive that’s it.” He snapped his fingers, nodding. “Yeah, I think that’s the plate. In fact, I know it is.”
Wright stood watching the taillights move away. “Okay, that’s strange, I’ll admit.”
Reynolds swiveled his head, looking over to her. “Well?”
“Well what? Are you saying we should get back in the car and follow him? What about Valentine?”
“Don’t you want to know where Sherman is going?”
She hesitated, throwing a glance at the back of the limousine as it pulled up to the traffic light at the corner, its brake lights coming on.
“We don’t know that’s him. Even if it’s the same limo, we don’t know who’s driving it.”
Reynolds made a face. He seemed about to respond when another vehicle, a rental do-it-yourself truck, came out of the garage and turned onto the street heading in the same direction, pausing just long enough for both of them to get a good look at the driver.
There was no mistaking the man behind the wheel in this one. Huge arms, bald head, and sideburns that curved into a mustache. He’d tossed a quick look down the street as he pulled out, but if he noticed them standing there, he didn’t show it.
One more glance at Reynolds, then they both started a restrained jog back to the car.
“I told you this had something to do with Sherman.”
Wright looked at him as they hurried, seeing the younger detective in a totally new light. She thought of the clown mask on his desk, how it seemed like he’d been wearing a mask of his own all this time, one that was finally being pulled off. He was starting to remind her of someone. Red hair, ruddy complexion, lots of attitude. David Caruso, maybe. “I don’t know what to make of you, Reynolds. You’ve always just kept quiet, seemed kind of moody. Always waited for people to tell you what to do. Suddenly, you’re out of your shell and cocky as hell.”
“You like it?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m still trying to understand it.”
“Like I said, yesterday I didn’t know who I could trust. Now that I’m past that, I can finally be myself around you, act like a cop.” He jumped in the passenger seat as Wright rounded the car and got behind the wheel. “And let’s face it, what good is being a cop if you don’t let yourself enjoy the job, right?”
STANDING IN THE TINY ALCOVE NEXT TO THE DRY CLEANER, Hatcher flipped the phone shut and put it in his pocket. The directory on the wall had a list of names, each with a black button next to it. The topmost entry simply read “CKS.”
He counted down five slots, read the name listed for the occupant. Any doubts he had about whether he had figured it out were wiped away. John O’Hara.
Five Blocks East of Eden. Five—B—Lo—CKS. East of Eden. Cute.
He pressed the button, feeling the vibration of the buzz in his fingertip, and waited.
Almost a full minute later, a hollow-sounding voice, feminine, came through a round piece of metal screwed into the wall next to the directory.
“Who are you here to see?”
Hatcher took a breath, pausing. The tone of the voice was neutral, but he could still tell its owner expected a certain answer. “I’m here to see Samarra. About an appointment.”
The response was immediate. “Where did you come from?”
Hatcher had to think about how to answer that, and the silence seemed like it started to stretch the moment it started. No other option than to just take a stab. “Steinbeck’s place. West of here.”
An audible click, and Hatcher realized the conversation was terminated. Nothing happened for a couple of seconds, then a buzz rattled through the speaker. It took Hatcher a second to realize he was being let in. He pushed on the door and stepped into the building.
The inside of the building smelled like a public restroom after a cursory cleaning. The lobby was narrow, leading back to a door marked “Stairs.” Something about the layout seemed unusual, awkward, like a cluttered room where a sofa or chair was missing.
He climbed the staircase to the third floor and exited the stairwell. Instead of a hallway running the length of the building, he found himself in a small vestibule, facing an unmarked door. He knocked.
A mechanical-sounding hum, barely audible, then a click. The door swung gently inward.
The apartment was large and open, with islands of furniture. The walls were a shade of dove gray, but everything else was one of two colors. Whatever wasn’t black, was red, and vice-versa. Black sofa, red carpet. Red love seat, black bearskin rug.
Red lipstick, black dress.
The woman wearing them boasted some exceptions to the scheme. Platinum hair. Eyes an evening shade of blue.
She was sitting on the red love seat, reclined to the side, legs tucked beneath her, a drink in her hand. Hatcher walked toward her to the middle of the living room, though he wasn’t certain if that’s what it was. The room was shaped like a horseshoe, wrapping around a large chunk of wall to his right. The wall seemed to take up a huge portion of the floor.
Hatcher glanced around, pretended he was admiring the décor.
The woman didn’t move, other than to lift her glass. She eyed Hatcher without a word or gesture, waiting. Not a good sign, he realized. Patience like that was unsettling. Those capable of it were always the most dangerous. They waited for your mistakes, instead of making any of their own.
“Please, don’t get up on my account.”
The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched slightly and she took a sip of her drink.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Doe. My friends call me John.”
The woman stuck the tip of her finger in her drink, stirring it. “How did you find us, Mr. Doe?”
“Some guy named Spitzer gave me your card. Are you Samarra?”
“More so than you’re Mr. Doe.” Samarra lifted her finger from her drink and placed it in her mouth, closed her lips over it in a pucker. She slid it out slowly. “I’ll ask you again. How did you hear about us?”
“Deborah St. James.”
Samarra nodded, pursing those red lips. “Are you armed, Mr. Doe?”
“Should I be?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Only with my charm.”
“I should warn you, it is not in your best interest to lie. The way to the PI is guarded by sentries. They are very good at divining whether someone is carrying a weapon. If they determine you are, you won’t have the chance to explain. So you’d better tell me now.”
“I already did.”
“In that case, tell me why you’re here.”
“I was told Pleasure Incarnate was the one place I had to see for myself.”
“And you say Deborah sent you?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
The woman set her drink on an end table and stood. She closed the distance between them with graceful steps, coming close enough for her breasts to brush against his torso as she looked up at his face and started to circle his body, finally coming to a stop directly in front of him. She was tall, but not as tall as him. He peered down into her eyes, trying to get a read on her, finding nothing.
“One night. Ten thousand dollars. In cash.”
She smelled like something delicious, a mix of vanilla and orange and cream. Her proximity caused his already stirring erection to grow stiff. It had to be showing.
His thoughts turned to how ridiculous his libido was becoming. First the hospital, then at Deborah’s, now here. He hadn’t popped standing boners like that since he was a teenager.
“Okay,” Hatcher said.
The woman turned away abruptly. “You can pay when you get there.”
“There? Where am I going?”
She crossed to Hatcher’s right and opened a door in the large section of wall in the middle of the room. She stepped to the side and leaned back against the wall, arms behind her.
“Somewhere you’ll never forget.”
The door led to what looked like an unused closet. It was a small, square area, completely empty. No clothes, no shelves, no boxes. A small bulb in a round, plastic dome in the ceiling bathed the walls and floor in a bright yellow light. On the opposite side was another door.
Hatcher stood in the doorway, thinking.
“You did say you wanted to experience Pleasure Incarnate,” Samarra said. “Didn’t you?”
One more taste of those eyes, then Hatcher stepped into the room.
“By the way, Mr. Hatcher—my real name is Soliya. But you can still have your appointment in Samarra.”
She shut the door as he turned back, his palms slapping against the cool metal a second too late. He reached for the knob, found nothing but a flat plate.
He felt a strange sensation in his head, subtle but unmistakable. He reached for the other door, grabbed the knob and yanked. The door opened with no resistance to reveal a concrete wall, flush against the doorway. The wall slid by, traveling upward.
He was in an elevator. Descending.
Something heavy thumped on the ceiling—roof?—of the room—car? Hatcher looked up. There was no hatch, no opening of any kind. Just a round, colorless piece of opaque plastic covering a bulb.
The room started dropping as if in a dive. It had traveled slowly at first, the movement barely perceptible. But now it was accelerating at what seemed like a ridiculous rate. The concrete was shooting past the door, launching skyward. The sensation of falling became acute. Hatcher could feel the blood gathering in his head, the veins swelling, becoming engorged.
His mind raced. There had to be something, some sort of control. He glanced up at the light, wondered if the fixture could be removed, maybe give him a way to climb out, realized there wouldn’t be enough time. Couldn’t be.
Time.
The room should have bottomed out already. The building was only a few stories tall. That could mean only one thing. He was traveling in to ground, dropping beneath the surface. Far beneath.
He started to reach for the light when his body suddenly became weighted down with g-force, pressed toward the floor. The elevator compartment was decelerating rapidly. The sudden change forced Hatcher to tense his legs and press himself into a corner, arms spread, trying to keep his balance.
Hatcher’s attention shot to the doorway. The concrete wall briefly gave way to an opening. The opening immediately disappeared, replaced by a solid spread of earth.
The room jerked to a stop. Inertia slammed him against the floor. He pushed himself up gingerly and stood. The wall of dirt at the doorway looked hardened and thick. He stepped forward to touch it and heard a triplet of footfalls overhead. Clank, clank, clank, then nothing.
There had to be way out. He reached for the light fixture again, placing his hand over the plastic cover and twisting. The whole thing rotated. There was something strange about how it turned. He twisted it again, it turned again. He reached up with his other hand, stretching on tiptoes, pulled on the sides. The entire light popped off the ceiling and he found himself holding it. The ceiling was bare, no holes, no wiring. He looked at the back of the light. Four magnets on the bottom of it. In the middle, a removable panel covering a battery compartment.
He replaced it, felt it pop snug against the ceiling as the magnets took hold.
Before he was able to come up with any other ideas, he felt the tiny room shudder. Then the wall of dirt began to slide down. The cab was rising.
Within seconds, the dirt gave way to an open passage, and the room stopped again. The humming faded, and everything went quiet. The light from the elevator threw a triangle of pale white into a thicket of shadow, revealing a dark, empty space with a dirty tile floor. A buzzing, cracking noise broke the silence as a harsh, blue white light flickered on, brightening the immediate area outside the elevator.
Hatcher waited a moment, then stepped through the doorway. He found himself in some kind of utility room. Beneath a layer of dirt he could make out the faded remains of a black-and-white checkered floor. A small worktable stood against the opposite wall, with what looked like a calendar on the wall above it. It hung crooked and was so yellowed and worn, Hatcher couldn’t even make out the year or the month. To the left, there was a passage leading into a blackened tunnel. Dim bulbs were visible overhead, stretching into the distance at large intervals, a small puddle of light on the ground beneath each one.
The door to the elevator-closet slammed shut behind him and the echo of it bounded down the tunnel. He glanced around the space. The fluorescent light was harsh and he found himself shading his eyes from it. With nowhere else to go, he headed toward the tunnel. He stepped into the darkness immediately beyond the doorway and stood there, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Visibility was limited. The first light was twenty yards or so away, the one beyond it just as far again, as was the one beyond that. Tiny oases of light, leading to God knew where. The distance between each bulb was submerged in shadow. He started to walk in the only direction available.
After a few steps, he stopped. He was between the residue of light from the elevator and the first pool of light in the tunnel, the area surrounding him dark with a blackness that seemed almost tangible, like ink. Tilting his head subtly, he dropped his eyes to avoid the light ahead, allowed his pupils to dilate fully.
Survival in combat sometimes hinged on unusual skills. In Hatcher’s case, one of those skills had been the ability to focus on things without looking at them. It was a knack that proved vital on point, when avoiding death often hinged on not allowing the enemy to know you’re aware of him, giving you the chance to take control. His mind zoomed in on the shades of black to his right, eyes low and forward. He took an audible breath, steeling himself. Then he shot his hand out in a burst to the side, his fingers locking around a wrist.
He pulled back several steps, yanking the body attached to it into the spill of light from the doorway.
“My! But aren’t you a man of action.”
It was a woman. She was black, with skin that beamed in the florescence and eyes that glistened like lacquered coal. Her smile revealed opposing rows of perfect teeth. She was wearing a white formfitting shirt and white capris.
She eased in close, walked two fingers up his chest and then tapped him gently on the chin. Her breath grazed his lips when she spoke. “I’m your escort.”
Her proximity was making him uncomfortable. His erection was coming back with a vengeance, if he had ever lost it. He remembered the aching desire Deborah created, the instant arousal he’d experienced at the hospital. There was something about these women, about their scent, that was narcotic. It was like inhaling sex while your eyes drank in everything your body was screaming it wanted.
“I was expecting nicer accommodations,” Hatcher said, letting go of her wrist.
The woman exhaled a subdued laugh. “Perhaps we were expecting a better-looking man. Call me Callista.”
“What now, Callista?”
She reached behind her back, then held out one of her hands. A large silk handkerchief dangled from between two fingers.
“I need you to put this on,” she said.
“I’m not sure it’s my size.”
“As a blindfold.”
“And what if I object?”
Callista shrugged. “I’ll leave it up to you, but I strongly suggest you wear it. The odds of you surviving the next leg of the journey will be significantly higher if you do. The last man who refused, well, everyone ends up wearing it. But if you want to risk it . . . you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I think I’ll take my chances.”
“Ohh, a real macho man.” She turned away, shot a lingering glance over her shoulder. “Follow me, macho man. And do exactly as I say.”
Hatcher watched her hourglass shape and perfect ass leave the wash of light and disappear ahead of him.
“You’ll hear, perhaps even see, movement around you. Do not look. Keep your eyes straight ahead. Focus on the next light in the distance.”
“Why?”
“Because if you make eye contact, even accidentally, they may attack.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“Not who. And whatever you do, don’t you dare touch one of them. Sometimes, they may get close. If you don’t make any sudden moves, or try to escape, they won’t make physical contact, unless your eyes meet. And you probably wouldn’t even know if that happens until it is too late. They can see in this like it was the middle of a bright, sunny day.”
“And what happens if I touch one of them?”
Hatcher could hear the smile in her voice. “It will be the last thing you do.”
The darkness enveloped him as he stepped forward. It seemed to have substance, a pressure, like a gas or liquid. Like something he could feel.
“What did you mean, ‘not who’?”
Callista said nothing. Hatcher could make out her rough silhouette as she bobbed in and out of the way of the next patch of light a dozen yards or so ahead. He resisted the urge to glance to the sides, following her advice. The fact he knew he would be unable to see anything if he did made it easier.
Roughly halfway to the first cone of light, Hatcher sensed a presence next to him. It caused his skin to tingle and sent a slight jolt of electricity down his spine. Less than a yard away, he guessed, concealed in the blackness, either up against the wall or in a recess. He could feel the shifting warmth radiating from it as it moved silently, thought he could hear the low hiss of slow breathing. A feral, musky scent tickled his nostrils.
“Don’t look,” Callista said, her voice breaking the quiet. “And one more thing, as I’m sure Soliya told you, you’d better not be armed. They’ll know.”
“And just how would they manage that?”
“They read minds.”
Hatcher bit back a laugh, but her tone and the silence that followed told him she didn’t intend it as a joke.
“Still certain you don’t want that blindfold?”
“Yes.”
Callista stopped once she reached the first island of light. “You need to clear away any thoughts of aggression, right now.”
“I’m not sure there’d be anything left.”
“You’re not taking me seriously. If something happens to you, Soliya will not be pleased.”
“What do you want me to do? Think in French?”
“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. The Sedim you passed a moment ago let you go by only because her job is to block your route back, should there be trouble. I could feel her tensing, ready to attack. She’s reacting to your aggressiveness.”
“What the hell is a Sedim?”
Callista smiled and tipped her head as she pivoted on her heels and resumed leading him through the tunnel. Hatcher wasn’t certain what to make of what she’d just said. He had passed a living creature in the shadows, that much he didn’t doubt. Something large, standing upright—or almost upright. Probably a man. But the stuff about reading minds had to be nonsense. Complete bullshit. Yet the situation was too bizarre for him to simply dismiss things he normally wouldn’t give a second thought. Even more disconcerting, she was talking as if whatever it was wasn’t human but wasn’t an animal, either. And, according to her, there were more of them.
The darkness folded over him once again as he left the circle of light. Within a few feet, he felt it, a presence next to him, the brush of air as it moved, the pulse of a breath on his skin.
He kept walking. Something grazed the back of his neck and he flinched.
“They’re smelling you,” Callista said, her voice emanating from the blackness in front of him. “It’s the testosterone. You’re very virile, if hopelessly stubborn. It intrigues them.”
Hatcher said nothing. Callista emerged from the dark into the circle of light ahead. He joined her a few seconds later, a sense of relief spreading through his gut. Whatever it was playing hide-and-seek in the shadows, it was managing to give him the creeps.
“You’d think ten grand would get you an actual hallway to walk down,” he said.
“You complain an awful lot for a Sagittarian. Keep moving.”
The dark engulfed her again as she moved ahead. Hatcher took a few steps, stopped. He backed up into the light again. Callista’s silhouetted head, bobbing with each step, froze.
“What is it?” she asked.
Hatcher didn’t speak. He took in his surroundings, keeping his line of sight low just in case she’d been serious about not making eye contact.
Callista walked back toward him, pausing at the edge of the light. “You may as well tell me.”
He realized the other one had addressed him by name, which was curious, but could have come from Deborah. But this one knew something else.
“How do you all know who I am? What my sign is?”
“I could say I guessed, but that wouldn’t work, would it? Of course we all know about you, Mr. Hatcher. Word travels fast down here.”
“You’re not taking me to see Deborah, I gather.”
“No.”
He gestured into the distance with his chin. “This isn’t where you take paying clients, is it?”
“You’re just now figuring this out?”
“Then where, exactly, are you taking me?”
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Hatcher. I’m taking you to the actual PI. Not some pale facsimile. Pleasure Incarnate itself. A place you’ll never forget. For the rest of your life.”
The possibility, however remote, of putting an end to this and getting out of there flashed across Hatcher’s mind, multiple overlapping scenarios of him dispatching Callista if she tried to interfere, knocking her out or breaking her neck or dragging her with him as protection, and it seemed no sooner had the thoughts appeared than two creatures lunged into the light. Each let out low, rumbling growls, hissing and snarling like wild beasts. Callista jumped forward between them and held a hand out to each side, blocking their path.
The first thing Hatcher noticed were the heads, which were too small for the necks but sat on jaws far too large for their skulls. Each creature was the size of a short, stocky man, with leathery gray skin, and long, muscular limbs. And breasts.
There was something batlike about their faces, small eyes set close together above sharp teeth. This was too much. Giant, muscular bats with tits.
They both growled, swaying. Straining at an unseen leash.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Callista said. “You’re thinking perhaps it’s best to take your chances now, see if you can fight your way out before things get worse. That would be quite foolish.”
Hatcher looked at one of the Sedim. It started to spring forward as soon as he met its eyes. Callista’s hand caught its shoulder, stopping it.
Hatcher focused on the woman, trying to control his heart rate. Every crisis involved an enemy, be it man, beast, or nature. Whatever these bizarre animals were, the rules still applied. And the first rule when confronting hostile forces was do not panic.
“Coming this far wasn’t what I’d call the height of wisdom,” he said, keeping his composure.
“Admit it, Mr. Hatcher. You’re curious. You’ve never met women like us, never been so stimulated. Part of you is dying to know what lies ahead.”
He glanced past her down the dark tunnel, keeping an indirect eye on the creatures. “It’s the dying part that’s throwing a wet blanket on the whole thing.”
“But you’re not afraid of dying, are you? It’s failure that scares you.”
“If failure was what scared me, I’d walk around one petrified son of a bitch.”
“Not failure by other people’s standards. Failure to accomplish whatever specific task you set out to do. It’s your nature.” She gestured with an impatient flick of her head. “Come. Do as I say. Time is wasting.”
Hatcher took a breath, but didn’t move. He tried to study them—what she called the Sedim—from the edge of his vision. Why do they react to eye contact?
He mulled over what she’d said earlier. They read minds.
That begged the question. So why do they react to eye contact?
An answer was there, dancing in front of him. He could almost catch a glimpse of it.
“Mr. Hatcher, please.”
Hatcher nodded, straightened himself. He stepped forward, passing cautiously between the two creatures as they moved slightly farther apart.
He was almost clear of them when he was certain. There was no room for error, but none for hesitation, either. He spun, throwing his foot out and catching the Sedim to his right across the side of the head with a heel kick.
The other creature leaped. Hatcher threw the hardest right he could, timing it like an inside fastball, and caught the thing flush on the jaw. It dropped to the ground.
Just as Hatcher had expected, the first creature, the one he had passed earlier, loped toward him, emerging from the darkness. Hatcher feinted to his right, leaning into the move, selling it with everything he could, committing to it, visualizing himself going that way. Then he planted his foot and cut left. The Sedim took one extra step before stopping, giving Hatcher an opening. He swung his fists down against its back, pushing the creature past him, and started to sprint.
He got ten feet before the other two were on him. Talons raked his skin. A hard, corded arm locked around his neck as he fell onto his forearms and his face smacked the ground. Snarls and grunts and hot breath pounded his ears. His throat was constricted, making it impossible to gasp at the sting of teeth digging like knives into his back. He swung an elbow, felt it connect. The teeth let go, then latched on again. He kicked and thrashed, feeling consciousness start to loosen and slip away as the arm tightened even more.
“Enough.”
The word was immediately followed by some guttural commands, barked in a language Hatcher didn’t understand. The back of his head bounced off the ground before he realized he had been released. He coughed and rolled onto his knees, rubbing at his neck, feeling the blood start to resume flow to his head.
That same voice, a woman’s voice, spoke again. He realized it did not belong to his escort, and that he’d heard it before.
“At the risk of sounding like a cliché, you are either very brave or very stupid, Mr. Hatcher.”
Hatcher swallowed, cleared his throat several times. “I’ve found the two tend to go hand in hand.”
“It takes a wise man to realize that, so that gives me hope you are simply brave. That would be good, because the last thing I need right now is for you to be stupid.”
Still massaging his throat, he turned his body toward the voice and got one foot beneath him to stand. He stopped as he saw Soliya step into the light.
Even in the bland, bleaching light shining down from the bulb above her, she had hair the color of a wheat field in a brilliant sunset, flowing in layers over her shoulders. The blue of her eyes reminded him of the ocean in space photos. She wore black boots and a black dress that formed two long triangles from her waist that traveled over each breast and met at a point behind her neck.
Her expression was completely neutral.
“Leave us, Callista.”
Hatcher’s escort glanced behind the other woman, as if spying something in the shadows, then looked at him and smiled. “I do hope we get to spend some more time together,” she said, before turning and letting the darkness swallow her.
“Callista has never been known for her taste in men.” The woman regarded Hatcher with a clinical gaze, like he was on a slide in a microscope. “You are confused. But your presence among us is no accident. I brought you down here for a reason.”
“I came to find Deborah St. James.” He coughed several times. “I have no idea who you even are.”
“That is because you don’t understand with whom or what you have become involved. Would it mean anything to you if I said I was a Carnate?”
“Before I could answer that, I’d need to know what the hell a Carnate was.”
“Interesting choice of words. I do not wish to waste any more time, Mr. Hatcher. Come with me.”
“And what if I don’t want to?”
“I would tell you in that case I shall let the Sedim finish what they started, but I suspect that would simply harden your resolve. Please, Mr. Hatcher. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
“If I go with you, will you take me to see Deborah?”
“I cannot do that, Mr. Hatcher.”
“You wouldn’t be going through all this trouble if you didn’t need something from me. How about a show of good faith. Maybe proof that Deborah’s alive.”
“Your ignorance is astonishing. I would have thought someone with your . . . experience would be less easily manipulated. But as for a show of good faith, I anticipated a request of that sort.”
Soliya stepped aside and gave a subtle gesture with her hand. A slight looking figure emerged from the darkness into the cone of light. At first, Hatcher thought it was a young girl, tall, but thin and prepubescent, sporting a head of lank black hair in a Prince Valiant cut. Then he realized it was a boy. Or male, at least, with shriveled genitals and soft, feminine features. The girlish boy was naked and pale. His skin seemed to give off a cobalt blue glow.
“I believe there’s someone you’ve been wanting to speak with,” Soliya said.
Hatcher looked at the frail figure, started to say something, but cut the words off as he saw the boy’s skin shift beneath the aura, like a rubber sheath stretched tightly over a squirming body. Something pressed outward, a face, a chest and arms, straining against a film of liquid elasticity. A completely different visage was almost pressing through. Completely different, but almost as familiar as a reflection.
“Jacob Hatcher . . .” Soliya nodded vaguely toward the puerile body next to her. “Say hello to your brother, Garrett. He’s traveled an awfully long way to be here. It’s not like Hell is right around the corner.”
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