Badlands

by Morgan Brice

  He hand-wrote “Private Event: Neighborhood Watch” on a piece of paper and taped it to the front door, to discourage after-hours shoppers. The store didn’t have room for seating, but he figured that for the short meeting, people wouldn’t mind standing. Simon ducked into the back for the tray of cookies he had picked up at the grocery store, which he hoped helped with the “neighborly” feeling.

  Right on time, Tracey showed up, and shortly afterward, ten others Simon recognized as managing nearby stores. Everyone chatted and helped themselves to cookies, and the fresh pot of coffee Simon set out, and when he figured no others were likely to show up, he cleared his throat for their attention.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, oddly nervous although addressing a lecture hall of students had never bothered him. The door chime jangled, but Simon couldn’t see the newcomer over the heads of those clustered around him.

  “I think we’ve all seen the recent headlines, and I’m guessing that by now you’ve heard that the woman who sold ice cream from a cart on the boardwalk near here was one of the victims of the criminal they’re calling the Strand Slitter,” he said. “So far, it looks like all of the victims have been seasonal help, but there’s no guarantee it’ll stay that way—and our livelihoods depend on tourists feeling safe here. So my thought was simple. Just to ask that we all keep an extra-sharp eye out for anything that seems unusual, and report it on the tip line the police have set up.”

  “Since when have the cops cared about J-ones?” a man asked from the back. Simon recognized him as the owner of a t-shirt store a few doors down, a recent immigrant himself.

  “They’re trying to find the killer,” Simon replied. “But we come in contact with a lot more people every day than they do, and we’re here in the heart of the Strand. Maybe if we all keep our eyes open, someone will spot something that is the tip they need. So, it’s kind of ‘if you see something, say something.’”

  “Yeah, we can do that,” a heavyset man said from near the tray of cookies through a full mouth. “But I gotta say, if the cops can’t catch shoplifters, I don’t know how they’re gonna find a serial killer.” He reached for an oatmeal raisin cookie.

  The small crowd grew still at the words. “That’s why we can help by staying alert,” Simon replied. “Plenty of cases have been solved from someone calling in something that looked strange.”

  “That’s it? That’s the whole reason for the meeting?” The speaker was a tall, thin man named Jay who ran the tattoo parlor a little farther down the boardwalk. Jay was usually quiet, and Simon couldn’t remember having spoken more than a few sentences to him in passing. He had a good reputation not only for the quality of his art but also for having a level head, and many of the other shop owners thought well of him. His Grand Strand Ink had been a fixture on the boardwalk for more than a decade, nearly forever in a transient town like Myrtle Beach.

  “Is there something else you want to mention?” Simon hadn’t intended to expand the scope, but Jay seemed intent on saying his piece.

  “Just that whoever this Slitter is, he must spend a lot of time in and around the hotels and kiosks, finding his next victims.” Jay shrugged at the looks the others gave him. “So sue me. I watch Dexter and Criminal Minds. The point is, Simon’s right. This nutcase is probably right under our noses, and sooner or later he’ll slip up. The more people who are watching, the more likely someone will notice.”

  Jay looked at Simon and nodded. “Count me in. And I’ll talk to the other shop owners down my way who didn’t make it tonight.” He leveled a look at the others in the store. “I think we can all bring some more people to the party.”

  “Be careful,” Simon warned. “Someone took a shot at me a few nights ago, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.” The group murmured in surprise and shock. “Be on the lookout for a guy wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap who goes out of his way to hide his face. He might be involved. And don’t forget to check your video feed if someone makes you uncomfortable. That’s why we all bought the cameras.”

  “I heard about the shooting,” Jay said. “Didn’t realize it was you. Glad you’re okay.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said and handed out slips of paper he had printed with the police tip line as the small crowd filed for the door once the last of the cookies disappeared. When all the others had gone, he turned to the tiny woman who hung back.

  “Hello, Gabriella. I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

  “I respect what you’re trying to do, Simon, but this is a matter you should leave to the police.” Gabriella Hernandez was a bruja, a witch of some power, and someone who had been a mentor of sorts in both magic and the inner workings of the Myrtle Beach community when Simon moved down.

  “You don’t usually have a lot of faith in the cops,” Simon replied. “What changed?”

  She gave an eloquent shrug. With her short, fashionably trimmed dark hair and a coral twinset that brought out the warm undertones in her cocoa-brown skin, Gabriella didn’t look like anyone’s stereotype of the witch next door. “I still don’t have much faith in them,” she said. “That’s not the point. It’s too dangerous for our kind to get involved in this, Simon.”

  Since he’d seen pictures of Gabriella’s numerous children and grandchildren and her husband of fifty years, he knew she didn’t mean “gay.” “You think the Slitter is targeting people with abilities?”

  Gabriella nodded. “I do indeed. The killer is starting with easy pickings, the ones who don’t have families to notice right away if they go missing. Ones with just a little bit of power, so there’s not much risk. But I don’t think he—or she—is just interested in killing. There’s something else the killer wants, and it’s tied into the magic. It’s not safe here, Simon. We’re all in danger.”

  “This is my home now,” Simon said. “I won’t be chased out.”

  Gabriella snorted in disagreement. “Young people. So eager to stand and fight. You get old; you learn that sometimes, running is better. You live longer that way.”

  “So you’re running?”

  “Tomorrow I’m going up to Virginia to stay with my oldest daughter and her husband for a few weeks, maybe longer. Until things here settle down. Spend some time with the grandchildren. Lie low.”

  Simon wanted to argue, but Gabriella had a point. Stepping up to hunt down the Slitter, especially if the killer was singling out victims with psychic gifts, was sure to draw unwanted attention. Perhaps there had been other battles Gabriella had been willing to fight, in her younger days. Who was he to ask her to endanger her life now when she had so many loved ones who relied on her?

  “I’ll miss you,” he said simply, bending over to kiss her on the cheek. “Drop me an email now and then. I won’t know what to do without new pictures of your grandchildren.”

  She chuckled. “You’re a good boy, Simon. Be brave, but not foolish.”

  “Did your gift have any wisdom for me?” He walked her to the door.

  She shook her head. “Only that there will be more blood before all of this is over. Just remember, magic can be a powerful weapon. You don’t see it like that, but others might. Be careful, and stay safe.” With that, she let herself out and vanished into the boardwalk crowd.

  Simon watched Gabriella go, fighting the sadness he felt. While rationally he understood her reasons, Simon couldn’t help feeling deserted by one of the only other practitioners he knew in Myrtle Beach who had more than middling power. Gabriella had mentored him, teaching him techniques from her tradition, and helping him strengthen his ability to shield his thoughts, as well as showing him helpful blessing and cleansing rituals.

  He locked the door, then picked up the empty cookie tray and the coffee pot and walked to the back room. As psychic abilities went, clairvoyance and being a medium were defensive, not offensive. A true witch like Gabriella could use her spell craft as a weapon, or at least, to contain an enemy. Simon had learned how to defend himself from predatory spirits and how to shut out the never-end
ing voices of the dead, but nothing in his psychic “tool box” would provide a physical defense. He felt more aware than ever of the pepper spray that hung from his belt and the knife near his ankle.

  His phone rang as he rinsed out the coffee pot and dumped the grinds into the garbage. He frowned, not recognizing the number.

  “Simon?”

  “Tasha?”

  “I’m scared,” Tasha said in a breathy whisper. “There was a man in the diner earlier. I couldn’t get a good look at him—”

  “Let me guess. Big sunglasses and a baseball cap.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “He wouldn’t look up from his newspaper when he ordered. But I touched his mind. It was foul, like garbage. Full of hate. And…violence. I think he might have been the Slitter.”

  “Where are you?” Simon dried his hands and headed for the light switches to lock up.

  “At work. Please, Simon. Come get me. I don’t want to walk home alone. I’m sorry—there’s no one else I can call.”

  “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” Simon said, flipping on the security system as he exited and locking the door behind him. “Stay put.”

  “Put where?”

  Simon sighed at the language barrier. “Stay inside, in the light, where people can see you. I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”

  He unhooked the pepper spray from his belt and turned the safety off, keeping it in one hand as he jogged toward the street. After the stranger he’d glimpsed in the shop, Simon felt insecure enough about his own safety; he didn’t want to imagine how fearful Tasha would be after making any contact with the Slitter. Had the killer been aware of her abilities? It seemed like too much of a coincidence for the man to show up at the workplace of one of Simon’s Skeleton Crew. Did the Slitter know she touched his mind? If so, Tasha was in more danger than ever.

  Simon debated whether to go home and get his car, then looked at the solid red glow of tail lights on Ocean Boulevard, and reconsidered. Not only would it take him twice as long in traffic, but finding parking would mean more time lost. He’d pick up Tasha, and figure out the next steps later.

  He considered calling Vic, then discarded the idea. Too much “woo-woo,” not enough evidence. Someone who didn’t believe in Tasha’s talent could easily dismiss her reaction as nerves, or an overreaction to backroom gossip. The cops could hardly be expected to escort every seasonal worker home after dark. But Simon didn’t doubt that Tasha had not only glimpsed the Slitter, but that he was the same man who had been in Grand Strand Ghost Tours earlier that day. How he could keep Tasha—and himself—safe, he wasn’t sure.

  Running had never appealed to Simon, although his workouts at the gym kept him in decent shape. Jogging outside, in the ever-present humidity, dodging clueless tourists, left him soaked with sweat and panting. He reached the Conch and searched for Tasha through the big picture windows, feeling his heart clench when he didn’t see her. He paused outside to catch his breath, then pushed open the outer door, ignoring the condensation that ran down the glass. A quick glance assured him that the man with the baseball cap was gone.

  Just as he was about to find a seat, he spotted Tasha peeking out from an “Employees Only” door. Simon strode toward the back as if he belonged there, and Tasha opened the door for him.

  “Simon. Thank you. I just couldn’t—”

  “That’s okay. Where do you want to go?”

  “To my apartment,” she said. “It’s not far. Most of the time I don’t mind the walk, but today—”

  “I’ve got you,” Simon said reassuringly. “Come on. I’ll get you home.”

  They walked shoulder to shoulder, keeping to the well-lit, busy sidewalks along Ocean Boulevard for several blocks. Once they were out of sight of the diner, Simon stepped off into a parking lot. “How far away is your place?”

  “About four blocks,” she said, with a nod that indicated the side streets.

  He knew the area, right at the end of the boardwalk. That meant less foot traffic, but plenty of cars. Simon kept a grip on the pepper spray as he and Tasha left Ocean Boulevard and headed up a darker, less traveled side street. The garden apartments in this area were small and old, but relatively cheap, especially when split among more residents than officially permitted. Street lights illuminated small areas but shadows stretched between the lamp posts, and without the garish lights of hotels and restaurants, the residential area seemed ominously dark.

  “We’re close,” Tasha said. Simon tensed as they passed every fence and driveway.

  “Are any of your roommates home?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. They work nights, mostly. My shift changed because Amy was sick. Usually, I have friends to walk with.”

  “You were right to call me,” Simon said, wishing he had thought to bring a stronger flashlight than the light on his phone, although that might have seemed strange when they were on the brightly lit main drag. Many of the windows of the homes and apartments around them were dark, a clue that their residents also worked nights, or were already in bed for an early morning shift. Few bothered with porch lights, an unnecessary expense.

  “Get your key ready,” Simon said, standing at the edge of the nearest pool of light to Tasha’s doorway. He felt exposed as if they were in a spotlight, but he wanted to minimize the time either of them had to spend in the dark.

  “Got it.” He could see the key clutched in her right hand. What he hadn’t noticed before was the steak knife she must have concealed in her sleeve, gripped tight in her left.

  Something made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand up, but as he turned to take in their surroundings, he saw no movement, no one loitering, no idling cars. “Come on,” he said, as they made a dash for the door.

  Just before they reached the stoop, Simon sensed that they were being watched, but before he could shout a warning, a disembodied force lifted him off his feet and hurled him back toward the sidewalk.

  “Tasha!” he yelled in warning. A dark shape rushed toward Tasha, where she hurried to get the key into the lock. Simon climbed to his feet and ran toward the attacker. “Cover your eyes!” He yelled, gambling that whatever mojo the stranger had used on him couldn’t be summoned up again quickly.

  The man turned, and Simon saw only sunglasses and a hat before he set off the spray. He danced backward, trying to avoid being blinded by the same chemicals, and heard Tasha choke out an angry shout. The attacker cried out, and then a rush of cold energy sent Simon staggering. By the time Simon caught his breath and got his balance, the stranger was gone.

  “In!” he ordered as he scooped up his phone from where he dropped it, still choking and gasping, and he pushed Tasha ahead of him. Simon slammed the door behind them and locked it, although the flimsy knob and chain wouldn’t hold off a determined attacker.

  “Oh, god. My eyes!” Tasha wailed.

  “Get us to the kitchen,” Simon said, with his own eyes nearly swollen shut. She took his wrist and led him into the small galley. “We need to wash our hands with dish soap,” he directed, his voice a raspy growl as they made room for each other at the sink. “Then rinse your eyes with cold water. Do you have milk?”

  “Some. In the refrigerator.”

  “Once we can see, we’ll pour some milk in a bowl and soak a cloth to put over our faces. Takes the sting out.”

  “How do you know this?” Her voice sounded raw, but she no longer gasped for breath. Simon felt some of the burn in his lungs subside, though his throat felt scorched.

  “I accidentally sprayed myself when I first got it,” he admitted. She recovered first and readied the milk-soaked cloths. Simon let the almost-too-wet dish towel ease his stinging skin.

  “It’s good you know this. Handy,” Tasha said.

  “We weren’t supposed to get messed up as much as the bad guy,” Simon lamented. And let’s hope he doesn’t recover faster than we do, and that’s he’s long gone.

  “I think, he got it worse,” Tasha replied. “You sprayed rig
ht at him. We just got the—how you say—overflow.”

  “Close enough,” Simon agreed. Tasha handed him a cold glass of water, and he drank it down, soothing his irritated throat.

  “When do your housemates get home?” he asked.

  She looked at the clock. “Very soon. Then, there will be five of us. I don’t think the man will come back with so many, do you?”

  “I hope not,” Simon replied. “But you need a better lock.”

  “Tell my landlord.”

  The door was only part of the problem, he realized, looking around the old, hard-used apartment. The windows didn’t look any more secure than the door, and even if the landlord could be persuaded to pay for good locks, it could take a week or more to get them installed. This is why the Slitter goes after J-ones. Easy pickings, his mind supplied.

  “Can you leave town for a little bit?”

  Tasha shook her head. “My visa, remember? If I don’t work, they send me home. If I leave, I break the law. They would deport me.”

  They heard the door rattle, and the click of the chain. “Tasha? Open up! Why the chain?” an exasperated voice yelled through the gap.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” Tasha rushed to open the door, but Simon made her look through the peephole first.

  A flurry of questions and answers were traded in what Simon guessed was Romanian, and now and again one of the three girls looked his way, sizing him up as if to determine whether he was a problem. Finally, Tasha turned to him.

  “I told them what happened, how you walked me home from the diner after a man got too pushy, and how he followed us here and you fought him off.” Tasha made it clear with her recap that the others did not know about her abilities. “If I see him again, I will let you know.” She grabbed his arm. “Please, don’t call the police,” she begged in a whisper. “They will tell my landlord too many people live here. My friends will get in trouble.”

  “There isn’t much I can say that they’d believe,” Simon replied. Much as he wanted to tip off the cops, he could hardly report having a “bad feeling” about a man whose description matched half of the tourists in town. He didn’t want to think about telling the police that an attacker threw him into the street without even touching him. Yeah, right. That would go over real well.