Kingdom of Shadows

-6-

He gathered up the files and threw them back into the briefcase on the floor. As he reached for the book he saw a business card lying on the table he hadn’t noticed previously. An address had been written on one side, a phone number on the other. Both had been written in ballpoint pen, and though legible, appeared hastily scribbled by a less than steady hand. Mind still reeling, Rooster considered the card a moment then grabbed the wall phone and dialed.

“We’re sorry,” a recorded female voice replied, “the number you dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”

He hung up and tried again. Perhaps the five shots of Jack Daniels had caused him to misdial. This time he concentrated on each number to make sure he got it right, but the same recording answered. He slammed the phone down, fear and uncertainty giving way to anger. It was short-lived. Within seconds of hanging up, the phone began to ring. Startled, he slowly reached for the receiver and brought it to his ear. He could hear breathing. “Yes?”

“Hello, Mr. Cantrell.” The voice was raspy and weak, like it belonged to a very tired old man. “You dialed the number. Obviously you’ve seen the files.”

“Who are you?”

“Look on the other side of the card,” the voice instructed. “Do you see an address there?”

“Yes.”

“Be there tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“No,” Rooster said, “let’s do this tonight. I want this over with.”

“Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll know you. Come alone.”

The line clicked, died and was replaced with a dial tone. Rooster grabbed the card, read the address again. It meant nothing to him, just an address. His mind on overload, he tried to consider the information in the files again but couldn’t make sense of it. He knew those men. None of them were guilty of such things. And why in God’s name would he have tortured and murdered anyone? Why would someone invent pasts and former crimes for him and the others? Why would they compile files with false information about things that never happened? What could possibly be the point?

Rooster snatched the phone up again and this time dialed the number Snow had given him. He’d promised the information would answer his questions and tell him everything he needed to know. It hadn’t. The line rang several times without reply, and he was just about to hang up when he heard a soft click. The ringing ceased. “Hello?” he said a moment later.

“Who is this?” The voice was strange. Though male, it had a synthetic quality to it, like the person was speaking through a machine of some sort.

“Where’s Snow?”

“Who is this?”

“I need to speak to Snow, put him on the phone.”

“Who is this?”

“Who the hell is this?”

The voice answered in what began as English but quickly morphed into an indecipherable tongue, eventually becoming a deafening screech somewhere between a scream and a rage-filled, animal-like howl. Rooster pulled the phone from his ear, holding it several inches away, but the horrible wailing continued. He knew those sounds. He’d heard them before, somewhere in a distant and blurred past. Wracked with another wave of terror, he hung the phone up and backed away, stumbling into the kitchen table as he went.

A loud clap behind him sent a shiver through his body as he spun in the direction of the noise.

He’d knocked the book to the floor.

He retrieved it, tossed it on the table then grabbed the whiskey and poured another shot.

The violent tremor in his hands had returned.

The jangle of Gaby’s keys in the lock startled him. Huddled at the kitchen table, Rooster had become so enthralled while further studying the book on Demonology that he hadn’t heard Gaby ascending the stairs to their apartment. He’d stopped at a depiction of a particularly gruesome-looking demon with blackened wings and a hideous, half-goat, half-human face. Squatting atop a mountain of mangled and dismembered human bodies, in one of its clawed hands it held the severed head of a woman, and in the other what appeared to be a male member. Rooster rubbed his eyes, looked over at Gaby.

“Hey,” she said, closing the door behind her. In her arms she held a brown paper bag from the neighborhood grocer. Beneath her heavy winter coat she wore a plain dress and a pair of black heels. Her hair was up and held in place with a clip but had become mussed, probably from the wind. She looked tired. “How’d the job hunt go?”

“Lock the door.”

She did, then put the bag on the counter, removed her coat and walked over to the table. They kissed. “You OK? Why is it so dark in here?” She headed for a lamp in the den.

“Don’t.”

Gaby stopped, looked at him quizzically.

“Just don’t. OK?”

As if not entirely sure what to make of him, she moved back toward the table. “What’s that?” she asked, referring to the book. Before he could answer she saw the illustration. “What are you doing with that?”

Rooster closed the book so she could see the cover.

“Demonology? I don’t want that in the house.”

“Neither do I,” he sighed.

“Then get rid of it.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and took it with her to the counter, where she dropped it off then began emptying the grocery bag. “Sorry babe, I had a long day, just didn’t feel like cooking.” She held up two TV dinners. “Got you that Salisbury steak one you like, OK?”

He followed her to the counter, grabbed his cigarettes and lit one. “Do you believe in them?”

“Demons?” she asked, busying herself with the oven. “Do you?”

“The book supposedly shows what they look like, and it has incantations written in Latin. Is that how people summon them?”

“Why would anyone want to summon demons?” Gaby unwrapped both dinners and left them on top of the stove. “It’ll just take a minute to preheat and I’ll get these in.”

“I called Snow,” he said. “We met this afternoon.”

“Is that where you got the book?”

“That and the briefcase,” he said, motioning to it.

“Why would he give you a book like that? And what’s in the briefcase?”

Rooster took a couple drags before answering. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Is that why he kept calling? So he could tell you secrets?”

“Gaby,” he said, clearing his throat. “I need to ask you something.”

She stopped futzing about the kitchen and focused on him, dark eyes narrowed as if trying to see him more clearly. “OK.”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Seems like forever, doesn’t it?”

“How did we meet?” he asked.

She smiled uncomfortably. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t remember?”

Tears filled his eyes. He shook his head no, brought the cigarette to his lips and drew on it, hard. “I can’t…I don’t know what’s happening to me but—something’s wrong, Gaby—I think I’m losing my mind or… worse.”

She put a hand on his forehead. “You’re warm. Feels like you’re running a bit of a temp. Let me get you some aspirin.”

He gently pulled her hand away but held on tight, watching her blur through his tears. “I know I know you but…Gaby…I don’t know who you are. I’m not even sure who I am.”

“You haven’t slept, you’re drinking, and now you’ve got a bad influence from your past giving you scary books and making things worse.” She moved by him, grabbed the book from the table and tucked it into the briefcase. “No wonder you’re not feeling well and can’t think clearly. Get this out of here or I’ll take it out to the Dumpster myself. I’m serious.”

“I need you to tell me, Gaby, please, I—”

“You need something to eat, a nice hot shower and some sleep. I’ll—”

“Stop it!” He smashed a fist on the counter. The entire room shook. “Fucking answer me!”

Gaby remained where she was, hugging herself. In a tiny voice she said, “You’re frightening me.”

“I’m sorry.” Rooster threw the remains of his cigarette into the kitchen sink then began pacing like a caged animal. “I’m sorry, I—Jesus Christ, what’s happening to me?”

She cautiously stepped closer. “It’s going to be all right.”

No longer able to control it, he wept openly.

Closing the gap between them, Gaby cupped his face in her hands. “Look at me.” He did. “It’s going to be all right.”

“Am I crazy?”

She pulled him into her, held his head tight to her breasts and kissed the top of his head. “No, baby, you’re not crazy. You’re just trying to find your way.”

“I think they’re after me, Gaby, I think the demons are—something’s happened to me, I can’t remember things and—”

“Nothing can hurt you while you’re with me.” She gave him a quick wink. “My love’s way too powerful for any demon, real or imagined. They mess with my man I’ll kick the slithery-tailed little pukes back to Hell where they belong.”

Rooster wanted to smile, but the terror remained.

“Come on. Rest while I get some chores done and dinner together.” She led him into the den, helped him onto the couch then switched on the console television in the corner. “Watch some TV.”

As the set came on, Gaby retreated to the kitchen, leaving him alone. He wiped his eyes and nose and sunk deeper into the couch, hiding in the shadows.

A news anchor with bad skin and an even worse comb-over sat at a stylish desk, an ACTION NEWS 8 banner on the wall behind him. Decked out in a yellow polyester blazer and ridiculously wide tie, he shuffled a stack of papers and continued relaying a story he’d begun a moment or two earlier. “According to eyewitnesses, the black male exited the bar on Cafferty Boulevard and darted directly into traffic. He was struck by what has been described as a large black sedan, possibly a Ford, which fled the scene. Paramedics are working on the man now and we hope to have a live report from the scene very shortly.”

Rooster sat up. The bar he’d met Snow at earlier was on Cafferty Boulevard.

“One eyewitness told Action News 8 the man appeared disoriented and was running as if being chased, though that did not seem to be the case. It’s not yet known if the man was intoxicated or under the influence of narcotics, but—one moment…” The anchor put a hand to his ear, listened to the voice in his earpiece then paused for dramatic effect and frowned as if personally devastated. “This just in: the victim, identified as Terrell B. Snow, has been pronounced dead on the scene. As further details become available on this horrific hit-and-run tragedy, we will—”

Rooster turned the television off. The apartment was quiet. He looked to the kitchen. The TV dinners were still on top of the stove but Gaby was nowhere to be found. He hurried through the apartment to the bedroom.

Light filled the room as he flipped the switch. Half-expecting to see the horrible winged and long-tailed creatures in the book flying about, he was relieved to find only shadows, an aged bedroom set and the usual open window. He went directly to the closet and pulled an old shoebox down from the shelf. Inside, a 9mm, a full clip and two boxes of ammunition were wrapped in a cloth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even touched the gun, much less fired it, but he scooped it up, deftly slapped the clip into place, chambered a round and released the safety. Something about holding the gun steadied his hand.

A cold breeze blew through the room, disturbing the curtains. He moved to close the window but froze. Beneath a streetlight just beyond the courtyard, a lone man was watching the building.

A priest.

“What’s wrong?”

Rooster glanced behind him. Gaby stood in the doorway, a laundry basket of freshly folded clothes in her arms. “How did you know that would be on the news?” he asked.

“How did I know what would be on the news?” She noticed his weapon and her face went pale. “Michael, why do you have a gun?”

“Turn off the light,” he instructed. “Do it now.”

She did. They fell into darkness.

Rooster looked back out the window. The priest was gone.