THE HELL YOU SAY
(An Adrien English Mystery)
Josh Lanyon
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The Hell You Say (An Adrien English Mystery)
Josh Lanyon
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or
existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Loose Id LLC
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www.loose-id.com
Copyright © December 2007 by Josh Lanyon
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of
this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing,
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ISBN 978-1-59632-582-1
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Judith David
Cover Artist: Croco Designs
There is nothing new under the sun but there are lots of old things we don’t know .
– Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary
Acknowledgements
To Nick (the other one), who keeps me on the straight and narrow. Well, on the
narrow, anyway.
Sincere thanks also to B.W.B. and Drewey Wayne Gunn.
And finally, special thanks to the readers who kept pushing and pleading for a new
Adrien English novel. This one’s for you.
Chapter One
The voice on the phone rasped, “Bones of anger, bones of dust, full of fury, revenge is
just. I scatter these bones, these bones of rage, enemy mine, I bring you pain. Torment, fire,
death the toll, with this hex I curse your soul. So mote it be.”
I handed the receiver to Angus, who was facing out the “We Recommend” stand by the
counter. “It’s for you.”
He took the receiver and put his ear against it as though expecting an electric shock.
He listened, then, hand shaking, he replaced the receiver and stared at me. Behind the blue
lenses of the John Lennon specs his eyes were terrified. He licked his pale lips.
“Look, Angus,” I said. “Why don’t you talk to Jake? He’s a cop. Maybe he can help.”
“He’s a homicide detective,” Angus muttered. “Plus he doesn’t like me.”
True on both counts, but I tried anyway.
“He doesn’t dislike you, really. Besides, you’ve got to talk to someone. This is
harassment.”
“Harassment?” His voice shot up a notch. “I wish it was harassment! They’re going to
kill me.”
A customer lurking in the Dell Mapbacks coughed. I realized we were not alone in the
bookstore.
I gestured to Angus. He followed me back to the storeroom that served as my office. So
far we’d had a grand total of three customers browsing the shelves on this gloomy November
day. I half shut the door to the office, turned to Angus.
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” I sort of knew what the hell was going on, so I
added, “Exactly.”
I thought my tone was pretty calm, but he put his hands out as though to ward me off.
“I can’t talk about it,” he gabbled. “I mean, if I talk about it, if I reveal the secrets of the –”
He swallowed The Word. “They’ll kill me.”
“I thought they were already trying to kill you?”
“I mean physically kill me.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I sounded like Jake.
Angus caught the skeptical note in my voice. “Adrien, you don’t understand. You’ve
never – they know where I live. They know where I work. They know where Wanda lives.
They know where Wanda works. They –”
“Why don’t you leave town for a while?” I interrupted. “It’s nearly Christmas. Why
don’t you…take a vacation?”
“It’s November.”
“It’s after Thanksgiving.”
Angus had worked at Cloak and Dagger Books for the past year, but I knew little about
him beyond the fact that he was finishing up an undisclosed undergrad program at UCLA
which seemed to entail an awful lot of courses in folklore, mythology, and the occult. He was
twenty-something, lived alone, and was a decent, if irregular employee. Lisa, my mother,
insisted that he was on drugs. Jake, my sometimes lover, was convinced that he was a
nutcase, but I tended to believe he was just…young. I studied him as he stood there in his
baggy black clothes, like an emigre from the dark side. He was shaking his head in a hopeless
kind of way, as though I still didn’t get it.
“Yeah,” I said, warming to the idea. “Why don’t you take Wanda and split for a week
or two? Let this all blow over.” I dug through the desk drawer for my checkbook.
Not that I believe throwing money at a problem solves the problem – unless the
problem is lack of money. And not that I ordinarily recommend trying to run away from
your problems, but this particular problem rang a few bells for me. Or so I thought at the
time.
Angus stood silent while I wrote out the draft. I tore it off. When I handed it to him,
he stared at it. He didn’t say a word. Then, as I watched, a tear slid down his face and
dropped on the check. He gave a great shuddering sigh, started to speak.
I cut him off. “Listen, kiddo, do us both a favor. Crank calls from the crypt are bad for
business.” I headed for the door.
* * * * *
“You did what?” said Jake.
I had been about ten minutes late meeting him at the car dealership on East Colorado
Boulevard. My ten-year-old Bronco was on its last legs, and Jake seemed to believe that I was
incapable of making an informed buying decision unless he was my informant.
“Gave him eight hundred bucks. Told him to take Wanda Witch away for the