by J J Andrews
Dispatch replied, “Units dispatched. Thank you, Ali.”
She hung up and called to the waitress, “Can I grab a glass of water?”
“Help yourself, officer.”
One of the patrons at the old-time counter surrounding the flat-top grill where countless burgers had been flipped turned toward Ali. “You’re that policewoman who’s partnered with Officer Wolfson, right? Do you ever date civilians?”
“Yes. And no.”
“You are one fine woman. If you ever want a real man to show you a good time, I’ll be here.” The emphasis of his words on “real man” piqued her interest.
Ali stopped. “Real man?” The term had more meaning to her than this guy knew.
“Yeah. Everyone knows Wolfson isn’t…”
“Isn’t what?” Ali approached the man.
He whispered menacingly, “A real-life boy.”
Ali sat on the stool next to him. “Who are you?”
“The man who’s going to buy you dinner.”
“Hot dog stand in the park along the Bez. Twenty minutes.”
“It’s pretty early in the morning for a hot dog. And one doesn’t usually eat dinner in the morning, unless it’s been an all nighter in the sack.”
Ali stood, hands on hips. She ignored the inuendo. “It’s never too early for a hot dog.” She stormed out and ran home as quickly as she could. She burst into her apartment and threw off her sweats. Tom sat up and watched her.
“You getting undressed for me?” he asked. “It’s about time.”
“I’ve got a date.” She pressed the biometric lock on her gun safe.
“And you’re taking your secondary gun?”
Ali tucked closed the Velcro on her cargo pants. “Yep. I don’t know him very well.”
“I don’t know what to say, Ali. Here I am, pretty much naked on your sofa, ready to commit to you—and you are going out with some random dude.”
“He’s not so random. He’s a trickle down.”
“What the hell is a trickle down?”
Ali sat. “From Hell Night. He made that real-life boy chatter.”
“I was a part of the conversation?”
“I smell a trap. A magical trap. That’s why I’m taking my secondary weapon.”
“Bullets have no effect on magic, Ali.” Tom slowly rose to his feet. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Be careful.” He pressed his lips to hers. She didn’t pull away. She responded slightly, so he kissed her deeply. “Seriously…be careful.”
Ali whispered against his lips. “I’ll be careful. And, Tom…I will find a way to make bullets work against magic. It’s all about intention, right? My intentions are fueled by powerful desires.” She turned and chuckled as Tom patted her rear end. But she didn’t stay. She wanted to stay. She knew better than to stay.
She turned the key to her truck and gave herself a moment to catch her breath. It was hard to pull herself away from Tom during those rare moments she allowed his touch. He’d marry me in a heartbeat. He’d already give his life to save mine. He is the best partner a cop cover ever have. I sometimes wonder if he’d be the best partner…period. She thought about how she was dressed. Cargo pants, olive drab. A beige T-shirt and an old khaki tactical vest she used instead of a purse. Her ID, the odd twenty-dollar bill, her cell, keys, and sometimes Chapstick and an extra hairband were all she really carried. She had run a brush through her hair, but as always, it was pulled into a high, tight ponytail. To meet work requirements, she twisted it into a bun.
The drive to the shores of the Bez was kind of a straight shot from her apartment building. Everything in Old Town was minutes away. For its population, it had a fuck ton of criminal activity, however. She drove passed the church, trying not to stare at the demon pigs—an artist’s representation of the trials of St. Anthony when he was tempted and attacked by flying desert animals at the behest of the devil. She followed the loop that took her to a narrow road flanked by the river. It ended in a dead end—and that was where the hot dog cart would be set up. It might be too early for Casi to have it open. How do I approach this man? She put on her police cap. Know my exits. Watch his body language and tone. People lie—especially to police.
It was far too early for even the drunks passed out along the shoreline to be roused by her presence. Every now and then she bought coffees all around. And she didn’t bust them when they slept inside the steam works’ openings in the concrete wall abutting the shoreline.
She cooled down dead center of where a few hours hence, the hotdog cart would steam. Casi would sell his wares only occasionally taking a nip from his brandy-laced Thermos.
Her date appeared from under the rise of the embankment, his body rising as if from the river. He waved. That’s creepy. He was already here and out of sight.
“Hi. I didn’t think you’d show.”
“Who are you working for? Corazon?”
“Nah. I’m kind of an independent.”
Ali studied him. His posture. His manner of speech. His eyes. Oh, fuck. His eyes. “You’re not human, are you?” Her time on the beat in Old Town had proven to her that there were things that go bump in the night, and many more that brave the light of day.
“How can you tell?”
“Your eyes look like trees ablaze in a forest. Fire eyes.”
“The better to see you with, my dear.”
“Who are you?”
The man jumped up. “Ah! The direct question at last!”
Ali took a defensive stance. “I am a commissioned officer of the Khrashy Police Department. I am armed and will protect myself.”
He leaned forward with a smirk. “You had no problem with me the night we turned toward each other.”
“Turned toward? What the fuck are you…I’ve never had sex with you. Nor would I.”
“I flew under different colors then. Dark blue.”
Ali palmed her secondary weapon through the fabric of her thigh pocket. “Loki.”
“Hello.”
“No games. And no lies. Tell me what you mean to say and leave.”
“All kidding aside, I’m on your side. I see what’s going down. And none of it has to do with me. It’s all Melinoë. And the Furies. Madness, constant anger, vengeance. Nightmares that can stop the heart. Tom pissed off the wrong witch. Better he return to her bed than suffer from another curse.”
Ali listened. She knew she should reply. Any thoughts of Hell Night ripped her apart. Can I be strong? Strong for Tom. “You didn’t answer the big question.”
“Is he real? Or is he product of a curse? Is that the question that needs answering?”
“Yes.”
Loki chuckled. “Does it matter? Either way he’s screwed and so are you.”
“What do I do?” Why am I talking to him? I thought he was long gone.
“Do you trust me?”
“God, no.”
Loki rolled his eyes. “Then just listen. Find Mary Estey.”
Ali sighed. “Fuck.”
Chapter Nine
Saturday. Graves. The witching hour roll call. With Smith as her partner, the assignment was the shore of the Bez. Rife with crime and pollution, it was hard to distinguish what smelled worse. Hospital shifts were just as smelly—and sometimes far less controllable—but truly, she hated the foot patrol along the river. She looked at the watch commander with disdain.
He laughed. “What’s the matter, Najarah? A little stroll along the Bez not to your liking?”
“I’ll do the shift, of course, sir. Can I have a closer look at the strangler evidence?”
“Not much to go by. The stocking cap, which did not prove to be a wealth of information, because it belonged to the decedent. And the paper scraps. Found at both bodies.”
“Can I take a look at those?”
The watch commander opened the cardboard evidence box he’d checked out and removed two sealed bags containing pressed pieces of yellowed paper. “Trace says they are from a paperback, probably from th
e 1970s.”
“Chewed from the book?” She held the evidence up to get a good look at it.
Her commander nodded. “Eight pieces at the first body. Nine at the next. But the bodies were found out of order. It’s a countdown.”
“A countdown?”
“That’s what Detective Briggs thinks.”
“He worked a serial before. Uptown Sealth. The potato killer. Before my time,” Ali replied.
The watch commander chuckled. “That was a weird fucking case.”
“For Old Town, no. For Uptown, yes. Murder by mashed potatoes. Well, not exactly. He stuffed whole potatoes down the throats of his victim and blocked their airways. If someone had been around to do the Heimlich, the victim wouldn’t be dead, just remembered as a human potato gun.”
“Four of them. Would have been five if Briggs hadn’t figure shit out. Smart man. You know, Najarah—he's retiring next year. Every think of taking the exam?”
“For detective, sir? Sure.”
“Good. We’ll talk soon. Stay frosty tonight.”
“Always am, sir.”
Chapter Ten
Sleep had never come easily to Tom. Bad dreams were a part of his make-up. The dreams he’d had since the surgery, however, were beyond the pale. He walked, barefoot, naked—exposed, through the empty buildings of Old Town, passed usual suspects who would have normally scattered before him. He had the cop swagger—even naked. In a dream. He felt the broken concrete under foot, the bite of the air, and icy rain drops. He felt the warmth of blood trickle down his ankle as he crossed through sticker bushes and around jagged rocks.
He watched himself kneel but was unconscious of that which he kneeled upon. Who he kneeled upon. His forearm pressed against warm flesh. His knees crushed against bosom. He felt the satisfying sensation of life ending beneath him. It was more potent an aphrodisiac than—watching Ali’s ass when they rode their bikes. The taking of a life was sweet. He tried to focus on the face of the person he had just suffocated under his weight. Lucky person had no more cares. No more decisions to make. He held his breath as in the fog, a familiar profile struck him like a cinderblock upside his head. He was atop Ali. He had killed Ali. And it felt okay.
He rose. He sported a raging erection but dared not relieve himself. In his left hand he held a paperback novel. Old, dog-earned, yellowed pages. The rooster symbol of Bantam Books faded like a butchered capon bled out before plucking. He lifted the book to his lips and kissed it. It was a reverent act. And he carefully tore corners off random pages and left them with Ali’s delicious corpse. He’d tasted every part of her in life. He wanted to make love to her in death. She wouldn’t give herself to him in life. Not unless it was under the influence of a spell. Or in a dream.
Alarm jolted him. The punch of remorselessness hit him hard. He had killed his partner. His Ali. Shame enveloped him that he had even considered defiling her remains. It was a taboo violation that turned his stomach. More than the murder.
The panic didn’t set in until he realized his actions were not his own. In his shameful fog he saw the strings. He was but a marionette, worked by unseen hands behind a smoke screen. He wanted to object. He wanted to don his shield and blue armor and stop the madness. And when the laughter began, he wanted to die. Cackles from otherworldly realms; haunting and mad. He was once again trapped in a living hell. A prison to the whims of another. He wanted to die. Turn his service weapon against himself. He awakened before the impact of bullet to soft palate. Every time.
Sweat-soaked, feet torn and always confused and remorseful, he hoped it was a latent reaction to the anesthesia. But that didn’t explain the injuries, the cuts and scrapes. The feeling as though he’d been very naughty.
Tonight, he awakened at half-past three one foot on the ledge of an open window in Ali’s apartment. One more step and he would have sleep-walked to his death. Behind him were tracks of drying sand. Black sand. Oil-soaked sand. The only place he could have trailed that in from was the shores of the Bez.
He splashed water onto his face. If I had left the building and walked the Bez, surely, I would have been noticed and stopped. I am not a stranger to the night owls of this town. There would have been at least one, “Hey, Tom,” from someone leaving the convenience store or hanging out near the bar, waiting for it to reopen at six. Police training and that deep law-abiding instinct in him said just the opposite. I’m walking. I’m being controlled.
He grabbed a washcloth and wet it in consideration of cleaning his mess, then made the call he felt compelled to make. His phone was resting beside the book. That book.
Corazon answered the phone. It was still work hours for her. “Hey, handsome. What can I do for you?”
“What did you do to me, Cora?”
“Why, Tommy…I only do what you allow. No means no, baby.”
“Corazon, I’m in no mood. I’m…having nightmares. Sleepwalking. It’s like he’s controlling me again.”
“You would have taken far more enjoyment from Loki had you actually allowed him to control you a little. As it stands, you were exactly what you were born to be—a prison cell. But Loki isn’t around right now.”
“Who is it? What have you done to me?”
“What every brokenhearted witch must.”
“Reverse whatever it is, Cora. I’m warning you…”
“You are warning me? Really? All I need do is stick another pin in the voodoo doll and you will have appendicitis again, Tom. I can make parts of you fall off, grow back then fall off again. Your favorite parts. Actually…my favorite parts.” She paused. “That might be counter-productive. But I’m not one to be jilted lightly. And for such absurd reasons.”
“We are on opposite sides of the law.”
“How many law enforcement and judicial clients do you think I have, Tom? Dozens. And they hail from as far away as two states over. No one is going to blink an eye that you and I are lovers. Come on, baby…you’re the best I’ve ever had.”
Tom couldn’t reply. He didn’t want to reply. He knew better than to reply—truthfully. He waved it all goodbye as common sense and the non-confrontational demeanor of police work he had cultivated, left the building. “Do you suck them off too?”
“Excuse me?” Cora didn’t temper her tone of voice.
“The other cops and the judges. Do you suck them off too?”
“How crude! You know I am a non-sexual dominatrix and have been so since Loki darkened my doorstep. I find your question vulgar.”
“Cora, it’s over. I know you’ve put some kind of nightmare spell on me. End it.”
“Or what? You’ll end me? I’d like to see you try.”
“I’m killing someone in my dreams. Might as well be you.” Bad move, Tom. Bad move.
“Well, then. We’ll just see what the goddess of nightmares and her punishing companions can dish out, shall we? Nice knowing you, Tommy. You might want to get yourself a good lawyer.” She hung up.
Tom set his phone down and dropped to the floor as his head spun and all the blood rushed to his extremities. Melinoë. The goddess of nightmares. How was she summoned? The dark altar was destroyed. There was nothing left, except…ashes. He shook his head. Magic dust. Mary Estey’s ashes. It’s a direct connection to Melinoë. Fuck.
He stood and walked around, verbalizing his thoughts. “For dreams this is far too real. If I am sleepwalking deep enough into Old Town that I have stood on the shores of the Bez, I need to be cuffed to the bed.” He took a few steps around the room, then fell back into a chair. He continued his verbal stream of consciousness. “My feet are oil-soaked. My hands and knees are bruised. I smell like a corpse. Is it live or is it Memorex?” He stripped to shower. “I had better clean up this mess.” He paused. “Or maybe I should let Ali see it and have her arrest me for murder. Her murder. Her pending murder.”
But maybe that’s what she wants. My fear. He looked toward the footprints. They were gone. Did I already clean it up? The wash rag is bone dry. I’m going mad. N
o. That’s what she wants. For me to come back to her tail tucked between my legs. How did I beat this last time? He hung his head. “I was a god. I carried godhood.”
Sick to his stomach, a migraine setting in and almost unable to gather his thoughts, he got a glass of water and then collapsed into the chair by the now securely closed and latched window. His incision twitched and burned. Bile rose in his throat. It was nearly four in the morning. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. I’m going to work this like a case. Collect evidence. Come to a conclusion. A reasonable suspicion to probable cause. I can do this. What do I know? Number one, I am real. I have a past, a present, and a future. I may have been possessed by the Trickster. Let’s suspend disbelief and say all the uncanny paranormal events I experienced were real. I am undergoing similar circumstances now, plus nightmares. And my first illness. Ever. I may not be able to look at this with a cop’s eyes. Normally, I’d hang back in a protective stance and wait for the crazy to die down. Can’t do that here. I’m dead center of abnormal and aberrant behaviors.
* * * *
The wee hours of the morning along the shore of the Bez River—a polluted hub of shipping commerce, organized crime, and human trafficking in cargo containers, a lawless and unforgiving place to patrol—Ali always felt she should have her weapon drawn. Even in civilian attire. Or wearing a bunny suit and clown nose. Some criminals left crazy alone. Some of them thrived on it. Today, it was the blue shield, no clown nose, fully armed, locked and loaded. Graveyard on the Bez was extreme policing.
The street stair-stepped down to the water. Old steam tunnels—once powering a factory now long abandoned—ran under St. Anthony’s, the church that had been a jewel along the shoreline back in the day. Steam power had been a modern marvel. The tunnels were now a maze of broken dreams, drugs, and worse. The tunnel outlets were about two feet in diameter—too small for an average vagrant. The tunnels grew in circumference until they opened under the hospital. They ran, in darkened cob-webbed splendor, the entire hospital grounds. Located far below the deepest sub-basement, beneath the chilly old-style morgue, Ali knew of only one person ever to crawl down the manhole cover to explore them. Tom didn’t do it twice. He said a malevolent presence haunted the decaying tunnels. They made his Spidey-sense tingle.