Heinous Habits!

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “What’s got them stirred up?” Brien asked as we stood watching them stream from the woods, blackening the sky above us.

  “At least some of your pals get the idea of running away,” Mitchum shouted as he lumbered toward us.

  “Smoke. I smell smoke,” Bede said. With that, he headed back toward the surfer village. This time Bede plunged into the woods instead of heading down that path again. As he ran, he dodged hanging branches and leaped over a log that had fallen. Brien and I followed, less sure of ourselves than Bede. The flip-flops I wore were better than being barefoot but didn’t protect my feet from getting scraped or poked as I stumbled along through that obstacle course.

  When we reached the village center, the air was heavy with smoke. I covered my mouth and nose as I searched for the source of that fire. None of the shacks or tents appeared to be on fire, nor did any of the nearby brush or trees. I glanced up at the cliffs, and saw smoke billowing from several openings in the walls that towered above us.

  “Look! It’s coming from inside the caves. How is that possible? What can burn like that?”

  “Maybe dried bat guano, Kim.”

  “What?” I asked, blinking from the smoke that was stinging my eyes. Bede responded before Brien could explain.

  “I don’t think so, Brien. Let’s get back to the beach where we can breathe more easily.” With that, Bede took off again. This time moving the easy way down the well-worn path that led out of the woods and back to the beach. When we were in the clear, Brien spoke again as if there had been no pause in the conversation.

  “Yeah, but they make gunpowder out of bat guano.” I must have had that incredulous look on my face again as I sucked in great gulps of fresh sea air.

  “Yes, Brien,” Bede said. “Dried bat guano consists mainly of saltpeter—potassium nitrate. It was used by the United States as early as the War of 1812 for making gunpowder. Bat droppings also played a significant role in prolonging the Civil War. During the conflict, the Confederacy harvested nearly every substantial Gray Bat cave in the South for saltpeter and was able to keep producing gunpowder long after supply lines were cut off by Union troops. It takes work to turn it into gunpowder, though.”

  “Want to tell us what’s going on? Or do you want us to stand here and let the place burn down while you finish your lecture on the Civil War and bat guano! Do I need to get the fire department out here?” Mitchum was pacing and fidgeting with his phone as he posed that question in an exasperated tone.

  “My guess is someone has already called them, Detective.” As he spoke, Bede’s eyes wandered up the cliffs to that monastery bell tower hovering above them. We could hear sirens wailing in the distance. “I don’t think there’s going to be much they can do. The fire must be nearly out by now. The smoke has already started to dissipate. See?” Bede was right, of course.

  “If you’d wait a few more minutes, I’d like to show you why I called you out here, Detective.” A crowd was forming around us. About half a dozen villagers were milling about, not yet willing to venture back along the path they had used to flee from that horde of bats. The surfers had come out of the water, too, and a few resort guests, mostly golfers, had come down to the where we stood at the entrance to Sanctuary Grove. A line of empty golf carts now sat on the cart path that ran along the beach. Bede used his arm to brush sweat from his forehead.

  “I’ll take you up on that offer you made earlier. I could use water or juice.”

  “No problem. You want something to drink, too, Brien?”

  “I sure do. I’ll come with you.” As we covered the distance to where we had left our beach chairs and backpack, I could hear Big Al speaking.

  “No need to worry folks. We’ve got this all under control. You can go on about your day. Finish your golf game!”

  “I think we should cancel our meetings, Brien. We’re not likely to get there on time at this point anyway.”

  “I’m with you. Big Al’s going to be late, too. I can check out the CCTV equipment tomorrow or the next day. No rush. Big Al can fix it.”

  “For me, too?”

  “Why not? He set up that meeting for you in the first place. I’ll ask.”

  “I want to see what’s going on in the village once the smoke's gone. Mitchum’s probably not going to like it. Maybe we should just sort of wander back in there by mingling with the residents.”

  “That might work.” Brien shrugged as he picked up our backpack, handed me drinks, and then slid it onto his shoulder. I folded the beach chairs.

  “You want me to take those back where you got them?” One of the security team members who had been standing around with nothing to do asked that question.

  “That would be great!” Brien said. “Could you call someone to take our boards back to our suite, too? I hate to leave them just lying around. We have to head back in there.” Brien nodded his head in the direction of the woods.

  “No problem. I’ll take your surfboards to the lobby, and someone at the front desk can get them to your room.”

  "Thanks," Brien said.

  As we walked back with the drinks, I was disappointed that most of the crowd had dispersed. The few remaining villagers who were returning to Sanctuary Grove were already disappearing down that path. So much for casually tagging along with them.

  “Thanks, Kim.” Bede guzzled the water I offered him. “Would you and Brien come along with us? You’re familiar with the village, and you heard what Willow and Mick have said about what’s going on. Maybe you’ll spot something I’ve missed.”

  Smooth, I thought. I glanced sideways at Mitchum. He said nothing as he tugged at his oversized mustache.

  “Big Al, I don't think we’re going to make it to our meetings on time.”

  “Got it, Brien. I’ll call Elsa and tell her what’s up, too.”

  “Cool, dude. Thanks!” Al was already on his phone. Brien was shoveling nuts into his mouth. Apparently, he’d also packed snacks in that backpack. My stomach growled. Surfing must burn about 10,000 calories an hour. I was starving. Brien handed me a granola bar.

  “You want one, Mitchum? Bede? I’ve got more in my pack.”

  “No thanks,” Bede replied.

  “Sheesh! Only you two could jump from talking about bat guano to food in less than five minutes. Let’s get this over.” I tried not to roll my eyes or scrunch up my face at the grumpy detective as I practically inhaled that granola bar and washed it down with apple juice. Brien had moved on and was chowing down on turkey jerky. Once we reached Bede’s shack minutes later, I was glad I hadn’t eaten that jerky.

  “Well, you’re right, Bede. It’s not a body," Mitchum commented.

  “Not just bones, though, Mitchum. More like mummy parts,” Brien said.

  “Mummy parts. Come on now, you’re taking that Saturday matinee idea too far!”

  “Lighten up. Those Saturday movie matinees are a little before our time,” I muttered. Mitchum glared. “Hey, you keep bringing it up.”

  “Brien makes a good point, Detective. These do appear to be mummified body parts.”

  That’s when I flashed on the jerky. It didn’t seem to bother Brien in the least, but my appetite disappeared as I stared at the bizarre sight. Someone had strung up the mummy parts on a cord—like wind chimes or a mobile. They dangled between two trees.

  “I’ll get someone from the County Sheriff’s office to send a forensic unit out here. Obviously, whoever this was has been dead for a long time.”

  “Not killed here, either,” I said. “The killer is as dead as the victim. These bones are old. Maybe forensics can help figure out who set up this display, though.”

  “What does it mean?” Brien asked. “Willow and Mick said bogus stuff was going on down here, but this is a different kind of message, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. That’s why I decided it was time to get the police involved. Several villagers packed up and left already.” As he spoke, a woman with long braids strolled by, gave Bede the shaka sign, and then mov
ed on.

  “S’later, Kahuna. The smoke and bats—and that—worked. I’m cutting out.” By “that,” she meant the bone display. Several others were right behind her.

  “I understand.” Bede returned the hand signal. “Safe travels.”

  “Bede, we should probably all get out here for a little while. You should too. That smoke’s not healthy for any of us. We’re getting out of here, too.”

  “Sure, Misty. Take care.” With that Misty, Snaggy, and another of the holdouts in the already sparsely populated surfer village said their goodbyes.

  Mitchum watched that procession while waving his cell phone around and holding it up in the air. “I’m not getting reception in here. I’m going to have to go back out on the beach to call in the lab guys. Unless one of you vagabond ‘dudes’ has a sat-phone.” Mitchum huffed into his mustache, laughing at what he regarded as a joke.

  “Hang on.” Bede was in his shack and back out again in a flash. In his hand was a satellite phone. I was almost as surprised as Mitchum. Bede was a curious fellow. Not a bit scruffy like many of the people hanging out in tents or shacks in Sanctuary Grove. Rather respectable-looking, in fact, for a beach bum.

  “Well, how do you like that? A surfer with a global reach.” Mitchum took that phone with an expression on his face I couldn’t quite read. Puzzled? Suspicious? Both, maybe. I looked at Brien who gave me a shrug in return. Thanks to Mitchum, I had learned Bede’s last name. A background search could give us more details without having to wheedle them out of him.

  “Willow told us about some strange drawings in the sand and on village property. Where are those? She was going to meet us here but I guess something came up.”

  “Those left in the sand are gone. At first, we washed off the ones on the structures here in the village.” We followed Bede around to the back of his shack—away from that exhibit left by the mysterious bone collector. “The first few times, the drawings on the rocks and buildings were made with chalk and charcoal. Then, whoever did this came back and made them harder to remove.”

  “Whoa!” Brien said. “That’s a skull-and-crossbones with some more bones though, isn’t it? Like pirates have been through here.”

  “Way more bones and much creepier, Brien. Those skeletons are dancing! That one has a wicked looking blade in his hand.”

  “Yes, it's the dance macabre," Bede commented. "That one's kind of a grim reaper figure, don’t you think?”

  “Exactly," Brien said. “These are lousy graffiti artists, though. I’ve seen much better tagging on passing trains or trucks sitting in a Walmart parking lot.”

  “This was done in a hurry. Otherwise, I would have caught them. This is more a message than art. I’ve been on the lookout for them, so I presume our messengers have also been watching us.”

  "What’s that?” I bent down to examine the area more closely. Down in one corner below that image, someone had burned the wood. "Your shack has been branded by a cross, Kahuna. Almost like the cross you see on the chest of Crusaders during the Middle Ages."

  “Mummies, crusaders and pirates! Awesome!” Brien piped up. He was eating again—M&Ms this time—just like a kid at a movie matinee. I was glad Mitchum was still off somewhere making phone calls.

  “I can see what you mean. It does resemble the cross you see on the chest of crusaders," Bede said.

  "Knights Templar, weren’t they?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Bede replied. “Maybe that’s what the artist was aiming for—to make us believe whatever's going on here is somehow rooted in the ancient past. I'm not buying it. Those bones aren't that old.” He smiled.

  “Are there more drawings?” I asked.

  Without saying a word, Bede walked to the shack next to his, and then to two others. One of those had been the shack in which Willow had lived for the past couple of years. Opie had spent a few months there, too, before his young life had ended with a dive off a sixth-floor hotel balcony. At each stop, the same pattern emerged. An ugly, scary spray-painted image of stick figures engaged in a death dance with another of those images burned into one of the corners.

  “There’s a dance going on around here all right,” I said. A shudder passed through me. One that I hoped was only meant to scare the inhabitants of Sanctuary Grove without ending in harm.

  “Dance? I don’t see a dance. What dance?” I yelped before I could stop myself and spun around ready to wallop the angel of death or grim reaper or whoever it was who had managed to get that close to me. Brien reached out and slipped an arm around my waist, lifting me off my feet before I could pummel Detective Mitchum with my clenched fists.

  “Don’t sneak up on people in the woods, Detective."

  "Help is on the way."

  "Do something like that again, and we’ll be calling an ambulance to help you!” I was fuming. All the anxiety and tension in my body had converged, settling into my balled-up fists. Mitchum was oblivious, engrossed in peering at the graffiti. Otherwise, I'm sure he would have had some smart aleck comment about the risk involved in threatening an officer of the law.

  “Cave art,” Mitchum said as he roamed from one image to the next, “quite an exhibition to go with the wind chimes.” Those bones had moved in a breeze that blew through the camp from the cliffs. The same way the smoke had blown through here earlier. Suddenly, I remembered those words from Brother Thaddeus about a “cave of forgotten dreams.” Had he found similar drawings in the caves or on the monastery grounds? That’s when I noticed it. I pulled away from Brien and ran to have another look at one of those drawings.

  “This is the same symbol on that ‘the end is near’ flyer, Brien.” Brien joined me, taking a closer look.

  “Kind of in disguise, but you’re right. That one, too.”

  “Mitchum, have you had any luck rounding up the graffiti artist who's been tagging places in San Albinus? Big Al says he’s wanted for questioning about vandalism of the resort property. Is this more of his handiwork?”

  “I haven't seen it so I can't answer that question. My colleagues are on the lookout for the troublemaker. What flyer are you talking about?”

  “Some angry tourist dropped it in the lobby this morning as he and his wife were leaving the hotel. They claim a beggar dressed as a medieval monk gave it to them before he hustled them for money.”

  “A mendicant,” Bede interjected. “Sort of the same thing. A member of a religious group who lives by asking people for money or food.”

  “Okay,” I said, not that I knew what difference that made, so I kept talking. “My point is, the hotel guests claimed he accosted them in broad daylight on the Promenade in Old Town. Surely, they weren’t the only ones. Find him, and you may have your vandal, too, given that the same symbols on that flyer are in this graffiti.”

  “He’s made a nuisance of himself with tourists, violating local ordinances against disorderly conduct and panhandling. I'll make sure they question him about the vandalism too. Sanctuary Grove isn’t being singled out, so I don’t believe there’s a reason to take this personally.”

  “I’m sure Bede and the others will find that reassuring. How difficult can it be to find this guy?”

  “He does get around, doesn’t he?”

  “I was thinking about that, Brien. Maybe he’s got help.”

  “Whoa, you mean like a cult of scary, grubby mad monks?”

  “Barefoot, too.” Bede moved off behind the row of shacks closer to the wall of cliffs nearby. He started up a steep incline that Brien and I had tread on previous occasions. Not happy occasions, either.

  Bede stopped and stood over a spot of dried mud. In the mud were footprints. At least two distinct sets of prints. Above them, on the stone walls of the cliffs, were more of those pictures. Smaller but scary as if the threat of death clung to those cliff walls like lichen or moss.

  “Uh, you’d better have the forensic team make a cast of those footprints, Mitchum. If you’re lucky and catch the mad monk running loose in San Albinus, you’ll get a match.
Now we know there are at least two of them.”

  “Make that three, Brien. I'm not sure the guy with the branding iron is on the same team as the death cult monks. Someone else may have been roaming around here leaving those marks as counter-symbols.” This discussion was all becoming too much for the good detective.

  “Death cult monks. Symbols and counter-symbols. Aren’t you two stuck on those beach blanket movies? Indiana Jones movies, too, huh?”

  “Not us. Maybe that’s what’s going on for the dirty and disorderly mad monk hassling people on the streets of San Albinus. Why not ask him that if you ever manage to track him down? If he’s still around, you could get Big Al to look at these drawings. He can tell you if it’s the work of the same man who's vandalized the resort property.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of conducting a police investigation. I don't need your advice, Gidget, and Moondoggie,” Mitchum stomped around in a small circle. Almost as if he was engaged in a strange little ritual of his own. Probably intended to ward us off. Brien got the hint, too.

  “Uh, Gidget. I think we’re done here, don’t you?” He might have noticed that I had clenched my fists again. “Let’s see what they’re serving at the brunch buffet. I could use a real meal before we have to go meet our friend.” Brien moved his head in that “man-in-the-know” way he has when he’s trying to communicate without mentioning any names.

  “That’s brilliant, Moondoggie. Let’s get cleaned up and grab some grindage.” As I spoke those words, I felt a sudden compulsion to get to that meeting with Brother Thaddeus. Had that fire originated at the monastery? That network of caves in the cliffs led, in a roundabout way, to old abandoned ruins on the monastery grounds. Ruins that were little more than charred remains of a day long ago when a fire had destroyed old monastery buildings. How long ago? What had been the cause of that fire?

  Two things kept me from going straight to those monastery gates, though. First, that fire couldn’t have been a big one since it died out so soon. Second, I wasn’t sure we could reach Brother Thaddeus or get inside if we arrived before our scheduled meeting time. Besides, I might be able to skip a meal and live to tell about it, but I doubt Brien could. Why take that chance? There are some dangers I'm willing to avoid.