Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  Perhaps this wasn't the wisest course of action. She was alone and unarmed, after all. Dub was downstairs, but maybe he was in danger at the moment, too. Maybe her uncle had slipped his bonds, overcome his sedation. Even now, he could be stalking up the stairs with a knife or a bludgeon in hand, eager to work his mad furies out on her. Should she wait? Should she beg Dub's aid? Should she turn around and walk away, running water in the tub or no?

  Too late. Her feet had already brought her to the doorway. She reached out and touched the bathroom door lightly. Without resistance, it swung inward on its hinges, and she saw exactly what she'd expected to see—what she'd hoped and prayed not to see.

  The bathroom was empty. There was only the claw foot tub and the gushing stream of hot, steaming water that roiled into it. She knew it was hot water—and only hot water—because steam tumbled off of it in great, white billows, filling the room like a smokehouse.

  Fralene bent over the tub and closed the faucet. The little room fell silent and the water slowed to a drip before finally abating.

  She only saw the message when she stood and studied her surroundings. Through the murk and haze of the steam, she could see the little medicine cabinet mirror on the far wall, and on that steam-clouded mirror, someone had written words with their fingertip—silver words on an otherwise moisture-clouded surface that dripped like wet sterling paint.

  Help me.

  That's when she felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder. Fralene spun on her heels, a scream loud enough to wake the dead leaping from her throat.

  Beau, standing behind her, shouted and threw himself backward. For a moment, the two of them stared at one another, speechless, breathless, terrified.

  "What are you thinking?" Fralene hissed. "Scaring me like that!"

  "Sorry," Beau said, "it's just… I think I heard something."

  "Something where?" Fralene asked.

  "Down in the basement," Beau said.

  XX

  He grabbed the loaded hypodermic and drew it out.

  Then he heard the scuttling of feet and an inhuman growl from the trussed-up reverend. He had time enough to raise the flashlight. The reverend was rising from a low crouch and lunging toward him, murder in his eyes and a toothy grimace on his lined old face. The Serpent d'Ogou didn't hold him at all—it fell away limply as he rose and shot forward—and Dub realized in that instant what a fool he'd been.

  Of course! It was day time. Once the Lwa departed, Doc Voodoo and his accouterments had no power. The reverend's resident demon had played him.

  He had only a breath or two to realize his mistake and prepare for a fight. He wasn't horsed; he was as vulnerable as any man. With the possessed old man lunging toward him, he did the only sensible thing: he rose to meet him and plunged forward, aiming to close the distance between them and give himself some advantage. He clutched the hypo tightly in his left hand and dropped the flashlight in his right. It went out when it hit the floor. The basement was dark once more.

  The reverend met him and their bodies tangled. Though the old man's frame was wiry and ravaged by a full three-score-and-ten, the demon's presence gave it a new strength and suppleness. The reverend tried to get his hands around Dub's neck, but Dub ducked and dodged them, bending low and colliding with the reverend in a haphazard tackle that pinned him against a big, square vertical strut. The reverend blew out a surprised breath as Dub's weight crushed him against the strut, but his claw-like, bony old hands sought purchase without hesitation. He literally clawed—no doubt seeking soft flesh, an ear, Dub's eyes. He got the lapels of Dub's suit coat and tore at them; caught his starched white collar and ripped it loose. Then he found Dub's tie, and his hands sought the knot.

  Dear God! Dub thought, wrestling to immobilize the old man. He'll strangle me!

  The reverend brought one bony knee up suddenly, seeking Dub's nethers but only finding his arched stomach. Dub was lucky that time—one strike to his manhood and he'd be down for the count. If he gave this thing even an inch, it would have him.

  "Ain't so tough when you ain't horsed, is you, buck?" the demon laughed, and tried to jab with its knee again. It still missed his manhood, but the knee slammed into Dub's ribcage with considerable force and nearly winded him. Reflexively, his hands sought purchase and he almost dropped the hypo.

  No! He couldn't drop the hypo! That was his only salvation at present. If he could just get a straight shot at a bundle of muscle—

  Forgive me, Dub thought, then drove one hard fist right into the reverend's solar plexus. The shot did the trick. The demon groaned and snarled and struggled to catch it's breath, winded by the blow. That was Dub's chance. He stabbed the hypodermic into the reverend's scrawny old buttocks and depressed the plunger. The demon shrieked and started bucking like a mad spring colt, limbs flailing every which way, a train of obscenities pouring out of his mouth as foam and spittle flew.

  When the hypo was empty, Dub withdrew it and let it fall. With both hands free, he ducked lower, curled both arms around the reverend's kicking legs, and yanked. The old man lost his footing and collapsed, bent awkwardly against the support strut. When he hit the floor, Dub heard a hollow thump, and the old man's body went immediately limp.

  Oh dear God, no!

  He couldn't let his guard down, not for a moment. The demon might just be stunned or playing possum. It had fooled him once. He couldn't let it play him again.

  He shook the old man. "Reverend!" he shouted, slapping his stubbly old cheeks. "Reverend, talk to me! If you're in there, say something!"

  The old man mumbled. It sounded like, Fuck you, buck.

  Well, that was something, at least.

  Dub searched the surrounding floor until he laid hands on his fallen flashlight. He played with the switch until the little bulb burned back to life, weak and flickering. The reverend lay unconscious on the basement floor—still breathing, still mumbling. That was a good sign.

  But he didn't have long. Dub searched the darkness and immediately found what he needed—a few strands of hemp rope tying up old, bundled National Geographic magazines. He fell on the magazine bundles and struggled frantically with the rope, trying to untie it without having to cut it.

  The reverend stirred the slightest. Dub got one length loose and tore it off of the pile of moldy old magazines, then went to work on another.

  Above, he heard footsteps. They were heavy, steady, purposeful—coming his way.

  Fralene?

  Dammit, he'd have to gag the old man, to make sure he didn't expose him.

  "Where you at, buck?" the old man slurred. His bony hands rose and searched the air weakly, eyes fluttering in search of consciousness.

  Dub turned the reverend over with a yank and knelt atop him. He had the old man pinned beneath him now. He went to work tying his hands behind his back at the wrists and the elbows. It wasn't easy, trying to hit the sweet spot between tying the old man tight and making sure he wouldn't totally cut off the circulation in his limbs. At his age, being trussed up for too long, too tightly, could cause him to loose all circulation. He could forfeit a hand or a whole arm to gangrene.

  The door at the head of the basement stairs opened. The curvy, petite silhouette above was familiar. Fralene had found them. Dub felt more than a little ashamed of himself, straddling a barely conscious old man and tying his hands behind him.

  "Dub?" she asked. "What the hell's going on down there?"

  "Just about done," he said, knots tight around the reverend's elbows and wrists. He felt around on the floor in the dark and found the lifeless Serpent d'Ogou scarf. He coiled it once around the reverend's skull, gagging him, then tied it tight. The reverend mumbled, all vowels, and Dub was satisfied.

  "Dub, there's something strange going on up here! Hurry!"

  "No less strange down here, Fralene," he said as he tied the reverend's weakly kicking feet. "Of that, I can assure you…"

  XX

  They compared notes at the kitchen table while Beau hurriedly got
ready for school. Dub could not argue with Fralene's summary of the situation. Phantom noises? Words on a steamy bathroom mirror?

  "This is strange," he conceded, realizing that it portended a deeper problem than he'd foreseen. Was the reverend already dead? Calling to them from the other side? No, that didn't exactly make sense. His body would show signs of subsidence and decay if its spirit had already departed for the great beyond. Dub had seen enough true, revenant zombies in his day to know what an ambulatory body without a soul looked like.

  Nonetheless, if the noises and the message were some sign from the reverend, where was he? Out of phase with the world around him? Shunted out of his body and consigned to… where?

  But of course, Dub could offer none of these explanations to Fralene as she sat before him at the kitchen table and told her story. She'd think he was mad, or having fun with her—or perhaps a little of both.

  No, he had to approach this from angles she would understand, and free himself up to approach it from angles only he could understand.

  As Doc Voodoo.

  "Fralene," he began cautiously, "what would you say if I suggested that you acquire an exorcist?"

  Fralene stared at him, limpid eyes completely unreadable. She was silent and blank-faced for so long that Dub finally added, "Of course, if you don't go in for that sort of thing—"

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not refusing the idea. I just… I wouldn't have expected such a suggestion from you."

  "I remain a man of science," Dub offered, "but I also understand that there are strange things in the world that science is sometimes ill-equipped to explain or even treat. Maybe I've never spoken of it, but I've seen a few things in my time. Strange things—equal to or worse than what you've just described to me, and what I've experienced with your uncle."

  She blinked, as though his words were barely discernible. "Strange things? You've never—"

  "I don't talk about them," Dub added hastily. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm crazy, or just joshing you for my own amusement. But I mean it, Fralene. I believe that something paranormal is going on here, and I believe that a paranormal solution is the only one for this particular problem. Your uncle was a perfectly healthy man of advanced age just a day or two ago. Fugues that change a victim this radically—and with all their cunning and wherewithal intact—are almost unheard of. Couple that with the strange goings-on you mentioned—"

  A plate drying in the kitchen sink suddenly flipped up and over the countertop and smashed to a hundred pieces on the linoleum floor. Fralene missed its first arc, only hearing the loud crash when it shattered on the floor. But Dub saw the whole thing.

  Dub and Fralene stared at its remnants, then at one another.

  Truth be told, seeing such a manifestation in this house—however humdrum—frightened him a little.

  "Beau and I can't stay here," Fralene said, desperation clear.

  "I understand," Dub answered, "although I might beg you to give it a try. Though he's doped up fairly well, we can't really leave your uncle alone. Someone's got to guard that barricade on the door and make sure he doesn't get out. And in a few hours, someone will need to go back downstairs and give him another dose of morphine."

  "You can't stay?" Fralene asked, and the fragile timbre of her voice, the watery need in her big brown eyes, just about broke his heart.

  "No, Fralene. I've got to take care of a few patients in the office. Then, I want to try and help you."

  "Help me how?"

  "I told you I'd seen strange things," Dub said slowly. "I might be able to employ some folks I know in trying to figure out what's happened here. Folks who won't balk at such a strange request and who won't try to sow phantoms where there aren't any."

  Fralene shook her head. "I don't understand—"

  "You don't need to," Dub said. "Just trust me. Now, first things first: is there anyone you can call who can keep this quiet while keeping you company?"

  Fralene considered, then finally nodded. "I have someone in mind."

  "Then you'll call them in just a moment and see if they can join you. Next: can we trust Beau to keep his mouth shut about this if he goes to school?"

  Beau appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed and ready, books belted under one arm. "Trust me to keep my mouth shut about what?" he asked.

  Fralene and Dub both laid steely glares upon him.

  Beau shrugged. "Heck, Doc… who'd believe me?"

  Dub nodded. "Good lad. Keep it zipped." he turned back to Fralene, "I need to know what you and your uncle were doing for the twenty-four hours prior to his… symptoms manifesting. Everything. Leave nothing out, no matter how mundane."

  She studied him, giving him a look he'd never seen from her before—a look of inquisitiveness and confusion, but also of shock, even pride. "What are you intending to do?" she asked.

  He drew out the little notepad he kept in his coat pocket and the pencil nub that lived beside it. He opened the notepad and licked the tip of the pencil. "I'll get you some answers."

  16

  Monk was nervous but he tried not to show it. He just sat in the passenger seat next to Toby, smoking a butt. He thought about Rita Mueller and how he'd like to get under her skirt. He thought about a good, fat corned beef sandwich from Katz's slathered in brown mustard. He even thought about how disappointed his papa—a rabbi in the Old Country, dead for almost ten years—would be if he saw his son sitting in a gangster's car waiting to assassinate a nigger preacher. Basically, he tried to think about anything except going into the Reverend Barnabus Farnes's house and putting a bullet in him.

  But he couldn't really get his mind off it. So he thought he better get it all straight. Monk turned to Toby.

  "He live alone? The preacher?"

  Toby shook his head the slightest. He'd never once taken his eyes off the house a block ahead of them, not for the whole hour that they'd been sitting here. "He's got a niece and nephew. Niece is in her twenties—swell piece of meat if your into jig dames. The nephew's a kid."

  "So they might be home?" Monk asked.

  Toby shrugged. "Might be."

  "So we might have to do them, too?"

  Toby shrugged again. "Might."

  "Are we supposed to do that? Do some dame and kid got bupkus to do with the boss's beef?"

  Toby turned and studied Monk. Monk knew his answer was in Toby's narrow, dark eyes. "What do you think?" Toby asked.

  Monk nodded. Shit. He really needed to find himself another line of work. Driving the boss around and playing bodyguard was one thing—he could throw down on somebody trying to pop the boss, no problem. But he never thought he'd get sent out to clip civvies like this. Guess he should have expected it, what with the boss losing so many guys lately…

  The boss sent them uptown in three pairs. Franky and Max would take out the Walker dame, up in Sugar Hill; Spengler and Hantz would go wack Brown, the one who'd been saved on the street by the Cemetery Man; and it fell to Monk and Toby to go after Farnes. The fat jig, Debbs, would have to wait. The boss figured if he was prowling the streets with armed vigilantes, taking him on outright was a bad idea. But those other three do-gooders? Toast.

  "What if the Hoodoo Man shows up?" Spengler asked the boss.

  "That's why I'm sending all of you in separate pairs," the boss said. "And that's why I want you all to do your business at the same time—seven o' clock. Even if the Hoodoo Man catches wind and comes after a couple of you, he can't be everywhere at once."

  "So one of us is bound to run into him?" Franky asked. Monk had been glad Franky asked; he'd been thinking the same thing and he hadn't been too happy about it.

  The boss only shrugged. "What do you think I pay you for? Get going."

  So they went. Monk and Toby took Toby's Chrysler and they tooled uptown just as the sun was going down. They made it to the Farnes house a little early, so they parked a block away—within sight of the house—and waited. The last light in the sky was the fiery orange of a furnace under a bl
anket of dark clouds, and that strange, infernal light made all the houses up and down Farnes's street look darker and meaner as the sun fled and the night came up around them.

  Toby opened his door. "Let's go."

  Before Monk could say another word, Toby was out, slammed the car door, and started striding up the rain-slick street toward their destination. Monk climbed out on his side, pawed under his left arm to make sure his piece was still there, snug in its holster, and scurried to catch up with Toby.

  They passed a couple neighborhood jigs out for an evening stroll or coming home from the grocery. Toby looked every one of them right in the eye, even smiled and nodded a little. He'd told Monk that was the way to go unseen before: not to try to be invisible, but to act like you had nothing to hide.

  Once they were alone on the sidewalk, Monk leaned closer. "Don't you think they'll remember us?" he asked. "A coupla yids out for an evening stroll in Darktown?"

  "Nah," Toby said. "We all look alike to them. They'll remember a couple white guys, and so what if they do? Get ready."

  They were almost there. The Farnes house was just ahead. When they reached its lot, Toby ducked into the little driveway that ran beside it and made for the rear of the house. Between the homes on the block, it was dark and quiet. Monk saw lights on in some of the homes around them—directly behind the Farnes house, directly across the street—but the house right next door seemed dark and quiet. Hell, only a single light burned in the parlor of the Farnes place.

  "Awful dark," Monk whispered, right on Toby's heels. "Maybe nobody's home?"

  "Somebody's home," Toby said, suddenly coming to a stop. He nodded and Monk followed the bob of his head. An old Model A sat in the open garage out back of the house.