Among Star, Bridget, and Estrella, they called it the circle of the sun. All who fell in this group were Bridget’s responsibility. Their interest was Real Estate; Bridget called herself their agent. The light of that circle fell in a great arc and encompassed lunches and dinners, tennis games, and cocktail parties. She quickly and adeptly became a member of their elite group. From that circle, under Star’s expert tutelage, Bridget meticulously extracted people who, by nature of their personalities, financial status, and minimal indicators, showed themselves to have an additional interest in a very different place, in the shadow of the moon, within the overpowering influence of Star’s gravity.
At first, when Star talked to herself (that is to say, in conversation with Bridget and Estrella) she thought of them as her johns. Later, when face to face with her own reflection, she decided to call them night people. Eventually, she waxed poetic and discovered she liked much better to simply call them moon people.
Her goal was to amass a great deal of money, a fortune, in a very short time. To achieve this, she would not limit herself to one market. Lavender ink flowed across pages of the brown book as it filled with masculine and feminine names. Star, totally disengaged, was not in the least contrite about the depth of her service; ecstasy, self-realization, and fulfillment, came from the power to control the moon people.
Daily, in a private ritual, she methodically bound the stacks of one hundred dollar bills. They accumulated in such abundance that they became difficult to store. By the time she turned twenty-five, her key fob held safe deposit box keys from more than a dozen banks. Her freezer was chocked full of packages, which, with amusement, she labeled as frozen vegetables in every variety of green imaginable.
Each of the sleazy detectives, whom she hired year-after-year, was happy to accept Western Union wire transfers from the mysterious woman in exchange for the information they sent. Not one ever questioned her strange requests. As ordered, they traveled from one small Midwestern town to the next investigating and taking pictures of an old minister and his wife. Later, in stark contrast, they investigated a young man who worked in a motorcycle shop and rode with a club called the Sons of Darkness.
The battered-wood table slowly began to disappear beneath a mountain of notebooks labeled by year, each filled with a chronological sequence of events discovered in the Missouri investigation. Star marked the pages, which contained what she considered substantial events with colored tabs. In the center of the table, usually open to one specific page or another, was a large Bible, which she had purchased at a used bookstore.
To her it was not a religious guide, or even a symbol; it was merely a reference book. Its big pages, broad margins, and large print facilitated highlighting and handwritten notes. There was a family tree, drawn by the publisher, on the cover page. Along each of the printed branches were handwritten names of long-dead family members of some unimportant family. Star laughed aloud when she first found the diagram. In crimson ink, she drew a large circle and bisected it with a single diagonal line.
On the blackboard, she neatly printed a list of scriptures, which she had learned about from the detectives’ reports; she copied them verbatim from the Bible. Tacked to the corkboard were organized rows and columns of 4” x 6” photographs, stolen at a distance by one zoom lens or another. Star financed every scrap of information and every photograph with money earned from a lascivious man between her legs, or her between the legs of a salacious woman.
*****
“What’s bothering you, Edward?” Kat laid her fork on her now empty plate, and dropped her hands to her lap. You’ve barely touched your dinner, and we haven’t really spoken for more than a week. You should be the happiest man alive. I looked at the P&L today; we just finished our best quarter ever. Business is good, like we always dreamed. Even my father has finally admitted, in private of course, that you were a good catch. At one point in the conversation, I think he almost said he was wrong. So what is it? Tell me, please.”
“It’s nothin’—just stupid stuff—nothing worth discussing.”
“I don’t mind hearing about unimportant things, but you’ve been moping around here for more than a week; it has to be something.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, really. It has nothing to do with you; I’m afraid if I say it out loud, it’ll sound more stupid than even I think it is.”
“Try me. Come on, Edward, we have a deal, no secrets. Remember?”
“You’re right as always, Katherine. I’m sorry. What happened is—well the thing is—okay—here it is—I think I’m jealous of Deacon.” He blurted it out.
“What, what on earth are you talking about? You two are best friends. I’ve heard you say hundreds of times, he’s the best thing that ever happened to the bike shop. The customers love him; you love him.”
“Exactly my point, people hardly ever ask for me anymore. It’s Deacon this and Deacon that. I feel like our success is due to him. I’m just there as a witness and an occasional sounding board.”
“But, hon, isn’t that the point? You’re the boss, the founder. If you had not recognized his potential, if you had not taken him in off the street and taught him most of what he knows, he would be nothing. His success is your success because it’s you who masterminded the grand scheme, the concept, the plan, the initiative are all yours.”
“All right, so what’s left for me? Do I retire and let him take over?”
“No, of course not, you use that handsome brain of yours to figure out the next step. You decide how to best use that which is at your disposal, and make the store grow even faster. We can have more free time, for you and me, to do the things we’ve always talked about.”
“Have something particular in mind? Changes in the business, I mean.”
“Not really, all I’m suggesting is that you give yourself credit for what has happened, and propel us to the next level.”
“The obvious next level is to expand.” He said, thinking aloud. “We can expect only so much from each of our customers. To grow, we need more customers.”
“Okay, Edward, so how do we do that, how do we grow? What must we do?”
“Offer something new and different, market ourselves; maybe change our image. I guess our best marketing tool is Deacon. The customers treat him like the voice of their desires. He seems to know what they are thinking even before they do. To expand our business, will mean a lot more work. Kat, how can I ask Deacon to work harder?”
“Don’t ask him, let him ask you. Why can’t we make him a partner? Give him a stake in the expansion. He’ll be so excited; he’ll work harder than ever. The business will grow and our share will increase geometrically.”
“You see, Katherine, it isn’t me running this business; it’s you and Deacon. I’m just watching.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just verbalizing what you’re already thinking.”
“I came home worried about losing control of my business, and now we’re talking about giving up part of it.”
“We won’t give up anything. We’ll grow due to the neural dynamics of vested interest.”
“Katherine, you’re starting to sound like your father.”
*****
Deacon Jones was twenty-five when Doc offered him a partnership. It changed all their lives.
SEVEN
Reverend John Jones pounded the massive oak pulpit, and shouted his Easter message at the congregation. “Jesus died slowly on the cross that Friday. He hung between two criminals who, unlike our Savior, died quickly.” His voice elevated. “Around three o’clock in the afternoon, Jesus drew his last breath, and knowingly moved from the physical life to our Father’s promised, eternal life. At the same time, the massive curtain, which hung in the temple and concealed the Rabbis’ inner sanctum, tore from ceiling to floor and fell. The sacred chamber was revealed, and the Rabbis’ deepest secret uncovered…” The Reverend paused; he took a burdened breath. It’s Easter, he reminded himself. Friday was his birthday; he’s twe
nty-six now. The congregation squirmed in anticipation of the rest of the story. He took his time and scanned the room. Spring dresses, in every color of the rainbow, spotted the wall-to-wall pews.
The main door to the sanctuary creaked open; sunlight flooded in, blocked only by a tall featureless form. The Reverend strained to know the face. Intense light blinded him. The room hung in anticipation. He took another deep breath, and struggled to finish. “In that moment, the secret was known to all; the sacred and holy arc of the covenant was missing,” he shouted. Once more, he attempted to identify the man. The door closed and the face became clear. The head usher, not my son, he was disappointed, not James David. He gasped. Pain struck his chest. He crumpled to the floor. His side went numb, and his world went black.
A sea of curious faces rippled and parted; the EMTs ran, with the gurney, through the church.
Grace held tightly to a stainless steel bar on the inside wall of the swaying ambulance. The Reverend labored to breathe; the clear plastic mask fogged, and the respirator clicked in an uneven tempo.
“Is it a stroke?” She asked the young EMT.
He took his eyes from his patient, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Will he survive?” Her voice cracked.
“We’re doing everything possible, ma’am; we’ll be at the hospital in a minute. The doctors will take good care of your husband.”
The doctor pressed his stethoscope against the Reverend’s chest and held his wrist. Grace watched nervously through the glass wall of the ICU.
“Mrs. Jones?” The doctor asked as he left the small room.
“Yes, I’m Grace Jones.”
“I’m Doctor Conrad,” he said thoughtfully. “We have stabilized your husband, and now we need to wait.”
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“We’ll need to keep him here for several days. It’s too early to know the extent of the damage.”
Alone in the hallway, Grace waited with only her thoughts. I have lived eight years in silence without my son, she told herself angrily, now this. Why, God, why me, have I not paid the price for my sins? I have lived all this time with only a shell of a husband. Am I to now to become his nurse? A single tear rolled down her cheek. Instinctively, she wiped it away. Her skin was cold. Wrinkles, which bordered her mouth, felt deep. Grace believed herself old.
After a few days in the hospital, Reverend Jones came home. The doctor said the Reverend should walk again. His slurred speech would slowly improve. His eyesight was the problem; it was permanently impaired.
*****
At twenty-eight, Deacon believed his life was perfect. He thought of his past only on holidays. He occasionally wondered where his parents were and what they were doing. He thought that if they had died, he would never know. It was about this time when the demons began to visit. There had been a recent deluge of religious propaganda in the mail; the colorful images caused Deacon to think much about his father and the Bible.
*****
Deacon was naked in a street of ancient cobblestone. Clothed people, strangers, surrounded him. The crowd began to scream, then to run away. The ground shook; an earthquake, he thought. From nowhere, enormous black bulls, with massive horns, charged dangerously close. He pivoted and ran as fast as he could. With every footfall, arrows of slicing pain shot up his legs. An acrid smell of blood flooded his senses. He looked down; bright red covered his feet.
The street was empty except for Deacon and the monstrous bulls, whose demonic eyes glowed hell-red; deadly, white horns sparkled in unnatural light. Solid brick buildings, with no windows or doors, closely lined both sides of the street. Deacon ran harder. He twisted his head and glanced back; mucus erupted from snorting nostrils, and sprayed Deacon with hot spatter.
From the center of the street, a towering, ominous cross, blocking any passage, appeared to grow. A greenish viper was laced upon the ebony and gold cross. Angrily, it writhed and thrashed upon the dagger that impaled it, striking the air repeatedly with fangs that dripped yellow venom. The poisonous excretions splashed on rough cobblestones; droplets sizzled as they burned acid holes through the stones. Odors of death, filth, and phosphorous blasted Deacon and burned his nostrils.
The satanic reptile turned its attention to a fully exposed Deacon. Its eyes were vacuous, red holes, dimensionless evil. It tensed, and drew back its head as though to strike. Deacon cast a fleeting look over his shoulder; the bulls were almost upon him. He dropped to his knees and covered his face with crossed arms. “God, forgive me my sins!” He screamed, preparing for certain death.
The impact with the bedroom floor awakened Deacon. Wadded, sweat-soaked sheets bound him. He curled into the fetal position and cried.
*****
Star del Rio sat alone on the edge of the massive, empty bed. She dragged red painted toes meaningfully across luxurious carpet, drawing asymmetrical shapes against the soft white background. She closed her eyes, canting her head all the way back. Her upper spine popped softly. An uninvited thought broke through her daze. You’ve been a whore half your life. The thought was indifferent, factual. You chose this life. This is your destiny and your penance.
She closed her eyes and invited sleep. Shadows in the room were a distraction. The clock ticked in slow motion. They have only come twice before, she told herself unconvincingly. They were just an aberration. They mean nothing. What do I care? All I need is sleep, just dreamless sleep. She rolled to the center of the bed, repositioned the covers, and stared wistfully at the ceiling.
This is only happening, she thought as she scrubbed her face in the blistering hot shower for the third time, because I’ve been reading that stupid Bible. How can people, so-called Christians, study that violence and those stories of evil, vengeance, and curses, and call it the Word of God? Isn’t God supposed to be benevolent and forgiving? If I believed in something, or someone, greater than myself, I would at least pick something that was always good.
No wonder Christians are tormented and confused. Their life guide is contradictory and tragic. If it gives me nightmares, what does it do to the people who live by it; who believe in it? An archaic book is not going to get the best of me. It’s a reference book; nothing else, a fucking tool, with which I intend to achieve an end that will bring me satisfaction and revenge.”
“What do you want from me?” Star screamed at the shadow on the foggy surface of the glass shower door. Reflexively, she pulled back and slammed her fist into the textured glass. A thousand crooked lines fanned out from bleeding knuckles. The fractured panel hung motionless, as if holding its breath, then crashed to the marble floor.
In spite of Star’s resolve, the nightmare came every night.
The entryway seemed common enough, but the compulsion to take the knob irresistible. A multitude of discordant voices filled the place like an unearthly choir. Perhaps they were the dead voices of the unknown family inscribed in the secondhand Bible, names she had unemotionally defaced with a few strokes of her red pen. The voices demanded that she enter the cave-like room. Numbed by a cacophony of sights and sounds, Star only sensed other beings.
As the recurrence of the nightmare amplified, it became increasingly more threatening. Eventually, the other entities present were unmistakably clear. What she had suspected, but feared and denied from the beginning, was true. The man, the woman, and the boy child were faceless, yet Star knew exactly who they were.
The boy seemed frightened and disoriented; the old ones were confused. All were oblivious to her. She watched the boy cross the room and enter a semblance of a second room. The old ones followed. She trailed them, or she was part of them. It was unclear. Sometimes Star thought she was seeing the events through the boy’s eyes. They moved unceasingly from room to room. Each was similar to the last, only smaller, and more rancid. Walls and floors were all roughly hewn abrasive stones. The final room, if that was what it was, was blistering hot.
Star touched the wall. It seared her flesh. She screamed, but could not hear the sound.
There was no other way out. She looked back. The entrance had somehow grown shut. She saw the final instant of closure, like a high-speed healing of human flesh; yet, the wall was stone.
The others disappeared, and she grieved their loss. They had not acknowledged her presence; still their absence broke her heart. The ambient temperature increased. The masonry changed from glowing red, to a straw-colored hue, and finally, to white hot. She realized, for the first time, that she wore no clothing. The blistering stone walls of the room blurred, and transformed into something like a honeycomb of human cells.
Trapped inside the semi-consciousness of a man, extraordinarily empowered, she was able to arouse him. At will, she could affect the nerves that directed his libido; he tossed and turned. Her image was real to him. She could feel it, but his identity was a mystery. She discovered his erogenous zone, and hovered there; culmination raced to him. She commanded his desire to lessen. She was his succubus, and he was her marionette. The power was rich and fulfilling. With one slight gesture, she brought him to orgasm.
As quickly as it had begun, Star crashed out of the stranger’s consciousness. She awoke, alone in the Queen Anne room, tangled in wet sheets. For the first time in her life, she was truly afraid. Star’s personal demon had come. She found it, or it found her, and she saw its face. She knew it too well; the face was her own.
Star arose, fatigued, as if she just returned from a long journey. She stumbled down the hall to her war room. With disgust, she examined the pictures of her enemies. Sickened, she drew a finger across the chalkboard, making a line through the lists of scriptures. She spoke to the words, written in her own hand, and to captured images on photographic paper. “You are all my enemies!” she screamed. “Your time will come. It is coming. Each day I become more ready. You can’t frighten me with cheap parlor tricks, and childish intrusions into my dreams. I am not a demon. You are the evil ones. You sneaked away in the darkness, and took with you my chance at happiness. Soon, I will take back that which is rightfully mine, that which has always been mine. You will all pay; you will pay for what you have done.”
Dark Star Page 9
