by J. R. Mabry
“You can thank Chicken. She brought me straight here,” Susan said. She glanced at the hexagram on the floor. “Since when do you do magick?”
“Uh…since never. Look closer.”
“Oh. It’s a hexagram, not a pentagram.”
“Yup.”
She looked up at him with an admiring look on her face. “Apertiones? Did you really make these gentlemen stand in a box labeled ‘assholes’?”
“Guilty as charged,” Dylan looked down, feigning shame.
Betts bolted and made to run past Susan, but before he got two steps she pulled the trigger again and filled the room with thunder. He stopped. “That one was high. The next one won’t be,” Susan said, ejecting the spent cartridge.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement from Milo’s direction. She swung the shotgun towards him, but not before he’d squeezed off a shot from a revolver. The bullet passed through the soft part of her left arm, feeling like a bee sting. “Son of a bitch,” she snarled and blasted a load of buckshot into the secretary’s chest. Milo’s mouth opened, but no words came. He stumbled backward and then toppled to the floor, clutching at his chest. His revolver hit the floor and skittered a couple feet, placing it in easy reach of Betts. He glanced at it and then glanced at Susan. She raised the shotgun to her shoulder, aimed carefully and blasted the revolver into the outer darkness of the room’s periphery—and well beyond the reach of the mayor.
“Don’t try it, Goggles,” she said. “You won’t find it, and the moment you turn your back I’ll fill it so full of fucking lead that your girlfriend will be picking BB’s out of your ass with tweezers well into your nineties—if you survive it at all.”
Betts put his hands up, and Susan saw that he was trembling.
“Yore Aunt Susan really knows how to put on a show, li’l darlin’,” Dylan whispered.
“What’s the magick charade all about?” Susan asked.
“They told me you an’ Terry filled ’em in on the whole demon thing,” Dylan said.
“Yes, we were trying to be helpful,” Susan said. “Too bad our efforts weren’t returned in kind.”
“Waal, the mayor and his henchman here—former henchman, looks like—they thought it would be swell if I could just conjure up some demons to fight for their side.”
“To what end? Fending off Oaklanders?” Susan asked.
“That’s the surface story,” Dylan walked over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “But Ah think if they’d had a real magickian workin’ for ’em and coulda got a taste of that power—we coulda had some pretty li’l tyrants on our hands.”
“I think we already do,” Susan narrowed her eyes.
Betts gulped.
“You know I’m not above blasting a hole in your chest where you stand just to watch you crumple to your knees and fall on your face, right?”
“I thought you were Christians,” Betts said weakly.
“Don’t make me shoot you in the penis!” Susan took aim.
Betts covered his crotch with his hands and squirmed.
“I find that most non-religious people have an appalling lack of understanding about religious people,” Susan said.
“Ah find that to be true mahself,” Dylan agreed, putting Chicken down.
“Just because I follow Jesus doesn’t mean I ever stop being a sinner.”
“Yer just his sinner,” Dylan said.
“And O Lord, it would feel good to sin today.”
“You’d feel bad about it later, though,” Dylan said. “An’ you’d wanna eat a whole can of cream cheese frosting. Might even scoop it out with yore fingers. An’ that would just be sad.”
“You know, ever since you got sober, you’ve been a real pain in the ass,” Susan said, lowering the shotgun.
“Ah’m gonna tell ya what, Mr. Mayor—what did you call him?” Dylan turned back to Susan.
“Goggles. His day job—he’s a clown, like for children’s parties. Goggles the Steampunk clown.”
“Yer fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”
“I am not,” Susan said. She’d lowered the weapon to her hip, but it was still trained in Betts’ direction.
“Waal, Goggles, Ah’m gonna need you to turn around and kneel. Right now—”
“Oh, God. Don’t shoot me!” Betts wailed as he turned.
“Ah ain’t gonna fuckin’ shoot you, you ignorant piece o’ shit. Put yore hands behind yore head and interleave yore fingers.”
“Interleave. That’s a nice word,” Susan said.
“Ah am constantly strivin’ to better mahself.”
“It’s working.”
Betts interlocked his fingers and faced the back of the room.
“Chicken, let’s you and me find somethin’ to incapacitate the clown.”
“I’ll bet you never expected to utter that sentence even once in your entire life,” Susan suggested.
“Ah think when Ah was in college, stoned off mah ass at three in the mornin’, Ah aspired to one day be in a situation in which Ah could utter those very words an’ it would not seem contrived or inappropriate.”
“I think we should live our dreams,” Susan said.
“Ah think we should dream our dreams, then live them,” Dylan said. “How ’bout that tape there, Chicken?”
“Okie-dokie!” Chicken said. She handed a roll of duct tape to Dylan.
“Awww, you found mah duct tape.”
“Your duct tape?” Susan asked.
“Waal, Ah mean the roll of duct tape they used on me when Ah was on the gurney.”
“Oh, shit. Okay, when we get clear of this, I want to hear the whole story.”
“We’ll trade stories. How’s that?”
“I’m looking forward to exchanging more than that,” Susan said, bouncing her eyebrows.
“Now darlin’, not in front of Chicken. Or the clown.”
94
With a heavy sigh, Mikael rose to his feet and shut the door to the empty house behind him. His feet felt like lead as he shuffled through the cold San Francisco fog back toward Castro Street. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, and he was sure that if he tried to speak, all that he’d be able to manage would be a croak.
A convenience store loomed on the corner, and he went in. He paused at the wall-length refrigerator, mulling over his soda options. Nothing looked good until he hit the beers.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had an eight-ball, he thought and picked up a 20-ounce can of Old English 800. He knew it was horrific stuff, but he didn’t care. It was the liquid equivalent of chewing Vicodin—the taste was nasty, but the relief was quick.
As he closed the glass door to the refrigeration unit, he heard a familiar voice and froze.
“I don’t care what he wants. I’m not making macaroni and cheese. It’s beneath me. You just tell him he’s lucky I’m coming back at all. On second thought, don’t tell him that. But he is. Tell him I’ll make him a festive fettuccini alfredo with nutmeg and hazelnuts. It’ll be just the thing for when he comes back down to earth.”
Mikael held his breath. It was Khams—gathering items for a victory meal? It certainly sounded like it. Mikael ducked, afraid that his punkish shock of wild black hair might be visible over the store shelf that separated the aisles. He peeked around the corner and confirmed it—Khams was there, as short as Terry, sporting the same ridiculous goatee that seemed to hold a perpetual fascination for magickians everywhere.
“The man is driving me nuts,” Khams said into his phone, no doubt complaining about Larch to one of his order mates. “We knock ourselves out to cater to his every whim in order to carry out some obscure plan—which he does not bother to explain to us, by the way, and I can tell you that chaps my hide—but does he thank us? Does he acknowledge our hard work? Our ingenuity? That’s right.”
So they’re still in the neighborhood, Mikael thought, every nerve jangling with hope, possibility, and danger. Quietly, he replaced the malt liquor and, keeping tabs on Khams’ locatio
n, was careful to stay close but out of sight.
“Just tell Purderabo thanks for getting that team in and out so quickly. I will need to make him a very special dish as a thank you. Note that I am saying thank you, unlike some magickians we know.”
Khams had nearly a full basket now and was making his way to the checkout stand. “Did he? I don’t give a shit—that’s just between you and me, of course. Why what?…Oh, I don’t know. It’s his charisma, I suppose. He says something and you don’t really think about questioning it. It seems like the logical thing to do. Afterwards, it might seem daft as taffy cake, but in the moment it sounds completely plausible. It’s like a spell, really. No, I don’t think it’s really a spell. I think it’s…I think he’s a natural leader is all. What? Not me, good God. People wouldn’t follow me to breakfast.”
The cashier was scanning his items. Mikael tried to make them out in the curved mirror, but he wasn’t close enough and the distortion was too profound. “All right, I’m at the store and I—give her that Ensure and don’t worry about it. Just give it to her. It’s—it’s not moldy. It’s in a can…what? Don’t listen to her, she’s delusional. Listen I really have to go. Give my best to Chuck. Kisses.” Khams put his phone in his pocket and with almost the same motion withdrew his wallet.
After he had paid, Mikael watched carefully to see which direction he would head. He waited a few moments then headed for the door himself. He paused at the threshold and peered out in the direction Khams had gone. He saw him crossing the street at a brisk pace, heading away from the old house. Keeping about a block’s distance between them, Mikael followed.
Khams carried his brown grocery bag two blocks to the left, then turning right, walked another block and a half. He finally went up to what looked like an apartment building, but as he got closer, Mikael saw that it was a B&B called The Hideaway. “That couldn’t be more apt,” Mikael said aloud. He let himself in through the side gate and watched the windows in back for activity.
The building only had three floors and only four apartments per floor, Mikael estimated, given the size of the building. There were lights on in two of the rear flats on the second floor and one on the third. Michael drew his coat closer around him as he sat on a picnic table and studied the windows. A young woman walked near the window in one of the second story apartments.
Not that one, he thought, turning his focus to the other two. Just then another light came on, on the third floor. Only for a second, as if…as if someone were checking on someone. His mind raced. It could be a parent checking on a child. Could be, but how likely was that at a Bed and Breakfast? Mikael usually thought of B&B’s as romantic establishments, not particularly for families—which would be doubly true in the Castro. The innkeeper probably checked Larch in with his two male companions and thought nothing more of it.
Mikael studied the back of the building, looking for a way up. Scaling the building was a Confessor move, but he was too tired and discouraged to take refuge in his superhero fantasies. This was just him against Larch now. He studied the arbor. Definitely shimmiable, he thought. From the arbor, a drainpipe clung to the side of the building and connected to the roof. It was wide—maybe three-and-a-half inches around. He undid his belt, hoping there was space for it between the pipe and the wall. If so, he could loop it around the pipe and use it to lean against. His mind flashed to Adam West standing on the side of a building and just walking up. It wouldn’t be that easy, but it could be done. The drainpipe passed within two feet of the window. And he could see that the window was cracked a bit—it’s frame hovered just above the sill, allowing Mikael to see a sliver of white curtain.
Mikael stood and blew on his hands. Making his way to the arbor, he began to climb to its top. Once there, he balanced on the beams as he crossed to the stucco wall. He tested his belt, but the drainpipe was too close to the wall to allow it. He tsk’ed while he put his belt back on and stopped to think. The brackets holding the pipe in place were spaced about three feet apart, and they were substantial. There was definitely space to get a finger hold in them.
He pulled his shoes off, grasped the lower bracket in his toes, and reached up to the bracket just above his head. Concentrating most of his strength into his arms, he pulled himself up, hand over hand, careful not to scrape or bump the wall. After what seemed like hours—but was, he knew, only a couple of minutes—he clung precariously opposite what he hoped to be Larch’s window. Fixing his left middle finger into the space between the pipe and the wall, he reached out with his right hand and caught the window frame. He felt at the space between the frame and the sill and, using all the strength he could project into his fingers, he prized the frame upward until he could grasp the inside sill with his whole hand.
His left hand was aching now, not to mention sweaty, and had begun to shake. Mikael involuntarily cried out when the finger gave way, leaving him swinging from the window frame, his right hand twisted at an uncomfortable angle, still grasping at the inside sill. “Shit,” he whispered, then instantly hoped no one had heard his outburst. He hung there for a few seconds, allowing his left hand to rest. He shook it, then brought it up, passed it under his right arm, and grasped at the bottom sill. Letting go with his right hand, he swung it out to his right and also got a good grip on the under sill. Heaving with every ounce of strength left in his body, he pulled his upper torso through the window and hung there for a moment, resting his arms. From there, it was easy to worm his way to the floor.
Doing it without making any noise was another matter. During the whole time, a voice in his head kept shouting, What if this isn’t Larch’s room? This is breaking and entering. You’re going to jail.
But as he rose to his feet, the light from the window rested on what looked like a sleeping face. Just below, its body was fully dressed, stretched out on the bed. Mikael leaned in, noting the horse-like contours of the face, the acne scars, and the thin-pressed lips. It was undeniably Larch.
He wanted to do the Snoopy happy dance—and would have, had noise levels allowed—but he heard movement in the hall. Catlike, he flattened himself against the wall near the hinge of the door. When the door swung open, he was hidden. But if anyone closed it…
He prayed silently as someone entered. He could hear someone setting objects down and the clatter of dishes, but he couldn’t tell what they were bringing or taking away. Then, just as quickly, the person left and pulled the door shut.
Mikael breathed a deep sigh of relief and stepped toward the bed. “Time to wake this asshole up,” he whispered. Mikael took hold of his arm and shook him. He expected Larch to open one lizard-like eye and begin to berate him. Mikael was ready for that. But the reptilian eyes stayed closed. Mikael shook harder. He grasped Larch by both shoulders and jerked him around. Nothing.
He felt at Larch’s pulse—it was strong, even a little fast.
Mikael stood back for a moment then leaned down with new resolve and slapped the magickian across the cheek. Nothing. He slapped him harder, again and again until he saw red welts rise up on the man’s face.
Mikael was sweating now and more than a little nervous. If I can’t wake him up…what? he wondered.
A voice in his head said, You could kill him.
It was a terrible thought, but was there any other choice? Mikael’s thoughts raced, remembering Bonhoeffer’s dilemma—cooperating with the German resistance to assassinate Hitler. Was this the same? Was he on solid ground here? Was he justified?
He knew that Larch was responsible for untold deaths in the East Bay. He knew that the magickian was wrecking cosmic damage in the sephirot—damage he could already see around him, but the full extent of which might be universally catastrophic. Might. He didn’t know exactly what Larch was up to, and Brian wasn’t here to explain it to him. He only knew that it was bad, dangerous, potentially apocalyptic.
How would he do it? Larch was only using one pillow on the queen-sized bed. He could smother him with the other. Larch, being so out of it, wouldn�
�t resist. He would just…die. Mikael felt like cold water was running down his spine at the thought of it. He could pray for strength and later for forgiveness, but he knew in that moment what it would do to him.
You would trade the lives of whoever else is going to die because of him—maybe the whole world—just so that you can have a clean conscience? he asked himself. When he thought of it like that, the choice seemed like the ultimate act of selfishness. Or perhaps it was cowardice? He felt confused, even faint, and began to hyperventilate.
What would Dicky do? he asked himself. Dicky would kill him. He knew that in his bones. Dicky wouldn’t hesitate. Even if it meant going to prison. Even if it meant damnation. It was a fair trade, and Dicky would be prepared to make it.
What would Jesus do? he asked himself. In his head he heard, What does it profit a man to gain the whole world but lose his soul? He may indeed gain the world—even save the world—but at what price?
At that moment, Mikael knew he couldn’t do it. He was doing nothing here but putting himself in danger. Larch certainly wasn’t in any danger from him. He didn’t know if it was because he was too good, too moral, or too chicken shit, but ultimately it didn’t matter. He was not going to kill this man and if that was the case, he had better get the hell out of there.
He swung his leg up and out of the window and heard a clatter behind him. He lowered his leg and spun around, holding his breath and looking for the source of the noise. All he could hear was Larch’s steady breathing and the distant din of city traffic coming in through the window. He looked down and could have slapped himself as he saw what had caused the sound: The Mughal knife he had taken from Larch earlier had fallen out of his back pocket when he lifted his leg to the window. Mikael snatched it up and raised his leg again.
But then he froze, a distant memory niggling at the back of his brain—a story about the warrior David and Saul, the king who was trying to kill him. Mikael lowered his leg again and walked back over to Larch. He pulled the short, curved knife from its ornate sheath and stabbed downward, driving its tip deep into the wood of the headboard just inches from Larch’s sleeping head. He tossed the sheath onto the bedspread and bolted for the window.
