The Equinox

by M J Preston

“Let’s start with two hundred,” Scott said and placed a stack on the table.

  Her smile slipped away then as she looked to the stack then back at Scott. “Is this a joke?”

  “What are you talking about?” Scott asked, then looked at his money. “I’d like two hundred in chips, please. Ten progressives, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well that won’t be a problem, sir, but I’ll need to see some money first.” She motioned the pit boss. A well-dressed guy with red hair made his way over.

  “What the hell do you think this is?” Scott said and pushed the stack forward.

  The older gentleman on his left said, “Mister, the pit boss is coming. Quit jacking around.”

  “Huh?” Scott’s face twisted in confusion.

  “Is there a problem here, sir?” the pit boss asked.

  “What the hell is everyone’s problem? I’d like a couple hundred bucks in chips, is that so hard?” He looked down at the stack of money. Its edges blurred.

  “Sir, if you aren’t going to play I’m going to have to ask you to vacate your seat.” The pit boss spoke very slow and calm, but he meant business.

  Everyone was looking now, even from the other tables.

  “Look, I don’t get what this issue is. I’ve played here hundreds of times. Why the fuck is everyone acting so goddamned crazy?” Scott was raising his voice now, becoming shrill.

  “Sir, I am going to have to ask you to vacate your seat,” the pit boss said, and that is when Scott stepped over the line.

  “Look, Cock Jaws, all I wanted were some fucking chips so I could play a bit of poker!” He pushed to his feet, snatched up the stack of notes, turned to the pit boss and jabbed him in the chest. “I want to see your supervisor.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Security was on him immediately. They grabbed him by each arm and began to walk him across the floor. One of them was the big bald gorilla that had greeted him at the door.

  “Stay calm, sir,” the gorilla said. “We are taking you over to the supervisor’s office where we can discuss this rationally.”

  All eyes were on him as Scott was marched through the casino.

  What in the fuck is going on here? Why are they treating me like this?

  5

  “Dan, this is Jake Toomey. The offer you were given is legitimate, and the blood would not infect you in the same way it did Jackanoob.”

  “How do you know this, Old Jake?” Blackbird asked.

  “When Jackanoob met the creature of the black orb he did so after consulting with the guardians. As in your vision, it gave him a choice. No matter the magic or power that the creature holds it cannot pass onto you the curse without your permission.”

  “So if I cut open this scar and poured this blood into it, all that I have seen will be undone? That is what you’re telling me?”

  “No. What I am telling you is that the creature is offering you a way out, but you will be abandoning your providence. If you strike a deal with him, you will be destined to serve him if not in this world, the next. Jackanoob has escaped the clutches of the black orb and its world, but eventually, the portal will find him and take him back. It is about balance and struggle.” Toomey sighed, then added, “That is why, during the spring and fall equinox, the powers of the guardians from both worlds are able to push through into this world. Our people used to celebrate, and it was a time of great joy, but Jackanoob bartered that away in his pact with the dark one. All I can tell you is that for there to be good there must be evil. There must always be a struggle. We are the fuel that feeds that struggle.”

  “You’re starting to sound like a Catholic, Old Jake,” Blackbird said.

  “Perhaps, but this is not a Native rite, Dan; this runs across all belief systems. Even atheists believe that man is the nucleus of struggles between good and evil. One belief system might think the other preposterous, but that is only arrogance. There is only good and evil; everything else is man’s arrogance. To us, the orbs are the guardians. To others, they are angels, to others they might be prophets or anomalies.”

  “So what do I do?” asked Blackbird.

  “You have two days. Jackanoob has given you this time because something else is distracting him, some other dealing. Whatever it is, you need to take advantage of that and find a way to make contact with the chief of police and convince him to help.”

  Blackbird lay back on the bed with the phone to his ear.

  “Easier said than done, Old Jake. You remember what happened in Chicago; the police aren’t all that receptive to stories about shape changers and native lore.”

  “You’ll just have to convince him. I guess that if you don’t bring him around in the next day or two, there will be so much bloodshed he will seek you out.” Then Jake Toomey said something then that caught Blackbird off-guard. “We are coming there, Dan. I will gather the council, and we will be on a flight by tomorrow.”

  Proudfoot came back on the phone. “You there, Dan.”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” He was looking at the vial again, turning it over. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Johnny?”

  “Reach out to this Logan. Start using the talent Grandfather told you about. Make contact and try to learn.” Proudfoot sounded anxious. “This may be our last chance, Dan. Old Jake has a ritual he wants you to perform. A kind of meditation. You will need to find a secluded area. Get a pen and paper.”

  He rummaged around in the nightstand and found some stationery and began to jot down Jake’s instructions. At the top of the page, he wrote three words: Purification by Smoke.

  6

  Scott Masterson sat alone in the room. The stash of money kept tightly beside him. His face was beet red. He had been in this room for almost an hour, and he was completely and utterly confused. He looked down at the stack of bills and couldn’t understand why they were acting this way.

  The door opened and in walked a gentleman in a suit, a security guy at his side.

  “Hello, Mr. Masterson. My name is Ken Hayford. I am the director of security here at the casino.” He put out his hand. But Scott just looked at it, so he set it down at his side and continued. “I am here to help you. Hopefully, we can get past this and call it a night.”

  “Get past this,” Scott stuttered. “I have been spending my money in this establishment for over three years. I’ve dropped thousands into this shithole, and suddenly I’m treated like some schmuck.”

  “Mr. Masterson, are you on some medication? Have you had some recent traumatic issue?” Hayford’s voice aired concern.

  “What are you implying?”

  Hayford leaned over and picked up two of the $50 bills from Scott’s stack. “This. It isn’t money; it’s paper. Plain paper.” He waved the bills in front of his face. All at once the color ran out of the bills, and green became blank white.

  Scott blinked then looked down at the stack which sat beside him. It too had become a stack of plain white paper. “What did you do? What did you do with my money?” he accused.

  “I didn’t do anything, Mr. Masterson. There never was any money. That is why the dealer called on the pit boss. That is why you’re here now. Sir, I think you might need some help.”

  Hayford couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy. It was obvious he was a chronic. He’d seen people break down before, even saw a guy kill himself, but never this. He had no doubt this poor guy believed that the wads of paper were money – but at least now he was coming around.

  Or so he thought.

  “You motherfucking bastards, you stole my money,” he growled. “Bad enough you fix the games, but now you’re doing parlor tricks to steal from us. I want to see your supervisor, asshole!”

  Any sympathy Hayford had for him melted away. “Okay, you have exhausted my patience.” He looked to his security man. “Escort Mr. Masterson and his bag of paper to the door.”

/>   The big security guard walked over, and Scott immediately stood up, gathering the paper up in his hands. “This is evidence! There’ll be fingerprints on this, you fuckers! I’m going to sue your asses off! This is un-fucking-believable!” he screamed.

  Another security guard entered the room, and they clamped onto him. He began struggling, and they tightened their grip, pushing out of the security office and into the main area, Hayford trailing behind them as they manhandled him to the door. He was humiliated, and that set him on fire. When they passed the nickel slots, a little old lady stared at him, and it was more than he could take.

  “What are you looking at, you dried up old cunt? Isn’t it time you threw on another adult diaper and jammed your pension check into the slit?” he screamed. “This whole place sucks fucking ass!”

  Then they pushed through the doors and outside. The doors swung shut behind them, and Hayford ordered his guards to let Scott go. He shook them off and turned on one heel.

  “This isn’t the end of this, fuck-face! Not by any stretch of the imagination!”

  “Mister Masterson, I suggest you go to your car, or we will have the police remove you from the property.”

  “The police? What a great fucking idea there, cock fuck! Maybe I’ll alert them to the bait and switch you pulled inside!” he screeched.

  “Maybe they’ll smell the marijuana on you and want to conduct a personal search,” Hayford fired back. His patience had nearly worn out. “Get the fuck out of here. You’re on the blacklist. I see you coming, and I’ll have you arrested on the spot.”

  Scott suddenly stopped, the wind knocked out of his sails. Tucked in his shirt pocket were three joints of BC Bud. “This isn’t the end of this.”

  “It is tonight, sir. Start walking or I’m calling the cops.”

  He turned and walked out toward his car as the security boss and his two goons watched. When he was about 100 yards away, he turned around holding up his middle finger and yelled, “Mother Fuckers!”

  “Jesus Christ.” The bigger security guard chuckled. “This guy just doesn’t quit.”

  Scott walked another thirty steps and turned around again. “Fuck you! Thieving cock suckers!”

  “Kevin, take out your cell phone,” Hayford told the bald security guard.

  Scott stood there a moment, his middle finger pointed up and into the air, and then he turned again and headed toward his car. When he got to it, he fumbled out the keys and unlocked the door. Before climbing inside, he yelled at them one last time: “Fuck you!”

  “You want me to call the police, Ken?” the security guard asked.

  “No, he’s finished. Post his face in the security office and make sure all shifts know that Scott Masterson of Thomasville is banned permanently from these premises. The dickhead comes back he’s leaving in a cop car.”

  Scott sped out of the parking lot. He was furious and had it not been for the pot he was carrying he would have waited for the cops. He couldn’t believe this. After all the goddamned money he had dropped in this place – and they had the nerve to screw him over like this.

  He ran a yellow light as he drove back toward the highway. Thomasville was an hour and a half away, and he decided that when he got back that the Indian in 14A had some questions to answer. Somebody had fucked him over, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. Then, when he hit the main highway, he suddenly thought about the night deposit, the checks written and mailed.

  “Oh my God,” he moaned. “Oh god, the checks, oh god.”

  His car hit the rumble strips on the side of the road, and he swerved the wheel. His anger was inhibiting his focus, and he thought it would be wise to pull over and take a deep breath before he smashed the car up.

  Ten minutes later, he pulled the car onto the other side of a bridge that spanned the Red River. He got out. The fresh air awakened him, and he decided to smoke one of the three joints he’d earmarked for the night at the casino.

  He lit it up and looked out over the river. He drew off the joint and felt himself begin to relax.

  He’d sort this out.

  He took another toke, held it, then exhaled.

  “What a fucking bummer night,” he said.

  “What a bummer indeed.”

  Scott jerked around. At the end of the bridge stood the man who’d given him the money.

  “Hello, Scott.”

  “You,” he said. “How? You fucked me!”

  The dark man stepped closer and plucked the joint out of his hand. He took a deep draw off it, then blew the smoke back in Scott’s face. “Ah, devil weed.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am the one your mother warned you about.” He waved a hand toward the far side of the bridge and said, “Do you know what day it is, Scott?”

  A pack of coyotes lined up at the end of the bridge side by side, their eyes reflecting in the darkness.

  “No.” Scott’s voice suddenly sounded hopeless.

  “It is the tenth day by the old calendars. The tenth day is the day of the dog, and it is but one day in many as the autumn equinox approaches.” He waved his hand again, and at the other end of the bridge another pack of coyotes set up and stood single file. “On this day I command the dog. Tomorrow I will command the monkey.”

  The man climbed upon the edge of the bridge and began to change.

  Perched on the railing, not with feet but great talons, he handed the joint back to Scott. “Take another draw on that thing, Scott; you’re going to need it.”

  He looked left, then right. The coyotes growled hungrily. He looked back upon the creature towering above. He whimpered.

  “Go ahead and have a last draw.” Scott Masterson took the last toke of his life and as he exhaled the creature before him said, “This is going to hurt like hell.”

  The talon tore upward and opened his belly, spilling his insides out. He wanted to scream at how it hurt – but the real pain was when the creature began to pull them out and feast on them. Scott fell weakly to his knees. The fire in his abdomen was all that kept him from collapsing.

  The creature reached into his belly and pulled out a length of small intestine. As it gulped his insides down its eyes rolled, filming over, and Scott felt himself slipping away.

  When it was done, it cracked his skull open on the railing and then said something in the ancient language to the waiting coyotes. They moved in to get their fill while it watched with satisfied interest. It was not the first time predatory animals shared in its kills, but it still studied their actions with amazement. The coyotes growled and bickered over the fresh meat while it meditated.

  7

  The police found Scott Masterson’s body a few hours later. His stomach cavity was utterly emptied of all internal organs, and it appeared that one of the coyotes had taken his right eye, a good portion of his nose and upper lip. Holding Scott’s body in the white glow of the police flashlight, two unnamed cops conversed.

  “It looks like he pulled off to smoke a joint, and banged his head on the railing.”

  The older highway cop said, “He was probably dead when the coyotes got to him.”

  “Poor bastard.”

  The next day was spent retracing his steps and determining what brought him to the point of his demise. There was no indication to deem it as anything but an accident, and when investigators contacted Masterson’s father, they would call it just that.

  ***

  Chapter 12 - The Kolchak Factor

  1

  Aboard the Dash 8 commuter jet, Doctor Robert Kolchak reviewed the digital video that had come via courier thanks to Detective Pearson. He took notes, as Hopper recounted the murder and resurrection of his first victim on the laptop’s media player. This was his second time reviewing the video, and now he scribbled down questions for the upcoming interview.

  Hopper was a curious creature
: he had no history of pedophilia and had never been convicted of any type of violent crime. It was an intriguing case, and Kolchak was looking forward to having a sit down with the child killer. In addition to the interview, he planned on walking the crime scene and interviewing as many people involved with the case as possible.

  The day after tomorrow they would be taking Hopper back to Artisan Institute where Kolchak hoped to probe deeper into his mind. At first glance, he appeared to be the classic sociopath: no remorse, and no emotional attachment to his victims. Yet the emergence of this other character, Franklin, was a curious development – one that led Kolchak to believe one of two things. One that Hopper was looking to manipulate the case and look for an insanity defense – or two, that he indeed was one of those rare specimens with multiple personality disorder.

  If it were the former, Kolchak would know. He was a master at exposing individuals entering into fraudulent insanity pleas and had a track record with the prosecution. It had become his forte, and while some of his colleagues considered him a sell-out, he felt strongly that many mental health experts were far more interested in assigning blame to the illness rather than the individual.

  For Kolchak, it came down to whether or not the individual knew what he was doing was wrong. If that could be proven, then blame could easily be assigned no matter the state of a killer’s mental capacity.

  What Kolchak found particularly interesting was Hopper’s apparent fear of this Franklin character. He did not want to jump to conclusions, but he guessed that Franklin was a manifestation of Hopper’s inability to assign culpability to himself. Secretly though, he hoped that Hopper was a multiple personality, and that further probing would lead to more discovery.

  “I’ve told you everything. There are no more bodies, but Franklin is still out there,” Hopper said on the video.

  Kolchak wrote on the steno pad.

  [Urgency- panic] Real or manufactured?

  He was not sure but was excited at the prospect and opportunity it presented. Suddenly a voice over the intercom interrupted his thoughts.