Midnight Diner 3

by Edoardo Albert

  The bell above the diner entrance jangled and we both glanced up. One of the counter stools sat empty. Then Mitch picked up his burger again and continued plowing through. It was hard to make out, but around a mouthful of meat it sounded like he said, "Go on."

  " Tainted his well, and laced the staples in his pantry with sawdust. Granted, Zeke’s booze was only a grade above turpentine to start, but they mixed in wood alcohol nonetheless. His soul they saw to by dressing Delia Pitt up as his late Jessie and having her wander the treeline behind the house, calling his name."

  "That’s low," Mitch said, pushing his final onion ring across his ketchup-streaked plate. "But why—"

  "Why not buy their place now? I’m getting there. The plot against Zeke would’ve worked but for two things they hadn’t thought of. The second was that his heirs would keep paying the property tax on the abandoned homestead rather than sell for a fast buck. But the first thing they didn’t allow for was Zeke catching wise just as his right foot was about to follow his left into the grave. Religion took hold, somehow. He gave up the drink and turned his back on Jessie’s ghost till she stopped visiting. His food and water still left a lot to be desired, but his system had adjusted to the impurities by then. Must’ve made the Bayers madder than Dick Nixon on Reckoning Day to see the man who’d towed their line, professionally and otherwise so many years, suddenly dig his heels in. Fortunately for them they still had an ace in the hole, and they fixed to send Zeke down to Camarillo for his aberrant behavior—the intake supervisor there happened to be a shirt- tail relation of the Denhams who’d rubberstamp any paperwork they sent his way. Get Zeke com- mitted, declare the property in arrears, and one easy-peasy transaction with David Hanlon later, Mr. Jeff Bayer would own fifty more acres of arable land."

  Rosie came over to top off my coffee and drop off Mitch’s dessert. Outside, an elderly couple window-shopping the frozen-in-the-1960s storefronts passed by, and I ducked my head down to avoid their gaze. Mitch inspected his thick slab of lemon meringue pie, egg white froth half-slid off the neon yellow custard beneath. I suspected it tasted a notch above its presentation, but I wouldn’t be the one to say: citrus has burned my stomach forever, it seems. He dug in happily enough, though. I let him get a couple bites in before I started up the story again.

  "They came for Hanlon in the middle of the night: two sheriff ’s cars, under-sheriff Dale Denham in the lead. Got Zeke out of bed and frog-marched him down the stairs. Outside the house. Jim Prest, as big a Denham toady as you can imagine, was about to slap the cuffs on Hanlon—for his own benefit, of course, so’s he wouldn’t hurt himself, you understand—when Dale says to Zeke, ‘Better run. Get while you can.’ Good advice if you take into account what was waiting for him down in Camarillo. Bad advice if you reckon that a fugitive from justice suited their purposes just as well as a mental case. Nothing but terrible advice if you knew Dale Denham was the sort who’d shoot you in the back for a kindness. Given the choice between a corpse and a crazy man, the powers that be would take the one with zero chance of escaping and telling tales that might be believed.

  "Hanlon, though, didn’t know or cared less, and skedaddled for the trees after the first cuff had gone on and Jim Prest shifted to get at his other wrist. The scattergun blast hit Zeke in the shoulder, knocked him down, but he was on his feet before the deputies caught up to him. On the far side of the treeline, however, Sheriff Wayne Pitt and three freshly-deputized relatives were waiting. A bloodhound yowled from the backseat of one of the two cars parked out on the road, the rear windows fogged and streaked with dog slobber.

  "‘Not smart, Zeke,’ Pitt said as his nephews forced Hanlon to his knees. ‘Running through the woods in the dark. Likely to lose an eye, doing that.’ The story goes that the sheriff swung the butt of his shotgun across the right side of Hanlon’s face, the narrow edge catching him just shy of the bridge of his nose, shattering bone and the—" I remembered the texture of Mitch’s pie topping and stopped.

  "What?" Mitch said.

  Maybe the meringue wasn’t as creamy as it looked. "Half blind, Zeke set to screaming. The sound of his cries set dogs howling a mile ’round if the story’s to be believed.

  "‘What’s that?’ Pitt said, barely audible over the bay of the bloodhound. ‘A noise like that no one’d credit if you hadn’t lost both eyes.’ And he chocked the long gun back on his shoulder again. "Suppressing his howls of pain to mere sobs, Hanlon leaned forward, protecting his remaining eye as best he could. The deputies let him drop face-first in the pine needles.

  "‘That’s better,’ Pitt said. ‘Stay down till Dale comes to book you for resisting an officer. I hear the food’s better for violent offenders over in Atascadero anyway.’

  "He stayed put. At least until the other cars made the half-mile drive around Hanlon’s woods. Then, while Pitt and Denham and the rest were laughing about Zeke’s condition, he up and ran, sprinting just inside the trees where the cruisers couldn’t follow. He was bleeding heavy, though. Left a trail easy enough to follow on foot without loosing the hound dog.

  "Flashlight beams soon coursed after him, erratically lighting his path. Out on the road, one of the sedans kept pace. Hanlon hit the break where the road swung around his woods, and just ahead of the car, cut over to the Wexler property. Wexler’s were a banking family out in the valley those days who had a hundred-plus wooded acres terminating in a bluff overlooking the Pacific. They retired a few years back, harvested the trees, and are spending their declining years puttering around their dream house and hobby farm—probably noticed it on your way into town. Back then, though, their woods were heavy, thicker than Hanlon’s, and the pursuit slowed as Zeke made his way through.

  "The trail of blood finally ended at the bluff. Just stopped at the edge, hot red on the stones, dark purple in the dirt, a pool of it big and round as a manhole cover. Seems he must have spent a couple-three minutes there pondering his fate. Certain death on the rocks a hundred feet below versus the uncertain-though-likely death pursuing him through the woods. By the time Sheriff Pitt arrived on the scene, Hanlon’d made his decision. Later they brought in the bloodhound, which stopped at the edge of cliff and whined rather than doubling-back through the woods after another blood-scattered rabbit trail. More or less confirmed the obvious.

  "‘Well, guess that’s that,’ Dale Denham reportedly said, as if that settled the matter. And I’m sure for all concerned, it seemed it had.

  "Million-to-one chance Hanlon could have survived the fall. Compound it several orders of magnitude higher that he could have avoided being dashed on the rocks, or drowned, or who knows what—eaten by a shark, maybe—should he have had the chance to swim for safety. Still, without a body the state wouldn’t declare Hanlon dead immediately, and his son David kept up with the property tax until he and Ash inherited outright.

  "About four months after Zeke Hanlon fell from the cliff outside Wexler’s woods, his house caught fire. Strip of wallpaper curled onto the gas stovetop according to the fire marshal—a Bayer, naturally. At the front of the house, the purple door, treated steel it turns out, stood for a while. Then it fell in, or was kicked in, leaving most of the purple door frame behind. A hollow mouth yearning to swallow anyone foolish enough to step inside, down through the ruined floor- boards into the cellar.

  "The Hanlon place," I said, draining my cup to the dregs for the final time, "was once the pride of Bayerton. Someone with more time and money than sense could fix her back up, outshine the Wexler’s by country mile. Nowadays Zeke’s boys’d probably sell if the offer was right. But some- body with sense, someone like that would heed the silent screams of Bayerton’s sins from that yawning purple doorframe, and look for greener pastures elsewhere."

  Decades-suppressed anguish coursed through my arms and chest as I lurch-dragged my way to the edge of the vinyl seat. I stood up, fixing Mitch with my good eye for an uncomfortable moment, my gullet thick with the coppery taste of wounded memories. Then I took my cup over to the counter, s
aid a fare-thee-well to Rosie till the next time, and drove out of Bayerton for another week.

  Breathing the freedom of the salt-tinged air on the coast highway, I pushed back a tear for the town dwindling in the rear-view. Paroled, that’s all I was. "Like a dog to its vomit," as the Good

  Book says, I couldn’t keep away.

  Flesh and Blood

  Greg Mitchell

  Spencer drove, as always, and Jon sulked in the open-top Jeep’s passenger seat, swatting at insects and coughing up dust. The road was half-washed out, and the Jeep nearly shook to pieces rebounding off the huge holes in the path. Jon usually spent his time en route double-checking his load-out, but feared that doing so in this tumultuous Haitian terrain would end the day with a bullet in his head. He resigned to crossing his arms, sighing heavily, and shooting Spencer some rather dirty looks.

  "Think you can take it easier there, Spence?"

  Rashonda Spencer—a dark-skinned goddess packing twin Colts in the shoulder straps under her civilian dark denim jean jacket—smiled his way, her white teeth sparkling against ebony skin. "Relax. We’re almost there."

  "You got comm from Z?"

  "He’ll be there, I said. Don’t worry." "He tell you much about this hunt?"

  Spencer shook her long, braided locks that were currently gathered in a ponytail. Her expression was grim and sympathetic. "I know what you know."

  "Great," Jon growled. "That’s what I was afraid of."

  Jon had never been to Haiti before. From what he’d seen of it in the last twenty-two hours, he was fairly certain he never wanted to visit again. The very fact that he was here at all was entirely due to an old debt he owed Zabuto LeBeau. Jon was not the type of guy who forgot debts, especially ones earned during wartime. Zabuto had pulled him out of the path of a raging Wendigo in Montana two winters back, and Jon wasn’t about to leave Zabuto twisting in the wind now.

  Especially when family was involved.

  Jon had already lost the only family he ever had and he knew scars like that didn’t heal. If he could spare Zabuto from something like that, he was determined to do it.

  ~

  The Jeep settled to a sputtering stop outside an old house. Jon hopped out, relieved to be on his feet again, and dusted the gathered dirt off his worn jeans and cowboy boots. He brought his sunglasses out of his leather jacket, gave them a good flick, and perched them on his weathered face to block out the intense sun.

  "Hotter’n hell out here," he mumbled, sweat beading up on his forehead.

  Spencer stood statuesque at his side with her hands clasped behind the small of her back. "Always the professional one, huh?" Jon huffed.

  She offered him a sidelong glance and a crooked grin, never breaking her posture. "Someone has to be in this little outfit."

  Jon looked up and regarded the house. Well, the dwelling place. It didn’t look like a house so much as a load of loose boards and spit where someone decided to crawl in and sleep. Pots full of half-eaten slop lay in the sun-drenched yard, now a convention of maggots and flies. A few stray dogs sniffed at Jon and Spencer, until Jon snarled at one of them, reaching for his Desert Eagle.

  "Back off, Fido."

  The dog snorted and lumbered away.

  Jon looked back to the shack as the screen door opened. Zabuto LeBeau, a lean and muscular black man with a shabby beard, stumbled out, rubbing his cornrows wearily.

  "Jon," he sighed, "Glad you made it."

  Despite his tough-guy front, Jon Arbigast crossed the distance and embraced Zabuto, patting him hard on the back. "All you had to do was ask, compadre."

  They parted, and Zabuto noticed Spencer. "Rashonda…" he greeted her. Spencer extended a friendly hand and Zabuto shook it professionally.

  "You really don’t know what this means to me," Zabuto said, his voice weak. Spencer nodded warmly. "We’re here to help."

  Zabuto gestured back towards the shack, his eyes sagging, and he looked ten years older than twenty-eight. "She’s in the house. Come on. I’ll show you."

  ~

  The shack smelled of rotted animal carcass and strange herbs. More mangy mutts dug around in doorless floor cabinets, taking off with scraps. Pails in the living room held stagnant water that had poured through the ruined roof during the last big rain. Jon held back the bile rising in his throat, and even Spencer’s cool was momentarily shaken as she muffled a gag with the back of her gloved hand.

  Zabuto led the way solemnly, and Jon took closer stock of the room’s decorations. Everywhere he looked he saw candles and jars of colored powder. Chicken feet hung from twine in every doorway. A large painting of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa. The scarred Black Madonna looked down on him, holding the Christ child in one hand and a dagger in the other, poised to strike.

  Jon spoke in a low voice to Spencer, "It’s Vodou."

  At his words, Spencer, too, noticed the paraphernalia.

  Zabuto came to an opening covered only by a thin sheet, and raised a hand to push the drape aside. "Back here," he said, lifting the veil as Jon and Spencer slipped inside.

  The little room held only a naked mat on the floor and a bookshelf cluttered with more candles, cloth sacks, a ceremonial dagger, and a small statue of the Black Madonna. On the mat sat the sickliest old woman Jon had ever seen. She wore a dingy white slip and sported a matching do-rag on her bald head. Her face bore the wrinkles of great age, her teeth had long since fallen out, and her eyes were listless and dead.

  Zabuto carefully approached the woman and mumbled something to her in French. Jon never learned the language and stood by feeling out of place. Despite her skeletal appearance, the old woman had enough life in her to answer back, also in French, her voice little more than a whisper. She was surprisingly alert for someone who looked ready to enter death at any moment.

  Zabuto retorted something, growing louder. Frustrated. Just when Jon wondered if they were ever going to get a clue what was being discussed, Zabuto turned to face the two gunslingers, his soft, grey eyes troubled. "She says she doesn’t want you here."

  Jon looked to Spencer, gauging her reaction to the news, but, as with everything, she took it in stride. She didn’t seem surprised, indicating she had understood at least some of the French conversation.

  "Well, we didn’t travel all this way for nothin’," Jon snapped, agitated.

  Zabuto sighed. "I know. We need your help. Whether arriver-grand-mère wants to admit it or not."

  Jon regarded the old woman again, who now rocked back and forth, staring into nothingness. Zabuto pushed past the duo and headed beyond the curtained doorway. He jerked his head and Jon and Spencer followed him outside.

  "Wanna tell me what’s going on, Zabuto?" Jon asked while crossing his arms, fighting the urge to huff and puff. "My butt’s tired from sitting in that Jeep all the way over here and if I don’t shoot something soon, I’m gonna—"

  "Easy, Jon," Spencer admonished. "Let’s hear what he has to say."

  Zabuto rubbed his eyes, his whole body trembling, and began, "A couple weeks ago, one of the women in town gave birth. The child was stillborn."

  Spencer nodded, though Jon ground his teeth, ready to cut to the big finish. "A day or so after that, another woman gave birth."

  "Stillborn, too?" Spencer asked wisely.

  Zabuto nodded. "Another woman had a miscarriage."

  Finally, Jon had heard enough build-up. "Okay, so what does that have to do—?" "They think it’s her," Zabuto blurted, upset. "They think she’s doing this."

  The young man paced, scratching his unruly beard—a beard Jon knew he usually kept perfectly trimmed. "She’s old," Zabuto continued. "A hundred and twenty-one years old, to be exact."

  Jon balked.

  "For most of that time she’s been the mambo of this village, paying tribute to the loa, bringing good fortune. She knows a little hoodoo, too. Uses it to heal the sick."

  "They think she’s betrayed them," Spencer said.

  "Yeah…" Zabuto looked to Jon. "It
’s bad. They…they’re talking about killing her."

  Zabuto sat down on a plastic milk crate, his face empty and distraught. "She’s the only family

  I got left. I…"

  Spencer put an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "What do you think it is?"

  "I did some recon work. Asked around. Followed the trail. I’ve heard talk of a pig-man roaming the town at night."

  Jon leaned against the wall and inclined his head. "Zoothrope?"

  Zabuto shook his head. "I don’t know. Could be. I’ve also heard talk of a boar god." Jon snickered. "Boar god?"

  "Yeah," Zabuto replied, facing Jon. "The French brought over stories of Moccus." "Some equate him with the Greek god Mercury," Spencer added automatically. Jon regarded her with surprise. "You’ve heard of this guy?"

  "I read, Jon," Spencer cracked a playful grin. "All right, how do we kill it?"

  Zabuto and Spencer traded hesitant looks. Finally, it was Spencer who answered, "It’s a god, Jon. I don’t think we can kill it."

  "Shoot anything enough times, it dies," Jon grumbled. "If it doesn’t, torch it. Fire kills everything."

  Spencer rolled her eyes, while Jon uncrossed his arms to gesture with his hands. "I don’t get it. Don’t get me wrong, here, Z, we’re glad to help. But you’ve done your homework and you’re a good hunter. Why bring us in?"

  "Jon," Spencer reprimanded.

  "No, it’s okay, Rashonda," Zabuto sighed, standing to his feet. "You’re right. I could take this on my own. But…I’m scared, Jon. And not just because my great-grandma is in trouble."

  Jon softened, his gruff fading. "What is it, then?"

  "This pig-man that the town says they saw? I think it’s the same thing that got my Grandma

  Hattie."

  Now Jon understood. Spencer glanced his way, her eyes asking for an explanation. But Jon wasn’t ready to go into all of it right now. Not in front of Zabuto. He was suffering enough.