When The Tik-Tik Sings

by Doug Lamoreux

  A nurse running from the far end of the hall cried out, “Soomnalung!” Nobody here had ever called him anything else, nobody until Ben Court. Next time he'd steal an easier identity … next time. The nurse screamed again, sounding louder, nearer, more frightened. Ruzicki ignored her and the mind-numbing pain, as he climbed the balcony rail. If suicide really was unforgivable, Ruzicki wondered, wasn't eternal damnation a fair price for his wrongs? His mistakes? He heard their shouts. He felt someone at the door behind him. He saw what might have been Corazone, beckoning to him from empty space. Dylan Ruzicki let himself fall.

  Twenty – Three

  Forester was a rare creature ; an investigative reporter who looked for news, checked his facts, ignored politics and his own agenda, and reported. One hell of a reporter, and to those in charge, a huge pain. It wasn't his goal to annoy, but Forester was on the biggest story of his life and determined to get it no matter who it bothered. At that moment, he was waiting to bother Erin Vanderjagt.

  He wasn't expecting much. Facts in the case of the mysterious Duncan murders were as rare as hen's teeth. But hope sprang eternal, hope for a crumb of a portion of a detail, and to stay on the safe side, he wasn't holding his breath. He was merely waiting, lying in wait really, for Erin outside her office. And he'd been there for hours. The detective was more than a little late coming in.

  When Erin finally appeared, Forester didn't ask if she'd overslept. She didn't look to have slept at all. And he got that. With the murders, the dead cop, the missing detective (leave of absence, his ass) and the damage to tourism, he'd been going without sleep himself. Forester learned later, much later, that on top of everything else, Erin had been feeling ill for days and was late that morning because she'd been to her doctor. He hadn't given her health or personal cares a thought. All he knew then was she had plenty on her mind and he wanted some of it for his readers.

  To list the questions Forester asked would be pointless. You've heard most of them, so had Erin, and she still had no answers. If she did, she was still reserving them. In truth, none of his questions pierced her thoughts, until the last, when he asked for details about the hospital suicide. That drew a pause, and a perplexed look and, Forester thought, was about to draw a response when Traer slid between them to shoo the reporter away. The uniformed officer spread his arms and moved the news hound down the hall to the exit, like a janitor with a squeegee pushing out filthy water.

  Rid of Forester, Traer returned. “Where were you this morning?”

  “Oh, I… I had an appointment.”

  “Erin, is everything all right?”

  “Yeah. I'm okay.” She spilled her coffee and snapped at him when Traer tried to help clean it up.

  “Am I interrupting you?”

  “I'm having a moment,” Erin said. “And taking it out on you. Did you need something?”

  “I did. I don't mean to crowd you, but I thought you should see this.” For the first time, Erin noted the file tucked under Traer's arm. “When you have a few minutes.”

  She took the folder, saw the name 'Soomnalung', and sagged against her desk.

  “When you've had a chance to read it, I'll be glad to fill in any gaps.”

  She nodded and took a breath. “Go ahead.”

  Traer made an attempt but Erin couldn't seem to concentrate. “Are you all right?”

  “I am. Traer, if you could give me a few minutes?”

  “Of course. I've got to run up to the fire chief's office.” He indicated the report. “That's incomplete. I understand a couple of firefighters visited the patient, not long before he jumped. I'll try and find out what that's all about.” He disappeared without further question.

  Left alone, Erin broke down, crying.

  One three-by-five-foot section of Fire Chief Anthony Castronovo's office – a framed cork board on an interior wall – was all business. It featured a large city map, department memos, City Attorney-issued documents, Mayoral proclamations, and a number of Chiefy-do lists, wish lists, and schedules. The outside edges were pregnant with pamphlets. The rest of the room was nothing but firefighting fun; antique photos of antique firemen (from a time when the ladders were made of wood and the men made of iron), photos from his own firefighting past (including a few with the young face of a then-blameless rookie, Ben Court, peering from the crowds), photos of fire apparatus through the ages, a toy ambulance, a model quint, a Gamewell box, and an old Klaxon horn; in fact, a run-of-the-mill fire chief's office. With three file cabinets and a desk under all. And, behind the desk, Mount Etna was erupting.

  “According to the charge nurse at the hospital, there were two men claiming to be firefighters on their Burn Unit. They were caught in the room of…” Castronovo paused, studied a scrawled note, then decided against giving the name a try. “The room of the burned patient from the Garfield Street fire. They claimed to be the medics who brought the patient into the ER. Bennehoff and Cooper don't know a thing about it. Pena is still in the bug house. That leaves you… and someone else I don't know. I want to know. Who were you with? And what you were doing?”

  Despite the rumors – many spread by Ben – this time, Castronovo wasn't yelling at himself. He was yelling at Ben, with Parker Traer (Erin's pet police trainee) looking on from the corner of the room. Ben glanced from the chief to Traer, and back again, and for a nano-second, considered admitting his visit to the hospital. After all, what harm had been done? Then again, why should he? He couldn't repeat a word of his discussion with Ruzicki. They'd never believe it. Hell, he didn't believe it. He was already deep enough in a mess he couldn't understand. With Erin in charge of the murder investigations and Traer snooping into this, every angle had grief for him written all over it. The cops had no clue. They were still calling Ruzicki by the name 'Soomnalung'. Without Erin here to gauge the situation, Ben felt no inclination to inform them differently.

  “You want to know?” Ben asked. “Or the police department wants to know?”

  “Don't be a clown. I'm not clowning.”

  “Neither am I. If this is a Fire Department matter,” Ben chucked a thumb at Traer. “Then this strapping section of the Big Blue Wall shouldn't be wasting his valuable time here. If it's a police matter, I would think I have some civil rights to consider that don't involve you… sir.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don't try to think either, Court, it hurts everybody. Tell us what's been going on.”

  “A lot has been going on. So much that I don't have any clear memory of last night. I doubt I was at the hospital. If I was, I doubt I visited a patient. If I did, I doubt I was with anyone else. If I was, it was on my day off and none of your damned business.”

  Castronovo started to sputter but Traer stepped forward. “Excuse me, chief.” He turned his emotionless stare to Ben. “This is not for the public yet. I would appreciate your discretion. Immediately after his visitors left, the burn patient, Soomnalung, committed suicide. He did a half gainer with a twist off the eighth floor fire escape balcony.”

  Ben felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He tried not to show it, but failed miserably.

  “Anything that anyone could tell us would prove helpful,” Traer added.

  The firefighter gritted his teeth, inhaled slowly through his nose and exhaled through the slit of his thin lips, trying to corral his thoughts. “If…” Ben said. He swallowed his spit. “If I'm able to think of anything, I'll let you know.”

  Traer was unhappy, to say the least. But he had nothing to go on but guesses and the agitated finger-pointing of the fire chief. He thanked Ben and Castronovo and left. Ben was on his heels when the chief called him back. “I didn't dismiss you.”

  “I didn't realize I needed to be dismissed. There was something else?”

  “There's plenty else. You'd better take a look at who you're talking to.” Castronovo flicked his starched collar. “Apparently you've forgotten these bugles make me the boss around here?”

  Ben grinned. “Did you hire me? Can you fire me? You don't sound l
ike much of a boss to me.”

  Castronovo's face reddened. “We'll just see what the Civil Service Commission says about that.”

  “That's the point I'm trying to make,” Ben told him. “You'll have to.”

  “Now you get my point,” Castronovo said acidly. “Mind your own business. Stop digging into shit that doesn't concern you. Stay away from this fire investigation. Stay out of the investigations of these deaths. And, unless it's related specifically to your job, stay away from the hospital.”

  Without answering, without waiting to be dismissed, Ben started for the door.

  “And,” Castronovo yelled, “stay the hell away from Nestor Pena.”

  Twenty – Four

  Of course, obeying Castronovo was out of the question. A gulf had opened between Ben and Erin. Their idyllic relationship suddenly felt a dozen strains. Without his girlfriend's companionship, Ben needed his best friend more than ever. Especially as, now Ruzicki was dead, that friend was the only one with insight (however crazy) concerning recent events. Ben made a beeline for Nestor, a temporary resident in the same place you'd find any so-called 'attempted suicide' – the Duncan Memorial Psychiatric Unit, known by local medicos as 'Four East'.

  “Did you see him? Did you see Soomnalung?” Nestor demanded when Ben arrived.

  “Yes and no.” Ben explained the burn patient's alias, a fact to which only he, Nestor and Bennie Bagtas were privy.

  “No kidding? The cops don't even know? And?”

  “And only his burns prevented Ruzicki from being your roommate. He was crazier than you.”

  “He agrees there's a monster?”

  “He did. He insisted there's a monster.”

  “Yes!” Nestor threw his fists into the air. Several staff members near the unit clerk's desk looked their way. Nestor mouthed 'Sorry' and moved Ben further down the hall. “Why do you refer to… what's his name? Ruzicki? Why refer to him in the past tense?”

  “Because he's passed on. Right after I talked to him, he killed himself.”

  “Damn!” Nestor whistled low. “But he did know about the creature?” Ben nodded. “Okay,” Nestor said. “What's next?” Ben stared a hole through him. “What?”

  “What do you mean, What's next?” Ben shook his head in disbelief. “Nothing's next. I did as you asked and told you what Ruzicki told me. That's it.”

  “That's not it. We know what killed my family. Now we have to do something about it.”

  “We don't know anything of the kind. We – meaning I – heard the delusional fantasy of a badly-burned guy, doped up on morphine, who's had the same traumatic experience with his family that you had. What the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

  “Not we. You. Look around, Ben. The doors and windows are locked. If I sneer, they sedate me. They stole the cinch string from my pajamas, for Christ's sake. I can't help. You have to do it.”

  “Do what?” Ben demanded.

  “Find it! Find this thing, this creature.”

  “Geez, you sound like Ruzicki. How am I going to find it? I don't know anything about it.”

  “You didn't ask him?”

  “There wasn't time. We heard a fairy tale about a demon's resurrection, then a nurse chased us out.”

  Nestor hesitated, thinking, always a dangerous situation in Ben's opinion. Finally, he nodded. “If we need to know more about this thing, you go and ask someone who knows.”

  “Great,” Ben said, looking for a seat. There wasn't any furniture. Could patients hurt themselves with furniture? He shook off the thought. “Who, in Duncan, can I ask about a living Philippine demon?”

  Nestor smiled. “I got that. I've been talking to one of the housekeepers here, a Philippine girl with an unpronounceable name who goes by Chesa. She has an aunt, also with an unpronounceable name, who goes by Poni. Poni runs a shop in the Philippine section of town.”

  “There's a Philippine section of town?”

  “Certainly. Where do you think Angelina lived when I met her?”

  “How do I know? This is America, she could have lived anywhere.”

  Nestor made a noise. “It's not on a map. But there is a Philippine section of town. Poni's shop is there and Poni, according to Chesa, knows everything about the old country and the old superstitions.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, in a tone that suggested it wasn't. “What do I do?”

  “You loan me money.”

  “I loan you money?”

  “So I can pay Chesa to meet you and introduce you to her aunt.”

  “I paid your cousin to talk to Ruzicki. Why am I paying your housekeeper to talk to Poni?”

  Nestor frowned and pulled his pant pockets out to hang empty. “Kiss the bunny's nose,” he said. “They took my shoelaces. If they think you'll hang yourself with shoelaces, they know you'll cut your own head off with a dollar bill.”

  Ben sighed, reaching for his own pocket. “What's a housekeeper cost nowadays?”

  Nestor was right, there was a Philippine section of town. It was only four square blocks, and other than a few signs, no different from the surrounding streets, but Ben was surprised all the same. Ten years a firefighter and he'd never known. He found the curio shop, Whatnot, with Chesa waiting. She led them in to the tinkle of a bell atop the door.

  The shop was small with a massive counter, fronting a row of shelves which took up three-quarters of the length of the right wall. The shelves made the shop look smaller, and were overstuffed with… stuff. Paintings, statuary, clothing, books, furniture, bric-a-brac, postcards, tools, timepieces, garden stone and garden plants, mounted animals, dolls, and enough Catholic imagery, rosaries and crucifixes, to send the Pope into a fit of envy. Not a nook was empty, not a cranny sat idle. The word menagerie came to mind or, then again, Whatnot. Chesa called for her aunt.

  A beaded curtain behind the counter parted and an old woman appeared from a back room. In Ben's limited experience, many Asian women, stunningly beautiful in their youth, did not necessarily remain so. This one hadn't. She was under five feet, under a hundred pounds, and looked to have come from under a bridge. She saw her niece and chirped like a magpie; she saw Ben and squawked. Screaming what must have been abuse, she darted for the shelves behind the antique cash register. She pulled the lid off a jar, grabbed out a handful of what looked like dust, and held it above her head. Ben froze, giving the troll his full attention. Trembling, chanting, ready to throw whatever she had fisted in her hand, the woman held that pose.

  Reddening, Chesa barked something at her aunt. The pair began a high-pitched squabble in Bennie Bagtas' Tagalog. It ended when the aunt, still shouting, dust-filled hand still aloft, disappeared through the beads into the depths of the shop.

  “What was that all about?”

  “You scared her!” Chesa snapped. “I'm sorry. It's my fault. With your eyes covered, you frightened her. Please, take off your sunglasses.”

  Dumbfounded, Ben did as he was told.

  Chesa called into the back and the verbal tennis match started again. Ben stood by for the next several minutes, understanding squat, except the words 'Ben' and 'Court'. The old lady reappeared but did not venture beyond the beads. Chesa sighed. “Ben Court, this is my mother's sister, Poni. Aunt Poni, this is a friend of Angelina's husband. He has questions about the old country. You agreed to answer. The sunglasses were my fault. I should have told him.”

  “Hello,” Ben said cautiously.

  Poni disappeared again. Ben and Chesa sighed, both at a loss, before Poni suddenly reappeared again. Still clutching her dust, she carried a magnifying glass in the other hand, demanding… something.

  “She wants to see your eyes and will not speak to you or answer questions until she does.”

  “My eyes?”

  “The evil creatures of our land will not look at you. Their eyes are blood-shot from nights spent peering into funeral houses for bodies to steal. She is afraid you might be one. In the demon's eyes, your reflection appears inverted, upside down. Show her, p
lease, your eyes are normal.”

  Making a mental note to kick Nestor square in the ass at the next opportunity, Ben pocketed his sunglasses, put his hands behind his back, and smiling, leaned forward. Chesa said something soothing to the old lady. She nodded, approached warily, and raising the glass, stared into Ben's eyes. She stepped back a moment later, satisfied Ben was human, and chirped something at her niece.

  Chesa waved Ben forward. “She will speak with you now.”

  “She speaks English?”

  “Yes,” Chesa said. “Now she has chosen to speak with you.”

  Ben scowled. “Sorry I frightened you.”

  The old woman scowled back. “What do you wish to know?”

  “I want to know about your superstitions. I mean, the superstitions of the Philippines.”

  “Our people are superstitious. There are as many tales as there are tellers.”

  “Okay. I want to ask about a creature I understand comes from your country.”

  “There are as many creatures as there are tales. The western world is ignorant of the spirits around us, the creatures that walk among us, of the demons in our midst.”

  What, Ben wondered, had he gotten himself into? What had he let Nestor talk him into? Maybe he was dreaming? Maybe he'd fallen asleep waiting to see Nestor? Maybe their last meeting had yet to take place and he was still leaning against the wall by the psych unit's nurses' station? That must be it. The old biddy was a patient who'd wandered from her room to entertain him until Nestor came.

  Poni cleared her throat loudly and asked her niece, “Is he asleep?”

  Ben surfaced to find Poni and Chesa staring holes through him. “No,” he assured them. “I was thinking. Can you tell me about the Philippine monsters?”