Demonic Double Cross

by B Branin

  * * * * *

  Just last week, after a nice long day of not working and concocting a new form of scheme or scam, I would have found myself at the Booze Bin. I’d be laughing along with the other drunks, giving my bets and sport predictions to Frankie then shoot a few games of pool with the Twins before I’d finally try to catch the eye of a barfly and call it a night.

  Today was the longest, hardest day of my life…and I was going through it sober.

  My day had begun in a jail cell before turning into a pawnshop shoot out, then I was demonically possessed at a church and to top it all off, I had jumped out of a four story window which introduced me to a particularly vindictive devil.

  I’d like to reiterate: all this while sober.

  As many of my associates will tell you, I operated at maximum efficiency with a .059 blood alcohol level and a nice young girl in my lap. Perhaps it was something genetic but with that combination my proficiency skyrocketed to amazing heights. Once, with the right amount of booze and skin being shown off by scantily clad barmaids providing said booze, I had learned enough German in thirty-four minutes to convince a foreign business executive to fork over three grand in exchange for BS stock market info that I made up on the spot.

  Yeah. I’m that fucking good.

  Except I needed to be better than good. I needed to be better than I had ever been at my best. But with the tragic lack of both booze and floozies, it was doubtful I would be able to achieve maximum efficiency. Laying in the back of the Road Killer, among the discarded beer cans and shotgun shells that West had collected in the bed of his truck, I realized it would be a miracle if I survived the night…especially if my survival depended on me bringing my A game.

  We were hiding out in some parking garage and Fiona was at my side, running her fingers along my body. It wasn’t as nice as it sounded. Cradled between her cheek and shoulder was my cell phone as she spoke with Father O’Brawley, parroting most of his words. The old priest was walking her through a quick injury exam, telling her how to feel for broken bones, ruptured organs or internal bleeding.

  Kurt stepped over and handed me a bottle of whiskey he had somehow conjured up from his motorcycle saddlebags before rejoining West to keep a lookout for any cops or cultist that might be looking for us. Taking the bottle, I began draining it greedily, hoping the liquor would cure my parched throat, broken ribs and various other injuries.

  It would have been so easy to drift off and pretend that this whole thing had never happened. To just let my dreary mind erase this entire day and allow sweet blissful sleep to take me. But I couldn’t. There was simply too much to do! Such as ending the reign of the Daughters of All, rescuing the souls that they had captured and put a stop to their leader. The pressure to hunt down Lorraine was even greater than the pressure inside my skull, which had manifested itself when my forehead connected with the dashboard of West’s truck during our escape of the Killington Estate.

  I was halfway done with the whiskey when Fiona informed me that I didn’t seem to have any broken bones as far as she could tell, though a few of my organs seemed very sensitive and swollen. I ignored this assessment, assuming the swelling was just from my liver which has suffered years and years of abuse.

  As the warm, invigorating sensation of alcohol warmed my stomach, I racked my brain. Finding Lorraine was a must. There were precious few moments in my life where I felt obligated -no!- compelled to act. Usually these moments were in the interest of self-preservation but now, for the first time in my life, I felt the need to protect more than just my sorry ass. I felt some sort of altruistic sense of heroism swelling up inside me.

  I, Arthur Broker, conman extraordinaire, was the one man who could stop a demonic cult from taking over the world…or at least that was what I was telling myself in an attempt to suppress the urge to crawl under a rock and hide for the rest of my life.

  How did I get myself into this mess? This wasn’t me! I wasn’t the hero! Hell, I didn’t even meet the qualifications for “good guy.” But stopping Lorraine would rid the world of a centuries-old serial killer and kidnapper. Not to mention that stopping her cult would save many young women from becoming vacant-bodied replacements for the rich and deprived. Oh and I would also be rescuing some innocent souls from eternal damnation. That was a plus, right?

  But could I pull it off? Me? The cowardly conman?

  I had to at least try. Sighing, I decided to break my big crisis into little, manageable ones. I began with the most obvious problem: where was Lorraine? With the chaos at the Killington estate, there was no doubt she had fled the scene. The calamity caused by my escape made it just too risky to stay there.

  The next logical option was Hell Scratch but I doubt she’d hide there. First off, I knew the location and Lorraine knew I knew. Hiding in plain sight only worked when those pursuing you weren’t aware of your MO or goals. Besides, with a few creative phone calls I could have the Hell Scratch shut down or shot up, which would put a serious kink in Lorraine’s plans.

  No, Hell Scratch was out. So where would she run? The hospital that Dr. Livingstone worked? One of the cultist’s apartments? A halfway house? Some underground bunker that Lorraine had purchased with her filthy money? The possibilities were endless and not limited to this city. For all I knew the cult leader and her fanatical followers were already on a private jet, waiting for take off!

  Despite the sense it made, I don’t think Lorraine would have fled the city. Not only were these streets her hunting grounds and the foundation for her cult, she was also under a time frame. The cult leader had told me that she was going to sacrifice these souls to Macula tonight. Assuming that process was more complex than simply setting up an alter, Lorraine must have prepared her base of operations accordingly. If she were sane, she would postpone her little ritual but I had a feeling she wouldn’t do that.

  She was, after all, the craziest bitch I’ve ever met.

  Lorraine would let nothing get in the way of pleasing her patron devil, especially being late with her tribute. She was just like the hundreds of women you hear about dependent on abusive relationships. No matter what happened or what the circumstances, they would continue to try and please. Add religious fanaticism into the mix and I’m pretty sure Lorraine wouldn’t let God himself get between her and Macula.

  Plus there was the fear of punishment from the devil to help motivate her.

  So no postponement. The souls were going to be sacrificed tonight.

  “We need,” I began, sitting up in the bed of the truck, wincing as the more severe aches refused to subside, “to find the cult. Now.”

  “We need to get you to a hospital!” Fiona replied, finally handing my phone back after Father O’Brawley was satisfied I had no life-threatening injuries.

  “Or out of the country.” West commented as he leaned against the cab of the Road Killer, “You’re fucked when the cops get to the Killington estate. We all are.”

  “Don’t worry about it. There won’t be anything left to implicate us. Not after the serving staff steals everything that’s not nailed down.” I told the giant with much more confidence than I felt, “But Lorraine…Faye…has something big planned. We need to stop it.”

  “Something big?” Kurt inclined with an exhale of cigarette smoke.

  “If I told you, you’d think I’m crazy.” I sighed while seriously questioning my own sanity. After all, I had just talked to a devil and a thousand year old serial killer. How sane could I possibly be?

  “Please,” My client protested, the word like a knife in my heart, “Please tell me what Faye is doing. I-I don’t want to lose my sister again!”

  Of course Fiona asks this of the man who had tried to kill her sister (at least her body) just an hour ago. After taking another deep draught from the bottle, I cleared my throat nervously, trying to string together a gentle, subtle explanation of what Lorraine had planned.

  “Some ancient psycho-bitch has possessed your sister and is planning to sacrifice all the so
uls she has stolen to an extra-dimensional demon named Macula who is a real prick.” I said, “And that’s not a good thing.”

  Silence.

  Stunned, stifling, silence.

  I took another pull from my bottle.

  “So?” Kurt asked, “How do we find her?”

  Ignoring Fiona’s confused and appalled stare, I flipped open my cell phone and called the only person I knew who could help me.

  “Hello Broker! How was the meeting with the Killingtons?” Buggy asked excitedly, as if he had been waiting to spout that off all night.

  “Um, it didn’t go as planned.”

  “I’ll say so! I’m listening to the police scanners right now. A few neighbors reported trouble but the Killington’s private security detail claims everything is under control. The fire department, police and EMTs are so worried about impressing those who live in the Big Time that they are tripping over themselves.” The haphazard hacker cackled wickedly, as if this were one big practical joke, “It’s the greatest SNAFU you’ve ever heard of! Instant classic! The head security goon has even threatened to press charges if the police try to set foot on the property!”

  “Damn. I thought I killed the head of security.” I commented casually.

  “You wha?!” Buggy groaned, “Man, you’re not going to have to borrow more bribe money will you?”

  “Um, maybe. But that’s not important-”

  “-says the man who borrowed ten grand from me-”

  “-what is important is you finding this crazy bitch that set this whole thing up.” I told Buggy, trying to keep him focused, “This cult has something big planned tonight. Something we need to stop.”

  “Okay. Where do you think they are?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do they have any associates you are aware of?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea if they own local property?”

  “None what so ever.”

  “Have any of them been to Egypt or Stonehenge this past equinox?”

  “I…wait, what?”

  “Well the Star Gulch Clan are extraterrestrials who use underground facilities located underneath Egypt and Brittan to…”

  “Buggy! Focus! No conspiracies! They are in the city or possibly leaving the city. That’s all I know!”

  “Fine! Keep your shirt on!” The hacker said with a dignified sniff as a fury of keystrokes rang out through the phone, accompanied by his heavy breathing.

  This was hopeless. Not even a miracle worker like Buggy could possibly find a body-jumping cult leader who has spent centuries avoiding the law and death itself! It was time to throw in the towel! I was simply asking for too much!

  “They are probably at the Ocean Grocer in the docks.” Buggy informed me over the squeaking of his chair as he leaned back against it, “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Seriously?” I asked dumbly.

  “Yeah, I just ran all the names on those adoption papers. Indirectly, four of those names have been linked to the Ocean Grocer in the past month. One of the adoptive fathers was a Texan business man and his private pilot bought a few sports drinks there and jotted it down as a business expense,” Buggy explained, reading all of this off his computer screen, “The odds of any of these names being linked to this store by chance alone is beyond belief. Oh and Mr. Killington’s personal chauffer used his credit card at the gas station across the street just last night.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I breathed, “The driver was probably pumping gas while the assholes went to get the bodies!”

  “What bodies?” Buggy asked, alarmed.

  “Never mind. You’re sure that this is the place the cult would meet up?”

  “Well let’s see. It’s secluded, located in the Docks and with the numerical probability of four strangers all waiting to adopt a daughter associated with a cult to converge at this one point…” The hacker mused, “I’d say you have a 90% chance of the Daughters being involved. 99% chance when you factor in what I just pulled up. The guy who owns the Hell Scratch club bought the ocean grocer about five months back.”

  “Seems Lorraine really isn’t up with the times.” I muttered, “They didn’t cover their paper trail very well, did they?”

  “I just broke about thirty laws bringing this stuff up.” Buggy boasted, “They covered it but I’m good at digging up real problems, like how the Mole Men are planning-”

  “Um, not to interrupt,” I said, cutting off any momentum the hacker could throw behind another crackpot theory, “But I need you to get a hold of a few people for me. I’m going to call in some favors. Heaven help me, I got an idea. A real good one!”

  West let out a laugh while Kurt checked the clip of his stolen gun. Not even Fiona’s poorly concealed worry could dampen my spirits. I was about to go all-in on the biggest gamble of my life and I had to admit I felt pretty damn good about the odds.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 20

  A quote attributed to Dr. Spriggan.

  “I believe Mr. Arthur Broker might be suffering from a variety of mental disorders.”

  * * * * *

  From Fiona Ambrose’s memoirs: Daughters of All and Nothing

  I’m afraid Mr. Broker might be crazy. It’s unfortunate that I learned this too late.