Bev’s dream filtered back to him, slowly, like freeze frames in a movie: the Jake-demon on the shoreline, drowning in the shallow lava... He shivered, a cold pervasive draft suddenly surrounding him.
“I just can’t believe it,” Rebecca said.
I can’t either...and I can’t believe the cops are questioning us. There’s got to be more to this. He gazed at his hands, at the wounds somehow obtained in the middle of the night—wounds that had nearly healed over in a matter of hours. How did I get these? he wondered, and then, how are they healing so fast?, dismay and utter confusion dissecting his lucidity. He recalled the dream and the wires that had jutted up from the lava, and in this moment of conspicuous defeat, lowered the phone and gazed around the room, at the strange books, at Julianne’s diary strewn on the floor, wondering why, all of a sudden, his world appeared to be falling apart.
Crumbling...
He raised the phone back to his ear.
“Rebecca?”
A wave of interference interrupted the once clear signal. In seconds, it returned, and Rebecca was gone.
In her place, a different voice: Bev...
Sharp. Clear. Unmistakable.
Julianne.
Body trembling. Heart slamming. Breath, short and stagnant. His voice, trapped behind a horrendous lump of dread. Tears, sprouting tensely from his eyes.
He tried to stand; his legs wouldn’t let him. Finally, on his knees, “Hello?”
Interference, and then, another voice.
“Come play with me, Bevant.”
Deep, with an accent.
A sudden strength rose in him, induced by fear of the unknown. He stood, head reeling, knees unsteady. “Who is this?” he demanded. He recalled the voice in his head, just prior to visiting the doctor. It’s the same voice.
The voice remained silent. He could hear a raspy breathing coming through the line.
“What do you want with me?” he shouted.
Low laughter. Then, the line went dead.
“Hello? Hello? Fuck!” he screamed, slamming the phone on the desk. He stood motionless, listening to the resonating echo of his voice as it faded away into the eerie silence of the afternoon—an afternoon that had become gray with intimidating storm clouds, imminent thundershowers, and the ghosts of days present and past.
Finally, he staggered from Kristin’s office, leaving the tainted evidence of his newfound past behind. In the kitchen he located a glass and drank some water from the sink, swallowing past the dry lump in his throat—past the shocking truth of his former life, now an open wound to agonize over; the remembrance of Jake Ritchie, who had instantly become a fixture of the past: a lonely, still, dark recollection lumped into a mysterious retrospection of evils that could very well pale in comparison to those the future had in store.
He began to cry. The scratching, the voice, the out-of-control feeling, the insects, the dark man, the invitation, the face in the mirror, 6:00, being followed, Father Danto, Rebecca Haviland, Julianne’s voice, Jake...oh poor Jake...
It’s too much...too much.
He fled outside into the darkening afternoon.
Leaving his cell phone behind on Kristin’s desk.
TWENTY-TWO
4:45. Bev arrived back home. He pulled his car into the detached garage. Shut the ignition, thankful for no episodes. He took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out. He was home. Thank God. Safe. For now.
He trembled uncontrollably as he staggered from the car, stepping across the graveled driveway, assuming watchful eyes upon him. This is what having a nervous breakdown feels like...that’s it, I’m having a goddamned nervous breakdown. None of those things were real. The voices in the phone, the face in the mirror, the fingers in my head. Not real, not real...
He peered down the length of the driveway, toward the street. Concerned. Frightened. If things played out as promised—threatened—a limo would be here in an hour and fifteen minutes to pick him up. Something else to worry about.
He turned.
Fifteen feet away, at the bottom of the steps, stood a man.
The dark man, here to deliver another message...
Under normal circumstances, Bev might’ve assumed this to be a fan. One of the older crowd, trying desperately to hang on to his youthful years, hunting down his fave celeb’s address and parking out front with hope of catching a real-live glimpse; it wouldn’t have been the first time. But, as Bev made his approach, he saw that this man was too far ahead in years to be reaching for times gone by. He was pushing sixty, clothes apropos for a man of this age who’d possessed no common fashion-sense: baggy slacks; a glen-plaid blazer hanging loosely upon his slender frame. Cheeks: gaunt, sallow and spiritless. Thinning hair, wispfully combed over. Moustache, coarse, gray, and nicotine-stained.
Not a fan.
The press?
I ain’t that famous.
The man extended his hand tiredly, spoke in a harsh, asthmatic tone. “Why do rock stars all seem to age beyond their years, despite their riches?”
“I’m not rich,” Bev answered pensively, taking his hand. “Just look at my digs.”
“Not overly impressive, I suppose. But not too shabby, either.”
“Who are you?” Bev folded his arms defensively across his chest.
“Please forgive my sense of humor. It has earned me some in trouble in the past.”
“If you’re looking for trouble,” Bev replied playfully, “then you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Oh, no, of course I’m not.” The man waved away the thought as though refusing another drink. He reached into his shirt pocket and revealed a business card, which he handed to Bev. Bev scanned it casually. On it, typeset in bland Times New Roman font, was a name: Frederick Grover. And beneath, his title: Detective of Homicide. A phone number and address were printed in opposing lower corners. He gazed back up at the detective, trying not to appear suspicious. Impossible, given his jaded appearance.
“What can I do for you?”
The detective grinned. “I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you, Mr. Mathers. I rang the doorbell, and no one answered. I was on my way out when I saw you drive up, so I thought I’d wait.”
“Where’s your car?” Bev asked, looking around.
“Parked at a distance. Part of the procedure, I suppose.”
“This is about Jake Ritchie, isn’t it?”
The detective’s demeanor changed, his posture stiffening into a more serious pose. “I’m very sorry about your friend,” he offered, eyes narrowed sorrowfully.
“I’m a bit confused...I’d heard he drowned.”
The detective grinned solemnly. “Information does travel fast, doesn’t it?” He hesitated, grinned blankly, then added, “Being the bearer of such terrible news is not one of the perks of my occupation.”
Can it get any worse? Bev thought, again. “Well, I already know all about it, so it saves you the displeasure this time around.”
The detective breathed out, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Actually, there’s something you don’t know, Mr. Mathers.”
“What? What is it?” What else?
Grover hesitated, then breathed out and asked, “Do you know of anyone that might have had an issue with Mr. Ritchie? An argument, perhaps? You know—did he have any enemies at all?”
“Jesus, was Jake murdered?” Bev, suddenly shocked, added, “He was, wasn’t he? That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
Grover nodded. “He was murdered, Mr. Mathers.”
Bev leaned back against the rail leading up the steps to the front door. Rubbed his forehead then ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Oh my God...Rebecca didn’t say anything about him being murdered.”
The detective pocketed his hands and jingled some coins. “That’s because she doesn’t know.”
“You didn’t tell her...”
“No.”
“So, then why are you telling me?”
“You were close to Mr. Ritchie. Rebecca Haviland—a lovely gir
l by the way—from what I gather, was only a recent acquaintance of his. So I thought that maybe, well, maybe you might know someone...” He hesitated, pinning Bev with serious eyes.
Bev shook his head vehemently. “No, no. Jake was as loveable as he was obnoxious. He was well-liked by everyone, despite his harsh sense of humor. I mean, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever held a grudge with him. Ever.”
The detective’s eyes swam inquisitively over Bev, from head to toe, like a fish darting to the water’s surface and back down again. He turned away to cough, lungs wheezing. Finally, he asked, “You smoke?”
Bev nodded, reached into his pocket and retrieved his Camels, realizing at this moment that he didn’t have his cell phone. Kristin’s. Offering one to the detective, he said, “Sounds like you’ve had your share.”
“Thirty years worth,” he answered guiltily, taking the cigarette and lighting it. “Too late to turn back. You, on the other hand...” He pointed the cigarette at Bev before taking a deep drag.
“Thought you said I’ve aged beyond my years.”
The detective laughed. “See, I told you my sense of humor always gets me in trouble.”
Bev eyed his watch. 5:00. “Listen, if you have any questions...”
“Oh, yes,” Grover interrupted. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quick and then I’ll be gone.” He glanced up the steps as if looking for someone else to appear from the house. “Since you and Rebecca were the last ones to see Mr. Ritchie, and that you both stayed at his place last night...well, I was wondering...do you know if anyone else might’ve stayed there as well?”
“That I know of? Just the priest. Father Danto.”
His face tensed, as if he’d just caught a foul-smelling whiff. “And we can pretty much dismiss him as a suspect, no?”
“Don’t really know the man.” I’ve done my fair share of research on Demonology...
“Well, he is a priest, and he did retire early, from what I gather anyway, and he performed a mass this morning, so he could have gotten up at sometime during the night to commit the crime, but it doesn’t seem all that likely, since he’s the one who called it in.”
“I spoke with him at the party. He was a gentleman.”
Grover nodded an agreement, then asked, “At what time, approximately, did you and Rebecca retire to bed?”
“Uh...one A.M., I suppose. Thereabouts.”
“And you spoke to Mr. Ritchie prior to going up. Correct?”
Grover seemed to be running circles around the truth: he had some facts in his head and was comparing notes, just like the good detective he was. Bev had no choice but to play along. “Yes, well, he was totally drunk. We carried him, me and Rebecca, from the kitchen to the living room. Put him down on the couch. He was snoring in seconds.”
“And then you went to bed.”
“Correct.”
“Any reason you didn’t come home last night?”
“I had a bug problem. Exterminator’s were supposed to spray.”
“And Father Danto?”
“Upstairs.”
“For certain?”
“As far as I know. I saw him go up, but didn’t see him come down.”
“But you said you were in the kitchen at some point.”
“Yes.”
“So it’s possible that Father Danto might have come down while you were in the kitchen. Or, he might’ve come down after you went to sleep.”
“Possible, I suppose.”
Grover waved a hand in the air. “Not that any of that means anything. The man is a priest, after all.”
Bev nodded, feeling suddenly uncomfortable—as though he were being interrogated. He blew out a gust of air, and waited for Grover’s next question.
“It would take a very strong man, or men, really, to move Jake in his condition from the sofa in the living room to the pool out back. That’s got to be, what, a hundred feet? And Jake, he’s pushing three-hundred.”
Bev nodded. “Rebecca and I moved him about fifteen feet and it was as far as we could take him, and he was still awake and on his feet. We just guided him along.” The detective nodded, placed the cigarette in his mouth, then dipped a bony hand into his jacket pocket and removed a pad and pen. He jotted something down.
Grover removed the cigarette and said, “So, it stands to reason that either Mr. Ritchie was carried by, say, a couple of strong men, or got up himself and went out back.”
Bev, gaze fixed on the pad, asked, “Detective, what happened to Jake?”
“Murdered. Yes, he was murdered in a very despicable way.”
Bev’s thoughts immediately triggered back to the party, to Father Danto’s words: A crime was committed at the rectory last night. One of a most deplorable nature.
“Not just drowned?” he asked, wondering suddenly if Jake’s death had anything to do with the sacrifice at the rectory. I won’t doubt another coincidence after everything that’s happened...
“No...Mr. Mathers, not just drowned. Murdered. I know you’re a busy man, and I’ll let you go soon. Just tell me, one thing...just out of curiosity...you play guitar, yes?”
“Yes, I do...”
“I’ve been dabbling a little myself. But not your type of music, no. More of the fifties stuff. You know, Chuck Berry, Roy Orbison.”
“That’s great,” Bev answered, feigning interest.
“I was wondering, what kind of strings do you use?”
“What kind of strings...?” Bev felt a terrible sensation in his body, like an electric jolt. He pulled his gaze away from the detective and sent it across the driveway.
“Just curious, is all.”
“Part of the investigation?” Bev asked.
“Maybe. Then again, maybe I’m just seeking some tips from a pro.”
“Ernie Ball,” he answered abruptly. “Nine-gauge.”
Grover jotted the information down.
Like a sudden draft through a window, Bev felt the scratching sensation in his head. Slightly, as though only one or two fingers had returned to their digging schedule. Panicking a bit, he gripped his temples in an urgent manner. At once, the fingers receded.
“You okay?” Grover asked.
“No, not really. I haven’t been feeling well of late. Migraines, or something. Doctor tells me it’s all nerves.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Grover’s suddenly tense face showed genuine concern. “The wife has had some problems over the years. Panic attacks. They stick with you, despite all those medications. Rest and relaxation, now that’s the ticket.”
“Just what the doctor ordered,” Bev answered, smiling, somewhat relieved with the lighter tone of conversation, and the fact that the mind-fingers had recessed.
“Well, I believe we’re about done now,” Grover said. “Just one more thing...anything you can tell me about Mr. Ritchie? Anything you can add that might help me?”
Bev gazed down to the cement walkway, thinking of Jake and not yet accepting the fact that he was actually dead. He looked back up, giving the detective a mournful glance. “Jake was the best. Loving. Caring. He had an obnoxious side that’d definitely irk you if didn’t know him, especially when he drank, and especially if he was coming at you. But, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“All bark and no bite, as they say.” Grover smiled and returned the pad and pen back into his jacket pocket. “That’ll do. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Mathers. If you hear anything, please, call my office.”
Bev nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Grover began to walk away, then turned and removed the pad and paper again. “If I think of anything else, may I call you?”
Bev nodded. “Of course. I only use a cell phone: 555-7734. I’ll be home all night.”
Grover jotted it down, then raised the pad. “Thanks. Hope you’re feeling better soon. And...you have my deepest condolences.”
Bev looked down and nodded. “Thank you.” Above, gray clouds filled the sky, darkening the late afternoon. “Detective?”
Gro
ver turned.
“How? How was Jake murdered?”
Grover waited, then dropped a bomb: “Strangled. With a guitar string.”
Bev shuddered and watched as Grover padded down the length of the driveway, turned out onto the sidewalk, and disappeared.
Bev looked down at his hands.
The scars were completely gone.
TWENTY-THREE
Five minutes later, Grover was seated behind the wheel of his unmarked car, using the ashtray to snub out the cigarette Bev gave him. He noted the brand on the filter. Camel. He reached into the glove compartment and removed a small yellow clasp envelope. Opening it, he dropped the cigarette butt inside, then sealed it and placed it on the seat next to him.
Bev Mathers smoked Camels.
A single butt from a Camel cigarette was found by the pool...of course, this could mean anything, really. Bev or even someone else might’ve gone outside for a smoke and stamped it out on the deck. Totally circumstantial. But then there was the matter of the guitar strings. Ernie Ball, nine-gauge. Grover had learned that guitar strings were classified by their thickness in thousandths of an inch, and that the entire set was categorized using the measurement of the high E-string, the first and thinnest string. Jake Ritchie had been choked with a low E-string, the uppermost and thickest string on a guitar. Its gauge was measured out at .042 thousands of an inch: the common thickness for a low E-string in a set that started with a .009 gauge high E.
The brand: Ernie Ball.
Grover took a deep breath, then waited in the car parked a hundred feet away from Bev Mathers’s apartment. From this position he could see the front door, and watched Bev standing at the foot of the steps with the pain-filled hunch of a man of sixty.
Grover decided to stick around for a bit, to see if maybe Bev would head out.
He rubbed his brow with tired fingers, and dreamed of retirement.
Damn rock stars.
TWENTY-FOUR
He roamed the hallways of the mansion, coursing an accustomed path. Passing multiple doors. Many of the rooms were occupied. Others empty, their dwellers busy in preparations, missing, or dead. At last count there’d been forty-three fervently devout disciples, not including the vehicles which by this evening would total thirteen. The congregation was very strong, and very willing. Allieb was in power, and held them in his reign. God help their tainted souls.
Demonologist Page 12
