Devil's Advocate (The X-Files: Origins #2)(71)

“Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“That word.”

“Wetback?” Angelo snorted. “Ain’t the worst thing I’ve been called. Everybody’s got a different name for me. Lazy, spic, greaser, illegal alien, take your pick.”

“I never say anything like that,” said Dana.

He nodded and measured out half a smile. “You’re more polite than most.”

“I’m not prejudiced.”

“Everyone is,” he said. “Not everyone admits it to themselves.”

“That’s not true.”

“You told me to buzz off ’cause I’m a guy.”

“That’s different,” she said.

“Is it? Why are guys on your hate list today?”

Dana didn’t answer. A black car passed slowly by, and they both turned to look at it.

“Lot of those cats around,” said Angelo.

“Who?”

“Men,” he said, grinning.

“Be serious.”

“Men in black,” he expanded. “Scary guys in black suits driving black cars.”

“They’re probably undercover narcs.”

“No,” he said. “They ain’t.”

“Then what are they?”

He shrugged. “No lo sé. But they’re around a lot lately.”

She wiped her nose and crumpled the tissue. “You changed the subject.”

He shrugged again. “Wasn’t a good subject. We were talking about you hating on guys, and I’m a guy. I can’t see how I’d come out on top of that conversation.”

“Why do you care?”

Angelo tugged at a loose thread on the knee of his work pants. Dana watched the muscles in his hand and forearm flex under the brown skin. She thought about his scars. Saturo had scars like that, but not the same ones. And not on his …

Hand.

Suddenly Dana could hear Corinda’s voice echoing in her head.

I see a knife. It flashes silver. It clicks. Not a … hunting knife. Smaller. Something that folds. I see a silver knife in a strong hand. I see scars. On the knuckle of the … ring finger. On the side of the hand. An old injury. He … hurt it … fixing a car. A wrench slipped. Sharp metal. Last year? Yes.

“Angelo…?” Dana said in a small, tight voice.

“Sí?”

“Those scars on your hand. On the knuckle of your ring finger. How’d you get them?”

He grunted in surprise and looked at his hand. “Those? They’re nothing. I was fixing a friend’s car last year and a wrench slipped. Cut it on some metal. You wouldn’t believe how bad small cuts can bleed. I cut my arm, too, see?” He pushed his sleeve up to show a much longer scar. It must have been very bad, and it cut straight through a small, round tattoo, bisecting it.

Dana stared.

It was a tattoo of an eclipse.

“Where did you get that?” she asked, her voice hollow.

Angelo glanced at the tattoo and quickly pushed down his sleeve. “I got it before I had the accident at the shop. Better than a year ago. What’s it matter?”

Dana stood up. “I just remembered,” she said. “I have to be home right now.”

“Hey,” he said, also rising. “Wait.… What did I say?”

“No. It’s fine,” she said as she snatched up her backpack and held it in front of her. “I have to go right now. My dad’s expecting me. I’m late.”

She ran down the steps and across the field and out onto the sidewalk, throwing terrified glances over her shoulder.

Angelo stood on the bleacher. He looked down at his hand and then at her. Did he frown? Or did his eyes flare with sudden understanding? Dana could not tell.

She ran as fast as she could.





CHAPTER 65

The Observation Room

5:41 P.M.

“She knows.”

Agent Gerlach turned to face the angel. “What do you mean, she knows? Knows what?”

“She’s seen my face,” said the angel.

They stood in the hall outside the sacristy of the old church. Through the open doorway, Gerlach could see the strange painting the angel had been working on for the past month. It was disgusting. Not in its shape—since it seemed to be random smears with no attempt at presenting a specific form—but because of the media used. Blood, sweat, tears, and hair. He’d been briefed about how certain kinds of individuals liked to collect trophies.

Sick stuff, he thought. Killing was one thing, and maybe having some fun during a kill provided a certain kind of entertainment. Gerlach didn’t indulge in that sort of thing, but he understood it. He’d killed people before in ways that provided different kinds of satisfaction. Not like this, though. This crossed a line. This was perverse.

If it was up to Gerlach, he’d put two in the back of the angel’s head and bury the body where it would never be found. Neat and tidy.

It was not, however, his call to make. The First Elder and the top guys in the Syndicate called the shots, and they wanted the angel to deliver. If that meant allowing the psychopath some latitude in how he got his jollies, then it wasn’t up to Gerlach to jerk his leash.