Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  Four, five and six steps back.

  "I'll be back in a second, okay?"

  Seven, eight and nine steps back. Jackie's right hand trails along the cold wainscot of tile, it helps her keep her balance and have the feeling of being grounded to something solid. Her wide eyes remained fixed on the lumpy black shadows half visible around that eerie corner, her attention increasingly focused on the swollen annoyance that is her aching bladder.

  Shit.

  What IS that?

  Something in those misshapen black shadows changes form. It is less a physical movement than a horrific transmogrification of some kind; the bland softness hardens into muscled curve, velvet darkness slides away to reveal large, bloodshot orbs that may or may not be human…and then it moans.

  With a small gasp of terror, Jackie spins on a dime, rockets into the small bathroom. She drops onto the porcelain shelf, closes and locks the door even before looking for the light switch. Her fingers grope the wall, find nothing. She tries again, heart doing eight to the bar on a bass drum. Nothing.

  DAMN she has chosen the floors sit bath, it's not a toilet at all! There is no damned light because the light switch is on the outside, and it's a large timer to be run by the staff. Her legs are shaking and her bladder is bursting and she is sitting alone in the fucking dark like a scared little blind girl.

  "Ben, I'm freaking out now, okay? Knock it off!"

  A past-midnight, crawling silence flows over and around her flesh like thick syrup. Urges war within her. Should she open the door and find the better toilet? Oh, God but what if it isn't Ben out there, what if this is not a joke at all but some kind of horrible serial killer like in a movie and Ben is lying gutted down the hallway and the guy is just waiting for me to unlock the door…

  Jackie debates, should she call out, scream, beg and plead for him to stop? Right. Sure, and if it is Ben playing jokes Kalanta and Dickie will come out all pissed off, and then they will mock her and she will never hear the end of it, and even if they don't Pritchard will find out they were here instead of working and her career will be toast…

  Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

  And a little bit of urine leaks, she's wet her damned pants now and this just isn't fun any more, it's not funny at all. Frustrated, she yanks down her pants and squats near the middle of the sit bath and pees down on the tiles so it runs down the drain. It is an explosion of warm liquid, and the release is ecstatic, but in the small, tiled room it is also louder than expected. She has nothing to wipe with, but the cold air on her genitalia is oddly disturbing. She yanks her pants back up.

  "Ben, are you done screwing around?"

  A heavy shame begins to burn like a low flame in her belly. Jackie knows she's acting like a foolish child, letting these stupid sex games upset her.

  Enough.

  She blinks a few times, hoping her eyes will adjust to the dark. Maybe what's called for here is to just march over, throw the door open and chew him out, who cares who hears? What, she'll get fired for pissing in the sit bath?

  No, but she might get fired for screwing on duty. Okay, no loud noises, then. Just open the door and walk out, tell Ben you're no longer in the mood and no pussy from now on, because you're not making yourself available to an asshole who would act this way after a girl admits she's terrified. He can just go play with himself when he wants it, because he ain't getting it from you.

  That ought to work.

  It sounds like a reasonable plan.

  Sure, so now get up and go do it.

  I can't.

  After a few, long moments Jackie can see a thin, slender rectangle of pale glow coming from beneath the door; just enough ambient light from the full moon is flowing through the metal-grilled windows, also from those small, orange emergency fixtures placed low, near the floor. The effect is a kind of long, slinky beige ribbon, lying sideways on the tiles.

  I can't stay in here forever, for Chrissakes. Let's get up and move, damn it. This is getting pathological, here.

  And she gathers herself to get up, feeling a bit more confident now that her eyes have adjusted, even makes it to her feet and stands. It's a lot better not needing to pee, too. Now she can concentrate. One thing is for sure, Ben ain't getting any. Not for a long, long time, maybe never after this dumb stunt…

  A whisper of something on the tiled floor, steps moving her way—a shadow falls across the rectangle of pale light, and Jackie knows she is no longer alone.

  Whoever, whatever is right outside the door she just locked behind her. Jackie can see the shape of the feet, outlined right there, just standing and waiting as if listening. She waits for a whisper, for Ben to apologize. Say something, anything. She takes a deep breath, almost calls his name, but in the end does not…

  And it's because of that unbearable stench.

  No calling out, no saying Ben's name, no anything. Jackie does not move, barely breathes.

  Whatever is outside the door adjusts a bit, stepping back and clumsily widening its stance at the same time, making an odd chortling sound, something Jackie knows she has never heard before, something neither human, nor animal.

  Jackie suddenly and absurdly recalls a passage in the classic fantasy "Watership Down," where one of the rabbits describes freezing in your tracks, paralyzed by fear as "going tharn." She goes tharn at this very moment, not a tendon twitches not a single sound emerges from her mouth.

  Jesus, does it know I'm in here?

  Dear God, please, I'll do anything you want, please don't let the boogie man know I'm in here, please…Time slows down, shifts and elongates until Jackie is certain she cannot continue to remain still or hold her breath for one second longer. And then, mercifully, the feet back away. The sound of them will haunt her dreams for years to come, a kind of wet slapping…

  More time passes, but how much time; seconds or minutes?

  Jackie begins to count to one thousand over and over again, trying to set up some sense of structure in the cold, dark room. She will wait five minutes, she tells herself, and goes one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand on and on and on until she finally counts out what she believes to be five minutes. She swallows dryly, reaches through the inky night for the door handle…

  Her fingers clutch. She turns as quietly as possible, every sound exaggerated in her panicked ears. The faint click of the lock makes her jump. The door slowly, almost soundlessly slides open.

  Jackie waits again, counts another full minute. She moves forward slightly, risks a peek around the corner into the hallway. Because of her time in the locked sit bath, her eyes experience the area as reasonably well lit. She can see vague outlines, human footprints across the tile; bare feet coming forward before moving away.

  Bare feet mean a stranger.

  God, what happened to poor Ben?

  Jackie cannot bring herself to turn her back on that ominous darkness, even to run away. She knows she could not bear to be locked in that sit bath again, with or without lights. So she does the impossible…she walks forward, toward the corner where she last saw Ben, when he was doing that silly duck walk, being a comedian. She moves briskly, purposefully, summoning up every last bit of her steadily waning courage. One long, deep breath…

  Jackie peeks around the corner— and goes a little bit mad.

  Something ugly has splattered the tile in all directions, something that looks black in the moonlight, something liquid that glistens a bit.

  Jackie steps in it, she is walking forward like an automaton, she discovers that it is wet and sticks to the bottom of her tennis shoes. On one level, she knows what it must be, she is a physician after all, she knows how many quarts of it a body holds…but on some other level, she is a child walking across a floor gone gooey from soda pop and chewing gum and nothing sinister has happened, nothing at all.

  "Ben, honey?"

  She calls to him in a sing-song voice, like the little child she has become, knowing on some deeper, more visceral level that she should run away, run aw
ay, run away.

  "Ben?"

  Jackie speaks, but her mind has already shut itself down. The lights are on but she is no longer at home; she watches herself from high up and away like a woman being raped, like a child being beaten, like someone seeing a replay on a security camera. She comes to the end of the blood trail, which stops at the exit to the staff parking garage. She notes the gory handprints on the metal door, which remains partially open due to a small lump of white bone and thick gristle stuck at the bottom, and retains enough common sense to use her elbow to push it open. Jackie steels herself, steps into hell.

  And screams and screams and screams…

  TWENTY-THREE

  "I don't like this," Sandy said. Her voice barely carried over the hubbub of the all-night gaming crowd and the chaos of badly played pop music that flooded in from the last of the lounge shows. Arm in arm, she and Lehane crossed the thick, gaudy carpet and moved toward the far end of the hotel lobby. Sandy looked like herself for once. "Jeff, if you don't trust the dude, why are we going up there at all? It seems reckless."

  "It is, but we need to talk to him. Maybe he'll open up more if we give him the advantage." Lehane held the ornate glass door open for her with a flourish. "You don't have to come with me, though."

  "Don't be silly. You know I'm every bit as reckless as you are."

  "Not quite. You wanted to bring guns."

  "So, that's not prudent?"

  "Prudent ain't reckless."

  Lehane gently moved an elderly craps player out of the way. They approached the elevators in the southern corridor. "Sandy, he's going to have someone there to search us anyway."

  "That kind of security? What makes you think so?"

  "The conversation I had with him in the desert, before the biker thing? There was something funny about the whole idea, even the way he asked questions. He knows a lot more about me than I do about him, and I don't like that."

  "How could he know so much?"

  "I think our operation these last few days has been compromised. I suspect he's had somebody on the inside the whole way."

  "Damn," Sandy's eyes widened a bit, "based on what?"

  They entered the elevator and the golden doors hissed shut. The plush interior was quiet as a coffin. Lehane reached over and brushed Sandy's hair out of her eyes. "Stay sharp."

  "Don't get all gooey on me, cowboy." She grinned. "It might take your mind off your work. Now what makes you think we've been compromised?"

  "Someone or something has been a step ahead of us. Maybe there's a reason for that, something that isn't connected to Enrique, but until then I'm going to assume it's because there's a man or woman on the inside."

  "Woman?"

  "Present company excluded."

  "You damned well better say that."

  He took her hand. "I don't suppose I could talk you into waiting outside."

  "Not a chance."

  The elevator rocketed skyward. Several floors went past, announced by soft, round pings.

  "This woman last night, the doctor whose boyfriend got killed?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Do you really believe what she told the police, that she saw some kind of a monster dragging Feldman away?"

  "I'm starting to believe anything is possible, even monsters."

  He was serious. Sandy swallowed. "Holy shit, Jeff."

  They began to slow down.

  "Okay, to business," Sandy said. "We go in unarmed and I stand around looking pretty, is that it? What do you want me to do?"

  "Just listen, the way I know you can. And watch my back."

  "Empty handed."

  "Improvise." The doors opened. The entire lobby, other than the hardwood flooring, was covered with an elegantly patterned, earth-toned fabric. A large vase of fresh flowers contributed a fresh, earthy scent. Vivaldi was piped in via hidden speakers and the lights had been dimmed low enough to create the ambiance of a fine restaurant. The concierge had sent up a bottle of champagne and some fluted glasses.

  "Nice." Sandy moved to the tray and examined the crystal. "Really top drawer stuff, Jeff."

  "Our friend makes a decent amount of money."

  "Apparently."

  Lehane felt his stomach tighten. No one was there to greet them. That bothered him. He found himself wishing he'd brought something, perhaps tried to stash a throw down in his sock. At the end of the long hallway, two large wooden doors beckoned. There was nowhere else to go, unless they turned back.

  Sandy Hammer followed his line of sight. She put the glass back where she'd found it, on the gold-plated tray. She took his arm, dipped her head and smiled coyly, spoke like a southern belle. "Shall we?"

  The door opened a crack as they approached and Lehane froze when he saw the silenced barrel of a gun. He instinctively stepped in front of Sandy. The lights in the conference room behind were bright enough to make Lehane blink, and served to disguise the other man's features.

  "We're not packing."

  "I'll just make sure, okay?"

  The gruff voice was familiar, so when the gunman stepped out into the corridor. Lehane was not surprised. "So it's you, Mike. I guess I should have figured. You're also the big guy going around town asking the same questions as me, right?"

  "Turn around," Castle said, mildly. "I'm going to pat you guys down. It's nothing personal."

  Sandy smiled frostily. "Better not be."

  Castle was brisk and efficient. He ran his hands well up their legs and did not hesitate to check their privates. Lehane realized he would not have gotten away with stashing a firearm.

  "Lot of trouble to go to for a rap star."

  "I just follow orders," Castle replied. He stepped back, the gun braced in both hands. "Go on inside, I'll be right behind you."

  Lehane entered the conference room with a cold ice cube at the back of his skull, the spot where a kill shot could be effortlessly placed, but nothing untoward happened. Enrique was standing at the end of the room, by some closed curtains, with a glass of champagne in one hand. His handsome face seemed etched more deeply than the last time Lehane had spoken to him, and his shoulders were slumped forward. The singer wore loose trousers and a white, short sleeved garment that looked like a blouse. He was smoking a small cigar.

  "Punch, from Havana," Enrique said, pleasantly. "It's my only real addiction. I hope the smoke doesn't bother you."

  Lehane shrugged. "Hell, not half as much as having a gun pointed at the back of my head." He took in their surroundings, double-checking everything, confident that Sandy was doing the same. The sparely furnished room had thick curtains that were pulled shut. Sandy cruised over to open them slightly so that some morning sunlight could enter the room.

  "Don't do that," Castle said.

  "Fluorescents give me a headache."

  Enrique waved his hand. "Let it go, Mike."

  The room was long and carefully designed around the huge, wooden conference table at the center. Perhaps thirty expensive office chairs were placed around; the largest was across the room from them, at the head of the table, where Enrique Diaz now sat.

  The singer waved his hand and a dragon of smoke curled through the rarified air. "I'm sorry for all the fuss, really I am, Mr. Lehane. I chose this place because it has a separate elevator that comes directly here from my suite. I feel safer knowing I have limited the options of my enemies."

  "Now, see, you're getting down to what I'm curious about," Lehane said. He took Sandy by the elbow and walked her along behind the silent row of empty chairs, closer to Enrique. "Would you mind filling me in who these so-called enemies are?" He kept walking until he was in the patch of sunlight streaming through the lightly tinted, floor to ceiling windows.

  "That's far enough," Mike Castle said. Lehane turned, nonchalantly, and noted that Castle still had a bead on his brainpan.

  "I never argue with a man who's got me in his sights. We'll sit here, Sandy." He pulled a chair away from the table. Sandy sat down, rather primly, her arms folded. Lehane coul
d see her mind working. He sat one chair closer to Enrique than she did.

  "Mike," Enrique said, "try not to be rude. These people are our guests until they prove otherwise."

  Castle did not respond, except to nod. He seemed to be enjoying himself, perhaps because he finally had Lehane in his sights, instead of the other way around. He lowered himself to a chair without changing his aim.

  Enrique took a puff on his cigar, set it down flat in an ornate crystal ashtray. "I would like you to tell me everything you know about the murders. I think it would be much simpler that way."

  "You're probably right about that," Lehane said, clearly surprising the singer by agreeing. Even Sandy gave him an odd look. "Do I have your word you'll return the favor, quid pro quo?"

  "You do."

  Lehane leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I didn't know anything about this until Heather was murdered. The killer, Roger Gordon, seemed to know me, which made no sense at the time, although now we know that you chartered an aircraft from his company not ten days before you came to Vegas to do your concert. Also that he flew here on the same flight as a biker who tried to kill me near my ranch. How am I doing so far?"

  "Not bad, although I didn't know about the biker." Enrique gestured vaguely with the cigar. "I'll tell you more in a minute. Keep going."

  "This is where it really starts to get weird, but then I suppose you know all about that too, don't you?"

  Enrique sighed. "Most assuredly."

  "Someone or something chewed up my wife's body, Enrique. I asked for permission to investigate." He glanced at Castle. "Of course, you already know that, too. Anyway, a number of strange things happened in rapid succession. People who worked in and around the morgue disappeared for no reason. Then I saw the video and realized that Gordon spit on the paramedic who tended to him before he died. And that the biker who attacked me spit on the cop who tried to help him. I'm convinced that's significant."