Angel, Page 7

Page 7

 

  No! With the greatest effort of his life, Alex tore his attention away from the angel’s eyes and focused on its halo instead. That’s the angel’s heart, his father always said. Go for the center. Alex’s hands were so unsteady, he could hardly take aim. The angel was shrieking in triumph, its terrible, awesome voice slicing through him. Its halo was the size of a saucer . . . now a dinner plate . . . now a . . .

  Alex shot. The world exploded into shards of light as the force from the fallout blew him backward, off his feet. He landed in the grass a dozen feet away and lay there stunned, the wind knocked out of him.

  “Man, if that wasn’t just about the messiest kill I ever did see,” observed a drawling voice. “I was about to shoot the damn thing myself. ” Suddenly there was a strong arm around his shoulders, helping him to his feet. Alex staggered and stared at Cully in confusion. He tried to speak, but the power seemed to have left him for the moment. His head was throbbing as if an anvil had been dropped onto it.

  “You’re going to feel terrible for a good week, probably,” said Cully conversationally, putting away his own gun. “Don’t believe in doing things speedily, do you? I thought you were waiting for the son of a bitch to fly into you. ”

  Alex laughed shakily. Now that it was over, he felt almost giddy with relief — and then his emotions swung to the other extreme, so that he had to clench his fists to keep from bursting into hysterical tears. Jesus. It had almost got him. It had really almost got him.

  Cully squeezed his shoulder. “You did good,” he said seriously, dropping the banter. “It’s tough when they see you. Stay here. I’m just gonna go check on our lady friend. ”

  He jogged toward the woman, stopping only to pick up Alex’s pistol and shove it in the back of his jeans first. Alex leaned weakly against a tree as their voices floated toward him.

  “You OK, ma’am? You look sort of peaked. ”

  “Oh . . . oh, I’m fine. You won’t believe me, but I’ve just seen the most — the most beautiful, amazing thing. . . . ”

  Alex closed his eyes. The angel was gone now; he had killed it — but the woman’s words chilled him, anyway. Yes, the most beautiful, amazing thing. She’d have a cherished memory now for the rest of her life, and at what cost? Insanity, perhaps? That happened a lot — schizophrenia taking her life over, until she was screaming back at the voices in her head. Or how about cancer? That was always a good one: the angel’s feeding touch causing the very cells inside of her to wither up and die. Or MS, so that she’d eventually lose the use of her limbs and end up in a wheelchair, until finally she died of it. Or Parkinson’s or AIDS or any other ailment you could think of — there was no telling with angel burn; the only certainty was that she’d been inexorably poisoned, and no matter what form the damage would take, the quality of her life would go firmly downhill from now on. And ironically, she would never see the connection between this and the angel. In fact, she’d probably think that the angel had been sent to help her in her time of need.

  Cully reappeared. “She’s on her way home, happy as a clam — for now, anyway. Come on,” he went on, dropping his hand on Alex’s arm. “Let’s go find your brother, so you can brag you got your first solo kill. Might even brag on you a little myself. ”

  “Why?” Alex asked raggedly. The words felt like sand in his throat. “I did everything wrong! I waited too long to shoot. I looked into its eyes. I —”

  His headache threatened to blind him as Cully lightly cuffed the back of his head. “None of that, boy,” he said. He draped an arm around Alex’s neck as they started walking back to the Jeep. “Didn’t I just tell you that it’s hard when they look at you? You did good. You did good. ”

  Now, five years later in Aspen, Alex stared out the window at the Rocky Mountains, seeing the dry, rugged hills of New Mexico instead. As it turned out, only a handful of angels had ever seen him again; it had just been sheer bad luck that it had happened his first time on his own. But it hadn’t mattered. He’d gotten over his nerves, and now he had brought down more angels than he could count — especially since he had long ago stopped bothering to keep track. There hadn’t seemed much point anymore once Jake was gone, taking with him the friendly competition between the two brothers.

  The thought winced through Alex before he could stop it. No. Don’t go there.

  “Here you are,” said the waitress, appearing with his breakfast. The plates clinked against the table as she set them down in front of him. She produced fork, knife, and spoon from her apron, and clattered those down as well. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “Thanks,” said Alex. She refilled his cup and bustled off, and he eyed the food tiredly, wondering why he had wanted so much. But he needed to eat for the fuel, if nothing else. He might get another text any minute, sending him off to God knows where. Or it could be as long as a week from now. A week full of long, pointless hours that he’d somehow have to fill — which usually meant boxy motel rooms and crap TV shows.

  Ignoring the happy families sitting all around him, Alex lifted his fork and began to eat.

  “HI — COME ON IN,” I said to Beth.

  It was Thursday afternoon after school, and she was standing on our front porch, looking around with wide eyes. My aunt Jo lives in an old Victorian house on the south side of Pawtucket, and she very, very kindly (as she keeps reminding us) allows Mom and me to live there with her — which is good, since Mom doesn’t have a job and couldn’t work, anyway. It’s a great old house, or at least it used to be, once upon a time. Now it’s sort of in need of a paint job. Not to mention all the little deer statues and windmills and tiny flying kites that Aunt Jo has in the front yard.

  Beth tore her gaze away from a gnome with a red hat. “It’s very . . . colorful,” she said weakly.

  I stood back to let her in. The inside of the house looks more normal, apart from the piles of clutter everywhere. Aunt Jo is a hoarder. She saves whatever she comes into contact with but can never find anything because it’s always buried under a foot of mess. So she ends up buying two or three or six of everything.

  Beth came in hesitantly, clutching her purse. She looked perfect as usual, in a pair of black pants and a turquoise top. Her dark honey hair was pulled back in a pony tail, making her brown eyes even larger. I glanced down at her shoes. Prada. Next to them, my purple Converse sneakers looked even more “colorful” than the front yard.

  As I shut the door, I could hear the TV going in the living room, where Mom and her caregiver were. Aunt Jo wasn’t home from work yet.

  “I usually give readings in the dining room,” I said, starting down the hallway. “It’s back here. ” Beth trailed after me, gazing silently at the kitten figurines and the bookcases stuffed full of Harlequin romances and floppy sad clowns, and the dozens of dusty decorative plates on the wall. Aunt Jo’s a collector as well as a hoarder. She practically keeps the Franklin Mint in business single-handedly. Seeing it all through Beth’s eyes, I suddenly realized that maybe the inside of the house wasn’t that normal after all.

  “Here,” I said, motioning for her to go into the dining room. It had two sets of French doors that you could close off, separating it from the rest of the house. I shut them while Beth gingerly took a seat at the dining table, looking as if she expected the chair to collapse under her.