The Book With No Name

by AnonYMous

  ‘Been on the wagon,’ he said.

  ‘Good for you. How long for?’

  ‘Five years.’

  Oh sweet Jesus, thought Berkley. This guy couldn’t handle his drink last time he was in here. So now, if he hasn’t had a drop in five years, this one is going to go straight to his head. Better try to talk him out of it.

  ‘Wow, you know,’ he began tentatively, ‘if I hadn’t had a drink for five years, I sure wouldn’t want to start again. Not ever. I wouldn’t touch a drop. You sure you really want that bourbon? Maybe you should start off on something a little weaker, you know … like lemonade?’

  The Kid stopped staring at the contents of his drink and looked up at Berkley. He had a certain annoyed look to him about which the bartender was more than a little concerned.

  ‘Listen here, my friend,’ the gravelly voice rasped out. ‘I’ve come in here for a quiet drink. I don’t want any idle chit-chat distractin’ me. This is going to be my first drink for five years. I picked your bar ’cos it’s empty, but now I’m in here, there are two things that are spoilin’ the moment for me.’

  ‘What two things?’ Berkley asked, really hoping that both were easily rectifiable.

  ‘First thing that’s pissin’ me is the service. I ain’t never had to wait this long to get a drink in any bar in the world. You should work on that.’

  ‘Okay, sure I … I … I’m real sorry ’bout that.’

  ‘Fine, that’s a start. But the other thing that’s botherin’ me is that dripping noise. Can you do something about it?’

  Berkley hadn’t picked up on the sound of anything dripping, so he listened carefully. After about five seconds he heard a gentle splash. It came from just behind the Bourbon Kid. He looked over the bar and saw a pool of blood in the middle of the floor. Probably from one of the two vampires that had lost their undead lives earlier in the evening. As he was looking at it, however, another drop of blood landed slap-bang in the middle of it, making another splashing noise. Where was that coming from? Berkley took a look up at the ceiling and found the answer. He immediately wished that he hadn’t. Right above the puddle of blood on the floor was a propeller fan fixed to the ceiling. It was a standard heavy-duty metal propeller fan of the kind found in most of the bars in Santa Mondega. It was whirring around at a very slow pace, partly because it always went at a fairly slow pace, and partly because the dead body of Rodeo Rex was wrapped around it. It was his blood dripping on to the floor. He was bleeding from more than one place, too. His eyes were gone and his tongue had been ripped out. There were also tattered chunks of flesh hanging from his arms and legs. His chest was just a single mass of bloodied flesh here and there covered by tattered clothing. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and the thought that he might soon end up in a similar state made Berkley’s legs turn to jelly. Before he knew it he had lost his footing and fallen down behind the bar, banging his head on one of the wooden shelves behind him as he did so. Not a cool move, in the circumstances. He took a few deep breaths before climbing back to his feet.

  After regaining his composure he decided not to look up at the body on the ceiling again. Instead, he watched as the Bourbon Kid downed his bourbon and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.

  ‘Er, another drink, sir?’ Berkley asked him.

  The Bourbon Kid shook his head. Then he reached inside his coat and pulled out a pistol. This was a big fucking gun. Berkley had seen larger guns in his time, but never one that looked quite so alive, quite so fucking dangerous. The Kid pointed it at the unfortunate bartender’s head. Berkley felt every muscle in his body tremble. If he had tried to beg for mercy, all he would have managed was a mouse-like squeak, such was the terror that gripped him. Paralysed with fear, he stared down the barrel of the gun and watched as the Kid took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  BANG!

  The repercussions of that one gunshot would be felt for miles around, and for many years. The Bourbon Kid was back. And he was thirsty.

  Forty-Eight

  The atmosphere in the Tapioca was a little edgy, and had been so for a couple of hours. Pretty much since Jefe had shown up and started drinking on his own, Sanchez had sensed that something unpleasant was on the cards. The bounty hunter had been in an exceptionally foul mood even before he had sipped at his first glass of beer, but every further mouthful had only served to enhance his evil state of mind. At a guess, Sanchez put it down to the fact that Jefe still hadn’t recovered the Eye of the Moon and that he was going to have to admit this to El Santino or get out of town real quick. He was sitting on his own at one end of the counter, pouring beer after beer down his throat and cursing anyone who came within a few feet of him. He had also managed to surround himself with a cloud of smoke by chain smoking any cigar or cigarette he could get his hands on.

  The bar area in the Tapioca was a good thirty yards wide, yet Jefe had at least fifteen yards on the left-hand side of it to himself. Sitting on stools at the other end of the bar were six fairly unpleasant-looking men. Big hairy Hell’s Angels, no doubt in town to watch the boxing and cheer on their hero, Rodeo Rex. All of these men could handle themselves in a fight, but even they weren’t stupid enough to venture over to Jefe’s end of the counter. There was as much tension surrounding him as there was smoke, and everyone in the bar was picking up on it. All of the customers who came up to order a drink made a point of heading to the busier end of the bar with the Hell’s Angels, for fear of showing a lack of respect to Jefe.

  He had been drowning his sorrows for about two hours when trouble finally walked in. It came in the shape of two large men wearing black suits. Sanchez recognized them right away as Carlito and Miguel. Carlito spotted Jefe hunched over at the bar and made straight for him, followed, as ever, by Miguel. They took up their seats on barstools either side of him.

  ‘Nice to see you, Jefe,’ said Carlito.

  ‘Go fuck yourselves.’

  ‘That’s a little hostile, don’t you think, Miguel?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d say our friend Jefe’s not too pleased to see us. Now why would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miguel. Maybe he hasn’t got the stone any more? Maybe he’s lost it?’

  ‘Or maybe he was robbed by someone called Marcus the Weasel?’ The two men laughed briefly. It was not a warm sound.

  Jefe pressed his hands down on the edge of the bar and used them to push himself upright from his slouched position.

  ‘How do you two know about Marcus?’ he growled.

  ‘We hear stuff,’ Carlito went on. ‘You know, like how you’ve been hanging out with some young broad instead of hunting around trying to get back what you lost.’

  Jefe’s drunkenness was something he was more than capable of controlling. Where only seconds earlier he had seemed to be a gibbering mess, the mere hint of potential danger had given him an adrenalin shot that immediately woke his senses from their previously dormant state.

  ‘Hey, now, you listen here, you two pieces of shit. I’ve still been lookin’ for the Eye. The girl’s been helping me. She’s very resourceful, you know. She could kick both your asses, for a start.’

  Carlito couldn’t help but let a broad grin spread across his face. He had succeeded in goading Jefe with a minimum of effort.

  ‘You know what, Miguel?’ he mocked. ‘I think Jefe’s in love. Ain’t that sweet?’

  ‘Sure is, Carlito. Ain’t gonna be for long, though. Can’t be in love when you got no heart.’

  ‘Listen, wiseguy. I’ll get the fuckin’ stone,’ said Jefe, gesturing to Sanchez to refill his glass with beer. ‘I just need a couple of days, is all.’

  Carlito shook his head. ‘Coupla days. Two whole days. Not good enough, Jefe. You got about ten hours. El Santino wants that stone before the eclipse tomorrow. And guess what? The eclipse is due to take place at midday. You’ve got until then to get it back.’

  ‘Why the fuckin’ rush?’

  Miguel grabbed Jefe’s hair and pulled his head back just a little. ‘None of y
our fucking business,’ he said menacingly. You just do your part or you’ll be buzzard meat by noon tomorrow.’ He let go of the other’s hair and looked at his hand with distaste.

  ‘Buzzard meat? Go fuck yourself.’ Jefe was ready to go. Ready to kick off. He wasn’t about to be humiliated in public, not by anyone. Not even Carlito and Miguel. Despite the amount he’d drunk, he was still pretty sharp. He grabbed Miguel’s hand and squeezed it hard, then stood straight and squared up to his slightly taller tormentor.

  ‘You go fuck yourself,’ snarled Miguel, the pain in his hand growing by the second.

  ‘No, you go fuck yourself,’ Jefe growled back, letting go and putting his face so close to Miguel’s that they could almost feel each other’s stubble.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, the pair of you,’ Carlito interrupted. He was the brains of the partnership, and it was always he who decided just how far things were going to go. ‘Come on, Miguel, I think we’ve made our point. Jefe will be here by midday tomorrow with the stone, or he’ll have the good sense to leave the planet.’

  Having made their point to the bounty hunter, Carlito and Miguel left quietly by the front doors, something for which Sanchez was extremely grateful. No one in the bar spoke for a while. They all knew not to draw attention to themselves after a tough guy like Jefe had just suffered a public dressing-down. Sanchez tried not even to glance over at the bounty hunter as he sat on his barstool stewing over the way that Carlito and Miguel had spoken to him. He was liable to take his anger out on someone else if offered even the slightest justification. So Sanchez was greatly relieved when Jessica wandered in no more than five minutes after the two hoods had departed.

  ‘Hey, big guy,’ she said, prodding Jefe in the back. ‘What happened at the Nightjar? There was no one in it when I got there. Well, no one, that is, apart from one freaky-looking guy and a lot of blood.’

  ‘Yeah, baby,’ Jefe said wearily, though his tone had softened considerably. ‘There was some sort of incident down there. Rodeo Rex is back in town. Blew away a couple of vampires, apparently.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He killed a couple of vampires in the Nightjar. Cleared the place right out.’

  Sanchez couldn’t resist the opportunity to join the conversation now that the rival bar to his was being spoken of in a negative fashion.

  ‘I’ve always said that Nightjar was a bad place. Vampires been hangin’ out in that shit-hole for years. I reckon the owner is probably one of ’em too. I won’t have them in my bar. Bloodsucking lowlifes. Mean as mouseshit, too – tight-fisted bastards.’

  ‘Are you two putting me on?’ Jessica asked, sounding incredulous.

  ‘No, baby, we’re dead serious,’ said Jefe. ‘The Nightjar is a real low dive.’

  ‘Fuck the Nightjar,’ she scoffed. ‘I mean the vampires. Are there seriously vampires that live in this town?’

  ‘Hell, yes,’ said Sanchez. ‘This town’s had a vampire problem for as long as I can remember. As long as anyone can. That’s why it’s always good to know Rodeo Rex is in town. He’s the biggest vampire killer of them all. Even bigger than Buffy.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Buffy?’

  Sanchez and Jefe looked at each other. Both shook their heads in disbelief at Jessica’s ignorance.

  ‘Shit, woman, don’t you know anythin’?’ asked Sanchez.

  ‘Evidently not. How come no one mentioned vampires to me before?’

  ‘Sorry, babe,’ said Jefe. ‘I guess it just never came up. And to be honest I don’t really wanna talk about it now. Let’s go back to my place, huh?’

  ‘Don’t you want another drink first? I only just got here.’

  ‘Nah, I’ve had about as much beer as I can take. All I want now is you, Jess, so how ’bout it? Let’s head back to the hotel and hit the sack, huh?’ This last suggestion was accompanied by a wink.

  Jessica rewarded him with a cheeky grin and a wink of her own. ‘Sure thing, honey,’ she said. ‘Hey Sanchez, can we have a bottle of vodka to go, please?’

  It would be an understatement to say that Sanchez was more than a little jealous of the attention Jessica was giving Jefe. They were starting to look and act like a proper couple. If only he had made a move first, he mused. Fuckin’ Jefe. Bastard. But he handed Jessica a bottle of vodka on the house, and continued to put a brave face on things. He didn’t want Jefe to know that he had a thing for his woman. That wouldn’t be wise. He watched them enviously as they left the bar. Jessica was kindly providing a shoulder for a rather drunk Jefe to lean on. His adrenalin rush had obviously worn off and he was staggering all over the place. Without Jessica for support he would certainly have fallen.

  Just as they reached the doors Sanchez called out after them, ‘See you two tomorrow. Don’t forget it’s fancy dress!’

  Jessica turned back and winked at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sanchez, I’ll be dressing up. I kinda think you’ll like my outfit.’

  Forty-Nine

  Miles Jensen had been sitting in almost total darkness ever since Carlito and Miguel had left the barn. They had closed the large wooden doors behind them when they went, shutting out what little light had been provided by the moon. He could just about make out the outline of the scarecrow in the wheelbarrow in front of him. It was very nearly one o’clock and time for the alarm on his phone to go off.

  The scarecrow hadn’t moved, which came as no surprise to Jensen, but he was keen for the witching hour to come to an end anyway. The ridiculous story Carlito had told him about the scarecrow coming to life had been laughable, but with every passing minute Jensen had found himself becoming a little more nervous. It was too dark to see the time on his phone still nestling in his lap, and he was now beginning to have doubts about whether or not the alarm had actually been set. Suggesting that he had set the alarm for one o’clock, when in actual fact he had done no such thing, might have been Carlito’s way of prolonging Jensen’s agony.

  Jensen’s head still hurt from the blow he had received earlier in the evening, and this was making it difficult to stay alert. He wanted nothing more than to rest his eyes and go to sleep for a few hours. In fact, he was actually quite close to nodding off when he heard a creaking sound coming from the front of the barn. Instinctively he took a deep breath of air in through his nostrils and held it, so as not to make any noise. Looking ahead of him, he desperately strained his eyes to see if he could make out what was making the noise.

  It was the barn door, and it was opening very, very slowly. He could tell this because of the slim shaft of moonlight that suddenly appeared and lit up one side of the scarecrow’s head. The straw face now looked as though it had eyes, where before it had no facial features at all. But the scarecrow was not Jensen’s main concern. He needed to know who the man standing at the doorway shrouded in mist and outlined by the glow of the moonlight was. It was a tall man who appeared to be wearing a suit and a panama hat that tilted slightly to one side of his head. He also held a gun in his right hand, pointing down at the ground.

  ‘Somers? That you?’ Jensen called out.

  The man did not respond. Instead, he stepped inside the barn and pushed the door almost shut behind him. There was still just a slight shimmer of moonlight coming in through a small gap where the door was not fully closed. It provided just enough light for Jensen to see that the man was walking slowly towards him. He was also raising the gun from his side and pointing it at the wheelbarrow in which the scarecrow was slumped. When he was about three yards away from Jensen he stopped and appeared to take aim, pointing the pistol at the scarecrow’s head.

  At that moment something happened that might have cost Jensen his life. The alarm on his cellphone went off. The tune it played was the theme from Superman: The Movie, and it was horribly loud. It was hard to tell whether or not Carlito had turned the volume on Jensen’s phone all the way up or whether the sound was so shocking because the silence preceding it had been so unnerving.

  The sudden noise startled the m
an in the panama hat and he swung round, pointing his gun at Jensen. His trigger finger was trembling. This man was seriously spooked.

  ‘Jensen, are you alone?’ he whispered, hoarsely.

  ‘Christ almighty. Is that you, Scraggs?’

  ‘Yeah. You alone or what?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so, apart from this fuckin’ scarecrow.’ He found himself overcome with relief at the sound of the familiar voice of Lieutenant Paolo Scraggs.

  ‘A scarecrow? Is that what it is?’ Scraggs asked, baffled.

  ‘Yeah. The Straw Man himself. Can you untie me, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ Scraggs stepped forward and jumped up onto the stack of bales that Jensen was sitting on. He positioned himself directly behind the bound man and felt around until he had his hands on the tape that was binding Jensen’s hands together. He made no attempt to unwind or cut the tape immediately, however, obviously seeing this as an opportunity to quiz the captive investigator about what he had discovered.

  ‘So why did those two guys bring you in here, Jensen? And why didn’t they kill you?’ he asked.

  ‘Can you just untie me, please?’ Jensen groaned. He was too tired for an interrogation from a fellow officer. He had been through quite enough already.

  ‘Come on, Jensen. I just saved your ass so I reckon you can tell me what’s going on. In fact, I think it’s the least you can do in the circumstances. I could always leave you here, you know.’ Scraggs was a tiresome individual at the best of times, and Jensen was now beginning to see why Somers showed so little tolerance for the man.

  ‘Listen, Scraggs, they left me here to die. Said something about the scarecrow over there coming to life to kill me. They never told me what they wanted with me or anything like that.’

  ‘You’re gonna have to do better than that, Jensen,’ said Scraggs, looking over at the scarecrow. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe they didn’t have a reason for dragging you here? You’ve found out something and I think it’s time you started to share the information with the rest of us. If you had died here, if those two thugs had decided to kill you, then all the information you’ve acquired about our serial killer would have been lost. Now how about telling me what you found out, before I start to lose my temper?’