by Baxter Clare
“You’re the best part,” Frank replied without hesitation.
“Then why don’t you talk to me? This all sounds pretty serious.”
Frank saw Gail was hurt. She put herself in the doc’s place, trying on how she’d feel if Gail was holding back on her.
“I’m sorry. You know, the main thing is, I probably didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to hear what you’d have to say about it. I didn’t want to deal with it. I still don’t, but it’s looking like I don’t have much choice.”
Frank remembered Marguerite’s dream words. She edged away from the memory, adding, “By not talking about all this I didn’t have to admit how uncomfortable it makes me. I don’t like dealing with stuff I can’t touch or see. It’s hard to fight something I don’t even believe in.”
Gail took Frank’s hand.
“And the reason I still keep you around is because your candor, when it finally arrives, is completely disarming.”
Frank acknowledged the comment with a mirthless smile. Swirling the dregs of her coffee, she admitted, “It’s scary. I still don’t know whether I’d rather believe this or that I’m flipping out. I was thinking I’d call Clay on Monday.”
Frank had wanted to call the shrink last night, but he worked regular office hours. She continued, “He doesn’t need to know about Glenda the Good Witch or the Wicked Witch of the West. I’ll just outline what’s been going on with me, see what he’s got to say.”
“It couldn’t hurt. What did Glenda say about all this?”
Frank looked for derision in Gail’s face, but found none. She drained her cup and sighed again.
“She told me to pray.”
Frank had to go to the office. It was the center of her comfort zone and where she thought the best. She kissed Gail goodbye, making plans for an early dinner, then resigned herself to an hour in early afternoon traffic. Chin in hand, steering with her elbows, Frank reflected on Marguerite’s advice.
She had told Frank she had to combat the Mother on a psychic level. When Frank had balked, Marguerite had spelled it out for her.
“Have you ever been with someone who knew what you were thinking even before you said it?”
Thinking of Noah, Frank had answered yes.
“How do you suppose that happens?”
“Shared history. Experience. Coincidence.”
Coming to dislike that word, Frank had amended, “We just happen to think the same way.”
“Fine. Can you include the possibility that you may have a connection deeper than that which appears on the surface? Would you be willing to consider a metaphysical explanation for why you have the same thought patterns?”
“Sure,” Frank had caved. “What the hell. Why not?”
“I know I’m asking you to stretch, but remember, you called me.
Rub it in, Frank had thought.
“If you can have this unspoken bond with one person, what is there to say you couldn’t have it with another?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Exactly. And if this person is aware of that metaphysical connection, and using it, don’t you think you’d be apt to feel it? Somehow?”
“I guess.”
“Maybe you can understand it easier as instinct. Don’t all cops have some sort of instinct?”
“Good ones. But again, that comes from experience. It’s developed over time.”
“When you were a rookie you never followed your instinct? You played it by the book always or did nothing?”
Frank remembered a couple good calls she’d made early on, but she also remembered some real boners.
“Look. Just tell me what I need to do. I don’t have a lot of options right now, so I’m willing to follow your lead.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve gone this far,” Frank said, recalling the taste of blood in her mouth.
“I want you to get on your knees, Lieutenant, and pray.”
“Pray?”
“Yes. It doesn’t matter to whom. It can be Mickey Mouse or Joe Dimaggio. Just pray.”
“Been a long time since I’ve done that.”
“Yes, I know. Even if you don’t believe it, or mean it, I want you to pray for help in defeating this woman. Because believe me, you can’t beat her alone. I will do what I can but at some point that’s not enough.”
“I have to believe,” Frank had finished for her.
“Exactly.”
“What if I can’t?”
“I wouldn’t say.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
“You said you’d follow my lead, Lieutenant. Will you or won’t you?”
Then it was Marguerite’s turn to hang in the space between words.
“Guess I don’t have a choice,” Frank had conceded.
“That’s ridiculous. You always have a choice. Either you will or you won’t. This is as far as I can go with you, Lieutenant. The rest is up to you.”
You always have a choice, Frank had silently repeated. That’s what Marguerite had said in the dream last night when she was thinking of pulling the trigger on herself.
“Fine,” Frank had relented. “I’ll pray.”
34
Frank cleared papers and folders off her desk pad. The pad was a monthly calendar where Frank usually scribbled phone numbers and names. She looked at today’s date. There it was. In red pen.
Bembe 1730—Slauson
She stared a long time at the careful print. She remembered the Mother inviting her, but didn’t remember writing down where or when. Maybe she was losing it. Which is easier to accept, she wondered, insanity or the idea that some crazy old broad was fucking with her head? Couched that way, the latter option looked more attractive.
At least Frank could do something about that. It was almost two o’clock. The way traffic was, she should give herself at least forty-five minutes to get to Slauson. That left her plenty of time to think about why she should go.
Danny Duncan’s murder book was on Lewis’s desk. Frank studied it, thought about calling Noah. What would she say? I want to bust the Mother today—what have you got on her? She’d just lectured Lewis the other day that homicide was a waiting game. Thing was, Frank didn’t have much time to wait. How many more deja vus would she have? Frank had been gone last night; she was somewhere out of herself and didn’t care to repeat the experience. Was she just supposed to let them get stronger and longer until she didn’t come out of it one day?
And what other weird shit was going to happen? What followed the crazed dog attack and The Thing in rags? Frank didn’t even want to consider it. She had to beat the Mother, even if it meant playing on her own court, by her own rules. She always had a choice, Marguerite had said. She could choose to engage the Mother or not. Lying back and taking whatever life handed her wasn’t Frank’s style. Fighting was. She was good at it. Marguerite had said that too.
Frank shook her head. A week ago she didn’t know Marguerite James’s name. Now she was making life or death decisions based on the mambo’s advice. She thought about calling Clay at home. She glanced at the clock. Two-twenty. Her eyes moved to Lewis’s phone. She picked up the receiver, then replaced it.
No, her gut said. As crazy as this all sounded, she had to see it through. Go to the bembe, if for no other reason than to show the Mother she was still around and still watching. Sooner or later everyone got sloppy. Sooner or later everyone slipped. Frank would be waiting when the Mother did.
Maybe, Frank thought, she’d forgotten she’d invited her. Frank hoped she’d show up and startle the Mother. It’d be nice to have the shoe on the other foot for a change. But Frank doubted the Mother forgot very much.
Frank stretched and paced. She’d been doing her damnedest to ignore the pit of dread in her belly, now she gave it an ear. It was the same knot she’d felt the night Danny Duncan was killed. Something was happening. Something Frank couldn’t put a finger on. There was a sense of largeness, like a great storm cloud gathering just beyond t
he horizon. And there was no shelter.
Frank paced. She checked the clock often.
She didn’t have to go. No one would be the wiser if she tucked tail and went home. Even as she had the thought, she dismissed it. She’d know. And Frank was certain that the Mother would know.
The clock read 3:10. Frank had an idea and jogged out of the office. It was quiet as she went through the lobby out front. She walked up the block and entered a small store just yards from the station. Frank hadn’t been inside in years, but the botanica hadn’t changed at all. The hand-lettered windows were still crammed with dusty, sun-bleached curios. Incense, powders, herbs, and magical oils mingled in the musty air. Two older Latino women sat on stools next to a cluttered counter. They stopped talking when she walked in. Frank raised a hand.
“Hola,” she smiled. “Habla ingles?”
She added in pitiful Spanish that she had a question.
The women looked at each other. Neither would take her bait.
“Okay,” Frank tried again. “Tiene libro de bembe!”
The woman who shook her head pointed at an assortment of books scattered among the prayer candles and plaster statuettes. She slid off her stool and picked out a couple. She spoke in Spanish and handed them to Frank.
“Que es bembe?” Frank tried. The woman shrugged.
“You read those,” she answered in fair English. “They tell you.”
One of the books was wrapped in plastic and the other was torn and dog-geared. Frank agreed and the woman rang her up on an old fashioned cash register. Frank pointed at a cluster of charms and trinkets under the glass.
“How much is the heart?”
The woman pulled out a stamped tin heart, painted red with blue and yellow edging.
“Two dollars,” she grunted.
Frank nodded and paid, not caring that 50c was written in wax pencil on the back. She pocketed the heart and picked up the books. Back in her office she read that a bembe was a large party for new santeria priests. It involved specific drumming and offerings of food, liquor, and trinkets. Its purpose was to entice the orishas down to earth to “mount” the initiates. Mounting was possession by the gods.
“Great,” Frank said under her breath, “The Exorcist redux.”
The bembe started with ceremonial chanting and drumming, and then established priests or priestesses presented the initiates to the orishas. The drumming increased and eventually the initiate was mounted by his or her orisha. While possessed, they exhibited all the characteristics of the god riding them. The orishas loved to experience sensation but could only do so in human form, therefore there was a tendency toward extreme behavior whenever a human was mounted. Trained, non-mounted participants made sure the possessed weren’t used to the point of endangerment.
Frank thumbed through the used book. With minor variations it corroborated what she’d already read. Frank thought a bembe sounded a lot like the Latin version of a holy roller baptism, with everybody rolling around and hollering that they’d been touched by Jesus. Tossing the books into a drawer, she figured the evening would at least be entertaining.
She made a phone call and Gail answered on the second ring.
“Hey. Something’s come up. I’m going to be late.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Did you get called out?”
“No. Go ahead and eat without me.”
“Fra-ank,” Gail warned, “you’re being evasive. What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk right now. Gotta go.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
Frank was surprised by a hunger to tell Gail she loved her. Answering, “Roger that,” she checked the impulse.
35
Clouds moved in from the west. Frank fiddled with the radio dial until it hit a weather report. A front moving in, cooler and partly cloudy through tomorrow. A fat drop hit Frank’s windshield, then another. The forecast said nothing about rain.
By the time she turned onto Slauson, the drops were falling faster and harder. Thick clouds padded the sky, but the view in her rearview mirror was bright and blue. Lightning danced under the clouds and Frank ceded, “All right. Very impressive. You can quit with the special effects. Just help me do my job, okay? You do yours and I’ll do mine. Give me something to hang this little old lady with and we’ll make this fucked up world of yours a better place. Deal?”
Frank felt stupid talking to an empty car, but when Frank had asked Gail how to pray, Gail had said just talk. Say whatever came to mind. What came to Frank’s mind was that this was ridiculous. Her bones impelled her to Mother Love’s while her head insisted she had no business at the bembe.
The old slaughterhouse grew against the skyline. Rain streaked down its bricks, darkening them the color of dried blood. Frank parked on the Slauson side, bolting for the door through the pelting rain. She didn’t bother knocking and the handle turned in her good hand. She stepped into what looked like a reception area. A young woman came from behind a counter.
“You must be Lieutenant Franco,” she smiled.
“I am,” Frank said, shaking water off. She heard muffled drumming. It was similar to her dream drumming, and she thought she was going to have another deja vu. The absolute worst time or place for that to happen. Frank willed herself to stay focused.
Opening a door, the woman told Frank, “Mother Love said you might come. I’ll take you to her.”
Alice in Wonderland, Frank thought, following the girl through a maze of brick walls. She missed Lewis behind her this time, and with a tiny hitch of panic she regretted not telling anyone where she was going. Frank steadied herself. They were getting closer to the drumming. It was slower and not as loud, but Frank was sure it was the same beat she’d heard in her dream. Her mouth went dry and she promised herself as many beers as she wanted when this was over.
The drumming grew louder and louder. The girl stopped in front of a red door, her hand resting on an old brass handle. She smiled again, calling over the tempo, “Here we are.”
Frank realized she didn’t like the girl’s smile. It was too bright. Too false. An alarm tripped in Frank’s gut. Thunderous drumming overwhelmed it as the girl pushed the door open. Frank had no choice but to follow. Marguerite spoke clearly in her head, you always have a choice.
Irrationally, Frank snapped back, not this time.
The room was lit like a scene from hell. Shadows spawned from torches and candles clambered over the walls. Against them, a half-dozen men sat blindfolded, naked to the waist. They pounded on the drums, their skin glistening in the coppery light.
Frank sensed rather than saw the twins standing on either side of the door. Near the center of the room, the Mother waited to meet Frank’s eyes. Frank wouldn’t look there, suddenly very afraid of what she would see.
The drummers increased their tempo. Frank’s heartbeat kept time. Behind her, the twins blocked the door. Hot sweat rolled down her ribs. The incessant rhythm made it hard to think, but one thing was obvious. There was no bembe. Frank was the one they’d been waiting for.
Cold fury rippled through her. Frank raged that she had so profoundly fallen for the set-up. Like a punk-ass civilian, straight off the plane from Podunk, Iowa.
But that was all part of the plan, warn’t it?
Before she could stop it, another memory swamped her. The certainty that she was meant to be here staggered her. She knew the rhythm the drummers were beating out. Her bones cherished it. The twisting shadows and blinded men, the Mother’s foreboding patience and the twins behind her, Azazel and Belial, each detail perfectly fitted Frank’s memory. In a different world, this moment had already happened and been preserved. Frank was only revisiting it. It was inevitable that she face the Mother. Always fighting, always the soldier. Forever and ever, amen. Father Merrin confronting his monstrous desert gods. Tripping in the desiccated ruins. Dogs snarling and snapping.
She felt herself falling. Instinct made her reach for her
weapon. The twins lunged for either arm. Her bad hand closed awkwardly on the grip. She lifted the 9mm, but the wasted milliseconds cost her. The twins pinned her, one of them taking the Beretta.
Lifting Frank with minimal effort, they carried her to the Mother. Frank still hadn’t looked at her. Now she concentrated on a line dangling from the ceiling. It looked like a rope, one of those thick ones they used on ships. There was another behind it, looped through a pulley. Only Frank realized they were chains.
Jesus Christ.
The chains that had kept Danny Duncan immobilized. Terror reared like a stricken horse, but again Frank reined it in.
Get mad, she heard her father say. She dredged up the slap of his palms on her face. Get mad and stay mad.
Frank slammed her eyes into the Mother’s, too angry to even be pleased that for an instant the Mother’s hubris wavered.
Words, even if they had been necessary, would have been useless against the crescendo of the drums. The adversaries glared, neither cognizant of defeat. With a crisp nod from their mother, the twins hustled Frank to the waiting chains. One pinioned her while the other knelt to secure her ankles. Frank thought to kick him in the face, break his nose, and try to manhandle the other brother. Even if she did break free she’d still have to deal with the Mother and her six drummers drumming. Her odds were slim to nil and Frank couldn’t accept the possibility of failing in front of the Mother.
The twin jerked the metal tight around her ankle bones. Frank tried to think that the pain was probably a pleasure compared to what was coming. She held the same thought while he chained her wrists, wincing where he touched her fresh scars. The other brother hauled the ankle chain through the pulley. She couldn’t hear it, but the vibrations rattled through her ankles. He stopped pulling just as the metal dug into her skin. Then he worked the hand chain until Frank’s arms were horizontal behind her back. Muscles and tendons pulled. Frank reflexively stretched onto her toes, trying for some slack but it wasn’t enough. She’d only held the position for seconds and already it was excruciating.