"There. There. It's okay, boy." His hand hovered inches away from Deputy
Garcia's shoulders. "I've seen him now and you can... ." He was
interrupted by Garcia shaking and retching. "Let it out, boy. Let it
out." His deputy heaved and finally spit a few globs of acidic phlegm
down on the puddle of vomit. "Just go. Outside, now. I've got it from
here. Just send up Johnny as soon as he shows."
Sheriff Hyram Booth turned away from his deputy and pulled open the
windows. The smell inside the small courtroom was stomach turning. Vomit
and the metallic stench of blood. He took a deep breath, filled his
lungs with outside air before he turned around and approached the
judge's headless corpse.
The fat, white-haired man had been beaten, severely and repeatedly,
enough to deform bones and to bruise every inch of once ruddy skin.
Booth noted the broken fingers, maybe lifted in defence and maybe broken
to further torture the geezer.
He stepped around the blood pooling from the corpse's neck stump and
approached the bench. There, perched atop the polished mahogany, sat the
head. Its mouth was opened in a rictus grin and the yellowed teeth
seemed sharpened and elongated. "Tarnation," said Booth to no one in
particular.
The sheriff followed the faint, sad sound of music to the judge's
chambers. The radio on the windowsill played that one mournful ballad by
a cowboy troubadour. The one about love lost and the moonlit grave out
in the desert. Booth turned off the radio, grunted and grimaced, then
turned it on again. The wailing lament of a murderer and a guilty
conscience.
It was a beautiful day outside. White bloomed the flower beds and the
red-gold midday sun seemed to smile in the blue sky. He tried the latch
but could not open the window. The foul odours had followed him into the
small room.
His search was cursory. The grand desk, as ever, was adorned with curios
and the judge's matted brass nameplate. 'The Honourable Samuel
Diegife.' Its top was empty. No papers; save for the brown bag and a
half-eaten sandwich. Booth checked the drawers. He found naught, but the
judge's six-shooter and a bottle of bourbon, half-empty.
The black robes still hung in the corner as if their owner could return
at any moment. Booth noted the flag and the pictures of presidents and
hunting scenes, undisturbed. He opened the filling cabinet, unlocked,
and eyed the folders. They looked perfectly ordinary. He picked on out
at random and leafed through the write-up of the mayor's third divorce
from early last year. His duty done, he shrugged and left.
The deputies stood outside, smoking. Colour had returned to Garcia's face and Johnny showed off his usual bored expression.
"Got one for me?" the sheriff asked.
He lit the cigarette with his gasoline lighter and took a drag. "Johnny,
I need you to head over to the clinic and get Doc Warrens or somebody
to help you with the corpse. I need the autopsy done pronto."
"Now?" the chubby ginger asked.
"Now."
With an annoyed expression Deputy Johnny Holiday flicked away the
half-finished cigarette. He turned and climbed into his police cruiser.
"Now," Booth pushed his cigarette to corner of his mouth, "you found'im, right?"
"Me and Mrs. Larson, yeah."
"He hold court today?"
"Nah, but you know how he be - was."
"Mhm." The sheriff nodded; he knew about both the judge's creative uses
for a bailiff and his deputy's habit of hanging around the courthouse.
And around the court reporter. "He seem different to you? Nervous?"
The other stared and smoked. When he finally answered, he sounded
uncertain: "Nah. I don't think so. Wasn't like we'd all be hanging out
in chambers or nothin'. He paused. The furrows on his brow disappeared
suddenly and he added: "He bummed a smoke -'bout an hour before lunch-
and he was fine; happy even. Joked with Lizzie - with Mrs. Larson. And
he talked about goin' fishin' on the weekend."
"I see. So you went for lunch?"
The deputy nodded. "Mrs. Larson had invited me over to hers and when we
came back I could, like, sense it. I sent her out back and," he winced,
"secured the scene."
Booth laughed. "Sure did." He trampled the stub of his cigarette into
the dust. "Keep securing the site. At least until Johnny shows." He saw
the look on the other's face and added: "You can stay outside. Probably
nobody dumb enough - anyway I gotta inform the widow."
A quick glance at the watch and his grumbling stomach convinced Booth to take lunch first. And Mary would be waiting.
He drove past the other one-story wood houses and stopped the cruiser in
his own driveway in front of the chipped paint green garage door. The
kitchen window was open, and the radio inside played that same cowboy
ballad.
Mary shut off the radio when he entered. She had cooked, steak and
potatoes. "I boiled 'em with cream, just like you like 'em," she said.
He said nothing.
She looked tired. Old and tired. Even with all the make-up, the lipstick
and whatever paint she had assembled, she looked tired. With the dark
bags under her brown eyes and her thinning, strawy, greying black hair.
"How's work?" she asked. Her voice was high-pitched, nervous.
"Bad." He tore into the beef.
"You like the food?" She was not eating and only moved her small serving around on the brown earthenware plate.
"Fine."
"Coffee?" He set down the red-stained steak knife and sauce-covered steel spoon beside his empty plate.
She stopped her fidgeting with the floral oilcloth and hurried from the
table to the kitchen counter to the stove. "Two sugar, no milk?", she
asked, though she knew the answer.
He waited in silence until she brought him the steaming enamel cup. She
handed him the coffee and then hovered behind him. Her hands rested on
his shoulder while he drank. Suddenly, he could feel her lips on his
bearded cheeks.
"I've missed you," she whispered. "And I think you deserve a break."
Her cooking apron fell to the floor. She wore her one short skirt and one good blouse, with nothing else underneath.
"I've gotta go. Much work." He emptied his cup. She could not hide her sorrow. He felt the gnawing guilt and hurried away.
II
The widow was beside herself. Crying and unable to answer any questions,
she begged him to stay with her. He spent two endless hours drinking
her weak coffee and eating stale cookies. Still, he was unable to
console the dumbstruck woman. She was at one moment trying to play host
and then wracked by crying fits. Only after even more coffee, he finally
convinced her to take a glass of brandy and to lie down.
After he had, as promised, called her sister and the Reverend Porter, he radioed his deputy from the car:
'Johnny, do you read me? Over.'
'Loud and clear. Over,' answered Deputy Holiday's voice.
'You get it done? Over.'
'Yes. Over.'
'Did the doc say when he'll be done with the autopsy? Over.'
'He seemed busy. Operation or something. Not today. Tomorrow morning at the earliest. Over.'
'Acknowledged. Out.'
'Okay, boss. Over and Out.'
The sun was almost setting, and Booth could feel a headache coming on. He decided that he had earned a break. And a drink.
III
The rough and rustic hard wood tables inside the Wrangler stood empty
and only the usual lifers lingered at the bar, drinking whisky and
chewing tobacco. Emily, the barmaid, was busy with preparations and
struggled with carrying an empty keg back to the storage room.
"Need help with that?" he asked.
"Thank you kindly." She smiled.
He followed her into the dark back room and set down his load.
"You're in early," she whispered.
"Hard day." He grabbed her and pushed her lithe form against the wall.
"I can see," she moaned.
Their lips met. He caressed her face. Calloused fingers stroked her long
brown hair. Their lips met again. Her teeth scraped his skin. She
quivered.
Then he turned her around as his hands wandered down along the firm
body. He groped her breasts until she moaned; softly, hoarsely. Further
and further along he trailed her shuddering body, until he reached the
belt on her jeans.
"Yes," she moaned.
He pulled down her pants and pushed aside the cotton panties. "Take it."
With his feet he forced hers apart. The metal of his zipper bit against
his flesh as he worked to free his bulging cock.
She inhaled sharply when he grabbed her ass cheeks and lined up his length against her dripping pussy. "Yessss!"
He plunged into her. Quick thrusts and hard. Rougher than his wife had
ever liked, but just what the wanton slut needed. Each fibre, each
flutter and every inch of her body responded, melted, to his dick.
"Yesss!" she almost screamed.
He placed his palm on her lips. Held her traitorous tongue and felt her
berserk bites. She threw back her head, but could not, would not slip
his hold. "Will you be a good girl?" he whispered into her ear.
She nodded weakly, but screamed out at his next lunge. Again, he clasped
shut her mouth. Hotly and madly, she writhed under him as he quickened
the pressure.
"Take it!" he roared, then stopped, dumbstruck. He could hear her laughter and felt her mirthful breath. "Damn," he whispered.
Still laughing, she slipped his grasp and turned around. "Don't feel
bad," she whispered and kissed his lips, "sometimes we get wild. We're
wild and," she put her hands on his cock and he inhaled sharply, "and if
we fuck like animals, we will be," she gave him a wild kiss and a
gentle bite, "feral." She lined up his length then massaged it across
her slimy slit. With a wicked smile she pulled him back until his bulk
pressed her against the wall. She undid the buttons on her flannel shirt
and invited him to play with her tits.
"I'm close," he whispered, and still she only teased him at the edge of her folds. Teased him with her nimble fingers.
"Come for me."
Hot heat rose from his loins. He erupted; sticky seed shot from his
twitching meat and splashed on her belly. Hit after hit coated her form.
"Mhmm." Some she scooped with the tip of her finger. "Here." She smiled
when she handed him the dishrag. It looked clean enough.
"What in tarnation?." He winced as he cleaned himself.
She, too, grimaced when she accepted back the soiled tatter. "Could you
do that one?" She pointed out a full keg of beer then dabbed herself
down.
Booth grunted and strained as carried out the metal barrel.
"You're a doll," she said from inside the dark room. Rustling, as she pulled up her pants.
He did not answer and took a seat at the corner table.
Soon she brought him his bourbon. "You're a doll." She allowed him to
steal a fleeting touch, then swaggered away. Booth mumbled a curse.
They hardly shared another word all evening. The Wrangler soon got busy,
but she at least promptly refilled his glass. He did like to watch her
work, slightly sweaty and with traces of his cum hidden under her
clothes.
Another drink, another smoke and then, past midnight, the jukebox played
that heart-rending, that accursed ballad. He tried to remember to
forget, but the headless corpse crept into his mind. It stole away the
memories, sweet and fresh, of her naked body and hot breath. Only the
dead grimace remained, laughing at him with ghoulish teeth; long and
yellow.
He motioned for her and she came. They could not kiss, but he could drink. Another drink and a cigarette for the road.
It was a cold night out. He swayed and staggered, past his cruiser and
along the long and dusty road. Under distant stars and a blue moon, he
walked home.
He fumbled with his keys until the front door clicked open. He stripped
off hat, boots, gun-belt and jacket. He rid himself of pants, shirt and
socks, then he stopped at the closed bedroom door.
His hand hovered over the handle. He stood, unsteady, alone in the dark
and spinning room. He would not wake her. He could not wake her. With a
grunt, he retreated to the sofa. To the hard mattress and to dark
dreams.
He awoke when she opened the bathroom door. "Coffee?" she asked. The smile on her haggard lips looked forced.
"Mh - shower first." His head was pounding, and he could not bear to look at her eyes; her sadness.
He closed the door behind him, but could hear her crying through the
thin plywood. Until she turned on the radio and that damnable song
droned out despair.
The face in the mirror gawked at him, tired and guilty. He pushed it
aside. Hidden behind, he found the painkillers and chewed down two
pills. Churning acid burned the inside of his stomach. He almost fell
over when he tried to climb out of his underwear.
Then the cold, hard water hit him in the face. "Damned cold." He endured
until the boiler gurgled to life. Mist filled the small room. He
fumbled for soap, longed to be clean, even as his body tortured him.
IV
"Coffee?"
He could not look at her; could not stand the bitter smell. Even
showered and dressed, he was not ready. "No." He winced. "Thank you." He
held his pounding head, then touched his gun. "I oughta go. Much to
do."
In the cold, blue morning light, the Wrangler looked like filth. Booth
was on his second cigarette already and the run-down building made the
bile rise to his throat. Someone had thrown up last night, and the
greenish-brown puddle pooled around and stained the left back tire. He
lit another cigarette and drove off.
The elderly orderly who manned the front desk inside the squat clinic
building looked as tired and strung out as Booth felt. When he asked for
Doctor Warrens the woman shrugged and told him to check the residence.
He crossed the dusty backyard and entered the residence. Built from dark
wood and sandstone, the house was almost as large as the clinic itself.
Booth tried the handle and found the door unlocked. "Doc?" He knocked
softly against the open door. Moans and music answered. The needle of
the old gramophone scratched over vinyl. He recognized the melodious
wails of the cowboy troubadour despite the rustling static and the
discordant moans. Booth winced but entered.
"This early, Doc?" He rounded the corner from the small, carpeted
hallway and, leaning against the wood panelled wall, lit another
cigarette.
"Fuck you, Sheriff. Fuck you," Warrens answered from his black leather
couch. Only his feet were visible, with the woman bouncing on his lap
hiding the rest of his frame.
"Fuck, ahhh - fuck - ahhh- fuckin' fuck me." Suzanna Myers, the local
whore, stopped riding her john long enough to express shock and
annoyance at the interruption.
"Sue, oh Sue, you oughta know better." Booth ambled along the wall and
sneered at the pictures. Formless shapes in hideous reds, violets and
ochre. "Sue. Sue. Sue." He turned around and grabbed the red-faced
hooker by the chin.
She hissed and squirmed.
"Sue. Suzie Sue." His fingers touched her brow and he brushed aside a
long lock of dark red hair. Wet and sweaty slick. Green fire seemed to
spark in her eyes. His eyes lingered on her tits.
A good handful of still firm flesh, pale and freckled. Stiff nipples and
swaying from the doctor's thrust. "Damn." He grinned and stepped back.
"Booze? Booth sat down on the armchair opposite the couple and pointed
at the low lacquered wood table. At bottles empty and full. At the
overflowing ashtray and at old plates.
A deep, husky moan. He shifted, then Doctor Warrens' wrinkled,
moustachioed face appeared from behind Sue's back. "Bourbon...," the
doctor pointed at bottle filled with amber liquid. Booth lifted it up
and nodded at the label.
"...and laudanum," the older man pointed at the unlabelled bottle filled with reddish-brown liquid. "My very own recipe."
Booth winced, then drank bourbon straight from the bottle. "I'll be
damned." He motioned at the other bottle. "One of those days you're
gonna get arrested for that shit."
The grey-haired man laughed. "Fuck you."
Booth grunted and took another sip. "Speaking of arrested," he looked at Sue, "you wanna do this the easy way or what?"
"Fuck - urghhh fuuuck," Sue gave him the finger and stuck out her tongue. She turned to the doctor. "Are you close or what?"
"Yeah. Ahhh fucking yeah." The old doctor slid back and let her overtake him.
"Fuck. Ahhh good." The whore bucked against him one last time, then lowered herself to the floor.
"Tarnation." Booth moved to the edge of his seat and spread apart his
legs. "I'll be... ." His hard cock pressed against his tightning pants.
"Hell." He ripped open the zipper and pulled out his dick. "Listen, now.
Easy or hard?"
She did not answer. Instead, she bobbed her head up and down between the
legs of the other man. Booth could only watch. Cock in hand, he
watched.
Her red mane flew back and forth across the doctor's lap. Booth could
hear the wet sucking and gargling of her mouth and throat closed around
Warrens' dick.
His hungry eyes followed the curvature of her spine down to her dainty
feet and firm ass. Droplets of sweat covered her skin and flowed down to
the cup and antlers tattooed on her lower back.
"Answer me! Dirty whore!" Booth had been stroking his cock with the
movement of her head and now felt close to bursting. "Filthy slut."
The doctor laughed and flashed his yellowed teeth. Then he grimaced, his face warped by the throes of his orgasm.
"Easy or hard?" he had grabbed her and dragged her away from Warrens.
She smiled and some cum trickled from the corner of her mouth down her
swanlike neck. "Anything for you, Sheriff," she whispered.
He pressed her down on the floor and forced apart her legs. She
swallowed loudly, and then showed off her empty mouth. He threw her left
leg over his shoulder and plunged himself deep in her wet cunt.
"Filthy whore. Filthy, teasing whore," he thrust into her. Again and
again. "I oughta -ahh I'll - I oughta drag you back." He moaned,
screamed and pawed at her swaying breasts. "Back to the thrice-damned
station and have the - ahhhhh."
He pressed his hand on her neck and clamped up against her grinning face. "Take it!"
"Anything for you, Sheriff," she wheezed.
He lifted up her ass and buried himself deep in her. "Filthy whore. I'll have the boys run train on you."
The skin under her tits tasted like salt and he almost toppled over when
he tried to taste her. He roared loudly and pushed against her, again
and again.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he had grabbed her face and made her
nod. "Good," he pulled back and stood up, "now open up your suckhole."
She did. He groaned. Rubbing his cock, he rose and approached her
kneeling form. He teased his tip against her lips and grabbed her hair.
"Dirty whore." He pulled back. Spit and her juices coated his member. "Can you take it?"
She looked tired and forced a grin. Then she nodded.
"Good whore." He slapped her cheeks with his length, then pushed it past
her tongue. She gargled. A wet and rasping sound, but he did not
release her hair and pressed deeper.
Cold and dainty hands on his ass. She groped and finally scratched, but
he did not stop until her nose was buried in his coarse pubic hair.
"Fucking - fuck." She coughed and hacked spit on the hard wood floor.
Booth laughed. "C'mon. Open up - I'm close." Rubbing his cock, he lifted
up her face and aimed at her opened mouth. He moaned, low and
contentedly. He covered her with cum.
She swallowed and did not stop until the last glob had disappeared
between her lips. Only then did she crawl over to the table. There, she
poured reddish liquid into a dirty glass and emptied it. With shaking
hands, she filled it and emptied it again.
"Had breakfast yet?" Warrens had put on green scrubs and a white lab
coat. The old doctor sat back on the armchair and savoured his sips of
the red and brown.
"Naw." Booth pulled up his pants and lit a cigarette.
"Good. Let's go then." The older man counted out a few bills and rose.
Doctor Warrens had unlocked the cellar door and led the Sheriff into the
green tiled morgue. He sighed and pointed at the judge's corpse, naked
on the steel slab. "Hard blows - enough to break ribs. My gut says
fists, but that would make our guy an absolute beast. You might need to
consult with an expert - someone who knows his weapons - native or
oriental."
Booth looked at the judge's severed head sat on the wall counter, away from the slab. "Guess cause of dead is easy, at least."
"It is not." The cold professionalism had left the doctor's voice. He had grabbed the edge of the slab with whitened knuckles.
"What in tarnation?"
"He's," Warrens paused and breathed heavily. "He's missing his heart."
Booth peered down at the corpse's opened chest cavity. "I can see that - I guess."
The doctor managed a dry laugh. "It was gone when I opened him up."
"What in tarnation?" Booth sucked in air, then inspected the cold, death flesh. "Are these scalpel cuts? I can't rightly tell."
Warrens sighed. "Fuck. Neither can I. Might have been a world class surgeon, might've been - something else."
"So what? Some big city doc, built like a brick shit house, walks into
town, then rips open the judge's thorax and cuts out his heart?"
Warrens shook his head. "No. Not as far as I can tell. I've found
hematoma around the cracked ribs, but no ruptures. No open wounds."
"That's impossible."
"Yeah."
"There's gotta be something you missed. A small nick, and then he'd have
to have worked- I dunno some kind of acid or wire or something."
The doctor looked sceptical. "I can look into it. And I might've missed
something. But... ." He paused again and starred up at the ceiling.
"But," he continued, "maybe you should think about calling in the feds -
if only so another doctor can look him over."
VI
Booth spent the rest of the morning brooding in his office. Twice he
picked up the phone and twice he slammed the receiver back down. Around
noon he called home and told his wife he would not be in for lunch. He
then sent Johnny out for sandwiches.
*
Hat in hand, he rang the doorbell. He had not eaten much and the taste
of coffee and tobacco still clung to his lips. He did not expect much
from the interview, but he needed to work, needed to do something.
Anything.
"Sheriff," Mrs. Larson, the court reporter, smiled brightly as she
opened her door, "please, come on in." She stepped aside. A short
entryway then a large central room and an open kitchen.
"I'll make us some coffee. And please make yourself comfortable," she
pointed at lone mattress on the empty floor. "I haven't had time to
unpack yet. But please make yourself comfortable."
"I'm okay."
"Just a minute." She said from the kitchen.
He leaned his back against the wall and looked around. Past the empty
central room he saw a hallway filled with boxes. Three doors. One was
open and led to a small room, also piled high with boxes. The doors to
the other rooms, one opposite the open one and one at the end of the
hallway, were closed.
Mrs. Larson worked, back turned towards him, at the stove. He stepped
into the hallway and stopped by the two doors. He checked out the boxes
in the hallway with mild curiosity. Most were taped shut. Inside the
small room he found one opened and overflowing with folded clothes and
old pans. He stepped back into the hallway and inspected the white
lacquer-wood of the closed door.
Smells and noise. A smokey scent, earthy and wooden. Some kind of incense, maybe. Booth sniffed and listened.
The twangy guitar was quiet, and he felt rather than heard the vocals,
but the cowboy troubadour's lament was unmistakable. The hairs on his
arm stood upright and he shivered.
"What are you doing?" said a voice behind him. He had not heard her move.
"I just - I was - I need to take a leak."
"Oh," she smiled, awkwardly and without guile, "just through here," she pointed at the door at the end of the hallway.
Hat in hand he mumbled a "much obliged" and retreated into the small
lavatory. He splashed water on his face, paused and then used the
toilet. Her soap smelled like roses.
When he reopened the door, he saw her standing in front of the closed
door and locking it shut. She noticed him looking and flinched. The
smell of perfumed smoke almost made him gag and the music was gone.
"Come. Come." She hid the key inside the pockets of her knee-length, red bubble skirt.
VII
"Good coffee." He had followed her back and now sat on the mattress, while she stood with her back pressed against the wall.
"Thank you." A weak smile lit up her face.
"Anyway," he cleared his throat, "you are widowed?"
She nodded slowly. "My Georgie died - died in June, two years ago."
"The fire, right? I heard - damned shame," he paused, "my condolences."
"Thank you, Sheriff."
"But you're not from Scalper's Ferry?"
"No, Siree. I'm a Sundown gal, born and raised." A hint of pride had entered her voice.
"So - you returned?" He did his best to imbue the words with warmth.
"I needed a job and there was nothing - I am happy here."
"I see. And Judge Diegife - did you like working at the courthouse?"
"Oh," she pulled out a white handkerchief and cleaned her nose, "he was
such a dear. So kind and wise. Never a bad word about nobody and he'd
always tell these funny hunting stories."
"I see. And did he seem different recently? Nervous or off somehow?"
She shook her head.
"Very well." He emptied his cup. "You have been a great help. And please
- if you remember anything do not hesitate to give us a ring at the
station."
She promised him that she would, but he resolved to return the day after
tomorrow either way. Or after he had spoken to the judge's wife again.
The court reporter before her had married in a hurry. Even rumours
notwithstanding, he never had had the inclination to call the judge
"dear" nor "kind and wise."
He was a goat. Horny and angry.
VIII
A routine call on the way back to the station sent him to the Wrangler
and, after he and his nightstick had resolved the situation, he stayed.
Emily did not work tonight, but he did not want to go home, and it was
almost dusk.
He drank bourbon and smoked. When that song began to play on the
jukebox, he threw a few bills on the table and left. The hands on his
watch pointed to almost midnight.
The full moon was darker and warmer than last night. An almost amber
yellow, it dripped from the starless sky and bathed the dusty roads and
dark houses in a soft light.
Booth stretched with a smile. The evening cold felt refreshing on his
skin. He whistled a few off-key bars, then suddenly stopped and cursed.
The song had again wormed its way into his brain.
"Sheriff Booth?" she asked meekly.
"What?" His voice was louder than he had intended.
"There's something I need to tell you."
Booth had recognized the court reporter immediately. A colourful
headscarf tamed her long brown hair and she had covered her form with a
long, dark-grey cloak.
"What?" he asked, softer this time.
"The judge and I," her eyes darted around and finally found his, "we
were more than just - we had an affair." She stepped closer. "I did not
mean to lie to you, but - but it feels strange admitting it even now."
"That's," he swallowed, "quite alright." She was close enough for him to
see just how thin her cloak was and how little she wore underneath it.
"I... ," his tongue was heavy and she did not shy away from his touch.
"Thank you for telling me." Her skin was warm and her breath smelled
like mint.
"Sheriff Booth," she whispered.
A dark cloud devoured the moon and the sudden chill made him shiver.
Again, he stretched out his hands, but he could not reach her shadow. He
blinked.
"Sheriff Booth." She held his hand in hers.
"Mrs. Larson."
"Please, call me Elisabeth."
"Hy -."
The stench of decay. Almost enough to make him retch. "Do you?" His head
was spinning, and his eyes had begun to water. "I should probably... ."
He staggered away.
"I am ready for you." Her voice was soft, but urgent. "Come to me. Soon."
He stumbled away through the darkness.
Finally, the moon returned, and its warm light guided him home. His head
was swimming, and his hands were shaking when he unlocked his front
door.
He could remember locking away his gun belt and he must have noticed the empty spot on the bed beside him. Then darkness.
IX
His tongue was desert dry. Only the slivers of moonlight, close to the
drapes lit the night-dark room. He fumbled for the light switch but
stopped when he heard.
Mary was moaning. Low and hot and filled with need. He could feel her
heat and smell her wetness. There was life in her shadow dance, and he
had not seen her alive for a long time.
She gasped when his hand touched her knee.
"Mhmm, yes." She begged him to move his hand deeper. "Take me. Please, oh please, take me."
He rolled over and embraced her. With his hand still between her legs,
he kissed her neck. He could smell her shampooed hair and touched the
dark strands. Not a hint of grey. Only darkness.
Her lips were soft and wet. He drank her kisses and her moans.
"Don't!" Her hands reached out after him.
"Just trying to... ." Sitting upright, he pulled down his pants.
"Ohhh."
He teased apart her legs and found her naked breasts. Her wedding ring was cold on his back, but her skin was warm.
"I've missed us," she whispered.
She was right. Her body still fit him like a glove and her lusty screams
were beautiful. Every inch of her body was familiar, yet he had never
been this close to her.
In the pitch-like darkness, he could not see her eyes, but he sensed
her. Sensed her soul. He melted into her. Each thrust broke away another
piece of the barrier.
She was so close. And forcing her over the edge, and again, only brought her closer to him.
He wrapped himself around her sweat slick form and was drawn closer. Pressured heat boiled inside him.
"I love you."
He pressed his lips against her. Her confession hurt. And he felt the
same. He had to feel the same. The same forlorn, painful need. He was
deep inside her and they shared the same sadness. The need for oblivion.
Another scream, pained and wailing. Then he felt it, too. His fingers
and the tip of his cock. The searing pain shot in waves though his raw
body.
Thick and oily smoke filled the room. He was boiling. Sizzling bubbles like from a fat-rendering vat. He cried out in pain.
She had reached the switch and the light flickered alive. Her face was
pale and burn marks covered her body wherever he had touched her. She
covered her mouth and pointed at him. A muffled scream then she hurried
away.
He wanted to cry out for her, but his voice failed him. More fatty
flames engulfed him and darkened his mind. He found his voice and
screamed. Meaningless cries into the bright and greasy void.
White lights danced in front of his wide-open eyes. Finally, the bedroom
door opened and he again saw her blurred form. She sat down on the edge
of the bed. He heard her speak but could not no longer understand the
words.
She pressed ice against his blistering skin and for a few seconds the pain lessened. Then she screamed and withdrew her hands.
He clawed at his skin and sent drips of boiling water flying. "Cut it out!" he screamed, "cut it out!"
She answered something, then he lost consciousness.
*
Bright lights and pain. Heat. She screamed and fell. Both their body hit
the floor and he singed the hardwood boards. Then he blacked out again.
*
Steam rose from the bathtub. She had gripped his hair and yanked him up.
"You were slipping." She dumped another load of ice into the hot water.
"I can't... ." Boiling water filled his mouth and the fat under his skin continued to burn. He felt her hand then slipped away.
*
Red water filled the tub. He screamed in pain. Blood flowed from the
cuts on his arms and legs and coloured the cooling water crimson.
"Are you okay?" She held up his right arm and tried to staunch the flow with gauze.
"Ye - yes." He sucked in air and fought down the pain. The open wounds
hurt, but his body was no longer boiling. Sudden shivers, and she
dropped the bandage into the dark water.
"Are you cold?" Still holding his arm, she pulled another white dressing from the nearby shelf.
He nodded weakly. She did not release his arm but climbed into the tub
with him, dressed in her nightgown. Her warmth was enough to calm the
worst shakes and she managed to bandage the wound on his arm.
"Can you reach the towels? And the gauze?"
His hands were unsteady, but he could.
"I've tried calling Doctor Warrens, but he must be a deep sleeper.
Garcia said he'd pick up the night nurse," she paused. "I called them."
"Thank you."
Her hands were warm and gentle. She had wiped dry his other arm and now
tied close the bandage. "Can you stand? I need to do your lower body."
He nodded and put his hands on the rim of the bathtub. The pain made him
see the lights. He breathed and struggled, but his limbs would not
obey.
"Let me... ."
With her help, on the third try, he managed. She guided and supported
him as he weakly walked, one foot in front of the other, until they
reached the toilet. He sat.
"Boss? Boss!" Shouts, then a bang as Deputy Holiday forced open the
front door. "Garcia's," the young man fell silent as soon as he reached
the bathroom and saw Mary kneel, almost naked, between Sheriff Booth's
naked legs.
"Stop gawking and help," Booth said. He felt angry, but his voice was to
weak to convey any emotion. Johnny obeyed, nonetheless.
*
When Garcia arrived, nurse in tow, he carried bad news. The dark-haired
deputy did not share them immediately, but first let the woman in her
red scrubs check Booth's bandages and administer painkillers from her
bag.
"Talk." Booth felt tired, slow almost, but he read the worried look on Garcia's face easy enough.
The other man did not meet his eyes. "Johnny oughta hear this," he mumbled.
"Get him. I told him he could smoke inside, but - should be in the backyard."
Garcia left. The nurse looked at him, then left as well. Soon he could
hear her chat with Mary in the kitchen. Finally, his deputies returned,
and the war council began.
"Warrens' dead," said Garcia. Both deputies avoided looking at Booth's naked form.
"What? How?" the Sheriff asked.
"Don't know," Garcia paused. "He looked bad. And the smell. It's as if
he'd been cooked. Boils everywhere and," the deputy fell silent.
"Hell and tarnation." Booth paused then cursed again. His deputies
looked at him; looked him in the eyes. "It's gotta be Sue." He was weak
and the painkillers seemed to slow everything. Every word was a
challenge. "Suzanna Myers," he lowered his voice. "Johnny knows her." He
was slurring every word and was whispering now. "Warrens was a
customer. And whatever it was it almost - almost got me too. She must
have infected us. With - with something. A disease or -." He did not say
or a curse.
"Should we?" Garcia played with the hat in his hand.
"Yes!" Booth's voice was louder than he had intended. "Arrest her
immediately," he had calmed himself, "and only arrest her. I'll talk to
her. And Johnny don't - don't be stupid. She is dangerous."
With a hurried salute, they left and with Mary's help Booth reached the bed. He fell asleep immediately.
*
When he awoke again, the room was dark.
"Mary? Mary? he called out until his wife awoke. "How long was I out?"
She picked up her watch from the nightstand. "It's midnight. A day, almost."
He cursed. "I need to go." He sat up and the room began to spin.
Her face was pale. "Are you sure? Can't it wait? Should I cook something? Do you need water? Coffee?"
Booth opened and closed his eyes. He was hungry and tired and nauseous. "I need to - water."
"Yes." She hurried to the kitchen and brought him a glass. "You sure you
don't want anything else? I've made soup. Chicken. Won't be a minute."
He emptied the glass, paused, then nodded. "Hurry."
She hurried out the door.
"And thank you."
X
Walking hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt. The soup had helped, and
his throat was not quite as dry any more, but everything hurt. And when
he saw Mr. Antonielli loiter around the waiting room inside the police
station, he expected the worst.
Like his father before him, Antonielli practised law. Contracts,
testaments and the occasional divorce, usually. Sundown rarely called
for a criminal lawyer, or any kind of trial lawyer.
"What do you want?" Booth asked.
"I would like to speak to my client," Antionielli confirmed the sheriff's suspicions.
"Wait here," Booth said and stalked back behind the counter. He found Johnny in the break room, nursing his coffee.
"Are you daft?" Booth managed to keep his voice low enough that the
lawyer would not hear him. "What in tarnation were you thinking?"
"Boss?"
"Why is that shyster here?"
"She asked for her call an' I figure she called him."
The pain threatened to overwhelm him. Booth massaged his temple and
swallowed a biting remark. "Guess we'll make do," he paused, "and
where's Garcia?"
"Personal business," the other mumbled.
Booth exhaled. Inhaled and exhaled. "Get our guest into the interview room. And then get out of my sight."
The lawyer was still waiting outside. Boot forced a smile. "We just have
a few questions." Antionielli opened his mouth, but the Sheriff
continued: "I assume you want to sit in?" He did not wait for an answer
and let him past the barrier and to the interview room.
Suzanna Myers already sat at the small metal table in the small, empty
room. She looked tired and, judging by her pupils, high. Cold sweat
beaded her pallid face, and she clutched her hands, claw like, to her
chest.
The men took their seats. "Doctor Warrens died last night," said Booth.
Antionielli seemed shocked. The whore remained motionless, no muscle
twitch, no sign of emotion.
"I am sorry to hear that," the lawyer had calmed himself, "but I fail to see how that relates to my client."
Booth's fist hit the table. "You worked him and now he's dead." He
looked the suddenly trembling slut square in the eyes. "So - what did
you do? Poison? Or some disease? What is it? Hm? Go on, what filthy,
disgusting disease did you give - him?"
His outburst had scared her. She had shied away. Each word spat an
onslaught, a hit to her face. Then she changed. Sneered and smiled then
turned to her lawyer. Mocking whispers and Antionielli too began to
smile.
"Any proof?" The lawyer's eyes lingered on Booth's bandages.
Silence then Booth answered: "No."
Booth's opponents looked at each other and smiled. "Will that be all?" the man asked.
"Coffee?" Booth hurried from the room; he could not stand their smug faces.
*
When he returned with three steaming paper cups, he had calmed himself. "We will need to do a drug test."
Myers' smile froze and he started to grin.
"A formality I am sure, but the arresting officer noted physical signs
of intoxication in his report." He grabbed his cup with a smile and
addressed Antionielli: "I expect you wish to confer with your client?"
He left them without another word.
*
"No drug test," the other man said after Booth had returned, "but my
client will consent to whatever other tests a medical doctor deems
necessary. And she will make herself available for further questioning
should you uncover any evidence for foul play. Acceptable?"
Booth hesitated then shook the outstretched hand. "Acceptable."
They left and Booth laid down his head on the cold table. Doubts niggled
and gnawed at the back of his mind. He could prove nothing and he could
not connect the whore to the judge at all. He rose with a groan.
He called the FBI. He drank coffee and smoked, alone in his office,
until at 5 in the morning he turned on the radio. The fist chords of the
mournful cowboy ballad jolted him awake and he switched it off. An idea
slowly took shape, and he searched the station for his deputies.
Johnny was asleep in the break room. "Boss." He jumped awake and quickly straightened his crinkled uniform.
"I'm gonna talk to Antionielli."
"Boss?"
"He worked at court. And there's no way Sue can pay his rates."
"You think she's fucking him?"
"Possible." The old Antionielli had made the charges go away, but Booth
still did not think it possible. "Could be something else. We still
don't know whatever queer whatever we're dealing with - and where in
tarnation's Garcia?"
"Boss." The deputy nodded to acknowledge the question but did not say another word.
Booth scrutinized the other man's fatty jowls then said: "I'm off. Call me when he gets here."
"Boss."
XI
Booth did not expect the lawyer to be awake at this hour, but the
thought of spending even another moment in the stuffy office made his
skin crawl. The all too familiar song on the car radio seemed almost
soothing and the houses and roads of Sundown, drenched in rising red and
orange, calmed him. He reached the town center. Drove past the
courthouse and the bank. He finally stopped in front of the brickwork
store-front where Antionielli had his offices and made his home.
The show window was dark, and no light escaped from the drapes upstairs,
but a shadow moved around on the flat roof. Booth left behind the
cruiser and looked up.
"Sheriff," Antionielli leaned down, telescope in hand and with sleep in
his eyes. "I've been - nevermind - hold on, I'll open up."
After a few minutes, the lights went on and the lawyer unlocked the
front door. The scent of fresh coffee and the pneumatic hiss of the
machine could be heard from some back office.
"Sheriff Booth." Antionielli shook his hand. "Coffee will just be a
minute. Please, have a seat." He led Booth past the waiting area and its
new-fangled steel and white leather decor back to his office.
The old wood and brass had not been changed since the old Antionielli.
Booth felt at ease among the brown spirits in crystal bottles and the
faint smell of cigar smoke.
"Secretary won't be in until eight so if you'll excuse me... ."
Antionielli pointed him to the time-worn guest chair and left to get the
coffee. He returned shortly, carrying a well-laden tray.
"Milk? Sugar?" With unfailing politeness, the lawyer served his guest.
Booth accepted with a grunt. Antionielli asked no questions and they sat
silently and slurped their coffees.
"How's business?" Booth set down his cup and broke the silence.
"I make do," the other said; but by his tone he made better than.
"I'm surprised then," Booth took another sip, "that you'd have time for pro-bono work."
"I see." The lawyer stirred his cup and sank deep into his office chair.
Then he set it down and straightened, sat upright and met Booth's gaze.
Unflinching. "My business with Ms. Myers is covered by confidentiality.
I will say, however, that I have noticed patterns - practices of our
law enforcement and even judiciary - that any officer of the court
should not tolerate. So tell me, Sheriff, why are you here?"
"Okay then." Booth set down his cup and leaned in closer. The lawyer's
tired eyes were a steely grey. "There's been a murder and I could care
less about some yellow-bellied cocksucker's ideas on procedure. This is
my town and I'll enforce the law as I damn well please. A judge is dead,
and I don't think the Doc was an accident neither." He raised his
finger close enough to almost stab the other's eye. "Which means someone
tried to do me in as well - and you just confessed to a motive."
Silence. Antionielli had paled, but suddenly started to laugh. "We are
doomed, then. If this is the state of law enforcement in our town then
we are doomed. You think - what? That this is some conspiracy between
Ms. Myers and I? That I'd beat to death a judge and behead him? That a -
a woman of precarious employment - would try to kill you - how?
Bioweapons or sorcery? And you two would hardly be her only clientele."
Antionielli had raised his voice but caught himself. He paused and
continued; calmer now: "Besides, if I knew that the judge was fucking
his typist then you can be sure that his wife knew as well."
"Hrmm." Booth lit a cigarette and affected a smile. "Thank you. You have
been a great help." He rose. "And thank you for the coffee."
*
The Chambers - On the way out he almost ran into a young woman.
The elegant black-grey pantsuit had been rumpled and ruffled by travel,
but still flattered her slender body. Long black hair framed an
intelligent, almost nymph-like face.
Booth tapped his hat and mumbled an apology. She smiled, whispered
something, and had passed him. A fine ass in the tight cut pants. He
entered the car with a smile.
"Johnny? Come in, over."
Static.
"Come in, Johnny."
"Boss?" The deputy answered late and his voice sounded strange; dazed.
"Judge Diegife's wife - she's a born Chambers - right?" He did not wait
for an answer. "They are in cattle - and something about timber? Or
mining? Anyway, when the feds get here ask them to look up the M.O. in
their databases - or whatever. Might be we got ourselves some bigtime
contract killers in town. And you and Garcia get on any strangers
checking in anywhere - drive all the way to the Ferry if you have to and
-."
"Boss." Johnny's voice was loud and desperate.
"What?"
"Could you drive by Mrs. Larson's? She called and - and I don't think Garcia's okay."
"What in the blazes?"
The deputy was silent.
"Roger. Just - nevermind - on my way."
XII
She ran up to the car as soon as he entered her driveway. Her blue
bathrobe fluttered behind her, barely held shut by the thin strip of
frayed polyester. Booth, however, almost failed to notice her creamy
tits, swinging as she ran. Blood fell in thick drops from her scarlet
hands.
"What happened?" he asked, and she led him inside. Garcia's torso lay,
supine and naked, on the bloodstained mattress. He had been beaten, hard
enough to crack ribs and to colour his skin in blue and green and
yellow.
On her kitchen top, beside the coffee maker and white plastic radio, was
his head. His eyes were open and burst blood vessels painted a picture
of pain.
"What happened?" Booth felt queasy. He grabbed the counter for support
and stained his fingers with blood. His own pale face grimaced back at
him from the kitchen window. The radio played the song.
"I killed him," she said. Her voice was cold and even. She did not try
to resist, but Booth, nevertheless, almost dropped the handcuffs from
her wrists. Neither spoke on the way back to the station.
Pale and shaking, she stood inside the cell. She was slow to react to
his commands, struck deaf or dumb. And as soon as she stretched out her
hands and he removed the cuffs, she sank down to the floor, sobbing.
"Are you okay?" Booth asked, "Do you need anything?"
"Some water." A weak smile from puffy eyes. "And," desperation tinged
her voice, "I suppose one needs a lawyer in situations such as this."
Booth nodded. He called up Antionielli and brought her water in a paper
cup. Greedy and thirsting, she stretched out her hand and suddenly Booth
started to shake. Drops of baptismal water hit his arms, and hers.
"Just the light," he whispered and finally gave her the cup. But even as
he left, the shadows surrounding her danced and menaced. He lit a
cigarette and waited, panicked, in his office for the lawyer to arrive.
Another cigarette before he entered the interview room. He had ordered
Johnny to escort her there and had given her and the lawyer time enough
to talk. The metal of the handle was cold to the touch. Booth hesitated.
He had given them ample time, but he needed another cigarette.
Both looked up at him when he entered. He snipped away ash from the
cigarette, his third, and sat down on the metal chair opposite them.
"You can talk now," said Antionielli to his client. His voice was soft.
Booth nodded and tried to smile. Her shadow was longer than his or the lawyer's.
"I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." Her speech turned to uncontrolled sobs.
The men did their best to calm her and when she had collected herself,
she spoke slowly and mechanically. "I have not been myself. Ever since
my husband died. Maybe earlier. I needed a change, so I came back. I
fell in love. I loved Manuel - I really did, but - it doesn't matter. I
killed him. I was not myself, but I killed him. When I offed the judge, I
was relieved. I thought I could control her! How can anyone love the
moon, anyway?" She looked up and smiled weakly at his obvious confusion.
"It does not matter anymore. I am a lunatic and she will go to Star
Lodge and he will kill all."
Her lips were no longer moving, but he could still hear her voice. "Star
Lodge. Star Lodge. Star Lodge. Star Lodge. Star Lodge. Star Lodge."
Booth could feel the cold sweat running down his chest. Opposite him,
Antionielli was pale and shaking. The sheriff rose and buzzered for his
remaining deputy. The men staggered outside, and Booth slammed shut the
door.
"Star," Antionielli's voice was ragged, "Lodge. I know it. It's our hunting lodge. My father used to - it has to be."
Booth's fingers were cold and stiff. He snapped the lighter until fire
consumed another cigarette. Meanwhile trying to put his questions into
words. Then he saw his deputy appear at the other end of the small, dim
hallway. "Let's go," he said, "I'll drive."
*
"Want one?" Booth had turned the ignition and had turned on the radio.
He pulled the packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket and offered it
to the other.
"I don't - yes, please."
Booth lit his own, then the lawyers. He turned left on Main. Blocky
houses and ancient elms rolled past. "So - where's that lodge of yours
at?" Booth asked.
Antionielli gave directions, then paused. "I have rented it out," he
finally added, "a colleague of mine came to town this morning and asked
for a quiet place to stay. She had planned to appear in front of Judge
Diegife and - well... ."
"Hm," said Booth, "I think I saw her." They fell silent.
The sheriff turned up the volume. The radio did not play any
heart-rending ballads. Instead, violins wailed, horns blared, and the
drum's vibrations seemed to rock the car. A full orchestra, if
diminished by static.
"What in tarnation?"
"Opera." Antionielli smiled for the first time since they had left the station. "The overture to Cherubini's Médée - if I am not mistaken."
"I'll be," Booth said. He did not switch channels.
The drive was uneventful. Opera music blasted as they made their way
deep into the dusty hills, to the creek and to the small pine forest.
The cruiser struggled along the muddy trail, up to the treeline, until
they reached the small log cabin. Loamy soil stained the tires and lower
body of a flashy red convertible parked in front.
XIII
Booth opened his door. Not a living being moved behind the dark windows
inside the lodge. The shadows of the trees around him seemed malicious,
long and growing ever larger. He reached for his gun but stopped
himself.
"Stay here. I'll check the perimeter. You can work the radio?"
The lawyer, maybe sensing the same subtle menace, nodded. Beads of sweat were rolling down his tired face.
"Good," Booth said, not loud enough for the other to hear.
Gun drawn, he entered the underbrush and rounded the cabin in a wide
arc. Through the shade he saw the elevated rear patio and holstered his
weapon.
A tarpaulin sheet was unfurled across the rough-hewn wood planks. The
woman from earlier was down on her knees upon it. Three men, brown
skinned and hairy, surrounded her naked form. One, his back turned
towards Booth, roared in some wild and guttural language. Then ropes of
thick, yellow-white jizz defiled her porcelain skin and elfin face. The
man half-turned and smeared her perfect hair with his filth.
Booth winced. He was disgusted, but his cock grew hard. He suppressed a
scream. Rushing blood pressed against his burns and scars and threatened
to tear open his wounds, barelyclosed. A whimpering sound escaped his
lips and when the man turned fully Booth almost passed out.
But they had not heard. Instead the man grunted and massaged his
softening prick. Even now it was enormous; horse-sized, veiny and
bulging. And despite the pain Booth could not look away. The two others
guided her upright. One, then the other entered her from behind.
Howling moans; clear, throaty and lusty, carried over and salved his
ears. They then exploded into hard, throbbing pain. She reacted madly,
crying louder to each frenzied thrust until one shut her mouth with his
cock.
Booth touched his gun, captivated by the spit-roasted slut. Her
debasement continued; a whore sandwiched between the nasty cocks of
brutes. Each of her gurgling slurps a potent dose of sweet torture.
They finished in flurry of savage lunges and needy shrieks. When Booth
left, he had seen his fill. She sat on the tarp, legs spread and
smiling. The vile traces of their depravity, globs of cum and her own
spit and juices, clung to her body. To her mouth. To her lips, blazing
red, lipstick smeared and begrimed. Between her legs and down the inside
of her knees. On her hair and breasts.
*
"Let's go." Booth rapped against the passenger-side window. Antionelli
flinched away from the radio and joined him. They crossed the clearing
to the lodge and Booth knocked on the door with the butt of his gun.
"One moment," she called out.
A door opened and Booth could hear hurried footfalls followed by the
splashing of water. The sheriff smiled wryly at his companion. "Your
colleague seems busy."
When she opened the door, she wore a bright blue summer dress and had
tied back her wet hair. There was a faint smell of soap and unsubtle
perfume, and Booth struggled not to stare too much.
"I'm Sheriff Booth," he said, "and you know Mr. Antionelli. We need to search this place."
"Victoria von Auric." Her grey eyes sparked with hate. "Esquire," she
added, with mockery in her voice. "And I do not suppose you have a
warrant?"
"This a matter of life and death. You will cooperate."
"Since the local magistrate is unavailable, I am willing to make an
exception." She stepped aside. Booth started to resent her knowing
smile.
They entered. Antionelli pointed out the telescope on its tripod and the
symbols engraved into the beams of the roof. Stars, moons and suns.
Triangles, pentagrams and even stranger runes.
"Dad never told me why they're here. Maybe he did not know either."
The woman had followed them closely and now studied the engravings with
obvious interest. As she stretched towards the roof, her dress hugged
tight against her shapely body and, despite his annoyance, Booth felt
his gaze drawn to her exposed skin and taut ass.
Through half-lidded eyes he remembered her whorish nakedness. With a
snort he chased away the pictures and said: "Get out of the way."
She smiled her cloying smile. "I am sorry. An acquaintance of mine used
to study folk religion. Superstitions and rituals, that kind of thing.
He'd have field day."
Booth paced across the cabin. Angered, he searched for the men he had
seen, but did not even find their luggage. "Are you here alone?" he
asked.
"I am," she claimed.
"I see." He dropped on the floor and looked under the mattress of the
iron frame bed. He found nothing, jumped up and rounded the interior
again. Suddenly, he stopped and stood, motionless. Then he ran over to
her and grabbed her shoulders.
"Do you know anything then?" He could feel his voice breaking as he
shook her. "Any information? Scraps of knowledge? Could you read those?"
he pointed at the runes with trembling fingers. "You must've learned
something - anything?"
Her hands were warm against his when she removed them with a forced grin
from her shoulder. "I could check my diary. Maybe there is something in
my notes, but... ."
"Nevermind. We were just leaving. I was curious, is all. C'mon." Booth
hurried back to his car. His heart was racing, and his cheeks were
burning. Antionelli followed close behind. As soon as the other has
closed the door, he drove away.
"I'm going mad," he confided, "I haven't been thinking clearly for a
while now, but," he paused, " but you have seen her, right? I shouldn't -
I can't believe, but I've seen too much. God have mercy, we will die.
Tell me we won't die."
Antionelli shifted and cleared his throat as if to speak. He stared
outside at the trees flying by. Again, he raised his voice and fell
silent. He exhaled loudly and finally said: "I do not know. This morning
I thought you a rabid dog, and now here we are. Maybe it is delusion.
Mass delusion. You'll hand my client of to the feds and it shall be a
story we will tell for years. Still," he paused for a moment, "my
grandpa kept diaries, I think, and dad might have kept them. Let me take
a look, just in case."
They drove in uncomfortable silence, until they reached the town and
Booth dropped off the other. Antionelli hesitated, car door in hand, and
promised to call. He sounded desperate. Booth nodded and offered some
platitude. Fears mirrored in their eyes. The door closed and Booth drove
off.
XIV
The inside of the station was dark. Booth called out for Johnny. He stopped himself before calling for Garcia. No one answered.
"Are you asleep?" Booth stepped into the murky silence.
The sheriff pressed a light switch. A click and a short burst of blue
fluorescence then darkness. Flashlight in hand, he walked in, past the
empty break room and deeper still. He passed his own desolate office and
moved deeper into the shifting shadows.
The beam from the flashlight hit the open cell door. Booth raced
forward, then started to scream. On the cot of the otherwise empty cell
lay Johnny's headless corpse. Blood pooled around the lifeless form and
terrified eyes pleaded from inside the head on the floor. The dead
deputy had tried to open his pants, with his hands still grasping belt
and zipper. Nasty bruises were visible even in the dim torchlight. Then a
sudden, metallic ring cut through the oppressive silence.
The shaken ray of light jerked upwards and one the sheer concrete wall
Booth could see the writing. Letters written in blood. MOON RISING. And
again: MOON RISING.
The telephone rang again, and Booth nearly dropped his flashlight. Antionelli. He rushed back to his office. Outside the window an orange moon was rising.
Booth picked up the receiver. "Antionelli?" he asked.
A female voice. A question of "Sheriff Booth?" turned into an
ear-rending scream. A maddened wail, rising in pitch until a panicked
Booth dropped the receiver and ran to his car.
*
Tires squealed when he stopped it in front of the lawyer's office. Booth pressed down on the horn until Antionelli appeared.
"Something's happening," said Booth. A passer-by exploded into flame.
"We may be safe up there," the panicked lawyer said, "my grandfather was
not... ." The radio, blaring the cowboy ballad, cut him off.
Booth raced through rising the inferno, until they reached the wooden
one-story house at the edge of town. Emily opened after his second
knock.
"Hyram!" She hugged him tightly and covered his face with kisses. "My
roommate!" She dragged him inside. "Something's not right with her. Come
quickly. Come!"
Writhing on the floor of the small kitchen was another young woman.
Short red hair and tattoos on naked, sunburnt legs. She screamed and
thrashed and begged for help. Booth extended his hand, but then fire
enveloped the screaming woman.
"We have to leave," Booth shouted.
"But... ."
The sheriff grabbed his lover by the hand and dragged her back to the
car. "We are not safe. We need to go. Go." He raced away. To the lodge
and to safety.
"What about your wife?" Emily spoke softly, with a deep sadness in her voice.
Booth cursed and slowed down the car.
"We have to safe her! I couldn't - you have to safe her!"
Booth turned the car around. He lacked the strength to argue and breathing was difficult.
*
Mary Booth ran towards the car as soon as he had reached the driveway.
Pale faced and sweating, dressed only in her nightgown and kitchen
apron, she dashed and stumbled towards them. "I don't feel so well," she
said and stumbled into Emily's arms.
"Close the door!" Booth screamed and already pulled back on the road.
"Shh, it's okay. All will be well." Emily had closed the car door and held Mary's limp form in her arms.
They sped away.
XV
As soon as they carried Mary over the threshold of the lodge, she
started to feel better. A weak smile lit up her harried face and she
whispered something into Emily's ears.
Booth's heart was racing. Blood pumped through his veins with heavy
thuds. The woman lawyer had opened her door willingly, but he felt ill
at ease. They were too far away to see the town, but even here the signs
of destruction had followed. A strange smell had tainted the crisp
forest air and menacing amber-red moonlight filtered through the
branches. He touched his gun and tried to forget the not quite fire
outside.
The lawyer with the foreign name had not attempted to hide her men this
time and so eight people shared the small space inside the cabin. The
talked in hushed voices while Booth looked around silently. The three
men he had seen with the lawyer, even dressed in their denim overalls
and flannel shirts, looked wild indeed. Long filthy beards and bulging
muscles. And the disturbing memories of monstrous cocks. A pang of pain.
Booth moved away.
The runes on the roof seemed to glow in a low, blueish light. He touched
the etchings and felt sparks tingle on his skin. Refreshing cold spread
from his fingertips across his body, until it calmed his raging heart.
Next, he checked on the windows and the backdoor. The other door had
been boarded up and Booth ran his hands over the rough and sturdy wood.
The windows looked to small for anything larger than a fox to crawl
through, but their openness made him uncomfortable, nevertheless.
"Coffee?" The female lawyer handed him a cup.
"Thanks. Miss - erhm?"
"Victoria." She smiled.
"Thank you, Victoria."
She turned to leave, but something froze her in place. "What was that?" she asked.
A noise from outside. Knocks, punches against the boarded door.
Splintering wood and breaking glass. He saw small hands snaking through
the slits. He touched his gun, but the wildmen were fast. They hurried
to the windows and forced back the attacker. With brooms and boards they
beat at it, again and again.
Then scratches. Scraping and clawing at the door. Booth looked around
for Antionelli, but the lawyer had sunk to the floor, pale and sweating
he hugged his legs to his body.
"Tarnation." Booth drew his gun. Another long and clawing scratch.
"There's something at the door," he said. The female lawyer looked at
him; determined. "Come," he heard himself say.
*
"Should we open it?" Victoria's voice was trembling.
Booth hesitated and finally nodded. "Yeah." He aimed his weapon at the door and cocked back the hammer. "Open."
She pushed open the door and jumped back. He trained his gun at the
already fleeing shape. Thin, blue fabric fluttered behind the sprinting
Mrs. Larson. She reached the treeline. Booth exhaled and lowered his
weapon.
"Did you see them?" Victoria sounded panicked.
"Them?"
"There was another one. Another woman. Dark hair, similar build, naked. She was at the edge of the forest. Watching."
"Are you sure?" Booth raised his weapon and scanned along the dark
shadows and beneath the trees for movement. She did not answer.
With a sigh, he uncocked and holstered his weapon. "Tarnation," he
pointed at the deep scratches in the wood, almost enough to cut through
the door. "Tarnation."
"Can you...?" She ran inside and quickly returned, carrying a kitchen knife.
"What?"
Wordlessly, she pricked the tip of her finger. The first drop of blood
fell to the ground. Then she began to write. A branching symbol smeared
in blood.
"No." She wiped it away with the sleeve of her dress and began anew. On
the next she added another branch, nodded, and then covered the whole
door.
"It's all I found." She offered a weak smile. "I hope it works."
Booth cursed under his breath and closed the door behind them. Muffled laughter could be heard from the inside.
Furniture blocked the windows. They stood in the middle of the room,
maybe relaxed, but all fell silent when they saw him and Victoria. Each
looked at him, but none dared ask.
"We scared her -it- away," Booth said, "but she may return. And there
may be others out there. So - stay away from the windows and let me," he
paused, "let us handle it." He did not mention the bloody symbols;
witchcraft would not calm them.
At first there was silence, but soon hushed conversation, idle chatter,
returned. He found himself at the edges, mostly checking the windows and
listening out for any signs of intruders.
His wife laughed at some joke told by one of the wildmen and Booth
seethed with rage. He moved to impose himself between her and the savage
man, when he heard again scratching noises at the door.
He drew his revolver. The others stopped talking. The savages raised
their heads, but he motioned them to stay away. Only Victoria followed
him to the door. No invitation necessary and bloody knife in hand. The
scratching continued, then stopped. For a heartbeat they waited, then
she opened the door.
Elisabeth Lawson stood dazed, hand still outstretched, with blood
covering her elongated, silvery fingernails. She looked at them with
glazed eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but Booth had already pulled
the trigger. Again and again, in quick succession. Six shots rang out
and struck her in the face and square in the chest. She collapsed to the
ground. He continued to press down on the trigger, even as the hammer
struck empty cartridges.
"She's dead," said Victoria. The lawyer had checked the dead woman's
pulse and gently pulled down his arm. Booth stowed his now useless
weapon.
"We did it," he whispered. "We did it."
XVI
The celebration inside rent his heart. From under the floorboards they
had pulled a bottle of bourbon and soon their laughter became boozy.
He knew the tone of their voices and knew what their joy betrayed. Once,
a long time ago, Mary had shared these moments with him. And recently,
when he had fallen for Emily, they too had laughed and whispered
blissfully.
His wife touched the savage's arm and smiled. An invitation. The
barmaid, his former lover, sat on the lap of another wildman, their lips
mere inches apart. Even Antionielli had moved close to the third
brown-skinned man. They talked in a way that made Booth feel deeply
uncomfortable.
Only Victoria remained alone. She slurped her coffee mixed with whiskey and smiled a relaxed smile.
"How come you're not jealous?" Booth asked.
"Why should I be?"
"I need a smoke." He walked away.
She said something, but he could not hear her.
*
Cigarette in mouth and with lighter in hand, he opened the door. The corpse was gone.
"Sheriff Booth," her voice whispered on the wind. "I am ready for you. Come to me."
He followed the drag-marks and the whispered, minty lure. Deeper into the forest; every step a promise.
"Soon. Pleasure beyond mortal ken. You are ready for us."
He found her kneeling over her own body. Her jaw unhinged, down to her
naked, blood-covered chest. She cracked open bones with her small,
pearly-white teeth. She sucked the marrow and stained her lips with her
flesh.
"What are you?" Booth drew his gun.
"Shhhh. Soon." She moved, snakelike and quick.
He pulled the trigger. The hammer struck a useless cartridge. Two more empty clicks.
"Shhhh."
A punch; then another, enough to crack his ribs.
"Soon." Her fist hit his head and he passed out.
*
He awakened, hanging upside down from a tree. Two Elisabeth Larsons
looked up at him. One, lips still red with blood and naked, smiled and
traced her fingers along his body.
"Sorry. I'm so so sorry." The other wore her bathrobe. Still or again.
It was bloody now, and tattered by bullet holes and powder burns. "I
cannot control her. Maybe I never could." She covered her face with her
hands and sobbed softly.
"You are ready, now." The other kissed his lips. He tasted mint and
decay. "Ready to see." His heart beat faster. Then she hit him.
She flayed his skin and ripped open his arteries. At first there was
pain, red hot and searing, then she touched his heart. Her nails,
dagger-like, invaded his ribcage as a steely stab. She punctured his
heart with needle-like pain. He felt himself crushed in her vise, until
he burst.
The naked woman bathed herself in the last drops of his blood. Laughing,
she anointed her crying other with his life. Then she took her by the
hand and led the moon-painted woman away, deeper into the forest.
Booth's heart was no longer beating and he followed, dripping red from
the naked woman's breasts. He fell to the thirsty ground as she rose
high on the moonlit clearing.
He burned on the robe-clad woman's face. He was her moons and grew ever
larger. Her tears mixed with his blood, until she wiped them away and
smeared the moons. She raised high her bloodstained hands and offered a
maddened prayer to the mad moon ravishing her other. Her sister, her
self. Herself. She lowered her hands and parted, probed her sex.
Dripping they rose, higher and higher towards the amber-red moon. Light
trickled down on her body and the weeping moon mixed with his blood.
They filled her. She drank honey light and kissed the sky. He flowed
with her arousal down her legs and entered her, splashed on moonish
tendrils.
The women screamed. He could not; even as he was given to the moon.
************************************
Author's note
Thank you for reading. I am not usually a fan of author's notes, but
since I decided to publish this story as part of the Valentine's Day
Contest (Please rate and comment) I might as well nod to site tradition
and offer a few words about a somewhat irregular story.
1. I am still figuring out how to do content/trigger warnings. I would
like to think that my use of categories and tags is enough, but I am
interested in your input.
2. I have already alluded to the fact that this is not a typical
Valentine's Day story (Please rate, comment and favourite). And on the
one hand I am perfectly willing to admit that this is in part a knowing
attempt to pander to a crowd of my fellow cold-hearted cynics.
On the other hand, this is a story for and about Valentine's Day and
(romantic) love. So there is mythology, even if it is more the martyrdom
of St.Valentine than red roses. And there is place, if only in the
margins, for hopeful and fulfilling, human love.
The core topic, however, is love as greater than human. A cosmic force, inscrutable and destructive.
3. Thank you, again, for reading, and I look forward to any and all feedback.
Uther
************************************
'Sundown survivor identified. The woman dubbed the "Red Bride" has been
identified as one Suzanne Myers, a 42 year old Sundown resident. State
troopers had found her on Tuesday morning during their perimeter search
between Sundown and Scalper's Ferry. Miss Myers had been unresponsive
and was found wearing a blood drenched wedding dress. She carried with
her what authorities are calling "a substantial amount of silver ore."
She has been placed in psychiatric care.
Meanwhile, hope of finding any of the other missing townspeople,
including Sheriff Hyram Booth, alive is dwindling as systematic searches
are nearing their end.
The town of Sundown had been struck on Friday night by a possible
terrorist attack. While details of the massacre remain sparse, it has
been described as an "attack the like of which has not been witnessed on
American soil."
And now music.'
Rode out to the plateau, out to the dying sun
you swore love and now - now I raise my gun
Out in the dusky moonlight,
prays a lonely tree
and I -
I long to be free
Ancient chapel, chains that bind
whiskey and cigarettes,
watched the blue, blue moon
pretty stranger, wished you blind
love is sworn forever,
but death comes soon oh so soon
Rode out to the plateau, out to the dying sun
you swore love and now - now I raise my gun
Out in the dusky moonlight,
prays a lonely tree
and I -
I long to be free
Fresh dirt, chains that bound
whiskey and cigarettes,
judged by the blue moon
ridin' ranger, fiendish hound
love is sworn forever,
but death comes soon oh so soon
Rode out from the plateau, out from the dying sun
you swore love - and then I raised my gun
Out in the dusky moonlight,
prays a lonely grave
and I -
I longed to be brave
