by G A Chase
He casually opened one of the files. “This is where the story runs off the rails for me. I was able to interview them alone and individually, so the rest of the story is strictly between them, me, Ram, and now you. Each of them described a band of men running wild in the swamp like a pack of rabid dogs. What they described didn’t even sound like men. Red eyes, sharpened teeth, and running on all fours—it was like they were describing some children’s horror-story demon.”
In spite of Deputy Thibodaux’s dogged determination, he fortunately did not appear to believe in ghosts and goblins. “Other than describing a shared hallucination based on campfire horror stories,” Sere asked, “did the men have anything useful to contribute to the myth?”
Evert Thibodaux gave Sere a tilted-head grimace of disbelief. “If they were delusions, having all three be identical would be one hell of a big coincidence—though it’s not unusual up north for people hauled into the sheriff’s office to spend some time getting their stories straight before being separated. One of the hunters did come up with a slight variation, claiming that the lead demon didn’t have any skin, but he was pretty distraught after having seen his partner torn to shreds.”
One more confirmed demon opening in life. Sere focused on her breathing, face muscles, and tone of voice in order to appear as calm as possible. “Have there been any other sightings of these creatures?”
The deputy leaned back in his chair. “That’s exactly the same look Ram gave me when he asked that question. What are you two hiding?”
Fuck! “We had a run-in with another mythical creature. The Swamp Strangler didn’t appear altogether human.”
“And since one swamp horror story crawled out of the bayou, you fear others will do the same?” he asked.
“Mythical monsters aside, one serial killer did find his way in from the swamp, and like I said, I believe he has kin out where no one can find them. In all likelihood, that’s who your hunters ran across. In my experience, the families deep in the bayou and cut off from civilization have some strange rituals. There’s no reason the Swamp Strangler’s people won’t follow his lead. We only caught him because he strayed too far from home.”
Evert looked at his pile of folders. “That’s not very comforting.”
You’re telling me, she thought. Evert was more insightful than Sere had realized, but she still couldn’t tell him that killing men for the fun of it wouldn’t be the demon’s primary goal.
“What happened with the dead men’s boats?”
“That’s another thing,” he said. “When the hunters went out to retrieve them, they weren’t there.”
“Please tell me the hunters just rely on their lifetime in the swamp to figure out where they are and how to get back into town.”
The deputy shook his head. “Would anyone be that stupid? In addition to GPS, every hunter who’s spent any time out there carries laminated maps so they can mark their trap locations with grease pencils.”
“What you’re telling me is those murderers now not only have transportation, but they also know where they’re going. You might want to deputize anyone you think can responsibly carry a gun.”
They had clearly passed beyond Lefty’s ability to control the danger, although at least Bart hadn’t sent his cousin down to New Orleans with tales of demons hitting shore. “Have you got any more good news for me?”
“That’s about everything on the missing men.” He pulled out another file from his case. “Which just leaves this. There was a killing in Riley’s bar earlier this week. As is frequently the case in bar brawls, no one got a clear look at the winner—not unexpected, since they were all inebriated. Riley is being as tight-lipped as ever about the fight. Again, not a surprise, as her customers would dry up if she started ratting them out. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it?”
Sere let out an unusually long breath of relief. She wasn’t the target of another investigation—not yet, anyway. “Why ask me?”
“Like I said earlier, there have been rumors of your nightly motorcycle rides and the physical altercations that follow. But mostly, I’m giving you that copy as a favor to Ram. Are you two involved in some gory courtship ritual? Blood and guts turn you on? Because I can’t for the life of me figure out why he’d want you to have copies of these coroner pictures.”
Sere opened the file a little too fast. Please don’t show me this mothergänger regenerating. After seeing the coroner’s visual documentation of the decapitation, she closed her eyes and let out another tellingly long breath. “What happened to the body?”
“This shit really does do it for you, doesn’t it? Good lord—you are one fucked-up chick. He was cremated just like every other unclaimed body. The sheriff is inclined to file this as just one more idiot who ended up in a fight with the wrong person in the wrong bar. Personally, I’d rather try to save the living than spend my time hunting down someone who had let their aggression get the better of them.”
Sere got up from behind the desk. “You seem like a nice guy. My advice is you go back to arresting drunks and investigating whatever small-town dramas land on your desk.”
The cop got out of his chair and nodded at the shotgun propped up in the corner. “Looks like you know how to take care of yourself. Bart hinted at your fighting skills. If things get squirrelly up in my neck of the woods, can I count on you to point me in the right direction?” His help apparently came with a price.
“I’ve pretty much told you what I can without going back out into the swamp. The people I’ve met up your way didn’t take too kindly to me. Having me on your side might make it harder to get information out of the bikers and hunters. If Bart agrees that I’m needed, get word to our receptionist, and I’ll do what I can. For now, however, I think I’m better off protecting the people of New Orleans.”
Sere spent the rest of the day analyzing the pieces of the police reports that the deputy had left out of the official version. Imagining the battle out in the swamp came all too easily for her. At first glance, the odds seemed to favor the human contingent, with four doppelgängers facing twelve armed hunters. That must have been what the hunters imagined as well. The idiots probably thought the small band of swamp dwellers were trying to keep the prize gators for themselves. They must have had quite the surprise when the alligators rose up in unison and joined their demonic swamp companions. She couldn’t fault the alligators for doing what came naturally. As soon as a doppelgänger injured a human, the gator squad would instinctively move in for the kill.
For the love of humanity, I hope that’s what happened. So long as it was the living creatures—not the demons from hell—who performed the killings, there wouldn’t be another opening in life. She scoured the reports for any mention of a doppelgänger committing the actual murder. Other than the one account the deputy had mentioned, however, she couldn’t find another instance of the demons finishing the job.
She reread the single account of the doppelgänger-on-human killing. “Once the demon brought Charlie down by taking a bite of his calf, an alligator moved in to devour the body, the same as with the others. But before the fifteen footer could move in for the kill, the demon started tearing at Charlie’s neck. I can still hear him screaming. I shot my rifle as fast as I could recock it, but with the gator in the way, my bullets just bounced off the reptile’s hide like I was throwing spit wads. When the gator finally got the hint, I managed to plug the demon in the chest.”
The deputy had inserted a handwritten note. “PJ is visibly shaking. I’m giving him a break so he can get some water. Whatever he saw out there has clearly affected his mental state.”
The narrative continued. “I can’t explain it. Blood squirted out of the dude’s chest from my bullet. I was certain he would fall to the ground. But the longer I watched, the more determined he became. It was like he healed out of sheer force of will. Then he ripped poor Charlie’s head clear off his shoulders like he was searching for something inside the body. Next thing I knew, he was going
after Pete. Something had changed, though. I could see every muscle, organ, and vein in the demon’s body, as if it didn’t have any skin at all. No matter how many times I plugged it full of lead, it just kept coming. I guess Pete was lucky that an alligator swept in for the kill. Sure beat what Charlie had to endure. That’s when I got the fuck out of there. I’m telling you, Evert, I don’t ever want to go out to that section of swamp again.”
Sere closed the file and tossed it to the side. The encounter out in the deep swamp had been mayhem, but then, she had warned the hunters to stay clear. Nowhere in the accounting was there any mention of a human taking out a doppelgänger.
“I suppose I should be grateful the demons only killed one man. So now I’ve got four known doppelgängers to deal with and one potential opening. Guess I’ll have to watch the skies a little more carefully tonight.”
“Did you want something, dear?”
Linda’s voice over the intercom made Sere swat aside the file she had so casually tossed on the call button. She cautiously touched the aged plastic as if it were going to bite her. “Sorry, Linda. I dropped something on the intercom.”
“No problem, dear. Happens all the time.”
I’ll bet. That woman probably knows more about what goes on in this office than Fisher. Sere was no wiz with technology, but it wasn’t hard to imagine the sweet, innocent-looking old woman opening the old plastic box and rigging the intercom to always transmit whatever was said in the office.
I’m letting my mistrust of people get the better of me. But really, how much would it cost to update his system? I’ve seen Fisher’s computers. The man’s no stranger to modern electronics. I’ll bet anything Linda is the one manipulating him into sticking with this old system.
Linda poked her nose into the office as if she’d heard Sere’s thoughts. “There isn’t anything else you can do for Mr. Fisher tonight. You should go home and get some rest. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“You have no idea.”
23
Chapter 11
Sere dumped her saddlebags on the dusty armchair in her loft above the Scratchy Dog. It seemed like months since she’d snuck out the bathroom window. The two snakes slithered out of the alligator-skin bags and slunk up the wood beam to their usual resting place in the rafters.
“It’s not home, but it’s safe.”
They rattled their tired agreement.
“I suppose we’re all a little beat. Maybe Linda was right. I should try to get some rest.” Without even kicking off her boots, she lay on the saggy mattress and listened to the latest of Kendell’s band discoveries belting out numbers she couldn’t identify. The music provided an anchor to reality.
Being so far from the latest hellmouth meant she didn’t have to worry quite as much about demonic dreams. She still hated sleeping—there were too many alternate realities threatening to suck her in. Slipping into the unconscious state reminded her of being a recently deceased seven-year-old girl in Guinee and being pulled into hell.
As Sere drifted, reality took on the hazy quality, indicating that sleep was only a few gentle breaths away. One, two…
The shock of being back in her father’s bank office made Sere’s heart literally stop beating. She grasped her chest, desperate to feel a pulse, but was distracted by her unlikely surroundings. He can’t have escaped the loas.
She closed her eyes and focused on the unwilling organ like Myles trying to start the grumpy VW. “I’m not dying today. Come on, beat, damn it.” A single pump of her heart gave her something to build on, then there was another. “One more and I’ll let you be.” The soft, rhythmic beat sounded infinitely better than the old bus’s engine finally coming to life. She breathed a little easier. Okay, so in this dream, I’m not immortal. Kind of sucks.
With her life no longer at risk, she looked around the office. The only thing that had changed was the lack of a door. “So I’m trapped in here.” The feeling wasn’t all that different from any other time she’d been in the old heavily masculine office. Her father had a way of making anyone feel trapped in his presence. “But you’re not here, are you, old devil?” She closed her eyes and tried to hear the music pounding downstairs, but all she got was silence.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
I know that voice. Sere clenched her fists. “You!”
She opened her eyes and saw the loa of the seventh gate, Baron Samedi, sitting behind the heavy oak desk like a judge waiting to pass out sentencing. “Be grateful that it’s only me and that we’re meeting here and not at your grave.”
“Grateful? Hell, you want to steal my spirit.”
His all-black eyes bore into her like death itself staring longingly at her soul. “I don’t have to steal what already belongs to me. You took your life. We accepted you into our realm.”
“And my father redeemed me.”
“He stole you.” The loa’s voice boomed around the room like thunder.
Sere made her customary scan of the room for tactical advantages and adversarial threats. Long, heavy desk, useful for vaulting off of—I can hit any wall with one good jump or hand thrust. A large painting of my father, the old goat. The frame could be a useful weapon. Andirons next to the fireplace. It’s just the two of us in this cage match, and that old fart looks like he’d snap like a matchstick.
She eased back into the comparatively small leather chair meant to make any guest feel weak. He’s trying to outmaneuver me. If he meant to haul me back to Guinee, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“Did you really bring me here to debate who owns my soul?”
Baron Samedi settled back into the massive bank president’s chair. “This interdimensional gate is neutral ground. Events are progressing over which we don’t have control. I’m here to determine if you are strong enough to act as our champion.”
Like I would ever fucking work for you assholes! She tried not to let her irritation get the better of her. “What if I’m not interested?”
“I think you will be, but first, I need to know that you’re human enough to do what’s needed.”
What the hell does that mean? But before she could modify the thought, into a nonconfrontational question, the scene of the heavily paneled office dissolved into the front of a suburban tract home late at night. The red and blue strobe lights of a police cruiser lit up the neighborhood.
Jennifer Cranston stood shivering in the warm humid air. “What? I don’t understand.”
“You’re just in shock, honey. Don’t worry. I’m sure Bobby will be okay.”
Unlike Sere’s other ride alongs with Jennifer’s soul, this time, there was no one else at the controls. Fuck! What has that asshole of the dead done now? Jennifer must be stuck in the godforsaken office while I play out his twisted game. But is this real or just Samedi’s idea of a test?
“Ma’am?” The police officer had the worried look of someone about to call in a medical professional.
“I’m sorry. I’m okay. Just tell me again what happened to my son.” A maternal instinct she didn’t know existed replaced the boy’s name with his relationship to her at the last moment.
“He got on the school bus, but no one saw him get off. That driver keeps very close tabs on his riders, so Bobby’s disappearance isn’t an oversight on his part. Is there any reason why your son would have snuck off at a different stop? Maybe to see one of his friends?”
Sounds reasonable, Sere thought, though her pounding heart argued that such a thing would never happen. “Bobby knows better than to do something so reckless.”
The conflict between how Sere, the badass demon hunter, analyzed information and how Jennifer’s motherly body retained the truth made her knees weak. She crumpled into Henry’s arms.
“I need to get my wife inside,” he said.
The police officer closed his notebook and stashed it in his shirt pocket. “Of course. Rest assured that we’re on this. I know it’s difficult, but try to get some rest. We’ll call
you the moment we know anything.”
Sere had never experienced so much trouble making her body obey her commands. Her arms and legs felt like limp spaghetti noodles. Her stomach rolled round and round like a front-loading washing machine. If it weren’t for her husband at her side, she doubted she could see clearly enough to navigate her way to the front door.
But he’s not my husband. And Bobby isn’t my son. The words in her mind seemed to come from far away, like a dream she still remembered but was waking out of. No. This is not me—it’s my real’s life. She shook her head against Henry’s shoulder.
His arm around her waist was like an anchor chain of love, preventing her from drifting away into worry and grief. “I’ve got you. Bobby’s a smart boy. He’ll figure out a way of getting a message to us.”
“He’s eight years old. Eight, Henry. If he tries to escape, they’ll hurt him.” Tears welled uncontrollably in her eyes and ran down her face.
“There’s no point in jumping to conclusions. No one has said anything about him being kidnapped. All I meant was he knows we love him.”
Henry’s arms eased off of their firm hold. Gravity took over, directing her into the overstuffed couch cushions. Why is this body so useless?
“I’m going to fix us a couple of stiff drinks,” he said as he stood.
“Do we have any Jameson’s? I’d kill for two fingers straight up.”
He smiled at her in the slightly confused, goofy way he did when she’d said something unexpected. “I’m sure I have a bottle around here somewhere for guests.”
Once he was out of the room, she began her tactical assessment. Body feels like it’s been sedated, but that’s probably just due to emotions. This dress is useless for going on the hunt. I’ll need to change. My jogging outfit should work. But where would I even begin? Her heart was beating uncontrollably. Her eyes produced so many tears that she wondered if dehydration would become an issue. Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she sought any rejuvenating energy within reach.