A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

  I proceed down the narrow hall that leads me to a powered-off escalator then stop. Perched on the rubber handrail is an owl. Two black eyes, set against a white heart-shaped face, stare intently at me. I recognize it as a species of barn owl, but it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen before. It’s massive, with gray—almost silver—feathers wrapped across its body. The library has its share of birds wandering inside. One might spy a crow or pigeon or the occasional small wren. But this is the first time I have ever seen an owl.

  The raptor cocks its head, appraising me. Then it spreads its broad wings and launches, flying up the escalator path to the next floor. I step onto the first step of the escalator and peer up. The owl disappears around a corner.

  Something is not right. Slowly, I climb the static escalator steps to the second floor. No sign of the owl.

  I stand in the original part of the building with a pyramid on its roof, symbolic statues of enlightenment standing guard within, and cryptic messages in ancient languages carved into its stone walls. In 1986, two mysterious fires decimated the structure, which led to a major renovation that included the expansion of a modern structure—a cavernous atrium that doubled the footprint of the building.

  I turn, walk toward the newer structure, and emerge from a hall to the overlook that provides a bird's-eye view of the atrium. From my vantage point, I can see the six stories below. Each floor is staggered before me like a giant step, descending to four floors beneath street level. Directly across from me are a series of colorful art installations hanging from the red-orange girders that frame the atrium’s ceiling.

  With the lights off, the only illumination comes through the glass ceiling from the soft glow of the skyscrapers that loom above the library. I turn away from the atrium and proceed down the hall. It’s dark, with only the light from the atrium behind me and the rotunda before me. My boots continue to echo on the marble flooring as I approach my destination.

  I am horrified and heartbroken by what I see. Lupe lies in the middle of the room. Her body is splayed across the marble floor, her lifeless eyes staring in my direction. And blood is everywhere.

  Despite my initial caution, I instinctively hurry to her side and slide to my knees down beside her. Tears well up in my eyes, and I brush them away with my sleeve. Lupe Navarro, whose spirit made her seem larger than life, now looks so small and cold. I restrain myself from touching her—from checking if, by some miracle, she’s alive. I have enough sense to know not to disturb a crime scene.

  The gaping wound in her chest suggests how she died. At first, I think it’s a gunshot wound. Then I realize it’s far, far worse. Her sternum is broken through, and where her heart should be is an empty bloody hole.

  My head whips around the room, searching for a perpetrator or someone who means me harm. When I hear the flapping of wings over my head, I look up. The owl circles above, looping around the enormous chandelier that hangs above the rotunda. A circle of forty-eight glass bulbs surround an interior ring of zodiac symbols cast in bronze. In the center is a blue glass sculpture of planet Earth that glows from within.

  I stand up, keeping my eyes on the owl. It seems like it guided me here on purpose. I wonder if it’s trying to warn me or show me something—some clue on the faded mosaic of the ceiling tile. Or…

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The sound of fabric dragging across the floor behind warns me of the incoming attack. The owl was a distraction. I jump forward, roll, and come to my feet to meet my assailant.

  Before me stands a haunting specter. A woman’s pale face stares back at me. Except it’s not just a pale face. Black shadows sit where eyes should be, and it’s skeletal, as if the flesh and blood have been drained, making it look like a mask shrink-wrapped over a skull. Ornate black tattoos dot the skin in a design that is all too familiar. She wears the dark-blue-and-red robes of her spirit.

  This is Santa Muerte.

  Her clawlike hand reaches for my chest. Instinctively, I reach out and grab her arm. The moment we make contact, a flash of heat erupts between us. The pain forces us both to recoil. I stumble backward and inspect my hands. My palms are red from where I touched her skin.

  She looks at me, confused. I am not what she was expecting. Slowly, she floats clockwise around me, the hem of her robes trailing on the ground. Sharp nails extend from her hands. Lupe’s blood drips from the same hand she used to attack me.

  I back away, not sure how to handle her—or how to handle it. What is this thing? I’ve lived with demons, and I’ve seen ghosts, but I have never seen anything like this before. Never have I been faced with something so… monstrous.

  She continues to circle me. The hem of her robes drags across the floor as if she has no feet. Her mere presence gives me chills, like the ghosts I’ve seen.

  This thing is no ghost, though. She’s a corporeal entity, real and tactile. I made contact with her—with it. And it hurt. Why? I’ve felt this burning before, when the bare hands of a religious figure were laid on me, which means the pain exists because I have a demon inside me and she is a saint.

  An evil saint. And judging by the angry expression on her face, she intends to do to me what she did to Lupe. Santa Muerte stops then floats counterclockwise. I keep my distance, thinking that if she keeps this up, I can escape down a hall. Hopefully, I can run faster than she can float.

  She springs forward with impossible speed, and I realize there’s no escaping her. Again, her clawed hands shoot for my chest. I grab hold with both hands. The pain is excruciating, but I don’t let go.

  I fall backward, and Santa Muerte is on top of me. My hands burn as they grip her arms, and I can tell by the anguish on her face that she feels the same agony. She pushes her weight on top of me. She’s impossibly strong. Supernaturally strong.

  Then I push back with a strength that’s not my own. Dudley is coming.

  The black sockets where her eyes should be widen in recognition of the power emanating from me. Her skull-like grin lunges toward me. The gravity of her weight pushes hard against me with a strength I can barely resist.

  Her sharp bloody claw continues reaching forward—toward my beating heart. I cry out to push her away. Her grimacing teeth inch closer. Her eyes stare straight into mine as her face nears.

  I fear she’s going to bite into my face at any moment. Her mouth opens slightly. She looks like she’s smiling. Then a hollow voice whispers four little words:

  “I know your name.”

  A chill sweeps through my body. Those words weren’t for me. They were for Dudley.

  The owl swoops down just above us, delivering a screech cry. It flaps its wings and disappears down the hall. Santa Muerte jerks suddenly.

  “No!” she cries.

  I’m confused, but when her body tugs again, I realize what is happening. She slips off me as if pulled by an invisible force. Her hands scrape on the marble tile, trying to get back to me. She snarls, trying desperately to claw at me. Then, with a final jerk, she’s pulled into the hall and dragged headfirst.

  Instinctively, I lunge for her. She knows my demon’s name, and I’m not letting go of her that easily. My hand grasps at the hem of her robe, and as she moves, I go with her. I use both hands to hold her robe as we slide through hallway. She tries to swipe me away with her claws, but in her straightened position, she can’t reach.

  The atrium looms up ahead. The only thing between us and a seven-story fall is a sheet of tempered glass with a steel top rail. Shit.

  I contort my body and dig the heels of my boots into the ground. I try to gain traction, but it’s not working. As we near the glass, Santa Muerte rises off the ground to clear the rail. The owl flaps its wings as it maneuvers past the hanging art installation. The bird is pulling her—guiding her.

  Santa Muerte flies over the rail. My boots slam into the glass, and I literally pray it doesn’t shatter. My body crumples against the divider, and a spiderweb of fractures spreads across the pane, but it holds. T
he inertia of her flying body rips her from my grasp.

  “No!” I yell.

  I watch as Santa Muerte sails across the open expanse of the atrium. She doesn’t fall—she glides along an invisible horizontal trajectory. The owl circles back toward me, but Santa Muerte keeps sailing to the far wall. She crashes through a window and disappears into the night. Broken glass rains to the ground eighty feet below.

  The owl continues its dive toward me, and just when I think it’s going to attack, it swerves. With a final screech, it flies back across the expanse of the library and escapes through the broken window. Only now do I notice red-and-blue flashing lights bleeding through the glass and into the atrium. The police. If they’re not already inside, they will be in moments.

  That’s why Santa Muerte was pulled away. I dig into my pocket and pull out a pill box—Xanax. Shit. Lupe’s blood is on my hands. I chomp down on a handful of pills—maybe too many, but with the police just moments away, I can’t risk Dudley rampaging through the library.

  “Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame,

  “Wake up the echoes, cheering her name.”

  I’m hoping my singing will keep Dudley at bay. I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Paige: SOS. Library. Now!

  I keep singing.

  “Send a volley cheer on high,

  “Shake down the thunder from the sky!”

  So far so good—no Dudley.

  Voices shout from downstairs. I can hear them sweeping the area. I close my eyes and do my best to remain calm. Sometimes I can keep my cool and suppress the demon. I hope this is one of those times.

  Footsteps charge up the escalators. Flashlight beams sweep across the ceiling as they get closer. I look at my smartwatch. My heart rate is at one hundred eighty beats per minute.

  One eighty-six. One eighty-seven…

  I stay still and take deep breaths. I think happy thoughts and go to my happy place. I think of kittens and ice cream sundaes and a warm fireplace and…

  One eighty-eight. One eighty-nine…

  The voices are near the top of the escalator. My body goes limp. The Xanax is already slipping into my bloodstream. My mouth feels numb. There’s nothing else I can do. I glance down at my watch.

  One eighty-nine BPM, hanging steady.

  One eighty-eight.

  One eighty-five…

  Bright lights blind me as barrage of boot steps approach. “Freeze!” a voice shouts from behind the flashlights. “Hands in the air.”

  My hands slowly rise. I’m serene. I’m tranquil. I’m tranquilized. Dudley isn’t coming.

  Chapter 10

  ____◊____

  IT’S RAINING. A LOS ANGELES Police Department base camp is set up on Fifth Street, with pop-up canopies clustered together to shield the officers and stations from the weather. There’s even a tent over my Mini, where technicians in white Tyvek coveralls scramble to recover any possible evidence.

  Handcuffed, I sit on the rear bumper of an ambulance while a paramedic checks me for injuries. When he’s done, a forensics technician collects samples from my fingers, nails, skin, hair, and clothes. Those samples include Lupe’s blood. I am officially suspect number one.

  Down the street, a barricade blocks satellite news vans from getting near the library as they prepare for the eleven-o’clock news cycle. Paige arrives, drenched from the rain, and is allowed to wait with me at the ambulance while two uniformed officers hover above us. I’m not sure how Paige made it past the barricade—whether it was through her good looks, sheer persistence, or a criminal lie—but I’m glad she’s here.

  She stays by my side even once the technician is done, but we don’t dare discuss what has transpired tonight. Not with the officers around. In the silence, my mind races with all the new information.

  Santa Muerte is real.

  Santa Muerte murdered Lupe.

  Santa Muerte knows my demon’s name.

  This changes everything. My search for Elizabeth has led me down a path I didn’t expect—a path that may finally rid me of this demon. I need to figure out why Elizabeth was taken so I can find her. If I find her, I find Santa Muerte. Then I need to force Santa Muerte to give up the name. I have no idea how I’m going to do any of those things.

  An older uniformed police officer hurries from the library and comes toward me, ducking under the canopy. “Ms. Caine? I’m Sergeant Ortiz. The detectives would like to speak to you now.”

  It’s time. I stand, and Paige rises with me. The officer holds up his hand to Paige. “Just Ms. Caine.”

  I give Paige a reassuring nod. “It’s okay.”

  Still handcuffed, I follow Sergeant Ortiz into the rain. I shrug and keep my head down as we jog into the library. The cold rain pelts me.

  The moment the officer and I step inside, we come across a flurry of activity at the security desk. A forensics photographer is taking photos of the ground behind it. I never checked behind the desk when I walked in earlier that evening. That was a foolish move on my part. I knew it was strange that there was no security there. I should have investigated.

  I stop and turn to Sergeant Ortiz. Rainwater drips from my damp hair onto my face. “Was it Terrell?”

  He exchanges a look with another officer standing by the crime scene, who shakes his head. I’m hit with two feelings back-to-back. The first is relief that it wasn’t Terrell. The second is guilt because of my relief. As awful as the feeling might be, I’m glad the body isn’t my friend’s.

  “Miss?”

  I look up to see Sergeant Ortiz waiting. I’m not sure how long I have been staring at the scene near the security desk. “There may be another one.” The words come suddenly from my mouth as if spoken by their own volition. When I realize everyone is staring, I shake myself out of my trance. “There are usually two guards working at night. Someone else must be around somewhere.”

  One plainclothes detective starts barking orders to spread out and search. Officers rush out, talking into radios and heading in different directions. Sergeant Ortiz gestures for me to keep moving.

  It takes considerable effort to pull myself away and follow him to the escalator. This is where I first saw the owl. What was its role? Was it Santa Muerte’s pet or some familiar spirit? It must have been down here, keeping watch, while Santa Muerte…

  Sergeant Ortiz and I climb to the second floor. The cuffs make it difficult to hold the handrail, so I move slowly up the steps. The rotunda is filled with technicians, uniformed officers, and plainclothes detectives. Work lights are set up, shining on the body of Lupe, which, fortunately, is now covered by a sheet.

  Ortiz stands by my side and waves for someone’s attention. “Detective! She’s here.”

  From the group of investigators emerges the detective. He’s younger than most everyone here but passes through the scrum with the confidence of someone with authority. His brown suit has lost its form as if it’s the only one in his wardrobe and has been worn too much. He lets it hang on his lean frame in the same casual way that one wears pajamas. An ugly blue tie dangles from his unbuttoned collar.

  Once he reaches us, he proceeds to ignore me, looking around the room. His fingers run through his tousled hair, doing little to improve his disheveled look. When he finally turns to me, he eyes the cuffs on my wrists.

  “Take those off,” he orders.

  Ortiz removes the cuffs without questioning.

  “I’ve got it from here,” the detective says.

  Ortiz collects the handcuffs and walks away. The detective looks around the room. At the moment, no one is close by and within earshot.

  Finally, he turns to me. He’s tall, so I have to tilt my chin up to meet his face. It’s a good face, rough and handsome. He doesn’t even flinch when he looks at my yellow eyes. With my wrists free, I wrap my arms over my chest. I’m shivering from the cold and the situation.

  The detective asks, “Do you need a blanket?”

  I shake my head. M
ore water drips down my face, and I self-consciously wipe it away.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, checking me over. His voice is deep, with the remnants of a New York accent.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Cops treated you okay?” He sounds genuinely concerned.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You know I have to yell at you now, right?”

  “I’m ready.”

  In an instant, his tone changes from concerned to severe. “What the hell happened here, Darcy?”

  Detective David Resnick and I have known each other a long time. Being a private investigator, I have crossed paths with him more than a couple of times. Some of my cases had to do with crimes committed in his bureau. He used to work in Gangs and Narcotics in Hollywood, and one of my first cases had to do with a drug dealer named Rollo who was selling cocaine to child actors on a studio lot. Luckily for me, I’m immature enough to pass for a sixteen-year-old and was able to help David nab him in a sting. That bust made him a high-profile star in the LAPD and provided him the path to move up to Robbery-Homicide. Since then, he’s been my go-to for inside police information.

  A few months ago, he moved to the Central Bureau, which puts the library in his jurisdiction and makes him the detective on scene tonight. At the moment, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing for me.

  “Didn’t you get my statement from the first officers on the scene?” I ask.

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  No, he wants to catch me in a lie. He stares down at me, and there isn’t a hint of friendliness in his eyes. Tonight, he means business.

  “I came in late to set up for an exhibit tomorrow,” I say. “No one was at security. I came up here and found Lupe. Then the police arrived.” The fewer details I offer, the better.

  “That’s all you’re gonna give me? You’re a better storyteller than that.”

  “You want a story or the truth?”