The Equinox

by M J Preston

  “That’s right,” he answered, extending his hand.

  “You sounded younger on the phone. Maybe mid-thirties.” Logan shook his hand loosely, feeling for uneasiness or sweat, trying to determine his demeanor, but there came no warning signs from the handshake, so he released his grip, sat down, and continued sizing him up.

  This guy is weathered and beaten. From what, Logan could only speculate. Booze? Drugs? He didn’t think so. I wonder where he got that scar.

  The waitress came over and made pleasantries. Logan ordered coffee while Blackbird got a cup of tea. As soon as she had returned with their order and departed Blackbird got right down to business.

  “Stephen Hopper did not act alone. He had an accomplice. I would even say he was not the mastermind behind this.”

  As he spoke, he added milk to his tea and stirred, but he did not once lower his eyes.

  “Franklin,” Logan said, trying not to sound skeptical – but then again, after the story spun by Hopper, he was left to wonder how this Indian was connected. This man was confident and without nervousness, and Logan felt a temptation to divulge some of what he knew – but he shoved the impulse away.

  “Yes, that is the name he goes by. I have some stuff in my bag I’d like to show you.” Blackbird reached over and started to pull out the scrapbook when Logan tapped his leg under the table, stopping him.

  “Look, Mr. Blackbird, I will talk and look at anything you would like to show me, but I am going to caution you now to move and act with great care.” He had his right hand on the butt off his gun. “I don’t know who you are or what your connection is to Stephen Hopper, so you leave me at a disadvantage. Remember this as you proceed.” He unsnapped his holster.

  Blackbird nodded, understanding. If he moved too fast, he might end up with a gun to his face – or worse, shot.

  He did not waiver, instead of replying calmly to Logan’s warning. “I’m going to remove a scrapbook from my bag. I want to show you some news clippings, and while you are looking at them, I am going to tell you some stuff that you probably won’t believe. Okay?”

  “Okay. Seeing that we are so honest here, I am going to tell you that my second-in-command should be here anytime. I alerted him to our meeting, and he will be coming in and watching us like a hawk.” Logan didn’t think Blackbird would miss Mick’s entrance unless he came in the back way.

  “That’s fine. I didn’t expect you to come alone. All I ask is that you hear me out.” He reached over cautiously, brought up a binder that was about three inches thick and contained cellophane pages that encased the news clippings. The binder itself was cheap, dog-eared; it had endured a lot in that knapsack for a long time.

  As Logan stared down at the binder, Mick entered the diner, and Blackbird acknowledged him with a nod.

  So much for entering incognito, Mick thought, walked over and sat down at the table next to them, waiting for Logan to make his next move.

  “Mr. Blackbird, this is Sgt. Collins.”

  “Hey,” Blackbird greeted.

  “Hey,” Mick replied.

  “Mr. Blackbird was just about to show me a scrapbook and fill me in on Franklin. He has also assured me there will be no issues.” Logan looked to Mick as he spoke, his eyes warning him to be alert.

  “Sounds good.” Mick steadied himself just in case there were.

  Blackbird pushed the binder across the table to Logan just as the waitress came over and interrupted to see if Mick wanted anything.

  “We’re good, Charlene.” Mick smiled, and she wandered back to her station.

  Logan opened the binder. Behind the first cellophane page was a newspaper clipping that was weathered and brown. The header was from the Chicago Sun-Times. The date was August 9th, 2001.

  One after another, page after page, Blackbird revealed more and more articles following the disappearances in Chicago. As he did this Logan remembered hearing something about this on a television newsmagazine, like 20/20 or 60 Minutes, but he couldn’t recall which show it had been.

  “He has a connection to multiple murders both north and south of the border,” Blackbird said while Logan turned the pages, scanning the articles and Mick listened. “I have been tracking him for over fifteen years. Chicago was the closest I got.”

  Logan looked up briefly, then back down to the scrapbook. The last article referred to the take-down in the alley, and though it did not mention Blackbird by name, there was a dotted picture of him standing with a plainclothes police officer.

  “He has likely killed in this general area.” Now the pages Logan turned to held more recent articles, these about Hopper and Thomasville. “I know how this sounds, Chief, but we haven’t got a lot of time.”

  Logan stopped and looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Blackbird sighed. “Fuck it, you are going to think I’m nuts, but by tomorrow you won’t so here goes. Did Hopper tell you anything unusual about Franklin? That he had strange powers? That he was a shape changer?”

  Mick covered a smirk. Logan’s face was grave. He had spent the night listening to the tale that was so far out there even a tabloid wouldn’t touch it.

  “You’ve got my attention, Mr. Blackbird. Carry on.”

  “Have you ever heard of a Wendigo or a Skinwalker, Chief Logan?”

  “Indian legend? Kind of like a werewolf,” Mick interjected.

  “Franklin is something like that. I don’t have time, nor do you, to recount all the mythology. I just need you to take what I am saying seriously because we have very little time.”

  “So you’re telling me that we have another child-murdering monster in our midst that goes by the name of Franklin? That’s what you’re saying?” Logan closed the binder and sat back.

  “I’m telling you that there is a creature out there that is drawn to evil like a magnet. That it sometimes goes by the alias Franklin, but his real name is Jackanoob. I’m telling you stuff you already know, but won’t accept as it flies in the face of your belief system.”

  He was losing this: he could feel it.

  “How do you know what my belief system is, Mr. Blackbird?” Logan asked.

  Blackbird sighed again. This was getting him nowhere.

  “Are you Franklin?” Mick asked.

  Logan leaned forward on his elbows, waiting for an answer.

  Blackbird laughed. “Why did I know you would ask that?”

  “You have to look at it from our point of view, Mr. Blackbird,” Logan said.

  “I have looked at it from your point of view.” It took a great deal of effort to keep from raising his voice. “I never believed any of this stuff, but fifteen years ago this creature killed my grandfather before my eyes, and I have been hunting it ever since. Think about this. How would I know?”

  “You’re going to have to give us something more substantial than some news clippings and a name. This is just too far out there.”

  Logan pushed the binder back across the table.

  “It disembowels its victims and eats their organs.”

  Logan shot a sidelong glance at Mick, then said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the hell with it. Both Sgt. Collins and I dug up the last victim. Cause of death was strangulation. All his organs were intact.”

  “Then that victim was not killed by Franklin.”

  The two cops looked at each other. Blackbird knew enough about this to be involved.

  Mick leaned in. “Mr. Blackbird, I would like you to get up and accompany us out of here without a scene.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “No, but some of what you said has hit a raw nerve, and that has compelled both Chief Logan and myself to insist that we discuss this in a private setting where the public at large won’t be privy to information about the investigation.”

  Collins started to stand.

  “You’re arr
esting me.” Blackbird shook his head.

  Logan said, “Mr. Blackbird, we are not arresting you. But you have information that nobody should have and that has definitely caused curiosity. Come with us, and I promise we will be straight.”

  “You think I’m nuts then.”

  “I never said that. Mick, can you grab the bill?” Now Logan was getting up too.

  Blackbird sat there a moment, trying to think. What could he do? He had to go with them. If he didn’t, they would arrest him. If he bolted, they would arrest him. But how would he convince Logan that he wasn’t crazy?

  The clock was ticking.

  “Okay, I’ll go with you.”

  He stood and replaced the binder in his knapsack and then they walked out of the diner without argument or fanfare. When they got to Logan’s cruiser, he waited for them to snap on the cuffs and place him in the back of the car. Instead, Logan opened the passenger door and said, “Please get in.”

  He sighed again and climbed into the cruiser.

  2

  Thomasville Police Department

  3:30 PM

  The three of them were in Logan’s office. So far, Blackbird had not exhibited violent behavior. Therefore Logan wanted to keep it as cordial as possible. Mick stood in the corner watching, as Blackbird sat there looking around the office for something that might help leverage his argument. There was nothing.

  “You have to understand how crazy this sounds,” Logan said.

  “I know how it sounds. And either way, it won’t matter if you think I’m nuts or not: by tomorrow you’ll be asking me what the hell is going on and what we can do to stop it. Chief, think about this for a second. If I was Franklin, why would I come forward?”

  Logan stared at the Native man for a long time, trying to figure him out and what his connection was to all this. Ironically, he suddenly wished Hopper were still here. At the very least, they could march Blackbird up in front of him to draw some kind of reaction. Even though he thought Blackbird might sincere, he couldn’t accept what he was saying.

  “Mick, take Mr. Blackbird out to the coffee room while I make a couple calls,” he said, looking at one of the Chicago Tribune articles in Blackbird’s binder. A name popped out at him, one that might add a little light to the darkness surrounding this mystery. The name was Woodman. Detective Sean Woodman.

  “Chief, you gotta listen to me. We are running out of time here.” Blackbird was getting anxious. “He said there would be a massacre.”

  “I am listening, Mr. Blackbird; I am just following through. Give me a little time and talk to Mick over a coffee in our lunch room. So far, I am sure that you are not involved in this criminally, but your connection is troubling just the same.”

  “Well if you’re checking something, check on the clerk from the motel who was killed. Check to see if his organs were there. Check that!”

  He turned and was led to the lunch room by Mick. From the staff room, the other officers watched but were at a loss to what Logan and Collins were doing with this man.

  3

  The day before the creature had been sitting in the kitchen staring off in a state of meditation for quite some time. When it fell into this state, it would become almost petrified and intoxicated, but it was not completely vulnerable. It could still spring to life if it had to, and had in fact done so in the past many times.

  Spoiled meat! What a waste of good food, it thought as it considered the rotten carcass in the other room. It had already eaten, but the waste and want still infuriated it.

  There was something else banging around in its subconscious, clouding its thoughts and watching from within, something it could not explain. There was much to do, and it needed more energy. Its belly was full – but the pain would be back before long, and it always wanted to gorge. Something trying to see ― pushing ― faraway voices, distant. What was that? Was that the remaining phantom of its other? The one called Jackanoob?

  Spoiled meat, it thought again and shifted drunkenly. The hunter will be coming. Have to kill the hunter. Must draw strength.

  It began pulling itself together, finding motivation and coming back. It focused on the wall, and slowly it began to unfurl from its petrified state. Blowflies and maggots ravaged the spoiled meat in the other room – but this kill was still warm, still smelled of blood.

  Must change, the creature thought and began to take the form it had held only hours before when the food had come knocking. Its skin pulsated, the black ick seething from its pores, rearranging its features, hiding the decay and rot, giving color to the flesh, the bulbous eyes shrinking inward and becoming cobalt blue.

  It stood up and wavered, slightly disoriented, feeling the voyeur within.

  Is that you? You still in there, Jackanoob? Still hiding from the truth?

  There was no reply: only silence – and a faint pang of hunger – as it moved out of the kitchen and into the front room. Yes, I must eat more. I will need the energy.

  It drew back the curtain, looked out the window at the house across the street and said, “Yes, must eat.” The hunger called to it.

  It opened the front door. The stench of death wafted out – and then the door was closed.

  As it walked down the steps and into the road, eyes forward the whole time, it had one purpose. It could feel the presence inside the house watching it, not wanting to be seen, feeling the man inside and his voyeuristic uneasiness. Easy picking, it delighted, and rapped on the doorframe with its knuckle.

  After a moment, the door lock clicked, and a man inside greeted him from behind a screen door. “Yes, hello, John.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Please do,” the man said and opened the door.

  4

  “Superintendent Woodman,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

  “Hello, Superintendent, my name is Dave Logan. I’m the Chief of Police of Thomasville, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?” Logan said.

  “That where all those kids were murdered?” Woodman asked.

  “Yeah, it’s been a hell of a run.”

  “I have no doubt it has. Listen, Chief, my name is Sean. What I can do for you?”

  “Okay, Sean, in that case, Dave will do just fine here.”

  “Good enough.”

  “I wanted to ask you about a case you were in charge of about eight years ago. The one with the murdered prostitutes.”

  “Sure. What would you like to know?” Woodman asked.

  “Did you ever solve it?”

  “No; it’s a cold file. We’ve never closed it, we think that our guy took a hike, died, or is serving time for another crime.”

  “They never said in the papers how these girls were killed? How were they murdered?”

  “I gotta stop you there, Dave. Why are you pumping me for info on an eight-year-old case?”

  “There may be a connection to my case.”

  “Really? Okay, now you have my attention. Ask anything you want.”

  The conversation between Logan and Woodman carried on for almost a half hour as Woodman explained the number of victims and how they were being disposed of by use of the Chicago sewer system. “One of the working girls said she heard the last known victim, a Kerry McNeil, call the killer Franklin.”

  “Was Franklin an Indian?” Logan asked.

  “Indian? Like North American? Or are we talking Kwicky-Mart Indian? We have both.” Woodman snickered, and they both laughed at the Simpsons reference. “He might have been a North American Native, but something tells me you are barking up a different tree now.”

  “Daniel Blackbird.”

  “Wow, that’s a name that brings up memories. We arrested him at the scene of the last murder, but he didn’t do it. Is he there?”

  “How do you know it wasn’t him? And yes, he’s here.”

&nbs
p; “Well, this is some crazy shit, Dave, but we had him under surveillance the night of the last murder, and a couple things just didn’t jive for us.”

  “Like?”

  “Timeline, for one. Blackbird would have never had time to do the things that were done to that girl in the short time we lost him off our radar. We had him under surveillance all evening, and he slipped out of our sights for about ten minutes. Anyway, the girl, this Kerry McNeil, she had been decapitated and eviscerated. Whoever killed her took most of her internal organs and then dumped her body down the sewer.”

  “Could the organs have been lost in the sewer?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We scoured those sewers for days and what we found was a jam of victims in one of the run-offs. All of them decapitated. All of them eviscerated. This was never released to the public, to help us separate the whackos and degenerates from the real suspects.”

  “So you let him go based on the timeline?”

  “No. I might have been able to overlook the timeline if it wasn’t for a witness corroborating his statement. God knows we liked him for every other reason.”

  “Who was the witness?”

  “Just above the last murder scene was a low rent tenement housing complex – that’s fancy talk for welfare apartments. Anyway, our killer was just about to drop this girl’s body down the sewer when our witness opened her window and saw him. After that things got really bizarre.”

  “Bizarre?”

  Woodman said, “Let me ask you a question, Dave.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is Blackbird still talking about monsters and Indian Shape-shifters?”

  Logan hesitated, then said, “Something like that.”

  “Okay, well then this next bit won’t come as a surprise. Our witness, a black woman in her mid-forties, grabs a gun she keeps around for burglars. Blackbird turns up in the alley carrying a bow and arrow.” Woodman started to laugh. “I know how this fucking sounds, but next thing you know we got an Indian – oops, not PC – North American Native shooting arrows down the alleyway like he’s Sitting Bull and the black woman shooting her gun off like Jesse James. Both are aiming at our perp.”