Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  "Oh, somebody's makin' plans," the thing whispered. "What you thinkin' about, buck?"

  Doc raised the serpentine scarf to his face, cradling it in both hands. He spoke to it. "Hold him," he said.

  The scarf quivered in his hands, affirming his mandate.

  Then Doc pivoted sideward, laid one boot on the sideboard again, and shoved. His superhuman strength sent the big, bulky buffet scooting lengthwise down the hallway. The basement door was suddenly free and clear.

  The thing in the basement threw all its weight on the door and it burst open on its hinges. The door bolt tearing right through the old wood of the jamb and littering the hall with splinters. There before Doc Voodoo stood the Reverend Barnabus Farnes, hands grasping and eager, dark eyes bulging lunatic-wild and teeth gnashed in a feral snarl. Carried by his momentum, he collided with the wall opposite the basement door then turned his brimstone gaze on the Dread Baron. That was good. Doc wanted the demon's attention on himself, not on the scared kid in the kitchen doorway.

  Doc studied the reverend, fighting to stay in character and not reveal the horror he felt. Here was the same man he knew from countless hours spent in his parlor, his study, his kitchen, his church. It was the same Reverend Barnabus Farnes in shape, but not in aspect: it was the holy man's hellish twin, a diabolical doppelganger. This old coot looked nasty enough and determined enough to tear a man limb from limb with his bare hands and his snarling teeth.

  The demon in the guise of a man studied Doc and sneered. "What you dressed for, buck?"

  Doc threw the scarf and the great length of crimson cloth came to life as it flew, it's light, silky material acquiring an inexplicable weight and heft. The demon tried to snatch the slithering scarf from the air, but it fell on him like a striking snake and coiled around his arms, his torso, his upper legs. He stumbled forward and tried to struggle as the scarf constricted, then he lost his balance and pitched forward, landing hard on his face and writhing in the grip of the fiery red rag.

  "The hell you say!" he spat and hissed. "The hell says I, this rag can't hold me!"

  "It can and it will," Doc said, kneeling beside him and yanking the writhing demon over on its back.

  Beau suddenly shot forward. "Don't hurt him!" he cried, his concern finally overcoming his fear.

  Doc looked up at him. "Don't worry. I won't."

  The thing in the reverend spat up at him. "You and your fright wig and your skull face! You don't scare me, buck! Nothin' scares me now that I got me some real estate on this plane!"

  "You're just a squatter," Doc snarled. "Who called you?"

  "Ain't tellin' you nothin'!" the demon spat.

  Doc snatched a handful of the scarf and hefted the reverend off the floor. He held him high in one hand, as though he were only a child, and shook him hard. "Who called you?"

  Beau shot forward again. He was right at Doc's elbow now, grabbing his arms, tearing at his coat. "Don't hurt him!" Beau shouted. "Come on, you leave him be!"

  Doc didn't have time to explain to the kid that the roughhouse routine was part of an act to try and persuade the demon that he would really start causing him some distress if he didn't talk. Of course he didn't want to permanently hurt the Reverend Farnes—but he couldn't exactly stop his act and explain that to the kid.

  So he shoved Beau away. The kid went sprawling.

  "Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Herod called me!" the demon sang. "Or maybe Mammy Laveau!"

  "Wrong answer," Doc growled, and slammed the bound reverend against the wall.

  "No!" Beau shouted from where he lay.

  Doc threw a glare at the kid. "Stay out of this and stay quiet!" he snarled.

  The demon-haunted feet kicked and bucked against the wall, seeking solid ground and finding none. He didn't want to damage the reverend, but intimidation was in order to get the demon talking—to learn its name. Only with its name could he hope to have any power over it.

  "You've got nothin' on me!" the demon hissed. "I'm here and I ain't leavin', so you might as well let me go!"

  Doc was just about to tell him that wasn't going to happen when the front door lock tripped and the door swung wide and someone stepped in from the rainy night. Reflex ruled. Doc's one free hand dove into his coat, snatched one of his pistols from its holster, and leveled the weapon at the open door and the figure framed there.

  It was Fralene Farnes. He didn't know if the fear in her eyes came from staring down the barrel of his gun, or seeing him—the Cemetery Man himself—standing in her own foyer holding her demon-possessed uncle aloft like a lunatic in a strait jacket. Her eyes bulged in her rain-soaked face like two white stones and her mouth fell open, seeking a scream and not finding it. Something fell from her hands and thumped as it hit the welcome mat beneath her.

  Doc studied what she'd dropped: a black doctor's bag.

  Dub Corveaux's doctoring bag.

  His bag.

  "Where did you get that?" he snarled, feeling a fury rise in him that he hadn't summoned or expected.

  She found her scream then and let it loose. It filled the foyer, the house, the stoop behind her, the street outside.

  The demon in his grasp laughed like a loon, trembled like a giggle-addled child.

  Something heavy suddenly slammed into Doc from his right side. It was Beau Farnes. The kid took him in a flying tackle, and down they all went—demon-possessed reverend, lwa-ridden crimefighter and gangly teenager, all in a big knot.

  Doc moved fast when they hit the floor. He dropped the demon, threw off Beau, then shot to his feet again.

  He made the doorway in three long strides, yanked Fralene inside, and slammed the door behind her. She tried to break and run, but he took her by one thin wrist and drew her right back into his embrace. One arm locked her in and his gloved hand fell on her open, screaming mouth. The other planted the muzzle of his weapon against her forehead.

  Oh, dear, Ogou chuckled.

  Doc didn't listen. He had to quiet her. If he could do so faster with fear than reason, so be it. He thumbed back the hammer of the pistol and growled in her ear.

  "Quiet," he said.

  Her gagged scream became a fearful whine.

  "That girl's got a mouth on her," the demon said from where it lay on the floor, still held fast by the crimson scarf.

  "You, too!" Doc snarled. He looked to Beau. The kid was cowering on the hallway floor, completely out of his depth. Doc held him with a steely glare for just a moment—long enough to silently urge the young man to stay the hell out of the way and keep his mouth shut. Then, Doc spoke again to Fralene, his voice softer now. "I ain't here to hurt you, or your uncle over there. I'm here to help. I need you to keep your mouth shut and listen to me, sane and sensible-like. You think you can do that?"

  She nodded, but he could feel her shuddering against him, her body trembling in the throes of fight-or-flight, heart hammering inside her like a pile-driver.

  He counted to five, saying nothing while he did so. Finally, he spoke to her again. "I'm gonna let you go. I want you to go over there to the foot of the stairs. Sit down if you have to. We're gonna have us a little palaver. You up for that?"

  She nodded. Doc took his hand off her mouth and gently thrust her away from him. Fralene spun to face him. He held up the pistol, let her watch as he slowly lowered the hammer, then he stowed it in his shoulder-holster once again. He showed she and her brother his empty hands.

  Fralene backed into the stairs and nearly fell onto them. She caught herself on the bannister, though, and gently lowered herself down, sitting as he'd commanded. She couldn't take her big, brown eyes off of him. He tried to read her. He saw fear, wonder, disbelief, even disgust—but she seemed more in control of herself now, her initial shock passed.

  Beau, meanwhile, was frozen in place. It appeared that tackling Doc when Doc had pulled a gun on Fralene was all the juice the kid had in him. That was fairly impressive, given the circumstances.

  Still, there was business to be attended to. Doc glance
d down at the doctor's bag and nudged it with the toe of one grave-digger's boot. "Where'd you get this?"

  "The doctor's," Fralene said, voice catching in her throat. "Doctor Corveaux's."

  "He gave you this?" he asked.

  She shook her head, looking a little ashamed. "He wasn't there. I picked the lock with a hairpin. Let myself in. Found that and took it."

  "You can pick locks?" Beau said, as though it was the most shocking thing he'd heard or seen all night.

  Doc stared at Fralene. Picked the lock? He had no idea she was so endowed. He resisted the urge to smile a little. "And what did you plan to do with it?"

  "There's morphine in there, and a needle," she nodded toward the bound reverend on the floor. "I was going to try and sedate him."

  "Sedate me?" the demon said. "Girl, all you'd do is get my blood up—not to mention my—"

  "Quiet!" Doc roared. Fralene and Beau both jumped, even though he was speaking to the demon. He turned to her again. "You know how to give a shot like that? How much of that dope is safe to give?"

  She shook her head, eyes welling up with tears. "I didn't know what else to do. Doctor Dub wasn't home. I needed him—I needed his help—and he wasn't there! I had to do something!"

  "There are other doctors," the Baron suggested.

  "Nobody can see him like this!" she wailed, suggesting her trussed-up uncle, tears pouring forth. "He's a good man! A kind man! This isn't him!"

  "This is me," the demon sang.

  Doc leveled a finger at him. "If I have to tell you again—"

  "You'll what?" the demon challenged. "Hurt me, buck? Kill me? You ain't gonna do shit so long as you give a good goddamn how the good reverend comes out at the back end. Don't you threaten me!"

  Fralene was up off the stairs, backing into the little dining room to the right of the foyer, suddenly eager to be away from her uncle. Doc took a step toward her.

  "Don't run," he said.

  "What's wrong with him?" she asked.

  "Nothin'," the demon said. "Right as rain, li'l miss!"

  "He's got something inside him," Doc said. "Something not human."

  Fralene stared, trying to make sense of his words. He narrowed his eyes. "You're a church-going woman. I shouldn't have to spell this out for you."

  She shook her head, mouth working but no words readily available. "I don't—I can't—how could that be?"

  "Look at him," Doc said. "Hell, miss—look at me. What do you think you're in the middle of here?"

  "Even so," she said, "why him? Why now?"

  "I haven't got any answers," Doc said. "But I can find them. We've just got to keep him under wraps a bit."

  "Wrapped up good and tight," the demon said, straining against the Serpent d'Ogou.

  Fralene shook her head. It was too much for her to take all at once. She stared at the Doc, trying to make sense of the Halloween sight of him. "Who are you? How'd you even get in here?"

  "I'm a friend," Doc said, then nodded toward Beau. "Just ask your brother. We've met."

  She looked to Beau. Beau, seemingly ashamed, gave her a nod. Fralene clung to the wall, staring at Doc, stealing glances at her bound uncle, trying to reason out what she'd stumbled into. Finally, he thought he saw the fear and confusion subsiding in her. "What can I do?" she asked. It wasn't a plea or a lament—it was just a simple question in search of a direct answer.

  He gently kicked the doctor's bag over to her. It scooted to a halt at her feet. "Go on and pull the morphine and hypo out of there. You're gonna give him a shot."

  "You ain't givin' me nothin'!" the demon snarled, struggling again but making no headway. "That won't do a goddamn thing to me!"

  Doc leveled his burning gaze at the bound man. "Then what are you so worried about?"

  The demon didn't have an answer for that.

  13

  Dr. Dub Corveaux was awakened from a sound sleep by someone frantically pounding on his apartment door. Being one floor up from the front door, he could barely hear it—but it was unmistakable and undeniable nonetheless: hard, fast, insistent. He drug himself out of bed, slipped into a silk house robe, and trudged downstairs to answer it.

  He knew it would be Fralene—in his guise as Doc Voodoo, he'd given her specific instructions to seek out Dr. Dub Corveaux as soon as the sun was up. He'd only managed a couple hours of sleep, but that didn't matter. Part of being horsed and doing his work on the streets at night was a special sleep dispensation from his lwa patrons. Ogou, Erzulie, and Legba made sure that his body felt strong and rested, and that he dreamed and stayed sane, no matter how little actual sleep he managed to snatch. As he approached the door, he prepared himself to seem groggy, confused, even a little annoyed when he found out that Fralene had broken in last night and stolen his doctor's bag.

  He opened the door. There she stood, looking sleepless, beautiful, haggard and terrified, his doctor's bag clutched in her hands. Dub stared. Blinked. Raised his eyebrows. It was a fine performance.

  "Fralene?" he asked, as though his eyes deceived him.

  She offered the bag. "I was here last night, when you were out," she said. "I broke in and I stole this."

  He stared at the bag as though he barely understood what she offered him. Then he looked to her again, incredulous. "You what?" he managed. He really deserved an award for such a performance. Maybe he belonged on stage?

  "Let me in," Fralene commanded. "Make me some coffee and I'll explain everything."

  He did as she asked. She waited in silence while the chicory coffee percolated. When he set a cup in front of her—heavy on cream and sugar, the way she liked it—she took a single, long gulp, then began her tale without preamble. He had to admit, her forthrightness surprised him.

  She told him of her grandfather's strange behavior; of walking him home; of his sudden attacks before she finally managed to drag his unconscious body to the basement and lock him in. Then she told him how she'd come here late last night, looking for him, desperate for his aid.

  "Where were you?" she demanded, a tad too acidly for his taste. "I needed you, Dub, and you weren't here!"

  He raised his hands. "We had no plans, Fralene. Last time we talked, you didn't seem to need me for much of anything. I was just letting you enjoy a few evenings without me."

  Her gaze was harsh and demanding, but she held her tongue. He sensed the doubt and division in her—she wanted to grill him, but she was afraid of what she'd learn. Moreover, even if she learned something terrible—horror of horrors, that he'd been out with another woman, balling the night away at a rent party—she knew she had no ground to stand on, no right to dress him down for such a decision. Hadn't they argued? Weren't they, in some small sense, on the outs? Hell, had they even made their association official or public somehow? Held themselves out as steadies?

  No, she found no words, she just glared at him, as though his perfect right to an evening without her—and without explanation—infuriated her.

  He held his ground. "Did I misunderstand?" he asked. "Were our last words of a kind and loving nature that I misinterpreted?"

  "Forget about it," she said tiredly. "Just let me finish."

  He resisted the urge to smile. That was his girl: clearly in the wrong, but loath to admit it. Hard-headed and troublesome as she could be, he admired her spirit…

  "So, I came here," she continued, "I pounded. I called. I waited. When you didn't show up and used a hairpin to pick your lock."

  "Where did you learn how to pick locks?" he asked.

  "A woman's got to have some secrets, Dr. Corveaux. If I gave them all away I'd be a might less compelling, wouldn't I?"

  Yes, indeed, you would, Miss Farnes, he thought.

  "Anyway, I let myself in"—she said it as though it were a natural right, like breathing or liberty or suffrage—"and when I saw no sign of you but stumbled upon your bag, I decided to take it. I guess I was thinking I could put my uncle out. Make him a little more manageable until I could see you again and get your pro
fessional opinion."

  "My professional opinion," he began, "is that you don't need to be administering hard narcotics to anyone if you don't know how they work or what the right doses are."

  "Well, I wasn't alone," she said. "When I got back to the house, someone was waiting for me."

  He stared, waiting. The reticence in her eyes suggested that even now, after holding court with Doc Voodoo in her own foyer and watching him drag her drugged uncle down into the basement and lock him there, she could barely believe it—nor did she want to admit it. Finally, she took another sip of coffee, drew a deep breath, and spat it out.

  "It was the Cemetery Man," she said. "The one everyone's talking about. He was in my home, Dub!"

  He hoped he could maintain his poker face. He even considered joshing her—suggesting that she was crazy or that he didn't believe her—but he knew that that might drive her over the edge. She was emotionally ragged at the moment—vulnerable. To misuse her at such a time…

  He simply frowned and raised one brow higher. "In your home?"

  "I saw him!" she said, eyes wide in disbelief and desperation. "Beau wasn't telling tales. He's real, Dub! When I got back, there he was in the foyer, wrestling with Uncle Barnabus! He had him all trussed up with a big red scarf! And he drew his gun on me when I walked in!"

  Dub shrugged. "I'm sure it was just a reflex. Fella like him…he tangles with some rough sorts. He didn't hurt you, did he?"

  "He scared the hell out of me," she said with some finality. "But no, he didn't hurt me. Once he'd gotten me over my shock and quiet, he even struck me as…I don't know. Gentle, somehow. Concerned…"

  He hoped to God and all his angels she never told anyone that. That would be disaster for Doc Voodoo's reputation. The scourge of Harlem, gentle and concerned when alone with a lady in her parlor.

  "He suggested the dosage," she said. "He seemed to know what he was doing."

  "Makes sense, I guess," Dub conceded. "He probably has to see to his own wounds, after all."