Angel Read online

  “What?”

  “Conditioner?”

  “Oh, I’ve just been shampooing it. I’m not really into products.”

  “Doesn’t look like you need them. This hair is gorgeous. So dark — and so silky.”

  Angel blushed.

  The guy cut his hair short. Angel said he didn’t mind, to do whatever, because he didn’t want to be worried about a haircut again anytime soon. The hairdresser left his bangs long. He offered Angel some conditioner, a free trial pack that Angel stuffed into his pocket.

  “You a model?”

  “What?”

  “Looking like that.”

  “No. I … I’m not working right now.”

  “I’d get yourself along to an agency. Get some shots taken. I’m sure they’d be able to use you for something.”

  Angel thanked the guy and walked onto the street, feeling strangely naked. Now that he was aware of it, everyone seemed to be staring at him, heads turning. He even saw a smirk or two. A guy licked his lips and Angel turned away.

  At home, he cleaned up, throwing junk into the trash, stacking the dishwasher, vacuuming the carpets, and mopping the floors. He’d have to move out of here in the next few weeks. There was some sort of hold up with the will, probate or something, though Angel didn’t imagine his mother had anything to leave him other than the fifty thousand dollars from the policy, and really, he was going to have to start seriously thinking about what he could do with that. If he had a job, something decent, then he could use it as a deposit on an apartment.

  Angel left the vacuum in the hall. He’d balked at walking through his mother’s door, but now supposed he had to do it. He opened the room and trailed the vacuum inside. For a moment, as though in an image in glass, he saw his mother lying on the bed, smiling wanly at him.

  Angel’s heart lurched.

  “You’ll be with me soon,” she said, and then vanished, as though sunlight had flashed on a mirror.

  He stood still for minutes, staring at the spot on the comforter where she’d lain. Had that been real? Had he imagined that? He didn’t think so.

  He opened the windows and vacuumed the room. Then he smoothed the comforter, which seemed a little ruffled. When he left, he didn’t close the door. If his mother was here, in spirit form in some sense, then he didn’t want to shut her out of his life.

  5

  The house had to be sold. There was no provision in the will, nothing. Angel was lucky they were unable to touch his fifty thousand. His mother had been heavily in debt, the house mortgaged to pay for her medical expenses. It was pretty much what he’d suspected, but he’d hoped for more. He’d lived in this house since he was a kid. His father, who’d been a foreman, had left when he was two years old. Angel had no memories of him. There were some faded photos, though they meant little to him.

  Now, with his mother gone as well, he wondered about his father, where he might be and whether he might possibly help out. Angel was only nineteen after all; he had no real friends, no job, and no one to turn to. He’d been studying at a community college, studying architecture, though that seemed pointless now, something he couldn’t imagine returning to. His aunt in Maine had said he could come and stay, but it would be awkward, she being a sister of his father’s. Still, he wondered if she might know where his father was, so he phoned again and asked, but she hadn’t seen him in years.

  “What are you going to do, Angie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re more than welcome here. Bill did the wrong thing, running off on your mother like that, and you are family. You’re my family. That’s the way I think of it.”

  Angel said he’d think about it. He wasn’t sure. He told her about the fifty thousand and how he was thinking he could use it as a deposit on an apartment.

  “You want to stay in California?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The conversation drifted into silence. His aunt told him to phone again soon. If he needed money — anything — she was there for him. “I liked your mother. We always got along very well.”

  Angel had tears in his eyes by the time the call ended. He brushed them away with his fingertips and grunted in frustration.

  That afternoon, he mowed the lawn. When he came inside his skin was glowing. From sunburn, he first thought, though as he studied himself in the mirror, he came to the conclusion that it was merely exertion, his skin taking on the now familiar rosy glow, as though he were a boy, with the skin of a child. Though it definitely wasn’t sunburn, it ached for an hour or so afterwards.

  He took to wearing long-sleeved shirts, jeans, a cap and a pair of sunglasses, even though it was summer. Something about the sun, something somehow connected to the disease seemed to be afflicting him, something that for some reason made him restless, though he didn’t know what to do about it.

  He phoned Jesse. Steve answered and Angel said hi. He introduced himself, and asked if he could come over and talk to them sometime.

  Steve said sure. They had a house in Treston.

  Jesse opened the door in a pair of briefs, and Angel couldn’t help recalling how he’d lain happily on the coffee table in the common room while they jacked off over him. That had been mad — crazy. Steve appeared behind Jesse and slapped him on the ass. Jesse frowned playfully, turned to him, and they kissed one another.

  Angel lowered his eyes.

  “Come in, come in,” Steve said.

  It was a bungalow, with a wide living space and huge picture windows looking out over the valley.

  “Not bad, eh?” Steve said.

  Angel nodded, feeling a little stunned.

  “You wouldn’t think a plumber’d have a place like this.”

  “No,” Angel said, stepping down into the living room. There were cowhide rugs on the floor, an open fireplace, and scenes of the old west on the walls, which Angel thought a little tasteless. “And what are you doing, Jesse?” Angel said, turning to him.

  “Oh, I’m the house husband.”

  “You’re getting a job,” Steve said.

  “I usually go around naked — dusting — but Stevie said to put some clothes on, seeing as how you were coming.”

  Angel turned away again and pretended interest in the view.

  “Right over that hill, that’s that damn institute,” Steve said. “I hope I never see it again.”

  “They ought to tear it down,” Jesse said.

  “Do you think …?” Angel said. “I mean, the reason I came out here is because Hunter told me he’d given me some disease.”

  “Oh — the disease!” Steve said.

  “You know about it?”

  “A little — at least Warren told me some. He said to be careful around Hunter before … well, before we had our little falling out.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said Hunter was infected with something and to stay away from him. He said it wasn’t easy to catch, but if it was him, he wouldn’t be taking any chances.”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  Jesse stepped backwards, up the stairs and out of the living room.

  “Something that changes your body,” Steve said.

  “Yeah.”

  “All sorts of side-effects.”

  “Is it dangerous? I mean, is it deadly?”

  Steve shrugged.

  “I think you should go,” Jesse said

  Angel turned, glanced at Jesse and was greeted by a gasp.

  “What’s happened to you?” Jesse said. “Your face? Your hair? You look …”

  “Jess.”

  “No. I don’t want anyone near me who’s got some disease. Look at him.” He pointed. “Does he look healthy to you?”

  “A little pale, maybe.” Steve studied him for a moment. “And he’s had his hair cut.”

  Jesse moved into the kitchen and stood behind the counter, as though it offered some protection.

  “All I want to know,” Angel said, feeling the tears prick at his eyes, “i
s what it is. I mean, if you have any numbers, of any of the guys who were in the trial … Maybe someone knows something.”

  “That Boy would know,” Jesse said.

  “Boy?”

  “That mute guy with the loincloth.”

  Angel frowned and then nodded. “Well, do you have any idea how I might get in contact with him — with anyone?”

  Steve had Brody’s number, but had no idea about Boy. “Your best bet would be to speak to Warren. Or to Sean and Joel. They seemed to be in on everything.”

  Angel took Brody’s number, though Steve didn’t have a number for Sean or Joel.

  “Disappeared,” Steve said. “Took off into Joel’s hills and streams.”

  Angel nodded again, but left without touching the meal Jesse laid on the table.

  In his car, he rested his head on the steering wheel. Tears streamed from his eyes and he guessed Steve might possibly come out of the house to see if he was okay. But ten minutes later, he was driving home again. He put the car in the garage, opened the door to the house and glimpsed the hem of a dressing gown flutter around the corner of the hall. He followed it, knowing it was his mother, but when he turned the corner, the hall was empty.

  He ate a can of baked beans on toast and then called Brody up, afraid he’d get the same reaction he’d got at Steve and Jesse’s.

  “Disease?” Brody said.

  Angel closed his eyes.

  “Oh, yeah. Sean told me about that. Said he thought you were crazy if you want to know the truth.”

  “But I’m not crazy,” Angel said. “It’s real. Something’s happening to me. My skin’s peeled. I’ve lost all my pubic hair … and I’m … different.”

  “Sounds like you need a doctor, dude.”

  “I’ve been to a doctor. They said they couldn’t find anything. But it’s something, obviously. I’m taller.”

  “We’re all a little taller.”

  “No. I’ve grown again, and my bones are aching.”

  Silence.

  “Brody?”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking, dude. I don’t, well … I’d come and see you, but we’re in Barbados.”

  “Barbados?”

  “A holiday. For Adam.”

  Angel’s head fell forward and he began to weep. He felt defeated, as though he were waging a battle that couldn’t be won. He thought of calling Anton again, thought of telling him about the institute and the disease, but what good would that do?

  “Have you been to the police with this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that Hunter’s still on the run?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. You need to push them on this. Ask to go in there and speak to the techs. Speak to that Warren. Someone’s got to know what the hell it is.”

  Angel nodded in silence.

  “You there?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Brody. I’ll give it a try.”

  6

  Angel phoned Detective Johnson the following day and asked if he could speak to Warren in person.

  “In person?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What would be the point of that?”

  “He knows. About the disease.”

  “The paranormal disease,” Johnson said, his voice laced with disdain.

  “Is there any reason I can’t? Is there some rule that says I shouldn’t be able to talk to him? He’s all but ruined my life.”

  Johnson sighed heavily. “I’ll set it up,” he said. “Three thirty this afternoon. That suit you?”

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  He took a bath. When dry, his skin took on the luster of marble. The peeling seemed to have stopped, but in response to the warmth of water, it gleamed with a strange, rosy glow, like the blush in a finely painted porcelain vase. It was entrancing, and as he stared down at himself, Angel noticed something odd about the set of his hips, something oddly angular and bony.

  He stepped out of the tub and dried himself, and then walked into his bedroom and stood in front of the mirror, his towel held loosely in one hand. He twisted one way and the other, frowning at his hips, which seemed somehow more pronounced. They seemed to have taken on a curious curve, something that seemed somehow feminine, while at the same time they seemed to be jutting outwards, to be sitting forward, tilted upward.

  He took a step backwards, frowning, and it suddenly struck him that his legs looked unusual also. He’d never been particularly tall, though he now seemed to have grown once more. His thighs had taken on a peculiar grace. Something in the curve of his legs seemed reminiscent of a mango or the swell of a wave, and the way the now hairless skin arched, taut, and rose to meet his hips, Angel found oddly sexual.

  He brushed a hand over his chest and turned to glance at his back, where the deep depression sat like a wide valley bordered by the jutting ridgelines of his shoulder blades. As he followed the line of his spine and watched the way his lower back dipped inward, only to be answered by the swell of his buttocks, it occurred to him that he was like a statue, like a statue of some idealized man.

  He’d been happy with his looks before now. This strange blush of unearthly beauty was oddly disconcerting, as disconcerting as the idea that he was infected with something unknown and undetectable.

  Turning again, he frowned, feeling a little sick, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the vividness of his eyes, which now seemed an impossible, cerulean blue. He was reminded of Adam, whose eyes had been so startling, though as Angel looked closer, pressing his face against the mirror, he frowned at the sight of swirling flecks of color, of flecks that seemed to be churning in turbulent water.

  He shook his head, stared again, and told himself he’d imagined it. Then, standing back, he squared his shoulders and studied his chest and torso, which also seemed to have changed, his chest growing broader, his stomach knitting itself into tightly ridged muscles.

  Taken all together, he seemed to have grown exceptionally tall and to have transfigured, miraculously, into a preternaturally attractive man.

  He wore a new suit to the interview, but forgot his sunglasses. He remembered them as he got into the car, thought it wouldn’t matter, but by the time he was pulling into the lot of the police station his eyes were watering from the glare. It was a relief to get inside, into air conditioning. The cool dimness was such a change that he didn’t mind having to wait.

  Johnson didn’t appear until almost four, and then, on the way up in the elevator, he cautioned Angel. Warren was cuffed and shackled, but there was no barrier in the room. Two officers would be present, so there shouldn’t be a problem, but Warren was, Johnson said, particularly violent.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Warren said, as Angel stepped through the door. “Thought it’d be the little one, come to gloat.”

  Angel took a seat, placed his hands on the table and almost immediately removed them again. He locked them between his thighs. “I want to ask you about the disease,” he said.

  “The disease?” A smile tugged at the corners of Warren’s lips.

  “You were there when Hunter told me he’d given it to me. I want to know what it is.”

  “And why in fuck’s name would I tell you, you little shit?”

  “I thought maybe, seeing as it’s all over, you could let me know what I’m in for.”

  “By the looks of it, I figure you’re pretty well on the way to finding out for yourself. You remind me of Hunter a little, to tell you the truth, though he had something to counter the side effects.”

  “The side effects?”

  “Look at you,” Warren said, suddenly leaning over the table, his cuffs jangling. “You’re just not quite … human, are you?”

  Angel swallowed.

  Warren turned to Johnson. “I want a cigarette.”

  “No smoking in the building.”

  “You want me to speak to this … fuck, you get me a cigarette.”

  One of the officers left and Warren slumped in his chair. He studied Angel for a moment and then said, “I could go
for you, you know? Never saw anything in you before. Didn’t know what Raphael saw in you, that’s for certain, but now, with your heavenly appendages blossoming, I could fuck you ten ways to Sunday.”

  Angel glanced at the table. When he lifted his eyes, Warren was watching him closely.

  “Look at those cheekbones and the rosy, hairless skin. Bet your ass is a dream by now.”

  “What’s happening to me?”

  Warren laughed. The door opened and the officer who had left placed a cigarette and a lighter on the table. Warren picked them up, turned them over in his hands slowly and then lit the cigarette. He blew a long plume of smoke across the table, and as Angel caught the smell of it, he wished he’d asked for one also.

  “You believe in angels?” Warren said, lurching forward and staring at Angel wildly.

  “Angels?”

  “You know. Heavenly creatures. Soul and body in one.” He drew on the cigarette.

  “Angels?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s what you’ve got — Hunter’s gift to you. You’re turning into an angel. Only catch is, you’ll never be one, not unless you can find true love, and really, whoever heard of gay love?”

  Angel sat rigidly, staring at Warren, their eyes locked in a contest of wills. But it was Warren who turned away first, grinding his cigarette out on the table.

  “I’ve had enough of this one,” he said. As he was going out the door, he turned back again. “You’ll never find happiness. What he’s given you — it’s impossible. Prepare yourself for a life of misery. Really, I’d rather be me if I was given the choice.”

  Angel sat in silence for minutes, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Johnson, staring down at him in concern.

  “He’s cracked. We’ve had the psych working on him, but whatever drug they were giving you in that place, well, it’s fucked him over.”

  Angel nodded. In the parking lot he smoked a cigarette. But by the time he got home he had a blinding headache, as though the sun had burned a hole into his soul.

  7

  As the sun went down Angel lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. A phrase, something Hunter had said to him at the institute, recurred to him unexpectedly, and he turned it over in his mind.