I stared at the yellowed pages of this alleged history of mine—of my own grandfather’s writings. A priest. It felt like the wheels in my brain weren’t turning, they were coming off the axles.
I needed a drink.
We detectives pride ourselves in our deductive reasoning skills. This is why it embarrasses us so much more than the average person when we’re standing there with our dicks in our hands.
Samhain remained in the employ of Satan for a great many centuries. He gathered many, many souls for Lucifer’s brimstone. But in his worldly travels, the beast learned much about the power of darkness over good—so much more than Satan himself could possibly understand. Samhain learned the convergence of the most terrible and awesome of the cataclysms—war, torture, anguished death—represented a fertile womb for the gestation of pure, wanton energy. The energy of EVIL. And Samhain learned to impregnate that womb; to birth a macabre and profound heir to his own gluttony for power over, ultimately, God himself.
The demigod Samhain grew so powerful that he returned through the gates of Hades no more. Satan’s commands were no longer heard; indeed, legend tells that Lucifer himself grew wary (if not entirely frightened) of Samhain’s strength.
The Church has believed, through the centuries, in demonic possession (though a controversial and sometimes tenuous belief). Possession remains one of Satan’s greatest tools of control, as it has over the millennia—the Prince of Darkness understood the most powerful element of the supplication and leveraging of the possessed to be the cultivation of fear. Samhain, however, felt a bolder and eminently more useful consecration of the union between evil and good was attainable. Armies of the beast. The table scraps from God’s dominion had never sated Samhain.
The Church has never accepted such a doctrine—dismissing it as secular, hobgoblin tomfoolery. And because of this outright rejection, over the centuries, Samhain has been reduced in lore to a carnival illusion. God of the Dead; founder of the Celtic Halloween. An almost clown-like figure. But it is in this nonbelief that the true master of evil in this world gains more purchase every hour.
I hadn’t studied anything about Samhain, not even in my schooling toward exorcism. It seems now I should have been studying nothing else.
I called Cindy Wu and left a voicemail. She called back about an hour later.
“Hey, Mac,” she said. Wu was terminally cheerful.
“Howdy, lady—have a sec for an off-the-wall question?”
“Sure, shoot.”
“At the risk of being stereotypical, do you speak Chinese?” I said.
“Depends,” she said. “Lots of dialects out there. But yeah, Mandarin. Both my parents are first generation Chinese.”
“A case I’ve been working, at trial, an old Chinese woman called someone ‘hei gui’. That mean anything to you?”
“I take it this person was black?”
“Yeah, I know the street derivation. I’m looking for a more exact interpretation.”
“In Mandarin, it translates indirectly into ‘black ghost’.”
“That’s what they said at trial.”
“The Chinese language doesn’t always translate well into English. A lot of it is bastardized over time. I’ll talk to my mom. She’ll know if it means anything more or less useful.”
“Thanks, Cindy” I said, and hung up.
The idea strolling around in my head was pretty thin. Skeletal. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding, whatever the hell that meant. I grabbed a Railyard Black and Tan and dropped into the recliner with Father Macaulay’s journal. My attention span isn’t what it used to be, so I skipped around a bit. I stopped in a section where Father Terrence Macaulay described the theories that would begin the ruin of his career:
This journal serves more purpose than a simple diary of my personal anecdotes, tasks, and life spent on this earth. My own da—the priest Ian Macaulay—gave the Book of Ossian to me on my 18th birthday, as I entered the seminary. After reading its contents, and upon reaching transitional diaconate, I asked the Mon Signor to be permitted to focus as much of my time as prudent in the controversial area of exorcism. While this request was met with some understandable disdain, there weren’t many candidates who wished such an assignment—it was largely considered a downward path with no clear end. As such, and because of my own father’s history with the Church, I supposed the collective felt my journey was more than slightly preordained.
As I have mentioned, the study of exorcism includes no mention at all of any real counterparts to possession other than Satan and his slighter demons. Not only is there a lack of mention regarding Samhain, but any discussion of such was strictly forbidden (as was discussed with me clearly when my request for special study and assignment was granted):
‘Young Father’, I was told by the Mon Signor. ‘Father Ian always spoke of you with the highest pride, and his own worth to the Church has been, at times, invaluable. He has also been one of the largest thorns in its side. Any maverick tendencies—including the propagandizing of nonsensical secular fairy tales—won’t be tolerated.’
My path was indeed preordained.
We’ve been asked—me and Father Rule—to visit a young boy, Ramzi Ben Younes, here in Gabès. The British army has returned the city to French control, but the damage done by the Germans is extensive. The infrastructure—buildings, services, and the like—are in many places near ruin. Food and water are scarce, although the Ben Younes family is well off—their compound has been largely untouched because a group of high-ranking Nazi party members used it as their own residence here in Tunisia for several months, reducing the Ben Younes family to the roles of spectators (and even, I fear, worse) in their own home.
It’s not uncommon to encounter extreme cases of evil possession—those beyond the rudimentary inflictions of Satan or his dark demons—in the wake of such terrible atrocity. In fact, this is why Father Rule and I have risked a visit in such a tumultuous time. The war, the Church—nothing seems to bode well as of late. But it’s possible that we may have encountered another case of Bête Noire, and as such, we’re duty-bound to be here, and to help young Ramzi (though I fear for his well-being, and I fear the possibilities of things that will need to be done).
It’s worse than we thought, or perhaps I should say, as bad as we feared. Ramzi is a sweet little boy—13 years old, his father, Lotfi, tells us. Father Rule interviewed the family before I arrived and his reports are very troubling. Ramzi’s behaviors apparently began several months ago. The changes were small at first, but eventually elevated to animalistic sounds (rather than speaking; a common symptom) and the parents shared with Father Rule that some family members and friends witnessed viscous behavior, culminating with the killing of a family pet in front of Lotfi and his wife.
There have been unexplained absences—these telltale signs of the beast within, becoming more and more bold. Venturing out, though likely in a hinterland state of being. Lotfi and Nadia have found their son, on several occasions, unclothed in his bed, shivering against the cold of night.
Murders and disappearances have been so commonplace in Gabès during the occupation that it’s difficult to correlate Ramzi Ben Younes with specific acts of atrocity, but based on these reports, I believe it’s very likely we have discovered another Bête Noire possession—potentially one of enormous magnitude.
This is our ninth such case, and all have exhibited the same evidences. The Church MUST begin to reason this out. Both Father Rule and I have seen (and been successful with) simple demonic possession. Repeatedly, in fact. Yet the Church—my own elder priests—seem so ignorant of these incidents, these possessions of indescribable evil. Such blackness needs suffering and injustice to cultivate. With the Nazi expansion, how could Samhain not have taken advantage of such naivety?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I LEARNED of Burke’s heart attack over the phone. I was working in the yard in back, laying a brick pathway between the utility shed and the concrete patio. I was lost in
the mind-clearing paradise of good, hard, physical exertion when my cell rang.
“Mac.”
The voice on the other end was Detective Manny Rodriguez.
“What’s happening, Manny?”
“Mac, there’s no easy way to tell you this.”
“Manny?”
“Ned’s in surgery.”
“Damn it, Manny, talk to me!”
“It’s a heart attack. He went down at home, at the apartment. Lady downstairs heard him hit the floor. Thank God the son-of-a-bitch is built like a brick…”
“Where is he?” I managed.
“Sky Ridge…”
I ended the call and ran for the keys to my truck.
They were all waiting for me—Shackleford, Wu, Trent, Rodriguez. It was as if I was the last one to find out. Why is it in times of tragedy the whole world becomes like chaplains, waiting around the periphery to offer last rites and a pat on the back?
I looked straight at the boss.
“Don’t tell me he’s not going to make it. Don’t you fucking tell me that.”
“It’s too early to tell, Mac.” I could see the lie behind Shackleford’s deep brown eyes.
“DAMN-it,” I said.
“We found a daughter listed on his card. We haven’t been able to reach her in Toledo.”
“I’m his only family. No one else is going to show up.”
“All right,” Shackleford said, deflated.
“What have the doctors told you?”
“Not much,” Shackleford said.
“Was he conscious? Did he say anything?”
“We’re not sure, Mac, okay?”
“Please, Elias. Tell me this isn’t happening.”
I walked to an empty chair and dropped. I couldn’t think straight. I loved the man. It’s times like these that we realize the emotions that elude us during the easy times. I rode with the man every day, sure, but he was like a father to me. Paddy loved me, and he raised me well, but it was Burke who had no problem accepting a partner with one mechanical leg; it was Burke who taught me how to be a good cop.
He couldn’t die. I couldn’t lose another father.
Too many things were crumbling—the descent was currently too damned steep. There was too much going on in my life. I hated to think of it selfishly, but if there was a chance God was listening and wanted to know if Ned Burke was still necessary down here—necessary in someone’s life—I could vouch for his import. I needed my partner now more than ever.
But of course, he did die. How could he not? Everything I’d ever touched—my career, my relationships, even my health—all turned to shit.
Everything died.
Why would it be any different with the best friend I had in the world?
Ned never made it out of surgery. The cardiologist came to the waiting room an hour or so after I arrived and delivered the news with all the grace of a water buffalo.
Have I mentioned that I’m no fan of doctors? We treat them as if they’re gods—as if they know everything there is to know about our health, our prognosis, what will heal us. But like any profession: there are good ones and there are used car salesmen.
The first three opinions I had on my lost leg nearly guaranteed me I would never walk right again—and that there wasn’t a sliver of hope that I would be useful again on the force.
Those first three doctors I went to see recommended the department delay my imminent promotion to Detective and put my butt in a chair, riding a desk for the rest of my career.
My world tanked. I couldn’t think about the case, I couldn’t relate to Greer. My son—who wasn’t saying more than five words a day to me, if that—well, with him, I couldn’t make things right anyway. I certainly wasn’t capable of making inroads now.
I wandered through my world in a cloud of frustration and lack of identity. How could so much have changed in just a few days?
Gradually I tamped down on the wellspring of loss, pushing it into that musty cellar with all the other ghosts—down there with Isabel and my leg and Danny Wells.
Down there with Arliss Jackson.
And Eb Durning.
I hate to do it to you, Burke, I kept thinking. Put you down there with all the other ghosts who occupy my dark past.
Two partners, two down.
One wife; dead.
God gave me two legs; I couldn’t keep the both of them.
I was anathema. To everything I came in contact with, I was a curse.
Shackleford demanded I take two weeks’ time. The funny thing is, I had no argument for him.
“Bobby Mac,” Greer said, the night before the funeral, draping herself over me as I sat up on the pillows, hands locked behind my head.
“Not much of a stallion these days, babe.”
“Always to me, Bobby.”
“I can’t seem to get around it,” I said, tears welling again. I hated to cry, but with Greer, it always felt like a thickening of our bond.
“Maybe you shouldn’t. Some things we can’t dodge. Those things, we have to go straight through.”
“Not this. I can’t take more loss, I just can’t. Makes me think of all I’ve got.
“You. Cole. It makes me think about losing the things that remain. How selfish is that? Burke, he lost his life. He’s done. Yet I go on living. Everyone dies, but Bobby Macaulay is there to soldier on. That’s what I can’t get past.”
“Nothing will happen to me. And Cole may not be saying much, but he’s a teenager. You’re not going to lose either one of us.”
“Sometimes that’s not for us to say, now is it?”
“No, it’s not. But we’re here now, Bobby. I’m here now. And that’s how we live. In the present. You said it—none of us is promised tomorrow.”
“I feel like I’ve lost something I’m never going to get back.”
“Ned was a good man. He was good to you. But you know what he would tell you.”
I always hated that condolence:
What would the deceased want?
Even when I was a kid, it made no sense to me. The deceased wanted nothing. They were dead. And were they alive? Were the situation reversed? They’d likely feel the same damned way.
Stricken.
Helpless.
Bereaved.
I did not, however, say this to Greer. She meant nothing bad by her words. These were the things we said as we stumbled through our complete ineptitude with trying to come to terms with death.
I put my arms around her and kissed the top of her head. It was all the fuel I had in the tank at the moment.
It was only the third department funeral I had ever attended. The first was Danny’s; the second, a cop from the Fourth District who died in a traffic collision.
When the world sees a cop’s funeral, it’s a pretty spectacular event. And if you’re in attendance, I can tell you it’s even more profound than you’ve imagined. The emotion crackles in the air like static electricity. The sheer silence can be staggering. Never have you witnessed a thousand people become totally and incredulously still.
When you are, yourself, a cop—when the person they are burying has put their life in your hands—well, it’s a moment in time like no other.
It is a reckoning.
A moment when everything else in the world freezes and you’re asked to turn within yourself and accomplish the impossible. You must not simply say goodbye to a coworker, compatriot, partner, protector, and, finally, a friend. You must find a way to make sense of the death and your own part in it.
And every officer on the force feels this. Not just for their own partners. For every other officer there, including the one who has fallen.
What could we have done? That’s the question that rings out in the awful, palpable silence.
Of course, the event is not all silence—there is the pomp and circumstance: the pipes and the flags and the uniforms and the white gloves.
The parade of an entire department is something to behold; the sons and daughte
rs of the city, each come to honor the history, dedication, and service of one of their own—it’s nearly impossible to bear.
Ned was so much more to me than just a partner. I’ve mentioned he was like a father—perhaps he was even closer to me than my own father, Paddy Macaulay. I certainly felt more comfortable sharing my mind with Burke. Unlike my father, he was there for the deep things—complications of the heart and soul that had nothing to do with the normal discourse of father and son. And so our relationship had transcended all that was normal in the families of the world.
Burke had killed. I had killed. We could share our feelings about that limited, terrible brotherhood.
Danny Wells and I never had much of a chance to become close. With him, it was also different, because I lived with the guilt of having failed the man—he died, I lived. But with Ned Burke, I was at different place of loss. I had no opportunity to defend him; I had no chance to save him. And somehow that made the guilt all the worse.
I was his partner. I should’ve known; should’ve seen it coming. The old man was a coronary waiting to happen, but I loved him too much to grouse at him about the donuts and the fries and the pizza slices. I tried to tell myself this is how he wanted it—that he just wanted to be happy until he retired, or until whatever came next. He used to joke with me:
“Heard some asshole on the radio, said if a guy gave up donuts, he’d live another three years. Sounds like three more years with no fucking donuts, you ask me.”
But maybe he would’ve lived had I been more of a nag to him. I didn’t want that kind of crap to come between us. I wanted to be his supporter. His friend. Let the doctor at the yearly department physical tell him to quit smoking, eat less, and lose weight.
I couldn’t shake the idea that I was wrong on that count. That maybe friends owed each other more.
Black Beast: A Hard Boiled Murder Mystery (A Detective Bobby Mac Thriller Book 1) Page 9