57
“The Republic of Congo is a place in Africa,” Debra said. “It’s also a river. A basin is a body of water. And the Congo Basin is the world’s second largest tropical forest. It’s huge. It covers seven hundred thousand square miles, across six different countries. So those first two words are pretty straightforward. The Congo Basin is a forest in Africa. You with me so far?”
“Yeah. Okay, what else?”
“And then there’s that next word, Minkisi, and I’ve got to tell you, that’s a tough one.”
“Why?”
“Well… the English language has no word that’s equivalent to Minkisi. The word ‘fetish’ is close, but not close enough––and everything I’ve read is confusing. A Minkisi seems to be a spirit, but it’s also a mask and a medical treatment. It’s considered a container, a ceramic vessel. Sometimes it can be an animal’s horn, or an animal husk. A grave is considered a Minkisi, or more accurately, a portable grave is considered a Minkisi. And somehow, a Minkisi is a punishment. I’ve tried to find more info on that statement, but I haven’t found much yet.”
Debra flipped pages.
“What else do I have here? Oh yeah, here it is… a Minkisi is part of an African religious practice, you know, like voodoo shit? I’ve read a bunch of stuff about ‘figures’ too, but I don’t understand what I’ve read. I want to jump to the conclusion that a figure is a voodoo doll, but that doesn’t quite fit. I read somewhere that a ‘figure’ can come in the form of an animal, which is why I asked you about that. Apparently dogs are tied to this Minkisi stuff, and they live in two separate worlds––the world of the living, and the world of the dead. I don’t understand that statement at all, by the way, so don’t ask.”
“Okay. I won’t ask. Did you say a portable grave?”
“Yeah. A Minkisi is a portable grave.”
“I think I saw one of those. This is making some sense, believe it or not.”
“It is?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“You saw a portable grave?”
“I think so. It was at Sue’s place, in the basement. There was an old wooden box. It reminded me of those black and white Dracula movies, where Dracula gets shipped around inside of a box of dirt. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Sort of. I’m not big on Dracula. You know that.”
“Well… the box at Sue’s place had strange markings on it. And below the markings, the words ‘Congo Basin Minkisi Bakisi’ had been burned into the wood. That’s why I asked you to look it up.”
Debra said, “You think this box is relevant somehow?”
James nodded. “I know how this must sound.”
“Normally, it would sound stupid. But the stuff I looked up for you, well… I don’t know. This stuff isn’t folklore drivel. It’s African history, you know? It’s real. The museums are loaded with it. Jewelry, hooves, skulls, witchdoctor trinkets and charms… all connected to Minkisi. I have a quote here from somebody named Simon Kavuna. Do you want to hear it? This guy studied Minkisi back in 1915.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Here it is: ‘The Minkisi receives powers by composition, conjuring and consecration. They are composed of earths, ashes, herbs, leaves, and of relics of the dead. The properties of Minkisi, is to cause sickness in a man––to destroy, to kill, to benefit. The way of every Nkisi is this… Nkisi and Minkisi seem to be the same thing, by the way. Uh… okay, where am I? Oh yeah, here it is: ‘When you have composed it, observe its rules, lest it be annoyed and punish you. It knows no mercy.’”
“Huh. It knows no mercy.”
“Yeah.”
“Strange stuff.”
“Yep. It is.”
“And what about that last word? I gave you four words to check out, not three.”
“Bakisi?”
“Yeah.”
There was a hard knock on Debra’s door. “Miss McClure, open up. This is the Martinsville police.”
“Oh shit,” Debra said. “The police are here.”
James gasped, “But what about that last word?”
“Miss McClure, open up now. We need to speak with you and it’s urgent.” There was another knock on the door, and this time it was louder than before. “Miss McClure?”
“I’ve got to go James. I’m sorry.”
“But what about that last word? I need to know!”
Debra said, “A Bakisi is a spirit, an ambassador from the land of the dead.” Then she hung up the phone.
58
James was shaken; the conversation didn’t end on the best note.
He wondered if Debra was in trouble, if she was okay, and if she was still in love with him. He wondered what it would be like to slit her throat, and what her blood would taste like severed cold. He wondered if the police would trace the phone call. Probably. This was serious business now. Tracing phone calls would be the first thing they’d do.
James tossed Mia’s phone out the window and glanced at Elmer.
Elmer was deep inside his own thoughts, enjoying the silence and plotting his revenge.
* * *
After an hour, James felt a little better. His evil and obscure thoughts seemed to be less frequent, and since he hadn’t told Debra anything, she didn’t know anything. It was a comforting notion. He contemplated his destination, deciding that Debra’s cottage was the best plan. He figured the odds on it being empty were fifty/fifty. The cottage belonged to a bunch of people: her brother, her sister, her mom and dad, plus several aunts and uncles and the families they shared.
With the fingers in his mind crossed for luck, James tried to summon a plan B.
He came up with nothing.
Oh well, he thought. If Debra’s family is enjoying life at the cottage, I’ll simply have to kill them all.
59
The road had few travelers.
James attempted an open dialog with Elmer but it didn’t work. Elmer had become a unified stack of negative emotions, indestructibly fused from within. He was tangled in a web of multifaceted thinking, with no desire to bite into the apple of conversation––at least, not yet. Not with his eyes on the road and his face expressionless. He strangled the steering wheel with his hands; his fingers were white-knuckled and unmoving. Sleeves covered in Tina’s blood were crammed up to the elbow.
James sighed.
Having Elmer in the car was a big problem. It was kidnapping.
And although James didn’t know it, CNN had connected him with the High Park Murders and his image was plastered on every News program in the country. His family, friends and acquaintances were talking––the last time they had seem him, how well they knew him, what they thought had gone so terribly wrong.
Back at the hospital Anne was crying again, and for the first time in her life she was none to proud of her family. To make matters worse, the police were on their way, which was breaking her heart in two.
James hated people being upset with him, especially when he was in the wrong. And this time he was––there was no denying that. He had definitely made some mistakes.
But guilt, for the most part, was simple; Elmer wasn’t.
James wasn’t sure how to deal with the man. Should he shoot Elmer? Should he set the man free? It was hard to say. Bringing him along seemed like a good idea when Elmer was being a tough guy, but now it felt like another mistake.
So what now?
James was hungry. He wanted to eat something––a steak would be nice. Lobster would be better. A rotting corpse would be best. But what could he do––sit down at an all-you-can-eat seafood restaurant, go to a drive-thru, hit the local morgue? Not likely. Not with Elmer in the car.
He could lock Elmer in the trunk, he supposed. Or try him up and toss him into a closet once they reached the cottage––but why? So Elmer could starve to death? James didn’t want to kill anyone. Or did he?
He thought about Tina.
He thought about jumping in front of a train.
He thought abo
ut sticking his fingers into his ass and biting off his tongue.
And what if Elmer escaped? What would happen then?
They drove past an old farmhouse, followed by several cornfields and an abandoned silo. They zipped past an unpaved road that ran along a sea of trees, and an old fence that looked ready to fall over. The woodland seemed to go on forever, but James knew the area well and knew that it didn’t. Twenty miles up the road there was a gas station sitting next to a greasy spoon. The gas wasn’t cheap but the food wasn’t bad. It was a fair trade.
James decided to make his move.
60
“Pull over.”
“Why?”
“You’re getting out.”
You’re going to kill me now, right out in the open. Is that it? Kill me on the highway? Jesus man, be reasonable.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“We’re going into the woods? Is that the plan? Will you shoot me in the back of the head? Will you bury me in the deepest hole you can dig? Is that what’s happening now, you sick, twisted bastard?”
“No. Just listen––”
“Then why should I pull over?”
“For one reason, I’m giving you an order.”
“But why? Why here and why now? I don’t want to die today.”
“I’m letting you go,” James said, frustrated. He wondered if he was telling the truth. He might have been, but honestly, he didn’t know. “Do you understand? There’s a restaurant up ahead called King’s Diner––if you care to go that way. I don’t really give two shits what you do; do what you want. Go bury yourself in the fucking woods if that makes you happy. I don’t give a fuck. But know this, unless you hook up a ride it’ll take a couple of hours to get to the restaurant, and forever if you walk the other way.”
Elmer shot James an untrusting glance. “Yeah right. You’re setting me free?”
“Yeah, but I got to be honest with you, getting a ride is tough. I ran out of gas out here one time; it took me three hours to flag someone down. Point is: if I were you, I’d start walking the same way we’re driving. You understand?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s okay; I don’t care. Bringing you along was a mistake, and whether you believe it or not, I’m sorry.”
“Bullshit.”
“I needed the car, that’s all.”
“You’re so full of shit. You’re going kill me and dump my body in the woods.”
“Listen man… I don’t know what to do with you. I’ve been thinking about killing you and eating you and pissing on your corpse, and to be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I have no plan. I said I didn’t want to hurt you, and I meant it. I know it’s hard to believe. Trust me, I know. But what can I say? I didn’t mean to kill your wife and I don’t want to kill you, even if I do.”
Elmer could tell that James was losing it. His words were contradicting each other. His thinking was loosely knitted together, at best. The sooner he could get away from this freak of nature, the better. But would he get away, or would he get shot? There was no way to tell. James had become as unpredictable as a hungry raccoon in a daycare. He said, “You’re a liar.”
“Just pull over.”
“No. You’re going to kill me.”
“Yeah,” James admitted. “Maybe I will kill you. Maybe I’ll blow your fucking head clean off your body. But pull the goddamn car over anyhow or I’ll shoot you while you drive.”
After a few seconds, Elmer pushed the brake and turned the wheel. The brake pads touched the rotor. The tires slowed their rotation. The vehicle’s speed diminished. Rocks, dust and sand found new places to sit, and soon enough the car came to a full stop at the side of the highway.
James coughed, still feeling the effects of the fire. “Get out,” he said, holding the gun tight. “And leave the keys in the ignition.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“How many times do I have to say it?”
“Until I believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I just want the car.”
Elmer nodded, concealing a spiteful grin. He stepped outside.
“Okay.” James said, getting out of the car with him. “Now give me your shirt.”
“Why?”
“Because I want it.”
After a moment of silence Elmer said, “I have two or three shirts in the back seat of the car. If you need a clean shirt to wear, I’d go with one of those. They’re clean enough for you. No blood.”
“Why do you have shirts in your car?”
“I don’t know. They’ve been back there for a month. Can I go now?”
James nodded. “Yeah. Get the fuck out of here.”
Elmer began walking down the highway, looking like he would return home on foot.
“Wrong way,” James said, as he slid into the car. Then he whispered, “I can’t run you down if you walk that way.” When Elmer didn’t respond James yelled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill your wife!” Then he shrugged his shoulders and drove off.
Elmer heard the apology and kept on walking. Under his breath he said, “Not as sorry as you’re gonna be you stupid psycho prick. You have no idea what I’m gonna do to you.” A few steps later Elmer noticed a butterfly with a broken wing shuffling along the road. He killed it with his foot, enjoying the sound on the insect crunching beneath his shoe.
And in the sky above, dark clouds rolled across the horizon. The storm the weatherman had predicted was finally on its way.
PART FOUR:
HUNTERS AND THE CHASE
61
Elmer was a thief, a planner, a killer, an intellect, a rebel, and a fighter. But most of all––more than any of these things––he was a liar. He was good at it. He lied everyday, rarely speaking a word of truth.
Most liars don’t know why they lie. Some do it for the thrill and some do it because they lack courage. Others try to avoid punishment or save face. Some don’t think clearly. Some don’t think.
Elmer was different; he had a philosophy––not that he cared to share it: The less they know, the better. It was a simple philosophy—very straightforward, very direct. Not the viewpoint of a saint but it served him well.
Years ago, his mother was shot dead inside a Boston crack house. And on that day, after the news had made the rounds, Elmer changed. The idealistic young boy––who was known as David Timothy Camions at the time––disappeared. In return, the world received Dennis Wade, and Steven Beal, and Toby McBride, and Elmer Wright, and Michael Sapient.
Lately it was Elmer.
Elmer wasn’t married to Tina. He barely knew her.
Tina was his customer––she bought pot from time to time. He had no feelings for the woman, no history either. They had been introduced one night in a bar. A nineteen-year-old drunk-punk named Terry set them up. He threw Terry a half bag of coke and a warped G. B. H. album and Terry landed him another semi-chronic. There was no late-night manger job at a coffee shop. No history of bingo. No Danny. No Beth. Every word that David Timothy Camions/Elmer Wright said was a stone cold lie.
Tina looked confused when Elmer talked about the marriage and the children and the love that was fading between them. She was confused but knew enough to keep her big mouth shut.
Lot of good it did her, Elmer thought. Stupid bitch.
* * *
Over the ridge of a hill, Elmer noticed the growing shine of approaching headlights. The sky had not darkened much, and he could tell that the small blue car was fairly new, a Ford Focus perhaps. The young woman behind the wheel was twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. She was cute with short blonde hair; she had a thin face and a tan.
And she was alone.
How unfortunate.
62
Elmer walked into the center of the lane smiling. His arms were above his head, giving slow welcoming gestures. He showed no signs of urgency, no hint of stress or unpleasant dramatics. This type of carefree technique worked best, Elmer found. I
t set people at ease.
Elmer considered killing a dance, an exchange, a personal expression played out between two people. And Elmer loved to dance. If it were up to him he would dance all night, every night. And for years Elmer had been refraining, denying his instinctive, intuitive thirst for killing––but no more. Meeting James and seeing Tina’s death put his finger on his past; it tweaked his thinking. Opportunity had knocked. If there was ever a time to lace up those dancing shoes, the time was now. He could get away with anything right now. It would all get blamed on James.
* * *
The car slowed before it came to a rolling stop.
The girl behind the wheel lowered her window. A puff of smoke escaped through the expanding aperture. She sat her cigarette onto the rim of the car’s metallic ashtray and adjusted her designer shades with long, well-manicured fingers. She leaned her head to one side and smiled affectionately.
“Are you okay?” she said.
“My car,” Elmer responded. He approached the window with slow moving feet. He pointed down the road, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his hands. Then he rolled his eyes and laughed, acting like a happy-go-lucky klutz. He couldn’t help noticing the girl’s white bikini top. It was the smallest he’d seen in a while. “What’s your name?”
“Jennifer,” the girl said with a giggle. Her laughter was not full-sized, but it was there. Elmer had the fish on the hook; all he had to do was reel her in.
“Hello, Jennifer.”
Jennifer was a hottie. Her stomach was fit, a small ring pierced her belly button and her muscular legs were tanned brown. She had a bracelet around her ankle. She wore a pair of tight white shorts and leather sandals; perfect beach attire for a young woman wearing a bikini top.
The Dead Parade Page 12
