“He’s a good liar, I’ll give him that,” Rixon said.
“You’re under arrest, Scott Parnell,” Detective Basso said, ducking Scott’s head as he directed him into the backseat of the patrol car. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
Scott kept his expression hostile, but beneath all the cuts and bruises, he seemed to pale. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said, only he was looking right at me. “If I go to jail, I’m like a rat in a cage. He’ll find me and kill me. The Black Hand will.” He sounded genuinely terrified, and I was torn between silently congratulating him on a well-delivered act … and thinking maybe he really had no idea what he was capable of as Nephilim. But how could he be branded into a Nephilim blood society and have no clue that he was immortal? How could the society have failed to mention that?
Scott didn’t move his eyes from mine. Adopting a pleading tone, he said, “This is it, Nora. If I leave here, I’m dead.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Detective Basso said, shutting the door hard.
He turned to me. “Think you could stay out of trouble the rest of He turned to me. “Think you could stay out of trouble the rest of the night?”
CHAPTER 20
I RAISED MY BEDROOM WINDOW AND SAT ON THE LEDGE, thinking. A refreshing breeze and a night chorus of insects kept me company. At the far end of the field, a light blinked on in one of the houses. It felt strangely reassuring to know I wasn’t the only person still awake at this hour.
After Detective Basso had driven away with Scott, Vee and Rixon had examined the lock on the front door.
“Whoa,” Vee had said, staring at the mangled door. “How did Scott get the deadbolt to bend like that? A blowtorch?” Rixon and I had merely looked at each other.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow and instal a new lock,” he’d said.
That had been over two hours ago, and Rixon and Vee were long gone, leaving me alone with my own thoughts. I didn’t want to think about Scott but found my mind straying there anyway.
Was he overreacting, or was I going to find out tomorrow that he’d been mysteriously roughed up while in police custody?
Either way, he wouldn’t die. A few bruises, maybe, but not death. I didn’t allow myself to think the Black Hand might take it further than that— if the Black Hand was even a threat. Scott wasn’t even sure the Black Hand knew he was in Coldwater.
Instead I told myself there was nothing I could do at this point.
Scott had broken into my house and pointed a knife at me. He was behind bars because of himself. He was locked up, and I was safe. The irony was, I wished I could be at the jail tonight. If Scott was bait for the Black Hand, I wanted to be there to face the Black Hand once and for all.
My concentration was dulled by the need for sleep, but I did my best to sort through the information I had. Scott was branded by the Black Hand, a Nephil. Rixon said Patch was the Black Hand, an angel. It almost seemed like I was looking for two different individuals sharing the same name….
The hour had stretched long past midnight, but I didn’t want to sleep. Not when it meant opening myself up to Patch, feeling his net close around me, seducing me with words and his silky touch, confusing me more than I already was. More than sleep, I wanted answers. I still hadn’t been to Patch’s apartment, and more than ever, I felt certain that was where the answers were.
I tugged on dark-wash matchstick jeans and a black fitted tee. Because the forecast called for rain, I opted for tennis shoes and my waterproof Windbreaker.
I took a taxi to the easternmost edge of Coldwater. The river shimmered like a wide black snake. The outline of factory chimneys beyond the river played tricks in the night, making me think of hulking monsters if I looked at them from the corner of my vision. When I’d walked to the five hundred block of the industrial district, I found two apartment buildings, both three stories high. I let myself into the lobby of the first building. All was quiet, and I assumed the tenants were tucked in their beds.
I checked the mailboxes in the back, but there was no listing for Cipriano. Not that Patch would be careless enough to leave his name behind, if he really was going to great lengths to keep his place off the radar. I climbed the stairs to the top. Apartments 3A, B, and C. No apartment 34. I jogged down the steps, walked a half block down, and tried the second building.
Behind the main doors sat a cramped lobby with scuffed tiles and a thin coat of paint barely masking red and black graffiti.
Just like the previous building, mailboxes stood in a line at the back. Near the front, the air conditioner rattled and buzzed while the door to an old cage elevator stood open like mesh jaws waiting to snap me up. I bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairs. The building had a lonely, derelict feel to it. A place where neighbors minded their own business. A place where nobody knew anyone else, and secrets were easy to keep.
The third floor was dead calm. I walked past apartments 31, 32, and 33. At the back of the hall I found apartment number 34.
I suddenly wondered what I was going to do if Patch was home.
At this point, I could only hope he wasn’t. I knocked, but there was no answer. I tried the door handle. To my surprise, it gave.
I peeked inside at darkness. I stood motionless, listening for movement.
I flipped on the light switch just inside the door, but either the lightbulbs had burned out or the electricity had been shut off.
Pulling the flashlight out of my jacket, I let myself in and shut the door.
The rancid smell of spoiled food overwhelmed me. I aimed the flashlight in the direction of the kitchen. A skil et with days-the flashlight in the direction of the kitchen. A skil et with days-old scrambled eggs and a partially full gallon of milk that had soured to the point of bloating sat on the counter. It wasn’t the kind of place I imagined Patch calling home, but this only proved there were many things I didn’t know about him.
I set my keys and handbag on the counter and pulled my shirt up over my nose in an attempt to block out the stench. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse. One antiquated TV with rabbit ears, probably black and white, and a ratty sofa in the living room. Both were out of view of the window, which had butcher paper taped across it.
Keeping the flashlight beam low, I made my way down the hall to the bathroom. It was stark, other than a beige shower curtain that had probably started out white, and a dingy hotel towel draped over the rod. No soap, no razor, no shaving cream. The linoleum floor was peeling back at the edges, and the medicine cabinet over the sink was empty.
I continued down the hall to the bedroom. I turned the knob and pushed the door inward. The stale smell of sweat and unwashed bed clung to the air. Since the lights were off, I figured it was safe to raise the blinds, and I forced the window open, allowing fresh air inside. A streetlight’s glow trickled in, casting a hazy gray around the room.
Dishes caked with dried food were stacked on the nightstand, and while the bed had sheets, they lacked the crisp look of freshly laundered linens. In fact, judging by the smell, they hadn’t seen laundry soap in months. A small desk with a computer monitor sat in the back corner. The actual computer was gone, and it occurred to me that Patch had taken great care not to leave any trace of himself behind.
I crouched in front of the desk, opening and closing drawers.
Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary: pencils, and a copy of the yellow Pages. I was about to close the door when a small black jewelry box taped to the underside of the desk caught my eye. I ran my hand under the desk, blindly peeling the box free from the tape holding it in place. I lifted the lid. Every hair on my body stood on end.
The box held six of the Black Hand’s rings.
At the far end of the hall, the front door creaked open.
I shot to my feet. Had Patch returned? I couldn’t let him find me. Not now, not when I’d just discovered the Black Hand’s rings in his apartment.
I looked around for somewhere to hide. The twin-size bed stood between me and the closet. If I tried to walk around the bed, I risked being seen from the doorway. If I climbed over the bed, I risked the bedsprings squeaking.
The front door closed with a soft click. Solid footsteps crossed the linoleum in the kitchen. Seeing no other choice, I boosted myself onto the windowsill, swung my legs out, and dropped as silently as possible onto the fire escape. I tried to pull the window shut behind me, but the sliders stuck, refusing to budge. I ducked all but my eyes below the window, keeping them trained inside the apartment.
A shadow appeared on the hall wall, stretching closer. I ducked out of sight.
I was scared that this was it—I was going to be caught I was scared that this was it—I was going to be caught—when the footsteps retreated. Less than a minute later, the front door opened, closed. An eerie silence once again settled over the apartment.
Slowly I brought myself back to standing. I stayed that way another minute, and when I was certain the apartment was in fact empty, I crawled back inside. Feeling suddenly conspicuous and vulnerable, I strode down the hall. I needed to go somewhere quiet, where I could sort through my thoughts.
What was I missing? Patch was clearly the Black Hand, but how did he play into the Nephilim blood society? What was his role?
What the hell was going on? I threw my handbag over my shoulder and headed for the exit.
I had my hand on the doorknob when a strange noise penetrated my thoughts. A clock. The soft, rhythmic tick of a clock. I frowned and turned back to the kitchen. The sound hadn’t been there when I came in—at least, I didn’t think it had.
Listening intently, I followed the muffled tick across the room. I crouched down in front of the cabinet below the kitchen sink.
With growing alarm, I opened the cabinet. Through all the panic and confusion, I made sense of the contraption sitting inches from my knees. Sticks of dynamite. Duct tape. White, blue, and yellow wires.
I stumbled to my feet and ran out the front door. My feet clattered down the stairs so fast I had to hold the handrail to keep from falling. At the bottom, I shoved my way out to the street and kept running. Flipping my head back once, I saw a snap of light an instant before fire erupted from the windows of the third floor of the building. Smoke Bill owed up in the night.
Debris of bricks and wood, glowing orange with heat, hailed down to the street.
The far-away sound of sirens ricocheted off the buildings, and I alternately speed-walked and ran to the next block, terrified of drawing attention, but too distraught not to flee the scene. When I rounded the corner, I broke into a wild sprint. I didn’t know where I was going. My pulse was all over the place, my thoughts reeling. If I’d stayed in the apartment another few minutes, I’d be dead.
A shuddering sob escaped me. My nose was running, my stomach cramping. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and tried to focus on the shapes jumping out of the darkness ahead: street signs, parked cars, the curb—the deceptive shimmer of lamplight on windows. In a matter of seconds, the world had turned into a confusing labyrinth; the truth there and not there, shifting out beneath my feet, vanishing when I tried to look it head-on.
Had someone tried to blow up evidence left in the apartment? Like the Black Hand’s rings? Was Patch responsible?