The demon’s face twisted into an unexpected, horrid smile. He leaned way back in his couch-sized chair and filled the room with his laughter. His elephantine bellowing bounced off the rock and shook the pictures and plaques on the walls. Steven clung to Mouse’s waist while Alicia turned away and tried to shield Wendy.
By the time he regained control of himself, the lieutenant had tears rolling down his cheeks. They didn’t roll very far, evaporating with tiny sizzling noises before they fell as far as his mouth.
"The Chief? You want to see the Chief? Now that’s really funny! Anybody would know you people don’t belong here or you’d never say anything like that." Abruptly he leaned forward across his desk. He seemed to take up the whole room that way, shoulders and chest and face of planetary dimensions, glowing pink eyes continents adrift in a sea of unwholesome flesh. His tone lowered and it sent shivers through Frank’s entire being.
"You don’t really want to talk to my boss, do you?" he growled softly.
"Not if we can solve this business without bothering him, I guess," Frank said bravely.
"I thought you might reconsider." The demon sat back in his chair, which creaked beneath his enormous weight. "I don’t like to have to deal with the Chief under any circumstances. The more you can avoid him, the more pleasant your sojourn in Eternity will be. I guarantee you wouldn’t enjoy the meeting."
Out of the corner of an eye Frank could see the tall young officer’s hands roaming over his daughter’s body. She stood motionless save for her trembling because she didn’t know what else to do. Frank didn’t know what to do, either.
Steven had left Mouse’s side and retreated to the far end of the room, as far from the two patrol-things as possible. Instantly three squat creatures popped into existence, surrounding him. They were smaller than adults but bigger than Steven. Each wore sneakers, jeans, dirty shirts. One had on a leather jacket. They began poking and kicking, trying to trip him. All had mean, narrow little faces, believably human save for the brightly glowing eyes. Three schoolyard bullies, a precocious, overweight youngster’s worst nightmare come to life.
So far Alicia had been ignored, and Mouse might be immune, but it was becoming clear that the longer they lingered in this place, the less reluctance the inhabitants felt about abusing them. Demonic inhibitions were breaking down while he and this officer argued. If they didn’t do something to get away soon, their presence here might become a fait accompli instead of a matter for debate.
"We don’t belong here because we haven’t died yet," he argued desperately. "It’s not our time, or whatever it is they call it. This is a big mistake."
"I tend to agree with you," the lieutenant rumbled. At that declaration the schoolyard trio paused in their bullying. The young patrol-thing stepped away from Wendy. "Yet it remains that however you got here, you are here, and must be dealt with. I don’t know what kind of leeway I have in a situation like this. I’m going to have the records checked for precedents. If there is one, it will guide me in the disposition of your case.
"Meanwhile" — he turned to the sergeant, who stiffened beneath that relentless glare — "put these people somewhere comfortable so I can find them when I want them."
"First Level?" The sergeant’s voice was eager.
"No," replied the lieutenant with obvious reluctance. "Can’t do that until it’s official. Someplace neutral but secure. Your enthusiasm for your work is commendable, Sergeant, but we have to follow correct procedure. Don’t worry. If this works out the way we all hope it does, I’ll see to it that you and your partner receive proper credit."
"Thank you, sir."
"Can I take charge of this one while we’re waiting, sir?" The younger officer had advanced to put both arms around Wendy. He held her easily in spite of her struggles. She moaned in his grasp. "She’s a squirmer. I like squirmers."
"Corporal, you’re a patrolman. You asking for a transfer to field operations?"
"No, sir. But it’d be nice to have something to play with between handing out tickets and keeping the traffic moving."
"Don’t count your bonus until it’s approved. But I’ll note your request." The lieutenant turned back to Frank, who clung to his remaining composure with great difficulty. "Sorry about this, but you’ve got to see my side of it."
"I’m sure you’ll do the right thing," Frank replied through clenched teeth.
"The right thing?" The demon found this amusing, though not as hilarious as Frank’s request to meet with his superior. "We never do the right thing here. That’s not my business. What I do is the appropriate thing, which isn’t the same at all."
"Yeah, right." Frank’s voice fell to a mumble. "That’s what I meant. Thanks."
The two patrolmen escorted them out of the office. Trailing the crying, battered Steven, the three young bullies kept up a relentless barrage of taunts and kicks, pinching and punching him hard enough to cause pain but not injury. Wendy’s patrolman devoted equal attention to her, easily warding off her rejecting blows. Possibly sensing a favorable forthcoming decision, the sergeant was eyeing Alicia with intense interest.
Frank suffered persistent visions of arteries tightening like cords around his brain, of little wiggly worm-things swarming into his eyes and nostrils like sentient cholesterol in search of his stroke center.
Only Mouse remained unaffected and aloof. Frank wondered how long her immunity might last. Not that it mattered what they did to her. All that mattered was that she would be trapped here along with them, prevented from reaching her Vanishing Point. It occurred to him that if the fabric of existence came apart completely, Hell might go to pieces along with everywhere else. Somehow that was no comfort at all.
With obvious reluctance they were shoved into an empty room. Frank heard the sergeant lock them in.
The room was identical to the sort you might find in any government building. A couch, several battered chairs, a couple of end tables boasting lamps fashioned from what looked like human bones, and a magazine rack next to the single coffee table. Frank glanced at the magazines, quietly scooped them up, and dumped them behind the couch so Alicia and Wendy wouldn’t see them. He couldn’t do anything to conceal the scratches on the walls and door or the gouges that had been dug in the floor.
Wendy sat down on the couch next to her mother, who tried to comfort her as best she could. Steven had stopped crying and was rubbing his eyes.
There were no windows and only the single doorway. A shadowy alcove suggested the presence of a bathroom. There was a drinking fountain bolted to the wall just inside.
Steven put his lips to the spigot and pressed the lever. Frank paid no attention to him until the boy screamed in pain. He jerked sharply away from the fountain, holding his mouth with both hands and bawling anew.
His parents were at his side in an instant. Forcing his hands down, they examined him. His reddened, burned lips were already beginning to blister.
"They let me bring my purse," Alicia murmured. "I’ve got some ChapStick." Frank nodded wordlessly, moving to examine the fountain. A flick of the lever brought forth a stream of clear water. As might have been suspected, though not by a ten-year-old, the liquid was boiling hot.
"All we can do is wait," said Mouse into the silence.
"Wait?" He turned away from the diabolic fountain. "Wait for what? Can’t you get us out of here? I wouldn’t want to bet that lieutenant or whatever he reports to is going to end up deciding anything in our favor."
Her expression turned sorrowful. "I have the ability to heal and to soothe, to regulate and relax, but I cannot work miracles. If I could do such things I would not have to stand by the side of strange highways begging for a ride. It may yet be that when they realize we do not belong here we shall be sent on our way."
"Sure. I know we can rely on that lieutenant’s inherent good nature." He watched while Alicia applied balm to their son’s seared lips. Wendy had found something to look at.
He’d missed one of the magazines. Sh
e was gazing at it transfixed by horror. Covering the distance between them in a single step, he wrenched it out of her hands and threw it across the room. She stared at him in shock, then let him take her in his arms. It had been a long time since she’d allowed that.
He held her for a long while. When he let her go she managed a slight, hopeful smile. But as she resumed her seat he saw she was staring worriedly at the hallway door, perhaps remembering the intentions of a certain uniformed demon.
An hour passed, then another. Somehow they endured the stifling heat. There was a metal cup in the bathroom. Frank filled it with boiling water from the tap, let it stand until it was cool enough to drink. Lukewarm water was better than none.
No one checked in on them. Whatever procedure the lieutenant was having to go through was evidently complex and time-consuming.
Of course, if they all perished of heat stroke in the interim it would solve all his problems.
He longed for the motor home’s well-stocked pantry, but all they had to eat was a package of crackers Alicia found in her purse. While providing some nourishment the crackers also intensified their thirst. Frank also had to go to the bathroom, but after his son’s experience with the water fountain he wasn’t sure he was ready to try the dark alcove’s facilities.
Fifteen minutes later the door clicked as it was unlocked from outside. Wendy and Steven retreated to their mother’s side. Frank took up a stance in front of them, ready to confront whatever entered.
It was only a man. Tall and powerfully built, he wore stained dungarees, flannel shirt, and battered cowboy boots. A red headband controlled his shoulder-length straight black hair. One hand pulled the handle of a galvanized metal cart that contained two mops, a wire broom, and a bucket of steaming, soapy water. The intruder silently soaked one mop in the bucket, ignored them as he began swabbing the bathroom floor.
Other than being the size of an NFL lineman, the janitor looked perfectly normal. Normal eyes and face and no more than the accepted number of appendages. He worked silently, moving the mop back and forth, pausing only to wring it out and resoak it.
"Hey, Dad," Steven whispered urgently, "he looks like a real Indian!"
"Be quiet. Nothing here’s what it appears to be." He kept his voice down, but not enough.
"Now that’s where you’re wrong, friend." The mop-wielder spoke with a soft, Southwestern drawl, his enunciation almost too precise. "Everything here’s exactly what it appears to be. No need for subterfuge."
Something in the man’s manner, in his tone, impelled Frank to take a chance. "You don’t look like one of them." He nodded toward the hallway beyond the door. "You don’t talk like one of them, either."
"Probably because I am not one of them." He smiled. Frank was immensely relieved to see that his teeth were not pointed. "Name is Burnfingers Begay. First thing now is you will ask yourselves how I come by such a name."
"Oh, no, we wouldn’t — " Alicia began.
He answered before she could finish. "When I was born, I came out so hot in the delivery that I burned the doctor’s hands." Still smiling, he turned back to his work.
Alicia wasn’t sure if he was being serious or not. Wendy didn’t care. She just laughed, until her mother shushed her. What if the janitor didn’t find it amusing?
"Go ahead and laugh. It is pretty funny."
She gaped at him. "Can you read minds?"
"No. But after a while you get a pretty good idea how folks are thinking, even if you don’t know for sure what they’re thinking."
Frank was eyeing him dubiously. "I don’t get it. You seem normal to me."
"Oh, no. Not normal at all." He paused, leaning on his mop. "You see, I am crazy. Very much out of my head. Major wacko. Isn’t that obvious? What sane person would be working here?"
"But you’re not a devil, or a demon."
"Only to a few folks who’ve gotten in my way. Actually I am Navajo and Comanche. Begay is Navajo. Burnfingers is the Anglo translation of my Comanche name, which you could not pronounce. My mother was visiting the all-Indian powwow in Gallup one year, where my father was exhibiting. They begot yours truly." He laughed softly. "Half of me wants to settle down and make jewelry and the other half wants to go on the warpath. No wonder I am crazy."
"You don’t sound crazy to me," said Alicia hesitantly.
He raised a cautionary finger. "Ah: the sign of the truly mad."
"Is this your torment, your punishment?" Frank asked him curiously.
"Punishment? This isn’t punishment. I was on my way to L.A. when my pickup broke down. Going to meet a girl. The local police gave me a ride."
"Us, too," Frank told him dourly.
"Of course I was kinda surprised at first. I think I puzzled these locals. They used all kinds of creatures and critters and sights to try and upset me, but all it did was remind me of Disneyland, so I laughed. You see, we have no equivalent of your kind of Hell. That is when they decided I did not belong here in this place."
"That’s what they’re doing now, trying to decide what to do with us," Frank said eagerly. "What happened then?"
"There was a lot of talking going on. While they talked I saw how filthy this place was. Myself, I am a stickler for cleanliness. My father’s mother kept the cleanest hogan in the whole Four Corners area, until we all moved into the big house. So while they all talked I just started to clean things, to keep busy. When they saw what I was doing they offered me a job. They’re not very good at cleaning up after themselves and when they assign some of their own kind to do it they end up making a worse mess or pulling off one another’s arms and things like that."
"A job? Here?"
"Why not here? Have you ever been to the Four Corners area, friend?"
Frank shook his head, added absently, "Sonderberg. Frank Sonderberg." He proceeded to introduce the rest of the family, leaving Mouse for last.
Burnfigers nodded. "Four Corners boils in summertime, but in winter and fall it’s such a cold place you cannot imagine. Something in me could not tolerate the cold. My family thought it was funny, big fella like me always being cold. One thing about this place here: it never gets cold. The pay is good, too. They pay me in gold, any kind of gold I want. Spanish doubloons, Imperial Roman coinage, Persian ingots — I have quite a collection now."
"Where do they get all the gold?" Steven wondered, wide-eyed.
"I don’t know for sure, but I think a lot of it comes from some of the people who are given permanent residency here. Those kind of people always seem to acquire gold. Many are carrying it when they are brought in. Trying to take it with them, I guess. It doesn’t get any farther than the main gate."
"Don’t you worry about accepting that kind of gold?" Alicia asked him.
Burnfingers moved his mop across the marble floor. "Why should I? Metal is innocent of its makers." He gestured to the left. "I got a nice room here, private. So long as I do my job nobody messes with me. Also got a TV. I can get all the L.A. and Vegas stations. They must have a pretty good antenna around here somewhere. For keeping track of future guests, I guess. They even let me comfort some of the ladies who end up here."
"They let you do that?" said Frank.
"They think it’s pretty funny. Tears make them laugh hysterically. But I don’t deceive anybody and they’re glad for a little last human contact. Some of the people I have met would surprise you. Some probably would not. Fewer politicians than you would think. More artists than you would suspect. A lot of bankers."
"Doesn’t being stuck here worry you at all?" Alicia asked earnestly. "What if they changed their minds about you?"
"Got a contract."
"Well, what about your soul, then? Your immortal soul?"
"If I got a soul it’s not around here. Don’t have a shadow, either. Too hot for it, I think."
"Everyone has a soul." When she spoke like that, Frank thought admiringly, she looked like a suburban madonna.
Burnfingers shrugged. "Maybe so. Maybe I’ll ru
n into it again one of these days. In the meantime, I’m getting along okay without it. Nobody’s asked me about it, so I guess they’re not interested in it. Or me. I’m kind of a neutral here, not part of this world or the other. One thing, they appreciate my work. That’s nice. I’ve worked plenty of places in the real world where people just yell at you and call you names behind your back." He smiled slightly. "Nobody’s ever called me a name to my face. Well, one fella. I think he’s around here now someplace."
"They don’t call you names here?" Frank wondered.
"Oh, sure, but that’s different. Part of their work. In a way it’s almost affectionate."
"You don’t sound mad to me."
Burnfingers’s smile faded and he turned to stare intently at Mouse. "Now you are one enigmatic little lady. You I haven’t got figured out yet. Of course I am crazy. If I was not, living here would have driven me mad by now. Since it hasn’t, I must already be. If you need confirmation, go down to any of the Levels and ask the people there for Eternity what their opinion is of the mental condition of someone who would remain here voluntarily."
While Burnfingers and Mouse appraised each other Frank had been thinking furiously. "Are you saying they let you go anywhere? That you’ve the run of this place?"
"More or less. I pretty much work around the station. Messy as your average imp and demon is, there’s enough to keep me busy here. And I don’t like going past the Gate, down to the Levels. Even though it’s pretty much an Anglo idea of Hell, it’s still not very pleasant to look upon. Besides which it’s an impossible place to clean. Take me centuries just to make a start on the brimstone stains. This place I can handle."
"I still don’t understand why they’d hire you in the first place," Alicia murmured.
Burnfingers smiled thinly. "Apparently admissions are way up. Personnel hasn’t been able to keep pace, even with a lot of the staff putting in extra overtime. Being so close to Las Vegas, this is one of their busiest checkpoints. The Gate here is open round the clock and the traffic never dries up entirely, though I’m told things slow down some around Christmas."
To the Vanishing Point Page 11