The lebo coven, p.9
The Lebo Coven, page 9
God, that was dangerous. To rely on a drink to feel any kind of stability? Wasn’t that too much like …
“Hey, Barry!”
The voice was unmistakable. Turning, he saw the tall, blond figure waddling up to him with a stride not unlike a penguin’s. Cameron was drunk, per the norm, and carried a full beer in hand. Sometimes Barry thought that the epithet “doofus” could have been coined specifically for this man, for by appearance alone, no one could have been more suited to it. Admittedly, Cameron had once been decently mannered, not to mention academically gifted—a fact that made his self-inflicted degeneracy seem all the more revolting. But now was not the time for such reflection, Barry thought. He had business to attend to.
“I’ve got a table over here,” Cameron said, speech slurred. “Come with me.”
Barry followed, noting that Cameron had staked his claim with a blue windbreaker at a booth that hid in the bar’s darkest corner, which he had not been able to see earlier. He sat down, fumbled in his pocket for the note, and laid the crumpled piece of paper on the table. “What’s this about?”
“I couldn’t talk this morning—not that I particularly wanted to—but I might know some things you want to know.” He smiled as slyly as his chubby, rose-tinted face would allow. “You seeing Jenny Brand now?”
“She’s an old friend. But I don’t think that’s important.”
“Some old friend. From what I recall, you used to regard her about as highly as cancer.”
“That was a long time ago, Keith. You used to be good company and didn’t shit on your friends, and that was nowhere near so long ago.”
“Hey. You shit on me pretty good too, you know.”
“I’m not going to get into the fact that you brought it on yourself. Now, did you want to see me or just indulge in old spite?”
“Okay. Whatever. I know you and your brother never got along. He’s caused a lot of people problems in his time, with that temper of his. Whatever caused him to be like that, huh?”
“Birth defect or something, I don’t know. So, do you know what happened to him, or what?”
Cameron shook his head. “You know, I never liked Matt much either, since he treated your friends about as badly as he treated you. Like I already told you this morning, he did rent a room out several months back. To our friend Ren.”
“Right. And I want to know if it was Ren that wrecked my—Matt’s place. And if he did something to Matt.”
Cameron looked around, as if afraid someone might be watching him. “You asked me if Ren was into Satanism. Well, he was, or at least some kind of weird shit. I think he was trying to get up a cult of his own of some kind. He tried to recruit me.”
Adrenaline kicked into Barry’s bloodstream. “How do you mean? What did he want?”
“Well, like I said, I used to run moonshine, and he helped me out. I never realized it for the longest time, but he expected something in return. More than the money, I mean. He wanted me to help him.”
“With what?”
“You know what a magus is?”
“That’s like a magician, right?”
“Yeah, kind of. He wanted to become a magus, where he could have all kinds of mystical abilities and such. He wanted a number of people around who would help him by channeling spiritual energy for him. I thought it was a bunch of bullshit. I still do, except that he turned out to be a pretty scary guy. Let me show you something.”
Cameron reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a Polaroid snapshot, and handed it over to Barry, who took it eagerly and held it close to the candle on the table. The photo showed a tall figure in front of a gray stone wall. The character was exceptionally thin, and had thick, black hair with a single streak of stark white that flared wildly from his narrow skull. He wore dark glasses, camouflage pants, and a black T-shirt emblazoned with an American eagle dropping a bomb and a logo in bright red letters that read, “Death from Above.” Strangely, all around the almost skeletal-looking figure, a mass of swirling, milky distortions marred the emulsion, almost like smoke—or sunlight reflected on rippling water.
“Now … turn that photo upside down.”
Barry did. And immediately, as if transformed into something alive, the smoky pattern assumed a distinct shape: a three-dimensional oblong of shadow-defined features, including a sharp, beaked snout, deep, hollow eye sockets, and long, stiletto-pointed ears. And as he stared open-mouthed, Barry saw, hidden among the misty whorls, the outline of another face, this one smaller, narrower, with larger eye sockets and wide, rounded ears. The face smiled crookedly at him. Leering.
“Where did you get this?”
“I took it at a party. I took a whole package of film at that party, all of different people. This is the only one of Ren. And it’s the only one with that distortion in it. Do you see the faces?”
“Yeah. I see them. Can you explain it?”
“Flaw in the film. Weird lighting effect. I don’t know. I only know what it looks like. But those old things develop instantly. The emulsion couldn’t have been doctored.”
Barry nodded. This would have been a lot easier to rationalize before today. Now, he knew that trying to explain the strange faces in prosaic terms would require the greater leap of imagination.
Again, he saw Cameron’s eyes wandering around the room, a distinct gleam of worry in them. Barry glanced around but saw nothing and no one to give them cause for alarm. Shrugging to himself, he said, “Keith, how did Ren get hooked up with my brother? Why was he renting a room there?”
“Well, I don’t know any details. From what I remember, Ren met Matt at the record store. I guess he mentioned he wanted to rent a room somewhere, and Matt wanted some extra cash. He had plenty of space in your folks’ old house.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Barry muttered. It was easy to envision Matt overextending himself financially; since he owed only a token house payment each month—to Barry—Matt obviously spent his paychecks on more frivolous commodities, only to find himself coming up short. Renting a room brought in easy money. “You said Ren wanted a number of people to help him. Who else was involved?”
Cameron was staring at the bar again, and Barry thought he must be contemplating another drink. But his beer glass was still half-full, and as he glanced back at Cameron’s face, he saw that it had gone from ruddy to chalky white. Barry followed his gaze and discovered, staring back at them with narrow eyes, none other than their old friend Delaporte, seated at the bar.
Barry said softly, “Was he one of them?”
“Uh, Ren approached him, I think. I don’t know what came of it.”
“Something wrong, Keith? Something about Delaporte? Y’all were getting along well enough last night.”
“Shit. He said he wasn’t coming here tonight. I have to go,” Cameron said, downing his beer in one swallow. “Keep the photo, if you like. I don’t want it.”
With that, he slid out of the booth, took up his jacket, and waddled off in the direction of the restrooms, but instead of going inside, he skirted around the pack of ringside gawkers and disappeared. And that was the last of Cameron for the evening, for a moment later, he reappeared just long enough to leave by way of the front door. Barry looked back at Delaporte, who rose and slowly glided toward him, a Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Not wishing to advertise the subject of his recent conversation, he slipped the photo of Ren into his back pocket. Then, arming himself with a smoke of his own, he sat back and awaited Delaporte’s arrival.
“You and Cameron have a nice chat?” Without invitation, the tall, bony figure sat down in the seat Cameron had just vacated and took a long drag on his cigarette.
“You guys must have had a falling out since last night. He looked most unhappy to see you.”
“Cameron’s a waste, man. Did he tell you what he’s doing in D.C. now?”
“No.”
“When he went up there several years ago, he got on with a top-notch accounting firm, you know, with that degree he somehow got. But he was fired after a month. Drinking on the job. Nowadays, he’s a frigging busboy at a Denny’s restaurant. Now that’s prestige for a gifted and talented thirty-something-year-old boy, ain’t it?”
“Sad.”
“No shit. Now, what did you say your occupation is these days, Riggs?”
“Art. I’m an artist.”
“Pay well?”
“Sometimes. What about you? How come you still live in this town?”
Delaporte grinned. “Can’t leave, for one thing. Probation officer wouldn’t like it.”
“Let me guess. White-collar crime?”
“That’s fucking funny, man. Nah. I just had a bit of trouble with some people a while ago. Had a fight, coupla people got cut. Nothing serious, you know, I wasn’t really trying to hurt anybody. But the judge didn’t cut me any slack. Did a couple of years’ time, now I have to report to a county man every other week. You know what really chaps my ass, though? It was the same judge that let your brother Matt off easy. Now, ain’t that some shit?”
Barry rolled his eyes. “I see they didn’t make you swear off alcohol.”
“You kidding? If they did that to everybody in this town with a record, Willy’s would go broke. And then the judge wouldn’t have no place to hang out.”
“Well, I guess you’re supposed to steer clear of people who might be … bad influences, if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, bad influences. You think Cameron’s a bad influence?”
“I can’t imagine him being good for anyone.”
“You’re right there. People like him take other people down with them. That’s dangerous, man. Real dangerous.”
Barry suddenly felt his hackles rising. His throat had gone dry and his voice came out hoarsely. “But I was thinking more about this character called Ren. You ever hang out with him?”
“What do you want to know about him for?”
“He’s been the subject of several conversations lately. I don’t suppose you know where he went after he left my brother’s place, do you?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
Barry shrugged. “Just asking. The sheriff, I think, would particularly like to find him.” He watched Delaporte’s expression carefully. The cool gaze did not waver. “You mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“What is it?”
“What’s your first name?”
“Cleo.”
“Say no more.”
“You making fun of me?”
“No, no,” Barry said, raising his hands in mock apology. “It’s just that in all these years I could never remember anyone calling you by your first name.”
“Well, Delaporte’s just fine. My mother don’t even call me Cleo.”
“You know, you didn’t tell me what kind of work you’re doing. You unemployed too?”
“Nah. I’m now a welder’s assistant. Have been for a while now, ever since they closed down Blackwood’s on Route 750.”
“Blackwood’s? What’s that?”
“You know—the old butcher’s. The slaughterhouse. It closed down a while back. Nobody gets fresh beef anymore. It’s all brought in frozen to the supermarkets. Old Bobby had to go out of business. Shame, too. That son of a bitch taught me how to kill a cow quicker’n you could shave a whisker off that ugly face of yours.”
Chapter 11
All the way home, Barry felt more and more positive that, in his conversation with Delaporte, he had been threatened; a subtle, calculated dropping of words designed to let him know that his prying in certain matters wasn’t welcome. Barry no longer had any doubt that Delaporte was connected with what happened to Matt, either directly or as an accomplice. His last remark about having worked in the slaughterhouse could have been nothing less than a bold advertisement, delivered with no fear of exposure or consequence.
One thing was for certain: unlike self-propelled planchettes and iced tea glasses, Delaporte represented a tangible, potentially deadly threat. The Ruger, Barry decided, would accompany him at all times now. He had a leather holster he could attach to his belt, and for those times when such obvious transport might present a problem, his jacket had a deep inner pocket. The hell with concealed weapon laws.
As he pulled into the Ponderago, again finding its condition unchanged, he had to wonder about Jennifer’s “epiphany”—her belief that Matt was probably still alive. Perhaps he was, somewhere. But where had he gone? And, most importantly, was he coming back?
As he started to get out of the car, he hesitated, realizing that he was about to go alone into the house that for so many years had been the most familiar, secure place on earth, but that now hosted something dark and genuinely frightening. Jennifer had told him that whatever lurked there could not harm him. Yet the fact that “it” existed at all literally chilled him to the bone. Besides, even with the mysterious knowledge and abilities she possessed, how did she know it couldn’t harm him?
So, freely, if not cheerfully, admitting his cowardice to himself, he remained in the car for several minutes, feeling that mobility offered at least some measure of security. Nothing like the knowledge that he could simply haul ass to keep a spark of hope alight.
Then he remembered that he had earlier brought down the tapes that Matt had made so he could listen to them at leisure. He took one of them from the glove compartment and slipped it into his cassette player. Making sure the car doors were locked, he reclined the seat, bundling up in his jacket to ward away the deepening chill of the night.
A crystal clear minor chord, strummed on an acoustic guitar, rang from the speaker, soon joined by a barrage of smooth bass licks that climbed a scale, and then a pattering drum that kicked into a heavier, steady four-four beat. Matt’s voice suddenly rumbled above the music, coarse but melodic—surprisingly competent, Barry thought, kind of like Springsteen. Indeed, the song immediately grabbed him, and he concentrated on the lyrics as Matt’s voice rose in pitch and volume.
I gave you my heart in a plastic bowl
I made up my mind to share my soul
Share my soul …
Just like that portrait on the wall
I begged you to like
Lighting deceives …
A shadow says “might”
In doubting bliss I never
Never, never guessed it …
Matt’s voice wound up shouting over a passionately screaming lead guitar, and Barry actually felt a chill run down his back. The power in the vocals came from something honestly drawn up from inside, he thought, a kind of hurt that he would never have thought Matt capable of feeling. The song never lost its melodic flow, despite the raw energy coursing through both vocals and instruments. Barry had no idea who was backing Matt up, but whoever they were, they were good.
He found a listing of the songs on the cassette box, and learned that this one was titled Palette on a Pedestal. There were a dozen selections on this tape, and as many more on the second. He let the tape run through a couple of more pieces, each of which displayed an admirable versatility of style and musicianship. And each, in its lyrics, conveyed a peculiar sensitivity and moodiness that Barry would never in his life have attributed to the younger Riggs. One of the heavier, rock-centered pieces was laced with some of the venom he might expect from his brother, but the next song, called Will You Wait?, much like Palette, seemed to hold a poignant plea, so urgently delivered that Barry could not help but feel a compassion for Matt that he would have never believed possible.
I want to drive me out of my mind.
It’s so hard to do, though, when it feels so good.
I can’t understand.
A bad dream awoke you and you cried.
I wished I could be there, but I wasn’t there.
Can you understand this question:
Will you wait? Will you …?
There was much more to listen to, but he could not keep running the car battery, and the temperature was dropping uncomfortably. He found it difficult to stop the tape, but raising his seat upright, he cut the auxiliary and removed his key, leaving the tape in place for future listening. With a tired groan, he dragged himself into the chilly wind. It was past midnight, and he’d had one hell of a long, stressful day. He needed a good night’s sleep. Trouble was, he thought as he mounted the stairs, this old house was probably not the best place to get it.
He let himself in through the back door, glad to at least be out of the biting cold. The sunroom lights glowed cheerfully, and the bright interior of the house seemed just as welcoming as it had when he used to come home, knowing that Mom and Dad were there and waiting for him, and the world was, for all intents and purposes, a pretty good place. Sometimes it was so hard to accept that those chapters of his life were closed forever. With a wistful sigh, he went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, realizing he had probably built up a force-five hangover for in the morning. Downing a couple of ibuprofen, he wandered back to his bedroom and got into his gym shorts and bathrobe. Those last couple of beers at Willy’s had put him well over his limit, and now his head had begun to spin. Damn. He had driven home carefully enough, but if the sheriff had stopped him for any reason, he would most assuredly be behind bars about now.
Sometimes, he thought, Keith Cameron didn’t corner the market on sheer idiocy.
The house felt completely empty around him, silent and devoid of the frightening presence he had experienced earlier. Jennifer claimed to have put some kind of banishment spell in place; and ludicrous as he once might have considered the idea, he now felt at least a degree of comfort in it. He went down the hall, took a last glance at the dull, bloody lettering on Matt’s bedroom wall, and closed the door securely. Then he went through the house to turn off all the lights, except for the small fluorescent over the kitchen sink, which would at least partially illuminate the hallway outside his own bedroom door. He wasn’t particularly keen on facing complete darkness tonight.
