That seemed to please Lyle, who folded and unfolded his big, capable looking hands on the table in front of him once before he spoke. “I have my target cornered. Twelve years of work. I’ll finish it tonight,” Lyle said in a neutral tone. I recognized it as someone who faces the end of their life’s work and cannot see beyond that second. It’s a form of mourning, and it was all over his broad, honest face.
Wally asked for details about the creature, giving voice to our collective morbid curiosity.
“There were two humans working with the female,” he began, “but as of this morning, only one.” He grimaced in memory of the kill. It must have been an entirely different kind of shock to kill a human, or someone who was nearly so. “She’s holed up in the subcellar of an abandoned dairy barn and her remaining partner is injured. I’m letting him bleed out. He’s got some skill as a fighter and the location is just close enough to a populated area that a gun is out of the question for dealing with him. For her, a knife—just like you’ve learned, Ring, a knife, it’s what is needed to do the job right.” He stopped, drank from a bottle of water, and went on, “Tonight, I’ll take her. She’ll be very hungry, a bit weak. I’ve chased her for a week straight, no meals, no rest. She’s ripe. That doesn’t mean it’s a sure thing, so we need to talk first, to make certain that what I’m doing is right.” He concluded with a questing look at all of us in turn.
“Right about killing her? What is she, anyway? A ghoul? Right?” I asked.
“Oh, you’re right about what she is, Ring. She isn’t human, not even close. Her story is, well, I don’t know if it’s unusual among their kind. She’s living a long, slow burn toward complete depravity. In point of fact, she’s there now, only her human partners—Helpers, as you named them so aptly—well, they point her like a weapon and follow her, east to west, west to east. With each mile and season she descends a little further toward complete animalism to where even the Helpers cannot reach or communicate with her.”
“Is she from that area?” Wally asked, trying to establish a relationship between origin and habit.
“Yes and no,” Lyle said, thoughtfully. “Yes, she is from here. But not from our time. Or rather, not from the time of European settlers.”
I whistled inward. Risa and Wally both looked shocked. Another old one. They were popping up in our lives more regularly now. I couldn’t say it was a trend I was comfortable with.
“How old, exactly?” I asked. The answer was worrisome.
“Pre-Columbus. Maybe Neolithic. I don’t know. I took a . . . sample, if you can call a finger a sample, of her DNA to the local college and had them test it, as a discreet favor to me. She’s something other than what we would call modern American, maybe Clovis. That isn’t the only evidence I’ve had examined as I tried to pin down her identity. I got close, very close about three years ago, caught a good look at her feeding and saw a tattoo on her shoulder. It was grey, a hint of blue, very old. I think it was supposed to be antlers over a moon. It looked primitive and very personal, like something from a cave wall. It was simple but beautiful, quite different from the rest of her. She’s a complete horror. Ropy, thin muscles, and slate skin, streaked with someone’s blood and viscera. Not big on hygiene,” he joked. “She has teeth, if you can call them that. A mouthful. Sharp. Long nails, not pointed, but more like a, like a mole. Or a badger. They’re formidable. She’s strong, can leap like a flea. Long, long black hair, a sodden, greasy mess; it hangs between her shoulder blades like a filthy rope. She’s nude, always, although her Helpers have covered her in rough cured furs at times. I think it reminds her of her human life. Maybe they used it to pacify her when they were on the move.”
“Why did she move at all? Prey?” Risa asked.
“Prey, sure. But there are undercurrents to her behavior. They bait the traps, she kills, and then they would . . . well, I wondered how they were both staying so young. I found out, and I wish I hadn’t” he finished, his cheeks coloring with memory and shame.
“They were fucking her, right?” Wally blurted. Such language out of that mouth.
To his credit, Lyle didn’t flinch. “Exactly. At the side of deserted roads, that was how they did it.” Before I could interrupt, he explained, “For the last decade, at least, their bait has been a small roadside cross, a memorial. Like where people die in car crashes? You’ve seen them?”
I had. They were often really sad, fading plastic flowers and a crude memorial marking the end of what was usually a young life. I said as much, and he went on.
“They put out a cross with a name that can be anyone. It doesn’t matter who, it’s just a detail. Small, wooden, hand painted. Just another melancholy reminder of some forgotten sorrow. The cross is always at the edge of a larger field, preferably away from lights, not too close to town. Then the Helpers go to work. They used to infiltrate circles of young people, teenagers. They’d take a job at the drive-in, or McDonald’s, wherever. And then, when they had access to these kids, they would tell a ghost story.”
“About the cross? Or the ghoul?” I asked Lyle, sickened by the elegance of the plan.
“Both. I’ve heard variations going back as far as the earliest days of the frontier, but it’s essentially unchanged. The gravesite is haunted, say the Helpers, but only on the night of the new moon. It’s a small detail, but it serves a purpose. The curious come to a darkened, secluded place unarmed, maybe drunk, giggling, the bravery of the boys in overdrive as they try to impress the girls who shriek at shadows, maybe the boys cop a quick squeeze of titty . . . sorry, I’m just tired of hearing the same story.” He gathered his wits and went on, angering with the recollection of this movie that was playing out with every new moon.
“But for every group of unbelievers who come and go, disappointed, there are the loners. The late arrivals. The genuinely curious. That’s who she hunts, kills. That’s whose blood hits the dirt and draws crows the next day, a person who will be largely forgotten by the next hard rain. Well, goddammit, I won’t, not for second, and now I have this filthy bitch dead to rights in a hole and I’m going to gut her like a fish.” He was angered by his own speech, breathing in quick, shallow gulps. I would have been leery of sitting in the same room with him, his rage was that real.
Lyle regained his composure and said, “I actually have a favor to ask of you. It’s about money. Or, rather, spending some money.”
“Okay. Umm, well, what about it?” I said.
“I’m not going to lie; I don’t leave these immortals their worldly goods when I send them to the skies. I know that their wealth is ill gotten, but I believe that it can be well spent. Do you understand?” Lyle asked.
We did, and we agreed. It was our policy and we stated it, clearly. I went one step further and revealed the nature of our relationships with Boon and Pan, and how they were extended family to us.
“In fact, I think we agree that if anything happened to us, Liz Brenneman would be appointed executor of our collective estate. We trust her implicitly and know that our money would go to the right places—Boon, Pan, their kids, and anyone else who needed it,” I explained.
Lyle seemed impressed, and his body language changed, relaxing visibly when I gave him the framework of how we spent the money we collected from immortals. He nodded to himself as if reaching a decision. “I think it’s time for me to get ready for my visit. Thank you for taking the time to chat; it’s a rarity to have real interactions anymore, after all these years alone.” Lyle placed his hands flat on the table. They looked like weather-beaten wood.
Risa asked him in a rush, “Are you alone because of the ghoul, whatever she is called?”
He looked away, and then at us, in turn, memory alive on his face, and uncomfortably real. “My daughter. Allison. She was the loner riding up last on a squeaky bicycle. The Helpers had placed a cross by the road less than three miles from my house. I was so busy, so involved in my own pursuit of money, I didn’t retain that my own daughter told me she was riding her bike on a dark
, moonless road to see a monster who was supposed to lurk in a shadowed ditch. And because I was a selfish, thoughtless bastard, my own flesh and blood, the baby I held . . . she worshipped me from the minute her mother left and I never paid her the respect and attention she deserved. What a brave and funny little child, so resilient, so loving. And I ignored her to the point that she rode a second-hand bike to be butchered and eaten like a prize hog, all alone. Even when she was with me, she was alone, and she died alone. And then those . . . Helpers . . . fucked that ghoul insensate, drawing life from her just as she did from my daughter. That’s how they’re staying so young, you know? They rut like beasts after her kills, splattered with the blood of an innocent and howling their pleasure at the sky. And tonight, she dies. She dies baying at my hand, and then, then I can die, my life’s work complete.” And with that, he cut the connection and we sat in horrified silence, edging closer to each other and thanking God that we did not know his pain.
Dinner was a muted affair where we tried to avoid talking about Lyle, and whether he could survive his encounter with his daughter’s killer. We ate listlessly and said as few words as possible, the pall of a child’s passing lingering with us into the night.
The three of us fell asleep huddled together on the couch, all sharing the fear that tonight, Lyle’s life would end, but not his work.
46
Database Entry
From Risa’s Files:
Lyle Gaines Caldwell, 62, passed on to be with the Lord. A well-known and respected businessman, he built the area’s most successful tractor dealership over three decades of work. He was preceded in death by his parents, his ex-wife Marilyn, and his daughter Allison. He leaves behind no family and his will asks that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to the Great Plains Missing Children’s Fund. He will be interred at Sulfur Bluff Cemetery. There will be no services given per his request.
47
Florida: Ring
If I’ve ever been a sleepwalker, I certainly don’t remember it, but the next three days seemed to approximate my suspicions about what it might be like. The news of Suma was a betrayal that left us in a position so unwelcome we weren’t sure how to proceed. Risa and Wally would start a conversation on the topic only to trail off in frustration. There was no solution that did not involve harming Boon and Pan. There was no direction that did not raise the specter that we were already in mortal danger due to Suma’s lies. In short, we were fucked. And I hated every second of the powerlessness that accompanied knowing we had to find a resolution, regardless of the destruction it caused.
Over the next days, it was Risa who began asking questions first. We were watching Gyro bark at the ducks patrolling the seawall when she began to pepper Wally and me with questions.
“We know that the immortals don’t necessarily like each other, right? It could be a bizarre form of sibling rivalry, or maybe elitism between the different age groups, I’m not sure. I think it’s reasonable to start with some basics, like who benefits from knowing about our activities. Or is there even a benefit?” Risa asked.
“Follow the money,” Wally replied. “Immortals can make or take wealth at will from the living, yes? What is their most important currency? Their equivalent to money?” It was a brilliant point. Until that second, I had been trapped in my thinking. Why would the everlasting care about money like we did? There was one thing that they all craved, every single one we met and killed.
“Power,” I announced, and the girls quickly agreed. “They all love power. They lord it over us, exploit us, and toy with us. It’s their drug of choice. So if they love it so much, it must mean that it isn’t an unlimited resource, right? They compete with each other for . . . their position?” I asked. I was thinking on the fly and unsure of my direction.
Risa asked, “If an immortal had the most power, they would reign. What is their kingdom? Is it here? Over all of us? Or is it actually something we cannot see?”
A thought pushed forth from my memory. “Sandrine. She told me about their power structure without meaning to, I think, but I didn’t realize it until just now. She said that their master had built a, a labyrinth beneath the earth, under the forest. An empire we did not know about. I thought she was speaking in metaphors, but now I’m not sure. What if it’s real, or at least something that is real to the immortals?”
“You mean like Hell?” Wally asked thoughtfully.
“Exactly, but not like the Hell of our literature. More like a goal, a tangible thing that they control as a reward for their dominance. We know they crave power, right? Well, what if their rule isn’t permanent? What if they can rise and fall in the hierarchy of the immortals based on . . . something? I don’t know what, but they must be mobile within their structure. They would have to be in order to chase power, otherwise wouldn’t they just feed on us without end and let that be their reward?” I wondered. It was a Gordian knot of suppositions and assumptions. I wasn’t sure that I would ever understand the motivations of immortals, but I thought that since they had once been human, maybe we could grasp that remaining kernel of their drive.
Risa pulled at her lip and spoke. “How much would an immortal gain by bringing the three of us to heel?”
“Well, since we kill them, I would think quite a bit. Maybe enough to overthrow someone ahead of them in the pecking order, so to speak,” I said, placing a modest value on our collectively lethal presence. I knew we were worth a king’s ransom to the right creatures, but I have flashes of immodesty.
Wally spoke up. “We cannot be killed easily, right? It would require planning, much planning. These immortals have much more time than we do. So, they would plan for something like killing us, or whatever it is that would be done . . . they would plan for a long time, maybe longer than we think possible. We think like humans because we are; they think with a different clock ticking in the background. What if it was no accident that we met? That the three of us were pushed together, fell into this life and we fit very well, and then we are pointed, like a gun, at someone specific. By someone else, who wants to move up this ladder in Hell? Past another immortal, to take more power and eliminate some rivals along the way?”
It was brilliant. Find three kids who fear nothing. Give all three a life lesson to prove it, and when the time is right, put them together and let nature take its course. All of which meant that evil can plan on a scope I could not envision. Until now.
Our lives were changing. Toward what, we were uncertain. Each encounter was vicious, and my combat personality was at the surface every second. I was getting tired. Edgy. I felt the need for a break, any break, something that we could use to recharge. I wanted the jewelry, or at least I thought I did. I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to know the truth about the Baron, or Elizabeth and her . . . daughters? Sisters? Whatever their relation might be, they were certainly in competition. My younger self would have relished the upcoming afternoon of pleasure with Delphine. Now, I knew that there was genuine risk, perhaps even the cost of what I increasingly believed to be a very real soul that rested in my body, somewhere beyond the reach of reason but close enough for me to feel.
And lurking, at the edge of my vision and perception, was what was underneath the forest. Did we really want to know if Hell was real?
Did we really want to meet who reigned?
48
Database Entry
From Risa’s Files:
Dear Ring,
I am pleased to write you of Miss Delphine’s upcoming visit. She is most excited about meeting you and has instructed me to extend a special invitation for your encounter. Rather than impose upon your hospitality, she has chosen to entertain you on her recently acquired yacht, a truly sumptuous vessel that has just undergone a tasteful redesign with her particular tastes in mind. I’m certain you will find it to be a singular experience, much like her company. The vessel will be ready for your visit on Friday, and Miss Delphine’s driver will pick you up at your home at two o’clock in the afternoon. This will
allow you time for pre-dinner conversation and champagne on the deck of the soon to be renamed Inquisitor. The setting really is quite spectacular and she is most anxious for you to tour her newest acquisition. It seems the previous owner lost his passion for the sea, and many other things, much to the boon of Miss Delphine.
I’ve readied a forty-six long dinner jacket, slacks, and wardrobe for your convenience, so please feel free to bring yourself, the gift, and a willingness to enjoy yourself for what should be a most stellar weekend.
Respectfully,
Joseph
49
Florida: Ring
“What takes this glorified hooker four days to get ready for? What the hell does she have planned for you, anyway?” Risa asked. I think it was the idea of me lounging on a yacht that made her jealous.
“She knows my taste in women and is undergoing a full wash, buffing, steaming her undercarriage, doubtless some sort of waxing thing, or whatever it is you women do when you want to reel in the big fish,” I announced with modesty.
It was good to be wanted, even if it was due to my ill-gotten jewelry rather than my dashing looks and magnetism. I’d take what I could get, especially if it involved silk sheets on a superyacht. And maybe a roll in the hay or three at the hands of an ageless sex goddess who was probably double jointed. That thought I kept to myself out of a desire to remain free of bruises for my big day on the water. I’m smart like that.
Demon Master Page 14
