Parker spoke up, using the police radio code for murder. “Any one-eight-sevens?”
“Nah. Least not since I’ve been here, going on three years now. Assaults? Yes. And a few reported rapes. But that’s it.”
That’s it, Parker thought. Evidently for the Clarke, a few beatings and women scarred for life over three years was a good run.
Or a dry spell.
“So, how do we want to do this?” Solomon asked, looking back towards the cap.
“Your turf. I’m thinking you take the lead going in. Parker and Klink will follow. Logistics say there’s the front entrance and one out back. I’ll take the front. Murillo?”
Murillo, who always got high-strung when things got tense, was violently chewing a piece of gum. “Yeah, Cap?”
“You take the rear.”
“Got it. And what about the street?”
They all looked around the area at the same time. There were a few homeless people shuffling around, lost in their minds either due to drug abuse or mental illness . . . or both. Beyond that, no civilians. “We’re mostly clear. I’ve got two black-and-white units on the way to block the street on either end to make sure no pedestrians or traffic wander in. Murillo, you can head to the back.”
It was while they were waiting for Murillo to make his way to the back of the building and radio that he was in position that Napoleon finally showed up. Visible, of course, only to Parker, he was standing near an old news stand, his tan hue casting a circle at his feet. Be careful, Parker. This man you’re after? He’s trouble.
“It’s about time,” Parker thought. “Where have you been?”
Trying to research his master. And it hasn’t been easy.
“The chalk guy?”
Chalk Man.
“What about him?”
Evil spirit. Lots of power. Far as I can tell, he’s been around since the Mayans. Product of some sort human sacrifice ritual they had.
Parker froze, remembering Charlie’s notebook. He told Napoleon about the drawing, in detail.
Hmm. Not a coincidence.
“Never is.”
Nap gave a tight smile.
“You come up with anything else?”
Like I said, the information’s been hard to come by. A lot of demons are active in protecting this guy. I tried to shake a few down, but he’s like a legend to them or something.
Parker could barely comprehend what it looked like to shake down a demon, but regardless, he was pretty sure he didn’t want to deal with whomever any of them called a legend.
Sadly, you don’t have a choice, Napoleon said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yeah. I kinda figured. So?”
I got a low-level demon down in Bolivia to crack. Chalk Man was some sort of artist. Mainly in charge of inscribing symbols and pictures in the temples of his time. He fell in love with a woman named Sacniete, who was the wife of one of the princes. His advances were rejected, so he took his heartbreak out by drawing a blasphemous mural, in chalk, of the prince’s wife fornicating with Hunhau, the Mayan spirit of the underworld.
“Okaaay.”
The royal family was mortally offended, and the king was enraged. He ordered Chalk Man’s capture. Which proved easier said than done.
Parker stepped back from the group to speak to Napoleon in his head in private. “How so?”
He escaped into the jungle, where he was somehow not only able to evade the city’s best hunters for weeks on end, but also somehow managed to kill a half dozen of them.
“Waitaminute. They must not have been very good hunters. I mean, it doesn’t follow. You said this guy was an artist? How does he pull that off?”
Exactly. As the legend goes, when the hunters pursued him, they found chalk drawings painted throughout the jungle, on rocks and tree trunks at first, and then on each of the bodies of the men he killed. Rumors spread like fever that Chalk Man was being helped by Hunhau, who was rewarding his evil blasphemy.
“Well. That’s a stretch.”
Is it, Parker? Weren’t you the one, just a second ago, beginning to question the logic of some tribal Van Gogh suddenly morphing into Rambo and killing six of the strongest hunters in the city?
Parker raised his eyebrows and gave a tiny nod.
Eventually, though, Chalk Man crept back into the city and snuck his way into the palace.
“What?”
I know. Again, it defies logic. We shouldn’t be surprised; evil is the antithesis of logic, Parker.
“So, what happened?”
He made it to the princess’s living quarters, where he tried to convince Sacniete once again that he was the man of her dreams. When she again rejected him? He gagged, bound and raped her. Then? It gets worse. Some of the commotion awoke her ten-year-old son, who was asleep in the adjacent room. He came in to check on his mother and came face-to-face with a monster. Chalk Man’s rage was now all-consuming, and with the princess watching, he grabbed her only child and chucked him from the balcony to his death below.
Parker was stunned. But not just from the story. Because, well, logic did work there still, in the real world. And the data was in-your-face clear. “Shit . . . a rejected love, a ten-year-old boy . . . again . . . there’s no such thing as coincidences.”
Just like I trained you.
He looked around. Klink was on his cell phone. Ruiz and Solomon were standing together, their arms folded across their chests as they balanced their weight on the balls of their feet while the Captain Holland spoke on his radio to a black-and-white that had made its way to one end of the street. “So, do I even want to know the rest?”
It’s short. This time, Chalk Man was caught. The king was so enraged by what happened that, at the sacrifice, he had our guy’s eyes gouged out and his sockets stuffed with chalk.
“Man.”
Then he was gutted and left to die slowly, before his skull was finally smashed in.
“And that was that?”
Nope. Not even close. Shortly thereafter? Strange things started happening.
“Like what?”
First off, the princess, already having mostly gone mad with grief, was attacked on the balcony outside her room by an owl. Her face was ravaged. Then? More owl attacks. On the citizens in the streets, then in the jungle, on the hunt, owl hoots that would scare away all the prey. Soon, food was scarce. They didn’t stop until a flock of owls—not birds that ever move in flocks, by the way—attacked the king. He had a heart attack and died.
Parker was perplexed. “Of all things . . . owls?”
Napoleon nodded. Hunhau, the spirit of the underworld I just mentioned?
“Yeah?”
He’s always depicted in Mayan culture the same way: with a human body and the head of an owl.
“Great.”
Exactly. After that? The owls disappeared. But basically, our guy made a deal for vengeance with Hunhau. From what I can gather? He’s been an exemplary servant of Hunhau ever since.
Parker looked to his right. The second black-and-white had arrived. They didn’t have much more time to talk. “Hunhau? I mean . . . I’ve never heard of him.”
Napoleon smiled grimly. Sure you have, Parker.
“How?”
Hunhau is just another name. He was Seth to the Egyptians. Mictlantecuhtli to the Aztecs. Supay to the Incans. To you and me? His name is Satan. And when Napoleon said this last word, he gritted his teeth. He is the enemy. He is evil. And our guy bought in. Big time.
The cap’s radio chirped. It was Murillo, reporting that he was set. The cap looked up as the black-and-whites pulled into position, one blocking Broadway at Fourth, the other a block up at Fifth. “We ready?”
“Ready, Cap,” Klink said softly.
Solomon nodded and Ruiz was the first to draw his weapon. Parker wanted to smile, because the Narc guys were always ready to go, but he was still too distracted by Napoleon, who now said something that shocked him. I can’t go in there with you, Parker.
“Why?
”
It will stir up way too much attention.
“Are you kidding me?”
No, I’m not. That place is a gateway. You may be able to come and go as mere humans without barely registering on their radar. But if I go in? It’s gonna set off all sorts of alarms.
“Parker!” the cap half shouted.
Napoleon disappeared as Parker whipped his face toward the cap. “Can you pull your head out of your ass and pay attention? I said, are you ready?”
Parker nodded. “Yeah, Cap. Sorry.”
They advanced, Ruiz and Solomon up front, with Klink and Parker behind and the cap pulling up the rear. Once through the doorway, the cap held his position and the rest of them moved into the lobby, which was decorated with modern furniture that was filthy. There was one desk clerk reading a paperback novel, but Parker didn’t like the look of him at all. “LAPD! Hands up,” he barked, his gun in one hand as he held his badge up in front of him with the other. The clerk obliged with his hands, but his eyes were all over the place: first down, perhaps towards some sort of button, then to his cell phone, then around the lobby. In the corner, a couple was making out on an old couch, the man’s hand up the woman’s skirt. A box of Zig-Zag paper wraps was on a glass table in front of them, as was a small pile of marijuana.
“I’ll take the clerk and hold him,” Ruiz said.
“Good idea,” Klink said.
As they advanced to the elevator bay the couple on the couch parted and stood up in panic, their eyes glued to the guns now trained in their direction. Parker noticed that the woman, who was hurriedly pulling her skirt down, was actually a male crossdresser.
Solomon punched the elevator button and a set of doors to the right opened instantly. The three of them filed in and Klink punched “8.”
“Okay. Eighth floor. We’ll go out single file and make our way to Room 842. I’ll take point,” Klink volunteered.
“Okay,” Solomon said.
But Parker said nothing. Because he was speechless.
“Parker?” Klink pressed, sounding annoyed. “You got it?”
Parker wanted to reply, but he couldn’t. He was too distracted by the ghostly image of the body of a young man hanging from an extension cord next to Solomon and twisting slowly, clockwise, ever so slowly. His eyes were bulging out like a goldfish and his hands were twitching.
Parker looked at his uniform shirt and the faded stitching above the pocket: Billings. Yeah. Lance Billings. He’d read about this guy in the sordid online history of the hotel.
But from there it only got worse. Because all around them there were hands—in the same white glow, dozens of them—reaching in waves through the doors as the elevator ascended to each floor.
Reaching. Beckoning. As voices called out in hushed whispers to get off on their floor. Because their floor was more fun. Their floor would be unforgettable. Promise.
Parker barely managed a reply. “I’m fine, man, don’t worry about me. Got it.” But he couldn’t help but say it all with the route pattern of shock, because he could barely catch his breath for what he was seeing and hearing. Somehow, he sensed that this was all some sort of aftereffect of seeing and talking with Napoleon. As if his eardrums had been tuned to a new frequency and the sheen from the gas station was over his eyes once more, giving him temporarily heightened senses again.
When the elevator came to a stop on the eighth floor and the doors opened it only got worse.
Standing there, dressed neatly in a suit and tie straight out of the 1950s, was the ghost of a man with a face full of madness.
In his right hand he held the decapitated head of a young woman.
Her eyes looked up at Parker. “Help. Please!” she said with pure desperation. “You have to do something . . . before he kills me.”
Klink and Solomon, following the plan, moved right through them, completely oblivious to their presence.
But Parker couldn’t move an inch.
Chapter 14
Once again, Parker was reminded of the frivolity of it all. Of how what was real was not really all that real, and vice versa. Here he was, with one foot in what he’d been taught all his life was the “real” world and there they were, the man and the decapitated woman, standing in a world no less real. In truth, Parker was beginning to figure out that both worlds existed simultaneously, though in no way harmoniously. In fact, as the man stared at him with a seething wave of malice, nausea came over Parker so thick that he had to resist the urge to vomit.
The man reached into his belt with his free hand and pulled out a short machete. “You’re about fifty years too late, bucko.” He laughed. “But if you get a little closer you can feel what she felt . . . at the end . . . right before the last tendons in her neck snapped loose.”
The elevator doors were beginning to close. He had no choice. Parker exited quickly and sidestepped to the left, being careful to stay out of the man’s reach. In doing so, he realized something. The man and the woman were locked in a static position for some reason, right there in that solitary spot on the floor. They weren’t coming or going anywhere. They couldn’t even turn their heads. Instead, the man and woman could only turn their eyes to follow him. At least they couldn’t reach him. Because Parker was also beginning to figure out that he’d lost the right to be oblivious to it all, ever again. That by having one foot in their world now meant being vulnerable to attack in that world. And this was both a new and terrifying fact that he’d have to discuss with Napoleon . . . if he ever got the chance.
“Don’t you skip out on me, boy! You play by the rules now and fight like a man! A man! You hear?” the man yelled as Parker slipped down the hall to catch up with Klink and Solomon.
As he did so a sad, pathetic wail escaped the woman. “Wait! No. Where are you going? You can’t leave me here with him. I’m begging you . . . I already told you!” Her voice rose to a carnal scream of terror. “He’ll kill me! He WILL!”
It took all of Parker’s strength to focus. Klink and Solomon were already a good deal up the hallway, so he double-timed it up to his position at the rear, cursing himself for losing his focus and putting them in danger. Room 810 gave way to Room 812 and then the doors alternated in twos, odds on one side, evens on the other, until they finally made their way to Room 842. Klink took the far side of the door, Solomon the near. Parker stood opposite the door and—unlike standard police procedure—used his military training and stood off center from the door. Because peepholes were deadly.
Klink leaned toward the door and listened, then shook his head and tapped his ear, conveying to them that he couldn’t hear anything from inside. He nodded at Solomon, who knocked on the door. Though this had the feel of a raid, it wasn’t. At least not officially. They didn’t have a warrant, and they had no clearance to kick in any doors. This was just an official police visit, just a good ol’ “Hi, we hear you date Charlie Henson’s mom and we were wondering if you’ve seen Charlie?” kinda thing. As a result, they had no obligation to identify themselves until the door was opened.
But the door was not opening.
Solomon knocked once again, much harder. Then again, this time loud enough to wake the dead.
Bad choice of words, Parker thought.
It didn’t matter. Klink had his ear against the door, near the doorjamb, for a long time before he leaned back and whispered, “Nothing. The TV’s not on. No stirring around inside. No snoring. Zilch.”
“Shit,” Parker murmured.
“It’s okay,” Solomon whispered. “Guy sounds unreliable on a good day. We can stake out the front and back and wait for him to come home. Maybe even grab him outside, which I’d actually prefer.”
“Why’s that?” Parker asked.
“Because this place gives me the heebie-jeebies, man. For reals.”
They stayed silently in place for a minute more, Klink’s ear back against the door, his face showing his strain to hear anything, before he shook his head again and shrugged.
Parker bar
ely noticed him.
Because he sensed they had a different problem now.
At the end of the hall, a young woman in a long white sleeping gown had appeared. As per his training, both military and police, he sized her up immediately and found her initially to be of minimal threat . . . she was only five foot one at best, and weighed a hundred pounds tops. But his other training, the kind that Napoleon was giving him, told him immediately that she was a clear and present danger.
“Hey!” she half shouted at them, forcing Klink to jump and catching Solomon so off guard that he spun and grabbed at the gun in his holster. “What you doing there?” She was Asian, with a slight frame, shoulder-length black hair and extremely prominent cheekbones. But her eyes . . . Shit. What’s up with her eyes?
They were glowing a soft but pulsating red.
To his instant shame, unlike Klink or Solomon, who had pivoted and stepped towards the woman, Parker had taken a step back. Then two. Then three.
He called out in his mind to Napoleon. “Nap! I’m not . . . this is not something I can do. I’m not . . . trained for this type of enemy!”
It took a moment, and when Napoleon’s voice came, it was as if he were shouting to him from a mountain ridge across a valley, flat and clear, but minus any echo. No. You’re not. But I warned you when you went in there what you were going up against. It’s why I gave you some of my aura again.
“I don’t want it. Take it back.”
No, Parker. You need it. It’s how you’re seeing the spirits. It’s how you’re seeing her, for what she is, instead of how they’re seeing her.
“They? Who are—” Parker immediately broke off his inner dialogue with Napoleon as Klink shouted out to the woman.
“Ma’am,” Klink said, “this is official police business. Please go back into your room.”
Incredibly, the woman sneered at all three of them. “No. You go. Now,” she replied in broken English. “Go. Before I kill you.”
It was a situational hot potato that none of them quite knew how to deal with. Klink looked at Parker. Parker looked at Solomon. Solomon looked back to Klink. The three of them were stunned and not a little bit incredulous to have just had their lives threatened so blatantly. She had no weapons and was standing calmly, her hands folded in front of her like a schoolgirl, her chin tilted downward, those red eyes creased ominously by her eyebrows.
Chalk Man Page 9
