*****
Knee-high black leather boots protected Star’s legs from the heat of Widowmaker’s throbbing engine as they rode the quiet back streets.
They stopped at three different clubs. Star danced at every one. Between songs, she made sure Deacon had plenty to drink.
By the third bar, Deacon’s head was spinning. Alone in a bathroom stall, he supported himself over the toilet. The white porcelain blurred and he passed out. Subconsciously, he heard Star whispering in his ear. Fight the serpent…resist your father…defy the cross. His world spun. The voice continued. Discipline…the rod and the child…the valley…the shadow…death…death…death... Bring me his head…his head on a platter…for me… his head on a platter…
I’m dead, he thought; this is hell. The absence of reality was all too real. What time is it? He thought he heard himself say.
Where am I? The same feminine voice asked. Eight o’clock, the voice answered. Day or night? What day and where?
The scriptures droned on; Deacon was lost somewhere inside his own mind.
A cruel ray of afternoon sun crept through the tightly closed lid of Deacon’s eye and bore into his brain. Consciousness came like an exploding bomb. He flailed wildly. Every muscle ached. Is it Sunday? He thought remembering bits and pieces of Saturday night. Where is Star? He called her name; the house was dead quiet.
Deacon half-crawled, half-walked to the kitchen. He made coffee, took one sip, and poured the rest in the sink. His stomach ached with hunger, but his eyes abhorred food.
He made his way to the front door, and looked out on the deserted street. The Sunday Post-Dispatch lay in its usual spot on the front porch. He hobbled back to the kitchen and collapsed on a chair. He rolled the string off the paper. The thick roll uncoiled, and the massive headline assaulted him.
SECOND MUTILATION SEVERS CITY’S NERVE
Deacon’s mind reeled. “Oh, my, God,” he said. “Has the whole world gone crazy? Am I going mad?”
He forced himself to swallow two aspirin, and sat down to read.
Soulard, for the second time in as many months, a ruthless mutilation has shocked the city.
Early Sunday morning, following a 911 call, police found a woman, in her early twenties dead in her apartment, allegedly murdered sometime late Saturday night. The name and address of the victim, along with the details of the crime, are withheld pending further investigation.
Deacon’s throat constricted, and his heart began to pound. He couldn’t remember exactly where he had been, or how he had gotten home. Twenty hours were lost; his only memories were fragmented snapshots, fleeting and inconsistent.
He finished the article. However, in an independent Post-Dispatch investigation, we have learned from a source close to the police that the victim was a twenty-three year old white female who lived alone in a Soulard apartment. Sources allege that the cause of death was severe mutilation, reportedly decapitation.
“Oh, Jesus, my nightmare,” he said to the empty room. “The voice said something about bring the head, or give me his head, like somethin’ my father would say.”
From the bottom of his closet, he dragged a scarred green metal trunk into the bedroom. From the garage, he retrieved a large standard-blade screwdriver and a ball-peen hammer. Two light blows and the worn chrome latch willingly popped open. Near the bottom of the trunk, he found his small black student Bible.
Inside the cover handwritten in blue ink was his name, the date, and Promotion Day. On the opposite page in adult script was a note:
Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who has no need to be ashamed…II Timothy 2:15, Prayerfully, Reverend Jones
“Shit, my father couldn’t even sign my Bible.” He said to the tattered book. “His secretary wrote the same thing for all the kids. The son-of-a-bitch was impersonal in everything he did.”
It took only a few minutes of anxious skimming to find the book of Mark, Chapter 6. The message leaped from the page, and burned his eyes with the weight and fire of the words.
23And he vowed to her, ‘Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.’
25And she came in immediately with haste to the king, and asked, saying, ‘I want you to give me at once the head of John the Baptist on a platter.’
27…He went and beheaded him in the prison,
28and brought his head on a platter, and gave it to the girl…
Deacon dropped the book, rushed to the bathroom, and dry heaved until his throat was raw and sore.
At the kitchen table, after a long antiseptic gargle, with one hand resting on his Bible, he looked again at the newspaper. Sources say the police are investigating all leads. It is rumored this may be the work of a serial killer. Experts say we can probably expect more murders that are similar.
Early Sunday morning the Chief of Police, in his first brief press conference, announced that he has assigned the major case squad to the investigation. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is aware of the case.
“You’ve been up,” Star commented when she returned home late that afternoon. She leaned over the bed to kiss him.
Deacon caught her by the neck and pulled her into his arms.
“What’s all this about?” Star petted his hairy chest. “Are you all right?”
“I feel a lot better, but, sweetie, I’m frightened. Where have you been?”
“What do you mean? You drank a little too much, that’s all. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry. You were sleeping soundly, and I was bored. I went to the zoo.”
“It’s not just about the drinkin. It’s about the not remembering, or the remembering. I’m not even sure which.”
“What don’t you remember?” She seemed surprised.
“Almost nothing after our second stop, the only thing I remember is like a nightmare. There was a voice, almost like yours, repeating one of my father’s scriptures. Star, were you talking to me?”
“Of course, I was talkin’ to you, but not about the Bible for crissake. I told you I was going for the car. When I returned, I talked to you while I helped you into the car. By the way, what happened to your shirt? When I came back, it was gone.”
“You left me?”
“I told you I had to. I couldn’t get you home on the bike. So, I got a ride back here and drove back in the car to pick you up.”
“You left me passed out in a bar?”
“No, the bar was closing. I left you outside around the side of the building behind some cars. No one could see you. I knew you’d be safe. When I returned, you were still layin’ in the same spot, next to your bike, but your shirt was missing.”
“How long were you gone?”
“I had a little trouble getting a ride. Something more than an hour, I guess.”
“Wow!” He shook his head, and then laced her fingers with his. “This is all so strange, but here’s the worst thing. There was another murder, a mutilation, in Soulard. It’s already in the paper. It couldn’t have been too far from where we were.”
“So, doll, what does a murder have to do with you, with us?” She had a perplexed look on her face.
“Remember, I told you about what happened back in March. There was a guy killed in an alley, and I was there. What are the odds of me being in the vicinity when the two most violent crimes in years are committed?”
“Deacon, you’re making too much of this. It’s no coincidence. This is the city. Crime happens every day. Forget it.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Sorry, I missed work yesterday.” Deacon told Doc early Sunday evening. I’ll be in tomorrow. I think I just had a little touch of the flu this weekend.” He dropped the receiver back in its cradle, folded up in the fetal position, and fell, fitfully, to sleep.
Doc hung up, pushed his chair back from the desk in his home office, and stared at the ceiling. It was unusual for a whole weekend to have passed without seeing Deacon. On Saturday morning when he called, Star told him that Deacon had
gone to the store.
*****
Several times Monday, Doc tried to drag Deacon into a conversation. He resisted.
Deacon slipped into the service area and began an engine overhaul, something he had not done for a long time. Surely, sane people don’t hear voices, he pondered. Okay, Saturday, what happened? He began to make a mental list: Drank mimosas in the morning, tipsy not drunk, made love on the kitchen floor, and first time without condom. After that, it’s bits and pieces. I got sick, a kaleidoscope of people, music, dancing, blackness, and the voice in my head. He stopped. I have to write this all down.
A crazy person wouldn’t do that, he argued. A crazy person wouldn’t keep notes, would he? Crazy people babble and wave their arms, they don’t make sense, and they don’t make lists. He felt better. He was going to write it all down and organize his thoughts, just like a sane person.
He walked to Spencer’s Grill. The classic furnishings were a flashback to the fifties with stainless steel and well-worn wood. It was a comfortable place. He slid into the same booth in the back where Doc had first proposed their partnership.
Deacon’s stomach growled. It was early afternoon, and he had not eaten. He ordered a milkshake, half-chocolate, half-vanilla. From his shirt pocket, he took a small red spiral-bound notebook. Over the years, he had kept a precise record of every deal he had ever made, every sale, every trade, every motorcycle, and every customer.
He flipped to the first unmarked ruled page and printed, KNOWN FACTS, at the top. Beneath the title, he made a list of everything that had happened during the past year. It was painful, especially at first, but with ink spilling from the black pen, he painted a prosaic image of his recent life.
There were blank spots in the sequence of events. Those were the blackouts. For the first one, the first time that he was sure it had happened, he wrote, BLACKED OUT, in capital letters. Next to the words, he drew a straight horizontal line across the page, a symbol for lost memory. After he established the key, for subsequent entries he used only the line.
The final entries were the chain of events beginning on the previous weekend. The remaining traces of ice cream, in the bottom of the glass, were a thick warm liquid by the time he finished. He leaned back against the high flat back of the booth, closed his eyes, and stretched.
Details, or the lack of certain details, bothered him. How about when I was passed out? He gave himself a mental quiz. Star said I was alone. She said I was in the same place when she returned. Did I stay there? Was I capable of moving? Either way, what happened to my shirt?
TWELVE
Star sat alone in the living room. Glowing flames from half-burned candles flickered; tiny reflections danced on the glass of empty wine goblets.
“I’m sorry, I’m late,” Deacon said as he hurried into the room. The smell of overcooked dinner hung in the air.
She crossed the room with open arms. Her short white dress accentuated every curve. “Doll, I’ve been worried sick about you. Where have you been? I called the shop. Doc said you left hours ago.”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to worry you. I just needed a little time alone. I needed to think.”
“It’s okay, doll, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. Whatever you do is fine. I was just worried, that’s all. Now, come with me. I’ve prepared a wonderful surprise. I just hope it’s not all dried out.”
The chicken breasts baked in white wine were crispy, but the presentation was perfect. She filled two goblets with chilled white wine.
“Sweetie, I don’t think I should drink.”
“Ah, doll, I’ve told you. Your problem and drinking are completely unrelated. Besides, it’s only wine, a German Spatlese. It doesn’t even taste like liquor. How can we eat an elegant chicken dinner without a little glass of wine?”
They spoke of unimportant things. Finally, Deacon steered the conversation to his unanswered questions. “I mentioned that I was thinking earlier,” he began.
“Yes,” she answered. “I didn’t ask any questions because I don’t want to pry.”
“I have questions,” he continued. “There are many things that don’t make any sense.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“For starters, Saturday, tell me again where was I when I passed out. How did I get outside?”
“We hit a total of three clubs, right? I didn’t think you had had that much to drink, but I went to dance and you disappeared. Some guy came out of the bathroom and told me you were sick. I found you passed out on the floor of a stall. The guy offered to help, and we carried you outside because it was closing time.”
“I don’t remember the third bar, but okay, then what?”
“Well, you had vomited all over your shirt, and no one wanted to give us a ride. I decided to leave you and go for our car. I bummed a ride. I drove back, picked you up, and brought you home.”
“And I was there alone, passed out, for more than an hour?”
“Yeah, I guess, something like that. I wasn’t wearin’ a watch, so I don’t know exactly. What difference does it make? You’ve passed out before. What’s the big deal?”
“My shirt is the big deal. How could I have lost it? If you didn’t take it off, who did?”
“There must be a logical explanation. Maybe a bum stole it, or someone tried to help you and took it off so you wouldn’t smell so bad. In fact, that’s what I should have done in the first place. I just didn’t think of it.”
“Maybe you’re right. I guess I’m making too much out of nothin’. Forget it.”
Star smiled sweetly. “Now if we’re done, I’ll clear the table. Oh, by the way, I can’t find my favorite scarf, the dark-green silk one. Will you be a dear and see if I left it in your saddlebags?”
The first leather bag he opened was empty except for a tool kit. Deacon unhooked the nickel buckle of the other and lifted the latigo flap. His heart raced and his hands trembled. Wadded up inside the leather bag, he found the missing shirt. The stale, putrid stench of dried blood and vomit reminded him of Garvin Brown.
“Deac, did you find my scarf?” She asked when he returned, trance-like, from the garage. “Deacon, Deacon.” Star called his name.
He disappeared into the master bath and closed the door without answering. He staggered to the toilet and sat down on the lid. With his face in his hands and his elbows on his knees, he rocked back and forth, softly moaning.
“I did it—I did it—I did it.” he confessed repeatedly, his voice ripe with self-immolation. “Why can’t I remember? What am I going to do? If I have a split personality, surely I can push that other person, that evil part, out of my life and make myself whole again. It must be possible. Surely, I can be saved. My father said there is forgiveness and restoration of the soul.”
For the first time in more years than he could remember, maybe even for the first time in his life, Deacon, with a sincere heart, got down on his knees and prayed. “God, if you can hear me, if you know me, remember me. Please, please help me. Show me the truth or help me find it. I need to know. I have to know what I have done. Father, help me.”
He splashed water on his face and dragged himself to the kitchen.
“Doll, didn’t you hear me? Did you find my scarf?”
“What? Oh, your scarf, no, it wasn’t out there.”
“Deacon, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine. Sorry, I was just in a hurry to get to the bathroom.”
The bedside clock showed three o’clock in the morning. Deacon slipped silently out of bed careful not to wake his soul mate. He tiptoed through the dark rooms to the garage. The rancid smell assaulted his olfactory senses as he stuffed the shirt in a plastic trash bag, and tied it tightly. He put that bag in another, and another until the odor was indiscernible.
It was ten blocks to the neighborhood restaurant on the corner. Sticking to the shadows, the walk took less than ten minutes. Without a second thought, he dug down through the garbage in the dumpster as far as he
could reach, and buried the bag beneath the stench of rotting food.
Deacon washed his hands and arms with cold water from a spigot in his yard, crept back into the house, and slipped back into bed.
*****
Deacon began nervously, “Doc, can we talk?” They were alone in the showroom.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Not here, I mean we need to have a real conversation in private.”
“Okay, Deac. Give me a minute; I’ll tell Dawg to mind the store.”
In Lone Elk Park, on the far western edge of the city, they found a picnic table in a vacant clearing. Two elk grazed at the edge of the trees. A six-inch carpet of dry leaves blanketed the ground.
Deacon was nearly an hour into the story before he got to the bloody shirt. “If I do have a multiple personality disorder, is it possible that my other personality committed those murders?”
“Deacon, we aren’t certain of anything. You’re just speculating and imagining the worst.”
“Don’t you think it is all a little too fortuitous? How can I be innocent? Twice now, I was near a murder. My nightmares and fragments of memories match, and now, the fucking bloody shirt. Hell, what am I supposed to think?”
“Calm down. Yelling at me isn’t going to solve anything.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just really on edge. I can’t sleep, Doc, I’m scared!”
“I know you are; so am I, but we’re going to work through this thing together. We’ll find the answers.”
“Then what, what will we do? What if I’m—I’m a killer?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In this morning’s paper, the police are saying that maybe it’s not a serial killer. The first victim wasn’t sexually assaulted. The young woman last weekend, Cynthia something, was raped and decapitated. Her apartment is in Soulard. Do you know anyone down there?”
“I don’t think so. Does it matter? What about my bloody shirt, it wasn’t my blood. I didn’t have a scratch on me.”
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