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“The same way you got to the asylum. Three hundred and thirty-three paces, but in the opposite direction.”
“You really like that number.”
He nods.
“Actually I like nines. Sacred numbers. You’ve got to love them. If you people were better at math, you’d be as smart as me.”
I nod in Alice’s direction.
“You can take care of her while I’m gone, right?Èx20right?&D;
“She was taken from her place in Heaven, so unlike some people, she’s one of mine. No one will hurt her.”
I start down the ramp. Alice follows me a few paces. I stop.
“Can you for sure stop Mason?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then promise me this. If you can’t win and everything is going to fall apart, you come back here so we can ride it out together.”
“I promise.”
“Okay, then,” she says.
I half turn away then pivot back.
“Did you spy on me for the Sub Rosa?” The question just charged out on its own. I can almost feel the angel trying to reach into my mouth and snatch the words back.
Alice stands still. I can read faces pretty well. If she had a heartbeat, it would be spiking right now. That’s all I need to know.
There’s a crack like a cannon going off as the building the Kissi set on fire collapses. I wave to her once and go.
I COME UP in the Badlands, though I don’t see how this parcel of the L.A. shit-scape is supposed to be worse than any of the others I’ve seen. In fact, I’d find the area downright restful if it wasn’t for all the blood.
I’m in a deserted industrial area surrounded by collapsed warehouses and bent and twisted railroad tracks following the L.A. River. The river’s concrete banks are stained the color of old bricks from a rushing river of blood, a tributary of the Styx. I guess this is the source of the blood bubbling up out of the sinkholes.
There’s nothing here that points to Tartarus. No signs, burning bushes, or sphinxes playing Jeopardy! for clues. The one time a sphinx tried that with me, I held it down and shaved it until it looked like one of those hairless cats you see in Beverly Hills pet stores.
I’m not far from a burned-out, crumbling version of the old Fourth Street Bridge. It’s all big Roman arches with a few out-of-place Victorian streetlamps to class up the thing because you don’t want your industrial wastelands to look tacky.
There’s something strange under the bridge. A bright patch of green. There are palm trees on either side and they’re not on fire. The green looks like fresh, healthy grass. In the middle of the little oasis is a white stucco forties bungalow. It has red slate shingles and it’s styled with the vaguely hacienda look you see on the older places. I go up the pristine walkway out front and knock on the door. It opens and the woman inside sibuman insmiles at me. Her face shifts and re-forms, showing the phases of the moon.
“I told you that in the end you’d come to me,” says Medea Bava.
“So this is your dirty little secret. Tartarus is the Inquisition.”
“No. I’m the Inquisition. Tartarus is your fate. The Dies Irae,” she says, and recites, “ ‘Just judge of vengeance, grant me the gift of forgiveness before the Day of Judgment.’ ”
“I like the sound of that forgiveness part.”
“And some receive it, but I’m afraid you’re a bit too late for that.”
I step out of Bava’s way, tromping on her perfect lawn with my bloody-sewage-waste boots.
“Then why don’t you scoot us on over to the Club Double Dead and let me in?”
She comes out, locking the door behind her.
