When they arrived at Ryan Templeton’s sprawling modernist residence, which hung over the hill, two additional ACPD units were waiting. The officers seemed jittery. Sylvester pulled into the narrow drive.
The house looked like someone had stacked enormous building blocks one on top of the other. Sylvester had never understood the attraction of this so-called style, but now that he was standing right below it, it did have a certain striking appeal. He walked to the front door flanked by two officers. They had their guns drawn. He motioned for quiet. Calm.
He rang the call box. From deep inside the house, he could hear the bell. He looked at the video camera staring down at him from the eave. Silence. Nothing.
“Ryan!” He yelled through the door. He tried again, louder. Empty. He glanced over to the silver Mercedes McLaren in the narrow drive.
“Okay, let’s go,” Sylvester said.
Drawing a deep breath, the detective touched the doorknob and jumped back as if it had been a snake. The metal handle was scorching.
“Why’s it so hot?” he barked, shaking his hand. Carefully, he pushed his toe against the door. It swung open on the hinge, and a wave of stifling air rolled out. Sylvester drew his Beretta 92 FS and signaled wordlessly to the officers. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened house.
The heat was suffocating. It shimmered in the dark, like a reflection off a hot summer road. Sylvester and the officers moved swiftly and silently into the hallway. Flashlight beams danced in the dark. The walls were lined with framed magazine covers of the home’s owner. Ryan Templeton was a sturdy, handsome Angel with sleek hair and serious eyes. The hall opened up into a large, unobstructed living area. The architecture was clean and striking. Paintings. Designer furniture. Marble countertops. The windows looked out onto panoramic views of Angel City, downtown, and beyond. The officers fanned out to clear the rooms.
Sylvester moved passed the kitchen and through an open doorway to the right. He discovered a movie theater. Plush leather chairs. Framed newspaper articles.
A dead end.
He backtracked toward the bedrooms. Rounding a wall, he discovered a pale blue glow filtering through the cracks of a door. Condensation formed on his glasses as he prodded the door with the toe of his shoe. He flipped the Beretta’s safety off and slipped inside.
The room was like a sauna, impossibly hot, the air dense with steam.
And something else. The room seemed to be filled with a kind of primal presence. An animal presence. Like fear itself.
At the center of the room, an indoor pool glowed blue-white. The water lapped lazily, sending shimmering reflections across the walls and roof. The windows were fogged. His weapon leading him, Sylvester moved to the edge of the pool.
What remained of Ryan Templeton floated facedown in the water. Where his wings should have been remained only two bloody holes of shredded skin, surrounded by the remnants of his Immortal Marks. Sylvester placed a hand on the fogged window to steady himself. Garcia entered the room. Seeing the body in the pool, he stopped short.
“Oh my God.”
The two police officers stood there in silence.
“Rest of the house is clear. I’ll get forensics up here immediately,” Garcia said after a moment. Sylvester removed his glasses and polished the condensation off the lenses, still not speaking. Garcia couldn’t take his eyes off the sight of Templeton’s body as it floated in the cloud of bloodred water.
“I mean, an Angel serial killer?” Garcia said. “Is that even possible?”
Sylvester returned his glasses to his face and turned to the sergeant.
“Has to be. Only an Angel can kill an Angel,” Sylvester said. “And even that’s near impossible to do.”
Garcia holstered his weapon.
“But what Angel would want to kill another Angel? They’ve got everything they could want,” Garcia said.
“From what I understand, there are some Angels in the upper ranks that aren’t too happy with some recent NAS decisions,” Sylvester said. “We need deep background investigations on Templeton and Godson. See if we can find a common thread besides their stars.”
Garcia’s eyes still fixed on the Angel’s gruesome remains. After a few moments the sergeant spoke. “What kind of beast does something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvester said, turning away. “Let’s get to work.”
The sergeant went out into the hall and began barking orders, his voice echoing through the house. Sylvester stood there motionless, thinking about what Garcia had said. Especially that one particular word. He rolled it around on his tongue.
A beast.
The sergeant came back over and stood with him.
“Just came over the radio from the Ventura County police, Detective,” Garcia said. “They just arrested three Humanity Defense Front members, heading north from Angel City. They had weapons. Guns. Knives. Hate literature.”