Secrets of the Hanged Man (Icarus Fell #3) (An Icarus Fell Novel) by Bruce Blake Page A

Truth be told, I suspected the only cleaning they did was to swap ‘clean’ towels for dirty ones, or merely refold them.
    Standing stoically in front of the toilet, I noticed the ache in my left shoulder. I flexed it and windmilled it in an imitation of Pete Townsend hammering out ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again,’ though I did it slower so I didn’t pee on everything. As I did, I realized this was another spot in which a creepy underworld creature punctured me. Since my return from Hell, all four spots I’d been accosted—shoulder, calf, chest and gut—caused problems off and on. If it continued, I’d have to seek medical assistance, meaning the archangel Raphael, not some overworked intern they made go sleepless for days. Who trusts those guys?
    With the emptying of my bladder, contemplation of my Hellish injuries, and mental complaining about a motel that cost thirty bucks a night complete, I stepped back across the ruins of my shower habit and pulled the door open.
    Dallas—oops, Dido—stood at the end of the bed, her fingers strangling the neck of my vodka bottle.
    “What’s this, Icarus? I thought you gave this up.”
    “ Ric,” I said, frowning. “Give it back. It’s not for kids.”
    “ Do you know how many alcohol-related deaths there are in this country every year? Over fifty thousand in 2005.”
    I raised an eyebrow at her. “First, it ain’t 2005. Second: I’m already dead, so why should I give a sh...care?”
    “Over half of marine deaths are alcohol-related and more than a third of suicides involve booze.”
    “ Where are you getting these stats?” Know it all.
    “ What kind of example are you setting for a child like me?”
    “ You’re dead, too.”
    She put her hands on her hips, sloshing the clear liquid against the glass, teasing me. Her lips pressed into a flat, colorless line; she tapped her foot, expectant.
    “What about Trevor?”
    On our trek from the pickle factory to my motel, the little motor-mouth did all the talking, preventing me from even turning a word on end and jamming it between two of hers. In other words: I didn’t tell her about my son. How did she know about Trevor?
    “How do you know about Trevor?”
    She shrugged. “I know a few things.”
    I bit down hard on the seething comments I wanted to spew. Despite her actions, she was a little girl...a little girl who made me suspect a set-up. This stank more than a thirty-year employee at the pickle factory. And what did it reek of? Pumpkin pie, which means the right hand of God: Michael. He’d been scarce since I returned from Hell—which I appreciated—but he’d pop up out of nowhere if I rocked the old apple cart. I narrowed my eyes and decided to choose my words carefully.
    “ Are you working for Michael?” I’ve never been good at careful.
    She looked at me, tilted her head to one side. “Who’s Michael?”
    “Don’t play dumb with me.” I raised my hand, fully intending to shake my fist at her for dramatic effect, but then I thought better of it—again: an eight-year-old girl. It made me think, though: did I ever shake my fist at Trevor when he was younger? “Big guy, blond hair, archangel. Sound familiar?”
    “ My parents never took me to church.”
    “ Hmph. You’re lucky.”
    “ And you’re avoiding the issue.” She raised the bottle and shook it at me, bruising my vodka. “What about this?”
    I stared at the alcohol, more than a bit embarrassed by the longing saliva flooding my mouth. She was right: I should be past this. As I looked at the shimmering liquid, a flicker behind the bottle caught my attention. I looked up and thought for the briefest of seconds that my new friend’s hair was a different color, lighter, but then saw my mistake: brown curls, like always.
    “ It’s not open,” I said, gesturing at the cap.
    “ Not yet. Should I believe you’re a collector?”
    She dropped her arm to her side and glared at me, tapping the bottle against her leg. I sniffed but detected