The sound intruded again—one, two, three, one, two, three, click, step, step, click, step, step.
“Somebody there?” Gabe called into the shadows. Something darted out from between the wide tires of a parked Ford and Gabe let out a yelp. As the cat slunk away down an alley, Gabe laughed. “Lord, cat. Announce yourself next time. I don’t have no nine lives.”
Shaking his head, he carried on, scatting a little bit of Miss Mamie Smith’s song under his breath, his hands unconsciously fingering an imaginary trumpet. The latticed tracks of the El bridge left stripes of light on the road, and Isaiah’s warning drifted back to him: The bridge. Don’t walk under the bridge. Gabe never would’ve said anything to Memphis about it, but there was definitely something not quite right about Isaiah. This business about telling Gabe’s future was a good example. Isaiah took the joke too far; Gabe had actually believed the kid was scared, too. Too much imagination—that was the trouble with that boy.
One, two, three, one, two, three, click, step, step.
There was that damned sound again! Gabriel turned around. It had gotten very foggy all of a sudden. The lights of the Whoopee Club were a distant haze.
Don’t walk under the bridge. He’s there.
Gabe pulled his collar tighter at his throat. Why was he letting that boy’s silly words get to him? The sound of footsteps echoed. It seemed to come from all around. The fog was even thicker. How was that possible? How could it have gotten thicker in just a matter of seconds? Was he walking closer to the river? Had he gotten lost? Gabe felt disoriented. Which way was back toward the clubs? The sound of whistling carried through the mist.
“Gabriel…”
Somebody was calling his name. He didn’t recognize the voice.
“Who’s there?”
“Gabriel, the angel. The messenger…”
“Memphis, that you? Lay off, now….” Gabe looked for something he could use to swing if he needed it, but he couldn’t see. Don’t walk under the bridge. He’s there.
If this was a joke, Gabe wasn’t laughing. He walked quickly ahead.
The man stepped from the mist as if born of it. His clothes were old-fashioned and he carried a silver walking stick. He was smiling at Gabe. It was a cold, cold smile, and Gabe felt unsteady on his feet.
“Gabriel the Archangel, whose trumpet did rend the sky.”
“If you’re looking for a horn player, I already play with the Count’s outfit,” Gabe said. His heartbeat had picked up something fierce. It was just some odd cat with a cane who was probably drunk. Gabe could take him if it came to that. So why was he suddenly so scared?
Don’t walk under the bridge. He’s there. You’ll die.
“Gabriel, whose trumpet announced the birth of John the Baptist. Of Jesus Christ. And whose call shall bear witness to the coming of the Beast,” the strange man continued. His eyes appeared to be swirling with fire, and Gabe found he couldn’t look away. “ ‘And the eighth offering was the offering of the angel, the great messenger whose heavenly music aligned the spheres and welcomed the fire in the sky. And lo, he played a sound upon his golden trumpet and heralded the birth of the Beast.’ ”
The man seemed to be getting bigger. His eyes were twin flames and his skin was crawling. Changing.
“ ‘And the Lord said, let every tongue welcome and praise the Dragon of Old, for His is the path of righteousness.’ ”
From the fog came the terrible din of demonic whispers, a breath straight from hell itself.
“Will you look upon me, Gabriel? Will you look upon me and be amazed?”
Gabe found he couldn’t speak. For the thing before him was beyond words.
KNOWLES’ END
The papers reported the arrest of Jacob Call with screaming headlines: KILLER KAUGHT! OH, BROTHER—CALL THIS ONE SOLVED! EVERYTHING’S JAKE! Though Detective Malloy insisted publicly that Jacob Call was only a person of interest, in the court of public opinion, he had already been tried and found guilty. But Evie had talked to Jacob Call. It was obvious he didn’t know much about the murder of Ruta Badowski. It was almost as if he wanted to draw attention to himself once they’d brought him in.
Evie had left a peace offering for Mabel: a photograph of Jericho she’d found lying about. She’d wrapped it inside a letter that simply read, “Sorry, Pie Face. Forgive your bad pal? Evie.” Mabel had responded by coming up straightaway and hugging Evie, and they’d promised they’d never be on the outs again. Evie had arranged a lunch with Jericho, and then, at the table, she’d announced that she was awfully sorry but she had to make an important telephone call. When she returned forty minutes later, she found the pair having a pleasant conversation about Tolstoy. It wasn’t fireworks and passion, but it wasn’t rude, either, and Evie took it as a good sign.
