Offspring Page 7

  Janet was among the last to leave the motel. Looking around to make sure she wasn't being observed, she stooped and quickly retrieved the matchbook. Perhaps it was nothing, then again...

  She stuffed the matches into her coat pocket and made for her car, a two-door Honda Civic that had long since seen better days. Her ex had taken the Lexus in the divorce, just like he had taken damn near everything else, leaving her to wonder why she had ever bothered retaining a lawyer. If you could call that drunken leech a lawyer.

  With a practiced effort, she pushed Frank and his pregnant teenaged bride to the back of her mind. She had a story to write.

  From across the highway, a well-dressed man watched the scene at the motel from beneath a faded roadside billboard. As the ambulance left the parking lot, the man smiled, and walked north along the shoulder of the road, the hard soles of his wing tips clicking on the asphalt. Another bastard-child destroyed, another step toward fulfilling my end of the bargain. I'm beginning to enjoy this game.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lexington, Kentucky

  Janet lay sprawled across the sofa, sipping at a Diet Coke and Chivas, smoking a Virginia Slim, and skimming through a stack of bills. She wrote out a check for nearly a third of her monthly salary, and stuffed it into a preaddressed envelope along with the statement. As she sealed the envelope, Janet muttered a prayer that the check wouldn't hit the bank for a couple of days. It was all a matter of timing. The nursing home demanded payment by the third of each month, and the newspaper paid out on the fifth. Janet grimaced when she thought of all the insufficient check charges she had accrued over the past year. Not that it mattered. Her mother was more than worth every dime.

  It was nearly midnight when Janet finished arranging her monthly budget and turned her attention to the homicide at the motel. She poured herself a fresh two-finger shot and pulled the matchbook from her shirt pocket. The same matchbook Kelly had recovered from the scene of the grisly murder, and later dropped outside, at Janet's feet.

  Absently, she flipped it between her fingers. It was an advertising matchbook from a motel over in Knoxville, blue bird motor court. Nothing extraordinary about it except for the handwriting on the back cover: Room 36, Route 10. She tossed the matches onto the coffee table and took another sip of the Coke and Chivas.

  Her visions of an AP wire piece had gone down in flames earlier that afternoon. Her idiot-for-an-editor refused to give the story more than a couple of column inches and no byline. "Overly melodramatic. Not enough hard information," he said. He had told her in no uncertain terms that if she wanted that byline, he'd need a follow-up, "And it better be sensational!"

  Janet sighed and grumbled, " 'Sensational' he says. Like finding a horribly mutilated, unidentified body in a local roadside motel isn't sensational enough."

  She blew out a long, lazy smoke ring, then crushed the life from the cigarette in a Michelob beer cap lying on the coffee table. She looked around the living room and sighed. The apartment was a wreck, as her sisters so often pointed out, but Janet was well-armed with a litany of excuses: "Professional women never have time to clean house" or "the apartment isn't really filthy. I just prefer the comfortable 'lived-in' look."

  The simple truth was that she just didn't care anymore. While Janet loved the newspaper business, she hated this apartment, hated this town, and hated her life. She wanted out and yesterday wasn't soon enough. It didn't matter where she went, as long it was some place where the biggest news of the year didn't revolve around the University of Louisville's basketball team. Only her obligation to her mother had kept her firmly rooted in place.

  It had been difficult to admit, almost impossible, but doctors finally convinced her that her mother was little more than a vegetable, with little or no chance for recovery. The stroke had been too severe. Medical expenses were piling up, but Janet was determined to meet them somehow. Moving to a larger, better-paying market would solve a lot of problems but sadly, neither the Chicago Tribune nor the Times had discovered her writing genius. Or her resume, for that matter.

  Janet looked at the matchbook again. Something told her that this story could be her ticket out. This wasn't just another "drugged-up wacko hacks up family member" kind of crime. Something far more sinister was at work here. "Overly melodramatic, my ass," she muttered angrily.

  Too excited to sleep and too tired to think, Janet dragged herself from the sofa and dug through the clutter on the coffee table, looking for her second closest friend. She found it hiding beneath an unpaid stack of bills and junk mail. Janet aimed the remote at the television, and then ran through the channels until she located CNN. She dropped back onto the sofa, and was reaching for another cigarette when the top story caption caught her attention and threatened to take her breath away. Turning up the volume, she stared in shock at the screen.

  "... body, mutilated beyond recognition, and investigators are checking passenger lists to determine the identity of the victim. Other passengers aboard Flight One-nineteen from Atlanta claim to have seen or heard nothing unusual during the one hour and forty-seven minute flight. There was no identification on the deceased and CNN has learned that the only other items recovered at the scene are thought to be remnants of burnt clothing. Investigators are puzzled by the fact there was no other evidence of fire aboard the plane.

  "Sources close to the case have told CNN that local authorities, the Transportation Security Administration, and the Federal Aviation Administration are consulting with state forensics experts and the FBI, for help in determining the exact time and cause of death.

  "Again, if you missed our headline, the mutilated remains of what is believed to have been an adult Hispanic male, were found early this afternoon in the restroom of Delta Flight One-nineteen at McGhee Tyson National Airport, in Knoxville. Local law enforcement and federal authorities are treating this incident as a homicide, and are currently working to identify the victim. A TSA spokesperson speaking on condition of anonymity states that there is no indication the incident is the work of terrorists. CNN will keep you informed of developments throughout the night.

  "In other news, the FBI is expanding its task force in order to address the escalating wave of missing children reports from across the nation...."

  Janet turned down the volume and tossed the remote onto a nearby chair. Shifting through the pile of clutter on the coffee table, she located her cell phone and dialed the number to the paper's night editor.

  A second later, a sleepy voice greeted her. "Chronicle night desk. Isom speaking."

  "Don, this is Janet. I need you to do me a favor."

  A heavy sigh came from the other end. "Janet, if you're asking for another deadline extension..."

  "No, no... nothing like that. I need you to drop a message on the old man's desk for me. You know he never checks his voice mail."

  Isom chuckled and Janet thought he sounded relieved. "If that's all you need, sure. What's the message?"

  She thought for a moment before answering. She didn't want to reveal too much of her plan.

  "Tell him... tell him I have to visit a sick relative in Knoxville. I'll be in touch within a couple of days."

  She had Isom repeat the message to make sure he had it right, then thanked him.

  As she was about to end the call, Isom yelled, "Wait! Don't hang up! I have a message for you from Little Boss Hog."

  Despite being in a hurry, Janet giggled at the nickname given to Ronald Kelly by the Chronicle staff.

  "Okay, Don. Shoot."

  She could hear Isom rifling through a thick stack of messages. "It's here somewhere," he muttered. "Yeah. It's right here. This came in about an hour ago. Kelly says to tell you the morgue doc found bits of the rosary embedded in the stiff's skin." Janet thought about that for a second, nodding silently That meant that the rosary really was evidence.

  "Thanks, Donnie. Is there anything else?" There was a slight pause, then, "Oh, yeah... he also says that the beads aren't plastic, they're made of glass. He sai
d you would understand."

  Stunned, Janet ended the call and sat down on the edge of her bed. What in the hell happened to that guy? What could pull a man's head from his shoulders or melt glass without burning down an entire building?

  CHAPTER 12

  Illinois State Line

  Paul Young felt the rear wheel of the motorcycle slide several inches before gaining traction on the slick asphalt. He tried to relax, telling himself that it was no big deal. Anyone would have similar trouble navigating the Harley over the mid-January ice that covered much of southern Illinois. He told himself that, but he really didn't believe it.

  His friends all had great fun at the notion of Paul buying the motorcycle for his last birthday. Even Rita got in on the ribbing, threatening to purchase additional life insurance policy on him. He was now thinking that perhaps his wife was pretty damned smart.

  Twice in the past hour, the bike had hit patches of black ice and it was all that he could do to keep it upright. Now that the sun was setting, melted slush was refreezing and the asphalt was becoming even more treacherous. To make matters worse, he was losing the feeling in his fingers and feet. A blistering wind cut through his top-of-the-line riding leathers like the proverbial tornado through a screen door. He decided that it was time to find a motel for the night, have a hot shower to thaw out, and then enjoy a decent meal. Paul was certain that his road-weary, thirty-six-year-old body would thank him for it in the morning.

  A few minutes later, the single headlight of the Harley illuminated a battered road sign that indicated the Asheville exit was only a mile ahead. Paul decided that Asheville sounded like a damn pleasant place to be. He'd find a room for the night and resume his journey at the crack of dawn.

  If all went according to plan, he would be well into

  Kentucky by midmorning tomorrow, provided, of course, that he could walk upon waking. Until today, his longest bike trip had been from the Harley dealership to his home; a whopping two and a half miles, according to the roadster's chromed odometer. The midwinter ride into Tennessee would take a toll on him to be sure, but he knew he would manage to finish the trip. Although Paul had no idea what to expect once he arrived in Abbotsville, Tennessee, there was no doubt in his mind that he would reach his destination.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Paul was standing in the nondescript lobby of the Best Value Motel, shaking like an old man with palsy. It certainly wasn't the Marriott, but he was too cold to really care. And, there was an adjacent twenty-four-hour restaurant.

  He filled out the registration card and handed it, along with his credit card, to the round-faced young man behind the counter. The clerk swiped the card through the machine, then gave Paul a receipt and a card key. Paul thanked the young man and started for his room, anxiously anticipating a long, hot shower. As he reached the door, the clerk called out, "Hey, Mr. Young? I just realized that we have a package for you."

  Puzzled, Paul said, "That's odd. No one knows I'm here, or that I'm even taking this route." The clerk looked at the envelope in his hand, and then checked the registration card. "Well, that may be, but it says right here on the envelope, 'Mr. Paul Young, Eleven-fifteen Royal Coachway, Chicago.' That's you, isn't it? I mean, if it isn't, I'll just shit-can it."

  Paul moved back to the counter and examined the thin manila envelope bearing his name and address. He immediately noticed the absence of any postage.

  "Yeah, that's me, all right. Who dropped this off?"

  The young man shrugged and said, "It's been here for a couple of days now. I wasn't here when it came in."

  Paul thanked the young man and walked outside with the envelope. He started to open it, then hesitated. Paul was anxious to learn the contents, but he was also afraid. He decided that whatever it was, it could wait until he'd had a chance to thaw out.

  Paul unlocked the door and stepped into his room. He flipped on the lights and discovered that his expectations were dead on the money. He hadn't expected much from a "$16.95 a night" roadside motel, and that's exactly what he got; not much. Still, it had a small color television, secured to the wall by a short length of thick chain, a regular-sized bed and, hopefully, some hot water. Laying the envelope aside for the moment, he quickly stripped out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. He turned the hot knob all the way to the left.

  Fifteen minutes later, Paul quickly toweled off and dressed in fresh clothing. As he laced his Doc Martens, he glanced at the envelope. Maybe it's from Rita.

  No matter how hard he tried to stay focused on the task at hand, memories of her constantly pushed to the fore. Married straight out of high school, they had managed to hang on despite all the hardships that accompany teenage marriages, and would celebrate twelve years together in July. Provided, of course, that they were still married in July. He admitted that the odds weren't in his favor.

  God, what will I do without her?

  They had made a good life for themselves and until recently, when the nightmares suddenly and inexplicably appeared, their marriage had been nearly idyllic. It was an old worn cliché, perhaps, but in this case, she truly was his better half.

  Could it be that Rita had somehow learned of his intentions and anticipated that he would stop here on the way south? He had to admit that while it was a possibility, the odds against such a thing were astronomical.

  Perhaps, he thought, it would be best if he tossed the damn note in the nearest trash bin and forgot it. He had no idea what kind of situation he might be riding into and needed no distractions. But what if there was some sort of emergency back in Chicago and she needed him? Rita wasn't very strong, and for almost twelve years he had always been there for her. He couldn't bear the thought of her being in some sort of trouble while he was off on some wild-goose chase. It was settled then. He would look at the contents. But first he needed some hot food into his cold system. Humph. Anything to postpone opening that damn envelope. Coward.

  Paul stopped by the desk and informed the surly clerk that he would be away from his room for a while, and that should he receive any calls, to please take a message. He didn't really expect anyone to contact him here, but the surprise arrival of the envelope was enough to make him take added precautions against missing future messages.

  Surprisingly, the motel restaurant was doing a brisk business and Paul waited a good five minutes for an available table.

  Finally, a matronly middle-aged woman wearing a pink waitress uniform led him to a recently vacated spot at the rear of the building. Paul thanked her and gingerly sat down at the table for two. He was already stiffening up from spending all day in the saddle and the wooden Mission-style chair quickly proved unaccommodating, its seat having all the cushioning of a marble slab. But his ravenous appetite took precedence over his sore butt.

  Paul ordered and was pleasantly surprised when his meal arrived a scant five minutes later. His pleasure quickly doubled when he discovered that the porterhouse was cooked to perfection. With uncharacteristic gusto, he assaulted the steak like it was something personal. Concentrating on the meal, Paul failed to notice the darkly clad figure that watched him through the frosted panes of the restaurant window.

  CHAPTER 13

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Theo leaned against a car parked along Willings Alley, tapping his foot in time to the Eucharistic Liturgy emanating from within Philadelphia's Old St. Joseph's Catholic Church. Standing to Theo's left, the powerful Azazeal glared at the historic building, hatred burning in his coal-black eyes. Cunning and cruel to an extreme, Azazeal was equally feared by the Host and his own Brethren. Theo had hand-picked the fallen Principality for that very reason.

  Acting on the Runner's orders, Theo was about to initiate a new offensive against the earthbound Host. Many of the Brethren were wary of taking the age-old enmity to a new level, especially now that Legion walked openly upon the plane of Man. Azazeal's participation in the attack would help quell dissent in the ranks. Few would openly court his legendary battle rage.

/>   "How much longer do we wait?" asked an impatient Azazeal. "I did not answer your summons to sit in the middle of a human shit-hole and listen to ritualistic hairless monkey music."

  Theo smiled. It wasn't boredom or disdain for the music that bothered Azazeal. It was the cause behind the chorus that seared his gut. The melody penetrated the hearts of men and angels alike, as easily as it did the building's walls. There was power in the music, and in the ritual. Power that prevented the Fallen from confronting their prey inside the church. The Brethren had long ago forfeited any right to set foot upon consecrated ground.

  "It won't be long now," said Theo. "He knows we're here, and he knows what we'll do if he doesn't come out to play."

  Azazeal brushed the snow from his hair and said, "And what makes you think he won't make a run for it, or reach for assistance?"

  Theo chuckled and said, "Run? Humph. They never run, and you know that. Besides, I've told him I would loose a dozen of my human Thralls at the very moment Mass dismissed. There are more than a thousand humans in that building. Can you imagine the carnage should they walk out of midnight Mass and straight into the waiting arms and teeth of my Thralls? Or worse, Legion?"

  "Legion, indeed!" scoffed Azazeal. "Not even you would invite a demon onto consecrated ground. I'm surprised he didn't call your bluff."

  "Perhaps he knows me better than you do, Azazeal. At least, he knows I do not bluff. I offered him a fair exchange, his appearance as surety for the humans. If he shows, I leave them unharmed... until another day. If he doesn't show... well, let's just say the City of Brotherly Love would never, ever be the same again. So he sacrifices himself. And that, my ill-tempered brother, is exactly the reason he won't reach for help. He won't drag another of the Host in harm's way, even if it means his life."

  Azazeal snorted and said, "So he simply gives himself up to die? Now, I ask you, how fucked-up can one Host be?"

  "Why, Azazeal! For a moment you sounded absolutely colloquial!" Theo's laugh was interrupted by a loud shout from the next intersection, "Theoneal! I'm here. Let us do this thing."