Chas: Where do you want to meet?
Angeclass="underline" Here at The Blackhouse, Chas. Where you came for your group therapy session. Do you still have the LM?
Chas: Yes.
Angeclass="underline" Well, TP over. I’ll be waiting for you in the main hall.
Chas stared at the dialogue box and felt tension tighten across his chest. She was going to kill him. What other reason could she have for luring him there? She’d failed to do it as Twist. Now the gloves were off. No more pretending. It would be crazy to go, he knew that. But he needed proof of some kind, some way of implicating his therapist — his extherapist — in the whole Goddamned mess. And at least he still had the element of surprise on his side. She had no reason to suspect that he knew about the Smitts and Mathews connection, or that she had killed Janey.
He went into his Inventory and attached all his weapons HUDS, so that he had an array of defensive and attacking firepower just a click away. He drew a deep breath, opened up his Landmarks folder, and double-clicked on The Blackhouse.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was dark when he landed on the stretch of beach opposite The Blackhouse. The empty sandy wastes all around shimmered silver under the moonlight, and the big, square block of The Blackhouse itself stood out against a starry sky. Even from here he could see that there were lights inside, the flickering flames of dozens of torches lining the interior walls throwing dancing shadows out of huge windows into the night.
Chas waded through the water channel that separated him from the neighbouring parcel and approached the huge metal doors of The Blackhouse with caution. The red eyes of the carved devil heads glowed in the dark and seemed to be fixed upon him as he got nearer.
Just inside, the same pool of blood lay shimmering on the floor, shockingly vivid in the flitting half light of the torches, the same bloody claw marks leading off into darkness. He hesitated here. The last time he had come, they had watched him from the inside. Some concealed camera, perhaps. The devil eyes that held him in their gaze, transmitting his image to the hidden eyes within.
He knew that those eyes would be watching him now, aware of his approach. There was still time for him to TP away. Still time to log out of SL and go to the police, tell them what he knew, place himself at the mercy of the California justice system, and ask for police protection from the mob. But somehow the thought failed to inspire him with confidence. He needed to face Angel down, to force a confrontation himself. To get to the truth and survive to tell it.
He turned up the volume on his laptop, anxious to hear the least sound that might betray another presence, and advanced into the corridor that led around the side of the building to the main arena. It got darker here. And up ahead, where the passage curved away out of sight, he could see only the faintest of feeble flickering. But as he moved forward, the air became filled with the crackling of flames, which got louder as he passed successive torches, and he was guided by their light, finally, to the vast floorspace of the main hall, which opened up before him. He saw the stage on the far side, where he had sat for his group session. Moonlight fell in through all the windows and lay in silver slabs across the floor. The blood spill in the centre of the arena glimmered in the dead light of the moon, vapour rising from it like smoke. And there, with the mist swirling around her feet, blood on the floor reflecting on her pale witch’s face, stood Angel, multiple shadows cavorting about her like demented ghosts. She held her oxblood book of spells in the crook of her arm, as before, and wore the same long, purple gown, its plunging neckline divided by her opal pendant. She wore a curious half-smile on her face, red lips almost black in this strange light, and her eyes burned in the glow of the torches.
Angeclass="underline" Hello, Chas. I’m so glad you could make it.
Chas: What is it you wanted to speak about, Angel?
Angeclass="underline" Well, I didn’t want to talk in open chat, or even in IM. Nothing much seems very secure in SL these days. Too many people writing spy software, creating gadgets to follow an AV and record his conversation. Too many ways of being observed without knowing it. And most of the poor souls who inhabit this wonderful virtual world of ours haven’t the least idea of what is really going on. They’re all too busy shopping or having sex. And what a waste of an extraordinary technology that is.
She took several steps toward him, and he felt himself flinch, almost involuntarily.
Angeclass="underline" I wanted this communication to take place between just you and me, Chas. I didn’t want any chance of it being overheard. So I’ve prepared a notecard.
The offer of a notecard from Angel Catchpole appeared. He accepted it, and the notecard opened up. He looked at it for several seconds in some consternation. It was entitled A Sorry Tale and was completely blank.
Chas: I don’t understand.
Angeclass="underline" What’s not to understand, Chas? Read it.
Chas: It’s blank, Angel.
Angeclass="underline" Nonsense. I’m looking at a copy of it right here.
A beep on his radar alerted Chas to another presence. He saw the name Dark Daley appear on his list.
Dark: I’m afraid he’s right, Angel.
They both turned to see Dark descending the stairs from the upper level. He was, as before, bare-chested, his nipple ring glinting in the reflected moonlight. He wore black jeans and studded biker boots. His shock of brown hair seemed darker than Chas remembered it, shot through now with silver.
Angeclass="underline" What are you doing here, Dark? You don’t have an appointment.
Dark: I didn’t think I’d need an appointment, Doctor Catchpole. I thought you might be interested, finally, to hear about my deepest, darkest fantasies. That’s why I erased your little notecard. I can’t let you go sharing too much with strangers.
Angeclass="underline" What are you talking about, Dark? How could you do that?
Dark: It’s easy when you know how, my little Angel. Easy, too, to kill when you get a taste for it. A simple transition from fantasy to reality. The act played out in the imagination to the act carried out in fact.
Chas was caught off-guard by the speed with which the Super Gun appeared in Dark’s hand, his arm extended straight ahead of him, his head tipped slightly to one side, one eye closed to line up his target — Chas.
Dark: Just like this.
He swivelled through ninety degrees and fired three times. Each shot blew a ragged hole in Angel’s AV. Chas felt something strike him, and his own AV staggered back. He glanced down to see blood and fragments of AV flesh on his shirt and pants.
Angel stood for a moment in what seemed like shocked disbelief. Most of her chest and stomach were gone. And then she simply folded up, almost dissolving in a bloody pile on the floor, her book of spells still clutched in the crook of her arm.
An IM flashed up in Chas’ dialogue box.
Doobie: Okay, Chas, I’m free now. TP me.
Chas awoke, startled, from his shock.
Chas: Doobie, I was wrong. It’s not Angel. It’s one of her patients. Dark Daley. He’s just killed her.
Doobie: Jesus, Chas! Where are you? Get out of there, wherever you are!
Dark turned toward Chas, his mouth stretched open in grotesque facsimile of a smile.
Dark: Never could stand the bitch. Too fucking smug by half. And you, my friend, know way too much for your own good. Or mine.