Deadlight Jack

by Mark Onspaugh

  “So, you and your partner…” McCarthy began.

  “Housemate,” Jimmy corrected. “We don’t have a romantic relationship.”

  “Right, right. So you and your housemate travel hundreds of miles to pay your respects to a guy who helped you get off the sauce.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “I could see that. What about you, Leo?”

  “Lotta guys down here could use a friend like that,” Satsuma said.

  “Yeah, right? So you guys go to sunny SoCal and a guy ends up dead.”

  “I have no idea how long he was dead,” said Jimmy.

  “Yeah, you were in the hospital.” McCarthy looked at some photos in the file and winced. “Man, Kalmaku, he did a number on you!” McCarthy showed a picture to Satsuma and he whistled, impressed.

  “Anyway, face or not,” McCarthy continued, “the coroner was still able to come up with an estimated time of death, even allowing for that weird-ass snowstorm.”

  “That’s some more crazy shit,” Satsuma said. “California is fucked up.”

  “Sparks wasn’t dead that long,” McCarthy said. “Must have been close to when you and Roberts went toe to toe.”

  Jimmy said nothing.

  “Then you and Mr. Watters make a trip down to our fair state, an old lady winds up dead, and Watters and his grandson are missing.”

  “Donny was missing for days before we got here.”

  “So you say,” said McCarthy.

  “Detectives,” Jimmy said, “I don’t understand where this is going.”

  “You must know you’re George’s sole beneficiary.”

  “I am?” This was news to Jimmy.

  McCarthy shook his head in disgust. “And that old lady? She had a bundle stashed in banks in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Watters would have gotten it all.”

  “And now it’s yours,” Satsuma said.

  “If he turns up dead,” McCarthy amended.

  “Lost in the swamp, looking for his grandson,” Satsuma said sadly.

  Jimmy held on to his temper carefully because it was threatening to rage up out of him like a terrible force. “None of this makes any sense, and I think you know that. If you insist on questioning me further, I’m going to ask for an attorney.”

  McCarthy shrugged as if it was all a misunderstanding. “You’re not under arrest, Mr. Kalmaku. We’re just having a conversation.”

  “Then I’d like to go,” Jimmy said.

  “We found his car,” McCarthy said.

  “What? Where?” Jimmy asked.

  “Near some shitty strip mall on Fairview and Miner,” said McCarthy. Then, mocking Jimmy’s calm voice, he said, “But I imagine you know that.”

  “Is there…is there any sign of him?”

  “Not yet,” said Satsuma, “we’re processing the car now.”

  “I need to go.”

  “Car’s in impound, Kalmaku. You want to tell us everything now, it might go easier for you.”

  Jimmy said nothing, but the rage in his eyes made McCarthy take a half step back.

  “Can I go?” Jimmy asked.

  “Door’s open,” McCarthy said.

  Jimmy left.

  Satsuma looked at McCarthy. “Follow him?”

  “Absolutely,” McCarthy answered.

  —

  Jimmy got directions to Fairview and Miner from the desk sergeant. When Jimmy asked if he might call a cab, the man laughed and told him the nearest cabs would be out of Port Allen.

  Jimmy found a burger stand and downed a large cheeseburger, fries, and extra large cup of black coffee.

  If he knew George, he had gone off without the proper apparel, food, and water. He ordered two grilled ham and cheese sandwiches to go.

  There was a small market down the street, so he went in and bought several bottles of water, two packaged sandwiches, protein bars, candy bars, two apples, and two oranges. The store sold reusable cloth bags with the store’s logo, so he took one to haul his provisions. As he was about to leave, he thought of something and went to the hardware aisle. There he selected two stout flashlights and the proper batteries, and added these to his purchases.

  It was two miles to the shopping center, and he was glad he had been walking daily in Seattle. Still, that nagging problem in his joints was manifesting itself as a dull ache, and he hoped he wouldn’t need to go too far.

  Two blocks behind him, Detectives McCarthy and Satsuma followed in their car.

  “Jesus, this could take all night,” said Satsuma.

  “Patience, me lad,” said McCarthy, affecting an Irish lilt.

  “Your accent is terrible,” groused Satsuma.

  “Have a lot of relatives on the Emerald Isle, do ye?”

  Satsuma shook his head and McCarthy laughed.

  Jimmy arrived at the strip center at Fairview and Miner. The tire store was out of business, but the coffee place, convenience store, and laundromat were still open.

  The car was in front of the laundromat, and he went to it. Jimmy felt a flash of anger; the detectives had lied to him when they said the car had been impounded. He imagined they were trying to catch him at something.

  Bastards.

  It was locked. It didn’t matter much, George had the only keys, and where he was going a car would be useless.

  Jimmy looked in the laundromat. There was a large woman holding a baby. She looked tired and subdued. A few machines over was a young black man reading a book and a little black girl playing with a doll.

  Why here?

  He noted the blocks on either side were houses, once grand but now aged and in disrepair.

  Was it possible George’s childhood home had stood on this spot? In that case, George would have gone…

  Jimmy hurried around the back of the strip center, ignoring the coffee place and the hard stares of three teenage youths, one black and two white, heavily tattooed and drinking beer out of paper bags.

  They waited for Jimmy to disappear into the alley, then chugged the remainder of their beers and threw the empties into brown and scrubby bushes in a brick planter.

  They didn’t look at one another but moved with the precision of a pack of wolves.

  “Hey, asswipes.”

  They turned as one, shocked at the foolhardy insolence of some stranger.

  Detectives McCarthy and Satsuma stood there, McCarthy with his badge out.

  “Hit the bricks, ladies, this place is off-limits for the evening.”

  “Free country,” sneered one of the white kids.

  “Yeah? Maybe you’d like to experience your freedom inside a cell, smart guy.”

  “We ain’t done nothing,” said the other white kid.

  “Littering to start. I’m sure I can jack that up to vandalism, willful destruction of property,” answered McCarthy.

  “Ain’t afraid of no security guard and his toy badge,” the black kid said, reaching into his pocket.

  “Don’t,” said Satsuma, opening his jacket to show his Glock.

  “You wanna go home to your mamas or you wanna cool your heels in a holding cell?” McCarthy asked. “Cuz I just love adding to the sheet of little shitheels like you.”

  The kids sneered but moved off down Fairview. When they got half a block away, they all turned and gave the detectives the finger with both hands.

  McCarthy laughed, and Satsuma made a derisive sound.

  In the alley, Jimmy heard some of the encounter but ignored it. He was trying to get a feeling, some clue.

  He stopped at the gap in the wall. Something rubbed against his leg, and he was sure that it was a dog, perhaps a stray.

  There was nothing there.

  It was possible he had imagined it. He stepped over the debris in his way and headed across the grass, looking for tracks.

  Something registered on his unconscious and he glanced back.

  There, lying in the gap of the wall, was a dog. It looked miserable. Its head popped up as he looked at it, and it whined very clearly.

&nbs
p; Jimmy felt that odd, detached from physicality sensation he sometimes did when faced with something clearly magical or supernatural.

  The dog barked once and disappeared.

  Hoping this was a good omen and not a dire warning, he went on into the trees.

  In the alley, McCarthy and Satsuma lingered behind a Dumpster. When Jimmy stopped and looked back, they thought he had made them, but then he kept going.

  As Jimmy disappeared into the trees, Satsuma said, “Maybe we should call for backup.”

  “Are you nuts? This old man’s going to lead us right to the body.”

  Satsuma started to protest, and McCarthy stopped him. “He’s an old man and he moves like a cripple. Are you seriously worried he’s packing?”

  “People who have that attitude usually end up shot,” Satsuma said.

  “Look, I’ll take point. If he shoots me, take the bastard out.”

  “Gil…” Satsuma pleaded.

  “Suit yourself, partner. I’m going—you and the cavalry buzz me when you’re in the alley.”

  McCarthy moved off. Swearing under his breath, Satsuma followed him.

  They easily stepped through the gap in the cinder-block wall. Neither saw the spectral dog nor registered anything odd.

  Moving with confidence and ease, they followed the path Jimmy had left.

  —

  Jimmy had to admit, his tracking skills were not up to the literary standards of Mr. James Fenimore Cooper. Then again, his people had primarily lived on halibut, salmon, and shellfish. Game like venison was sometimes obtained, but more often in trade with one of the inland villages.

  Still, George had not been the most stealthy of hikers. There were plenty of broken branches and muddy footprints to show his passing. Jimmy thought such clumsiness might serve him; most gators and snakes would avoid a human if possible. Unless George blundered into a nest or ran into a starving reptile, he should be all right.

  And the more lethal threats, those of a supernatural origin? He could only hope he found George before they did.

  And what will you do, old man?

  There was an inner voice he hadn’t heard in some time, his own self-doubt. He thought that annoying presence had been banished long ago.

  I will fight. Now go away, I have no time for you.

  The voice sneered, but Jimmy ignored it. He took a small sip of water, wanting to save as much as possible for George.

  He thought he heard something and glanced back behind him.

  There was nothing, but it felt like someone or something was there, watching him. He waited a moment, then decided it was best to keep moving.

  The sooner he found George, the better.

  Behind Jimmy, Detectives McCarthy and Satsuma hid themselves behind a chokeberry bush.

  “Jesus, you think this asshole is going to walk all the way back to Port Allen?” Satsuma said, scratching at several mosquito bites on his neck.

  McCarthy shrugged. “It’s unlikely he dragged a body all this way. He must have convinced the other geezer to follow him.”

  “Maybe at gunpoint,” Satsuma offered.

  “Could be. Maybe he ditched the piece in the swamp.”

  “Gil, we’re not dressed or prepared for this kind of trek. Heck, the old man stocked up on shit, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  McCarthy checked his watch. “Six o’clock,” he said. “Okay, let’s note our position on GPS; we’ll put a unit on his car.”

  Satsuma nodded, relieved.

  They waited until they were sure they wouldn’t be spotted, then doubled back.

  —

  Jimmy walked for another hour. He was drenched with sweat and it seemed like every square inch of exposed skin was full of bites. He had scratched himself on numerous thorns and accidentally grabbed a handful of stinging nettles, which had caused an intense pain like flaming hornet stings.

  So much for Leatherstocking, he thought, sipping some water.

  His legs and age betrayed him often in the treacherous landscape. When he took a misstep into a hole or stumbled over a rock or log, the pain in his joints was so excruciating that he cried out. Once he had fallen, bruising his side and his knees, ankles, wrists, and elbows had hurt so badly that he had actually blacked out for a few minutes.

  I may find George, but am I going to be able to help him?

  Finally, he had to rest. He felt guilty doing so, but his blundering was going to get him a broken leg or worse.

  He sat down beneath a tree. Like George, he hoped he was far enough from any errant predators. He closed his eyes, willing himself to awaken in twenty minutes.

  His last thought as he drifted off was that he should have purchased bug spray.

  Nice move, Natty Bumppo, he thought, and was out.

  —

  It was twilight by the time Detectives McCarthy and Satsuma found their way back to the broken wall. They had had a couple of scares, one involving a large gator and the other when they had gotten turned around. The gator had hissed at them, then turned tail and gone in the water. As for being turned around, it was Satsuma who had spotted a burned-out stump they had passed following Kalmaku.

  “My fucking shoes are ruined,” complained Satsuma, “and my slacks. Thanks, partner.”

  “Told you to get some more durable shoes, buddy,” said McCarthy.

  “I am starving. Where do you want to eat?”

  “Dell’s is open, wanna go there?”

  “Yeah,” said Satsuma, “but I need to get a candy bar or a cookie or something, my blood sugar is freakin’ low.”

  “Probably get something at the coffee shop or the minimart,” said McCarthy. They scraped off their shoes in the alley, knocking clumps of mud that stubbornly clung to the soles.

  “Fucking swamp,” said McCarthy, and Satsuma laughed.

  They headed toward the mouth of the alley closest to them and stopped when a tall figure in a top hat stepped into their path some twenty yards away.

  The man was all in shadow, though both men thought some of his features or clothing should have been visible in the twilight.

  “Help you, sir?” McCarthy asked.

  Professor Foxfire laughed. “Ah, two fine deputies stumbling about in the gloaming.”

  “Guy’s plastered,” McCarthy said to Satsuma.

  “My swamp, she is a difficult woman, no? Still, she can love you like no other, with her embrace of muck and scales, snake fangs and spider venom.”

  “Jesus, what is that, Shakespeare?” Satsuma said.

  “More like drunken bullshit,” McCarthy said. Then to the shadow man he said, “Clear the way, sir, sheriff’s business.”

  “Please, allow me to introduce myself, good sirs. I am Professor Foxfire, sometimes known as the capricious Will-o’-the-Wisp, the dreaded hinkypunk, and by scholars as Ignis Fatuus, the ‘foolish fire.’ However, you gentlemen of the streets probably know me best as Deadlight Jack.”

  “Deadlight Jack,” McCarthy said, smirking, “Really.”

  Professor Foxfire bowed low.

  “Well, I’m known as Detective Gilbert McCarthy of the Iberville Parish Sheriff’s Department, and if you don’t want to spend the night in the drunk tank, I suggest you move your colorfully named ass on down the road.”

  Professor Foxfire walked forward, his ringmaster costume and features becoming clearer, even though the ambient light had grown dimmer.

  To McCarthy, he looked like that British comedian he thought was so hilarious. To Satsuma, he looked like Hiroyuki Shimosawa, an actor his husband was quite taken with.

  Professor Foxfire smiled as he drew closer.

  Now they saw the tattoos appear on his cheeks, and they became confused. The tattoos seemed to ignite, and it looked like his face was aflame. The Professor’s eyes became the yellow glow of jack-o’-lanterns, and he laughed.

  “You want to call your men, have them tramp through my bayou, just when I have a reunion to attend? I can’t have that, oh no!”

  M
cCarthy and Satsuma both drew their weapons and began firing. Both were excellent marksmen, having put in hours at the range and in competitions.

  Although the bullets must have found their mark, the man in the top hat kept coming.

  He enfolded McCarthy in his cloak like a lover, and McCarthy began to scream.

  Satsuma’s weapon was empty. He ran the other way, calling into his radio.

  “This is Satsuma! Officer down! I have a suspect in the alley at Fairview and Miner—six-five, one-eighty, top hat and cloak. He’s…he’s not human.”

  “Say again, Detective?” came back the voice of the dispatcher.

  “Officer down, Fairview and Miner!”

  McCarthy’s screams faded, like he was moving away. Satsuma looked, but there was no sign of his partner.

  He tried to reload his weapon, but his hands were shaking too hard. He dropped the fresh clip and it clattered to the ground.

  Before he could react, a thin, almost skeletal hand reached down and retrieved it. Professor Foxfire handed it to him, and Detective Leo Satsuma found himself crying.

  “Oh, don’t cry, Mr. Sheriff Man! You miss your partner? I will take you to him!”

  Satsuma tried to run, but then he was falling down into a darkness that was foul and full of every nightmare he had ever known.

  When several units of the sheriff’s department converged on the strip mall’s parking lot, they found nothing. Every trace of them, even shell casings, was gone.

  As for the two cars that might have invited speculation and even more searching within the bayou, they had swiftly been claimed by rust and decay in the blink of an eye, and the last of the remnants had blown away by the time help arrived.

  —

  When Jimmy awoke, it was already dark. He checked his watch with the flashlight and saw that it was after nine. He cursed himself, then got up. He was terribly stiff, and his joints ached more than ever.

  If this got much worse, he’d have to help Raven from a wheelchair.

  Raven—where the hell was he?

  Jimmy got his bearings and continued on, grateful for the flashlight.

  He tried not to think about George hurt or worse, he just concentrated on looking for signs that the man had been this way. He couldn’t see anything, and wondered if he was going the wrong way. Should he rely on his intuition?