“You saw them, you saw these two men commit the murder?” asked the cop.
“Yes. I’ll testify to that. They’re both armed with silencers,” which the cop could see, shining his flashlight on the talker still gripping the piece.
“Where does the Brazilian live?” Cricket asked, trying to sound normal, but her voice shook.
“Ma’am, this is police business,” the officer said.
Fritz said, “Cricket, this isn’t what we do. Let the police do their work.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m planning a social call tomorrow morning. I might even take up dancing.”
The officer was confused. Fritz wasn’t.
“I’m going, too.”
“I’d like that.”
31
Sun Goddess
The morning sun at his back, Fritz said, “A husband and wife were murdered last night in the park. The very couple who took their daughter away from you yesterday morning. Your bodyguard was one of the assassins.”
The Brazilian, dressed in a white pantsuit, lounging on a black couch, gave a bored shrug. At the center of an enormous great room off the foyer of her sprawling ranch home, she was attended by several gorgeous men and women.
“I don’t approve of assassins. And you actually think I’m murdering people who take their kids out of my dance class? What, too many late payments? Cricket, this pilot, officer, and gentleman should have been a detective. Don’t you think?” She lasered Fritz. “Talk to the chief of police. We’re good friends. I know he’s glad you spared him the trouble of locking up those criminals. Saved him the headache of feeding them and bringing them to trial in some distant century.”
“You’ve made a lot of friends in a short time,” Cricket said.
“Actually, Ms. Sherlock, I’ve been making friends for the last ten years. That’s hardly short. I came out to my farm nearly every weekend, allowing me to meet many of the fine citizens of Little Falls.”
In the spacious room, wooden sculptures of Hindu gods and goddesses several feet high were positioned like guests at a cocktail party. Kali of the lolling tongue and necklace of skulls sported a Cleveland Indians baseball cap and, a few feet away, Shiva the Preserver was face to face with Shiva the Destroyer, dancer extraordinaire, kicking up a storm with several Bowie knives tied to his multiple hands. The walls held mostly paintings of the Renaissance, mostly the Italian landscape paintings of great distances; the softening of ancient history, myth, and nature. There were many places with couches and chairs arranged around the standing artwork, and most were occupied by stunning females in kimonos and even a Jean Harlow understudy in a white satin gown.
Cricket asked, “So when can we expect Herod and Salome?”
“That’s wonderful, Cricket. Except for Anton, I don’t think there’s a ninny on these fifty acres who would know what you’re talking about.”
Cricket turned toward the long picture window overlooking the driveway to the main house when a dozen motorcycles rumbled past to a play area, where more bikes and vintage cars were parked. A group of men and women at the far end of the parking area were practicing martial arts on a large stage.
Old white guys full of scars and tattoos climbed off their Harleys and lit up joints and cigarettes. The rowdy bikers practiced a buddy system that could ignite a million-man march for savagery. Meth addicts, or scarecrows, as Fritz called them, roamed the grounds waiting to be “fed.” These creatures had earlier approached the new arrivals cautiously, keeping their distance, looking for an opening like starving, feral cats.
Cricket and Fritz had invited themselves over that morning to the Brazilian’s farm, although “compound” was a better term according to Fritz, who now looked about the room frowning, unamused with the Brazilian’s blather. He stepped on her next sentence.
“The big flag on the wall—similar to the Rising Sun of Imperial Japan.”
“Good catch, flyboy,” the Brazilian said. “I did something useful with it. They had their shot, and now they sit atop the Western heap getting heart attacks over corporate takeovers and striving to be top dog. Unlike theirs, my sun is descending toward the earth—setting, not rising. Who doesn’t enjoy the setting sun? The twilight hour?”
“Unless it’s setting on a great nation, a great civilization,” Fritz replied.
“Excellent!” The Brazilian laughed. “Cricket, please bring this fella back again.”
“I don’t think we’ll be cooking dinner together and playing cards anytime soon,” Cricket said.
“That’s a shame.”
Cricket thought of the blood on the walls of the gazebo. The primitive sun and rays.
“Why is the sun descending?” Cricket asked.
“Will she go or will she stay … some silly pop song.” The Brazilian stopped her silliness with a wave of her hand and continued. “Primitive man never counted on the sun’s return the next day. They had to stay atop the cosmic bandwagon and cajole it back, sing to it, call it foul names, dance for its return. You could understand how solar eclipses really scared the bejeezus out of them.
“Much later the Japanese developed the sun goddess Amaterasu. Now right there you’ve got to love them taking the masculine energy of the sun and rethinking it as female. What happened was an earlier god grossed out the sun goddess by bringing a large flayed horse to her—she must have been a big horse lover; wouldn’t bother me in the least. Anyway, she hid in a cave and the world went dark. So they enticed her out with a great party. Curiosity won the day. She peeked out the door and saw a reflection of herself in a mirror they had brought, and this further enticed and distracted her—nice call-out for vanity. So this little wisp of a goddess is peeking out when another god yanks her away from the door and places plaited straw in front of the door, so she can never again disappear completely and leave the world in darkness. She’s out and the world is again awash in sunlight.”
The artist and the scientist arrived and quietly took a seat, followed by a tall redhead, sleek in her emerald power skirt. She delivered a note to the Brazilian, then stood with arms crossed, observing Fritz and Cricket as potential troublemakers in her queen’s realm. A pretty young man in a black running suit and red sneakers kept popping in, drilling them with angry, nervous eyes and then leaving. He reminded Cricket of Dick from the Dick and Jane Show and seemed to be on a mission he couldn’t accomplish. He kept walking in from the kitchen, staring at her and Fritz through dark, long bangs, and then departing.
The Brazilian laughed, saying she liked having her own Hamlet on the premises but was fed up with the distraction, and turned to the young man telling him to scat for good, or she’d make him slow dance with Shiva of the many Bowie knives. He left in a huff out the front door.
Anton said, “The Brazilian is not only a great dancer, she’s a great poet. Not just words, but every gesture, every action is weighted in the sublime. Her story is a great story.”
“A lot of great stuff I’m sure,” Cricket said, and she took note of the guys on the porch, in the yard, and through the house. A few women wandered through, young beauties in heavy makeup, ignoring everyone before disappearing into the kitchen, where delicious scents made Cricket sad for the breakfasts her and her family had enjoyed on Saturday mornings.
The Brazilian said, “I think I’ll have Electron Larry tell my story.” Everyone turned toward Larry, including a few bare-chested bodyguards in black jeans, who laughed. “It’s sad, but they are laughing at Larry: He can’t tell a joke, let alone a story.”
In a light blue suit, still leaning on his cane even though seated, Larry talked, looking at the floor.
“The Brazilian went often to the Burning Man festival in Nevada. It was there she had her epiphany that would change her life.”
“Oh, god, Larry, you’re going to bore our guests to death,” the Brazilian said.
As though starting the Our Father with outstretched arms, palms up, Anton said, “She flew in the upper regions of the spirit world. For thr
ee days and three nights she did not return to this dark world of pain.”
The Brazilian stood up in an instant, glanced between the two men with the frustrated eye of a director trying to get a good performance from someone in her cast.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with these two—from the dull to the cryptic. I’m trying to find someone—other than myself—who can tell the story with real Spielberg pizzazz.”
“Okay, we’re leaving,” Fritz said, standing up from his chair, and Cricket stood also.
“You must have some gardening to do?” Cricket said. “Dig a fresh grave or two.”
“All that I do for the little town of itsy-bitsy Falls, and I’m mocked. Really, Cricket, we have so much in common—”
“We have nothing in common—”
“How about killing the bad guys?” The Brazilian stared with a lewd smile.
Fritz pulled gently on Cricket’s arm and she stiffened.
“Like I said, nothing in common.” Cricket burned the Brazilian with killer eyes.
“Okay, something less heavy—neither of us has a single tattoo.”
“How do you know?”
“I peeked. C’mon, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll bet the ranch that Sister Marie is free, too, and flyboy here. Do you know how rare that is nowadays? You, the Nun with a Gun, and me could become the next female trinity. Believe me, I try and tell my associates that body art, piercings, mutilation is no longer necessary. It’s so passé … by about two thousand years. But you know how rebellious young people are.”
“You’re rambling.”
“That true, Cricket. You do know me. And right now I’m sad that you’re leaving and you only got pieces of my story, and it is a beautiful story.” She smirked at Anton, who was still pouting after being shut down, and Electron Larry, who looked like he was counting dust balls on the floor.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Fritz said, taking Cricket by the hand, “but we’ll keep protecting ourselves and blowing away any thugs that try to harm the citizens of this town.”
All the men in the kitchen and on the porch came into the house. Every Cleveland faction was represented by a dozen gang members, thugs sporting heavy spiked collars and heavy chains for belts, all worn like some ancient form of punishment. The sea of tattoos adorned with guns and knives made Cricket dizzy with fear.
The Brazilian folded her arms. “You asked me a question about last night, and now I’ll ask both of you one: Who killed the two young men who had their entire lives ahead of them?”
Fritz gave Cricket’s hand a don’t-say-anything squeeze.
“We have no idea,” Cricket said, her words forced, alien-sounding, belonging to someone else. It was the first time Electron Larry looked up at her. There was a depth of sadness that chilled her. Had he been friends with one of the killers?
Fritz held on to her and aimed for the door. The gangsters gave them just enough room to walk out, making sure they all had to rub elbows.
The Brazilian sighed. “Oh well, it was a tough question. I understand. Maybe I’ll see you at the parade? I have a fun surprise for everybody. A week from today.”
When they didn’t respond, the Brazilian said, “I’ve decided the town of Little Falls needs to celebrate Bastille Day. Put it on your calendar. Nine a.m. sharp. Someone will figure out we missed it by two weeks, but who cares? We at least have the right month. And ultimately, it’s the thought that counts.”
Neither Cricket nor Fritz looked back after they walked off the porch, and the Brazilian’s ranks closed behind them. She continued talking about the coming parade, shouting details: “In 2000, on Bastille Day, the sun shot a real wad—coronal mass ejection!—a superstorm I predicted!” She ended with a hearty laugh that infected her captains, who also laughed uproariously. Cricket’s scalp tingled with dread.
A couple of young kids were admiring the Barracuda, parked in the shade of a large oak. Already feeling more like herself, Cricket scowled at them and they ran off.
32
House of Savages
Diesel was playing Frisbee with Grace when they returned, and Tony and Ron were arguing over grilling techniques for cooking chicken on the Smokey Joe. George Holaday had made a trade with a local farmer: his golf clubs for a chicken every week through winter. Inside, the Holadays and Sister Marie were making potato salad, substituting packets of ranch dressing for mayonnaise.
Fritz and Cricket waved and climbed the back steps to the kitchen. Grace came running over.
“I’ll be out soon,” Cricket said. “I could use some Frisbee time with you and Diesel.”
They walked in and Fritz immediately went to the front of the house. His dad followed.
“What’s happening?” Mrs. Holaday asked Cricket.
Watching Cricket, Sister Marie kept mixing the ingredients together in a large ceramic bowl.
Cricket answered Fritz’s mom with another question. “How often do you see the police patrolling?”
“We see them downtown walking, usually in pairs, sometimes in a car. A neighbor spotted them in an old Buick.”
Fritz and his dad returned.
“Mom, we have big problems. We have a nutjob at the edge of town. This Brazilian character has a small army of bikers and gangbangers. Our idiot mayor and police chief may be looking the other way as they wreak havoc. The two criminals killed last night have to be connected to the thugs we saw today. And they all look high. A warrant should be drawn up right now.”
“A house full of savages,” Cricket added. “This cougar is really dangerous. I know they don’t have anything on her, and without computers and files and stored fingerprints, the police are going to have to catch her—any of them—red-handed. Fritz, I just know the police could barge in now and not find a thing. She’s smart and she’s controlling the most vicious dudes with drugs. This isn’t a one-size-fits-all. From my dad’s years in law enforcement, I heard often about designer drugs and this babe has it down to a science.”
“To what end, other than pure hedonism?” Mrs. Holaday asked.
Fritz said, “They don’t want us to return to the twenty-first century. And they’re willing to do whatever it takes to keep us lightning candles at night instead of turning on the lights.”
Cricket paced. “They interact like a little society, a club, all drug-addicted and controlled by her. Otherwise, they’d eat her alive.”
Diesel ran in, followed by Grace.
“Ron said dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Cricket, can you play with me and Diesel?”
“Yes, she can,” Sister Marie said. “But we’re eating soon, so why don’t you wash your hands and help with the dishes and silverware, then we’ll all sit down together and pray and have a wonderful meal. After dinner, you can skip cleanup, and play.”
“Grace, you can see that Sister Marie is my manager and yours,” Cricket said, smiling.
“Like a manager at McDonald’s?”
“Very much so,” Cricket said. She gave Grace a big hug. “I should have done this when I first came home.”
“I’ve got the front of the house,” Fritz said, all business.
“Could we be making a mistake about this woman?” Mrs. Holaday asked her son.
“I don’t think so.”
For the next week the Holadays and their guests cooked and cleaned, and the adults guarded the house with watches every night, enlisting a few neighbors in walking the streets from 9 p.m. until 2 a.m. Cricket and Fritz talked with the police and with limited resources found nothing on record, hearsay, or even a recent event concerning the woman who called herself the Brazilian. She had quietly come and gone from the farm for years. “She’s eccentric,” the chief had said, the day after their visit. “And she’s helped out the community with food and keeping folks safe.” Cricket just rolled her eyes. The mayor was even more ridiculous carrying on about the coming parade for Bastille Day as if the country’s bicentennial celebration was about to be celebrated.
“What time is the big parade?” Grace asked, getting ready for bed. Cricket had brushed her hair, and her golden curls shone in the candlelight.
“We’ll get there by nine,” Cricket said, concealing her dread.
Grace held Cricket’s hand, staring at the flame, thinking, biting her lower lip. “I like candles. But will the lights ever come back on?”
“Of course they’ll come back on. They’re already on in some places.”
“That’s good. People like doctors with real important jobs need them. I know they’d like it.”
“Actually, a hospital not too far from here operates its generators for a period of time every day, and that’s been a big help.”
Thunder unexpectedly vibrated the walls of the Holaday home.
“Is there a storm coming?” Grace asked.
“I think so. We’re here if it wakes you up.”
“I hope it does. I like storms, and my mom used to tell me that every time lightning lit up the sky it was God thinking. It was storming the night my family died. I got soaked. But I felt God protected me with the darkness and rain. I was crying and couldn’t stop and the bad people never heard me, never saw me because of the storm. A lot of lightning that night and God wasn’t only thinking, he was talking to me. I can’t remember it now. But I was happy that he was taking the time to talk to me.”
Grace raised herself up in bed and looked out the window, staring deep into the night. Her family’s killers still roamed the streets.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 16
