The Boo Angel

His eyes moved fractionally until he was looking at her, and she seemed to tremble when his brown eyes grabbed hers. "Talk?" he growled. "About what would you like to talk? Please, Whore...do tell."

"Truth. About what the priest talked to you about. That kind of truth."

"I'm tired," he started to say...motioning to the lead mercenary.

"And you need a bath," she stammered quickly, just like she was looking to get out of this situation alive. "Could I at least do that much for you?"

"What?" he said a little too melodramatically, startled by this sudden, unwarranted audacity. "Give me a bath? You?"

"Yes, please. While we talk."

He thought for a moment then pushed the door to his suite open, stepping back and holding the door open for her, letting her enter. He held it open as his security detail walked in behind the woman, too.

"Wait out here," he told the men as he walked into his bedroom, the woman trailing behind him by a step or two, then he closed the door as she entered the room.

Her hooker shoes looked vaguely pathetic in this setting, the raccoon makeup around her eyes beyond obscene as he pulled out his phone and dialed his security coordinator -- this call still on the phone's external speaker.

"Yessir?"

"Call Huff, would you? I want to be wheels up by 0600 latest. Get the car here in two hours, and someone to pack my bags in an hour."

"Yessir. Anything else?"

"The women? What happened to them?"

"On the way to the hospital now, sir."

"Fine, fine. Let your team know I appreciate the extra effort."

"Yessir. Anything else?"

"I'll let you know."

"Yessir."

He cut the line and turned to the wide-eyed, terrified prostitute. "Well, what are you standing there for?" he said as he slipped out of his shoes and walked to the bathroom. She followed him into the palatial, marble-lined room and he stared at her reflection in the mirror as she came in. "Get that shit off your face," he snarled as he pointed to the sinks and the assortment of soaps on the marble countertop, "before you fucking do anything else." He turned on the water in the huge shower and when it was warm enough he stepped under the spray and let it run through his clothing, not bothering once to look at the wretch as she undressed and washed her face. With his arms outstretched he leaned into the wall and slipped off his trousers, then his shirts, the hot water now coursing down his back, then he felt a cool blast of air as the woman entered the shower.

She soon had a lathered sponge ready to go and started on his back, then the backs of his thighs. He moved the spray and she applied more soap to her sponge before she worked on his sides, then his shoulders.

"Go there, please," she said, pointing to a marble bench along one side of the shower, "and sit for me."

Feeling totally relaxed now he demurred, and without protest he went and sat. As she began washing his hair he closed his eyes and let his mind drift until he felt an easy sleep coming for him -- with his forehead resting against her belly. 'How maternal,' he thought as a completely unexpected wave of emotion rolled over his thoughts, her gentle fingers sending him inward to a haunted landscape of unwanted memories he'd thought long buried beneath a cold Montana prairie.

"You speak English very well," he said a moment later, running from long hidden feelings lurking in the steam.

"I spent most of my childhood on a farm near Bristol," she began. "When my parents divorced I moved back here with my mother."

"College?"

"I have had...an education," she sighed, in-charge and smiling now, at ease once again.

"And what did you want to be when you grew up?"

She chuckled at his diffident disdain. "Before life turned sideways, you mean?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"I always wanted to have horses. Nothing else mattered to me."

"No interests, nothing you always wanted to do?"

"No, not really. Friends always said I should be an actress, but to me that seemed a frivolous thing to pursue."

"Oh? Why's that?" he said slowly, gently and on-guard now, his eyes wide open in the mist -- like he knew there was a snake in the grass just ahead. Looking through her pubic thatch to her knees and feet, watching the water run from his head down her legs before pooling around her feet, he was suddenly very much aware of her presence, of every nuanced beat of her personality, and of all the warning lights in his mind blinking red.

"Oh, I was never pretty enough for all that drama stuff," she sighed.

"Well, the question is...are you an actress now, or are you not?"

"I studied a little, and I was in a play in London once..."

He stood abruptly and pushed her gently to a far corner of the shower. "You are at the front door of a house. You are a police officer and you have come to tell the mother of a boy you found earlier in the evening that her son is now dead, and that he was killed in a motor vehicle accident not two hours ago. My hand is the mother's face...so now, follow my hand, her face, as you tell her what has happened..."

He watched her snap to and begin an ad-libbed dialogue with this imaginary, unseen woman, her movements deceptively true to character...empathy written all over her face, the strength of her fictional police officer's resolve immediately believable, and while she spoke he studied her face, her eyes, as she worked through her hastily improvised sketch. When she finished he looked at her with something akin to respect in his eyes, and now he spoke with kindness in his voice.

"Have a passport?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"You want to make a movie? In Hollywood? Make a bunch of money, maybe enough to buy a some land, maybe a horse or two?"

She looked knowingly at this strange man -- and she knew he wasn't kidding now. "You would do this for me?" she asked humbly, smiling innocently as she watched his fall begin.

"I can put you in a position to make all this happen, yes. You'll have to believe in me. To trust me -- and I know that won't be easy for you -- not after tonight. You'll have to do the hard work, all of it. Understand? I can get you in the door, but the rest will be up to you. You do that and yes, I can do that for you." He watched her reaction closely, thinking 'At least I can make some dreams come true, for some people.'

She nodded as she gauged his reaction to her smile. "Okay," she cooed. "I accept your proposal."

He held out his right hand and she looked down and took it. "We're partners now," he said, adding, "You take care of me and I'll take care of you. That's how the game works. Okay?"

"You mean, like sex or something?" she said, grinning -- though still innocently.

He laughed -- then shook his head. "Oh...Hell no. I don't have time for that shit anymore, and besides, I seem to have zero interest in people these days. So, no...I mean I'll look out for your business interests and you look out for mine. But at the same time, if you try to screw me you'll be back out here on the streets before you can figure out what happened to you. Is that clear enough for you?"

"It is, yes," she said, still holding his hand. "But...could you please tell me what this is really all about?"

+++++

After a quick stop at the prostitute's flat -- to collect her passport as well as some clothing -- Taylor's limousine made the short hop out to the main international airport just north of the city center. His driver avoided the large departure hall and drove to the south side of the airport, parking just outside the side entrance of a nondescript commercial building that, at five in the morning, looked completely barren, and except for a few lights inside, almost lifeless. They walked into the FBO and a customs agent cleared them to leave Germany, and then a Mercedes van drove their group out onto a bustling biz-jet ramp. Fuel trucks zoomed by while airliners taxied out to the nearby runway, and even in the blowing snow everything out here felt loud and important.

And when she saw the jet, the hooker couldn't, apparently, believe her eyes.

The jet they'd pulled up to was huge, larger than many of the commercial airliners she saw parked over at the main terminal building, and as they walked up the air-stairs this impression was only magnified. In small italicized block lettering by the main door she saw the words Boeing Business Jet Max 900, and then she recognized the aircraft was some sort of modified Boeing 737. One of the jet's pilots met them just inside the door, and someone from their security detail took her bag and carried it aft. A large polished mahogany table -- in the center of the aircraft and just ahead of the wing -- had been set for breakfast, and one of the flight attendants was just now pouring glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice into tall Waterford tumblers. Another shuttle pulled up down on the ramp and another small entourage made its way up the air-stairs and into the cabin, and she smiled and tried not to stare as two extremely famous actors -- a husband and wife duo almost constantly in the tabloids -- came to the table...saying "Hi!" to "William" as they sat at the ornately set table.

She hardly realized it at first, but the aircraft's door had shut and the engines -- though almost completely silent from inside the cabin -- were starting. Seatbelts were checked and the cabin lights dimmed before the jet started to taxi out to the runway, and though she had flown before she thought this takeoff felt very smooth, and very quiet. A minute after takeoff, plates loaded with fresh bagels appeared as the lighting increased a bit, then smoked salmon and cream cheese arrived on another plate, followed by thin slices of onions and tomatoes on yet another. A fourth, smaller plate appeared, this one loaded with capers and caviar and other unknown garnishes, and she watched as everyone reached out and grabbed what they wanted, constructing huge open faced bagels loaded with enough stuff to feed a family.

The man, who she now assumed was named "William," stopped rubbing his left leg and leaned over to speak to her just then. "Would you like me to fix you a bagel?"

"Could you, please?" she smiled. "Is there something wrong with your leg?"

Though he nodded he seemed to avoid her question as he took her plate, and he fixed a mountain-sized monstrosity of salmon and caviar and hard boiled egg and then set it down in front of her. Flutes were filled with champagne, then their plates were cleared just in time to make room for even larger platters loaded with eggs and steaks and thick slices of pepper encrusted bacon, everything covered in sautéed mushrooms, and with the freshly seared meat covered in a thick, creamy Béarnaise sauce. She watched as the husband and wife team wolfed down their steaks and eggs and then, without a word, she smiled as they disappeared into the large aft cabin.

And then, quite suddenly, she was alone with the man.

"My name is William Taylor," he began without preamble, "and I make movies. More to the point, I produce movies. I'm going home now after working through some pre-production issues with my latest project, which for the most part will be filmed in Stockholm in early Spring," he said as he opened a briefcase, pulling out a book from inside and setting it on the table. "I've secured the film rights to this book, and we'll begin pre-production in a couple of months," he continued. "It was written by a cop, works for the LAPD. A girl, as a matter of fact; works out of Rampart, that's like South-Central, that kind of thing...so non-fiction, if you get my drift. Lot of guts, tough girl. She impressed the Hell out of me. And that brings me to you, and why you're here."

She looked at him and nodded. "Yes?"

He handed her the book. "Turn it over," he said.

And she did. And there on the back cover was a photograph of the author, dressed in her LAPD uniform, and she smiled knowingly as she studied the other woman's face.

"Yes," William Taylor said, "you could be her twin sister, only younger. I couldn't see that until I got that goddamn raccoon makeup off your face, but it was obvious the moment I..."

"I understand. It is almost uncanny, is it not? Is that the correct word, William?"

"Uncanny? Yes. Perfect."

"So...I should read this book, no?"

"Do you read English?"

She smiled. "Of course I do, William. Raised in England, remember?"

"Ah, right. Just so. We're running your passport right now. Background checks with German police and Interpol. Anything I need to know about?"

She shook her head -- slowly.

"No arrests? Any drug use I need to know about?"

Again, she shook her head.

He looked down at a photocopy of her passport. "Your name is Angel Stardust? Really?"

"Yes. That's correct."

"What was your father's name?"

"Gabriel."

"Your mother?"

"Arcade," she whispered, though it sounded like she had said something that sounded a little like Ar-caw-dah. "Though her given name is Lailah," she added.

"How do you spell that?" he asked, and as she spelled it out for him he jotted notes on the margins of his photocopy. "That first is an odd one. Not sure I've heard that before."

"It is a name that is not used much these days," she said, smiling just a little.

"I see. And the last name? Isn't that a little unusual...?"

She shrugged. "It is what it is and I never asked about it."

"I'm just thinking of how it might look on a film poster, or, you know, in the trailer for the film? Angel Stardust? Hm-m? Oh well, I'll turn it over to marketing, and I'm sure they'll come up with something interesting. They always do."

"Yes, I'm sure they will. Do you know what happened to the girls out there tonight...?"

"No."

"Could you find out for me, please?"

"No."

"I see. Well, if the opportunity should arise..."

"It won't. Is that going to be a problem?"

"Of course not, William," she said, smiling into his explicitly implied meanness.

"Okay. Angel."

She stood and went to one of the windows and looked out into the pre-dawn sky. "That is an unusual aurora, is it not?"

"What's that?" he said as he came over and looked out the window. "Gee-zuz!" he cried as the scale of the display hit him, and just then the BBJs captain came on over the intercom.

"Sorry about this, y'all, but there's some kind of intense solar activity going on right now, mainly over Canada and the United States, but GPS sats are going down all around the planet and most radio transmissions appear to be offline now, too. We've just passed Bergen, Norway, so we're diverting to that airport right now, and we'll stay there on the ground until we know it's safe to continue on to California. Again, sorry about the delay, but your safety is our priority at this point. We'll let you know as things develop, and just as soon as we hear something we'll let you know."

"Well, damn," Taylor sighed as he looked at his watch. "I wasn't expecting this."

She turned and smiled at him. "That's understandable, William," she cooed. "Things like this are seldom predictable. Or convenient."

One of the flight attendants came back and asked them to take a seat and to get belted-in, and Angel smiled as she looked around, taking a more traditional seat on the left side of the aircraft near the forward galley. William, however, needed to go to the WC so he darted forward before he returned, eventually sitting just across the aisle from her.

She watched the aurora as the jet maneuvered around the airport beneath scattered clouds, and a few minutes later they were on the ground and taxiing to a corporate aviation ramp just north of the main terminal. Men were standing down there on the pavement, hands in pockets as they looked up at the sky, and at the intense display still visible -- even though the sun was now rising. After the jet's main door opened, and as cold winter air flooded the cabin, she and William walked to the opening and stood there watching the sky -- and listening to the weird noises coming from the far side of the clouds.

"It almost sounds electric, doesn't it?" he said -- just as the captain came out the cockpit door.

"I'm glad we made it down when we did," the pilot said as he came over to the door. "Tower reports that some jets are down over in the States, especially out west. Not sure why just yet, but I'm sure glad we didn't have to come in on instruments this morning."

"You said that the GPS is down?" Angel asked. "Doesn't that effect your navigation systems?"

"Some. Yes," the pilot said, still looking a bit shaken. "I've never run into anything quite like this before, and I've been flying for thirty five years..."

"Air Force?" Angel asked, smiling gently.

"No, Navy, then commercial until I retired -- before I started with Fox."

"Then we were in capable hands, Captain," she said, smiling at the pilot.

He nodded. "Maybe God was just keeping an eye on us...?"

She smiled. "Can we ever really know about such things, Captain...?"

"I don't know, but yeah, well, I think I became a true believer about a half hour ago," the pilot said, grinning as he leaned out the door, listening to the cacophonous shrilling buzz the aurora was making right now. "Goddamn...but I ain't never heard nothin' like that in my life...!" he whispered. "Sounds like, I don't know...like ghosts howling in the clouds, ya know?"

"Perhaps, yes," Angel said, still smiling: "I can't place your accent, Captain. Are you from Texas?"

"Yes Ma'am. Alpine...on a little spread just outside of town."

"Cool nights there, even in summer," she said.

"You've been?" the old pilot said, sounding a little surprised.

Her head nodded a little. "Yes, once, when I was younger. We went to Big bend, to the park, then we drove to Carlsbad Caverns before we went on to the Grand Canyon."

"Sounds like a nice trip."

She smiled -- as if the memory was a warm one. "Yes, it was." Then she noticed William was staring at her, like he was suddenly quite interested in how easily she seemed to connect with complete strangers, so she smiled at him then turned and walked back to her seat.

"Impressive," he sighed as he sat across the aisle from her once again. "You're not really the shy type, are you?"

"No, I suppose not. I mean...really...what's the point...?"

And then it hit him. Hadn't he said almost exactly the same thing to the priest -- and just a few hours earlier? He turned to look at this creature -- and found she was now staring intently...right back at him. And she was still smiling too. A soft, almost demure smile. Inviting, yet smiling in a way he had never seen, or felt, before. It was...a knowing smile...full of secrets too long obscure.

And then his mind drifted back to the few minutes they had shared together in the shower. The simple humanity of his forehead against the soft skin of her belly, the gentle streams of water running from his face down her legs. He'd wanted to put his arms around her and pull her close, to feel everything there was to feel about this strange girl, but then he'd felt the need to put some real distance between such feelings and all the tense ambiguities he'd felt in the dark shadows beyond and within the hidden world of her lavender windows.

But then here she was again -- and quite suddenly, too -- running her fingers through his hair, his scalp alive with electric currents of her own design, spiky sensations running like a million coiled tendrils snaking through his mind before washing down his spine, reaching into his gut as smoking waves of lava might on a cold night, the smile inside his mind's eye so blindingly obtuse -- because it suddenly felt as if someone -- or was it some vast thing? -- had just spoken to him at length in the forgotten language of simple truth. Yet in the span of a single heartbeat he felt a tremor deep inside, and for the very first time in his life, William Taylor felt the icy-hard claws of death scratching at his door.