The Devil in Gray

by Graham Masterton

  “An episode?”

  “A fit, Lieutenant, and they can be very harmful.”

  Decker said, “Sit down, please. How about a cup of coffee? Sergeant Hicks here was just making some.”

  “No, thank you,” Eunice Plummer said. “But Sandra might like a glass of warm milk.”

  Decker sat next to Sandra and took hold of her hands. “Sorry about the beard, Sandra. It’s my disguise.”

  “You look like Santa Claus.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Ho-ho-ho! Sorry I don’t have any presents for you. But listen—tell me what you felt about the So-Scary Man.”

  “I was having a dream. I was dreaming about the House of Fun.”

  “Go on.”

  “I saw the twisty cloud over the rooftop and then I saw the So-Scary Man coming out of the door. He was wearing his long gray coat and he was wearing a hat like yours, and I knew that he was coming to find you.”

  She hesitated, and then she said, “He was carrying a sword, too. Just like yours.”

  Eunice Plummer looked at Decker keenly. “You’re really expecting him, aren’t you? What Sandra saw in her dream—that was real, wasn’t it?”

  Decker nodded. “The So-Scary Man is Major Joseph Shroud, who was possessed by a Santería god called Changó, back in 1864, during the Battle of the Wilderness. Changó gave him such power that he was able to massacre hundreds of Union soldiers, and I guess he could have turned the tide of the war, if Lieutenant General Longstreet had allowed it.”

  “I don’t understand. How could he still be alive today?”

  “I don’t really understand it myself. But his fellow officers sealed him in a lead casket so that his body was preserved, and I guess that his life spark was kept alight by Changó.”

  “And he’s coming here—tonight?”

  “My great-great-grandfather was one of the men who sealed him up. He wants his revenge.”

  Sandra said, “I woke up and I looked out of my bedroom window and I saw the black twisty cloud over the House of Fun and I knew it was real.”

  “You’re right, Sandra,” Decker told her. “It is real.” He turned to Eunice Plummer and said, “There’s no doubt about it—Sandra has some extrasensory sensitivity, whatever you want call it. Otherwise she wouldn’t know that Main Street Station is the House of Fun—or, actually, ‘Ofun,’ which means ‘the place where the curse is born.’”

  To Sandra, he said, “Sandra—I want to thank you for all of your concern. You’ve been amazing, and you’ve helped us to solve all these murders. But things could get dangerous here tonight, so I want you to take your mom home, okay? When all of this is finished with, and we’ve locked the So-Scary Man up in prison, I’ll come around and take you and your mom out for lunch. How do you like fried chicken?”

  “He’s outside the door,” Sandra said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The So-Scary Man. He’s standing right outside the door.”

  Decker immediately stood up and jammed on his hat. “Hicks!” he shouted. “Forget about the coffee! He’s here! Bring in the fruit and everything! Bring in that rooster! And bring in that carving knife, too!”

  Eunice looked flustered. “What shall we do?”

  “You and Sandra go into the bedroom. Close the door and lock it. He won’t try to hurt you unless you get in his way.”

  “I have to stay,” Sandra said.

  “You can’t! This man is a homicidal maniac! Now get in the bedroom, please!”

  “But you won’t be able to see him!”

  Hicks was coming out of the kitchen with a paper bag of groceries in one hand and the rooster in the other. The rooster was fluttering and flustering and trying to burst out of its basket. Hicks said, “She’s right, Lieutenant. Think what happened to Queen Aché.”

  But Decker took Sandra’s arm and started to propel her toward the bedroom. “I can’t risk it. If the So-Scary Man sees that you’ve been helping me—God alone knows what he could do to you!”

  “I have to stay!” Sandra protested. “Don’t you understand? It’s what I was born for!”

  Decker stopped pushing her and stared at her. Sandra stared back at him, her pale blue eyes unblinking and determined.

  Eunice Plummer came forward and put her arm around Sandra’s shoulders. “She’s right, Lieutenant. Don’t you see? She was born with a handicap, but she was also born with a very great gift. This is her destiny, isn’t it?”

  Decker opened his mouth and then closed it again. He didn’t know what to say.

  Hicks lifted up the brown paper bag of fruit and herbs. “All ready, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay, then, sport.” Decker turned back to Sandra and looked at her seriously. “If you really want to stay, Sandra—you can stay. But promise me you’ll keep right behind me, and don’t attract attention to yourself. If things start to go wrong, don’t hesitate, don’t try to help—you and your mom run into that bedroom as fast as you can and lock the door tight and call the police.”

  Sandra said, “I promise.”

  Decker turned around. Hicks was waiting in the kitchen doorway and gave him the thumbs-up. “Is the So-Scary Man still outside?” he asked Sandra.

  Sandra nodded. “He’s saying something, inside his head. Like a prayer.”

  “All right, then. Hold tight.”

  After a while, Sandra closed her eyes and began to mutter. Decker couldn’t hear everything she was saying, but he recognized some of it. “Babami Changó ikawo ilemu fumi alaya tilanchani nitosi …”

  He went back to the middle of the room, took off his glasses, and stood very stiff, in the same way that General Lee had posed for so many photographs and engravings. He tried to look calm and unafraid, even though his heart was galloping like a panicky horse and he kept seeing flashes of Queen Aché, hopelessly holding up the stumps of her fingerless hands, with sticks of bone showing above the flesh.

  Sandra muttered, “… Ni re elese ati wi Changó alamu oba layo ni na ile ogbomi.” She paused for a while and then she opened her eyes.

  “Is he moving yet?” Decker asked.

  Sandra said nothing. Her eyes seemed to be focused on nothing at all.

  “Sandra? Is he moving yet?”

  “He’s already inside,” Sandra whispered. “He’s standing by the door.”

  Decker narrowed his eyes, trying to see any disturbance in the air, but without his glasses the middle distance was a blur.

  “He’s coming nearer. He’s walking past the kitchen. He’s here. He’s right in front of you. He’s staring at you.”

  Decker cleared his throat. “Major Joseph Shroud?” he asked, gruffly.

  “He’s still staring at you,” Sandra said. “He’s got his hand resting on his sword handle.”

  Decker said, as grandly as he could, “I’ve received a dispatch about you, Major Shroud, from Lieutenant General Longstreet.”

  “He’s taken his hand off his sword handle. He’s lifting his arm. He’s saluting you.”

  “General Lee, sir? Is that really General Lee?” Major Shroud’s disembodied voice was husky with emotion.

  “It seems that the army of northern Virginia owes you a considerable debt, Major Shroud.”

  “I only did what was required of me, General.”

  “No, Major Shroud, you did much more than that. You sacrificed yourself for your country. Single-handed, you drove back the enemy, and you safeguarded our capital and our cause. In recognition of your valor and your devotion, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of colonel.”

  “I’m honored, General.”

  “Yes, Major Shroud. You are honored. Not condemned, not reviled. But honored. Let me see you now, so that I can grasp your hand.”

  “He’s giving you a funny look,” Sandra warned.

  “Come now, Major Shroud,” Decker urged him. “Where is your hand?”

  “You can’t see me, General? How did you know I was here, if you couldn’t see me?”

  “I se
nsed you, Major. I can always sense bravery. I can smell it on the wind.”

  Seconds ticked by. For a long moment, Decker thought that Major Shroud had recognized him behind his disguise, and that there would be no way of stopping him from inflicting the Nine Deaths on him—or even, God forbid, the Ten Deaths.

  But then Sandra whispered, “Look.” And gradually, the air in front of Decker began to curdle and thicken. It formed in dark, shadowy lumps, and then veins and arteries began to wriggle from one lump to the next, and bones took shape, and in less than a minute Major Shroud had materialized, in his crow’s-feather hat, and his long gray topcoat, and his boots.

  “At your service, General,” he declared.

  Decker gave a grave, dignified smile. He stepped forward and took hold of Major Shroud’s hand and shook it. Even through his buck gloves it felt as if it were nothing but knuckles and finger bones.

  “Major Joseph Shroud, I hereby promote you to the rank of full colonel in the army of northern Virginia. You have your country’s unceasing admiration and thanks, and the name of Shroud will enter the annals of this mighty conflict as a name forever associated with valor and with duty faithfully performed.”

  It was then, while he was still gripping Major Shroud’s hand, that he said, quite quietly, “Now, Hicks.”

  Hicks came out of the kitchen shaking the brown paper bag. “Changó! Changó, listen to me! I bring you an offering! I bring you fruit and and spices! I bring you rum!”

  “What is this?” Major Shroud demanded. “Who is this nigger?” He tried to pull his hand away but Decker held it tight.

  “Changó!” Hicks sang out. “Leave this host and refresh yourself! Kabio, kabio, sile!”

  “General Lee! Release me!” Major Shroud shouted. He was powerful, and his bony hand was knobbly and awkward to hold on to, but Decker didn’t loosen his grip.

  “I honor you, Changó!” Hicks cried. “I give you everything you hunger for!”

  He tore open the bag and scattered the fruit and the herbs across the floor. “Kabio, kabio, sile! Welcome, Changó!”

  Oh, God, this is not going to work, thought Decker. Changó isn’t going to leave him. And with a sudden twist that almost sprained Decker’s wrist, Major Shroud tugged his hand free and immediately went for his saber. He drew it out of its scabbard with a metallic sliding sound that set Decker’s teeth on edge.

  “Changó! I welcome you! Changó!”

  Decker shouted at Sandra and Eunice Plummer, “Back—both of you! Get into the bedroom!”

  Major Shroud advanced on him, his eyes glittering, his teeth bared in the black briar thicket of his beard. “You’re no more Robert E. Lee than I am, are you? You’re that damned Martin! Well, now, Martin, you’re going to see where downright treachery gets you!”

  Decker knew that he couldn’t shoot him, not while Changó still protected him. Changó’s anger at being attacked would be a hundred times worse. But all the same he drew out his own sword, Billy Joe’s wrist breaker, and he waved it defiantly from side to side.

  “You want to cut me to pieces? Okay, you throwback, let’s see you try!”

  Major Shroud lunged forward and his sword clanged and clashed against Decker’s saber and almost knocked it out of his hand. Decker swung his arm and managed to deflect another lunge, but then Major Shroud performed a quick flurry of movements and the point of his sword jabbed deep into Decker’s left shoulder.

  Decker hardly felt any pain, but now he was seriously worried. Major Shroud began to press him harder and harder, his sword flashing in crisscross patterns that Decker could hardly see. He kept clashing his saber from side to side, and he managed to parry most of Major Shroud’s lunges, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold him off for very long.

  Retreating, he fell backward over the arm of the couch. Major Shroud raised his sword high above his head and smacked it down on the seat cushions just as Decker rolled off them onto the floor. Multicolored sponge stuffing flew up like a snowstorm.

  Decker tried to crawl away, but Major Shroud had him now. He stabbed him in the back of his right thigh, and then his right shoulder, and then he straddled him and gripped him tight between his knees.

  “The Nine Deaths, Martin,” he grunted. He reeked of stale sweat and gunpowder and filthy clothes and herbs. His hair was seething with lice.

  Decker twisted himself around and tried to seize Major Shroud’s wrist, but Major Shroud sliced him across the palm of his hand, at least a quarter inch deep, and blood poured out between his fingers and down his sleeve.

  “Now for the First Death,” Major Shroud told him, and took hold of Decker’s left arm. “I’ll grant you a little respite, Martin, and take the fingers off your left hand first.”

  He raised his sword—but as he did so, Decker heard a furious clucking. Hicks came forward, and he was holding up the wildly flapping rooster by its legs.

  “Changó!” Hicks shouted. “Come to me, Changó! This is your sacrifice! This is your blood! Come eat! Come drink! Kabio, kabio, sile! Welcome to our house!”

  Major Shroud turned his head around and screamed back, “What are you doing, you damn fool nigger? Get away from here! Get away! By God, I’m going to have your head next!”

  “Changó! Let us see you! Changó, master of fire! Changó, master of thunder and lightning! Changó—are you master of your own destiny?”

  With that, Hicks slashed the carving knife across the rooster’s neck, almost beheading it. He swung the bird around and around, high above his head, and blood flew everywhere, spattering the walls, spattering Decker’s face, pattering onto Major Shroud’s hat and coat.

  “No!” Major Shroud roared. “No, Changó! I forbid it! I forbid it!”

  But Decker could see the blue crackle of electricity crawling around the outline of Major Shroud’s face. Then—while Major Shroud still ranted in frustrated fury—a lattice of quivering light formed around his head.

  “No! No! No! Changó! You have to protect me! If I die, you die!”

  But Changó slowly rose out of Major Shroud like a ghost rising from a grave, his arms outstretched. His face was a mask, decorated with fire. His eyes burned red, his hair was like a hundred streamers of flame, and his mouth was filled with dancing, sizzling voltage. He wore a cloak of billowing brown smoke, in which Decker could glimpse intermittent flashes of lightning.

  “You can’t leave me!” shrieked Major Shroud. “You can’t leave me!”

  The whole apartment began to shake. Pictures dropped off the walls, lamps overturned and smashed on the floor, chairs tipped over. A double fork of lightning jumped from one side of the living room to the other, and Decker was almost blinded. Then—almost immediately—there was an earsplitting bellow of thunder. The couch burst into flames, and then the drapes.

  One arm raised to protect his face from the heat, Hicks yelled, “Changó! You ate indeed your own master! You are the master of the world!”

  Major Shroud climbed off Decker and went for Hicks with his sword flailing. Decker scrambled to his feet, too, and pulled his Anaconda out of his Civil War holster. Hicks was retreating toward the kitchen, trying to parry Major Shroud’s lunges by wildly waving the dead rooster from side to side. In the middle of the room, half hidden by thick, swirling smoke, Changó glittered and blazed.

  Decker cocked his revolver and pointed it at Major Shroud’s head. “Major Shroud!”

  There was another flash of lightning, and then another rumble of thunder, far longer than the first, a rumble that seemed to go on and on, as if it would never stop. Lumps of plaster dropped from the ceiling, and wide cracks appeared in the walls. The apartment was already fiercely hot, and one of the windows shattered. A hungry wind gusted in from the river, and the couch flared up like a Norse funeral pyre.

  With the briarlike afterimage of the lightning strike still dancing in front of his eyes, Decker took aim at Major Shroud again, and fired. Major Shroud tilted his head to one side, and the bullet hit the picture of the Dut
ch girl and smashed the glass. Decker fired again, and again, but Major Shroud moved like a speeded-up film, and both of his shots went wide.

  “You’ll have to hit me to kill me!” he screamed, above the funneling noise of the fire. He hacked furiously at Hicks, and caught him a blow on the shoulder. Hicks said, “Shit!” and dropped to the floor, still clutching the bloody rooster. Now Major Shroud turned on Decker, and came striding toward him, with his sword whistling in ever more complicated figures-of-eight.

  “Nine Deaths, Martin? Ten? I’ll give you twenty!”

  He lifted his sword right back behind his head, and there was a look on his face that Decker had never seen on a man before. It was triumph, and mockery, and an excitement that was almost orgasmic. But it was more than that. It was the look of a man who had undergone a physical and spiritual metamorphosis. He was no longer a man, nor a beast, but something altogether more terrible. He was viciousness incarnate, and vengefulness, and war.

  Decker fired at him again, and again he missed. He was just about to fire again when there was a third flash of lightning, so bright that Decker was blinded. It struck the tip of Major Shroud’s sword, and Major Shroud was hurled bodily across the living room, colliding with the opposite wall and tumbling onto the floor. He lay there, jerking and twitching, with smoke pouring out of his coat. His beard glowed with a thousand orange sparks, like a smoldering sweeping brush.

  Decker looked around. The burning figure of Changó was standing in the smoke, with one arm still extended.

  Decker said, “You did that?”

  Changó opened his mouth and static electricity sparkled on his teeth. He didn’t actually speak, but somehow Decker could hear him, inside his head, and in a strange way, more like pictures than words, he could understand what Changó was trying to tell him.

  He kept my spirit prisoner for thousands of darknesses. He thought of nothing but bringing pain and death to those good men who harbored my brother and sister orishas. He deserved nothing but punishment. He killed those warriors who fought to set my people free.