Four - A Band Of Angels

Well, look way down the river, what do you think I see?
I see a band of angels and they're coming after me
There ain't no grave can hold my body down
Ain't no grave can hold my body down 

Well, look down yonder, Gabriel, put your feet on the land and sea
But Gabriel don't you blow that trumpet 'til you hear from me
There ain't no grave can hold my body down
Ain't no grave can hold my body down 
 - Johnny Cash, "Ain't No Grave"


She let out a low breath once the door was locked behind her, then straightened up and shook her head as if trying to clear it. For a moment, her eyes closed. When they opened again, there was a hard, controlled look to them.

The checklist began. Cameras set up. Emergency bag secured under loose floorboard. Weapons planted around room, pistol secreted on underside of bedside table. Bathroom mirror covered by towel.

It wasn't a large room, hardly more than a closet with a bed and half-bath attached. The place had obviously been repurposed from a storage area of some sort, then halfheartedly wallpapered in a soft blue in an attempt to make it a little more welcoming. The lack of windows and the glaring yellow light from the bare bulb that hung overhead made it clear that ensuring that the room was comfortable or pleasing to the eye was a minor consideration at best.

She didn't care. It was small and harshly utilitarian. That fit her needs perfectly. The only things that she really needed were the bed and the small desk set against the far wall. The spindly chair creaked even under her weight, but it held.

She looked at the materials she had set out on the desk earlier, taking stock. The over-sized map of the town and nearby cities had been pinned in place by a cell phone and a box of permanent markers to keep it from folding back up. Lying next to it was a leather-bound black notebook. In contrast to everything else she owned, this looked expensive and high-end, and had obviously been well taken care of. Even the little ribbon that served as a built-in bookmark was still attached.


She leaned in and opened it to the bookmarked page. Most of the contents were handwritten in pen, the letters small and sharp. Despite the small handwriting, most of the pages were absolutely full. But there were other things there, taped or glued or stapled or paper-clipped to the pages: photographs, newspaper clippings, bits of map. Most of these had been heavily marked as well, their surfaces covered in marker-scrawled notes.

She ran her eyes across the page, stopping for a moment to glare at a face in one of the photographs: a tall, slim, professionally-dressed black woman with close-cropped hair and sunglasses, stepping out of a white car.

Underneath the photograph was written "TRUMPETER: Naomi Deeds", underlined several times. Beneath that, she had jotted down notes on the woman's professional life, public contact information, license plate number, relatives, and associates.

She glanced aside, towards the map that covered most of the desk, and picked up one of the markers. A moment later, she drew a circle on the map, over the city of Indianapolis, and then a line connecting that circle to a series of them that led over much of the northeastern part of the continent. She scowled for a moment, then snapped the notebook shut and stood.

Downstairs, Seward was calling that dinner was ready. She tucked the notebook under her arm and made her way out of the room, towards the stairwell.

Seward was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. His broad, flabby face broke into a wide grin at the sight of her. His skin was bright-red, and a thin sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead. "Hey there," he said, sounding much more relaxed than he had earlier. "Glad you decided to join us. It's chili tonight. Homemade. You hungry?"

"Yeah," she answered. She didn't shrink quite so much into herself as she did during the previous meeting, this time. She kept her back straight, and managed to make eye contact without glowering from underneath a lowered brow. After a moment, as if it had just occurred to her to say it, she said, "Thanks."

"No problem," answered the fat man. He gestured towards the kitchen with one of his broad hands. "There's nothing formal here. Just eat wherever you want to, and try not to make a mess."

She frowned. As she stepped off the last of the stairs, she seemed to shrink back into herself, adopting her usual defensive posture once more. "I won't," she muttered, dropping her eyes again. "But if you could call everybody together at some point - again, I mean, I've got some more information."

Seward paused, frowning, as he looked down at her. "What kind of information?"

"The important kind," she said. A note of irritation crept into her voice as she flipped the notebook open and almost pushed it into his hands. "You said to keep you all in the loop about what might be after me. That's it." She shook her head and started to sidle past him, headed for the kitchen.

Seward stopped her with a grunt and one heavy hand on her shoulder. "Settle down. I'll tell the rest about this, but you've got to explain it first. What's 'Trumpeter' mean?"

She was motionless for a second. Then she pulled her shoulder out of his grip and said sharply, "It's a title. For certain members of the angel cult. 'Heralds', they call themselves." She snorted angrily, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "They're attack dogs. And they usually get followed around by a group of altar boys called a choir, but I don't think she has one."

Seward grunted again and stared down at the photograph. "Right," he muttered. "So how many Trumpeters do you have following you, exactly?"

"Just her." She shook her head, scowling now. "Unless she's put the word out to the other congregations. I don't know. She might have. Each little cult cell has three Trumpeters at most, depending on size. Their job is to make sure the people who don't want to embrace the Archangel their way do it the other way. It's a crusade." She paused. "I killed the other two from hers."

Seward was quiet for a moment. Then he shut the notebook, sighed, and nodded. "Right," he said. "I'll tell the rest. Or you can. For now, let's just get some food in you. You look like a skeleton." He laughed, his easy grin returning.

She just nodded and set off for the kitchen again.