When The Tik-Tik Sings

by Doug Lamoreux

  “No. It was a quiet trip. Why?”

  “Thinking of battles,” Ben said. “I was reminded of what Nestor told me we are up against.”

  “What did he say? You did report what he said?”

  “I didn't report anything. And I'm not reporting now. I'm talking to you, Erin, about what our friend said. I don't have a thing to report to Detective Vanderjagt.”

  Erin shook her head. “I can't—”

  “Then I have nothing. Nestor was talking to me, not a city firefighter. I'll tell it to you, not a city cop. Or I'll let you get back to work.”

  Erin leaned on her desk and laid her chin on her hands. “What did Nestor say?”

  “He said Angelina was assaulted by a monster.”

  “Of course he's a monster.”

  “No, Erin. I don't mean a bad guy. I mean…” Ben made claws with his hands. “Raaahhh. A monster. He said the thing that attacked Angelina was not human. He admitted what he told your chief was crap and that he lied because he knew he would not be believed. His wife was assaulted by a demon.”

  “I'll have to take that to Light's press conference. It will calm the citizens. Nestor said that?”

  “Because his nosy neighbor blew the situation out of proportion. Not because there's anything wrong with Nestor's mind.”

  “I'm not going to argue about it. As far as Nestor goes, I agree. I don't think there's anything wrong with his mind either. I think he's pretending there is so he doesn't have to face what he did to Angelina.”

  “He didn't do anything to Angelina.”

  “Then the facts will prove that, Ben. And we can concentrate on bringing whoever did to trial. Along with whoever killed these other women.”

  “I know it sounds crazy. But if Nestor is right there won't be a trial. Not if you're after—”

  “A demon? If you expect me to buy that, Nestor should have gotten a room with two beds.” Erin moved the folders around on her desk, the better not to look at Ben. “Thanks for sharing this with me. I've got a press conference I have to get ready for.”

  Ben pursed his lips and nodded. He'd served in the military and knew when he'd been dismissed. He pulled a photo of Nestor and Angelina from his files, pinned it to Erin's board with the other victims, and left without looking back.

  Twenty – Two

  Big surprise, the press conference was a waste of time. The department heads reported generalities, Mayor Light offered his patented smile and repeated reassurances all was well in Tourist Town, the reporters (Forester in particular) pressed for answers to unanswerable questions, and Erin repeated the reply, “We have nothing to add at this time; the investigation is ongoing,” so many times she felt dizzy. She wasted more time listening to Mickey Cooke's phone ring and decided to get out and get air. She wanted time to think with movement around her. She wanted to make something happen. And she wanted her snitch bothering realtors. That meant finding Mickey, which meant going to The Mystery Casino, out on the island and pushing him off his stool at the roulette table.

  The Mystery, formerly the Duncan Greyhound Park, was a combination dog track and casino. The tourists thought of it as Vegas on the Mississippi – the cops thought of it as 'The Racino' –income for the city and a headache for law enforcement. Located on Chaplain Stevens Island, The Mystery boasted 30,000 square feet of gaming space with a thousand gaming machines, sixteen card and Roulette tables, and three restaurants: The Bur Oak Grill, Buffalo Bill's Steakhouse, and The Jackpot. Between all they fed, and occasionally fleeced, over a million visitors a year.

  That night, members of the management were not the only ones with an eye on taking customers. That night Vong walked the casino floor.

  Vong was a gorgeous copper-skinned beauty, an inch under five feet tall, slender but firmly curved. Like most women of the Philippines, she had long straight black hair and a wide nose and mouth with full red lips. But she had thick brown eyebrows and her almond-shaped eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. The glasses looked pretentious indoors, but revealing her eyes in public might have caused a stir. Vong's eyes had an interesting effect on people. One other difference separated her exotic features from those around her, though one had to look closely to notice it. She was missing the philtrum, that vertical groove running from the nose to the middle of the upper lip. Vong didn't have one. Vong wasn't a mammal, nor was she a human being.

  Vong circled the bright, boisterous gaming room, taking her own gamble, she'd admit. Desperate as she was for sustenance, she had no choice. She sniffed the air, searching. She ignored the stares of those passing, thinking, let them look and wonder. She had half a mind to doff the sunglasses and really give them something to stare at. Americans disgusted Vong. American men were cowards, more women than men, and the women were revolting bitches, all helpless to protect themselves or those they claimed to love. So selfish, they couldn't generate enough interest to propagate their own species. Fat, lazy Americans didn't have children anymore; didn't even bother to replace themselves. The men remained children, playing with toys, while the women pretended to be mothers, dressing little dogs in human clothes and pushing them in baby carriages. It was useless – the scent Vong wanted was absent.

  Outside, Vong scanned those coming and going. More of the same was all she smelled as the sun began to set. She was about to give up when she caught the scent. She inhaled deeply relishing the liquor amnii and the promise that came with it. She followed the scent and spotted the target opening a car door. The woman barely showed; less than twelve weeks along to be sure. But the fetal heartbeat was there, meaning the soul was there, and Vong was hungry. She stepped up noiselessly and grabbed the woman by the hair. The woman screamed. Vong grabbed her throat, pinching off the sound.

  But she'd been heard. Two men, well-lubricated and laughing, stepped from the casino at the precise moment Vong attacked the pregnant woman. They focused on what looked to be a strong-arm robbery, by a small female robber no less, in the parking lot. They shouted in unison and ran in Vong's direction.

  Vong shoved the woman into the silver Ford and pushed into the driver's seat after her. She squealed the tires pulling out and left the rescuers in her wake. The woman, screaming again in the passenger's seat, had suddenly become her kidnap victim. That, Vong thought as she slapped the bitch into silence, was unfortunate. She'd only meant to kill her.

  Vong sideswiped two cars escaping The Mystery lot and turned onto Greyhound Park Road without looking back. She followed the curve left, beneath the underpass and then, with a shriek of rubber, made a hard right onto Sixteenth and raced like a bullet toward the bridge heading off the island.

  Coming from the opposite direction, toward the Mississippi and the Sixteenth Street bridge, unaware a carjacking had taken place, Erin passed through the Port District, driving around a parade of Easter celebrants congregated at the corner of Maple and Fifteenth. The annual walk of 'The Stations of the Cross' was underway and the parish priest stimulated those gathered with the first of many selections of Holy Scripture.

  “ 'My soul is sorrowful even to death. Remain here and keep watch with me.' He advanced a little and fell prostrate in prayer, saying, 'My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will.' When he returned to his disciples he found them asleep. He said to Peter, 'So you could not keep watch with me for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.' ”

  “Isn't it just?” Erin muttered as she eased past them and on toward the bridge.

  There were only two ways onto the island; the Wisconsin Bridge, the second largest arch bridge on the Mississippi, and the virtually unused Sixteenth Street bridge. Feeling lonely herself, Erin took Sixteenth Street. The marina lay to her right. She followed the curving road to the left, toward the casino. It was then she spotted a car, with extensive front end damage, coming toward her like a bat out of Hell.

  Two women occupied the front, a dark driver in darker sunglas
ses, and a blonde passenger swinging roundhouses at her. It didn't take a cop to see something was amiss. The car, a Ford Focus, was coming so fast, Erin had no time to react. It blazed by, swiping her cruiser and forcing her to spin out in the Greyhound Road intersection. The baseball fields beyond the Chaplain Stevens loop spun past her windows as if she were riding a carnival Scrambler, and the nausea that had plagued Erin for a week returned. It was all she could do not to barf. She got the squad under control, breathed deep to shake the sick stomach, pulled a U-turn, and mashed the gas pedal, taking up the chase. The Ford had a lead on her, speeding off the island, over the bridge and back into town down Sixteenth Street.

  Vong shot across the four-lane Kemper Blvd without slowing. From all sides came squealing brakes, smoking tires, and the frantic honking of horns. Seconds later, Erin's squad carved its way through the same intersection, just missing a Camry pointing in the wrong direction.

  The pursuit continued down Duncan's 'tree' streets, Sycamore to Maple then left onto Pine. At Pine and Fourteenth Street, Vong skidded to a stop. She'd have laughed herself silly were in not for the woman beside her, screaming and slapping, and the police bitch behind her, siren blaring. Before her an immense crowd of Passion walkers paraded, crying and gyrating as they celebrated Easter; a hundred undulating bodies holding up traffic as they moved down the street. Those in front – at the elbows of the priest and the stand-in messiah toting an impressive wooden cross – carried candles or cringe-inducing whips, while the worshipers trailed behind singing the traditional Stabat Mater. From behind, at odds with the enthusiastic singers, came the shrill siren of the police car. Caught between The Rock and a hard place, Vong jumped out, abandoning the vehicle, leaving behind what may have been the luckiest woman in Duncan, and disappeared into the parade.

  Erin found the stolen Ford at Pine and Fourteenth with the victim inside, terrified but unhurt. She noted the woman was pregnant, and with a racing heartbeat, reasoned she might have stumbled upon more than a carjacking. The killer she'd been chasing might well be at hand. Erin told the victim to wait in her car and she would send help, but first, she needed to get after the driver. She ran into the crowd, searching.

  Vong shoved her way to the front of the crowd as the snaking parade reached the Second Station of the Cross. The cross bearer arrived on the heels of the priest and turned with his burden to face the throng. The candle bearers moved to either side, their light necessary as the sun was nearly set. The priest raised his hands and told his long line of followers, “Here Jesus, betrayed by Judas, was arrested.” He lifted his voice to the heavens. “We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you.”

  Around Vong, the crowd replied, “Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

  The priest opened his Bible and began to read, “Then, while he was still speaking, Judas, one of the Twelve, arrived, accompanied by a crowd with swords and clubs, who had come from the chief priests, the scribes, and the elders. His betrayer had arranged a signal with them, saying, 'the man I shall kiss is the one; arrest him and lead him away securely.' He came and immediately went over to him and said, 'Rabbi.' And he kissed him. At this, they laid hands on him and arrested him.”

  Vong looked back and spotted the lady cop closing the gap, moving forward through the crowd of believers. She gave no indication she'd seen Vong.

  “Lord, grant us the courage of our convictions,” the priest prayed. “That our lives may faithfully reflect the good news you bring. Lord Jesus, help us walk in your steps.”

  The last ribbons of light were going; darkness descended on the parade. The marchers produced candles of their own, and as they sang, set them to light. The priest pointed up Fourteenth toward Washington Street and signaled the advance. Like a well-trained army, the parade began to move.

  The cop was getting too close. Vong butted into the pantomime behind the priest. She grabbed the new cross-bearer, who had only just taken the burden, and yanked him from beneath the cross. Then Vong threw the Christian symbol of torture and divine sacrifice onto her own shoulder.

  “Hey,” shouted the worshiper, sounding betrayed himself. “It's my turn!” His complaint was lost amid the joyful noise of a hundred choral singers. The parade moved on with the priest leading, Vong carrying the Cross of Christ, the candle bearers walking beside her, two men behind pretending to whip her, and a disgruntled, displaced cross-bearer wanting to whip her. And finally the parade of faux Judeans in concert.

  Erin hung behind at the Second Station, watching the Passion snake disappear. Whoever the carjacker was – an insane joyrider, an interrupted kidnapper, or their murderer – Erin had lost her.

  The parade neared the corner of Washington. Vong let the cross drop, out of danger. One of the pair flailing behind her tripped over it and fell on his face, amusing Vong with his involuntary genuflection.

  Those nearby scrambled to help; all but the disappointed cross-bearer, whose place Vong had stolen. Seeing his opportunity, and ignoring the whip man's plight, he dropped the candle he'd been given as a poor replacement and raced to the fallen cross. He struggled to lift it onto his shoulder and reclaim the role of martyr.

  Some further back in the parade were in a panic. Though none had a good view, it looked as if the Son of God had taken a header. Several moved toward Vong, to discover she was all right. But, finding her upright, their attitude changed. Several surged forward, demanding to know why she'd dared to—

  Vong yanked off her sunglasses, giving those nearest her a view of green, blood-shot eyes. The abused cross bearer, and the candle-bearers beside him, saw themselves, the cross, and their flickering candles in a bizarre and inverted reflection in her gaze. Vong shrieked in a voice no more human than its owner.

  From behind and above Vong's head came a loud and grating noise. Tik. Tik. Tik, tik, tik. A brilliant flash of light followed and a huge, hellish red bird of prey appeared, flapping its wings frantically. Screams and shouts of alarm went up through the crowd, paraders shoving at each other to escape. Vong ducked away, laughing, and disappeared in a riot of running people. In the chaos, without anyone seeing how or to where it went – the bird vanished.

  The priest shouted, trying to get the attention of his flock. It took some doing, but he finally managed to still their panic, to restore quiet, to revive reverence, and to get the parade back on track headed for the next station. What all the to-do was about, was beyond the man of God. He'd seen the bearer as she accidentally dropped the cross, but had witnessed nothing of import before or after. His attention had been on the service, the cross, and the deep and bothersome unanswered question – why was a woman playing Jesus? With the crowd calm again, and a man bearing the cross, the priest redirected the group's energies to a rousing verse of the Parce Domine. The passion walk, and its players moved on. The Third Station of the Cross, Jesus' condemnation by the Sanhedrin, awaited. The Easter Service was in full swing and there was no time to stop.

  Dylan Ruzicki leaned back against the shadowy corner, gasping for breath. Half his brain urged him to scream and run. Half told him to lay down and die. He couldn't obey either, yet.

  It had been quite a day. First the physical hell of repeated skin debridements. Then the even worse, more frightening and painful, return of the hell of his past. He'd been partly responsible for unleashing aswang in the Philippines. The deaths of those innocent villagers were on his head. Then he'd run. To save his wife assuredly, but to save himself as well. He'd run like a bitch. When he finally faced the creature, when he finally grew a pair and fought it, it was because he'd been forced into the battle. And when he'd attempted to end the monster's existence, he'd murdered his wife and child instead. He'd failed them all. With Ben Court's revelation that Vong still lived came the understanding he'd failed everyone. And in so doing, had again unleashed a literal Hell-spawn on the world.

  Following the ejection of Ben and his partner, following his last debridement, the nurse stood as usual and wiped his tears until he could govern
them himself. She'd cooed reassuring pleasantries at him with the best of intentions and, finally, she left him to his pain… and his plan.

  Biting a folded washcloth to stifle his screams, Ruzicki climbed from his bed. Slowly, in mind-numbing pain, he examined the hall and found it empty. He left his room and, as quickly as he could manage, the east wing of the hospital's eighth floor Burn Unit. The lights were lowered for the evening and Ruzicki used the shadows and his military skills to advance; one doorway, one corner, one alcove at a time, waiting with endless patience between each move. Throughout, he commanded a control over his mind and his pain that surprised even him. Every nerve ending which had survived the blast, and the numbing shock that followed, now screamed with indescribable pain. Ruzicki held on and continued down the hallway. He was almost to his goal. He could see the door; the red-striped metal panic bar, the bright yellow Warning sign, the wiring running from the door to a nearby electronic panel and the alarm above.

  It had all gone wrong. His efforts to save his men and the inhabitants of the village. His efforts to save his wife and their unborn child. His effort to destroy the demon aswang. In the end, it had all come to disaster. He'd had no choice but to kill his wife, to save her soul and that of their child. But there was hope for this town, and perhaps, the world. Ben Court had come, had promised to take up the mantle. Now, a forgiving God permitting, he could join his family.

  Ruzicki pushed himself from the shadows, every fiber shrieking with pain, and hit the red panic bar. The alarm box above blared as the door opened. Cool night air bathed the sweat on his forehead and face, stung the burns on his body like ice. He stepped, nearly falling, onto the fire escape balcony of the west wing of the eighth floor. He ignored the shouts from the hall behind. He ignored the screams from his burnt nerves. He looked out over the lights that blanketed the city, spread out so wide – so different from the little village where the horror started – so far below. He saw the moon on the river and thought of his wife. “Forgive me, Corazone,” he whispered. “For releasing this thing, for failing you. Forgive me for not dying with you.”