Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  She missed her Juzek. She could feel the calluses wearing away from the tips of her fingers, the muscle tone easing back. The police finally issued a report, inconclusive, but sufficient for a claim with the insurance company. The adjustor issued a check for six thousand, much less than the Juzek was worth on today’s market, but more than enough to find an acceptable replacement.

  She kept the check pinned against the refrigerator with a magnet for now. Ithaca was no place to shop for a bass. She needed to get herself down to David Gage’s shop in Manhattan, or Barry Kolstein’s in Long Island. There, she could find a worthy instrument.

  She avoided the Commons. Only weirdos and winos ventured through those wastes at this time of the night. She turned down State passed the Chanticleer and the old movie theatre where she had seen Toy Story and Pocahontas when she was ten. It was a music venue now, bringing the usual second-tier stuff that the local market could support. Occasionally, some big shot performers used Ithaca as an oasis in a wasteland of dairy and forest between gigs in Toronto and Manhattan. Some could lure enough butts in seats to justify a stopover.

  She perused the names, and found nothing special: second tier comedians, jam bands, 80s rock acts who might be better off playing senior centers. On a post flanking the marquee she found the rain-faded remnants of a Wayne Shorter poster. Now that was a show she would have turned out for, though she had still been in the midst of her doldrums in Tokyo when he passed through Ithaca. She wondered how many people her age even knew who Wayne Shorter was, or cared.

  She stepped away, to encounter another poster, its corners crisp, announcing an ‘exclusive engagement’ by the Isaac Davis Quartet featuring … she couldn’t believe it … her heart careened off its cage … Hollis Brooks.

  Her head all woozy, she gasped and crumpled to the sidewalk, blinking tears away, folding her legs with some grace beneath her, cradling her face in her hands.

  She had no idea no who this Isaac Davis was, but … Hollis? In Ithaca?

  Sure, she was ready to go Hollis hunting in Manhattan, but to have him delivered to her doorstep. She didn’t know how to feel. She wasn’t ready to deal with it.

  She got up and stumbled away, but doubled back to a telephone pole where another flyer had been scotch-taped. She peeled it off and crumpled it into her coat pocket.

  Suddenly, she had lost all desire to roam, but she was hungry. There was an all night diner a block and a half down the street. A quick bite and she could retreat home, hop back into bed and salvage what was left of the night.

  Hollis. In Ithaca! Did he know she lived here now? How could he? They had rarely discussed her past when they toured together. What past? Compared to Hollis, she was just a blip. As far as he knew she was some kid from Baltimore.

  She wondered if he would let her sit in, if she showed up at the gig, though she knew better than to question. Of course he would. Hollis was notorious for his open stage policy. In Osaka, he had once let some middle school kid with a trumpet sit in on a formal concert. Life was one big open jam to him.

  The prospect of playing with him again chilled her, though it had been ages since she played any real jazz. Her chops had gone to shit. And she had nothing had to practice with. That blonde Fender in the window was looking better and better.

  Her head was still swirling when she stepped into the State Street Diner. A sleepy-looking couple glanced up from their coffee. A tiny girl in footie pajamas dozed in the booth, draped over her mother’s lap.

  No one else was in the establishment. A wizened waitress came over immediately to take her order—fries and gravy with a chocolate shake.

  “If we were married, we could come along with you. The government would even pay our way.”

  Aerie didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but the place was so quiet, even with the radio playing classic rock in the background.

  “To Texas, LouAnne? Texas? You and Crissy want to live in Texas? Meanwhile, I’d be in Kandahar.”

  “What’s wrong with Texas? It’d be better than—”

  “Let’s not talk about this right now. Okay?”

  “Then when? We’ve got two hours before you have to get on that bus.”

  Aerie had worried the fries would come lukewarm and limp from under a heat lamp, but the cook made a plate up fresh and dribbled it with steaming gravy. She nibbled at the edges of the heap.

  Follow him, Aerie wanted to tell the girl. Don’t let him get away. You might never get him back.

  She stared at the remaining fries and wondered why she ordered them. The shake was so thick it clogged the straw. She drank it in tiny sips, playing with packets of sugar and Sweet’N Low.

  So what was Hollis to her? An idol? A mentor? Yes and yes, but what else?

  He was never her lover, nor could he be called a father substitute. The feelings she held towards him seemed layered and paradoxical. This was no garden variety crush, that was for sure. The relationship was complicated by taboos of all sorts: age, race, business.

  And what was she to him? That was a whole ‘nother question for sure.

  Some cops came in for a cup of coffee. Like a fugitive from the law, Aerie screened her face with a menu. It was silly, but she had had enough of men with badges.

  Her reflection in the window startled and troubled her. She had let her hair grow into a nest of snakes, obliterating the cute little layer cut she had sported in Tokyo. She had to stop wearing flannel shirts, like some prissy lumberjack. Somehow, she had reverted to her high school grunge. She couldn’t let Hollis see her this way.

  The radio played a string of resurrected rockabilly. The tunes were stripped down and laced with punk, not her kind of thing at all, but they nevertheless stirred an intense urge in Aerie’s fingers to walk through changes. It made her rise from the booth and plop down some bills to cover the food and tip. She had to get out of this place and get home before she went insane. Some wine, a couple Benadryls and maybe then she could crash.

  Heart pounding, she stepped out of the fluorescent glare and back into the world of shadows and shifty winds. She followed State down to the cross street that cut over to her block in the dimmer, residential fringes of downtown Ithaca. Her head throbbed. She had to get home and sleep off what remained of this bugger of a night.

  Half a block from the diner, she heard something soft and scratchy coming from behind a wall of concrete block, topped with razor wire. It was music, so to speak, disconcerting because it sounded so familiar. She diverted course past a triple decker and circled the wall until she came to a chained gate with a gap wide enough to let a person squeeze by.

  The sound came from a loft over a garage, the flail of a familiar guitar. Yet another spike of current jolted her heart, and boosted her already zooming adrenalin buzz. Only one person she knew could make a pre-war Martin D-18 sound like a grizzly bear mauling a wire mesh fence.

  She slipped through the gate, wary for dogs and picked her way through a boneyard of old BMW and Volkswagen hulks and husks.

  A dim light flickered in a dirty window. She squinted up at the hunched silhouette within.

  “Yo, Ron!”

  Chapter 36: Avenging Angel

  Faint traces of half-burnt kerosene wafted through the already stuffy departure lounge of Peachtree Charters. Tammie kept smothering her purse with her arms and then a magazine in an attempt to hide the fumes. She looked flustered.

  “Keep your purse open, Tam. It needs oxygen to bur—I mean catalyze.”

  “You were gonna say burn, weren’t you?”

  “Nah. I told you Tam, it’s not a flame. It’s a catalytic process. There’s a platinum coating, I believe, that keeps it crackling without actually burning.”

  “Then what happens to the Holy Fire, if there’s no flame?”

  “It’s the essence that matters: the excitement of electrons. As long as we pass that on without interruption, the Holy Fire is sustained.”

  “They ain’t gonna let us on with these,” said Tammie. “I don’t care how
much you paid for this charter.”

  “Tammie … you just read your magazine. Let me sweat the details.”

  Donnie thumbed through the Moody Deliverance Manual. This time he was determined not to get caught flat-footed. This time he did his homework, searching the manual for extreme instruments, rites with powers that went beyond the ordinary, with caveats of risk for the wielder, but with that extra bite necessary for the most special of Satan’s spawn. He wanted rites worthy of the special brand of Holy Fire he and Tammie were bearing north.

  The speed of his rebound surprised him, and that it came mainly from his own heart. Mac had been firm but unthreatening in his demands for Donnie to come and complete the deliverance. Donnie had been thinking about returning to Connecticut Hill ever since his spat with Jerry. He had redemption on his mind. When Mac called, it had only reinforced his conviction.

  He had never run from a job before, but he had never had his body invaded like that, either. He intended to return the favor to whatever entity lurked at that hell house. He hoped to restore his own pride in his craft, besides saving some face with his staff.

  This time, at least, he’d be ready for assaults on his inner constitution. He had started a daily prophylaxis of doxycycline with an emergency scrip for Ciprofloxacin, Cipro for short, to vanquish any stomach bugs that got through the first line of defenses.

  He wouldn’t be taking any chances with tainted food either. His luggage was loaded with a week’s worth of MREs, prepackaged and sterile meals with a ten year shelf life. If these entities wanted a piece of him, they would have to go after him face to face, no more commando raids via their microbial minions.

  “You know, I’m not feeling very good, Donnie.”

  “It’s just nerves, Tam. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’ve already faced them once, and you held up great.”

  “No Donnie, I think it’s these fumes. They’re giving me a headache.”

  “It’s the lounge. It’s too small and stuffy. Why don’t you go back out into the terminal and get yourself some fresh air? Once we board, we can just turn up the vents and we should be fine.”

  Two pilots walked through the lounge and into an office. One had a baby face and slender, effeminate frame, Donnie was not quite sure of his or her gender. His colleague, all rumpled and paunchy, wore a raggedy beard with long strands that strayed like tentacles.

  “Jesus,” Donnie muttered. “These two sure don’t inspire confidence. What kind of charter did we contract?”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” said Tammie. “My daddy’s used Peachtree before.”

  A woman in pants suit and heels hustled out of the office. She wielded a scratched and dented metal-detecting wand like a tennis racket. “Alright, you all. We seem to be ready to board.”

  Donnie stared at the wand. “Eh, what’s that for? Isn’t this is a charter flight, ma’am?”

  “Just a quick check to satisfy FAA regs.” Her face puckered. She squinted and sniffed. She blinked and reeled back. “Excuse me sir, but is there something burning on your person?”

  “Burning? Oh no. It’s a catalytic process. It’s not technically a flame.”

  She swept the wand across Donnie’s torso. Lights flashed, and the wand wailed. She reached out and tapped the hard lump in his coat pocket. “Pardon me, but I’m going to have to ask you to empty your pockets.”

  “This? This is nothing,” said Donnie, reaching in and pulling out a red cloth sack. A dome of chromed steel peeked out. “It’s just a Zippo hand warmer.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but …” She chuckled nervously. “We can’t allow incendiary devices on this plane.”

  “Incendiary? What? It’s just a hand warmer. What’s going on here? I thought this was my charter. I mean I paid for the whole damned plane.”

  The older, scruffier pilot wandered over. “Problem, Charlene?”

  “This man wants to bring an open flame on board.”

  “Flame? I told you there’s no—”

  “Smell that?” said the woman, looking up at the pilot.

  “That’s him? I thought it was JP4 from the tarmac.”

  “It’s just lighter fluid,” said Donnie. “No big deal. Hunters, campers use these all the time.”

  The woman forced a trembly smile and gave Donnie a deep and earnest stare-down with her over-mascaraed eyes. “Sir. I guarantee you all won’t be needing any hand warmers on this flight. We provide blankets on request. And if you ask nice, I’m sure the guys will be happy to turn up the heat. So can you please extinguish that device?”

  “This has nothing to do with keeping warm.” Donnie pulled out his wallet and handed over a pair of business cards. “See there, I’m a deliverance Minister. What we’ve got here is a bit of what we call Holy Fire, a very special Holy Fire. Comes from a mosque in Jacksonville that was struck by lightning the day after 9-11. Our team collected it, and kept it burning ever since. It’s been useful for some of our more difficult cases. In our hands, it’s no risk so whatsoever. You see, the whole reason I chartered this plane was because we needed to get it north in a hurry. Normally we use ground transportation, but seeing that this is a charter flight, I didn’t think there would be a problem.”

  The pilot’s cheeks bloomed red. “Mister … um … I mean Reverend … I understand your whole deal … and I appreciate your service to your country and your faith, but as pilot of this craft, I’m just not comfortable with the concept of a metal canister of kerosene under a hot manifold on board the passenger cabin of my turboprop. And if I’m not comfortable, we don’t fly. It’s just the way it is.”

  Donnie shuffled his feet. Sweat blistered on his brow. “But it’s not a safety risk. I know how to handle these things. We do it all the time.” He took a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “Does this mean we get to go home?” said Tammie, her face buoyant with the prospect of their excursion being scuttled. She pulled her hand warmer out of her purse and dangled it from her fingers by its golden drawstring.

  “Oh Lordie.” The pilot rolled his eyes. “She’s got one, too.”

  An ash tray caught Donnie’s eye in the charter company’s office.

  “What about smoking?”

  “Excuse me?” said the woman.

  “Cigarettes. Do you allow them?”

  “Well, we prefer not to,” said the pilot. “It’s hard to get the smell out of the cabin, and it bothers some of our clients. But I mean, we have … on certain occasions.”

  “There’s a surcharge,” said the woman.

  “We’ll pay it,” said Donnie. He fished a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and shoved it into Tammie’s palm. “You go back to that little duty free shop in the terminal and pick up a couple cartons of Marlboros.”

  “But neither of us smoke, Donnie.”

  “We do now.” He grabbed her arm as she started to walk away, and whispered: “We don’t have to inhale. Just take a puff once in a while to keep the damned things lit.”

  ***

  The turboprop banked steeply over Seneca Lake as it began its descent into Ithaca. Donnie leaned over in his leather seat and pressed his forehead against the window. The thick triangle of rumpled forest that was Connecticut Hill sprawled right below them.

  Tendrils of smoke snaked through the cabin. Tammie coughed. “Man is my throat sore, but I can see why people get into this. It is sort of calming.”

  “I told you, you didn’t have to inhale, Tam.” A long tail of ash curled up at the tip of his Marlboro.

  “Couldn’t help it. I was bored.”

  “Last thing I want is to get you hooked on tobacco. What’re our parents going to think about me?”

  “I’m a big girl now. I get to pick my own bad habits.”

  “Believe me, this is not one you want. I’d rather you smoked crack.”

  “It’s not like I’m a nicotine addict. It’s only been like, what? Three cigarettes?”

  “The Swains. Do they have a fireplace? Do you remember?�
��

  “Oh, they got a fireplace alright,” said Tammie. “A great big one.”

  “When we get out to Connecticut Hill, I’m starting a big roaring fire, and the rest of these cartons are going straight into it.”

  Tammie shrugged. “Fine with me.”

  “We’ll get that thing stoked. A great big angry fire. It’s more potent when it’s angry. It kind of remembers its roots that way.”

  “And then we light the candles?”

  “A hundred, solid beeswax, two each borne by true believers. Hopefully Mac’s been able to mobilize his parish.”

  Tammie sat up straighter in her seat. “Well, then. I’m kind of looking forward to this. I gotta admit I was kind of skittish about coming back up here, but now I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Ah, that’s just the nicotine talking.”

  “Nuh-uh. This is gonna be exciting. Kinda like … going to war.”

  “Not too exciting, I hope,” said Donnie, as the plane swooped down over Cayuga like an avenging angel. “I just want to get ‘er done.”

  Chapter 37: Lairs

  Aerie maneuvered through a junkyard crammed with many wrecked examples of fine Bavarian engineering. Chrome strips and mangled metal jutted everywhere, threatening to gouge an eye or snag her clothing.

  “Ron!” she shouted.

  The array of tangled chords aborted mid-progression as a hand clamped down and muted the strings. The silhouette scurried back from the window. Aerie heard the woody clunk of a vintage guitar colliding with a wall.

  “Ron, it’s just me. Aerie.”

  The silhouette returned. The window swung open.

  “Holy crap. How did you know I was here?”

  “How do you think? I could hear you from the street.”

  “Shit. Am I that loud?” He looked out over the lot.

  “Loud enough.”

  A sweeper truck crept past on State Street, its soft hum rising and falling in a slow motion Doppler effect.

  “Are you just gonna gawk at me out that window, or can we talk?”

  “Um … yeah,” he said, uncertainly. “Why don’t you come on in through the garage. There’s a ladder up to the loft. You’re alone, right?”

  “Of course I’m alone.”