Chapter Twelve

U p ahead, Sylvester could see a throng of reporters on the

sidewalk and spilling out into the street, lit by the bright

lights of their camera crews. On the other side of the street a

line of police officers corralled a crowd of tourists who were

watching, videotaping, chattering. Overhead, news choppers

circled, trying to get the best view of the scene.

The detective pulled up in his unmarked cruiser, looking

out at the scene beyond his windshield. He drew a long

breath, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his face. He

wished he didn’t have to deal with the press. He wished he

wasn’t back on Angel Boulevard for a second straight night.

And, most of all, he wished what was waiting for him underneath

that white sheet wasn’t what he expected.

Blinking red and blue light reflected off the silent

palm trees, the closed tourist shops, and the gleaming stars

of the Angels. Police floodlights bathed the famous street in

a harsh, menacing glow. He got out of the car.

Reporters clamored to him as he fought his way toward

the tape. “Detective, can you confirm this is the second

murder on the Walk of Angels in the same week?” one

asked.

This sent a murmur through the crowd. “A second

murder?”

Another reporter shouted, “Are the two murders related?

More gang violence? And when are you going to release

the names of the deceased?”

Sylvester raised his hands to the crowd, trying to calm

them. Wind whipped against his coat as he cleared his

throat.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that any homicide has

taken place, and we are not releasing any information at this

time. The incident from earlier in the week is still under investigation.”

He waved off another explosion of questions

and ducked under the tape, chewing on his lip.

Sergeant Garcia was waiting for him on the other side.

“Okay, what have we got, Bill?” He had to shout over

the buzz of the choppers.

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“What?” Garcia put his hand to his ear.

“I said, what have we got?” Sylvester shouted.

“Come take a look,” Garcia said.

He led Sylvester over to the sidewalk and its gleaming

stars. Another white sheet was laid over the concrete. This

time Sylvester crouched and lifted the sheet himself.

Another pair of Angel wings. Grisly and severed. Just

as before, they were laid neatly one across the other, directly

over an Angel Star. Sylvester listened to the drone of the

choppers as it mixed with the roar of the crowd beyond the

tape. He stared at the wings on the pavement in front of him

and knew, without a doubt, the magnitude of what was happening.

An Angel being mortalized and likely murdered was

rare and extremely serious. But its happening twice, and in

one week, was unprecedented. He lowered the sheet, removed

his glasses, and polished them.

“Someone is cutting off their wings, sir.” Garcia’s

voice had a hysterical edge. Sylvester nodded, his face grim.

“Sir? Someone is cutting off their wings—”

Sylvester placed a firm hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “I

can see that, Bill. Any body?” Garcia shook his head.

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Sylvester lifted the sheet again and read the bloodsplattered

name below the wings. “Ryan Templeton.”

“We contacted the Archangels. No one’s heard from

him in a few days.”

“And this is the same spot as before?” Sylvester asked,

looking around.

“Sir, look where you’re standing.”

Sylvester looked below his feet and read the name of

the next Angel Star out loud.

“Theodore Godson.”

“And now Ryan Templeton,” Garcia said. “The very

next star.”

“They’re being mortalized in the order of their stars,”

Sylvester said slowly. Wearily. He returned his glasses to his

face.

The sky roared as another chopper passed close by

overhead, its naked spotlight splashing over the scene.

Sylvester scowled up at the sky.

“Bill, would you please do me a favor and get those

news choppers away from here?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Garcia said. He keyed his radio

and began shouting orders.

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Sylvester stood. His gaze drifted down the sidewalk

and down the stars. He looked at the names and stars on the

sidewalk, stars that extended as far as he could see. He imagined

an endless body count.

Kneeling down, the detective examined the name of

the Angel on the next star.

Garcia read his mind. “No contact with anyone since

this afternoon. Could have taken a long trip up to Santa Barbara,

turned off his cell to get some peace and quiet, or...”

Sylvester cursed under his breath. “And this one?” He

motioned to the space on the sidewalk where the next star

was. It was blank. Workmen had roped it off, preparing to

put a name on it.

“Still don’t know. One of this year’s Commissioning

class. We’ve got calls in to the Angels on this one, but

they’re not exactly being helpful.”

Crossing under the tape and through the crowds,

Sylvester walked out into the middle of Angel Boulevard.

Away from the scene, it was quiet. Gusts of wind blew a few

crumpled papers end-over-end down the street, while a

homeless man pushed a shopping cart and hummed to himself.

The detective took a look around. It was empty. Yet

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even at this hour a few straggling tourists still videotaped

the sidewalk while shop owners packed up their displays.

Angel figurines, plastic wings, bumper stickers that read “I

WAS SAVED IN ANGEL CITY.”

He heard Garcia shuffling up behind him. Sylvester

continued staring down the street.

“What is it, Detective?” the sergeant asked.

“You don’t just kill an Angel out here with the whole

world watching.” Sylvester pulled his keys out of his coat

pocket. “Come on, Bill,” he said as he walked toward his car.

“We’re not at the murder scene.”

• • •

Sylvester’s unmarked cruiser turned onto Outpost Road and

wound up into the Angel City Hills. The sky over the city

was clear and dark, the stars winking in the night. Houses

with driveways were quickly superseded by tall hedges obscuring

Angel mansions set back from the road. “Always get

lost on these roads up here,” Sylvester grumbled as he

wound deeper into the private retreat of the Angels’ perfect

lives.

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When they arrived at Ryan Templeton’s sprawling

modernist residence, which hung over the hill, two additional

ACPD units were waiting. The officers seemed jittery.

Sylvester pulled into the narrow drive.

The house looked like someone had stacked enormous

building blocks one on top of the other. Sylvester had never

understood the attraction of this so-called style, but now

that he was standing right below it, it did have a certain

striking appeal. He walked to the front door flanked by two

officers. They had their guns drawn. He motioned for quiet.

Calm.

He rang the call box. From deep inside the house, he

could hear the bell. He looked at the video camera staring

down at him from the eave. Silence. Nothing.

“Ryan!” He yelled through the door. He tried again,

louder. Empty. He glanced over to the silver Mercedes

McLaren in the narrow drive.

“Okay, let’s go,” Sylvester said.

Drawing a deep breath, the detective touched the

doorknob and jumped back as if it had been a snake. The

metal handle was scorching.

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“Why’s it so hot?” he barked, shaking his hand. Carefully,

he pushed his toe against the door. It swung open on

the hinge, and a wave of stifling air rolled out. Sylvester

drew his Beretta 92 FS and signaled wordlessly to the officers.

Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the

darkened house.

The heat was suffocating. It shimmered in the dark,

like a reflection off a hot summer road. Sylvester and the officers

moved swiftly and silently into the hallway. Flashlight

beams danced in the dark. The walls were lined with framed

magazine covers of the home’s owner. Ryan Templeton was

a sturdy, handsome Angel with sleek hair and serious eyes.

The hall opened up into a large, unobstructed living area.

The architecture was clean and striking. Paintings. Designer

furniture. Marble countertops. The windows looked out

onto panoramic views of Angel City, downtown, and beyond.

The officers fanned out to clear the rooms.

Sylvester moved passed the kitchen and through an

open doorway to the right. He discovered a movie theater.

Plush leather chairs. Framed newspaper articles.

A dead end.

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He backtracked toward the bedrooms. Rounding a

wall, he discovered a pale blue glow filtering through the

cracks of a door. Condensation formed on his glasses as he

prodded the door with the toe of his shoe. He flipped the

Beretta’s safety off and slipped inside.

The room was like a sauna, impossibly hot, the air

dense with steam.

And something else. The room seemed to be filled

with a kind of primal presence. An animal presence. Like

fear itself.

At the center of the room, an indoor pool glowed bluewhite.

The water lapped lazily, sending shimmering reflections

across the walls and roof. The windows were fogged.

His weapon leading him, Sylvester moved to the edge of the

pool.

What remained of Ryan Templeton floated facedown

in the water. Where his wings should have been remained

only two bloody holes of shredded skin, surrounded by the

remnants of his Immortal Marks. Sylvester placed a hand

on the fogged window to steady himself. Garcia entered the

room. Seeing the body in the pool, he stopped short.

“Oh my God.”

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The two police officers stood there in silence.

“Rest of the house is clear. I’ll get forensics up here

immediately,” Garcia said after a moment. Sylvester removed

his glasses and polished the condensation off the

lenses, still not speaking. Garcia couldn’t take his eyes off

the sight of Templeton’s body as it floated in the cloud of

bloodred water.

“I mean, an Angel serial killer?” Garcia said. “Is that

even possible?”

Sylvester returned his glasses to his face and turned to

the sergeant.

“Has to be. Only an Angel can kill an Angel,” Sylvester

said. “And even that’s near impossible to do.”

Garcia holstered his weapon.

“But what Angel would want to kill another Angel?

They’ve got everything they could want,” Garcia said.

“From what I understand, there are some Angels in

the upper ranks that aren’t too happy with some recent NAS

decisions,” Sylvester said. “We need deep background investigations

on Templeton and Godson. See if we can find a

common thread besides their stars.”

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Garcia’s eyes still fixed on the Angel’s gruesome remains.

After a few moments the sergeant spoke. “What kind

of beast does something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvester said, turning away. “Let’s get

to work.”

The sergeant went out into the hall and began barking

orders, his voice echoing through the house. Sylvester stood

there motionless, thinking about what Garcia had said.

Especially that one particular word. He rolled it around on

his tongue.

A beast.

The sergeant came back over and stood with him.

“Just came over the radio from the Ventura County

police, Detective,” Garcia said. “They just arrested three Humanity

Defense Front members, heading north from Angel

City. They had weapons. Guns. Knives. Hate literature.”

“HDF?”

Garcia nodded.

Sylvester’s head swam.

“Something serious is going on here. Maybe more serious

than any of us could imagine.” He stepped away from

the window and looked at Angel City through the space his

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handprint had cleared in the condensation. “Right now anyone

on that Walk of Angels is a potential target.”

“That’s nearly every Angel in the city.”

“I need to go talk to an old friend.” Sylvester’s face

tightened. “No Angel in Angel City is safe tonight.”

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