Mangrove Lightning

by Randy Wayne White

  “The guy the cops arrested,” Tomlinson said. “I got a look at him. Gad, what a monster. Is he the one who called himself—”

  “Mr. Bird, yes. Even without the mask, a man that size, it couldn’t have been anyone else. And the way he looked at me—not that he actually saw me, but he knew I was there, I’m sure of it. Does that sound crazy?”

  “Nope. Happens all the time, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. You don’t remember seeing the tattoo before? Maybe the mask covered it. Or body paint, and you said he wore a robe sometimes.”

  The girl folded her arms as if chilled. “I’m . . . I’m not sure. Tonight brought some of it back. Not all the details, though, and that’s the problem. They said the guy goes by the name Vernon Crow, which sort of fits, I guess.”

  Ford had briefed Tomlinson in private, but had left that part out. “Crow? That’s eerie-weird.”

  She stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

  He wasn’t going to tell her about Key West, that Madame Min-Juan had spoken of a demon some believed was more than just a fanciful story. He’d already done some research on the subject, but the girl wasn’t ready to deal with what he had learned. “Vernon Crow,” he said. “You’re right, that’s all. It fits with someone who calls himself Mr. Bird.”

  “They’re probably both fake names. What I’m telling you is, Slaten and that man have the same tattoo, which shocked the heck out of me because Slaten claimed he’s the only tat artist who can do it. It’s an ancient Chinese design called Yantra, and requires a special type of blue bamboo that’s sharp enough when it splinters. See, that’s what Slaten used instead of a needle because . . .”

  Tomlinson listened for a while and decided the girl was avoiding a painful truth. She needed a nudge. He took her hand, saying, “Think back. Slaten lied about why he took you to that house in the first place. Remember the story you told me?”

  “The bamboo . . . yes. He pretended he didn’t know it grew there.” Her eyes drifted toward the floor. “I totally believed him. I guess it’s possible he’d never noticed it before. I mean, seriously, who pays any attention to—”

  Tomlinson interrupted. “A student of Yantra art would’ve noticed. What else did he lie to you about? I can list several. His name, for starters. And the way he justified almost killing your cousin when that tire blew. Gracie, you’re a smart young woman. Tell me”—his hand moved to the sleeve of her white blouse—“the tattoo you saw on the man’s neck, did it resemble what he . . . what they did to you?”

  “Slaten had nothing to do with it.”

  “I believe that you believe it. But are you sure?”

  “Of course, I . . . Oh hell.” The girl, suddenly weary, plopped down in a chair and allowed a curtain of brown hair to screen her face. “It’s all such a blur. The crazy woman who looked after me, she’d put crystal in my food if I refused to snort or smoke it. I hate that shit; hated it, except for the first time, when Slaten told me it was weed. After that, it just made me sick. Have you ever done hallucinogenics?”

  “Oh, I’ve dabbled a bit.”

  “You’re funny. A lot, huh?”

  “More than I should’ve and less than I sometimes wanted.” His hand moved to his pocket where there was a baggie of crystal flakes. “You gave me the last of Slaten’s flakka, right? Thank god. Some call it Five-Dollar Insanity, ’cause it’s so cheap and unpredictable. I’ve never tried the stuff. Is that what she fed you?”

  “I think so. Or bath salts. He knows how to do it, make what he calls synthetic amphetamines. The first time—we were smoking weed soaked in crystal—it was this incredible soaring high. I remember laughing a lot, and . . . and I felt, you know, almost beautiful.” Her voice caught. “The two times after that, though, were awful, and it was the same when they had me chained up. Like my skin was on fire. But the worst part was, I truly couldn’t”—she had to reach deep to find the words—“I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.” She brushed her hair back and looked up with large, dark eyes. “Has that ever happened to you?”

  Tomlinson said, “The standard answer is ‘Hell yes.’ But the truth? Princess, I’ve done it all, most of it twice, and the truth is, I really don’t think so. Even peyote, L.S.D., the really heavy shit, there’s always a centering dot of awareness. Five-Dollar Insanity. No wonder you’re confused.”

  “Not just confused, a lot of it I really don’t remember. The crazy woman, I called her. She kept me drugged up and sick, freaking out the whole time I was there. But I still don’t think Slaten could’ve—”

  “The woman was Ivy Lambeth,” Tomlinson said to remind her of Slaten’s real last name but stopped short of saying, Your baby’s aunt or, possibly, grandmother. It would’ve been too cruel. But facts were facts. “They killed her, you know.”

  The girl’s manner, body language, everything, changed. “Good. That fat bitch, you think I care? And you’re wrong about Slaten. He doesn’t know anything about what happened to her. He told me himself this morning.”

  “Was it after he found out he was going to be a father, or before? Look”—Tomlinson gave her arm a gentle squeeze—“I agree. People we care about sometimes need love when they deserve it least, but there’s a reason there’s an argument going on in your head about whether to trust him or not.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “No, but you said he’s poison, remember? Now his fall guy shows up with the same tattoo. Gracie, dear, face it—he and Vernon Crow are in this together, and good riddance. You and your baby don’t need Slaten to live happily ever after. I want you to believe that.”

  She tugged her arm away. “I thought you might understand why my head’s so messed up, but you don’t. No one can understand unless . . . unless they . . .” She spun around and went inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  Tomlinson sighed, helpless in the face of the truth. The girl was right. He couldn’t possibly understand her confusion without experiencing the drug for himself. Again, his hand drifted to the baggie in his pocket.

  No, not while tending to a teenager in trouble.

  But soon . . .

  —

  Gracie gave up trying to sleep and went to the porch, hoping to recapture what she’d felt earlier, a delicious sense of having her own home. The lights in Tomlinson’s van were on, blinds drawn. The hum of its little generator and AC competed with a chorus of frogs. She watched until movement behind the blinds confirmed the man was awake, then crossed the yard and knocked.

  He beamed at her through the window and opened the sliding door. “Come in out of the bugs. Hurry up.”

  She hadn’t anticipated being chased inside by mosquitoes, but it was okay. She’d sort of hoped it would happen, the two of them alone, in a space that was furnished more like boat than a camper. “This won’t take long. There’s something I want to tell you. It’s about Slaten.”

  “Oh?”

  Tomlinson’s baggy shorts, no shirt or shoes, was the way a rapper might dress. She liked the way he stood there, loose-limbed, and funneled his hair back with a scrunchie, then, with a quick loop, made a ponytail that hung over one boney shoulder. “You were right,” she said. “I won’t be safe if he gets out of jail. The detective gave me his phone number, and I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “If Slaten gets out, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. That’s big . . . Have a seat.” He motioned to the table where, earlier, they’d eaten ice cream.

  “No, really. I saw that you were up and decided to tell you. Like, so I won’t change my mind later, you know? Otherwise, I would’ve gotten dressed instead of wearing just an old robe and sweatpants.” She pulled the lapels tighter around her neck, adding, “So . . . that about does it. In the morning, I’ll try to make pancakes. What time do you get up?”

  Was the man laughing at her? If so, it was in a kindly way, not
mean. “What’s so funny?”

  “Us. All mankind, from sea to shining sea.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  He waved it off as unimportant and waited until she was seated to return to the subject of Slaten. “Did you remember something specific or is it more of a feeling? The detective will ask. Cops are big on details when it comes to building a case.”

  “It was something that came back to me tonight. I don’t . . . I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I . . .” Gracie felt herself choking up. She suddenly felt like an absurd little girl who was shy around adults.

  Tomlinson slid into the booth and framed her face with his hands. Maybe as a prelude to a kiss, a real kiss, which is what she hoped he would do, but he only kissed her on the forehead. “I’m proud of you. Both those screwheads belong behind bars. Your uncle will be relieved, so I’ll let you tell him, okay? Now I’d like you to do me a favor.” He indicated a bench seat that had been pulled out to make a bed. No sheets, just a blanket and pillow. “Why don’t you curl up there and get some rest? I’ll pull the courtesy curtain. I’ve got some stuff to do on the computer anyway.”

  “I’m not a child,” she responded. “You didn’t let me think this through. I’ll have to tell the detective anyway, so I might as well tell you.”

  A couple of key details blurred by drugs had emerged. The man who’d repeatedly raped her did have an intricate tattoo on his neck, possibly a dragon, but sometimes he did not. On those occasions, “Mr. Bird” wore a leather breastplate.

  “He had to cover his chest for a reason,” Tomlinson suggested, which was a gentle way of saying There were at least two men.

  “I can’t be a hundred percent sure I didn’t imagine it. Maybe that’s why I wouldn’t let myself remember . . . especially after Slaten seemed so happy when I told him about me being pregnant.”

  A more chilling memory fragment dated back to her first night in Slaten’s camper.

  “We were all smoked up, then switched to wine, and I got so sick the next morning, I’m surprised I remember anything at all. And I didn’t until I saw him, the guy the cops had me look at. He . . . It was . . .”

  “Vernon Crow,” Tomlinson said, helping her along. “What about him?”

  “His head. The size of it, and his face reminded me of a gorilla. That’s when I remembered. Slaten had been talking about money, or how rich his family was. Bragging, like maybe he would inherit it. That got him on the subject of a cousin or maybe a brother, I’m not sure, who was off in the head, so they kept him locked up. Like at a facility, I guess.”

  “Did he mean crazy or mentally handicapped?”

  “I don’t know. Then something about their grandfather wouldn’t let the boy leave the property for years because he was dangerous as any animal and as strong as a gorilla. That’s when it came back to me, what he said—an albino gorilla. I thought he was joking, you know? Like something he’d seen in a movie until . . . until tonight when the spotlight . . . And there was something in that man’s eyes that . . .”

  Gracie looked at him, then looked away. “I knew it then. He and Slaten have to be related somehow.”

  She broke down. Tomlinson pulled her to his chest and let her sob. Tears receded until later, on the bed, he covered her with a blanket and turned to close the curtain.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “Oh yes I do.”

  “Why? Am I that unattractive or is it because of them, what Slaten and the other one did to me? I feel shitty enough as is.”

  He sat, tucked her in, and patted her foot. “You’ve got it all wrong, Gracie. I’m the problem. I don’t trust myself, if that makes any sense. So help me out by backing off the pheromone throttle a tad. Okay?”

  “Huh?”

  “Pheromones.”

  “I heard you, but what do you mean?”

  “Sensuality, that spark in your eye, girl. One of us has to be strong and I’m a damn poor choice, believe me.”

  That got a smile, at least.

  21

  With the camper lights dimmed, Tomlinson sat at his laptop and opened a file he’d created before leaving Key West. Demon Crow, it was labeled.

  The name, just looking at it, created a vortex of air that sharpened sound, even imagined sound. Twice he got up and opened the van’s louvered blinds to peer out into a benign darkness that had a spooky campfire tinge.

  A bottle of Corona beer over ice helped.

  He read for a while, then checked on the girl. Her rhythmic puffing confirmed she was asleep. Once again he sat in the forward captain’s chair and reviewed passages he had copied. Several were from The Diamond Sutra, a centuries-old manuscript found in the Mogao Caves of Dunhuang, China. Other notes had been gleaned from the Tibetan Book of Spells and articles on Chinese mysticism.

  As a Buddhist, he took care to approach the writings with the seeking spirit of a Bodhisattva. Do not cling. Strive for awareness without striving.

  He read:

  In the spring heart of time exists a reptile who is also a bird. Shue Gwee, the Water Beast, he is called by those who fear his true name. The name can be syllabled but never spoken without consequence.

  He is known by the mark of Demon Crow.

  The crow demon roams between the light of moon and sun, and on the grayest rim of dawn. Unsuspecting victims are dragged into caves or underwater and consumed. He takes possession of their souls, which is why he is immortal, and travels the centuries with a hundred eyes . . .

  Not all receive his mark. Those who do carry it for eternity.

  Tomlinson’s focus shifted to the girl, then back to his reading. A different source:

  The process of spirit habitation is known by the Chinese symbols . They literally mean to “replace one with the other.” The Bird Demon returns to life in the victim’s body and constantly seeks new souls to inhabit. He mimics their aspect and manner but, for sustenance, must consume human flesh. Woe to his victims for their bones will suffer in the Ten Courts of Hell . . .

  The Ten Courts of Hell was Buddhism’s version of the Inferno’s basement floor.

  Tomlinson got up and closed his laptop. Holy Cripes—Demon Crow was like Dracula on steroids.

  This problem required serious thought.

  He lit a prayerful sprig of incense, a ceremonial touch, while he mulled the situation over. Walter Lambeth, almost a century ago, had been host to a demon. The demon had survived by switching to a younger host or hosts. It was crazed nonsense to all but those who had experienced a paranormal psychotic event.

  Tomlinson carried the scars.

  Walter Lambeth and his legacy were as real as Florida history. There was no telling how many people the old son of a bitch had defiled. Madame Min-Juan understood the enormity of what had happened. Tomlinson would help her return those lost souls to their homeland, but there seemed to be a more pressing issue. Something he’d just read:

  Not all receive his mark. Those who do carry it for eternity.

  Shit-oh-dear. If this was true, it was Madame Min-Juan who was in the gravest danger, and possibly Gracie, too.

  The revelation required action.

  Under the sink was a mini cupboard. Among the cleaning items was a can of cleanser that was actually an insulated safe with a screw top. He removed a baggie of weed and rolled a beautifully tapered joint while an internal debate ensued.

  The ancient seers, even the best of them, used the grimmest sort of moral extortion to stress a point. A favorite example was the claim that Hell was the only reward for adultery. Tomlinson had disproved that notion a thousandfold. Evil, on the other hand, had an energy source that could conjure truly horrific punishments—demonization, among them.

  Occasionally, Tomlinson had to rein in his Catholic upbringing with a quick reality check. He did it now and the results were not enco
uraging.

  These were dark waters, indeed.

  A rhythmic similarity in the names came to him then: the Water Beast . . . the Walter Beast.

  Interesting.

  He went to the curtain and peeked in at the girl. There were things he’d forgotten to ask her, the most important of which concerned the brand on her arm.

  From the shadows, the girl sensed it, and her voice reached out. “I was hoping you’d come back. I was having the nicest dream, then I heard something, or maybe that was part of it. Anyway, I woke up. What time is it?”

  He sat on the bed, and they talked for a while. When it seemed okay, he asked, “How’s your arm doing?”

  “I haven’t seen it since it started to heal. The nurses make sure I don’t see the scar because the doctor said I shouldn’t. Does that sound screwy to you?”

  No, it sounded sinister, but he replied, “Listen to the experts unless your instincts tell you otherwise. Oh, I meant to ask you, I have a question about bamboo, something I saw once.”

  “Is this a tricky way of talking about Slaten?”

  “Only if what he told you about bamboo helps me figure something out. A while back—it was at night—I watched someone plant a bunch of giant stalks in a circle. Only, they weren’t planted, because the next day they were gone. Is weirdness like that something bamboo aficionados do?”

  The girl sat up and felt around for a light switch. “Stop it,” she said. “You’re talking about the crazy woman. Why do you do that? If you want to ask me something, just ask.”

  “Sorry,” Tomlinson said, and switched on a reading lamp that showed the girl, in a white tank top, her pale shoulders and arms a-swirl with tattoos, black ink on white parchment. “You’re right, it was her, but I was trying to change the context.”

  “Change the what?”

  “I lied to you, in other words,” he said, “and ended up pissing you off anyway. So what’s new in my world? I told you I couldn’t be trusted.”