by Tim McGregor
The doorman smiled at the short man who slid from the passenger side. “Marty, what a surprise. How have you been?”
“Still in the fight,” said the man named Marty. He was middle-aged and paunchy but clad in a black hoodie and rock Tee, giving him the appearance of a middle-aged man still dressing like he was in his teens.
“Is the man himself here?” asked the doorman.
“He is.” Marty opened the rear door. “But I’d like to keep this quiet, if we could.”
“Of course.”
Tapeworm watched from the shadows as a hulk of a man lumbered out of the back, the vehicle raising up an inch on its axle. The man was stocky with big arms, built like a power lifter. His appearance was downright spooky. Dyed black hair and white face-paint, like some kind of ghoul. Tapeworm recognized him instantly. Crypto Death Machine, lead singer in a death metal band of the same name.
The doorman thrust his hand out in greeting. “Crypto, its nice to see you again. How—”
“Just get the fucking door,” Marty said.
The doorman did as he was told and the entourage swept inside. As they did, the hulking man known as Crypto Death Machine turned and Tapeworm saw what had startled the doorman. The right half of the musician’s face was swathed in bandages.
When the doorman followed the troupe inside, the police informant ran to catch the door before it latched shut and slipped in after them.
The club was dark, lit only by candles and old-fashioned lamps. Navigating through the crowd, Tapeworm clung to the shadows to stay as an invisible as possible. Compared to the members of the club, he looked like some wretched urchin whom the streets had driven mad. Which, if he was honest with himself, was what he was.
He followed Crypto and his entourage at a distance, careful not to get caught. He’d heard rumours that the death metal star had had dealings with John Gantry in the past and Tapeworm wondered if they would meet here in the club. The entourage moved across the vast floor to a sitting area near the back where Crypto took a seat across the table from another man.
Skulking in as close as he could without being noticed, Tapeworm strained to hear the men over the noise in the club.
“I need to find him,” Crypto said. “Quickly.”
“So would a lot of people,” replied the other man. He wore a dark suit with a black shirt and tie, a single red rose peeking from the breast pocket. “The man has enemies.”
“When did you see him last?”
The man with the rose steepled his fingers together. “A week ago. Here, in the club.”
“So, he frequents here?” asked Crypto.
“He’s not a regular, but yes, he stops in now and then.” The man with the rose nodded at the bandages masking the musician’s face. “What happened to you?”
“Mishap with a gun.”
The other man looked shocked. “Someone shot you in the face?”
Crypto didn’t reply.
Marty, his manager, paced the floor behind him, as if in hurry to be elsewhere. “Do you think he’ll show up tonight?” he asked.
“I really can’t say.” A petal fell from the rose and landed like a blood drop in the man’s lap. He brushed it away and looked back to the musician. “I take it your ‘mishap’ had something to do with Gantry. And that’s why you want to find him?”
“He tried to kill me,” said Crypto.
Marty grew more restless, as if too much had been said already. “He’s not here. We should go,”
Crypto leaned forward and placed a card on the table. “If he shows his face again, call me.”
The other man took up the card, read the fine print and slid it away into a pocket. As the entourage rose to leave, he said “Do you know Szandor LaVey?”
“No.”
“He’s looking for the Englishman too,” said the man with the rose. “Another score to settle. He runs the church, not far from here. You might want to try him.”
“Church?”
“The Church of Satan,” said the other man. “Our local chapter.”
Marty grumbled something and then Crypto stepped away, his entourage following.
Tapeworm slunk further into the shadows to stay out of sight as the men passed. Gantry was clearly in a lot of hot water these days. Everyone was after him.
The police department, whom Tapeworm dealt with, only paid so much for information. Especially that prick, Mockler. If Gantry was really that much of a target, maybe he could translate his information to another buyer. One who paid better.
Chapter 8
KAITLIN WAS STILL HAUNTED. That much was clear. Everything else was guess work, as far as Billie could see.
Riding her bike back from the hospital, her hands froze as a cold wind swooped in off the lake and blew more leaves from the trees. After the unnatural voice had scared the bejesus out of her, Kaitlin had settled back into her coma-like sleep. The nurse assured Billie that Kaitlin was fine but before she could see for herself, Kyle had arrived and chased her from the room. She didn’t argue with him.
She had heard that awful voice once before, when Kaitlin had disappeared. On a crackly phone line, the voice had whispered terrible things to her. It said it’s name was Evelyn. The woman from the Murder House.
She didn’t know what to do or how to help Kaitlin. Gantry might know but as usual, she had no way of getting in touch with him. There was one other person who might help but the last time Billie had asked, it had ended disastrously. But, she reasoned, the woman might know something about Evelyn Bourdain and the Murder House.
Rolling to a stop on Robert Street, she locked the bike against a pole and looked up at the sun-faded sign swinging in the wind. Madame Ostensky - Spiritualist & Psychic. She rubbed her hands together to warm them but made no move to knock on the door or ring the bell. She waited, wanting to see what would happen.
The front door opened on its own, as it had the first time she had been here. A little girl with grey eyes stood behind the screen door.
Billie tried to remember the girl’s name. “Hi. It’s Esme, right?”
“I remember you,” the little girl said.
“Is your mom home?”
The little girl looked over her shoulder. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”
“Esme!” A woman’s voice rang from within. “Who is it, honey?”
Marta Ostensky appeared in the doorway behind her daughter. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore simple sweats and a T-shirt but like the first time Billie had seen her, she was struck at how stunning the woman was. Even with an oven mitt on one hand. Her expression turned cold when she saw who as at the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.” Billie said.
“I don’t have time,” Marta said. She began to close the door. “Goodbye.”
“Wait. Please.”
Madame Ostensky held the door. She put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Go play in the other room, honey.”
The little girl disappeared inside. Her mother held the door but said nothing.
“A friend of mine is in trouble,” Billie said. “I don’t know where else to go.”
Marta sighed and pushed the screen door open.
They sat in the front room where Marta received clients. The decor was austere. A vase of freshly cut flowers on the mantle. A white table with two chairs. The only odd thing in the room was the tacky-looking crystal ball in the centre of the table. It reminded Billie of the one her mother had. Marta motioned for her to sit.
Billie stammered at where to start. She nodded at the crystal ball. “My mother had one of those.”
“It’s just for show,” Marta said. “My clients expect something gypsy.”
“I know.”
Marta removed the oven mitt and placed it on the table. “I see you didn’t bring any dead people into my home this time.”
Billie rubbed her palms together. The woman across the table was polite, if not warm. “I’m gett
ing better at it.”
“As you should. It’s intense with you. That can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Marta clicked her nails against the table top. “So. Your friend?”
Billie took a breath and dove in. “Have you heard of the Murder House?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“What about about a woman named Evelyn Bourdain?”
Madame Ostensky stiffened at the name. She made a quick hand gesture, as if shooing away a fly. “Don’t mention her by name. Not in here.”
“But you know who I’m talking about.”
“She lived in that house,” Marta said matter-of-factly. “She did terrible things. Like murdering her husband.”
“What else did she do?”
Marta shrugged. “She dabbled in things that she shouldn’t have. I’ve heard rumours that she tried to raise the devil. I’m not sure what to make of that story but she disturbed something. That house has been a magnet for evil ever since.”
“She’s still there,” Billie said. “In the house.”
The woman didn’t reply but her lips pursed, as if troubled by the thought.
“Bourdain possessed a friend of mine,” Billie went on. “And hurt her. I thought it was over but I was wrong. She’s still has a hold on her.”
“Your friend went to that house? Whatever for?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t. Some are simply drawn to evil.”
“What does Bourdain want with her?”
“Only she could tell you that.” Marta folded her hands together. “She’s trapped in that house, I can tell you that. Her punishment for playing around with terrible things. She may be looking for a way out.”
“Through Kaitlin?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure the woman’s wits were stolen long ago. God only knows what she’s after.”
“God,” Billie repeated slowly. “Where does God fit in in all of this?”
“Please don’t get philosophical. I don’t have the strength for those kinds of questions anymore.” Marta stood up. “I need to get Esme to swim lessons.”
“Oh. Sure.” Billie rose and crossed to the door.
Marta said, “I’m sorry I don’t have anymore to tell you. Other than to stay away from that house.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Billie stopped and looked back. “Can you really see the future?”
“No. What I see is more of a probable path.” When the younger woman furrowed her brow, Marta elaborated. “I can see certain steps in a person’s past. Like a trail of pebbles. Judging by its trajectory, I can see the most likely path the future might take. But it’s not certain. Things change, altering the path ahead.”
“Can you see my path?” Billie asked.
“No. And I won’t try.”
Billie nodded and opened the door. She tried not to look dejected.
“There’s someone there for you,” Marta said. “Someone on that path that helps you when you need it.”
“Does this person have a name? Is it a man or a woman?”
“I can’t tell. But I think you could call them a guardian angel.”
Billie waved goodbye and unlocked her bike. The idea seemed nice, if unlikely.
~
“I hate to say I told you so, buddy.”
Mockler closed the folder and pushed it away. “Then don’t say it.”
“But I told you so,” grinned Detective Odinbeck.
By rights, the two of them should have been gone an hour ago at the shift change when the graveyard crew came in to relieve the day-timers. Mockler had wanted to keep digging and cajoled the older detective into pushing past the clock. The bullpen of the Homicide Unit was quiet after shift change, with fewer working stiffs in the office. The two of them took another pass through the information they had. There were lots of blank spaces everywhere.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Mockler said. “There’s nothing on this guy, Riddel. No bank records, no employment records, no marriage record. Not even a death certificate.”
“He was missing,” Odinbeck corrected. “That’s why there was no death certificate.”
“But still. All that exists is a driver’s licence and his name on Billie’s birth certificate. Not even a social insurance number. How is that even possible?”
“Maybe Frank Riddel slipped through the system.” Odinbeck shrugged. “Small town, way back when? Coulda happened.”
The individual in question, one Franklin Riddel, was the name associated with the human remains found under the basement floor of 47 Laguna Road. AKA the Murder House. Two dessicated pieces of identification had been found with the body, which the Medical Examiner had been able to piece back together. A driver’s licence and library card both bearing the name Franklin Riddel. An intensive search under that name had pulled up only two solid records. A Ministry of Transportation issuance of a driver’s licence and a birth registration to a child named Sybil Culpepper in 1985. The same Sybil Margaret Culpepper who, twenty-nine years later, broke open a concrete floor to unearth his remains for reasons she couldn’t quite explain.
The word spooky had been uttered more than once by Odinbeck since then. The older detective didn’t like spooky and he didn’t like coincidences. Detective Mockler, on the other hand, was getting used to spooky.
With the lack of any further documentation on Franklin Riddel, Mockler had taken a DNA swab from Billie and sent it to the Medical Examiner for testing against the remains. That, at least, would confirm it either way and give them the only solid piece of information in the whole incident.
“Any word from the police department in—” Odinbeck snapped his fingers, trying to recall something. “What’s the name of that town?”
“Poole,” replied Mockler. “And no. They still haven’t found the file.”
Odinbeck propped an elbow over the cubicle wall. “Small town cop shops? They might not even have it anymore.”
“They have to have it.”
“I’m just saying, prepare for the worst, bud. Cuz this case is all kinds of spooky.”
Mockler rose out of the chair and stretched his back. “I’ll drive out there. Get to the bottom of it.”
“Wait until Marla gets back to us with the DNA test. No sense wasting a day before we know for sure.” Odinbeck checked his watch and grimaced at the hour. “Mind you, the test may come back negative. It might not even be Riddel after all.”
“Then why was his I.D. with the body?”
“More weirdo coincidence,” Odinbeck shrugged. “That happens a lot around this Culpepper woman, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Odinbeck exclaimed. “Two weeks ago, you’re working that case with the bodies in the walls. Which you bring her in as a psychic but your main suspect is untouchable. Then boom, the guy gets bricked up in the same hole where the bodies were found? And now this mess?”
Mockler clamped his jaw tight. He’d had his suspicions over that too but hearing it aloud from Odin was another matter. “What are you getting at?”
“Weird stuff happens around her, that’s all. Just be careful.”
Mockler regarded his partner. This was new. Odinbeck complained and groused a lot but he rarely made it personal. Or specific. “You think she’s dangerous?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
“And how exactly do I look at her?”
“What are we, girls?” Odinbeck huffed. “I’m not getting into that. I’m just saying, be careful.”
Mockler let it drop, unwilling to pursue it any further. However mangled the message came out, he knew Odin meant well.
“Let’s scram, before the weekend vanishes altogether.” The older detective turned off the monitor and scooped his keys from the desk. “You got plans for Thanksgiving?”
Mockler shook his head. “Nah. Watch the game, maybe.” The Ti-Cats were hosting the Argos. Again.
“Are you
still packing up the house?”
“That’s done. She’s all moved out.”
Odinbeck stopped. “Shit. Sorry, bud. So you’re just gonna creep around an empty house on turkey day?”
“No. I’m going to lay back on the stupid love-seat that’s way too small and watch the game. On my laptop.”
“She took the TV? That’s sad and pathetic,” Odinbeck said. “Come on over to the house, eat with us. We got a full house, one more won’t hurt.”
“Thanks. I’m good.”
“Aw come on. Don’t spend it alone.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Odinbeck walked away, calling back. “That’s all I ask. If you change your mind, just drop in.”
A constable named Beck was crossing the floor, carrying a stack of paperwork under one arm. He nodded hello to Odinbeck as they passed and hove up before Mockler’s desk. “Hey Mock,” he said. “Package for you.”
Mockler took the envelope from the constable. “Kind of late for mail, isn’t it?”
“It fell out of the bin in shipping. They just found it.”
Mockler thanked him and looked at the plain brown envelope. It was from the Medical Examiner’s office. He tore it open and skimmed the details until he found the important part, on the second page. The test results between the DNA samples from Culpepper, Sybil and the remains found at the Laguna Road crime scene.
They were a familial match.
Chapter 9
STEAM ROSE FROM THE pan as Billie opened the oven door. The turkey smelled delicious but it didn’t seem brown enough on the outside. “How do you know it’s done?”
Maggie leaned in for a look. “I can usually tell by the browning. But you can always use a thermometer to be sure.”
“My oven is kind of wonky,” Billie said. “We should probably use the thermometer.”
“Keep basting it.” Maggie checked the time and went back to fixing the salad. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Billie drenched the bird with the liquid in the pan. A few drops missed and hit the bottom of the stove where they sizzled and smoked. She closed the oven quickly before it triggered the smoke alarm. She liked having her aunt here making a big dinner, even if her kitchen was too small for more than one person to work in. Maggie had arrived hours earlier with a small bird stuffed, dressed and ready to be slung into the oven.
