The Theocracy - The Blackened Cross - 15. Chapter 15

When Brad came home, Heidi was on the phone. She spoke in the low, hushed voice of someone who doesn’t want to be heard. She sat at the kitchen table, her back slightly hunched and turned away from him. Her head was bowed with defeat. She didn’t see him standing there with his back pressed up against the wall like a stalker.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said into the phone, her voice on the verge of breaking. “We went to the hospital. The MRI checked out. I know he’s talked to a therapist a couple of times about the incident. But ever since that day he came home without his camera…when he said he was attacked at the church…he’s been more and more withdrawn. He barely looks at Little Annie anymore. Honestly, he’s starting to scare the shit out of me.”

For a moment he wished she would turn her head so he could see her face. Because then he would be able to recognize it. Be able to remember what she looked like. He should be able to remember what they looked like; they’d only been married for ten years after all. Her voice sounded just as it always had, soft, gentle, musical even. It was the kind of voice that got compliments whenever she sang. To hear it speak out of anger (which it so rarely did) always made Brad flinch. He closed his eyes. He tried to remember.

He couldn’t. Heidi’s face was a puzzle, the pieces scattered to the darkness. To Inferno.

Later that night he listened for the sound of her breathing to slacken in dream before crawling out of bed. This had become his nightly ritual and it had yet to fail him. He slipped into black running clothes and grabbed the car keys. He wasn’t entirely surprised to find Leonidas waiting in the passenger’s seat; the man had a way of getting into places without the need to open doors.

“What are we thinking?” he said with a particularly knowing look that Brad didn’t like very much. He didn’t like the idea of Leonidas thinking he knew anything about him one bit.

“I want to see where she lives,” Brad said.

“Who?”

“His wife.”

Leonidas cocked an eyebrow. “The architect’s ex?”

Brad let his silence answer for him.

While it was assumed Tiffany (the ex-wife) would be getting the shorter end of the stick, she would still be luckier than most. Lucky enough to live in a nice place like the Wishwood Suites. The type of place Brad could never dream of affording even with what he made. Thirty stories of glass and steel shaped by the mind of none other than Jaffe Curry himself. Brad had helped design the blueprints. Before I found the lighter in another life.

The Wishwood Suites was the kind of place where rich bachelors and bachelorettes and divorcees tucked themselves away to live out the rest of their existence however they might. Doctors and neurosurgeons and those born into old money. It boasted twenty-four hour security. Very luxurious indeed. If he wanted to get inside Tiffany would have to buzz him in; that would mean having to think of a really good excuse for why he was here to see her.

"Just tell her you heard about the divorce at work today and you want to see how she's doing," Leonidas suggested in that impatient way of his.

"She and I don't have that kind of rapport."

"What does it matter? Women love it when you do nice shit like that for them."

Says the guy whose soul has been trapped in Inferno for the last forty years, Brad thought.

It didn’t take long for him to find Tiffany. He found her tottering down the rain-swept street, the flaps of a waistcoat wrapped uselessly around her torso. Thunder flashed overhead. The late Tiffany Curry had not brought an umbrella with her so that her hair whipped about her like a tangled flag. He followed her until she stepped into the Big Red Liquors at the corner of the street. Brad counted to ten and then parked.

“What are you going to do?” Leonidas asked.

Brad pulled the key from the ignition. “I’m going to say hi.”

He found her towards the back of the store, searching the labels. He pretended to do the same, arranging his features into something benevolent and unassuming. His plan was to play this as a fancy-meeting-you-here scenario. The thought of what he was doing made his heart swell. He couldn’t tell if he was more excited or more afraid.

When she saw Brad she did not recognize him immediately at first. She squinted, unsure if it was really him. Then she turned. “Brad? Brad Anderson is that you?”

He felt his expression slacken with confusion. “Hmmm? Oh Tiffany! What are you doing here?”

Tiffany was a mess. Her jacket and skirt were soaked from the rain. Her mascara was smeared so that she looked as if she’d been crying tears of ash. "I live at the apartment building just down the block. I figured I'd just come down here for a night cap. What are you doing all the way out here on this side of town?"

He gave her the first reason that popped into his head: He hadn't been sleeping much lately at night, so he'd gone for a late night drive in the hopes that it would help clear his thoughts; in retrospect it was closer to the truth than he’d initially intended. "I guess I'm here for a night cap, too."

She smiled sadly. “It seems we’ve both come here for the same reason. Perhaps it was meant to be.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well listen, I’d love to chat, but I should head back to the apartment. I didn’t realize how late it is.”

“I could give you a ride,” Brad said as if the thought had just crossed his mind, as if it hadn’t been with him since the moment he glimpsed her on the street.

In the end she agreed. Here was a woman not accustomed to having to walk home in the rain, or be content with her own company. She said little in the car, clutching her purse as if it was a lifeline. It occurred to Brad that he should try and say something to offer her comfort, but words failed him. Now that she was in the car, Leonidas had not said a word; in fact he was nowhere to be seen at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said when they came to a stop in front of the lobby. “I know I haven’t been very talkative…Has Jaffe told you anything?”

“He did,” Brad admitted. “Before I left work today. I’m so sorry to hear about everything. I wish there was something more I could say…or do…to be more helpful.”

Tiffany gave him a long, considering look. She was a beautiful woman. Too beautiful for the likes of Jaffe Curry who was the type of man who didn’t know how to treat beautiful things properly. At forty-five and some change Tiffany had managed to keep up on her figure. Her hair was just now beginning to show the first streaks of gray; she cared about her appearance but was not vain enough to make the crow’s feet disappear with expensive skin treatments. Brad had always admired this trait in her character. She said, “I know it’s late…and it’s raining…but would you like to join me for that night cap?”

She was not trying to seduce him. This was simply one lonely soul inviting another to converse with them.

Bingo, Brad thought. I’m in.

“That would be lovely,” he said.

…

They were greeted at the front desk by an older security guard who simply introduced himself as “Kojac”. Judging from the way his eyes twinkled kindly during their interaction, not only were Tiffany and Kojac on a first name basis, but Kojac was rather fond of the woman. That twinkle dimmed whenever he looked at Brad, even if it was only for a fraction of a second. Could he somehow sense why Brad was really here?

“Old people are like that,” Leonidas’ voice said in his ear though his apparition was nowhere to be seen. “Old people and children. Even if they don’t have a magical bone in their body, their sixth sense is sharper than the average person. Watch yourself. This guy could spell trouble for us.”

Brad was all too relieved when Tiffany directed him up the stairs. “I suppose we could climb,” she joked with an attempt at humor, “but I just can’t move like I used to.”

Once inside Tiffany’s apartment Brad began to feel more relaxed again. He stood at the window overlooking the street; how tiny everything looked from fourteen stories up.

“I hope whiskey is okay?” Tiffany said from the doorway of the kitchen. “I also have soda in case you don’t like to drink it neat”

With a polite smile he told her whiskey was fine and he did prefer it neat. With drinks in hand they sat on a couch that would have cost him a month’s salary. The whiskey had a calming effect on his nerves. Or maybe it was the relaxing smell of lavender and honey in the air.

“Or maybe it’s just been a while since you got laid,” Leonidas’ voice sneered in the back of his head.

Go away, Brad told him. Let me do what I came here to do.

“And what exactly did you come here to do?” Leonidas asked.

Brad smiled inwardly. You’ll see.

“I suppose I should be relieved that it’s over,” Tiffany said. It took a moment for Brad to realize that the woman had been talking for several minutes. Not talking so much as rambling. "It was a long and ugly divorce. It was an even uglier marriage. But we were married for over ten years. How do you just get over something like that? How do you just stop loving and resenting - I think it's safe to say the two go hand in hand after a time - at the drop of a dime?"

"I don't know," Brad said. The whiskey was starting to make him spacey. "I've never been divorced before."

“That’s right.” Tiffany lifted her head as if just now remembering that Brad existed. “How long have you and Heidi been married?”

“About the same as you. Ten years.” He downed the rest of his whiskey. He thought about asking for another but then remembered he had to get home. It was past midnight. When he told Tiffany this she nodded sadly. “I understand. Thank you for the ride home.” She kissed him on the cheek before letting him out.

As soon as Brad was alone Leonidas materialized into being. “What was that all about?” the apparition demanded through gritted teeth. “Did you just want a free glass of whiskey?”

“No, I have what I need.” A grin threatened to pull at the corner of Brad’s lips.

“Which is?”

“The passcode inside the building.” Brad pulled out the slip of paper he’d wrote the four-digit pass code on while Tiffany had been pouring their drinks.

He could tell from the wicked smile on Leonidas’ face that realization was starting to dawn on him. “And why would you need the passcode to the building, you wicked dog?”

“So that tomorrow I can burn it to the ground,” Brad said.

…

He watched her march down the sidewalk in her fancy high heels, the paper bag clutched desperately in her hand. Another night cap to help her sleep. She seemed smaller this evening than she had the night before, as if the sadness, the vulnerability she had expressed to him over drinks had eaten at her overnight. She had no makeup on, not even a smudge of lipstick and her hair had a tangled windblown look to it. Tonight he got to glimpse the truth of who she was and it was beautiful in a tragic way. That her tragedy should only fuel Chokmah’s glory only added an extra layer of beauty.

He followed her back to the Wishwood Suites, making sure to stay far enough back that she couldn’t see him. There was something glorious in the stalking. Something that added a delicious flair to the forbidden act.

“Oh just you wait,” the ghost said from the back seat. He grinned at him through the rearview mirror, pale eyes flashing like neon signs. “So far all you know is dogs and cats. Killing a human being, especially one as beautiful as that, is a whole ‘nother can of beans. It tarnishes the soul.”

“What about a whole building of them?” Brad asked.

“Then you can count on your golden ticket into the Inferno Club for life.”

That’s all I want, Brad thought. He turned Chokmah’s lighter over and over in his hand.

He watched her walk in the building. Watched her stop at the security long enough to chat with the guard. Watch her make her way to the elevator. It was strange how in-focus everything was all the sudden. The switch that controlled the chatter of his thoughts had been shut off. He waited until the elevator doors shut with her inside before he crossed the parking lot to the lobby. He gave it an extra three deep breaths before typing in the four digit pass code that would grant him entry into the fortress: 4292. He grinned at his own ingeniousness for remembering to put on gloves.

The light on the keypad turned green. He felt a thrill when the door came open with a metallic click. He felt his grin widen when he saw Kojac sitting at the table. Would the old man recognize him in his get-up?

Brad didn’t have to wait long to find out. Sure enough Kojac lifted his head. He squinted at Brad suspiciously. “What are you doing here?” he croaked in a hoarse voice.

“I’m taking Tiffany out for dinner,” he said in his most compassionate voice. “I know she’s going through a hard time. I thought she could use a friend to help keep her head up.” He felt a measure of uneasiness at how naturally the lie slipped off his tongue.

“Dressed like that?” Kojac raised a snowy eyebrow.

“In case I spill something on it - that way it won’t show up as easily.”

Kojac made a sound that said he didn’t believe Brad but didn’t have the proof to call him a liar. “Whatever. Just don’t start any trouble with Miss Tiffany. We are very fond of her here at Wishwood.”

Brad backed towards the door with his hands held out in surrender. He dropped the facade as soon as he was out of sight of the grumpy old security guard. In truth he didn’t have business on the fourteenth floor. His business was in the boiler room. He found the door to the boiler room to his right. Before he could reach the door, Leonidas materialized in front of him. His eyes looked around frantically.

“Something isn’t right,” the ghost said.

“What do you mean?” Brad demanded impatiently. His heart felt like it was trying to pump its way out of his mouth.

“We aren’t alone. Someone’s watching us.”

Brad cast an impatient glance down the hallway before shoving through the ghost in a wisp of smoke. “I don’t see anything. Quit trying to distract me.”

In the end it didn’t take him long to do what needed to be done in the boiler room. Burning down a building full of people shouldn’t be so easy, he thought with a chuckle. He exited the boiler room with a bounce in his step.

His moment of celebration didn't last long; no sooner had he rounded the corner, a guard shouted his name. Not the old man at the front desk, a different one. Broad shouldered and round like a bull. His nostrils even flared in the imitation of anger but Brad could smell the stink of fear coming off him like smoke.

Brad did the only thing he could think of to do, tugged one of the gloves off with his teeth, and plunged his hand into the pocket of his black jogging pants. The second he touched Chokmah's talisman, the strength of the archon filled his body. He lunged at the security guard, a kitchen knife he'd grabbed from home in his other hand.

Brad planted his heels in the ground. With all the strength he could muster, he drove his shoulder into the security guard's stomach. He felt the air whoosh out of the other man's stomach. A scream caught in his throat when Brad shoved him back into the wall with all of his strength.

"Please," the security guard managed to wheeze. The tag pinned to the front of his shirt said MARTIN. Brad let him beg for his life once more then drew the kitchen knife across his throat. The spray of blood across his cheek felt warm and thick; his legs shook with the thrill of it.

He turned.

He froze. His pulse quickened.

A man stood at the end of the hallway, watching him with wide eyes that glowed a bright silver. A death magician, Brad thought. He didn't know how he knew this but the knowledge scalded his brain like acid. Was this the presence Leonidas had warned him of earlier?

A rage he didn't know he harbored inside him came awake. "Fuck off," he snarled. Steam began to rise off his skin. He felt the muscles in his abdomen clench and then something left his body; he couldn't see what it was, but he felt it explode out of him with a physical push. The death magician flew apart in a scatter of shadow before fading out of sight.

A searing pain touched Brad's hand; Chokmah's lighter burned so hot he could smell his flesh cooking. Not just burning him, branding him. Claiming him. Brad gave himself into it willingly. He inhaled and breathed in the smell of gasoline. With a practiced flick of his thumb the flame from the Zippo popped into being.

The flame traveled up the tip of his finger, past his wrist, to the cup of his elbow. He screamed both with joy and with pain. I offer this sacrifice to you in good faith…in reverence…

It was strange that the burning should feel good; any time he had touched a flame in the past the pain had been instantaneous. Now he let it devour everything around him: his clothes, the carpet, the walls around him. He felt joy bubbling up inside him like water flooding the confines of a dam. It burst out of him in a gail of hysterical laughter that drowned out the warbling screech of the fire alarm. The hiss of the emergency water sprinklers was not enough to put out the flames of Inferno that continued to spread over the walls and ceiling like riotous tangles of ivy.

His clothes were gone. He walked through the flames completely naked, unharmed. All around him voices screamed in confusion, in fear, in pain. Hands pounded at doors that would not open. Chokmah’s power and will seeped out of him, a pulsing thing that could not be denied. He breathed in the smell of burning hair, burning flesh. Had he ever experienced anything so intoxicating, so empowering?

A figure staggered out of the smoke. For a moment Brad hoped it was the shadowy figure who had spied on him earlier, but it was only the security guard from the lobby; Kojac was his name. He seemed more insubstantial, more vulnerable now than ever, an old rooster who’s life amounted to little, a grain of dust in the ocean of shadow that was Inferno.

The old man looked up, his face blackened by soot. In the glow of the heat his eyes were gleaming marbles of shock that bore into Brad with existential terror. “What are you?” the security guard.

Brad should not have been able to hear his voice over the alarm, or the whoosh of the flames, or the voices still screaming in agony and death, but somehow he could. “What are you?”

The question struck Brad as funny. He couldn’t say why. The laughter that had leveled down into breathless guffaws turned back into a manic howl that made it impossible to breathe.

Only when he was able to breathe again did he answer in a voice that was inhumanly deep and demonic: “Simply a humble servant.”

But by then there was no one around to hear his answer.