Night of the Beast

by Harry Shannon

  Peter raised his hand, palm forward. "Peace, no explanation necessary. These are the times that try men's souls."

  They heard Monday barking in the distance, chasing a rabbit through the sage. Michael tapped his fingers along an LP resting flat on the coffee table.

  "So you're a musician, huh? I admire that."

  "And he's good," Maggie stated emphatically. "I listened to some of that Rock Candy album last night, Pete. You're terrific, is what you are."

  "My turn to blush."

  Michael belched. He ignored a disapproving glare from his sister. "My sister and I grew up loving books," he said. "Reading a lot helps us pretend we're intelligent."

  Maggie laughed. "What was it Kissinger said? The best thing about fame is, now when I'm boring, people think it's their fault."

  "You two should give me a few pointers," Rourke smiled. "I've been trying to fool everyone about my brains for years, now."

  "Oh, it's easy," Maggie said. "Michael and I have played this game for years. Whenever some sophomoric idiot lays a quote on you, spout the other point of view."

  "Such as?"

  Michael snapped his fingers. "A cliché, please. One mundane platitude, my man."

  "Okay. 'There is no sin but ignorance...' Christopher Marlowe, I believe."

  "Ignorance is bliss," Michael said. "Thomas Gray. See?"

  "Sure. 'Turn the other cheek' from Jesus."

  Maggie jumped in. "'Walk softly and carry a bit stick' Teddy Roosevelt."

  "My turn, Rourke," Michael said. "Let me think... 'No evil can happen to a good man.' Plato."

  "'Nice guys finish last.' Leo Durocher."

  Michael and Maggie both roared. Michael slapped his knee. "Beautiful! One more. Ah... 'Nothing endures but change.' Heraclitus."

  Rourke mused. "Alphonse Karr: 'The more things change, the more they remain the same.'"

  "I rest my case."

  "And if this act grows feeble?"

  "Diversify into the most obfuscating philosophers - Camus, Sartre, Kierkegaard."

  "Works every time," Maggie said. "They're guaranteed to confuse anybody."

  The three were soon deep in a debate on the meaning of individual responsibility. Maggie was a fan of Schopenhauer and his quasi-Buddhist ramblings. Michael interpreted the great French writer Sartre as having suggested that we are each our own universe and may make our own rules. Peter countered with his personal belief that human beings must interact with both the universe and themselves, and are thus bound by a structure that amounts to natural law.

  "Look," he said, "here's how I see it. Things happen all around us, some we control and some we don't. You know the Crane quote?"

  "The universe replied that it does not feel a sense of obligation."

  "Right. It simply is, and we act on it and react to it according to our ability to make choices based on free will."

  Maggie yawned in mock boredom. "It's getting pretty deep in here," she said. "I can see you two have something in common. Pete, can you stay for dinner?"

  "I'd love to."

  "Good."

  "Wait. Anthony Martoni is ill, and I want to drop by his place before too long. Will that work out okay?"

  Maggie gave him a thumbs-up. "Hamburgers and salad, coming right at you."

  After supper Michael volunteered to do the dishes and get the hell out of their way for a little while. He vanished into the kitchen. Maggie and Peter felt like two teenagers, stealing kisses on the couch. It was fun.

  "I've got to go."

  Maggie nibbled his neck and pulled him closer. "Want me to come along?"

  "No, thanks," Rourke said. "He's a proud man. He'd be embarrassed to let a strange woman see him like this. I'll come back later."

  "You'd better."

  Racket from the sink: The sound of breaking glass and a curse. Rourke called to Michael. "Hey, butterfingers! I have to go check on my friend. Want to join me?"

  "Anything," he replied. "Just get me away from this shit."

  Maggie jumped to her feet. "Take him, Pete. Please remove him before he destroys my entire kitchen. I'll do the dishes and wait for you."

  Monday stayed behind to keep her company.

  36

  ROURKE & MICHAEL

  Urich's place was locked and dark when they arrived. Rourke found a note taped to the door. The druggist had decided to walk over to Martoni's, and Peter was to meet him at the grocery store. They drove.

  On the way there, Michael broke a silence. "You really care about this old man, don't you?"

  "He's done a lot for me."

  "Sounds like I could have used the guy," Michael sighed. "Maggie, too." Something appeared to have saddened him for a moment. "So what are your intentions for my sister, anyway?"

  Rourke started to answer, then realized Michael was joking. He pulled over to the curb and put the car into park. They got out. Rising wind bit through their clothing with needle-sharp teeth.

  The lamp in Martoni's bedroom was on, a fluttering beacon in the murky dark. Rourke felt the first ripple of alarm run up his spine, a discomfort so basic that Michael noticed it as well. He shot a puzzled look Peter's way.

  "Something wrong?"

  "I don't know."

  They stepped inside. The sensation grew stronger. Rourke felt a crazy urge to run. He looked up, realizing that he hadn't heard the bell. Its frame was bent upwards, as if struck a violent blow. The door now easily cleared it.

  "Wind?"

  "Maybe."

  The two men walked on, their footsteps incredibly loud in the resonant silence.

  "Mr. Martoni? Mr. Urich?"

  Michael slipped away into the shadows. He slid cautiously down the hall towards the bedroom and the flickering light. Rourke had an overwhelming impression that they were being observed by someone, or some thing. He swallowed and went directly to the bedroom door.

  The light inside was blinking on and off. Wind was shaking flaps of tattered shade, and the bulb seemed loose. The resulting effect was like standing under a weak strobe lamp or watching an old, grainy black-and-white film.

  Anthony Martoni was sitting on the bed, grinning. He still looked pale, but some of the tension seemed to have vanished from his features.

  "Jesus," Rourke said. "Why didn't you answer me?"

  Martoni went on grinning. Peter turned, and there was Urich posed primly in an armchair. His eyes were wide with horror. Rourke's skin crawled. He spun around to see what Urich was so frightened of.

  Martoni. Calm, smiling... dead.

  Rourke turned again. Urich's face remained the same, his features locked by rigor mortis, frozen forever in a final reaction to something unspeakable. Rourke noticed the druggist's fingers. They had clawed at the upholstery. His nails were bloodied, like those of a man who'd been buried alive.

  Michael came over to hover at Rourke's side. "Christ," he whispered. "They're both wasted, and it wasn't long ago."

  Peter closed his eyes to mourn. He kept his talent carefully shielded. The enemy was there, watching them, and he did not want to give away his only advantage. Not this early.

  "Maybe someone went out through the window," Michael said. "Did you shut it when you left?"

  "Shut it and locked it."

  "Well, it's open now."

  Rourke continued to play innocent. He tried to shut poor Urich's eyes, but they resisted, as if the old man still had good reason to be afraid. Michael examined the window.

  "I take it back," he said. "It's not open, it's fucking gone. Blown right out of the frame."

  "Still locked from the inside?"

  Michael nodded.

  "We'd best call the law, Pete."

  37

  BATES

  The bitter wind wailed and moaned. It strained against the side of the building, trying to get in. Sand splattered the remaining windows and the broken lamp continued to flicker on and off. The air felt heavy and oppressive.

  Glenn Bates kept weaving from left to right like a cobra in a sle
eveless undershirt. A bottle of bourbon dangled from his clenched fist, well on its way to empty. Michael was leaning against the wall, watching and waiting. Whatever had been spying on them was gone. Rourke had felt it change shape and dissolve, turn to smoke and twist away.

  "They look fucking scared to death," Bates said. Something flashed across his features for a moment. "This town, a night like tonight..."

  Michael spoke. "Want to know how I figure it?"

  "By all means, Sherlock." He's slick, Bates thought grimly. Just a little too damned slick for my taste.

  Michael walked over to the door. "The other guy, Urich? He comes in. He talks to Martoni for a few seconds, looks him over, then sits down in that chair."

  The lights went out. When they winked on again, Michael was standing by Urich, apparently oblivious to both the corpse and its ghastly expression. "I figure they were waiting for Pete to get here. Urich was talking to the grocer. Suddenly it hit him that the man he was speaking to was dead."

  Bates smiled. "Just like that?"

  "Probably. He was old and sick, right? Anyway, this Urich is just a small town druggist. He's not a doctor. He panics. All he knows is that he's alone in this room with a stiff. It's a freaky night and the lights keep going out. He has a heart attack, a stroke maybe, and dies too."

  Bates considered. "Neat," he said, "but what about the front door and the window?"

  "Could be poor Mr. Urich didn't close it all the way and the wind blew it open. Old bell, strong wind."

  The sounds outside grew in intensity. Something struck the side of the house with a loud thump. Bates downed a slug of whiskey and stared at Michael. He appraised the younger man rudely. Give me one good reason, he thought. I think you're dirty.

  "As far as the window goes, you got me," Michael said.

  Bates took a deep breath. "Let's cover them up with something."

  Rourke found Navajo blankets in the closet. Soon the two old men looked like furniture packed in a warehouse. Somehow they seemed more menacing that way, as if they might become animated again at any moment.

  Glenn Bates took a third blanket and wrapped it around his bare shoulders. He drained the last of the whiskey. "Got to look around," he said.

  "We'll all go, Glenn. Let me see if I can find some kind of light we can carry."

  They located a lantern and one large hunting flashlight with weak batteries. The ominous night seemed to chortle, daring them to come out and play. All three men felt it, but staying indoors with the bodies would be no picnic either. Bates led the way.

  The sand stung their eyes and the lantern was too weak to do much good, but they worked their way along the outside wall until they came even with the shattered window. Something crunched beneath Rourke's heel. He raised the lamp. Broken glass, sprayed all over the yard. It reflected the lantern's glow back at him, winking and blinking in the gloom.

  "Here," Bates called, urgently. He sounded relieved. He held something up for Michael and Peter to see.

  "That's the foot stool from Martoni's bedroom," Rourke said. "It goes with the easy chair."

  Michael seemed to relax. "That's it then," he said. "Urich freaked out and threw it through the window. Look, here's a jewelry box of some kind."

  Bates was satisfied. "Urich went berserk. Maybe he was totally in the dark for a while, who knows. He lost his head and started throwing things. I've seen men lose control and forget their discipline in combat. He couldn't see, probably thought he'd never get out. Wham! Stroke."

  They trudged back inside. Bates walked over to the liquor counter. He stole a pint of whiskey without bothering to check the brand. "You two gentlemen can go on home now," he said. "I'll toss 'em in the squad car and escort them to the parlor. I think we've cleared things up."

  Bates watched their taillights as they drove away. He kept running Michael's logical scenario through his mind. It all made perfect sense, and yet he couldn't shake the suspicion that there was something else involved. I don't like you, Moore, he thought. He shook himself like a hound and drank, savoring the warm glow in the pit of his stomach.

  Martoni wasn't heavy. The grocer had wasted away to a loose bundle of sticks and flesh. Bates hoisted the corpse over one shoulder. A hip bone, protruding sharply from the emaciated form, dug at his neck through the heavy Indian blanket. He opened the rear door of the squad car and eased the old man onto the back seat, behind the wire partition. Just another prisoner, Bates thought. He nudged Martoni's legs, then remembered that he had a second stiff to worry about.

  Bates grunted at the sky. He drank and then, with grisly black humor, elected to prop Martoni up in a sitting position. He left the body covered from head to toe by a blanket and went back into the darkened store. The light was still flickering. Bates walked slowly, unsteadily, towards the room death had just visited.

  The shadow of the thing in the chair danced across the wall as the lamp cut in and out. Bates had a sudden vision of Ngo with that gaping wound in his throat. He belched, gorge rising. Discipline, he thought. He went in and grabbed Urich without looking. The druggist was far more difficult to handle. I've had too much to drink, Bates thought.

  God in heaven, but the corpse was heavy. Glenn stumbled and almost dropped Urich. Easy, he thought, keep your back in it. He straightened, stiffened his legs and made it to the car. Shit, wrong side! His heart was thudding now. Bates opened the door and pushed the lumpy body onto the back seat. He let Urich slip, and the two dead men leaned against each other like lovers at a drive-in.

  Bates got in, slammed the door and turned the key in the ignition. The big police car roared to life and he regained some of his composure. He sped away from the grocery store, leaving the stench of rubber and long tracks on what was left of the asphalt.

  At least most of the street lights still work, he thought. I can see the fucking road. The car drifted from side to side. He tried his best to stop it, but he was too drunk. He turned at Jake's gas station and drove towards the cemetery.

  The funeral parlor loomed over him as he rolled into the long driveway, its yellow porch lamp a cyclops' eye in the gloom. He forced the car up the road, jerking the wheel back and forth, singing what he could remember of a filthy marching song from the Marine Corps. (When he was a kid he'd pronounced it "corpse"... Marine Corpse.) The car shuddered to a halt and stalled. Bates turned the ignition off and had another drink. He saluted the rear view mirror, then dropped the bottle with a gasp.

  Martoni was smiling at him, leaning forward against the wire mesh, a thin line of spittle coming from his gray lips. Bates fought against the locked car. He kicked and thrashed his arms. His heart jumped to the bars of his rib cage.

  "Jesus Fucking Christ!"

  Wait. Of course, of course. The bumps coming up the drive: The blanket sliding down, the body forward. From the pounding. These eyes that had seemed to glare at him were dead. Very dead.

  He laughed for a long time. But it was a thin, reedy bluff of a laugh, and tears followed. Bates got out of the car, stumbled a few paces, and vomited in the dirt.

  When he was through, he became acutely aware of the cold cutting through his thin shirt. He'd lost his own blanket somewhere, probably while carrying one of the men to the car. He stood up, dizzy. Got to get this done.

  Bates forced himself to take Martoni first, grabbing the dead face in his big hands and pulling the body towards him. He threw the bundle over his shoulder. The man felt slightly lighter [as if the body is alive again?]. Stop that shit. Just getting stiff.

  He went up to the big wooden doors of the mortuary and pushed. They opened, hinges squeaking a little, bottoms grating against some gravel and dirt blown up by the storm. He fumbled for the lights. There's something wrong with this dimmer switch, he thought. Can't seem to make it any brighter in here.

  The chairs and couches were all a garish red, their coverings split with age. In some places the torn plastic had been patched together with black electrical tape. Glenn carried Martoni to a table and set him d
own gently. He tugged the multi-colored Navajo blanket over the face, covering that horrid grimace.

  He went back, got Urich and stumbled by the steps again. This time he called out: "Jase? Jason?"

  No answer. Strange son of a bitch. Let him find his guests in the morning, over breakfast.

  Bates placed Urich in an armchair, making sure the druggist's face was hidden. He was almost sober and he wanted to go home. There was a cluttered desk in the far corner. He walked over to it, his footsteps echoing in the empty room, and found some writing paper.

  He scribbled a note to Jason Smith, aware that he was hurrying. Something was creeping up his spine and the air felt heavy and damp. It stank. Bates wrote of the need for funeral arrangements, said he'd call in the morning. His signature was illegible. He left the note where Jase couldn't miss it. He was gasping for air, his lungs burning as if the building were on fire and he'd been inhaling thick smoke. He turned.

  No.

  Urich had moved. God, was that the armchair he'd been in before, or was it the other one — the one nearest Martoni? Bates almost screamed. He walked slowly to the entrance, a display of courage to hold back the horror. Discipline, he thought. Your imagination's running wild. Too much to drink.

  The doors opened on their own, with a sound like fingernails screeching down a blackboard. Bates faced the dark night, not even daring to look at what might be lurking right behind him.

  He went down the steps, shoulders straight, a soldier on parade. He walked towards his car. The doors closed.

  Wind. Just the wind.

  Glenn got in and grabbed for his keys, but they slipped through his hand and landed in the puddle of liquor on the floor mat. He found them after a few panicky seconds and stepped on the gas pedal, still not able to look up. The car started.

  He spun away, narrowly missing a tree. Branches clawed at the windshield like bony arms. Bates roared down the road, tires squealing. He looked in the rear view mirror, but he couldn't see the funeral parlor at all.

  Because the porch light was off.