by Mike Duran
“Ghaww!” Fergus clawed at the partitions and scrambled to his feet. He stood wobbling over the toilet.
The custodial restroom—that’s where he was. Somehow he had made it back to Marvale Manor. Yet that realization brought its own set of terrors.
Blood thrummed behind his eyes. A blasted migraine was on its way. He’d had his share of hangovers—cheap Irish whiskey did that—but nothing compared to the mallet of the rune. The trances. The blackouts. The screed of disembodied voices. When the fetch called, he had to answer, had to speak the words. Yet standing there, amnesiac and out of sorts, Fergus knew answering their call was beginning to take its toll.
Just like Pops had warned.
He massaged his temples with his fingertips until the throbbing ebbed into dull pressure. That’s when he noticed mud on the floor and a single sheet of paper lying in it, sopping moisture. Fergus hunched forward, grimacing at the rush of blood in his head, and retrieved the wilted page. He stood, trying to decipher the soggy script.
… primitive metaphysical doctryne …
He had seen this before.
… counterparts and correspondences …
A wisp of breath died on his lips.
… assimilation complete.
Fergus stumbled backward, rattling the flimsy metal partitions. Pops’s journal! It was a page from his father’s spellbook … on the bathroom floor!
Fergus stared blankly at the page, searching his mind for recollection. How had it gotten here? He normally kept the journal in his locker, sealed behind a thick padlock. No one else had the key, nor would anyone dare to mess with his belongings. Crossing Fergus Coyne had consequences. Everyone knew that. Still, if someone were to get their hands upon the journal …
He forced the thought from his head, nervously folded the page, and jammed it in his back pocket. Fergus hurried from the stall and scanned the restroom. Near the entry lay his backpack, its contents scattered about the floor. No! It couldn’t be.
Fergus snatched up the backpack and rifled through it. The scent of earth and pine clung to the material. He removed the flashlight and set it on the sink, followed by a bundle of waterproof matches and the sack of rune stones. Finally he removed the pistol, lightly kissing its barrel, as was his custom, and laid it near the other items.
But to his dismay the spellbook was missing.
The throbbing in his head returned. He grimaced, staggered forward, and let the pack drop to the ground.
This was not good. Not good at all. Fergus gawked at his greasy fingernails.
Perhaps he could retrace his steps—that’s what he’d do. Follow the trail through Camp Poverty and Granite Bar, back to the Rift. People rarely went that way anymore. Superstition had gotten the best of them. On occasion hikers would pass through, working their way up the Pacific Crest trail. But they rarely ventured into the haunted mine. The documentarians had come and gone. Other than thrill seekers or amateur occultists, folks stayed away from the Rift. If Fergus had dropped the journal somewhere along the trail, there was a chance he could find it.
He forced himself to stop biting his nails, spread his hands on the sink, and hunched forward, cursing his amnesia.
Seer, seer.
Come hither yonder hill.
No! Not again! Fergus ground his teeth, wishing the words away. Why did the fetch keep tormenting him?
“Leave me alone,” he growled.
To his surprise the spectral voice inside him evaporated.
Fergus exhaled in exhaustion. Water droplets echoed in the tiny bathroom, punctuating the silence like a ticking time bomb. However, something else had captured his attention.
A single bead of blood.
Fergus gaped at the white porcelain surface and watched the blood become a pink watery strand. Where had it come from? Another drop splashed the surface. He glanced at the ceiling. Once he’d caught a fetch on the ceiling, wings and teeth and fiery eyes, unfolding like hideous origami. But there was nothing there. He inspected his hands, then yanked his flannel back and scanned his wrists and forearms. No sign of cuts or scrapes. What was happening to him?
Perhaps the madness was starting. Just like it did with Pops.
The throbbing became a vise, wringing his skull with such force he wanted to bellow. Fergus clamped his hands over his head. Compressing his temples. Tighter. And tighter. He raised his eyes and glimpsed his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His heart leaped.
Dark rivulets coursed his jaw, bleeding from both ears, turning his face into a mask of glistening crimson.
Chapter 7
The first time Zeph Walker considered himself a freak of nature, he was nine years old. By then his gift had blossomed. When he looked at people, he often discerned things about them. Random things. Sometimes awkwardly personal things. Back then the Telling came often; words meandered on the periphery of his mind like dandelion halos on the lazy summer air. With the encouragement of his mother, he learned to capture those intuitions, pluck them from the ether as a magician does a white dove. It didn’t take Zeph long to realize he was not like the other kids. Not like them at all.
Leave it to Virgil Hedge to reinforce that uncomfortable reality.
Hedge hunted rattlesnakes and sold the venom to the lab in China Lake until the USDA stepped in and began regulating the business. He lived next door to the Walkers, would call young Zeph over to see the cages of slithering serpents, and then cackle at the boy’s revulsion. One day Zeph innocently asked the man if he was illiterate, to which Hedge strummed his suspenders and declared, “I knows exactly who my daddy is.” Shortly thereafter Hedge invited the young boy to see a freak of nature.
Zeph learned later on that multiheaded animals were not that unusual. The dictionary called them polycephalics, a word he never managed to successfully incorporate into his vocabulary. Supposedly some farmer near Dry Lake nursed a two-headed calf back to life and sold it to a circus. Nevertheless, when Virgil Hedge led Zeph into the barn that day and showed him a rattlesnake with two heads, it changed his world forever.
That day Zeph Walker came to believe in freaks of nature.
As he followed the detectives out of the morgue that late summer afternoon, he could not help but remember gaping at that reptilian curiosity just as he’d gaped at the cadaver on the guttered steel table. Even more unnerving was the sense that no polycephalic on earth could compare to Zeph Walker’s own peculiarity.
The door whispered shut behind him, taking the cool formaldehyde-tinged air along with it.
“Albershart’s dumbstruck.” Lacroix put his sunglasses on and flapped the collar of his blazer. He and Chat Chavez walked toward the unmarked police vehicle with Zeph in tow. “He’s bringing in an expert.” Lacroix spoke over his shoulder. “Probably some lice-infested Berkeley grad with a degree in cryptozoology and an X-Files decoder ring. Nevertheless, while I am not inclined toward such soft science, I will readily confess—” Lacroix stopped and turned toward him. “—my complete astonishment.”
The detective shrugged and proceeded to the car.
“Wait.” The word escaped Zeph’s lips before he realized it.
Both men stopped and turned to him.
Zeph swallowed back traces of bile. “So, what exactly’s g–going on here? You can’t just … I mean, that guy in there—w–what’re we dealing with?”
Lacroix glanced at his partner. “At the moment we are dealing with a homicide. Plain and simple. And until forensics can perform an internal examination—if, indeed, one can be performed—revealing another cause of death, we have no choice but to conclude this is a homicide. You must remember, Mr. Walker, our expertise is criminal investigation. And until those fellas inspect the plumbing and tell us we are dealing with an extraterrestrial or a genetic mutation or somethin’ comparable, whatever happened to that man in there—and whatever type of man he turns out to be—it was a single bullet in his chest that has set things in motion.”
Zeph squinted. Ghost flames swirled off the
tarmac behind them, turning the detectives into smoldering silhouettes.
“Nature’s fulla freaks,” Chat smirked. “Who knows? This might be one of ’em.”
Indeed.
Lacroix circled the vehicle and took the wheel while Chat opened the back door and stood waiting. This man’s rough persona disguised a tender heart. Zeph sensed that. However, he was not about to test his theory. He put his sunglasses on and slid inside without meeting the detective’s surly gaze.
As he fired up the engine, Lacroix looked at Zeph in the rearview mirror. “Our job is relatively simple here, young man. We are looking for the shooter.” He put his seat belt on. “And you’re sure that man at the diner, the one you assaulted, would not be seeking retribution?”
“I didn’t assault him. It was in self-defense. And, no sir. That was almost ten years ago.”
Chat leafed through a small tablet he had produced from his shirt pocket. “High Banton. That him?”
Zeph nodded.
“Very well.” Lacroix readjusted the mirror. “Just remember, your cooperation could make all the difference.”
“Of course. I–I’ll do my best.”
Lacroix’s gaze lingered just long enough to indicate he was unconvinced.
They left the morgue, turning south on the highway, and headed toward the outskirts of town. Watching the shops go by—Maylene’s Bakery, home of the best tarts in town; Bart’s Bait and Tackle; and Cubano, a cigar store with a real wooden Indian stationed out front—brought back fond memories. It was years since he’d been downtown. Too many whispers, too many eyes. Too many High Bantons. Still, Zeph loved the city of his youth.
Why else would they have returned?
The downtown strip gave way to residences, large ranch-style pieces of property interspersed with roadside stands and family-owned businesses. Turning off the 395, they passed Carson Creek Park, with its sprawling shade trees and grassy knolls. Across the street stood the Vermont. Newly posted signs announced that the old playhouse was under construction, and the marquee now promised a “Word for the Day,” today’s message being: FORBIDDEN FRUIT CREATES MANY JAMS.
Clearly the new owner possessed the type of humor Zeph appreciated.
Farther down the car did a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled to the dirt shoulder in front of Zeph’s house. Next door Mila swept her porch, watching with interest. Several jars of cactus jelly, glowing warmly in lime greens and deep reds, were stacked on a wooden table in front of a white picket fence. Mila sold the best cactus jelly in town. Single jars for $3.50 were an awfully good deal, and Zeph always refused any discount she tried to give him. Fruit and nut stands were common in Endurance. Yet Mila’s sticky rolls, breads, and jellies were unbeatable.
As far as neighbors went, Mila Rios was a saint. However, at the moment Zeph could not think about anything other than avoiding her probing gaze.
Lacroix put the car in park, turned, and handed Zeph a business card. “If you remember anything that might aid our investigation—a person of suspicion, an event—please contact us.”
“Unless we’re talkin’ extraterrestrials,” Chat added. “Then keep it to yourself.”
Lacroix glanced at his partner, apparently not humored. “And until we get a handle on this, you’d best keep it under wraps.”
Zeph sat pondering the detective’s exhortation. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, detective, but what’re the chances you can get a handle on this?”
Chat slung his thick, tanned forearm over the seat. “Just watch yourself. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Zeph opened the door and scrambled out of the car.
Chat looked past him through the open window of the passenger door. “Book Swap.” The detective read the sign on the cottage next to Zeph’s house. “You a reader?”
“Very much so.”
“Figgers,” Chat grunted.
As Zeph prepared to make a beeline for the front gate, he stopped. “One more question. Where’d you find that … where’d you find him?”
The men looked at each other, and then Lacroix said from the driver’s side, “Not more than one hundred fifty yards from where you are standing.”
Zeph straightened and looked up and down the street.
“One of your neighbors reported a commotion last night,” Chat said. Then he aimed two fingers in the direction of the Vermont.
“Someone shot John Doe in the alley of the playhouse. Or stashed his body there.” Lacroix put the car in gear. “We will be in touch, Mr. Walker.”
Zeph peered at the old structure, the brick alley, and the gaudy red marquee with the word for the day. As the car pulled away, Chat called out the window, “Just watch yourself. Okay?”
Chapter 8
The Vermont, with its brick façade and crumbling mortar, had at one time been a hub of cultural arts. New tracts of homes opening in the north created the great downtown relocation, leaving the theater and its dwindling thespian community in its wake. After several unsuccessful attempts at revitalization, a new owner had taken over. Zeph did not know who that new owner was. And now, more than ever, his interest was piqued.
“Zeph?” It was Mila Rios. “Zeph, are you all right?”
Her words wrenched his gaze away from the old theater. Mila had stopped sweeping and squinted at him. He was standing forlorn on the side of the road. Zeph smiled sheepishly and waved. Mila waved back. A look of concern had replaced her usual sunny disposition. Which meant he could not escape.
Zeph turned, ducked past the row of hedges that separated their properties, and hurried to the front gate. It was open, and he suspected someone had visited the Swap. The wisteria vine on the arbor was going dormant, and dry leaves spiraled in his passing. Dappled sunlight shone through the towering Modesto ash, speckling the dirt with sunset orange. As he hurried down the footpath to his house, he could hear Mila’s sandals slapping the hard dirt behind him.
He’d never make it.
“Zeph?” The gate rattled. “Don’t you be running from me.”
He stopped, released a deep sigh, and turned to face Mila Rios.
The gate swung open, and she stood with her arms folded, flowery yellow apron splashing color against the dried arbor. The woman’s smile, as bright as the spring hues she often donned, conveyed genuine warmth. Shoulder-length black hair was tinged with gray, and the faintest wrinkles notched her kind eyes.
“You haven’t gotten yourself into trouble, have you?” She cocked her head, lips crimped in a playful approbation.
“Mila, if I did, you’d be the last person to know.”
“Oh, I’d find out. You know that.”
“You’re right.”
She ambled toward him. “Well, unless you’re dealing drugs or running a crime ring, I still think you’re one of the finest young men in town.”
“What I lack in good looks, I make up for in good nature.”
“Oh, stop it.” She swiped at him playfully.
“But now I’ll have to dismantle my crime ring.”
“Well, you can give all your proceeds to the shelter.”
Mila served every Thursday at the downtown homeless shelter. She was one of those souls who put a lot more back into life than what she required from it. Which made Zeph feel all the more guilty for his disappearing act.
Seeing her master had hurried off, Jamie, Mila’s Chihuahua, scampered along the dirt path and through the gate. The dog sniffed its way toward Zeph and began performing an extensive investigation of his pant leg. He could only imagine what exotic smells he had acquired in the morgue.
“Jamie!” Mila scooped up the dog. She rose, stroking the shivering rodent-like canine, and studied Zeph. “You look pale. Are you all right?”
His stomach muscles ached from vomiting, yet how could he explain the events at the morgue? And did he even want to?
“Honestly?” Zeph said. “I don’t know.”
She inched closer, a slight change in her eyes.
Something
rich lay inside Mila Rios—he’d sensed that from day one. Most folks managed façades, carefully crafted personas cobbled together to hide their fears and insecurities. Not Mila. Kindness was too small a word for what lay inside her. As was good nature or tolerance. She loved without hesitation or qualification. Prodigals were always welcome in Mila’s world. Standing this close to her, Zeph had to fight to keep from pitching forward in tears and contrition.
“Something is wrong.” Mila’s tone was full of concern. “Isn’t it?”
Zeph melted under her motherly gaze.
She put the dog down, and Jamie skittered harmlessly after some chickens that had wandered from Zeph’s backyard. “You need to get out more, Zeph. You stay locked up in that house too much. A young man like you, with all that talent—”
“Mila …” Zeph protested.
“Don’t Mila me. You’re too young. You should be out making friends, seeing people. Telling folks your story. And your paintings, Zeph. They’re good. You can’t hide forever.”
Had anyone ever spoken so directly to him as Mila Rios did?
Her eyes relaxed as she studied his face. “Do you remember that question—you know, the one you said your father used to ask? It was about … destiny.”
Zeph grimaced.
“That’s right,” she said. “Do you find your destiny … ?”
He sighed. “Or does your destiny find you?”
“Yes. Well, whatever the answer to that question is, you’re not gonna find anything without looking. And my guess is … that’s the answer. Now—” She stepped back, straightened her apron. “Those two gentlemen had all the charm of law enforcement. Were they?”
“It was nothing, Mila.”
She folded her arms.
“Okay,” he said. “They were detectives.”
She uncrossed her arms and her lips parted slightly.
“They just had some questions.”
“Questions? About what?” The concern returned to her eyes. “Is something wrong?”
