Flying, page 17
part #5 of Girl With Broken Wings Series
I scan the basement and am pleased with the unfinished, concrete floors and general emptiness of the room. That will give us enough space to maneuver. A few boxes sit in one corner next to three clothing racks filled with dresses, sweaters, and jackets.
Don’t let your guard down, I think. We still face many risks during the interrogation.
“There,” I say, nodding toward a weight-bearing column in the middle of the room.
Gabe looks at it critically. “Should hold her,” he agrees and places the chair in front of it.
“Bring in the toolkit,” I say.
“Coming.” A note of excitement alights in Rain’s voice, and I remind myself that his presence was necessary to identify Abigail Peterson in the first place. I’ll simply have to be even more vigilant to ensure his inexperience doesn’t put us at greater risk.
I prop the angel in the chair. Her body is loose, falling forward into my arms as I try to sit her up. I ignore the warmth of her skin, the fruity scent of her shampoo as her long, brown hair brushes my arm.
“Pull her arms back,” I tell Gabe.
Footsteps clamor down the stairs behind us. “When will she wake up?” Rain asks. He sets down the small black bag I prepared for this mission, the empty blue backpack, and finally the big roll of tarp. I check and confirm that he’s wearing a pair of gloves. Rain unzips the black bag and pulls out a handful of plastic ties.
Maya can break out of four, but Abigail is a full angel. “Put eight on her wrists and 15 around her ankles,” I say, and Gabe nods. As he works, cinching her wrists together around the pillar, I lift up the chair while Rain spreads the tarp beneath.
“How long?” Rain asks.
“We need to prepare her first,” I tell him.
“What does that mean?”
“Means you stay out of the way and let us do our thing,” Gabe snaps at him.
Rain is quiet as Gabe continues cinching the angel’s wrists. I take out a roll of duct tape from the black bag and wrap it around her mouth and eyes, pressing down her thick waves of hair. Next, I take out Gabe’s iPod and put the buds in her ears.
The angel’s head hangs forward, and I watch the sideways cross dull in the shadows on her chest.
“She’s…” Rain doesn’t finish the thought, but I know what he was going to say. Pretty.
“She’s the enemy,” Gabe snaps back, but I know this unnerves him too. How small she is. How young.
He’s holding up well. Better than I expected. Focused. Alert. Unstable, though. His nerves are frayed, his temper short. I need to watch him carefully, and if we find out that Maya is dead… Then Gabe will break. I have to be ready for that.
Gabe steps back, and I think through all the arrangements I’ve made. Can the angel possibly get out? What will happen if she unleashes her powers? How strong can the tremors get?
“Did you feel anything when we first breached the house?” I ask Rain. He was at least 20 yards from the epicenter.
He turns his gaze away from the angel. “Like what?”
“Shaking, vibrations.”
“Like an earthquake? No.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Is that what she does? Earthquakes?”
“It was localized,” I say to Gabe. “That’s good. I think I can control her ability, but if I can’t, she shouldn’t be able to create too much damage.”
I study our prisoner and very carefully pack all of my emotions away. Each one into its own steel box. I push those boxes far, far back into the darkness. I know what this interrogation will cost me.
“Both of you, upstairs,” I say to Gabe and Rain.
“No,” Rain says, crossing his arms.
“I’m going to have to hurt her,” I tell him.
His face is uneasy, but he doesn’t move. “I can take it.”
I take a breath and remind myself that he is still new. Soft. “Just because you can endure something, doesn’t mean you should,” I tell him. “This isn’t about proving yourself. It’s about…” I struggle to find the right words, “…about protecting yourself from the darkness when you can.”
“I’m gonna do it,” Gabe says. “I won’t have to torture her.”
My first impulse is to instantly dismiss this notion, but then I consider him, the intense expression on his face. His gaze doesn’t flinch away from mine.
“I can talk to her,” he says. “If that doesn’t work, then you can do….your thing.”
I don’t want to put this burden on my brother, not on top of everything else, but I understand what he’s asking of me. He needs this, needs to be the one to find Maya.
“Okay,” I tell him, “but if that doesn’t work…”
He nods, though I already know he won’t let me step in and do the hard part. The part that eats away at the soul. The memories that never, ever go away.
It’s time for the angel to wake up. I pull a blue handkerchief from the backpack and place three drops of peppermint oil on the fabric. I hold it up to her nose. After a few seconds, her head moves slowly. Danielle taught me this, how the best way to de-fang an angel is to overload one or more of their senses, throw their precise neural networks into confusion. I keep the handkerchief in place. The angel’s arms move, and then her head rises up. I hear a soft moan from beneath the tape on her mouth.
I know when she really starts waking up, because her arms tense and she pulls against her restraints. Then she knows. Her entire body goes rigid, and she throws herself forward, almost falling out of the chair. The room quakes around us. I reach for the iPod in her lap, turn it on, and press the volume all the way up. I pick Gabe’s “Fun” list, hit play, and hear strands of bluegrass banjo leaking from the ear buds. The vibrations become haphazard, and then the room settles.
“Turn it off,” Gabe says.
I nod and comply.
Gabe comes near to the angel. “Abigail, I’m very sorry for all this. I know that you must be very scared right now. That’s understandable.” His voice is gentle and low. “You want to know who we are, what we want, and what we plan on doing to you. I’m going to answer all of those questions, okay? Can you nod if you understand?”
Abigail’s chest heaves up and down. Finally, her head jerks forward in a little nod.
“Okay, it sucks not being able to see, right? I’m going to fix that, so you and I can have a conversation.”
“Don’t,” I tell him. She may be able to zone in her abilities, vibrate a certain spot or a certain person. The angel’s head turns to me. I know she can feel all three of us in the room.
“That’s my brother,” Gabe says. “We’re just going to ignore him while I get this tape off your eyes. Is that okay? Nod again if that’s okay.”
A long pause. The tape sucks in over her mouth as she struggles to gasp for breath. I watch the muscles in her arms tighten as she pulls against her bindings. Finally, she nods. Gabe gives me a hard stare. I stay quiet, but I do take my Glock out of my holster. If she tries anything, I’ll end it. We can’t lose the little we have left.
Gabe leans over the angel and carefully puts the blade of his pocketknife between her skin and the duct tape around her eyes. Her entire body tenses, and the room begins shaking again.
“I need you to stop that,” Gabe says. He’s so close to her. Too close. “…or we’re going to turn on the music again, and we’ll make the volume even higher. Not so pleasant for those with super hearing. We’ve got all day long here. We know that no one will come looking for you.”
This is a hedge. She’s widowed. An only child. Her mother lives in a different state. Still, she could have friends, a boyfriend, a neighbor who likes to stop by. But Gabe says it so confidently that her shoulders sag. The room stops shaking.
“Thank you,” Gabe says and then leans over her again and cuts the tape. He peels it away from her eyes and cuts it off at her temple so he won’t have to yank it out of her hair. Tears trickle out of her big brown eyes. She turns her head, sees me, my weapon, and the room begins to shake again. One of the boxes in the corner topples over with a crunch.
“Abigail,” Gabe says, never increasing the volume of his voice. “I need you to look at me. Not him. Don’t mind him. This conversation is just you and me.”
Slowly her head turns back to Gabe. I can hear muted sobs against the tape. Wetness glistens around her flaring nostrils. I glance back to Rain to make sure he’s holding up. His face is tight, his breathing elevated, but he’s steady on his feet. Broadcasting too much discomfort and vulnerability, though. Something to work on.
“You’re wondering if I’m going to try to bargain with you; give you a way to save your life,” Gabe says. He looks right into the angel’s eyes, and his face is raw. “Abigail, I’m going to make you two promises. The first is that I will never lie to you. I’ll never give you false hope or say that I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her breath hitches.
“…but I really, really hope that I won’t have to. I think you already know who we are. You’ve heard of The Vigils, right?”
The way the sobs come faster and harder from beneath the tape answers his question. Vigils is the word the angels devised for us. I consider it fitting and valuable for the fear it causes in their population.
“Then you know that we’ve been doing this a long time, and that we’re very good at what we do” Gabe continues. He stands a respectful distance away from the angel, but still close. “We’ve prepared for this, and we know your power, so you can’t escape. Okay? I need you to nod to tell me you understand.”
She stares at him, tears free flowing. No nod.
Gabe shrugs and smiles a little. “Okay, fair enough. If you think you can escape, go ahead. Try. You can try to shake me to pieces, but my brother will just blast Metallica into your ears until they bleed, and if you somehow snap through all your bindings, one of us will shoot you.”
The angel stares at Gabe, but then her eyes flick to me and then to Rain. They linger on him. I look back. He’s starting to shake. I’m concerned that his aura might be a distraction.
“Rain, go upstairs and watch the front door,” Gabe says just before I suggest the same thing.
“But…” Rain starts. Gabe gives him a look. Reluctantly, he turns and walks up the stairs, shoulders hunched.
Gabe focuses back on our captive. “My name is Gabe. That’s my real name, by the way. You’ve also seen my face, and the faces of my associates. You know what that means.”
The angel leans her head back against the beam and squeezes her eyes shut.
“The first promise I made to you was that I wouldn’t lie,” Gabe says. “The second promise is that you will die tonight. I need you to understand that and accept it. No matter if you tell me exactly what I want to know or hold out until the bitter end, you’re still going to die.”
I watch the tears slide down the woman’s cheeks, gather at the edges of the tape around her mouth and then slide down and tremble on her jaw. I remind myself that the Totem Watchers who put her on Rain’s list tie her to at least six murders in neighboring towns, mostly in low income neighborhoods.
“I know it’s hard,” Gabe is saying. “Just take a moment and let that sink in.”
Gabe steps away and takes a deep breath. His face is dark in the shadows. I stay quiet, focused on the angel, waiting for any type of movement, any indication that she is going to start up her ability. I pull in deep, even breaths and exhale slowly, keeping my heart rate steady. Any excess of emotion will distract her.
Gabe returns. “So Abby, I’ve answered the first two major questions that you had. You know who I am and what I plan to do to you. Now I’m going to tell you why I’m here. That necklace you’re wearing tells me that you follow a man named Warren. That you believe the end times are coming.”
Gabe crouches down in front of the angel, just out of range if she tried to kick him with her bound feet. “Well, you see, War took my sister from me. He has her right now, and he’s probably hurting her, because that’s what War does. I know that you don’t have any siblings, but you’ve loved somebody in your life.” Gabe pauses and holds the angel’s gaze. “Your husband died two years ago. Well, it’ll be two years next week, right?”
The angel doesn’t answer, and Gabe continues. “That must have been devastating. I’ve lost people before too. It creates this…this hole that nothing can ever fill again, you know? This emptiness.” Gabe runs a hand through his hair. I remember him staring at his phone while the hours passed slowly this afternoon, his thumb scrolling down, down, down the Facebook page of Abigail Peterson.
“I bet you would do anything. Anything to bring Mark back, wouldn’t you?” Gabe asks.
Abigail brings her head forward. She nods. Just a tiny head movement, but I understand the magnitude of the gesture – how much Gabe has accomplished with his soft voice and honeyed words.
Gabe smiles. “Yeah, me too. So then you know, right? That I will do anything to get my sister back. Anything.” He enunciates the word clearly. “I really, really don’t want to hurt you, Abby, but I will if I have to, and I know a lot of ways to hurt a person. I’ve had to do it before. I need you to tell me everything you know about War and where he is so I can get my sister back. That’s why I’m here. When I get the information that I want, I’ll shoot you. It will be quick and you won’t feel a thing. This can be really easy and simple if you let it.”
The angel closes her eyes and her entire body shakes. Then she glances at me, pleading. She doesn’t realize that if I was in charge, I would have already been turning every nerve fiber against her, using pressure points to flood her with so much pain she would tell me everything she knows.
“Tarren, why don’t you go upstairs and keep Rain company?” Gabe says. “Abby and I will be fine down here.”
I shake my head. Gabe is too reckless. Too emotional. Maybe she’s holding back. Waiting for him to be alone.
“That wasn’t a request.” Finally Gabe’s voice grows deeper, meaner. I meet his gaze, and I can almost read his thoughts. Let me do this my way.
I hate it – letting him put himself at risk – but it’s what he needs. And maybe this will help, especially if we don’t get to Maya in time.
I review the situation over again in my mind, running a mental check of the angel’s restraints and all the precautions we’ve put into place. As long as Gabe remains wary of her ability, he should be safe. Should. Such a messy, worrying word.
I pick up the empty blue backpack and walk up the stairs. In the living room, Rain sits on the couch staring out of the window, gun held in his lap. Clothing fibers all over the couch, I think. What has he touched?
He jumps up at my appearance. “Yeah?”
“Gabe’s still working her,” I tell him. “Don’t sit on the couch. Someone looking in could see you from the window.”
His expression tightens, but he follows my lead, standing at an angle that gives us a good view of the driveway and lawn without being seen. “Keep watch,” I tell him.
I methodically move through the first level of the house, dumping out drawers and shifting furniture. I climb the stairs, carefully stepping over fallen pictures that the angel’s tremors shook from the walls. I shouldn’t look down, but when I do, I see the angel with her arms wrapped around a muscled man. His short cropped hair and squared shoulders give him a strong military bearing. Abigail Peterson looks happy. Free. I suppose this is what love looks like. I step around another picture. In this one, she wears a slim, shining wedding gown covered in dew-drop beads. Her husband kisses her delicately, his strong hands possessively clasping her waist. Tilted on the final step, the husband glares out of the photograph in his Marines uniform, all that love for Abigail hidden behind duty.
The angel’s bedroom is uncomfortably disordered. It grates on me, all these possessions left strewn about without a proper place. I wonder if her husband, so polished and tidy from boot camp, hated her messiness. I make my way through the room, stepping over her socks and bras and jeans on the floor. I grab handfuls of her jewelry and stuff them into my bulging knapsack. The scent of the angel’s fruity shampoo clings to the air in the bathroom, as I open the medicine cabinet and sweep all the pill bottles into my bag. A long, brown hair sits on the edge of the sink, which is filled haphazardly with her lipsticks and makeup. Propped on a pillow on the unmade bed is a Bible, its golden embossed lettering glowing in the last fingers of the evening light.
The door to the walk-in closet hangs partially open, and clutter greets me when I enter. Her clothes sprawl on the floor and hang limply on hangers choking the left bar. On the right side of the closet, her husband’s clothes hang, neat and color-ordered like a refuge from the careless chaos of the rest of the room. The straight line of his shoes peek out through the piles of the angel’s blouses on the floor. Two years next month Gabe said. So few boxes in the basement.
The other room upstairs is an office, and it must have been the husband’s, because it is clean and dusty. Books on historical battles stand in neat cubbies of the desk every spine turned the same way, and one wall is covered by a large map of Iraq.
I am tempted to leave the office untouched. I want to, but that wouldn’t fit the profile I’m creating. I dismiss the touch of regret I feel as I pull down the books, push over the lamp, toss the cushions of the couch in the corner, and open all the drawers in the filing cabinet. In the top drawer, I find a locked gun case. I heft it, making sure the gun is inside – that the angel doesn’t have it secured on her somewhere, though I patted her down – before tossing it into my knapsack.
Downstairs once again, I hook her purse over my shoulder and grab her keys from the floor as Rain watches silently. I reach for her cell phone when tremors rattle through the floor and up the walls. The cell phone slides across the counter.
“What the—“ Rain begins.
I’m already turning toward the basement, carefully planting my first step toward the door, when I hear the report of the shot. Even with the silencer attached, it’s still a crisp, ringing sound from the basement below. The tremors cut out immediately. Rain tenses and stares at the basement door, but Gabe will clean up the scene before he comes up.
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