CHAPTER EIGHT

Detective Francis assigned two men to guard Christine York’s home. Parked behind their police car was a Cablevision van.

Jericho and Chicago were inside the van on their own private stakeout. Chicago thought it unlikely anyone would try again, but Jericho had a feeling. And so far the Big Cat’s been right, Chicago thought, flipping through Time magazine. The cover story was headlined: “Signs of the Apocalypse.”

Jericho checked the empty street, then pulled out the book he’d taken from Christine’s home. It was a leather-bound history of medieval heraldry. The symbol embossed on its spine looked familiar.

Chicago was fascinated. “I didn’t think you knew where the library was, let alone have a card.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” Jericho said, studying the illustrations closely.

“I had a date tonight,” Chicago reminded. “Y’know, not the inflatable kind … a real one. Not that you’d care.”

Jericho didn’t look up from his book. “Hey, Bobby, remember your first blowjob?”

“Yeah,” Chicago said warily.

“How did it taste?”

“Fuck you.” Indignantly, Chicago went back to his magazine. Jericho noticed the headline and took it from his hand.

“Doesn’t seem right, that’s all,” Chicago ranted. “These people have more money than God, and we’re sitting here for free.”

Jericho scanned the apocalypse article, then returned the magazine to Chicago and began flipping through the book. He took it page by page, and within minutes he found it.

The illustration was an exact replica of the amulet Jericho had snatched from Christine’s attacker. Jericho took the amulet from his pocket and compared it to the crest pictured in the book. A perfect match.

Then he read what it represented. “Wait here,” he told Chicago. “I’ll be back.”

Mildly curious, Chicago watched Jericho mount the steps.

From the upstairs window, Mabel was watching as well. She was trying to reach Donald Abel, but his cell phone was dead. Despite the fact that he had saved Christine’s precious life, Mabel didn’t like Jericho. And she especially didn’t like him calling on Christine.

On the other hand, when Christine saw Jericho at the door she felt an unexpected rush of excitement.

She opened the door a crack. “Change your mind about the pill?”

“I found something.”

Christine studied his sculpted, unsmiling expression. He seemed serious. She stepped back and opened the door.

Mabel anxiously called down to her. “Christine, what are you doing?” she demanded. “Why is that man here?”

“Just a few minutes, Mabel,” Christine called back in a calm, slightly bored tone, as if this happened often. She gave Jericho an apologetic smile. “She loves me to death, but she’s a little overprotective.”

“Parents should be,” Jericho said, knowing Mabel was monitoring every word.

From the van, Chicago watched Jericho go inside, then went back to his magazine. He didn’t notice the shadowy figure at the end of the street.

*   *   *

Mabel stood listening as Christine led Jericho to the library. She moved down the stairs to get a better view.

“Look at this,” Jericho put the amulet on the library table. Christine plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and sat down. She picked up the amulet and studied the enameled red heart pierced by a silver sword.

“I took that from one of your attackers,” Jericho told her. “The one with the knife.”

“Did you show this to the police?”

He seemed amused by the idea. “If I did, it would just end up in a small plastic envelope, on some very big shelf.”

“That’s pretty cynical,” Christine countered, trying to save face. She didn’t like being treated like a naïve victim.

Jericho shrugged. “I’ve put a few envelopes on that shelf myself,” he confided. “I used to be a cop.” He opened the book and set it in front of her.

The illustration showed the pierced red heart worn by her attacker.

As Christine read the text, a cold, familiar dread drifted over her like a damp fog. Jericho’s voice over her shoulder was oddly reassuring.

“This amulet is from an obscure Masonic order, and a former sub-herald of the Templar Knights of St. John,” he explained. “Very secret, very zealous…”

Outside in the darkened hallway Mabel crept closer, senses sizzling with anxiety and recognition. He was close … very close.

*   *   *

The shadowy figure moved swiftly down the street. Chicago was too absorbed in Time magazine to notice. From time to time he would glance at Christine York’s house, but he was satisfied the area was secure.

One of the cops in the squad car was asleep, the other was eating a hero. However lax the security, the green-eyed man knew he couldn’t approach Christine York’s home without being stopped.

It’s a damned inconvenience, the man reflected. He stepped back into the shadows and unzipped his fly. Moments later a widening stream of foul-smelling liquid began snaking across the narrow street.

*   *   *

“This secret order awaits the return of the Dark Angel to earth,” Jericho told Christine. He reached over her shoulder to point out a line of text.

Christine picked up a knife and cut into her apple. “Are you saying that the guys who attacked me are devil worshippers?”

Jericho smiled. “Actually this book says they’re the good guys,” he corrected. “They’re the ones who are supposed to stop the devil worshippers.”

Christine paused. “They’re the good guys?”

He nodded.

She cut a large slice of apple and brought it to her mouth. “So what’s that have to do with me?”

Jericho stiffened, gaping at her with wide-eyed revulsion.

Christine’s apple was full of worms. With blurred quickness he grabbed Christine’s wrist. When she saw the wriggling mass, Christine screamed and dropped the apple.

They stared in disbelieving horror as the worms twisted into writhing bodies, faces contorted with agony. As if the apple came from the garden of hell.

*   *   *

The man zipped his fly and watched the gushing liquid spread across the street and settle into pools beneath the police car and van.

Inside the Cablevison van, Chicago was trying to stay alert. He put the magazine aside and took a deep breath.

He almost gagged at the foul stench.

Across the street the green-eyed man casually put a cigarette to his mouth. The tip ignited spontaneously.

The man took a long, deep puff, then dropped the burning cigarette into the liquid. It erupted like gasoline, sending trails of blue flame racing across the street.

Chicago opened the van and looked down. There was a puddle of putrid liquid beneath the van, as if a family of skunks had made a pit stop.

Then the van became an inferno.

*   *   *

Jericho stared numbly at the apple on the floor. He hesitated, then picked it up. Christine sank to her knees.

“Oh, fuck,” she groaned. “I’m sorry, I … I have a medical condition. Sometimes I see things that aren’t there. It’s a bitch on first dates.”

“I saw it, too.”

Christine slowly lifted her head, as if not daring to believe what she heard.

Jericho nodded, and sliced the apple open to make sure.

“I’ve been having visions ever since I can remember,” Christine confided. “I’ve never shared one before.”

She makes it sound like our wedding night, Jericho thought. He kept slicing the apple. Nothing. “There’s an explanation,” he assured her.

“I hope so, because I’ve been waiting all my life to hear it.”

Before he could answer, a massive blast shook the house as both the squad car and cable van exploded, hurling flaming shards high in the air. The library window imploded and a rush of heat sucked the air from the room.

Jericho stumbled to the window. The police car and van were roaring heaps of flame. There was no sign of survivors. “Oh God…” Jericho mumbled.

He had no time to mourn. A man walked through the wall of fire. Although familiar, Jericho couldn’t quite place him. But his instincts knew instantly.

“Get back,” Jericho cried as the window burst into flames. He pulled Christine to the door and saw Mabel in the shadows. She blocked their path, face fixed in a frenzied grimace.

“The house is on fire,” Christine said urgently. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Mabel shook her head. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“We don’t have time to discuss this.” Jericho grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her along.

Mabel’s heavy forearm smacked his ribs. Jericho staggered back, surprised by her strength.

“Mabel?” Christine yelled as the flames covered the wall like fast-blooming flowers.

Eyes feverish, Mabel gripped her arm. “After all these years of waiting, your dreams are finally about to come true.”

“My dreams?” Christine protested, struggling to free herself.

“You can’t run away now. Not after a lifetime of waiting…”

Terrified by Mabel’s psychotic ranting, Christine fought back her tears. “Stop it. Stop it!”

“Get off her!” Jericho roared, as the room began filling with smoke. His fingers clamped hard on Mabel’s wrist and he twisted. Mabel snarled and clawed at his face. In that chaotic instant Mabel’s fingers seemed like slashing talons.

Christine broke free, but as Jericho reeled back, Mabel picked up a large bureau and hurled it at him. Mabel reached out for Christine’s hand.

“Sweetie, don’t leave me now,” she whimpered, pleading with Christine. “Wasn’t I a mother to you? Didn’t I give you everything? Don’t you love me?”

Jericho grabbed Mabel’s arm with both hands. As if swatting a fly, she swung her free hand and smacked the side of his skull. Ears ringing, Jericho stumbled to the floor. He couldn’t believe the woman had just decked him.

It got worse. With frightening power the woman gripped Jericho’s throat and squeezed. At the same time she lifted him against the hot wall, crushing his neck.

Frantically Christine jumped between them, but Mabel’s forearm sent her to the floor. The brief diversion gave Jericho the chance to wrench free and he wrestled Mabel to the floor. With raging desperation Jericho grasped her flailing arms and heaved. Mabel hit a glass coffee table, and it shattered.

Jericho leaped to his feet, but Mabel remained where she lay, impaled on bloody shards of glass. She screamed and writhed, trying vainly to free herself.

“Oh God!” Christine moaned. “Oh God! Mabel, Mabel!”

With one hand Mabel grabbed Christine’s shirt and pulled her down until they were eye-to-eye. “It’s your birthright!” she hissed fervently.

Jericho broke her hold and dragged Christine to the hall. The house was filling with smoke and the intense heat made it hard to breathe. They went to the stairway. The bottom floor was a churning sea of flames.

Suddenly a man emerged from the fiery whirlpool below and began climbing the stairs.

Jericho felt Christine go limp. With a dazed, ecstatic smile, she slowly moved toward the stranger as if under a spell.

“Christine,” the man called, his voice smooth and commanding.

“Christine!” Jericho yelled hoarsely. He took a long look at the man coming up the stairs and his belly turned over. It was his client—the banker. The man Thomas Aquinas tried to kill. Christine seemed to know him intimately. Eyes glazed and lips parted seductively, she glided down the stairs.

Jericho yanked her back. It broke the spell. Christine shook her head as if recovering from a blow. “No, no,” she whispered backing up the stairs.

The man kept coming, green eyes blazing intently.

“Get me out of here,” she pleaded.

Jericho took her hand and pulled her to the rear stairs that led to the roof.

When the man reached the landing, they were gone. Mabel stumbled to the man’s side, glass still imbedded in her bloody dress. Despite the pain, her eyes were glazed with adoration. And fear.

She reached out to touch him, but the man moved away, his face twisted with contempt. Her face blanched and a cold realization washed over her limbs.

“Please…” she rasped hoarsely. “I served you—only you!”

He shook his head sadly. “You had one simple job. All you had to do was keep her for me … and you couldn’t do that.”

She stood transfixed as his hand reached out. His touch was all she imagined it would be—and much more. Tenderly, sensually, the man caressed her face. A sexual ripple spread across her body as his fingers traced her ear, then moved down her neck.

Mabel was still enraptured when the man crushed her throat with one enraged squeeze, killing her instantly.

*   *   *

Jericho used the same escape route taken by Christine’s attacker. Except he didn’t leap to the next roof. He used the fire escape going down the rear of the house.

Christine was still shaky, so he half carried her down the iron stairway. When they reached the ladder, Jericho hoisted her over his shoulder, climbed down, and lowered her to the ground. He dropped beside her, scanning the alley.

In the glow of the street fire, Jericho spotted Detective Francis and a uniformed cop walking toward them. Relieved, Jericho stood up and waved.

“Marge! Over here. We need some help.”

As they neared, he recognized the cop as the hospital guard for Thomas Aquinas. Both of them had their guns drawn. And they weren’t smiling.

Jericho lifted his hands. “Hey, easy with the hardware,” he said calmly.

Without warning they both fired pointblank. Bullets smacked the brick walls as Jericho dove, pulling Christine behind a Dumpster.

“Jesus, Marge!” Jericho shouted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Marge’s voice was calm and reasonable. Like a negotiator talking down a jumper. “It’s okay, Jer. We just want the girl.”

Jericho eyed Christine suspiciously. She shook her head, confused. “Okay…” Jericho whispered. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She shrank back against the Dumpster. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you.” He regarded her for a moment, eyes like blue ice. Then he stood up. “Okay,” he called. “I’m coming out.”

“Don’t leave me here,” Christine sobbed.

“Hands on your head!” the hospital guard called.

Jericho stepped out from behind the Dumpster and clasped his hands on his head.

“What do you want with her, Marge? Why is she so important?” he shouted as the hospital guard approached.

Detective Francis raised her gun. “Just the girl…” she told the guard. “You can kill him.”

“Jericho!” Christine screamed.

A staccato burst of gunfire roared through the narrow alley. The strobing flashes spitting from Jericho’s guns lit his savage scowl as he traded shots with Marge and the guard.

Suddenly it was quiet. Christine peered over the Dumpster and saw Jericho standing with a smoking Glock in each hand. The uniformed cop was facedown on the ground, and Detective Francis lay on her side, a surprised expression on her face.

They’re both dead, Jericho realized, the horror spilling through his belly like rancid oil. I’ve just killed two police officers.