Descending Son

by Scott Shepherd

  Either Tracy had been living somewhere else for a good part of the past few months or she had crammed what she could into a suitcase he couldn’t find and took off for who-knew-where.

  He saved the desk for last. Already deeply troubled, Jess clicked on Tracy’s computer to see if he could get a clue as to her whereabouts. Her email came up and he anxiously tried to scroll through it, but quickly realized it had been wiped completely clean. He hit the History bar and was rewarded with the same result. Absolutely nothing. He was left wondering if Tracy had done this—or had someone done it for her.

  He didn’t know which option bothered him more.

  Jess was about to leave the room when he noticed the small pile of books at the edge of the bright white desk blotter. They were of no particular interest to him: a dictionary, a book of quotes, and a thesaurus. All were worn and dog-eared from the constant use Tracy must have given them in high school and beyond.

  What caught his eye was the picture sticking out between them. Most likely the housekeeper had straightened up what was on the desk and had put it there to make sure it didn’t end up in the trash or on the floor.

  It was the photograph Tracy had shown him of Clark James and the writer standing in front of the church down in Mexico.

  The last time Jess had seen it was in Tracy’s hand right before he got knocked out in her backyard.

  He flipped it over and saw something had been scribbled on the back. Even after all these years, he recognized Tracy’s precise handwriting.

  One word.

  Civatateo.

  Two things bothered Jess. First, he had no idea what the hell the word meant.

  And second, he was damn sure it hadn’t been there the night before.

  4

  Jess made it to the electronics store just as the teenage clerk was turning the lower locks on the sliding door. He pounded on the panel but the kid ignored him, even though they were only separated by a six-inch pane of glass. He pulled out his wallet, flashed a credit card, and promised it would be the quickest sale he ever made—five minutes tops. The teen relented and Jess made good on his promise by taking the first phone he was shown. Rather than explain the watery grave where his phone now resided, Jess said he had lost it. The kid “tsk-tsked” and said that increased the cost two-fold and he’d need a new number.

  The moment he got back in the SUV, Jess used his new purchase to dial the mortuary. An operator immediately answered—people weren’t always kind enough to die during normal business hours—and asked how she could help him. When she realized Jess was inquiring about the status of his father’s cremation, the operator asked him to call back the next morning.

  “The funeral director gets in around seven,” the operator sing-songed.

  “I’m afraid it can’t wait till then.”

  He explained that he was Walter Stark’s son. His father’s hospitals sent a lot of business their way, and he wondered if perhaps she could make an exception. She apologized but stuck to company policy. The next thing he knew, Jess was telling her unless someone met him at the mortuary within the hour, his family would call a different company when they needed their dead picked up and it would cost the operator her job. He had to hand it to the woman; she didn’t lose one iota of cool when she asked if he could hang on.

  While he waited, Jess stared out at the mini-mall. Beside the electronics place, there was an all-night convenience mart, a coin laundry, and a souvenir store with “I LUV PS” emblazoned on every single object in the window. It was a far cry from the sandy roads and local hangouts his parents traversed when they first moved to the desert decades ago.

  Back on the line five minutes later, the operator said, “Mr. Talbot will meet you at the mortuary in half an hour, Mr. Stark,” in the same melodious tone.

  Jess thanked her profusely and hung up. As he drove off, he felt ashamed for using his family’s name to get what he wanted. It made him appreciate the power his father wielded over the desert community and used to every advantage. But he knew Walter would have hated him using the Stark name that way, considering how Jess had spent most of his life trying to disavow himself of it. He was sure his father would be rolling over in his grave at the thought—if he hadn’t already been wandering out of it.

  That last part didn’t make Jess feel any better.

  Talbot’s first name was Larry, which Jess found oddly macabre, seeing as how it was Lon Chaney Jr.’s name in The Wolf Man. Jess was pretty sure he wouldn’t be the first to mention it, but seeing as how he had hauled the man out of bed, he figured it wasn’t a good time to bring it up. Talbot didn’t resemble the hairy beast or a matinee idol; he was what you expected from Central Casting when you wanted a funeral director. He hovered around fifty, looked good in black, had a monotone voice, and was extremely pale from spending too much time in dark rooms. After Jess identified himself as Walter Stark’s son, Talbot had him wait in the Serenity Suite, just off the main entryway to the Desert Funeral Home and Mortuary. The décor was muted oranges and yellows, validating the room’s moniker. There was nothing dour or funereal here—the only two things separating it from a receiving room at a country club were a casket selection book on the table and an inordinate number of strategically placed Kleenex boxes.

  Talbot returned holding a cardboard box and placed it in front of Jess.

  “Sorry. It was a little crazy here today. We were going to deliver this to the family earlier but we encountered some employee issues. I planned to personally take this over to your mother tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  Jess began to peel open the box, which gave Talbot pause. “I assure you everything is in proper order.”

  “Doesn’t hurt to double-check.” Jess removed a simple gold urn so polished a person could see their reflection from across the room. He tipped open the lid and peered in to see a gray pile of ashes. “No way of knowing for sure, right?”

  Talbot reacted like Jess had just eaten his young. “Almost thirty years in this business and another thirty before that for my father guarantees our work, sir.”

  Jess closed the lid and held up a hand. “I didn’t mean to offend, Mr. Talbot. I was just pointing out that unless you did the process yourself…”

  “That would have been Mr. Gideon,” interrupted Talbot.

  “Well, perhaps I could check with him?”

  Talbot went silent. Jess could see the man was torn. Clearly troubled by the semi-accusations Jess was making, Talbot was also fully aware of how much business the Stark family had thrown his way. The funeral director choked down a cough as if that would hide what he said next.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Mr. Stark.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The personnel problem I mentioned earlier? That would be Mr. Gideon, who runs the crematorium. He didn’t show up to work this morning.”

  That sent up a warning flag for Jess. “Perhaps we can try him at home?”

  “He isn’t there. I’ve tried calling all day, but haven’t been able to get in touch with him. I even sent my assistant to his place late this afternoon and she got the manager to let her into his apartment. Apparently Mr. Gideon hadn’t spent the night there.”

  The flag was now flapping back and forth. “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I’m hoping he got called out of town unexpectedly. It’s not like Mr. Gideon to just leave without notifying us. I don’t mind telling you it’s left us in quite a spot.”

  “But he did the intake and cremation on my father?”

  “He’s the only certified person here. Who else would do it?”

  Jess had an answer but didn’t offer it up. He was pretty sure Larry Talbot would think he was completely insane.

  “What do you mean those aren’t your father’s ashes?”

  Benji and Jess were sitting in the office at the Sands. Candles and a flashlight illuminated the room. The power had been out for a few hours—not a rare occurrence
when the Santa Ana winds kicked up. Benji told Jess it was one of the drawbacks from being on the outskirts of town; they were first to lose electricity, cable, and Internet, and the last to get it back. Benji had trained the flashlight on the urn Jess brought back from the mortuary.

  Jess laid out his theory. Going with the supposition that Walter had come back from the dead, he must have risen from somewhere. Talbot told Jess he’d actually seen his father’s “dead” body before he left the previous night, just before Jess was almost a breakfast snack for Walter in the desert. But when the mortician came in the following morning, “Walter’s ashes” had been placed neatly in the urn. Couple that with Mr. Gideon not turning up for work—it added up to a horrific switcheroo.

  “You think your father ‘rose’ right before this guy Gideon was going to stick him in the hot box?”

  “If he’s become—what I think…”

  “A vampire.”

  “You say that so matter-of-factly.”

  “Hey, I’ve been waiting since I was a kid for someone to come along and make a case for one. You’re doing a damn good job of it.”

  Jess nodded, uncomfortable. Benji lifted the lid of the urn to stare at its contents. “I suppose there’s some test you could run to identify this stuff?”

  “I’ve no idea. Even if you could, think of trying to explain it.”

  “Good point.” Benji closed the lid. “Still, seems a lot for one man to do—even an un-human one. I’ll buy his first instinct would be to kill Gideon out of bloodlust, but the whole cremation thing? How would your father know what to do?”

  “He must have had some help.”

  Benji realized Jess had already considered this—and he reached the same conclusion. “Dr. Rice?”

  “Makes sense. Rice told me he’d been in contact with the mortuary. According to Tom Cox’s records there were a couple of dozen deaths at Meadowland in the past year or so. I’d be interested in how many were cremated versus buried.”

  “Or which ones Rice had his fingers in.”

  “Exactly,” said Jess.

  Benji inched the urn away as if at any moment it might jump up and bite his hand. “I presume going to the cops is out?”

  “Unless I want to get locked up in a psych ward and start regular rounds of electroshock therapy.” Jess shook his head. “I’d like to know what happened to Tracy.”

  “You could’ve told me you were going to check her place out.”

  “No reason to risk you doing something illegal.”

  “Appreciate that. But I’m in pretty deep already.”

  Jess picked up the picture he had taken off Tracy’s desk and flipped it over. He mouthed the written word. “Ci-va-ta-teo. Any idea?”

  “My Spanish is rusty. What do you think?”

  “That as soon as the power comes back on, I’m hitting the Internet.”

  “Wikipedia is awesome, man.”

  “At least I’m not as worried she’s buried in a hole somewhere. If she was grabbed when I was, there’s no way this picture would have ended up back in her room.”

  “You think she just split?”

  “There were hardly any clothes in her room. No luggage either. It seems like she packed up and headed off somewhere.”

  “Back to LA?”

  “I don’t think so. I called the house in town. The housekeeper said Miss Tracy was down in the desert and that I should try and reach her there.” Jess placed the picture on the table and continued staring at the scribbled word. “I’m thinking she saw what happened to me, got scared to death, and ran off.”

  “Why didn’t she tell anyone what happened to you? Or at least call the cops before she left?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  The wind kicked up hard enough for the building to actually shake.

  “And what did you come up with?”

  “I don’t think she knew who to trust.”

  Benji accompanied Jess across the dirt parking lot; they had to shield their eyes from the billowing sand. Luckily the moon was almost full, so the wind-induced blackout hadn’t thrown the Sands into complete darkness.

  “You don’t have to walk me back to my room.”

  “I don’t mind. Sort of get creeped out sitting in my office in the dark.” Benji dug something out of his pocket. “Besides, never know who you might run into out here.”

  Jess stopped as the moonlight glinted off the silver object in Benji’s hand. “That’s not what I think it is.”

  Benji offered the tiny crucifix to Jess. “What’s the harm?”

  “I thought you were a lapsed Catholic.”

  “I am. Had this for years. Ordered it from a monster magazine back in college. You know us geeks—we never throw anything out.”

  “You expect that to protect me from my father?”

  “If he is what you think he is. Like we talked about, who knows where this shit started. Crucifixes. Garlic. Avoiding sunlight. No reflections in the mirror. Having to be invited before stepping inside a room? It didn’t start with Dracula. There was Vlad the Impaler centuries before, which is also steeped in lore and superstition.”

  “Superstition. Precisely.” Jess started heading toward his room again.

  “You’re the one who he tried to take a bite out of. Not me.”

  This slowed Jess’s step enough for Benji to catch up.

  “I’m just saying it couldn’t hurt,” said Benji, with the sincerity that could only come from an old friend.

  “Maybe you oughta keep it for yourself.”

  “I’ve got another. It was a two-for-one sale.”

  Jess laughed and took the crucifix. “I’m not wearing it around my neck.”

  “There’s no hard and fast rule you need to do that,” Benji said. “But I wouldn’t keep it out of reach.”

  Jess stuck it in his pocket as they walked past a grizzled trucker, who was using a tiny flashlight to walk a mangy dog while searching for the ice machine.

  “Complimentary flashlight comes in handy, doesn’t it?” Benji called out.

  “Be better if you had a fucking working generator,” replied the trucker.

  Benji gave the man his best eat-shit-the-owner-is-always-right smile. “Make sure you pick up your dog’s crap, otherwise I’ll double charge you.”

  The trucker grumbled as he shuffled off into the dark.

  “It’s a wonder your business isn’t booming,” said Jess.

  The loud bang woke him up. Jess looked to see what time it was but the power was still out, so the clock radio wasn’t working. He fumbled for his cell phone and found it on the nightstand. When he clicked the LED switch, he saw it was just past three in the morning.

  That was when he heard his name being called.

  At first he thought it was the wind playing tricks on his ears. But then the gust died down and he heard the voice again.

  “Jess.”

  He started to get out of bed as Walter loomed up over him.

  His father swiped at him with sharp-nailed fingers, narrowly missing Jess, who backed himself up against the headboard. The Walter-thing advanced on him, opened his mouth and the pointed teeth emerged.

  Jess screamed.

  And then bolted back up in bed.

  All alone.

  Jess had barely caught his breath from the nightmare when he heard his father calling him again.

  “Jess.”

  This time the voice was accompanied by a scratching at the door. Jess didn’t need to pinch himself to check if he was still dreaming—he’d already had the living shit scared out of him and had never been more awake in his life.

  The power was definitely still out. Jess bypassed his watch this time and grabbed the crucifix. He climbed out of bed and advanced toward the door with the metal cross held in front of him.

  “Go away.”

  He slowed down as he neared the door, the scratching louder.

  “Jess. Let me in.”

  There was something so alluring and
plaintive about his father’s voice, which made Jess want to throw open the door. Even though part of his brain knew that certain death waited outside, his father’s plea was so intoxicating Jess had to stomp down the instinct with every ounce of willpower he had.

  He shook as he yelled, “Go away, Dad!”

  The desert air was suddenly filled with the sounds of wild things in the night. It was as if a wolf had gotten loose in a zoo and all the animals were up on their haunches, defending their territory. Jess could hear the trucker’s mangy dog barking and growling like it had been rabid for a month.

  Tears started streaming down Jess’s face as he dropped to the floor and pled through the door. “Please, Dad. Just go back.” He let the crucifix drop into his lap. “Go back to wherever you came from.”

  The animal’s screeches and cries died down enough for Jess to hear Walter on the other side of the door.

  “You should leave, son. While you still can.”

  Walter’s voice faded away. The dog began barking violently again. Then Jess heard a loud whimpering that was immediately drowned out by the squeals of the desert dwellers. He remained huddled against the door, exhausted and drained to the bone.

  A few hours later, when dawn mercifully broke, Jess was still there. Even in the safety of daylight, he couldn’t find a way to go back to sleep.

  He wasn’t sure he ever would again.

  When Jess finally emerged, he came across the trucker, who asked if Jess had seen his dog. The man was holding the dog’s collar in his hand.

  It was broken in half.

  Jess shook his head. He didn’t have the heart to tell the man he should consider himself lucky.

  But, a few minutes later, he laid it all out for Benji in the office. The early morning visitation; the likely fate of the trucker’s pooch; the works. It was enough for Benji to lose his appetite. He put a raspberry Pop Tart back in the box.

  “Either this is really happening or you’re going a helluva long way to make your point,” said Benji.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary anymore.”