by Jason Beymer
“I’m taking her. I’ll install a crib in my apartment. I’ll raise her. I’ll take her to baseball games and …” But even as Burklin spoke, he realized the meaning of Garrick’s words—and the futility of his own.
“Do you get it yet?” Garrick said. “If this is a replacement for Lord Avnas, then we’re tasked with protecting her. That means we can never go near her. You can never go near her. If we do, we’ll die.”
“I can’t die. The slug thing told me.”
For the first time in Burklin’s life, Garrick produced a spark of humanity. “True, but you can’t keep drifting back and forth between worlds forever. Think of the toll death and rebirth will have on your body. I’m right, and you know it. Give me the baby. I’m taking a risk just having this conversation around the little tyke. While newborn demons are slightly less lethal, she won’t be newborn much longer.”
“Aren’t we supposed to drop dead?”
“We might if we stand here talking. The Nether allows a grace period so we can deliver the baby, make sure it’s healthy, and provide parting words to the mother.” He turned to look at the confused senator. “Though I doubt any parting words are necessary this time. We have to go. I’m getting a headache, and that means I’m on the verge of a seizure. Not good. Take a moment to say goodbye, Burklin, before the Fucked Bubble trips. I’d rather not be standing next to you when an airplane falls on your head.”
“But I—”
“You love her. Of course you do. That’s how I know you’ll never betray me again.”
As Garrick took the baby from Burklin, stealing both Lorraine and his chance at a family a second time, the pilot light flickered. He tried to fuel it, tried to give it flame, but it wouldn’t catch.
Two police officers approached Burklin. They nodded at the baby in Garrick’s arms.
“My partner and I,” one of the officers began, “we think we saw that baby come out of Senator McPhee. Tell us we’re both crazy. Please.”
“This baby?” Garrick said.
“We didn’t know McPhee was pregnant. And we saw what she did to that Asian woman. And, um …” He leaned in close to Garrick’s ear. “You two need to come with us and explain what happened.”
“Hey Carl,” the other policeman said. “Check out the baby’s face. She’s grinnin’. Ain’t that the cutest thing you ever saw?”
“How ‘bout that?” Carl stuck his finger into the baby’s belly. “Coochie-coochie-coo,” he said in a high-pitched voice.
“Move over, I want to touch the baby, too.”
“Get your own.”
“I’ll beat the shit out of you if you don’t let me have a coochie-coochie-coo.”
“Fuck off.” The one named Carl shoved his fellow officer in the chest.
As Garrick rocked the baby in his arms, it changed. It transformed from a pink, pruny newborn, to a white, smooth-skinned angel with the brightest blue eyes Burklin had ever seen.
Garrick looked down at Lorraine and smiled. “Good girl,” he whispered. Then he turned his attention to the officers. “The senator is in no shape to care for a newborn. Perhaps you should take custody of it?”
He handed the baby to Carl. Both officers replied at once, “Good idea.”
While they argued over which one got to hold the demon, Garrick grabbed Wanda’s body parts. He picked pieces of her off the floor and shoved them in his pockets.
“How are we getting out of here?” Burklin asked.
The spectators, made up of reporters, guests, and hotel security, pushed against the windows outside, fogging the glass. Some came back in, filing through the revolving doors. Burklin and Garrick couldn’t exit that way, not with their head wounds and bloody clothes. And with Garrick wanting to bring Wanda’s remains along with them …
“Don’t worry about it,” the old man said, as if reading his thoughts. He tapped his forehead. “My powers are back, remember? I’m envisioning a nice vacant route through the laundry room, and out through the truck bay.”
“Hey, you!” another policeman shouted.
“Crap,” Burklin said. He took a step backward. Here came the steel handcuffs, then the orange jumpsuits, the prison gangs, the bunkmates. He’d get tacky tattoos, and get traded to a big black guy for a pack of cigarettes.
Garrick’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Stop. Worrying.”
Burklin shrugged him off, then noticed something odd about the crowd.
The policeman stopped walking and turned his head. His eyes fell on the crying baby. So did dozens of others. Soon every person who came through the revolving doors turned to look: women, men, protestors, hotel employees, law enforcement. All attention moved from the dead Asian, the crazy senator and the two guys with bloody heads to the adorable newborn.
A chorus of “Ooh,” “Ahh” and high-pitched baby talk gushed from every mouth. With each cry, the crowd grew larger, enveloping the newborn. Burklin continued to back away, watching anxious women bulldoze through. Blouses dampened at the nipples as mammary glands secreted breast milk.
Garrick patted him on the back. “Time to go,” he said. “I’d hate to waste a good distraction.” The old man hefted the bulk of Wanda’s remains over his shoulder, soaking his jacket on that side.
“We can’t leave Lorraine here,” Burklin said.
Garrick glanced back at the baby. The enormous crowd blossomed, fighting over the right to hold her. “She’ll be fine. And apparently well fed. Grab your little dog and let’s go.”
Burklin clapped his hands at Pearl. “Come on,” he said. The dog stopped licking the carpet.
“Oh,” Garrick said, snapping his fingers. “Was I correct? Did you find the bag?”
He stooped to pick up Pearl. “Yeah, I found it at Max’s house. It should be in the Eiffel’s trunk—unless Wanda did something with it.”
“Excellent.” He removed a set of keys from his pocket and pressed a button. A horn honked in the parking lot.
“What did you do?”
The old man pocketed the keys. “I locked the trunk. The car may be old, but I made a few enhancements. We can’t get to it now. Too many people milling about. But I’m sure the hotel will have the Eiffel towed. We’ll swing by the impound yard later and retrieve the bag.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Garrick led the way to the service entrance. Burklin followed behind with Pearl. He took one last look at the crying baby. Then he walked away from the arguing policemen and the developing crowd, away from the confused senator, the bloody restroom … away from Lorraine.
Epilogue
One Week Later
Pearl sat on the passenger seat of the new Black Beauty. Burklin allowed her to ride in the car without a crate, and she enjoyed the heated leather. She nibbled happily on her rubber frog.
“Crank up the heater,” she said.
After the incident at the Steadman Arms, Burklin had reported the original Black Beauty stolen. The insurance company informed him that his ex-wife committed the theft. Burklin tried to act surprised. They explained that she’d crashed the car on the highway, with—gasp—none other than the senator’s son in the passenger seat. In Lorraine’s home, the police had discovered a purple satchel filled with photographs of Max. Rumor had it that Lorraine Franks suffered from an unhealthy obsession with the senator’s son. This rumor spread as Garrick involved his connections in the media.
Of course, Garrick had kept the nondescript cellphone for himself, as well as a certificate hidden inside a zippered pocket. The certificate read Change in Protectorship, and had Wanda’s name all over it. The old man had stepped on the cellphone and broken it to pieces, then torched the certificate while draining a bottle of celebratory champagne.
They’d ended their festivities by carving most of Wanda into bite-sized pieces and burying her deep in the earth. Burklin had dropped bits of Wanda into Pearl’s ceramic treat jar as well. Wanda Treats became Pearl’s new favorite.
Garrick had closed Ho
ppy’s Diner for renovation. After the apparent suicide of an esteemed Mariner City sheriff, the restaurant received way too much attention. He planned to reopen it soon, once he hired a cook and waiter to replace the two who’d “disappeared.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Pearl asked.
Burklin pulled into his mother’s driveway. “I can’t leave her down there forever.”
“It’s been a week. Don’t you think she’ll be a little … I don’t know … ripe?”
“Yes. Ripe and angry.”
“She killed you, remember?”
“No. She just … dented my head and filled my brain with blood.”
“And cigarette butts, ashes, and glass.”
He had to do this. Despite Pearl’s protests, he couldn’t let his mother die in that pit.
“Why not?” Pearl said, reading his thoughts. “Come on. Give me one reason why she deserves to be rescued.”
He answered in a monotone voice, “She’s my mother.” As if this explained everything.
“That’s not a reason.”
Burklin looked at the dashboard clock. “Hey, I forgot to feed you this morning.”
“I should bite you.” She licked her lips. “You’re trying to distract me with food. It won’t work.”
“Let’s go into Mom’s kitchen. I’ll find something for you to eat.”
“Okay, maybe it’s working a little.”
* * * *
The television was still on when Burklin walked into his mother’s house with the dog tucked under his arm.
“Hungry,” Pearl repeated.
“I know, I know.” Burklin carried her into the kitchen and set her down on the floor. He rummaged through the refrigerator and discovered a container of bologna and a browned carrot. He chopped up the carrot and dumped it into a bowl along with the entire package of lunchmeat, then set it down in front of the dog.
Pearl sniffed. “I hate carrots.”
“Eat.”
As Pearl inhaled her food, Burklin listened to the television, still tuned to the news channel. The big news for the past week involved the events at the Steadman Arms in Napa.
According to the TV anchors, Senator McPhee currently resided in a mental hospital. The DA’s office charged the former senator with the murder and cannibalism of her security guard, an intern, Mr. Walter Potankin, and an unidentified Asian woman.
Adding to the confusion, the authorities had discovered a newborn baby at the scene. Most witnesses agreed that in the midst of the chaos, someone could have abandoned a child unnoticed. Some believed the baby originated from the senator herself, though the anchors argued over this. The senator had shown no physical signs of pregnancy in the days leading up to the debate. Conspiracy theorists pointed to footage of reliable news and security cameras at the scene, as well as some guy with a cellphone, all with video of the birth. The Second Coming, they posted on their blogs. Immaculate Conception. They showed footage of the baby entrancing everyone in the hotel lobby.
Did this birth mean the end of the world? Maybe. But only if Burklin could keep the newborn safe for the next twenty years.
* * * *
Burklin left Pearl inside the house and entered the garage.
He approached the pit, listening, but heard no sound save the hum of the lights above. This was the right thing to do, the noble thing. Even so, he felt the pilot light spark, unable to catch. He stared at the covered pit. “What am I doing?”
Pearl’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Some women shouldn’t be mothers.”
“Go back inside,” he said.
“Some people shouldn’t be parents. Senator McPhee, Delores, Garrick … even you and Lorraine. Maybe every child should be born with a Fucked Bubble.”
“Where did you hear that? Pay-per-view? Internet? Parenting blog?”
Pearl wagged. “Nope. I got that one from you. Pulled the thought right out of your head.”
Some people shouldn’t be parents.
His pocket vibrated. He pulled out his new cellphone, outfitted with a text pad and a nifty camera. When he answered it, Garrick told him about a new vision, one in which the week-old baby would “trip” a registered nurse at the hospital. This would result in the nurse’s accidental death. Burklin told his father he would take care of the problem right away.
He hesitated only a second, long enough to get one last look at the pit in the garage and say a silent goodbye to his mother.
Some people shouldn’t give birth to children. They should watch over them from afar, and shepherd them into adulthood. Some people made better protectors than parents.
Burklin turned. He collected his eight-pound soul and tucked it under his right arm. Garrick’s words came to him then: “We’re tasked with protecting her, but we can never go near her.”
He left the house, destined for the hospital, where he would perform his first custodial duty for the demon.
And for the first time in two years, he was okay with that.
Acknowledgements
Drumroll, cue the trumpets, unfurl the Thank You! banner: Adrien-Luc Sanders, the greatest editor ever— you never wavered in your support— may your red ink grace my manuscript pages for many years to come; my glowing list o’ awesome alphabetically— Janelle Alexander, Lois Balster, John Ross Barnes, Liz Borino, Lisa and Dave Branum, Brian and Jenn Brown, Ashley Christman, Sonya Clark, Devon Dawson, Jo Anna Guerra, Jessica and Dustin Haynes, Michele Hudson, Randy and Sherry Jennings, Joe Johnson, Jin-Mee Leal, Sue London, Kristina L. Martin, Diana Paz, Maria Savva, Nicky Thomas, Jennifer Wingard, and many others who’ve supported me in some genuine way since my first novel Rogue’s Curse debuted— I’m grateful to all of you; Renee and Frank Rocco and the people at Lyrical Press for this opportunity; most of all, thank you to my wife, Jeanne, for so much more than I can possibly write here.
About Jason Beymer
One of the cruelest injustices of life: our pets don’t live long enough. My dachshund, Poe, is fifteen now. Nether is my way of holding onto the best memories of her. My Poe is Burklin’s Pearl, minus the intelligence, ability to speak and hankerin’ for human cuisine. Well, I’m iffy on that last thing. I haven’t yet opened a vein to test Poe’s appetites. My guess? She eats me first, buries my remains second, and barks for help last.
Jason Beymer lives in California. He takes refuge in a major coffeehouse chain. His email address is always open and he welcomes all comments. Come follow him on Twitter @tomesandtv. Jason enjoys referring to himself in the third-person because it makes him feel all hot and stuff.
Jason’s Website: http://www.tomesandtv.com/
eMail: [email protected]
