Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  "Don't you worry about it," the Cemetery Man replied. "It'll be my cross to bear when the time comes. First things first—we need to do something about the fat man downstairs. Let's get that taken care of before we start. Beau, help me out."

  Brown liked the sound of that. The Cemetery Man swept past them. Beau followed and both went thumping down the stairs. Brown and Fralene trailed behind them. Outside, the wind moaned under the eaves of the old house and rain rattled against the window panes like a thousand tiny claws scrabbling for ingress.

  The Cemetery Man stopped before he'd even reached the foyer below. He was staring at the spot where they'd left the fat man, bleeding and unconscious.

  "What the hell…?" Beau said.

  Brown blinked. Fralene drew breath beside him.

  The front door stood open, swinging idly on its hinges in the gathering wind from the rising spring storm outside.

  The fat man was gone. Apparently, he'd had enough life left in him to get on his feet and go stumbling out into the rainy night.

  "Are you going after him?" Beau asked.

  "Where could he have gone?" Fralene added.

  The Cemetery Man descended to the foyer, marched to the door, and slammed it shut. He tripped the deadbolt and the main lock. "Doesn't matter," he said. "Let's get started."

  19

  The rain actually helped Monk regain his wits. While the preacher—the one that wasn't crazy—and the young Negro lady and the kid and the Hoodoo Man did whatever the hell they were doing upstairs with crazy old Farnes, Monk managed to regain his senses, get back on his feet, and scurry out into the night. He was limping, since it seemed that the old preacher had maybe sprained one of Monk's ankles while giving him his beating, and there was still blood in Monk's eyes and a terrible sense of displacement from the pounding in his head and the scrambling of his senses, but at least he could see and he could move. That would do. He could make it at least a block or two on sheer willpower.

  Then the winds kicked up, and the rains started, and Monk actually welcomed the cold little droplets of water as they skirled down out of the sky and beat down on his hat brim and covered his face and refreshed him and washed some of the blood away. He had to breathe through his mouth—his nose was broken—but that didn't matter. He just wanted to be out of that house. He needed a phone. He'd call the boss, and tell him what happened, and hopefully the boss would send a car to come pick him up and take him home. He couldn't ride a train looking like he did, and he didn't have the money for a taxi.

  He'll kill you, he thought. You know that, don't you, Monk? The boss ain't gonna be forgiving.

  But it wasn't his fault, was it? He and Toby came and tried to do what it was they were supposed to do. It wasn't their fault that the old man was loony and got the drop on them, or that he shot Toby and almost beat Monk to death, was it?

  Nah. It wasn't his fault. They couldn't have seen this coming. And truth be told, Monk didn't give a flying fart at present if the boss iced him or not. With the way his head and nose throbbed like a couple of hot boils, ready to burst, he might welcome it. But he had to get out of Jigtown. He was alone up here—exposed, wounded and scared. He saw disgust and confusion and shock on the faces of all the darkies he passed as he lumbered down the street. He had to be a frightful sight, blinking rainwater and blood from his eyes, wiping blood and snot from his nose and mouth. Shit, what if the cops picked him up? Or some uptown nigger gunmen who ran with the Queen Bee?

  He needed a phone. He needed a ride home. Whatever came after that really wasn't his problem.

  The rain was falling hard and fast now, and thunder rolled over the rooftops like a Heavenly censure. Maybe that was Monk's old dad, the rabbi, rumbling his disapproval from on high. That figured. The old man never had understood that Monk didn't want to be a rabbi. For one thing, he hated reading. For another, he just didn't like having to be so goddamned upright all the time. What did it get his dad, after all, except a lifetime of scraping to get by and the same plot of earth that everybody else got?

  The thunder rumbled.

  Dad didn't approve of such thoughts.

  A car horn honked and Monk suddenly found himself face to face with the glaring headlights of a chugging Ford. He saw a shiny front grill and some dark faces behind a rain-streaked windshield and the twin suns of the lamps, like glaring eyes, but he could see little else. He was in the middle of the road. How did he get out here? Did he really stumble that way? Right off the sidewalk?

  He thumped against the hood of the Ford but kept moving. "Sorry!" he said, probably looking like some bloody demon to the startled driver. He hobbled on, finding the sidewalk and tottering toward it before another car came along to plaster him on the street. He thought he raised his feet to climb up onto the sidewalk, but apparently he didn't raise them high enough because he still tripped and fell. He landed on the rain-slicked cement face-down, thumping his nose again. More warm blood came gushing forth and he cried out at the pain.

  Monk didn't know how long he laid there, face-down on the wet pavement. He knew he was crying, he knew he was bleeding, and he knew he probably sounded like a dying animal. He didn't really care anymore, though. He just wanted it all to stop. The rain, so refreshing a few moments ago, now lashed him mercilessly, eager to keep him down, intent on stealing his last warmth. His raincoat didn't seem to be doing its job of keeping him warm and dry. He was cold. He was lonely. He wanted his mom.

  But he'd settle for the boss.

  He lifted his head and blinked. A bright and welcoming light shone out of the darkness, a beacon in the night. It was just a few yards away, calling to him like an old friend.

  Ferguson's Pharmacy and Tobacconist, the sign said. Open late!

  Pharmacies had phones. Even in his addled state, Monk knew that much. He struggled to his feet, tried to focus on the pharmacy door in the middle of the three shifting apparitions he saw, and trudged forward. The first door he tried ended up being a wall, but the second one felt like an actual door, so he seized the knob and yanked. A little bell tinkled as he lumbered in out of the rain, water dripping off of him and pooling around his feet.

  The sound of the rain stopped once the door shut behind him. Monk saw two men—both black—sitting at a short soda fountain talking to a third—a wiry old shine in a white smock with thick, coke-bottle glasses. That must be the pharmacist. There was a kid hanging around the counter, too—probably not much older than ten or eleven.

  Monk sniffed, trying to keep a fresh rope of blood and snot from dropping out of his schnoz and worming down his upper lip. He drew breath and squared his shoulders.

  "Pardon me, sir," he said, his mouth tasting like it was full of pennies, "would you happen to have a telephone?"

  The pharmacist—clearly just as stunned as his two patrons—pointed down the center aisle. Monk followed the line of the old man's brown finger and thought he saw a booth of stained wood and glass awaiting him on the back wall.

  "Thank you kindly," Monk said, and headed toward it. Once again, he saw three phone booths—not just one—but he figured finding the right one, the real one, was just a numbers game. Sooner or later, he'd find a door to open, a hook to tap, and a horn to speak into. It was just a matter of eliminating all the false options, wasn't it?

  20

  The rain beat the roof like a chorus of tiny drums and rattled against the windows in susurrating sheets. After gathering some accouterments—a vial of blessed oil from the Reverend Farnes's own study, as well as his favorite, dog-eared reading Bible—the four of them gathered in the Reverend Farnes's bedroom. The demon was still immobilized, still glaring, cursing at them as it thrashed and tried to free itself.

  The Cemetery Man surprised the reverend with his gentle insistence that Fralene and Beau need not witness what was about to unfold. Nonetheless, the Farnes siblings would not be talked out of it. Their uncle's welfare was of great concern to them. They would be present, they would bear witness, until they could stand to do so
no longer.

  The Reverend Brown silently commended them. He had to fight the urge to withdraw and keep his feet firmly planted in the bedroom from the very first moment. He was afraid the demon knew it, too.

  As they were about to begin, the demon seemed to sense something in the room—to silently read each of them, to take stock. It's appraisal brought a smug grin to its face.

  "Lordy lordy lawes…" the thing that was Barnabus Farnes croaked from the bed. "Here come the crusaders to free this poor, sad holy man from his bondage. What surprises I have in store for you!"

  "Don't listen to it," the Cemetery Man said.

  "Him," Brown said, trying to convince himself as much as the Cemetery Man. "That's my friend, sir. He's not an it."

  The Cemetery Man glared back at the reverend. "The Reverend Farnes is a him… the thing inside him is an it. Remember that even though they're in the same body, they're not the same. Not by a long shot."

  "Listen to him," the thing in the bed said. "Takes one to know one, eh, buck?"

  The door to the Reverend Farnes's bathroom suddenly slammed shut with such force that it rebounded and swung back and forth on its hinges. All of them—the demon included—stared at it.

  The demon's own surprise wasn't lost on the Reverend Brown. For just a moment, the reverend closed his eyes. He tried his best to not concentrate on anything in particular, to simply let his ears and his skin and his congregate senses help him to read the room, to feel it, at an instinctual, gut level.

  Finally, he opened his eyes. The demon's eyes were darting all about, as though it was afraid of something. Something nearby.

  "We're not alone here, are we?" Brown asked the thing.

  "Oh, you're all alone," the demon answered. "More alone than you know. It doesn't matter if the four of you stand shoulder to shoulder, or if you call in an army—"

  "No, you're right," Fralene said. "I feel it, too. There's something else here."

  "Well, what is it?" Beau asked. "And how do we get rid of it?"

  The Cemetery Man was making a strange sound in his throat: a thoughtful, purring growl. "I understand…"

  "Understand what?" Brown asked.

  "Never mind," the Cemetery Man said. "Get to work."

  Brown accepted he was about to do the most terrifying thing he'd ever done. He stood directly before the trussed-up Reverend Farnes while the Cemetery Man withdrew to the inner corner of the room, off to Brown's right. Fralene and Beau lingered in the doorway, holding a lamp so that they need not view the demon in the Reverend Farnes under harsh electric light.

  The demon smiled—no, sneered—where he sat, looking up at the three of them and surveying them like they were the shoddiest trio of fools and pilgrims he'd ever encountered. That withering gaze—alien though it might be—made the Reverend Brown feel like a frightened, incompetent child. He was only a few years younger than the Reverend Farnes, true… but there was still something in the man—even possessed by a demonic outsider—that withered Brown's own estimation of himself and filled him with trepidation.

  They stood like that for a time—exorcists and possessed. No one said a word.

  The demon thrust its chin out like a petulant child. "I ain't goin' anywhere," he said. "You'll have to kill him to pry me out of him."

  Fralene drew a breath but managed not to say a word. The Reverend Brown looked to the Cemetery Man, as if for verification. Would it come to that? Could it?

  "Get started," the Cemetery Man commanded, standing sentinel.

  Brown did as he was told.

  "You're a fool," the demon said through the Reverend Farnes's mouth. "Worse. You're a hypocrite. You're in over your head, parson."

  The Reverend Brown's throat suddenly felt like Lennox Avenue blacktop on a thirsty summer afternoon. He stared at the bound simulacrum of his old friend, Barney; stared into the dark and glaring eyes; at the sneering mouth.

  The demon strained suddenly against its bonds. Though the ropes held, the sudden movement was enough to put Brown on guard and send him reeling backward in fear. The Cemetery Man caught him and shoved him forward again with one hand.

  "This isn't play time!" the Cemetery Man snarled. "The reverend's mind and body are under siege and you're the only one that can set him free! Now, do what you know how to do!"

  Reverend Brown, the scourge of fear and doubt assailing him from his very core to the tips of his fingers, turned and stared the Cemetery Man in the eye. He'd never been so scared. It shamed him to say it—especially when Barney needed him—but what could he do? He was just one man. Suddenly, he felt not half so righteous as he thought himself to be. He felt like a fool and a hypocrite. In his mind, he could not summon a picture of himself saying the words he needed to say, summoning the holy spirit that he needed to summon to see Barney delivered. All he could see were his failures. The tiny moral shortcuts. The little white lies. The moments of soft self indulgence. Even his moment of apparent bravery downstairs, at the door—it came reflexively, without conscious thought or courageous effort.

  Just like that night that he and Ms. Walker had nearly been murdered…

  "I can't," Brown told the glowering apparition with the skull face and top hat. "I can't do it. I… I… I…"

  "Cause he's a sham as a holy man, that's why!" the demon said from the bed and chuckled from deep down in its old belly. "Hypocrite! Liar! Fraud!"

  The Cemetery Man reached out, snatched up the Reverend Brown's lapels in a single fist, and lifted him bodily off the floor. Fralene screamed and dove forward, lantern still in one hand, tugging on the Cemetery Man's muscular arm with the other. Beau tried to hold her back, but he didn't have much strength left in him. He was too busy being scared.

  "Put him down!" she commanded.

  "Leave him be!" Beau begged his sister.

  "We haven't got time for your fear," the Cemetery Man said. "Or your doubt. The Reverend Farnes needs you, Reverend Brown."

  "But—but—but—"

  The demon laughed at all of it. It seemed to find Brown's fear and the Dread Baron's fury great fun.

  "Put him down, right now!" Fralene demanded.

  "Your fear means nothing," the Cemetery Man snarled, eyes boring right into Brown's own, convicting him, tearing him down, and building him up all at once. "His need is everything. If you're his friend—a shepherd, a man of God—this is where you're needed! Right here, right now! Don't turn your back on this moment, reverend! Face it! Meet it! Seize it!"

  Brown felt something strange overtaking him as he stared down the barrel of the Cemetery Man's black and smoldering gaze. Whether the feeling invaded him from the outside or bloomed entirely from within, he could not say. But it seemed to bleed inward from his extremities and gather in the center of him, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. It was warm and strong; dense as iron, yet light as a favorite coat.

  Was that courage?

  Maybe it was simple necessity; the blind understanding that Barney needed him, and that it was his job—his alone—to deliver him. That's why the Lord had put him here. That was the work the Lord had for him to do this night: his whole life leading up to it, the rest leading away from it.

  "Put me down," he said. "I'm ready."

  The Cemetery Man obliged.

  "You ain't ready for shit," the demon croaked.

  The Reverend Brown reached into his coat pocket and drew something out: the long, purple stole that he often wore upon his shoulders on Sunday mornings, when he stood at the pulpit to preach. It was rolled up at the moment, nothing but a thick bundle of cloth the size of two fists. When he had it loose from his coat pocket, he let it unravel, straightened it in both hands, then bent forward.

  "Don't you dare!" the demon snarled.

  The Reverend Brown draped the mantle over the demon's shoulders. In an effort to keep it on him, he even flipped it rakishly round the demon's throat, like a scarf. The moment the purple mantle lay on his shoulders, the demon began to scream and writhe and growl like a rabid beast in a
cage being prodded with dull pikes.

  Fralene let a small shriek escape her—involuntary, pitiful. The Cemetery Man swept her back with one arm, urging her toward the bedroom door, then turned and spoke to her.

  "Turn your back if you have to," the Cemetery Man said. "Say prayers if need be. It'll help."

  Brown saw that Fralene struggled mightily in that instant to compose herself. She stared right back into the Cemetery Man's eyes. "I won't look away. I never look away."

  The Cemetery Man seemed to smile. "Yes, ma'am. I've heard that about you."

  Beau put his arms around his sister. "It's okay," the boy said. "I'm here."

  The Reverend Brown, having been encouraged by this exchange , now found the page he was after in his Bible. He flexed the spine of the book open so that he could see it more clearly. The demon writhed and bucked against its bonds on the bed, howling and snarling and hurling obscene epithets at them.

  "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," the Reverend Brown began, barely believing that the voice he heard in his ears was his own, "I call you, liar, you deceiver, you lurker in the shadow to show yourself!"

  XX

  Monk was just finishing his chocolate soda when he saw the big Bentley pull up outside the pharmacy. Even through the rain and darkness he recognized its long, lean lines; its shiny black paint; the glare of its two eye-like headlamps. That was the boss's car. Monk was finally going to get the hell out of here.

  He reached into his coat, pulled out two bits, and left the coin on the counter.

  The old pharmacist and his two customers were still there, staring at Monk like they expected trouble from him. The kid had run off while Monk was on the phone. Monk felt strangely embarrassed—bloody and messy as he was, soaked to the bone. He was glad the old jig had given him the chocolate soda. That calmed him and helped pass the time until the boss arrived.

  The front door bell jingled as two big figures stepped inside: Benji, one of the boss's junior gunmen, and the boss himself. Both shook the water off themselves in the doorway. It was cats and dogs out there. Monk couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such a nasty storm.