by A. Sparrow
“I’m skipping breakfast, Rand. You all go on ahead, without me.”
“Breakfast? It’s lunch time, Rev. Are you feeling any better?”
“I’ll be fine. The worst is over. I’m just … resting.” His voice wheezed and cracked. The stomach acids had done a job on his throat.
“Well, we’re heading out to the Swain’s to help Jerry. He says things are quiet out there, but he could use the backup. You want us to wait?”
“Nah. You all go on ahead. I’m gonna rest up, review my notes, come up with a deliverance plan. It was only a bit of food poisoning, but you know, it kind of robs your strength.”
“Funny … that nobody else took ill.”
“Hallelujah for that. But maybe my tolerance was just low. You all go on out and give Jerry a hand. I’m sure the Swains appreciate the support. Keep me posted if anything happens.”
“Can we … bring you anything?”
“No, I’m fine. Really. I’m fine. Just … getting my energy back. If I don’t hear from you I’ll touch base with you all in the evening, okay? Hopefully, things will stay calm.”
“Jerry thinks they’re bluffing us, playing possum.”
“Could very well be. Let me know if anything pops up.”
“Will do,” said Rand.
He hoped to God that nothing would happen, not while he was in such a frail state. He had a feeling that there was a direct correlation between the calm out at the Swains and the storm that had raged in his gullet. The infernal force they were dealing with apparently did not have the power or ingenuity to strike two places at once. Hopefully, that meant they were dealing with a lesser foe—a demi-demon with limited power. But if he survived this first blow and re-gathered his strength, God help them. Donnie would take no prisoners the next time he was on his feet. But for now all he wanted was some sleep.
***
It was mid-afternoon when he awoke. He hadn’t eaten all day but he still had no appetite. He dragged himself to the shower. It felt good to let the hot water wash away the sour smell on his skin. He scraped the stubble off his chin, put on some clean clothes and went down to the lobby and had the staff send someone up to clean his room.
He was sitting in the hotel restaurant having some iced tea, which came oddly devoid of a single grain of sugar, when he spotted Mac standing at the front desk. Donnie whistled to get his attention, startling the couple the next table over.
Mac wheeled away from the counter and came striding over, lips peeled in his jackal’s grin. He was still a handsome man. No gut. Full head of hair. Smidgeon of salt and pepper. He was only a couple years younger than Donnie, but it looked like more like ten. Not bad for a guy who had survived a crystal meth habit and a prison term. Though, unlike Donnie, Mac hadn’t been in hand-to-hand combat with Satan for the last fifteen years.
“Hey, how’re ya feelin’?” said Mac, taking a seat. “The kids told me you picked up a case of the trots.”
“Oh, I’m okay,” said Donnie. “I’ll survive.”
“Something you ate?”
Donnie flicked his head. “More than that.”
“Oh?”
Donnie glanced at the table behind them. “I think it’s a possession,” he whispered. “Attempted, anyhow. Don’t tell the others. I don’t want them to worry.”
“Might just be a virus, Donnie. The 24-hour flu’s been going around.”
“Nah. This ain’t no bug. The timing’s too neat for happenstance. I’m pretty sure we’re talking about infernal mischief here. Means we’re dealing with a pretty active foe, if that’s the case.”
“Really?” Mac said, unfolding and refolding a paper napkin. “I gotta admit Donnie, I didn’t put much stock into this whole possession thing when Cindy came complaining to me about her ‘devil worshippers.’ But when we heard that tape ….” His head shook, as he struggled to find words. “We really appreciate you all coming up here. I mean, Cindy’s just ecstatic to have you.”
Donnie crossed his arms around his tea and whispered. “There was no need to lean so hard on me, Mac. We would have come up here gratis. Me and Jerry, we scrounge for cases like this. If the Swains had applied for aid, they would have easily gotten a full award … just based on that recording.”
“I’m sorry Donnie, but you gotta forgive me. Cindy … she was desperate. I just wanted to make sure we got her some help.”
“You’ve got something going on with this lady,” said Donnie. “Don’t you?”
Mac’s eyebrows bunched. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me. But then again, I know you. Haven’t changed much, have you, Mac?”
“Aw Donnie, now this is different. We’re both adults. And she’s active in the church … practically an elder.”
“Not to mention, married … with two kids.”
“She was troubled. She came to me … for guidance.”
“So you slept with her?”
“Like you never ….” Mac’s face went sour. “Listen, it hasn’t been easy for her. I’m helping her … with the transition.”
“Transition.” Donnie sighed. “Funny, we used to call it adultery. That’s the difference between you and me, Donnie. I’ve changed. I wouldn’t be surprised to see you growing crystals in your basement again.”
“Haven’t touched the meth … not one bit … not since I got out of the pen,” said Mac. He grinned. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t have alternative sources of revenue.”
Donnie inhaled slow and deep. “Don’t tell me—”
“It’s just ‘shrooms, Donnie. Psilocybin. We grow and distribute. It’s completely discreet. The money goes into a foundation, totally separated from the church finances. But we didn’t get involved for the money. My elders—our inner circle—we use these mushrooms … for visions … to get closer to God …and it works. We’re modern day mystics, Donnie. Those Mexican shamans, they knew what they—”
The blood rose in Donnie’s face. “Bloody Hell Mac! Drugs like those are a doorway to hell. Satan’s minions … that’s how they make their inroads. Drugs of any sort, even alcohol. Half of my ministry is taken up cleaning up the messes these drugs leave behind. You of all people should know better. If I had known you were involved again—”
“But these visions of ours, they’ve been purely Christian in nature,” said Mac. “That’s a good sign, no? I mean Jesus Himself has come to me.”
“You sure that was Jesus?”
“What? You think I don’t know my own Lord?”
“Being high on ‘shrooms, I don’t see how you can be sure. They call them hallucinogens for a reason.”
Mac frowned. “We know what we’re doing, Donnie. Our ministry is thriving. We’ve got a school, we do outreach.”
Donnie, his mouth parched, took a swig of his tea. “Mr. Swain … does he know … about any of this?”
“John? Listen, John’s a nice guy. He doesn’t work, but he’s been a big help to Cindy. But Cindy’s going places. She’s well on her way to becoming an elder in our church. John’s just … a stepping stone. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is.”
Donnie shook his head. “I don’t get it Mac. You know this stuff would never fly in Marietta—any of it. But I guess … we’re not in Georgia anymore.”
Mac’s phone buzzed. Places and times were discussed and revised until a consensus was reached. He was arranging a date, or a dalliance. He hung up.
Mac rose from the table. “You’ll have to pardon me. Got some things to do. I can swing by later, if you want a ride to the house.Donnie slumped in his chair. “Give me a ring. Let’s see how I’m feeling.”
Chapter 18: Gear
Aerie showed up early for work the next day. Reggie seemed surprised to see her, but her pleasure was tangible. As she spent the morning in the prep room, washing lettuce, de-stemming spinach, she sensed a change in the air. It was as if someone had died. Things were quieter, the bawdy repartee of her co-workers toned down a notch, particularly when Aerie passed through the kit
chen.
Reggie must have told them all what was happening with her, a feeling confirmed when she spotted Reggie whispering to Lucrezia, throwing glances in her direction. She assumed they were discussing her drug habit, her instability or unsuitability or some such deal. Aerie half expected to get a pink slip before the end of the day.
Instead, right after lunch, when the prep and baking was done, Aerie found herself being instructed sternly by Lucrezia in the art of mixing pastry dough. No smiles, no sentiment, just instruction in the art of pastry. Aerie was astounded; so thrilled in fact, that she forgot to take her pills.
A white van was waiting for Aerie at the end of her shift, its side emblazoned with: “Mason’s Carpet Cleaning—‘When we pull in, the dirt pulls out.’” Ron sat leering behind the wheel.
“Wherever did you get this thing?”
“My uncle. His business went bankrupt. We only got it till Friday. It’s going up for auction.”
Mal came running past the Hilton, a sheath of posters flapping in his grip. He had a wild gleam in his eyes, like a mad bomber. “I hit the hotel big-time. Every floor and elevator.”
Aerie grabbed a poster. “Let me see.”
Her eyes went straight to the picture in the bottom corner. “What the …? That’s me in Tokyo with Hollis. Where did you get this?”
“Sari found it on ‘the Google,’” said Ron, making quote marks with his fingers.
Aerie shuddered. “What an awful picture. The way I’m grimacing, I look like I’m giving birth. ‘International Recording Artist?’ What kind of bullshit is that?”
“Did you not record a CD in Japan?” said Mal.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Case closed,” said Mal.
“Come on. We gotta hit the Commons again. Those little skater bastards keep tearing them down.”
“Get in the van,” said Ron.
Mal backpedaled down the sidewalk. “Wait. Let me stick a couple posters up. The bookstore. The theater.”
Ron thrust his head out the window. “Yo! I said … get into the van!”
Mal came skulking back. “Pushy pushy.”
Aerie slid open the sliding door. “Hey there’s no seats back here.”
“You can sit in my lap,” said Mal.
“Thanks, I’ll pass.” She climbed in a sat cross-legged on the corrugated metal floor, flopping over as Ron zoomed away from the curb. He ran a yellow light as it turned red, rounded the Commons, and ran another completely red, swerving left into an alley. Aerie, tossed about, clawed for something to cling to in the bed.
Three skaters leaned on their boards below a loading dock. They started to scatter, but then one stepped out into the alley and started towards the surging van. Ron squealed to a halt inches from the guy’s chest. It was Vince. A musty odor with a hint of urine wafted in through the windows.
“I hear you’re fucking with our posters?”
“Can’t help ourselves,” said Vince, smirking. “They’re such collector’s items.”
“You guys are gonna go and replace every one you pulled down. Mal, give him a stack.”
Mal made a face. “Give ‘em … posters? But they’ll just trash ‘em, Ron.”
“We didn’t trash nothing,” said Vince. “Got mine hanging in my room.” He winked at Aerie. “I was hoping maybe Aerie Walker, International Recording Artist, could come autograph it.”
“Pass,” said Aerie.
“Give him the posters, Mal, plus a roll of tape. I wanna see them covering the Commons, end to end. The bagel shop, the pottery place, end to end, understand?”
“Why the fuck should we bother?”
“Because I’ll bust your ass if you don’t.”
“You don’t scare me Ron, you scrawny fuck.”
“How about, we let you into the gig for free?” said Mal.
“There’s … a cover?”
“Twenty bucks,” said Ron.
“Why so steep?”
“Exclusive engagement,” said Mal. “Once in a lifetime.”
“Okay. Deal,” said Vince.
“Give him the posters, Mal.”
***
As Ithaca’s only country station blared on the radio, Ron accelerated away from every stop light like a drag racer. Aerie clung to one of the metal tie-down rings that protruded from the bed of the van. She had fashioned herself a seat with several coils of pressure hoses and extension cords that had hung from hooks on the windowless sides of the van.
This ride was providing great incentive to get her car fixed as soon as possible. She was never again riding in any vehicle with Ron at the wheel. That was for certain.
Mal shuddered and writhed as if he was in pain. “Damn it Ron, will you change the fucking station already? If I have to listen to another country song, I’ll barf.”
“Driver picks the tunes. That’s the rule,” said Ron. “I don’t hear Aerie complaining back there.”
“Doesn’t bother me,” she said. “I used to listen to plenty out West.”
“Oh God, no, not Taylor Swift again,” groaned Mal. “I’d rather listen to Tibetan nose flutes.”
Aerie closed her eyes. She had put in a long day already, but getting through this little excursion would be worth the ordeal. She would have her bass back. She pictured it back on its stand in her living room, an image as calming as a bottle of whiskey on a shelf might be to an alcoholic.
When the coils began to slide, she knew they had turned up Connecticut Hill. “Easy on those turns,” she said. “Remember, I’m not strapped in back here.”
“Fragile cargo, Ron. You heard her. Ease up.”
“We’re almost there,” said Ron.
A couple hard turns and Ron was pulling into Aaron’s gravel driveway. They found a taut, white ribbon encircling the entire house.
“What the…? This place looks like a fucking crime scene.”
“It’s those Jesus freaks,” said Mal. “Some kind of barrier … against evil? Are we evil?”
“Don’t know about you guys, but I sure the hell am,” said Ron chuckling. He hopped out of the van and ran over to a gnarled red maple in the front yard, reaching up into a half-rotted knot hole where rain water had pooled. He extracted a wad of rotten leaves and a set of keys dripping muck. He ducked under the ribbon, unlocked the door and slipped inside, Mal right behind him.
Aerie hovered by the ribbon. It was pure silk, off-white and anointed with a streak of oil its entire length. It smelled of garlic.
“Oh my,” she said, and followed the guys inside.
Mal had made straight for the music room, but Ron lingered in the hall, peeking through a door into Aaron’s living spaces.
“Ron? What are you doing?” said Aerie.
“Casing the joint, what else?” he said, veering back across the hall. “I mean, aren’t you curious about this guy? He ain’t no dot com millionaire like he tells some people. I never even seen him use a computer.”
Mal’s dark shape prowled through the dim music room, bumping into instruments, stirring drones and rattles. “Try turning on the fucking lights, idiot.” Ron flipped a switch.
“I think he’s a gem smuggler,” said Ron, slipping a cover over the tone wood marimba-like instrument that he played when Aaron told him to put down his flute. “Sari’s uncle runs a jewelry shop in Binghamton, said he came in one time trying to fence some stones. She thinks maybe they were blood diamonds.”
“Unlikely,” said Mal. “He hardly ever leaves this house, never mind go to Africa. I’ve got a notion that he makes whatever he’s selling.”
“Makes … gems?”
“Gems or … whatever. I think he’s got a lab in this place. I majored in chemistry at Cornell. When Aaron found out, he kept drilling me on all this organic chemistry stuff. He’s obsessed with carbon.”
Aerie plucked her E string and let it ring. It was good to feel those vibrations under her fingers again. She unfolded her tattered nylon case and sheathed her bass.
Ron
rummaged through a box of what looked like claws. They were guitar picks, slivers of stone and shell and exotic wood. He slipped a good handful into his pocket.
“Hey guys, help me with the kithara,” said Mal.
“Um … maybe we should leave Aaron’s instruments alone,” said Aerie.
“Nah,” said Ron, hoisting the other end of the desk-sized instrument. “These are what make our sound.”
“Got that right,” said Mal. “Kolektiv wouldn’t be Kolektiv without the weird instruments.”
“Who cares?” said Aerie. “Nobody’s ever heard us play besides Aaron … and his neighbors.”
The guys ignored her. She let them do their thing while she replaced her end pin with a wheel and rolled it out to the van. She found a spot against the padding of the front seats to prop it, and adjusted her little nest of tubing and wires.
Mal and Ron ran back inside and came back with the giant accordion that Eleni usually played, then went back in for more.
“That’s … probably enough, don’t you think?” said Aerie. “It’s getting a bit crowded back here.”
Ron and Mal looked at each other with matching gleams and grins.
“The birdie!” they said, almost in unison.
“No!” said Aerie. “Absolutely not.”
“But the birdie is what makes us special,” said Ron. “We get that ringing … it’ll blow their minds.”
Mal had already trotted back into the house. Ron joined him, leaving Aerie in the van with her bass and a sinking stomach. They came back hefting a slab of three-quarter inch plywood with the green vinyl-covered bell jar set in the middle.
“There’s not enough room in here,” said Aerie. “How about we leave it?”
Mal turned the kithara perpendicular, creating a space next to Aerie.
“Guys, please. No. I don’t want that thing next to me.”
“No worries,” said Ron. “The birdie … she doesn’t bite.”
They slid the slab of plywood across the bed of the van, disturbing Aerie’s nest.
“You’re gonna have to go slower around these curves,” said Aerie. “I don’t want to all these nasty things to crush me.”
“Nasty?” said Mal, raising one eyebrow.
“They all look like torture devices,” said Aerie. “You have to admit, they’re not the prettiest of instruments.”
