A God in the Shed

by J-F. Dubeau

  William tried to smile, but his muscles wouldn’t let him. Finally he was reunited with his daughter, but this time it would be forever. He searched his little angel’s face for a sign that everything would finally be okay, but all he saw was worry and grief.

  That was when he heard something else approaching. Something terrible and cold, ancient and evil. He tried to move but couldn’t budge. His daughter put a hand on his cheek and mouthed, I love you, Daddy, before the darkness consumed him.

  VENUS

  THE WAIT WAS killing her. Venus had retreated to the floor, to the same place Penny had been when she’d first entered Cicero’s tent. Still holding on to the now empty glass, she stared into the distance, trying to unravel her feelings. It was a juggling act. One moment she was desperate to go check on her father, hoping that she’d get to the house and find him alive and healthy. Then she’d think of what it would mean if the god were free, and instead longed to escape Saint-Ferdinand. Abandon this circus, abandon her friends, and simply run away. The compromise, waiting there for the creature to come to them, seemed like the worst option.

  Penny had left the kitchen knife on the lone table where Cicero sat, drinking. The old man wouldn’t touch the thing but couldn’t tear his eyes from it either. Such a mundane tool. It was difficult to imagine that this was what they’d use to make their final stand.

  Who would wield the thing? None of them were warriors. Penny had asked if the circus had a knife-thrower, or even a juggler. Surely someone who used blades in their act would be capable at fighting with one, but Cicero seemed uninterested by the idea. In fact, he seemed unmotivated to put up a fight of any kind.

  Penny had tried to offer comfort, but Venus had quietly turned her down. While the sympathy would have been welcome, it would only serve to pull her grief out of the shadows and distract her from the present.

  Instead her friend had gone to see Daniel Crowley. The inspector’s son hadn’t spoken so much as a word since his arrival. Through overheard conversation, Venus could make out that he, too, had suffered a great loss.

  Cicero was paying close attention to the boy, stealing frequent glances in his direction. So when Daniel suddenly got to his feet and walked toward the old man’s desk, the ringmaster frowned, attempting to pull himself to his feet. Old, gnarled fingers knotted themselves into fists as he stumbled over his own chair.

  “Mr. Crowley . . . ,” he began.

  But even he noticed that this wasn’t the same Daniel he’d previously met. Not even the same boy who’d driven out of Sherbrooke mere hours ago. The Crowley boy looked devastated. A husk had replaced the “that guy.” His arms hung from slumped shoulders, and his back curved under the weight of his grief. His eyes told most of the story. They were cold and withdrawn, only coming to life when they settled on the circus owner.

  “Mr. Cicero?” he said. “We need to talk, sir.”

  “I’ve told you everything I could, Mr. Crowley. What else could you possibly need?”

  Daniel stood across the table, towering over the old man. When he was all smiles and confidence, he was the most charismatic boy in the room. “That guy.” But with anger and grief weighing on him, he became a threatening presence. Venus could see some of his father in Daniel now, and so did the old master of ceremonies.

  “I don’t need anything. I want to help.”

  For the second time, Cicero was surprised. He looked toward the old fortune-teller, who gave him a knowing nod.

  “Didn’t think I’d see the day when I’d welcome a Crowley into my humble home and be glad for it. However, I’m not the one who needs your help right now, Daniel.”

  The old man jerked his chin in Venus’s direction. She didn’t welcome the attention, preferring to stew in her own misery. When Daniel looked at her, she saw herself reflected in his eyes and blushed. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Her face wearing the same grieving expression that Penny had been carrying with her for the past week, that hollow stare of loss. She broke eye contact, but he walked over and knelt down.

  “McKenzie? You okay?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  He went to embrace her, but as she had done with Penny, Venus recoiled at the gesture. She didn’t want to be comforted. She wanted to taste the pain, make sense of it.

  “What happened to you?” she asked as a way to distract herself from the awkward moment.

  “Sasha is dead. She never made it to our date because she’s been killed. My father hid it from me.”

  Venus remembered Sasha from school. They didn’t share any of the same social circles, but Daniel’s girlfriend had been popular and smart. She lived in the city, as opposed to the outlying villages. Whatever limited interaction the girls had, it had been polite and friendly. Sasha and Daniel had seemed like the perfect couple. Homecoming king and queen.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to inject as much sincerity as she could into her sympathy

  “Thanks. I . . . I’m not sure how to feel anymore.” He glanced sideways at Penny. “Do you believe them? What they say about your dad.”

  “Maybe. I don’t want to.” Venus looked accusingly at Cicero and the fortune-teller. There was no doubt. The costume gave it away, but it went beyond that. The older woman’s ice-pale eyes looked around with a detachment brought only by knowledge. She watched the assembled group with profound sadness and infinite understanding, like she could already see them dead.

  “I don’t blame you for doubting what your ears tell you but that your eyes haven’t confirmed,” the old woman croaked. She dragged her chair from the desk to where the teens sat on the floor. “Should I have Ezekiel drive you home? See things for yourself? If I’m right, you die, but at least you’d have your certainty.”

  Venus had seen too much to take that chance. She knew in her gut that the old woman was right, but it was too soon to admit it to herself. “What about my mother?”

  The question had been at the back of her mind for a while now. Virginie had brought her cat to the circus, and then for some reason she’d vanished. No one had mentioned her, and through her grief, Venus had almost forgotten about her mother.

  “She’s fine. She went back to your place to fulfill her own part of the play. She’s stronger than I gave her credit for,” the old woman said with something like pride in her voice.

  “But she’s alive? She’s going to live?”

  “We all die one day, but she will live tonight.”

  “How can you do this?” Daniel asked. “How can you all just let these things happen and do nothing?”

  Venus shared his outrage. Of all the things she’d heard in the last weeks, the hardest to swallow was that things were immutable. In essence, Cicero had told her that the fortune-teller had predicted they would win. That in the end, the god would be vanquished. The old man wouldn’t say how, only that the innocuous weapon on the table was supposed to accomplish the task.

  “I see the price of victory and the path to get there,” the old woman said. “Even if we could upset this balance, why would we? Knowing that things could easily get worse.”

  “So the ends justify the means?” Venus asked.

  “That is one way to look at it. Or you could say that the means would not pardon the ends, should the god break free.” “How did you learn to do it, to tell the future?” Penny said. “Is it a trick, like what my uncle does?”

  “Oh, it’s no trick. This is a gift, one from the very creature you have locked up in your shed. Not the best gift, in hindsight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I asked for the power to see the future, and in exchange, I would free the god from its bonds. One of a long line of fools who thought to match wits with a god. Well, it granted my wish, and the first thing I saw was the evil such a creature would sow upon the world. So I broke my end of the bargain, knowing full well what it would cost my friends and family.”

  Venus looked down at her empty glass. Her stomach lurched at the t
hought of what the old woman had gone through. Having to pick between those she knew and loved and the fate of the world, sacrificing others for the greater good—she wasn’t sure she could do it herself. She thought she would vomit if her stomach hadn’t been empty save for grief and bourbon.

  “Why did my mother bring you my cat?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Your mother and I have known each other a long while, child. Long before you were born.”

  It seemed everyone knew everyone, and the villagers and circus people had intermingled at some point in the past. But exactly how was everyone connected?

  “I still don’t understand why we’re just waiting here,” Daniel said. “Shouldn’t we be drawing plans? Preparing somehow?”

  “We have spent our entire lives preparing, Mr. Crowley,” Nathan Cicero said. “Now our time is nearly up. We should have passed this torch a long time ago, but the truth is, we don’t know much more than you do. Never have.”

  “Pass the torch? What if we don’t want that kind of responsibility?”

  “No one does,” Cicero agreed. “Circumstances don’t wait for someone to demand the opportunity for glory. They show up when they will. I thought you were here to help. But perhaps you are more your father’s son than I assumed.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Venus saw Daniel’s fists clench, halfway proving the old man’s point.

  “Normalcy doesn’t lend itself to greatness, Mr. Crowley. The more tumultuous a life, the more chances one gets to leave one’s mark. Life is only as rewarding as it is exciting. Someone your age should recognize that. See the gift for what it is. Through great tragedy, you have the chance to become a hero.”

  “I don’t want to be a hero.” Venus pulled her knees to her chest.

  “I’m sorry, my child,” Katrina said, and sighed. “In some cases there’s the opportunity to decide, but the rest of us are forced into our roles.”

  “I’ve found a list of my grandfather’s associates. I can continue his research. Why can’t we just use this so-called curse of Cicero and trap the god while we find a permanent solution?”

  “The curse isn’t something that’s cast, like a spell,” the old woman explained. “It’s a bargain, a deal struck between god and man. They are both bound by it.”

  “So if Cicero were to die . . . ,” Venus looked toward the old man’s strange blue eyes again.

  “The bargain ends and the god is free, yes.”

  For the first time, Venus realized that among them, Nathan Cicero was the only one smiling. He raised his glass in a toast.

  “Today, it seems, is as good a day as any to die.”

  Then the old master of ceremonies upended the last of the bourbon into his mouth.

  CROWLEY

  THE TWO MEN stared at each other intently. Inspector Stephen Crowley, driven by rage and purpose, and Chris Hagen, smug and in control. A few yards and fifteen years lay between them.

  Unlike the other Sandmen, Chris wasn’t surprised to see Crowley standing on the Bergerons’ front lawn, pistol in hand, his face beet red and his uniform stained with sweat.

  Immediately, Beatrice Bergeron put a protective hand on the young man’s shoulder. Chris politely patted her hand away before stepping forward to meet his father.

  “I was hoping you’d come,” Hagen called out enthusiastically. “I assume William came to you?”

  “I don’t need to talk to you, boy,” said Crowley, the spittle flying out of his mouth gleaming in the dull morning light. “I know a mouthpiece when I see one.”

  Chris reached for his heart mockingly, quickly straightening back up before calmly putting his hands into his pants pockets. The very image of nonchalance. “Ow! You wound me, Stephen. Can I call you Stephen?”

  “I don’t give a shit.” The inspector flexed his wounded fist, feeling blood seep once again through the bandage. “Just tell me where your mother is.”

  “And why would I do that, exactly?” Hagen started circling his father, studying him from every angle like a lab specimen. “Did you bite off more than you could chew, Stephen? Do you need your wife to come home and fix everything?”

  “Where?” Crowley insisted.

  “Far. But you’re right. I’m here on her behalf. I’m here to check up on you.” Chris Hagen glanced back at the cult members behind him. Ordinary villagers, seduced by the promise of something greater than themselves. Sheep, most of them. “So far I’m not impressed with what you’ve achieved.”

  The young man turned back to the inspector, grinning with perfect teeth, beaming with arrogance. “But I think I can take it from here.”

  Crowley looked into Chris Hagen’s eyes, but all he could see was his son Francis. The last time he’d seen the boy was on the day Marguerite left. She’d been depressed ever since her father’s disappearance three years prior, but that evening she’d been particularly distraught. Raving about monsters and gods. Stephen, only a lieutenant back in those days, had to work that night. He’d left his wife, promising to be back as soon as his shift was over. But when he returned, she had gone, taking his elder son with her. All she’d left was a wooden chest, half-emptied on their bed, and little Daniel, crying in his crib.

  The next day, Crowley had followed her trail back to the circus. Back to the owner—an old man called Nathan Joseph Cicero. A friend of Edouard Lambert, Marguerite’s father. Tired, emotionally distressed, and desperate, Crowley hadn’t had the patience to handle Cicero’s ambiguous and evasive answers. The situation quickly escalated to blows.

  A decade and a half later, just as the inspector felt like he was on the precipice of success, his firstborn had returned. And the son of a bitch was attempting to steal the fruits of his labor.

  “You think those idiots are going to lead you to the god?” Stephen chuckled. “These morons couldn’t find the ground if they fell off a chair.”

  “Tsk. You should show more respect to your constituents, Stephen. You’re a public servant,” Hagen said. “But no, I don’t expect them to lead me anywhere. While you were on your wild-goose chase, Mother and I did our homework. I’ve studied. I’ve done the rituals, dropping souls into the river and following the current. A few more deaths, and I’ll be able to track down the god, wherever it is. Maybe you can be useful for once, Stephen. How about it?”

  Crowley swung his bloody right hand toward Chris Hagen. The young man danced to his father’s left, light and agile, but didn’t see the feint. Crowley’s left hand closed viselike on Hagen’s neck, nearly crushing his windpipe.

  Leveraging his height and weight, the inspector threw Hagen to the ground without letting go of his throat. Placing his right knee onto his estranged son’s chest, Crowley drew his face to within an inch of the young man’s. The villagers who called themselves the Sandmen gasped in collective surprise.

  “You want to push me into a corner, boy?” Spittle showered Chris Hagen’s face. “Want to see what I’m capable of when I have nothing to lose?”

  Everything he’d done, all his compromises over the years, were in the hope of finding Marguerite and Francis. Of figuring out why she had left. What had happened to her father, Edouard. The wooden box and its contents had opened up a world of possibilities and a thousand potential threads that might or might not have led to his wife and son. It had been an all-consuming obsession for the inspector, shaping everything in his life. The only place he’d ever found solace from his obsessive quest was when he spent time with . . .

  “Daniel.”

  It was Beatrice Bergeron who’d spoken. The plump woman had come within a yard of the grappling father and son. Her voice cut through the blinding rage that was consuming Crowley as he crushed the life from his elder son. His son who had come back just to take everything away from him.

  “That’s something you have to lose, Stephen Crowley,” she continued. “If you don’t let go of Mr. Hagen right this instant, so help me God, we’re gonna make sure to take Daniel away from you, too.�
��

  The inspector’s first thought was to rip out the fat old woman’s throat. In fact, at that very moment he would have gladly painted the Bergerons’ front yard red with the blood of his former friends and allies. But she was right. He did have something else to live for. His wife’s departure may have torn a gaping hole in his soul, but the boy she’d left behind had filled it.

  Reluctantly, Crowley let go of Chris Hagen’s throat, leaving stark white imprints where his fingers had been.

  “That’s right, Stephen,” William’s unsuspecting widow said as Hagen crept out from underneath the inspector’s shadow. “Nice and slow.”

  Maybe I should tell you what I did to your husband, you cow, Crowley thought. He wanted to hurt her with some parting words, but he knew better than to incriminate himself. Soon this would all be over, and when the dust settled, it would do well to have been prudent.

  The inspector backed away, slowly followed by the dozen people gathered on the lawn. He could see in each one of their eyes that they would gladly make good on Beatrice’s threat.

  As he started his SUV, Crowley consoled himself with the thought that they all believed they were safe from him. That they had neutralized him. The fools didn’t realize what they’d really done. They hadn’t reminded him of a reason to live. They’d given him a reason to kill.

  VIRGINIE

  THE CORDLESS PHONE hung limply in her left hand as Venus’s mother beheld the spectacle before her. She could hear the voice at the end of the line, a weak crackling, as Jackie, the dispatcher at the station, tried to get Virginie to answer her questions.