Rising: The Second Death Prequel

by Brian Rella

  Beauchamp, Louisiana

  * * *

  The engine rumbled to a stop about one hundred yards from the scene, far enough away not to draw attention. Frank squinted into the red-orange setting sun at the end of the street.

  He flipped a Marlboro into his mouth from the soft pack, catching it between his lips. Flicking his Zippo between his thumb and index finger, he popped open the lid, snapped his fingers on the flint, and a flame crackled to life. Lifting the flame to the end of his cigarette, he pulled, and the sweet taste of butane and tobacco filled his mouth. He paused, looking down the white stick of tobacco under his nose. It was bent and crinkled.

  Damn soft packs. The soft pack was a southern thing. It had no top, and therefore no support. Cigarettes bent and fell out of the package. Frank preferred a box pack. It had more substance and protected the cigarettes.

  He sighed, then drew long on the cigarette, inhaling deeply. He let the smoke sit in his lungs a moment before exhaling it slowly through his mouth in a steady stream. The familiar, calming mix of chemicals mixed with his blood and buzzed pleasantly in his head. He exhaled and the smoke hung around outside his car window in the stagnant air.

  No breeze, nowhere to go.

  He sighed again and looked back up the street, taking another pull of smoke.

  Long shadows stretched across Main Street, Beauchamp, Louisiana. Red and blue flashing lights from the roof of the police cars alternated left, right, left, right. The rotating lights flashed in Frank’s eyes, leaving temporary dark spots in his vision.

  A crowd gathered in front of the police tape strung across two police cars that were parked perpendicular to the street. The makeshift barricade kept the pedestrians and press out of the crime scene. Police officers waved their hands and gestured as people murmured to each other in front of the crime scene.

  Hands went to mouths as the front door of the bookstore opened and a stretcher guided by two paramedics bounced over the door frame and onto the sidewalk. A lumpy shape the length of a human body was underneath a white sheet. The lump jiggled roughly as the paramedics pushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, the wheels folding under the stretcher. Even from this distance, Frank could see the crimson spots on the otherwise pristine white sheet. One of the paramedics stepped into the back of the ambulance, pulling the stretcher all the way in. A police officer joined him in the back of the ambulance, while the other paramedic headed to the front of the car.

  An authoritative officer went to the driver’s side window of the ambulance, said something to the driver, tapped the hood, and stepped away.

  The ambulance chirped its siren, and people backed away as it reversed and headed toward the blazing sunset.

  Someone was dead, all right, and Frank needed to find out who. That meant a trip to the morgue, probably. He googled the address on his smart phone and saved it to memory. He’d be paying a late visit tonight to confirm what he already suspected. Olga was dead. The question was, had whoever killed her found the Arraziel book?

  Frank took a final drag from his smoke, rolled it between his index finger and thumb, and flicked it several yards from his car. He turned the key and the Mach 1 rumbled to life. A quick U-turn in the middle of Main Street and he was headed back the way he had come. He needed to find a place to stay tonight. He needed to get some rest before he went out to investigate.

  Frank cruised up the street toward the edge of town. He had passed the Beauchamp Inn on his way to the bookstore and thought it as good as any place to spend the night.

  Parking across the street from the Inn, he stepped out of his car, put his hands into the small of his back, and leaned backwards. His spine cracked in a few places, releasing the tense muscles from the long drive. He exhaled and slipped off his silver-trimmed, mirrored Ray-Bans, tucking them into the front pocket of his wrinkled, black button-down shirt. His arctic blue eyes squinted in the low light. The dusk was bad on his eyes; he was getting older, and he sighed at the thought of turning forty this year.

  The strip of Main Street was forgettable. Store after store looked the same – run-down buildings from a time long past and best forgotten. Peeling white paint and flickering neon signs all told the tale of this blue-collar, backwoods town. All of Main Street looked like this, all except the Beauchamp Inn.

  The Inn was the only boarding house on Main Street. It was also the only building that was more than one story. It looked to be in desperate need of renovation and seemed out of place even among the rest of the broken-down businesses. It appeared as if the aging of the rest of the town had started here.

  Dark wood siding, weathered, and fragile, looked like it might slide down all five stories at any moment. A squared roof capped the top floor. Dark and grimy windows gazed out onto main street. A black iron fire escape scaled the building to the roof and looked like it stayed on with a few loose screws.

  Dim light shone through the sheer curtains of the tall wooden double-door entrance. Tarnished brass handles welcomed guests from the street. It was unique and picturesque in a haunted kind of way.

  Frank ran his fingers over his goatee, grazing his mustache, and felt the two-day stubble on the rest of his cheek. His shoulder-length brown hair hung in his face. He ran his fingers through it, breaking up the knots and tangles. Sweat was slick between his toes, which were cramped in his motorcycle boots. A hot bath and a shave would be nice. A nap in a bed before wouldn’t hurt either.

  The fresh air felt good on his marshmallow-white skin, despite being a touch too humid and stagnant for his taste. It was clean, anyway. Cleaner than New York City air for sure, and at least it wasn’t too hot. October seemed pleasant in Louisiana. Slightly humid, an occasional hurricane, but not as hot as summer. Frank didn’t get much sun these days anyway. This job was mostly done at night and had been since he’d started decades ago.

  Popping the trunk, he reached into the drag back and pulled out his old cloth duffel bag. Shouldering it, he looked up and down Main Street, then closed the trunk, chirped the alarm, and crossed the street, unconsciously strutting to the front door.

  He grasped the brass handle on the left and felt an intuitive chill as he pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  A red and frayed rug led to the front desk. It had a brown track down the middle of it from years of use and looked like a hairy, discolored tongue. The wood paneling in the reception area was worn and chipped. It bordered a once-white wall behind the desk that had yellowed and cracked with time. A bell, an empty business-card holder, and a handwritten sign encased in a thick plastic that read No personal checks scribbled in black magic marker sat on top of the worn counter.

  A real five-star joint. Frank mused about what the bed was going to do to his back.

  No one at the front desk. He wondered if the receptionist had gone outside with the rest of the town to gape at the crime scene at the bookstore. A black crystal figurine in the shape of a deep purple heart with a green eye on a shelf behind the counter made him frown. It seemed out of place in the run-down hotel, and made the hairs on Frank’s neck stand up.

  He was about to ring the old bell when a man came from around the back, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. He stuffed the soiled white cloth down into his back pocket when he was done rubbing his chin.

  “Sorry. Caught me eatin’,” he said, with a Southern twang colored by a touch of Brooklyn. The accent was unique to the area, which was just outside of New ‘Awlins.

  Some of the man’s meal hung from the chin-whiskers of his patchy beard. Gray meat, from the looks of it. He had a longish nose that bulged at the end and hooked under toward his long upper lip. His eyes were brown, and the left eye was turned outward. Frank wasn’t sure which eye to look at, at so he picked the one he thought was looking him up and down.

  “I’d like a room,” Frank said, shifting his duffel bag on his shoulder.

  The man turned his head slightly and grinned. He was missing more than a few teeth. “Oh sure, a’ course,” he said
, pulling a leather-bound book from under the counter and pushing it toward Frank. “I’ll just need you to sign the registry and pay in advance if you don’t mind, sir. Where ya from?”

  Frank didn’t reply. When the man pushed the book in front of him, a tattoo on his forearm crept out from under his sleeve – another dark purple heart with a green eye.

  He grasped the pen in his left hand and scribbled a fictitious name in the ledger.

  “I say, Mr. …Well, I can’t make that out. What’s your name, friend?”

  “Name’s Hankerson. I’m from New York,” Frank said.

  “Oh,” the man said. “Whatcha doing down these parts?” He took the pen from the counter, placed it in the binding of the ledger, folded the book, and stuck it back under the desk without taking his eye off of Frank.

  Frank returned his stare. “Here for the show,” Frank said, sticking his thumb back in the direction of the bookstore.

  “Oh,” the man said. “Made news all the way up there in New York, huh?”

  “How much is the room?” Frank asked, ignoring his question. He was already annoyed with the chatter. The long trip down here had made him tired and grumpy. A bath, a bed, and some rest is what he needed. He had no interest in small talk or southern hospitality.

  The man eye-balled him and Frank figured he was sizing him up. “Fifty dollars a night, due in advance,” he said, licking his lips.

  Frank wondered if that was double or triple the actual rate. He reached behind him, took his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out some bills, and slapped one hundred dollars down on the counter. The man’s eye lit up as he scanned the bills, his lips murmuring, counting under his breath.

  He finally tallied the bills and glanced at Frank. “It’s an extra ten dollars a day for fresh sheets,” the man said.

  Frank tensed his face and glowered into the man’s good eye. Something changed in the man’s face and his cheeriness faded to a look of seriousness and worry. “Of course we are running a special this week for reporters, and I’d be happy to waive the extra charge for ya if you show me your newspaper credentials.”

  “Do I look like a reporter to you?” Frank said, gravel in his voice. The petty game for a few extra bucks this country boy was trying to run on him left him none too pleased.

  The man leaned back and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “No, I reckon not.” A forced smile returned, accompanied by some manufactured cheeriness. “Tell ya what. I’ll give you the linens for free anyhow. How’s that sound?”

  Frank didn’t reply. He held out his hand.

  The man’s mouth fell agape and he stared with uncertainty at Frank, the strange man dressed all in black from New York, that had wandered into his po-dunk hotel. Frank bet the guy was wondering how he went from swindling a few extra bucks from a yankee to nearly shitting himself.

  The man finally seemed to come to his senses and looked down at Frank’s open hand.

  “Oh,” the man said. “You’ll be wantin’ that room key then.” He chuckled nervously.

  “That’ll be fine,” Frank said. “Unless there is some other fee you want to waive for me?”

  The man reached under the counter again and pulled up a key. “That’ll be all, Mr. Hankerson. So nice to have you here. Room number seven. Top of the stairs and make a right, all the way to the front.” The man feigned a smile and the nervousness behind his eyes flared as he waited for Frank’s response.

  Frank took the key and headed up the stairs.

  “Um…er, Mr. Hankerson,” the man called after him.

  Frank stopped at the steps and waited, looking straight ahead. He liked playing the silent, scary type with this guy. It was easy and took a lot less energy than engaging his bullshit.

  “Uh…you forgot your change.”

  “I’m paying up for tomorrow night too. And I don’t want to be disturbed.” Frank shot a look at the man and the man nodded and dropped his eyes.

  Frank headed upstairs to his room.

  JESSIE

  October 17, 2015

  Chicago, Illinois

  * * *

  O’Hare Airport made Jessie nervous. She had never seen so many people in one place before. Growing up in Beauchamp, she knew everyone and everyone knew her. Well, they thought they knew you. She smirked at the thought of what she had left behind.

  The flight had been bumpy, but had arrived on time and Jessie was excited about the new life ahead of her. The world was opening to her in so many ways. She felt liberated. She felt confident. She felt powerful.

  She had to pee.

  Past gate twelve and the newsstand, she saw a sign for the women’s bathroom. She headed that way, still struggling in her mother’s uncomfortable heels. She would have traded her right arm for her old pair of Converse high-tops.

  She noticed a man in a business suit walking in the opposite direction. His eyes popped and he gawked at her, looking her up and down, pausing at her chest, her waist, and her legs. His gawp made her skin crawl. Creep. What the hell are you looking at?

  She stared back at the man with disdain, watching him watch her. As the man’s gaze ran back up her body, he met her eyes, and his expression quickly changed from lascivious to one of shame. He dropped his head, pretending to look at the floor, and quickened his pace.

  Disgusted, Jessie scowled at him. With the courage that she felt only commanding a demon could fuel, she angled her direction toward the man, and nearly brushed against him as he passed. “Pig,” she said to him, under her breath. She sensed him cowering as they passed. Good. You should cower, you vile old man.

  In the bathroom, she walked to the sink, still angered by the encounter with the man. Her image in the mirror startled her. She still expected to see the fourteen-year-old girl she had been less than two days ago staring back at her. Instead an attractive, twenty-something-year-old woman gazed back at her.

  She ran her fingers through her long blond hair. Her fingertips traced the curves of her high cheekbones, her eyes moving over each feature of her face and making their way down her neck to her chest and torso. She turned to the side and looked further down. It was her, but it was someone else too. It frightened her and excited her at the same time.

  A stall flushed, startling her. She reached for the water faucets, turning them on, embarrassed she had been staring at herself for so long in the mirror.

  An overweight woman in her late forties or fifties walked next to her to wash her hands. Jessie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. The woman glanced at Jessie in the mirror. There was a long pause between them with nothing said. Jessie felt self-conscious about the way the woman stared at her.

  The woman wrinkled her nose, turned back to the mirror, brushed something from her cheek, and left.

  Jessie went back to her reflection in the mirror.

  Who am I?

  A woman stared back at her in the mirror. She no longer looked like an awkward teenager, but all the insecurities of a young girl remained inside of her mind.

  I look like my mother. Well, like her mother used to look before she and Arraziel had fixed her. She struggled to reconcile the changes her body had gone through with her feelings of awkwardness. The man in the terminal and the woman in the mirror made her even more uncomfortable. Is this how adults behave? She was unsure of herself in her new skin, especially around men. They looked at her differently now, and even though it was creepy sometimes, it felt good to be noticed.

  Back in school, boys had ignored her. She was invisible.

  No one would ever ignore her again.

  That man in the terminal had gaped at her. His eyes traced the curves of her body. She had caught other men staring at her wantonly. Some dropped their eyes immediately. Why? Why did they only want to look at her? Why didn’t they want her to look back?

  It makes them uncomfortable, princess, the deep voice thrummed in her head. They do not like it when you catch them. They see your power and beauty and are afraid.

  When she caught them
looking, their faces changed. Guilt and shame – especially the ones with wedding bands on their fingers.

  She remembered a man back in Louisiana staring at her while she purchased her ticket to Chicago. He had made funny faces at her and she sensed tension between them. She wanted to stare back at the man, but dropped her eyes, unsure how to react, feeling embarrassed and insecure.

  Her change was not only physical, she realized. Her introspection in front of the mirror had revealed a change in her mind too.

  Being an attractive woman has a certain power to it. You can use that…just like your mother did.

  She washed her hands and left the bathroom, heading for the airport exit. It was time to get to Chicago and figure out her next steps. She had stumbled onto something powerful and had more reading to do to find out what the rest of the book said. And what about the markings on the map in the back of the book? There was another demon out there. She could find it if she wanted.

  She also needed to find a place to sleep, for the night at least.

  Outside O’Hare, she walked to the curb and waved down a taxi. A black man in a sedan stopped in front of her and rolled down the window.

  “Hey!” someone to her right shouted. “The line is over here, lady.” It was an older man standing with his bags and his wife in front of a long line at the curb. The same overweight woman from the bathroom was by his side. They were underneath a sign that said Taxis.

  “Come on,” the man in the car said. “I take you where you want to go.”

  Jessie glanced back at the couple in line. The woman scowled at her. Jessie bristled at the woman, her eyes narrowing. She got in the car.

  They drove past the line of people waiting for taxis and the old man raised his fist and gave her the finger. She felt a rebellious surge and gave him the finger back, giggled, and turned back to the front. The driver stared at her in the rear-view mirror.

  “Where you going, lady?” he asked.

  Jessie had no idea where she was going. She had her mother’s credit cards and phone and figured she could use those for a while, but –