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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.

Published by

Loose Id LLC

1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924

Carson City NV 89701-1215

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,

photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

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