Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  It watches carefully, but whoever is inside the small box, the man who sells the fluid, does not come out. The hunger is growing and there is no other prey in sight. It stands, the diminished intelligence gradually improving as it works and re-works the problem. Soon it will be conscious enough to not only hunt and protect itself, but to reason, but right now it needs to feed. There is no graveyard nearby, if there were it would smell the savory, decaying flesh.

  The man in the shop will have to do.

  A decision made, it moves forward with a guttural sound that is one part escaping gas and one part fresh air passing through torn tissue. The highway is clear, no cars are coming. It impatiently increases its pace to a staggering run…

  The feet stumble in the loose ground and it falls, clawed hands sinking into the sand. Fingers brush against something cold and stiff, the nose catches the faint scent of food. Eagerly, it gropes through cactus needles and rocks until it finds the dead bird. The creature grunts again and stuffs the flesh into its mouth without bothering to remove the feathers.

  Much needed energy results. Satisfied, it stands again, moves forward. Soon it is within a few yards of the small, isolated building and in the shadow of the southern wall. It ponders, the dim mind now working more effectively, the intelligence gathering speed…

  Twin headlights, far in the distance.

  It is now 'present' enough to recognize the danger discovery would pose, so it moves back, further into the sage. It begins to access more recent human memories—images, actually, which are devoid of human connection but sufficient to prove a rudimentary understanding of the environment. The property is a gas station, and the small building a convenience store. It knows this because it remembers the feel of the metal of the handle, the look of the ribbed, black hose; it 'remembers' buying candy and sodas through a dozen different pairs of eyes and then sliding behind the wheel.

  The red eyes narrow as it searches the premises, trying to devise a plan of action. It will not last the night without food.

  The headlights are much closer. It moves back into the black, until nothing remains but those two bright eyes, shot through with broken veins. It waits until the car rolls across the thin hose that makes the pinging sound. It waits until the young woman, dressed in tight white shorts and a tank top, emerges from the vehicle. It waits for her to go inside.

  When she is out of sight, the creature slides along the stucco wall, Hundreds of tiny bumps scrape away scraps of tattered clothing and the damp ooze of rotting flesh. It imagines killing both the woman and the man behind the counter, but instinctively knows the risks are too great. It growls low and damp in the throat, an expression of frustration.

  The woman's voice, high and nervous, thus a bit too shrill, reaches its ears, followed by the lower, dulcet tones of the clerk, his intonation suggesting an attempt at seduction. The female giggles but without any real amusement; she wants to leave. It scans the area.

  Her engine is running, her window is down…

  And the driver's side door is open.

  The creature decides on a plan. It stumbles along the edge of the pavement, just out of view, making for the vehicle. Part of its dim brain stays on the conversation taking place inside the convenience store. It knows it can sense a change in content quickly enough to get away from the car if things go wrong. One burst of speed across the two-lane highway, and it will be back in the welcoming embrace of the night.

  Her tone stiffens and the clerk stops talking. The cash register opens with a rattling clang, it pictures the drawer popping out and hands reaching inside for the money to make change, so it hurries along the asphalt and ducks down behind the rear fender of her car. The pavement reeks of gasoline.

  "Thanks," the woman says. "Have a nice night." She does not mean a word of what she says.

  It duck-walks along the left side of her vehicle. Happily, the stink of freshly spilled petrol through the open window will help disguise its rancid scent. It reaches up to the open door, folds the seat forward and climbs into the back to wait. The cool plastic feels uncomfortable against its damp, decaying flesh. The eyes stare at the fabric, ever unblinking.

  The woman exits the store hurriedly, but she does not come toward the car. Her footsteps go sideways, to where it was hiding before it decided to take her. She stops. Curious, it raises up slightly to look through the window.

  She has stopped at what it now recognizes as an ATM.

  It watches warily, part of its attention on the clerk in the store and yet another part on the long stretch of open highway. It would not do to be seen so openly by the living, no that would not do at all. The moist, limp facial features twitch into something resembling a grimace. It waits for events to unfold.

  The woman curses with a musical lilt and slaps her hand against the machine, inserts her card and tries again….

  …It senses the clerk inside the store, watching her lustfully through the window and sipping alcohol from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag; the clerk considering her body, his thoughts writhing with evil images, but they are sexual and do not interest It…

  …There is a car on the highway, no—two cars, coming fast; stoned teenagers racing one another down the two-lane blacktop calling out taunts and insults to one another…

  …The woman sighs as the ATM regurgitates her twenty dollar bills, folds them and sticks them in her purse, her eyes darting about nervously to be sure she is alone and safe...

  …The drunken teenagers coming closer, their whoops sailing like kites high on the summer wind; they occupy both lanes knowingly, daring death to overtake them, unaware that it resides on the floor of the woman's new car…

  The woman hears the voices hollering. With a small gasp, she closes her purse and walks purposefully across the oil-stained tarmac, her heels clicking like drumsticks on the rim of a snare. She does not want to be caught in the open.

  Meanwhile, it waits in the car.

  Her fear makes her less cautious than she would normally be; she slides her white shorts onto the driver seat and slams the door and fumbles for her keys. She does not check the floor or the back seat, does not notice the wretched stench that resides there, because of the open window. Her nostrils are filled with the odor of gasoline and the subtle pheromones of her own terror.

  The woman pumps the gas pedal once too often, her attention focused in two directions, now—on the clerk staring at her so lasciviously and the approaching, drunken juveniles in the two racing cars. She turns the key but she has flooded the engine and it does not turn over.

  …It suddenly has a clear, concise tape loop in its mind of how to start and drive a car; some incomplete memory from a previous host, but now it knows just what to do after killing her…

  …The clerk hears the sound of the engine failing to start. He sees an opportunity, sets the paper bag containing the bottle of whiskey down on the filthy counter and starts out of the store but pauses to spray breath mint into his mouth then moves out into the doorway, rape on his mind…

  …The woman sees him and her heart leaps with a surge of adrenaline but she avoids stomping on the gas again, just turns the key…

  …Hidden in the back seat, it decides to kill them both if the clerk comes too close, then drive the car out into the desert and bury the corpses for later retrieval, when they are suitably decayed…

  The teenagers race closer. One "chickens out" and pulls back into the correct lane at a somewhat slower speed. The other car jeers and whistles and continues to rocket down the highway. The second car speeds up again, but not too fast, and stays in the right lane. Soon it is quiet again, except for the woman fighting to start her car.

  A wide, spider web of lightning strikes and a moment later thunder cracks across the sky like a bullwhip.

  …"You need a little help there, Missy?"

  …The attendant is standing a few yards from the car, hands in his pockets to disguise his erection. He has a large wrench in his back pocket and intends to club the woman wit
h it before raping her…

  "I'm fine, thanks." The woman reaches between the seats to grab her pepper spray. Hiding in the back seat, it barely suppresses a snarl of rage at the sudden arrival of all these potential complications.

  A brisk rain falls, splatters the roof of the automobile; a storm weirdly unseasonable and warm as fresh blood.

  …The attendant moves closer, grips the wrench with one hand…

  …The woman clutches the pepper spray and tries the ignition again…

  …It gathers itself to spring upon them both…

  And the engine roars to life, the woman pumping the pedal now and feeding the fires, the cylinders firing and the low rumble a comfort to her. She rolls up her window to better protect herself and forces a brisk wave at the attendant, then turns the wheel and drives out onto the road with a squeal of tires.

  It feels the frustration of the clerk as he heads back to his booth, lust denied. It grins wolfishly there in the gloom, the car weaving on the damp, oily road and then straightening out, the woman muttering expletives with relief. The clerk will never know how close he came to being carrion.

  She drives on. The rain lifts. It waits patiently. When a mile or more has gone by, it risks a peek out the window to be sure the road ahead is clear of traffic. Before it can hide itself again, the woman wrinkles her nose.

  "What the hell?" She whispers to herself, turns on the interior light and struggles to examine the bottoms of her shoes for excrement while still driving at nearly seventy miles per hour on the open road. She cannot find the cause of the offensive odor. She reaches up for the light again…

  …And sees it there, in the rear view mirror, a pale and horrifically mangled visage leering from the back seat, part of the scalp peeled away to show ugly, scabrous tissue and bare bone from an autopsy. A guttural chanting is heard. Its filthy hands reach for and surround her pink throat, they squeeze…

  The woman screams and struggles, releases the steering wheel and the car fishtails in what suddenly seems to be slow motion, leaving the highway in a wide spray of sand and dried sagebrush, thumping over rocks and through gullies and far out into the empty desert night.

  The auto slows somewhat, but her kicking feet hit the accelerator and in her death throes she presses down, so the vehicle travels another quarter mile before finally coming to a stop.

  It breaks her neck to be sure then forces her to the passenger side and clambers into the front seat. It ceases that odd chanting, but now a high-pitched, whining, bestial sound of unsatisfied hunger can be heard.

  The engine is still running. It turns the lights off; then fumbles for a while, but manages to drive the car further into the desert, out of sight of the highway and down into a culvert. It drags the woman free of the vehicle and many yards away, returns to cover the automobile with dirt, rocks and sage brush.

  It sits by her corpse, waiting. The moon begins to wane and the night to pass away. A long, thin stream of milky drool extends from the creature's mouth and down to her exposed, cooling belly. Her body stiffens. It is patient until the flutter of birds and insects and the sliver of pink on the far horizon announce the approach of dawn.

  Then it gnaws open her tender abdomen, tears into her entrails and devours their contents whole. It prefers the excrement days old, but cannot afford to wait any longer for the fruit to ripen. Somewhat satisfied, it buries the body in a shallow grave for retrieval the next night. It crawls into the dark interior of the automobile to rest and plan. It is pleased.

  With a safe cache of food at the ready, it will be easier to complete the mission it has come here to perform.

  NINETEEN

  "Okay, that's it." Lehane closed the folder and leaned back in his chair for a long stretch. "Let's break until tomorrow." For a long moment, no one bothered to move. Unanswered questions hung over the room like a thick cloak. It was already dark outside and the entire team was physically and emotionally exhausted. The rest of the day had yielded nothing of importance, a few leads at the expense of a lot of shoe leather. Not one of them had panned out.

  "I'm gone." Pops yawned. He and Guri collected their things and agreed to meet at Jonah's for a pitcher of beer. Meanwhile, Mike Castle left without speaking to anyone. The man was so large the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. That left Lehane alone in the room with Sandy Hammer.

  Sandy rubbed her feet. She had removed the hooker makeup and changed into jeans and a white blouse. "Man, I hate those damned high heels. That's a lot of pain to go through, just to make your butt twitch."

  Lehane forced his mind away from the image of her twitching buttocks. "Off the record, what do you make of that lab report?"

  "I think it's some kind of an elaborate prank."

  "That's all?"

  Sandy shrugged. "I'm not superstitious. I also don't believe dead folks walk around smudging the wallpaper."

  "Anything's possible."

  "You really think so?"

  "Sandy, sometimes I believe in the numinous, and forces of good and evil. Sometimes I'm a cynic and don't believe in anything. It all depends on when you ask."

  "This is just somebody messing with us in a big way, Jeff, somebody who seems to have it in for you."

  "Okay, riddle me this. How did they do it?"

  "I had a roommate who worked in a morgue," Sandy said. "She told me about 'floaters,' you know, drowning victims? The lab guys glue fingertips onto gloves for printing, because the tissues come off that easily. Maybe somebody walked along with gloved hands covered with…come to think of it, I'd rather not discuss this before dinner."

  "And why does it only show up under UV light?"

  Another shrug. "The stuff was chemically treated, maybe? There has to be some way to do that. And anyone who knows you, and what we do at Spinks, would also know you'd probe that house with high-tech gear at some point."

  Lehane found her voice enchanting. It took him too long to respond. "Okay, but I'll be damned if I can think of anyone likely to go through all of this just to taunt me. It took time, money and resources."

  "A government?"

  "Or somebody who's very rich."

  "Yeah, or somebody very rich."

  They stared at one another. Sandy smiled, looked down and away and her blond hair fell across one cheek. Lehane felt his throat constrict. "Sandy?"

  She looked up with feline grace. "Yeah, boss?"

  "Have you had dinner?" He reddened. "I mean, I was thinking maybe you and I could get a bite to eat."

  "Why boss, doesn't that constitute harassment?"

  He smiled. "Only if you don't have a good time."

  She surprised him by frowning and breaking eye contact again. "Hang on a second, I need to think about this."

  "Think about it?"

  "You know I care about you, Jeff. You know that. But you have this disagreeable habit. You vanish from time to time, generally without warning. That can make a girl a tad neurotic."

  "I'm sorry. I know."

  "And then there's that torch you carried for Heather all those years. The divorce didn't settle things for you."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Don't be silly, I saw how you were looking at her."

  "Oh."

  Sandy leaned forward, breasts pressing on the table. "What was it about her, Jeff? What made her so hard to forget?"

  He searched her eyes but saw no sign of a trap. Sandy really wanted to know. Women are funny that way. He thought for a long time, found some words. "She was special, but I never got close. In fact, I loved her in the way some people look at a white tiger. I mean, it is beautiful but it's also impossible to domesticate, so you're doomed if you fall for her, but in such a wonderful way."

  Sandy's eyes glistened with a mixture of envy and respect. She twiddled her thumbs. "Indian."

  "Yeah, like one of those white Bengal tigers from India."

  "No, dummy." She giggled as if he'd told a joke. His often clueless manner amused her. "I meant we should go for Indi
an food. I suddenly have a craving for a cold Taj Mahal beer and something spicy."

  "Oh."

  The India Palace was a small, family-owned restaurant located at the far edge of the strip, then several blocks down near the cheap seats. They rode there in relative silence, Lehane unable to form a coherent sentence, Sandy clearly feeling both smug and satisfied. He parked on the street, under a lamppost, intending to go around the back to open her door. Sandy was already on the sidewalk, waiting. She took his arm and linked it through hers, smiled up at him.

  "At last, another date."

  It occurred to Lehane to just kiss her. He leaned down a bit, even fancied her lips were responding but before he could close the gap his damned cell phone beeped. Sandy giggled and tugged him to the doorway even as his left hand groped for the instrument.

  "Let the service take it," Sandy said. "They'll page you if it's urgent."

  He realized she was right and switched the phone off. The owner of the restaurant had lighted candles in the short hallway near the opening, and Lehane paused for a moment. Part of him, the country boy raised by a born-again rancher, wanted to argue against spending time with Sandy and made him out to be some kind of insensitive creep for feeling aroused. His stomach knotted with guilt. As if in concert with his emotions, thunder rumbled over the horizon.

  "What's the matter?"

  Women. They always read things so easily. "I'm just tired, maybe too tired. Or it could be this isn't such a good idea, Sandy."

  She smiled and touched his face with the tips of two fingers. "Or could be you're being too hard on yourself, as usual. Come in, sit down and have some dinner, cowboy. It won't hurt you to relax a bit."

  "You're right," he said. He followed her into the restaurant, bowed to the owner, a rotund man with a restless shock of white hair named Mohandas. "Good evening, Mo. How is the family?"

  "Working hard, Mr. Sir, working hard," Mo said. His wonderfully delicate New Dehli dialect was as charming as ever. "We have not seen you for a long period of time. Why is this so?"