Deadlight Jack

by Mark Onspaugh

  “I thought you liked the house,” Jimmy said.

  “I do,” George said, “but I don’t want to trade one rest home for another. I want to travel some, see things. Hell, how much of the country have you seen?”

  “Alaska, Washington, California…Massachusetts,” Jimmy said.

  “You haven’t seen enough of any of those places to qualify,” said George, “except Alaska, and I’m not getting within five hundred miles of that bastard in the mask.”

  The Faceless One, buried somewhere in the desolate wilds of Alaska with their friend Stan Roberts. Jimmy shuddered and his bones seemed to radiate a chill from within.

  “I’ve been saving my social security,” George said, a guilty look crossing his face.

  “That can’t be enough for a new car,” Jimmy said. He looked at his friend and said, “Did you ask the Slaters for money?”

  “They gave us some while you were in the hospital,” George admitted.

  “We should give that back,” Jimmy said, annoyed. “The house was more than we should have accepted.”

  “Their son almost died,” George countered. “Hell, the whole world almost died. And they’re millionaires now. They knew you wouldn’t accept, so they set up an account for us.”

  “How much?” Jimmy asked.

  George told him.

  “That’s crazy!” Jimmy said, feeling embarrassed and angry. As a shaman in his village, he had only accepted tokens, usually a meal and a promise to do good in the village.

  “They kind of adopted us,” George said. “You know how crazy Bobby is for us.”

  It was true. Every week brought a letter and drawings from the Slater boy.

  “And what if we have an emergency?” George continued. “We can’t depend on Fred anymore.”

  “I don’t like it,” Jimmy said quietly.

  “If it makes you feel better,” George said, “any leftover money goes to Bobby after we die.”

  “Wonderful,” Jimmy said.

  “I’ll say,” George said. “When you die I am going to throw a wake that makes the evening news. I’m gonna invite Beyoncé and Taraji P. Henson.”

  Jimmy shook his head as George cackled.

  Chapter 2

  LAKE NISQUALLY, WASHINGTON

  Jimmy called the Slaters early the next day, while George was in the shower.

  “Uncle Jimmy!” Bobby said. He didn’t remember most of the final moments involving the Faceless One, and for that Jimmy was grateful.

  “How are you, kéilkʼ?” he asked, using the Tlingit word for nephew.

  “Good! I get to go to summer camp! They have a lake and horses and all kinds of stuff!”

  “That sounds great,” Jimmy said. “Is your mom or dad home?”

  “Just a minute.” Bobby lowered the receiver and shouted, “Dad! Phone! It’s Uncle Jimmy!”

  Steven came on; he was a little out of breath. “Jimmy! How are you?”

  “I’m fine—are you?”

  “Oh, just had to run in from the yard. Liz is teaching today.”

  “And the new bookstore?”

  “Opening August 1. You and George are going to be there for the grand opening, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it…Steven, George told me about the money.”

  There was a slight pause. “He’s been worried about that.”

  “Steven, it’s just too generous for a couple of old men.”

  “You saved Bobby—you saved my family—hell, Jimmy, I think you saved the human race.”

  Why do they keep saying things like that? It wasn’t me, it was Raven.

  “I wouldn’t say that…”

  “I would,” Steven said. “Please, we know you’ll put the money to good use.”

  “I’m just not…”

  Steven cut him off. “Okay, let me level with you.” He paused, and Jimmy got the impression Steven was stepping into a different room, a more private room. When he spoke, his voice was low.

  “I haven’t said this to Liz or Bobby, but I’m afraid that…that thing could come back.”

  Down deep in the ice, but not dead…could a god die?

  “I don’t think so, Steven. Stan knew to take it far from civilization.”

  Sometimes, late at night, he can hear it scratching, trying to get out…or get in.

  “But your people thought that before, and it got out.”

  Jimmy didn’t have an answer for that.

  “It’s selfish,” Steven said, “but I consider you and George on call if anything should threaten Bobby again. If that means money for doctor’s bills so you can stay healthy or travel funds so you can get to us, so be it.”

  “It’s still so much more money than we can use,” Jimmy protested.

  “It’s being managed by my late brother’s financial adviser. And George told you the money goes to Bobby after you two…”

  “Pass on,” Jimmy offered.

  “Right. So you can see, Jimmy, I have become cold and calculating with my good fortune.”

  Jimmy laughed at that. “Steven, you and your family are some of the warmest people I know.”

  “And you and George are family, don’t you know that?”

  “I do—we feel the same way.”

  “Then use the money, enjoy your life. Take a vacation, you’ve earned it.”

  “I was thinking of buying a new hat,” Jimmy said.

  Now Steven laughed. “Damn, at this rate, you’re going to burn through that money in no time.”

  “All right, Steven. Thank you.”

  “And we’ll see you in August.”

  “Definitely.”

  They said their goodbyes and Jimmy hung up. He turned to see George standing there.

  “He said it was all right, didn’t he?” George asked.

  “He said we should take a vacation,” Jimmy said.

  “Let’s start with a car—we can decide on Paree or Monte Carlo later.”

  —

  George found a dirt lot used-car dealership about a mile away. The weather was pleasant, and they decided to walk.

  It had rained during the night, just enough to give the streets a slightly shiny appearance and fill the air with the fresh scent of rain-washed trees and flowers. Birds sang and trilled from trees while squirrels and the occasional chipmunk dashed from a bird feeder to safety as they passed.

  “How would you feel about a truck?” Jimmy asked.

  George looked at him with alarm. “A what?”

  “A truck, a little pickup. We could use it for hauling things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking of starting a handyman business.”

  “What the hell do you know about being a handyman?”

  “After the people of Yanut turned from magic and the old ways, I worked in a filling station. The owner also did odd jobs around the village and showed me how to do some rudimentary carpentry, electrical, plumbing…”

  “That doesn’t make you a handyman, Geronimo,” George protested.

  Jimmy shrugged. “Figured I could learn the rest online.”

  George stared at him. “How long do you think it’s going to be before you flood someone’s living room or get yourself electrocuted?”

  “I figured you would help me.”

  “Me!”

  “Why not? You worked in a hardware store. I’ll bet you picked up a lot while you were there.”

  A pretty blond girl wearing a University of Washington tee shirt strolled by, walking a Scottie. George tipped his hat to her and she gave him a big smile.

  George watched her walk down the sidewalk for a moment and turned to Jimmy. “First off, Sittin’ Bull, I ain’t going to be your assistant while you burn down a house because you don’t know what a gee-dee ground wire is. And I certainly am not going to ride around in some hand-me-down truck. The only pickups I’m gonna be making are of pretty girls who like jazz and want to go dancing with the area’s resident black Astaire.”

  Jimmy l
aughed, then choked a bit on his own saliva and started coughing.

  George nodded. “Serves you right.”

  “Sorry…Fred,” Jimmy gasped, then laughed again. His knees suddenly grew weak and he stumbled, but caught himself. George moved toward him, but Jimmy waved him off.

  “I’m okay, Mister Astaire. I wouldn’t want to make you late for your big number with Ginger Rogers.” Jimmy laughed again.

  “You laugh,” George said, “but the ladies find me charming. If you’d cut that salt-and-pepper mop you call hair and try wearing something besides jeans and tee shirts once in a while, they might find you charming, too.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I already met my girl, George. You know that.”

  George softened. “Jimmy, I know Rose is waiting for you, but don’t you think she’d want you to have some fun while you’re here?”

  “I have my family, George, and I have you. Besides, if I’m tied up with some woman, who’s going to keep you out of jail?”

  “Ha-ha.” George looked at him, a troubled look on his face, like a bad memory had surfaced. “I’m serious, Jimmy, please don’t buy a truck…Or, if we do, let’s get two vehicles. I want a jazzy red Impala, or maybe a ’71 Challenger, black as night. Mmm-hmm!”

  “So you really are Mario Andretti.”

  “My friend, I was driving the back roads of Georgia before those pups were born. Driving is in my blood.”

  “George, we can’t afford two vehicles.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  “Look, I’ll make you a deal. You get the car you want and I’ll rethink this handyman plan.”

  “Now you’re talking sense!” George clapped him on the back.

  “No, I’m just giving up in the face of your whining and wheedling.”

  George winked at him and pointed. A sign proclaiming NATE’S QUALITY CARS beckoned as brightly colored pennants snapped in the breeze.

  Although the lot wasn’t as big as one of the name dealers, it did have quite a few cars to look at, including several muscle cars that caught George’s eye.

  A man came out of the onsite trailer to greet them. He was in his late twenties and wore sports slacks and a golf shirt.

  “You must be Nate,” George said, smiling.

  “His son Dwight,” the young man said. “My dad is spending the day with my sister’s kids.”

  George nodded. He motioned to himself, then to Jimmy. “George, Jimmy. We’re looking for a car.”

  “Business or pleasure, George?”

  “Oh, pleasure definitely.”

  Jimmy started to protest, and George glared at him.

  Dwight was watching them, then made his move. “You look like a muscle-car man to me, George, am I right? Badass chrome, plenty of horses, American-made?”

  “Well,” George said, smiling at Jimmy. “Looks like someone in this burg understands me.”

  Jimmy shook his head. He realized he was being silly. How much hauling did he really think they’d do? And there was no way George wanted to be a handyman.

  And what about you, Jimmy Kalmaku? Do you want to be a handyman?

  Jimmy sighed. Life was so easy back in Yanut. First he was a shaman, then the village turned away from the old ways and he had to take a job at a gas station to pay bills.

  But that was all right, he had Rose.

  Then Rose had died and he had begun drinking heavily. It was fortunate their only son was grown and moved away. Jimmy would not have been much of a father.

  Maybe that’s why he stuck you in a rest home, his inner voice sneered.

  Jimmy pushed that thought away. Whatever issues he and Thomas might have had, they were closer than ever now. Part of it was Jimmy’s almost dying, the other was his granddaughter Molly. She loved him without reservation, as only a child can, and Thomas was able to see his father through her eyes.

  He wished he could live with them in Boston, but the winters were just too severe.

  And he couldn’t leave George.

  Jimmy let George and Dwight talk as he perused the vehicles on the lot. They were all shining in the afternoon sun, waxed and clean. Jimmy figured they had a lot boy working on them throughout the day to keep them so immaculate.

  His eye was drawn to a vehicle that did not belong. It was a rusted pickup at the far end of a row, resting on flat tires with a busted headlight and an open driver’s window where glass had been replaced by thick cobwebs.

  Why would they leave such a wreck on the lot?

  Jimmy walked closer, and now saw that part of the truck was furred with clumps of brown-and-ochre moss. There was a smell coming from it, a pungent miasma that made him slightly dizzy.

  His joints began to ache. He started to turn back when a shadow beneath the vehicle became clearer.

  There was a body under the truck.

  Jimmy moved forward, wondering if a homeless man had fallen asleep there. The body moved, and a face looked up at him.

  It was George.

  Jimmy gasped. He moved forward, seeing with horror that George had some sort of noose around his neck. George’s dark brown skin was ashen gray, and his eyes were filmed over with cataracts. He reached for Jimmy, his withered hands crippled with severe arthritis.

  “The deadlights…on his face…” George wheezed, and suddenly the noose tightened and he was dragged under the car and out of sight.

  “No!” Jimmy cried, rushing forward. He tried to kneel, but his knees flared up with such agony that his eyes filled with tears.

  “Cochise?”

  Jimmy turned. George was standing behind him with Dwight, who looked perplexed.

  “I saw a Buick over here that’s pretty sweet, unless you’ve got your heart set on that mailman Jeep?”

  Jimmy looked back. The ancient truck was gone. In its place was a Jeep like those used by the U.S. Postal Service. The insignia had been removed, but it still retained its red, white, and blue color scheme.

  Vision, Jimmy thought. He could see George was concerned and Dwight wasn’t sure what to make of either of them.

  “No,” Jimmy said, using all his will to manufacture a smile. “Fellow I knew up in Alaska had one—he was crazy about it…But now I realize my friend here”—he motioned to George—“would rather purchase something a bit more…flashy.”

  “Now you’re gettin’ it,” George said. He sounded jovial but his eyes were filled with worry.

  “Knees are giving me trouble,” Jimmy said. “Think I’ll sit on one of those sidewalk benches.”

  Dwight nodded, obviously happy to have a sales obstacle out of the way.

  “You sure, Jimmy?” George asked quietly. Jimmy nodded and went off to find a bench.

  They left an hour and a half later in a 1973 Buick LeSabre, white over teal. It wasn’t the jazzy Challenger or Impala George had hoped for, but it was very clean and well within their budget. Jimmy was relieved George hadn’t dropped more than three thousand on what he considered a frivolous purchase.

  But George was happy and delighted to find that the sound system was pretty decent. He offered to take them around the lake, but Jimmy begged off. His vision had left him feeling weak, out of sorts. Sitting in the sun had helped, but he really needed to lie down.

  Mighty shaman needs a nap, his inner voice taunted.

  George was disappointed but didn’t press the issue. He dropped Jimmy at the house.

  “I’m going to take Helen for a spin, unless you want me to hold off the inaugural drive?”

  “Helen? As in Hayes?”

  “Helen as in Williams, you uneducated philistine. She was a model in the fifties.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the name, George.”

  “Skin like mocha—she could put the lead back in any man’s pencil, maybe even yours.”

  “Seems like a nice name,” Jimmy agreed.

  “Jimmy, since you wander around in a fog most days, I will repeat what you should already have realized. I am quite the ladies’ man.”

  “I�
��ve heard rumors,” Jimmy said, trying not to laugh.

  “They’re all true, Pocahontas. You laugh and I’m not going to be your wingman.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Jimmy said.

  George hesitated.

  “Go show off Helen,” Jimmy said. “I’m fine.”

  George nodded and sped off, giving the horn a quick double honk as he did.

  Inside, Jimmy made some Bengal Spice herbal tea, hoping the cinnamon and ginger would ease the aching in his joints. He drew the living-room drapes and settled in the darkened room.

  Jimmy sipped the tea, relishing the taste of the healing spices.

  He took a deep breath, then let his eyes go unfocused.

  “Uncle Will, are you there?”

  His uncle had taught him what it took to be the village shaman. When he died, Jimmy had taken his place. Now he sometimes appeared to Jimmy as a spirit, and his counsel was always valuable.

  “Uncle Will, it’s Jimmy…I need your help.”

  He waited, but his uncle did not appear.

  “Naas shagee Yéil,” Jimmy whispered. It was a respectful way to address Raven, the Trickster the Tlingit revered.

  The truth was, he wasn’t sure he wanted Raven’s help. The bird was a Trickster, after all, capricious and a little too in love with making humans run around like confused and bumbling children.

  But he thought again of George, seeming to turn to dust before his very eyes.

  George, his best friend. Indeed, the brother he had never had.

  The deadlights…on his face…

  Whose face? What were the deadlights? He needed to know.

  So he concentrated again, thinking of all his encounters with Raven since he had been a small boy and a white raven had guided him out of the lair of the Faceless One.

  He rocked back and forth on the couch in the shadowed living room, chanting the name of the elder god.

  “Naas shagee Yéil, please hear me. Naas shagee Yéil, I seek your counsel. Naas shagee Yéil, please give me wisdom.”

  Nothing.

  He had half expected it. Raven almost never came when you summoned him. He came when it suited him, when it satisfied his dark humor or was a last-minute act to save humanity.

  There was that: Raven would not let humankind perish.

  But what about George? Did he care enough about one old man to save him?