Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was just after midnight, when the sleepy tourists grow desperate and start to look for professional company. Sandy Hammer was now a busty blond with jet black eye makeup. She stood on South Paradise Road, two blocks from the Wagon Wheel, chewing gum like a tired working girl. Sandy was perfectly outfitted in a tight red dress and the requisite heels. She was pretending to chat on her cell phone, but it was merely a prop. Sandy was speaking to a microphone hidden in her wig.

  "I swear to God, Jeff, this is the last time."

  Lehane, half a block down, was parked at the edge of the lot. "You know you love this. It gives you power over men."

  "That part is fine," Sandy said. "It's these goddamned heels. They're killing me."

  "Stop whining."

  "You won't think this is funny if the guys from the Thunder from Down Under, that all-skin and all male review, start hitting me up for a group grope."

  "Hey, that's right, their show lets out soon. Maybe you'll get lucky and nail a big score, ten for one."

  "I've got the wrong genitalia for ninety percent of them."

  "Then look over this way. Maybe he's your daddy."

  A fat, 1970's Elvis wearing white satin with gold tassels was working the sidewalk near Lehane, writhing and warbling to a tape recorder. He had a slot bucket at his feet for tips, which Lehane figured might qualify as a righteous definition of indestructible optimism. He swung his hips, twirled his sash and croaked something about being a hunk of burning love. No one paid attention.

  Sandy saw the impersonator and snorted. "I'll hold out for the 50's version, if it's all the same to you."

  Two aging tourists passed Lehane, carrying street maps and food stolen from the buffet tables in the nearest casino. He slumped further down in the front seat and checked his watch. "She's late."

  "She'll be here."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because Joy sounded scared, and I offered her enough for a bus ticket to Seattle. She really wants to go home."

  "She got anyone to go home to?"

  "She didn't say and I didn't ask."

  Further up the street, the morbidly fat Elvis launched into his atrocious rendition of "Don't Be Cruel." A passing drunk had the temerity to toss some spare change into the bucket at his feet. When Elvis saw the paltry amount donated, he paused to give the drunk the finger.

  "Heads up, Jeff. One o'clock."

  Lehane peeked up over the dash and looked to the right. He saw a skinny black woman with bright red hair standing by the large trash bins at the back of the kitchen. She wore a slinky blue dress, and was smoking a cigarette like someone in their last few minutes on death row. He could feel her fear from thirty yards away.

  "That's Joy?"

  "Even money."

  "Stay where you are, make her come to us."

  "Sure, I'm where I said I'd meet her anyway."

  A dented white van packed with college boys turned the corner. The driver saw Sandy, took in the ass and high heels and immediately slowed down to a crawl. Obnoxious insults, whistles and catcalls followed as if orchestrated. Sandy turned her back, ignored the boys and continued talking to the dead phone.

  "Jesus, can it get any worse?"

  "Of course. The night is young."

  "Like I said, Jeff, this is the very last time I do hooker."

  "Okay, okay."

  "My feet are screwed. Does Joy see me, yes or no?"

  "She sees you. She's chain smoking, trying to get up the guts to come over."

  "Man, Lou Grainger has her scared."

  "Something does."

  Someone turned off one of the lights near Joy, plunging the area into darkness. Lehane squinted, saw the orange tip of her cigarette; saw her throw it down and the sparks showering the cement. "Wait one, I think she's coming."

  "It's about time."

  Joy started across the parking lot, which was crowded with empty and silent cars and trucks. She walked briskly, swinging her arms like someone who liked to speed walk for exercise. Her head swiveled to the left and right as she checked the shadows for boogie men. This was one scared hooker.

  "Oh, give me a break."

  Sandy was clearly piqued, but Joy was still walking, closing the distance, nothing seemed out of order. "Sandy, what's the matter?"

  "The Return of the King, that's what."

  Lehane raised his head higher, peered over the dash. Fat Elvis had fixed his bleary eyes on Sandy and apparently liked the merchandise. He was briskly striding her way; white-sash belly jiggling, coin bucket under one arm, silenced cassette player under the other. His wig was askew and one false eyebrow was crawling down his cheek like a demented caterpillar.

  "Damn, guess who has not left the building."

  'Very funny." Sandy spoke more urgently. "Jeff, we got a situation, here. If Joy sees anything out of the ordinary she'll rabbit."

  "Quote him a ridiculous number, Sandy. Say you're a grand a night, or something. He'll go away."

  Sandy moaned. "I don't believe this."

  Fat Elvis slowed his pace. He turned sideways with a leer, patted his hair and preened then did a couple of clumsy dance steps. At some point in history, perhaps to some other species, his movements could have been considered seductive, although that was clearly giving him the benefit of the doubt. He pursed his lips, blew his target a 'kiss kiss' and Lehane heard Sandy make a gagging sound. She turned her back on him. He moved closer.

  "I'm booked, asshole," Sandy called back over her shoulder. She walked a few steps away, still pretending to be deeply involved in an important conversation. Lehane reached for the door handle, paused. Joy was still marching across the lot, her dress rippling in the neon light. She hadn't slowed down, despite the Elvis freak now orbiting the area. Lehane didn't want to appear and screw everything up.

  "You'd better make him vanish."

  "Damn," Sandy muttered. She closed the phone and turned to face lover boy, who was listing to starboard. Now that he was closer, the reflection of his bald spot shone brightly from underneath the slipping, poorly side-burned hairpiece.

  "Yo, Memphis, I said I'm booked."

  A jack-o-lantern grin and a twirl of the white sash. "You ever had yourself an Elvis, honey pot? Once you do, you'll never go back. Hey, I got him down to a T, too, every little twitch and habit."

  Sandy's smile was a bit too wide, and she spoke through clenched teeth. "Sweetie, you look just like him."

  He belched. "Why thank you, darlin' girl."

  "Yeah, exactly like him. Maybe right about when he died grunting on that there toilet, or just a minute or two before."

  Elvis beetled his brows and pondered her remark. He was certain he'd been insulted, but had wiped out too many brain cells and shortly forgot to be annoyed. In fact, he smiled blearily and edged her way again.

  Sandy stepped back, searching the nearby parking lot. Lehane followed her line of sight and swore under his breath. Joy saw the two of them. She paused and hunkered down behind one of the parked cars. Her eyes were white and wild with alarm. She seemed on the edge, ready to bolt. Sandy gave her a subtle wave, as if to say no sweat, I've got this covered.

  "Buzz off, bozo." Sandy said. "I'm through making nice, here."

  Incredibly, Elvis responded with another line of crap. "Ooh, I love it when they talk tough."

  The King moved closer. Sandy stepped back again, and was now on the edge of the curb and out of patience. Finally the poor guy sealed his fate by breaking into a feeble rendition of "Love Me Tender."

  Sandy slipped out of one high heel and dropkicked Elvis in the balls.

  The King dropped his bucket of coins and froze in place, arms akimbo, like a man who'd just been rectally probed by a cattle prod. Lehane winced and emitted an involuntary moan of sympathy. Sandy casually stepped back, slipped into her shoe and offered Joy a second friendly wave to come and join her.

  Astonishingly, the Fat Elvis swallowed, brought his legs closer together and executed an almost
flawless military "about-face." He licked his lips, blinked a few times, reached down for his bucket and then, with a series of mincing little steps hobbled back to his own little corner of sidewalk.

  "Well done," Lehane said, softly. "Remind me never to piss you off."

  Joy was now too close for Sandy to risk responding, although Lehane thought he heard a tiny snort of amusement. He stretched out on the front seat of the vehicle and listened in on their conversation.

  Joy, panting a bit: "Are you Sandy?"

  "That's me, girlfriend."

  "Give me the money."

  Sounds of clothing rustling, a distant siren approaching and just as rapidly fading away. "Look, I've got it right here. I called the bus station and this is exact change. All you've got to do is give me some fresh information and it's yours, plus an extra twenty for food."

  Joy hesitated as if surprised. "Thank you, that's nice."

  "Okay, honey, now what can you tell me about this man?"

  The other woman leaned closer. Although unaware of the microphone Sandy wore, she ended up speaking directly into it. "Lou Grainger?" Her voice trembled. "He's a mean bastard, that's what. He likes rough games, gets off on really hurting the girls."

  "That's not exactly fresh news."

  Joy laughed, bitterly. "You're not listening to me. I mean he gets off on really hurting the girls. One time he used a soldering iron on my skin, okay?"

  "Damn."

  More clothing sounds, Joy pulling down the straps of her dress? "See? Look at that, he burned me with a tear drop."

  "He branded you."

  Quiet sobs. "I'm hoping maybe a plastic surgeon, if I can save the money…"

  "You're really afraid."

  "Yeah, I got to get out of town, get away from him, he's fucking crazy."

  "When's the last time you saw him, Joy?"

  "Maybe four days ago, that's when he did this. He had some kind of flu or something. Lou was acting really weird, puking and drooling."

  "Where was this?"

  "At my apartment. I haven't been back since." Joy recited the address, but her next words removed any hope of discovering evidence. "I was behind on my rent anyways, and the landlord was trying to throw me out. So I packed some clothes and took off."

  "Where have you been staying?"

  "A girl who works the baccarat tables at the Wagon Wheel put me up, but now her boyfriend is back. I've got no place to crash."

  "Did Grainger ever introduce you to any of his friends and did you catch any of their names?"

  "He used to hang out with some biker guys, but I never met any of them. He bought crystal off some guy named Lobo, if that helps."

  "Show me your driver's license, Joy." A few more seconds. "Your real name is Jasmine Taylor? That's a lot prettier than Joy."

  "You never give your real name."

  "I know. Okay, I'm writing down the license number and your legal name so you'd better have given me the real contact information in Portland, because if we want to, we can find you again."

  "I did, honest."

  "The money for the ticket is in this envelope. Get out and stay out, girlfriend."

  "I will, I swear. I'm off the stuff for good this time."

  "Take off, and good luck."

  Sandy waited until Joy was out of sight before returning to the car. Lehane shut off his earpiece, sat up and started the engine. She slid in beside him, took off her shoes and rubbed her feet.

  "Well, that wasn't exactly a home run, was it?"

  "Better than nothing."

  "Jeff, you think Grainger is a dead end anyway?"

  Lehane nodded. "Now I'm thinking that he's probably just one of a hell of a long list of people who got in somebody's way."

  "Got in whose way?"

  "I wish I knew. Maybe there really is some kind of a zombie cult. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I have a hunch the meeting tomorrow morning will give us a lot more than we've got right now."

  Sandy rubbed his leg. "You don't really buy the supernatural stuff, do you?"

  "No, not really." Lehane shrugged, pulled away from the curb and into traffic. "But how about a government experiment that went south, or some kind of virus unleashed by a terrorist group like the one Enrique talked about? There are a lot of possibilities that could end up looking like this. All of them suck."

  Her fingers worked closer to their true target. Lehane tried to form the words to object but was too tired, too lonely, and being with Sandy suddenly mattered too much for him to turn her down. His own fingers crab-walked over to her lap and returned the favor. The rainbow neon of Las Vegas streaked by like something caught up in a time warp, and he tapped the garage wall with his fender when they parked.

  The kiss began in the doorway to her hotel room. They never did make it to the king-sized bed.

  TWENTY-TWO

  "Shhh, Nurse Pritchard will hear us."

  "The old cow naps on every night shift, and that's right about now."

  "Danny, do you want me to get into trouble?"

  "No, I just want to get into your pants"

  "You have a dirty mind."

  "So?"

  "Nothing, I like that."

  "Where do you want to go?"

  "The laundry room. Come on."

  "Ouch!"

  "What?"

  "You stepped on my foot!"

  "Be quiet, damn it, she'll hear us…Come on."

  Ben Feldman and Jackie Jones are archetypal horny med students, two years into rotation in what seems like an eternally abusive work situation, living on bitter coffee and junk food. They sleep in fits and starts on the floor, on a wobbly folding cot, even standing up in the hallway. They've been screwing at every opportunity, even if just for the energizing hormones and a change of pace.

  This is a standing Friday night date.

  They slide down the linoleum, sneakers squeaking, voices giddy from exhaustion and arousal, past the two women in B15, old Horace Carter's room and the thunderous snoring coming from the malodorous transient occupying B17.

  Meanwhile, down the hall Nurse Pritchard, who will forever be known to the young residents as Nurse Ratchet from "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest," buries her remarkably wide, long nose in a supermarket tabloid, the headline of which loudly proclaims that Michael Jackson is indeed a creature from another planet. Nurse Pritchard is a woman given to thick eye makeup and this late at night, when the weather is warm and her dark skin perspires, she strongly resembles a damp raccoon.

  The young lovers continue down the hall, pawing and groping and snickering, until they come to the door to the laundry room. Ben grabs the handle and is eight inches into opening the door when he pauses, a wide grin creasing his California, surfer-boy features.

  "What are you doing?" Jackie, for her part, is feeling damp and sticky and impatient to get off; his grin makes no sense at first, why would Ben be happy to delay their coupling?

  "Listen, listen." And he holds the door open just a bit so that Jackie can step in right behind him. At first she hears nothing but their own raspy breathing, hers and Bens, two pieces of light-grain sandpaper played out of synch; but then she catches it, a slight moan and a slapping sound.

  "Somebody's already getting it on," Ben whispers, and his grin widens to just shy of obnoxious. "I'll bet its Kalanta and Dickie."

  "Oh, that's gross."

  "No, really. I've seen them making goo-goo eyes."

  "Shut up."

  "Hey, want to have a four-way?"

  Jackie slaps the back of his head; really hard, too, just like Sister Mary did when he was a kid back at St. Agnes. "Ouch, what the hell did you do that for?"

  "Don't be nasty."

  "It was just a suggestion. Don't knock it till you've tried it."

  "Hush."

  "Hey, let's listen in for a while. It's kind of a turn on."

  "No, Ben, let's not. Come on. Let's get out of here and leave them be."

  "Okay, okay."

  And Ben crouches
down to duck walk; eyes popping, brows raised, doing a respectable cartoon character. He moves with such exaggerated, comic stealth she is not able to sustain her anger and giggles again. He waddles around the corner and into the gloom before she can control herself and follow. The floor, so filled with echo and frenetic activity in the daytime, falls silent. Jackie notices that silence, as it descends on her like a ball of steel wool.

  "Ben?" She whispers into the shadows, caught between a need for reassurance and her fear of being discovered by Pritchard or the other couple in the laundry room, who have now unaccountably fallen silent.

  Jackie feels cold and clammy. For no reason at all her abdomen clenches and adrenaline floods her system. He has not answered. But so what? He is prone to silly games, hell that's why Jackie likes him, because he's such a boy at heart. She tiptoes closer to the now ominous corner, her tennis shoes squealing faintly like the distant slaughter of baby pigs. Jackie touches the cool tiles with the tips of her trembling fingers but doesn't risk putting her head around the corner.

  "Okay, stop it. I give up."

  It is just a kid's game. Jackie knows that. Yet she's scared, zero at the bone scared. Someone has turned up the volume of her heartbeat da-dum, da-dum. The effect is both erotically stimulating and highly disturbing, because it seems to out of context to what's actually going on. Jackie has the jarring, macabre feeling she is trapped in someone else's low-budget movie.

  "Ben, stop it."

  She knows he's only playing, knows in heart that Ben is just around that corner contorting his face to frighten her, hell he probably has a flashlight under his chin to further mangle his features. She braces herself to whirl around the corner making her own scary face, to ignore whatever her first instinct tells her about the horrifying image she will encounter, but her knees are too loose and she cannot bring herself to go through with it.

  She has a sudden, urgent need to urinate.

  "Okay, I'm going to ignore you, damn it. I need to pee, I'll be right back." Jackie tells herself to turn her back on him; just march on down the hall to the small, single toilet without looking back, that'll prove she doesn't give a damn, show him she's not scared.

  Yeah, right…

  She backs away from the corner, though; instinctively crouched a bit to protect the hollow spot in the center of her belly, where the cold wind is blowing through…No response from Ben, though. There is just that awesome, overwhelming silence and the raspy bellows of her little lungs.