Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition

by Jeffery X Martin

  "It’s not mine," Tamara said. "You don’t have to worry. It’s not mine." She sat, almost invisible in the black and blue lights of the bar, shaking her head and fighting the terrible panic rising within her, like acid reflux.

  The bartender turned toward the general direction of the woman’s table. "I’m sorry, what?"

  Tamara repeated, "It’s not mine. You don’t have to worry." And then, she began to hyperventilate, a high keening sound (a-HEEE a-HEEE a-HEEE) and for a moment, the bartender was afraid the woman was choking. She rushed out to the floor, leaving the woman’s drink unmade.

  Tamara must have blacked out again, for the next thing she remembered, there were four empty glasses in front of her and the blue lights were coming from outside instead of inside the bar. A cop was coming in from the parking lot while another one was talking to the nice bartender lady.

  This was shaping up to be a lousy evening.

  VI

  Driving Your Girlfriend Home

  SHELLY WAS BABBLING and blubbering into Graham’s good Sheriff’s jacket. "Oh, Graham, I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t see because I forgot my glasses and I told Terry to call you and I didn’t know if she was going to run away or what and I just wanted you to get here because what if she had run away? What was I supposed to do then?"

  "Shelly," Graham said calmly, "when I said we needed a statement from you, this is not what I meant."

  "I know, I know," she said. "I just can’t stop thinking about it and she’s still here and what if she freaks out again?"

  "Hush, now," Graham said. "She’s fairly well-lit as it is. I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere until Deputy Moon or I drive her there."

  "Is she going to jail?"

  "No way of knowing that yet. I still need to talk to her."

  There was a soft "ahem" from behind them. Without turning, Graham said, "Yes, Deputy."

  Deputy Kevin Moon placed his clipboard on the bar and leaned over it, as if he were trying to hide the information so that only he could read it aloud. "Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff," he said.

  "It’s alright, Deputy," Graham said. "Shelly, would you make Deputy Moon and me some fresh coffee?"

  "Of course, Graham," she said. "I mean, ‘Sheriff.’"

  Graham rolled his eyes at Shelly as she walked away, but let a small smile escape. After all, Shelly was a cute bartender, two traits Graham found desirable in a woman. He briefly checked her ass as she toddled off, but quickly got back to business.

  "All right, Deputy. What did you find out?"

  "The car is registered to one Reddick Boyle," Moon said.

  "That little prick," Graham said. "Is it him?"

  "Well, Forensics isn’t quite sure. The medical examiner said they were taking the remains away in two medium sized saucepans."

  "Not much left, huh?"

  "Sheriff, I didn’t want to say this while your lady friend was present, but…"

  "She’s not my lady friend, Deputy," Graham interrupted. "She is a material witness to a crime."

  "Well, yeah, but I thought she was…"

  Graham held up his forefinger. Deputy Moon dropped the subject.

  "Sheriff, the victim’s head was found in the back seat. His testicles had been shoved into his ears. Also, his penis was found inside his rectum."

  "Someone killed this guy and shoved his own dick up his ass?"

  Deputy Moon added.

  "That’s pretty intense," Sheriff Strahan said. "Why can’t we get the calm, collected killers? You know, the ones who do things with surgical precision and put body parts in jars, all neatly labeled?"

  "Are you serious, Sheriff?" Deputy Moon looked horrified.

  Graham shook his head. "Deputy, I have what they call an advanced sense of gallows humor. It’s very dark and not very funny to a lot of people. I hope you get used to it soon. Otherwise, you and I are going to have a lot of one-sided conversations."

  "Coffee’s ready, guys," Shelly said.

  "Three cups, please," Graham said. Quick as a flash, three cups of coffee appeared on the bar. Graham nodded his thanks at Shelly, who smiled back.

  "I’m going to go talk to our suspect now," Graham said. "I’m sure, at some point, she would love to get that blood off herself. Did they come get samples from her?"

  "Yes, sir," Deputy Moon replied. "They made a clean spot and poked and prodded her for a little minute."

  "Tell me truthfully, Deputy," Sheriff Strahan said. "Does she look funny to you?"

  Deputy Moon turned to take a look at Tamara. "Besides the fact that she’s covered in human blood?"

  "Yeah," said Graham, thoughtfully. "Something around the eyes."

  Moon shrugged. "Not that I can tell. Why? What are you thinking?"

  Graham picked up two cups of coffee. "Not sure," he said. "Just remembering something I read in an old book." With that, he walked to the table where Tamara Ogle, huddled in an emergency blanket (Terry refused to give her one of the good comforters from the Lodge), sat smoking and staring into space.

  ***

  Graham gently placed the cup of hot coffee on the table directly under Tamara’s nose. She grabbed the handle right away and took a loud sip. Graham shook his head in understanding. Coffee was a good thing.

  "T’pallahdau," he said to her.

  "T’pallahdauedan," she replied.

  He smiled. "I was right. You’re a Na’atal."

  Tamara furrowed her brow. "Not many remember that name. Ancient history."

  "Do you know who I am?" Graham asked.

  Tamara nodded and shook out another cigarette. "I can see the uniform, Sheriff."

  Graham smiled a little. "No, Tamara," he said. "Do you know what I am?" He held up his left hand and showed the woman his scar.

  Her eyes widened with recognition and a sudden understanding. Then, she put her tough face back on and took a short fast puff on her cigarette. "So? It means nothing, Man of Law."

  "What’s done is done," Graham said. "I understand that. Just another man from the Keep, right?"

  "Be straightforward with me, Man of Law," Tamara replied. "Your inferences are insulting."

  "Boyle was a giant piece of shit, Tamara," the Sheriff said. "You can do better than that and you know it. What were you doing with him?"

  Tamara shrugged. "He had a pretty car and his wallet was fat."

  "He had a solid fist, too, didn’t he?"

  Tamara sat silently, and the blue tinted lights in the bar caught her eyes, making them look slightly yellowish.

  "Look," Graham said. "We know Boyle was into some pretty bad shit. We could never prove it, though."

  Tamara shrugged. "I don’t know anything about all that. I know he could have treated me better. We went out for about a month and a half and he all of a sudden dumps me."

  Graham nodded. "So he gets what he gets."

  "Look, Sheriff," Tamara said. "I am tired. I am cold. I am reasonably sure I smell badly. I’m not an idiot. I know you have enough circumstantial evidence to do something. Please. Either arrest me or let me go home."

  Graham took a drink of his coffee. It was strong; he could feel the caffeine kick his heart rate up almost immediately. He said, "I’m going to have Deputy Moon take you to the house. We’ll be in touch with you later. But you need to get cleaned up and I don’t think you’ll be leaving town anytime soon, do you?"

  "And miss all the excitement?" Tamara laughed. "I think not."

  Graham leaned in towards Tamara, as if he were about to tell a secret. "Do me a favor and tell the Na’atal the Keep still holds its peace. That’s the only reason you’re going home tonight instead of enjoying our fine Pullman County Jail group showers and our new stylish line of incarceration wear. We hold our peace."

  Tamara looked at him quizzically. "I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sheriff," she said.

  "I’m equally as sure that you do," Graham replied. He scooted his chair back and began to walk away. He stopped though, briefly, and put his fingers on
the table.

  "Please tell Chula the new Man of Law in Elders Keep sends his regards," Graham said.

  "How do you know that name?" Tamara asked, genuinely alarmed.

  Graham smiled. "We’ll be in touch."

  He could feel Tamara staring at him as he walked back to the bar. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb at her. "Deputy Moon," Graham said, "take Carrie over there home. The prom’s over."

  Moon nodded. "One thing real quick, Sheriff."

  "Shoot," Graham said.

  "Look at her," Moon said, a little sadly. "There is no way a little girl like that did what they’re saying got done to the guy in that car. I mean, it’s just not physically possible."

  "But she’s got blood all over her, Deputy," Graham said. "What do you make of all that?"

  "She may have been there when he bought it, but there’s no way in hell she did it. But there’s nothing to indicate anyone else was there. But I can’t fathom her shredding a guy like that."

  Graham shrugged. "You may be right," he said. "We may never know for sure."

  "Well, what do you think happened?"

  Graham took a long drink of coffee. Then, he looked the young officer in the eyes and said, quite calmly, "I think Tamara Ogle turned into a mountain lion and ate him."

  "So you don’t plan to arrest her?"

  Graham shook his head. "You don’t put a cat in jail for eating."

  Deputy Moon looked at him for a moment, his mouth wide open and his eyes almost crossed with confusion. Then he relaxed and began laughing. "I swear, Sheriff," he said. "You and your weird sense of humor."

  "That’s right," Graham said, tiredly. "My sense of humor. Take her to her house and I’ll see you tomorrow."

  He watched as Deputy Moon gently guided Tamara by the shoulders through the dark bar and out into the parking lot. It was probably the first time a man had touched her in a kind way, expecting nothing in return.

  Graham put his coffee cup on the bar. "Warm me up over here, please, Shelly?" She nodded and hustled over with the coffee pot as he got out his cell phone. He picked his refreshed coffee up and moved off to a corner where Shelly couldn’t hear the conversation. Not everything was public business.

  ***

  IT WAS THE fifth ring before Goose picked up. "Goose’s Towing, where you at?" If a cigar could talk, it would sound like Goose.

  "Goose, this is Sheriff Strahan. Got a pick up for you."

  "You still up at the Nine Back? Been listening in on scanner. Hell of a thing."

  "Something like that. Bring the flatbed. And Goose? This is one for the green pond."

  "You’ve got it. Standard fee to the county times two, the usual deal."

  "We’ll take care of it, Goose. We appreciate you."

  "All right, Sheriff. See ya, bye."

  ***

  GRAHAM LAY IN bed, eyes burning, staring at the ceiling. Sleep was playing hide and seek with him. He would start awake suddenly without realizing he had been asleep. It was a hard way to spend an evening. He slipped a little further under his blankets and willed himself to close his eyes.

  He thought about secrets and how their stock never diminishes. He thought of a nice ass in black work pants, walking away to make him some coffee. He thought of a pair of eyes that, at the right angle, still flashed yellow and wide, like a wildcat’s, reflected in a primitive campfire.

  If werewolves only come out during a full moon, then what comes out when the moon goes dark?

  His mind had almost formulated an answer when sleep stopped hiding, and he went down for the night.

  Sniffer

  THE STROKE HAD been followed by a heart attack and still Polk Hammontree was too much of a stubborn son of a bitch to die. The doctors felt that time was running out, and they called his daughter, who had moved out of the Keep years ago and never came home, even for holidays, and she gave them permission to move him into Denouement Manor, the nursing home on the outskirts of town.

  Those bastards at the Manor shoved tubes into his nose and needles into his veins. When he was awake and lucid, he felt like Frankenstein’s monster, more machine than man, but then the tranquilizers would kick back in, and everything hazed over and he slid into a shallow sleep.

  When he saw the dog, he thought he was hallucinating. It looked like a shadow in his doorway, impossible tall, more like a pony and something that shouldn’t be inside. He and the dog stared at each other for a few seconds before it trotted away, its nails clicking on the mottled tile hallway floor.

  He brought it up to the nurse who brought him lunch.

  "Oh, that’s Sniffer," the nurse said. "He’s our dog."

  "Shouldn’t have a goddamn dog in here," Hammontree said.

  "Well, he comforts the patients who are not doing so well," the nurse said, in a practiced tone.

  "You mean the ones what are dying," Hammontree said. "On their way out."

  "Sniffer’s an Irish Wolfhound! And he just showed up here one day," the nurse said, her voice ripe with wonder. "Imagine that. Now you eat this potato salad, Mr. Hammontree. It’s nice and soft and not too much mustard!"

  Lunch was bland, but lunch was bland every day. Polk figured that was one way they hastened people out of this world into oblivion. Who wants to eat shitty food? Starvation was a better option. Sleep was better. Dark, still, dreamless, medication infused sleep.

  But Polk’s sleep was fitful, and filled with fragmented dreams of family members who had already passed away, all standing in the total blackness of oblivion, beckoning him to come forward and join them. He tried to back away, but his footing was unsure, and he could not move as quickly as he wanted to. The dead came for him, expressionless and assured, and when he opened his mouth to scream, nothing came out but chunky yellow potato salad.

  He awoke with a start, unsure where he was for a moment, but the slight tug of the needles in his arms quickly grounded and reminded him. It was dark. The television was off and nothing illuminated the room but faint moonlight from the shaded window and the glow of the various monitors attached to his body. He turned his head. The front door to his room was open. Sitting on the floor by the bathroom was Sniffer, his shadowed tail wagging, swishing softly against the floor.

  "Get out of here, you damned dog," Polk whispered. "Stay out."

  Sniffer stood up and Polk’s eyes widened. That dog was three feet tall, at least. It looked like a wild animal that had wandered out of the deep forest and was roaming the halls of Denouement Manor, looking for prey.

  Polk watched as the dog walked towards him, silent and stealthy. He fumbled about for the call button. He wanted a nurse to take this creature out of his room. But it was dark, and in his rising fear, he couldn’t find out. He wasn’t about to take his eyes off of the four-legged intruder in his room.

  "I know what you do," Polk said. "You don’t want me."

  Sniffer was at the bed, down by Polk’s feet, and the dog was breathing deeply, taking in Polk’s scent, memorizing it. Then it was at his knees, slowly working its way up the man’s body, its hot moist breath making patches on Polk’s pajamas. When the dog arrived at Polk’s face, it stared at him, not blinking. Hot angry tears were flowing down the old man’s face.

  "Get on out of here," he said. "Go on. Get."

  The dog opened its mouth slightly and licked the tears from Polk’s face. Polk was chilled. It knew him now. It had tasted his fear. The dog had imprinted on him. He wiped the dog spit off his face with his pillowcase and when he opened his eyes again, Sniffer had disappeared into the darkness.

  Breakfast was a mess of solid yellow that was supposed to be scrambled eggs and a circle of soy protein they jokingly called sausage. The morning nurse was unspeakably chipper and insistent that Polk eat those things.

  "That dog was in here again last night," Polk said. "I don’t want him in here."

  "I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Hammontree," she said, "but Sniffer kind of goes where he wants."

  "Now, that’s a crock of shi
t," Polk said. "You’re a human and he’s a goddamned dog. He should do what you tell him to do."

  The nurse shook her head. "Sniffer performs a great service for us," she said. "You understand this already."

  "Yes, I do," Polk agreed. "And that’s why I want him to stay the hell out of my room. He acts like I’m next. He needs to find someone else to help cross over. I ain’t going."

  The nurse patted his hand. "Just eat your breakfast, Mr. Hammontree. I’ll see what I can do about the dog."

  "I ain’t hungry," he said. "Check with me at lunch."

  The nurse took his plate away, but left the orange juice, just in case the old man got thirsty. Polk turned on the television. News was on, people arguing back and forth about things that didn’t add up to nothin’, as far as he was concerned. He missed Walter Cronkite. He missed black and white. He missed his wife. And then, before he realized it, he was asleep.

  When he awoke, it was almost eleven o’clock in the morning. Polk yawned and stretched as far as the tubes and needles would allow him to. The door to his room was closed; the nurse must have noticed he was asleep and shut it for him. That was nice of her. He felt better than he had in a week and then he heard the breathing. It wasn’t his.

  A cold shot ran up his spine. He stuck his right hand over the side of the bed as far as he could, trying to reach the floor, but he was too high, and the tubes were not forgiving. It only took a second for that not to matter, though. He could feel the dog smelling his hand, then licking his fingers, loud slurping noises filling the painted cinderblock room.

  The nurse hadn’t shut the door. The dog had. Sniffer had come for him, an avenging angel, a psychopomp.

  "No, dog," Polk said. "No way."

  When Sniffer stood up, the dog was able to put his head on Polk’s chest as he lie in bed. He probably could have licked the opposite wall. Polk, trapped in a prone position, felt like he had just seen a giant sea creature arise from the deep, some thing that should not be.