Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  As if on cue, something rustled in the bushes behind him, back toward the caretaker's shack. Bloom stopped in his tracks, wondering which way to go. The sound came again, faint but clear. He started to turn, but the shadow moved through the Potters Field again, heading for the back fence.

  "Stop!" Police!"

  Of course, he wasn't the real police. More like rent-a-cop. But Chris Bloom figured if it was kids, he wanted them good and scared. He crossed the lawn and moved back into the tombstones that lay angled here and there like crooked teeth. At first everything seemed normal, undisturbed. Bloom played the light up and down the area. His pulse began to settle down.

  And then he saw it.

  Bloom stepped a bit closer and moved to his left. The yellow beam revealed a large mound of dirt and the corner of a wooden coffin. His heart kicked like a pissed-off mule. Everything thickened in his chest. What was that sound?

  Maybe someone giggling…?

  Bloom whirled all the way around. The sound had come from behind him, back near the caretaker's shack. He jogged that way, again resolved to beat the hell out of anyone he came across and ask questions later. His keys jangled and his own breathing seemed harsh to his ears.

  Something stood in the shadows, just beyond the white ring of the porch light. It was as tall as an average man, but much wider. It seemed slightly hunched over. Bloom raised the nightstick and closed the distance. The giggling sound got louder. Bloom cocked his head and swore under his breath. He lowered the nightstick.

  Ah, shit. It was Ray and Doug, all right. They were bent over with barely suppressed laughter, holding one another up. "Oh, man," Doug said, "you should see your fucking face."

  "Yeah, yeah." Bloom had no intention of letting them know how relieved he was feeling. Fact is they had really managed to spook him this time, the lousy bastards. And now here they were doubled over, laughing their butts off at his expense. Bloom moved closer and turned off the flashlight. Ray and Doug stumbled to the wooden steps and sat down. Whenever they looked up at his face, they started laughing again.

  Bloom sat down on the steps next to them. Ray opened a quart of whiskey. They passed it back and forth in silence, except for their smacking lips. A few shots made the crisp moonlight seem pure and even more beautiful. Time broke down into pleasant little pictures. Whenever Bloom moved his head, his eyes seemed a fraction of a second behind.

  "Okay, you almost got me," Bloom said. His voice was tight and thin from nerves. He spewed breath out in a steaming mist.

  Ray, a beefy carpenter with beady eyes nodded and giggled again. Doug, the balding accountant, leaned back against the wooden shack with his eyes closed. He was a small, quiet man who laughed more often than he spoke. Bloom let himself relax. He clipped the flashlight and stick back onto his security belt. "Damn, that was sure a lot of trouble to go to for a practical joke."

  Doug pondered that statement. A long time passed, but finally he responded. "What was?"

  By that time, Bloom was disconnected from his own statement. "Huh?

  "What was a lot of trouble to go to?"

  Bloom felt icy sweat emerge from his forehead to stream down his face as the fear returned. His stoned mind struggled to process what had just happened. The giggling had come from behind him, near the shack…

  So what the fuck is out there in the graveyard?

  He struggled to his feet. Ray jumped back at the sudden movement. Doug cocked his head like a parrot. "Where you going, man? What's the matter?"

  Bloom stumbled forward, across the grassy area. He took the short cut through the tombstones. His heart clawed its way up into his dry throat. He cursed himself for getting so high. He played the flashlight's beam across the dead leaves and saw a trail of footprints leading to the back fence.

  Oh, shit!

  Had someone actually come and vandalized the cemetery? If so, Bloom would surely catch hell for letting it happen. Now very pissed off, he moved closer. Bloom searched his memory for the area where he'd seen someone's shadow and the corner of a coffin. He sent the beam there again. A mound of dirt mocked him. He stepped closer, vaguely aware of his friends far behind him, calling his name. What he saw next made him clench his trembling fingers.

  Some torn scraps of clothing, one arm that was bloodless meat and a flash of off-white bone…

  It came back to him in a rush: That's the most recent grave, some homeless woman named Bloody Mary, no family and no friends. They planted her sorry ass a couple of days ago. Who the hell would want to dig her up again, for Chrissakes?

  Bloom took a step backwards. He felt dizzy and fevered, could not believe what he was seeing. Ray and Doug called again and they were coming his way; tracing his footsteps through gravestones. Bloom wanted to call out to them, to tell them not to look, but his mouth wouldn't work. He couldn't even lower the flashlight.

  "Holly shit," Ray said.

  "Oh, fuck me," Doug offered.

  Bloom turned away and bent over. He felt the booze and dinner curdle and come up in one multi-colored splash before he could stop it. A picture was flashbulb-seared on the inside of his eyelids and Bloom knew he'd never be able to forget it: The old woman's decaying body had been hurriedly exhumed; the cheap coffin wrenched open, lid partially splintered. Her flabby arms were stripped of clothing. Her dress was pulled up above her flat breasts and billowed out around her neck like some medieval ornament.

  God, the expression on her face…

  ONE

  If men do not fear death

  it is of no use to threaten their lives.

  If men live in terror of dying

  and if breaking a law means that they will be killed,

  who will dare to risk breaking the law?

  There is always one official executioner.

  Do not try to take his place.

  That is like trying to be a master carpenter, working with wood.

  If you try to cut wood as if you are a master carpenter, you will only hurt your hands…

  Jeff Lehane leaned back against the pine tree, lazily scratched at an unshaven face and set down his tattered copy of Tao Te Ching. Just then, a red-tailed hawk soared effortlessly above the rocky spire at the other end of the valley, its eerie cry echoing through the empty foothills. He followed the gorgeous bird with his eyes and allowed his mind to fall open, thoughts to slip away. Nature always seemed to provide the most effective form of meditation. Within seconds, his craggy features softened and his body became one with the mountain.

  Time slowed and the vague chuckle of the nearby stream soothed and comforted. Lehane felt his bare skin begin to heat up and sizzle in the morning sun. He moved consciousness away from his corporal form, ignoring the sounds it made, the urges it carried. Lehane let his nagging, mundane thoughts travel across a blank screen. He followed his breath until he was only that, breathing. This allowed a relaxed state of being to exist in a place without time.

  A sound brought him back—the humming drone of tires on pavement, still some distance away. Lehane reluctantly focused his eyes. The hawk was long gone and the sun a bit higher. The Nevada sky was pale blue as ocean ice, except for a few milky wisps of cloud. He squinted at the shimmering dot at the top of the horizon. No tourist came this way on purpose, not since the main highway had been rerouted to conform to the railway. There was nothing to see in nearby Two Trees but the ruins of a town that burned down years ago.

  There were only two possibilities worth considering. Either the driver was lost, or he was looking for Lehane.

  Lehane got to his feet in one fluid motion. He gathered up his book and fanny pack and jogged rapidly down the mountain. At times he came down the slope sideways, like a mountain goat. For a man weighing nearly two hundred pounds, Lehane was remarkably light on his feet. He wanted to get to his weapons before the car arrived.

  The vehicle came on steadily, the low and droning throb of its engine a persistent irritation after the quiet of the last few weeks. He ran through the trees until he saw the d
river arrive at the cutoff to Salt Lick. Lehane paused to watch. The driver slowed a bit, seemed to briefly consider changing lanes but then came on straight as an arrow. Lehane continued on down the mountain. He slid through a man-sized hole in the bottom of the barbed wire fence; off government land and onto the far edge of his own ten-acre property.

  At the bottom of the hill, Lehane broke into a dead run. He generally finished his morning workouts with a sprint, so he was only slightly winded when he jumped over the wood-rail fence and arrived at the back door of his small cabin. He let himself in, grabbed some bottled water from the solar-powered fridge and a small pair of military binoculars. He opened the window and focused. The car was a black Mercedes S Class and the driver wore mirrored sunglasses. Then the car left the highway and when the tires hit the dirt, they threw up a wave of dust several feet high, rendering the binoculars useless.

  Lehane finished the bottle of water standing in the cabin, sweating in the sweltering heat. The decision took all of three seconds. He went to the gun rack and took down his British Army sniping rifle, a vintage Accuracy International l96A1. The 10-round magazine was already full. Lehane occasionally used the weapon for target practice. He also strapped on an ankle holster containing a loaded Colt 9mm 380. Lehane grabbed a second bottle of water and went out the back door, past the tall woodpile, through the chicken coop and up into the tight clump of pinion trees bordering his tiny ranch. He carried the rifle loosely in his left hand and the bottle of water in his right.

  By the time the Mercedes paused at the edge of his property, Lehane was seated in the rocks nearly sixty yards away and one hundred feet above. The metal gate to his property was closed, although not locked. Lehane sighted the sniping rifle and waited to see what the intruder would do.

  The driver in the mirrored sunglasses, a big man with a wrestlers build, exited the vehicle. He opened the gate and moved it out of the way. Lehane watched through the scope. He did not recognize the man, who was likely a professional.

  Lehane relaxed a bit and lowered the rifle. He watched the car move down the unpaved driveway and stop near his front porch. The hulking driver got out again, went around the side and opened the back. A redheaded woman got out first. She was young, achingly beautiful, stunningly dressed and looked righteously pissed to be out in the middle of the desert. The heat seemed to hit her like a fist, and her blue blouse instantly began to wilt.

  A large, round man with a broken nose and a shaved head got out of the other side of the vehicle.

  "Yo, Irish!"

  His gravely voice echoed off the mountain and disturbed some of the squirrels. Jeff Lehane smiled, despite himself. Charlie Spinks looked the same no matter what day, week or year it was and no matter where in the world you saw him: Cheap black suit, sun glasses; silk tie askew and shaved pate gleaming.

  Down below, the driver scowled. "You want I should go knock?"

  Charlie Spinks flashed a wide, vulpine grin. "You go on ahead and knock, Castle. But like I said, don't fuck with the guy. He'll have your balls for breakfast."

  The driver named Castle stomped up the steps and hammered on the door. Lehane shook his head in dismay. The idiot didn't even step to one side to avoid a shotgun blast. What was Charlie hiring these days, mob guys? Lehane sighted down the barrel of the 196A1. He chose a small flowerpot filled with cactus that lay maybe eight inches away from Castle's left trouser leg.

  The clay pot blew apart, the girl screamed and ducked. Castle threw himself over the wooden railing and rolled through the dust. He had his weapon out by the time he stopped moving and lay prone, well positioned to return fire. Not bad, Lehane thought. Not bad at all. I'll bet you're more careful next time.

  Charlie Spinks, owner of Spinks Security Services, was still leaning against the Mercedes, arms folded over his chest. He hadn't moved an inch. "Damn, Jeff," he shouted. "I think you made Mike Castle fuck up his nice, new suit. Where are you, maybe half-way up that eastern slope?"

  Lehane stood up and waved the rifle over his head. "Nope, I'm over here," he called. His gravelly voice bounced like a ping bong ball and echoed through the rocks. "Go inside and help yourself to some water. I'm coming down."

  Charlie Spinks waved back. "That's neighborly of you."

  "I'm a sweetheart underneath," Lehane said. "There's a ceiling fan if you want to turn it on for the young lady."

  Mike Castle was swearing, slapping the dust from his clothing. The girl rushed over like a whipped dog. Charlie reached back into the car for his briefcase and then strolled onto the porch and went inside. Lehane took his time coming back. He wanted Castle to have a few minutes to calm down before they met face to face.

  All of the solar fans were on when Lehane came through the back door. He had the rifle pointed down at the floor. Charlie Spinks was seated on the homemade couch. The female, who Lehane pegged for a call girl, was sitting on the kitchen floor next to the fridge. Mike Castle had removed his jacket and sunglasses and was leaning on the inside of the front door. He had beady eyes, glowered like a gargoyle.

  "Relax, Mike," Charlie said to Castle. "It was my little joke. Jeff here used to be in charge of training my boys, so I knew he'd yank your chain if he got a chance."

  Jeff Lehane put the rifle back up on the rack. He did not return the side arm and ankle holster to the drawer. He smiled and extended his hand to Castle. "No hard feelings, Mike."

  Castle gripped him with a slapping sound and squeezed. Lehane let him have the moment, even manufactured a wince. Castle grinned.

  "No hard feelings."

  "Jesus," the girl said from the kitchen, "you don't live here on purpose, do you?" She popped some gum. "I mean, this is just too fucking hot!"

  "Open the fridge, if you want. It's solar."

  She did, even stuck her head inside. Her makeup was running and her hair had gone flat in places. Lehane positioned himself near the back door and kept all three visitors in view.

  "Look at those moves," Charlie Spinks said, approvingly. "He knows where everybody is, all the time. And believe me, Mike, he could have drilled you through one eye from that distance, he wanted. And even without a scope."

  Castle's expression didn't change but he didn't seem overly impressed. Lehane allowed a few seconds of silence because he wanted to listen for any other cars or footsteps on the wooden porch. "Okay, Charlie. Enough with the bullshit."

  "You want I should get to the point?"

  Lehane let his cool eyes answer. Charlie shrugged. "Okay, here it is. I got a rock and roller I need to baby sit. Some kid who writes protest music."

  "Protest music? Like the sixties?"

  "Actually, it's that rap type shit I hate so much. He just does 'free the people and down with capitalism' type words, or something. Anyway, you know that global conference tomorrow down in Vegas?"

  "It's some kind of offshoot of the World Bank operation, right?" Castle's eyes registered his surprise. Lehane smiled and pointed to the roof. "I get satellite and I even have a computer. I just like things quiet, that's all."

  Charlie nodded. "Yeah, they called it the Global Monetary Fund or something. Anyway, this kid is going to do his thing at a demonstration tomorrow night, right when the thing gets started."

  "Is this kid named Enrique Diaz?"

  "Yeah, that's him." Charlie wiped his forehead. "He goes by just the first name, though. Enrique."

  "He's big," Lehane said. "Sold a lot of records bashing the corporate machine."

  "That's our boy."

  The girl in the kitchen sighed. "He's kind of cute, too. I just love dreadlocks."

  "Hey, Brandy, honey? Just shut the fuck up," Charlie said, without rancor. "Let the boys talk in peace."

  Brandy rolled her eyes and stuck her face back in the fridge. Lehane shook his head. "Look, this is interesting and all, but it's got nothing to do with me."

  Charlie Spinks grinned again. "We'll see, Irish. I'm hoping to change your mind about that."

  "No way," Lehane said. "I'm retired."


  "Sure about that?"

  "Absolutely."

  Mike Castle grunted. "Okay, Charlie. Let's go."

  "Yeah, can we leave?" Brandy asked plaintively. "I'm dying, here."

  Charlie Spinks was in no hurry. "Jeff, you remember Grainger, right?"

  Lehane shrugged. "Sure. How is Bud these days?"

  "He had a heart attack day before yesterday." Charlie snapped his fingers loudly enough to make Castle twitch. "Checked out just like that."

  "I'm sorry," Lehane said, meaning it. "Bud was a good man. Is his wife going to be okay?"

  "Janet? She dumped him over a year ago," Charlie replied. "Up and ran off with a blackjack dealer from Reno, the bitch. She'll still get the life insurance."

  "Too bad." Lehane considered. "Okay, now what makes this situation so special it would bring you all the way out here? Someone been sending your boy death threats?"

  "Hell, yeah. And six ways from Sunday, Irish. We've got faxes and emails and phone calls and letters. Whoever it is knows his shit, too. He doesn't leave a trace for us to work with."

  "Okay, so you're a lead man short."

  "Yeah, I need a new lead man."

  "Good enough to head off an assassination."

  "Could be."

  "And you have to bodyguard this leftie rocker while he's singing some unpopular stuff up in front of a huge crowd of people in Vegas tomorrow night."

  "That's about the size of it."

  "Sounds like quite a situation." Lehane shook his head. "Well, I wish you the best of luck."

  "Come on, Irish." Charlie Spinks folded his hands as if begging. "One more for old times sake. The guy even asked for you, personally." He grinned. "What are you willing to trade?"

  "I'm out."

  "What are you willing to trade?" Charlie Spinks firmly believed everyone had a price and that he could find it.

  "Nope."

  Spinks sagged. He was visibly disappointed. "Okay, but do me a favor, bro. Get a goddamned phone so I don't have to drive out to the northeast corner of Hell to ask you a question."