Текст книги "Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys"
Автор книги: Gary A. Braunbeck
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 31 страниц)
3
It wasn’t just the freezing rain that kept my mood more on the downside that night; I’d felt like something was…off all day. Ever since I’d arrived at the shelter—well before four that afternoon—it seemed like the whole world was moving at a slow, liquid crawl. People looked out their windows at the dark skies as if they sensed there might be something looking back down at them but taking care to keep itself hidden from their gazes.
I guess that sounds a little on the melodramatic side, and I’m sorry I can’t make it any clearer than that, but there was just this feeling in the atmosphere. The closest thing I can think of to compare it to is the day the World Trade Center buildings went down. Remember how, when you went outside, even if there were no radios or television sets to be heard, even if you were alone, you could feel the weight of it in the air? As if the wind itself had been stopped dead in its tracks, stunned by the horror of it, and everything around you was holding its breath, wondering, What happens now?
That’s what this day had felt like to me.
Like I’d told Ethel, I hadn’t been sleeping too well the past few days, and I figured that had a lot to do with the way I was seeing things. It wasn’t like some slimy, big-ass tentacled monster was going to come dropping down on Cedar Hill like a curse from Heaven once the clouds parted and the rain stopped. I was just tired. That had to be it.
Once the van’s engine was all warmed up, I turned the heater on and in a few minutes had the inside all toasty. I pulled around in front and waited for the Reverend, who came out almost right away, carrying a cooler that I knew was full of sandwiches, as well as three Thermoses; two of hot coffee, one of hot chocolate. He slid open the side door, shoved the cooler inside, then closed the door and climbed into the front passenger seat.
“Me, too,” he said.
“What?”
He shook off the rain, ran his hand through his hair to push it back from his face, then looked right at me. “I’ve been feeling it, too.”
I blinked. “Feeling…wh-what? What’re you—?”
He shook his head. “Don’t play dumb with me, Sam. All day you’ve felt like something’s been off, haven’t you? Like something’s about to happen?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. Yes.”
“Hence my saying, ‘Me, too.’ Try to keep up.” He leaned forward and looked out the windshield, his eyes turning up toward the rain. “Makes you crazy, doesn’t it? That sense that something’s going to happen and you don’t know if it’ll be something good or something…not.” “Either way,” I said, putting the van into gear, “we got the perfect night for it.” The Reverend turned to me and smiled. “That’s just like you, Sam. ‘The perfect night.’ Saying something like that.” “Oh, it’ll be all right, Mr. Frodo, you’ll see.” I pulled away from the curb and the Popsicle Patrol officially began.
Believe it or not it was the Reverend, not me, who started calling it that. It strikes some people as offensive—Ethel, in particular, thinks it’s pretty tasteless—but the Reverend defends it by saying: “Would it be in better taste if I called it the ‘Corpse-sicle Patrol’? Because that’s what they’ll be if we don’t get to them in time. If you wish for us to change the name, then you have to make at least two runs with us. Otherwise you get no say.”
Ethel declined the offer and never complained about it again after that.
There are five pickup points on Popsicle Patrol, and on nights like this, when the rain and the wind and the cold conspire to freeze you in place, the homeless folks all know where these pickup points are and know which routes to take in order to get there; that way, if we pass each other while they or us are heading in that direction, we just stop and pick them up. Cedar Hill isn’t that big of a place when compared with a city like Columbus or Cincinnati, but it still takes a while to drive through it on bad weather nights. The Reverend established the pickup points about five years ago, when he first showed up in Cedar Hill, and since then not one homeless person has frozen to death here in winter—or any other time of the year. Let’s see Columbus or Cincinnati try and claim that.
The first pickup point is on the downtown square at the east side of the courthouse. Like all pickup points, we pull up and wait fifteen minutes, then drive on to the next if no one shows. As soon as we have a full van, we go back to the shelter, drop them off, then head to the next pickup point, and so on. The Reverend took a lot of time figuring out the route, making sure that the trips to and from each pickup point takes us past the previous ones again in case anyone new has shown up in the meantime. All in all, we pass each pickup point a minimum of five times during Popsicle Patrol, which is why it usually takes us a couple of hours.
We pulled up the courthouse and I automatically killed the headlights.
“Sam,” said the Reverend.
“Sorry, force of habit.” I keep forgetting that the out-of-towners are wary of approaching a dark van. I turned the headlights back on just in time to see a man with no legs rolling himself toward us on a makeshift cart built from two skateboards and a wooden crate, using two canes to propel himself forward.
The Reverend looked at his watch. “He’s late.”
“Probably didn’t want to get stopped for speeding.”
The Reverend started to laugh, stopped himself, said, “Sam, that’s not funny,” and then burst out laughing. The man in the cart heard the laughter, pulled back his canes, adjusted the gloves on his hands, then folded his arms across his chest and stared at us. With the canes forming a giant ‘X’ across his body, he looked like some ancient Egyptian sarcophagus, only crabbier.
The Reverend reached back and slid open the side doors, calling, “Come on, Linus, your security blanket hath arrived.”
“Oh, jeez—I’ve never heard that one before.” Linus—I don’t know his real name, he calls himself that after that character Humphrey Bogart played in Sabrina, not the Peanuts character—pulled down his canes and pushed himself over to the van. “You were laughing at me.”
“No,” said the Reverend. “I was laughing near you. There’s a difference.”
“Especially when you ain’t the one who’s wet and cold.”
“Now-now, Linus; don’t get short with me.”
“Oh, that’s a stump-slapper, all right.” He tossed his canes into the back, then pulled himself up into the van while I got out and went around to retrieve his cart, watching as he maneuvered himself around and up into one of the back seats. Most people would take one look at Linus and feel revulsion or pity; me, I marvel at the strength of the man. His arms are the most muscular I’ve ever seen in person. You had to feel bad for anyone who might be on the receiving end of one of his punches. “You got any more carny worked lined up?” I asked him. “Starting in early June,” he replied. “I will once again be touring the tri-state area as Thalidomide Man.” “You gonna carve out any more of those little wood figures you used to sell?” “Always.”
Linus makes a seasonal living with whatever touring carnival will hire him. He calls himself “Thalidomide Man” because of his legs—tells people it was because his mother took the drug during her pregnancy. Every season he whittles a couple of hundred little wood figures of himself—long arms, hands, no legs—and sells them for a couple of dollars each. I have a few, and have noticed that he tends to change the look of the figure every year, usually making himself much more handsome than he really is...and I tell him that every year. One of these days he’s going to carry through on his threat to bite off my kneecaps.
I put the cart on top of the van, covering it with the tarpaulin we keep there, then secured it in place with a length of clothesline. The Reverend reached back and slid closed the side door as I was climbing back in just in time for their traditional Godzilla Trivia game.
“All right,” Linus was saying. “I got a toughie for you tonight.”
“I doubt that.” The Reverend knows his Godzilla trivia.
Linus made a hmph sound, then cracked his knuckles like some card dealer ready to toss out a losing hand to an opponent. “Okay, Mr. Chuckles, try this one: Name the first movie where Godzilla was the good guy and tell me the other monsters who were in the movie and how long into the movie it is before good-guy Godzilla makes his first appearance.” The Reverend looked at Linus and grinned. “Is that it?” Linus looked at me. “’Is that it?’ he asks me. A lesser man would feel insulted.” “A lesser man would have no arms and be hanging on a wall and be named Art,” I replied.
Linus made the hmph sound again and shook his head. “You know what you two are? You’re limb-ists.”
“That’s not a word,” I said.
“Then how can I say something that isn’t a word? Huh? Answer me that one, Kato.”
“Godzilla Vs. Monster Zero,” said the Reverend. “Godzilla, Rodan, and Ghidra. And it’s thirty-seven minutes into the movie before both Godzilla and Rodan first show themselves.”
Linus was visibly crushed. “I thought for sure you’d miss it. A three-parter. I’d’ve bet money you’d miss at least one of them.”
“Try another one.”
Linus shook his head. “No, thank you; one disgrace a night is my limit.”
“I got one,” I said. Both the Reverend and Linus looked at me in surprise. I shrugged, then said: “What was the name of the giant rose bush that Godzilla fought with?”
“Biollante,” they both said simultaneously; then Linus chimed in with: “The best special effects they save for the dumbest story line. It’s a damn shame.”
“Well, I tried.”
Linus reached over the seat and patted my shoulder. “It was a good question, though, Sam. Most people don’t know that any new Godzilla movies were made after Terror of Mecha-Godzilla. And I don’t count that big-budget abortion from ’98…although Jean Reno kicked ass in it.”
“Yeah, he’s great,” said the Reverend.
After that, the three of us fell silent for a few minutes. The rain was turning into serious sleet, and a few pebble-sized chunks of hail bounced off the windshield. I turned up the defrost and ran the wipers, turning the world outside into a liquid blur of shapeless colors.
“A fit night for neither man nor beast,” said Linus.
I turned around and grinned at him. “That’s a line from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, right?”
Linus rolled his eyes and sighed. “We three are just a fount of useless information this evening.”
“No, I fixed up the VCR back at the shelter so this woman and her kids could watch Rudolph before we left.”
“That’s some truly unnerving syntax,” said the Reverend.
“I work hard at it.”
The Reverend poured Linus some hot coffee and gave him a sandwich, and while he ate I checked the time and saw it was about time to move onto the next pickup point. I put the van into gear and was just pulling away from the curb when a police cruiser rounded the corner doing about sixty, its visibar lights flashing but the siren turned off: silent approach. It sped past us, followed by an ambulance whose lights were flashing but whose siren was turned off, also.
“Okay, that’s interesting,” said the Reverend.
Both of the vehicles stopped at the mid-way point on the East Main Street Bridge. One of the police officers got out and looked over the side of the bridge.
Without being told to do it, I spun the wheel and headed in that direction. There’s an old fisherman’s shack on the banks of the Licking River below the bridge that some of the homeless folks in town use as a flop when the weather’s bad and they can’t make it to the shelter.
By the time we got to the bridge, two more squad cars had pulled up and I could see that there was already another ambulance and at least three other squad cars parked down near the river bank.
“They must’ve taken the access road,” said the Reverend, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to try and drive back up that thing tonight.” He threw open the door and climbed out. The police officer who was looking over the railing caught sight of him and turned around, his hand automatically resting on the butt of his gun, but then he saw who it was and relaxed. The Reverend went over and spoke to him for a few moments, the officer nodded his head, asked a question, and on hearing the Reverend’s answer turned his head slightly to the side and spoke into the radio communications microphone attached to his collar. The Reverend thanked him, and then came back to the van.
“What’s going on?” I asked as he climbed in.
“I don’t know. Looks like Joe was at the shack for a little while. He’s not around and they’re still looking for him. They’ve got Martha, though, and I guess she’s in bad shape. The paramedics had to sedate her. That ambulance down there is for her.”
“Then who’s this other one for?”
The Reverend ran a hand through his soaked hair. “Not just yet, Sam. Drive over to the other side of the bridge and pull over.”
Asking no more questions, I did as he asked, and saw there was an unmarked car idling by the curb, its cherry-light whirling on the dashboard. A beefy man was sitting inside, talking on the radio. When he saw the van pull over, he climbed out of the car, pulled up the collar on his coat, and ran over to the side door. It took Linus a moment to get it opened, but once he did the man climbed inside and shook the freezing rain from his hands. “I smell coffee. Why has none yet been offered to me?”
“And a good evening to you, too, Bill,” said the Reverend, unscrewing the top of a Thermos and pouring. Detective Bill Emerson took the cup in his thin, dainty, almost-feminine hands (he gets a lot of grief from the guys on the force about them), took a few tentative sips, said, “Starbucks charges you six bucks a shot for stuff this good,” then stared down into the dark, steamy liquid as if expecting to see some answer magically appear. “Okay, so Joe was at the shelter earlier and got upset and took off and you sent Martha after him, right?”
“Right.”
Emerson nodded his head, took another sip of the coffee, then looked at Linus. “Linus, I don’t suppose you’ve got any smokes on you, do you?” “Not tonight, I’m afraid.” “That’s all right. My wife’d kill me if I came home smelling of tobacco.” “How’s Martha?” asked the Reverend. “Quiet, now. They’ve got her in the ambulance.” “Can you tell me anything about what happened?” Emerson shook his head. “Not officially.” “Then off the record?”
Emerson looked up; his eyes were glassy and tired and haunted-looking. “Among other things—which I can’t tell you about, so don’t ask—we found a body down there. I don’t think it’s anyone you know.”
The Reverend tensed. “You don’t know that for certain.”
Emerson reached into his coat pocket and removed three Polaroids that he passed up front. The Reverend looked at all three of them, whispered, “Good God,” and passed them to me.
What happens now? I thought as I looked at them.
There’s an almost-joke that we use to settle the nerves of folks who are passing through, who maybe don’t know about or haven’t heard some of this city’s colorful history: This is Cedar Hill. Weird shit happens here. Get used to it.
Even by the standards of our usual weird shit, what I saw in those photographs was way the hell out there.
The guy had to have been almost seven feet tall. He was naked and pale and dead, but that wasn’t what caused me to gasp, no—he had only one eye socket, directly in the center of his forehead where two eyes struggled to stay in place. His face had no nose; instead, there was a proboscis-like appendage that looked like an uncircumcised penis growing from the center of his too-small forehead.
I was looking at photographs of a dead Cyclops.
What happens now?
I continued staring at them until Linus reached between the seats and snatched them out of my hand. No sooner had he done that and began looking at them than Emerson snatched them from him.
“That’s not fair—they got to see ‘em.”
“Have you seen Joe tonight?” asked Emerson.
“No.”
‘Can you offer me any information that might shed some light on what happened at the shelter earlier this evening?” “No.” “And is there any chance that you’re ever going to replace my wooden figure of Thalidomide Man that the arms fell off of?” “For five bucks, sure.” “I meant for free.”
“What do you think?”
“I think that you’re not connected to this case, then, so you don’t get to peek.” Emerson slipped the Polaroids back into his coat pocket. “Have you ever seen anything like that in your life?”
Both the Reverend and I shook our heads.
“Something strange and maybe kind of terrible is going on in this city tonight,” said Emerson, looking out at the rain. “I can…feel it. This is a perfect night for monsters or ghosts and—Jesus, don’t I sound portentous? Sorry.” He took a couple of deep swallows of the coffee, then wordlessly requested a refill, which the Reverend wordlessly gave. “I’ve felt like something bad’s been going to happen all day,” I said. “For a couple of days, to tell you the truth.” “I hear you,” replied Emerson, then: “Do any of you know any other spots Joe might go to?” None of us did. “Do you think he might have gone back to the shelter?” None of us did. “You guys are a damned helpful bunch,” said Emerson. “Is it all right if I go by and see for myself?” “You can call. Ted Jackson’s holding down the fort until we get back.”
“I’ll do that, thanks.” Emerson finished the coffee, handed the cup back to the Reverend, and slide open the side door. “I don’t have to tell you not to repeat anything, do I?” “Repeat any of what?” said the Reverend. “There you go.” And with that, Emerson closed the door and ran back to his car. I stared at the Reverend for a moment before finally saying, “What the hell was that?”
“That, Samuel, was a deformed human being whose life was probably an unbroken string of lonely miseries that ended on the muddy, freezing banks of this river with no friend near to hold their hand or mark the moment of their passing—that’s who that was.”
I nodded my head and apologized.
“Looked like something out of Jason And The Argonauts, you ask me,” said Linus.
The Reverend shot him a look that could have frozen fire. “Nobody asked you. And I’ll thank you to show a little respect for someone who wasn’t lucky enough to have us find him first!”
Linus blanched at the Reverend’s sudden anger. “I…I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sorry.”
The Reverend glared at him for a moment longer, then exhaled, his shoulders slumping and the anger vanishing from his face. “I’m sorry, too, Linus.” He reached out and grabbed the other man’s hand. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice like that. Forgive me?” “I will if I can have another sandwich.” “Done.” Linus tore into his ham-and-cheese and I pulled out, turned the van around, and headed for the second pickup point. None of us mentioned the photographs; not then, not later, not again. If you live here, you accept the weird shit—even if it’s with a capital ‘W’—or you try to get out. Good luck with that last option.
4
We dropped Linus off at the shelter about an hour later. Beth’s kids immediately wanted to ride on his cart, and Linus was all too happy to oblige them.
We’d picked up another half-dozen folks along the way, and as soon as they were all situated, Sheriff Jackson came up to me and the reverend and said, “Grant McCullers just called from the Hangman. He’s bringing some hot food over for everyone, and it appears that he’s got another guest for you tonight.”
“Who?” asked the Reverend.
Jackson shrugged. “He wouldn’t say. I guess he found the guy camping out between a couple of the lumber piles.”
McCullers owns and operate the Hangman’s Tavern, a place out by Buckeye Lake. It’s called that because the KKK, back in the day, used to hang black folks near the spot. There’s even an old makeshift “T” post with a noose dangling from it to mark the road to the tavern.
Grant’s a good guy. We hadn’t heard much from him since October, when a nasty storm did some serious damage to the Hangman. I hated to think what the repairs were costing him, but even with all his own financial troubles, Grant somehow always managed to come to the shelter a couple times every month to bring some hot food. He’d even offered to donate whatever lumber was left from the repair work so that we could do something about the wall in the basement.
The Reverend checked his watch, then the weather outside. “I wouldn’t want to drive from Buckeye Lake in this weather.”
“Yeah, well, Grant’s funny that way,” said Jackson. “He’ll go out of his way for someone without a second thought. Hell, during the divorce, he and you were about the only people I had to talk to.”
The Reverend nodded his head, then gave the place a quick once-over to make sure everyone was doing all right. “Sam and I are going to make another Popsicle run. Can I impose on you to hang around for another hour?” “Everybody knows I’m here,” said Jackson. “But if there’s an emergency, I’ll have to leave.” “You got my cell number, right?” “I’ll call and let you know.” The Reverend squeezed Jackson’s shoulder. “You’re a really good friend, Ted.” “Don’t spread that around. I have a non-reputation to protect.” The Reverend turned to me. “You get all the sandwiches and coffee refilled?” “All packed up.” “Let’s go, then.” Back in the van, the Reverend turned on the radio as we pulled out. Someone was playing Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” “Oddly enough,” said the Reverend, “not my favorite Dylan tune.” He punched a button and switched to a different station. This next station was also playing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” “That’s an odd coincidence,” I said. The Reverend said nothing, only looked at the radio, then back out at the night. “I want you to do me a favor, Sam.” “Sure thing.” He looked at me. “Pay to attention to where the song is when I change the station, okay?” “Okay…?” He punched another button, going to a third, different station.
Not only was this one also playing the same song, but we’d come in to it at the exact spot where it had been when the Reverend changed stations. This time, I punched a button. Different station, same song, same spot where it had been before. “Maybe something’s wrong with the radio,” I said, switching it over to AM. Same song, same place. The Reverend and I looked at each other. “I told you something was going on tonight,” he said to me.
For the next ten minutes, we changed stations, changed bands, reset selected stations manually, and it didn’t matter a damn; AM or FM, pre-set station or random scroll, every station we found was playing “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, and each time the song was at the same spot where it had been before we switched. Over and over for ten minutes, same thing each time.
“Maybe something happened to Dylan and everyone’s playing this,” I said.
The Reverend looked at me and shook his head. “First of all, if anything had happened to Bob Dylan, it would have been all over the news, which it wasn’t. Secondly, even if that were the case and I somehow missed out on hearing it, I sincerely doubt that—” He checked the current station setting. “—the Power Wad 106 would be playing this song. The Wad specializes in thrash metal. If this were the Guns ‘n’ Roses cover, I might buy your explanation, but we’ve got…” His words cut off as he looked up and saw someone standing in the light fog at the pickup point.
“We’ve got weird scenes inside the gold mine, is what we’ve got.” He turned off the radio and we pulled over so that a too-skinny young man—maybe late 20’s, early 30’s—could get in. This guy didn’t so much stroll as slink toward the van, moving with the easy grace of a cat across the top of a wall; head tilted slightly to the left, long dark hair caught in the wind, hips swaying from side to side.
I leaned toward the Reverend. “Is it just me, or does that guy look like—”
“There’s no ‘look like’ about it, Sam. That’s him.”
Okay, there’s no way to say this without sounding like a basket case, so I’m just going to say it and be done: we’d just picked up Jim Morrison, lead singer of The Doors, a man who supposedly died in Paris almost 30 years ago. Morrison climbed into the back of the van, closed the door, and sat staring down at the floor. “Mr. Mojo Risin,” said the Reverend. Morrison looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and gave a short nod. “I’m a big fan.” The Reverend offered him a cup of coffee. Morrison took it with a half-grin, then sipped at it. The Reverend watched him for a moment, and then asked, “How is it you wound up here?”
And if I’d had any doubts as to who this really was sitting in the back seat, they were erased when he looked back up and said, “I am the Lizard King, I can do anything.”
It was that voice. “The killer awoke before dawn…”, “Break on through…”, “When the still sea conspires in armor…” The same timbre, the same inflections. Not a good imitation of the singer from a tribute band. The real thing.
I started shaking. Morrison saw this, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Easy there, Sam. You got no reason to be afraid of me.” All I could do was nod. “Why are you here tonight?” asked the Reverend. Morrison shook his head. “Sorry, man. I’m not allowed to say.” “Understood. Can you tell us where we need to go next?”
“Second Popsicle pickup point.” Morrison grinned. “Man, alliteration. I’d forgotten what that feels like on the tongue. Not that I ever used it much—alliteration, not my tongue.”
We drove off into the sleeting night.
