Grayland: Chapter Three of the Dark Chicago Series

by David Ghilardi

  “What now?” The old woman queried. Doug remained mute. Would someone do that to draw them out? Hadji would do things like this in Iraq, thought Doug. Set offf a car bomb nearby as a decoy. Throw a corpse on the street as bait, then as their unit would approach, the bad guys would use an IUD to blast the crap out of them. A trap, thought Doug.

  “What’s your plan, Mavis?” He asked instead. “Call on an old friend. Get some high powered ju-ju going, kiddo.”

  She tramped up the steps. “Let’s get suited up. We got to go out in this shit. If Santy-Claus can do it, so can we.”

  “Where?”

  “Kid. We’re going to church.” The quartet continued to look over their shoulders as they clumped up the steps returning to the comforting warmth and stink of the kitchen. Mavis was decided. She was half-dressed for her new destination. She put a cigarette pack and two more lighters into her pocket.

  “Mama, where the hell you going?” Jimmy exclaimed. “Colder than Rudolph’s nose out there.”

  “No time to explain. You coming with? I have to do this. Make your minds up.” George was only interested in eating more junk food and having another beer.

  All this stufff about weird things made his brain hurt. He devoted his time to a white trash feast.

  “Jesus, Mavis. You’re saying the damn artifact is where?” Doug complained.

  His head hurt. He opened a bottle of water emptying it. Doing so soothed him a bit.

  “Drink more than that. You’re dehydrated.” The old woman tossed two more bottles to him. She continued her spiel. “There’s a chalice the priests use for special services. Usually hidden; a church keepsake. Actually a couple are on hand, both blessed by the Cardinal of the dioceses. Cardinal George Mundelein blessed quite a lot of them back in his day.”

  Mavis considered for a moment, pointing with her cigarette.

  “Believe me. We needed those cups back then. The tales I could tell you.” All the men were listening to the old woman: Jimmy drank, George stufffed his face while Doug re-suited to accompany her. She kept talking.

  “This special one we need is kept in the back of the apse. I know where. Sister Mary Roberta helped me hide it there until needed.” Doug drained another water bottle. The reference made him look up.

  “Not sister Mary Roberta from the 90-s. She would be over 100 now.” James and George shared a cigarette now, the eldest was drinking beer and whiskey straight from the bottle. Both brothers glanced at each other at the mention of the nun.

  “Damn, mama, that ol’ lady was fearsome. She hated us.”

  Jimmy looked cowed. George exhaled, pointing with his cigarette. “You. She hated you. I didn’t stick tacks on her chair. Or glue her damn desk shut. Or say Jesus was a dirty grunge singer. I learned to avoid her.”

  Doug nished the third bottle of water. His stomach gurgled. He grabbed a piece of Swiss cheese offf the kitchen table. Scraps of food remained after the two ravenous brothers had cleared out the fridge dumping everything on any available surface.

  “Sister Roberta did like to go medieval on the boys. Got smacked plenty as I remember by her ruler.” Jimmy smiled slowly.

  “That all stopped when I hid most of them and snapped the others. They just magically got broke. Paused the beating for a day or two. Those penguins sure liked pain.”

  George began nodding in awe of his brothers historic vandalism.

  “You were the one who broke them.” He whispered. “Cool.”

  Mavis looked up at the ceiling. Her patience was about spent. “She was a nun, you idiots. Pre-Vatican 2. It was in the 60-s. Your father and I were at odds about it. Vatican 2 decree meant the church could do pretty much anything to stupid boys who defiied her. Anyway, look how well you two turned out. I used the back of my old hair brush, still didn’t do no good. Two knuckleheads.”

  The brothers sat there with smug, satis fiied looks on their drunk faces. Doug decided to avoid bringing up the subject of the men’s aptitude to be incarcerated on and offf for years. Whatever failings this family had, Doug decided was up to their individual household. Doug’s family had their own skeletons in the closet. Bones made a lot of noise when rattled.

  “What’s the signifiicance to the chalice?” Queried Doug. “Will it be useful at killing Gray?”

  Mavis patted her jacket, looking over her gear to get set. She grinned.

  “You see Raiders?” Jimmy piped up, “Oakland Raiders are punks. Bears can kick their ass. This is a Butkus House, ma!”

  George added, “Oakland Raider’s uniforms are boss, though, bro! Black and silver.” “Shut up, you idiots.” Barked Mavis. “No. The movie with Harrison Ford. Good looking guy, that Harrison. Looked a bit like my Hal, if Ford had been bald with fiifty extra pounds on him. Anyway, the chalice is a hallowed cup. Once fiilled, it blesses the water inside. When water touches it, the contents become blessed. Strong weapon for us, don’t you think?”

  Doug found another water bottle and drank deep. Mavis zipped up a side pocket with flares in it. He thought the cup sounded useful but knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  “Let’s go get it, thirsty fiish. A blood sucker cannot stand up to holy water. It’s like gasoline to those unholy fucks. Plus there’s a book I want to look at.”

  Jimmy drank deep from the whiskey bottle. He made no motion to rise.

  “Me and Geo will hold down the fort here.”

  Mavis frowned. George tried to smile in a charming way. He still looked a conniving rat.

  If the old woman felt any shame that only a stranger and not her kin were going to help her, she showed no sign. “Fine. You two idiots stay safe. If something else comes after us, don’t hesitate to put them down. You hear me? Take no chances.”

  Jimmy and George fiist pounded. Doug knew then that these men had no belief in what they’d even seen. Mavis told him how the dead girl had busted through the barrier. To them, killing the fiirst ghoul had been like settling up with someone in jail. Now with drugs and alcohol in their systems, no way were they going to leave their comfort zone. Jimmy slapped his stomach.

  “Mama, I love ya, but we ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”

  George laughed, “Ghostbusters. Loved Dan Ackroyd. Who you gonna call? Us. White Ass kickers!”

  Flipping up her hoodie, Mavis surveyed her sons.

  “Jesus wept.” Mavis whispered walking out the back into blinding cold.

  Doug began to follow. He turned back to the brothers. “Make sure your weapons are loaded. If anything comes here other than us, Don’t hesitate. Guys, don’t take any chances.” Jimmy swigged from the bottle of Jack. He threw a mock salute. George laughed.

  “Sir! Yes, sir!” He pointed his fiinger at Doug and pulled the trigger. Both brothers gufffawed again.

  Doug went out into the cold, the brothers’ mocking laughter burning his ears red.

  Some things in the neighborhood never change.

  Chapter 19

  Joan was singing a Beyonce tune, letting it loose, ‘All you single ladies’. She followed up with Alicia Keys ‘Girl on Fire’, before fiinishing strong with Adele’s ‘Hello’. Her dancing routine covered the entire kitchen, flipping plates, using spatulas and spoons as mics.

  Damn, was she happy! Flour and cookie dough dotted her arms and most of her face. Her limbs danced from cooking island to counter unaware how loud or broad her moves were. She felt light. Youthful. For the fiirst time in years, her mind was clear. Brushing back dark curls, her fiingers managed to distribute more flour and sugar to her face.

  That’s happiness you feel, Joan thought. How long has it been? Her cheeks blushed. It wasn’t just the sex, but girl—it didn’t hurt either. Doug was tight, passionate and gentle. Joan licked her lip. That was what tipped her over the edge.

  How many times had she climaxed? More than the fiingers on one hand. She chewed her lip. At one point, she had passed out. It was wonderful to have been held by his strong arms when she came back to herself. Some of the evening had been a blur, thank
s to the wine and excitement of sex.

  Recalling it made her muscles throb again. Joan touched herself, then stopped. She winced. A bit sore down there, to be sure. Hopefully no yeast infection, thank you very much.

  Douglas, at last. Joan smiled. So that’s what it feels like. A fantasy realized. She licked her lip tasting the marzipan with hints of mint. It may be plebeian of her to hold on to a simple dream. She had simple goals. Her older sisters had chastised her for them. Zelda, the oldest, said Joan had always sold herself short. Marianne, maid of the middle, giggled even as she had rolled her eyes. Both of her siblings thought Joan was emotionally retarded in some way to not want a huge house in Wheaton or Arlington Heights, her children in top Illinois schools and wealthy men that provided all of life’s pretty toys.

  Joan never cultivated those aspirations. Simple was what her heart wanted. She was satisfiied, emotionally, and physically by last night. She had dreamed of Doug’s body for years. She had always thought they should have been together sooner, but life had prevented that by car accidents, immaturity and poor choices.

  We grew up, she thought. Doug was sweeter than she had ever imagined. A gentle lover, even for all that he had been through. He was generous too. He had put her fiirst, something her husband had never done in their brief marriage. That had been her worst mistake. She actually had listened to her sisters by marrying for wealth and not for love.

  What she felt now, with Doug, was worth waiting for. Could there be something deeper? Joan brushed offf a raisin stuck to her cheek.

  Those Life questions or lof ty thoughts always overwhelmed her. She had learned not to hope too much since the disappointment of it not coming true would crush all the joy she felt. She remembered clinging to aspirations of happiness back when, then husband, Mark had rolled into her life. He was good looking in a Tom Cruisey way, had a great job, nice car. He worked at the Mart. Their wedding was a beautifully catered afffair. Ironic then, ‘afffairs’ were what Mark enjoyed the most.

  Joan discovered he had been screwing every woman in sight before, during and after marrying Joan. Mark had no ideals other than making money and having a good time. His nature just didn’t allow fiidelity to alter those goals.

  Ugh! Joan frowned. Why feel this low on Christmas Day?

  Men sucked. At least, there was chocolate and wine. Joan reached for the rolling pin. She was trying to bake from scratch on a whim. There was no plan for doing it, she remembered her auntie being able to pull it offf without thinking, so try it, she must. Joan began dancing again, cozy and warm in her kitchen.

  Chrissie Hynde was singing now. ‘Only Human’ was playing, with Joan as her chorus. The lyrics were her life. Joan danced as she sang.

  Mirth lled her little world. The well-lit kitchen was a gift from Con-Ed. Her side of the block still had power, due to the last working transformer in Old Irving Park. Light and heat were a great Christmas gift Joan decided.

  Condensation had formed on the window glass clouding the view from outside.

  It kept her from seeing Cray Lamb’s pale white fanged face appear in the window.

  Chapter 20

  Doug was hurting. His body had reached that threshhold where it could no longer get warm. Not enough protein, he thought. Alcohol and ca fffeine was all the fuel keeping him going. It wasn’t enough. It felt like his insides had been scooped out with a spoon.

  “How far is it again?” Grumbled Doug. Pain had not made this endeavor pleasant to say the least. The errand was torture on his tired body. How much gas did he have left in his tank? He doubted he had much.

  Mavis did not look back. She forged through on her snowshoes, clopping like a small pony. Her gait was spry. She seemed happy to have a physical diversion. Being thrown out of an upstairs window and spraining her ankle had only slowed her down mildly. It did help that she had thought to slip snowshoes over her boots. Doug was still jack rabbiting through deep mounds. Had the plows been able to reach the neighborhood streets, the going would have been easier. Hell, if the authorities had been able to get to their streets, they’d have help stopping that black-haired bastard.

  He stopped to down water. God, his body was so dry. Mavis caught sight of her halted workmate. She dug into her pockets.

  “Thank god for strong drugs. Mothers’ little helpers.” The old woman muttered before dry swallowing a handful of pills. Mavis felt nothing after the fiirst dose. Doug realized that many of his acquaintances had crippling vices. Alcohol, drugs, more drugs and violence. Bad influences, all. Add to that, Doug’s proclivity to kill his enemies, he appeared to be in good company.

  They were close to their target. St Viator’s church loomed like an albino sentinel, its white marble and bleached stone towers poked out like castle turrets through the hard driving snow. Blustering ice continued its assault. The tall church stood unmoved. Doug thought it looked like a fortress. As a child he’d always liked the ornate stained glass windows. The aqua in the glass always relaxed him. But the rest of the place was completely daunting to a child. It was a beautiful monstrosity. What the hell is it with Catholics and their churches? Mused Doug.

  Shrines to the big guy, if you believe in that religious stufff. Doug wasn’t sure if he did anymore. After his parents died spilling offf the Edens expressway in their car, the burial service was tasteful, a funeral that was functional. Father Antony had not known the couple but Doug felt the padre found it difffiicult to hide his emotions regarding the undignifiied way they’d died. Both had been drunk, way over the legal limit. Their blood levels were way above any acceptable excuse.

  Father Antony had droned on in a homily, spoke vaguely, took Doug’s money and vanished. The Catholic church was a boon for the faithful. It used love for its congregation like a baseball bat. The loss in the Catholic transaction had left Doug empty.

  He’d lost his faith, then tried to fiind it by re-enlisting in the military. Doug fiigured being with his fiighting brothers would add steam to his sails. It was strange that the devastating event of losing his parents forced his real bloodbrother to turn into a religious zealot. His brother and sisterin-law jumped in to religion with both feet becoming pastors in their own pocket ministry. They followed strict teachings of the bible. Both men had split in two opposite directions.

  There was a guy in Doug’s squad that was born again Christian. Belushi, from North Carolina. He didn’t stay in country too long. Sniper bullet took the top of his head offf. One moment he was praying to the Lord as he busted in Hadji’s doors, the next he was on his back bleeding it in the dust without the top of his cranium. We all go to the same place, rich or poor. Devout or heathen. Doug believed now that any doctrine or mantra that soothed your soul probably wasn’t all bad.

  Wind picked up swirling the snow in front of Doug into a frozen sirocco. Mavis was there one second, gone the next. Doug sprinted ahead without thinking. The old woman had been picked up, her frail form leaving the Chicago tundra. Doug grabbed onto her ankles fiinding himself being lifted along with her. Seventy mile per hour gusts gave them air. Up they went, a good fiifteen feet.

  It was a quick journey. Both were thrown a hundred yards forward. Mavis rolled on the ground, legs skittering yet not quite landing near the iron fence close to the rectory. Doug’s weight on her legs prevented the old woman from impaling herself on the black iron spikes surrounding the rectory. The wind gathered again trying to pluck them up, icy gusting angels enjoying their play things. Before her fragile body could be ripped away again, Doug clamped onto Mavis by the legs holding on for dear life. Ice and inches of snowy top layered snow roared over their prostrate bodies.

  “That was a rush!” Shouted Mavis glancing back at him, red faced and smiling. She was giddy. Drugs and alcohol used in the time of war and death. Doug smiled too.

  “Want to try it again?”

  Doug dusted himself offf. Mavis laughed.

  “Ain’t got no time! Let’s go junior! We got a church to break into.” The old woman hugged Douglas brie fly,
then ran ahead of him through the iron rectory gate. Around them, St Viator’s gargoyles looked down from their perches unmoved by the wind. Their hollowed eye-sockets and harsh facial expressions did not opine favorably if you were left alone.

  Mavis was lost to the swirling winds again. She seemed invigorated with new purpose. Doug looked after her before trotting behind. Her words fiinally hit home.

  “Wait. What?”

  Chapter 21

  Cray slid his slender fiingers into the crack between the interior glass mud-door and the heavy wood exterior door. Cray tore the glass out of its frame. Its shrieking was lost in the roar of the white world. Cray craned his neck back. A sound behind him was distracting. It sounded like clothes, maybe a untethered blanket snapping in the wind.

  He saw what it was. There in the back of the girl’s home was a squat white garage. Next to it, was a willow with two main branches which had collapsed onto the roof pushing the entire structure sideways. All its weight had snapped a silver flag pole in half. The sound distracting Cray came from the damaged shaft, an American flag crackling in the wind.

  Staring at the blustering colors of the red and blue strips, reminded Cray of who he had been. Who would have left old glory out in the harsh environs? It was disrespectful. That stray thought gripped Cray making him recall what nostalgia felt like. Feelings. It had been part of what he lost. The simple snapping of old glory in the wind shook him up.

  Maybe he didn’t have to obey that dark bastard. So many confusing thoughts. Cray snarled, raking his fiingers over his face drawing blood in thin lines. His thin body leaned in towards the heavy door. He clicked down on the hasp. The damn thing was locked. The feral creature frowned. He planted his hands onto the wood, taking full measure of the weighted wood.

  Pushing against it was a slow e fffort. He kept up pressure feeling the frame shift, the wood buckling inward. Cray released the pressure, deciding to body slam the door instead.