Pockets of Darkness

by Jean Rabe

  Yea, though I walk through the valley, I will fear no evil, she mused, for I am the biggest, baddest bitch in the valley. And an even worse son of a bitch trailed her, oozing rivulets of reeking goo.

  Always there was noise in the city, but it was not as noticeable this time of day. A siren, muted, a car door slamming and an engine starting—a neighbor heading to work. Winter added to the quiet. A lot of people stayed inside when the temperature dropped. Bridget shivered, remembering just how very cold she’d gotten last night going to Adiella’s pit. Now the chill—and the walk—were helping to rouse her. There was a small coffee shop a few doors down from her antique store. It would be open, and she fancied an extra-large drip-grind; today she’d get the dark-roasted blend that was overly strong and with enough caffeine in it to startle an elephant. Maybe she’d order two to be safe.

  Bridget thrust her hands in her pockets. This time she’d stuck a cell phone in one. Michael would be up in an hour or so, and Bridget would call to have him check on Otter and fix the boy whatever he’d like for breakfast. Jimmy could keep Otter entertained for a while; no need for school today. And then when Bridget got back she and Otter would face the unfortunate tasks of planning Tavio’s funeral and picking a time when Adiella could visit her grandson.

  Crap. And they’d have to deal with Tavio’s estate, too. Michael had left her a note that an attorney had called. Apparently Tavio had left almost everything, including the restaurant, to Otter. Adiella figured into some of it, Bridget suspected, or maybe some charity her ex- had favored. The attorney could be put off for a while. Nothing for Bridget in the will, but then she didn’t need any of Tavio’s wealth; she had more than enough of her own.

  Bridget turned down a side street. The snow from yesterday had been pushed against a curb, heavy enough that the wind hadn’t taken it away. It spilled over the sidewalk in places, and she walked around it and stepped over the cracks in the concrete … something she’d done ever since childhood, the poem about her mother’s back playing in her head. A thought struck her as she reached the next intersection. She whirled, looking at the snow. In the faint glow from the streetlights that were still on she saw prints in a low drift, webbed misshapen tracks. The demon left tracks … at least that Bridget could see. Could others see them?

  Three more blocks to go. She stepped into the intersection. Paying no attention to the traffic lights and distracted by the notion of the demon leaving a visible trail, Bridget didn’t see the bakery delivery van bearing down on her. The van had been going a little too fast, and it struck Bridget dead-center. The impact sent her up and over the hood, against the windshield and breaking it, then across the driver’s side and into the center lane of the street.

  Bridget’s head hit the pavement hard.

  Everything was a blur. The van screamed to a halt, the driver pried himself out from behind an airbag and ran to Bridget, thumbing an earpiece phone and shouting at the 9-1-1 operator. A car had been coming from the other lane, and it stopped, too, a man in a long, wool overcoat getting out and waving a cell phone, taking pictures with it, and then also calling 9-1-1.

  “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.” This from the van driver. He circled Bridget and flapped his arms against his sides like he was an overly plump bird trying unsuccessfully to take flight. “Oh Dear Mary Mother of God.” The man interrupted his flapping long enough to cross himself and bend over Bridget. To the man in the wool overcoat, he shouted: “It wasn’t my fault. She stepped right in front of me. Oh Sweet Jesus.”

  Bridget blinked and things came better into focus. The van driver had a face the shape of a jug, with a three-day growth of beard and a plaid coat that didn’t meet in the middle.

  The frazzled man touched his ear. “That’s right, operator. I’m at the corner of—”

  “No. I’m fine.” Bridget pushed herself off the pavement and shook her head She untangled her curls with her fingers. The cell phone in her pocket starting buzzing, but she ignored it.

  Bridget wished she would have worn gloves, her fingers were cold. She was a little dizzy, but that was clearing up too. And she ached from where she’d impacted with the van, but all things considered, the pain was bearable. Nothing broken. “I’m fine, really. Nothing’s broken.”

  That revelation hit Bridget like the so-called ton of bricks. She really was fine for the most part. Not a busted rib or tooth, though she felt tender places. She could have been killed, at the very least seriously injured. Her face was cut from where it had met the van’s windshield, but not as badly as it should have been. So she was damaged … but only a little.

  Otter’s birthday dinner fight had caused her more pain.

  “I don’t want an ambulance.” Bridget brushed at her slacks, and then straightened her coat. She shook the disbelieving van driver’s hand, and jogged away, around the man still taking pictures with his cell phone. She took the very next side street, a little detour, to avoid an ambulance or a police car that might respond to the 9-1-1s. Bridget didn’t want any paramedic trying to check her out and delaying her from reaching the antique store. And she’d had enough of police for a while.

  She was fine.

  Sore, but she could live with it.

  Bridget swallowed hard. She was fine like the briefcase had been fine when she tried to burn it in a furnace.

  Laid it on a subway track and watched a train trundle over it.

  Tossed it into the river and saw it sink.

  Dropped it into a sewer and let it float away in the muck.

  “Christ on a tricycle.” The revelation hit: the buckle protected what it was “affixed” to, apparently, and so now that it was “affixed” to her, Bridget had walked away relatively unscathed. A blessing in that respect, she thought. But it was a blessing she’d rather do without if it meant losing the demon.

  The demon followed her around the corner and into the coffee shop, babbling and oozing and malevolently eying the woman behind the counter who took Bridget’s double extra-large coffee order. It followed Bridget back out and to O’Shea’s Antiques & Appraisals. Bridget held the two big coffees against her chest with her left arm and with the right hand started keying in the security code for the front door. The cell phone in her pocket buzzed again.

  “Hey lady, bet you’ve got a lot of money in a shop like that,” came a voice from behind her.

  The sheen of Fort Greene, Bridget mused once more. “The day keeps getting better.”

  She spun, intending to get a look at the robber before deciding how to deal with him. But the man was quick and had been making a move, thrusting forward with a knife, the blade slicing right through Bridget’s coat and into her stomach. The man was Bridget’s height, thicker, younger, with long sideburns and a New York Yankees stocking cap. She immediately registered that he fit the description of the man who’d four times held up people outside the Capital One Bank on Fulton earlier this month. In those cases he’d only brandished a knife. In this case he’d used it.

  Bridget dropped the coffees, the hot liquid splashing up from the sidewalk on her legs. “Son of a bitch!” Bridget shouted. “This, I don’t need.” The knife still in her, and causing a considerable amount of pain, she jerked a knee up, catching the robber in the groin. As the surprised man doubled forward, Bridget brought both hands in to chop at his exposed neck, the most vulnerable part given that he was otherwise thoroughly bundled up for the weather.

  The breath whooshed out of him and Bridget pressed the attack with an uppercut to the jaw. The man took it, and he raised his hands to ward off Bridget’s next blow, stepping back to get away, catching his foot on a raised piece of sidewalk and teetering off balance. Bridget kicked him again, this time landing a solid blow to the man’s thigh. A second whip-kick and he fell back, half on the sidewalk, halfway into the street, lying at an ugly angle over the curb. Bridget kicked him one more time for good measure.

  “Get the hell out of—” That would be the easiest route, let the guy go. Bridget pulled the knife out of her
gut, seeing blood on it. She’d felt it go in her … it had hurt like the devil, still hurt. The knife, the van … they’d hurt, but not been as bad as she’d expected. Well, honestly, she’d expected to be dead. Already, the pain from the blade was dropping to a dull, persistent ache. She knew the wound was starting to heal.

  “Pissmires and spiders.” She should let the guy go. That would be the easiest course. Then there’d be no dealing with police, no report to fill out, and above all of that no questions. All she wanted to do was swallow a couple of aspirins, find the Sumerian pieces inside her shop, and somehow manage a way to talk to the demon.

  Her free hand found the cell phone in her pocket and she punched in 9-1-1. Fortunately the phone still worked, despite everything she’d been through. She brought it up to her face. “The Fulton Street Yankee fan—” That’s what the local NY Times blog had labeled him. “I’ve caught the scuttering asshole. Can you send someone to pick him up? And make it quick.”

  Bridget waited, sitting on the curb next to the woozy robber; hand pressed to her stomach where the knife had went in. Glaring, she ignored the passing cars that slowed out of curiosity, and all the while getting angrier for “doing the right thing.” If the thug hadn’t been pestering people on Fulton, she would have let him go. But Bridget actually liked some of her neighbors, and she didn’t want any more criminal element creeping into Fort Greene, especially if Otter was going to be living here too. And she certainly didn’t want anyone else in the neighborhood getting stabbed by the damn thug. She’d cleaned off the knife on a napkin from the coffee shop and when the first officer approached, she passed it to him.

  “My jacket saved me,” she lied to the four officers who showed up. “Knife got caught in it, stopped it. Then … I dunno … I was having a bad day. I just lit into him, beat the shit out of him. Went all-out Bernie Goetz I guess.” At least the latter part was true. “You better not charge me for that. It was self-defense, really.”

  “We’ll need you to come down to the precinct.”

  “Of course you will,” Bridget said. She hoped the robber wouldn’t find a way to sue her for the beating.

  “It won’t take long.”

  “Of course it won’t.” But this time Bridget knew it was the cops who lied.

  There was just enough room in the backseat for Bridget and the demon, both of them reeking. The cops cracked the windows open and the winter whistled inside.

  ***

  Nineteen

  “He went to school?” Bridget talked on her cell phone to Jimmy. “You and Michael let him go to school? You’re thick, the both of you. Why did—”

  “Said he had a history test, boss. Said he wanted to stay busy, not think about things. Said he had to get out and—”

  “Put Michael on—”

  “Michael went with him, boss. Thought he should see if there was any paperwork at the school to deal with, change of address and such, you know. They took a cab, not even an hour ago. Michael said he tried to call you. Said he—”

  Bridget remembered her phone buzzing earlier; no doubt Michael had been calling. She thrummed her fingers against the detective’s desk. The detective had stepped away to get them more of the precinct house’s lousy coffee. Across the room, she saw Sergeant McGinty, who waved and headed over.

  “Boss?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy?” Bridget pressed the phone to her face and thought she ought to get one of those ear-bud things.

  “It was a good idea, Otter going to school. He needs to be busy. And he needs to stay with school. I should’ve kept with school, boss, and—”

  “I know, Jimmy.” Bridget hung up and forced a smile for McGinty.

  “What brings you back to the precinct, Miss O’Shea?”

  O O O

  An officer dropped Bridget back at her shop. Bridget had somehow managed to talk the police into leaving her name out of the arrest report the press would have access to—citing not wanting to deal with reporters and all the over-the-top coverage that Good Samaritans often had to endure. She looked at her watch: 8:05 a.m. She had fifty-five minutes before the shop opened for business, so a half hour before her manager and two employees would show up. Maybe she could find the Sumerian pieces on her own.

  She had to key in the security code three times; she was that out of it, her fingers not cooperating with her brain. The demon patiently waited, then was the first to enter when the door opened.

  It was a two-level shop, each floor a reasonably spacious twenty-two hundred square feet. The larger pieces were on the first floor, such as period furniture—currently including showpieces like a Spanish colonial bench, and two hundred-year-old Marquetry cylinder desk, Bregeres upholstered armchairs. In the aisle ahead of her sat a lavish 18th century Biblioteque marriage armoire and a fine Ottoman inlaid table with mixed woods and mother of pearl. To the left were shelves with porcelain, china, and silver. Paintings, including one “Old Master,” hung on the walls. Smaller pieces, sports memorabilia, dolls, books, and all of Bridget’s “under the counter” goods, changed hands on the second floor, which is where she headed after making sure the surveillance cameras still worked. The camera at the door had caught the footage of the New York Yankee fan knifing Bridget, and her subsequently wiping the blood off the blade. She erased the footage, not wanting evidence of her walking away basically unscathed from what could have been a fatal stabbing. She’d told the police her security camera hadn’t been working.

  Bridget’s employees—members of her smuggling operation—kept the shop spotless, the furniture gleaming, silver polished, floor dusted, and cobwebs off the restored tin ceiling. She liked the way it looked and smelled … though the scent was impossible to detect between her own sour pong and the assortment of stinks the demon produced.

  Her store was a real asset to the area, customers a mix of upscale clients with lengthy “want lists,” common folk, occasional tourists, and those who knew they could acquire special treasures. Her goods ranged from little odds and ends that could be had for about $40 to large pieces that would bring in thousands. She took the staircase, listening to the familiar creak of the steps and appreciating the slick feel of the mahogany banister against her fingers. There was an elevator, but sometimes it jammed, and it would be her luck for it to do so this morning—leaving her in close quarters with the demon until help came. She was surprised the cops hadn’t made some crack about her foul odor, but maybe they figured she’d picked it up from her tussle on the filthy sidewalk with the Yankee’s fan, not from her foray into the bowels of the city last night.

  Bridget flicked on the lights upstairs, glanced at the shelves that spread away from the landing, and turned and went into her office that was between the elevator and the restroom. There were two more levels, both with lofty ceilings. The third floor was crammed with stuff that hadn’t yet been cleaned and cataloged, and items that had been cataloged, but not put in the official books. The fourth was vacant, the floor dicey and likely to give way if a fat man walked across it. At one time it had featured one of those spring-floors for ballroom dancing, but the sections were rotting, and so she’d had it busted up and removed.

  Bridget sat at her desk, pulled out a ledger from the hollow spot in the tub drawer, and started scanning the coded entries to find Sumerian pieces. Dear God, please let me have something from Sumer here, she thought, and not sold to some antiquities fancier.

  The demon hopped around the room, appearing to take in the details, and for a change chattering in a thankfully low voice. Bridget picked out the occasional word: Euphrates, Tigris, Enlil. Bridget. Life. Slaves.

  “You’re a broken record,” she told it.

  Rob arrived early. He still wore the bruises from Otter’s birthday dinner, but it looked like he’d used some sort of pancake makeup to cover the worst of them. Still, some of the yellow-green showed through.

  “Do we have anything Sumerian?”

  “Sumerian? Geeze, that’s really old. Ever see that movie, boss? Conan the Sume
rian. Just kidding.” Rob scratched a spot on the back of his hand. “I think so. I think we do. Hard to keep track of everything, but I think so.” He brightened. “Yeah, we do, two pieces. Had three, but Alvin sold one last week to a history professor who said we were asking too much. Alvin’s a helluva salesman, boss. He’s do in, oh about twenty from now. I’ll have him dig up the two we got left. Maybe we should set the pieces out somewhere, eh? One of the counters. They’re pretty small, if I remember right. I’ll have Alvin get them for you as soon as he comes in.”

  “Please.”

  It took Alvin, one of Bridget’s oldest employees and an expert forger, only a handful of minutes to find the Sumerian pieces. Each was boxed and tied with a string, coded with tags. He left the boxes on Bridget’s desk, wriggling his red-veined nose when he got too close to her.

  “We do have a third piece, Miss O’Shea,” Alvin said. “It’s sold, though. A history professor paid a good deposit for us to hold it. He’s coming by Tuesday to pick it up. It’s a Sumerian astrology tablet, a rock about the size of a skull.”

  “These two should be good enough. Thanks, Alvin.” Bridget thought Alvin and Rob might be due a little raise for putting up with her odd requests and behavior.

  Alvin was pushing seventy, though he dressed like a teenager, jeans and rock band T-shirts—no matter how cold it was. His hair was long and silvery, pulled back with a suede cord. He had startling Paul Newman blue eyes that twinkled, and that, coupled with his rich voice, was an asset in dealing with customers.

  “These two small pieces, they’re rather plain, Miss O’Shea,” Alvin continued. “And despite being five thousand years old, are not especially valuable. We’re getting four grand from the history professor for the tablet. But these little pieces … he wasn’t interested. Doubt you’ll get more than six hundred or so. We have them overpriced. They came in on a shipment early last year, and I recall that you touched them and went all silent, said they were ‘interesting but not outstanding.’ We’ve been keeping them under the counter so to speak, but—”