Residual Magic

by J J Andrews

  “Can we see them at all?”

  “The quad has headlamps, and of course, we have flashlights. So, yeah. We can see them. From my reading, the Norse explorers were the first graffiti artists. The whole wall could be nothing more than Sven was here or something like that.”

  “True that.”

  “The tunnel does have the occasional trespasser. The drunk and/or the over-curious bust the lock and take refuge. And the church is a bit lax calling us regarding interlopers. I’ve requested more than once that the old metal cages over the entrances be replaced with steel doors with electronic locks.”

  “Where did that request fall?” Smith asked.

  “Same place all requests to government fall. A round file across the bridge.”

  “Does that new priest use the tunnel?”

  Ali laughed. “No. He has a truck. The diocese has a truck. He and a handful of acolytes run the church and oversee the land management on behalf of the Holy See.”

  “Seriously? The Vatican cares about this place?”

  “Of course. There are a few relics in the church, and like all holy wealth, it is well cataloged.”

  “Relics. Wow. I’m not religious. I’ve never been up the steps of the church past those demon pig statues.”

  Ali laughed. “Tom and I had a call there where a man had smashed his head against those very same demon pigs. Bloody mess.”

  “Hell Night?”

  “The night Old Town lived up to its nickname. Crazy.”

  “I was working the waterfront that evening. You know—dealing with the corrupt union vs the mob vs hardworking longshoremen just trying to make a living. I saw things I simply cannot explain. I did my job and logged everything—and I am grateful the chief never asked for explanations.”

  “What did you see?” Ali asked.

  “You won’t laugh?”

  “I worked a very long shift that night. In fact, I worked a double. And what I saw…still haunts me. I will not laugh.”

  Smith took a breath. “I saw apparitions. People who shifted appearance as easy as I take off my jacket. Spontaneous fires. I don’t know. I think I was drugged somehow.”

  “Yep. We all thought that.” She uncovered a vehicle and then tossed the tarp aside. It was the quad. Ali chuckled. “I’m driving.”

  She climbed into the driver’s seat and waited as Smith got settled in the back. She turned the key, clicked the garage door opener, and moved slowly out of the bay doors and into the parking lot. She wanted to floor the peddle, as she would have if Tom were with her. Smith, however, was not the playful type. He would likely complain. She didn’t need that. She rubbed her right thumb and pointer finger together to watch little sparks appear. Tom called it residual magic. A byproduct of her spirit possession on Hell Night.

  It was easy to slip into thoughts of that chaotic and confusing night. What was real? What was product of some unknown chemical agent pumped into the air to cause mass hallucinations? She recalled an old commercial slogan. Is it live or is it Memorex? She felt a bit of jealousy toward Corazon, the madam who had saved her ass—more than once—but who had an ongoing hush-hush relationship with Tom. And what the hell did I do with Tom? Was any of that real? It feels as if it was real. It felt right. But I can’t go there. I am far too focused for a relationship—especially one with my partner. It’s been over a year, almost three, in fact, since Ford died in combat. That is an acceptable period of mourning in any age. Maybe I should download a dating app for people who just want to have a beer or play a board game.

  As she drove through the rows of parked cars across poorly patched blacktop, her thoughts continued to wander. It was a skill. Drive, watch for crime, smell for meth, and fantasize about that night. Hypervigilance and compartmentalization were working for her. Hell Night had been a weird evening. A pleasurable evening. Strange and wonderful. One she had chosen not to dwell upon lest she backslide against what she perceived as duty, honor, and the job. Sex with Tom. Her partner. Surely, it had to be filed under Hell Night > sexual congress by spell or possession > thanks but no thanks > no regrets. I don’t think about it—unless I’m alone. It is far too stimulating in person but makes for one hell of a masturbatory fantasy.

  Some nights, making her way across the parking lot to the large berm most took for granted, various crimes seized all her time. Vandalism was a big one, followed by car prowl, drug use, and quickies between hookers and shift workers. Especially on payday. Tonight, however, the parking lot was quiet. Rare. She and Tommy had certainly seen their share of blood and action between the rows. She expected it. Quiet made her a bit uneasy.

  “It’s too calm,” she said.

  “Expecting the worse?”

  “Always.” She pulled off the crumbling pavement with a sharp right and proceeded along the dying hedge toward the berm.

  “I never paid attention to this thing. This hillock. How has the tunnel stayed out of sight for so long? Save for the occasional interlopers you mentioned.”

  Ali didn’t know the answer. She made something up. “Years ago, when the tunnel was sealed, the bishop gave a blessing. Incense and holy water and all that. He invoked the archangels to protect and seal it.”

  Smith laughed. “You shitting me?”

  Ali laughed. “Yes. I am. I know the entrance and egress of the tunnel is blessed on a schedule, just like the circus trains of old, our service weapons and babies, but even with divine intervention, it’s still a squatter’s paradise. I delivered a baby in the tunnel once. That was interesting.”

  She drove around the berm to its closest side to the hospital. It abutted the garbage and recycling enclosure. It gave Ali the creeps. It also housed the incineration unit for medical waste. The smoke never ceased. It was bizarre how much medical waste one small, poor hospital could make. It was bizarre how much was burned in that incinerator that was illegal and clandestine. And never reported. She certainly wasn’t going to rock the boat.

  “Brilliant. The tunnel is hidden by garbage,” Smith said.

  Ali stopped the quad to open the grate over the tunnel entrance. The padlock was new. The iron bars were old. The flagstones underfoot, even older. She returned to the quad and then carefully entered the long darkness. “Smith, hop out and lock this sucker up from the inside. We don’t want a surprise following us in.”

  Dutifully, Smith extracted himself from the vehicle and then refastened the padlock, which Ali had left hanging on the gate.

  “Now, Smith, I want you to be ready for anything, but don’t get all tweaked out if there’s a wolverine down here or something. I need you to shoot it before it rips off my face. All right? Centuries ago, this was a cave system that has been carved into a labyrinth of tunnels, most of which are sealed. The old steam works connects to it, and God only knows what is buried in the dark corners no one ever goes.”

  “I was not aware that wolverines were an issue,” Smith replied.

  “Wolverines are always an issue.” She laughed. “More like spiders are always an issue.”

  “You know, officer, I saw the guy who pulled his catheter. Makes me wonder how hospital cops make it through their shifts without screaming into the night. I was told in the academy that ten years as a hospital cop equals thirty years of service on patrol.”

  “Compartmentalization, Smith. What I see on shift goes into a tidy little box. May God forbid that box ever spill its contents.” Ali laughed. “That is when you will absolutely see me punch a wall or cut a bitch. My PTSD is like an aggressive squirrel. It won’t take no for an answer and always comes back for more. But it’s not stepping out of the shadows to play today. I am in control.”

  Smith beamed the light of his flashlight on the sides of the passage. “This is old. Old, in the extreme. Look at the blocks. Hand hewn. Masonry like this just isn’t done any longer.”

  “The church carved it all out. Mostly by hand, when our state was in its infancy. About 1700. Even with lack of understanding and fear of anything other than their ow
n kind, they left the runes intact. They covered them up—but they always find a way to make themselves known. Some people say they hum or vibrate. It amazes me the Norse made it this far north. There are a few artifacts stored uptown. Never been put on exhibit. Too controversial. Tom told me the priest in the early twentieth century had been an archeology major—and that’s why they didn’t destroy the runes. Apparently, he was an invited expert at the opening of King Tut’s tomb in 1922. So, he was all famous—or as famous as a priest in 1922 could be. Can you imagine? Along the sides of the tunnel are sealed up connector passages to the abandoned steam works under the hospital. I’ve not been down there. Tom said it is the stuff of nightmares.”

  “Wait. Vikings?” Smith asked.

  “Vikings,” Ali replied with a strong, assured voice.

  “Why is this place not teeming with historians?”

  “No funding. Controversy. Disbelief. Instead, we have the local chapter of neo-Nazis holding rallies and gathering strength in the shadows. That’s enough. One of them figured out the connection between certain locations in Old Town that may or may not be related to Norse settlements along lay lines, and they move here in increasing numbers.”

  “Odinists?” he asked.

  “Odinists aren’t assholes. OTAB—the Old Town Aryan Brigade—they are racist in the extreme and very hard on law enforcement. You’ll see…they require constant policing.”

  “I’ve not yet had the pleasure,” Smith replied.

  The quad was surprisingly quiet. Even along broken cobblestones and through dried and cracking mud, it moved with stealth. Ali slowed, then stopped. She flicked the headlights on and off, then left them on bright. “540,” she radioed.

  “Go ahead, 540.”

  “Tunnel patrol reports unknown mass fifty feet in. We are investigating. Show me out with this call. No backup needed at this time.”

  “540, confirmed.”

  She turned on her bodycam and addressed her rookie. “Get out. Follow me. Keep your weapon holstered.” The vehicle lights illuminating her path, she carefully approached the unknown mass. The closer she grew, the more she could distinguish the outline. “It’s a body. A person. Start snapping photos. At least three or four of everything around us—from those torn up pieces of paper to the skid marks on the dirt by this guy’s feet. Everything.”

  She stood back from the heap of soiled, urine-soaked blankets. “Sir?” she said, noting the bent legs and fetal position. She snapped on nitrile gloves. “Cover me. I’m going to check for a pulse.”

  She carefully peeled away a layer of piss-soaked wool, then another. “Oh, shit.” Ali made a radio call. “540. I need CSI backup to the tunnel on the hospital side. We’ve got a DB.”

  Dispatch replied. “540, confirmed.”

  “Retinal hemorrhage. He was smothered or strangled,” Ali said. “I’ve seen this before. Quite recently.”

  Smith exhaled. “Similar death as in Feng’s?”

  “Yes. It reminds me of when there was a rash of murders decades ago. I read about it in the archives. Years ago, med students from across the bridge with low grades paid off hospital staff to sneak in and dissect cadavers in hopes of increasing their marks. They paid up to ten grand, I understand. No questions asked about where the decedent hailed. In 1828 Scotland, it was less work to kill than exhume. Maybe those crimes are being repeated.” Ali shone her light up the tunnel. “It’s possible the priest left the gate open on the other side. He won’t let vagrants sleep in the vestibule or sanctuary any longer. Not since the old priest killed himself on the altar but lets them get out of the rain in the antechamber of the tunnel on the church side.”

  “Good times.” Smith shone his flashlight around. “Maybe he crawled up a culvert. This tunnel is dry. Must be drainage somewhere.”

  “Backup is here,” Ali said as flashes of lights streaked down the tunnel.

  “I’ll go meet them. You all right here?” Smith asked.

  Ali passed him the quad’s key. “I’ve seen it before. And will I be all right? With a DB in an old tunnel marked with what could be apocalyptic Norse runes? Sure. I’m fine.” Her cell phone chirped. She answered it as Smith started up the quad and then backed out. “Hi, Tom.”

  Officer Wolfson, bedridden and recovering post appendectomy, sighed. “I miss you, babe.”

  “Tommy…please don’t call me that. We are not in a relationship. That was a one-time thing.”

  “But not a mistake,” Tom added.

  “No. It was not a mistake. I regret nothing. I don’t want a relationship. I just want to do my job. I need to focus on walking the thin blue line. At least a while longer. I’m not ready.” Ali paused. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I was split in half by a bad magician.”

  “Having your appendix rupture in the middle of a call is kind of funny, however.”

  “I have never been ill. Not even a cold. I didn’t even know how to respond to the pain,” Tom said.

  “I really can’t chat right now, Tom. I’ve got a DB in the tunnel. Smith is leading the troops back here. It’s going to be a long shift.”

  “DB? Bloodshot eyes?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Are the runes glowing?” Tom asked. “They glow when a soul passes before them.”

  “They’re around the bend. Can’t tell. I’m not buying into that old wife’s tale, Tommy.”

  “Ali, you and I may or may not be living an existence brought forth by the will of pissed off goddesses and the magic of a witch for the sole purpose of punishing a naughty god. I’d say it’s all right for you to buy into an old wife’s tale. Since we may not be real, you know? I know I’m not a real-life boy, which makes you also, a figment of someone’s imagination.”

  “I’m real enough. And I know she’s real enough to you.”

  “Come see me after shift?” He paused. “Field Sergeant Wolfson. It has a nice ring to it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll come see you, Tom.”

  Ali slipped her phone inside her vest pocket as medical arrived in the quad. She shook off the chill of hearing Tom’s voice and put on her game face. “Discovered at twenty-one hundred hours. Nothing disturbed after initial examination.”

  A detective jogged up. “Officer Najarah.”

  “Sir.”

  “You and Smith hoof up the tunnel to clear it. I’ll send an interceptor up to the church side to gather you. I’ll take the quad back.”

  “No rigor. Pulselessness was hours ago,” one of the medics said.

  “Smothered?” the detective asked.

  “That would be my assessment. It strongly resembles the other we found. That you found, Officer Najarah. Pathologist confirmed death by suffocation. What are we? Living in nineteenth century Scotland?” The medic covered the man’s face, hiding the wide-open, bloodshot eyes.

  Najarah and Smith left the well-oiled machine of the investigation and headed deeper into the passage. They had weapons drawn and flashlights on high beam.

  “What other surprises await us?” Smith asked.

  “Rats. Cobwebs. I don’t know. I’m pretty tapped out on dead bodies. One a night is enough for me.” Ali pressed forward, scanning for evidence of the trespass and subsequent death.

  “How far up are the runes?”

  “Not too far. Not dead center, but close.” She paused. “Oh, well…look at this.” She shone her beam on a stocking cap cast to the side. She took a photo of its location with her cell phone. “Bag it. Leave a flag for forensics.”

  Smith did as directed and sealed the woolen hat in an evidence collection bag. He marked it with a Sharpie and then moved on.

  Ali just wanted to get through the shift. No small talk with the rookie. No more surprises. Get through ‘til midnight, go see Tom, then go home and enjoy a seventy-two-hour break. She hadn’t signed up for overtime. She didn’t socialize with anyone from work, except Tom. And being around him was an all-encompassing event. He was a rogue comet set to knock her out of orbit. She knew
it. She thought of him when she touched herself. That made him a dangerous distraction. They’d made love twice. Once in her truck and once on the steps leading to the hospital roof. Amazing sex. Coerced sex due to whatever the fuck had happened on Hell Night—but amazing, nevertheless. He had a body built for pleasure, and though he was several years older than her, she loved the way he looked. He was in love with her. She knew it. He’d said as much. The job had to come first. Now wasn’t the time in her life to commit to a serious relationship. This was her time to make sergeant. To climb the ladder in the department. Break the proverbial glass ceiling. I don’t intend to quit pushing until I’m chief.

  “Don’t get lost, Smith.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Ah. Do you see it? About thirty yards up.”

  “The runes,” Smith said with a touch of awe in his voice.

  “This means, Officer Smith, that should someone with an advanced degree and connections authenticate this, it will be proof that Norsemen made it this north, and a thousand years ago, left their signatures on a wall in a cave system that became a tunnel to keep rain off Catholic tushies.”

  “I sense a mocking tone, Officer Najarah.”

  “I like history. When I started on the force, I looked up Norse explorations after learning about the runes. Those Norsemen got as far as Oklahoma and Istanbul. But Old Town, the forgotten across-the-bridge slum of Sealth, an emerald city of rain and homelessness—this place was probably the dregs of Mississippian culture society even back then. I have never figured out why anyone would ever want to explore the Bez to the end. To tell you the truth, there’s a lot of Norse influence in this part of Washington. Like in Poulsbo. And the Western Washington University mascots—the Vikings. Swedish Hospital. So much influence.”

  “Have you driven across the bridge lately?”

  “No reason,” Ali replied.

  “The tent city is growing. I just don’t understand the mentality of the ruling class to allow so many people to live in poverty. It’s not like there isn’t industry enough in our area to employ, house, and feed all of them.”