Dead to Rites

by Ari Marmell

  The rain of fists and feet wasn’t too awful, least at first. I felt every poke, was definitely gonna be sore, but none of ’em were doing me too much damage. The clubs, though—random branches people picked up off the ground or pulled off nearby trees, or brooms wielded by carnie staff—those were adding up. I actually felt blood vessels pop, the bruises spreading through skin. None of ’em had the strength to fully break bone, not my bones, anyway, but a few cracks and fractures crawled their way through an arm here, a leg there. I don’t remember droppin’ to my hands’n knees, but that’s where I ended up. Wasn’t even a flurry of individual blows, now, just a constant force of impacts, one blurring into the next.

  Still it wouldn’t have been too awful. I’d need a day or three, but nothing more’n—

  “Mick!” I heard her over the constant barrage and the mindless screams of animal fury. “Mick, watch out!”

  I actually laughed, which did me no good but got me a shoe in the teeth. She’d set this mob on me, and now she was tryin’ to warn me? And even if something’d gotten outta hand, gone further than she meant, what exactly was I supposed to do about it now?

  And that’s when I learned, one, what Ramona was shoutin’ about; two, that my run of bad luck was still truckin’ right along nicely, thanks; and three, that some bastard in the crowd had come to a friggin’ carnival packin’ something a lot hotter’n a tree branch.

  I only heard the first half of the first shot.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My head hurt.

  Which, y’know, is maybe to be expected after some stupid hormone-addled gink’s put a slug through it. Any human woulda been deader’n driftwood at this point, so a migraine was gettin’ off easy. Didn’t much feel that way, though.

  But it wasn’t just that. There was another pain, felt wrong, not part of the headache at all. Took me a good spell of half-awake pondering over it before I realized I was feelin’ a length of bandage wrapped tight enough around my noggin to slowly change its shape. And ’cause whoever’d giftwrapped me was mortal, and thus hadn’t seen the extra pointy shape of my ears, the bandage was pinching ’em something fierce.

  What else? Strong smell of alcohol—rubbing, not drinking—and some nostril-stinging store-bought salves that weren’t half as effective as the herbs we’d used a few hundred years ago. Cleanser and mothballs, carpeting and some kinda fabric or bedding that somebody’d tried hard to keep neat and clean long past the point where anybody with money woulda replaced ’em. Nice warm blankets, swaddling me up to my chin—probably the source of that scent. The cushions under me were small, squarish; sofa, not bed.

  Ticking clock. Faint musty tang of some old books. Oh, right, and the inexpensive perfume and deep worry radiating from the middle-aged woman sitting over me.

  Huh. Come to think of it, her emotions had a familiar taste to ’em. I knew this dame, though with all the various other distractions, I couldn’t immediately suss out from where.

  Guess it was time to take a look. I ain’t sure which of us was more surprised when my peepers popped open.

  “Martha?”

  Her gasp was almost a choke, and her eyes teared up as I watched.

  “You’re awake! Oh, praise Jesus!”

  Mrs. Martha Ross, a middle-aged black woman, sat beside the sofa dressed in what I’m pretty sure was literally her Sunday best. Sorta blue-green dress and hat, and a string of old, yellowing pearls around her neck. Although come to think, I’d never seen her wearing anything too much sloppier. Not a lotta money to her name, but she had her pride, Martha did.

  She was also a client I’d worked for exactly once, a couple years back, and other’n a few random run-ins that hadn’t lasted more’n a minute or so each, I hadn’t dealt with her much since. So what the hell?

  “What the h—What on earth’re you doin’ here, Martha?”

  Her laugh was, for lack of a better word, boisterous.

  “You don’t even know where ‘here’ is, Mr. Oberon.”

  All right, that was fair. But…

  Let’s get a good slant on the place. I was right about bein’ on a sofa; what I could see of it beneath the threadbare blankets was a neutral brownish shade. Bookcase behind me, couldn’t really see much of what was on it. (If I’d hadda guess, I’da said “books.” I’m sharp that way.) But on the desk across the room was an old, worn Bible, and the wall behind it boasted a simple wooden cross and a framed painting of what you skin color-obsessed bunnies today imagine Jesus looked like.

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb,” I said to her, “and guess I’m in a back office in a church somewhere.”

  “Can’t ever turn off the detective in you, can you?” she asked with a smile.

  “Well, somebody sure tried to.” Then, when her whole face fell, “Sorry, Martha. Gallows humor.”

  “You know you oughta be dead now, right?”

  Yeah, I hear that a lot. But I didn’t say it; figured I’d traumatized the poor woman enough with my first shot at bein’ funny.

  Instead, I said, “Yeah, I sorta got that impression. Who do I thank for stitchin’ me up? You?”

  No mistakin’ her intention as she looked over at the portrait on the wall.

  “Him.”

  “Um…”

  “No other answer, Mr. Oberon. It’s a miracle. You really shoulda been dead.”

  “Well, I’ll… certainly think about that.”

  “You do that.” She stood, paused a moment to squeeze my hand. “You rest up. I’ll go get the others.”

  Alone for a while with nothin’ to do but think, I’d just reached the point of contemplating goin’ back to sleep when the door opened up again. Martha was first through the door, followed by “the others.” One of whom I knew, if only just. I dunno who I was expecting, if anyone, but if I’d hadda make a list, she wouldn’t even have been on it.

  “Tsura?”

  The Greek faux-gypsy—who I almost hadn’t recognized in normal clothes and a more human amount of makeup—seemed almost embarrassed. Or maybe just seriously uncertain.

  The other fellow I didn’t know from Adam. Tall, well over six feet, and though he was pretty scrawny now, broad shoulders suggested he’d been a mountain when he was younger. Had skin darker even than Martha’s, and his beard and receding hair were somewhere between “snow” and “iron.” He wore an ash-gray suit, and while he didn’t have any sorta collar or anything, I recognized a priest when I saw one.

  Sorry, guess “pastor” is the right word here. You guys got way too many denominations to keep track of.

  “Glad to see you up and around, Mr. Oberon,” he boomed. Yeah, guy born with that voice? Pretty much had to become a preacher. Or else maybe a politician, but who’d wish that on anyone?

  “Makes two of us,” I said.

  He smiled, more outta politeness than amusement, and pulled up the chair Martha’d been sitting in.

  “My name is Calvin Hewlett.”

  “Good to meetcha. This is your church, I take it?”

  “I prefer to think it belongs to God and the neighborhood, but I run it.”

  “Well, long as I’m talkin’ to someone in the chain of command.” And hey, there was that non-smile again.

  I’d actually hearda Hewlett, even though I hadn’t recognized him. Guy was bein’ modest. He spoke for a wide neighborhood, not just one house of worship, and he’d made himself heard. Oh, not the sorta changes that were gonna get him into the history books, but a few blocks of the Windy City were better off now than before he got started. He’d even run for alderman once, though he lost bad. Mostly because he wouldn’t take money or backing from the sorta scary people you don’t win without in Chicago.

  “So,” I said, “don’t for one second think I ain’t grateful, but… Someone wanna explain to me what I’m doin’ here?”

  “This young lady phoned me for help.”

  If I’d been any more puzzled, I’da been made of about five hundred pieces with scalloped edges.

  �
��I appreciate the assist, Tsura,” I said, hopin’ she heard the unspoken We’re gonna discuss this later I tacked on there, “but if you were lookin’ for someone to perform last rites, you shoulda called up a Catholic.”

  “I thought almost the same thing,” the old man said while Tsura stammered. “When she first shoved you into the back of the car, I was flabbergasted you were still breathing. I argued for taking you to a hospital, but Ms. Sava insisted that you wouldn’t want the attention—and that the people who’d hurt you would be able to find you too easily.

  “To be frank, Mr. Oberon, if I’d thought there was one chance in a million you’d live, I’d have insisted. But I was quite sure she, and you, were just waiting on the inevitable. It wasn’t until we’d gotten back here and Mrs. Ross insisted on redoing your bandages that I saw your injuries had already begun to improve.”

  “A miracle!” Martha asserted again. And to be fair, it ain’t like she had a better explanation available to her.

  Hewlett didn’t seem so sure.

  “Might be. It’s hard to come up with any other explanation. We haven’t been able to feed you. Your wound shouldn’t have healed at all, let alone with the rudimentary care we can provide. But either way, you were here and clearly improving, so they convinced me to give it more time.

  “You really ought to eat something, though,” he added.

  “You in the habit of takin’ in random stiffs, preacher? Or almost-stiffs?”

  “I very nearly didn’t. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Oberon, I believe our role on this earth is to help others where we can. But this city is brimming with elements I would prefer that I—and certainly my parishioners—avoid where possible. And to put it plainly, without meaning offense, I find that most sorts of people who find themselves shot and then don’t want to seek the help of the proper authorities to fall into those categories.”

  “No offense taken. It’s smart thinkin’.”

  “Indeed. And while Ms. Sava has been quite friendly to the parish children when we’ve visited her carnival, she and I aren’t especially well acquainted. Frankly, the only reason you’re here is that I’d been speaking with a few of my people when Ms. Sava called, and Mrs. Ross overheard your name. She convinced me you were worth helping, that if you were mixed up in something shady, it was as victim, not perpetrator—and I’ve seen enough of my own congregants in that position. For that, of course I would help, if it were accurate.

  “She said you’re a good man. Are you a good man, Mr. Oberon?”

  I scooted my shoulders against the sofa arm until I was sitting upright. Neither Martha nor Tsura seemed real happy with me movin’ around that much, but nobody said anything.

  “That’s a more complicated question than it sounds, uh… Preacher? Reverend? Pastor?”

  “Preacher Hewlett will do fine. Or just ‘Preacher.’ And yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Heh. All right, Preacher. I dunno if I’m a good man. Frankly, I dunno if I trust anyone who can easily answer that question. Let’s say I been trying my hardest to do what seems the right thing at the time.”

  For eleven seconds—I can say that exactly, ’cause of the clock tickin’—he chewed that one over.

  Then, “I believe you.” He rose, the chair scraping softly over old carpet. “I don’t know precisely what you are caught up in, Mr. Oberon. And I don’t know how you’re recovering so quickly, or at all. Perhaps it is a miracle, at that, or maybe it’s something else. I wouldn’t presume to say. But you’re welcome to the sofa, and I won’t tell anyone that you’ve been here.

  “Come, Mrs. Ross. I believe Mr. Oberon and Ms. Sava have their own conversation ahead of them.”

  Martha smiled, turned to follow him, and they’d both reached the door when I said, “Preacher, thanks. I owe you one.”

  This time his smile felt a lot more genuine.

  “You didn’t ask for my help, so I’m going to let you take that back if you want.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I have a lot of people who depend on me, Mr. Oberon. If you insist that you owe me, I will take you up on it someday.”

  “I’ll consider myself warned. But I pay my debts.”

  Oh, if you only knew how important that was, and why…

  He watched me a few more seconds (five, if you care), nodded and left. Martha pulled the door to behind her on her way out, but I noticed she left a gap of a couple inches.

  Well, they were good church-goin’ folk, and Tsura was a young unmarried dame… I hadda swallow the laugh, hard. They meant well, and I had more important topics to talk about. Besides, hysterics’d probably hurt right now, anyway.

  “All right, sister. Spill.”

  Tsura took the chair with a sight and a tight smile.

  “Where am I starting?”

  “How long I been snoozing?”

  “Um…” She glanced at the clock. “Day and a half? A little longer.”

  Fuck. Then again, considerin’ the slug’d passed through my skull, I was damn lucky it’d only been that long. If it’d gone through the center, rather than just clippin’ the side the way it did, it probably woulda been three or four times that before I woke up. Guess even my current luck couldn’t be awful all the time.

  I know nobody makes bullets outta iron, but I still couldn’t help shuddering just thinkin’ about it. I’da been dead, pure and simple. And for good. I ain’t come that close in a while.

  To say nothin’ of the people in the crowd I coulda hurt, bad, if I’d had time to get desperate enough.

  Ramona. Damn, but that broad had a few things to answer for.

  “I’m sorry if this is awkward for you.” I guess Tsura decided not to wait for me to prod her with another startin’ point. “I’ve met Preacher Hewlett a few times. He’s brought some of the church kids to the carnival the last two or three times we’ve been in Chicago. He knows my fortune-telling’s all in good fun, and the children seem to enjoy it…”

  Yeah, he’d basically just told me alla that. In fewer words. But I swallowed my impatient interruption to go keep that laugh company, and let her finish.

  “Anyway, I… It’s not exactly the basis for a deep friendship or anything, but I don’t actually know a lot of people in the city, and most of the others I do know aren’t in any kinda position to help, so…” She shrugged, scuffed her feet in the carpet, and seemed real nervous about meetin’ my gaze.

  A lot younger, I realized, than she’d looked in her performance getup. Figure maybe mid-twenties. Somethin’ about her, though… Somethin’ inside of her was a lot older than her flesh and blood.

  “That why you took the run-out soon as I told you my name? To go call Hewlett?”

  “Well, and gather some bandages. And some of the staff to help get you out to the parking lot.”

  I snorted. “Carryin’ stiffs just part of the job for most of you, then?”

  “Winston—that is, Mr. Rounser, the owner? He doesn’t exactly want a lot of police attention. Traveling outfit like ours, we’re not always too careful about who we hire or making sure all the permits are in order, you get me? I hid the worst of your injuries, told him you were only hurt—which wasn’t even really a lie, when you get down to it—and he was just happy to have you off his hands. And property.”

  “Thanks. Funny thing about your story, though? You got the chapters outta order.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, while her tone, her lowered expression, the faint flush in her cheeks all screamed at me that she knew damn well what I meant.

  “Well, let’s see. You knew I wouldn’t want any kinda official noses poking into my business, even though I never told you any such thing. But all right, I’ll give you that one free; it ain’t too hard to guess, in this town.

  “You knew I wasn’t normal, though, and that’s a lot harder to just suss out. Ain’t any reason you shoulda called to me in the first place, or known a shot to the conk like the one I took wasn’t gonna kill me.

  “Bu
t here’s the rub, doll. You ran to call for help before I got hurt. Before anybody had reason to expect me to get hurt.”

  Tsura was fidgeting again, enough to make the chair squeak beneath her.

  “The ‘gypsy’ part of ‘gypsy fortune-teller’ is the only part that’s bunk, ain’t it?”

  Chair stopped squeaking. “You’re ready to believe that? So easily?”

  “You sound incredulous.”

  Not sure if the sound she made was a laugh or more of a bark, but it was bitter.

  “I haven’t had much luck telling people the truth in the past. I haven’t bothered in years.”

  “Yeah, well, how many of the mugs you told just got done healing overnight from being plugged in the noggin?”

  “There’s that,” Tsura conceded. Then, “I don’t… tell fortunes, exactly. I get, well, flashes. Feelings. Sometimes actual images, but they’re always short or vague. Broken. Premonitions but not what you’d call full-on visions. It’s sort of like remembering pieces of a dream. I don’t always know what I’m seeing, or even why I’m doing what I’m doing, but it’s never wrong.”

  Huh. Sounded like the sorta Fae hunches I get, but taken up about ten notches.

  “You got any kinda control over it?”

  “A little. If I really focus on something, I can sometimes bring on a premonition about it. But it’s not what I’d call reliable.”

  So where’d this come from? She was human, not Fae; I’da sworn to that. If she was being square with me, and her words tasted of truth, this wasn’t comin’ from any sorta witchcraft or occult practice. I…

  Wait a minute. She was Greek. That couldn’t… What where the odds of…?

  “You’re an oracle?”

  “Momma told me over’n over, while I was growing up, that we were descended directly from the very last Pythia. Uh, that is, Apollo’s priestess at Delphi.”

  I knew what “Pythia” meant, but I let her talk.

  “I was all proud of that, as a child,” she continued, “until I got old enough to read the myths and realize what a heap of horsefeathers the whole idea was. I was a bit of a brat to her about it for a while after that, honestly.”