A Haunting in the SWATS (The Savannah Swan Files Book 1)

by Balogun Ojetade

  “I wondered when you’d get here.” Phil did not move; he just shifted his eyes from the ceiling to Savannah. “Your timing sucks.”

  “Where are they?” Savannah holstered her revolver, but the threat in her voice was clear.

  “I’ll show you where they were.” Phil struggled to his feet, wrestling with his pants and belt. “Haven’t had a chance to clean up yet. Should have. Knew you were coming.”

  Savannah followed the Chief Detective, hairs rising on the back of her neck. There was something wrong with Phil and whatever it was gave Savannah a sick feeling in her gut. The detective seemed like he was sleepwalking.

  She smelled the mess before she saw it – the aroma of spilled blood, entrails and vomit. Something terrible had happened in the station.

  “Tell me those girls are still locked up, Phil.”

  “They’re gone.” Phil gave Savannah a numb shrug then leaned against the hallway’s wall. He waved his arm forward, gesturing for her to go ahead to the cells. “See for yourself.”

  The Root Woman did not want to open the door to the holding cells, but she had to get a look at what she was up against; what kind of monsters she was chasing. She also had to know what they had done, because if there was one rule she always followed, it was certainty before meting out punishment.

  All six cells were empty; their doors wide open. She walked down the hall, breathing through her mouth to keep the stench from soaking into her nose. The first five cells were clean, gray cubes that looked like they had never been used. Phil kept a tidy house.

  Savannah stopped in front of the last cell. She wiped the back of her mouth with her hand and tried to blink away the nightmare splattered across the inside of the cell. It was a slaughterhouse. A large circle was drawn in blood across the cell’s floor; three smaller circles were drawn inside it. Grisly pyramids of yellow fat and striated muscle rose inside the smaller circles, their tips marked by nuggets of bone clustered together in groups of three. Heavy clouds of green-eyed flies buzzed around the mess.

  “Goddamnit!” Savannah’s fingers tapped the grip of her revolver. She wanted to kill something; to make someone pay for this mess. She stormed back down the hall.

  Phil saw her coming but could not muster the energy to get out of the storm’s path. Savannah’s forearm slammed into the Chief Detective’s chest.

  Phil stumbled backward. He came to an abrupt halt when his back crashed into a steel file cabinet with a loud bang.

  Savannah grabbed Phil’s lapel, then snatched him away from the file cabinet.

  Phil’s head snapped backward from the force.

  Savannah slammed the Chief Detective onto his back atop an oak desk. She stared down into Phil’s eyes. For a moment, she thought she saw one of Phil’s pupils stretch, then split. Savannah blinked and saw his eye was wide and staring, terrified. Savannah’s rage subsided, but there was still a part of her that wanted to put an end to Phil. “Where are they?”

  “They left.” Phil licked his lips then looked away from Savannah. “They opened their cells, made that mess back there, then left.”

  “You didn’t try to stop them?”

  Phil cracked a tortured grin at Savannah. “Isn’t that your job?”

  “I told you to hold them!” Savannah smacked Phil across the face. “All you had to do was keep them in the goddamned cell for one goddamned day!”

  “Screw you!” Phil shoved the Root Woman back then rolled off the desk. He caught himself before he crashed to the floor then managed to stand without losing his pants. His hand dropped to his holster; his gaze locked on Savannah’s face. “You weren’t here. You have no idea what it means to stand up to those girls.”

  “One of those girls didn’t have any feet. The other one had every bone in her body busted nine ways to Sunday.” Savannah’s eyes burned with rage. “What did they do, crawl out of your jail on their bellies?”

  “They don’t have any trouble getting around.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One of ‘em flies. Floats. Whatever. The other one flops around like a sidewinder.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “That’s how she moved. Sorta like,” Phil weaved his hands back and forth.

  “Did you try to stop them from killing those young men?” Savannah sat on the edge of a desk. She laid her revolver on her thigh.

  “You mean your other prisoners?”

  “You have someone else locked up back there?”

  Phil scowled. His hand fell back onto the sandalwood grip of his pistol. “No. I didn’t try to stop them. You have no idea—”

  “I do have an idea.” Savannah tilted the revolver toward Phil. “Which is why you’re going to tell me the truth… did you have anything to do with what happened here today?”

  “You think I killed those boys?”

  “If I thought that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I will find out what happened here today, Phil. Pray to God I don’t find out you were involved.”

  “And if I was, what you gon’ do? Kill me?” Phil popped the snap on his holster.

  “There’s only one fate for those who turn to the There Road.”

  “You can try to pass judgment on me, Savannah.” Phil took his hands off his pistol. “That’s what you do. But you might find I’m not an old man or a molly-head you can just gun down while I piss my pants in fear.”

  “I hope you’re smarter than you’re acting.” Savannah holstered the revolver then turned her back on the Chief Detective. “I will find out what’s going on.”

  “I know.”

  “Everyone responsible; everyone involved… they’re dead. No exceptions.” Savannah shoved the door open, then sauntered out into the morning sun.

  Phil sat limp, hunched onto the corner of a desk, head in his hands.

  Savannah felt pity for the man. Phil was caught up in something he did not understand and could not handle. She hoped the Chief Detective had enough sense to keep his head down when the bullets started to fly, but could not escape the feeling that Phil was doomed no matter who won the war coming to the SWATS.

  With her prisoners dead or on the run, Savannah only had one lead left. The skinny molly-head who had escaped the previous night’s carnage and had been lucky enough to not be in the cell when his brothers got shredded by the monsters they conjured.

  If he had not overdosed, or gotten himself otherwise killed, Savannah was pretty sure the little junkie would end up at the heart of the SWATS’ molly scene sooner or later. It was just a matter of waiting.

  Tashima Glass and her sister, Tamisha, ran the Hole in the Wall, a gritty, grimy club on Ralph D. Abernathy Boulevard in the West End. Savannah knew the club by reputation and the owners from their years together in middle school. She was not sure how such nice girls had ended up playing hostess to the festering underbelly of the SWATS, but she was not surprised. Between its soul-crushing poverty and the dark escape offered by its ubiquitous molly networks, the SWATS did a near-flawless job of snuffing out promise and turning good things into ragged scraps blowing in the wind by the side of the road.

  It was almost noon by the time Savannah rolled into the West End, but gathering clouds shrouded the sun. Something about the sullen skies seemed to suit the West End, once the Black Cultural hub of the city, now a shell of its former self – where the conscious community shared the same space with the crack community; where vegan soul food restaurants and old school barbershops sat on the same block with fast food restaurants that peddled murder burgers and suicide fries.

  Near the Hole in the Wall, foot traffic picked up. A scattered handful of molly-heads shuffled toward the club.

  Savannah considered punching the accelerator and rolling over the junkies, doing her part to clean up the cancer gnawing at the SWATS’ heart. In some ways, Papa Marcel was right – the molly and crack traffic and the lack of jobs were almost as dangerous as the monsters that walked the There Road.

  Savanna
h remembered her own childhood, where men and women worked for Delta Airlines or the Coca-Cola Company, or ran their own mom-and-pop shops to keep their families clothed and fed. She longed for those days and feared she would never see them again. The world was changing into something she did not recognize… or like.

  Savannah parked in front of the club, then locked the SUV. One of the molly-heads shambled in her direction.

  “Gon’ ‘head on,” Savannah shouted, glaring at the junkie.

  The molly-head whirled on his heels, then skittered away.

  Savannah shoved her way past junkies into the Hole in the Wall.

  The gloomy day outside was bright as a desert sun compared to the club’s interior. Its windows were covered with heavy burgundy-colored curtains that smothered any sunlight before it could find its way inside. Battery-powered candles flickered with sullen orange light on the tables scattered around the place, and ropes of Tyrian purple LEDs traced the perimeter of the dance floor with a weak glow.

  The club was small, able to hold no more than a hundred people, but even at midday, every table was full. Hunched shadows crowded around them, exhaling whispers shrouded in blue-gray clouds of smoke from cigarettes and Black-and-Milds. The molly-heads did their best to ignore Savannah as she headed toward the bar, but she did her best to take in all the faces she saw.

  There were troublemakers in the club, for sure, but most were not looking for any fuss. They were in the club to smoke, drink a beer or glass of cheap wine, and score some molly. They eyed Savannah with a mixture of fear and resignation.

  Savannah took a seat at the bar. She raised two fingers to get the bartender’s attention.

  Tamisha Glass floated Savannah’s way with a young woman’s springy step. Tamisha’s face was a mask of harsh peaks and valleys, the years of living in the SWATS etched into her visage.

  She did a double-take when she saw the Root Woman at the end of her bar, and an honest grin chased ten years off her face. “Well, look who came to see me. I heard you been kickin’ up a fuss, sis. What’re you drinking?”

  “A bottle of SweetWater IPA is fine,” Savannah said.

  “Sure.” She reached under the bar and came up with a bottle that dripped shards of melting ice. A quick swipe with her apron left the bottle mostly dry. She slid it into Savannah’s outstretched hand. “Long time, no see. What brings you around?”

  “Probably got tired of Rashad. Came down here to find a young buck.” Tashima Glass sidled up next to Savannah then draped her scrawny arm over her shoulders. “That it, Root Woman?”

  “I like Rashad just fine, y’all.”

  “I bet.” Tashima slapped Savannah on the arm then faded away, carrying drinks out into the darkness.

  “You see any of those Porter boys around here?” Savannah took a healthy swig of beer.

  “Hell naw.” Tamisha tried to keep her voice light, but Savannah could see the veil of caution draw over her eyes. “We got our share of fools around here, but we don’t serve maniacs.”

  “Sure,” Savannah said, turning the bottle slowly with her fingertips. “You hear anything about what they’ve been up to?”

  Tamisha cleared her throat. Savannah felt every head in the bar turning in her direction.

  “Them questions are gonna get you hurt.” Tamisha’s grin never faltered, but Savannah could see the tension in her face.

  “Already been hurt.”

  “I heard most of them boys are already dead. Why you wanna go messin’ with their ghosts?”

  Tamisha gazed over Savannah’s shoulder.

  Savannah kept her eyes locked on Tamisha’s, watching for any sign of guilt. She was anxious, scared. But Savannah did not see the Glass sisters behind this.

  “Who’re you looking out for?”

  “You make people nervous,” Tamisha said. Makin’ sure no one gets squirrelly.”

  “I’m a big girl. You don’t need to watch out for me.” Savannah drained the last of her beer. “If you know something, you need to be straight with me before it’s too late.”

  A heap of stinking flesh flopped down on the bar stool next to Savannah. “Already too late. Why don’t you get yo’ ass outta here befo’ I have to get blood on my knuckles?”

  The man next to Savannah was a foot-and-a-half taller and two hundred pounds heavier than her. His bushy afro was streaked with gray, and grease gleamed on his brown Carhartt jacket. Savannah recognized the giant.

  “Junie Hanes. Aren’t you still on probation?” Savannah sighed.

  “You ain’t a real Root Woman.” Junie laid a sweaty palm on the back of Savannah’s neck and gave a squeeze that Savannah felt in her bones. Junie was a big, drunken fool, but he was strong enough to snap a man’s spine with one hand. “Why don’t you just leave us to drink in peace, shawty?”

  “Just as soon as I finish talking to Tamisha, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I say you’re done talkin’.” Junie said, slapping the bar with his palm for emphasis. Savannah’s empty bottle flew off the bar.

  Savannah, keeping her eyes locked on Junie Hanes, snatched the bottle out of the air then returned it to its place on the bar. She could feel others moving toward her.

  “Tamisha,” she said, still staring at Junie. “I don’t want to mess up your bar, so maybe you should calm these brothers down.”

  Tamisha stared at Savannah long and hard, then, with a shake of her head, said, “Nope.”

  Junie squeezed Savannah’s neck.

  Savannah wrapped her arm around Junie’s elbow, then punched upward, forcing Junie’s elbow skyward.

  The big man wailed as his shoulder was torn from the socket with a loud pop.

  Junie fell from his stool toward the floor. On his way down, he drew a knife and took a wild swipe.

  The blade sped toward Savannah’s thigh. She thrust her leg backward to avoid the blow, then brought it forward and stomped down on Junie’s swinging arm. She could feel the man’s wrist collapse under her heavy boot.

  Junie screamed in agony.

  Savannah stepped over Junie, then ducked down to grab the knife from where it had fallen.

  She came up with her back to the bar, knife in hand, razor-sharp tip pointed at the small knot of drunks and addicts easing up on her. She could smell their fear and feel their anger – a sharp-edged stink that made it hard to breathe.

  A wave of weariness washed over the Root Woman. She could fight these men, probably kill most of them. She would even, most likely, get out alive. But it wasn’t why she was here. She wanted information to help her protect these people from whatever madness was coming to the SWATS.

  The drunks and junkies shuffled their feet and muttered, working up the courage to rush her.

  “Enough,” Tamisha shouted, slapping both hands on the bar. Savannah could hear the fear in her voice; the terror that things were spinning out of control and heading down a road that could only end in spilled blood. “Everyone just sit down before I have to get violent up in here!”

  The fire alarm brayed. A shaft of gray light blasted across the bar from the emergency exit beside the restrooms. A slight figure vanished through the door, then slammed it shut, plunging the bar back into semi-darkness.

  “Shit,” Savannah spat, darting for the front door. She recognized the skinny runner as the last surviving Porter. He would have the answers she needed.

  Savannah just had to catch him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Rashad was not a runner. He had decided he would stay and fight before Savannah had left the house, and by the time he heard her SUV screeching down the driveway, his plans were firm in his mind.

  “Carter,” he said. “You and Lashey check the seals, then get yourselves tucked away.”

  His son put his drum aside, and Lashey dropped the Ngolo graphic novel she was reading, then they slid off the couch.

  Rashad watched them for a moment as they moved from window to window, checking the old beeswax seals he had laid in years ago. Then he headed upstair
s to get ready for whatever was coming.

  He paused at the door of the bedroom he had shared with Savannah before his mama’s curse had driven them apart. Just before Lashey was born, Rashad had made a promise to his family and set aside the tools of his trade. He had left them in the bedroom, tucked away in a chest of drawers where Savannah could keep an eye on them.

  Rashad crossed the threshold then hurried to the chest. With shaking hands, he yanked open the drawer then lifted out a battered, red box. He opened it then ran his fingers over the contents. Though his birthright – the awesome and terrible power of the Night Howler flowed through his veins – it was these items that let him call upon that strength. These were the things he had promised his wife he would never again take up. These were the things he would wear, once again, to protect his family. Running just was not in his nature.

  He lifted the heavy iron bracelet from its resting place inside the box then slipped it around his wrist. The metal tingled against his skin and raised goosebumps up both Rashad’s arms. Rashad’s teeth flashed a fierce smile as his long-neglected power swelled within him. The shadows in the corners of the room grew deeper and spread across the floor like black tendrils oozing toward his feet.

  Next, Rashad retrieved a loop of yellowed human teeth that hung from a leather cord. She slipped the scores of teeth over her head. The necklace of teeth – all snatched from the screaming mouths of his mother’s victims – disgusted him, but Rashad was glad he had it. Fueled by his rage, a thrown tooth was as deadly as a slug fired from a shotgun.