When The Tik-Tik Sings

by Doug Lamoreux

  “I know. I know. But they know me, for Christ's sake. We work for the same city. They treated me like a punk with a rap sheet. My child is gone. My wife is fighting for her life and they practically accused me of—”

  “Stop it, Paco. I know you're hurting and I want to help you. But you've got to come clean, bro. You lied to Erin last night, and I goddam well know it. What I don't know is, why? What's it about?”

  Ben was cut off by a chime of bells, and an insistent voice over a loudspeaker: “Code blue, I.C.U. Code blue, I.C.U. Code blue, I.C.U.” The alarm brought action. All sorts of medicos scrambled into the Intensive Care Unit. Nestor hurried after them with Ben on his heels. Inside, their worst nightmare came to life. The emergency was in Angelina's room.

  Lab coats and scrub suits hustled in, around, and over Angelina's bed. Nestor called to his wife, trying to get in, when one of the nurses threw a body block at the door. With a grip usually reserved for hauling hose and swinging an ax, Ben grabbed Nestor from behind and maneuvered his distraught partner back into the waiting room.

  Time stretched. Not a word passed between them. Time stood still, but they no longer could. They paced like caged tigers, Ben for Nestor, Nestor for Angelina. When her doctor finally appeared and announced his sincere sorrow, time no longer existed. “We did everything we could. Your wife went into cardiac arrest and we were unable to re-establish…” He talked on, offering heartfelt remorse with the dumbed down explanations of shock from the loss of the baby, stress, infarction, respiratory shutdown, and system collapse. Sometime after, the doctor went away.

  “They think I did this to my wife!” Nestor screamed. “They think I killed my family!”

  Ben grabbed him, holding him up, holding on.

  Seventeen

  Ben dreamed that night and, for the first time in a long time, it wasn't a nightmare. It was a dream about the first time he and Erin made love. Officially, the consummation had been wonderful. But that wasn't precisely true and his subconscious knew it. What it really had been was the collision of animal passions in two people too shy, too wrapped up in their professions, and too afraid to display passion. Refusing to commit, unwilling even to admit what was happening, it had been frightening, clumsy, embarrassing, funny, warm, and finally, yes, wonderful. In the middle of a blizzard they'd bumped into each other, two weary civil servants, both out alone, killing matching nights off by attending a local community theater production. She fumbled around. He talked too much. He spilled coffee. She spilled tea. Both beat around the bush endlessly before offering simultaneous invites to each other's apartments for a night cap. He wound up at her place and, somehow, showed enough humor and charm to gain admission to her bed. It had been wonderful.

  Once the heavy breathing ended, so did the romance and the evening. In place of afterglow, Erin panicked. Fear of the future? The unknown? Love? A huge mistake? Who knew? Gorgeously naked, she sat up and asked him to leave. Gobsmacked, Ben stared. Erin made it an order. “I need to be alone. You need to go.”

  It was snowing like hell. He'd taken the bus downtown for the show. And, after coffee, Erin had offered a ride to her house. The tourist town had a lovely bus service but not with routes that far off the main drag. And they didn't run at three in the morning. The only cab company had two drivers with the flu and two cabs on the fritz. “I'm really sorry, but you have to go.”

  He went. She was of age and welcome to her emotional somersaults like everybody. He was a big boy. Besides, it wasn't so bad. How often does a man get a blizzard entirely to himself? In a whiteout, Ben trudged three miles down and around the bluff (no elevator at night or in winter), across the frozen downtown, to his place in the lonely Port District. All in all, it had been a memorable first date. Ben's dream brought it back in all its hot and cold glory.

  He was just dragging his ice-covered rear into his dream apartment when reality intruded. The phone's insistent ring yanked Ben back to this world. He groaned his displeasure as, again, the old saw 'Life is so much easier to handle unconscious' proved itself true. He lifted the receiver and got another slice of bad news from Erin; this one definitely not a dream.

  Ben arrived at Nestor's to find the street barricaded and The Castle surrounded by squad cars and cops. Engine 1 and an ambulance were there as well. The sun was barely up. The shocks were coming too quickly and Ben swore in helpless response. He parked, was allowed through to the hot zone, and met a tired and pale Erin. “Are you all right?”

  “I'm fine,” she snapped, obviously not fine.

  “I'm sorry. You look sick.”

  “I've never felt better!”

  “Fine!” Ben pointed at The Castle. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Nestor's inside. He's supposedly suicidal and he's threatening others.”

  “That's ridiculous. Nestor is making threats?”

  “He hasn't spoken to us at all. But his neighbor says—”

  “His neighbor? The same asshole who said Nestor and Angelina were fighting the night of the blackout? When in the hell are you guys going to get it? His neighbor has a bone to pick. The guy hates foreigners, even when they're not. He thinks our New Mexican is a Mexican, the racist rat bastard, and he throws Nestor a cold hard one every chance he can.”

  “I'm not arguing with you, Ben. I just said, Nestor won't talk to us. We received a complaint. Now we're here we can't just go because you say so. He's barricaded inside. He's forcing this standoff. And there's no way around the fact he's still looking at a possible manslaughter charge.”

  “Oh, give me a break,” Ben said. “Is Musselwhite still on that?”

  “He's not the only one, Ben.”

  “You think Nestor hurt Angelina? You really think that?”

  “Somebody killed Angelina and the baby. Nestor has a long way to go before he clears up some very cloudy facts.”

  “He's our friend. He's my friend. Even if he wasn't, how could you come away from an interview with him without knowing he's innocent and that he and Angelina were okay? Musselwhite's thick as mud, but I'd have never guessed it of you.”

  “I don't appreciate that. I didn't call you to give me a hard time. I thought you'd help.”

  “I most certainly will.” Fuming and feeling betrayed, Ben turned and started around the squad.

  “Ben! Ben, you can't go in there!”

  “Fuck that!” Ben ran for the porch. Weapons went up all around and several officers started his way. Ben didn't care and didn't slow down. He ignored their shouts. Erin shouted louder, at her people now, calling them back. What was the point of turning Ben into a target? Besides, in his place, she'd probably have done the same. For all Erin knew, though she didn't ponder the question, this may have been the reason she'd called him to the scene. Ben leapt to the porch, found the supposedly barricaded door unlocked, and went in. He pushed the door shut, leaned on it, and breathed deeply. His goal had been to get inside and he'd done that. Great. Now what, he thought, fresh out of plan.

  The hall was empty. Should he stride in, he wondered, like he'd done a thousand times over the last ten years? Or should he stay put and call out like a hostage negotiator? Hell. He started in, feeling an alien fear, and goddam his best friend for that.

  Nestor's disembodied voice stopped him. “I almost shot you.”

  “Yeah?” Ben called back. “With what? Do you even own a gun?”

  Nothing but silence.

  “I'm coming back.” Ben took a step.

  “Don't!”

  “Oh, bullshit,” Ben hollered. He pushed off, surprised how angry he was, and started down the hall. “I don't care if you treat the cops like punks. Some are card-carrying jack wagons. But Erin doesn't deserve it. And what? You're going to treat me like a punk? I don't think so. Where are you?”

  “In here.”

  The door to the living room was ajar. “I'm right?” Ben asked, his hand on the door. “You don't have a gun? And, even if you do, it won't be pointed at me?” He stepped through.

&n
bsp; Nestor stood, unarmed of course, peeking out one of the windows across the room. He turned to Ben, sagged against the wall, and slid to the floor. He covered his face with his hands and shook while he cried. Ben dropped beside Nestor, hugged him tightly, and held him for a long time.

  Later, neither was sure how long, the phone rang. Both stared without moving.

  “It's the cops,” Nestor said. Crying again, he added, “There's no one else it could be anymore.”

  “Screw 'em,” Ben said.

  A loudspeaker blasted. It was the police chief himself. “Pena. Nestor Pena,” Musselwhite said. “We need to know that Ben Court is all right. Let him show himself, so we know he's all right.”

  “Christ,” Ben said, rising. With his head to the side, he slid the window open and shouted, “This is Court. Don't be stupid. I'm not a hostage, for Christ's sake. I'm all right. Everything is all right.”

  “We need you both to come out.”

  “We're talking. Give us a few minutes.”

  “We don't have a few minutes, Court. There's a lot of people waiting out here.”

  “Go the hell home. He didn't ask you here and neither did I.”

  “We aren't going to do that.”

  “No. Didn't figure you would.”

  “Tell Pena he needs to come out now.”

  “What do you think I'm doing, you moron. We'll be out in a few minutes.” He slammed the window and scowled at Nestor. “Jesus, have you stepped on your cock! Yours and mine both.”

  “I've screwed up, Ben, as a husband and as a human being, but I never laid a hand on my wife.”

  “Don't you think I know? I know. But you are making yourself look guilty as hell. Not to mention this crap about killing yourself.” Ben jabbed a thumb at the window. “They think you have a gun.”

  “I can thank my neighbor for that.”

  “No. You can thank yourself. Your neighbor's always been an ass. This new wrinkle is yours. I know you're hurting, man, but you've got to cut this crap out, Paco. You've got to answer the cops' questions and help them catch the guy that destroyed your family.”

  “There was no guy. I can't answer their questions because there's nobody to catch.”

  “What are you saying? Are you telling me you—”

  “No. I didn't do it. But neither did anyone else. Nobody human.”

  “What are you talking about? What happened with Angelina? What happened here?”

  “You're not going to believe me. Nobody will believe me. There isn't one chance in a million.”

  “I don't know what you're saying, but it's obvious you're serious. I've got that, brother. So why can't you tell me? Why would I doubt you?”

  Nestor studied Ben. “My Angelina,” he said in a whisper. “My baby… were killed by a monster.”

  “But who? Who did you see?”

  “No, Ben, you don't hear me. You don't get it because you're not listening. I need you to listen. I'm not talking about a man. I'm choosing my words carefully and I mean what I say. My wife was attacked and killed by a monster. A creature. A demon right out of Hell.”

  Nestor told it all, there on the floor in Ben's embrace. He relived the night, the storm, the rolling blackout and, in detail, led Ben to live it with him; Angelina insisting she'd been followed home, their friendly skirmish over the candles, the nightcap, the casserole he'd slaved a whole fifteen minutes over, his yelling out the window, her going to bed with a headache, his waking to breaking glass, splintering wood, and his wife's screams. They relived his breaking in the bedroom door. Then he described the hideous thing on top of Angelina. “It hissed and growled. Its obscene tongue was buried in her belly. It was sucking like it was a straw. It killed our baby. It killed my wife.”

  Ben wiped the sweat from his lips and forehead. “Why didn't you tell the police any of this? Why in God's name did you make up a story about some guy—?”

  “Would they have believed a word of this? Do you believe it?”

  Ben studied the inside of his head, wondering whether or not he did. He couldn't answer.

  “You see? It's the absolute truth but who would believe it?” Nestor caught his breath, calmed himself. “Ben, do you remember Aswan?”

  “Isn't it a dam or something?”

  “Not the dam.”

  “The ruins, you mean? That old city in Cambodia?”

  “Not Angkor. Jesus, what are you talking about?”

  “Easy, Paco,” Ben said, “you ain't the only fireman under stress here. You asked a weird question and I'm trying to answer it. I think I've heard the word, but I can't think of where, so I guess the answer is no. What's Aswan?”

  “It's one of the words our patient was shouting, our burn patient from the Garfield Street explosion. It's one of the words he kept yelling in the ambulance. Aswan, remember? When I was holding her in the car, on the way to the hospital, Angelina said it too. I swear. Aswan. Aswan. Over and over, just like the burn patient. Then she said, “Demon.” She could barely get it out, but she said, “Demon. That's what attacked Angelina.” Nestor stared at Ben with swollen red eyes. “A demon.”

  Eighteen

  They were still on Nestor's living room floor but Ben's mind had taken flight. He'd returned to the rear compartment of their ambulance, reliving that trip to the hospital. Cooper was there, holding her injured arm, but he was busy pouring water on the patient, Soomnalung, holding his mask while he screamed, 'Aswan', 'Mennon', 'Gal', and 'Tick, tick, tick', like a coked-up clock.

  Aswan. Aswan? Had Nestor heard Angelina right? He was upset. He'd been drinking. She was hurt. Going back, had he heard Soomnalung right? He was out of his mind with pain. Maybe he hadn't said any such thing? Aswan? A demon?

  Nestor broke Ben's concentration. “Do you believe me?”

  “I don't know a thing about monsters or demons,” Ben said. “I know you. I believe you are telling me what you believe is true.”

  “I know,” Nestor said. “It's a long way around to get to my side.”

  “I am on your side.” They gripped hands.

  “Ben, I can't live without Angelina and the baby. I don't want to.”

  “You don't have a choice. You're a stupid heathen like me, but you were raised to be a good Catholic boy. Your wife was devout. You have to take what life gives you and do something with it. Angelina wouldn't accept anything else. That rules out rash self-destruction. You are also barred from killing your neighbor, no matter how much the prick deserves it.” They shared a pained laugh. “So what are you going to do? What kind of life are you going to make to honor your family?”

  “Firefighter Pena! Firefighter Court!” It was the police loudspeaker again. This time with a different voice, the worst voice in the world. “This is the Fire Chief!”

  “Goddammit,” Ben groaned, throwing his head back. He peered out and saw Tony Castronovo, bullhorn in hand, leaning against the police chief's squad. His brother-in-law was beside him. “Ladies and gentleman,” Ben muttered. “Badge and bugle are in the house. Looks like they came together.” He sat back down by Nestor. “On the bright side, Erin isn't in charge anymore and she shouldn't catch any flack for whatever dumb shit we do next.”

  “I order you to come out!” Castronovo growled, with reverb. “I'm not kidding. Or waiting.”

  Ben looked to Nestor. “Well, Paco, the sand has run out. There's no more time. Either we both go out now or we both kill ourselves. What's it going to be?”

  They laughed. Then Nestor dropped his head to Ben's chest and cried. Ben held him, crying too. A moment later, his brown cheeks flushed and marred with tears, Nestor said, “They're going to send me to the booby hatch.”

  “Yes, brother,” Ben said, nodding. “That's the drill. For observation at least. But is that so bad?”

  “To be hauled off to a psych unit?”

  “To walk out of here like a man who, though he's been to Hell and back, understands he's got issues that need sorting. To check yourself in voluntarily. To get some rest. To talk
with people that, though they're just as full of shit as you are, if not more, might hear you. Where's the downside?”

  “I'm going to lose my job. It's all I know.”

  “Why would you lose your job? Outside of your neighbor's wet dreams you haven't threatened or harmed anyone. You've suffered two devastating losses and you've reacted like a devastated man. Now you need to pull it together; even if you're not sure how. But you've got to decide, brother, before Castronovo and Musselwhite piss themselves.”

  Nestor nodded wearily. “I'll get my head candled on one condition. You've got dig into this mess. You've got to promise to investigate; find out what happened to my family.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don't know. I've got my own troubles. But you've got to promise.”

  “Okay. I promise. I'll detect. As soon as I figure out where to start.”

  “That's easy. Start where this started. Go back to the Garfield burn victim. He said it; he must know what 'Aswan' is. He's the only survivor from these incidents that can talk. Question him.”

  “The guy doesn't speak English,” Ben said. “He's been in isolation since the fire. One paper said he's in a coma. The police haven't even been able to question him.”

  “I don't know about the cops but the coma stuff is bull, a rumor, or a story cooked up to keep the reporters away. Angelina worked there. So does a cousin of hers from the old country, Bennie Bagtas. He works in the kitchen. Coma patients do not eat three squares a day. They're being sent to his room on the Burn Unit.”

  “Assuming you're right. Assuming I could get in to see him, and he wanted to talk, and he was well enough to talk,” Ben said. “He's Filipino – I couldn't understand a word.”

  “Pena! Court! Are you coming out?” Castronovo sounded ready to pop a vein.

  It wasn't funny, but Ben and Nestor laughed. “We've got to go, Nestor.”

  Nestor grabbed Ben's arm. “Take an interpreter. Angelina's cousin, Bennie, he's right there at the hospital. He's a native Filipino, speaks the two most common languages in the country. Call him. Tell him I need his help. Tell him we're going to revenge Angelina. You've got to see Soomnalung. Talk to him; see what happened. Find out what he knows.”