DESCENT

by Sandy DeLuca

  CHAPTER 62

  A red Mustang breezes by me. My aunt waves to me. Prayer beads are tangled in her fingers. The car speeds up, heads straight for a building and then disappears upon impact. Black smoke and ashes drift from where her tires made marks on the pavement. Blood trickles from the cracks in the buildings.

  * * *

  The papers once again ran stories about The East Coast Spree killer. The police had caught the killer, they’d found Sammy, but it all went wrong, just like Jericho had told me.

  PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, (Nov. 11) - A suspect in the murder of Robert Stanni of Providence, Rhode Island escaped from a state jail in Miami after police arrested him on Friday. They’d found him amidst numerous corpses at a defunct boarding house on Biscayne Boulevard in Miami, Florida. His method of escape remains a mystery. Authorities found ashes and strange symbols drawn on the wall of his cell. They also said that a guard had been on duty outside his cell during the escape. He claimed he didn’t hear or see anything unusual, that it looked as though DeSouza was asleep. The lock was not broken and there were no possible means of escape as far as law enforcement can detect at this point in time. However, the guard on duty, thought to be a possible accomplice in DeSouza’s escape, has been questioned by authorities and released. The guard has secured legal representation and dismisses the allegations against him as completely without merit. DeSouza had also been charged with the murders of several people, the bodies of whom were unearthed in the Carolinas and found at grisly murders scenes in an array of southern states. Samuel DeSouza was the subject of a massive manhunt for the past several months, and now with his escape, the manhunt resumes. DeSouza is considered extremely dangerous, and it is feared that he will kill again. It is believed that DeSouza could also be responsible for the deaths of several people reported missing over the past few months. County detectives, local police and state police are searching for DeSouza, along with a young girl who witnesses say accompanied him during his killing spree, and who was probably a hostage. While incarcerated, DeSouza claimed his female companion was deceased, and while authorities believe she is most likely among his victims, there is still a chance she may still be alive.

  It is believed that DeSouza, Robert Stanni and Tonya DeSouza were responsible for a massacre that occurred last year at the same boarding house in Miami.

  Tonya DeSouza hanged herself in her own cell at the Rhode State Correctional facility in Rhode Island on the night of Mr. DeSouza’s escape.

  * * *

  The mystery girl, that’s how they always refer to me. But now the mysteries are unraveling, and very soon I’ll pay my penance. We’re all going to burn for eternity.

  I hear a deep, groaning roll of thunder, see lightning flash and the rain begins again. I’m soaked to the bone, but nothing matters anymore, including me.

  CHAPTER 63

  I begin to walk again, no longer afraid of the lightning even as it strikes trees and buildings around me, even as bark burns and turns to ash before my eyes.

  There’s fire breaking out everywhere, voices calling to me from the flames, but I’ve nothing to fear.

  Yet.

  * * *

  I imagined that Jericho called every now and then. He’d tell me, “I want to make sure things are going well. I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Even in my daydreams there was sadness in his voice, a longing that I was familiar with.

  I had the feeling that something or someone was holding him back from me, that perhaps some unseen force was responsible for keeping us apart.

  I prayed that that Sammy was chained up, behind bars and that the death penalty had been handed to him.

  In strange night dreams Jericho always said the same thing, “No news. No signs of him.”

  According to the papers he’d eluded the police even though they continued to search for him. There had been no grisly unsolved murders matching his MO. He seemed to have disappeared. Or maybe the demons had devoured him; maybe he was rotting in Hell, running from the very evil that had motivated his spree.

  Dad never forgave me for “running away,” as he called it, and things were never the same between my father and me. There was tension, something unspoken and forbidden.

  I’d often catch him looking at me when he thought I was too absorbed in a book or in my painting to notice. There was fear in his eyes, in the way he clenched his jaws. When I was younger I thought that my father could read my mind. He always seemed to know what my friends and I were up to. He knew if I cut a class, or if I didn’t study hard enough for an exam. I wondered if he knew what went down in vivid detail, if all the gory details between Providence and Miami were in my father’s possession. The look on his face told me that it must be true.

  Shortly after my return my mother was silent most times, lost in her own world, lashing out at me when she remembered the pain she’d felt when I was gone. As time went on her insults became more intense, more hateful. I told myself that I had to get out of my parent’s house if I were to keep my sanity.

  I moved out after I got my old job back. I continued my magical studies with Aunt Lil. We spent nights chanting under a full moon and Saturday afternoons affirming that we were strong and vital women. If nothing else my time with her helped me to grow stronger, to believe in myself as a woman and as a painter.

  Aunt Lil also taught me the power of alcohol, in its soothing effects. And we indulged ourselves with imported wine or hardcore whiskey on many occasions.

  Astaroth visited us often.

  He appeared after my aunt had spread Tarot cards on the floor, on a night when Jericho had promised to call and did not.

  Lil and I had called the four quarters. We’d honored the new moon and lit candles by statues of Catholic saints.

  I felt soft breath in my ear when my aunt shuffled the cards and then turned over The Magician. Astaroth introduced, said, “Buona sera.”

  He danced between us, held up his index finger and then a vision of Jericho wavered. He walked within a graveyard, loneliness permeated the air. Shadowy wings sprouted from his back.

  “Did you see it, Aunty?”

  “Not sure if he showed us the same vision. I only saw you, saw the resurrection. The bread is in the cupboard, inside your Nana’s Italian pottery bowl. Make sure you take that money when I die.” She closed her eyes and passed out from too much drink.

  I saved money to finish my art education. During this period I began to market my work, getting some art shows in small galleries and a small press publisher began using my work as cover art. It didn’t pay much, but it was exposure.

  In 1974 my dreams of being an artist came true—sort of. Thanks to my friend Jane, who worked for an ad firm, I landed a full time job in a greeting card company in Providence. The paycheck paid the bills for my art supplies and my rent.

  At a party given in celebration of my new job I stood at the window of Jane’s apartment in Providence. I gazed at the skyline across the river.

  The things my aunt taught me often gave me new hope.

  As others clinked wine glasses and gossiped about friends who were not present, or how bellbottoms would soon be out of style, I thought about my own spirituality. How I had to walk through the dark to find the light.

  I looked at the stars. I thought about aunty and her belief in the power of magic. Could I do anything in this life without a shred of Aunt Lil’s teachings coming back? My mother’s stinging words would eventually negate much of the confidence that my aunt had instilled in me. Too bad fear lured me back home to her. Too bad the dark things took control of my life and me by creeping out of memories of Sammy, by reminding me what we’d done.

  My aunt always talked about dark and light—how it meshed with your life and how you had to use both in life’s journey.

  Sammy was darkness, was Jericho all the strokes of gray in between?

  * * *

  My friend Jane was murdered a week after that. They found her sprawled on the floor. Her throat had been slashed and
her eyelids and lips cut off. Nothing was stolen. Her paintings and her money were still in place.

  I thought about Sammy. He had to be dead or back in prison. I tried to call Jericho at a club he said he frequented in Buffalo. I tried to reach Johnny at the construction company he and Jericho worked at in Miami. No one could help me. Everyone said they’d never heard of them. I wondered.

  Six months later my work was featured in Art Magazine. The Modern Museum of Art had purchased several of my paintings for their new “young artists” collection.

  I thought that all my dreams had come true, but I moved back into my parent’s house, fearful that I’d be a victim of violence, fearful that someone would sneak into their home one night and murder them. Anxiety about death and murder plagued me and only drugs and drink could relieve it.

  I still wondered about Jericho. I still wanted him despite my new life.

  There were times when I thought I was fine, that I was over Jericho, but memories of him flooded my mind. I’d fantasize about him coming back into my life just when it was taking shape, becoming normal.

  He just showed up one morning, in a silvery October day-dream, when I was hanging paintings in a gallery on the East Side of Providence. My opening was the following Saturday. I downed a bottle of Pino Grigio, popped some pills. I closed my eyes and traveled to a world I’d created, one that eased the pain of loneliness, one which granted me love.

  Colors danced across the floor and dream cats purred on window ledges. Jericho waltzed in, clad in jeans; hair much too long and he hadn’t shaved in days. He looked terribly sexy. He came up behind me, kissed my neck. His soft whiskers brushed against my skin. “Long time no see.”

  “How do you know—”

  “I read about your show. Took the chance you might be here.”

  There was only a small ad in the Arts section of the Providence Journal in reference to my show. It seemed odd that a man like Jericho would just happen to read that particular paper and see that particular ad. As far as I knew he was miles away from Rhode Island when it was published. It didn’t make sense, but this was my dream; he knew where to find me and what I was doing.

  “I needed to talk to you a while back. Something horrid happened.”

  He gazed at the lines of white powder on a table where frames and mats were piled. He shook his head.

  “New habit? The King’s habit.”

  “I only do it when I don’t sleep. It gets me though the day, so much to do. I’m back home now. I—”

  “Yeah, before long you’ll be rubbing it on your gums when you’re uptight. You’ll even be pumping it into your veins. Julia, hang tight, babe, I’ll find a way for us to be together. For now get rid of the dope, get straight.”

  “It’s none of your business. You’re not in my life.” My voice was softer, telling the secret of this morning. “This is not real. This the only way I can get you back into my life.”

  ”I’ll always be in your life.”

  All reality subsided. His charm, his powerful voice seemed to enchant me. I wanted to be with him, was aching for him and in this reverie he sensed it.

  He bolted the door, drew the blinds and he leaned over to kiss me.

  I couldn’t fight what I felt, love, lust and the need to be close to someone. We made love on a cold linoleum floor that didn’t stay cold long once our sweat smudged its sheen. Jericho’s kisses were powerful, his hands were skilled and seemed to know every secret of my body, making me shudder and climax at their will. My body moved with his in perfect rhythm and his breath was hot in my ear. “That’s it, babe, come on, come on, that’s right.”

  Everything was perfect and beautiful for a while, but then I kept seeing Sammy when I looked in Jericho’s face. I kept hearing my mother calling me a slut and a loser.

  When we finished I asked, “I suppose you’re leaving again.”

  “I’ll be back.” His voice was distant, shaky. I knew that it was only wishful thinking. Things possessed Jericho, made him a prisoner and they’d stop him from coming back. They made me open my eyes and see the darkness of October rotting leaves off trees. They made me see that in the end I’d most likely end up alone.

  The years passed and I stopped waiting for the love of my life. Time made me a helpless and permanent prisoner of my mother’s words, of my past.

  With Sammy it was a way get out of my house, away from my family, but in the end my own mother put me in bondage and I went to the Devil instead.

  * * *

  Is that the Devil calling me now?

  Why is there so much smoke? Why is everything around me crumbling?

  CHAPTER 64

  Just a few more steps to my destination. I stop; rub more coke on my gums. My stomach hurts.

  I round the corner. There are no fires here, no smoke, but this place is so desolate. The stark buildings with broken windows speak of loneliness and sadness. But for the rodents, there is no life here to speak of. The earth is barren. Grass does not grow here. The trees are rotted and stand like sentinels, waving decaying limbs over a realm of abandonment.

  “I told you I’d be back.”

  Jericho.

  He’s leaning against one of the forsaken buildings. He’s older, but handsome. His hair is still long, tied back in a ponytail. There are streaks of gray running through it. He’s wearing jeans, a plain blue t-shirt and a pair of scruffy boots.

  “It’s horrid here. You could have chosen a classier place for our rendezvous.”

  “I wish it was that simple.” He taps brick with his knuckles

  “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “I had to.”

  He cups my chin and kisses me. “You’re still lovely. I wish things could have been different.”

  I watch a rat scurry across dead earth.

  “Bad magic. Death. It’s trapped here, I think.”

  “But it’s the perfect place.”

  “It’s the only place.”

  My eyes burn, like there’s sand in them. They water and Jericho seems to blur and blend into the bricks.

  “He’s been hiding here for the past few days. Normally he comes and goes, but for some reason he hasn’t left the place. I’m not sure if he’s expecting us. I’m not sure what he’s up to. I know that if we don’t end it now he’ll cause more destruction.”

  I want to kiss Jericho, but I slip my arm through his instead. “My aunt always quoted from the covenant of Aracadia. Do not take the life of anything unless it is to preserve life, yours or another’s.”

  We walk through an old café. The floors are torn up. The walls are splattered with graffiti. A broken boxing ring sits a few feet from a bar. Posters from old bouts hang on the walls.

  We go through the back door and walk across a barren room to a set of stairs that lead down to a small alcove.

  There are carvings around an archway. Sinister faces and contorted bodies, hell hounds and horned beings seemed to glare at us.

  “The gates of Hell,” Jericho says solemnly. “Back in the day they used stuff like this where devil worship went down. Demons were supposed to watch over the gateways. I guess it was protection from the wrath of God.” He chuckles. “But the good guys, the apostles or whatever, used stone and wood carvings of angels when they prayed, to keep the Devil away.” His eyes are distant. “Then there are gray areas where fallen angels supposedly congregate. I was in this place in New York once where they had artwork of angels and demons fighting. One angel, a fallen angel guarded the place where they fought. They said dark and light kind of fused, where both God and the Devil supposedly existed…”

  An image of Jericho standing in front of an archway flashes through my mind. There are tombstones in the background and fire blazing beyond the desolate burial ground. Tears trickle from Jericho’s eyes in my vision and the cries of the dead blend with the sounds of crickets and night birds.

  The image fades and Jericho cups my chin. “We’re all prisoners of something or other.”

  So
meone breaks out in laughter.

  “Bound all these years in the place where dark and light fuse.”

  I recognize that laugh. I’m stunned for a moment and then gaze down.

  At the foot of the stairs is an old gray-haired man seated on a shabby chair. He looks broken, like the bums hanging out on the street. But his eyes are still the same.

  “Sammy?”

  Jericho nods. “Twenty-one fucking years. We did the best we could all that time. Darkness and light made a deal; a mystical restraining order. He’s been crafty though. He’s always been closer than you thought. And I couldn’t interfere as long as he held his end of the bargain.”

  “I just want to end it.”

  Sammy holds a book in his hand, reads something and then cradles it between his knees. The Journal of the Macabre. “Julia, you’ve rather caught me off guard. I’d planned to pay you a visit once I’d gotten my nourishment. The witness must spill the blood—the witness—”

  I turn to Jericho. “He’s still crazy. All I need to do is talk to him, get the book. He doesn’t look dangerous. He’s like an old man. It won’t be that difficult.”

  “He thought he had the option of facing you when he was ready, but he doesn’t control the shots. He’s still strong, though. He’ll try to trick you. He’s had years to perfect those tricks. No matter what—no matter what, don’t turn back. He’s still human. Can still be bound by chains and cuffs—can still bleed like the rest of us. He still can die.”

  I feel something I haven’t felt since I was on the road with Sammy. Any minute I’ll awaken from a nightmare. This just can’t be real.