Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

"Working hard, Mo. Working hard."

  They were soon seated in an ornate red booth near the bay window, listening to a recording of Ravi Shankar. Mo dimmed the lights and lit more candles. A light, unseasonable rain pelted the pavement outside and distant lightning snaked across the liquid glass. Lehane ordered vegetable somosa, tandori chicken tikka, hot sag paneer, onion kulcha, garlic naan and some masala sauce for dipping.

  "I'm thirsty."

  "Me, too."

  Sandy had a tall Taj Mahal beer, dripping with fragments of ice, but Lehane settled for Sharps non-alcoholic. The bone-deep weariness had hit him, and he wanted his senses intact. Mo bowed, hustled away. Lehane reached across the table to take Sandy's hand. He found a genuine smile.

  "Did I mention that it's good to see you again?"

  "Not really," she teased. "In fact, you've been your usual self absorbed macho self these last couple of days."

  "Well it is. Good, I mean."

  "How have you been, Jeff?"

  He tried to pull away but Sandy tightened her hand. "I'm okay," he said, finally. "I need to be doing something. Fighting back is the thing I do best."

  "Don't I know it."

  "It gets bad sometimes, what happened to her, but I put my head down and keep pushing forward."

  "We'll get him, Jeff. Whoever is doing this, we'll get him."

  He nodded. "Yeah. We will."

  Sandy took a sip of her beer. "Damn, that's good. Look, can I ask you something personal?"

  "Sure." He felt a shield click into place, but forced himself to answer anyway. "Whatever you want."

  "Do you ever think about us?"

  A memory: Tangled sheets, sweaty flesh slapping together, half-drunk laughter. "Yes, I do. I think about us a lot."

  She pinned him, bored in. "Then why haven't I heard from you in months, you son of a bitch?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "You should be."

  The food brought a welcome reprieve. They occupied themselves with sizzling plates of seasoned chicken, spiced spinach and cheese, freshly baked breads from a tandori oven.

  After a time, Sandy resumed the interrogation. "What the hell have you been doing by yourself up in those mountains all this time, meditating or masturbating?"

  Lehane considered. "A little of both."

  "You've been by yourself, then?" His response amused Sandy, she was no longer angry. "No other women?"

  Lehane shook his head. "All by myself. For real, Sandy. Nobody but me and the wild animals and a big stack of books."

  "Why do you need to do that?"

  "I don't know. It calms me down, I guess."

  "Did you really retire?"

  "I meant to."

  "And do what?" She leaned back, wiped her lips on a napkin. Somehow she made eating food seem extra sexy. "Tell me, I really want to know."

  He swallowed a piece of chicken and followed with some garlic bread. Lehane wanted to choose his words carefully. He drank the last of the faux beer and a bit of cold iced water. Finally, he spoke. "Think."

  "Just think?" Her face said she didn't believe him.

  "That's not quite the right word," he said. "Maybe ponder is better, at least in English. Death is so awfully damned final. I want to stop fast-forwarding my life before it is over. I need to find a way to put it on pause and savor it a bit, consider what is really happening inside and all around us. I thought some time alone in the mountains might allow me to do that."

  "And did it?"

  He frowned. "Yes and no." Then he chuckled. "That's very Taoist, isn't it? Both true and untrue, yes and no. I found peace in increments, but the human in me was always seeking something to do, somewhere to be, some reason for existing. The mind makes it very difficult to perceive what the soul already knows."

  "Which is…?"

  "That question makes more sense than any answer I could offer."

  "Excuse me?" Sandy tilted her head sideways. "Now you're beginning to piss me off, Jeff. Don't go all New Age."

  "New Age? These texts are more than two thousand, six hundred years old, Sandy."

  A surrender. "Okay."

  "And you just asked one of those conundrum questions like 'what is the meaning of life,' right? Well, the only correct answer to something like that is a Zen koan or another question."

  "What is the sound of one hand?"

  "Sure, something that is designed to break down the operation of your rational self, throw it into chaos. What we all really seek is a kind of instinctual comprehension, and the damned conscious mind doesn't like that, not running things, so it keeps getting in the way."

  Sandy nodded. "You're really looking to be free of your own personality, your own thoughts."

  "So I can be what I really am."

  "Which is what, an animal?"

  "Yes and no." He grinned. "No more gibberish. To me, what we are is pure consciousness, currently inhabiting a human body, but still just consciousness itself. Good is part of evil, evil part of good. Look, our separateness, this whole existence? That is the illusion we need to escape from. It is the only way to be free and happy, come to know dharma."

  "Dharma means wisdom, right?"

  "Wisdom teachings."

  Sandy shook her head. "I don't get you all the time Lehane, but I admire your perseverance. As for me, being in a warm body that can enjoy hot food and cold beer and an orgasm now and then is good enough for me."

  Air became electric. Lehane looked through the window pane to buy some time. "The rain has stopped. Don't know where the hell it came from."

  "Why, cowboy," Sandy purred. "Are you avoiding me, here?"

  His belt vibrated. Lehane reached for the pager with something akin to relief. "I'd better get this."

  Sandy blew a raspberry. "Chickenshit." She heard another sound. A look of amused consternation crossed her face. She laughed and grabbed her purse. "Mine went off, too. Can you believe this?"

  TWENTY

  The greatest virtue anyone can have

  comes from pursuing only the Tao;

  which takes a form both evasive and intangible.

  However, though the mighty Tao is evasive and intangible,

  we are able to comprehend that it exists.

  Invisible and fluid, yet it has a solid manifestation.

  Secluded and dark, yet there is a bright light within it.

  This light is very real.

  Within it we can find order.

  Tao has always existed since the beginning of time.

  In fact, it is beyond mere existing and not existing.

  How do I know where all creation comes from?

  Why, I look inside myself and see it…

  "Jesus Christ, boss. You're not going to believe this."

  Lehane had just entered the computer room. He closed the door behind him and took a knee next to Whiz's wheelchair. He'd dropped Sandy off at her hotel as soon as they'd finished dinner. Her call had been from Joy, the hooker who knew Lou Grainger, so Sandy needed to get back into costume immediately, in case she could arrange a meeting. Lehane tapped the computer screen. "Show me."

  Fingers pounded. "I'm going to bring up the police report first, okay? The one about that missing nurse from the hospital."

  The confidential document filled the screen. Kramer's body had been found in the low desert outside of town, severely decomposed and partially eaten. His corpse had been shoved onto a stretch of canvas, rolled inside and buried in a shallow grave. "See these teeth marks, boss? Human. Post mortem again, okay?"

  "So our guy came back over a couple of nights to chow down."

  "It's worse than that."

  Lehane grimaced. "Something is worse? I can't wait."

  "Take a look at this, these are all from Kramer's corpse." Whiz Ligotti brought up three different disturbing photographs of human bite marks on stiffened, waxen flesh, all side by side on the computer screen in lurid color. "Our guy is three guys. Well, two men and a woman, to be exact."

  "What?"

  "T
hose bites are from different sets of teeth, Jeff. We're not just dealing with one whack job here, we've got at least three, maybe more."

  "What the hell is going on?"

  Whiz clicked his tongue. "That, my friend, is the prize-winning question."

  "This shit is through the looking glass," Lehane said. He sat down in a rolling metal chair. "I don't buy three or four different murderers, Whiz. It doesn't make any sense to look at things that way."

  "That's why my money's on a cult, boss."

  Lehane almost spoke his mind, but not quite. "Mine is on something even more twisted, but in case you're right, go have the research team look for existing cannibal cults. Not that it'll do us much good."

  "I'm already on that, and haven't turned up dick. Why did you say it won't do us much good?"

  "Because whoever is doing this seems outrageously confident." Lehane stretched his arms up and back. "They don't expect to be caught anytime soon."

  "Or they wouldn't leave such an obvious trail."

  "You said there's a lot going on, Whiz. Well, hot damn, I can hardly wait to hear the rest of it."

  "Okay, our first guy, Roger Gordon? His body never showed up for cremation."

  Lehane winced. "You have got to be kidding."

  "Nope, his corpse vanished between the autopsy room and the funeral parlor, like he just got up and walked away, like a zombie or something."

  "Down in Texas?"

  "No, didn't work out that way. His family wanted it done here in Vegas, just got the urn shipped back to Texas for a service."

  "And he's gone."

  "Gone."

  "Fuck me and the horse I rode in on."

  "My sentiments exactly. By the way, I also checked into some voodoo stuff and didn't get one match. Another dead end, if you'll forgive the pun."

  The desk telephone rang. Whiz rolled over to it and spoke quietly. Lehane pondered an ever-expanding mystery. Either someone is going to an awful lot of trouble to make it look like zombies are loose in Vegas, or… zombies really are loose in Vegas. Okay, but if it's Roger Gordon doing this, and he's somehow not dead or undead or whatever, why would all those bite marks be from different sets of teeth? Can I even say any of this without the team thinking I've gone psychotic? I mean, zombies, for God's sake?

  Lehane realized Whiz had broken the connection. He looked like a petrified canary staring up at a tomcat. "Boss?"

  "Did I say any of that out loud?"

  "Not much. Just the part about there being zombies loose in Vegas and Roger Gordon being undead and us thinking you've gone psychotic, that's all."

  "Oh. Okay, then."

  Whiz cleared his throat. "Zombies? The undead? Boss, maybe you need a drink or something."

  "Did you say drink, or shrink?"

  "That is not even funny, Jeff." Whiz rolled closer, dropped his voice like a man embarrassed by an angry friend. "Let's both get a grip, here. Okay, so this shit is all taking a major turn towards the surreal. But that just means somebody wants it to look that way, okay?"

  "I would prefer to think that, believe me."

  "Maybe just to throw us off their trail, or to make some kind of whacko statement to the world."

  "The bodies aren't being left in public places, Whiz. If someone wanted to make a statement, they'd be piling up at the airport or in the middle of casinos, or maybe out in the tourist section of the dam."

  "Point taken."

  "Okay, I know the zombie thing is ridiculous. But it's difficult to believe someone could get all those dental records to fake this." He raised one finger. "Hey, let's find out if any of these people had the same dentist!"

  "Already did that, too. We struck out."

  "Well, then…"

  "Come on boss, zombies?"

  "Okay, we dump the living dead idea," Lehane said. "Although to tell you the truth, I'm willing to consider damned near anything at this point, even the supernatural."

  "There's a logical explanation."

  "I'm listening."

  "I may have something here." Whiz rolled back to the computer, typed some numbers. Another document came up on the screen closest to Lehane. He saw the logo for Euro Blue Airlines.

  "That's a charter agreement," Whiz said, quietly. "I went back to Roger Gordon and Euro Blue and started cross-referencing the names of all our victims with their passenger lists and employee records, just for the hell of it. I wondered if we could tie a few more people to Gordon that way."

  "Good idea."

  "Yeah, but I struck out. Couldn't find anyone but that biker, and who knows, that hit may have been some kind of synchronicity."

  "I doubt it."

  "Me too, actually. I've been at this too long. Anyway, I was feeling kind of bored, so I typed my own name in the search engine."

  Lehane arched an eyebrow. "And discovered you're the murderer?"

  "Very funny," Whiz said. "No, but I found a Ligotti on one of the Euro Blue fights from Dallas to Kennedy."

  "Now there's symbolism for you."

  "Exactly, but like I said, I was bored. I got to wondering who else might pop up, so I typed in your name, then Sandy Hammer's, then Pops and kept going through every name I could think of that had been around here recently."

  "The suspense is killing me."

  "You'll never guess who I found."

  Lehane raised one finger. "Whiz, maybe you're bored, but me, I'm just tired. Tell me what happened."

  Whiz jerked his head toward the computer screen. "I got one other hit besides the biker. Our rap star."

  "Enrique?"

  "Enrique Diaz chartered one jet aircraft through Euro Blue and used it for four stops on his American tour, Phoenix, San Diego, Los Angeles…and then here, to Vegas."

  Lehane realized his mouth was open, closed it. "Well I'll be damned."

  "There's more," Whiz said. He was clearly proud of himself. "It took me a while, but I broke into the Euro Blue computer system and tracked down who had leased him the aircraft. Now you will guess."

  "Roger Gordon?"

  "Bingo."

  Lehane sat back in the chair and twirled around once. The air conditioning kicked on with a whoosh and a cold chill passed over his body, raising goose bumps on the skin of arms.

  "And he's been trying to reach you for a couple of days, boss."

  "Guess I'd better call him back."

  "You don't have to. He left word earlier that he's coming down from Vancouver tomorrow."

  "We should talk."

  "Enrique asked if you'd meet him in his suite at the Wagon Wheel tomorrow morning."

  "Did you set it up?"

  "I told him you'd be fucking delighted."

  Lehane got to his feet. He began to pace around the computer desk. Whiz opened a soda and drank deeply.

  "Okay, Whiz. So Enrique knew Roger Gordon but never said anything to us about it, but maybe it just slipped his mind. He's a rock star, why would he remember every person who waited on him?"

  "He wouldn't forget the name of the airline, boss."

  "Not likely, but you never know. Roger Gordon and the biker both come here on Euro Blue, and it turns out Enrique charters a jet from Gordon. It's interesting, but not conclusive. I'm going to sit down with the guy and see what he has to say without telling him what you found. Maybe I'll get lucky."

  "We could use some luck."

  Lehane rubbed his chin. "Whiz, get the list of every suspicious death we know about so far and cross-reference every one with Enrique Diaz. Maybe we'll find something to get real excited about."

  "Okay, consider it done."

  A loud knock at the front door. Mike Castle entered without waiting for a response. The big man's face was red and his eyes were red-rimmed. He'd obviously been drinking.

  "Yo, Lehane. I heard you'd come in from the cold. Don't you ever sleep?"

  "No," Lehane said, with a straight face. "You?"

  Castle glanced at the computer. "What are you guys up to?"

  Whiz rolled his electric w
heel chair closer to Castle, instinctively blocking off his view of the screen. "Where's Pops?"

  "Down the hall, grabbing a nap. Man, we've been to more porn theaters, sleazy dives and boob bars than when I worked vice. Hey, it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it."

  "Don't enjoy it too much," Lehane said, mildly. He got to his feet. "Have you got anything for me, Mike?"

  "Not a lot so far," Castle replied. "I plan on typing it up later. What it all boils down to is that this dude Lou Grainger really got around. We've found eleven separate joints he frequented, but nobody has seen him in the last few days."

  "Any special kinks or habits?"

  "Never stayed in one place long enough to find out, man. He drank and played pool and got his share of lap dances, but nobody had much else to report. Pops greased them all pretty good. He was really throwing the cash around."

  "You're going out again, right?"

  "As soon as Pops wakes up. Jesus, a guy needs a break now and then."

  Lehane put a hand on his shoulder. "You seem like an okay guy, Mike, and I know you're a pro, so I'll just say this once and keep it off the record. If I ever catch you drunk again, I'll fire your ass."

  Castle's face burned brighter. Denial contorted his features, but then he forced a pleasant smile. "I had a scotch and soda with dinner. So what?"

  "So it was a lot more than one, Castle." This time Lehane used the last name, rather than the first. "I won't tolerate boozing on duty. Period."

  Castle shrugged, but he was tense with rage. "Okay, so you're a tight ass. I can live with that." He turned to go.

  Lehane softened a bit. He shouldn't have busted the man in front of Whiz. "You make one mistake because you're blasted, one of my people could die. That's not acceptable."

  Castle left without closing the door. Lehane turned back to Whiz. "Keep digging, and don't be afraid to go anywhere, no matter how weird."

  "Okay." Whiz was already busy.

  "Oh, and tell Charlie to find me a replacement for Castle by tomorrow night. I don't want to hurt the guy's career, but I have to look out for Pops."

  "Gotcha."

  Lehane felt his pager vibrate. He checked the number.

  "That's Sandy, I have to go. I'll catch you in the morning."