The Black Angel

Miss Zahn and the small man returned after half an hour. Reid’s body already lay concealed in the undergrowth.

“We lost him,” she said.

“No matter,” said Brightwell. “We have bigger fish to fry.”

He stared out into the darkness, as though hoping that despite his words, he might yet have the chance to deal with the younger man. Then, when that hope proved misplaced, he walked with the others back to their car, and they drove south. They had one more call to make.

After a time, a thin figure emerged from the woods. Bartek followed the line of the trees until he found at last the splayed figure, cast aside amid stones and rotten wood, and he gathered the body to him and said the prayers for the dead over his departed friend.

Neddo was seated in the little office at the back of his store. It was almost dawn, and the wind outside rattled the fire escapes. He was hunched over his desk, carefully using a small brush to clean the dust from an ornate bone brooch. The door to his place of work opened, but he did not hear it above the howling of the wind, and so engrossed was he in the delicate task before him that he failed to notice the sound of soft footsteps moving through his store. It was only when the curtain moved, and a shadow fell across him, that he looked up.

Brightwell stood before him. Behind Brightwell was a woman. Her hair was very dark, her shirt was open to her breasts, and her skin was alive with tattooed eyes.

“You’ve been telling tales, Mr. Neddo,” said Brightwell. “We indulged you for too long.”

He shook his head sadly, and the great wattle of flesh at his neck wobbled and rippled.

Neddo put the brush down. His spectacles had a second pair of lenses attached to them by a small metal frame, in order to magnify the piece upon which he was working. The lenses distorted Brightwell’s face, making his eyes seem bigger, his mouth fuller, and the red-and-purple mass above his collar more swollen than ever, so that it appeared to be on the verge of an eruption, a prelude to some great spray of blood and matter that would emerge from deep within Brightwell, burning like acid everything with which it came into contact.

“I did what was right,” said Neddo. “If only for the first time.”

“What were you hoping for? Absolution?”

“Perhaps.”

“ ‘On earth they shall never obtain peace and remission of sin,’” Brightwell recited. “ ‘For they shall not rejoice in their offspring; they shall behold the slaughter of their beloved, shall lament for the destruction of their sons, and shall petition for ever, but shall not obtain mercy and peace.’”

“I know Enoch as well as you, but I am not like you. I believe in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of si

Brightwell stepped aside, allowing the woman space to enter. Neddo had heard about her but had never seen her. Without fore-knowledge, she might have appeared beautiful to him. Now, facing her at last, he felt only fear, and a terrible tiredness that prevented him from even attempting escape.

“…the resurrection of the body,” Neddo continued, his speech growing faster, “and life everlasting. Amen.”

“You should have remained faithful,” said Brightwell.

“To you? I know what you are. I turned to you out of anger, out of grief. I was mistaken.” Neddo commenced a new prayer: “‘Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for all my sins, because they have offended thee…’”

The woman was examining Neddo’s tools: the scalpels, the small blades. Neddo could hear her working her way through them, but he did not look at her. Instead, he remained intent upon completing his act of contrition, until Brightwell spoke and the words died in Neddo’s mouth.

“We have found it,” said Brightwell.

Neddo stopped praying. Even now, with death so close, and his protests of repentance still wet upon his lips, he could not keep the wonder from his voice.

“Truly?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Where was it? I would like to know.”

“Sedlec,” said Brightwell. “It never left the precincts of the ossuary.”

Neddo removed his glasses. He was smiling.

“All of the searching, and it was there all along.”

His smile grew sad.

“I should like to have seen it,” he said, “to have looked upon it after all that I have heard and all that I have read.”

The woman found a rag. She soaked it with water from a jug, then stepped behind Neddo and forced the material into his mouth. He tried to struggle, pulling at her hands and her hair, but she was too strong. Brightwell joined her, pushing Neddo’s hands down into the chair, his weight and strength keeping the smaller man’s body rigid. The cold of the scalpel touched Neddo’s forehead, and the woman began to cut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We flew into Prague via London, arriving late in the afternoon. Stuckler was dead. We had hired a car in New York and driven north to his house after our meeting with Bosworth, but by the time we arrived, the police were already there, and a couple of calls confirmed that the collector and his men had all been killed, and that the great bone statue in his treasury now had a hole in its chest. Angel joined us in Boston shortly after, and we left for Europe that night.

The temptation was to press on for Sedlec, which lay about forty miles east of the city, but there were preparations to be made first. In addition, we were tired and hungry. We checked into a small, comfortable hotel in an area known as Mala Strana, which seemed to translate as “Lesser Town,” according to the young woman at the reception desk. Close by, a little funicular railway ran up Petrin Hill from a street named Újezd, along which old trams rattled, their co

While Louis made some calls, I phoned Rachel and told her where I was. It was late, and I was worried that I might wake her, but I didn’t want to just leave the country without letting her know. Her main concern still seemed to be for the dog, but he was safely housed with a neighbor. Sam was doing fine, and they were all pla

“I always wanted to see Prague,” said Rachel, after a time.

“I know. Maybe another time.”

“Maybe. How long will you stay there?”

“A couple of days.”

“Are Angel and Louis with you?”

“Yes.”

“Fu

She didn’t sound like she found it fu

“It’s nothing personal,” I said. “And we have separate rooms.”

“I suppose that’s reassuring. Perhaps, when you get back, you’ll come here and we can talk.”

I noticed that she didn’t say when, or if, she was coming home, and I didn’t ask. I would go to Vermont when I returned, and we would talk, and perhaps I would drive back to Scarborough alone.

“That might be an idea,” I said.

“You didn’t say that you’d like to do it.”

“I’ve never had anyone tell me that we should talk and come out of it feeling better than when I went in.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, does it?”

“I hope not.”

“I do love you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know.”

“That’s what makes it so hard, isn’t it? But you have to choose what life you’re going to lead. We both do, I guess.”

Her voice trailed off.

“I have to go,” I said. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Fine.”

“Good-bye, Rachel.”

“’Bye.”

The hotel booked us a table at a place called U Modre Kachnicky, or the Blue Duckling, which lay on a discreet side street off Újezd. The restaurant was heavily decorated with drapes and rugs and old prints, and mirrors gave an impression of spaciousness to the smaller, lower level. The menu contained a great deal of game, the house’s speciality, so we ate duck breast and venison, the various meats resting on sauces made from bilberry, juniper, and Madeira wine. We shared a bottle of Frankovka wine and ate in relative silence.