by Jason Beymer
He would puss out.
Pearl hopped onto his lap and licked his neck.
He wiped away the saliva. “What was that for?”
“I’m not completely insensitive,” Pearl said. “You’re my daddy. That means I know when you’re hurting. I know you’re still in love with your ex, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I don’t love her.”
“Right. You don’t love Lorraine. Garrick isn’t your father. I don’t have your soul inside me. Did you forget? I’m the one person … thing … you can’t fool. I know you love her, but you can’t go back for her.” She licked him again. “Listen to me for once. Drive.”
He punched the accelerator. As he moved away from the scene, he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror.
* * * *
Burklin pushed the accelerator pedal against the floor. “Hold on,” he said, making a hard left into his mother’s driveway. The Eiffel Perdue’s front wheels jumped the curb, and he slammed on the brakes. The impact hurled Pearl against the dashboard with a grunt.
Burklin revved the engine again, and the car growled asthmatically. The headlights pooled over the inside of the garage.
“Hey,” he said. “I don’t remember leaving the garage door open.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then why …”
Burklin saw the tip of a fedora poking out of the pit. He opened the car door and tumbled onto the driveway.
“Calm down,” Pearl said. “You’ll overheat.”
Burklin left the engine running and stomped toward the old man. “What are you doing to my mother?”
Garrick climbed out of the pit, clutching his heart. Sweat poured down his face. He looked up, opened his mouth to speak, then clenched his jaw.
“What’s the matter with you?” Burklin asked him.
“My … heart.” The old man collapsed, breathing quick gulps of air.
“You’re having a heart attack?” Burklin said. “Good!”
Dirt covered Garrick’s charcoal suit, so immaculate and crisp hours ago. He coughed, and a line of drool fell from his lower lip. “It’s not supposed to stop. Something must have happened to …” Garrick loosened his tie. Sweat collected along the base of the fedora and soaked his bushy eyebrows.
Burklin unfolded a lawn chair. He sat down, crossed his legs, and settled in for the show.
“Already did this once,” Garrick said.
“Then die already,” Burklin said. “I’ll take real good care of you. I’ll toss you in the Dumpster behind Hoppy’s for those mullet-wearing elves to sort out. Tell you what, put my soul back where it belongs and maybe I’ll call nine-one-one.”
“Not … likely.”
Burklin’s gaze drifted to the pit, now partially covered in wooden planks. A stream of oily syrup ran across the floor, and his eyes followed it to an open door at the rear of the garage. The thick black substance looked as if a thousand oozing slugs had blazed the trail.
Strange.
“Was that back door open when you got here?” he asked.
“Water,” Garrick said.
“You want water? I’ll get you water.”
Burklin stood and grabbed a garden hose from the front of the garage. He twisted the nozzle until a stream of water burst from the end, then pointed it at the old man.
“There,” Burklin said. “Drink up.”
Garrick clapped his hands over his face, shielding it. “Stop!”
Burklin unloaded on him, savoring the moment, aiming at his head. Satisfied, he turned off the water and dropped the hose.
“Disrespectful shit,” Garrick said. The old man rolled over on his back, drenched. He took longer breaths. “My heart never does that. It stopped once before, but it didn’t resume then.”
“What were you doing in the pit?”
“You first,” he said. “Where’s my dead Korean?”
“What do you mean? I threw her in the pit. Isn’t she there?”
Garrick narrowed his eyes. “Interesting. You just got here. Where have you been, son? I’ll bet you went back to Max’s house.”
Burklin looked away. “Uh-uh.”
“That’s where I would have gone, to see if the Korean left any—” He stopped. “Did you find the bag?”
Burklin felt himself flush. “What bag?”
Garrick stared at him while he shook water from his fedora. “You found it, didn’t you? I bet it’s in the Eiffel. Did you look at the photographs inside?”
Burklin shrugged and cursed his involuntarily flushing cheeks. Up until the day Garrick ripped out his soul, he’d made a killing at the poker tables. Now he wouldn’t dare go near one.
Garrick looked at the street and checked his watch. “And where is your lovely ex-wife? She should be here by now.”
“Lorraine’s car crashed. Guess you didn’t see that with your visions.”
Garrick shook his head. “Help me up.”
Burklin stepped in front of the Eiffel’s headlights and crossed his arms. “I saw Max die,” he said. “Well, I saw him launch into the air after the collision anyway. I assume he’s dead.”
“Ah. That explains my heart issues. Is Lorraine …”
Burklin looked away.
“I see,” Garrick said. “So they’re both dead?”
“You tell me. You forced Lorraine to meet with Max. Didn’t you know this would happen?”
“Strongly suspected is a fairer accusation.”
“Then why would you force Lorraine to meet with him?”
“Because I knew she would do it,” he answered with a shrug. “I needed Lorraine to bring him here. I hoped she wouldn’t die so fast.”
“But you can’t get close to Max either.”
Garrick struggled to his feet. “Neither can the Asian. I planned to use Max as a … weapon? Yes. A weapon. I intended Lorraine to bring him here, and unleash the demon on the woman a second time, I suppose. Finish the job.”
“Lorraine trusted you!”
“Yes. She was gullible. Susceptible to fear tactics. It doesn’t matter. If Max died, the trinity is in jeopardy.”
“You allowed Lorraine to die. And for what? She trusted you, even after what you and that doctor did to her in Hoppy’s basement.”
“Why are you still bringing that up?”
Burklin glared.
“That’s the past,” Garrick said. “We don’t have time for boo-hoo tears. I had my reasons for doing what I did to Lorraine. And as far as your soul goes, you know why I ripped it out.”
“How can you act like nothing’s happened?”
“Because I’m more intelligent than you. Don’t worry about it. The police will assume your ex-wife stole Black Beauty, or whatever childish nickname you’ve given that automobile. I’ll even concoct a story about Lorraine having a sexual relationship with the demon bastard. Well, after I call in some favors with my journalistic brethren, of course. What’s to worry about? Let’s get the bag out of the Eiffel and plan our next move.”
“This isn’t—”
The Eiffel’s engine revved. Both Burklin and Garrick turned around. The high beams blinded them. The tires squealed as the car took off in reverse, backing up into the street and knocking over a mailbox.
“Oh, no.”
“Who’s stealing the Eiffel?” Garrick asked.
“I think it’s the dead girl. Wanda.”
“Wanda?” Garrick’s eyes widened. “You named it?”
Burklin caught a brief look at Wanda’s face through the windshield. Greenish-red boils littered her forehead. Her hollow eyes blinked rapidly, and the duct tape still covered her mouth.
He ran down the driveway and chased the car. The Eiffel lurched forward as Burklin closed in, then sped away. It rounded a corner and disappeared from view. He stopped running.
Garrick made it as far as the street before he ran out of breath. He set his hands on his knees, gasping for air.
“Let’s get in your car and go after them,” Burklin sa
id.
“Can’t …”
“Give me your keys or so help me, I’ll take them by force.”
“Even if you had the balls”—he winced—”to follow through on that threat, you wouldn’t find anything useful in my pockets. The keys are in my fingers.”
“You use your powers to start the car?”
“Keyless ignition, idiot. And it will only accept my fingerprint.”
“Oh.”
The Eiffel was gone, taking Burklin’s soul with it.
“Don’t worry,” Garrick said. “I have a plan.”
Chapter 16
Going Up
Two ambulances, three police cruisers and a fire truck parked on the freeway. Traffic filtered into one lane as the emergency crews took residence in the others. Police officers struck flares and threw them onto the asphalt, then waved the clogged traffic around the scene.
Inside the demolished car, Lorraine’s sight returned in sparkles. Warm oil spread through her veins and rushed through her extremities. It seeped into every crack and crevice, spread to every nerve. In the glow, she saw the outline of the steering column. It must have taken the brunt of her weight and kept her from flying headfirst through the windshield. She peered through the shattered glass. What was that whiteness?
Must be the airbag, she told herself.
No, that wasn’t right. No airbag had deployed.
Cheap bastard. Burklin loved this car, had spent so much money on customization, speaker technology, and heated seats. Why hadn’t he shelled out a few lousy bucks for an airbag? Then she remembered. She’d disabled it during their marriage. Burklin had killed a baseball player she liked, a pitcher with a 1.57 ERA. Burklin had never understood her passion for baseball. Nor could he understand the difference between loving a specific baseball player and loving a specific baseball player. She’d come home with a signed ball, the signature scrawled across the lacing.
“See,” she’d said, holding it up. “He signed it right there.”
“I’ll fucking kill him.”
And he had. Sliced open his neck and shoved that baseball into his throat. Burklin had driven the corpse to Hoppy’s, dumped it in the magic Dumpster, then returned home and handed her the wet baseball, saying, “Here. It’ll be worth more now.”
In retaliation, she’d taken Black Beauty’s electric system to task with a screwdriver and a pair of garden shears.
So no airbag.
Lorraine tried to blink, but her eyes wouldn’t respond. From her vantage point, she could see part of the dashboard and the shattered glass. Beyond the crushed hood, the whiteness subsided. She realized she stared into the sunlight’s glare.
“Max?” she tried to call out.
She saw him. The demon hadn’t worn his seatbelt. Now he was macabre wall art, adhered to the concrete.
“Uh-oh,” Lorraine said.
“Don’t move, lady,” someone called out. She swung her head to the left.
Snap.
Lorraine’s head dropped. Her vision filled with speckled neon, and a million flares ignited. Her legs numbed. She felt a hand slip under each arm and fasten tight. Something tugged once, then again. Her butt rose into the air. Higher and higher she climbed, passing straight through the roof of the car.
Lorraine tried to say, “Careful,” but nothing came. She emerged through the steel, her legs dangling.
Maybe the paramedics had employed some new technology, a rescue system that pulled victims through the roof. Or maybe a magical crane capable of lifting a person through solid matter. If so, it needed to stop. She’d risen too high.
As she ascended, she watched the paramedics fawn over Max. They peeled his body off the cement wall.
Lorraine picked up some of their words: “This one’s dead,” “Get me the paddles,” and “Both dead at the scene.”
Both?
She caught a glimpse of the other drivers in the morning traffic. They leaned on their horns and yelled at the paramedics and officers. They drank their morning coffees, sang along with their radios, bellowed into their cellphones. The police had opened just one lane on that side of the freeway, causing unhappiness for the commuters. Despite their anger, every driver slowed as they passed the scene of the accident. They were jungle safari jeeps stopping to watch the lion feast on the gazelle. Ooh, isn’t that neat?
Lorraine passed through the billowy ceiling of clouds. The sky changed color, blue to gray, and the accident disappeared below. She heard another sound, a gentle hum in the grayness. The flowing oil within her veins transformed into pure silk.
“Fear not,” a soothing voice said, “for mine arms lift thee.”
She relaxed. Finally. After resenting Garrick for so many years, after allowing the old man to feed every insecurity, she felt peaceful. Nothing mattered anymore. She felt no pain, no frustration. She allowed herself to partake in the comfort this voice offered, safe in the strong, confident arms. It spoke to every worry, dousing each one with a waterfall of warm milk. “I told thee to fear not. I am here.”
“Hold it, chief,” said another entity below her, rough and abrasive. “This one ain’t yours to pluck.”
“Beast, thou art not welcome.”
“No shit? Hand over the sweat hog and I’ll make myself scarce then.”
“I take her to the Holy Place.”
“Did you scan her serial number yet?”
“Nay, foul one. Where we go is not thy dwelling. Be gone.”
The monstrous creature, a reddish-black blotch, moved closer to the white being and brushed against Lorraine’s cheek. “True,” the thing said. “It’s not my place, but it ain’t her place either.”
“Leave, beast. Lest I read from Holy Scripture and cast a pox upon thee.”
“Oooh,” the thing said with a laugh. “Scary.”
“Be gone.”
“Rules, laws, and conventions, oh boring one of light. You know how the bureaucratic process goes in the Nether. You know you’re bound to the Law, per the Grand Compromise.”
The white light continued to lift Lorraine.
“You’re violating the truce,” the thing said. “You’re obligated to scan the woman’s serial number, lest the Order become defunct.”
“Enough, beast. If this formality wilt satiate the horrors of the Nether, I shall appraise this woman’s soul.”
The pulling stopped. She stared down upon the earth and watched an airplane fly below her—a small dot above tiny patchwork squares.
Lorraine felt a quick jolt and the sensation of a key turning in a lock. One of her arms went limp. Fingers writhed within her chest like over-caffeinated tapeworms, working their way up her spine. Something touched the base of her skull.
Beep.
“Oh, dear,” the white light said.
“See? She bears the mark.”
Cold replaced the warmth. Millions of sharp, microscopic granules flowed through her veins, freezing the oil into icy shards.
“Don’t I have any say in this?” she asked.
“No,” both said simultaneously.
“I am sorry,” the white light said to Lorraine, “but thy serial number hath the marked digits.” It paused and added, “And thou art a shape shifter, as was the serpent in the Garden.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” the red cloud said, “the pompous relic of light doesn’t get to keep you. You’ve belonged to the Nether since the day you accepted your master’s gift of pheromone manipulation.”
All her insecurities returned in an instant. The thing bumped the white cloud out of the way, grasped Lorraine by the scruff of the neck, and thrust her earthward. Wind rushed against her cheeks and froze them raw. The red cloud drove her face-first toward the ground with the speed of a screaming jet. She passed through the earth and plummeted into darkness. Seconds later Lorraine collided with something solid, and the wind rushed out of her.
She rubbed her eyes and found herself in a small, well-lit room. Somewhere above, th
e orchestral version of Welcome to the Jungle played.
The reddish cloud disappeared.
The ebony walls dripped, as if slathered with fresh black paint. It resembled the gunk she’d seen at Burklin’s apartment, and smelled like it, too. Vinegar. Two chairs sat in the center of the room, tucked beneath a black, circular table. On top of it, a pen dripped red ink onto a slip of paper.
Lorraine shivered from the cold of the room and saw her breath. She looked down at herself. Naked. Her protruding stomach hung over her bushy genitalia.
“Whoa,” someone said. “You’re here, too?”
Lorraine covered her breasts instinctively. The boy, also naked, sat at arm’s length. His presence gave her a chill. “Max?”
“Eww,” Max said. He gave a throaty pot smoker’s laugh. “You’re even fatter with no clothes on. You’ve got, like, rolls of grossness and stuff.”
“Max?” Lorraine said again.
“Am I on a bad trip, or what? Fuck, dude. Those mushrooms are wicked strong. So, what part of my trip are you? A talking pig?”
“I’m Lorraine, you idiot. We died in a car accident.”
He laughed again, his mouth never closing. “Huh,” he snorted. “That’s a funny one. This room sucks. Can we go trippin’ somewhere else?”
“You don’t get it. We both died. Remember?”
“Uh, I guess so. We chased some doofus in a gray car. And you …” He scratched his head.
“I crashed. We’re dead.”
“So is this heaven?” he asked. “Awesome! How do I get to the golden streets? I want to lift a few bricks and trade them in for some weed.”
Chapter 17
The Empty One-Gallon Jug
Burklin sulked in front of the open garage door. Birds sang in the trees, dogs barked, and the sun grew brighter overhead. He slumped into a patch of dirt, next to the garden hose. “Damn,” he muttered.
Garrick stood next to him. He removed his soaked charcoal jacket and folded it over his arm. “Let’s stay out of the garage for now,” he said. “It smells too much like the Nether. Brings up too many bad memories.”
Burklin stared at the empty driveway, following the path of blackened yogurt. “I didn’t bind Wanda’s wrists tight enough.”
