Immortal City

CHAPTER TWELVE

Up ahead, Sylvester could see a throng of reporters on the sidewalk and spilling out into the street, lit by the bright lights of their camera crews. On the other side of the street a line of police officers corralled a crowd of tourists who were watching, videotaping, chattering. Overhead, news choppers circled, trying to get the best view of the scene.

The detective pulled up in his unmarked cruiser, looking out at the scene beyond his windshield. He drew a long breath, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his face. He wished he didn’t have to deal with the press. He wished he wasn’t back on Angel Boulevard for a second straight night.

And, most of all, he wished what was waiting for him underneath that white sheet wasn’t what he expected.

Blinking red and blue light reflected off the silent palm trees, the closed tourist shops, and the gleaming stars of the Angels. Police floodlights bathed the famous street in a harsh, menacing glow. He got out of the car.

Reporters clamored to him as he fought his way toward the tape. “Detective, can you confirm this is the second murder on the Walk of Angels in the same week?” one asked.

This sent a murmur through the crowd. “A second murder?”

Another reporter shouted, “Are the two murders related? More gang violence? And when are you going to release the names of the deceased?”

Sylvester raised his hands to the crowd, trying to calm them. Wind whipped against his coat as he cleared his throat.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that any homicide has taken place, and we are not releasing any information at this time. The incident from earlier in the week is still under investigation.” He waved off another explosion of questions and ducked under the tape, chewing on his lip.

Sergeant Garcia was waiting for him on the other side.

“Okay, what have we got, Bill?” He had to shout over the buzz of the choppers.

“What?” Garcia put his hand to his ear.

“I said, what have we got?” Sylvester shouted.

“Come take a look,” Garcia said.

He led Sylvester over to the sidewalk and its gleaming stars. Another white sheet was laid over the concrete. This time Sylvester crouched and lifted the sheet himself.

Another pair of Angel wings. Grisly and severed. Just as before, they were laid neatly one across the other, directly over an Angel Star. Sylvester listened to the drone of the choppers as it mixed with the roar of the crowd beyond the tape. He stared at the wings on the pavement in front of him and knew, without a doubt, the magnitude of what was happening. An Angel being mortalized and likely murdered was rare and extremely serious. But its happening twice, and in one week, was unprecedented. He lowered the sheet, removed his glasses, and polished them.

“Someone is cutting off their wings, sir.” Garcia’s voice had a hysterical edge. Sylvester nodded, his face grim.

“Sir? Someone is cutting off their wings—”

Sylvester placed a firm hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “I can see that, Bill. Any body?” Garcia shook his head.

Sylvester lifted the sheet again and read the blood-splattered name below the wings. “Ryan Templeton.”

“We contacted the Archangels. No one’s heard from him in a few days.”

“And this is the same spot as before?” Sylvester asked, looking around.

“Sir, look where you’re standing.”

Sylvester looked below his feet and read the name of the next Angel Star out loud.

“Theodore Godson.”

“And now Ryan Templeton,” Garcia said. “The very next star.”

“They’re being mortalized in the order of their stars,”

Sylvester said slowly. Wearily. He returned his glasses to his face.

The sky roared as another chopper passed close by overhead, its naked spotlight splashing over the scene.

Sylvester scowled up at the sky.

“Bill, would you please do me a favor and get those news choppers away from here?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Garcia said. He keyed his radio and began shouting orders.

Sylvester stood. His gaze drifted down the sidewalk and down the stars. He looked at the names and stars on the sidewalk, stars that extended as far as he could see. He imagined an endless body count.

Kneeling down, the detective examined the name of the Angel on the next star.

Garcia read his mind. “No contact with anyone since this afternoon. Could have taken a long trip up to Santa Barbara, turned off his cell to get some peace and quiet, or. .”

Sylvester cursed under his breath. “And this one?” He motioned to the space on the sidewalk where the next star was. It was blank. Workmen had roped it off, preparing to put a name on it.

“Still don’t know. One of this year’s Commissioning class. We’ve got calls in to the Angels on this one, but they’re not exactly being helpful.”

Crossing under the tape and through the crowds, Sylvester walked out into the middle of Angel Boulevard.

Away from the scene, it was quiet. Gusts of wind blew a few crumpled papers end-over-end down the street, while a homeless man pushed a shopping cart and hummed to himself. The detective took a look around. It was empty. Yet even at this hour a few straggling tourists still videotaped the sidewalk while shop owners packed up their displays.

Angel figurines, plastic wings, bumper stickers that read “I WAS SAVED IN ANGEL CITY.”

He heard Garcia shuffling up behind him. Sylvester continued staring down the street.

“What is it, Detective?” the sergeant asked.

“You don’t just kill an Angel out here with the whole world watching.” Sylvester pulled his keys out of his coat pocket. “Come on, Bill,” he said as he walked toward his car.

“We’re not at the murder scene.”

Sylvester’s unmarked cruiser turned onto Outpost Road and wound up into the Angel City Hills. The sky over the city was clear and dark, the stars winking in the night. Houses with driveways were quickly superseded by tall hedges obscuring Angel mansions set back from the road. “Always get lost on these roads up here,” Sylvester grumbled as he wound deeper into the private retreat of the Angels’ perfect lives.

When they arrived at Ryan Templeton’s sprawling modernist residence, which hung over the hill, two additional ACPD units were waiting. The officers seemed jittery.

Sylvester pulled into the narrow drive.

The house looked like someone had stacked enormous building blocks one on top of the other. Sylvester had never understood the attraction of this so-called style, but now that he was standing right below it, it did have a certain striking appeal. He walked to the front door flanked by two officers. They had their guns drawn. He motioned for quiet.

Calm.

He rang the call box. From deep inside the house, he could hear the bell. He looked at the video camera staring down at him from the eave. Silence. Nothing.

“Ryan!” He yelled through the door. He tried again, louder. Empty. He glanced over to the silver Mercedes McLaren in the narrow drive.

“Okay, let’s go,” Sylvester said.

Drawing a deep breath, the detective touched the doorknob and jumped back as if it had been a snake. The metal handle was scorching.

“Why’s it so hot?” he barked, shaking his hand. Carefully, he pushed his toe against the door. It swung open on the hinge, and a wave of stifling air rolled out. Sylvester drew his Beretta 92 FS and signaled wordlessly to the officers. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened house.

The heat was suffocating. It shimmered in the dark, like a reflection off a hot summer road. Sylvester and the officers moved swiftly and silently into the hallway. Flashlight beams danced in the dark. The walls were lined with framed magazine covers of the home’s owner. Ryan Templeton was a sturdy, handsome Angel with sleek hair and serious eyes.

The hall opened up into a large, unobstructed living area.

The architecture was clean and striking. Paintings. Designer furniture. Marble countertops. The windows looked out onto panoramic views of Angel City, downtown, and beyond. The officers fanned out to clear the rooms.

Sylvester moved passed the kitchen and through an open doorway to the right. He discovered a movie theater.

Plush leather chairs. Framed newspaper articles.

A dead end.

He backtracked toward the bedrooms. Rounding a wall, he discovered a pale blue glow filtering through the cracks of a door. Condensation formed on his glasses as he prodded the door with the toe of his shoe. He flipped the Beretta’s safety off and slipped inside.

The room was like a sauna, impossibly hot, the air dense with steam.

And something else. The room seemed to be filled with a kind of primal presence. An animal presence. Like fear itself.

At the center of the room, an indoor pool glowed blue-white. The water lapped lazily, sending shimmering reflections across the walls and roof. The windows were fogged.

His weapon leading him, Sylvester moved to the edge of the pool.

What remained of Ryan Templeton floated facedown in the water. Where his wings should have been remained only two bloody holes of shredded skin, surrounded by the remnants of his Immortal Marks. Sylvester placed a hand on the fogged window to steady himself. Garcia entered the room. Seeing the body in the pool, he stopped short.

“Oh my God.”

The two police officers stood there in silence.

“Rest of the house is clear. I’ll get forensics up here immediately,” Garcia said after a moment. Sylvester removed his glasses and polished the condensation off the lenses, still not speaking. Garcia couldn’t take his eyes off the sight of Templeton’s body as it floated in the cloud of bloodred water.

“I mean, an Angel serial killer?” Garcia said. “Is that even possible?”

Sylvester returned his glasses to his face and turned to the sergeant.

“Has to be. Only an Angel can kill an Angel,” Sylvester said. “And even that’s near impossible to do.”

Garcia holstered his weapon.

“But what Angel would want to kill another Angel?

They’ve got everything they could want,” Garcia said.

“From what I understand, there are some Angels in the upper ranks that aren’t too happy with some recent NAS decisions,” Sylvester said. “We need deep background investigations on Templeton and Godson. See if we can find a common thread besides their stars.”

Garcia’s eyes still fixed on the Angel’s gruesome remains. After a few moments the sergeant spoke. “What kind of beast does something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvester said, turning away. “Let’s get to work.”

The sergeant went out into the hall and began barking orders, his voice echoing through the house. Sylvester stood there motionless, thinking about what Garcia had said.

Especially that one particular word. He rolled it around on his tongue.

A beast.

The sergeant came back over and stood with him.

“Just came over the radio from the Ventura County police, Detective,” Garcia said. “They just arrested three Humanity Defense Front members, heading north from Angel City. They had weapons. Guns. Knives. Hate literature.”

“HDF?”

Garcia nodded.

Sylvester’s head swam.

“Something serious is going on here. Maybe more serious than any of us could imagine.” He stepped away from the window and looked at Angel City through the space his handprint had cleared in the condensation. “Right now anyone on that Walk of Angels is a potential target.”

“That’s nearly every Angel in the city.”

“I need to go talk to an old friend.” Sylvester’s face tightened. “No Angel in Angel City is safe tonight.”