The Book With No Name

by AnonYMous

  By the time the police sirens came to a stop outside the bar he had found about twenty thousand dollars in used notes hidden in the pockets of a select few of the bodies. Many of the corpses were unrecognizable, which made it a little easier on the conscience. When he got to Jessica, he was reluctant to search her. This was a girl with whom he had been secretly infatuated for the last five years. All that time she had been in a coma he had hoped and prayed she would come out of it and thank him for saving her. Who knows, maybe she could have fallen for him as he had fallen for her? But she was definitely dead this time. He checked the pulse in her wrist and her neck. Nothing. He found an only slightly bloodied yellow bar towel on the floor and placed it over what was left of her face. What a waste. What a terrible, terrible fuckin’ waste.

  ‘You got a survivor there?’ said a voice from behind him.

  Sanchez turned, instantly recognizing the man in the grey trench coat leaning against the bar. It was Detective Archibald Somers, the washed-up old cop who had unsuccessfully dedicated his life to finding the Bourbon Kid. Just how unsuccessfully was pretty evident from the present state of the Tapioca.

  ‘No, she’s dead.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Well she ain’t got no pulse and she’s not breathin’. I figure the hundred-and-fifty-third bullet might just have finished her off.’

  Somers stepped away from the bar towards Sanchez, crunching broken glass underfoot as he did so.

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm, okay? We’re gonna need another statement from you. Was it the Bourbon Kid again?’

  Sanchez stood up and walked back behind the bar, careful not to let Detective Somers see the wad of cash in his back pocket.

  ‘Yeah it was him again,’ he said wearily. ‘He had a kid helping him this time, as well. Some guy dressed up as the Terminator. I think the two of them killed my brother and his wife. Probably killed Elvis, too.’

  ‘That guy?’ asked Somers, gesturing at the dead Elvis impersonator by the front entrance.

  ‘Nah, that guy was just some bum who walked in at the wrong time.’

  ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, him and a hundred others. So, you wanna drink or not, Detective?’

  ‘Sure. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Bourbon.’

  Somers let out a deep sigh. The Kid was gone, but the bourbon was still flowing, as usual.

  ‘Fuck it. Go ahead, then.’

  The exasperated detective walked over to where Sanchez had been standing and took a look at Jessica’s body. He picked up what was left of one of her arms so that he could check for a pulse.

  ‘I told you already. She’s dead, man,’ Sanchez called out from behind the bar. He was pouring a shot of bourbon into the only surviving glass, the one he’d been drinking from.

  Just then a second cop, wearing a shiny silver suit, entered the Tapioca and clumsily caught his trailing leg on the body of the Elvis impersonator as he stepped over it. It was Miles Jensen, the black detective from out of town. Sanchez had met him a few days earlier when he’d dropped by to ask some pretty pointless questions about the killing of Thomas and Audrey. The bartender had told him nothing then, and wasn’t about to tell him anything now. He didn’t like cops at the best of times, but nosy guys with badges? – well, he had no tolerance for them whatsoever.

  ‘Jesus, what a mess,’ Jensen said, straightening after his minor stumble. ‘Another dead Elvis, hey? Shit, ain’t nobody’s got any respect for the King these days, huh?’

  ‘You wanna shot of bourbon too?’ Sanchez grunted.

  ‘What else you got?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘In that case I’ll pass, thanks.’

  Jensen walked over towards Somers, who was now crouching by Jessica’s body. He recognized the remains of Carlito and Miguel lying among all the glass, blood and shell casings as he stepped over them on his way to join his partner. It was comforting to know they were dead after what they had put him through the night before. But now wasn’t the time to reflect on that, for there seemed to be quite a few innocents caught up in this whole sorry mess. One of them was a young woman whose face Somers was covering over with a stained bar towel.

  ‘She alive?’ Jensen asked.

  ‘No, she’s gone. Everyone in here’s dead ’cept Sanchez,’ said Somers, standing up. ‘We’d better get Forensics in here. Maybe we can get word out and catch the Bourbon Kid before he gets too far away. According to Sanchez, he’s got an accomplice who’s dressed as the Terminator.’

  Jensen was beginning to understand why Somers had spent the last five years trying to nail the Bourbon Kid. Some of these victims had families who shouldn’t have to see them like this just because some psycho couldn’t handle his drink.

  ‘I’ll go and tell the ambulance crews they can come in.’

  ‘No, it’s okay,’ said Somers, looking down at the body of a dead monk and tutting to himself. ‘I’ll do that. You stay here and get a statement from Sanchez.’

  He walked up to the counter where Sanchez had placed his glass of bourbon. He took one look at it and grimaced.

  ‘On second thoughts, I’ll pass on that drink,’ he said. ‘Probably a bit inappropriate to be touching that stuff in the light of what’s just happened. In fact, some people might say it’s inappropriate to be serving the stuff, too. And for what it’s worth, you smell like piss.’

  Somers walked out, still tutting under his breath every time he passed another corpse. He seemed utterly disgusted by the savage waste of innocent lives all around him.

  Jensen felt bad that they had not made it to the Tapioca sooner. Maybe he could redeem himself and surprise Somers by becoming the first guy ever to get some decent information out of Sanchez. He picked up one of the wooden stools from the floor and brushed the broken glass from it, then took it over to the bar and sat down.

  ‘So, Sanchez,’ he began, ‘smells like piss in here, don’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the barman shrugged. ‘You really need a statement from me right now?’

  ‘No,’ Jensen smiled. Maybe now really wasn’t the time. ‘You can come down to headquarters tomorrow and give one then, if you want.’

  ‘Thanks, man.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Jensen picked up Somers’s unwanted glass of bourbon and took a sip. It was warm and tasted like it had grit in it. The result was distinctly unrefreshing.

  ‘Christ! That’s stuff’s foul, man. No wonder this Kid goes nuts when he drinks it.’ As soon as he’d said it, he cringed. Could he really have made such an insensitive remark? Even in a place like this that was well used to tactless comments, it was a rotten thing to have come out with. He took a look at Sanchez’s face. The bartender was obviously not impressed.

  ‘Sorry, man. Bad joke.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Jensen didn’t want to outstay his welcome any longer than necessary, especially not if he was coming out with comments of such dubious taste. He stood up from his barstool and reached into his pocket. Sanchez stepped back uneasily.

  ‘All right, Sanchez, I’m just reaching for my wallet,’ Jensen smiled.

  ‘It’s okay, man. You don’t have to pay for the drink,’ the other man said.

  Jensen pulled out his wallet and opened it. Then he produced a small red business card from it.

  ‘Here, take my card. My cellphone number’s on here. You can call me if you should remember anything, y’know … important… about the Bourbon Kid.’ He balanced the card on top of the half-drunk glass of bourbon. Sanchez picked it up and slipped it into his back pocket.

  ‘Sure. Thanks, Detective. I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘You do that. Take it easy, Sanchez.’

  Jensen made his way over to the front entrance, once again accidentally snagging his foot on the dead Elvis impersonator. He looked back to see if Sanchez had noticed. He obviously had, because he was shaking his head. Jensen smiled at him through gritted teeth. How embarrassing. Sanchez must
have thought he was a black version of Inspector Clouseau.

  As it happened, Sanchez wasn’t thinking that at all. He was actually feeling sorry for the clumsy detective and decided to offer him an olive branch.

  ‘Hey, Detective, I just remembered somethin’,’ he called out. ‘The guy in the Terminator outfit, he’s drivin’ a yellow Cadillac.’

  Miles Jensen stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘You serious? A yellow Caddy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Shit, wait ’til Somers hears this,’ Jensen said, laughing to himself.

  ‘What’s so goddam funny?’ asked Sanchez.

  ‘Oh nothin’ really,’ said Jensen. ‘It’s just that Somers had his yellow Caddy stolen last night. He was fucking fuming, man. You shoulda seen him.’

  Sanchez stood behind the bar, lost in thought as the detective walked out to his car. Somers owned the yellow Cadillac? What could this mean, exactly? Had Somers killed Thomas and Audrey? If so, did that mean he’d also killed Elvis? Before he could give the matter too much consideration, he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. Then he heard a cough. It was Jessica. He ran out from behind the bar and bent over her, quickly pulling the towel from her face. She was breathing again. She was still alive, albeit barely, clinging on by the skin of her teeth. The flesh seemed to have returned to her face, as if she was regenerating. This had to be a miracle of some kind. He had checked her pulse only a few minutes earlier and she had been dead. Then the old-guy detective, Somers, had checked her over, too, and confirmed it. But now, suddenly she was alive again! Hell, Sanchez didn’t care how. He just knew it was up to him to look after her. This was a sign. A sign from God. They were meant to be together. This time he would nurse her back to health himself.

  As he carried her limp body into his back room he heard the sound of the ambulances pulling up outside. He would have to hide her again, just like last time. No one could be trusted. If word got out that she was alive, the Bourbon Kid would come back for her. It might take another five years, maybe more this time, maybe less, who knew? But Sanchez would nurse her back to health.

  And this time, maybe she would thank him for it.

  Sixty

  Captain Rockwell stepped inside the House of the Mystic Lady to find Lieutenant Scraggs sitting behind a desk in a chair next to the one holding the decapitated body of the old woman. He was flicking through the pages of a heavy hardback book. Scraggs nearly jumped right out of his skin when he saw the Captain enter.

  ‘Goddammit, Scrubbs, didn’t I tell you not to touch anything?’ Rockwell growled angrily.

  ‘Yes, you did, Captain, but you gotta see this. This book explains everything.’

  ‘It fucking well better.’

  Scraggs flicked back through a few pages and then turned the open book to face Rockwell, who approached the desk, all the while maintaining an icy stare at his subordinate to let him know how displeased he was at being disobeyed.

  ‘Right, what’m I looking at?’ he asked.

  Scraggs pointed at the left-hand page. On it was a coloured drawing of two men with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Both were dressed in long robes, suggesting that they had lived hundreds of years ago, a fact made more likely by the crumpled yellow parchment of the book’s pages. One of the robed men was holding a golden chalice with red liquid spilling from it. Both looked serenely happy, almost ecstatic.

  ‘Sir, read the caption underneath the picture,’ said Scraggs.

  Rockwell didn’t take kindly to being ordered around by Scraggs, but he read the clear black lettering quietly to himself.

  Armand Xavier and Ishmael Taos found and drank from the Cup of Christ in the Year of Our Lord 526.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Rockwell. ‘What the fuck is this? I don’t get it.’

  ‘Look at the picture of the two men again, sir. Don’t you recognize one of them?’

  Captain Rockwell looked closely at the picture again, concentrating more on the men’s faces this time. After just a few seconds he raised one eyebrow and looked at Scraggs.

  ‘The one on the left looks like that asshole Somers.’

  ‘That’s Armand Xavier.’

  ‘There any other pictures of him in here?’

  ‘Yeah. Check this out.’ Scraggs flicked over a whole lot more pages and eventually stopped at another illustration. This time the drawing showed a group of people. ‘You might recognize a few more of these, Captain.’

  Again Rockwell studied the picture, which showed four men and a woman. Beneath it was lettered:

  Dark Lord Xavier and his family – believed to reside in Santa Mondega, a city of the New World.

  ‘Dark Lord Xavier,’ Rockwell said, sounding more than a little confused. ‘But that’s Somers for sure, and those other three guys – that’s El Santino and his two gay sidekicks. This has gotta be some kinda fuckin’ joke.’

  Scraggs shook his head. ‘I’ve been reading some of this shit, Captain. Mostly just the pages with pictures on, but from what I can gather, it’s saying that this Armand Xavier guy and his good friend Ishmael Taos drank the blood of Christ and became immortal.’

  ‘That’s ludicrous.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But then, get this. They fell out over a woman, the woman in the picture, I guess.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s she?’

  ‘I think her name is Jessica. You see, according to the book, Xavier became frustrated at being immortal and not being able to share his life with someone for all eternity. Then he meets this Jessica woman, and it turns out she’s a vampire or somethin’. So when she bites him, he becomes more than just immortal. He’s got the blood of Christ and the blood of a vampire running through his veins, so I guess technically he becomes the chief bloodsucker, or the Dark Lord, if you will.’

  Rockwell had never heard anything so far-fetched in all his long, if undistinguished, career. Then again, maybe some things were beginning to make sense. He took a deep breath, then puffed out his cheeks as he emitted a deep sigh.

  ‘Shit, this can’t be right.’ He scratched his head and frowned. ‘But I guess it explains why a supernatural investigator has been assigned out here. I wonder if Jensen actually knows about this?’

  ‘I just tried to call him. His phone was switched off, but I left him a message.’

  ‘Good work, Scrubbs. What did you tell him?

  ‘Not much. I just warned him to stay away from Somers, and call in if he gets the chance.’

  ‘Good thinking, too, Lieutenant. So what else have you found in this goddam book? Anything else about the other guy, Taos?’

  ‘Well,’ said Scraggs, pulling the book back towards him. ‘I was just getting to that. Seems he found the Eye of the Moon and lit out with it somewhere that Xavier couldn’t get his hands on it.’

  ‘Anythin’ else?’

  ‘Not really, sir, or not yet anyway, but I’ve barely scratched the surface. This book could take a few days to read, and I only started halfway through.’

  ‘Any mention of the Bourbon Kid?’

  ‘Nope, nothing. Not yet anyway.’

  BANG!

  Startled, both men jumped, then looked over to the front door, drawing their guns ready for action. Scraggs leapt up from his chair as if he had received an electric shock. That had been a gunshot. Outside. Officer Quaid was no longer standing guard at the door, but his voice could be heard from out in the street, yelling, ‘Shit, it’s him. Shoot! Fuckin’ shoot!’

  There followed an almighty burst of gunfire. From the sound of it, seven or eight weapons were being fired at once. The firing lasted no more than ten seconds. Then there was silence. Rockwell and Scraggs looked at each other ominously.

  ‘It was nice knowin’ you, Captain,’ said Scraggs, desperately trying to keep a firm grip on his pistol. They didn’t teach you anything in training about dealing with a combination of trembling hands and cold sweat.

  ‘We ain’t dead yet, Scrubbs. You keep your nerve an’ we might just get
outta this alive.’

  ‘Nah, we’ve looked at the book, Captain. We’re fucked. And it’s Scraggs, sir.’

  ‘Shaddup. Someone’s coming.’

  Both men kept their guns trained on the doorway, waiting for whatever might appear. They could hear footsteps walking slowly towards the entrance. The tension was unbearable. As the footsteps drew closer, so their trigger fingers tightened. A shadow appeared at the doorway, followed a second later by the staggering, bloodstained figure of Officer Quaid.

  BANG!

  Instinctively, through nothing more than blind panic, Scraggs had fired a bullet straight into Quaid’s chest. The uniformed cop’s already bloodied face took on a final look of despair and surprise at being shot by the Lieutenant, before he fell forward, crashing face first on to the floor.

  ‘What the fuck you do that for?’ Rockwell yelled, turning to see Scraggs with his gun still smoking in his hand. ‘That’s one of my best men, goddamit.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I thought he was someone else. I panicked.’

  ‘Well fuck! Go panic somewhere else, you dumb shit!’

  Scraggs’s expression changed. His whole face relaxed as if every muscle in it had packed up and gone home.

  ‘Too late,’ he said quietly.

  Captain Rockwell looked back to the entrance. Standing in the doorway was the man in the hooded trench coat. The Bourbon Kid. He had a sawn-off shotgun in each hand.

  One to kill the Captain and one to kill the Lieutenant.

  Sixty-One

  Dante and Kacy had raced back to the County Motel, the big Cadillac barrelling along the streets, its tyres squealing as it hurtled round corners. Getting out of Santa Mondega alive was number one on their list of priorities. Kacy estimated that they had no more than ten minutes to change clothes and check out of the motel before the police started blocking off the main roads, in and out of the city. She was desperate to see the back of this horrible place, and head back to the civilized world before their luck finally ran out.

  They parked the yellow car outside their room and rushed inside. Dante put the chain on the room door and then closed the blinds, before taking a quick peek through them to make sure no squad cars had arrived yet. When he turned round, he saw that Kacy’s clown outfit was already on the floor. She was beside it on her hands and knees, reaching under the bed. Her pert bottom was sticking up in the air and wiggling from side to side as she tried to pull the suitcase full of money from its hiding place. Her modesty was preserved only by a thin black thong and matching bra that she wore on special occasions for Dante’s benefit.