DeathAngel Read online

  Because of Drea, he saw that Death walked with its arm around him. If he went on as he was, he knew what would be waiting for him. But if he could judge himself, walk away from that life, would the outcome change?

  It sounded simple enough, but the concept was a complete sea change.

  A huge, choking pain filled him, and his throat closed on a sound like that of a wounded animal, helpless and suffering.

  A door off to the side of the small room opened. Simon hadn’t realized it was there, a lapse on his part that was unbelievable, and unforgivable, because such a lack of awareness could be deadly.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” a man’s quiet voice said, “but I heard—”

  He’d heard the muted howl of agony. Simon still didn’t turn.

  “If you’d like to talk…” the man began again, when Simon didn’t respond.

  Slowly Simon stood, feeling as weary as if he’d been awake for days on end, as battered as if he’d fallen off a cliff. He turned and looked at the small, middle-aged man who wore a regular suit, no vestments or white collar at his throat. Physically the man was unprepossessing, slight and balding, but there was an energy to him that kept him from being insignificant.

  “I’m giving thanks for a miracle,” he said simply, and wiped the tears from his face.

  * * *

  22

  Seven months later

  “ANDIE, ORDER UP!”

  Andrea Pearson gave a quick glance over her shoulder at the pass-through to the kitchen, where Glenn was loading the shoulder-high bar with plates piled high with hamburgers and steaming hot french fries, then resumed unloading heavy plates off the tray she carried. Glenn, owner and cook at Glenn’s Truck Stop, was shoveling food onto plates as fast as he could. It was Friday night, truckers were headed home, and the place was packed. The work was grueling, but the tips were great and Glenn paid her under the table, which was even better.

  “I’ll be right back with refills,” she said to the three truckers in the booth, then hurried over to get the newly plated orders while the food was still hot. After dispensing them to the proper table, she loaded her tray with the coffeepot and tea pitcher and made the rounds, refilling cups and glasses. All the other waitresses were hustling as fast as she was, swivel-hipping their loaded trays through the tangle of chairs and tables.

  “Hey, Andie,” a female driver said as she passed by, “tell my fortune for me.”

  Her name was Cassie, her hair was blond with dark roots, and she wore a lot of makeup, along with tight jeans and high heels. She was very popular with a certain segment of the male drivers; the more settled ones left her alone. Tonight, though, she was with some other female drivers, and they were ignoring the guys for some girl time.

  “You don’t have one,” said Andie, not even slowing down.

  The next time she went by, Cassie signaled for her check. The group was laughing and joking, trading stories about their men or their kids or their pets, though Andie was hard put to tell which story was about which group. When she took the check over, Cassie said, “Whaddaya mean, I don’t have a fortune? You mean I’m not going to marry some good-looking rich guy and have a life of leisure?”

  The other women hooted, because in their world things like that just didn’t happen.

  “Nope,” said Andie in a matter-of-fact tone. “You won’t ever be rich. But if you don’t start making better decisions, you’re going to end up broke and eating cat food to make ends meet.”

  Silence fell on the little group, because Andie’s tone wasn’t joking.

  “Better decisions?” Cassie asked after a slight hesitation. “Like what?”

  “Andie! Order up!”

  “Gotta go,” she said, hurrying to the bar. Her left arm was aching from toting the heavy trays for the past five hours, and she had three more hours to go. She hadn’t had time to grab anything to eat, either, so she wasn’t inclined to waste any of her precious minutes trying to give Cassie life lessons. Hell, how much brains did it take not to screw every guy who came down the highway—in Cassie’s case, almost literally? Besides, it irritated her that Cassie had asked her to “tell her fortune.”

  Andie didn’t tell fortunes. She didn’t have a crystal ball, she couldn’t tell where crazy Uncle Harry had buried his coin collection or which horse was going to win at what track. If she could, she’d be playing the ponies herself. Sometimes she got impressions about people, that was all. She might warn somebody to slow down on his run, or tell him to have his cholesterol checked, stuff like that. Working as a waitress meant she saw people doing stupid things that were bound to get them into trouble, and if she warned them and they didn’t listen, why was it so surprising to them when, lo and behold, they got into trouble? Cause and effect: do something stupid, and bad things will happen. Big duh.

  But in the few months she’d been working at Glenn’s, she’d gotten sort of a reputation as a psychic, and nothing she said could dissuade anyone from that idea. The only way she could disprove it, she supposed, was to not tell anyone whatever it was she thought they should know, but she couldn’t in good conscience let a driver sit there wolfing down fried food when she was fairly certain he was going to have a heart attack in a couple of weeks.

  She’d done some research on the afterlife and near-death experiences, and several times she had come across references that a person who had died and been revived sometimes came back with the gifts of prophecy and vision. The only thing close to a vision that she’d had was when she saw that nurse, Dina, falling on some stairs—and she’d been on painkillers at the time, so that could have had something to do with seeing things. As for prophecy…wasn’t that about big things, such as the end of time, or 9/11, or a president getting shot? She hadn’t experienced anything like that.

  But she had definitely come back with a knack for some small stuff—for everyone except herself. When it came to herself, she didn’t have even the smallest inkling of a premonition. She had to flounder along, and it seemed to her that most of the time her choices were all bad, and she had to take the least worst of the lot. She wasn’t racking up many points that way.

  Like the two million bucks. For the life of her, she couldn’t decide what to do with it. Sending it back to Rafael was out of the question. Yes, she’d stolen it from him, but he’d gotten it by running drugs and then laundering it through all of his penny-ante businesses. Giving it back to him would just make him that much stronger in the drug world.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t just keep it. It wasn’t hers. She’d had to use part of it to live on after she was released from the hospital, because though she’d had a couple of weeks of physical rehab before Dr. Meecham would release her, she hadn’t been in any shape to get a job and work. She’d been able to bathe and dress herself, and take short walks, but that was about it. Getting strong enough to actually get a job had taken weeks more of physically pushing herself, ignoring the protests of her chest muscles, which hadn’t wanted to do anything.

  She’d been driven by the need to escape, and not because of any legal issue. Her ability to lie had come through in a pinch, and she’d sailed through her interview with Detective Arrons. Once she settled on a name—Pearson, in honor of the kind-eyed Mrs. Pearson at the bank in Grissom—the rest of it was easy. For the most part, she told the truth. She bought the car in New Jersey and hadn’t bothered to register it there because she’d been leaving that day, moving out here, and figured she’d wait until she got settled and knew what her address would be before applying for a Colorado tag.

  Okay, so that wasn’t exactly the truth. He could have pressed the issue, because she didn’t have a driver’s license either; there were a number of factors figuring into his decision to let it drop. First and foremost, the car hadn’t been reported stolen anywhere. Two, while still drugged up she’d asked about her laptop, but no laptop had ever been found, which opened up the possibility that her belongings had been pilfered. A man had made the 911 call, but no one had