“Probably want to save me for dinner.”
None of them thought that was very funny. Tough audience.
Turning, Deckert led me through the first floor of the house, which was tastefully decorated with antiques that probably cost more than my whole Precinct’s annual budget. When we got to the front door, he paused.
“Vadim was adamant about keeping my guys from harming you. Seemed to think it would be bad for our health if anything happened to you. Any thoughts as to why that would be?”
I could see that Deckert didn’t like mysteries, particularly those that posed a threat to his men. I just shrugged, not able to answer his question, although the image of Tatiana facing down the hulking Arkady came to mind.
“I helped the black haired one last night. Tatiana. Maybe she told him not to hurt me.”
“She doesn’t talk,” he said, frowning.
“She did last night.” I said, staring right back.
Our little stare down went for about ten seconds before he finally sighed.
“Gordon, you’re leaving me with nothing to tell Ms. Demidova,” he said mildly.
“Well I’m sure she’ll track me down if she is interested, but you could tell her that I have to help a kid with a problem. Of the demonic type,” I replied and then trotted down the steps and out into the warm October day.
The encounter with the Helbourne had left me drained. I’m not sure what my power is or where it comes from, but sometimes I use up a lot of it. Getting away from Demidova’s house was the first step in recharging before tonight’s house cleansing party. My stomach was demanding attention again so I stopped at an Italian deli and got a Pannini sandwich, cup of pasta fagioli and an ice-cold diet Pepsi. I eat a lot, but my metabolism seemed a little overboard even for me. The deli had a few tables and chairs outside and I decided to sit and indulge two of my favorite past times, eating and people watching. My life is hunting, work, working out and hunting. There is a certain satisfaction in helping people with unholy problems, but that has worn thin over time. It would be appropriate to consider the tapestry of my life to be woven from chain mail. Hard and unyielding, protective and coldly pragmatic. But I really wished to have some cotton and wool interwoven with the steel links to soften the feel and warm my soul. Family, friends, relationships and emotional bonds all seem normal and commonplace, unless you don’t have them. I had Gramps, five hundred miles away. Other than him, I had no one. I liked music, to listen to and try to play on my guitar; I liked reading; I loved New York’s museums (mostly of science and natural history), and bad sci fi movies are fun. At home I had the woods, a place where very few Hellbourne ever go, not because they can’t but because they thrive on the despair and agony of people. The woods are relatively empty of people and are therefore a wasteland for the demon kind. So to try to fill the empty spots in my chainmail tapestry, I like to watch people. Couples, families, joggers, kids on bikes, gangs, street performers, bums, the old, the young and the busy. All fascinating, all potential stories that I could imagine and try to understand. High school had been hell, but it had taught me to go relatively unnoticed and I was able to observe fairly discreetly. It isn’t much of a hobby, but it keeps the dark clouds that hang over my life at bay. A little.
As I ate my sandwich, I watched a young couple with a toddler, feeding, wiping, playing, holding, reassuring, chasing and protecting, all within twenty minutes.
It was intriguing and a little scary. Facing Hellbourne was often terrifying, but ultimately if I screwed up, only I felt the pain. Raising children meant much wider consequences for others. All your actions, both good and bad, would impact another’s life, even after your own was over. I admired the couple’s bravery.
I was finishing my soup when I noticed a couple of girls walking a dog and automatically watched them. Attractive, fashionably dressed, requisite toy dog on leash – a fairly common sight in Brooklyn. Chatting away as they walked, their gazes passed right over me without pause. I wondered if it was my lack of expensive clothes or other signs of social status that regulated me to the “ignore” bin. Almost as effective as a Hellbourne’s cloak. Most likely just not putting out the right signals. It’s another aspect of people watching: assigning motives, personalities, observing social behaviors. I had noted over the years that men were invariably drawn to looks and women to status. The two material girls had almost passed me, when the little dog caught my scent, me – God’s gift to dogs. It was one of those little ones, possibly a Pomeranian or Shiatsu (or is that a massage?). Gramps calls them ‘kicking dogs’, as he sees no earthly use for them. I’ll admit to being partial to a more robust canine, but little dogs are still dogs when you get through all the manicured fur, bows and bling bling collars. This little thing just bee lined for me, pulling the rhinestone encrusted leash right out of the blonde’s hand. Both girls whirled, panic stricken, only to find Fluffy or Pierre’ or whatever its name was, swarming around my legs in a wiggly happy dance. Catching the leash in my hand, I patted the little beast until the girls arrived in breathless drama to reclaim him(her).
“Oh, Brutus, you naughty dog. Come back here to mommy,” the blonde baby-talked. Brutus? What the hell was she thinking? There were squirrels in the park that weighed more than Brutus did.
“Thanks for grabbing him, he usually doesn’t like men at all. How odd?” she continued. I just nodded and handed her the leash with a smile. Her friend, a brunette, stood back a few feet, giving me a reappraisal to see if maybe something may have been missed that might suddenly make me more interesting. Like a fancy watch or platinum card; or maybe a brokerage account statement showing millions on deposit. Actually, I had one of those, back in the apartment, for the trust fund that was created from my parents’ estate, but it wasn’t evident here. Their eyes darted over my build with some interest, but alas no other signs of potential worthiness were apparent. So, after a lot of thank you’s, smiles and with a few looks back they continued on their way, picking up their chatter without pause. My lunch over, I jogged home, careful to avoid women with dogs.
Chapter 4
I keep a large cardboard box under my futon, which holds my supply of fetishes. A doglike wolf caught my eye. He looked like something that would appeal to a little girl. Peter had emailed more information regarding the case tonight.
The problems began about a month ago, with strange noises, then progressed to objects moving, foul odors and apparitions. The final straw was the appearance of claw marks on the couple’s seven-year-old daughter, Libi.
The wolf/dog was carved from tan hued soapstone with little flecks of red. Twisted plant fiber of some type held a feather and a miniature turquoise arrowhead to its back. A small pointed stick protruding from between its hind legs announced it was a boy wolf. I placed it in the pocket of my coat and pushed the box back under the futon.
The day had been warm, but the weatherman was calling for a cold front to sweep in during the evening and it would get cold and windy. I layered an Under Armour turtleneck with a thick NYPD hoodie and cargo pants. Hiking boots over wool socks and my heavy canvas Carhartt jacket finished my preparations.
The address was in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood of single- family homes. The house that needed cleansing was white with green shutters and a black door. A dark blue van was parked in front, white letters NYPRT printed on its side. I ignored the van and looked the house over. The house looked back. Yup, I was getting a definite vibe from it. There was an additional feeling of being watched from somewhere else in the neighborhood, but it didn’t feel unfriendly like the house did, so I ignored it. The sound of the van’s door opening brought me around to find Peter striding toward me.