by J. R. Mabry
She scowled at him, clearly suspicious. “Where’s Minister Joseph?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she grabbed at his hand and ran her finger along his arm. “Hmmmmm,” she said, and then she let it go.
“What was that about?” Brian snatched his hand back.
“You got another form of payment?” she asked.
Glancing into the cash register, Brian saw that all the money was purplish. Different bills were of different hues—periwinkle, lavender, and heather. He fished in his wallet for a debit card. She scrutinized it and handed it back to him, indicating the keypad. He inserted the card and typed in his PIN code. “Cash back?” she asked.
“Sure. Can you give me enough to get by for a day?”
Her eyebrows shot up and she gave him a bemused look. “You’ll want about 40,000. Just enter it and hit the green button.”
Brian did. His own purchase had come to about a quarter of that, and he realized he had been interpreting the digital readout as if there had been a decimal point. Looking closer, he realized there wasn’t. “Thanks,” he said. The girl did not look up at him again. He pocketed the cash and ducked under a large pipe, nearly hitting his head on a valve as he headed for the door. When he could straighten up he pulled the hoodie on and freed the umbrella from its packaging. He stepped outside before opening it up.
He felt a swell of pride—having navigated, in so short a time, proper clothes, money, and rain gear. But he also felt a twinge of danger. Why had she grabbed his hand like that? And why had she felt at his arm?
“Don’t get a big head,” said a voice beside him. “It’s trickier than you think here.”
He looked down and saw Mother Maggie waddling beside him underneath her own umbrella. She was wearing a clerical collar, as usual, and carrying a bag with a seal that looked similar to the Episcopal seal but wasn’t. “Maggie!” he said, turning to her and opening his arms.
She did not embrace him but kept looking straight ahead. “Shh! Eyes front. Pretend we’re not talking. Don’t draw attention.”
“But…I don’t understand.”
“You will. I’m going to step out ahead. You follow me, but don’t speak to me until we get inside and we’re alone. Understand?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Good. And don’t trip.”
“Huh?”
She pointed down. “Shoelaces.” She was right. They had become untied again. He knelt and tied them, even tighter this time. Maggie waddled out in front of him, not bothering to even look in his direction.
They waited at a light then crossed a busy street. Looking to his left, Brian saw that they were at an enormous roundabout. In the center, perpetually being circled by an army of trucks and automobiles, was a statue of what looked like Atlas, holding up the world. The globe on his back reached a height of at least three stories. His shoulders were massive, and the corded muscles looked amazingly lifelike. Brian could almost see him trembling under the weight on his back. The figure was naked, his testicles swollen like pomegranates, his legs massive and thick like redwoods. His gaze saw for a hundred miles, and his jaw was set with grim determination.
“This is the soul of Yesod,” Brian said out loud to himself, awed by the statue. “This is its avatar.”
“Quiet,” Maggie shushed him as they waited for another light. They had emerged into what looked like a greenbelt. City stretched on three sides, but ahead of them was a park with vast fields of grass stretching to the horizon. And on that horizon… Brian stopped and stared. “What the…”
“Pssst! Keep moving,” Maggie called over her shoulder.
Brian sprang forward to close the distance between them somewhat, still careful to stay a couple yards behind her. But his eyes kept darting to the horizon. His mouth gaped as he took it in. An enormous, alabaster pillar rose from the ground straight into heaven. It wasn’t a thin pillar, though, it was massive. Brian flashed on a woodcut of the Tower of Babel in an old Bible Richard had. That was close, but not quite right. As he stared at it, Brian realized what it was like. “It’s a lingam,” he said out loud.
68
Mikael kicked himself internally as he walked. Why had he called Kat out on such an insignificant, stupid point? He didn’t think of himself as a particularly anal kind of guy. He didn’t normally strain at gnats.
The sun was just beginning to burn through the fog and, as it did, Mikael felt his mood lighten. It was hard to be truly despondent in San Francisco—the city had more life per square inch than Mikael had ever seen, anywhere, and he soon found himself smiling. The exercise helped, too, and by the time he reached the Castro, the last wisps of his argument with Kat had dissipated, along with the morning’s fog.
He checked his phone and followed the directions app to Caselli Avenue. It was a short street, maybe four blocks long. The houses had no space between them, as was usual in San Francisco, but they were beautifully maintained. It occurred to Mikael that even the most modest of these sold for well over a million dollars. The thought of it staggered him, given his own income. He did a quick calculation and realized that there were nearly a hundred houses on this street. He blew air out of his cheeks. Larch could be in any one of these houses. “Where do I even start?” he wondered aloud.
Be systematic, he told himself. He walked to where Caselli dead ended into Douglass Street and walked up to the first house. He knocked on the door. A few moments later, he heard a rustling inside, and the door swung open. An older balding Asian man in a muscle T stood in the doorframe. “Yes?” he asked.
Mikael hadn’t rehearsed what he would say, so he just blinked. His mind simply said, “Larch isn’t here. Move on to the next house.” But propriety prevented him from moving. “Uh, hi!” he said. “My name is Mikael and…I’m taking a survey. Do you own your own home?”
“Yes,” the man narrowed his eyes at him, not liking this at all.
“How long have you been in residence here?”
“Twenty years,” the man said.
“Have you noticed any strange occurrences in the neighborhood?”
The man cocked his head. “Like what?”
Mikael moved his head back and forth, “Oh, I don’t know…anything supernatural? Strange voices, spiritual attacks, ectoplasmic manifestations, you know…the usual…stuff?”
“I think you should go now,” the man said, closing the door.
“Going now,” Mikael said, stepping off the curb. He walked to the next door. He did need a better story. But it wasn’t a bad idea to ask neighbors for some clue as to where Larch was. It would be far better, in fact, to have the house pointed out to him by a neighbor than to have the door opened by one of the Hawk and Serpent boys. It preserved the possibility of surprise.
Mikael pulled something up on his phone. Then he knocked on the next door. No one answered. At the next house, a young woman answered who was clearly hung-over. “Hi,” Mikael said. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m supposed to meet my friend on this street, but…I don’t remember the house number.”
“Hook up?” the woman asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Yeah,” Mikael confessed. “I got the name, and the time, and the street…just not the house number.”
“So, does your Mr. Wonderful have a name?”
“Stanis Larch. This is him. I took it last night in the bar.” He showed her a photo that he’d pulled down from the Order’s dropbox.
“He’s a hottie…for an old guy. You into that? Old guys?”
Larch was about Richard’s age—in his mid-forties—but Mikael could see how this young woman might think of him as old. “It’s kind of a daddy thing,” Mikael said sheepishly.
“No need to get all Freudian on me,” she said, smiling. “Sorry, honey. Can’t help you find your sugar-daddy today.”
“Oh, well. Thanks for taking a look,” Mikael said.
“You don’t swing both ways, do you?” she asked.
“Uh…no, sorry,” Mikael said.
“Your loss,” sh
e said, shutting the door.
69
Richard felt incongruous with a rifle slung over his back. It wasn’t as if he’d never shot a gun before. His father had been a cop, so he’d been to the firing range. They’d gone hunting. He knew how to aim, and he knew to expect the gun to punch him in the shoulder when it fired. He just didn’t feel right carrying it while wearing a clerical collar. He thought of taking off the collar, but that seemed like an even greater betrayal.
Live in the ambivalence, Dicky, he told himself. It’s the richest place to be.
Richard walked between two policemen, one in front of him and another behind him, as Tobias trotted along at his side. He realized he was being “sandwiched” for his own protection, and it pricked at his pride a bit. But he reminded himself that he and Toby were civilians here, and what they didn’t know could easily get them killed. The fact that Toby knew infinitely more than either of these policemen provided sufficient irony for him to actually enjoy the situation.
They were walking north on Shattuck, past the Cheese Plank, past the Safeway, past the building on the weird triangle of land where the old Goddess Bookstore used to be. He could see Marco’s group about a block and a half ahead of them, heading for the tunnel into Albany. They were about to cross Rose Street to connect with Henry when Tobias whined and darted to the left.
“What is it, boy?” Richard asked. He had given Toby the command, Drix aziazor babalon gah, and the dog had not looked confused. Richard tried to have faith and hope for the best. Leaning on you now, Jesus, he prayed silently.
Richard turned and followed the yellow lab. The police looked momentarily confused. “Wait, we’re following the dog?” one of them asked. Richard tried to remember his name. He couldn’t. He stole a glance at the cloth name tag on the officer’s black uniform. Evans. Officer Evans was as tall as Richard with swarthy skin and short but curly black hair. He seemed nice enough.
“He’s a lab, but he must have some bloodhound in him somewhere,” Richard joked. “He’s pretty good at following a scent.”
The other officer—Martinez—scowled. “Only dog I ever had was a Chihuahua. Damn dog wasn’t good for anything except barking at nothing and pooping on my mom’s bed.”
“That’s the kind of dog that would be good in a stew,” Richard said.
“Woulda been a pretty stinky stew,” Martinez countered. Martinez seemed to be impossibly short for a policeman, but Richard knew nothing about such regulations. The Hispanic officer’s eyes came to about nipple-height to Richard, but he seemed light and fast and had a quick wit.
“So what’s he smelling?” Martinez asked.
“Hard to say,” Richard answered. “Maybe just the paper that the sigils are drawn on. More likely the blood that activated the sigils. But maybe he’s just sniffing out the demonic activity itself.”
“You talk like all this shit is real,” Evans said.
Richard stopped and faced him. “You ever see anything like this before?” He waved his arm to include all of Berkeley.
“No.”
“It’s real.” Richard continued, walking behind Tobias who had his nose in the air and was snuffling away eagerly.
“But how do you know it’s…I can’t even make myself say it, it’s so ridiculous…but here goes: how do you know it’s demons?”
“Because that’s how we make our living.”
“You and the black guy over there?” Evans pointed north toward where Marco was leading the other team.
“No, he’s a magickian. I mean my order-mates.”
“What do you mean he’s a magickian? Like card tricks?”
Richard rolled his eyes. “Yep. Ask him to show you his levitating penis trick sometime.”
“Really?” Evans asked.
Richard didn’t answer. They were in the thick of affluent, residential North Berkeley, approaching Martin Luther King Jr. Way, when Richard heard a crack and a zing by his ear. “Gunfire, down!” he said, dropping to the pavement. Tobias didn’t drop, though, and kept going, straight toward where Richard heard the rifle crack come from. “Toby! Wait.” Tobias turned to look at Richard and stopped, panting. There was another shot, this one from a slightly different direction.
“Crawl,” Evans commanded. He pointed at Richard. “You last.”
Richard nodded and fell in behind Martinez as Evans took point. Tobias sprinted out ahead of Evans, seemingly oblivious to the danger. Jesus, protect our dog—and your angel, Richard breathed. The yellow dog ran up the steps of a squat, stuccoed arts-and-crafts house and straight through the door.
Evans looked back at Richard, and Richard gave him an exaggerated shrug. Evans seemed to be thinking. Then he started crawling again toward the house’s stairs. By the time Richard reached the front door, it was open. He didn’t know if Evans had opened it or if it had already been standing ajar, but at this point it didn’t matter. Evans and Martinez had already crawled in. Tobias was nowhere to be seen.
Evans stood and so Richard did the same. Evans held his hand out in the universally-recognized “halt” sign. Richard nodded and froze in place. Turning to Martinez, Evans pointed to his own eyes, and then pointed deeper into the house. Martinez gave a quick nod and, rifle at the ready, sprang through the wide door separating the living room from the dining room. “All clear,” he shouted, and Evans waved at Richard to follow.
From somewhere, Richard heard Tobias start to bark. If he’s barking, he’s breathing, he thought to himself. So that’s a good report.
Richard watched Martinez edge toward the kitchen. Between the kitchen and the dining room he saw the kind of door on a spring that swung both ways. Martinez knelt and pushed the door open just a crack. He let it shut then glanced back at Evans, holding up two fingers. Evans nodded and crossed to the edge of the door. He pointed to Martinez, then at the bottom the door; he pointed at himself and then at the top of the door. Martinez gave a curt nod. Then Evans turned to Richard and lowered his hand, flattened toward the floor. Richard crouched and waited. Evans counted on his fingers with exaggerated motions—one, two…
On three, both officers burst into the kitchen, Evans high and Martinez low. “Berkeley PD! On the ground!” Evans shouted. Richard heard the clatter of what sounded like a handgun hitting the tile. “Both of them!” Evans added. Richard heard the thud of a rifle or a shotgun being set down, then the clatter of it falling to the floor.
Richard scooted through the door himself and saw a thirty-something-ish white couple sitting on the floor with their hands up. There was glass everywhere, and it looked like the man had cut his hand on some of it. Smears of blood punctuated the tile in a truly random pattern. The large, french windows looking out onto the back yard had been mostly shot out—and it looked like the shots had come from the outside, since the glass had fallen in, Richard noted.
“Who are you shooting at?” Evans asked, not dropping his weapon for a second.
“At them—” he pointed at the backyard. “The Olivos.” The man didn’t look scared, he looked determined and frustrated. Richard guessed that the man saw their presence as an annoying distraction from what he really wanted to be doing—shooting at the Olivos, presumably. Richard would have pegged the young man as a typical Silicon Valley hipster, or more likely a Pixar animator. He had straight brown hair that was lopped at an odd angle on one side, in a way that was not unfetching, Richard had to admit. But then there was the ridiculous soul patch. The woman with him, who Richard guessed was his wife or girlfriend, looked more frightened. She wore a blue-patterned print dress that rode just a little bit too high up her thighs for modesty given the way she was sitting on the floor. Her blue sweater had bits of broken glass caught in it that flashed like sequins in the morning sun.
“Where are the Olivos?” Evans asked. “In the back yard?”
“No,” the young man said impatiently, as if his next word was going to be “stupid,” but he thought better of it. “They live behind us. Their house faces MLK.”
&nbs
p; “Why are you and the Olivos exchanging gunfire?” Martinez asked, as if it were a completely reasonable question.
“Because…” the young man said. Richard thought he was going to stop there, implying that the reason for the shooting was self-evident, but after a moment, his eyes moving back and forth rapidly, he continued. “They have this…” he motioned at the air in front of him as if he were pulling salt-water taffy, “…this brewing setup. It’s brilliant.”
“You’re shooting at them because they make great beer?” Richard asked.
“No! Don’t be an idiot,” the man said. “Well, kind of. I mean, why should he have such a great beer-making set up? No one loves beer as much as I do. Do they, Rach?”
The woman nodded. “And…they stole our kids,” she added.
“They…the Olivos have your children?” Martinez asked.
“Yes,” the woman said. “That’s what you get from immigrants. They can’t have children in their own country, so they come here and steal ours.”
Richard’s brows knitted together, and he tried to sort out what he was hearing. “Where are the Olivos from?” he asked.
“Italy,” the woman said.
“What do they do…for work, I mean?” Richard asked.
“Visiting professor at the UC,” the man said. “Stupid Italians.”
“And they have your children?” Evans asked.
“Yes.” The man stood up as high as he could on his knees and yelled out one of the broken panes, “Have your own children, fuckheads!” There was a rifle crack and his head jerked backwards as the bullet entered his brain. He fell over like a log, limbs splayed out over the tile.
70
Chicken hid behind the door and tried to listen, but she wasn’t close enough to hear. She wrestled with what to do. Should she wait and see if the men would leave? She didn’t want to leave Dylan. She faced a long corridor, with several doors on either side leading to mysterious places. And she didn’t know where the hallway led to. Outside? Todo teine un final, y estos pasillos tienen que salir en algún sitio, she thought. Everything has an end, and these halls have to go somewhere.
