by Doty, J. L.
Colleen asked, “And what brought it to your attention?”
Salisteen frowned and continued to stare at her food as if recalling a bad memory. “A friend of mine, Mike Ramirez, Sergeant in the Rangers, good cop, smart cop.”
She looked pointedly at Paul. “As you say, he connected the dots.”
She took a pull on a bottle of beer. “He’s also a practitioner of middling talent, checked out one of the bodies and spotted the demon stink, knows when to ask for my help. In these kinds of cases Mike’ll bring me on board as a consultant, pays me a small fee—a very small fee—to make it look right. That allows me and my associates limited, but official, access to view a body or something like that. He’s identified four confirmed victims and four or five other possibilities.
“I called in a number of local practitioners, and with phone calls from Mike paving the way, we canvassed the morgues in the greater Dallas area, looking closely at any death that didn’t have an obvious cause. But we’d have to get court orders and exhume the bodies to be sure. It looks like it’s gone on for about six months.”
The conversation moved on and they talked about some sort of police procedure, but Paul looked deeply troubled, had stopped eating and just toyed with his food. “Little girls eight or nine,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Cloe would be eight now.”
Katherine’s heart lurched as she realized what this meant to him.
Salisteen turned to him and asked sharply. “Who’s Cloe?” The conversation at the table abruptly halted.
“The little girls,” Paul said. “Any pattern there?”
Salisteen frowned at the obvious evasion and she shook her head. “Mostly white and Hispanic, though we suspect one black girl was a victim, but we won’t know for sure without exhumation. They were all different hair color, different economic status. No pattern.”
Paul nodded, stared at his food with blank, vacant eyes. “There has to be a pattern,” he said.
Salisteen dismissed him rather casually. “None we’ve been able to spot so far. The most recent victim hasn’t been buried yet, so we’re going to see her tomorrow.”
~~~
He’d timed it perfectly; as he turned onto the street two blocks away the little Mexican boy and the pretty Mexican girl parted, each walking down a different street. He had no interest in the little Mexican boy; he wasn’t Alice. He could never be Alice. But he could be a problem, might get in the way at the wrong moment, so he decided to follow the boy instead of pretty little Alice.
He drove slowly, but not too slowly. There was an art to remaining unnoticed, a skill he’d acquired slowly with much practice and patience. And the power of the voice within him helped too, and his own skills as a practitioner helped immeasurably.
He watched the little Mexican boy walk up to the front door to his house, an above-average house that meant his parents had above-average money. He drove past and continued on without looking back.
Chapter 5: The Bearer
Plano, Texas was about twenty miles north of the center of Dallas, a rather well-off community of about 300 thousand people, with a lot of high-tech industry. For the most part the population was well educated with a higher-than-average income. But none of that had helped poor Monica Clarkson. Her little body lay quietly in a refrigeration unit in the Collins County Medical Examiner’s Office in McKinney, a few miles north of Plano.
Paul expected to be escorted to a large room with stainless-steel, coffin-shaped, refrigeration drawers, and like on TV, a bored, uncaring morgue technician would slide open one of the drawers and they’d all stand there looking at the body. It was nothing like that.
And he expected Mike Ramirez, Texas Ranger, to be a big man wearing a big western Stetson, a large, silver belt buckle the size of his fist, and cowboy boots. Ramirez was a big man, stood a couple inches over six feet, only an inch or two taller than Paul, outweighed Paul by a good thirty pounds, most of it in his shoulders with only a touch of middle-age gut peaking over his belt line. And he looked more like a Harvard MBA than a cowboy, wearing a neat business suit, faintly Hispanic features, dark brown hair, handsome, with a pleasant smile. Paul thought Salisteen should be all over him.
She made the introductions. When Paul shook Ramirez’s hand he said, “I really appreciate y’all helpin’.” He spoke with a strong Texas accent.
He pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, waited a moment with it pressed to his ear, then said, “Ramirez here. We’ll be there in about five.”
Ramirez got them badged up, then escorted them past a security barrier and led them toward the back of the building. After a few minutes of walking he stopped, opened a door and held it for them. They filed into a room with a large glass window in the back wall that looked into another room with four, stainless steel gurneys lined up in a row. It was a cold, sterile room, with a ceramic tile floor pockmarked by steel drains. A young black fellow finished adjusting a green sheet over a small body on one of the gurneys.
The place had a faintly antiseptic smell that masked a hint of something like sewage, or rotting meat. The underlying scent of decay was so faint Paul couldn’t really place it, but it bothered him.
Ramirez turned to face them. “Anyone here going to puke?”
Paul recalled the day he’d identified Cloe’s body in a somewhat similar setting. He might break down crying, but he wasn’t going to puke.
“I warn you,” Ramirez added, looking specifically at Paul and Katherine. “This ain’t like looking at your old dead grandma who passed away in her sleep.”
Paul said, “I’ll be ok.”
Katherine nodded. “Me too.”
Ramirez led them into the room with the gurneys. When Paul stepped through the door the smell hit him like a bucket of sewage in his face. He gagged, choked and coughed, struggling desperately to hold his breakfast down, leaned against the wall and almost did puke.
“What’s wrong?” Katherine asked.
Paul’s mouth watered profusely and he swallowed hard several times. Colleen put a hand on his shoulder. She glanced toward the morgue technician before whispering, “Demon stink.”
They had all paused and looked at Paul oddly. The young technician smirked knowingly. Ramirez looked at him and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll call you when I need you.”
The kid’s smirk disappeared. He slipped out of the room quickly and closed the door.
“It stinks in here,” Paul said. “Really strong smell, like we’re in a sewer.”
“It’s not a smell,” Colleen said. “We call it demon stink, but it’s really not a smell. Your arcane senses are apparently opening up, and you don’t know how to interpret them so your mind thinks it’s picking up a smell, a particularly bad smell.”
She looked at the rest of them. “And I think he’s probably more sensitive than the rest of us.”
Ramirez and Stowicz frowned, while the rest of them nodded. To reassure them Paul said, “Don’t worry; I’m not going lose my breakfast.”
They gathered around Monica’s body and Paul was thankful her foot wasn’t sticking out of the green sheet with some sort of identification tag wired to one of her toes. The tag was probably there, but at least he didn’t have to look at it. Ramirez folded back the sheet just enough to expose her face. She had blonde, shoulder-length hair that needed washing, and since her eyes were closed he didn’t have to look into her pretty blue eyes. He said a silent prayer of thanks that she didn’t look like Cloe. She was about the same age and size, and like Cloe she had a skinny-little-girl kind of body, but any resemblance ended there, though Cloe had also been a blonde, but a darker shade of blonde than Monica. As Paul looked at poor Monica lying there his thoughts returned to the last time he’d seen Cloe, lying on a similar gurney in a similar morgue, and he realized then that any little girl he saw lying on a stainless steel gurney would look just like Cloe, no matter how different her features or skin color or race might be.
He turned to Katherine and whisp
ered, “I keep seeing Cloe. I can’t do this.”
He turned away from the gurney, spotted a flat bench seat against one wall, walked over to it and sat down. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to put the image of Monica-Cloe out of his mind.
Mr. Paul, a tiny voice said to him, and something tugged on his sleeve. Paul opened his eyes and looked down on Monica seated next to him. She wore a gray pinafore over a pale-blue dress, with white knee-high stockings and shiny black shoes, her hair in pigtails. She looked quite dead; there was no life in her open blue eyes, and she looked up at him with a worried frown on her face. She really only looked a little bit like Cloe.
Mr. Paul, she pleaded. Her lips moved, though no real sound emerged. Y’all gotta help the little Mexican girl. He wants her, and y’all gotta help her. She had a strong Texas accent.
Paul reached out and took her hand in his, patted it gently and said, “I don’t know what to do.”
Y’all gotta help Alice, she pleaded. Please. And y’all gotta help the little Mexican boy too.
~~~
Katherine’s heart lurched when Paul turned to her and whispered, “She looks just like Cloe. I can’t do this.”
As he turned and walked away Stowicz gave him an angry look. Katherine didn’t know what Cloe had looked like, but this must be really hard for Paul. Her father, Colleen, Stowicz and Salisteen were having a rather animated conversation over the little girl’s body, while Ramirez stood patiently in the background. Katherine couldn’t focus on their words, could only stare at the little girl’s lifeless face.
“Katherine,” a deep baritone voice said, and she looked up to see a tall man with coal-black skin standing behind her father and Stowicz. She knew a three-thousand dollar Armani suit when she saw one.
“Come,” he said, nodding to one side. “Let’s talk.”
Katherine couldn’t have resisted him if she’d wanted to, while the others stood frozen like statues made of stone. He stepped away from the group surrounding the gurney, carrying something long and thin wrapped in some sort of canvas. She joined him and stood facing him.
“I am Dayandalous,” he said, carefully unwrapping the bundle. “And you are the bearer. Remember that.”
He finished unwrapping the bundle and handed her a sheathed sword. The sheath was over four feet long, and the hilt protruding from it could easily support a two-handed grip, with a simple cross-guard. She accepted the sword, and felt an overwhelming desire to look upon the blade, so she held the sheath in one hand and wrapped the fingers of the other about the hilt. But Dayandalous reached out and rested a hand on hers, stopping her.
“You are not the wielder,” he said. “You are the bearer. You are his strength, his resolve, and with you at his side he will remain steadfast.”
“Sure, and we’re going be having some fun now,” a small voice said in a thick accent.
She looked down to see the leprechaun Boo’Diddle standing beside her. Then she looked carefully at the sheathed sword in her hands, wondering how she’d come across a sword, and why she now stood off to one side with the leprechaun. Then she sensed something evil enter the room, and instinctively she turned toward Paul.
~~~
You have to help her, Mr. Paul. Please help her.
“Who is she?” Paul pleaded, holding the little girl close, his arms wrapped tightly about her. “Help me find her and I’ll try to help her.”
She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes.
“Don’t be looking in her eyes, you daft fool,” Jim’Jiminie said.
Paul started, looked away from Monica to find the leprechaun standing in front of him, wearing his signature green leggings, a brown doublet over a purple shirt, with bright orange-red hair spilling out from a floppy, red, felt hat perched jauntily on his head.
Mr. Paul.
Paul looked back at Monica, looked into her eyes, and deep within he saw pain and sorrow and fear. And then her eyes flared blood-red, and in their goat-slitted pupils he saw evil and hatred. He drowned in her eyes, felt his soul plunge deep into hers, knew it was up to him to purge the malevolence he sensed there, knew she’d have no peace in the afterlife if he didn’t help her now.
“I told you not to look in her eyes.”
The evil within her had wrapped itself tightly about her soul. He pulled on it, knew he must be hurting the little girl terribly, but better that than leave her soul imprisoned for eternity. She leaned back, arched her spine painfully, opened her mouth and cried out, and from her lips a black stain emerged, coalescing in the room like smoke from the fires of hell. It took on a vague undefined form that left the impression of taloned claws and serpent scales, a mouth filled with razor sharp teeth drooling maggots. The only thing he saw clearly and solidly were its blood-red, goat-slitted eyes as it reached down, gripped him by the throat, lifted him off his feet and tossed him across the room. He landed on the tile floor tumbling, smashing his elbows and knees and head painfully.
“Paul,” Katherine screamed, and the monster turned on her, flowed slowly toward her like smoke drifting on a gentle breeze.
The leprechaun standing next to her shouted, “He needs the sword, girl.”
Katherine back stepped as Paul scrambled to his feet. The monster had her cornered, and as it closed on her and the leprechaun Paul charged at it, limping on a painfully twisted ankle. He reached it a second before it reached her, felt the emotionless hatred of death, a cold so deep he shivered as he passed through it and slammed into her. They tumbled into the leprechaun and the three of them hit the floor in a sprawl of tangled arms and legs.
Boo’Diddle grunted. “Clumsy idiot!”
Paul tried to stand, wobbled precariously as he staggered up onto his feet. Katherine moved faster than him, hooked a forearm under his armpit and pulled him away from the monster. The leprechaun scrambled to one side on his hands and knees. As the apparition drifted almost casually toward them, Katherine stopped, turned to Paul and held out, of all things, a sheathed sword. “Here,” she screamed, offering him the hilt. “Do something with this.”
“A sword?” he demanded. “A fucking sword? What the fuck am I going to do with a fucking sword?”
Eyes wide with fear, Katherine shouted back, “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with it. Just fucking use the fucking thing.”
At that moment the apparition enveloped them, wrapped itself about them like a death shroud, wrapped them in a cold so intense Paul saw Katherine’s breath. It squeezed them together almost in a lover’s embrace, the sword pressed between them, its hilt rising just above her shoulder. It lifted them both off the floor as Katherine swooned and her eyes rolled back. Just beyond her shoulder Paul saw the blood-red, goat-slitted eyes smiling at him, and he screamed, “Nooooo!”
He gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands, slid it clear of the sheath and lifting it high over his head. Then he shouted, “Fuck you, asshole,” and plunged the point into the blood-red eyes.
~~~
By the look on Salisteen’s face, Colleen and she both sensed it at the same moment.
“What the hell!” Walter snarled, clearly sensing it as well, while Stowicz erupted with a string of profanity.
Colleen turned and scanned the room quickly. “Paul, Katherine, where are they? They’re gone.” Paul and Katherine had completely disappeared.
All five of them were looking toward the bench where Paul had retreated when something in the room popped. Paul materialized seated on the bench; Katherine and two leprechauns materialized standing in front of him. Paul and Katherine were both bloodied, their clothing torn. Katherine stumbled on a broken high-heel and collapsed.
~~~
Katherine struggled to her hands and knees, shivering uncontrollably in the intense cold. Paul sat on a flat bench against the wall, blood flowing freely from his nose, a nasty gash on his cheek adding more blood. He’d turned slightly to one side, had his arms wrapped about something she couldn’t see. She opened her arcane senses fully and
her sight blossomed. He had the indigo and violet aura of a strong practitioner, but intertwined with his primary colors were the black threads of a necromancer. His aura had blossomed outward and engulfed something seated next to him on the bench. Katherine could make out a faintly human shape but saw no details, just a hazy shimmer within Paul’s extended aura. There was no sign of the monster they’d just fought.
Katherine got back to her feet and stumbled on a broken high-heel, so she kicked her shoes off. She approached Paul slowly, moving carefully, the two leprechauns at her side. She looked down at Jim’Jiminie. “How do I help him?”
The little fellow shook his head. “You don’t, girl. This is what he does.”
She saw Paul speaking softly to the human-ish shape wrapped in his aura, a tiny shape no larger than a child, and she realized who it must be.
He put his arms around the shape, pulled her close to him and patted her on the head as he rocked back and forth. “It’s all right, Monica,” he said. “It’s all right.”
A breathless hush settled over the room, and Katherine heard the footsteps of the others as they gathered behind her. She heard Colleen hiss, “Leave them alone. The two of them can handle this.”
She squatted down in front of Paul. He continued to rock back and forth. His eyes were open and she saw anger smoldering there. The pain and fear and sorrow emanating from the presence in his arms slowly dissolved, and Katherine felt a calm lethargy settle over the spirit, like the relief one feels when pain medication finally takes hold. And then the presence dissipated and was gone.
Paul leaned back wearily and sighed. “She said we have to help a little Mexican girl and boy. The bastard that killed Monica wants the little girl now; I think her name is Alice.”
Paul’s aura churned, and Katherine felt anger radiating from him like heat from a raging fire. “But I’m going to find the son-of-a-bitch first and kill him myself.”