I heard what Chavez said but I don’t think I was letting it sink in. Angels don’t die. Angels don’t exist, personally, but that’s neither here nor there. If angels existed I’d have seen a damn miracle or two around my house, my mother was a God nut, super religious, yet nothing saved her from her car accident or stopped my father’s cancer. No there’s some rational explanation. I know there is, this imprint on the floor, sure it could be human, Timothy said this was a massacre over three hundred years ago.
So, some guy died in a pool of his own blood, sword in hand, and the rest pooled in the shape of wings.
No no, couldn’t be wings. This was kind of like Rorschach test. Someone sees puffy clouds, Chavez sees wings because there are two giant thirty-foot statues of angel’s flanking the center of the damn room. It’s in his head, that’s all.
I get a hold of myself, “Chavez, Pete, get the scissor lift in here, help out Bob and Mike and let’s get this job over with. Sooner we start, sooner we’re done, chop chop.”
Pete gets motivated pretty quick, but Chavez is now on one knee making the cross over his chest and saying God’s prayer.
I ignore him for now and get to busy myself with the task at hand. The most difficult problem first: The statue on the left needs to be cleaned, and carefully since it’s a work of art.
As Bob and I are guiding the scissor lift into the place I hear Timothy shout something at Chavez. I rush over, now I feel like I’m on a normal work site.
“Hey hey, don’t shout at my guys, what’s going on?” I intervene.
Chavez has both of his hands up, stepping back from a huge structure of canvas and plywood making up a barricade to the right side of the entrance. “I was just checking for more stains, Fred.”
Understanding Chavez is a new thing for me but it’s not entirely unwelcome.
Timothy seems exasperated, “I appreciate your due diligence but this… This area is unstable, I cannot have anyone past these barriers. I apologize, I should have made that clear. The main hall is where the cleaning must be done. Only the main hall, any area that’s barricaded is unsafe, I can’t be held liable for the safety of your men if they wander past them.”
I look to Chavez, “you heard the man, help Bob with the scissor lift and then get to pre-treating the statue. Be careful, okay?”
Chavez nods, and looks to Timothy, “What saint is she?”
Timothy looks at the statue for a moment and gets this kind of far-away look in his eyes. “Dinah of Enoch.”
Chavez gives Timothy thumbs up and says, “I’ll take good care of Saint Dinah. She will sparkle!” He runs off to help Bob with the scissor lift and a very confused Bob and Chavez make their way over to the statue of, Dinah, I guess.
Timothy is smiling an odd kind of smile, and I almost break my “No questions” rule for a moment. I get my hard hat on and start shouting at Bob when I see he’s not wearing a harness on the lift. Typical worksite stuff: got to remind the old timers they’re mortal and make sure the greenhorn of the group doesn’t fuck something up. I’m happy to slide back into my routine. It wouldn’t last, of course.
…
About halfway through the day we’re just about done getting the bust of this statue clear, and I gotta say she’s looking as good as new there when we hear a huge bang. It sounds almost like someone took a large aluminum pipe and smashed it down onto the marble. It echoes over our tools and even the guys with ear protection are taken back by the sound.
I scream and shout to cut the equipment and tell Bob and Chavez to get off the scissor lift. Lord knows if something blew on the damn thing, it’s a rental after all. I call Mike over to have a look. Mike slides under the lift as Bob and Chavez unhook their harnesses.
Chavez looks to me, “It wasn’t the lift, boss.”
“Well, then what the fuck was it?”
Chavez points to behind one of the barricades and I spot Timothy running towards it, I think I hear him mumble something like, “This can’t be happening right now.”
I shout to him, “Hey, Tim, you need a hand?”
Timothy shoots me a stern look and in a pretty practiced officer tone commands us, “No one is to go beyond this point, something may have collapsed. If there’s an issue I’ll let you know, you stay there.” and disappears behind a piece of plywood and canvas.
I look to my guys and tell them to continue to inspect the scissor lift and then get back to work if everything is okay. God only knows what compelled me to walk toward the barricade at that moment. Morbid curiosity? A lapse of sound judgment? Mini-stroke? Still not sure to this day, but man was this at least the third or fourth stupidest thing I did that day. I get just close enough to hear voices, there’s a woman on the other side and Timothy.
“I’m sorry, I truly am, but I’m afraid they’re all gone,” I hear Timothy say, hushed, but still enough for me to hear, “I know your pilgrimage must have been arduous.”
The female voice sounds frantic and heartbroken, “But that can’t be! Surely, this cannot be! Who would do such a thing? Who could? Was it an army?”
“It was just two people, unfortunately.” He sounds almost guilty, “They seemed to come in relative peace, but it was soon apparent that at least one of them had other ideas. All fought valiantly but they couldn’t be stopped”
The woman’s voice is trembling, “It was her, wasn’t it? The daughter of Lu-”
The pressure washer kicked in and startled me while drowning them both out, and I realized how close I was to the barricade trying to listen. I stepped back and made my way quickly to the rest of the group, keeping an eye on the far barricade Timothy had vanished behind. I don’t see Tim emerge till we’re just about done for the day, the statue clean.
Timothy stops as he sees it, in reverence of some kind I guess, looking it over silently.
I walk over to him, “So far so good. We should be able to get some pretreatment on the flooring, let it sit overnight then we’ll hit it hard tomorrow.”
Timothy just nods, “Your men do swift work.”
“That’s what we do,” I say proudly.
Pete starts yelling for me from across the room. I excuse myself and hustle over.
“What’s up?” I look at where Pete is and he just points down.
There’s, for lack of a better word, a gash in the flooring.
I need to explain why this floor is unusual, more so than just having blood all over it and more than the shapes in said blood. You see, this floor doesn’t have seams. It’s a solid chunk of marble. I’ve seen some expensive walls and floors that are huge slabs, sure, happens all the time. If you have enough money they’ll tow a mountain to your house. But this was a mansion worth of floor that, for the life of me, I could not find a damn seam in.
Now the gash, it’s almost ten feet long and at the center, it looks almost six inches deep. Even with the light, while I can see the bottom, it looks pretty dark inside the gash.
Pete looks to me, “I’m going to ignore how this got here and just ask what we’re supposed to do? The surface scratches are easy to buff out but this isn’t going to buff out easy.”
I call Mike over to have a look.
Mike looks it over and runs his hand over the edges of the opening, as well as the sides, it’s all stained of course. “Jesus…” He stands up and looks it over, “That’s one clean swipe, there are no cutting marks like you’d get if you were slicing into it with a floor cutter… so… uh…” He starts thinking, “Can toss in quickset to fill it, get it most of the way full anyway, and we could just toss on some filler and polish but… I think we can do better with some resin, make it look a bit more natural. It’s up to the client though, this is going to cost extra.”
I look it over, a two-inch-wide, ten-foot-long, and six-inch deep slash in the marble certainly wasn’t in the order. I look to see Timothy is already approaching us. “Just the man I need to see.”
Timothy looks down and shakes his head, “She did some serious damage…”
Don’t ask, don’t ask, just don’t. I keep saying that in my head. “We can fill it and get it level, may even make it look pretty. But this wasn’t in the original quote, so I’d say about another four grand.” I’d feel bad if this entire job didn’t feel like some crazy funhouse.
Timothy just nods, “Fine fine, don’t go crazy, just so it’s level and no one trips over it.”
Mike heads out to get the materials we need, and I drag one of the sandblasters over, the gash is smooth, and it’ll need to be rougher if that quickset is going to fill it in right. Everyone gets to work while I start to blast into this thing. Then something black shoots straight up out of the gash and clatters somewhere behind me. This is why I wear a hard hat, folks. I cut the blaster, and look around, it doesn’t seem like anyone else heard anything. I look to what popped out of the gash and realize the gash is about nine inches deeper, and I can see it’s still solid marble, no subfloor or dirt. Nothing is behind me but my closed toolbox. Whatever popped up must have shattered when it hit the ground, or all I saw was sand and blood popping up out of the gash in the floor. I get my ear protection back on and finish up prepping the gash to be filled.
…
We pack up for the day, the floor is pretreated, we store the tools and such inside, and I do a quick head count, and I notice I’m short one Honduran. Oh, yeah, mystery solved on that one, Chavez is from Honduras. I look around and then spot him coming out from behind the barrier, Timothy walking behind him, his hand on his shoulder.
Shit.
I run over, “Chavez what the Hell, you were told not to-”
“Sorry boss, won’t happen again.” he’s very quiet and looks to Timothy, “Please consider? I do not mind.”
“It’s dangerous Jorge.” Timothy says, “Discuss with me later, yes?”
Chavez just nods and walks off.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Timothy just walks past me, “I thought you didn’t ask questions?”
“Not when it involves one of my guys.” I clear my throat, “Who, I’m sorry, disobeyed your instructions.”
Timothy glanced back at me, and with the light from the door behind him I kind of got the best look at his ice blue eyes, “Ensure it doesn’t happen again, Fred.”
I just nod dumbly as the red flags keep waving in my head. Just don’t show up tomorrow, take the money, leave the gear, go on your merry way. Granted I’d only been paid half of the job, but still, it was a decent amount. We get packed up, and the crew and I head out, packing my toolbox and other smaller items in the truck. I notice Timothy is locking up the doors of the place and then escorts us to the gates. He closes them with him on the other side.
I pull my truck up to the gate, “You are living on site?”
Timothy hesitates for a moment, but answers, “Yes. I have a trailer out back.”
“See you bright and early tomorrow then.”
Timothy just nods and waves me off. I never actually paid attention to where he went from there.
I turn to Chavez in the truck, and ask, “So what did you and Timothy talk about?”
“¿que?” is all I get from Chavez. He has to be fucking with me, I put it out of my mind, drop Chavez off at his place, he waves as always. "Gracias, señor Fred!”, and heads home. I head back home as well.
…
At home, the kids are asleep as is the wife, and I’ve got my toolbox in the garage. I pop open my toolbox as I’ve got to swap a few things in and out for the next day, specifically some mixing bits and the like.
When I open my toolbox, however, something inside of it is certainly not a tool I have ever used. I suddenly recognize it, it’s the object that came out of the gash. My toolbox was opened behind me, it must have closed when the thing slammed into it.
The object is about three wide deep in the center, two feet long, and about three inches thick at the top, tapering to a point at the bottom. It looks almost like a wedge, and I realize it’s probably blood that seeped into this gash and solidified over the years.
I pick it up, and it’s light, but despite my attempts, I cannot break this thing. looking at this object in the light for the first time. It almost looks like a blade, either that or the shape of the Gash just shaped this thing into one. The top is flat, the bottom comes to a point, not sharp, but it could be. Light seems to penetrate through the edge of this thing and it is tinted deep red, the rest appears to be black. I didn’t even know blood could become a solid, but I guess if there’s enough of it, it’s possible.
It’s about ten after eleven when I swear I hear three taps against my front door as if I had a knocker or something. I don’t, by the way.
I leave the object in my toolbox, closing it and locking it, and head to the front door. I’m not an idiot, I make sure to check my closet next to the door, and I make sure my shotgun is loaded. It’s after 11 PM, what psycho comes knocking at someone’s door at this time of night?
I open the door halfway and am greeted by an outstretched hand with a black ring on each finger, one of which was about to tap again on the door. The hand pulls back and clasps a wide-brimmed white hat, removing it from his head and lowering it to about chest level. One hand is behind him and he’s standing a good six foot three, wearing a white duster of some sort and a red tie over a black, very expensive looking, dress shirt. He has white-rimmed glasses and yellowish eyes behind them, jet black hair that’s well kept. As he speaks it’s almost like his voice doesn’t match his body, his face isn’t odd but doesn’t stand out, and his voice sounds almost like it comes from an old cop movie.
“Evenin’ young man. I understand you’re working with an associate of mine, goes by Timothy?”
While client confidentiality isn’t my cornerstone, keeping my business out of my personal life sure as shit is. “Sorry buddy but I’m going to have to ask you talk to me during business hours.”
His face falls slightly, “now this is important… regarding that place you’re working in. Timothy may have you misled, you see, he’s using this place for his own means, not prosperity.” he pulls out some kind of business card and twirls it over each of his fingers before handing it to me.
I look it over, it just has a phone number on it, no other information.
His other hand brings an unlit cigarette to his mouth, he inhales, smoke venting out of his nostrils. “If you were to happen across something… of note… I’d be appreciative if you could contact me.”
“I’m not doing that, I’m not the kind to take things from a worksite.” Normally, this is completely true.
A shit eating grins spread across this guys’ face and his oddly perfect teeth almost glisten in the light on my porch. "True. Be a shame to take something that you don’t understand, only to wind up dead,” he cocks an eyebrow at me, “or worse.”
I had it with the creep on my porch at this point, “Listen, pal, hit the bricks, you hear me? Get the fuck off my property or I’ll call the cops,” I try cocking a shit eating grin myself now, “or worse”, I don’t think it works.
He stands still, I can barely tell if he is breathing.
I pump the shotgun behind the door, I know there’s no point to this, I just eject a perfectly good shell, but I want him to hear that I’ve got a gun, it’s pump action, and it’s in my hand.
His voice suddenly changes, or he just drops the façade, and a raspy voice like that of a lifelong chain smoker slithers out of his throat, half a whisper, half a wheeze. “Not parting with it then, eh? Well, I’ll have it one way or another, for certain.” The accent is hard to place, it’s not quite Middle Eastern, but it’s not like anything I’ve ever heard.
I now pull the shotgun out and point it at his face, “And now I’m done with you. Whoever the fuck you are, get out.”
He doesn’t even flinch, he just grins more, a hissing chuckle dripping out of his mouth, “You are a fun one… never once does your sort disappoint… always resorting to the fire provided by Prometheus yet,” he pauses, eyeing the barrel of the gun, “never considering where it came from.” I’m not sure where he pulled it from, but he suddenly crunches into an apple he must have had in his pocket. “I suppose… I’ll have to reconsider. Maybe when you’re asleep, like what happened to that hooker you cleaned up a few years back on Broadway?”
My heart skipped a beat. I don’t talk about clients and clients would never talk about me, and I never go into that much detail either, I just restore shit.
“A man of your skills is bound to clean up a homicide of two. Knowingly or not,” He tilts his head back, looking at me down the barrel of the gun, “cleaning up the sin left behind by those less scrupulous than yourself? Oh, we’ve been watching you for some time,” now, for some reason, his eyes go wider, “Red Fred.”
I click the safety off of the shotgun and put my finger on the trigger. “Get the fuck out of here right now.”
Another loud crunch of his apple and he seems to mockingly throw his hands up, walking backward, keeping eye contact with me with those yellow eyes, “Very well… another time then. You are a fun one Red.” he turns and starts to walk off.
I haven’t moved the gun yet, still trained on him, “Don’t fucking call me Red you…” I realize I hadn’t gotten this creep’s name, the card that he gave me only had a phone number. “Whatever your God-given name is!”
My mother always said that when she mad. She’d shout out into phones all the time when telemarketers would give her fake names and shit, “What’s your God-Given name?” - so it’s a force of habit I picked up. I only said it when I was really pissed at someone. And this guy had me pretty livid. Bar-none, the dumbest thing I apparently did all day.
He stops dead on my walkway, and his hands slowly go down to his sides, “ooh…” his voice whispers out as if he had just won a prize. “You compel my God-given name?” his head starts to turn toward his right shoulder, but his shoulders aren’t moving, not an inch.
As I watch I get ready to shoot. I swear if his head does a full 180-degree turn, I don’t care what his name was, I’ll just start shooting until he stops moving and probably pump a few more rounds into just to be sure.
His head stops just shy of completely turned, I can see both of his yellow eyes as he slowly placed his hat back on his head. He grins and I swear I watch his pupils dilate till his eyes look almost entirely black with yellowish rings around them, “You can tell Timothy my name too,” he lets out another hissing laugh and I swear I can hear the gun shaking in my hands for some reason, “It’s Belial.”
I don’t know why but I feel the blood drain out of my face for a moment and the whole area got a bit dimmer as if something were draining it of light. I stagger slightly, but regain my footing, press the shotgun butt against my shoulder tightly, as if it’s somehow going to help me.
He turns away from me, and as he walks off, he wheezes out, “Don’t forget to tell Timothy I stopped by,” another puff of smoke clouds around his head, “and what I stopped by for.”
I pulled the gun back, shut the door, locked it, and shut the blinds. My heart was hammering in my chest as I checked the shells in my gun to ensure I had it loaded. I click the safety back on and I rush upstairs to my bedroom. My wife is fast asleep as I sit on the edge of the bed, gun in hand, staring at my front door down the stairs.
I swear I can hear something three taps against my window at random times all night.