Vicarious

by Jon F. Merz

  “I do any more favors for you, Curran, and I’ll be dead. You realize that?”

  “It’s an easy favor.”

  Kwon sniffed and cleared his throat. “Famous last words. What the hell time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  “Sick. You are a sick bastard. I haven’t even had a proper cup of coffee yet and here you are ringing me up for favors.” He sighed.

  “Can you sit on top of our new friend for a while today?”

  “What – you got a hot date?”

  Curran smiled. Right. Not this time. “I’ve got some things to do.”

  “Oh sure and I’ll just set the fridge down at the office to freeze so none of my corpses start to thaw and stink the joint up. How’d that be?”

  “I need someone on Darius all day. I need to know where he is at all times.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s probably better if you don’t ask.”

  Kwon paused as if debating whether to do so anyway. Curran bit his lip. Not now, pal, he pleaded. Just do this one thing for me.

  Kwon sighed. “Yeah. Okay. I can park down at his store. That be okay?”

  “Great. Call me on the cell if he leaves there, okay?”

  “Yeah. When you need me down there?”

  “Sooner the better. Parking fills up fast on Beacon Hill and I want you in an advantageous position.”

  “My definition of an advantageous position is being the only man in a room filled with uninhibited nurses.”

  Curran chuckled and his head throbbed vaguely. “Think warm thoughts, just keep your eyes on Darius.”

  He hung up and got out the White Pages. It couldn’t be this easy, he thought, could it? Would a demon really have his address listed?

  But there it was. Right in the phone book. Curran looked at the simple listing and frowned. The reality of his decision burned itself into his brain as he stood there memorizing the address.

  That’s it then, he thought.

  He slammed the book shut, grabbed his badge, gun, and keys and walked out of his house.

  ***

  He found it easily enough.

  Chestnut Hill’s homes ranged from sprawling old mansions to newer developments reminiscent of 1970s architecture styles. Curran called it California kitsch. He wound his way off route 9 west and then onto Sleigh Street. At the intersection of Maple and Sleigh, he banked left and followed it around into a small cul de sac.

  Curran slowed to a stop.

  So this is it.

  The house itself looked about a hundred years old. Red and gray paint flaked off in large pieces, littering the crab grass lawn. Wooden gutters that looked rotten from where he sat, jutted out of the house at odd angles. Once black shutters weathered into a dull battleship gray hung slightly askew. A few clapboards in the front hosted a zigzagging fault line.

  For Chestnut Hill, and given the rest of the neighborhood, the house stuck out like a sore thumb. But even if it looked like hell cosmetically, Curran knew it was a prized piece of real estate.

  Still, thought Curran, seems odd an antiques dealer doesn’t have a better-looking place. Then again, maybe the Soul Eater, if he was truly that, didn’t want the house to look too inviting.

  He could make out the silver Saab parked in the driveway. And again, he thought about how weird it was to imagine a supernatural creature needing to drive around in a car of all things.

  Curran cracked the window, letting a slight breeze fill the car. He adjusted the seat so he was reclined somewhat, able to see, but not be seen. If anyone passed by he would look like he was just taking a nap. Perhaps he was waiting for someone.

  Anything but a cop.

  And anything but someone trying to stop the resurrection of Satan.

  Steve, he thought, your life has definitely gotten weird.

  He thought about Lauren.

  The way his heart ached every time he thought about her only served to reinforce the notion that he liked her a helluva lot more than he wanted himself to. He frowned. It couldn’t work. She was going to be a nun of all things. And he was still nursing old wounds that had fractured his faith. Possibly forever.

  I wonder what Darius is doing, he thought. The dashboard clock read seven-fifty. Maybe he’s in there plotting his next victim. Maybe he’s even thinking about killing me.

  Curran felt his insides go cold.

  Déjà vu? Something about that thought felt familiar.

  What happened last night?

  Curran patted his back right hip and felt the bulge of his pistol. It gave him some comfort.

  But only a little.

  He would have liked to kick the door down and go in with guns blazing. Would bullets kill the Soul Eater? Curran didn’t know but he sure would have enjoyed testing the theory out.

  But he was a good cop.

  And part of him - a fairly large part if he felt like being honest - still wasn’t convinced about the Soul Eater stuff.

  Curran had seen enough psycho cases in his time to know that people could get some very strange ideas in their heads. That fantasy could easily become reality. Maybe Darius was one of them. Cool and calm one minute, then a seething volcano of violence in the next.

  Maybe he heard voices in his head.

  Maybe he thought the Devil spoke to him.

  Curran frowned. I hear voices in my head.

  Maybe the Devil’s talking to me, too.

  The problem with this whole thing, he decided, is that there wasn’t one shred of concrete freaking proof. All they were going on was faith.

  And Curran was Mr. Faithless.

  Another breeze filled the car. This time cooler.

  Much cooler.

  Cold.

  The hairs along Curran’s forearms stood up.

  He shivered.

  Faith.

  Did he believe?

  Did he want to believe?

  For Lauren’s sake he did.

  But for his own sake…

  That was another question.

  How did Lauren buy into this stuff so easily, he wondered.

  He felt certain that her upbringing, the experiences of her teen years with a psychopathic brother played a large role in the woman she was now. But Curran knew plenty of priests and nuns who would have scoffed at the idea of the Devil being resurrected by an antique dealer who drove a silver Saab.

  What made Lauren different?

  And what made her so appealing? So very appealing?

  Curran glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock.

  Maybe demons need rest.

  He almost laughed out loud. And then he frowned. Was he actually trying to rationalize this stuff now?

  What a wishy-washy bastard I am, he thought with a wry grin.

  He just couldn’t decide one way or the other if he believed. Cold breezes not withstanding. But even as he fought the contradictions swirling about inside his mind, a small part of him felt certain that within a short time Curran would know, one way or the other, if what was happening in the house was a load of bullcrap.

  Or terribly real.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, the front door opened.

  And Darius emerged. He was dressed in a charcoal suit complete with herringbone ankle-length overcoat. Probably no human bone buttons on that one, mused Curran.He ducked.

  Darius’ eyes swept over the street. Curran wasn’t hidden, but he wasn’t out in plain sight either, being a good hundred and fifty feet down the street. He was just another car. A friend of a neighbor over for a visit.

  Darius locked his front door and then climbed into the Saab. A second later, Curran heard the engine roar as it turned over. Darius gunned it for almost twenty seconds before the motor slowed as he slipped it into drive and sped off down the street.

  Away from Curran.

  Curran punched Kwon’s number into the phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s heading
your way now. Just left.”

  “Okay.” Kwon paused. “Steve.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be real careful, man.”

  Curran nodded, more to himself than Kwon. “Let me know when he arrives.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. “Yeah?”

  “Just rolled up.”

  “Got it.”

  Curran got out of the car, locked the doors, and wandered over to Darius’ house. At this time of day, he hoped there weren’t many people home in the neighborhood who might spot him lurking about. Even more, he hoped Darius was as reclusive as he believed.

  He ignored the front door in favor of the more concealed back one.

  He kneeled and examined the lock.

  A simple deadbolt.

  Curran slid out a slim black leather package full of picks and selected two of them for the job at hand. He paused. The he inserted the picks and began working the lock very carefully.

  He felt the pins sliding into place.

  First one.

  Then another.

  Until at last they were all properly positioned. Curran exerted enough force to turn the cylinder.

  The bolt slid home with a solid thunk.

  The door was now open.

  Curran glanced around, suddenly feeling like a teenager about to be caught peeping into his neighbor’s windows or something.

  The realization of what he was about to do suddenly washed over him.

  He would no longer be the by-the-book cop people spoke about. He would cross the line, from law abiding to law breaking.

  But if it was in the name of justice – even universal justice – could it be so wrong?

  Curran wasn’t sure how the courts would feel about universal justice.

  A cool breeze swept over him again.

  The cold returned.

  Along with the idea of Faith.

  Believe.

  Believe.

  Believe.

  Curran shivered, held fast by the cold surrounding him. He wanted to believe, he decided. He wanted to believe that the world truly was in danger. He wanted to believe Darius was the servant of the Devil here to set his master loose upon the innocent.

  And standing there shivering, though morning sun beat down upon his shoulders, Curran finally gripped the doorknob.

  He turned it.

  Swung open the door.

  Believe.

  Took a step.

  And then at last –

  - crossed the threshold to the other side.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As soon as Curran entered, he closed the door quickly and leaned against it.

  Breathing.

  Listening.

  He stayed absolutely still.

  Did anyone see him come in? Were they calling the police right now? He didn’t want to lose his job again. He didn’t want to be fired for breaking the law.

  He did want to put Darius away. Although he doubted if there was a cell that could hold him. And truthfully, Curran wanted to see him dead.

  He glanced around the house, trying to decide what direction to proceed in. Old lessons from his FBI academy days in Quantico came back to him. Of course, those lessons were based on having obtained a proper search warrant. Breaking and entering, well, that was another story.

  Probably not the best decision I ever made, he thought as his breathing returned to normal. But it’s definitely necessary.

  Necessary because Curran still wasn’t sure if he could commit totally to the notion of supernatural influences unless he found some sort of hard evidence.

  But he felt certain about one thing: that Darius was indeed the serial killer he’d been tracking for years. Darius was the reason for Curran’s plight. The reason for his termination at the FBI. And the countless deaths that had marred cities across the United States.

  Curran wanted to stop it.

  Soon.

  Now?

  He sighed. He’d accept the consequences of breaking into a suspect’s home, if there were any, at a later time.

  For now, he had business to conduct.

  Immediately to his left, a tall thin coat rack stood silently guarding the entranceway. Underfoot, a thin Persian carpet in muted blues and maroons ran from the doorway to an intersection of stairs and a hallway.

  He walked toward the hallway. A tall table he thought might be cherry stood under an old silver-framed mirror. Atop the table, an assortment of unopened mail – mostly bills – awaited inspection.

  Curran ignored them. He didn’t think incriminating evidence would be found opening Darius’ credit card statements. At least not yet.

  He moved right down the hallway, investigating a sitting room with two high-backed chairs and enough shelves to make a small library. Curran scanned the titles on the bookshelf but found nothing relating to Satanism.

  Not even a book of ghost stories, he thought frowning.

  He sighed and moved on to the next room where he found a large roll top desk, recently oiled, and still shining in the dull afternoon light. Atop the desk was a Rolodex filled with names and numbers of fellow antiques dealers in cities across the world.

  Should he copy the information down? He shook his head. It would take too long.

  He’d been right at least, judging that the interior of the house would probably look a lot better than the outside. Darius obviously had a degree of understated taste. Quiet wealth masked lightly in the guise of old pieces of furniture no one but the experts would know were valuable pieces.

  He frowned as the thought entered his mind. Would a demon – a real servant of the Devil – have need for such things as the very human trappings Curran had seen so far?

  He came to the staircase and took the steps up, marveling at the intricate molding running along the baseboard and the delicate handspun spindles adorning the railing. The house had been built to stand the test of time. The higher ceilings confirmed it was about a hundred years old.

  On the second floor, Curran found the master bedroom. A California king-sized bed hugged the far right corner of the room. Deep maroon sheets bunched up in tight piles on the mattress. Someone didn’t sleep very well last night, thought Curran.

  Twenty-pound dumbbells lay in another corner, their black iron plates showing scars from repeated daily use. Otherwise, the room was Spartan. Polished hardwood floors seemed free of dust bunnies. Darius kept the place pretty clean.

  Curran opened the closet and found an assortment of handmade Italian suits, the kind without any labels in them. Silk ties by the dozens hung in rows organized by decorating styles. Plaids on the right and stripes to the left with paisleys in between.

  Rummaging in the back of the closet produced nothing of interest aside from a bunch of old boxes filled with back issues of antiques magazines.

  Curran closed the closet door and sighed.

  A search of the six-drawer oak bureau revealed nothing other than the fact that Darius wore boxer shorts.

  Curran chewed his lower lip.

  Damn.

  The master bathroom revealed nothing exciting. Darius apparently took some measure of pride in his appearance judging by the volume of moisturizers and vitamin supplements housed in the medicine chest.

  Curran checked the razor and found it a single blade type like the kind the old style barbers used to sharpen on the strips of leather.

  The shower itself was immaculate. No buildup of curly public hairs or straighter head hairs clogged the drain. No soap scum marred the shower doors.

  Guy’s a neat-freak, thought Curran.

  In the second floor hallway he paused, looking toward another room that had the door closed. Another staircase lead up, probably to an attic.

  Curran could either check out the room or head further upstairs.

  Something inside of him said no. Curran suddenly felt a strong pull to return to the downstairs. Before he realized what was happenin
g, he let himself get swept along with the pull and soon wandered into the kitchen downstairs.

  Darius liked to cook.

  Three garlands of garlic hung from a hook high on the wall. Expensive looking cast iron pots hug over a center island while the stove top had the look of a professional grill. Baskets of onions and potatoes pyramided up in the pantry along with walls of cookbooks.

  Curran poked into the cabinets and under the sink but found nothing out of the ordinary.

  He found the cellar door almost not knowing what he’s discovered.

  It latched at the top and also at the bottom.

  Curran undid the latches.

  The clicks made a hollow sound that echoed loud across the kitchen, bouncing into other rooms.

  A cool breeze swept over him again. Curran almost smiled. I guess, he thought, this is where I’m supposed to go.

  He opened the door.

  Darkness greeted him, swallowing up the light spilling down from the kitchen. Curran stepped down on to the top step.

  And then closed the door behind him.

  The darkness seemed absolute and he guessed Darius must have covered up the cellar windows to keep prying eyes from seeing what might be going on down here.

  Curran noticed the cold breeze had disappeared.

  He stepped down lower, feeling the hard cement wall with his right hand, hoping to find a light switch. The cement crumbled in places, breaking off and making small noises as it plummeted to the wooden steps, bounced and then hit the floor.

  His eyes seemed to be adjusting, but to what? The darkness continued to remain impenetrable.

  Unless Curran found a light switch soon, he’d never be able to see what was down here.

  I should have left the door open, he thought, but then frowned. If Darius came home unexpectedly, the open door would let him know someone was in the house. Better to risk the darkness than Darius knowing he was here.

  Curran sighed, wondering what was worse: being found out or being trapped down in the cellar with a potential demon worshipper.

  He stepped down lower, at last feeling like he could make out some of the shapes in the basement. His feet touched the stone floor. Down here the air seemed cold and dry, just the way a cellar ought to feel.