Rapture: A Novel of The Fallen Angels Read online

  As he went into a free fall, he focused on the stars. Even reached a hand up to them.

  The fact that they just got farther and farther away seemed apt.

  Mels Carmichael was alone in the newsroom. Again.

  Nine o’clock at night and the Caldwell Courier Journal’s maze of cubicles was all office equipment, no people, tomorrow’s issue put to bed from a reporting standpoint, the printers now doing their work on the far side of the great wall behind her.

  As she leaned back in her chair, the hinges let out a squeak, and she turned the thing into an instrument, playing a happy little ditty she’d composed after too many nights like this. The title was “Going Nowhere Fast,” and she whistled the soprano part.

  “Still here, Carmichael?”

  Mels straightened up and crossed her arms over her chest. “Hey, Dick.”

  As her boss oiled his way into what little space she had, his overcoat was draped across his arm, and his tie was loose at his fleshy neck from yet another postgame wrap-up at Charlie’s.

  “Working late again?” His eyes went to the buttons down the front of her shirt, like he was hoping the whiskey he’d sucked back had given him telekinetic powers. “I gotta tell you, you’re too pretty for this. Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “You know me, all about the job.”

  “Well…I could give you something to work on.”

  Mels stared up at him, nice and steady. “Thanks, but I’m busy right now. Doing research on the prevalence of sexual harassment in previously male-dominated industries such as the airlines, sports…newspapers.”

  Dick frowned as if his ears hadn’t heard what they’d been hoping for. Which was nuts. Her response to this act had been the same since day one.

  Well over two years of shutting him down. God, had it been that long already?

  “It’s illuminating.” She reached forward and gave her mouse a push, clearing the screen saver. “Lots of statistics. Could be my first national story. Gender issues in postfeminist America are a hot topic—course, I could just put it on my blog. Maybe you’d give me a quote for it?”

  Dick shifted his raincoat around. “I didn’t assign that to you.”

  “I’m a self-starter.”

  His head lifted as if he were looking for someone else to harass. “I only read what I assign.”

  “You might find it valuable.”

  The guy went to loosen his tie like he needed some air, but surprise! It was already open. “You’re wasting your time, Carmichael. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As he walked off, he pulled on that Walter Cronkite raincoat of his, the one with the seventies lapels, and the belt that hung loose from loops like part of his intestine was not where it should be. He’d probably had the thing since the decade of Watergate, the work of Woodward and Bernstein inspiring his twenty-year-old self to his own paper chase…that had culminated at the top of a medium city’s masthead.

  Not a bad job at all. Just not a bureau chief for The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal.

  That seemed to bother him.

  So, yeah, it didn’t take a genius to ascribe his inappropriateness to the ennui of a balding former coxswain, the bitterness from a lifetime of not-quite-there intersecting with the almost-out-of-time of a man about to hump sixty.

  Then again, maybe he was just a prick.

  What she was clear on was that with a jawline more ham sandwich than Jon Hamm, the man had no objective reason to believe the answer to any woman’s problems was in his pants.

  As the double doors clamped shut behind him, she took a deep breath and entertained a fantasy that a Caldwell Transit Authority bus ran tire tracks up the back of that anachronistic coat. Thanks to budget cuts, though, the CTA didn’t run the Trade Street route after nine o’clock at night, and it was now…yup, seventeen minutes after the hour.

  Staring at her computer screen, she knew she probably should go home.

  Her self-starter article wasn’t actually on leering bosses who made female subordinates think fondly of public transportation as a murder weapon. It was on missing persons. The hundreds of missing persons in the city of Caldwell.

  Caldie, home of the twin bridges, was leading the nation in disappearances. Over the previous year, the city of some two million had had three times the number of reported cases in Manhattan’s five boroughs, and Chicago—combined. And the total for the last decade topped the entire Eastern seaboard’s figures. Stranger still, the sheer numbers weren’t the only issue: People weren’t just disappearing temporarily. These folks never came back and were never found. No bodies, no traces, and no relocation to other jurisdictions.

  Like they had been sucked into another world.

  After all her research, she had the sense that the horrific mass slaughter at a farmhouse the month before had something to do with the glut in get-gones…

  All those young men lined up in rows, torn apart.

  Preliminary data suggested that many of those identified had been reported missing at one point or another in their lives. A lot of them were juvie cases or had drug records. But none of that mattered to their families—nor should it.

  You didn’t have to be a saint in order to be a victim.

  The gruesome scene out in Caldwell’s rural edges had made the national news, with every station sending their best men into town, from Brian Williams to Anderson Cooper. The papers had done the same. And yet even with all the attention, and the pressure from politicians, and the exclamations from rightfully distraught communities, the real story had yet to emerge: The CPD was trying to tie the deaths to someone, anyone, but they’d come up with nothing—even though they were working on the case day and night.

  There had to be an answer. There was always an answer.

  And she was determined to find out the whys—for the victims’ sakes, and their families’.

  It was also time to distinguish herself. She’d come here at the age of twenty-seven, transferring out of Manhattan because it was expensive to live in NYC, and she hadn’t been getting anywhere fast enough at the New York Post. The plan had been to transplant for about six months, get some savings under her belt by living with her mother, and focus on the big boys: The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, maybe even a network reporting job at CNN.

  Not how things had worked out.

  Refocusing on her screen, she traced the columns she knew by heart, searching for the pattern she wasn’t seeing…ready to find the key that unlocked the door not just to the story, but her own life.

  Time was passing her by, and God knew she wasn’t immortal….

  When Mels left the newsroom around nine thirty, those lines of data reappeared every time she blinked, like a video game she’d played for too long.

  Her car, Josephine, was a twelve-year-old silver Honda Civic with nearly two hundred thousand miles on it—and Fi-Fi was used to waiting at night in the cold for her. Getting in, she started the sewing machine engine and took off, leaving a dead-end job. To go to her mother’s house. At the age of thirty.

  What a player. And she thought she was magically going to wake up tomorrow morning and be all Diane Sawyer without the hair spray?

  Taking Trade Street out of downtown, she left the office buildings behind, went past the clubs, and then hit the lock-your-doors stretch of abandoned walk-ups. On the far side of all those boarded-up windows, things got better when she entered the outskirts of residential world, home of the raised ranch and streets named after trees—

  “Shiiiiiiit!”

  Ripping the wheel to the right, she tried to avoid the man who lurched into the road, but it was too late. She nailed him square on, bouncing him up off the pavement with her front bumper so that he rolled over the hood and plowed right into the windshield, the safety glass shattering in a brilliant burst of light.

  Turned out that was just the first of three impacts.

  Airborne meant only one thing, and she had a terrifying impression of him hitting the pavement har
d. And then she had her own problems. Trajectory carried her off course, her car popping the curb, the brakes slowing her momentum, but not fast enough—and then not at all as her sedan was briefly airborne itself.

  The oak tree spotlit in her headlights caused her brain to do a split-second calculation: She was going to hit the goddamn thing, and it was going to hurt.

  The collision was part crunch, part thud, a dull sound that she didn’t pay a lot of attention to—she was too busy catching the air bag solidly in the face, her lack of a seat belt coming back to bite her on the ass. Or the puss, as the case was.

  Snapping forward and ricocheting back, powder from the SRS got into her eyes, nose, and lungs, stinging and making her choke. Then everything went quiet.

  In the aftermath, all she could do was stay where she’d ended up, much like poor, old Fi-Fi. Curled over the deflating air bag, she coughed weakly—

  Someone was whistling….

  No, it was the engine, releasing steam from something that should have been sealed.

  She turned her head carefully and looked out the driver’s-side window. The man was down in the middle of the street, lying so still, too still.

  “Oh…God—”

  The car radio flared to life, scratchy at first, then gaining electrical traction from whatever short had occurred. A song…what was it?

  From out of nowhere, light flared in the center of the road, illuminating the pile of rags that she knew to be a human being. Blinking, she wondered if this was the moment where she learned the answers about the afterlife.

  Not exactly the scoop she’d been looking for, but she’d take it—

  It wasn’t some kind of holy arrival. Just headlights—

  The sedan screeched to a halt and two people jumped out from the front, the man going to the victim, the woman jogging over to her. Mels’s Good Samaritan had to fight to wrench open the door, but after a couple of pulls, fresh air replaced the sharp, plasticky smell of the air bags.

  “Are you okay?”

  The woman was in her forties and looked rich, her hair done up in a thing on her head, her gold earrings flashing, her sleek, coordinated clothes not matching an accident scene in the slightest.

  She held up an iPhone. “I’ve called nine-one-one—no, no, don’t move. You could have a neck injury.”

  Mels yielded to the subtle pressure on her shoulder, staying draped over the steering wheel. “Is he okay? I didn’t see him at all—came from out of nowhere.”

  At least, that was what she’d meant to say. What her ears heard were mumbles that made no sense.

  Screw a neck injury; she was worried about her brain.

  “My husband’s a doctor,” the woman said. “He knows what to do with the man. You just worry about yourself—”

  “Didn’t see him. Didn’t see him.” Oh, good, that came out more clearly. “Coming home from work. Didn’t…”

  “Of course you didn’t.” The woman knelt down. Yeah, she looked like a doctor’s wife—had the expensive smell of one, too. “You just stay still. The paramedics are coming—”

  “Is he even alive?” Tears rushed to Mels’s eyes, replacing one sting with another. “Oh, my God, did I kill him?”

  As she began to shake, she realized what song was playing. “Blinded by the Light…”

  “Why is my radio still working?” she mumbled through tears.

  “I’m sorry?” the woman said. “What radio?”

  “Can’t you hear it?”

  The reassuring pat that followed was somehow alarming. “You just breathe easy, and stay with me.”

  “My radio is playing….”

  “Is it hot in here? I mean, do you think it’s hot in here?”

  As the demon crossed and recrossed her mile-long, Gisele Bündchen legs, she pulled at the low neckline of her dress.

  “No, Devina, I don’t.” The therapist across the way was just like the cozy couch she was sitting on, heavily padded and comfortable-looking. Even her face was a chintz throw pillow, the features all stuffed in tight and slipcovered with concern and compassion. “But I can crack a window if it would make you feel more comfortable?”

  Devina shook her head and shoved her hand back into her Prada bag. In addition to her wallet, some spearmint gum, a bottle of smartwater, and a bar of Green & Black’s Organic dark, there was a shitload of YSL Rouge pur Couture lipstick. At least…there should have been.

  As she dug around, she tried to make casual, like maybe she was double-checking that she hadn’t lost her keys.

  In reality, she was counting to make sure there were still thirteen tubes of that lipstick: Starting from the left in the bottom of the bag, she moved each one to the right. Thirteen was the correct number. One, two, three—

  “Devina?”

  —four, five, six—

  “Devina.”

  As she lost count, she closed her eyes and fought the temptation to strangle the interrupter—

  Her therapist cleared her throat. Coughed. Made a choking noise.

  Devina popped her lids and found the woman with her hands around her own neck, looking like she’d swallowed a Happy Meal in a bad way. The pain and the confusion were good to see, a little hit off the pipe that had Devina curling her toes for more.

  But the fun couldn’t go any further. If this therapist bit it, what was she going to do? They were making progress, and finding another one she clicked with could take time she didn’t have.

  With a curse, the demon called back her mental dogs, relinquishing the invisible hold she hadn’t been aware she’d thrown out.

  The therapist took a deep, relieved breath and looked around. “I…ah, I think I will open that window.”

  As the woman did the honors, she was unaware that her shrink skills had just saved her life. The two of them had been meeting five times a week for the past couple of months, talking for fifty minutes at the cost of one hundred seventy-five dollars each time. Thanks to the sessions of emoting and crap, Devina’s OCD symptoms were getting slightly easier to bear—and considering how things were going in the war with that angel Jim Heron, counseling was so going to be needed for this next round.

  She couldn’t believe she was losing.

  In the final contest for supremacy over the earth, that angel had won twice, and she just once. There were only four more souls to battle over. If she lost two more? There was going to be nothing left of her or all her collections: Everything would disappear, those precious objects that she had gathered over the millennia, each an invaluable memento of her work, gone, gone, gone. And that wasn’t the worst part. Her children, those glorious, tortured souls trapped in her wall, would be subsumed by the good, the beatific, the untainted.

  The mere thought of it was enough to make her sick.

  And on top of that bad news? She’d just been penalized by the Maker.

  The therapist resettled on her cushions, back from the fresh-air hunt. “So, Devina, tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “I…ah…” As anxiety rose, she lifted up her bag, inspected the bottom for holes, found none. “It’s been hard….”

  None of the lipsticks could have fallen out, she told herself. And she’d checked the number before she had left her lair. Thirteen, a perfect thirteen. So logically, they were all there. Had to be.

  But…oh, God, maybe she had put the bag down sideways, and one had escaped because she forgot to zip it closed—

  “Devina,” the therapist said, “you seem really upset. Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  Talk, she told herself. It was the only way out of this. Even though counting and ordering and checking and rechecking felt like the solution, she’d spent aeons on this earth getting nowhere doing that. And this new way was working. Kind of.

  “That new coworker I told you about.” She wrapped her arms around her bag, holding everything in it close to the body she assumed when she walked among the monkeys. “He’s a liar. A total liar. He double-crossed me—and I was the one who go
t accused of foul play.”

  Ever since she had started therapy, she had couched the war with that fallen angel Heron in terms a human of the early twenty-first century could understand: She and her nemesis were coworkers at a consulting firm, vying for the Vice Presidency. Each soul they battled over was a client. The Maker was their CEO, and they had only a limited number of attempts to impress Him. Whatever, whatever, whatever. The metaphor wasn’t perfect, but it was better than her doing a full reveal and having the woman either lose her own mind or think Devina was not just compulsive but certifiable.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “The CEO sent both of us out to talk to a prospective client. In the end, the man gave us his business and wanted to work with me. Everything was fine. I’m happy, the client was…” Well, not happy, no. Matthias had not been happy at all, which was just another reason she’d been satisfied with the victory: The more suffering, the merrier. “The client was being taken care of, and it was all settled, the contract for service signed, the matter closed. And then I get dragged into a bullshit meeting and told that we both have to reapproach the man.”

  “You and your coworker, you mean.”

  “Yes.” She threw up her hands. “I mean, come on. It’s done. The business is secured—it’s over. And now we’re stuck with a redo? What the hell is that about? And then the CEO says to me, ‘Well, you’ll still retain your commission for the contract.’ Like that makes it all okay?”

  “Better than your losing it.”

  Devina shook her head. The woman just didn’t understand. Once something was hers, letting it go, or having it taken away from her, was like a part of her true body being removed: Matthias had been ripped out of her wall and placed once again upon the earth.

  Frankly, the power of the Maker was about the only thing that frightened her.

  Aside from the compulsions.

  Unable to stand the anxiety, she cranked open her bag again and started counting—

  “Devina, you work well with the client, right.”

  She paused. “Yes.”