Daemon: Night of the Daemon

by Harry Shannon

  Maybe half of the locals, mostly senile old-timers, lived more than a mile away, in trailers or in shanty houses built from roadside trash and highway signs. The other six or seven came and went, some making a meager living selling old west pieces in Elko or Reno, some just smoking grass in the desert or drinking and going quietly mad.

  Don Pinker fell in the latter category.

  The undertaker with no one to bury—or so he would introduce himself—Pinker had originally moved from the quiet outskirts of sedate Sacramento, California to Nevada to "get away from those damned crowds." A monkish man prone to wearing black and silver, he had attended mortuary school in San Francisco and worked steadily whenever his drug use was under control.

  Pinker had purchased the mortuary operation for a pittance more than twelve years before, and never looked back. It had two embalming tables, several freezers for corpses, sample caskets, two floors and a small crematorium; everything he could have desired. Pinker had not been concerned that business would be scarce, because he felt he could live in stoned-out solitude while growing, raising and sometimes even slaughtering his own food.

  The occasional ranching family called him to collect their dead, supplying Pinker with just enough cash to purchase coffee, sweets and condiments. He had chickens, pigs and a small group of sheep penned up behind his small fruit orchard, also an active vegetable garden on the north side of his property. His one indulgence, besides a steady intake of marijuana and prescription drugs, was a satellite dish and a giant flat screen television set.

  Pinker slept on a foldout couch in the upstairs office. He drove a plain, white van with the name of his business on the side, rarely went to a larger town. He also talked to himself on a regular basis; thus, one stoned viewing of the Gollum in "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy left him paranoid for three days.

  The Bouquet Funeral Parlor sat on a small mountain just northeast of the small, deserted ghost town. From high above, Flat Rock itself was shaped like a large capitol letter L followed by two smaller, lower case l's. The western buildings were part of a reconstructed mining town, and consisted of various empty shacks, former stables, an assayer's office, an empty grocery and two saloons. Behind them, a few tiny wooden shacks, their stunted doorways demonstrating the smaller height of the miners who came west during the great migration, were scattered on the western hills.

  Two trails, south and north, led past rusted wheelbarrows and decaying wagons and then up steep slopes to the two barren mines. A defunct casino and a parking lot occupied the center of town. The east side of Flat Rock, the smallest letter l, had a few store fronts that had, forty years before, held tourist stores and an ice cream parlor. The buildings were all shuttered and closed. The one road north led up the hill, past a large white gazebo and to the parking lot of the mortuary itself.

  Night after night, high above Flat Rock, Pinker sat in his upstairs office smoking bowls and popping mail order Vicodin, watching old movies on television. Some evenings he would wander out onto the porch; sit in his gazebo to pass out under the stars. Because of the continued solitude, and perhaps also his perennially whacked state, Pinker tended to jump when the telephone rang. His eventual solution was to turn the ringer off and count on his answering machine's blinking to alert him. This slovenly inattention to detail was about to catch up.

  Late that afternoon, Pinker was in a rocking chair, blearily peering out his upstairs window and down into the valley and the town of Flat Rock, waiting to groove on the red and pink colors of the coming sunset. When he spotted the two pairs of headlights coming up the hill, Pinker thought he was hallucinating.

  Holding on to the wall for support, he found his way back to the answering machine. It was blinking. Without checking the message, Pinker changed his foul smelling black shirt for a fresh black shirt, splashed some water on his face and went downstairs to greet his customers. He waited until he heard people coming up the steps before opening the door. He saw two large vehicles parked by the white gazebo.

  "May I help you?"

  The afternoon light was fading, giving the man who stood before him an odd and ghostly appearance. He seemed familiar.

  "You can, Donald," the man said, "start by answering your fucking telephone. We've been trying to reach you for hours."

  "Hello, Mr. Jeffrey. I didn't recognize you."

  Lehane moved closer to shield Pinker. He liked the little mortician, but didn't particularly want him to observe what was being unloaded from the trucks.

  "We need your building again, Donald."

  "Why, certainly," Pinker responded. Although he couldn't recall the precise amount, he remembered having been handsomely compensated the last time out. "When will you be requiring use of the premises?"

  "Tonight. Now."

  "Excuse me? Why, I couldn't possibly…"

  Two men rushed in rolling a gurney weighted down by a green, military-style body bag. They headed for the embalming room. Then a short, muscular man pushed by carrying a large box filled with tiny microphones and cameras. Yet another man followed, bumping a loaded dolly up the steps at a rapid pace. He carried more small cables, two laptop computers and an oversized color monitor. A very pretty woman wearing a loose jogging outfit was pulling some suitcases out of one van and stacking them side by side. Pinker got curious.

  "May I ask what is going on?"

  "Nope."

  "Oh. What about my neighbors, shouldn't we…"

  "They have all been evacuated, Donald. They were told that there was a toxic chemical spill out on the highway, and that it should be okay to return after noon tomorrow. They all got cash for a motel."

  Pinker became alarmed. "There was a chemical spill?"

  Lehane sighed. "Donald, would you come with me, please?"

  "Why, I suppose…."

  Lehane took him by the elbow and led him down to the gazebo and out of the way. Meanwhile Guri and Pops continued to feverishly unload the expensive electronics and rig the house for Whiz.

  "It's good to see you again, Mr. Jeffrey," Pinker said, obsequiously. He seemed to genuinely like Lehane. "What have you been up to?"

  "Let's do this first." Lehane peeled off five one hundred dollar bills and handed them to Pinker. "This is just a token of our sincere appreciation, Donald. The real fee will be significantly higher, okay?"

  The money vanished into a pants pocket, cartoonishly fast. "What can I do to help you, Mr. Jeffrey?"

  "You can drive away, Donald. Maybe treat yourself to a nice hotel room and a girl somewhere." He slapped Pinker on the cheek, with just enough force to get his attention. "But whatever you do, don't come back before noon tomorrow."

  "But my animals…"

  "It won't hurt them to get fed a few hours later. Now, I mean it. That is part of the deal. Don't come back before noon."

  "Uh, okay. Okay."

  Pinker started to leave the gazebo, but Lehane held his face. "There is one more thing, Donald. That personal question I need to ask. How much did you pay for this place when you bought it?"

  Pinker told him.

  "And about how much would you say it's worth now, including the animals and all of the embalming equipment?"

  Pinker told him that, too.

  "Okay, then. Keep driving, and don't worry about whether or not you have insurance. If anything goes wrong here my company has you covered. We will double the money you have invested. You can rebuild the place or move away, we don't care what you do."

  Pinker poked his head around and caught a glimpse of Mike Castle unloading a case of grenades. "Oh, my. This all looks…rather ominous."

  "All you need to know is that whatever happens, we've got your back. Now get moving, and don't come home tonight. If all goes well, you'll get five grand for one night's rental."

  "Five thousand?" Pinker was openly thrilled. He rarely netted that much in a calendar year.

  "If it goes south, we double the value of your business. All in cash. Agreed?"

  Pinker sighed. His lower l
ip trembled. "I don't want to make trouble, Mr. Jeffrey, but my poor animals need to be fed, not just tomorrow morning, but tonight. I haven't gotten to it yet, because I've been…busy."

  "We don't have time for that right now." Seeing the pitiful expression, Lehane soothed him with a white lie. "I'll see if one of my men can get it done. Do we have a deal, Donald?"

  They shook hands. Pinker nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

  "Okay, now get your ass into that used car over there. We'll be needing your van for atmosphere."

  "My van, too?"

  "Everything. Now remember, I don't want to see you again before mid day tomorrow."

  "Can't I get some clothes?"

  Lehane sighed and peeled off another two hundred. "Buy some."

  "I'll need to get something from the van. Please, it will only take a minute."

  Lehane read his mind. "Okay, but hurry."

  Pinker went down the gazebo steps and jogged clumsily to the mortuary van. He got flat in the dirt, rolled over onto his back and crawled under the back fender. A few seconds later he emerged carrying a package wrapped in newspaper and masking tape. He stuffed the package of drugs under the tail of his black shirt and met Lehane midway down the drive.

  "Let's go, Donald." Lehane hustled the mortician down the slope and into the Pinto, gave him the keys. He leaned in the driver side window. "Do I need to mention what will happen to you if you were to ever reveal any of this?"

  Pinker blanched. "I would never talk."

  Lehane patted his shoulder. "Just let me remind you, my organization is well connected. We will treat you well if you help us, but if you betray me there will be nowhere on earth you can hide."

  "You're scaring me."

  "Good. Now get."

  Lehane watched the undertaker drive away then turned and sprinted up the hill. "Mike, Sandy, get those wireless sensors planted while we still have some light. Bury them every twenty feet or so, all around the property. Move it."

  Castle went west, Sandy east. Lehane disliked letting her out of his sight, even for a few minutes. Guri came out again, and began lugging suitcases up the steps. "Pops has already started on the wiring, boss."

  "Good. I'll get the Willie Pete."

  Lehane went to the front of the vehicle and grabbed a thick metal case containing a dozen white phosphorus grenades. He tugged the heavy parcel up the steps and into the parlor and set it down at the foot of the stairs. If it came to call tonight, the hungry Bhuta would bite off more than it could chew.

  "Pops, how's it going up there?"

  Pops hurt himself, swore. "I'll have the computers up and running in maybe ten minutes. The wiring is already there for the sensors and cameras. Whiz should be online with us before the sun goes down."

  "Good work."

  Lehane went back outside, onto the porch. He watched as Sandy trotted back from planting the sensors. "Where's Castle?"

  Sandy bent over, gripped her thighs. She was out of breath. "I don't know, but I had pretty stable ground all the way around the crematorium. I guess that's why they call it Flat Rock. I think Castle had to haul everything uphill and around through the garden."

  "Okay, get upstairs and help Pops. Pick up a sidearm while you're at it. We all lock and load once it gets dark."

  "Will do."

  She gave him a peck on the cheek as she passed by. Lehane shaded his eyes. The sun was sinking in the west and the skyline was a wide smear of pastels peppered with small white clouds. He checked his watch. Annoyed, he jogged north, past the gazebo and the porch then went around the mortuary and into the vegetable garden. He found himself in a small patch of cornstalks nearly his height.

  "Castle?"

  Lehane moved forward, cautiously. Long shadows stroked the garden. When he came out of the cornfield, he stepped into some cow shit at the edge of a square packed with tomato plants. Grimacing, he tried to clean his boot on a wooden stake.

  Something moved in the trees, perhaps thirty feet away. Knowing it was likely to be Mike Castle, but playing it safe, Lehane palmed his Glock, crouched down.

  The shape moved again, a slightly clumsy walk that listed from left to right. Lehane swallowed as the small hairs on the back of his neck writhed. He raised the Glock, sighted but kept his finger outside the trigger guard.

  Mike Castle stumbled into view. He dropped a sensor at the edge of the garden. He moved toward Lehane. He was counting steps under his breath and had the last sensor in one hand.

  He had an open pint of cheap whiskey in the other.

  Lehane got to his feet. "Give me that."

  "Whoa! Jesus, you scared me." Castle shifted the whiskey bottle behind his back and into a coat pocket like he'd had a lot of practice.

  "Give me the last sensor, Mike."

  Looking puzzled, Castle closed the distance and handed it over. "Sure thing, Jeff. What's the matter?"

  Lehane took the sensor and turned around. He walked a few more paces and placed it among the stalks of corn. When he got back to his feet, Castle was still waiting. "I think you know what's wrong."

  "Oh, lighten up," Castle said. "Moving that poor dude's body into the embalming room kind of freaked me out."

  "It shouldn't have."

  "You're right, Jeff. I was going back inside to have some coffee. I'll be fine before anything hits the fan."

  Lehane shook his head. "No way, Mike. You're fired."

  "What?" Castle seemed genuinely shocked. "You're short handed as it is asshole. You can't be serious."

  "I'm serious. You can take one of the trucks. Just make sure it gets back to Spinks some time tomorrow. I'll see that Enrique pays you a couple of weeks of severance in addition to whatever you collect from Charlie."

  "I can hack this. Pops will vouch for me."

  "I don't care."

  "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Castle tried move closer, did his level best to intimidate. He only succeeded in covering his shoes with more fertilizer.

  Lehane held his ground. "I'm the team leader. It is my judgment that you're unfit to serve and constitute a hazard to the team. So that's it, you're done."

  Castle suddenly looked down and saw the filth on his brand new shoes. He went apocalyptic. "You know what? You've been on my ass since the day we met. Maybe it's time I kicked your ass."

  Lehane raised the gun. "You can have that chance, Mike, but it will have to be some other time and place."

  "You bastard."

  "I can't afford to slow things down just because you got your feelings hurt."

  Lehane fished in his pocket, found the keys to the smaller van. He tossed them to Castle. "Guri finished unloading. Take his van and go."

  For a long beat, Castle seemed willing to challenge the Glock, but then he snorted. "Go ahead, Lehane. Get all your friends killed. Me, I'm going to find a casino and play cards. If you live through the night, watch your back."

  "A card game sounds like a reasonable idea," Lehane said, evenly. "As for the rest, you want a piece of me just make damned sure you're ready to go the distance. Now beat it."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  "Damn it!" Pops slapped the side of the monitor. "Now we've got audio but we still can't see you." He stretched himself up and over the desk. "Hang on a second, Whiz. Let me check the obvious stuff first." Lehane watched as Pops unplugged and replaced several of the connections. He impatiently checked the time. It was dark outside, which made him nervous. Although the driveway now held only the official mortuary van, any untoward noise inside the building might give them away. He wanted the Bhuta to think that the mortician was both on the premises and alone.

  The monitor flickered. Lehane saw Whiz, making faces into the camera. "There it is. You should have picture, now."

  "We've got your ugly mug." Pops began to fine-tune the image. He checked his watch. "I need to get my ass moving pretty soon. Listen, Jeff. Can you maybe reconsider about Castle? Mike is an old friend, and a real pro."

  "Yeah, except when he's drunk. Sorry, Pops. No can do
. Have you got the Gazebo online yet, Whiz?"

  "The camera in the sucker isn't getting much, but the one on the porch light is working fine."

  "The rest of the rooms, and those embalming tables?"

  "I think we're okay."

  "How about the mountainside?"

  "We're going to have to let Pops handle himself, boss. There's no way I'll have enough time to locate and focus right now."

  "Okay, listen up," Lehane barked. "Let's run a quick systems check. Everybody haul your asses in here for a final sit down. And after that, I want this place quiet as a mouse fart until our guest arrives."

  "Turn my camera maybe six inches to your right, Pops," Whiz said from the screen. Pops adjusted his view. "Okay, that rocks."

  The computer gear was now situated in the upstairs living quarters, where Pinker had his bed and some easy chairs. Sandy sat on the bed, Guri in a chair by the console. Pops stood in the doorway, a large, green canvas bag at his feet. He wore a sniper's ghillie suit, fully camouflaged, and was busily blacking out his facial features. Like all of the others, he had a headset and neck microphone already in place.

  "How are the outside cameras coming?"

  "Working on it, Jeff. Give me another couple of minutes."

  "Okay, but get the lead out."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  Lehane pinched his brow. "By the way, Pops, did you stay with that modified Dragonov SVD?"

  "Nope." Pops knelt down, patted the green canvas bag. "We're flying American tonight, ladies and gentlemen. I brought me the M14, special optic sight with cross hairs and aiming dot. Her name is Bertha, and she's the same sweetheart I used to spook out Castle this morning."