by Tim Marquitz
Steward said nothing because he knew how this part worked. Anything he said, could, and would be held against him. There went his one million bucks—Shit.
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“Stewart Heldon,” called his jailor from beyond white painted bars of his holding cell. Outside Stewart’s cage, wearing county-browns, the corrections officer stated with bored indifference, “Your lawyer is here.”
Stewart sat upon a cold steel bench in a cell with approximately twenty other men waiting for their arraignment hearing. It had been twenty years since he’d been in prison, but he knew seeing a lawyer before being booked wasn’t normal. He hadn’t been given his phone call yet, and even if he had, he didn’t know anyone who’d accept a collect call from jail. Stewart didn’t even know what his charges were—well, he did, sort of—but the full scope was still a bit fuzzy.
These facts didn’t stop Stewart from wanting to escape from the stale stink of his cell. Stewart raised his hand, “I’m here.”
“Open number five,” the jailor called to an unseen controller. A steady electric hum sounded and the lock popped with a loud click. As the corrections officer slid the gate open, Stewart stepped out. Slamming the gate shut behind him, the jailor then led Stewart down a long hall to a private interrogation room away from general holding.
Upon opening the door, facing him, sitting in a metal chair behind a table, waited the man in black. He was dressed exactly the same as earlier, but with one exception, upon Lucifer’s head sat a matching silk top-hat, circa 1920. Stewart stepped inside as Satan spoke to the guard, “Thank you. I’ll handle it from here.”
The jailor smiled and stepped out. Once the door closed, the Devil met Stewart’s angry gaze while motioning to a second metal chair. He said, “Have a seat. Relax, the observation booth is empty and our conversation will not survive the recording. All they’ll hear is static…” he waved a hand at the one-way mirror, “starting…now.”
Stewart asked with heat in his tone, “What happened? I followed your instructions to the letter.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sticking to my part. Sit down, and I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. In the end, this will all make sense, I promise.” Offering a cheesy smile, he reinforced, “I always keep my promises.”
Stewart sat upon the cold, hard chair. He listened as Lucifer continued, “The State of California will charge you with armed robbery, attempted assault with a deadly weapon, as well as for your parole violation of possessing a firearm. With a plea of guilty, they’ll offer you 5-years in San Quinten with a chance for early parole. However, if you fight the system, the State of California will push for fifteen years without eligibility for parole.” Anger flushed Stewart’s face a rosy color.
Holding both hands up, the Prince of Darkness replied, “Now, we both know you did not commit these crimes,” moving one hand over his mouth, he coughed, “except for the violation of your parole. However, despite that little detail, I suggest you plead not guilty.”
“No shit.”
Charismatically, Lucifer grinned, “Hey now, there’s no need for an attitude. Hear me out first.”
Stewart snorted.
“There is a tasty looking young reporter who works for a news station that I own.” Lucifer shrugged, “When I say own, I’m speaking figuratively. I’ve got big plans for that girl, and you are going to help her get a leg up, if you get my meaning. She’s going to want an interview with you, an exposé of your crime as part of an inside view of street crime at its roots. All you need to do is convince her you didn’t do it. Consider this that big role you always wanted—but without crickets.” Satan tapped his ring on the table. “If you do this right, she’ll raise the million dollars for your defense. It’s almost like that black boxer. You know, the one Bobby Dylan did that clever little jingle for…” The devil snapped his fingers.
“The Hurricane?” Stewart shook his head, “Dude, Rubin Carter was acquitted because the testimonies against him were shoddy. Only Rubin Carter knows if he really killed those people or not.”
Lucifer stopped tapping on the table, “See, you’re already leagues ahead of that Rubin-guy. Trust me, you don’t look like the owner of the gun you found. Cheer up and have a little faith. You are helping my people, I’m helping you. We’ll get that million, but it’s got to come from someplace. Yeshua might turn water into wine, but I can’t.”
“Who the hell is this Yeshua dude you keep talking about?”
Lucifer looked surprised as he began with, “Why, he’s the son of…” Satan paused, grinned, white teeth showing straight and pearly, “You know, some people think that convincing the world I don’t exist is my greatest feat…” he shook his head, “Changing the name of your Lord and Savior—now that makes me proud. Where do you think all those prayers to Geezus are going? Nowhere, that’s where.”
Sliding a quick hand across the table, Lucifer pushed a business card in front of Stewart, “Anyhow, immediately after you and Miss Perky-tits have your little talk, this is the lawyer you must call. He’ll win your case. He’s a God-damned tiger, but he isn’t cheap. In fact, he’ll probably cost most of your million dollars, but your freedom is worth much more than that, isn’t it?”
“So this million bucks, I won’t see any of it?”
A slight twitch ticked Satan’s left eye, “Well,” he cleared his throat, “there could be enough left over for you to buy a new car. It’s the least I can do since you are helping my people climb higher.”
The depth of Stewart’s betrayal and abandonment echoed in his voice, “My people, what about me? I swore fealty to you when I was sixteen! Why have you done this to me?”
The ruby ring once again tapped against the scarred metal table. Lucifer echoed, “Why? The very question “Why’ is the real devil. That’s the question that turned this world into a train wreck. Around 4,000 years ago, some fool asked why, and Moses wrote a book. The next thing you know, everybody is killing everybody over “The Word’—and look around—they still are.”
Lucifer continued, “However, you don’t know this, so listen up. Before the Protestant Reformation, before that heretic Martin Luther split the Church over a woman, the Holy Roman Church was the self-proclaimed infallible point of God’s misinterpreted word.”
“Around 1227, a man remembered as Gregory IX became Pope and began the Papal Inquisitions against anyone opposing Mother Church. Centuries of justified torture and murder befell millions of men and women solely because they were religious naysayers, heretics, and most especially witches and Devil worshipers like you.”
Stewart listened, but wondered if Lucifer rambled on just to hear himself talk. The fallen angel continued, “However, one night while I watched him sleep, Gregory had a terrible dream. I had nothing to do with it, I swear. He dreamt of a ferocious tiger chasing him through the Vatican Halls, and no one would come to his aid. I really did enjoy watching that dream.”
“Upon waking the next morning, he ordered all cats to be executed for their alignment with me. Obviously, when cats howl at night, they’re worshiping me. So, if you owned a cat, you might be in cahoots with me. As God’s Word spread, so did the feline genocide. Killing cute Little Morris sure beat being burned at the stake for heresy.”
“Meanwhile, the population of rats steadily grew. Vermin killed a full third of Christ-worshiping Europeans by spreading the Bubonic Plague, or, historically called the Black Death. I consider it among Catholicism’s greatest fails.”
“So, what does this all have to do with you?” Lucifer shrugged, and looked deeply at Stewart, “That fool Gregory IX was right about one thing—I sure do like cats.”
Masquerade
C.A. Rowland
Harold fingered the long black jacket. Made especially for the Masquerade Ball, he’d insisted it be made of linen. The midnight wool overcoat was an authentic replica of its 1800s inspiration, but even in February, it was much too warm to wear in New Orleans. With his white silk shirt, black silk tie and top hat, he cut a striking figure—jus
t as he expected Jack the Ripper must have.
Harold admired the fact Jack the Ripper was never caught or his identity discovered. He knew if the crimes had happened in current times, Jack would not have escaped detection. Harold thought he was either part of the upper crust or a royal. The work and intelligence needed to evade capture were too much for a petty thief or vagrant. That was his theory anyway. Harold was more discreet and more disciplined in taking his pleasure. Once a year, at the Mardi Gras Masquerade Ball, one special woman would die like the prostitutes in London so long ago.
This year he’d purchased new masks—one with a decorated gold wooden stick and an identical one with an elastic band that fit around his head. The second would be used only once on the special night.
His hands trembled as he fingered the masks’ feathers and the silky velvet backing. A chill ran up his back at the thought of the transformation he would make. He could hardly wait to wear these. He forced his hand away from the material. The planning was complete.
For the past 5 years, his murders had been precise. No one had linked the crimes. The decadence of the parties and the multitude of crimes during the festival activities overshadowed the fact that there was a connection—a single murder planned and carried out by Harold each year. He relished the thought that, in this age of forensic science, he had eluded the police not only in the crime but they didn’t even know that it was an annual event. He wondered if they’d ever connect them but then brushed the thought aside. It was hardly worth thinking about.
He closed the closet door. Time to leave for work. He smacked his lips and contemplated the conversation ahead.
Sandy. Well, really Sandra. They had talked on the telephone enough times for her to invite him to call her Sandy. That’s when he knew. When the relationship had become personal.
She hadn’t met him but he’d seen her. She was perfect for his purposes.
He’d first been intrigued by Sandy’s voice. Deep and low for a young woman, hers was like his mother’s had been. A silky smoothness to its cadence seemed to roll across the telephone lines to caress his ears. Harold was immediately drawn in. Who was she? What did she look like? Her voice suggested she was a seductress just like his mother. He told himself it was too early to start the hunt for his next victim. How on earth would he wait ten months? So he’d ignored his instincts and waited. And listened to other voices. None drew him as Sandy’s voice did. After four months, she’d said those words, “Harold, we talk so often. You sound like someone I can trust, call me Sandy.”
The intimacy of the statement was more than he could bear. She trusted him. With six months to go, he knew he had to see what she looked like. He had made a plan.
For seven years, Harold had worked at the specialty sandwich shop. After his first year as a counter person, he’d been promoted to Assistant Manager. When the manager quit a year later, he’d thought he’d be promoted again. Wrong. The owner promoted a new girl, Heather. It was the ultimate insult. Heather had long straight brown hair that she flipped whenever the owner was around. Harold couldn’t believe she had flirted and seduced her way into the job. She was slender and pretty with the same low silky voice. Harold hated her. But he knew he could never show it. Harold was the consummate gentleman and employee—all while he stewed in the injustice of it.
At first, Harold thought Heather would screw up or leave. She hadn’t. After nine months of having to work for her, he knew he’d have to do something or he’d blow up. That was when he settled on finding someone just like Heather. Someone he could take his rage out on.
Harold’s job included the intake of orders—which was how he talked to Sandy on a weekly basis. Her company used the shop for business lunches. Once Harold decided Sandy might be the one, he used a call back confirmation on an order to get her last name.
From there, he googled her, checked Facebook and Linked In. She was everywhere—and in pictures. Sandy had long straight chocolate hair. Perfect. The fact she was always nice to him didn’t matter. She’d probably gotten her job the same way Heather had—using her womanly charms. The injustice of it churned the acid in his stomach. His blow against these women meant more than his personal anger—it was a blow against all females who walked over men unfairly. His own private war. It was enough that he knew he was striking back. The world need never know.
The shop’s delivery guy made the actual deliveries. Harold obtained the address of the business when an order needed to be delivered. Two weeks after he had her picture, he’d staked out her building and watched her come out at 5 o’clock. Sure enough, she moved gracefully down the street, her hair swinging in rhythm with the sway of her slender hips.
He’d been right. She was perfect. Now all he had to do was wait for Mardi Gras. Each week he returned to the coffee shop across from her building—just to watch her leave. He ordered a latte and sat at the window each time. By the end of two months, Harold thought he could recognize her walk anywhere.
Mardi Gras week was crammed with special orders. Sandy’s office placed two orders instead of one. After confirming the orders, Harold asked about her plans for celebration.
“Are you going to the parade?” Harold asked.
“No, I have to work,” she said.
“That’s too bad. They’re always fun,” Harold said. “You’re going to some of the parties, aren’t you?”
“Oh, sure. I go every year with my boyfriend. I love dressing up in costume and listening to all the music,” Sandy said.
“Me too. I love the Masquerade Ball.”
“That’s my favorite too.”
“I bet you have a great costume. What are you going as this year?”
“I wasn’t sure but I’ve decided to go as Cleopatra. Snake headdress and all.”
“Sounds great,” Harold said.
“What about you?” Sandy asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll go as a rodeo clown,” Harold lied. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Maybe,” Sandy said. “There are so many people. I don’t know that it’ll happen, but hey, it’s Mardi Gras. Anything can happen. Gotta run—take care of my order, okay?”
“Will do,” Harold said as they hung up. He’d heard her say she had a boyfriend. A lot could happen in a few weeks. A boyfriend didn’t change much—the masquerade was a place where anyone could get lost.
The afternoon before the masquerade ball Harold’s heart was pumping like crazy. He’d taken the day off. No clinging smelling of food for him. After all, he’d waited a whole year to extract his revenge. He’d had the shirt and trousers pressed. He was ready.
He showered, soaping twice—once with a sulfur soap, washing away old skin. The second with a masculine scented soap he thought might linger a bit, but not too much. Naked, he stepped from the shower and dried himself with a pristine white towel.
Shaving was a ritual in itself. Harold had searched for months for the perfect antique razor set and a silver bowl. They didn’t date to Jack’s time but it was enough for Harold to feel the regression in time. He sharpened the razor, lathered up and carefully shaved. He wanted no nicks or cuts for tonight. The many days of practicing paid off as he finished his shave with no bloody marks.
Next he dealt with his hair. It had a natural wave that he enhanced with a bit of gel. He could easily have fit into a Jane Austen novel, if he went in for that sort of thing which he certainly didn’t. He finished styling his hair.
The preliminaries completed, Harold moved towards the full length mirror. He didn’t know many men with one unless they had a wife or girlfriend. For him, the mirror was the key to the change. He stared at the wiry, skinny body before he reached for the cotton drawers. The internet was a wonderful invention—you could buy anything you needed and from just about any time period. Harold avoided looking at his reflection until he had put on his shirt and trousers. He added the vest. He would have loved a stylish burgundy brocade but that would have been too memorable—this one was a deep black. He looked up. A differe
nt man stood there. A taller more distinguished man—and he still needed to add the coat.
Next, he slid his feet into the boots. Black the color of ink that added two inches to his height. Harold straightened. This man belonged in another century and exuded confidence. He buckled the belt holding a knife case and inserted the knife. The long jacket would cover all and the weight rested on his hip. After he stretched his arm into the second sleeve of the jacket and shouldered it on, he patted the pocket—the prop knife lay inside. He’d never needed it but one never knew when something like that might come in handy. The last was the leather gloves—into his other pocket so he left no fingerprints.
10pm. Early by partying standards but Harold wanted to get to the masquerade ball in time to find a spot for watching the crowds. Cleopatra costumes weren’t all that popular. Still, the sheer number of people at the event would make finding Sandy harder. Seeking her out was one of the best parts of the night. With his mask on, Harold pushed and prodded his way through the crowds. At 6 feet tall, he could see over the heads of many and he used his height to his advantage. His eyes wandered from head to head—searching for the snake.
On the west side of the ballroom, he spotted a shimmering headdress with an asp. He moved closer, then slipped away. A blonde. He searched for a brunette. After two hours of searching, Harold began to wonder if Sandy had lied to him…when he spotted another snake. This one was atop a brunette. He moved closer, checking to make sure it wasn’t a wig.
It was real hair and it looked like Sandy’s. The woman in the costume had her build and although it was hard to see, Harold knew from how she moved—it was her.
Harold moved closer and held his drink in his hand. This was the most difficult part. How to approach her? He decided to bump into Sandy and then apologize. Innocent and yet an introduction. It happened all the time.
He moved closer and seemed to burst forward, bumping her arm. “How clumsy of me. I am so very sorry madam.”
Sandy turned, mask covering her face. She smiled. “No problem.”
