Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  He rounded the choir loft, heading straight for the long aisle that bisected the sanctuary. At the head of the aisle, he stopped.

  He wasn't alone.

  "Who is that?" he asked, squinting in the uneven light of the shadowed sanctuary. It appeared to be two men, big and broad-shouldered, wearing dripping overcoats and soggy hats. They sat on opposing pews about halfway up the center aisle, sentinels guarding his last walk to freedom. In the mottled light, he couldn't see their faces, but he could tell they were white.

  "C'mere, pops," one of them said, and slowly rose to his feet.

  "Pops?" the Reverend Barnabus Farnes sneered. "Now, who are you to come into my church and talk to me that way?"

  "Smart-ass nigger, in't he, Turk?" the man who'd called him pops offered.

  The other stood. "Oh, he's a mouthy one, all right, Winch."

  The reverend knew he should be scared—deep down, he was. But something else had hold of him—disbelief, an inconvenient rage that these two strangers could so casually march into his church—the Lord's house—and speak to him so. He considered trying to flee out the back door behind the choir loft, but that seemed somehow undignified. Pressing past them and escaping through the sanctuary was out of the question, too. He could only stand his ground.

  They each stepped into the aisle and marched toward him.

  XX

  Reverend Brown could neither move nor speak. He'd been accosted by his share of white men on the street before—some of them wearing blue uniforms and carrying billy clubs, some just in their Sunday best. But now, standing here under a chilly April shower with Ms. Lucille Walker trembling beside him under their umbrella, the two armed men approaching, Brown counted his lucky stars. He had always thought of himself as a brave man, but he wasn't sure how brave he could have been all these years if he had ever once stared down the barrel of gun, as he did now.

  Perhaps that was the only place that his bravery came from? The fact that he had never really faced death? Never truly been tested?

  The two armed men stepped onto the curb. A delivery truck rolled by up Eighth Avenue but didn't slow, let alone stop.

  "What's the meaning of this?" Ms. Walker managed, trying to sound indignant but just sounding terrified.

  Both men extended their weapons, leveled them in the reverend's and Ms. Walker's faces. Two thumbs cocked two hammers, almost in unison. Rain dribbled off the barrels of the guns, like drool off the snout of some hungry, rabid beast.

  "You Brown?" one of the men said.

  The reverend managed a nod. His voice had left him.

  "You the Walker dame?" the other asked, cocking his head toward Lucille.

  "Somebody!" Ms. Walker screamed.

  The gunman right in front of Ms. Lucile Walker backhanded her with the fist that held his weapon. His iron-backed knuckles smacked hard against Ms. Walker's smooth jaw. Ms. Walker whirled out into the rain, tearing the umbrella from Brown's grasp as she stumbled. The wind caught the umbrella and blew it in pirouettes up the Eighth Avenue sidewalk.

  Something overcame the Reverend Brown. He did not summon it and he could not name it. He simply lunged, laid hands on the man nearest to him, and shoved hard. The gunman gave a startled cry and stumbled backward. He hit the pavement on his back and his gun clattered away.

  Then the reverend felt flesh, bone and blue steel slam like a hammer blow into his jaw.

  He tasted blood. His vision was suddenly awhirl with stars.

  Down he went. Ms. Walker screamed.

  Before the reverend's vision cleared, he was struck again. It was a foot this time, the sharp shoe feeling like it was carved out of petrified wood. The reverend's breath fled like wind from a balloon.

  "You don't wanna do that, teapot!" the gunman snarled as he kicked him, again and again. Ms. Walker was suddenly shoved down on top of him, still screaming. The rain beat down, a cold, sobering shower.

  "The more you fight the worse you make it, see?" the gunman above him snarled. Then, to his companion: "Hank, you skinnin' your piece yet, or what?"

  I thought I was brave once, the reverend thought, but I was never tested… not like this…

  The other gunman was up now. Brown blinked again. He heard someone crying and realized it was him. Ms. Walker shook, curled against him there on the sidewalk.

  The guns hovered above them, muzzles dripping.

  "Why?" Brown managed, though he knew perfectly well.

  "If you gotta ask," one of the gunmen said, "you'll never know."

  Then, there was a sudden loud crash: crushed metal and shattering glass. For just a moment, the Reverend Brown thought the guns had fired and his world had ended.

  Then he opened his eyes. He saw the gunmen turned away from them, staring at their Packard, its roof crushed under the weight of some fallen object.

  A gargoyle in a top hat sat upon it.

  XX

  Jebediah Debbs faced his would-be assassins. He made no attempt to run, nor did he betray any fear. He'd seen their sort before and met them without fear. Usually they wore white sheets and hoods, rode snorting horses and loved to set things afire.

  These two just happened to be wearing fedoras and raincoats.

  "So, who is it?" Debbs asked.

  "Who's what?" one of the gunmen asked in return.

  "Who sent you?" Debbs said. "I think I've got a right to know."

  The one on his right brought his weapon around in a flat arc, rapping him a good one on the back of his head. He knocked Debbs's hat clean off. The umbrella fell out of Debbs's hand and the wind carried it into 142nd Street.

  "You ain't got a right to shit, sambo," the one who'd hit him growled. "Now shut those flappin' gums 'less you want a sound beatin' before we put you down!"

  Debbs, though dazed and bent, managed a reply. "I'd like to see you try beating me like a man, instead of holding me at gunpoint like a coward."

  The gunman right in front of him lowered his weapon a little, taken aback by Debbs's bravado. "You hear that, Charlie? Sambo here wants to go a round."

  That was all Debbs needed. Still bent from the force of the blow, he hurled his weight forward and tackled the gunman with a guttural battle cry. After that, all he saw was a crimson mist and all he heard was the drumming of his pulse in his ears.

  XX

  "What do you want here?" the Reverend Barnabus Farnes asked the two intruders in his church. They were just a stone's throw from him now, still moving up the aisle and getting closer with every breath.

  "That mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble, old fella," the one called Winch muttered.

  "Big trouble," the one called Turk added. "That's why we're here."

  The reverend nodded. "Your masters can't think of nothing better than to send a couple a strapping young lads like yourselves uptown to bully an old preacher? Is that it?"

  "Bully, hell," Winch said, just ten feet away. He reached into his coat and pulled out an automatic pistol. It was black and heavy and the reverend didn't care for the view down its yawning barrel, not one bit. "We're here to shut that smart mouth of yours."

  Turk pulled a piece as well. "Permanently."

  The reverend fought the urge to raise his arms, knowing they'd offer him no protection. What did one do when one stared down the barrel of a loaded gun? Just stand there, staring, and wait for the shots that would end you?

  Their thumbs heaved back their gun-hammers almost in unison, the clicks of the mechanisms loud in the big, empty sanctuary.

  Then, just as he expected those hammers to drop and a pair of bullets to roar out of those barrels and steal the breath he held in fearful anticipation, there was sudden thunder. It shook the floor, the walls, the ceiling. A rending crash followed as metal was torn into a thousand pieces and hurled in a thousand directions. A great flash of fiery light bled in through the narthex windows at the front of the building.

  The hoods were both as startled by the explosion in the street as the reverend was. All three turned toward
the far away narthex and stared.

  "The car?" Turk asked.

  "Go check it out," Winch answered. As Turk took off at a bounding lope down the aisle, Winch lunged toward the reverend and snatched him by his collar. "Come on, old man."

  The reverend submitted, the hood's pistol hovering right in his face.

  Turk hit the front doors just as Winch and the reverend entered the narthex. Once he'd opened those doors, they all had a good view. Rain sluiced out of the sky in fitful sheets. Directly across the street lay the ruins of an automobile—a flaming, riven hulk. Smoking debris littered the street.

  "You gotta be fuckin' kidding," Winch breathed beside the reverend.

  Turk was out on the stoop now, the rain pounding down on him. He slowly descended the steps, staring at the ruin of their automobile in disbelief. When he turned and looked back at Winch, his eyes were wide, his mouth working like a dying fish.

  "The boss's car…" he managed.

  Winch, now standing in the open doorway, peered out into the night, scanning the street. Silhouettes and puzzled faces were evident in windows and doorways up and down the street—everyday folks who'd heard the explosion, curious to see what the racket was all about. And here stood these two hoods, guns in hand.

  It was almost as if someone had blown up the car on purpose. To draw them out…

  Something shot out from behind the open door. At first, the reverend thought it might be a snake—odd as that seemed—because it moved so swiftly, with such intent. It whipped around the edge of the door—a fiery crimson lash—and wrapped itself around Winch's gun hand. With a yank, the gun swerved away from the Reverend Farnes, Winch's finger tightening on the trigger. There was a loud report as a shot went wild into the far railing of the front stoop. Then the crimson snake went taut and yanked Winch forward, away from the reverend, right to the edge of the church's front steps. Winch tumbled right down those steps, cursing all the way. It was a hard fall.

  The master of that crimson snake stepped out from behind the church doors. The serpent was a long scarf, and it was wrapped around the throat of a terrifying apparition in a black overcoat and top hat. The reverend couldn't believe his eyes. This was the one that people had been talking about for months now—the vigilante sometimes called the Cemetery Man, sometimes Doc Voodoo or the Dread Baron.

  The Reverend Barnabus Farnes retreated into the church narthex. He wanted God on his side at the moment. This hellion in whiteface might just have saved his life, but he was no ally the reverend would ever count as righteous or reliable.

  Out in the street, Winch stumbled to his feet, face bashed and bloodied, coat torn, hat fallen free. Reverend Farnes realized what was about to happen and jogged sideward, out of the line of fire.

  "Smoke that spook son of a bitch!" Turk shouted.

  Both men raised their weapons.

  The Cemetery Man's gloved hands dove into his coat and emerged laden with iron. The night exploded in a volley of gunfire as both parties loosed lead simultaneously. From his vantage just inside the narthex, the reverend clearly saw the hoods' shots hammer the Cemetery Man square in his chest.

  His coat frayed, smoke rose from him, and he recoiled a little under the weight of the shots—but he didn't bleed. His feet stayed planted. His guns kept barking their bloody bolero.

  The hoods in the street didn't have the same magic. The Hoodoo Man's shots tore through them like knives. In a moment, the raucous gun-music ended, leaving only the sound of the rain and a faint ringing in the reverend's ears. The Cemetery Man stood on the stoop of the church, back to the doorway. Turk and Winch lay in the street: smoking, bleeding, dead.

  XX

  Jebediah Debbs snatched the gun from the man he'd tackled and shot the other assassin. The gunman went sprawling in the gutter and didn't rise again, so Debbs assumed he'd hit his target. Once he knew he wouldn't be shot in the back, he attended to the man he had first overpowered.

  He used the butt of the pistol on the bastard's face. He did not stop until all his teeth were bloody, shattered stumps and his gums swam in a sea of red. That task accomplished, Debbs rose and carried on with his heavy shoes and all the considerable weight of his body. The gunman, barely conscious, begged for mercy through his pain. Debbs offered none.

  This was how they would all pay! Sometimes he imagined it was Brown beneath him, sometimes the Reverend Farnes. This is what they needed: corporal punishment; a good beating to put things in perspective.

  When the man beneath him no longer moved, Debbs caught his breath and looked around. There was no one on the street. The rain still beat down mercilessly and there seemed to be no traffic up and down Lenox Avenue. He waited, almost willing someone to wander by so that he could show off his handiwork and proudly display his trophies.

  Look at these dumb crackers I trounced! he'd say.

  But no one came.

  A pity.

  Giving the gunman's corpse a final kick, he lumbered away from the dead men on the street corner and strode right out into the rain-battered street. Halfway to his umbrella—still turning cartwheels all alone in the middle of Lenox—he realized that the blood-streaked gun was still in his hand. He put it in his coat pocket, a keepsake.

  Then, Jebediah Debbs picked up his dancing umbrella, shook the excess water from it, lifted it above him, and carried on home. When he reached the opposite corner, he started whistling.

  XX

  Satisfied that his quarry was dead, the Cemetery Man holstered his guns.

  There were onlookers choking 137th Street now, gawping at the fire-torn automobile, the dead goons, and the apparition of darkness on the church stoop. Reverend Farnes edged closer to his strange savior.

  The scarf around the Cemetery Man's neck kept slithering and undulating as if alive. To the reverend's disbelieving eyes, it looked like the rain itself shunned him, drops pearling as though on oilcloth, then scurrying right off him, eager to leave him be.

  "Thank you," the reverend managed.

  The Cemetery Man turned his head a little, but didn't seem to want to look the reverend full in the face. "Dangerous business you're in, reverend."

  "I could say the same," the reverend answered. "If punks like these don't get you, son, I promise the devil will."

  The Cemetery Man turned his head, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes smoldered like banked coals and the old man thought he saw something like a laconic smirk beneath the cracked and fearsome war paint.

  "You're welcome," the Cemetery Man said, then turned and leapt right off the stoop. Before all the wondering eyes of the onlookers, he bolted into a nearby alleyway and the shadows swallowed him. In the distance, a siren drew near.

  XX

  The policemen wore rain-slickers and moved with all the urgency of morgue attendants. The Reverend Adam Clayton Brown and Ms. Lucille Walker were curled up on the sidewalk, hunkered against the brownstone that loomed above them, trying to use its shallow stoop for cover. Ms. Walker's face was buried deep in the Reverend Brown's chest, sobs wracking her like tremens. Brown felt like every bone in his body were broken or cracked.

  Bodies were strewn around them. The two gunmen lay in heaps on the sidewalk. The driver of the Packard—who had leapt from the car when his fellows were gunned down—sprawled in the street.

  When the pair of policemen saw the carnage, and then saw the reverend and Ms. Lucille Walker hunkered there against the brownstone, they were at a loss for words. Brown saw it on their pale faces, in their staring eyes, in their gaping, soundless mouths.

  "Who the hell did all this?" one of them asked.

  Brown tried to speak around a mouthful of broken teeth, bleeding gums and a swollen, bleeding lip.

  "Death," he said. "He wore a hat."

  2

  When Doc Voodoo was horsed, he was something like a spider on its web. All the threads of that web—converging on him—stretched out in myriad directions, anchored to the many souls in his vicinity. When danger neared any of those souls,
it was like a bow being drawn across those strings, the note deeper or higher depending on how far away they might be, how soon the danger might be upon them. As he trotted the rooftops, vaulted above alleyway canyons and scanned the streets below, he could tune to those bowed web-strands, and hear everything that the souls attached to their opposite ends broadcast. He heard the dreams of sleeping children; the bitterness and anxieties of Pullman porters and longshoremen sozzled on hop or the demon rum; the fearful murmurings and inward prayers of beaten housewives, money-hungry molls, and little girls who didn't like the way their neighbors or their uncles or their own troubled fathers looked at them. He heard these things as well as the wind in his ears, the traffic in the streets, the chatter from speakeasy doorways and the syncopated thrum from cellar jukes and swank supper clubs. It was only his will—a concerted act of focus and concentration—that kept him from going mad.

  He asked Ogou, the lwa that rode him, if there was anything he could do. Could he shut his ears, or dampen the strength of the signals?

  This is being horsed, boy, Ogou answered gruffly. If it's drivin' you crazy, how you think it strikes me? I hear it all, day in, day out, wherever I've got turf.

  Now, Dr. Dub Corveaux, in the guise of Doc Voodoo, fought to shut them out as he fled the scene of the takedown at the church. He'd arrived just in time—he was glad he did—but he'd taken an awful risk. His maji wasn't as strong on holy ground and Ogou could have been driven out of him. Saving the Reverend Brown and Ms. Walker on Eighth Avenue was one thing; standing fast on a church stoop was another. Luckily, it worked as always: he felt the force of the slugs—a dull and distant pain, pure kinetic force—but that was all.