The Angel Alejandro

by Alistair Cross

  Dette smiled. “I’m in a good mood today, boys.” She fished three arrowheads out of the jar and handed them over.

  “Really?” asked the kid, looking like Santa had arrived early.

  “Really. Now, run along.”

  Each grasping an arrowhead as if it were gold, they ran off to gawk at the poor sap in the Winkie the Golden Hedgehog costume, dancing around and getting his picture taken with children. Dette smiled as she stuffed the money in her pocket. “Caveat emptor, kiddies.”

  “Caveat emptor?”

  Dette whirled, staring wide-eyed at Madison, hoping she hadn’t seen her pocket the money. “The kids thought the arrowheads were real. I told them they weren’t. Caveat emptor.”

  Madison looked suspicious but let it go. “How are sales?”

  “So far, so good. We’re definitely making more than we do at the shop on a regular day.” That, she knew, was what Maddy really wanted to hear.

  Madison looked over the rows of gemstone jewelry, the jars of arrowheads, and the small baskets of rocks and crystals. “We’ll need more quartz. I’ll go get some from the shop … unless you need a break.”

  “No. I’m fine staying here.” Dette didn’t want to leave; she was hoping to see Astaroth for further instruction. He’d come to her last night, telling her to stay put at the sales table so he could easily find her.

  “All right,” said Madison. “Is there anything else we need?”

  “I don’t think so. Just the crystals.” Dette could no longer ignore her friend’s iciness. “Madison? I want to apologize for accusing Alejandro of stealing from the register. I was out of line.”

  The reserve in Madison’s eyes didn’t diminish.

  It occurred to Dette that this wasn’t about the money at all. Alejandro told Maddy about that night on the couch … She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did.

  “It’s fine, Dette.” But it obviously wasn’t. “I’ll be back soon with more quartz.” And Madison was gone.

  Dette had been hoping she and Maddy could patch things up, but it was apparent the rift between them was too wide. She shrugged. “Oh, well.” She looked around and, if only to spite Maddy, fished a five and a ten out of the register and shoved them in her pocket.

  * * *

  Eric Cooterman’s red pickup barreled down Cameo Drive. It was his lunch break and he was starving. The bombing at Roxie’s Diner had put a major crimp in his style, but there was a bakery on Main that would do in a pinch. He looked at his watch. He had only twenty minutes till he had to be back at the office, pounding out shit work for the newspaper.

  Of course, if he could just get his website, The Secret Lives of Jaded Housewives, moving a little more, he could quit his job at the paper and do the site full-time. But despite a high level of views, memberships were slowing and he wasn’t anywhere near being able to retire yet. He had to think of a new angle - a hook that would bring more subscribers.

  The light at Cameo and Main turned red and Cooter rolled his eyes, slowing to a stop. He watched as some tanned muscle head - a tourist, no doubt - strutted across the street, chest out, chin up. He wore a red wife beater and pants so tight he probably had to take them off to fart, but every head on the street watched as he passed. Even dudes stared … and that’s when a new idea hit Cooter.

  I need to appeal more to the gays! He knew how much the gays loved their porn - and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He looked down at his camera on the seat beside him. But where the hell am I going to get a model? There weren’t many attractive men in Prominence - not that Eric Cooterman noticed other men or anything.

  The first guy to come to mind was the Disrobed Daredevil - but Cooter wasn’t about to open that can of worms. Madison O’Riley was chummy with the new police chief and Cooter was pretty sure the guy would love to shut down his new website if he found out about it. There were the fellas who stripped at Mephistopheles, but the trouble there was that Cooter had already been eighty-sixed from the club for taking pictures of the women. There were those two electricians, Beckstead and Barzetti. He’d heard some of the local women say they weren’t too hard on the eyes, but Cooter couldn’t imagine they’d be much of a draw. I suppose I could start hanging around the locker room at the gym … The thought made him a little queasy.

  He sighed, tapping the steering wheel as he stared at the red light. Unless … a new idea struck. I don’t need to sneak around looking at naked guys! I have everything I need right in front of me! Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to get the new section of his site started. No better time than the present! He looked around, grabbed his camera and unzipped his fly, digging around before flopping out his custard-chucker and giggleberries, giving them a couple strokes, then snapping some pics to upload to his site while he ate. Getting the shots were not as easy as he’d thought, especially when it occurred to him he’d better get some images for those who enjoyed a backdoor view.

  Tugging his pants down, he lifted his dangly bits, raised his hips as best he could, spread his hairy hollow, and aimed the camera lens at ol’ One Eye. Well, this is just fucking ridiculous! he thought as he struggled against the steering wheel.

  A horn blared behind him. Startled, he looked up, saw the green light, and stomped the gas. He’d have to squat over the camera to get that particular shot, but it was easy enough to get the less invasive pictures as he drove. In fact, it was fun. Kinky in a way. He snapped pictures, smiling at passersby who had no idea what was happening just below their line of sight.

  It was pretty unreal how sexy it was - his hard-on raged, pushing painfully against the steering wheel. He giggled, slapped at it, and took more pictures.

  * * *

  Though still drunk from the night before, Paulette Driscoll had tipped back a few shots of tequila - just to take the edge off - before getting behind the wheel of her canary-yellow Camaro and rushing to the Sandman Motel.

  She’d slept in again and was awakened by frantic texts from Carly, who was having problems with a guest’s credit card. The girl was incapable of functioning without constant supervision and Paulette decided she’d better start looking for better help after the Founder’s Day Fair.

  She stopped at the sign before turning onto Main Street and began pushing - but not exceeding - the speed limit. She only had one vacancy left at the Sandman and she wanted it filled. Nothing pleased her more than seeing that No Vacancy sign all lit up. It never happened except during Founder’s Day, but it was worth the yearlong wait. She smiled, enjoying her morning buzz and looking forward to the bottle she kept in her desk drawer.

  * * *

  A broken brick in hand, Festus Crawley stood in a dark putrid alleyway where he could invisibly observe Main Street. He knew what he had to do to fix his broken mind, but he wasn’t looking forward to it - not one bit. He tightened his grip on the red brick, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. And jerked at the sound of a blaring horn.

  Staring out, he saw a red Chevy pickup, wheels screeching in mid-360-degree turn. It moved slowly, almost gracefully … making Festus feel he was watching some grand ballet. The Chevy slid broadside into a parked SUV. Sparks shot out and the driver of the pickup hit the side window and starred it, his head a bloody explosion against the glass.

  The car it had been trying not to hit - a bright yellow Camaro - had jerked aside and now jumped the sidewalk. Its undercarriage grated against a fire hydrant as its front end popped back onto the cement and plowed into two screeching old women Festus recognized as Cloris Riddley and Rosemary Hess. There was a strangely hollow thump as both women folded over the hood just before the Camaro slammed into the glass-and-brick front of the Main Street Deli. The hydrant burst, geysering.

  Half inside the sandwich shop, the yellow Camaro came to rest amidst a rise of dust, a shower of water, and a tumble of brick, the faded Tweety Bird decal in the back window grinning.

  And then the silence was so absolute it was alarming.

  Until someone on the street beg
an to scream.

  And then someone else.

  Soon, it was a chorus.

  Sunday

  Sunday morning at St. John’s, Father Thomas Wainwright stood before the smallest congregation he’d ever had. Not even half his usual flock had shown up. Of course, some of them were off at the fair, but there could be no denying that the town had lost many souls. Having spoken to Nick Grayson earlier, Tom was saddened and frightened to hear that the unfortunate incidents showed no signs of letting up. Yesterday had seen the deaths of Eric Cooterman, Paulette Driscoll, Cloris Riddley, and Rosemary Hess - as well as the disappearance of Clint Horace. Tom hated to think what today would bring. What on earth is going on in this town?

  But he believed it was important to keep moving forward, and as Ms. Peterson, the organist, did a rather sloppy rendition of How Blessed Thou Art, Tom smiled out at the half-dozen or so tired-looking faces, doing his best to act as if he wasn’t saddened by the low attendance.

  Ms. Peterson wrapped it up, shuffled some sheet music around, then Tom spoke into the small mic on his podium. “Lord, God Almighty,” he began. “We have sinned against you. We have sinned and we continue to sin and ask that-”

  “Amen!” David Forsythe - or Dave F. as he was known in A.A. - nodded his head, his ears flapping, eyes closed as if in the clutch of religious fervor.

  Tom cleared his throat and continued. “We ask that you have mercy on us and-”

  “Have mercy!” Dave shouted.

  “And bring us to everlasting life-”

  “Everlasting life!”

  Tom paused, annoyed. This was not how he conducted his services. We’re Catholics, not Holy Rollers. He almost said as much but bit his tongue, glancing at the other parishioners. No one seemed to be paying any attention except Barbara Parker, who leaned forward, hands on the back of the pew before her, looking eager for Tom to continue. Dave F. continued nodding and rocking back and forth, his lips moving as he lost himself in some private prayer.

  At the organ, Ms. Peterson yawned.

  “Lord, God Almighty,” Tom went on, his voice unsure. “In these days of such great temptation we ask that You deliver us from the hands of evil and-”

  “Hands of evil!” Dave F. raised both hands and swayed as if at a rock concert.

  Has the man fallen off the wagon? “Take away the sins of the world-”

  “Sins of the world!”

  None of the other parishioners seemed put off by Dave’s interruptions. In fact, they all seemed absolutely unaware of their surroundings. What is wrong with these people? Tom turned toward Ms. Peterson and was startled to find her leaning stiffly forward in her seat, an odd smile nailed to her face, her eyes piercing the crucifix above the organ. “Sins of the world,” she whispered. “Hands of evil!”

  Tom turned back to the crowd feeling like two Toms - one who was here giving his Sunday morning sermon, and another who was somewhere else, somewhere foreign and dangerous.

  “Hands of evil,” echoed the parishioners. “Sins of the world.” They rocked, swaying in their seats, eyes closed. It was eerie.

  Dave F.’s shoulders began to heave and jerk. He lifted off his seat several inches, then slammed back down, again and again. As he rose and dropped, his lips smacked as if he were tasting something divine.

  Tom thought the man was in the throes of a grand mal and was preparing to call for help when he realized what was happening: The man was masturbating. And he wasn’t the only one.

  “Hands of evil, hands of evil.” Jessica Rodney stroked the back of the pew in front of her with one hand as the other tweaked her nipple beneath her white blouse.

  “Sins of the world, sins of the world.” Old Buster Harden, who never passed up an opportunity to preach the word of God now stood in the aisle, rubbing an open bible over his genitals.

  “Hands of evil!” Barbara Parker stood and pulled her blouse open and yanked away her beige bra. Her monstrous blue-veined breasts, like twin mountains of dough, fell free and bounced off the back of the pew.

  Speechless, Tom turned to Ms. Peterson.

  At her organ, her legs were stretched out and one of her hands was plunged down the front of her powder-blue slacks, digging furiously around as she gasped and whispered.

  “Amen!” Dave F. was on his feet now, penis proudly jutting from his zipper. “Have mercy, hands of evil!” Father Tom gaped as Dave reached climax, semen bursting forth to jet across the bald pate of Norman Baker, who sat one row ahead, busily performing cunnilingus on an open hymnal. As his head was anointed by Dave’s lust, Norman giggled and writhed. “Amen!” he shouted.

  Dave rubbed his spunk into Norman’s head, assuring him it would help him grow a new head of hair.

  And Thomas Wainwright could take no more. “OUT!” This was not the voice he used during services - or even on the street for that matter. This was his courtroom voice, which he hadn’t used since his days in law school, before he’d decided on the priesthood. “ALL OF YOU! OUT!”

  One by one, the parishioners came to, startled by Tom’s outburst.

  Barbara Parker had the nerve to look offended and, pulling her blouse shut, huffed and bustled from the building.

  The others followed, including Ms. Peterson, who gave him the unmistakable headshake of maternal disappointment before pulling her hand out of her slacks, smelling it, and squaring her stack of sheet music for next week.

  Alone, Tom stared at the empty church, his hands shaking, heart pounding. “Good God Almighty,” he whispered. “What is going on in this town?”

  God didn’t answer, but nevertheless, Tom knew that something was going on - and it was the same something that had brought him together with Nick, Beverly, Madison, and Alejandro. In his very bones, he knew it, and though there were several hours until the barbecue at Nick’s, Tom locked the church up and headed home. He wouldn’t leave, for any reason, until it was time to go.

  * * *

  Though nothing unusual had happened since he’d returned home, Nick jumped when he heard the doorbell. His stay in Thomas Wainwright’s guest room the night before had been nice - nice enough he hadn’t wanted to come back.

  He pulled the door open and was momentarily struck by the sight of Beverly Simon. Her auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, bringing out her large eyes, full lips, and her Bond-girl cheekbones. She wore an off-white Irish cable knit sweater over dark jeans. The sweater showed off her figure and highlighted the green jade cross dangling on a gold chain between her breasts.

  “Beverly. Thank you for coming early.” Nick glanced at her cross. “I didn’t pull you from church, did I?”

  She smiled a nice smile. “Oh, no, I’m not religious, Nick. The cross was given to me by my mother.” She held out a Tupperware dish. “I brought coleslaw.”

  “You didn’t have to.” But he was glad she had. “I’m a fan.” He held the door for her. “I thought you might appreciate having a look around before everyone else got here.” He led her to the kitchen and put the salad in the fridge.

  “You’ve had a lot of activity in here.”

  At first he didn’t understand. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she was commenting on the weather. Then he understood. “You can feel it?”

  “No, I just noticed there’s a paring knife stuck in the side of your refrigerator.”

  “I must have missed that.” Quickly, he pulled the knife out and tossed it in the sink. “You should have seen this place the other night. Things were flying in here - the drawers and cabinets were slamming open and closed. The lights were going off and on.” Then he told her about sitting in the recliner and being shoved up to the TV, and how Reverend Bobby Felcher came on and started talking to him personally. He also described the tall figure he’d seen. He felt himself blush.

  She reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”

  “What-”

  “Just let me do this.”

  Nick obliged. Her grip was soft and warm and her touch stirred unexpected desi
re in him. He wondered if she felt it, too.

  Beverly closed her eyes and went silent. “The figure you saw,” she finally said, “it has to do with the accident you were involved in.”

  “The accident?”

  “Yes, when you were very young.”

  Nick’s mind reeled. “How did you know?” His words came out nervous and uncertain on all sides.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “A car accident. When I was seven. Both my parents were killed.” He closed his eyes. “My aorta was nicked and I very nearly died. I should have died. They did surgery, but my chances were slim to none. The doctors called it a miracle.”

  “It was a sort of miracle, wasn’t it?”

  He opened his eyes, looked into hers. “Yes.”

  “What happened, Nick?”

  He shifted, cleared his throat. Beverly’s hand tightened and soothed. “I saw someone. A man. He was very tall … and he had gold eyes. Like … really gold. He touched my chest. And somehow … my aorta healed.” He was lost in Beverly’s sea-green gaze. “But what does that have to do with my house?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know yet. But it’s connected. I think that, maybe, when the others get here, we should try a séance. There’s power in numbers. Do you think they’d go for it?”

  “A séance?”

  “It takes a lot of energy to communicate with the other side. It may well increase our chances of finding out who’s visiting you, and why.” She was silent a moment. “It’s not about this house, Nick. It’s about you. Or someone close to you. Leaving this house won’t make it stop.”

  He swallowed. “Then I think it’s worth a shot. Do you think it’s the man with the gold eyes? I thought he was a dream.”

  “I do. But I don’t know why. Not yet.”

  He became aware that their hands were still touching. It was nice. He was disappointed when, at last, she pulled hers back.