Shifters (38 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
No, Locke wasn’t around, he wasn’t in the city. Cordesman knew the vibe.
Now I gotta find the guy,
he thought. He’d dropped Locke’s last poem, turned to face Brock but had then seen something on a tall dresser—
Now I gotta find the guy,
he thought. He’d dropped Locke’s last poem, turned to face Brock but had then seen something on a tall dresser—
The Prince of the River of Oblivion,
he thought.
The Prince of the only river in Hell.
he thought.
The Prince of the only river in Hell.
The River Lethe…
What he’d seen, and picked up off the dresser, was a spartan business card which read:
A. Lethe
Todesfall Rd.
North Bend, WA
888-0776
“Jill,” he said, walking out. “You’re cool, a good ev-chief, maybe the best I’ve worked with.”
“Captain, what are you—”
“Tell Kerr I’ll write him up for his step-raise, will ya? And do me a favor—tell the North Preek D.C. that I’ve resigned. I gotta get out of here.”
“Captain! You can’t—”
Yes, he could. Cordesman didn’t care. Murder was relative; in fact it was often all too easy to solve. But this was more than murder. It was something intricate and rich, something cabalistic.
Follow your gut,
Cordesman reminded himself. The vibes were whispering to him. And for now…
Follow your gut,
Cordesman reminded himself. The vibes were whispering to him. And for now…
He had some driving to do.
(ii)
“Welcome to the interstice.”
Lethe looked at Locke from the end of the long hall. Light which wavered scarlet seemed to stand atop the tall man’s head. “Do come in, Mr., Locke,” Lethe intoned. The words echoed like rocks bounced against the high walls. “I thought you’d be easy, but you weren’t—and that delights me. Too often, it’s the opposite.”
Locke walked forward, back into the dining room in which he’d sat earlier. The same room, yes, but
not
the same. Instead of classy coats-of-arms, original oil paintings, and flats of rare Meissen ware, the room extended as a plane of gray dust. Something more like bloodless human skin adorned the walls instead of the fancy paneling and wallpaper. And the skin was going gangrenous.
not
the same. Instead of classy coats-of-arms, original oil paintings, and flats of rare Meissen ware, the room extended as a plane of gray dust. Something more like bloodless human skin adorned the walls instead of the fancy paneling and wallpaper. And the skin was going gangrenous.
“Enlightenment. Accentuation. Paramount properties of human desire, correct?” Lethe intoned.
Locke wasn’t afraid, even after all he’d seen on his way here…and even in knowing that it was all real. Real in some other facet of reality.
But what did Lethe mean?
“Enlighten
me,”
Locke said. “Cos I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
me,”
Locke said. “Cos I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please. Tell me I’m wrong. Your pitiable horde of mankind, trudging without end in its desultory plight. Where is the difference between expectation and hope?
Is
there a difference?”
Is
there a difference?”
Locke looked upon the malefactor through thinned eyes. “Tell me more. I’m stupid today.”
“Hey!”
Locke nearly shrieked, an arm grabbed him aside, and the face grinning into his was Martin’s, the tattooed and ring-pierced chest all asweat. He remained naked, save for his bloody Keds. The drooping genitals glittered in their chrome-studded gore, Locke was at least attentive enough to note. And he noted something else: two inch-long fangs sprouted from the painter’s grin.
“You don’t look so hot,” Martin observed. “Here, man, have one of these. Real tasty, it’ll perk ya up.” He slapped something thin and wet into Locke’s hand.
A small severed breast.
Locke looked at it, then flung the thing away. “I’m not afraid.”
“But it’s real,” Lethe said. “You know that now.”
“Yeah, I know. But that’s not what this is about.”
Lethe’s eyes were lime-green. He grinned through fangs similar to Martin’s only they were longer.
“And I also know this,” Locke challenged. “You’re not a vampire.”
A blink-like flash, and Lethe grinned without the green eyes or the fangs. “There are many layers to truth, Mr. Locke, and many doors to perception. But the means to swing those doors open are precious few. You’ve found one of those ways, and I commend you. Perhaps we’ll talk at greater length later.” Lethe turned in his fine suit, but came to a sudden halt. Without refacing Locke, he said, “And you’re quite right. I’m
not
a vampire… But Martin is.”
not
a vampire… But Martin is.”
Lethe left the dust-plagued room.
“Deal with it,” Martin said through his drooling, fanged grin.
(iii)
Enlightenment, accentuations. What the malefactor accuses mankind of, so too is he guilty, and I.
Moreso.
Faith is truth. Truth is power. That which allows me to prowl for my instinct. But for Locke? Only the veil of dreams.
My enemy’s strength trebles mine. I know that. I’m just a better hider.
I hide in your brain. I hide in your hatred. I hide in the shadows under your bed.
Why do I do this?
Because you let me.
««—»»
Carry me away…
A line from one of Locke’s poems? A line from the pen of every poet to ever walk the face of the earth? I guess I’m selfish, because I don’t care.
And I guess I know what’s happening now…
But I don’t care.
(iv)
Locke thought of more doors opening but to what, he wasn’t sure. Martin had flecks of what appeared to be blood clots on the tips of his fangs, and clots of even less savory things smudging the sharpened edges of the chrome rings hooked into his penis. Locke felt a pang of jealousy—not that Martin could be a better artist but that he had, well, a bigger dick.
At least mine’s not full of fishing tackle,
Locke thought.
Locke thought.
“Where’s your faith now, poet?” Martin asked. “I’m immortal.”
“No, you’re not. Lethe’s merely made you think that.”
Martin stared through a sharper grin, and then came a sound like someone breaking open a watermelon bare-handed. But what
Martin
was breaking open bare-handed was his own
external obliques,
aka, his belly. Then he yanked open the rest of the abdominal wall, then began pulling things out
.
Martin
was breaking open bare-handed was his own
external obliques,
aka, his belly. Then he yanked open the rest of the abdominal wall, then began pulling things out
.
The stomach and duodenum, the entirety of the pancreatic process, the spleen and the kidneys and the renal cords.
He snapped it all off, discarded it, and still stood.
“How’s that for immortal?”
Guess that’s one on me,
Locke considered.
Locke considered.
“I’ll suck you dry,” Martin said, “then I’ll make
you
immortal too. Mr. Lethe said I could. And you know what I’ll do next?”
you
immortal too. Mr. Lethe said I could. And you know what I’ll do next?”
“Take painting lessons?”
Martin’s dark face darkened further. “I’ll do you like I do the whores. I’ll hang you up and start carving, and I won’t stop for a
long time.
That’s a shitload of pain to someone who can’t die.”
long time.
That’s a shitload of pain to someone who can’t die.”
“The only worse torture,” Locke said, “would be listening to you talk anymore about art.”
Locke tried to goad him…and it worked. Martin was
all over
him.
Ug, fuck!
was about the most articulate thing Locke could think.
Do I look like Peter Cushing? Shit, I’m a poet, not a vampire-killer!
all over
him.
Ug, fuck!
was about the most articulate thing Locke could think.
Do I look like Peter Cushing? Shit, I’m a poet, not a vampire-killer!
Martin vised him down hard, his mouth cranked open like a bear-trap. Target: Locke’s throat.
“I’ll do a whole
show
on you,” Martin drooled onto Locke’s face.
show
on you,” Martin drooled onto Locke’s face.
“Where’d you take art lessons?” Locke asked. “Kindergarten fingerpaint class?”
“Fuck you! My art is unsurpassed!”
“Yeah, and El Greco jacks fries at Burger King. Get over it, buddy, if Van Gogh saw
your
work, he’d cut off his
head
. If Thomas Hart Benton looked at
your
work,
he’d climb out of his grave just to dig a deeper hole you suck so bad. Piet Mondrian could flick boogers on a garbage bag and it would be better than anything you could even
think
of. Face the music, your work eats shit. You’re an insult to the aesthetic vision.”
your
work, he’d cut off his
head
. If Thomas Hart Benton looked at
your
work,
he’d climb out of his grave just to dig a deeper hole you suck so bad. Piet Mondrian could flick boogers on a garbage bag and it would be better than anything you could even
think
of. Face the music, your work eats shit. You’re an insult to the aesthetic vision.”
Why Locke thought to choose to inflame an immortal adversary capable of drinking his blood and reawakening him into a scape of endless torture—he couldn’t imagine. Maybe he just wanted to go out in style? Or maybe—
“I’m gonna chew out your carotid and suck it like a straw,” Martin promised.
Or maybe Locke just felt it was time to accept his fate.
Martin’s wet lips touched the side of Locke’s throat, sucked down, and then the tips of the fangs nudged against the skin.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Martin mewled, his metal-ringed erection curiously spewing semen. He rolled off Locke, displaying a sharp point coming out of his chest.
Locke back-crawled away and stared forward. It was a wooden stake that had been hammered through Martin’s back through his heart. Blood wept from the sharpened tip.
Then Locke gazed up.
Roderick Byers—White Shirt—stood above them, a rack of standing rot and a hammer hanging from one flesh-specked hand. Black liquid bubbled in his ears.
“Can’t stand to see a fellow poet in need,” Byers said.
««—»»
“I don’t have much time. There’s this energy thing, I don’t quite get it but…”
Locke’s eyes held on the reanimated corpse. He’d followed his savior to an eastward parlor, which—thank the fates—had a wine rack. Locke didn’t feel bad about helping himself to a bottle of Chateau Epernon, 1710.
Byers seemed to falter as if his thoughts were skewed.
“You were saying something about an energy thing.”
“Yes! Thank you! It’s plasmotic—I’m not sure why I know that, but I do. I know a lot of things now.”
“Such as?”
The corpse paused to think. “Well, the skull of Dracole Waida lies hidden within the far west wall of the Snagov de Chapelle, two rows up, and seventy-one rows across. It’s there, it’s just that none of them ever found it. I know that John Wilkes Booth did kill Lincoln but that he didn’t die until 1888. I know that Yuri Andropov was murdered by a potassium chloride infusion, and I know that the UFO crash in Roswell, on July 4, 1947, was a hoax.”
“Wow,” Locke remarked. “You know a lot.”
“But is was only Army Air Corp disinformation, to cover up the
real
crash 75 miles away, on July 5, in Magdelena, New Mexico. Oh! And something else! Vince Foster was murdered in Crystal City, Virginia at 3:49 p.m. on July, 20, 1993. He was shot in the mouth with a Ruger .22 by a man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a dark beard. Fifteen minutes previously, two other men had left the room. One was a Chinese restaurant owner from Little Rock, and the other was— Say, Locke, you don’t seem very interested in this.”
real
crash 75 miles away, on July 5, in Magdelena, New Mexico. Oh! And something else! Vince Foster was murdered in Crystal City, Virginia at 3:49 p.m. on July, 20, 1993. He was shot in the mouth with a Ruger .22 by a man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a dark beard. Fifteen minutes previously, two other men had left the room. One was a Chinese restaurant owner from Little Rock, and the other was— Say, Locke, you don’t seem very interested in this.”
“Not only am I not interested, I’m disappointed.” Locke felt jovial this close to death. What the hell? “Who gives a shit about Vince Foster? I want to know who killed Kennedy.”
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