Revels Ending

by Vic Kerry

  “You’ve lost your fiancée recently. Then you go up to Birmingham to help them with a similar missing persons. Erik said that you saw the missing woman down here at a parade.”

  “That’s right. Remind me not to tell him any secrets. His mouth is way too big.”

  Ashe opened up the Goth Sox’s song in a wave analysis program. He played the song. A green line started to pulsate on the screen as the music swelled up. On the good speakers attached to his desktop computer, the music didn’t sound as bad. A few seconds into the song, another line began to pulsate on the screen. It kept close to the first.

  “Erik was worried that you might be having a psychotic break. He’s a clinical psychologist too, but doesn’t specialize in actual therapy.”

  “You’re right. He just electronically stores emotions. I think that he is off base. I actually saw that woman. My work-study student, Cybil, saw her too.” Ashe thought that he probably needed to tell her about the woman as well.

  “Erik mentioned Cybil too.”

  “Let me guess, he thinks that I’ve started a romantic relationship with her. We talked about that nonsense last night.” He really wanted to say something stronger than nonsense, but wasn’t going to curse in front of a priest.

  “He said that you became very angry about him mentioning that,” Smalls said.

  “Because it’s not true.” Ashe stopped talking and put up his hand to stop the priest from saying anything.

  The music changed. There were two competing versions of the song playing off sync, but something piggybacked with both. A third green line bounced up and down the screen. The new sound was speech.

  “What’s wrong with that song?” Smalls asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Ashe clicked through the menus on the screen. He dropped the two lines of the song out, leaving only the third echo. The words were garbled and not English.

  Ratreuer eativ olam muc. Srom ibit teinev.

  “Turn it off,” Smalls said. “Hurry. Benedicat nos Deus.”

  Ashe hit the pause button. “What’s the matter?”

  “That was an incantation in reverse Latin,” Smalls said. “What band is that?”

  “They’re called the Goth Sox. I saw them play, and I doubt they know Latin. They sound like they would barely know English.”

  “Then someone who does know dark things has gotten to them.”

  “I still don’t get your meaning.”

  “It is believed that Satan and his worshipers use reverse Latin in spells as a way to bring about his evil magic.”

  “Do all priests know this or just you?” Ashe felt like he’d drifted in some cheesy Hammer horror film.

  “I don’t think we all know this kind of thing, but I do. You remember I told you that I work adjunct for the school. I teach parapsychology. I’m an expert in psychoreligious phenomena.”

  “You mean like exorcisms or stigmata?” Ashe asked, having no real idea what he meant.

  “I study incidents of levitation, glossolalia or speaking in tongues, exorcisms and other religious phenomena. I also have done studies in witchcraft and black magic. That sounded a lot like what I’ve encountered in that field of study.”

  Ashe felt sick to his stomach. “What would happen if someone listened to that whole song?”

  “They would probably get a headache from hearing the overlying music, but I don’t know what the incantation would have done,” Smalls said.

  “Would it kill? Could it?”

  Smalls shrugged. “Most psychoreligious phenomena have their power based in belief. If someone knew what they were listening to, maybe. If they didn’t, I doubt that it would have done anything.”

  “What if it was real instead of some kind of mind trick?” Ashe asked.

  “Then, it could have done great harm, but I don’t think that Marianne was a victim of demonic evil. The only time I ever encountered supposed black magic phenomena I couldn’t explain was in West Africa. I’ve only encountered hogwash in America.”

  “Is that the scientific term?”

  “Of course.”

  Ashe smiled and picked up his phone and dialed the number for the lounge. When Cybil picked up, he asked her to come back to his office. If anyone would know something about that band it would be her. She seemed to have been a fan of them. Cybil walked in less than a minute later.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Have a seat.” Ashe pointed to the chair beside Smalls.

  She did, eyeing the priest the whole time.

  “This is Father Smalls,” Ashe said.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Cybil.”

  “You’re his work-study student, correct?” Smalls said.

  She pointed her thumb at the priest. “Is he the one who said we were having sex? I didn’t think you guys were allowed to think about that kind of stuff.”

  Smalls appeared to blush. Ashe had to keep from laughing.

  “No, he isn’t,” Ashe said. “He just dropped by to check on me. He’s a psychologist and a friend of Dr. Rogers’.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cybil said. “I’ve never spoken to a preacher like that before. Please don’t have God smite me or anything like that.”

  Smalls laughed. “I don’t think I can do that anyway.”

  “Cybil, what do you know about that band from the other night?”

  “The Goth Sox?”

  “Yeah,” Ashe said.

  “They’ve been playing around Mobile for a few years. They play punk covers and few originals.”

  “Do they profess to be Satanist or talk about witchcraft or things like that?” Smalls asked.

  “They’re emo, but I don’t think they do any of that.” Cybil looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “That song on Marianne’s computer had a reverse Latin incantation on it. Father Smalls thinks it might be an attempt at a satanic spell,” Ashe said.

  “Come on.” She looked at the priest. “You’re serious?”

  “Very much. I think whoever recorded it thought it was a real spell. Do you know where the band members live or anything else about them?” Smalls asked.

  “No. I’m not really friends with them. I’ve met the lead singer a time or two.” She looked at Ashe. “That guy who was sitting with me at the bar the other night is her brother’s boyfriend.”

  “Do you know where we can find them? Does your friend know?” Smalls asked.

  “They’re playing at the Bayside Bar tonight,” she said. “That’s where I’m meeting that cop.”

  “You feel like taking in a parade and maybe some live music?” Ashe asked the priest.

  “Laissez les bons temps rouler,” he replied.

  Traffic Camera: Dauphin and St. Joseph Streets, Mobile, AL, 7:45 p.m. CST

  A strand of beads cuts across the lens. It obscures some of the view, but a large parade float is still visible lumbering down the street. Revelers lean over barriers and stretch out to catch throws on both sides of the street. Ashe and Smalls stand behind Cybil, who waves her hands at the passing parade. A man dressed in a sequined tunic and mask riding a horse passes in front of her. She cheers and shoves something into her pocket.

  Across the street, Carol Heinz stands against the barrier. She does not lift her arms up to catch beads or flying MoonPies. Several of those things bounce off her without her making a single movement. A man stands beside her. He too makes no movements to block or catch throws. The crowd around them pushes against them trying to get a better position for wrangling in the parade goodies. The man, who is broad and menacing in appearance, moves just enough to block anyone from getting in front of him and Heinz, but he does not take an actively aggressive stance. The crowd continues to push against them, but still neither gives room.

  The lights of a fire truck flash. The last float crosses the inters
ection. On one side of the street Cybil climbs off the barrier. She, Ashe and Smalls step back into the crowd. On the other side, Heinz and the man turn, and the crowd swallows them.

  Chapter Seven

  Ashe, Smalls and Cybil stopped at the entrance to the Bayside Bar. She pulled her coat off and handed it to Ashe. Underneath she wore a low V-neck shirt that would have shown most of her small boobs if she didn’t have so many beads around her neck.

  “Aren’t you cold?” Ashe asked.

  “Listen. I agreed to meet this guy. He’s not going to get anything else so I thought he at least deserved a good look,” she said. “At least I’m dressed for a bar unlike our friend here.”

  Ashe looked at Smalls, who still wore his priestly vestments. The white tab of a collar was mostly covered with Mardi Gras beads, but it was still noticeable. He nodded his agreement.

  “It would have been more appropriate if you had dressed down,” Ashe said.

  “What does it matter? I’m not here for a good time,” Smalls said. “I’m here to investigate strange happenings.”

  “I’m going in,” Cybil said. “Follow up in a few seconds so it doesn’t seem like we’re together.”

  “If you don’t intend anything with this guy, what does it matter?” Ashe asked.

  “That’s not the reason. I just don’t want to be seen going into a bar with a priest. It’s like some kind of bad joke.”

  “That’s only if a minister and rabbi came along,” Smalls said. “I’ve heard a million of them.”

  Cybil shook her head and went inside the bar. Ashe counted off in his head until he reached two hundred and followed her in. This bar was different from the one they had gone to the night before. It stank of old beer and new whiskey. The smoke that permeated the place wasn’t the sweet spice of clove cigarettes, but the harsh funk of cheap cigars. The clientele looked a bit different too. There were a few biker types, and some guys that looked like they’d just gotten off of the barges that came down the Tensaw River.

  Ashe and Smalls started to get stares as soon as they walked in. One older-looking man with a long braided beard slammed his glass on the bar, tossed down a few bills and left.

  “We don’t serve your kind here,” the bartender said.

  “We’re not gay,” Ashe said.

  “Ain’t what I mean. We don’t serve the clergy.”

  “I promise I’m not here for the booze,” Smalls said.

  “You certainly ain’t come for the ambiance.” The bartender laughed.

  “We’re here to see the band. We need to talk to them about something,” Ashe said.

  “That’s fine but there’s still a two drink minimum, for you and the padre.”

  Smalls dug into his pocket and slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “One shot of Wild Turkey and another of your finest, cheapest vodka.”

  The bartender snatched up the money. He sat a shot glass on the counter and poured the whiskey. Smalls snatched it up and sank it. He banged the empty glass down on the countertop. The barkeep flipped it and filled it with poor vodka. Smalls slammed this one too. He whistled against the burn.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Didn’t even flinch,” the bartender said. “Damned priests are always the best drinkers.” He looked at Ashe. “Don’t worry about the minimum, kid. My man right there gave me a good enough laugh that I’ll comp you.” He handed Smalls his change. “The band’ll be out in a minute. By the way, they suck.”

  “We know,” Smalls said. “That’s why we like them.”

  Ashe and Smalls walked away from the bar toward the small stage at the other end of the establishment. No one in the place seemed interested in getting up close to the band. Most of the patrons left the closest tables empty. Ashe and Smalls sat at the table closest to the steps up to the stage. As soon as they had settled in, Ashe looked around the room trying to find Cybil. He spotted her in the far corner at a tall round table, alone. She sipped from a glass, but across the room and in the dim light, he couldn’t tell what she was drinking.

  “Let’s talk to these guys as soon as they step out to get onstage.” Ashe turned back to Smalls.

  “Sounds good to me. I don’t like hanging out in places like this for too long.”

  “Are you afraid of sinners?” Ashe made sure the question sounded like a joke.

  Smalls shook his head. “My business is dealing with sinners. I just don’t like being in this much cigarette smoke. It makes me want to take it up again.”

  “You smoked?”

  “Yeah, I’ve always been amazed at how many people think that because you wear a black suit with a white collar and read the Bible that you don’t have vices. I am a human too,” Smalls said.

  Ashe pointed to a door at the edge of the stage. The band started in. Although the drum kit and amps were set up on stage, the bassist and guitar player carried their instruments in with them. They led the way in and up to the stage. Another man with a spiked dog collar around his neck and a hot pink do-rag on his head bounded onto the stage and took his place behind the drums. Then the singer walked in. Ashe recognized her from the other bar.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Ashe rose from the table and moved toward the singer.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t give autographs until after the show,” she said.

  “That’s not what I want,” Ashe said. “I just need to talk to you about a recording.”

  “Dude, you can talk to my manager about any recording. We don’t make the deals ourselves,” she said.

  Smalls got up and came toward them. “He doesn’t want to give you a record deal. We want to talk to you about an MP3 recording of a song called ‘Pink-Striped Hair’. Who did the recording for you?”

  The singer looked Smalls up and down. “This is the first time I’ve had a priest interested in our music.”

  “We don’t care about your music,” Ashe said. Frustration came out with every syllable. “We want to know about that particular recording.”

  “Hey, are these guys hassling, you, Hortense?”

  Ashe looked up to the edge of the stage. The guitarist stood there holding his ax like he might club them with it.

  “Just stay cool,” Smalls said. “Who did the recording?”

  “Why?” Hortense asked.

  “We found something on one of the copies of it that my fiancée had downloaded,” Ashe said. “The file was corrupted or something. It played two versions of the song a little out of sync and had a piggyback recording underneath.”

  “You mean like that Beatles song that had a message if played backwards?” The guitarist sounded a little excited.

  “More like what people used to claim ‘Stairway to Heaven’ did if played backward,” Smalls said.

  “Dude, seriously?” Hortense asked. “It had a satanic thing on it.”

  “More serious than you can imagine,” Smalls said. “There seems to be a reverse Latin incantation impregnated into the song.”

  “Did you guys do that on purpose?” Ashe asked.

  “Seriously, dude?” the guitarist asked.

  “I’m a good Catholic girl,” Hortense said. “That freaks me out just a little bit.”

  The lead singer crossed herself, then kissed her hand and lifted it to the sky. Smalls did the same. Ashe figured it was something priests did for followers out of respect.

  “So who recorded the track for you?” Ashe asked.

  “He’s here tonight,” the guitarist said. He looked across the bar and pointed. “He’s over there close to the door. Guy’s name is Francisco San Roman. He said he was a scout for Warner Records.”

  Ashe looked to where the guitarist pointed. The man near the door was big. His broad shoulders framed his muscular body. The light hanging above his head set off the orange color of his hair, making his head appear to be on fire. Even across the
room, Ashe could see the deep brown freckles on his skin.

  “Does that guy look like a Francisco to you?” Ashe asked.

  Smalls turned and looked at San Roman. “He looks like a Seamus O’Connell I once knew in Boston.”

  “Maybe it’s a stage name,” Hortense said.

  “Strange stage name,” Ashe said. “It doesn’t really roll off the tongue.”

  “I guess we need to talk to him,” Smalls said.

  Ashe nodded. “Thank you for your help, and break a leg.”

  “If you find out anything about that spell or whatever, let us know.” Hortense twisted the fabric at the bottom of her shirt around her finger. “I’m going to be freaked out until I get an explanation.”

  “We will,” the priest said.

  Ashe and Smalls walked toward the man identified by the band. Ashe glanced over at Cybil. She remained alone. She tipped her drink toward him and smiled. It was almost gone, and she looked bored. He waved at her when he caught her eye. He looked back to the way he was going after bumping into someone’s chair. The last thing they needed was a fight in this kind of a dive. As soon as he and Smalls stepped up to the large man’s table the band started playing a loud and too fast version of “Season of the Witch”.

  “Are you Francisco?” Smalls asked.

  The red-haired man looked the priest up and down. “Who wants to know?” His words sounded mechanical.

  “My name is Peter Smalls. The band told me that you work for Warner Records.”

  “Maybe I do, but we are not interested in recording Gregorian chants, Father.”

  Ashe stared at the man. His eyes were an amber color. The same shade as the woman he later found out was Carol Heinz. That made him more nervous than he had been.

  “I don’t want to record with your company,” Smalls said. “I want to know about a recording you did for this band.”

  “Are you interested in buying them out from under my contract?” he asked.

  “We didn’t know you had a contract with them,” Ashe said. “They didn’t mention that.”

  “The whole band is not aware of this contract. I signed it with their manager only.”