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28. A Theory

Hoh Rainforest, WA

October 29, 2005

5:01 P.M.

"I have a theory," said Constantine tersely. It was the first he'd spoken since they'd left the airport. He knew he shouldn't be angry at Angela, knew that everything he was feeling was not only irrational, but also detrimental to the case. It didn't change the fact that he could hardly stand to look at her. The fact that she had felt the need to lie hurt worse than anything else. He knew she was probably doing it out of self defense, and he'd given her more than enough reason to have her guard up. But still, he didn't trust easily, and it felt like a slap in the face coming when he'd just begun to consider her safe.

"What?" Angela didn't take her eyes off the road. Constantine wasn't sure whether to take this as a sign of her own impatience, or deadset concentration. Washington roads were anything but friendly at the end of October, and he got the feeling that she wasn't far away from a total breakdown as it was.

"I don't think these are random killings." Constantine turned and looked out his window, but not in time to miss the look on her face. Her left arm was bandaged, and he could tell she was favoring it. She seemed different somehow since the night he'd found her outside the movie theatre. Broken. Like just maybe she'd started to face the reality he suspected was behind this case. She looked vulnerable, he thought, probably because she thought he wasn't looking. And suddenly it occurred to him that that was the problem. He was angry at her for being vulnerable.

"Really?" muttered Angela in a voice Constantine thought rivaled his own trademark sarcasm. "What made you think that? The pattern of the killings, the M.O of the murderer…the little piece of paper you so conveniently stole from a crime scene that has the victims' names and locations on it? They're about as random as a checkerboard."

Constantine sighed, considered for a moment refusing to tell her, or even getting out of the car. But that wouldn't get them anywhere, and he didn't really want to fight with her any more than he wanted to examine the next dead body. It had taken them four days to catch Malone's trail again, the most agonizing four days of his life. The last thing he wanted was to prolong their search.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. Constantine watched her swallow hard. "Your theory?"

"I think the victims all have something in common." Suddenly it didn't sound quite so likely anymore. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain. Sighing, Constantine pulled his keys from his pocket and idly began flipping through the keyring of talismen he always carried. "I don't think they're really victims. At least not in the sense of being innocent."

"What's that supposed to mean? I thought you suspected demonic possession." She sounded angry now, and Constantine glanced nervously at her. She was the one driving, after all.

"Possession, yes. But not of the demonic kind."

"Then what? Would you please, just for once, cut the bullshit, John?"

"Nevermind, Angela." Constantine turned and stared out the window again, trying desperately to keep his temper.

Without a word, she brought the car to a halt at a little gravel parking pad which overlooked a small but majestic waterfall. Constantine turned and regarded her coolly.

"Tell me," said Angela, "or we sit here until that last murder happens." Something new seemed to pass over her then, and she shuddered, wrapped her arms around herself in front of the steering wheel. "Sorry," she said again. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just…please tell me. Quickly."

"I think…the killer…is possessed by a spirit. Not a demon exactly. A spirit of justice."

"Thought that was what angels were for," said Angela.

Constantine laughed bitterly. "Nah. Angels just fly around doing the Great Hypocrite's bidding. They don't really give a shit about justice so long as Our Father condones whatever they're doing."

"So…"

"You probably heard about the Bogeyman when you were little, right?"

She laughed. "You can't be serious."

"Let me give you a hint. He's not hiding under your bed."

Angela nodded once, abruptly, her eyes darting everywhere but his face. "You are serious." There was a sort of resignation in her voice that nearly made Constantine want to laugh as well. "You think that um…you think that the killer is possessed by the Bogeyman?"

Constantine just looked at her. "Just about every culture has a Bogeyman, though few people know what the actual creature does anymore. He doesn't hide under little kids beds and grab their feet when they get up for a drink of water. He exists in a sort of eternal limbo; he walks between realms, watching over people. It's the Bogeyman who maintains the Balance."

"But why would he kill people then? And if he exists between planes, how can he possess anyone?"

"No one really knows how. Possession is rare, but it has been known to happen. Occasionally, when a great injustice is done, the Bogeyman needs to utilize a human's body to set things right. It's never been proven, but many have theorized that possession is so rare because he is only capable of inhabiting the most powerful of psychics." Constantine's gaze was unfaltering, and Angela shuddered again, realization dawning on her face.

"Kill the killers," she murmured, to no one in particular. "But then…if you're right…why would we want to stop…this? Whatever it is…"

"If I'm right," said Constantine, "we wouldn't want to. But we need to be sure. And we're running out of time." He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper he'd been holding in his hands. One name left on the list.

"We've got to find Malone," said Angela, and put the car into gear.