Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

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.