Read Online Of Daughter and Demon by Elias Anderson - Free Book Online Page A

you
always did. Every time I was upset before you was taken away, I
just thought of you, your little smile, your little blue eyes, and
your angel face, and it made everything better, easier to deal
with, because I knew at the end a the day I was making the city a
better place for you to grow up in, and that helped a lot.
    You came through again, thank you, I needed
that. I can’t tell you much I needed that, but you know, up there
lookin’ down, you know everything, don’t you? I hope not, there’s
things I ain’t proud of, Alice, some of ‘em happened in just the
last couple days, but if you can see them things, try and look past
‘em, try and remember I was a different person before I fell in
love with your Ma and before you was born, try and remember that
every day since I found out you was comin’ I loved you more and
more, and that didn’t change just cuz you was taken away by some
puke, and it don’t change now that I know for sure I’ll never see
you again, not in this life I won’t.
    But maybe if there’s someone up there, maybe
you could put a word in, tell them your old man ain’t so bad, and
maybe no matter what becomes of me after I die, maybe they’ll let
me hold you in my arms just one more time before they send me to
burn in hell or to toil away my sins in purgatory. I love you,
little Alice. Your Daddy loves you, and he always will.
    I got in the car and drove to the bridge. Any
other day you’d have an assortment of punk kids on skateboards that
are mostly good, don’t hurt nothing but maybe some city property
now and then. If they weren’t there, you could bet they left
because the crack-heads hung around and vibed ‘em out, or maybe the
junkies or the crazy homeless people, or the pukes. This time of
day is a little early for ‘em, true, but you can always find a puke
if you know where to look. But today there ain’t nobody but one
guy, dressed up like Humphrey Bogart in that Hammett story they
made a movie outta, right down to the hat and the swagger, and I
know it’s my guy.
    I park, and walk across the grassy area where
on a normal day some smelly hippy bastards might be kicking a
beanbag around or smokin’ dope or whatever, then I cross the black
tar bicycle path and meet him by the wrought iron, four-foot high
fence that lets you look at the river without taking a header into
it.
    “Mr. Dulouz?”
    He stuck his hand out. “You’ve invited me to
call you Harry, Mr. Mitchell, so why don’t you call me Cain. You
brought the photograph?”
    “Sure. His eye’s a little popped outta the
socket though.” I handed him the grisly Polaroid and don’t know
what I expected, maybe for him to flinch, but he just looked it
over, nodded, and took a small silver flask outta some inner pocket
of his overcoat and took a quick little nip from it. The flask
disappeared again and he looked me in the eyes.
    “So you met Bradley,” he said.
    “You gonna tell me how you know that?”
    “I went to see him before I called you, and I
found someone burnt his building down. It just seemed like
something you’d do, Harry, and with good reason. Between the two of
us, I hope he died hard.”
    “He did. Damn hard. But not hard enough.”
    Dulouz nodded, took a nip from his flask. “I
assume you made him talk first. Get anything out of him?”
    “Bunch of nonsense, seemed like. Something
about he’s a Holder, sounds like some kinda cult thing. That
it?”
    “You’re closer than you might think. Anything
else?”
    “He tole me there are others like him, and a
guy named Father Valentine that’s been helping out the puke that
done what he did to my little Alice.”
    He took a long look at me, like a man
deciding something.
    “I don’t have time to tell you everything,
Harry. The one responsible for her death, ultimately responsible, I
mean, the one who physically, well...”
    “Killed her.”
    “Yes. He’s not a puke , not in the
sense you use it. In fact, he’s not really a man. He’s