"Apprehend." Guri sounded a bit disappointed. "Gee, that makes it sound like no fun at all."
"Let me be frank with you, guys." Lehane scowled. "I want this bastard. I want to find out what happened to Heather. And when the time comes, I want our best people to have couple of days in a room with Grainger, some nasty drugs, a blow torch and a scalpel before we turn him in, so we know what he knows."
"Ok," Guri joked, weakly. "Now it's starting to sound like fun again."
SEVENTEEN
The Pussy Posse Parlor on Cheyenne Avenue was as crass and low-rent as its name implied. Located in a dilapidated industrial park, the joint had two glittering signs outside, one said TOPLESS and the other BOTTOMLESS. The parking lot was cracked and the red paint on the building was blistered and peeling. The interior featured furnishings that were a weird combination of garish gold and plush purple. Like a lot of Vegas bars, it stayed open 24 hours, so when Guri and Lehane strolled through the door several loud patrons were enjoying the pole-dancing ladies and their covert, back room ministrations. Most of the men were still drunk from the night before.
The music, an ancient but effective Rick James tune, was astonishingly loud. Guri slid down the wall to the right, leaned against the tacky wallpaper and tucked his fingers into the belt of his slacks. He smiled at Lehane and crossed his eyes comically to express his disdain for both the establishment and its denizens.
"Wait here," Lehane said. "And try not to get into any trouble." He moved to the left, away from Guri and strolled down three carpeted steps, onto the dance floor to have a look around. The area was jammed with wooden tables and plastic booths; it smelled of alcohol, cigarette smoke and antiseptic. A large-breasted brunette in 'butt floss' underwear sidled over with a lipstick leer.
"Want some company, big guy?"
Lehane reached into his pants pocket, produced a twenty and tucked it into her thong. "How long have you been working here, sugar?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You a cop?"
"No, it's something personal."
"What about?"
"I promise you we won't hassle any of the working girls. I'm looking for a guy who might come in here now and then."
Across the room a large Hispanic with powerful arms took note of the conversation and began to glide their way. The bouncer was a weight lifter type, just turning a little fat, pushing three hundred pounds. Lehane spoke faster.
"I don't know if you know the guy's name." He gave a quick description of Lou Grainger, including the teardrop design on the knuckles. "Sound at all familiar to you?"
The bouncer started down the steps on the other side of the dance floor. Guri did a passable imitation of a happy drunk, bumped into him and slowed his progress. Meanwhile, the brunette shook her head. She kept two fingers on the money, wasn't about to give it back. "Ain't seen nobody like that lately, I'd remember the tattoos."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I've seen it."
"Where?"
"It was on an ex-con named Hudson. My sister used to date him, we was younger. He got the needle last year for doing a cop."
Lehane produced a copy of Grainger's mug shot. "Does he look familiar?"
"Nope."
Just then the big bouncer tried to get to Lehane. He made the mistake of trying to shove Guri out of the way. The Israeli grabbed and turned the wrist and hand and drove the huge man to his knees. A table tipped over, splashing beer on two customers. The girls stopped dancing and one gasped. Guri apologized with a fierce grin. He lifted the captured forearm up and back and the bouncer cried out in pain. The DJ stopped the music and the place went quiet.
"Let him go," Lehane called, as he put the picture away again. "He was just doing his job."
Guri leaned down to whisper something. The bouncer's face reddened. Guri released him and stepped back. Several of the patrons managed to get to their feet and a few of them looked annoyed enough to start a ruckus.
"Sorry, guys. No harm, no foul. We're out of here." Lehane gave the girl another twenty and a plain business card with his voice mail number. "Anybody who tips me the guy is in here gets a grand, all cash. Pass the word."
They backed out through the front door.
When they were outside, blinking in the sunlight: "Guri, what's up with you? You didn't have to do that."
"I guess I'm bored, boss," the Israeli said. He started for the car, forcing Lehane to stretch to catch up. "Seems like lots of legwork for nothing, so far. I just wanted to mix it up with somebody."
"Yeah? Well, can that shit. I need you to be professional."
"Okay, okay." Guri slid into the passenger seat. He seemed even more wound up after what had just happened. "What now?"
Lehane started the car, opened his cell phone. He hit autodial and turned on the speaker. "Let's check in with Pops."
Guri, puzzled; his voice garbled by the growl of the engine and the faint beeps. "What for? He'll call us when he's ready."
From the speaker: "Boss?"
Lehane slowly crossed the parking lot. "Just wanted to see how it's going. What's everybody up to right now?"
"We're still north of Sahara. Castle is skulking about in our fifth boob joint of the day, something which gives him major grins. Me, I'm outside holding up the wall of a tramp-o-line."
"Where's Sandy?" Lehane was surprised by the concern in his own voice. "Are you keeping an eye on her?"
"She's walking," Pops said. "We got her." If he caught the undertone, he chose to ignore it. "She's been down at the end of the block, talking to all the street hookers. Right now she's hanging back while a couple of them are working some tourists in a station wagon."
"All right, don't lose her. We're working our way up to, one block at a time. See you in Glitter Gulch. Stay in touch."
Lehane broke the connection just as he reached the end of the driveway. He looked left and steered out into the light traffic. When he looked back, Guri was eyeing him with a faint smile.
"What?"
Guri shrugged. "Nothing."
"What are you laughing at?"
"Easy, boss." The grin widened a bit. "I was just listening."
Lehane frowned. "You got something to say, say it."
Guri ran a fingertip across his lips. "Not a word."
Four doors down a red, barn-like structure beckoned. They pulled into the graveled driveway and parked beneath a neon sign that advertised 24 Hour Porn and mirrored ceilings. The place was improbably dubbed "Your No-Tell Motel." Lehane went up the steps first, Guri hung back to cover the entrance.
Inside, worn green carpet bruised the eye, noxious odors assailed the nostrils. The lobby reeked of cigar smoke, stale coffee and burnt wiring. It was furnished with a wooden chair, a metal ashtray, a black leather couch that was patched in places with duct tape and a man-sized, fake fern. The counter was lacquered wood and covered with mug-sized stains. The man behind it was obese, with vast amounts of black hair that sprouted in tufts from his scalp, arms and the neck of his sweat-stained white shirt. He had a wet cigar between false teeth and wore wide, rust colored suspenders that arced like filthy bandages over his immense belly.
"What kind of room?"
Lehane produced the photograph, put it down on the counter and smoothed it flat. "I need to know if this guy has been here."
The clerk did not look down. "Never seen him before."
"Take a closer look," Lehane produced a twenty. "Maybe you'll change your mind."
"Look, I run a clean business," the clerk said. He did not take the money. "I start talking about who stays here, I'll go broke."
"I'm not a cop."
The big clerk shrugged. "Whatever you are, it's close enough. Now fuck off." He turned his back and busied himself with a stack of forms tucked haphazardly into a drawer.
A flash of anger gave the world red edges. "Look, I'm asking you nice."
The clerk turned, and in his ham-sized fist he held a 357. His hand was not trembling. "And I'm asking you nice."
"Okay," Lehane backed away, hands up. "Easy. Nobody has to get hurt."
"Jesus, don't you people even talk to each other?"
Lehane stopped at the door. "Someone has already been here?"
The clerk put down the gun. He removed the cigar from his mouth with mock astonishment. "Wow, the guy's a fucking genius."
"Who bothered you?" Lehane said, probing for more information. "I'll make sure they get leaned on."
"I've had enough of this, is all. Two cops this morning were bad enough for business, but that big, weird fucker in the middle of the night…"
"What did he look like, this guy?"
A shrug. "I don't know. Big. Weird. He had a yellow raincoat on, the hood up, and I couldn't see his face that good."
"He didn't give you any ID?"
"Nothing." The clerk frowned. "Look, I told you what I know, so leave me the fuck alone."
Lehane tapped the photograph of Grainer. "He was here."
The clerk used the soggy cigar as a pointer. "I gave the first guy my only paperwork, and I expect to get it back."
"Sure. Of course."
"Okay, like I already told everybody else, the guy came in a couple of times maybe a month ago with a skinny black hooker name of Joy. She wears a red wig most nights."
"How did he pay?"
"He gave me a phony name and a bad credit card. So the last time he was here, trying to get another room, I called him on it. He got all pissed off, so I chewed him out and pulled my gun."
"What happened?"
"He left. That's it."
"Was she with him?"
"Joy? Not that time. It was some other chick, real junkie-looking white bitch all in black. One of them Goth types. She looked half dead, you ask me."
"Thanks." Lehane opened the door and stepped backwards, out onto the porch. Guri saw his posture and raised an eyebrow.
Back in the office, the clerk sighed. "I work around the clock, man. I'm whipped and I need my sleep. You tell them to leave me the fuck alone now, okay?"
"Okay."
"I got nothing new to add."
"I'll tell them." Lehane closed the door. When he turned he was blinking rapidly. He clapped his hands.
"Boss?" Guri clearly felt the excitement. "We got a nibble?"
"Come on."
Lehane jogged back to the car, slid in to the driver seat and got back on the phone. "Pops? Tell Sandy to start asking around for a thin black streetwalker named Joy. She wears a red wig."
"Got it. You got something?"
"Our boy Grainger has been at the No-tell a couple of times until he pissed the owner off by using bad plastic. Joy may have been his main squeeze."
"I'll pass the word."
"Wait one, here's more. Looks like there's something weird going on. The owner says two cops came in this morning. Check with LVPD and make sure they were for real, just in case, and fry somebody for not getting word to us sooner if they are."
"Done."
"What's bothering me is this," Lehane said, and now he looked directly at Guri. "The guy also said someone came to see him in the middle of the night."
"Who?"
"Some kind of professional, guys, a big man wearing a yellow raincoat with a hood. He was pretty scary, and he left with the only copies of some receipts. Guri, I want to know who the hell that was, and why we didn't know about this first."
Pops and Guri, in tandem. "We're on it."
Lehane cut the connection. Guri opened his own phone and started making calls. Lehane drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He dialed Whiz and started the car as the phone rang.
"I was just about to page you, boss."
"About what?"
"We got the lab report back, the one from Grainger's house. I think you need to see this."
"Tell me."
Lehane drove out onto the street with his partner's voice droning in his ear. Meanwhile, over the speakerphone, he could hear Whiz shuffling through some papers.
"Okay, listen up. You know that when the body decays, internal gasses build up and create that volcano effect. The bowel empties; gas pressure causes the expulsion of mucous within the esophagus and all that. Anyway, the gasses also cause the skin to erupt, right? Those little purplish-red hills that look like bruises rise under the surface and as the gas increases, well, think baked potato."
Lehane honked at a driver making a slow right turn. "I assume all of this is going somewhere?"
"The skin breaks apart and starts to ooze. This happens wherever the epidermis is thinnest, right? Usually the facial area or the chest, depending on the person and their age, gender, body weight, race, what have you."
"Whiz, get to the point."
"Sorry. So anyway, the stomach and trunk expands the worst, because the intestines carry the most water and bacteria. The surface bruises continue to expel fluid, and eventually the body blows up."
Lehane pulled into the parking lot of the next bar. He parked and yanked on the emergency brake. "Can't this wait?" Guri was still mumbling into his phone. Lehane heard enough to know he was talking to one of the cops on their payroll about the motel visit and why the information had been shared.
"Boss, listen up," Whiz said. "That foamy stuff streaked on the walls at Grainger's house, maybe waist high?"
Lehane squinted into the morning sunshine. "Yeah, the stuff we only saw with the UV goggles on."
"That's what it is, boss. Saponification, meaning a gaseous fluid called adipocere. Boss, it comes from a putrefying corpse. So how the hell did it get waist high on two different walls of a house?"
"Jesus H. Christ."
"Yeah, no shit. Stranger still, why can't we see it with the naked eye? Why does it not even show up under normal light?"
EIGHTEEN
It slumbers, still as the darkening blood lying dormant in its veins. This nameless creature knows no thought, has been freed from all mortal desires; it is hollow and wants nothing but to survive. Moments may have passed, or eons, that matters not. A freakish thunderstorm floats through the desert night; dozens of warm drops lapping at its cool flesh like tiny tongues, but the being does not react. Only when a stark, white trident of distant lightning animates the sky does it stir, as if that primal energy has finally served to animate its limbs. The fingers twitch…
An eerie, moaning sound erupts from dark and bloodshot eyes pop open. They instantly see into the night as if it were as lit as the brightest of summer days. Shadows take form and substance in the quivering light of a summer moon. Lips pull back from yellowing teeth as it animates, comes to reluctant life. A grunt, a grin. It lives.
And was born to do black things.
The moan comes again, high and shrill. Something that echoes its own birthing cry, something far away but racing closer…The creature works to gain control of the new body as the rumble continues; moves down from the low mountains and onto the desert plain.
It manages to move fingers and toes, legs and arms…
Still the ground keeps moving—shakes and trembles until finally the being feels a dull throb of concern for its own safety. It struggles to raise itself, filthy hands weakly pushing into the moist earth, and manages to sit up long enough to look around and spot the metal tracks only a few yards away and the piercing glare of the oncoming train.
Whooooo Whoooo…
Something wet and wicked bursts from its bloody throat as the creature responds with a wail of its own; lips still pulled back like thin strips of bacon fat from teeth gone vulpine, shoulders hunched forward, fingers clawing like crabs through the still-warm desert sand. The eerie sound mingles like a mating call with the shriek of what can now be seen as the oncoming train.
The heavily laden rail cars roar by like a series of earthquakes—clatter and bang and the spark of trembling steel. The thing throws its head back and howls for joy; it is possessed and thrilled by the merciless power before it, sure it is kin from the darkest regions of the underworld. It revels in the rumbling, roaring surge of energy; drin
ks from a cup overflowing. When the caboose passes, the resulting vacuum leaves it dazed and still spinning in circles, mouth and eyes gaping wide, alone in the sand.
Sand…
It remembers the desert, hiding in caves, and a blistering hot sun pounding down onto waves of sand as clear as crystal. Those still-warm nights, stalking the edge of a small village, looking for the shallowest grave.
Hunger…
…The memories of the host body intrude and it sees images, at once vivid and incomprehensible, of a recent life: blue-striped jogging shoes on the sidewalk in the white morning sun, passing the twirling hiss of a lawn sprinkler, loud children running down carpeted hallways, the salt taste of a woman's vagina, a color television set and the visual, multi-colored chaos of a football game. Then that sharp pain in the chest, clutching at the sweatshirt, stumbling and falling down on the asphalt; the sharp crack of skull on cement, the white light and falling away thinking of a wife and children he would never see again…
Hunger…
A feral, single-minded intent dominates. It lurches forward, away from the empty openness, toward the humming, buzzing lights. It knows instinctively that where there is life, there is also death and the succulent, vital flesh which has been buried. It shambles closer and closer to those lights. Cars race by on the highway, but their beams do not penetrate into the low gulley and so it continues its journey unseen.
The rolling crunch of tires on gravel is followed by a pinging sound, and it looks up. One black car has entered that lit area. A pause to observe: A fat man emerges from the car and walks past gas pumps and into the small store. He appears dazed, inebriated. He converses with someone inside, a balding man wearing a blue shirt. Their tone is civil, the conversation brief. The drunken driver comes out again, pumps something into the car through a long hose but also manages to spill a great deal of acrid-smelling fluid onto the concrete. He replaces the hose and starts the engine. After a time, he drives away.
Daemon: Night of the Daemon Page 13