Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)

30

Jake

The neon sign in the window says Open, but it’s a lie. Two hours ago Jake climbed out of his car and shook the door handle. He succeeded only in dislodging the sign that declared the tattoo shop was open from eight to midnight daily. The clock hanging just inside the window says it’s half past eight now, and still Evil Deeds is nothing but shadows and glare.

On its left is a hair salon—very girlie, very bright. Above the red brick storefront, a swirly sign in red and orange guarantees you’ll love your locks when they’re through with them. Something about the place screams Kaylee.

To the right of the tattoo shop is an awning with vibrant swatches of material decorating it. The sign above this door says New Age Books, but not a single book is visible from where Jake is standing. Through the window he can see display cases of candles and perfumes. Baskets of rocks and crystals line the front counter. The doors are thrown open, welcoming, beckoning morning shoppers. The smell of incense irritates his nose, and he steps sideways to avoid it.

As annoying as the incense is, the bookstore is far more welcoming than the dark hole of a tattoo shop next to it. Yet Jake stands in front of its windows staring at the artwork painted there. A snarling lion emerges from a heart styled of scrolling loops and curves. His heart feels an awful lot like a lion is trying to claw its way out of it, and as the minutes pass he develops a fascination for the artwork.

He reaches out a hand and runs it along the twisting lines merging with the lion’s mane. If he can figure this out, figure out why the Throne Room sent him here, maybe he’ll understand why they took the ring. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to convince Brielle to hear him out.

In his back pocket is the picture of the tattoo—the one they found in the chest—but he doesn’t need to pull it out to recognize just how similar the styling is to this. To this lion and its evil heart.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Hurrying toward Jake from the south side of the street is a man wearing threadbare jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt with the sleeves shredded. A cigarette dangles from his lip, unlit, more decoration than anything else. He’s easily in his fifties, but his gray hair is plastered into a series of little spikes and he’s wearing thick black eyeliner. A chain of keys slaps against his thigh, making his approach sound like a chorus of bell-wielding children. His arms and neck bear hundreds of tattoos, his hands are decorated with an array of rings. Thick bands, silver skulls, gaudy gemstones.

He lifts the jangling keychain from his hip, finds the correct key with remarkable ease, and jams it into the lock. He spins the key around and thrusts himself into the building.

“Bike broke,” he says by way of apology. “You here for some ink?”

The man drops his keys on the counter and tucks the cigarette behind his ear. He busies himself—flipping switches, turning on computers.

“Actually, I have a question,” Jake says.

“Little early for pop quizzes, ain’t it?” The man slides onto a barstool behind the counter and looks Jake in the eye for the first time. He must see something there he likes, because his demeanor softens. “Go ahead, kid. I’m just messing with ya.”

Jake hesitates. The idea of knowing what this guy knows is suddenly terrifying. Still, he pulls the picture from his pocket and slides it across the counter.

“You know this?”

The guy picks it up and swears. “Where’d you get this, kid?”

“So you know it?”

“Sure, I know it. I did it, didn’t I? Haven’t seen this in forever.”

“Can you tell me who it is?”

“Doctor Doom,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

He laughs again. It’s weaselly, this man’s laugh. Kind of shrill, kind of devious. But his face is kind.

“Doctor Doom, ha! Yeah, that’s what we called him.” He taps the corner of the picture against his lip. “What was his real name? Bud, maybe? Billy? I don’t know. It’s been too long now. Don’t rightly remember.”

Brian, Jake thinks. If it’s my dad, his first name was Brian.

Jake’s lips have never felt so dry. He licks them, and then once more before he asks, “Do you know his last name?”

“Nah. Just Doom, you know? He was Doom to those of us around here.”

“Did you know Jessica? Was she his . . . wife?”

“I don’t know if they were hitched or not, but they were together all the time. Before the fire, she worked at a pub on Burnside. Still there, if you wanna check it out. Ringlers.”

“There was a fire at the pub?”

“Not at the pub, but there was definitely a fire.”

Jake’s hands are slick. He wipes them on his pants. “When?”

“Details aren’t really my thing either. At least a decade ago, maybe more. Doctor Doom himself set the thing. Accident, by all accounts, but there’s no shirking it. The blame lies with him.”

Jake feels the sweat break out along his hairline and down his spine. He’s never believed much in coincidences, and his stomach is sick at the scenario placed before him.

“What happened?”

“Well, you know that copper stuff inside of wiring? It’s worth an awful lot of money to the right people. And Doctor Doom, well, he never had a real job. Quick buck here and there. Just stuff like that, ya know? That’s all he was ever looking for. Somehow he got into this whole copper deal and started scaling buildings for the stuff. Breaking apart AC and heater units for it. Awful hard work for a guy who didn’t want a job.”

Jake rubs at his neck, tense—tells himself it’s the lack of sleep, the long drive, but it’s more than that and he knows it.

“And he started a fire?” he asks.

“Yeah, man. Huge thing too.”

“How?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know all the details, but if I remember correctly, the police found a soldering iron there in the rubble. If he used that, it’d been far too easy to get the sparks flying. It was an old school. Couple sparks is probably all it took before the place went up in flames.”

It’s not just his lips now; Jake’s mouth goes dry. The morning sun beats through the glass windows pressing against his back, drawing sweat that slips down his chin.

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Lady, I think.”

Jake is trembling, the pieces sliding into place, creating a horrible, horrible picture. If what this guy’s saying is true, his dad killed Olivia’s mom.

“You okay, kid?”

“Yeah, just . . . What happened to him—to Doctor Doom?”

“Arrested, man. Caught all burnt and blistered. Never saw him after that. Last I remember, he got sent up on charges for what he done. That school wasn’t his first, so who knows.”

But Jake’s mind is a step ahead. There are articles online about the fire. Brielle was reading them last night. Doctor Doom’s last name has to be in there, and if it’s not there will be arrest reports. Jake’s last name could be in those reports.

The guy checks his watch and then stands, moving toward the back of the small shop. “You can keep asking, kid, if you got more questions, but I gotta get set up. Appointment in a few.”

Jake follows him back, his mind moving like a trap, his eyes absently wandering the walls and the pictures plastered there. Photos of tattoos done in the shop, of clients with dragons and tigers and flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.

“Can you tell me what happened to Jessica?”

“Disappeared when Doctor Doom did, I think,” the guy says, setting the picture on the tray before him. He lays out a series of metal tools on a white terry cloth.

“Was she was involved in the copper theft?”

“Nah,” he says. “I doubt it. She was a sweet gal. Pity she got mixed up with him. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice guy—Doctor Doom—fun to be around, threw a great party. But Jessica, well, she was special. Had something of a temper, but with Doctor Doom, ya know, probably a necessary thing. She needed someone in a suit and tie, you know? Someone who could get her out of waiting tables.”

Jake watches him prepare his workstation, his mind taking a beating, moving slow. Eventually his eyes settle on the picture.

“How do you know them, kid—Doctor Doom and pretty little Jessica?”

“I think they were my parents.”

“Whoa. Didn’t know they had a kid. Here,” he says, lifting the picture off the tray and handing it back. “You keep it.”

“Thank you.” He’s not sure how he feels about this picture now. About what his . . . dad . . . did. He doesn’t look at it as he slides it into his pocket. “I appreciate it. And your time. I know it’s early.”

Jake extends his hand, and the guy shakes it.

“You come back, kid, all right? Pick anything you like. Ink’s on me.”

Jake can’t decide if he’s tempted or not. “I appreciate it.”

“Anything for Doctor Doom’s kid.”

Jake steps onto the sidewalk, the glorious summer day at war with the cold winter taking up residence in his chest.

The son of Doctor Doom.

Go figure.