Havoc Rising

by Brian S. Leon

  The cabbie let me out in front of a building that resembled every other one on its tree-lined street—a three-story bowfront Victorian row house made of redbrick, with a basement at ground level and a steep stairway up to the narrow French front doors. It was partitioned off from its neighbors by a short stone wall.

  This was an old neighborhood. I could feel its age, yet it appeared peaceful and pristine and a complete contrast to the hustle and bustle of Manhattan just across the bay. By sheer luck, they had a room available, and I was able to settle in quickly.

  My room was at the back of the house on the second floor and had a pair of twin beds opposite a nonworking fireplace. It was a neat and comfortable space with a pair of chairs flanking the fireplace and a view out over the garden. I threw my bags on the bed closest to the windows and started unpacking.

  While I was organizing my gear, my phone rang. It was Agent Wright. “Back already?”

  “Yeah, well, to Brooklyn, anyway. I’m aiding in the recovery of the cup now. Any more info on the bomber?” I was hoping she’d be okay telling me even though my official part in the bombing investigation was over.

  “We still have no ID on him, but we’ve got a pretty good map of his whereabouts leading up to the bombing,” she replied apologetically.

  She spent a minute outlining the basics of what they knew about the bomber’s movements up to and including the day of the explosion. Despite what they knew about his movements around Manhattan, they still had no idea what part of Brooklyn the guy came from.

  “Well, since I guess it’s now part of my job, do you know anything more about the cup that was stolen?”

  “The cup?” She was clearly surprised. “No, sorry. Our priority is finding the bomber and any associates. The police and the museum are dealing with the theft.”

  It was hard to explain to mortals that even the most mundane-seeming object could be quite powerful and deadly in the wrong hands. I once witnessed a demon lay waste to an entire battalion of soldiers using only an old bone.

  “Well, what about the terrorist link? Isn’t it possible that whatever terrorist organization claimed responsibility for the bombing stole the cup for some religious purposes?” I was on a serious fishing expedition, but given that I currently had nothing, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.

  “The terrorist angle is being explored by other agencies at this time,” Agent Wright said, using an official tone.

  Her sarcasm made me snort, and I could hear her laugh, too. The problem was I didn’t know what else to say to keep the conversation going.

  “Well, good luck finding a lead on Mr. Boom-Boom,” I finally said after a long silence.

  She laughed a little louder this time, which made me smile.

  “Mr. Boom-Boom, smartass?”

  “You got a better name right now? I’ll call you when I find something,” I said, smiling.

  “When you find something? I can’t tell if that’s arrogance or confidence.” She chuckled.

  “Neither. I’m just an optimist. I’ll be in touch,” I said and then hung up.

  After surveying the gear on the bed, I grabbed my Sig and slid it into a shoulder holster, pulled it on, put my CQC-6 in my pocket, and strapped a tanto knife to the inside of my calf under my pants. Even though it was almost summer, the air still held a chill, so I pulled on a light jacket, stuffed an image of the bomber—from the video—into a pocket, and stopped at the desk in the lobby to ask where I could find a good Italian deli.

  I spent the rest of the morning purchasing a bag full of cured meats, good buffalo mozzarella, bottles of expensive imported olive oil, and balsamic vinegar, as well as six types of cookies and a loaf of bread that was so fresh you could smell it fifty feet away. I was going to need it to appease the Lar properly in order to get its help.

  Once I had my offering, I walked to the Holy Cross cemetery, a dozen blocks down and a dozen more over from my hotel and right in the heart of Flatbush. The area was a working-class part of Brooklyn that used to be made up of mostly Italian-American and Jewish neighborhoods but had become a true melting pot over the years and was now home to ethnic groups from around the world.

  The entrance to the Holy Cross Cemetery off of Tilden Avenue was a monumental stone double archway adorned with a Chi-Rho cross, capped with copper flashing and an oversized traditional cross. It was clearly a Roman Catholic resting ground. Just inside the archway and to the right was a small building, which I assumed was some sort of office, with a few cars parked next to it. The cemetery itself was beautifully kept, and the trees were covered in new spring growth, casting a serene and peaceful atmosphere over the area. A grassy expanse with gravestones and bushes flanked the entrance then gave way to a dense stand of trees and more graves. If it weren’t for all the dead people, it would have made a great park.

  With no one in sight, I set the bag of food on a stone ledge on the back of the entrance’s central pillar. Above it was a bas-relief carving of a man wearing a tunic and a laurel wreath. He had a spear in one hand and a horn in the other, and below him was a wicked-looking serpent.

  I walked toward the nearest stand of trees and began reading grave markers, keeping an eye on the bag. After about twenty minutes, the shuffling sound of someone crossing the grass behind me finally drew my attention.

  I was surprised to see the Lar with a heavy rake in his hands, dressed like a groundskeeper. His nametag read “Joe,” and he looked like an old Italian grandfather—a hawk-like but regal nose, a receding hairline of pure white hair, and a slightly stooped back. He moved easily, despite his aged appearance.

  He wasn’t veiling himself, but Lares usually didn’t since they appeared entirely human. The aura of power he emanated came from the area he protected. This one was particularly powerful, which meant he’d been there a while, and the descendants of the families that had originally summoned him still supported him and would ask for his protection by presenting him with gifts and offerings like the ones I’d left at his altar. Still, it was odd for a Lares Compitalicii, or a town protector, to be in a cemetery.

  “Can I help you find someone?” he asked in a heavy Italian accent without looking at me, raking at the grass but not gathering anything.

  “Sto cercando per voi, onorato custode,” I replied in Italian, letting him know I was seeking him. I bowed my head in deference to him and his authority here.

  Most types of Lares weren’t particularly strong beings anymore—people just didn’t believe in them the way they once had. They used to be protectors and guardians of homes and villages and any number of other objects and locations and were very similar to brownies. The Lares that protected whole communities, on the other hand—like this one—wielded an awful lot of power but were bound to use it only in protection of their territory.

  Joe would likely know everything that occurred in his protectorate and at one time would have done things like help crops grow, provide water, and even stave off illness. Generally, Lares were benevolent unless something supernatural threatened their community. Given that Joe’s altar was in this hundred-and-sixty-year-old cemetery, he wasn’t really old by fae standards, but the area he protected was massive. If some being came to Brooklyn to do harm, it’d have to deal with him. And if people in his community were up to no good—say, planning a bombing, for example—I had no doubt he’d know about it.

  “We in America, we speak English here,” he replied. “Why you look for me?” Joe kept raking at the grass and didn’t make eye contact.

  “I need your help trying to find someone,” I said, hoping to earn his trust.

  He stopped raking and peered at me through hooded eyes. “How can I help you, custode?” He used the same word for me that I’d used for him. It meant guardian. At least he knew who I was. “You try the phone book, or maybe try that Google thing?”

  “Th
ose won’t help me. This person blew himself up in the Met the other day. I think he lived somewhere here in Brooklyn, and I think he was working with a powerful shaman. But there seems to be more to the situation. An object of special significance and power was stolen, too. I thought you might be able to help me find where the bomber lived—if he did live here. That way, I would at least have a starting point for finding out who wanted the object and why.”

  The Lar walked around a few headstones and approached me. Standing only a few feet away, he stared at me, his mouth pressed tightly closed while he leaned heavily on the rake with both hands as if it were a staff. “Meh. Maybe. Maybe no. What you bring me?” He tipped the top of the rake toward the altar.

  An enormous serpent slithered over to us with the bag in its mouth as I gestured back toward the altar. The reptilian creature reminded me of a legless dragon, maybe fifteen feet long with a broad, laterally compressed head, more like a T. rex than a typical snake. As it approached us, its coloration blended first with the black pavement it passed over and then with the grass we were standing in. That was just all kinds of icky.

  Instantly, I reached for my gun, but just as quickly, Joe placed a steadying hand on my shoulder. He simply shook his head, his mouth lifting at one side into a smirk. The serpent stopped at Joe’s feet and dropped the bag from its jaws then coiled up to my right, watching me with its beady, reptilian eyes, which were at my eye level. It swayed slightly back and forth, its jaws agape just enough to reveal a nasty set of teeth.

  “Just some food,” I replied, suppressing a shudder and trying not to sound or seem too concerned about the giant snake in front of me.

  The Lar waved his hand as if he were shooing flies, and the serpent lowered itself back to the ground and slithered off to disappear among the grave markers and trees behind me. I couldn’t help but watch the creepy scene, partly out of vigilance and partly out of curiosity. A creature of that size should not have just disappeared that easily. I had to suppress another shudder.

  “You bring me any jujulena or cucidata?” he asked, dropping the rake and picking up the bag.

  “I think there should be some of both, along with anise cookies and a special biscotti.” I put my hands behind my back and watched him as he dug through the bag like a kid picking through his sack at Halloween.

  “Bah, I don’t like the biscotti. They make it too sweet here. Ah, sopressata and felino! Bene, bene, bene!”

  “I was told the biscotti was more traditional and very good. That’s why I got it.” I silently watched him continue his exploration of the bag. “Do you think you could help me?” I finally asked after a few minutes.

  “What was his name?” he asked while he continued to riffle through the bag, releasing the aromas of fresh bread and cured meats.

  I was glad my offerings worked, and it was actually fun to watch him pick through the items so excitedly. I only hoped his enthusiasm didn’t wane as soon as I told him I had little information about the kid. “I don’t have a name. All I have is a rough image from a videotape. I know he used to take the water taxi from Red Hook across to Manhattan, but that’s all.” I looked down at my feet, hoping the tiny bit of information I had would be enough.

  If he was as powerful as I thought, I doubted he even needed the picture. I handed him the print from the surveillance cameras. He stopped digging, grabbed the picture, and scanned it for maybe half a second before passing it back. It couldn’t have been more than a glimpse, and then his attention shifted back to the bag. I shook my head as I took the picture back, figuring I was wrong.

  “I thought as much,” he replied, digging back into the bag. “Ah, good mozzarella,” he said, holding one of the fist-sized balls of cheese under his nose and inhaling deeply. “The boy lived in the Red Hook Houses, in Building Nineteen on the corner of Dwight and Verona on the first floor. The unit was not his and had not been occupied for some time before he arrived. Be careful. That place is a warren of violence and misery.” With that, he stopped searching the bag, picked up his rake, and let out a sharp whistle.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” I said, ecstatic I finally had a solid place to begin. “This is my first visit back to Brooklyn in some time, and despite my purpose here, I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s become very nice. If ever I can be of service, you have but to ask.” I was careful not to thank him, but I wanted to show my respect. It was hard to do that and not sound like a total kissass.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the serpent slink up behind the Lar. Joe held up the bag, and the legless creature grabbed it and glided away across the manicured grass, through the trees and headstones, back into the cemetery, and out of sight. This time I couldn’t suppress the shudder. Everything about that snake was just wrong.

  “You should also know there are other… nonhuman things concerned with this boy, as well. I have done my best to discourage them, but I was alone in doing so. Until now. Buona fortuna, custode. I hope you find what you look for.” He waved his hand as he followed the serpent back among the graves.

  CHAPTER 18

  I didn’t know much about the Red Hook Houses except that they were the second-largest projects in New York and home to around six thousand people, give or take. The area was rife with all types of crime and not what anyone would call safe—especially at night. But the location made sense if the bomber wanted to stay off the grid.

  I left Holy Cross and returned to my bed-and-breakfast. In my room, I double-checked my Sig and tucked my Glock into the waist of my pants at the small of my back, making sure my jacket covered it. It wasn’t the best place to carry a backup, but it worked. I made sure I had a spare clip for each gun in my shoulder harness, threw my cell phone into my jacket pocket, and left.

  It was already four in the afternoon by the time I headed back outside. I didn’t want to spend the better part of an hour hoofing it, so I grabbed a taxi. The driver did a double take when I told him to drop me at the corner of Verona and Dwight. I didn’t know if his reaction was because I was white or because I was crazy enough to go to that area. Either way, I took it as a bad omen.

  About twenty minutes later, he let me off along Dwight Street just down from the Verona intersection and in the shadow of the mammoth, looming brown-brick structures of the Red Hook Houses. The sheer magnitude of the housing development was overwhelming. It was four blocks square and composed of at least two dozen six-story buildings with an institutional bearing. It was a town unto itself. I hadn’t known what to expect, but the reality left me puzzled. Sure, there were bags of trash and random litter on the sidewalks, but the lawns between the buildings were green and well maintained and all the trees had fresh growth, giving me more an impression of big city than ghetto. Nobody behaved in a cautious or shifty manner, nor did the mostly African-American people that passed seem alarmed or even concerned by my presence… from a distance, anyway.

  As I approached the entrance to Building Nineteen at the far northern end of the complex, things changed dramatically. I nearly gagged at the smell of dozens of bags of garbage on the sidewalk waiting for pickup. Even though no one was visible around the building, I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. It could have just been someone peeking at me through one of the windows, or I could have just been paranoid, but I couldn’t tell either way for sure, so I just kept walking as if I belonged there.

  Up close, the structure was in poor condition, especially the entryway. What had likely been an entry buzzer system at one time had been pried apart and mostly destroyed. The door barely hung in its frame, and the windows around it had either been taped over or replaced with cardboard. I had to make an effort to pry the door open.

  The heat and humidity in the entry hall, created by hundreds of people living in cramped conditions, hit me like a fist. The smell in the dark corridor overwhelmed me. It wasn’t a disgusting odor, exactly, but rather an overpowering combinatio
n of spices, foods, smoke, pets, people, garbage, waste, mold, and any number of unidentifiable odors. Only a few of the lights in the long hallway actually worked, and one flickered constantly. Somewhere in the building, a radio was thumping out bass. Televisions blared, people yelled, and kids cried.

  From the information the Lar had given me, I knew the apartment I needed to locate was on the first floor, but there had to be sixty apartments per floor, and I doubted anyone would tolerate me knocking on doors and asking questions. I walked down the corridor, making a mental map of how far apart the doors were to try to judge apartment size while making note of the units that were silent. It was easier than I thought. Some of the residents left their doors open, probably in an attempt at improving ventilation, I saw a few residents leave or enter, and various kinds of noise emanated from behind other doors, leaving only three quiet apartments along the hall.

  I decided to risk it and knock on the doors to the noiseless units. At the first one, I got no response. At the second one, my banging agitated a poor woman who had just fallen asleep after working a double shift. She screamed so loudly at me that several neighbors popped their doors open on their chains to see what was going on. I tried to apologize but found it easier just to move on and pretend to leave.

  Once the ruckus had died back down, I approached the third quiet apartment. As I knocked, an African-American boy around ten years old opened the door of the apartment across the hall and stood there dribbling a basketball. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt and shorts so long they could have been pants. I grinned at him as he watched me warily.

  “I don’t think he’s home,” the boy said. “I ain’t seen him in a couple of days. He’s crazy anyway. What you want with him? He in trouble?”