"Thanks, Whiz."
"Jeff, Spinks will be pissed if you get caught."
"I have to go, now."
"Ah, shit," Whiz sighed, just as the connection was severed. "I knew it."
FOURTEEN
Gavin Fisher cruised on down the deserted hall doing barely respectable hip-hop steps to the old Tupac in his headphones, red tennis shoes squealing on the damp linoleum flooring. He paused by the janitor's metal bucket to do a few classic moves, twirling and dipping the mop like it was a girl and then returning it to its place with a flourish and a bow. He did the moonwalk, opened the swinging doors to the embalming room.
Oh, the first few nights he'd spent at the funeral parlor had wigged him out a bit, not that Gavin would ever admit it. The echoing hallways, the pallid flesh of the dead, the total lack of activity had seemed pretty grim. But a bright, homely white kid with a good rap but really bad skin didn't need to socialize much. Besides, he needed the money and the hours let him study for college. After checking up on him a few times, old Doc Harris had started teaching him about embalming, even let him participate in some of the prep work now and again. Gavin was surprised to find that he wasn't squeamish.
Since Doc Harris had a little Vicodin problem and liked to nod off a lot, he'd gradually turned more and more work over to his genial young assistant. Months passed, then a couple of years, and now Doc generally shook hands, looked mournful and collected cash from the customers. It was Gavin who did all the work. He had to make do with a few hours of sleep a night, but got extra cash under the table and nobody ever fucked with him.
Now Gavin Fisher didn't mind the night shift one damned bit. In fact, he kind of enjoyed the solitude and the time to relax. The pay was good, he could listen to his music and catch up on school work, and since his skin had cleared up a bit, he'd learned that it really turned the freakier ladies on to know what he did for a living. He'd been spending a lot of time with Edie, a Goth type who liked needles and piercing and tattoos and shit. She also liked giving blowjobs, which was like, SO welcome. Gavin had gone from hell to heaven in only a few months.
For example, this night, he'd already done some rocking ganja and caught up on a term paper in chemistry. And decided for the umpteenth time that Tupac was a flat fucking genius, and would always be well and truly missed.
Gavin flicked off the hall lights ('we got to save a buck where we can,' Doc repetitively admonished) then closed the swinging doors behind him. He stood for a moment in the cool, antiseptic darkness; just Gavin and his city of the dead. It was kind of a cool trip, once you got used to it. Being the only living, breathing, warm-blooded dude left in the room; the only swinging dick still alive. It gave you a feeling of power that was, well…unique.
Drums thumped in his headphones as he stood there in the dark, deliberately building his own anticipation. Gavin let his hand slide down the enameled wall to locate the light switch then closed his eyes and flipped it. The room was pink beyond his closed eyelids. He waited for his pupils to adjust; slowly opened his eyes and looked around. He had to shake his head a bit, because he was feeling pretty damned stoned. Gavin turned off the CD player, pulled the headphones off and spoke.
"Good evening, ladies. You look lovely tonight."
Gavin grinned. He was cheating a bit, because there were three women and the one man ready for embalming, but it was more fun to pretend he had his own little harem. The old guy was some fat-assed, uppity businessman type from Reno who had dropped dead humping a hooker in his high-roller hotel room. One of the women was an old broad who had a stroke on the bus after losing her stake playing craps, so Gavin was in no hurry to do her, either.
Ah, but the other two were choice.
Gavin bopped across the room to the first table and rolled back the sheet. Barbara was a tall, blonde Follies dancer who'd bought it in a car accident. Her neck had snapped clean, but with her eyes closed she still looked sinfully good. Those fake boobies were still standing as straight and tall as fresh ice cream sundaes. Gavin rolled the sheet further down and was thrilled to see that the dancer had shaved her little muffin, probably for professional reasons.
Gavin, he liked shaven beaver. He leaned down and kissed Barbara of so very gently on those slim, cool, waxy lips. The lower ones. "You hang in there, pretty darling. I'll be back soon."
The last gurney held a young black girl. Ashanti was a blackjack dealer from Harrah's whose sugar daddy had stabbed her for hooking on the side. The blade had gone in low and cut her abdomen up pretty badly, but Doc had done a fine job stitching her back up. Partly because of that beautiful, ebony skin, the incisions and stitches were barely noticeable. Gavin stroked her smooth cheek with trembling fingers.
"You and me, baby. All the way tonight…"
On the spot, he decided he meant it for the very first time. He wouldn't just get off on her and wipe it up with a towel— no maybe he'd actually drop trou and rub it on her a bit to get off.
Wouldn't that make a killer story for Edie? He'd tell her while she did him tomorrow, on his off night.
But first, back to work. Sigh. Gavin covered the black girl again and strolled over to the embalming table. He figured he'd start with Mr. Businessman, just to get his fat, hairy ass out of the way, and then maybe the old lady. That would leave him with his two lovers…and all the time in the world.
Gavin rolled the gurney to the edge of the embalming table, with its drain troughs, grills and water flush system. He slid the overweight businessman onto the cold metal. The stiff flesh made a hissing sound and the corpse landed with an audible thump.
"Dude, you should have checked your cholesterol more often."
He slid the long, sleek embalming needle out of its sheath and prepared to insert it into the body to begin drainage.
The doorknob rattled, like someone was testing the lock.
"That you, Doc?"
Strange, Doc hadn't checked up on him in many weeks. Gavin busied himself with preparations, all the while struggling to shake off the grass and look on top of things. After a few seconds it occurred to him that he hadn't heard anything else. Strange. He looked up, over at the entry doors.
No one was there.
Aw, fuck. I forgot to set the damned alarm tonight. Doesn't matter, it's nothing anyway. Some alley cat right outside, near the window, knocking over some garbage cans or something. It just echoed off the walls and you thought you heard it coming from the door. Nobody is there. Doc is home whacked on Vicodin. Relax, dude. Nobody's here, it's all good.
The noise came again, a subtle scraping sound this time, rather like fingernails slowly scratching across enameled walls. And then, there was a low thudding, almost moist in quality, like decomposing feet shuffling forward across tiles…
STOP thinking about shit like that, man! You'll freak yourself out, for Chrissakes.
The lights went out.
"Who's there, damn it?"
The bowl he'd smoked, that fine Columbian grass made him full-on paranoid; made it all so powerful so overwhelming that Gavin thought for a long, excruciating moment that his poor heart would stop, his chest felt sore like he'd been kicked by a fucking mule, but it was only his own pulse…
Gavin stood there in the darkness, dry of mouth and weak of knee. He clutched the long embalming needle close to his chest and imagined using it as a weapon, like some asshole in a pirate movie. He extended it out into the harsh, cold dark like the blade of a sword.
Impossible, no way, but in that desperate blackness the doors creaked slowly open, the thumping shuffle started again. And there was more…
What was that fucking smell?
The lights flickered a bit, some kind of power failure probably a citywide thing, and for a split second Gavin thought he saw something no man should ever see, a beast that couldn't possibly exist, some creature from a Lord of the Rings flick. It was human but also something else, a decaying zombie of some kind with rotting flesh and torn clothing, and it reeked of dried shit and the stench of
an open grave. The thing had hungry, drooling teeth that were yellow. It grinned, groped the air.
It was moving his way.
The lights flickered off again and left him in the dark just as Gavin managed to find the breath to holler for help. What help, idiot? The enormity of the situation hit him all at once, he was alone in a room with corpses and some kind of monster and so stoned out of his gourd he wouldn't be able to defend himself. Gavin screamed again, vaguely aware that it was a girlish screech at best, and then his bladder emptied.
The power problem set off the alarm system, and the entire building began to wail in protest. The noise was deafening, and the programming started flicking the lights on and off again all over the property. Gavin backed up against the wall; the embalming needle extended like a phallus, and squinted at the doorway, where he had last seen…whatever he'd seen. The doorway was empty, but the twin doors were swinging. Gavin sank to his ass on the cold floor and began to sob, weakly. There was no way he'd seen a monster, no way. Right?
But someone—or something—had really been there.
FIFTEEN
Lehane and Pops crossed town in an unregistered Ford wreck with mud on the license plate. They took the back roads and parked in the alley down the block from 5623 Sagebrush, well out of sight near an intersection. The night was filled with faint music from a dozen radios. The two men wore black jeans and tennis shoes, light Kevlar vests under black stretch shirts. If they found Grainger, they were going to take him prisoner and give him an experience that would make Abu Grahib look like a health spa.
Each carried burglar tools, tape, a hunting knife and a 9mm Glock, modified with a silencer. Pops had a powerful flashlight on his belt, and a miniature camera. Their faces were blacked out with combat makeup. Pops peered into the night: "All clear."
"Okay, let's gear up."
Lehane had outfitted them with one-eared headsets on a protected frequency. They also wore state of the art night-vision goggles that made them look like giant, deadly insects. They slid out of the car and put on the gear. The world turned into slides of bright green objects and cool mint shadows. Lehane motioned with one arm and a clenched fist. It was time.
Pops crossed the street soundlessly. He moved down the block a few yards, past a closed market with iron bars on the windows. He bent double and slipped into some bushes. His hoarse whisper penetrated through the headset. "Okay, testing."
"That's fine." Lehane responded, softly. "Go."
They began to leapfrog their way along Sagebrush. As Lehane passed one deserted liquor store he peered into the gloom and searched for movement. He saw the red, flashing dot of an active alarm system. He and Pops automatically searched all the storefronts, alleys and back yards as they passed. Lehane had no reason to think Grainger or anyone else would be expecting them, but it wouldn't hurt to be careful.
Static, and Pops in the earphones saying, "Clear."
An infernal racket spilled from the houses; many radios on different stations, all distant but confusing at the same time. Bending low, duck walking, thigh muscles complaining. The approach wore on. Somewhere to the south a distant siren drove the neighborhood dogs into frenzy. Lehane came to the end of the street, flattened himself against the pocked stucco of what appeared to be a deserted home. He eased into a tall fir tree, risked a peek around the corner and was suddenly blinded by the headlights of an approaching vehicle.
Lehane swore, closed his eyes. He listened to tires roll through dead leaves and pools of filthy water then come to a stop yards from where he stood. He pushed himself further into the skinny fir tree and opened one eye. The headlights had been turned off, and the world returned to shades of stark, crisp green.
"Sit rep?"
"Don't know, Pops. Wait and see."
"Roger."
The car stereo was playing a ballad that sounded familiar, something big a few years back. Lehane peered through the branches and saw two occupants in a beat-up flatbed truck. He could hear them talking and laughing in low, urgent voices. A small light flared, and seconds later the smell of a cigarette reached his nostrils. The shadows traded a bottle back and forth and finally started to fumble with clothing.
"Pops?"
"Here."
"Couple of kids getting it on."
Pops chuckled. "You see well enough to enjoy it?"
"You'd best light them up."
"Give me ten."
Lehane counted slowly to nine and closed his eyes. The shrill, adolescent voice came on eleven.
"Jesus cops!"
Lehane could hear the impact the powerful beam of light had on the occupants of the truck as they swore in frustration, thrashed about then started the engine and drove away. The dogs reacted, too. Pops chuckled in his ear piece.
"You're dark now."
Lehane opened his eyes again. "Okay, wait one, let's make sure Granny doesn't wake up and come poking around her yard."
"Right."
A few minutes went by. Lehane heard nothing but the ambient noise of the neighborhood; stereos, televisions, excited canines and distant police activity. He peered through the tree again and stared down the street at 5623. The porch was empty, black as the surrounding night, where nothing moved. The windows facing the sun were still covered with tinfoil, which shimmered oddly in his night vision goggles. The crawlspace to the cellar was undisturbed. No one had touched the overflowing mailbox.
The house seemed completely deserted, just as before, but as before something was way wrong. Lehane just knew it. The nerves in his belly fluttered with unease.
"We moving?"
"Go easy, Pops. I don't like this."
"Now he tells me."
Leapfrogging again, one after the other down the darkened block. The adrenaline was flowing now, so they ran faster than before, slicing through the undergrowth without leaving a trace of their presence. Pops arrived first, a good twenty feet ahead of Lehane and closer to the side gate. He squatted down and motioned that he'd take the back yard. That wasn't the plan.
"What are you doing?" Lehane whispered.
"I'm already here."
"Ok, careful."
Pops ducked under the windows and slipped through the wooden gate into the overgrown back yard. Lehane stayed crouched at the end of the driveway, watching as his partner moved through the tall weeds and passed the swing set, eyes going over every detail looking for something out of place from before; something to justify his growing unease. Pops moved into the gloom of the back yard and vanished. Several moments passed. A dog went nuts.
"Sitrep?"
Nothing.
"Pops?"
"I'm okay, just got the shit scared out of me by a dog next door. The back yard is just as you described it, garage door closed, box of toys, empty dog bowls."
"I'm coming down."
Lehane got to his feet, weapon at the ready and then froze. "Garage door open?"
Voice in the ear piece: "Roger that."
"I think it was closed before, Pops."
"Think the bad guy is still here?"
"Maybe."
"Okay," Pops whispered. "I'm gonna check out the garage."
"I got the house."
Lehane slipped across the yard, staying low. He hunkered down in the dying grass to examine the window leading to the cellar. The glass was covered from the inside with brown wrapping paper, or something like a cut-up shopping bag.
Lehane decided he needed to know what was in that basement.
He went around the front of the house, up the steps and onto the porch. Lehane went straight to the front door and examined the lock. It was a big, double-locked security job, one that was meant to seriously slow things down. He stayed on one knee, thinking. Pops spoke to him in the earpiece.
"Boss? Badass dead bolt on the back door."
"Same at the front."
"Orders?"
"Let's each pick a window. Make it look like a burglary." Lehane duck-walked a few feet to the left, stopped at the picture windo
w and began unrolling a spool of masking tape. Moments later, several layers of the tape had gone into making a thick square on the window. Lehane used the butt of his Glock to knock out a fairly large piece of glass. The tinkling sound seemed startlingly loud. He waited in silence and then peered inside. The living room featured stained, thrift store furniture. Pizza boxes and other fast food containers lay scattered about the room. Some music was playing. Lehane had heard it before. "I'm going in."
"I'm already there," Pops said.
"Okay. Take it easy."
Lehane knocked out some more glass. He slid through the opening sideways and rolled onto the living room carpet. The music was coming from a cheap stereo right above his head. A man was rapping about the need to improve society. Lehane grunted at the irony, finally recognized one of Enrique's tunes from the live concert. He reached up and turned the volume down. The CD player was set to repeat, over and over. There was no way of knowing how long the music had been running, or if anyone was home.
"Boss?" Pops said, urgently, "The damned back door is rigged."
"Hang on." Lehane moved gently toward the inside of the thick front door. Several wires had been wound around the doorknob and tied to what looked like a homemade sticky bomb. "Same here. Crude, but effective, Pops, someone forces the door open and BOOM."
"Might be more."
"Not likely, this is already overkill."
"Leave it?"
"No, we don't want any dead cops. Screw it up so it doesn't work right."
The two men worked quickly, defusing the devices in discreet ways and then set about exploring the house. Lehane moved through the living room, careful where he stepped. The place seemed eerie in a B movie way—and something was still nagging at him. The bedrooms were empty, the beds disheveled. Lehane paused and pondered. He sniffed and spoke quietly into the headset.
"You smell that?"
"It's not barbeque."
Lehane moved into the hall and froze. "Pops come see this." He looked carefully at the walls, closed his eyes. "Use your flashlight for a second."
Daemon: Night of the Daemon Page 11