Episode 032

Jequon and Mercy do some soul and cell phone searching.

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SHOW NOTES:

• No pre-episode chatter this time.
• Why?
• Because it's the 2nd longest episode thus far released, and…
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• Please vote for the pro-Nephilim ticket.
• A big thanks to Mark's Mysteries Fantasy Podcast  for sharing THE VEINGEL with his listeners.

 

CHAPTER 32

I shake off the numb comforts of sleep facing a familiar quandary: how to relieve the pressure in my bladder when an anatomical water cannon's been installed in place of the required downspout? Gymnasts probably pee doing a handstand. Me, that's strictly a post-coffee maneuver (and only in Vegas), which doesn't exactly help the problem.

Strangely enough, I smell bacon and eggs and the dried crust of sea salt in long auburn hair—Mercy's hair—and now I'm really awake, aware of even more, uh, pressing matters. I roll away from her. An irritated moan lets me know she was still asleep.

"Come back and cuddle warm man."

"Just give me a minute," I say, not meaning to snap at her like that.

"Ah, someone's grumpy in the morning," she says, and reaches back to lay her hand on my  thigh, adding, "puh-weeeze come-n-cuddle with me," in a little girl voice that could melt a popsicle. (Actually, not so much.)

I swat her hand away, almost in time to prevent Jequon Junior from growing hopeful. What did that O-neg I met in Kansas City during the Great Depression say about my hair trigger? Like steppin' on a rake.

"Fine, be that way," she says with frustrated gust of morning breath.

That actually helps the situation somewhat, but even though she didn't have the means to brush and floss last night, Mercy clearly takes great care of her teeth and gums, because my sensitive sense of smell detects very little of the bacteria that cause plaque and the gum disease gingivitis, and so I need to keep thinking these sterile thoughts a bit longer, about oral hygiene, and my appreciation of dentists (though for obvious reasons, I don't avail myself of their services) and it's not because I have oversized enamel fangs-because how would I chew food without lacerating my lower lips and gums?-it's because the same immune system which keeps me impervious to disease, also eliminates the germs responsible for tooth decay, and so there is no need for regular dental checkups, which isn't to say there exists no biological peculiarities within my oral cavity that would pique the interest of an oral health practitioner-because the non-infected humans they're used to assisting don't possess the unique dual-agent expectorant protein of a Veingel or Naphil, which lends our saliva both its anesthetic quality, and its ability to form fast-growing crystalline solids in the presence of CO2 rich air expelled from the lungs in combination with levels of hormones and endorphins which circulate in the bloodstream during arousal-which explains why Hollywood has exaggerated our requisite heavy breathing to the point that big screen vampires are usually seen hissing ominously as they show off their fangs, when in fact, normal exhalation, plus gravity (to draw the clear liquid down from the tips of our canines), will suffice to create points sharp enough to pierce the skin, not unlike icicles forming along the edge of a snow-covered roof in winter, and melting away just as easily, after post-climax hormones, such as prolactin, arrive at the end of our feeding ‘frenzy.'

Biology or baseball. Works every time.

Now that there's no danger of someone losing an eye, I slide out from beneath the bedspread and work my way into Frank's coveralls like a molting snake in reverse.

"Don't worry. I won't look," she says, obviously looking at my ass. "No need to really, what with your incessant dry-humping of my derrier last night."

"Are you serious? I am so sorry. How embarrassing, please-" but Mercy cuts me off.

"Gotcha. A-g-a-i-n."

I roll my eyes and go relieve myself of last night's beer.

When I get back, she's up and has the bed half made. "Nice of them to make breakfast for us," she says.

"Yes. It is. Just remember what you promised me last night."

"Your secret's safe, Jequon. Chill out."

I give her arm a little squeeze. "And without being rude, let's try and keep this short and sweet, OK?"

"I hear you," she says, bent over, smoothing the comforter. "I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to a shower once I get back home. Long and hot. You're welcome to it after…"

"Not an option," I say.

She stops fluffing my pillow. "What?"

"You can't go back home right now."

"Why not?"

"Come on, Mercy. You're smarter than that."

"But how would they know where I live?"

Is she serious?

"Are you serious? You have amnesia or something?"

She puts her hands on her hips, turns her head. "You're right. I'm being silly… But what am I supposed to do about my clients? I have six appointments tomorrow. They need me. I've got a cutter who tried to commit suicide last week, a couple who's survived two affairs with the wife one month post mastectomy, and a lesbian stripper whose pet rabbit named ‘Jimmy' just died-what am I supposed to do? abandon them?"

"It's just a for a little while. Until we find them. A day or two. That' it."

"Can I at least reschedule their appointments?"

"I wouldn't call them personally. Just update the greeting on your voicemail. Explain there's been an urgent personal matter which has come up, and you'll be unavailable for a few days."

"I thought you said a couple days?"

"Whatever. Call it four days. And do it from a pay phone. No one's going to off themselves if they have to skip an appointment, are they?"

"They might."

"Cindy's worse off than a ‘might.' Look, we'll go shopping, buy some clothes…crash at a hotel if need be. A day or two. That's all we'll need."

"OK. Fine. I take it you have some cash, right?I left my purse in the Mustang we abandoned…"

Nodding I say, "You might want to cancel your credit cards before you update your answering machine message."

"Lovely. Let's go eat."

#

 

Two hastily downed cups of coffee into our uncomfortable near-silence, broken only by good table manners and pleasantries, Frank asks me if we'll be needing a gun. Until now, I could count the number of full-on humans I've befriended on one hand.

Mercy looks over, lips puckered as she tongues a sliver of bacon free from between her teeth.

"Mercy, do you know how to shoot?" I ask.

She swallows and clears her throat, says, "No. I don't like guns."

"You don't have to like them to know how to use one."

"No. I don't how."

"Want to learn?"

"Not really, no."

I turn to Frank. "I'm in the market for a pistol; semi-auto, something reliable, doesn't take more than a round to get the job done; reasonably accurate up close…you have something like that?"

Frank reaches down and opens up a cabinet built into the bench seat. He comes out with an HK P7M8.

"How much?"

"Oh, I couldn't part with it. A good friend of mine died two years ago in a boating accident. Left it to me. We used to shoot bottles out at this abandoned gravel pit when we were kids. I'm perfectly willing to loan it to you though. And that'll give you an excuse to keep in touch-let us know how things turn out."

I look at Karen. Try and read her expression to see if Frank's really comfortable with his offer, or if he's hoping I'll decline. She won't meet my eyes, but the way the corner of her mouth slants up suggests those two have me pegged: someone who never says ‘see you later' when I mean ‘goodbye.'

"You sure? There's always a chance I won't be able to bring it back…"

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to never look a gift-gun in the barrel? Besides," he says, cocking his head at Mercy, "this young lady is plenty tough enough to keep you both alive."

Mercy tilts her chin down and flutters her eyelids, the picture of helpless innocence. "Who moi?" she says, cracking her knuckles, a Bruce Lee Bambi.

"Yeah," I say, laughing at her along with Frank and Karen, "what do I have to be afraid of?"

Encouraged by our amusement, she cracks her neck to the right and to the left, and says, "violence is not the answer," channeling the Govern-ator's thick Austrian accent.

To Frank, I say, "it's not registered?"

 "Nah. Never bothered."

"Good. I wouldn't want anything coming back on you."

Mercy eyes me, a piece of toast hovering in front of her mouth; turns away, keeps eating as I pay her no attention. Yeah, ‘coming back' like a homicide. It's a good sign she didn't make me say it. Means she's coming to terms with all that's happened and all that might.

We finish up our second serving of eggs and leave the plates clean. Mercy carries our plates and silverware over to the sink and Karen starts wiping the table down.

"Hate to eat and run and all that…" I say.

"We understand," Karen says, "and it was our pleasure. Your clothes ought to be dry if you want to change back before you go. Just leave the dirties in the tub."

Mercy and I take turns changing and helping Karen tidy up the galley while Frank readies the dinghy to take us to shore.

#

The Answered Prayer is anchored at the second mooring ball in a line of ten strung along parallel to the channel leading out of San Diego Bay and the Southeast facing shore of Shelter Island. As anchorages go, this one ranks low in terms of desirability. Vessels large enough navigate the open ocean have to pass by, from power yachts to cruise ships to aircraft carriers, yo-yoing the motley collection of sailboats alongside this stretch of beach with a regular onslaught of wake.  Which explains the sorry state of many of the neighboring boats: Boarded up cabin windows. Tattered tarps covered in seagull shit, cinched up over mold-mottled fiberglass helms. The watery equivalent of a trailer park. Frank and Karen's custom cat just doesn't belong. Either they're trying to minimize expenses, or slip space at a decent marina is hard to come by in San Diego. My guess is a little of both.

I help Frank lower the dinghy from the rear deck and the three of us squeeze in, Frank on the rear bench next to the tiny three-horse Honda outboard, Mercy balanced on the front edge just six or so inches above the water line, and me sprawled out on the deck attempting to distribute my weight. The little molded plastic craft isn't designed for more than two people, so Karen stays behind. Two trips might be a better idea, but Frank doesn't seem too concerned. I trust his judgment.

The little two-stroke engine growls to life on the first pull (as I'm sure every chainsaw, lawn mower, and snow blower Frank's ever owned does).   We're to dry land in less than a minute. Frank kills the engine and we coast into the smooth, hard-packed sand left by the receding tide. Mercy steps out and steadies the nose of the craft while I amble up to my feet.

"I meant what I said," Frank says. "If we can do anything to help, anything at all, you've got our number."

We shake hands, I say, "You and Karen have already done too much, but we appreciate the offer."

"Don't worry, Frank, I'll be in touch with you," Mercy says. "Thanks again. For everything."

"I'll get your gun back to you in a day or two if all goes well."

"I hope you don't need it. But if you do, make sure you fire the last shot, even if it means firing the first."

"Roger that, Captain," I say. "You have your cell phone on you?"

"Yes sir, need me to call you guys a cab?"

"That'd be great. My cell's dead," I say, which is half bullshit, because without the battery plugged in, it still has much of its charge. Of course if I turn it on, the SOJ goons from the Del would be on us like National Geographic on a radio-collared grizzly. Frank makes the call, tells them where we'll be, and motors back to the Answered Prayer.

We wave a final goodbye and scramble up the slope made of stacked of gray boulders. Head across a short patch of lawn and into a big parking lot with several empty boat trailers and an assortment of RVs double-parked around the perimeter. Affordable ocean views. We get to the fishing pier on the west side of the boat launch where Frank sent the taxi and Mercy squeezes my hand. Holds on, but doesn't braid our fingers, gripping it like the foreleg of a stuffed teddy. Halfway down the pier, a group of homeless men commiserate outside the entrance of a bait shop called Sharkey's, drawn by the 25-cent coffee that's advertised, or maybe the panhandling opportunities later in the day when tourists venture past to the water's edge. I assume they're making her nervous. We stop well short and lean against the rail. Their collective street funk is noticeable, to me anyway, and though it's not anything I'd want in a cologne, there's no trace of flesh rot. Just tramps, not vamps. Not yet. Sleep outside enough, too drunk or tweaked or sick to run, and it's only a matter of time.

"You feel that?" Mercy asks.

"Like the ground is moving?"

"Yeah. Weird."

"It's from sleeping on the water. You should try crossing the Atlantic on a Spanish galleon some time. Takes a solid week to stop walking funny."

Mercy lets go of my hand, says, "You don't like depending on people do you."

"Not if I don't have to." Across the street is an unbroken line of vaguely Polynesian themed hotels. Humphrey's on the Bay. The Bay Club. The Blue Wave.

"If Frank and Karen hadn't pulled us onboard we would have died…we depended on them."

"Not ‘we.' You. You would have died. I would have made it to shore no problem."

"But you're depending on me," she says. "Why?"

On the far side of the hotel properties, high end marinas where boats as nice as the Answered Prayer are more at home. Alongside palatial yachts even nicer.

"I don't know."

The cab passes by driving slow as the driver scans for us. I wave him over.

"Well I'm glad you warmed up to Frank and Karen a little. They're good people."

"They are."

"Like most people, if you give them a chance."

"Hasn't been my experience."

"If you give them a chance. Do you often?"

I don't answer. A passenger jet roars down the runway of the airport just a mile to the Northeast, it's tailfin visible over a screen of masts, palm trees, and stucco buildings like a giant metal shark fin.

We get in the cab and the driver asks where we're headed.

"Take us to the nearest car rental that's not Hertz," I say.

 

#

 

The backseat is a dirty beige, smoothed by a waxy gray grime worn into the texture of the Naugahyde. The interior smells of lint and paper and exhaust and the licorice stick the driver gnaws on like a cure for smoking.

"Budget OK?" he asks.

"How ‘bout a locally owned place? I'm not too keen on the big chains lately. You know a place like that?"

"Sure thing. There's one on Kettner the other side of the airport."

It's only just occurred to me I won't be able to use my ‘Patrick Daly' credit card or drivers license for the rental. The SOJ operatives would've checked with Hertz to identify the driver of the abandoned Mustang. Maybe a local clerk at a mom-and-pop type operation can be persuaded to look the other way on the valid ID and plastic requirement.

"So what's the plan, Je—" Mercy asks, catching herself before saying my name out loud.

"Not now," I say, nodding toward the driver.

She shrugs, huffs out a little miff of air. "OK. Just don't forget I need to find a payphone."

"Mm-hmm."

"The sooner the better." She's daring me to look at her. Jaw muscles balling up, now relaxing…tense, release, tense, release. Little mouth Kegels.

I give in but she looks away and tracks the progress of a dark-haired girl crossing a service entrance to a boat yard.

It's not her, but I don't need to say it.

"Where you two from?" asks the cabby.

I ignore him. A ‘Passenger's Bill of Rights' decal affixed to both rear door windows informs us we have the right to a comfortable ride, free of the disturbing presence of music unless we request it.

I do us all a favor: "You mind turning on the radio? Anything but country."

My wall-building earns another prod from Mercy's elbow, but there's no sense volunteering personal information for the sake of small talk. What you don't say can't come back to bite you. And commonsense aside, small talk's always irritated me. ‘How's life been treating you?' or, ‘how about this weather?' No one creepier than a meteorologist at a cocktail party.

The cab pulls in next to a wedge-shaped white-painted cider block building tucked in at the base of a raised portion of Interstate-5. Valu-Renta-Car according to the stenciled wall. I pay the driver and tip him double the fare for not remembering us. Read his name off the badge affixed to the front dash and add, "But I will always remember you, Arturo. So don't get greedy." I lift my shirttail to punctuate my gist with a glimpse of the pistol.

"If a big angry looking guy was behind me making threats I would be concerned right now. But since I am alone, and there's been a bank error in my favor, I am happy and thinking only of the girl I will ask on a date tonight after my shift."

Mercy's standing with her hands on her hips, tapping the toe of her cross-trainers on the crumbly asphalt, whistling the Final Jeopardy jingle. I let her know about the security camera mounted to the light pole covering the lot; and tell her to keep her chin down while I go inside to finesse our way into a Jeep Cherokee. The only alternative, a row of Toyota Priuses (or is it ‘Prii?'-‘Priores' maybe?)-won't do off-road so well.

I throw open the chicken-wire reinforced glass door with more exuberance than strictly necessary, pause to crack my neck at the threshold, and then strut in all NFL-linebacker-at-a-high-school-reunion like. Another security camera covers the front reception area, but not much I can do about it. The black wig and the fake goatee are long gone, but what the hell? A tough guy accent can't hurt. "Hey there, how ya doin?" I say to the skinny black kid behind the counter.

He's sitting on an office chair with more duct tape than upholstery, feet up on a filing cabinet and his nose in the October issue of Hustler, not so covertly tucked in between the pages of a Spawn comic. He snaps the centerfold shut so fast he almost loses his balance. Starts to say something but I cut him off. Guess my eggs aren't sitting right.

"You look like a man who knows a thing or two, am I right?  Like a player who knows when to lay low, erstwhile stayin' in the game to play another day. Yeah?" By now I've flashed five twenties without looking down.

Taylor Washington's to his feet, standing damn near at attention, crooked name tag and all. "What can I do for you sir?" His voice is calm and assertive and earnest, with shades of debate team captain.

"Taylor, my man, I'm going to need you to do me a favor so as I can do you a favor." I tap the wad of cash as thick in hundreds as his picture books, but his eyes never leave mine.

"Sir, we have compacts and SUVs, both at value prices," he says, rather convincingly not tempted to look down at the near-capacity money clip beckoning on the counter. "I'll just need a valid driver's license and credit card to proceed. Sorry, no debit."

Well isn't this like seducing a nun?

"Taylor," I say, nixing the Sopranos talk, "how would your boss feel if I filed a complaint against you for offending my sensibilities with your pornography?"

Taylor Washington laughs. "I suppose if I had a boss, he might be disappointed I wasn't more discrete with my reading material, but since I am the proud owner of this establishment, and I'm not skimming from the till, I'll let the violation slide just this once. Now my wife, on the other hand, she might not let me off so easy… So, what kind of vehicle can I set you up with today?"

"You know what, Taylor? I was just kidding about the magazine. You got a restroom?"

"Around the corner to your left. Watch the sink when you turn it on. The pressure's high and it can splash."

I rid myself the excess of Karen's ridiculously good coffee, wash a little shame down the drain, and apologize to Taylor for harassing him on my way back out to the lot.

"Which one?" Mercy asks.

"We'll have to try another place."

"Why?"

"I used my Patrick Daly ID to rent the Mustang so they'll be monitoring all the accounts I had setup under that name. Someone runs the card, they'll know where we've been, what we purchased, and where we there. I thought I might be able to bribe the rental clerk with cash in a place that wasn't so corporate-ty; but he guy inside owns the place through, so he wouldn't bite."

"How is it you're helping me again?"

"Not as much as I'd hoped to by now. But you're a lot closer to finding Cindy than you were twenty-four hours ago, believe me."

"Am I?"

"Before I called you, you didn't even know who was holding her captive."

"And you do? You tell me some killer cult has her, but where's the proof? You're just speculating."

"The guys shooting at us weren't a product of speculation."

"Not ‘us,' you. They were shooting at you. And that doesn't necessarily have anything to do with Cindy's disappearance as far as I can tell."

"Look, if Whitmore wasn't involved, I would have never contacted you. And you were convinced he was behind Cindy's kidnapping from day one—which he is—just indirectly."

"But where's your proof?" she asks.

My proof is, that if I had any better leads, I sure as hell wouldn't be arguing my case with a shelf-life human, wasting time, breaking the Codes, suppressing urges I've never bothered to suppress before. But all I say is, "I don't have any proof, as such, but then, you don't have any proof Whitmore kidnapped Cindy either. Should I believe the news reports? that you're a stalker, and they were forced to elope somewhere in Mexico? We both know that's ludicrous, so give me a break.

"And while you're at it, ask yourself what kind of people could get Whitmore and your friend to lie to the police-and lie so convincing, they believed them-even after hearing your far more believable lie?"

"That's my point Jequon! I don't know what kind of people are capable of that."

"Fair enough. But I couldn't exactly go into detail about a group of Nephilim hunters before last night."

"Guess not," she says.

"Look, this will all make more sense after I fill you in a little more. But right now, we need to focus on getting some transportation."

"Agreed. But I doubt you'll get a different result at any of the other rental agencies."

"Which is why we're going to borrow a car."

"You mean steal."

"Let's not quibble over semantics."

"The hell we are! I am not taking someone's ride to work. Especially when I have so many friends who'd be happy loan me one of their extras. You see, Jequon, one of the many benefits of making friends now and then, is that you needn't commit felonies when calling in a favor will do."

We walk south from the rental lot in search of a pay phone, down Kettner toward the Amtrak station. The morning gloom has yet to burn off and the wind is gusting up a chill. Mercy puts her arm around my waist for warmth. Purely for warmth, that's clear. We both squint as dust and street-dirt tornado up from a construction site. ‘From the mid-300's' the sign on the chain link fence says. Another dual-use condo development; pseudo-mediterranean-faux-tuscan-post-art-deco-channeling-Star-Wars, judging from the artist's rendition featured on the sign. Still only concrete and some rebar so far. The tag-line reads: ‘Downtown Luxury for the Frugal Hipster.' So there will be cork floors and reclaimed water irrigation with trash and recycling shoots; a sushi bar next to a Pi-Tai-Boga-Lati-Core fitness studio, adjacent a zero-emission hair salon, catty-corner to a hypo-allergenic dog wash, across the lobby from the residents-only dry cleaning service, above the basement Level-A private movie theater with organic popcorn machine and reclining seats, on top the Level-B gated parking garage to be filled with Audi Quattros, and 3-Series BMWs, and Mazda RX-8s. Pre-fam homes for not quite wealthy hyper-educated SoCal-ifornians. Ancient Rome with wireless internet and fossil fuels.

I ask Mercy where she lives.

"Not too far from here, actually. I have a condo in Little Italy. I got in at the peak of the market, so I'm stuck there at least until prices go back up."

"Stuck?"

"Well, ‘stuck' isn't the right word. I really like the place. Nice view. All it's missing is a yard to grow roses. Not that I have the time for a garden."

"We won't be walking past, will we?"

"No. If we stay on the bayside of Kettner we'll have at least three blocks between us and the balcony. You think those men will be there looking for us?"

"I would if I were them."

"What sort of perimeter?"

"No wider than the nearest cross street. Whomever the SOJ is contracting here in San Diego, it's a fairly small force. They wouldn't be able to spare more than a man or two."

"You sure? There were, what? a dozen or so chasing us from the Del?"

"True, but when we went for a swim, they didn't have anyone in position to give chase in the bay, where we were at our most vulnerable. They should have ended it right there. Which means, aside from the two-to-three man team guarding Whitmore and Cindy, they had every available resource stationed at the hotel. Makes sense given their mission."

"‘Mission' as in what exactly?"

"I'll add it to the growing list of things to brief you on later," I say.

"Why not start checking things off the list? Our best bet finding a payphone is the train station. That gives you a mile to start filling me in."

I start with the unexpected trip to Sarajevo to investigate Lucian's murder (omitting the part where I get shot, because then I'd have to bring up the auto-pilot feeding on the girl in the alley). I explain how the SOJ managed just ten kills in 10,000 years, but in the last two months, they've murdered over fifty Nephilim. I tell her about what I thought was a bogus brand-the word ‘Damned' burned into Lucian's forehead in the Angelic tongue-and why I assumed, incorrectly, that my cousin Artemis was Lucian's killer. I tell her about the fire bomb at the Council meeting, about how, if the SOJ had managed to decipher our language, and they were able to hack into our list of safe houses, it would explain how they're suddenly able to ambush us so effectively at places like the Del Coronado. I conclude with my lucky deduction at the Manhattan library: that if the SOJ is contracting for hackers and hit men, they must be contracting linguists and language experts too—and how Google plus Wikipedia lead me to Whitmore, San Diego, and finally to her after hearing the ludicrous news reports.

Mercy says, "the more questions you answer, the more I have."

"In particular?"

She ignores the question. Points across the street from the train depot to an AT&T store. "You know what? To hell with payphones. Let's just get a new cell phone altogether. I was on Verizon, so if I get a new plan and a new number, no one will know about it to track it, right?"

"Good thinking."

I pull out the double layer of Trojans waterproofing my wad of cash, untie them, and retrieve two hundreds and a fifty.

"This ought to get you anything short of a Win-Blows Mobile or Me-Me-Me-Phone.

"An iPhone you mean?"

"Whatever." I re-tie the roll and stash it back inside the Zip-Lock freezer bag with the cell phone.

"You aren't coming in?"

"Nah. I'll wait for you outside. Come meet me in front of the cruise ship terminal when you're done."

"You're making your escape aren't you." She says this looking past me at a group of people waiting for the bus; as if the ‘Greyhound Scenario' is but one of many exits Mercy assumes I'll take.

"Whoever it was, I'm not him," I say, knowing damn well it was her father: The way her and Frank hit it off, the way she nestled her cheek into my chest when she slept…thirty-five or thereabouts, no ring, nobody's trophy wife but pretty enough to be. Fiercely independent and strong-willed-too strong for the 21st century metro-sexual men who've been disappointing her-the betas who retreat when confronted with a woman who demands more from them than gay-friend approved footwear, private-trainer abs, and a John Mayer heavy .mp3 collection.

She looks up at me. "Promise?"

"I already have. Now go buy a phone so you can enlighten me as to the depths of human compassion."

She'll be at least half an hour setting up a new phone. I go across the street to the train depot and walk around back where an Amtrak Coaster is taking on more fuel and passengers. If anyone's been following, I want them to think I'm getting ready to board. I stand around until the uniformed agent wants to see my ticket, then dart into the station proper through the rear entrance like I'd forgotten to buy one. But I don't go to the ticket counter. I hustle straight through the cathedral-like atrium, past rows of worn oak pews, and out the front entrance to the sidewalk alongside Kettner. The AT&T  store sits diagonally from my current position on the opposite corner of Broadway. I can see Mercy picking out a new phone, and  both directions along Kettner, as well as behind me inside the depot lobby. I shuffle to the left of the entrance a few steps and lean up against the wall. If anyone's tailing me, they'll check the restroom first, and then they'll come out the front right beside me with their head on a swivel, trying to see which way I've gone, as obvious as skinny-dipping albinos under a full moon. Five minutes go by, and it's clear there's no tail. Better paranoid than prey.

And speaking of cell phones, the urge to power mine up and check for more fallen cousins is practically narcotic. I'm no kind of cellular communications expert, but you would think there'd be a way to access the SOJ's gruesome tally some other way, without having to download the images to the handset and allowing my location to be triangulated using nearby cell towers. Maybe Mercy will know, or know someone who does. Despite her reasonably accurate observation that I don't like to depend on people, I've got nothing against consulting an expert. Unfortunately, Thorbahn, our designated tech guy, already got himself deleted (if memory serves, fourth on the SOJ's texted list of exploits).

I head back down Broadway, cross Harbor drive and blend in with the light foot traffic taking in the water front. The breeze is starting to die down, and as the sun balloons its way higher in the sky, the layer of mist hovering over the coast glows the color of brushed aluminum before dissolving into the clean fall sky.

This late in October, tourism has started to slow in San Diego, and for most pleasure seekers, it's still early in the day. The pedestrian density is just the way I like it when milling about in a relatively unfamiliar place: not crowded, not abandoned. There's no cruise ship at port, so most of the activity is on and around the neighboring docks, where the larger dinner cruise ships and whale watching vessels are berthed. Supplies going in, trash carted off. Maintenance. Minor repairs: the Magnolia's busted paddlewheel receiving some attention. Cleaning crews doing their thing.

For Mercy's sake—because I know she'll be pressing—I ought to at least pretend I have a plan for finding Cindy and Whitmore.

And then what, son?

Good question, Dad.

What ‘plan' I had (coffee house improv features more structure), evaporated like this mourning mist the instant the SOJ ambushed the ambush I was attempting to ambush.

Best case, I survive long enough to find Whitmore, he coughs up his handlers, who in turn cough up / choke / bleed out their bosses higher up the chain, whom I then hunt down and kill one by one, leaving the world a better place for me and the dozen or so 1st Gen Nephilim who happen to survive this intricately plotted genocide.

‘Plan?' Not so much, but…

I have vengeance.

I have fury.

And hate.

Plus promises made, let's not forget.

I heard you the first time, Dad.

To those already dead, soon to die, will die someday…

Pain? Check.

Longing? Mate.

What else is there?

Mercy startles me out of my ruminations with a spirited slap on the back. Could have been a bullet.

"That was fast. You find us a car?"

"Not yet. changed my voicemail greeting, though, which is a big relief. I didn't want you worrying I'd slip and say anything about you to my friends. I'll call them now."

First number she dials, no answer. "I'll try Leigh-Anne. Her husband's out of town at a conference this week, so his car should be free."

"What's he drive?"

"Ford Bronco I think."

"Four wheel drive. Perfect."

She dials, gets a connection, and switches to speaker phone for my benefit.

"Hello, this is Leigh-Anne Wang speaking."

"Hi, Leigh. Mercy."

There's a pause. Maybe she's holding back a sneeze.

"Oh. Hi. You didn't show up on my caller-id…"

"New phone. Long story. Anyway, I'm calling because I need to ask you a favor."

"Uh… OK. What is it?"

"My trusty Honda Accord—it's in the shop of all places. I, uh, sort of backed into a tree yesterday. Crushed the bumper, ruined the taillight assembly…anyway, I remember you telling me Luke's away this week, and I was kinda hoping I could borrow his truck for a few days, until I get my car back?"

"I see…didn't the dealer offer you a loaner?"

"No, it's at the body shop. They don't have loaners."

"Yeah, I guess they wouldn't. Hmm… You know, Mercy, it's not really my car to be loaning out. Luke's so attached to that Bronco. If anything happened to it—if you backed it into another tree…"

"Leigh, I wouldn't be asking if I didn't—look—I could really use a hand, just this one time. What about your car? You could drive his. Not exactly grounds for divorce."

"The BMW? I don't know, Mercy. I just got it, I—"

"Seriously? You're not going to help me out with this? I mean, I don't like reminding people of deposits I've made into the friendship account, but you may recall the roses I helped you plant? Or the time I watched your cats?"

"I'm sorry you've forced me to say this, Mercy, but I can't risk associating with you after this Cindy Hernandez thing. I have a license to protect. Clients of my own. I can't be involved with you right now."

"You believe what they're saying about me then? You think I would stalk her?"

"It doesn't matter what I believe. I'm a professional. I have a reputation to consider."

"So we were never ‘friends' then, Just ‘colleagues.'"

"Mercy, I know your car's not in the shop, OK?"

"What? How?"

"They impounded it. Two detectives came by this morning, asking about you, if I knew where you were. They said they found my business card in your glove compartment after it was towed from a public lot in PB."

"What did—"

I snatch the phone from her, end the call, and toss it into the bay.

"What the heck did you do that for?"

"Those weren't detectives."

"How do you—so what! That was a brand new phone!"

"And it's worthless to us now. Think about it: they went to her home looking for you—for us—but how did they get her address?"

Mercy shrugs. "She said they found her card in my car."

"How many counselors-"

"-She's a psychiatrist-"

"-How many psychiatrists would you guess, put their home address on their business card? Or even their home phone number?"

"Approximately zero, point zero, zero, nil," she says.

"Exactly. So maybe the ‘detectives' also went through the trouble tapping her land line once they confirmed she knew you."

"The land line I just called with the new cell phone—gotcha."

Mercy looks down. Her eyes are watering up. Onshore flow, late fall, probably not allergies.

"You OK?"

"I think I need a hug."

"Sure. Come here."

I lean over and hug her around the waist. She wraps her arms around mine and perches her chin on my shoulder. I try to reassure her. Tell her we'll find Cindy, that she's OK, that they must be holding her to blackmail Whitmore, which means she's only useful to them alive. About as convincing as an Exxon ad for renewable energy, I'm sure.

"You know, if the situation was reversed, and Leigh Anne was asking to borrow my car—even if I didn't have an extra sitting in the garage—I would have let her. I'm sorry," she says, shallow little breaths, neither all the way in nor all the way out.

"Sorry for what?"

"For being so weak. For…"

She stops, sniffing up salty pain she ought to let go, but can't. Not yet.

"I'm sorry for being so damn self-centered and callous toward you. You said they've been murdering your family…did I even console you?"

Her turmoil's like a moist warmth, meeting my cheek like a low cloud; a strand of curl tickling my eye lash as I blink.

"You don't owe me an apology," I say. "Who am I?"

"You're the one holding me," she says, "while people I thought were friends turn their backs."

She tiptoes up, cresting the mound of muscle on my shoulder with her chin, settling back down and digging in on the other side. Her arms cinch up around me as she rocks back down flat-footed, easing her weight into me even as she spasms once, twice, with a choked-back sob.

I realize I want her to cry. For reasons I wish were noble.

I want her to cry for me, for my failures, my fallen kin; to shed tears I'm too proud, too cold to let her see.

And reasons worse still than these…

She'll let loose if she comes any closer. I know this. She knows this…the angle of our embrace is no good on my back—I can lean down further, create distance, relieve the pressure…or I can stand up straight, and she can hang on and swing from my neck like a locket on a chain, her choice as to whether she let's go or not. She doesn't let go. And if she changes her mind, my hands cradled under her hips wouldn't let her fall.

Because how long can I suppress my nature? When have I ever had to? My rib is cracked—already healing, true, and good as new in a week—but like it never happened in an hour, with her warm, tangy, wet, hot, blood to speed the knitting process.

Her slim weight in my arms becomes the heaviness of my own heart, and now:

Cry goddamn you! I'm screaming at her from inside this sorrowful weight in my chest, hoping she'll feel what I need her to do without making me say the words…

So I can wipe away her tears, and lick the clear liquid from my fingers, and taste a hint of what flows inside her. And she does, and I do, and I tell her it's OK, and she trembles with another barrage, and—dammit why can't she be O-neg? and I look past her at the smudge of bluffs far away on the tip of Point Loma, and beyond this to an uncertain horizon; fragile promises, still no plan.

Mercy wipes her nose on my shirt sleeve and slides back down to her feet, says:

"Shall we go steal a car?"