by Lou Anders
“F-Felix… ?” the specter said, in a voice that reverberated strangely with distant echoes.
“No,” Sepultura said, and stepped past me, tugging the leather mask from his head. He turned his bare face to the specter above. “It’s Beto.” He paused, and then said, “Roberto. Roberto Aguilar.”
The specter wailed in dismay, and seemed to flicker from view for the briefest of instants.
“Where… where is Felix… ?” her echoing voice called out.
The unmasked Sepultura was revealed to be a young Mexican man, no more than twenty years old. He was looking right at the apparition of the girl, though mundane vision would see only an empty alley in front of him. That meant that he had the Sight, though he might never have realized it until now.
But though we live in a demon-haunted world, the spirits of the dead never return to visit the living. There is only one way I know for a live person to become a specter such as floated before us.
The echoing voice of Sarah Pennington howled in sorrow and fear once more, and, muttering beneath my breath, I named her. “ La Llorona.” Wailing Woman.
I stepped forward and placed my hand on Sepultura’s shoulder. “You know this girl?”
He turned to me with wide eyes, looking as though he’d forgotten I was ever standing there. “I didn’t think… Felix couldn’t have hurt her… killed her…”
“Felix!” the specter of Sarah Pennington wailed.
“No one hurt her, son,” I said. “And she isn’t dead. She is simply… lost.”
It was likely the girl hadn’t ever imagined that she could shift away from reality. Not until she did it for the first time, and found she couldn’t get back.
“She’s been seeing my friend Felix,” Sepultura finally said. “Felix Uresti. But her dad, he wasn’t happy about her dating a Mexican. Said he was going to put an end to it. Joe Dominguez went with Felix to her house, to help her get away from the old man, but Pennington came out with a shotgun. Started shooting in the air like it was the Fourth of July. The way Felix tells it, things went crazy, Sarah came running toward him, then she just… vanished.”
Typically the untrained shift instinctively in states of agitation and trauma, often fleeing some perceived danger. The poor girl running away from a shotgun-wielding parent would definitely qualify.
“Felix and Joe took off running,” Sepultura continued, “and the next day the police came and carted them away, charged with kidnapping and murder.”
“Felix!” the specter wailed, perhaps in response. “Where are you?”
The specter drifted a few feet nearer, and waves of freezing cold lapped over us. I thought back to the Rattling House, and the brief moment I’d spent in the Unreal, that unending realm of darkness and cold. I knew now how the victims had come to be frozen; she’d been searching for a way back, and grabbed hold of anyone she could. How was she to know that her very touch would bring cold death?
Was she too far gone now to attempt to grab onto either of us? Or was the reminder of her lost Felix enough to stop her in her tracks, ignoring us because neither of us were the one she sought? I couldn’t say, but knew that we would have to put an end to the danger she presented, and soon.
“But you knew your friends were innocent,” I said, looking from the specter to the young man beside me. I recognized him now as the young man from the argument I’d overheard in the cemetery.
He nodded. “That’s why… well…” He paused, and gestured with the skull-faced mask in his hand. “Sepultura.”
“You were trying to clear your friends’ names.”
The young man drew himself up straighter, lifting his chin. “I’d read all about you in the magazines. I figured, if he can do it, then why can’t I?” He looked back to the specter. “I never believed that Felix killed the girl, but she couldn’t have just vanished. I figured that she had slipped away in the confusion, and that someone else had nabbed her before she could rejoin Felix. So I put on the mask and started searching the streets, looking for the kind of cabrόn who would snatch pretty girls. But now that we’ve found her, we can prove Felix and Joe didn’t kill her.” He glanced over to me, his expression hopeful. “Right?”
I tightened my hand on his shoulder, sympathetically. “I’m afraid it won’t be so simple.”
I released my hold on his shoulder, and pulled pouches of salt out of my greatcoat’s pockets in either hand. I passed one of them to the young man, who accepted it with a questioning look.
“We’ll do what we can about your friends,” I told him, tugging open the drawstring on the pouch. “But there’s something we must do, first.”
Though one is a lost human being and the other is a fiend of the Otherworld, there was much in common between the specter before us and the shade that I had banished on the dock earlier tonight. Neither of them can conscience crystalline structures of any kind, and the perfectly cubed molecules of everyday salt are particularly anathema. And running water and flames are capable of discomfiting both, and of driving them away from reality.
I motioned the young man to mirror my actions, and began laying down a wide ring of salt on the ground beneath the specter’s hovering form.
“I will explain later,” I said, not unkindly, when I saw his confused expression.
There is simply no way to end Sarah Pennington’s suffering, at least no way that Xibalba ever knew. But it is possible to drive her away from reality, pushing her further into the Unreal where she will pose no further risk to the world she’s left behind. And God forgive me, I had to do it.
“ Don Mateo,” I Sent to the old daykeeper in the hearse idling a short distance away. “I’m afraid we will need the acetylene torch.”
Already the sky outside has begun to lighten, and dawn is not far off. I’m reluctant to sleep, worried that the image of that poor girl will revisit me in my dreams, but I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.
The city was safe… for now. It was only a matter of time before evil once more imperiled her innocent citizens. But whatever the threat, whether man or monster, from earth or beyond, they would have to contend with the city’s ever-vigilant silver-skulled sentinel—THE WRAITH.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1942
The papers this morning carried the story of how Joe Dominguez and Felix Uresti escaped from jail in the night. The Clarion quoted the Recondito chief of police as insisting that the two young men could not have broken out of their cells on their own, and must have had outside assistance. The Telegraph, never shrinking from sensationalism, quoted an unnamed jailer as saying that “only a ghost could get through those walls.”
Or a Wraith, I’m tempted to point out.
Without a body to produce, living or dead, there was simply no way of proving the innocence of the two men. Even if I had been willing to step forward, reveal myself, and testify in court, the account would simply be too fantastic for a jury to accept. But I could not allow two innocent men to go to the gas chamber, not if I had the power to see justice done.
The two were startled when I shadowed through the wall of their cell, to say the least. But when I explained why I had come, and what awaited them if they remained, they were all too eager to leave with me. Shadowing with even one full-grown man taxes my abilities to their limits, so Uresti had to hide in the darkened alley behind police headquarters while I shadowed back through the brick wall for Dominguez, but by the time I had both of them free Aguilar had arrived with changes of clothes and busfare for his friends.
They are already on their way south to Mexico, where new lives and new names wait for them. Like my new associate in the boilersuit and wrestling mask, Dominguez and Uresti were both born in California, and neither have left the country before. But I know they will adapt. They are hardly the first to have to leave the land of their birth and adopt new names in order to survive.
A dozen years behind the mask of the Wraith, and I’ve become too quick to make assumptions. Have I learned so much since the day Don Javier found
me in the jungle that there is nothing left for me to be taught? Not hardly.
I had assumed the deaths by freezing to be the work of a demon of cold, though neither Don Mateo nor I had ever heard of any such creature before. Had I stopped and thought a bit more, might I have recognized the telltale signs of an untrained shifter-turned-specter, one whose touch bled heat away into the Unreal? And if I had recognized the signs, might some of those who died at the specter’s touch still be alive today? Perhaps.
Too, I was all too quick to assume that a pachuco in a zoot suit was naturally guilty of any accusation. Like the “cold demon” I sought, the young delinquents were an invasion from without, a threat to the security of my city. But like poor Sarah Pennington, boys like Dominguez and Uresti were no invasion, but had been here all along.
I won’t be around forever. And one day my patience may wear thin enough for me to storm the gates of the Guildhall and bring that monstrous building crashing down on the fat-cats’ heads. When I am gone, there needs to be someone who can pick up where I left off. There must be a successor with the Sight capable of protecting this city against all threats, from without and from within.
Last night, Sepultura tangled with the Wraith. (Damn, I do refer to myself in third person, don’t I?)
Today, assuming he makes our scheduled meeting at the cemetery, Roberto Aguilar will be properly introduced to Alistair Freeman.
And tonight, my successor’s training will begin.
I may not be the daykeeper that Don Javier was, but with Don Mateo’s help—and assuming that Aguilar is an apt pupil—I will make sure that the legacy of Xibalba does not end with me.
Charlotte will be here soon. I’ve not seen her since yesterday afternoon, and all she knows about the events of the night is what she might have gleaned from the morning papers. I will have to tell her that I banished an innocent girl to endless exile in unreality, all to safeguard a thankless city—but perhaps not right away. Let me pretend for a moment to be a simple writer of cheap fiction, an old man in fact as well as name, who can turn away from the night’s horrors as simply as lifting his hands from his typewriter’s keys. I know night will fall, and with it the need to take up the silver mask once more, but give me this one bright moment of sunshine for my own.
Can’t I turn away for just an instant, just this once?
And somewhere past the edge of hearing, the wailing voice of Sarah Pennington calls out for help that will never arrive, joining the echoes of Cager Freeman’s dying cries, and his father’s pleas for mercy, and my sister Mindel shouting above the crackling flame, and all of the other countless voices crying out to be avenged…
… and I know that I have my answer.
Peter David is an author, comic book scribe, and screen and television writer, whose résumé includes over fifty novels (many of them New York Times bestsellers), episodes of such television series as Babylon 5 and Space Cases (which he created with Bill Mumy), and a twelve-year run on the comic book series The Incredible Hulk. He is the cocreator and author of the bestselling Star Trek: New Frontier series for Pocket Books, and scripted issues of such comic titles as Supergirl, Young Justice, Soulsearchers and Company, Aquaman, Spider-Man, Spider-Man 2099, X-Factor, Star Trek, Wolverine, The Phantom, Sachs & Violens, and many more. Winner of an Eisner Award, as well as many other awards, David wrote the following tale with his wife, Kathleen.
Head Cases
PETER DAVID AND KATHLEEN DAVID
The musician stood on the curbside, gently strumming his guitar and nodding along with his own aimless tune. The young man sang equally aimless words that had the merit of rhyming without actually conveying any imagery or meaning. He liked that about his songs, believing that it meant they could be anything to anyone. His foot tapped along, half a beat behind. It was so disconcerting that people walking past him would trip slightly as his music put them out of synch.
“You suck,” one guy muttered as he walked past.
“Thank you,” said the musician cheerfully, as if a compliment had just been paid. He’d gotten used to it. Money was piling up in the guitar case that was open in front of him, and most of the people who dropped money in said the same thing: “For God’s sake, get some lessons.” His response continued to be “Thank you” in every case. No sense in pissing off the customers. The public knew what it wanted: It wanted him to improve and cease being painful to listen to. That was fine with him.
“I had a feeling,” said an annoyed voice.
The musician’s eyes opened. He knew what he was going to see. The knowing didn’t make it any easier. If anything, it made it worse.
“I had a feeling you would be here,” said the man who was facing him. He wore his blue pinstripe suit like a badge of honor.
“A feeling.” The musician didn’t sound impressed. He stopped playing, an action that promptly drew scattered applause from passersby, who were pleased that they could resume their strides without risking tripping over their own feet. “Did that feeling have anything to do with being tipped off by the cops?”
“I am a cop. Of course they tip me off.”
“You’re not a cop, Dad,” he said with weary annoyance. “Working in the community PR department doesn’t make you a cop. It’s like saying the Mets equipment manager plays for them.”
“Maybe he’s not a player, but he’s still part of the team. And the guys on my team look out for me.”
“No, they look out for me. They spy on me. You’re the one they ratted me out to.”
“Look, Ari, you need to—”
“This is what I need to do, Dad,” Ari said firmly. He held up the guitar. “I need to do what I feel like doing.”
“And that’s this? Playing guitar badly on street corners while people toss you pennies?”
“Dollars,” Ari corrected him.
“As if that makes a difference.”
“It does to me. That makes a difference, and this makes a difference.” He held his guitar out toward his father. “This is my life…”
“You only started playing six months ago, for God’s sake! This isn’t your life, Ari. This is just the latest thing! And six months from now, it’ll be something else!” He lowered his voice and said intensely, “There are things you can be doing. Should be doing.”
“Like what? Like trying to convince neighborhood teens that Mister Policeman is their friend when the kids know that the cops would just as soon chuck them behind bars as look at them?”
His father ignored the jibe. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “There was a bank robbery today just three blocks from here.”
“Yeah, I thought I heard something going on. Sirens and everything. Sounded like a mess.”
“You could have helped.”
“I don’t look good in nylons pulled over my face. Some people can make it work as a fashion statement, but—”
“I mean helped stop it! It was our kind of robbery, Ari! Someone who’s invisible, they think. Or a mind wiper. Nobody remembers anything. One minute it’s business as normal, and the next, all the cash drawers are empty.”
Ari moaned. “I don’t want this, Dad. You know that. I don’t want any part of this…”
“The security camera recordings were all blank—”
“Dad, for God’s sake, will you just—?”
And suddenly Ari was shoved to the ground. Before he even realized what was happening, someone had grabbed the guitar out of his hand. He had a brief glimpse of a scruffy-looking guy with ratty hair and even rattier coat. His father shouted angrily, made a grab for the guy, but the guy dodged away with the foot speed of a dancer and kept going. He started running.
His father made no effort to pursue him.
“Thanks, Dad,” muttered Ari, still on the ground, and then, taking action before he had the opportunity to think better of it, he slammed his head on the sidewalk.
It hurt like hell, which was typical.
The instant his skull banged against the sidewalk, an ears
plitting blast of sound erupted from all around. People staggered, clutching at their ears, but the target of the sound blast was the thief. He was blasted right off his feet, sent flying through the air to crash-land several feet down from where he’d been before. He lay there, looking stunned.
Ari staggered to his feet, the world swimming around him. His father was saying something to him, speaking with some urgency, but Ari couldn’t hear him. He knew the ringing would subside; it always did.
Pushing his father aside, he moved quickly down the sidewalk, staggering as he did so. He shook it off and made it to the fallen guitar thief. He yanked the guitar away from him and gave him a swift kick in the gut. The thief moaned. “This isn’t yours!” Ari told him angrily.
The thief glared up at him. “You can’t play worth a damn.”
His instinct was to say that he heard that a lot, but instead Ari said nothing. He could have called a cop or something, but he didn’t even want to be bothered with it. Instead he slung his guitar over his shoulder, moved back through the various pedestrians who were trying to shake off the effects of the thunder blast, and scooped out the money from his guitar case. His father said nothing, but instead just stood there and watched as Ari shoved the guitar into the case, closed the lid, snapped it shut, and stalked away.
His father watched him go, shaking his head. The thief who had stolen the guitar staggered up to him and glared. “You owe me, Ted,” he said. “You so owe me.”
“We’re trying to serve a greater good, Barry. Set my son on the right track.”
Barry rubbed his midsection. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who got kicked. I was ready to arrest the little jerk for assaulting a police officer.”
“Well, you did steal his guitar…”
“Because you asked me to, and it’s not like I couldn’t have busted him for vagrancy in the first place, and besides, stopping him from inflicting what he considers music on the public… that’s serving and protecting, if you ask me.” He winced once more.
“Sorry about that,” said Ted, indicating the injury. “Need some aspirin… ?”
