by J. R. Rain
Good to know, I thought.
Yes, came Talos’s words. I imagine it is.
But won’t she know any of my plans once I transform back?
The mind is a mysterious thing, Samantha Moon, capable of shielding and boxing and fragmenting.
Fragmenting? Are you suggesting multiple personalities?
It is an idea, Sam. You can safely keep her in one area of your mind, and you can live your life in another area, free of her input, free of her snooping. Free of her completely. She could be, in effect, locked up for all eternity.
This is quite a concept.
Indeed.
And scary as hell.
It doesn’t have to be.
I am afraid of her, Talos.
Only your own fear can keep you from reclaiming your body, and your mind, Sam. Dracula is evidence of it. He is afraid of the entity known as Gerald. And thus, Gerald has control over him.
I nodded. I had seen it. Heard it.
And you will help me, Talos?
I am here to help and to serve.
Let’s talk about this later, I thought. It’s hurting my head.
My head, too, came the deep reply, followed by an internal wink.
We flew in a slow counterclockwise circle, and I searched the landscape for a boy-shaped bright light—or for a monster-shaped bright light swimming in the deeper waters. So far, nothing. Not even the big female catfish. Maybe she’d been caught. Or maybe she was hidden, or had burrowed into the silt. Then again, this was a big lake. I couldn’t see everything at all times, try as I might. And I did try. For the next half hour or so. Circling, circling...
Later, along the north side of the lake, moving through what I knew to be tall grass and low scrubby trees, were four figures. Human figures. Adult human figures. Who they were, I didn’t know. What they were up to at this time of night, I didn’t know that either. I figured it was time to get some more answers.
I touched down not too far from them. I shifted, and donned my crime-fighting outfit: jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt.
Ready for business...
Chapter Twenty-nine
They were drunk. As skunks.
They had with them a bevy of weapons: two rifles, a shotgun, a high-powered BB gun, and a hunter’s bow. Four guys, four weapons, and lots of bullets and booze. And all piling into a shaky rowboat at best.
This isn’t going to end well, I thought. I didn’t need a prophetic dream to know that.
As I stepped out of the reeds and into a small clearing, one of them saw me. “Whoa. You here to find the monster, too?” he asked.
As soon as he did so, the other three turned and saw me, then raised their weapons high and gave a sort of drunken, hillbilly cheer. It combined whistles and catcalls and something that could have been a yodel. One guy, I was certain, was making a bovine mooing sound. All of it involved inebriated, uninhibited exuberance. And wild optimism, too. To the man, they believed they were going to find the lake monster, and put an end to it and its reign of terror.
Yes, just today the word had gotten out about the attack in the lake, an attack that had left one boy dead with missing limbs. The city was on high alert, and, I suspected, the rest of the country was perking up, too. I had even seen one or two news vans parked around the lake during my flyover.
“Yes,” I said, as I approached them. “I am.”
That got another rousing round of high-pitched war cries. Weapons were pumped into the air. One of them accidentally went off. The high-powered BB gun, with a muffled poof, and the others laughed and chided the guy for bringing his BB gun. The boat rocked and wobbled.
“Well, make room for the missus,” said the loudest of them all, the guy waving the shotgun. The guy who clearly meant business. The biggest gun and all that...
I brushed off the suggestion, and asked, “What do you boys know of the lake monster?”
“Tore up some kid!”
“Been hearing about it all my life!”
“Dunno, but its ass is grass!”
“Reminds me, who brought the weed?”
“We will drink from its skull!”
I sighed, not sure this was going to go anywhere. “Has anyone here actually seen it?”
That quieted them down, and I noted they all turned to a big guy wearing suspenders, the guy who was sporting an actual bow over one meaty shoulder. Actual arrows spouted from a quiver strapped to his back. He looked like Robin Hood and the Merry Men all rolled into one.
Now that the spotlight had caught him, he shrugged shyly. I took a step closer and under his weight, the rowboat of fools almost capsized.
“I saw something,” he said, shrugging. “The other night.”
“What did you see?”
“Who wants to know?”
And then the others chimed in, in full herd mentality, which might have been the reason for the mooing:
“—yeah, who the hell are you?”
“—and what the hell are you doing out here alone?”
“—you a reporter?”
“—say, did I used to date you?”
“—in your dreams, Jimbo.”
Enough, I shouted. Or, rather, projected loudly, in my mind.
And that seemed to do it. All four men reeled, blinked, and stared at me, not sure what had happened, or why they had a sudden need to be silent. I’d never done a group suggestion before, so this was fascinating.
They continued blinking and breathing loudly, and smelling of beer and cheap booze, and way too much sweat. There was something else in the air, too, and not the stinky lake.
Testosterone, I thought. I hadn’t known I could actually smell it, but I think that’s what it was. A mix of nerves and hot air and wasted energy.
I focused my intent on the big guy in overalls. Talk, I commanded.
Back in the day, I’d had a problem with taking over someone’s will. Now, not so much. I saw it as useful, and even kind of fun, which worried me. But in doing so, I gave the bitch within me hope and strength, which was why I didn’t do it too often. At least, that was what I told myself. Truth was, I feared I might start enjoying it too much. Or she might. And that’s when things started getting murky. When did I drop off and she begin, and vice versa?
“I was out last night,” said Hillbilly Hood. “Fishing the spillage pipe, when I saw it.”
“Walk me through it.”
He did. He was fishing here on the bank when he heard a splashing sound coming from a spillage channel that was nearby. The Redneck of Sherwood hadn’t heard about the attack yet—no one had; in fact, it had gone a full day without word being leaked out—and so, he hadn’t thought much of the sound. He investigated anyway, and what he did see was the world’s biggest catfish (his words) in a sort of death roll with something big and slithery. He hadn’t, admittedly, seen what it was struggling with. But he’d caught something gleaming in the light of his flashlight, and then it was gone, dragging the catfish down with it.
“Then this morning, I hear about a kid getting all ate up. And I figure I must have seen the thing. Or part of it.”
I gave him a sort of mental release, a mental snap of my fingers, and he blinked and looked at the others, all of whom were staring forward at me. Oops. I’d released them as well, and now they all were shaking their heads and running their fingers through their hair, far less subdued than they had been just minutes earlier.
I should have felt badly for zapping their enthusiasm, but I didn’t. At the rate they had been going, one of them was bound to blow a hole in the bottom of the boat—or lodge an arrow in a friend’s neck. At least now, they wouldn’t be lake monster food.
Let’s hope, I thought, and turned in the direction of the spillage tributary.
Chapter Thirty
Fifty-odd years ago, Lake Elsinore had run dry.
That hadn’t been good for business, and the city had taken measures for that to never happen again. One such measure was for water to feed continuously into the lake fr
om a regional water reclamation plant. Indeed, something drastic had to be done to replenish a lake that loses 14,000 acre-feet of water a year due to evaporation. That’s the equivalent of 4.56 billion gallons a year. The lake is, after all, right smack-dab in an honest-to-God desert. And, yes, any good private eye uses the crap out of Wikipedia.
Now, as I stood behind a protective chain-link fence, I could see the highly purified reclaimed water pouring into the lake along a cement channel, itself heavily overgrown with grasses and reeds, which acted as a final filtration process for the water.
I had dipped inside Friar Huck’s mind as he relayed his story. Yes, he had indeed seen what he’d claimed to have seen. He had even shone his high-powered spotlight on the crazy battle. He had just caught the massive catfish in a sort of death-roll... with something. Something big. Something black and shining and rubbery-looking. Serpentine.
Here be monsters, I thought, as I looked down into the overgrown ditch, and listened to the rushing flow of highly-filtered water into the lake.
In the night, I saw many bright spots of light. Smaller creatures. Jumping creatures. Frogs, and lots of them. All shining with their own inner light, and all visible to me. But that was it. Nothing bigger than a frog.
I waited another hour, searching, scanning, listening—and worrying about my daughter. Then I felt a strong need to move on. There was, after all, one man I had my eye on. One man who might shed some answers to Luke’s disappearance.
I pulled out my cell phone and brought up the Google map app, and saw that a jogging trail followed the overgrown ditch to the water reclamation plant, and beyond. In fact, the path and ditch led directly to Luke’s apartment complex, which sat, coincidentally, at the far end of the path. I also noted something else along the path. A certain popular landmark. It was situated about a mile or two from Luke’s apartments, on a hillside overlooking all of Lake Elsinore.
Aimee’s Castle.
Chapter Thirty-one
We were in his living room, drinking black coffee, and not having a very easy time of communicating.
Raul Cruz was in his late seventies, according to his wife. And although spry and spunky, his accent was so thick that I was having a devil of a time understanding the man. When he’d answered the door—holding an aluminum baseball bat over one shoulder—I had explained who I was and said I was looking into the disappearance of Luke Jensen. I next showed him my private investigator’s license—the one where I’m covered in a half pound of make-up. He read it carefully, nodded, and invited me in. He eased the bat down into an umbrella holder. Side note: there were no umbrellas in it.
That’s when our communication started to break down. He said something, and I nodded and smiled politely, and he shuffled off into the kitchen. I might have heard the word café, which seemed safe enough. While he clanged about, I studied the many portraits of Christ that adorned the living room walls above the many low bookcases. I even stood in front of a beautifully ornate crucifix and noted, once again, that I felt nothing. No repulsion. No angst or anxiety. Jesus, I think, was all right with me.
Soon, the scent of coffee wafted from the kitchen, and with it another question from Raul. At least, I think it was a question. I gave a noncommittal—and perhaps even nonhuman—grunt, and shortly he returned with two steaming mugs of black coffee. Damn, I could have used some cream and sugar. Stupid language barrier.
Now, as we sat in his living room, I noted the distinct absence of a TV. I also noted a lack of any computers, laptops, tablets, iPhones, Xboxes and Kindles. Just books, and lots of them. Most of which had Spanish titles. A comfy-looking chair sat under a reading lamp. A book was propped open over one the chair’s plush arms. His reading nook looked so inviting that I wanted to curl up with one of his books, even if it was in Spanish.
He tried English again, and I tried listening again, but I was quickly beginning to realize my Spanish was better than his English. And I didn’t speak Spanish. I considered my options, and decided to go within.
I took Raul with me.
***
Can you hear me? I asked, projecting my thoughts.
Raul’s eyes widened.
I mean you no harm, I thought.
Who are you?
I nodded, pleased. I knew that with a meeting of the minds, language was clarified, intent was emphasized. I still heard his accent, and I still felt him struggling with English, searching for the words. With intent, the meaning was clear. There were no hardened, strained vocal cords to get in the way.
I considered a white lie, but then shrugged. After all, there was a very good chance I was going to wipe his memory clean of my visit anyway. Besides, I was sensing that the old man could handle the truth. Why I sensed that, I didn’t know. Maybe he had strong faith. Maybe something else.
I’m a vampire.
Everyone reacted differently to me slipping into their minds. Some let me in easily, and didn’t skip a beat. Others were on guard, their bodies tense, their internal selves ready to fight me off as best as they could. Most couldn’t fight me off. At best, they could clutter their minds so full of nonsense that I couldn’t read their thoughts, as had been the case with the old man in Fullerton, a few years back. Others slipped into a semi-hypnotized state. Raul was vacillating a little between the last two: on guard one moment, eyes drowsy the next.
I thought you looked different, Senora Moon.
Señorita, I thought, and wished I knew the Spanish equivalent for Ms., if there was one. Different, how?
I could not see your body light.
My aura.
Si. Yes, your aura.
You can see those?
He nodded, then surprised me with: I am a brujo, Señorita. Among other things.
I knew the term well. Mexican witchcraft. I had a friend out of the City of Orange. A sister private eye who, after a few drinks, had admitted to me one night that she came from a long line of brujas. My friends are weird.
He nodded, picking up on my own thoughts. Si. Señora Cruz. Mi sobrina. My niece. She is, ah, how do you say? Muy powerful. Very, very powerful. Perhaps the most powerful of us all.
I looked around his house, at the crucifix and portraits of Christ. You are Catholic, too?
He grinned and sat back in his comfy chair and his perfectly positioned lamplight caught his surprisingly smooth face. Late seventies, but he had the skin of a forty-year-old man. Or of a vampire.
No, senora. No vampires. And I am not afraid of you. Indeed, you would do well to tread lightly here. He tapped his skull. You might very well find something here that you wish you hadn’t.
Message received, I thought. I am here only for information.
Very well. And to answer your question: the paintings you see are my personal visions.
You painted these?
Si. I have, what you say, a personal connection to He who is called Christos. I’ve had it from an early age. I have it today. I paint and carve the images I see. I sell them. I speak to Him, too. Often. Every day.
And he, ah, Christos, doesn’t have a problem with, um...
Witchcraft? he asked.
Si, I thought, then added: I mean yes.
He shrugged. It’s never come up. Truthfully, I do not practice it much. The power is strong with the females in my family. I have only gotten a whiff of it. But enough to repel you, if need be.
Fair enough, I thought.
You wish to know about the boy?
Raul told me what he knew of Luke Jensen. The boy was a good enough boy. He’d always been trouble, but Raul had seen some changes in him. Positive changes. Raul spent most of his time on his front porch, with his friends and family. (His wife was presently asleep in the back room.)
He kept an eye on the neighborhood, and had seen it go through many changes. Most people kept a wide berth of his home. Most knew of his family’s history in Mexican witchcraft. Most wanted no part of it. People, Raul said, were smarter than they looked. But one kid kept coming around. Luke Jens
en. He would sit with Raul and tell him about his day, about school, about his mom and her many boyfriends. Raul knew what was going on with his mother, too, knew she was turning tricks, and gave the boy a safe haven. He’d watched Luke get into much trouble. He’d also seen Luke do a lot of good, too. A number of times, Raul had scared off the local bullies.
Once or twice, those same bullies didn’t learn their lessons. Those same bullies didn’t come around here again. Those same bullies were long gone. To where, I didn’t know, and didn’t ask. But in Raul’s mind, I sensed the bullies had brought out a darkness in Raul that he was not proud of. I slipped away from those darker, hidden thoughts, and eased back front and center. Raul nodded, and we continued our internal dialogue. I noted that his wide-eyed look was softening. He was getting used to me being in his head, trusting me. Good.
Of late, Luke had started his own lawn mowing business. Which was a good thing, according to Raul. Luke had also been hanging out with a troublemaker. A real honest-to-God troublemaker that Raul didn’t like. Johnny. Yes, Raul had heard of the incident on the lake, an incident that had left Johnny partially consumed. Raul, if you asked me, didn’t seem too torn up about it. I let that thought go, too.
A few months of honest work had done wonders for Luke, Raul thought. It had started shaping the boy into an independent young man and Raul couldn’t have been more pleased.
I saw in him something special.
Special how?
The boy, Luke, has a special gift. I can see it within his aura, as you call it.
What do you see?
Better I show you, Samantha Moon.
And he did, giving me a peek inside his memory. Seeing memories is tricky business. Many memories were amorphous and subject to change over time. Memories were often infused with other relevant memories... and sometimes not-so-relevant memories. The greater the impact, the sharper, more accurate the memory. Major, life-altering, or powerful things were emblazoned quite accurately.
His memory unspooled before me. There was Luke Jensen sitting right where I was sitting, listening to Raul and nodding, and smiling and holding a can of Coke. This was Luke’s safe place, away from his whoring mother, abusive johns, local gangbangers, drug dealers and addicts, and troublemakers in general. Here, Luke was coached by Raul, taught by a kindly old man, to think for himself, to work hard, to believe in himself, to find the good in all things, especially in himself. Hell, I wouldn’t have minded a lecture from Raul myself. The man was inspiring, and I could see the brightness on Luke’s young face as he took it all in.