by Paul W Papa
He also took out the iron club he kept in the trunk, reasoning it would be more effective than the poker. After he had all the tools he needed, Mayer closed and locked the trunk. He had no sooner done so when he felt the first drops.
The moon fought the clouds for dominance. Rain in Las Vegas was a curious thing. Unlike most places, clouds weren’t necessary for rain to fall. In fact, Las Vegas was likely the only place in the world where a nice, sunny, blue-sky, white-cloud day could produce rain. But the sky wasn’t blue and the clouds weren’t white and when it rained in Las Vegas it followed the old adage and poured. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.
A strong wind—as winds tend to do—blew in from the north, as a bolt of lightning lit the night sky. In another second the lights died, leaving the entire block in darkness. Mayer opened the trunk, removed a flashlight, and closed it again. Then he braced himself against the wind and headed inside. Rich people are so accustomed to someone else taking care of such things as locking front doors, that Pierce didn’t even notice Mayer had left it unsecured. It was a good thing Mayer was on the man’s side, or he could have rolled the place.
With its only occupant absent, the quiet in the home was a sharp contrast to the storm brewing outside. The air inside was still. Jagged pieces of a vase lay where they landed after a bullet sliced through. Plywood protected a glassless window. Mayer sidestepped the dark stain on the wood floor near the entrance. He tried the light switch, just in case, without result. Most people would have turned on their torch to vanquish the dark, but not Mayer. He liked the dark. It comforted him. He didn’t want the party crashed, so he locked the door behind him.
When he came the first time, Mayer had only a cursory look at the place. Now he had time to take a better look. Except for the recent muck, Pierce’s house was surprisingly clean for a bachelor. A place for everything and everything in its place. The benefits of daily maid service—something Mayer would likely never be privileged enough to enjoy. But it was all right, he liked his place just the way it was—lived in.
And that, Mayer suddenly realized, was what was missing. While the walls were replete with bibelots, gewgaws, and trinkets, it had no warmth. Vacant were family photographs of any type. No mother. No father. No nieces, nephews, or even friends. Nothing to denote that the place was even inhabited. As antiseptic as a department store showroom. And, as clean as it was, there existed a lingering, rather unpleasant odor, one Mayer couldn’t quite put his finger on.
With the club on his shoulder, Mayer made his way to the spiral staircase leading to the second floor. Seeing none on the first floor, the bedrooms, Mayer assumed, were upstairs. He hoped an office would be there as well. He wouldn’t be disappointed.
When a house is empty, things like a metal staircase—especially a spiral one—make more than their fair share of noise. Every footstep Mayer took echoed as if the leg taking the step was burdened with excessive weight. A sledgehammer striking each metal tread. Despite himself, Mayer stepped even lighter than usual until he reached the top.
The office was at the end of a long hallway, next to what he assumed was the master bedroom. A flick of the switch brought the flashlight to life. The office wasn’t as clean as the rest of the house, which likely meant the housekeeper wasn’t allowed inside. That didn’t surprise Mayer. Pierce seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t take to prying eyes.
The office was equipped with the usual trappings. A lavish desk faced the door, a heavy wooden chair resting between it and file cabinets which occupied the entire wall behind the desk. Atop the desk was a phone, a wheeldex, and a fancy pen set that was missing one of the pens. The wall to the right was decorated with various photos of Pierce posing with what were likely important people. Finally something to show the house had life.
Rain battered the window. Lightning lit the room. Mayer settled into the heavy wooden chair behind the desk, resting the club within reach, and began opening drawers. He wasn’t sure just what he was looking for, but he knew there was something that needed to be found. Something that would help this all make sense. He was beginning to suspect there was more to this whole thing than a skinwalker protecting sacred land. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that sacred land had nothing at all to do with it. Why would a witch bent on mischief, greed, and destruction care one bit for something sacred? It just didn’t sit well with him.
There was nothing in any of the drawers that caught Mayer’s eye. Nothing that explained what Hawthorne’s ghost meant when he said: “I know what you did, William, and I know why you did it.” Even though it was the skinwalker who actually said it, not Hawthorne, it had a ring of truth.
Not being able to find anything worthwhile, Mayer turned his attention to the cigarette case, taking it from his pocket and setting it atop the desk. The ornate case was decorated with flowing leaves that swirled in delicate circles across the face. The rear portion was slightly curved to conform to the body when placed in the inner pocket of a suit. It had a hinge along one edge and a clasp on the other.
Mayer pressed the clasp and opened the case. Inside he found a row of slim, brown cigarettes standing at the ready in the curved side. They were held in place by an elastic band positioned toward the top. He took them out one by one and laid them on Pierce’s desk. With the cigarettes removed, Mayer could see both the maker’s mark, as well as an inscription that read: “To R. J. with all my love, your geliebte.”
“Why,” Mayer wondered aloud, “would someone put the engraving on the cigarette side of the case where it wouldn’t be seen?” But that wasn’t the only thing he wondered. The word “geliebte” caught his attention as well. He didn’t know the meaning of the word, but he was pretty sure he knew the origin.
He turned next to the file cabinets, searching each drawer, unsure of what he was supposed to find. Still, he kept looking, hoping that whatever it was would announce itself with a fine how d’ya do. But it never did.
Thunder cracked as lightening brightened the sky. As a kid, Mayer had been frightened of thunder—especially at night. His mother would come into his room to comfort him, telling him the noise was only the angels bowling and was nothing to be frightened of. Louder bangs were simply strikes. One particular strike hit hard, coming almost immediately after the lightning that preceded it, bringing with it a tinge of that old fear.
He swiveled the chair back to the desk. Large enough to serve as a dining table for a family of six, the ornate wooden desk was equipped with six drawers. A set of three on each side had pull handles, with an additional, smaller knob-handled drawer above each set of three. The drawer in the top center was secured with a lock.
It likely took four hardy men and a team of Clydesdales to get the thing into the place, which made Mayer wonder how they managed to carry it up the spiral staircase. The one-of-a-kind desk was the type a man chose to flaunt his wealth. He was also pretty sure it was the type that came with a secret compartment or two. Though he’d already given it the once over, Mayer took his time on the second go round. He started with the drawers on the right side, figuring most people were right handed. He would have started with the center drawer at the top, but that seemed too obvious. Wise people don’t keep important things in a locked drawer, it’s the first place a man like Mayer would check.
He pulled open the top right drawer. It was filled with miscellaneous junk: an old pipe, matches, lighter fluid, pencils, an engraved letter opener, the missing pen from the set, and close to two berries in change. He slipped the drawer out of its spot, looked underneath and at the end. A single groove ran around the outside of the drawer, but other than that, nothing caught his eye. He returned the drawer and its contents. The next two were much of the same. The third drawer was mostly empty, except for a box of Cubans. He lifted the lid. A single row remained. He was about to slide the drawer back into place when he noticed something odd. Though the face of the drawer was the same size as the two above it, the drawer itself wasn’t as deep.
There wasn’t a big difference; not one that’d be noticed if a person wasn’t paying attention. But if that person were paying attention, if someone really looked closely, the difference was just enough to catch the eye.
Mayer removed the box of Cubans and laid them on the top of the desk, then he took out the drawer. He examined the inside, but found nothing out of the ordinary, so he turned the thing over. The bottom of the drawer had a slight indentation at one end—something that could be used to slide the bottom piece forward or backward as needed. Only it didn’t slide much—maybe a fraction of an inch—before it hit either the back or front of the drawer. It could have been that the bottom piece was simply old and becoming loose, but it didn’t feel that way.
Mayer tried wiggling the bottom, but it didn’t help. He examined the outside of the drawer and found two grooves that ran along the sides and the end. Two grooves, Mayer thought. Each of the other drawers had only one groove.
Lightening lit the room.
He took hold of the end of the drawer and pulled upward. Much to his delight, a small piece came loose, allowing Mayer to slide out the bottom of the drawer as well, exposing a large manila envelope. He placed the envelope on the desk, opened the top flap, and poured out its contents.
Photos. It was full of photos. Two people—a man and a woman—sometimes walking hand in hand, other times on horseback. Once or twice locking lips. Most of them were taken from a distance, but it was still possible to identify the subjects. A fairly well-known woman, one Mayer had spoken with only the day before. Vera Krupp. The man wasn’t as easy to identify, but his clothes were. A long-sleeve button-down shirt with flaps over the pockets, twist twill slacks, a covert-cloth jacket, and engineer boots. They were the same clothes Mayer had seen in a suitcase in the trailer when Pierce first took him there.
“Well how d’ya do?” Mayer said.
Inside the envelope, along with the photos, was a folded slip of paper. A receipt for services rendered—two hundred dollars. Pierce had hired a private peeper to tail his partner. Mayer wondered if his client had trust issues. He slid the receipt back into the envelope along with the photos. Then he put the drawer together and slid in back in the desk. He was about to head for the door when the hairs stood up on his arms, a cold chill swept down his spine, and his breath trailed off in front of him.
He took hold of the club.
Lightening flashed and as it did, Mayer saw it. Standing in the entry to the office, floating just inches above the floor, was the same specter he’d seen earlier that evening in the living room—Hawthorne’s ghost. Malice and revenge painted his face. Clearly the shaman’s trick hadn’t worked.
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong bird,” Mayer said.
The ghost didn’t answer. It simply flickered as it did before, and when it did, the light in his torch went dark, and with it, the room. Mayer looked to the window, hoping a skinwalker wasn’t about to come crashing through. But as he did, the window disappeared. In fact, everything in the room dissolved away, replaced with a thick darkness so heavy it became difficult to breathe. Mayer put down the torch and held up his hand in front of his face, but even though it was a mere inches away, it was impossible to see.
He stood silently, trying to let his ears do the work of his eyes, tuning in even the slightest sound. A cold breeze scraped across the back of his neck, raising the hairs. Though he couldn’t see him, Mayer could feel Hawthorne quickly closing the distance between them. His grip tightened on the club. Then a sound—metal sliding along metal—came from behind him, accompanied by more of the same. A second later Mayer was bombarded by papers and folders, all falling from the sky.
He went to move, but one of the desk drawers flung forward, catching him in the shin. The unexpected movement and the sharp pain it brought dropped Mayer to the floor, just as another drawer struck him in the chest and a third in the forehead. The club slipped from his grasp, lost in the darkness.
On the floor and disoriented, Mayer tried to catch his breath. It was there, lying on the papers and folders, that he heard the creak of the of the heavy wooden chair, and suddenly realized it had been lifted off the floor. Mayer had a fairly good idea what the ghost intended to do with the chair but didn’t wait to find out. He reached until he found the corner of the desk, then, keeping his hand in place to orient himself, Mayer rolled around the desk and came up on the other side. The room echoed when the chair slammed to the floor.
Mayer tried to take in air but his chest was tight. His shin was aching and he was pretty sure blood was dripping from his forehead. He concentrated on his ears, painting a picture with sound. A brush of wind, a stir of dust. The slightest movement in the air. But all he could hear was the pounding beat of his own heart.
Keeping his hands on the desk, Mayer turned slightly, facing what he thought was the position of the door. From out of the darkness, something hit him hard in the chest, sending him flying across the desk. He landed hard on the floor; two objects fell on top of him.
He fumbled for them. One felt like the cigarette case and the other a large envelope. He slipped the case into his back pocket and took hold of the envelope. Though he felt sick to his stomach, Mayer knew he couldn’t wait for the ghost to strike again. He managed to get to his knees, then peeked over Pierce’s desk, but it was still too dark for him to see.
Lightning struck. A slight flash fought against the darkness that filled the room and forced itself in, just enough for Mayer to catch a glimpse of the club. It had rolled to the wall just under the window. But the lightning also revealed Hawthorne hovering above him. The ghost raised his hand and pointed a missing forefinger at Mayer. Then a swipe of the hand sent Mayer flying; he hit the wall with a dull thud. But now Mayer had the club. He took hold of it and rushed where Hawthorne had been, swinging it out in front of him. But the darkness had once again engulfed the room, leaving Mayer to wonder if his swing had made any difference.
Mayer turned to where he thought the door should be, but as he did, he heard it slam shut.
“Damn ghosts,” he said.
He realized that even if he could get to the door and get it to open, he’d still be in the house and he’d still have to deal with Hawthorne’s ghost. But there was another way out.
He moved, arms outstretched, until he felt the wall. Then he followed along, by envelope-clad hand, until he could feel the cold glass of the window. A scraping of metal echoed in the room, bringing with it a sense of urgency. Mayer lifted the club and slammed it into the windowpane. While glass rained down, he leapt out, just as a file cabinet came flying toward him. He tucked his legs tight to his chest, as the cabinet inched by, and rolled out onto the roof.
Once out of the window, the glass, rain, and wet asphalt shingles conspired against him, making it impossible for Mayer to get to his feet or stop his forward momentum, so he braced for impact as he slipped off the edge of the roof, faceplanting into the ground—lucky to have landed on the grass and not the cement walkway only inches away.
Gasping for air, Mayer got to his hands and knees, then, eventually, his feet. Somehow he had managed to keep hold of the envelope, but had lost the club. Though it was night, outside the home was much lighter than inside—even with the power out. Seeing the club a few feet away, he grabbed it, ran to his Hornet, opened the door, and threw himself inside. Without taking a breath, he slid the key into the ignition, started the engine, slammed the gas pedal, and skidded away.
Twenty-Four
MAYER PULLED IN front of his apartment and turned off the ignition. He sat there in the dark, finally allowing himself to breathe. The rain had stopped and the streets glistened with the reflection of neon signs and streetlights that kept the twenty-four-hour town illuminated.
Atomic Liquors was one of those lights—its doors still open, people still inside, lying to each other, with glasses full, going over the edge with the rams. Almost as if nothing had happened. Almost as if Mayer hadn’t just been attacked by a dead man’s ghost or a Nativ
e American hellcat. Almost as if Vegas was like any other town in America and not a gathering place for the unnatural. And while Mayer was in no mood to join them, he needed to use the phone. So, after depositing his club and Colt in the trunk and donning his suit coat and lid, Mayer headed inside.
The place was busy and Mayer was thankful for it—less time to get a lecture from Stella. He took a quick scan of the room. Stella was in the far corner talking to a table full of Air Force men in pressed suits, one of them sporting a sleeve full of stripes, their flight caps tucked inside their belts. Joe was behind the bar. He caught Mayer’s eye and waved him in.
“Geez, you look worse than the last time I saw you,” he said when Mayer reached the bar. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Anything’s possible,” Mayer said. “If you try hard enough.”
Joe wiped the bar in front of Mayer out of habit. He motioned to his grass-stained shirt, still wet from the rain-soaked lawn. “What’d you do, nap in a park?”
“Something like that.”
“Go freshen up and I’ll pour you a drink,” Joe said, jerking a nod at the restroom in the back. Mayer was halfway there when Joe added, “That reporter is looking for you. The cute one with the pixie-cut hair.”
“Dandy,” Mayer said.
When he got to the restroom, he went to the sink, trying his best to avoid the mirror. He turned on the water and let it get hot, before lathering his face with soap and splashing it with water. He did it several more times hoping to wash off both the dirt and the evening in general. It worked for the dirt, but not the other. He’d probably have to tip a few for that.
When Mayer got back to the bar, a short glass of rum was waiting for him. Joe knew just what he needed. A piece of paper with a phone number was wedged under the drink. Mayer took a snort and then took another. Rum had a way of making things no longer matter—perfect for a night like tonight.
