by Rex Hurst
“Her daughter is my friend.”
“Yes, so?”
“What am I gonna to tell her?”
“You can’t say anything.”
“How are you gonna prevent it? Murder me, too? Then I won’t be able to open stuff for you anymore.”
“You’re not the only opener the family has bred, son. Each house of long-standing owned by a St. Fond was built on a soft spot. I want you around because you are my son, but you’re expendable. Anyway, that’s not even what I meant. You physically can’t tell anyone about the family. We’ve made sure of it.”
“How?”
“A little geas from our friends beyond when we were arranging the fate of your captors. The twins insisted upon it after you got kidnapped and I agreed.”
Rare china was pulled from ornate chests and flung around the room. A pair of pistols was produced and the twins took turns shooting the plates in midair. Waterford crystal glass was smashed next, then finely-wrought silver was tossed and shot at. 18th Century portraiture was torn from the walls and set ablaze in the backyard.
“You have a point, however,” Father said, popping another champagne bottle. “I’m not going to bully you into this. You either join us or you walk away. No cries of foul play and no hard feelings, at least not on my part. I won’t stop you from leaving, but I will give you incentive to stay.”
“And what’s that?”
“A million dollars. To spend as you wish. With the way people are snorting up cocaine back home, we’ll soon be rich. It’s only fitting you get a share.”
One hell of a carrot. No doubt the money would come with a horrible twist like events at the whorehouse. Jon didn’t trust that Father would let him walk away. Even with the limited knowledge he had, the man couldn’t risk it. For now, Jon had to appear to give in. Later, there would be a reckoning. Even if their curiosity had gotten them killed, Kathy’s parents didn’t deserve to die, and his friend didn’t deserve the pain of their deaths. Father would pay. The image of his patriarch had shrunk a few inches in Jon’s mind.
“There’s still the police down here. Are they gonna cause trouble?”
“The Mexican police? Are you serious? If they are looking for these academics at all, it’ll be on the other side of the country where they originally went missing. Even if they arrested us, I wouldn’t be worried. William Burroughs shot his wife in the face and walked out of prison after a minimal bribe. We could afford much more than him. Besides, we have a solution.”
The doorbell rang. Arlo rushed to answer. His sister was now upstairs, throwing breakable heirlooms out the window. A large vehicle had backed up right to the front door. Rough men dawdled at the doorway.
“The mixer is here, tio,” Arlo sang.
A cement mixer rumbled on the driveway. A long series of chutes were set up, leading from the front door down to the sub-basement. The lights were retracted down there and all anyone could see below was darkness. The vehicle turned and the cement flowed, slowly sealing up the scene of the crime.
“That old lady, Charlotte, is still down there,” Jon said.
“We’re burying her along with the evidence and the spot. Maybe this will finish the old bag off. She hasn’t been fed in over forty years, but still hangs around. We’re selling off the place after this deal, in case the man comes back. It’s better not to leave soft spots around. Brings in ghost hunters and all manner of occult wackos. Then they track down the original owners and start connecting dots.”
“Every family house was built over a soft space. They’re all underground. That’s interesting.”
“Or built up to one. Very few of them are actually level with the ground. Millions of years ago, they may have once conformed to the contours of the land, but things change. Mountains are ground to dust. New formations are vomited up by volcanoes. Continents are severed, then rearranged. Land sinks. Land rises.”
Filling the sub-sub-basement with cement took the rest of the day. Five times the cement truck went and returned, pouring its contents down into the earth. The twins demolished a good deal more furniture, drank themselves senseless, and as dusk crept over the sky, ended up nakedly groping each other in the pool.
“Now, that’s sweet,” Father said, a slight drunken slur slipping in under his breath. “They really love each other.
Jon downed a bottle of champagne and passed out. Next day, a groggy Father nudged him awake. Jon had a blanket of scum residing on his tongue. He was thoroughly dehydrated. A pounding headache had taken residence.
“Time to go. The cleaners are on their way to spiff the place up to sell. We need to vamoose.”
Jon stumbled upstairs to grab his suitcase. He found that the contents had been tossed about along with the rest of the room. Father kept bellowing for him to hurry or he’d be left behind. He only had just enough time to briefly soak his head under the tap before running down with his gear.
The twins were there, crisp and ready to go. Father handed them a pair of passports, driver’s licenses with fake names, and a key.
“Enjoy New Orleans until your place is finished in Navarra,” he said.
They both shook his hand enthusiastically, grateful and hopeful, and left. Neither acknowledged Jon in any way. Father and Jon left a few minutes later and flew back to the “civilized” world of Black Rock.
CHAPTER 13
The Conqueror Worm
Jon was burnt out. The world didn’t spin on its axis and his attempts to find out the ways of his family made him feel more and more the drone of some sinister hidden ant queen. Father had allowed him to drink on the plane, shooing away the disapproving flight attendants so the trip quickly became a blur.
“It’ll take a little time to work out your trip to the ancestral family estate. Our sanctum sanctorum,” Father had told him on the cab ride back to Black Rock. Jon blinked and suddenly the old man’s yellow eyes were in front of his. “That is, if you’re still interested.”
Drunk and emotionally exhausted, Jon nodded stupidly. The world was a blackout nightmare. The alcohol did help make him not care, though. It pushed all the problems into a tiny box on a far-away island. Even if he tried to focus on his fears and worries and the evil deeds of the last few days, they wouldn’t come closer. He was happy for that.
Back at their home, Mother stared darkly at him. Catherine, her arm in a cast, a few scabbed over scrapes still visible on her face, snarled and clung to her mother’s leg. Her chin stuck out in defiance, but there was an underlying fear in her manner that Jon found delicious. She knew he could harm her and get away with it. The little girl resented that fact, but all those who normally protected her were suddenly powerless.
“How’s the arm?”
This provoked a series of sputtering, almost incomprehensible, profanities from Mother. He walked away in the middle of it, giving her a big fake yawn to rage-choke over. He flopped on his bed and fell asleep. Father woke him up to say that a physician associate of his had written a medical excuse for Jon and he wouldn’t have to attend school for a month.
“I think it’s for whooping cough or yellow fever. Something like that. Either way, relax for a bit while the wheels are in motion.”
“It isn’t a fake AIDS claim is it?”
Father laughed. “Not at all.”
What to do? He got up, then lay right back down as the hangover jumped him again. In Jon’s reckoning, hangover was a misleading term. They should call it “the drag”, because he felt like his entire body was just dragging along for the day. Every action, every thought, took twice as long. A further vacation, one where he hopefully wouldn’t be stuffed into a car trunk, would be nice.
The best he could do was pull himself down the stairs and slowly eat a bowl of sugar blasted cereal, then back to bed. He flipped on the black-and-white TV and passed out watching some old film about bigamy. Father woke him up again much, much later by slapping a newspaper across his chest.
“I think you’d better have a chat with Michael,�
� he said, as the fog cleared in Jon’s brain. “Make sure he keeps his idiot mouth shut about us if nothing else.
The paper was folded over to an article proclaiming, “Slaughtered Animals Found in Abandoned Grain Elevator.” Uh-oh. Jon leapt up and devoured the contents. A bunch of little kids were throwing things at each other in the head house of the old grain elevator when they discovered seven dead dogs hanging from the ceiling in a small room. Their throats had been cut and the blood drained. It was then used to paint “occult symbols” on the wall. Luckily the story was buried on page five of section C. From the descriptions provided, there was no doubt the dogs had been killed in the midget room, their old gaming den.
What had his friend, his betraying friend, been up to? What sick deal had been consecrated in those animal’s blood? It had to stop. After the display in Tijuana, Jon knew the family wouldn’t tolerate a hint of exposure and Father could easily order Michael put down like one of those murdered dogs.
Before that, Jon felt compelled to visit one other person. Out of guilt. Out of shame. Out of pity. He didn’t know what he could do for her, but the pilgrimage to Kathy’s house must be made. It was like a ritual cleansing. The evil magic might prevent him from telling the truth, but he still had to try. If he were honest, Jon was secretly glad for the magical restriction on his tongue. It divorced him from responsibility, allowed him to sidestep a messy scene without guilt. If he failed to tell her, it wasn’t his fault.
Michael must’ve taken his brother’s bicycle back, so Jon had to hoof it for miles over to Kathy’s house. All the leaves had fallen, creating a carpet of dead vegetation down each street. There was no way to avoid the rotting plant smell.
She must’ve just gotten home, her school things were still in the hall. Her eyes, ones which always used to light up around Jon, were dull and shaded heavily by dark rings. She let him in without a word, then slumped into the kitchen. His footsteps echoed like dead church bells around the empty house.
“I don’t think there’s any hope,” she said to Jon’s unasked question. “I think they’re dead. What am I gonna do?”
Jon tried to talk, tried to tell her how her parents died, or just where they were buried, but whatever spell, what geas, his family cast on him caused the words to stick in his throat. Nothing, not even a croaking gurgle, emerged. Finally, he suppressed the urge to do penance and simply asked,
“Don’t you have any relatives that can help?”
“My aunt said she’d look into things after the semester ended. She’s a professor in Boston. It might take her a while, because of all the cats she has. She said she’d maybe help me if someone could be found to look after them for a bit.”
Why did he come here? What did he hope to achieve? There wasn’t really anything he could give her. No hope. No retribution. When he looked at her, Jon no longer saw the overweight teenager. He saw the beautiful soul dwelling inside, one that didn’t deserve to be hurt. There was only one thing he had to offer. Something she’d wanted for a long time now.
Jon grabbed her face and laid a long passionate kiss on her lips. She melted. Nervous exhaustion sparked a sexual explosion in both of them. Their bodies flowed together. One kiss overlapped another and then they slowed down. He led her into the bedroom and they slowly undressed each other.
Neither of them had any real sexual experience beyond some childish fumbling, so they took a while to figure out exactly where each thing felt best and how to create a good rhythm. The world beyond the bedroom door with its problems and murders faded into the ether, and all thoughts and sensations were directed into exploring each other’s body. Licking, sucking, fucking. The first time was good. The second even better. By the third, he felt like a champ. And the fourth made him want to sleep the sleep of the just.
They fell asleep one on top of the other and Jon awoke to her snoring into his chest hair. The world began to creep in along the edges of the room. He tried to block it out by waking her up and going in for a fifth time, but it was no use. Even as he plunged into her, thoughts from the outside invaded his brain. Time to get out and deal with things.
As he was pulling on his socks, Kathy lightly touched his back.
“Thanks,” she said.
That hung in the air. Thanks for what? Could be a good many things. It was just a non-committal generic idea. There was a sweetness wrapped around the way she said it that Jon didn’t want to destroy. Any further examination, any discussion, couldn’t add more to the sentiment.
“Will . . . will you come back later?”
“Maybe. I’m going to France soon.”
She didn’t ask anything more, afraid of the answer. So they left it and Jon pulled the long slog home.
Here he was, walking in a virginity-less world. Didn’t seem any different. No problems were solved, probably a few more added. It was something he wanted over with for so long, but the spiritual numbness of his life had ripped away any long-term satisfaction. The planet came to claim him, as did Michael.
His friend pulled himself from the bushes in front of Jon’s house. He wore shorts and a thin T-shirt despite the cold. A backpack was slung over his frame. He rushed over, literally salivating at his friend’s return.
“There you are. Finally, finally.”
Michael was gaunt. His lips were cracked from lack of liquids. He must’ve dropped at least twenty pounds since they last met. That was nearly physically impossible. Something else must be working on him. There was a blip in Michael’s eye. An abnormal yellow light. Whenever Jon blinked it remained in his vision. Opaque and inhuman.
“You didn’t think I could do things without you, did you?”
“I saw something in the paper about the dead dogs. That was you, huh?”
“There is so much power, it’s incredible. It’s in my brain, up my nose, crackling through capillaries, folding along the edges of my fingernails. And I did it myself. I didn’t need you or . . . or anyone else who thought they were hot shit. I am the man alone. Clint Eastwood. And I can fuck up the world.”
“What are you talking about?”
Michael grabbed him, bending Jon’s wrists backwards. His skin had a strange odor embedded in it, like old urine. “I got to show you. It’s gonna be great. Come along.”
“Show me?”
“Come along. It’s not done yet, the icing has to be added, but you’re my oldest friend. I really want you there. Come.”
“Alright, Jesus. Just let me get a coat. It’s getting colder.”
He ran to his room and pulled a thicker jacket from the closet and capped it off with a baseball hat. He could tell it would be a frigid night, the air had already started to nip at his ears. On his desk, he saw the tarot card of The Devil lying there sideways. The indecisive route or the path not yet chosen. The material seduction or the man chained in fear by the world. Why hadn’t Father taken the card back?
Michael grabbed his arm and leaned in close when they walked away, whispering directly in Jon’s ear. A casual passerby might’ve mistaken their body language for those of lovers. Michael led them down familiar streets. Jon tried to bring up the sacrificed animals again, but it just brought out more raving.
“Oh, fuck them. A means to an end. Everyone is so limited by their fear, by what society tells them they shouldn’t do. You take that step beyond and everything becomes wide open. Don’t kill animals. Don’t play the game by yourself. Have a well-developed personality in front of your mind. Absolute bullshit. Play the game and do your taxes and you can come out ahead. Hogwash, to paraphrase myself earlier. Ahead isn’t a place. You come out in the middle and are forgotten by the next generation of middle seekers.”
“I know about your spying. Father told me.”
That shut him up for a minute. He glanced guiltily over at Jon, a slinking texture slipped into his gait. It reminded Jon of a weasel, or ferret, or some other domesticated rodent. A contempt for his friend, never been there before, was born.
“When he caught me sniffing
around your family business, we made a deal. He offered me power and knowledge. A way to get beyond. You know my family. If I want to get ahead, I need to make good contacts . . . ”
All the kingdoms under heaven will I give to thee, if thou shall fall down and worship me. Yes, the role playing games had all been Michael’s idea . . . or rather Father’s. How much of his life had been directed by that man? How many ideas had been subliminally implanted in Jon’s psyche?
“And now I’ve finally made it.”
“That video tape I gave you to hide. You handed it over to him, right?”
“Yes.”
“When did you do it? How long after I ask you to keep it?”
“The next day, after I watched it.”
Goddamn. Father had been playing with him all that time. Just jerking his chain, making Jon jump.
“So, you watched the tape of my basement,” Jon said.
“It was fascinating, everything I wanted to see. All sorts of ideas floated up and connected dots. I was able to complete these rituals based on what I saw.”
“Did you contact the creature Calach on your own? You managed the rite?”
“Hell, yeah! You and your father must’ve thought I couldn’t succeed on my own, but I did. I did everything. I got into Stanford. Did I tell you that? Well, I did. Acceptance. Fucking A. While the rest of you are pumping gas for a living, I’ll be up, up, and away. Sipping champagne with a hot woman to do my bidding. And she’ll want to. She’ll want to do everything I say. Gladly give up her soul. Now that I know the means. I called to Calach on my own. I don’t even need to do the rite anymore. We talk all the time, right inside my skull.”
Inside his skull?
They stopped. Jon hadn’t been paying much attention to their destination and found himself outside of Michael’s house. Last one on a dead end street. The front door was open, despite the cold. The mesh from the screen door still was half fallen out. Faint music played inside.
