VI. Remote

The Philistine is hanging from a void of space and time. It looks like the top of a narrow staircase. A misremembered image of clashing architecture. Strange angles. It is a gap in reality she has created to avoid detection. She sleeps here because even the dead have to sleep when they’ve taken on life again.

The Angel has his void and she has hers. They are not friends and they do not trust each other. Even though they accompany one another; even though they share a sense of familiarity. They are not friends. Those who have been damned can walk in and out of life but they never return to human concepts of fraternity.

The Angel was cursed with a soul before his fall but it wasn’t a true soul. It was an approximation of a soul forced on him by a malicious archangel. He was cursed not to feel or care or create but to covet and resent. Luckily for them, most humans now possess a soul that is fairly similar so he can avoid detection in that regard.

Various unsavory characters in the lower realms can locate souls with similar aberrations. This is usually how the Damned replenish their ranks. They track sadists, narcissists, the machiavellian, et cetera. For years they watch one of these humans shed the good from themselves; until they are pliant enough to be officially coerced to one side or another. Most of these types of humans end up in the Heavenly Host amusingly enough. But that’s neither here nor there.

Psychic detection of deserters among defective souls can be quite problematic though. To start, defective souls currently outnumber so-called innocents 100:1. Which means 7.62 billion of the current 7.7 billion humans are deemed defective by the standards outlined by the Heavenly Host. The numbers are staggering. To add to this problem, Hell is deliberately kept understaffed by the Host. One of many jabs delivered from the pricks that run the show from on high. The Marshals in charge of retrieving Deserters approach this systematically but there are far too many living humans to sift through to hope to complete the search. Furthermore, the numbers are constantly fluctuating. Defective souls are being born more and more each day. The older defective humans are living longer and longer as well. The whole manhunt is futile. Finally, there is the fact that the Marshals recognize this futility as part of their own punishment and don’t put much effort into their jobs. Imagine being forced to do a pointless minimum wage job; for free, for all of eternity. Most Marshals don’t really care. They do their job to pass the time, avoid torment from middle management (aka the Heavenly Host), and to spend some time back on Earth. Which isn’t that bad a place, all things considered.

Sorry. Office politics. It’s a bit annoying.

“It’s fine, Bosch. Go on.”

Right. right. The vision. The Philistine and the Angel. She was hanging in her void. So we can’t track her in that regard.

Then there was a mirror. A reality mirror. They were looking in on one the Angel’s lackeys. Another schizophrenic arsonist.

“Like the bag lady at the bus depot.”

Yea. And the runaway that lives in the sewer.

“So this is like his M.O.”

I mean, yea. But you don’t need to get fancy about it.

Back to the mirror. The Arsonist was obviously in the downtown area.

“How do we know that?”

The train.

“Right. Sorry, Bosch.”

So anyway. We saw them talk to the Arsonist. Then they were talking amongst themselves. Nothing descriptive was occurring outside of their meeting place. A single room. Looks like a trailer home. 70s or 80s style decor. Probably not the Angel’s main haunt. He’s an aristocrat by nature. Considers himself too good for a place like that.

“Wasn’t he living in a river of shit before he escaped?”

Heh. Yeah.

Yea.

Anyway. Trailer. Air smelled fresh. Dry. Very dry. Not in a city. Could be in the western states. Too general. Probably why the Angel chose it. He’s clever like that.

“Okay, well. So far. We have Buffalo. Chicago. Memphis. Tacoma. Los Angeles…”

Are you gonna keep interrupting me, kid. You’re making me lose my train of thought.

“… Sorry”

Dry Air. Western states. There’s a magazine. Address is crossed out of course. Chinese food containers. Menu says San Francisco. Probably a ploy. Air doesn’t smell like San Francisco. Rent check. Bingo. Flagstaff Mobile Rentals. Alright, now we gotta route a couple Marshals to Arizona. The Seer and her Dog will continue to stake the Arsonist out in case the Angel shows up there again. Let’s put the Rook on it. Maybe Verlaine. They don’t really like each other but fuck ‘em. Verlaine’s always been an asshole anyway.

“Will do. So, Bosch. How did you get so good at that psychic shit?”

I worked on Project Stargate when I was alive. Had the worst performance of anyone involved though. Guess I just kept at it. Been working for one group of assholes or another for 40 some years. Years in Hell are longer though. So it’s hard to tell. I will say though. Angels are way bigger assholes than the agency ever was.