A Passing Curse (2011)

by C R Trolson

  The recoil rocked the rifle against the mounting springs. The blast flared the bedroom white and knocked him back a foot. He felt blood down his nose from the concussion. The spent shell casing ejected with such force that it stuck into the wall, like a small spear, still smoking.

  He could barely see through the cordite haze. The castle looked no different. Had he missed?

  He grabbed the mounting post and pulled himself up. He looked through the scope. A three-inch hole had been punched through Ajax’s window. The rifle had already loaded the round marked with three red rings, the fire. He felt the trigger. Just like Rupert Amos had said, he’d feed Ajax the fire.

  The second explosion knocked her flat. Then flames and the back of her hair crackling, curling up. She smelled burning rope and tried to move but it was like running in deep sand. An oval rug erupted, the burning wool smelling like hair. She tripped and rolled. The smoke was heavy. She held her breath. There was no light. She was going under

  She was dying and strangely relieved. She felt herself being drawn off the rug and onto the smooth wood floor, almost cool. She saw a cold light coming closer, a glimpse of the sun. She heard rain falling, soaking her, flushing the fire.

  30

  When Reese heard her outside fumbling with the lock, he got off the bed, and opened the door. He’d been waiting in her room for over an hour drinking beer. He backed away from the door, feeling unsteady. She pulled her keys from the lock. The door swung open. She was a sight.

  Her face was drawn and ashen, her eyes stark-white, her hair frizzled, the ends burned, her clothes disheveled and sooty. She smelled like a house fire. He went to embrace her but she pushed him away and walked around him. “What happened?” he asked, feeling sick.

  “You dumb bastard,” she said in a hard voice, too tired, he guessed, to muster much anger. It was the first time he’d seen her look vulnerable. He felt an odd wave of warmth for her.

  “You weren’t supposed to be there,” he said lamely. There was no sense denying it.

  “I wasn’t supposed to be there?” She grabbed a towel and wiped her face. She wet another towel in the sink, turned on the vanity lights, and scrubbed around her eyes. She fumbled with the zipper of her pants, and pulled them off. He focused on her. Legs long and tan, her panties incredibly white. He felt drawn to her and uncomfortably hot. She caught him staring and said, “I wasn’t supposed to be there? I was sitting across the desk from him.”

  He tried to hug her but she pushed him away. The heat he’d felt earlier suddenly disappeared.

  “You blew the room up. Ajax got me outside, somehow. Through fire, smoke, it was incredible. He saved my life.” She wiggled out of her shirt. She sat on the bed in panties and bra and ran her fingers through her hair. “The sprinkler system put out the fire before the fire trucks arrived. Ajax told the fire chief that a water heater blew. He took Ajax’s word and left. I didn’t even stay to clean up. I’ve been driving around for an hour.” She wiped her face on the clean towel he brought her and stared at him. “An hour trying to figure things out.”

  “Ajax is alive?”

  “Disappointed?”

  He told her about Pine Creek. He told her about Ajax spreading the virus. The way he planned to distribute the virus. “We’re running out of time,” he said.

  Her face was a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “How do you know Ajax called Unicorn Medical impersonating you? How do you know Ajax sent out bad blood? It could have been a maniac nurse. They’re always killing their patients.” She hit the headboard with the heel of her hand and turned on him. “You almost killed me.”

  “I know, I’m - ”

  “You almost killed me, Reese. There’s not a goddamned thing you can say.”

  “I’m sorry.” He watched her calm herself. Her breathing slowed. He told her about Rupert Amos. He told her what Ajax had done to his landlord.

  “You went off half-cocked,” she said. “Ajax is on his last leg, a basket case, has AIDs for all I know, and you claim he’s planning world destruction and pinning people to walls. Skinning them inside out?”

  “Fit enough to save you.”

  She shook her head. “What makes you think it wasn’t Rawlings, like the Chief said? What makes you think it wasn’t one of a hundred other different possibilities?”

  “Rupert was alive after I shot Rawlings.”

  “It could be Rawlings had a partner. It could be anybody. First you say Ajax is giving orders to a serial killer, then you have him personally killing all these people. You could be right, but you could be wrong. You have no proof. No right to launch rockets at Ajax.”

  “It was a twenty millimeter anti-tank shell, armor piercing, followed by an incendiary round.”

  “I see. I apologize. It was not a rocket. Sorry.” She opened the refrigerator, grabbed a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels, drained it. “I’m ready to tell the cops about you,” she said. “I mean it. If the Chief won’t arrest you, I’ll call the state cops.”

  “The Chief gave me permission.”

  “Permission? The Chief okayed you shooting at Ajax with a cannon? That’s insane. I thought the Chief was Ajax’s partner.”

  “He more or less gave me permission,” Reese said. “He’s having an attack of conscience.”

  “You more or less nearly killed me,” she said. “Your story makes no sense.”

  “Try this,” he said. “Ajax knows I shot at him, so, if he’s innocent, why isn’t he screaming to the FBI? Why’s he telling the fire chief that the water heater blew up?”

  “I have no idea. He hasn’t exactly been himself. Could be from all the fireworks headed his way. Could be he’s feeling the pressure from one highly motivated or simply delusional ex-cop.”

  “You need a doctor.” He pointed to her arm. When she touched the old bruise, he said, “The other arm.”

  She lightly touched the fresh looking bruise. “Ajax grabbed me when he pulled me out of the fire,” she explained. “When he saved my life. That’s all it is. What else could it be?”

  “Hematoma, a skin pop.”

  “What?”

  “Junkies get them all the time.” He grabbed her arm. He rubbed his finger over a scab of blood in the center of black and blue. “Has anyone stuck a needle in you?”

  “Fuck-off.” She twisted away from him. She opened and drained another bottle of whiskey.

  “Do you remember every minute you’ve been with Ajax? No blackouts? No fainting?”

  “Fainting?” She got off the bed and pointed her finger at his face. “You think Ajax is taking my blood? Drugging me. Turning me into a zombie? Don’t you? It’s a bruise, Reese. I’m fine. You need the doctor. A head doctor. I’m serious.”

  He stepped inside her wagging finger and took her by the shoulders. “I’m not worried as much abut Ajax taking your blood as I am about him turning you into a zombie.”

  “Are you listening to yourself?” She twisted out of his grasp. “A zombie? What a beautiful thought. He’s readying me for a career in serial killing? Is that it? I’m his next Homer?”

  He stared at her. She was right. Ajax had no intention of killing her. “He’s saving you. He wants you. He has plans for your future. With him would be my guess.”

  “What?”

  “He loves you.”

  “I don’t believe this shit.” She shook her head slowly, as if disgusted with him, and opened another bottle, gin this time, and drained it. She pointed to the shotgun leaning on the chair holding the brown paper bag. “Now what?”

  “Give me a minute,” he said. He picked up the bag and walked into the bathroom. When he came out, he twirled to let her have a good look. “Like it?”

  She laughed wearily. “Are you taking the vows?”

  He tightened the cord of the priest’s robe and pulled the hood over his head. “It’s me.”

  “You never cease to amaze me,” she said, but managed a smile. “You need therapy, Reese. I’m serious. A few hundred volts of therapy.”<
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  “It’s an old hunting trick,” he said. “To catch a varmint you wait by his hole. You wait by the hole he crawled into. He’ll eventually come out. He’ll show himself.”

  “Ramon’s room?”

  “There’s an aqueduct that runs from Ajax’s house to the mission, to the catacombs directly beneath the room. It’s how Ajax comes back and forth. He’s been doing it for ages.”

  She shook her head as if totally defeated by his logic. He’d been hoping for her encouragement, but he was lucky she was still talking to him. “I told the Chief I’d be in the room dressed as a priest, waiting for Ajax.”

  “I’m sure that impressed him.”

  “Telling the Chief is just like telling Ajax. No difference.”

  “Ajax saved my life, today. I’m fairly sure he’s saved my life before,” she said as if she didn’t half believe it herself. “In Romania. Things like that can leave you conflicted.”

  31

  Reese lit another candle. He didn’t want Ramon’s room too bright, just enough to look comfortable. He wanted to roll out the welcome mat. The priests had washed the floor and walls. There was no blood smell, no death smell, just the lemony, bleachy odor of industrial detergent. The priests were good at cleaning up messes.

  He walked outside. He breathed in the cold air and pulled the hood over his head. The stars twisted above him, haunting the black skies. To the left, topping the hill, the castle gave off a yellow glow, a skull lit by a guttering candle.

  He bet the son of a bitch was staying away from the windows.

  If Rusty had been hurt badly or killed, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. She’d been right about one thing - he’d lost his mind, momentarily. And he wondered if he’d been losing his mind for years and compensating, throwing people off the scent, with alcohol and good acting.

  He moved around the room. He didn’t have time for thinking. Who was he? And what the hell was he doing here? He didn’t have time for introspection. He’d tried to kill Ajax once today and bungled it, and Ajax would be hot for revenge. Ajax would come for him. Ajax was a score settler.

  He stood at the rail briefly and walked back inside. Someone had fixed the latch, but he did not lock the door.

  He picked up a pamphlet titled “The Mission through the Ages” and read how the priests had saved the Indians from the soldiers and how the wonderful priests had taught the less-than-wonderful Indians many useful trades, such as tile and tallow making, and brought them under the umbrella of God.

  He clicked on his flashlight, a Mag-lite the size of a small log. He checked both desk drawers. Empty. The closet, an armoire, the same. Under the plank bed he checked for anything stuck up under the frame. Nothing. He felt under the desk. Nothing.

  He was about to sit down again when something moved along the far wall. He swept the wall with the light, saw nothing. He turned of the light. Points of light popped in his eyes as he stared at the wall.

  He looked under the desk and the bed again. Nothing. He picked up the shotgun from the corner. He checked that it was cocked and on safe and leaned it next to his pry bar, the Mustang’s lug wrench, that he’d brought in case he got bored and wanted to search the walls for loose stones.

  He walked outside again and came back in. He wanted a cigarette. Waiting in Ramon’s room now seemed ridiculous. He’d stay until midnight and spend the rest of the night listening to Rusty tell him how stupid he was. At least she’d forgiven him for nearly killing her. Maybe not forgiven him, but she was still talking to him.

  He idly played the Mag-lite over the far wall and noticed a sandstone block in the corner had a larger than usual space between the next block.

  He used the chisel-edge of the lug wrench, wedging it in the crack, but the block wouldn’t move. He brought the candle from the desk. A draft sucked the flame inside the crack. He chipped at the mortar on the opposite side and found that it was falling away inside the block. Soon he had one block loose. The mortar felt gummy and a little wet. A repair from the last visit?

  According to Lavour, the aqueduct from the springs beneath Ajax’s castle had once emptied into a cistern located in the warren of basements beneath Ramon’s room. Lavour had discounted any secret doors, but said it was possible. Anything was possible in an old mission with walls six feet thick in some places.

  He’d already thought about getting a search warrant, but the priests and the Chief would have balked at any sort of demolition, balked at anything to uncover the truth.

  As he worked, he was not only helped by the candlelight but also by the moonlight from the high window, lighting the stone pale blue.

  He was still chipping away, silently cussing himself for hurting Rusty, when the stone began to move.

  He backed up, grabbed the shotgun, and pushed the safety to fire. The stone opened, revealing a black hole. He fired.

  A blossom of red hit the wall, the smell of burning milk. He jacked the slide. He fired again, bucking from the recoil, and kept firing until the magazine was empty.

  He grabbed the Mag-lite. He checked the wall but saw no blood. He coughed from the cordite. He’d seen blood a second earlier but now there was none. The wall was clean.

  The stone had been pushed into the room and there was now a good sized hole in the wall, leaving a crawl space. He shined the light down the hole but saw nothing. How long before the cops came about the gunshots and found him holding a shotgun and dressed like a priest?

  Something hit him from behind. A punch glanced off his left shoulder and he turned. Whoever it was looked big and was bunching-up for another punch. Reese stepped out of the way and hit the kidney with the a straight shot from the butt stock. The light hit the floor and rolled flashing against the wall. The room filled with the smell of garbage left in the sun.

  The figure was dressed in a black jogging suit and ski mask. Reese was about to blow his head off when the jogger grabbed the shotgun and pulled it from him like taking candy from a child.

  The jogger was trying to break the shotgun over his knee when Reese kicked him in the chest. The jogger dropped the shotgun and Reese scrambled for it. The jogger kicked him in the head and Reese saw lights and more lights until he madly grabbed for the shotgun and got off a shot as the jogger fled down the crawlspace.

  Reese breathed heavy to clear his head. He heard scratching. He put the barrel inside the crawl space and pulled the trigger. Click. He fumbled through the robe for extra shells. They kept dropping on the floor. His fingers felt like logs. He had three shells in when he saw the nozzle.

  There was a rush of air and drops cold-wet on his leg, the smell of gasoline. He was nearly behind the door when the igniter snapped and the fireball hit the door, throwing him into the hall.

  He crawled, keeping low, heading for the steps, turning to see napalm, sheets of it, boiling into the hallway. The corner blocks glowing orange. The handrail burning.

  The heat forced him down the stairs. The robe was smoking, getting heavier. He smelled sulfur, heard finally the chugging of the empty flamethrower, and kept running.

  Ajax watched the growing fire. Even from this distance, he could feel the heat on his face, like a warm heart beating.

  He watched the cinders swirl in miniature cyclones. If he was lucky, the Santa Ana winds would blow down the canyons tonight and spread the fire to the beach, taking the town with it. If he was lucky.

  But he had already been lucky twice today, lucky he hadn’t been killed by the intrepid policeman, lucky that Penelope hadn’t been hurt.

  Lucky that only his jacket had been singed. The room had been damaged slightly, a smoky residue on the walls that Ted had already wiped clean. His sprinkler system had soaked the floors, but the security guards and Ted had dried them with towels. He’d told the suspicious fire chief that a gas heater had exploded. The absurd little man had warned him about proper ventilation and almost issued a citation. Imagine!

  Reese was turning out to be more of a rogue than he could have hoped for. />
  He jumped and clicked his heels thinking about his party tomorrow night. Governor William Smith and his entourage of money men and their wives were always such fun. And now they had a chance to sing for their supper. He suddenly hoped the town didn’t burn. He did not want to reschedule the party or have Mr. Smith distracted by a tour of the smoldering town, gripping hands and grimacing valiantly for the camera.

  Reese ran. Two hundred yards from the mission, his shadow trimmed in orange, he turned and watched the flames jump fifty feet. The mission was filled with fire and the figures of robed priests running and shouting as dry roof timbers exploded like mortars, launching sparks into the night.

  He watched the priests break open emergency fire stations and unfurl hoses. They were not panicking. He ran backwards, backpedaling, watching the spectacle. They did not need his help and he did not need to answer questions. He had not set the fire.

  A meteor arced out of the mission, shot across the sky, and came towards him. He was suddenly very tired. He stood transfixed, watching the fireball lazily fall to earth, strangely hoping it would hit him.

  The tree to his right detonated. Blew up. A wave of heat knocked him down.

  He slapped his flaming robe, singeing his hand, got up and continued to run. He hiked the robe up to run faster, wondering how silly he looked.

  Bright headlights picked him up. Men shouted, air brakes whooshed, engines rumbled. Firemen scrambled off the truck. Tools clanked, a hose was rolled out and attached to a hydrant.

  “You OK?” someone yelled and water showered the burning tree. Steam rolled off the pavement. “You’re still smoking, Buddy!”

  They hit him with a torrent of water that sent him skidding across the pavement, nearly drowning him. He staggered to his feet and a fireman helped him into the passenger seat of a patrol car.