“Who sent the picture? Angel?” Wally nodded at me as Risa tapped the screen.
“Look closer. This isn’t ink. And, once Angel calmed down, he started to think that maybe the guy wasn’t drunk, but sick from the tattoo. One small problem. The guy didn’t get it from any needle. Angel said they were on a site and, during a break, a friendly Haitian Tante’ next door offered them drinks. The next day, Angel says the guy, Denis, came to work late, acting like he was hammered. He was aggressive, slurring his speech, and threw his tool belt when Angel asked him why. My question is, just what was in that drink from the kind-hearted neighbor, and are there four more guys on the crew who are going to lose it and go batshit crazy?”
Wally then handed me her phone with another picture on it. It was a serpent nearly identical to the first picture, but this was painted on a reed mat of some sort. Underneath it was the caption From the University Collection, Benin 1989. Risa peered closer at the screen. “You notice how that serpent seems . . . flat? Like a husk? I know what it needs. A host. And Denis was a nice warm body to be exploited.”
She scrolled down slightly. There, under the university caption, was an identifier for the picture. It read simply Parasitic Spirit: Negwenya. Wally unlimbered, stretching as I helped Risa to her feet and picked up the bowls. Gyro padded ahead towards the sliding glass doors. Wally glanced at her phone again.
“Let’s go visit our Auntie for a drink, shall we?”
We considered our visit and decided a simple reconnoiter was in order. The address was in a working class neighborhood of tidy homes that were built in the 1960s. Immigrants from the Caribbean had opened shops and restaurants in nearly every nearby strip mall. One innocuous home, painted white with teal trim, was our target. We were pleasantly surprised to see a small sign in the garage window offering psychic readings from Miss Jean, Seer. That was our ingress. Risa narrowed her eyes briefly, looking back at the house while she punched the number on the sign into her phone.
“I’ll see if Tante’ Jean is taking appointments today. Should I ask for a nighttime visit? We would have less exposure.”
Risa was nothing if not careful. We usually went in two vehicles for the odd quick exit, but, if the house had anything of value that we opted to liberate, it made sense to leave as small a footprint as possible. Given that charlatans were notoriously leery of banks and taxes, it stood to reason that we would have to comb her property for her ill-gotten gains. Frauds preyed on the working class in a complicated dance. They could steal, but not to excess from one mark, opting to incrementally fleece the confused or gullible. I suspected Jean would be a textbook huckster with a stash prized from the hands of hardworking families in her very area. I intended to find those funds for our own crusade. The karmic balance would ultimately end in our favor.
Risa called and spoke briefly to the talented Jean, her voice oozing hope and a hint of desperation. She was an excellent actress on the phone, her supple voice capable of a gifted range of characters.
“Eight o’clock. I’m the last appointment of the day. I think that we’re about to become quite close with Jean--close enough to know secrets, like where she learned how to place a spirit into an innocent man.” Risa’s tone did not bode well for her newfound psychic advisor.
“I plan on finding her loot. I could use a new purse or three for spring,” Wally’s tone was even less forgiving.
Wally and I waited, observing the local traffic at a convenience store two blocks away, while Risa kept her appointment with the netherworld, courtesy of Jean. Through the beauty of online real estate deeds, we found that Jean’s actual name was Yohanna and that she was a native of New Jersey. Apparently, her only true otherworldly quality was the appalling concrete statuary that littered her yard. I couldn’t imagine what décor she had selected, but I knew we would see it soon enough, after Risa had defanged our resident medium. We had decided that some of Yohanna’s stolen funds would finance the art department at the elementary school up the street from our place. They had been hawking baked goods door to door, and their financial shortfall had infuriated Risa. So, we made a note of their teacher’s name and decided an anonymous donation was in order.
The air in the car was stale with waiting, so I opened the door and asked Wally if she wanted anything from the store. I had a craving for some sort of beef jerky, but she just shook her head and leaned back, her earbuds streaming a soccer game from our satellite radio. Walking in between two cars, I saw a battered tomcat holding one paw slightly elevated. He meowed plaintively at me, and I leaned down to see if he could be picked up or if he was too skittish. I can’t stand to see hungry animals, let alone injured hungry animals, and he arched his back and began to purr as soon as I laid my hand on him. I was absorbed in scratching his wide, scarred head, too absorbed, it would seem, because I felt two thin fingers brush my cheek and, instantly, my mouth and gut were awash with a burning that made my breath leave my body in a shuddering wheeze. I went to one knee, a piece of the sun searing through my ribs and stomach in a merciless wave, tears washing my sight into a curtain of smudged colors and light. A woman’s voice, her tone light and mocking, was at my ear.
“Compassion is so human, and so risky. Pity, that.” I heard heels echo on the concrete and collapsed against the nearest car, my head crashing against the door panel with a meaty thump as the hot metallic bile began to fill my mouth and nose. I bit my tongue as my teeth met with a hard clack and felt the grit of the parking lot on my face. With my hands scrabbling against the ground, I felt my strength leaving like water through sand, and in a moment, I felt nothing at all.
I awoke to darkness and a cool, professional touch on my forehead. A young woman spoke to me in a brisk but friendly tone.
“I have your eyes bandaged. You broke massive amounts of blood vessels in them from strain. I’m going to remove the patches and let you adjust to the light. It’s nearly dark, but squint at first or the tears will make your eyes irritated all over again.” Her fingers were busy on my face, carefully peeling tape from my cheek.
“Where am I? Who are you? Where are Risa and Wally? Is Gyro okay? What’s today?” My questions were a flood. “Did Risa see that charlatan, Jean? What was in the house?” I finished for the moment, inhaling deeply. I felt reasonably well, if a bit weak, but disoriented, and my neck was stiff. I sensed that I had been still for some time.
“You certainly wake up inquisitive. I’ll answer what I can as I clear your eyes. I am Boon’s sister, Suma, and you’re in their studio apartment. Your friends insisted that we move you here because of safety issues.” Seeing me open my mouth to speak, she interrupted me. “And your enormous dog is fine. Risa said that would be the first thing you asked when you awoke, so be silent and let me answer your endless interrogatives.” Mollified, I leaned back on the pillow as one eye was now cleared of bandages. I could see a modest bedroom with tan carpet and what seemed to be an enormous amount of medical equipment. Leaning against a wedge pillow, I stretched on a bed that had white sheets and little else. A thin blanket was drawn off the side, where Suma leaned over me. She was a slightly smaller version of Boonsri, but with shorter hair and an intense expression.
“I’m an internist in Orlando, and I was on my way to visit. Risa did not see that woman Jean, and she never will. She’s dead. No, sit back and be still. I need to speak, and you need to listen. Jean was found murdered in Toronto, where she was originally from. Risa found the newspaper article while searching for her after bringing you here. Wally went by her house, and, as you can guess, it was empty. It seems she was a run-of-the-mill con artist, and her past caught up with her. But enough about that. You are still capable of suffering further harm, and I need information.”
At that pronouncement, I eased back, shocked that I was still at risk. I didn’t even know what I was at risk of, so I obeyed.
“You were poisoned in a manner well outside my experiences, and by a toxin so unusual that it caused me to pursue alternative methods to aid you in hea
ling. What was your last sensation outside the Quikstop?” she asked, pausing to let me speak.
“I felt a thin hand, a woman’s hand, or fingers, rather, brush my mouth, and then a horrible bitterness, then heat and pain. God, the pain was--it was instant, and it was so complete and violating. I heard a woman’s voice mocking me, and I remember feeling the asphalt on my knees. I touched a smooth car handle, I think. Light became a blur, and then I tasted metal and bile. I felt like my whole body was melting and that my guts were leaving me. I thought I was dead.” The speech exhausted me, and Suma held a glass with a straw to my lips. Even my brow twitched with the effort to stay present, but the water was cold and had a hint of something earthy in it. She pulled the straw away and stroked my forehead, compassion filling the simple gesture.
“I am a woman of science, so what I am seeing is unsettling, to say the least. I found pollen on your mouth and neck and shards of tree nuts in your teeth. You were poisoned, presumably, by the same woman who killed that man three weeks ago . . . yes, stay still. You’ve been here for twelve days.”
My alarm was immediate. “Twelve? Days?” I asked, stunned. The enormity of what happened to me muscled into my psyche, an unwanted reality that I found frightening and humbling. I knew now that I had nearly died and that only my particular augmentations had saved me. That fact also told me something about the murderess that nearly ended my life, too. She was probably unaware of how Risa, Wally, and I had gleaned, in small doses, the very traits that made her so lethal. As Suma looked at me, I decided that I would heal. I would be a good patient, and I would have to bring Boon and Panit, as well as Suma, into our inner circle, at least in terms of trust, in order to fully explain why I was so thankful for their intervention. They deserved the truth, no matter how it disrupted their world. They needed to know how dangerous their surroundings could be.
I also decided that whoever this woman was, we were going to kill her, without remorse or hesitation. And I was going to enjoy every second of her agony.
It was a clear Thursday when Wally drove me home. Exhausted and a bit shaky, I wobbled to the couch as my limited reserves of strength were leeched by the simple act of riding in a car and walking ten steps. In spite of this, I felt the first glimmers of normalcy returning to my body, the weakness and betrayal of my muscles leaving me gradually. I had compiled slivers of memory from my fevered sleeps as I recovered images that were disjointed and confusing. I hoped that, from that pastiche of nightmares, we could glean a tactical edge against a threat that was near and very real indeed. In my mind’s eye, I had seen a deep green landscape of soaring trees, hidden streams, and broken rocks, squat with age and covered in mosses. There was a primitive feel to these scenes; no evidence of humanity was ever present until later. In a miasma of visions, I saw a thick-necked deer pause to sniff pale green shoots that clustered around a gnarled root. Glimpses of game trails and meadows covered in a riot of flowers faded into scenes of hunters stalking through underbrush, their rough-spun clothing grey and sodden. Two beasts I had never seen before ghosted through a light fog, one a small, shaggy bison and the other a hulking steer with rippling shoulders and the gait of a king. Then came thudding hoofbeats and Cavaliers with swords slapping their thighs, only to pass into the smell of diesel fumes and tracked vehicles grinding over earthen embankments, the screams of dying soldiers all asking one last time for their mothers as their lifeblood ran from wounds no sword could ever make. All the violence and stillness of a place unknown, compressed into one harried dream of a history from somewhere and some place in time I could not recognize. But I knew the taste of it all, and it was bitter in my memory.
My life had been saved by the excellent care I had received and by a helping of angry resistance that my body used to mute and disperse the assault on my organs from the poison. I was lucky, and I knew it. It seemed that sooner was preferential to later regarding an honest discussion with Boon and Panit. I was physically reduced. I was shaken. I had the echoes of death still reverberating through my body from moment to moment, a constant reminder that my physical temple had been breached. That act had pierced the collective psyche of my household. We, as a family, were left confused and angry by the attack, and the first action would be to have a quiet dialectic that would determine how and what we would do when I recovered. Risa had been brisk and businesslike towards me as I lay on the couch and in my room, but, underneath her constant motion, I sensed real fear. Wally was processing the event differently. A sensualist at heart, she saw the assault as an augury. Our world was changing, and this period of our lives would be a stone upon which we could balance or break our purpose. I called the Butterfly and asked Boon and her family over after they closed.
I had a great deal to say, and they had a great deal to learn.
Panit and Boon sat uneasily on the couch, the kids outside with Gyro in the yard. Risa and Wally hovered, and Suma was present, as well, watching me with an accusatory stare. She intimately knew my wounds, and she was nonplussed by my choice of a serious, emotional discussion, regardless of its necessity. I turned and asked Suma a seemingly innocuous question.
“Did I speak while I was in the bed? Did I say anything that seemed even more detached from reality than you anticipated?” My tone was cautiously bland. This was new to all of us, and I was not only exposing myself to risk, but Risa and Wally as well. Boon, Panit, and Suma were about to be inculcated in an entirely different type of situation, one that could cause them harm from a quarter that they had not previously known. It was an enormous step, but my attack had removed any hope of remaining coy about exactly what and who we were.
Risa intervened as I deliberated how to begin. “You know I am a realist, yes?”
When Boon nodded her assent, Risa went on. “Ring was attacked by a woman who is not entirely a woman. She is . . . she is a person, a being, very violent and amoral. I couldn’t tell you what she is, exactly, but what is important right now is that she is not alone. She is a type of killer who is or was human at one point, but something changed her body at its most basic level into a new form. This new form, or being, regards us as glorified cattle, weak and rife with love and joy and caring, and she will take from us whatever it is that she needs to fulfill the gulf where her soul used to be. Pan, every story you’ve heard as a child, be it a spirit or beast or something else, they are here. They have always been here, and Wally and Ring and I seek and destroy these blights in our world. No matter what shape or name they take, we’ve always believed that the three of us were too strong. Too clever, or fast, or even lucky, to ever be seriously harmed. It was a dalliance at first, albeit a dangerous one. In fourteen years of this life, none of us have been scared for more than a second. Until now. I can see it on Ring’s face. I know him more intimately than a lover, and I can tell you know. The things that we hunt? In the night, the day? This is different in a bad way, and, simply by knowing us, we are fearful that you may come to harm.” Risa paused and looked intently at their faces.
Suma had a question on her tongue, but Boon silenced her with a gentle touch on the forearm.
Boon turned to me. “Spirits, bad things from stories? They are . . . “she waved vaguely, “all around us? And you kill them? How? Why?” It was a reality so divergent from five minutes ago that her voice was soft with shock. Pan sat mute, his eyes flicking to the yard, where the kids sat with Gyro between them.
Wally followed his gaze and spoke up. “They are safe here, Pan, just as they are when they are with you.” He shook his head lightly as if to clear a fog.
Suma recovered quickest and asked me a definitive question. “Ring, if these beings are supernatural, how did you discover you could kill them?”
Ring
Among the many visitors to Florida are Australian pines, which line waterways and shed their needles at a rate that goes well beyond a simple nuisance. Rough limestone and coral at the water’s edge is carpeted in a thick mat, hiding shell fragments and sand with a prickly coat. Crabs clamber over
and through this deposit while insects root under the layer of desiccated boughs. The pines act as insulation against city and traffic noises but let the breeze through unmolested. At the edge of a quiet offshoot of the Intracoastal Waterway sits an unremarkable, single-level motel where my family stayed during their first forays into Florida in the early sixties. Faded teal and black lettering declared that the Reef Queen Motel had occupancies available at all times, not surprising given the simplistic appearance of the building. We had always found it charming in a utilitarian way. With the office in the middle, two sections of eight rooms each stretched out to both sides, ending in a bleak parking lot, dotted with crushed oyster shells and the odd bit of white conch. A concrete seawall ran the length of the building, giving way to the Aussie pines and a shoreline composed of enormous chunks of coral rock put in place by the Army Corps of Engineers years earlier. The water slapped listlessly at the seawall, chopped up by the endless parade of small boats that churned the Intracoastal year round. Still, the trees and a hedge in front of the motel lent an air of privacy, and my parents savored the feeling of peace in the midst of the tourist hordes, themselves included.
Naturally, while my folks dozed or sunbathed, I fished and swam, clambering down in a break between two exceptionally large rocks to a small but firm patch of sand that the tide rarely covered. It was a private resort of my own, and I spent countless hours browning in the sun and catching a myriad of fish, crabs, and any flotsam that looked intriguing. My gear was Spartan but effective. I carried two fishing poles, a small net, a bucket with some tackle, a knife that served as my carving tool, bait preparer, and fish removal kit. It also dissected any dead creature that I came across, satisfying the curiosity of a twelve-year-old boy, so I kept it sharp out of respect for the gift from my uncle as well as sheer practicality. The knife was seven inches long and had a rubbed wooden handle that was dark with use. The metal gleamed with a pewter hue, the blade straight but with a runnel along the spine where the maker’s mark, wholly indecipherable to me, perched just near the well-worn leather wrap that covered the junction of wood and steel. Looking back, it was remarkably light and well balanced, although, at the time, I just appreciated the blade as a functional gift that appealed to my youthful masculinity.
The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Page 5