by Jason Beymer
“But I have to pee.”
“You’re trying to stall, aren’t you?”
She paused, then, “Yes and no. I do have to pee. My bladder’s full. I think my urinary tract will rupture. And I think … yeah, I have to go fooey-fooey too.”
He held the door open for her. “Do it on the grass, and stay in the shadows.”
Pearl leaped out and scrambled to the nearest lawn.
“Hurry up.”
“God, you’re grumpy.” Pearl wagged her tail and sniffed the air. “I smell other dogs.” She put her nose to the grass. “I feel the urge to bark.”
“Don’t.”
Pearl pranced in a circle on the lawn, in and out of the light of the street lamps. She lifted each paw high in a dutiful march, shredding bits of grass.
“Go already,” Burklin snapped.
The streetlamp flickered and buzzed. Pearl growled at it.
“Did you see it flicker? Tell me you saw that. It … I don’t know … flickered. I’ve almost got it now. Yes, this is the perfect patch of grass.”
Pearl squatted over a patch of weeds. Her tail flexed like the handle on a soft-serve ice cream dispenser, she pushed, and—
Music erupted from the trunk of the Eiffel. Pearl jumped.
“What is that?” Burklin said, eyes moving.
The music grew louder, and he recognized Sir Mix-A-Lot’s voice. Burklin ran to the back of the car and opened the trunk, releasing Mack Daddy to the entire neighborhood. He searched for the source of the noise, one hand in the trunk and the other against his lips. “Shh, shh, shh.”
A light came on in a window three houses down. Two more clicked on, then a fourth.
Burklin stuck his head into the trunk. He discovered a cellphone taped to the inside, covered by a sheet of plastic. He ripped it free.
Burklin pressed the talk button. “Hello?”
“You,” Garrick said. “I see you found the emergency cellphone I taped to the inside of your trunk. This means you probably still have the car.”
Shit. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Are you feeling good about yourself? I’ll bet you are. After two years with your soul inside that barking sausage, you think you’ve finally found a way out.”
Burklin looked at the house, then back to Pearl circling the lawn. Cripes. He needed to hurry. He cupped his palm over the receiver. “I’m going into the house,” he whispered to the dog. “Hide underneath the car when you’re done.”
Burklin dashed toward the side gate.
“Are you still there?” Garrick asked.
Burklin put the phone against his ear, still running. “Yes.”
“The truth is, this situation far exceeds the gravity of our personal differences. You need to trust me, as Lorraine does.”
“Lorraine doesn’t trust you. She’s afraid of you.”
He worked his way through the gate and hurried along the dog run, his shoes noisy on the gravel.
“Semantics,” Garrick said. “I’m your father. I know best.”
“My father died before I was born.”
“Could you be any stupider?”
Relieved to find the patio door unlocked, Burklin entered the house. “Max?” he called out, cupping the receiver again. Nothing answered. He walked into the living room and listened for the demon.
“Um,” Burklin said into the phone. “What do you want?”
“Is the Asian girl with you?”
“What girl?”
“I know she’s still alive. Lorraine found her leavings in your apartment. She said the black substance was moving.”
“So?”
“It wouldn’t move if the girl was dead. And there wouldn’t have been such a large amount.”
Burklin started to ask Garrick how he knew so much about the vinegary gunk, but stopped himself.
“Go on and ask,” Garrick said. “I’ll bet you’re curious why her blood seemed so unusual.”
“Not one bit.”
“I find that difficult to believe, knowing you as well as I do.”
Burklin examined the floor. Lorraine and the sheriff had cleaned up most of the mess, cut and removed the squares of carpet with the thickest blood. He moved farther into the house and entered the kitchen. Burklin looked through the cabinets and drawers. He waded through empty rolls of paper towels and a mountain of cleaning supplies.
“Why do you sound so out of breath?” Garrick asked. “What are you doing right now?”
“How did you find out she came back to life? I mean,” he shook his head. “I mean … what girl?”
“She’s dangerous. Tell me where she is and I’ll deal with her.”
“Not going to happen. Well, maybe if you put my soul back where it belongs.”
“If I do that, you’ll kill me.”
Of course he would. “I’ll never tell you where she is.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Garrick said. “You’ll never tell me where she is. Does that mean she’s not with you? Let’s have a father-to-son chat. I can help. You still have time to make this right. Drive to Hoppy’s, tie her up, and lock her inside the Dumpster.”
“Give me back my soul.”
“No, but I’ll make you a counter-offer. I’ll murder your annoying little dog. I’ll pluck Pearl apart. Then you’ll turn into a soulless, lobotomized lump of breathing organs. You think it’s bad now with your symbiotic relationship to the dog? Wait until your soul actually dies. Then you’ll feel nothing whatsoever.”
For some reason that sounded nice. Burklin entered the hall and rifled through the linen closets, then opened the door to Max’s bedroom and smelled a pot forest.
Burklin’s bowels moved. He clenched. This likely meant the dog was pooping. Now Pearl would hide underneath the Eiffel and wait for him—unless she decided to make a run for the Burger Clog.
“I will figure out where the Asian girl is,” Garrick said. “You are simple to read. Always have been. Tell you what. I’m still at my office. It seemed the most appropriate place to stay until everything blew over. Why don’t you bring your new lady friend by? I’ll toast up some crumpets.”
Garrick’s office put him a good distance away from Mariner City, thirty miles south. Garrick went there to masturbate and hire prostitutes, neither of which he’d done since beginning his “relationship” with Lorraine. Worse, his office was just a few blocks away from Burklin’s mother’s house. Burklin had forgotten that when he dumped Wanda in the pit.
Damn it, he couldn’t worry about that now. He needed to find the bag.
“You’ll tell me where she is,” Garrick said. “You have no spine.”
“I could hang up.”
“But you haven’t.”
Burklin almost pressed the disconnect button, then Garrick asked, “How is your mother?” in a conversational tone.
“Fine, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Your voice just made the faintest quiver. Sort of a tangled falsetto.”
“No, it didn’t,” Burklin said quickly.
“I went through my mental database, trying to think of where you might dump the body, and I made a phone call. Your mother isn’t answering her telephone.”
“Maybe she’s asleep.”
“I thought to myself, ‘If my weenie son wanted to hide something, where would he least expect me to look?’ You could have hidden it anywhere, I suppose. You know your mother lives close to my office.”
“Oh?” He tried to make himself sound surprised. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”
Garrick laughed. “Did you forget where you lived for the first eighteen years of your life?”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Not one hundred percent, no. But if the lady’s not with you, then you must have done something with her. Which means you got,” he coughed, “improvisational. Not your strong suit.”
“Did you really call my mother?”
“Yes. Just to see if she would answer. After all those voicemail
s she left at your apartment, calling every day with a new ailment, I’d have thought she would answer her phone on the first ring, in case it was you calling. However, I suppose she might have trouble getting to the phone if she’s detained.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Is Delores still upset with me? Does she still claim I raped her in the church?”
“Of course she …” He cleared his throat. “How would I know? It’s not like I drove over there.”
“You left the bitch with your mother, didn’t you?”
Damn.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Garrick said. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Now, I want to ask you about—”
Burklin disconnected the call.
“Damn, damn, damn.” He opened more doors, checked the bathroom, the coat closets. Where was it?
Then his ears perked at the sound of another ringing cellphone.
Burklin returned to the living room and followed the noise. He pulled the couch away from the wall and found a purple bag. This had to be the one. Lorraine had probably missed it when she cleaned up. Burklin lifted it and set it on the arm of the sofa as the phone continued to ring inside. His curiosity took over. He pulled a crumpled white sweater from the bag. Digging even deeper, he discovered the ringing cellphone.
The screen displayed “Incoming Call.” It rang another four tones, stopped, then started again. Burklin hovered over the display. He considered answering it, but didn’t know what to say. Sorry, Wanda isn’t here right now. Her innards fell out and turned black. No, that wouldn’t work.
Burklin closed his eyes and pressed the button to talk. “Hello,” he squeaked.
“Has contact been made?” The voice sounded creepy, guttural, as if the speaker stood in an empty subway tunnel.
“Uh-huh,” Burklin said.
“Excellent. Have you initiated contact with either of your minions?”
“Uh-huh.”
A pause, then, “Who is this?”
“I don’t know,” Burklin said, trying to sound tough. “Who is this?”
After several seconds it said, “Oh. Drifter. How did you manage to procure this telephonic device?”
“Drifter? What does that mean?”
“You are the Burklin, are you not?”
“Um … not.” He pressed the button and ended the call. “That went well.”
Burklin rummaged through the bag. Photographs filled the purple satchel like straw inside a scarecrow. He spied several loose pictures: Max in front of a supermarket, Max buying weed, Max with a girl. Wanda must have had a serious Max fetish. Burklin spotted a photograph of Lorraine. Several. He leafed through them and noted the remarkable detail. He saw the Lorraine he knew, the plus-sized woman with salt-and-pepper hair, but others showed Lorraine shapeshifted. Underneath these, he found several pictures of him. Some had been taken before Garrick ripped out his soul. His face looked different, more rigid. Darker.
“Pearl, too?” he muttered, catching several shots of the dog. Too many for a simple canine enthusiast.
The number of photos concerned him, but a few caught him off guard. In one, he parked Black Beauty in front of a hospital. Lorraine sat in the passenger seat, clutching her stomach. He saw the corner of Pearl’s crate in the backseat. They had just come from the beach, and had no time to drop Pearl off. Things would have been so different had they brought the dog home before heading to the hospital. Burklin stared at the snapshot a long moment. He didn’t need a timestamp to know it was two years old.
The next photograph, taken that same night, made him wince. Black Beauty sat in front of Garrick’s office. Burklin held it close to his face, and remembered. He’d kicked in the old man’s door. “I know what happened in Hoppy’s basement!” Burklin had screamed. “I know what you and that doctor did to Lorraine.”
“Aren’t you the smart one,” Garrick had said, crossing his arms. “I suppose you’re going to stand there and cry.”
“No. I’m going to kill you.”
“Once again, anger dictates your actions.” Garrick had pulled the blinds and looked out at the street. “I see you brought your little sausage dog along in the car.”
“Huh?” Burklin had clenched his fist, ready to beat Garrick to a bloody pulp. “We were at the beach, you prick. We didn’t have time to go home before the hospital.”
“Ah. That makes things more convenient for me, doesn’t it?”
Burklin set the photo aside and picked up more: Burklin in front of the psychiatrist’s office, Lorraine eating a doughnut, Pearl licking herself.
Was this the answer to all his questions? Was Wanda nothing more than a gifted stalker?
“But how did she get these?”
He found more photos shot at impossible angles. One showed him cleaning up the mess at the Burger Clog. In another, his psychiatrist fell through the window. A prepubescent Max masturbated in a bathtub. Burklin fished for a corresponding camera, but found none.
Who carried around an overnight bag filled with photographs anyway?
The purple satchel appeared as nondescript as the cellphone. No brand, plain colored, one zipper. Burklin rifled through it again, searching for anything he might have missed. The corner of something white stuck out from the side. He pulled it free. A brochure? “Uh-oh,” he said. Burklin stared at a picture of a camel in the desert, the words See Beautiful Iraq! along the top. The tri-fold looked pristine, unlike the copy Garrick kept in his back pocket.
Burklin returned his attention to the creepy, nondescript cellphone and scrolled through “Recent Calls.” Unknown Caller was the first number, the person he had spoken to moments ago. As he moved down the list, he came upon another one he recognized.
The timestamp was from earlier that night.
“No way,” he said.
He clicked on “Voicemail” and set the phone to his ear.
“Welcome to voicemail,” a mechanical voice said. “You have no new messages and … two … saved messages. To review your messages, press one.”
Burklin pressed one.
“First message received at 8:25 PM.” Pause. A new voice spoke. “Welcome to your new life on Earth!” it said, as if from a warped cassette tape. “In order to make assimilation to your new body as smooth as possible, please refrain from smoking, do not come in contact with the demon lord, and engage in dental hygienic visits every six months for the whitest possible smile. We in the Nether know assimilation can be tough, but trust in our expertise to ensure an expedient transition into your role.
“Within eight hours of your arrival, you will receive a welcome call from one of our greeters to inquire how you are getting along and to give you instructions on the demon …” The voice cut out and a cheerful female said, “… Lord Avnas …” Then the male voice returned. “… and any data you may require on said demon lord. Please take this opportunity to peruse the photographs, taken via our patent-pending Ethereal Periscope. Welcome to the exciting career of demon protectorship. Remember, while you serve a demon lord topside, you represent all of us below. Make us proud and deliver your charge into adulthood. Help him bridge the gap between worlds, deliver us from the Nether, and claim your sweepstakes reward with pride.”
The message cut out. Burklin pressed one.
“Message number two received at 11:02 PM.” A pause, then Garrick’s voice, “All right. I’ll meet you. But it will be on my terms. I live at Thirteen-Twelve Marlin Street. Meet me at my house at midnight tonight and I’ll provide you with the necessary information.” Pause, then the mechanical voice said, “End of messages.”
“Thirteen-Twelve,” Burklin muttered. Why did that address sound so familiar?
He replayed Garrick’s message twice, then tossed the phone back into the bag.
Burklin slung the purple satchel over his shoulder and exited through the patio door. He needed to get to the Eiffel and … what? Return to his mother’s house and retrieve Wanda, he supposed. Both Wanda and Garrick were holding back information.<
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Burklin made it through the gate and across the grass. Then his eyes fell on the address in front of the house: 1312.
“Damn,” he said.
So Garrick had instructed Wanda to meet him here at the demon’s home at midnight. An ambush? But why would Garrick send both he and Lorraine into the viper’s pit after her? It didn’t make sense.
Burklin crossed the street, moving toward the gray vehicle. Pearl trotted toward him. “I went fooey-fooey,” she said. “Give me a bacon treat.”
“Get in the car.”
He threw the purple satchel into the trunk and slammed the lid shut.
Chapter 14
What About the Bag?
Lorraine locked eyes with the demon. He’d parted his sheepdog hair, twitched his fingers several times, but hadn’t blinked in over a minute. Lorraine could hear the two employees fighting in the kitchen, arguing over which one of them had a legitimate claim to her vagina. Why didn’t Max get aroused? Better question: how much longer did she have to risk death by talking to him?
Something in Max’s pocket vibrated and beeped.
“Is that your cellphone?” Lorraine asked.
“Huh?” he said. “It’s probably my mom.”
“Maybe you should answer it.”
“Oh yeah, huh.” He removed the phone from his cargo shorts and put it to his ear. “Hello?” he said, then nodded.
Lorraine tried to listen, but couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation.
“No, Mom,” Max said, “I want to go home and play Halo.” Pause, then, “The cops? For reals? Can’t you—you know—fix it? Fuck.”
Max took the phone away from his ear and pocketed it, his face flushed. Spittle exploded along his bottom lip.
“Are you okay?” Lorraine asked.
“That was my Mom.”
Lorraine acted surprised. “Really? Wow. What did she say?”
“She said I’m supposed to go with you. That you’re going to take me someplace safe. If I don’t go with you, she says the cops will arrest me. For reals this time.”
Lorraine tilted her head. “Go with me where?”
Her cellphone rang and she jumped.
She looked down at it and saw Garrick’s name. “Don’t move,” she said, “I have to take this.”
