Broken Angels

90

Byrne and Vincent followed the winding road deep into the forest. At times it was merely one lane wide, iced over. Twice they had to cross shaky bridges. A mile or so into the woods they found a gated path leading further east. Nadine Palmer's handdrawn map didn't show a gate.

"I'm going to try her one more time." Vincent's cell phone was on a dashboard mount. He reached out, hit a number. In a second, the speaker offered the ringing tone. Once. Twice.

And then the phone was answered. It was Jessica's voice mail, but it sounded different. A long hiss, then static. Then breathing.

"Jess," Vincent said.

Silence. Just the low murmur of electronic noise. Byrne looked at the LCD screen. The connection was still open.

"Jess."

Nothing. Then a rustling sound. Then, faintly, a voice. A man's voice.

"Here are maidens, young and fair."

"What?" Vincent asked.

"Dancing in the summer air."

"Who the fuck is this?"

"Like two spinning wheels at play."

"Answer me!"

"Pretty maidens dance away."

As Byrne listened, the skin on his arms began to dimple. He looked at Vincent. The man's expression was blank, impenetrable.

Then the connection broke.

Vincent hit the speed dial. The phone rang again. The same voice mail. He clicked off.

"What the fuck is happening?"

"I don't know," Byrne said. "But it's your move, Vince."

Vincent buried his face in his hands for a second, then looked up. "Let's go find her."

Byrne got out of the car at the gate. It was chained shut with a huge coil of rusted iron chain, padlocked with an old lock. It appeared not to have been disturbed in a long time. Both sides of the road leading deeper into the forest fell off to deep, frozen culverts. They'd never be able to drive around. The vehicle's headlights cut the darkness to a distance of only fifty feet, then the light was choked by the blackness.

Vincent got out of the car, went into the trunk, and retrieved a shotgun. He racked it, shut the trunk. He reached back into the car, cut the headlights and the engine, grabbed the keys. The darkness was now complete; the night, silent.

They stood, two Philadelphia police officers, in the middle of rural Pennsylvania.

Without a word, they started up the trail.