The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove pc-2

by Christopher Moore

  It was the school prayer ladies, Katie and Marge, although Molly wouldn’t be able to tell which was which. They were wearing identical pink jogging suits with matching Nikes. As she watched, the two women moved closer to Steve, and Molly could see a rippling across the dragon trailer.

  “As our Lord Jesus did give His life for our sins, so we come unto Thee, O Lord, to giveth of ourselves.”

  The end of the dragon trailer lost its angles to curves, and Molly could see Steve’s broad head extending, changing, the door going from a vertical rectangle to a wide horizontal maw. The women seemed unaffected by the change and continued to move slowly forward, silhouetted now by Steve’s jaws, which were opening like a toothed cavern.

  Molly ran around her trailer and up the steps, reached in and grabbed her broadsword which was leaned against the wall just inside the door, and dashed back around the trailer and toward the Sea Beast.

  Marge and Katie were almost inside of Steve’s open mouth. Molly could see his enormous tongue snaking out the side of his mouth, reaching behind the church ladies to drag them in.

  “No!” Molly leapt from a full run, slamming between Marge and Katie like a fullback leaping through blockers to the goal line, and smacked Steve on the nose with the flat of her sword. She landed in his mouth and rolled clear to the ground just as his jaws snapped shut behind her. She came up on one knee, holding the sword pointed at Steve’s nose.

  “No!” she said. “Bad dragon.” Steve turned his head quizzically, as if wondering what she was so upset about.

  “Change back,” Molly said, raising the sword as if to whack his nose again. Steve’s head and neck pulled back into the shape of a double-wide trailer.

  Molly looked back at the church ladies, who seemed very concerned with having been knocked into the mud in their pink jogging suits, but oblivious to the fact that they had almost been eaten. “Are you two okay?”

  “We felt the call,” one of them said, either Marge or Katie, while the other one nodded in agreement. “We had to come to give ourselves unto the Lord.” Their eyes were glazed over and they stared right past her to the trailer as they spoke.

  “You guys have to go home now. Aren’t your husbands worried about you or something?”

  “We heard the call.”

  Molly helped them to their feet and pointed them away from Steve, who made a faint whining noise as she pushed the church ladies away toward the street.

  Molly stopped them at the edge of the street and spoke to them from behind. “Go home. Don’t come back here. Okay?”

  “We wanted to bring the children to feel the spirit too, but it was so late, and we have church tomorrow.”

  Molly smacked the speaker across the butt with the flat of her sword, a good two-handed stroke that sent her stumbling into the street. “Go home!”

  Molly was winding up to smack the other one when she turned and held up her hand as if refusing a refill on coffee. “No thank you.”

  “Then you’re going and you’re not coming back, right?”

  The woman didn’t seem sure. Molly turned her grip on the sword so the edge was poised to strike. “Right?”

  “Yes,” the woman said. Her friend nodded in agreement as she rubbed her bottom.

  “Now go,” Molly said. As the women walked away, she called after them, “And stop dressing alike. That’s fucking weird.”

  She watched them until they disappeared into the fog, then went back to where Steve was waiting in trailer form. “Well?” She threw out her hip, frowned, and tapped her foot as if waiting for his explanation.

  His windows narrowed, ashamed.

  “They’ll be back, you know. Then what?”

  He whimpered, the sound coming from deep inside, where the kitchen would be if he were really a trailer.

  “If you’re still hungry, you have to let me know. I can help. We can find you something. Although there is only one hardware store in town. You’re going to have to diversify your diet.”

  Suddenly an electric guitar screamed out of the fog, wailing like a tortured ghost of Chicago Blues. The dragon trailer became the dragon again, his white skin went black, then flashed brilliant streaks of red anger. The bandages Molly had spent all day applying shredded with the abrupt shape change. His gill trees hung with tatters of fiberglass fabric as if toilet-papered by mischievous boys. The Sea Beast threw back his head and roared, rattling the windows through the trailer park. Molly fell in the mud as she backed up, then rolled and came up on her feet with the broadsword poised to thrust into the Sea Beast’s throat.

  “Steve, I think you need to take a timeout, young man.”

  Theo

  Such a short period of time to have so many new experiences. In just the last few days, he had coordinated his first major missing person search, including talking to worried parents and the milk carton company, whose people wanted to know if Theo could get a picture of Mikey Plotznik where he wasn’t making a contorted, goofy face at the camera. (If they found a better picture, Mikey would end up with great exposure on the two percent or nonfat cartons, but if they had to go with what they had, he was going on the side of the buttermilk and would only be seen by old folks and people making ranch dressing.) Theo had also had to deal with his first major fire, the hallucination of giant animal tracks, and opening a real live murder investigation, all without the benefit of his lifelong chemical crutch. Not that he couldn’t nurse at his favorite pipe, he’d just lost the desire to do so.

  Now he had to decide how to go about investigating Bess Leander’s murder. Should he pull someone in for interrogation? Pull them in where? His cabin? He didn’t have an office. Somehow he couldn’t imagine holding an effective interrogation with the suspect in a beanbag chair under a hot lava lamp. “Talk, scumbag! Don’t make me turn the black light on that Jimi Hendrix poster and light some incense. You don’t want that.”

  And amid all the other activity, he felt a nagging compulsion to go back to the Fly Rod Trailer Court and talk to Molly Michon. Crazy thoughts.

  Finally he decided to drop by Joseph Leander’s house, hoping he might catch the salesman off guard. As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed that weeds had grown up around the garden gnomes and there was a patina of dust on the Dutch hex sign over the front door. The garage door was open and Joseph’s minivan was parked inside.

  Theo paused at the front door before knocking and made sure that his ponytail was tucked into his collar and his collar was straight. For some reason, he felt as if he should be wearing a gun. He had one, a Smith & Wesson .357 revolver, but it was on the top shelf of his closet, next to his bong collection.

  He rang the bell, then waited. A minute passed before Joseph Leander opened the door. He was wearing paint-spattered corduroys and an old cardigan sweater that looked like it had been pulled out of the trash a dozen times. Obviously not the sort of attire that Bess Leander would have allowed in her home.

  “Constable Crowe.” Leander was not smiling. “What can I do for you?”

  “If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”

  “I suppose,” Leander said. He stepped away from the door and Theo ducked in. “I just made some coffee. Would you like some?”

  “No thanks. I’m on duty.” Cops are supposed to say that, Theo thought.

  “It’s coffee.”

  “Oh, right, sure. Milk and sugar please.”

  The living room had bare pine plank floors and rag rugs. An antique pew bench took the place of a sofa, two Shaker chairs and a galvanized milk can with a padded cushion on the top provided the other seating. Three antique butter churns stood in the corners of the room. But for a new thirty-six-inch Sony by the fireplace, it could have been the living room of a seventeenth-century family (a family with very high cholesterol from all that butter).

  Joseph Leander returned to the living room and handed Theo a hand-thrown stoneware mug. The coffee was the color of butterscotch and tasted of cinnamon. “Thanks,” Theo said. “New TV
?” He nodded to the Sony.

  Leander sat across from Theo on the milk can. “Yes, I got it for the girls. PBS and so forth. Bess never approved of television.”

  “And so you killed her!”

  Leander sprayed a mouthful of coffee on the rug. “What?”

  Theo took a sip of his coffee while Leander stared at him, wide-eyed. Maybe he’d been a bit too abrupt. Fall back, regroup. “So did you get cable? Reception is horrible in Pine Cove without cable. It’s the hills, I think.”

  Leander blinked furiously and did a triple-take on Theo. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw the coroner’s report on your wife, Joseph. She didn’t die from hanging.”

  “You’re insane. You were there.” Leander stood and took the mug out of Theo’s hands. “I won’t listen to this. You can go now, Constable.” Leander stepped back and waited.

  Theo stood. He wasn’t very good at confrontation, he was a peace officer. This was too hard. He pushed himself. “Was it the affair with Betsy? Did Bess catch you?”

  Veins were beginning to show on Leander’s bald pate. “I just started seeing Betsy. I loved my wife and I resent you doing this to her memory. You’re not supposed to do this. You’re not even a real cop. Now get out of my house.”

  “Your wife was a good woman. A little weird, but good.”

  Leander set the coffee mugs down on a butter churn, went to the front door, and pulled it open. “Go.” He waved Theo toward the door.

  “I’m going, Joseph. But I’ll be back.” Theo stepped outside.

  Leander’s face had gone completely red. “No, you won’t.”

  “Oh, I think I will,” Theo said, feeling very much like a second grader in a playground argument.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Crowe,” Leander spat. “You have no idea what you’re doing.” He slammed the door in Theo’s face.

  “Do too,” Theo said.

  Seventeen

  Molly

  Molly had always wondered about American women’s fascination with bad boys. There seemed to be some sort of logic-defying attraction to the guy who rode a motorcycle and had a tattoo, a gun in the glove compartment, or a snifter of cocaine on the coffee table. In her acting days, she’d even been involved with a couple of them herself, but this was the first one who actually, well, ate people. Women always felt that they could reform a guy. How else could you explain the numerous proposals of marriage received by captured serial killers? That one was a bit too much even for Molly, and she took comfort in the fact that no matter how crazy she had gotten, she’d never been tempted to marry a guy who made a habit of strangling his dates.

  American mothers programmed their daughters to believe that they could make everything better. Why else was she leading a hundred-foot monster down a creek bed in broad daylight?

  Fortunately, the creek bed was lined in most places by a heavy growth of willow trees, and as Steve moved over the rocks, his great body changed color and texture to match his surroundings until he looked like nothing more than a trick of the light, like heat rising off blacktop.

  Molly made him stay under cover as they approached the Cypress Street bridge, then waited until there was no traffic and signaled him to go. Steve slithered under the bridge like a snake down its hole, his back knocking off great hunks of concrete, and he passed through.

  In less than an hour they were out of town, into the ranchland that ran along the coast to the north, and Molly led Steve up through the trees to the edge of a pasture. “There you go, big guy,” Molly said, pointing to a herd of Holsteins that were grazing a hundred yards away. “Breakfast.”

  Steve crouched at the edge of the forest like a cat ready to pounce. His tail twitched, splintering a cypress sapling in the process. Molly sat down beside him and cleaned mud from her sneakers with a stick as the cows slowly made their way toward them.

  “This is it?” she asked. “You just sit here and they come over to be eaten? A girl could lose respect for you as a hunter watching this, you know that?”

  Theo

  Theo found himself trying to figure out why, exactly, he was driving to Molly Michon’s place, when his cell phone rang. Before he answered, he reminded himself not to sound stoned, when it occurred to him that he actually wasn’t stoned, and that was even more frightening.

  “Crowe here,” he said.

  “Crowe, this is Nailsworth, down at County. Are you nuts?”

  Theo stalled while he tried to remember who Nailsworth was. “Is this a survey?”

  “What did you do with that data I gave you?” Nailsworth said. Theo suddenly remembered that Nailsworth was the Spider’s real name. A second call was beeping on Theo’s line.

  “Nothing. I mean, I conducted an interview. Can you hold? I’ve got another call.”

  “No, I can’t hold. I know you’ve got another call. You didn’t hear anything from me, do you hear? I gave you nothing, understand?”

  “‘Kay,” Theo said.

  The Spider hung up and Theo connected to the other call.

  “Crowe, are you fucking nuts!”

  “Is this a survey?” Theo said, pretty sure that it wasn’t a survey, but also pretty sure that Sheriff Burton wouldn’t be happy with a truthful answer to the question, which was: “Yes, I probably am nuts.”

  “I thought I told you to stay away from Leander. That case is closed and filed.”

  Theo thought for a second. It hadn’t been five minutes since he’d left Joseph Leander’s house. How could Burton know already? No one got through to the sheriff that quickly.

  “Some suspicious evidence popped up,” Theo said, trying to figure out how he was going to cover for the Spider if Burton pressed. “I just stopped by to see if there was anything to it.”

  “You fucking pothead. If I tell you to let something lie, you let it lie, do you understand me? I’m not talking about your job now, Crowe, I’m talking about life as you know it. I hear another word out of North County and you are going to be getting your dance card punched by every AIDs-ridden convict in Soledad. Leave Leander alone.”

  “But…”

  “Say ‘Yes, sir,’ you bag of shit.”

  “Yes, sir, you bag of shit,” Theo said.

  “You are finished, Crowe, you—”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. Battery’s going.” Theo disconnected and headed back to his cabin, shaking as he drove.

  Molly

  In Flesh Eaters of the Outland, Kendra was forced to watch while a new breed of mutants sprayed hapless villagers with a flesh-dissolving enzyme, then lapped up puddles of human protein with disgusting dubbed sucking sounds that the foley artists had obtained at Sea World, recording baby walruses being fed handfuls of shellfish. The special effects guys simulated the carnage with large quantities of rubber cement, paraffin body parts that conveniently melted under the Mexican desert sun, and transmission fluid instead of the usual Karo syrup fake blood. (The sugary stage blood tended to attract blowflies and the director didn’t want to get notice from the ASPCA for abuse.) Overall, the effect was so real that Molly insisted that all of Kendra’s reaction shots be done after the cleanup to avoid her gagging and going green on camera. Between the carrion scene and some salmonella tacos served up by the Nogales-based caterer, as well as repeated propositions by an Arab coproducer with halitosis that made her eyes water, Molly was sick for three days. But none of it, even the fetid falafel breath, produced the nausea she was experiencing upon watching Steve yack up four fully masticated, partially digested Holsteins.

  Molly added the contents of her own stomach (three Pop Tarts and a Diet Coke) to the four pulverized piles of beefy goo that Steve had expelled onto the pasture.

  “Lactose intolerant?” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and glared at the Sea Beast. “You have no problem gulping down a paperboy and the closet perv from the hardware store, but you can’t eat dairy cows?”

  Steve rolled onto his back and tried to look apologetic—streaks of purple played across his flanks, pu
rple being his embarrassment color. Viscous tears the size of softballs welled up in the corner of his giant cat’s eyes.

  “So I suppose you’re still hungry?”

  Steve rolled back onto his feet and the earth rumbled beneath him.

  “Maybe we can find you a horse or something,” Molly said. “Stay close to the tree line.” Using her broadsword as a walking stick, she led him over the hill. As they moved, his colors changed to match the surroundings, making it appear that Molly was being followed by a mirage.

  Theo

  For some reason, the words of Karl Marx kept running through Theo’s mind as he dug the machete out of the tool shed behind his cabin. “Religion is the opiate of the masses.” It follows, then, that “opium is the religion of the addict,” Theo thought. Which is why he was feeling the gut-wrenching remorse of the excommunicated as he took the machete to the first of the thick, fibrous stems in his marijuana patch. The bushy green weeds fell like martyred saints with each swing of the machete, and his hands picked up a film of sticky resin as he threw each plant onto a pile in the corner of the yard.

  In five minutes his shirt was soaked with sweat and the pot patch looked like a miniature version of a clear-cut forest. Devastation. Stumps. He emptied a can of kerosene over the waste-high pile of cannabis, then pulled out his lighter and set the flame to a piece of paper. “Throw off the chains of your oppressors,” Marx had said. These plants, the habit that went with them, were Theo’s chains: the boot that Sheriff John Burton had kept pressed to his neck these last eight years, the threat that kept him from acting freely, from doing the right thing,

  He threw the burning paper, and the flames of revolution whooshed over the pile. There was no elation, no rush of freedom as he backed away from the pyre. Instead of the triumph of revolution, he felt a sense of sickening loss, loneliness, and guilt: Judas at the base of the Cross. No wonder communism had failed.