The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter VIII

Angel woke in the night to discover Louis seated by the window. He had an ancient flip phone in his right hand, one of many he kept as throwaways, and was opening and closing it repeatedly. It was this noise that had roused Angel.

‘What time is it?’ he said.

‘After midnight.’

‘Who were you going to call?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Louis. ‘Everyone?’

Angel got out of bed and stood beside his partner. He ran a hand through Louis’s graying hair.

‘Whatever it is, we’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Yes, I suppose we will.’

It was strange, Angel thought, how many people they had come to care about. It had not always been this way. He blamed Charlie Parker. Who knew that a conscience could be contagious?

‘Maybe we should try Parker,’ said Angel. After all, he reasoned, if anyone was likely to be in difficulties, it was the private detective. The man could attract trouble in a vacuum.

‘I did,’ said Louis, ‘while you were asleep. He’s safe; his daughter, too.’

Angel watched a police car pass. Ordinary people could turn to the law in times of need – well, as long as they weren’t minorities living in the wrong neighborhood, but nobody claimed the law was perfect, and even justice wasn’t colorblind. Men like Angel and Louis, on the other hand, were required to make their own justice, forging it in their image.

‘Could you be mistaken about this?’ said Angel.

‘No.’

Angel rubbed his eyes. He felt a lassitude that no sleep could relieve. Sometimes a man just became enervated by suffering. There seemed to be no end to it.

‘You need to rest,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to be fresh when it comes.’

‘I’ll be there shortly,’ said Louis.

Angel returned to bed. When he woke again in the night, he was alone. He heard music playing softly from downstairs, but did not move. He closed his eyes, and waited for death’s inevitable approach.