Judas Goat

by Greg F. Gifune

  Table of Contents

  OTHER BOOKS BY AUTHOR

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  8

  9

  10

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  JUDAS GOAT

  Greg F. Gifune

  eBook

  June 2012

  DarkFuse

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  http://www.darkfuse.com

  Judas Goat © 2012, 2008 by Greg F. Gifune

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books By Author

  Apartment Seven

  Down To Sleep

  Heretics

  House of Rain

  Judas Goat

  Lords of Twilight

  Sorcerer

  The Bleeding Season

  The Living and the Dead

  The Rain Dancers

  Check out the official Greg F. Gifune page at DarkFuse for a complete list:

  www.darkfuseshop.com/Greg-F.-Gifune/

  This one’s for Shane Staley

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my family and to all my friends out there (you know who you are). Special thanks to Larry at BLP for being such a joy to work with, and for his continued support and belief in me. And love and thanks to my wife Carol for helping me back from the brink of madness my writing so often drags me to.

  Slaughterhouses often use a trained goat to associate with and gain the trust of sheep and cattle slated for death. Once trust has been established, the goat leads them to slaughter, while its own life is spared.

  This betrayer is known as a Judas Goat.

  “One need not be a chamber to be haunted;

  One need not be a house;

  The brain has corridors surpassing

  Material place.”

  —Emily Dickinson

  1

  Lenny Cates is dead. Even now, an hour or more away from the nightmare, he could still hear traces of that strange voice uttering those words through a ghostly telephone line. Nightmares and memories were all he could count on these days, but both were notorious liars.

  For nearly everyone else the day was coming to an end. For Lenny it was just beginning. He strode through the cluttered apartment, stopped to snatch his wool coat and scarf from the back of the couch then settled in the doorway to the bedroom. The shades were pulled, but even in the semi-dark he could see Tabitha’s nude body stretched across the rumpled bed. He pulled on his coat, and stepping over dirty clothes strewn from one wall to the next, sat on the edge of the bed. Smells of perspiration, booze and cigarettes hung in the air.

  Earlier, when he’d been lying next to her, though he’d been awake for some time before finally rolling out of bed, he’d pretended to be asleep, eyelids open just enough to offer a blurry view of headlights and shadows slinking across the walls and ceiling. Like distant screams, he’d thought, measured, puzzling and gone before they could be fully processed, these shadows of cars and buses, of people, of ghosts and relics, veterans of concrete and neon virgins alike, tripping through the city and the remains of night. He watched them all a while through his slit eyes, wondering even then why he’d feigned sleep. Tabitha was in her usual deep, alcohol-induced state of unconsciousness and unaware if he was awake or not. Was it simply for his benefit then? Or was it for the shadows, the remnants of others out there whose souls had breached these gloomy apartment walls? Might they somehow see or understand his motives?

  When he had slept, Lenny was certain he’d dreamed, but couldn’t quite remember the specifics. It seemed as though life were seldom his own, and night was no exception. He worked nights, which meant he slept days and into late afternoon, the opposite of most schedules but hardly unique in this city of millions. There were many night people here, working and moving through a metropolis infamous for never sleeping itself, yet no one took particular notice.

  The machine rolled on even while most of the city slept. Sometimes Lenny wondered if it was because they slept, as if he and the rest of the night people were creations in the dreams of those who moved through the world in daylight, able to exist and come alive only once the others had descended fully into sleep. Or madness.

  He caught a glimpse of Tabitha and himself in the mirror next to the bureau. The shadowy reflection was jarring and unfamiliar, like looking at a painting, or someone else’s idea of who they were, rather than at a literal reflection of who he knew them to be. Swathes of darkness split the mirror image of his face. Was it any wonder he barely recognized himself these days?

  Who you are and who you see are not always the same thing.

  The thought trickled through his mind, set to Sheena’s voice—or what he remembered her voice sounding like—gone before he could grab hold of it in any meaningful way.

  Tabitha stirred and lifted her face from the pillow long enough to offer a disinterested glance. “What?” Her voice was thick and raspy with sleep.

  Lenny turned from the version of her in the mirror to the one on the bed. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  “OK bye.”

  Most people who worked days weren’t asleep in bed at four-thirty in the afternoon, but lately, sleeping was about all Tabitha did. That and drink. “Was thinking maybe you’d want to say something to me before I left.”

  She yawned, rolled onto her back and brushed blonde hair from her eyes. “Like what?” A dawning gradually devoured her blank gaze. “It’s today?”

  “Yeah.” He dug a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “It’s today.”

  “Happy Birthday.”

  He stabbed a cigarette between his lips, sparked it up. “That’s it, huh?”

  “What do you want a party with hats and shit?”

  “Thirty-nine today, figured you’d remember.”

  “You’re such a baby.”

  “I didn’t forget your birthday.”

  Tabitha struggled into a sitting position and reached for a bottle of vodka and a glass on the nightstand. “That’s because you’re perfect in every way.”

  He let it go, and instead, through the curling smoke and cover of shadow, let his eyes drop across Tabitha’s body. He’d loved her once, hadn’t he? Maybe he still did.

  “I’ll be home in the morning. Try to get yourself together while I’m gone.”

  She poured herself a shot, threw it back. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

  He moved to the doorway. “Get some rest. Try to get out of the house.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  It was a good question. There was so much to do here and at times still nowhere to go. The whole goddamn world was lost. “I don’t know.”

  “We’re all we’ve got,” she said softly. “Deal with it.”

  Despite the sudden change in her tone, in the near-dark, with her wildly mussed hair, smudged makeup and pained expression, she looked almost demonic.

  Almost.

  “I’m not sure I’m coming back.”

  “You always say that. But you always do.”

  He looked away, as if something on the floor had caught his attention.

  “Are you really going to work?”

  He shrugged.

  “Liar. You’re going to that house she left you.”

  Either she could see through the wall to the suitcase he’d packed earlier, or he was just that easy to read.

  “I don’
t really want to go but…”

  “What do you want, Lenny?”

  “I need to get out of here for a while, figure some things out.”

  “Are you going to the house that bitch left you?”

  “Don’t call her that. You didn’t even know her.”

  “Neither did you from the sounds.”

  Just beyond the shadow-laced walls the city bustled around them, constant and disinterested.

  “You’re really gonna do this?” she finally asked.

  “I have to, Tab.”

  “Your life’s here.”

  “What life?”

  “This one, Lenny, this is it. This is how it works. What do you want, a fucking parade, fireworks—what?”

  “I’m tired of living this way.”

  “Beats dying.”

  “You say that like those are the only two choices.”

  Her glassy eyes blinked at him through the darkness. “They are.”

  2

  By the time he’d made it across town, picked up his rental car and was on the road, it was nearly six o’clock. After a decade and a half of making New York City his home, leaving it all in his rearview seemed inconceivable. Yet there he was, driving away from what little security he had, on his way to see a house he’d never set foot in, located in a town he’d never even heard of, in a state he’d only visited once as a child. Actually, the idea had been in his head for months. Six, to be exact, as the property Sheena had left him went through probate. Now that time had passed, the property had cleared and Lenny had assumed full ownership of the cottage. In those months leading up to this night he’d toyed with the idea of simply selling it, of never even going to see it, but that seemed disrespectful. It was, at best, odd that an old girlfriend he hadn’t seen or spoken to in twenty years had left him her home and everything in it, especially since their relationship had not ended well, but it was that very aspect of the situation that convinced him to go there before making a decision. He had to at least see it. Maybe he could stay a while, get a break from the city, his night job as a front desk clerk at a rent-by-the-hour hotel in one of the worst neighborhoods in Manhattan, and a break from Tabitha and all the stress the remains of their relationship was causing of late. A literal ghost from his past had sprung from the fog of everyday doldrums, beckoning him to some unknown place for unknown reasons, and he felt he had no choice but to listen. He owed her that much. He’d continued to think about her over the years, and while he’d never pursued it, had numerous times toyed with the idea of trying to find her. Ultimately he’d done his best to bury it all and move on with his life, but then the lawyer called to explain about Sheena’s death, her will and his inheritance, and it all came crashing back.

  The news hit him harder than he’d ever imagined it might. A lump that began in his throat crawled into his gut and nested there, leaving him nauseous and lightheaded as tears welled in his eyes. But Lenny wasn’t certain if the tears were solely for Sheena, or if he’d been crying for himself too. It hardly mattered just then. Countless thoughts and reminiscences had already begun to sweep through his mind in a whirlwind of regret, denial and sorrow. She’d returned, though not as he’d wanted or sometimes fantasized she might, and now it was too late to say the things he needed to say, too late to make things right.

  Perhaps in her own strange way, this gesture of leaving him the cottage had been her attempt to do just that.

  As he crossed the Triborough Bridge, the city lights reflected and gliding across the Chevy Impala’s windshield, Lenny replayed earlier conversations in his head again and again, as if to assure himself they had actually taken place.

  When he’d first come to New York to pursue an acting career, like thousands of other young hopefuls Lenny worked as a busboy and then a waiter. But eventually he’d taken a job at the hotel on the nightshift so he could spend his days making the rounds, going to auditions and attending acting classes. The money wasn’t nearly as good but it was also less demanding. A relatively easy gig, most of his shift was spent reading or watching a small portable television mounted on the wall above the front desk. Whenever there was trouble he’d call the police, or if necessary, resort to the baseball bat behind the counter. But in all the years he’d worked there he’d only had to intervene personally in two situations. Usually threats were enough to send the drunken patrons—junkies and prostitutes who frequented the hotel—on their way. Besides, most of the regulars had come to know him over the years and rarely gave him a hard time.

  Though Lenny had several casual acquaintances, the only person he felt compelled to say goodbye to was Walter Jansen, his closest and oldest friend. He also knew he could count on him to explain his departure to the others. He wasn’t up to making the rounds with everyone, explaining again and again why he was leaving.

  He and Walter had met at an acting class years before. Though Lenny toiled for more than a decade, he’d never achieved much in the business. His career had consisted of small parts in a handful of Off-Off-Broadway plays, and a few close calls, mere flirtations with larger success.

  Walter was taller than Lenny, better looking, in better shape, and if Lenny were honest with himself, more talented. He’d also been more successful.

  He’d landed several minor stage roles, some decent parts in low-budget independent films, and a couple months before, a national television commercial which had earned him more money in a month than he’d made in the previous ten years combined.

  A few years prior, Lenny had stopped going to auditions and decided he’d had enough. The disappointments and continual failure to achieve anything meaningful in the industry, or even artistically, had beaten the passion he’d once had for acting out of him. After coming to grips with the fact that he wasn’t getting any younger and his dreams were more than likely never going to come to fruition, he saw no point in kidding himself and continuing on. And yet, walking away from it and working a meaningless night job at the hotel left him even more empty and uncertain, not only about his life and his future, but about himself.

  He’d gone to see Walter the morning before he left the city.

  Walter answered the door with a towel cinched around his waist and shaving cream smeared across his face, his thick dark hair still wet from a shower but already styled and combed into place. “Come on in, I’m taking a meeting later with that new agent I was telling you about,” he explained, ushering Lenny through the tiny apartment to an equally cramped bathroom. “This chick’s talking more national commercial work and regular auditions for guest shots on network gigs. This is serious.”

  After years of struggling, it looked like Walter was on his way, and though Lenny couldn’t help but be a bit envious, he was genuinely happy for him too.

  “All this good stuff happening and you’re bailing on me.”

  “Come on, man, I’m not bailing on anybody, I’m—”

  “You were wrong when you decided to walk away from acting,” he interrupted, standing before the bathroom mirror as he ran a razor across his face, “and you’re wrong now. Happy Birthday, by the way, dinner and a movie on me when you get back.”

  “Thanks. I just wanted to say goodbye before I took off, that’s all.”

  “Why do you say it like you’ll never be back?”

  “Because I may not be.”

  “Horseshit. What are you going to do at some cottage in Vermont?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “Whatever. You’re a New Yorker, Lenny. The city’s in your blood now.”

  “It was once, back when I still thought I could make it.”

  Walter stopped shaving long enough to point his razor at the lone window in the room. “It’s all out there. You just have to keep after it.”

  “It’s over for me. I know when I’m done.”

  “I’m minutes away from meeting with a new agent and you’re channeling Sylvia Plath, appreciate it.”

  “OK, I’ll do what Tabitha does and just wallow in the shit, how’s that?”


  “The Tabitha thing’s a whole other conversation. She’s killing you.”

  “You just don’t like her.”

  “I tend to dislike people who treat you like shit.”

  “Life hasn’t exactly worked out like she’d hoped either. She’s a classically trained dancer, for Christ’s sake. In an instant she blows out her knee and it’s over, just like that. She pours coffee for a living, how do you expect her to feel?”

  “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “I’m no different, just another failed actor, dime a dozen.”

  “Fate took her out. You took yourself out. The problem with Tabitha is she’s rubbing off on you. You should’ve never let her move in with you.”

  “Just do me a favor and check in on her from time-to-time, will you?”

  He turned from the mirror. “Are you serious? Tabitha hates me.”

  “Do it for me.”

  Walter let out a long, dramatic sigh. “OK.”

  “I better get moving.”

  He returned his attention to the sink, rinsed the razor under the faucet a moment. “What are you going to do up in the middle of nowhere? Besides, the whole thing with this girl is a sore spot for you, always has been. Why dredge up all that negative shit from the past? What possible good could come from this?”

  “It’s just something I have to do.”

  “Fine, then go do it.” He continued shaving. “Go up there and look at the birds and bunnies and shit—whatever the hell it is people do there— and get all weepy about some old girlfriend you barely knew from a million years ago. And when you’ve had your fill of that funfest, sell the dump for whatever you can. Between that and what I’m pulling down from this TV spot we can put together a production of that play we’ve always talked about doing.”