American Nocturne Read online

  “Oh, come now. I just want to take your temperature.”

  “Tell me what the fuck is going on!”

  The man sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “If you ever doubted your feminine charms, you needn’t worry. You managed to attract a very powerful being. We won’t know which one until we study the video carefully, but I could tell he was a heavy-hitter, so to speak.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our friend on the altar out there… let’s just say that in life he had a certain gift. A gift for channeling forces from the underworld. One might say he was a sort of living vessel. The group I belong to managed to make sure that in death his gift endured. It was a long time ago, and I don’t know all the details, but I believe it involved the removal of his soul during an act of intercourse with a succubus. Or so the story goes. The group has never been terribly concerned with the how. Merely the why.”

  “Look, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t even want any of the money. Just let me out of here. Please. You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do that. You see, you now have a similar gift. You, too, are a living vessel.”

  “I don’t understand. Just let me go.”

  “That shot I gave you… I told you it was a powerful dose of antibiotic. Specifically, the antibiotic rifampin, combined with a few drugs that stimulate liver enzymes. The net effect of such a mix is to rather effectively defeat any oral contraceptives in your blood stream.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Birth control pills. You may not be aware of this, but they are metabolized primarily in the liver. The shot I gave you will neutralize their effect. Add to this the fact you will not be taking any more of them, and I think conception is virtually assured.”

  “What the hell are you saying? You… you can’t possibly mean—”

  “Last night, you asked me a question that you did not seem to grasp the significance of: why you. The answer is simple. You have no family to speak of, at least none you have contact with, you are not married, have never had children, and have not had a tubal ligation, hysterectomy, or other surgery that would make you incapable of becoming pregnant. I wasn’t lying when I said you were healthy, attractive and nubile. And, as you might guess, the fact you were a highly practical woman when it came to the business of sex played an important role.”

  “But how…?”

  “How do I know these things?”

  Norman started to continue, then stopped, turning as a shadow entered the doorway. Though backlit, the man approaching had a familiar shape.

  “Levi,” Bobby said.

  A swell of hope passed through her, then drained away as Norman turned back to face her. His expression lacked any hint of concern.

  “Your manager here is a longtime member of our group. Bobby is not his real name, of course. He’ll be moving on in a month or so, long after you’re forgotten, long after he’s reported that you quit and decided to pack up and start over somewhere new.”

  Levi stared at Bobby for several seconds, then began yelling frantically toward the open door, begging for someone to hear her, to help her.

  “No one can hear you, of course. You will only scream yourself hoarse.” Norman stood and took a few steps toward the door. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. Leaning against the jamb, he flicked a switch on the wall, turning on a set of bright florescent bulbs suspended from the ceiling.

  Bobby leaned forward, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “If it didn’t work for them, what reason is there it should for you?”

  The sudden increase in light caused Levi to turn her head and shut her eyes again. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a bare wall to her right. She turned her head to the other side and saw a set of large glass doors a few yards away, shimmering with the reflection of the room. There was something on the other side of the glass, obscured by the reflection, something she couldn’t make out. Then she realized it was many somethings behind a thin glaze of frost on the doors, and before that perception took hold she saw that those somethings were bodies. Partial bodies, hanging like carcasses, packed in a row. Huge portions of their torsos, legs and arms were missing. Bones were exposed in ragged chunks.

  “The little buggers come out hungry, that’s for sure,” Bobby said, turning to leave. “They prefer fresh meat, yet they always end up coming back for more.”

  Norman followed, flicking off the light switch as he reached for the doorknob, adding, “They may all take after their fathers, but they sure do love their mothers.”

  Somewhere in the deepest corner of Levi’s mind, she heard the shrill voice she detested so, the one that had always told her she would end up this way. It grew steadily in volume, chanting those familiar refrains with the merciless tone of one touting a victory. She knew this time it would not be silenced. Not until all of its prophecies were fulfilled.

  Phantom Hill

  THE DEMON HAD been there, right at the spot where his boot met the ground. He could feel it in the pulsing of his wound, smell its wake in the dead air. That scent meant he hadn’t missed it by much. Two hours, he reckoned. Maybe less.

  He tied off the horse and patted its neck. It needed water, but it was spooked. He glanced over to the saloon. His horse was too nervous to drink. He was too nervous not to.

  Sand and dirt caked his hands and face and neck, sweat turning it into pasty smears. He untied his bandana and wiped away what he could. Puffs of desert and prairie plumed off his longcoat. He pulled the goatskin from his saddle bag, slipped his arm through the sling and took his hat off to tug it over his head. He left his Henry rifle in its sheath.

  How many, he wondered. Town this size, couldn’t be more than three. He drew his Remington and checked the cylinder, reholstered it, checked the replacement cylinder in his pocket. He’d assume three. But he’d been wrong before.

  The saloon was quiet. His spurs clinked on the wooden platform, the way they disrupted the stillness another reminder he wasn’t far behind. He stood in front of the swinging doors and tilted his head, cracking the cartilage in his neck.

  First contact was always difficult. The demon’s presence hung in the atmosphere like a funk, inhaled and absorbed by the townsfolk. There was always a mood. Eyes lurking with suspicion; conversations laden with distrust. He knew what to expect.

  A young girl in a frilly dress and a bonnet scampered onto the platform near a far edge and stopped. He shaded his face to see her, blocking out the late afternoon sun. She stared for a few beats then ran off around the corner.

  Please, he thought. No kids. Not again.

  He clenched his eyes shut, took in a long breath then pushed through the doors.

  The place was almost empty, but the air was still heavy with stale body odor and acrid breath. And dust. He had to stop himself from sneezing. Two men – former soldiers wearing the threadbare remnants of cavalry uniforms – were sitting at a card table. Another man sat alone in the corner huddled over a glass of beer. A woman in a red and black dress, her puffy skirt ballooning in layers, sat on a stool next to the door, eyes fixed and chary. The saloon keeper was sweeping out the floor in front of the bar.

  The man sweeping straightened up, hands on the broomstick, elbows hanging.

  “No whiskey,” he said. “Stage is late with supplies.”

  Of course it is. “Beer’s good.”

  The man lingered an extra beat, face sagging, then leaned the broom against the bar and circled around to pour a glass.

  “Two bits.”

  Pricey, but he paid it. It was at least as warm as the room. Pulpy, too.

  He lowered the glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I have a question.”

  “Hotel is down the street, can’t miss it. Four rooms. Three vacancies. There’s a house of soiled doves four buildings past it. You can buy tokens here, if you like.”

  “Not that kind of question.”

  The man propped his arms on the bar, looked over to the two at the ca
rd table for support. “I’m not obliged to take questions from strangers.”

  “Name’s Pierce.” He placed a five dollar gold piece on the bar. “Now you know me.”

  “What is it you want to know, Pierce?”

  “How many men in these parts have taken a squaw for a wife?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that? How would I know?”

  Pierce glanced over the man’s shoulder at the mirrored wallspace, watching the men at the card table. They were interested, but didn’t look like they wanted trouble.

  “This town ain’t that big. You’d know. Talking about white men. Indian wives.”

  “The hell, you say! Mister, I think you’d best leave.”

  Pierce took another sip of his beer, finger of his free hand still on the gold piece, then he thrust his arm out and grabbed a scruff of shirt. He yanked the barkeep over the counter and pulled the man’s face near his lapel. His beer hand set down his glass and pulled back his coat just enough to reveal the coin-metal badge. A silver circle around a star. Texas Ranger.

  “Answer the damn question.”

  “Heck, Mister. You didn’t say you was a lawman. I can only think of two.”

  That was definitely welcome news. Fewer usually meant quicker, and quicker meant an easier time picking up the trail.

  “Either of them Comanche?”

  The barkeep blinked.

  “The squaws. Either of them Comanche?”

  “Slocum’s. Tom Slocum. He’s got a place just south, over the hill. Trail follows a creek right to it.”

  Pierce let him go. The man slid back over the bar. He straightened his shirt out and swallowed. Pierce took another sip of beer, saw the man eye the gold piece. Tipping his head back, he drained the glass, then scooped up the coin and dropped it into the pocket of his vest. Lawmen didn’t pay for answers.

  “One more question. I passed a church as I rode in. It looked like it was starting to go to seed. You got a preacher in this town?”

  Over his shoulder, Pierce could hear the two men at the card table snicker.

  The man pointed to the corner. He didn’t smile, but whatever frustration he felt over being roughhoused and losing five dollars seemed more than countered by the satisfaction of making that gesture.

  “Reverend Swain,” he said. “And you’re in luck. He’s still conscious.”

  More snickering. Great, Pierce thought. Just great.

  The men at the table stiffened and made coughing noises, pretending to be analyzing their cards as Pierce turned and marched past them.

  Pierce stopped next to Swain’s table and stood there. The man was dressed in a tattered black suit. A black string tie drooped from his stained collar. His shirt had once been white. Beneath his flat-brimmed hat, graying hair poked out in various directions like quills. He didn’t look up.

  “You really a preacher? Devout servant of God and all that?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Someone who isn’t, but could really use one.”

  “The Reverend Jedediah Swain, First Methodist Episcopal Church of Phantom Hill, at your service.” He raised his glass and took a long swig, but still didn’t look up.

  Pierce pulled out the chair across from him and sat.

  “I need a true man of faith, Reverend.”

  “Buy me another beer, lad, and I’ll be as true and as faithful as you want me to be.”

  “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

  “Son, I have no idea who you are or what you’re talking about, but the ways of God are never easy.”

  “Maybe not, but some are definitely easier than others.”

  “Just another glass and I’ll hear your troubles. Your burdens will be lifted. Through God, all things are possible...” His voice trailed off and he waved his hand like he was swatting the rest of the thought away.

  Pierce studied the man for a long moment. Then he pushed himself away from the table and stood. He would have to use a child. God. Damn. It.

  “Sorry to bother you, pastor.”

  Swain grabbed him by the wrist as he started to walk away. His grip was surprisingly firm.

  “Wait. I apologize. Please, sit.”

  Pierce sat.

  “I assumed... It’s been a while since anyone has sincerely sought my spiritual guidance.”

  “And why is that, Reverend?”

  He swept his arm in a long arc, indicating the rest of the saloon behind him, and beyond. “You’d have to ask them.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “You don’t want to concern yourself with my misfortunes.”

  “Indulge me, Reverend. I want to know.”

  The man tipped his glass and looked down. “I suffered a lapse in judgment. You might say it set off a chain of events. My price to pay. Some things are not easily forgotten. Or forgiven.”

  Pierce watched the man peer into what was left of his beer.

  “You sure it’s not just a matter of you worshiping a different kind of spirit? Like the kind comes in a bottle?”

  “‘Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man.’ Are you determined to humiliate me, son? Is such easy sport your purpose after all?”

  “No. I need a man pure of heart. Right with God. Not one that can merely quote scripture.”

  “It’s not my place to judge my own heart. As for being right with God, how is one to ever know? I’ve confessed my sins without pride or excuse, asked for His forgiveness daily. And I’m sure He has forgiven me, for the Bible tells us He shall. Forgetting, however...” the reverend shrugged, swallowed the last of his beer. “That is another matter entirely.”

  Only one culprit tended to make a man act this way, Pierce knew. A story formed in his head, swirling thoughts coming together, debris in a dust devil. A Sunday Sharp, preaching virtue and attacking vice from his pulpit to a flock of rough men and painted women, determined to clean up this frontier Sodom. A young wife plucked from some far away town, obediently playing her role, respecting her husband but not loving him. The pastor in all his pious glory reaching out to ladies of the evening, ministering to them, visiting their house of ill repute. One of them deciding to toy with him one slow, languorous night, maybe luring him to a private area, maybe casually slipping out a tit while he’s trying to pray with her, maybe reaching right down and grabbing his loins, a look of delicious sin in her eyes. A woman so different than his innocent, boring mate, a woman representing the promise of pleasures long denied him. A guilt-ridden preacher taking to the bottle afterwards, finally confessing his transgression in a drunken, maudlin stupor. His young wife feeling both betrayed and relieved, running off with some carpet-bagger or soldier first chance she got. The man she left behind now the source of hushed whispers and stinging barbs, a minister with no respect, fallen, cuckolded, hardly ever sober for more than a few hours. Sticking around for lack of anywhere else to go. Waiting for a sign he was forgiven. Waiting for another spiritual assignment from his Boss. Waiting on the stage to bring whiskey.

  Or something like that. The details weren’t important.

  “Tell me, son... why do you want to know about who or what I am? What troubles you so that you worry about the pureness of my heart?”

  “The lack of pureness in mine.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Come with me, Reverend.” Pierce stood. “We’ve got the Lord’s work to do.”

  * * *

  The fire popped and snapped, flames clawing the air. The pungent pine smoke singed his nostrils. Hell is greedy.

  “Don’t you think it’s about time you told me what we’re doing here?”

  Pierce prodded the fire with a stick. Sparks whirled into the air and died out. Greedy, he thought, but patient.

  “We’re waiting for the moon to be up.”

  The preacher lifted his hat and scratched his pate. “Even if that made any sense, that’s not what I meant. You tell me to grab my Bible and horse, show me a badge when I object, then y
ou make me ride with you until we see Tom Slocum’s place. Every crack of a twig and your hand slaps the handle of your revolver – the presence of which, I might add, makes it rather difficult for me to resist your edicts. But I must insist you at least tell me, why are we here?”

  They were crouched around the fire, obscured from view by a large weeping willow. A rocky creek gurgled nearby, filling the air with a damp, earthy smell the smoke couldn’t quite mask.

  “I have a question for you first. Why is this place called Phantom Hill?”

  “Why, it’s named after the Fort. Mile and a half north of town. Town’s just a camp, actually. A place that sprang up in the Fort’s shadow.”

  “In that case, why is the Fort named Phantom Hill?”

  Reverend Swain sighed, scratched his stubble. “I’m told it’s because when you ride in from a distance, it looks like you’re approaching a steep hill. But then it levels out as you get closer, flattening out into a plain. Disappearing. Like a phantom.”

  Pierce nodded, peering into the fire.

  “There’s another story some say,” Swain continued. “Something about an Indian being spotted by a sentry when the cavalry first made camp. Shots were fired, but none of the soldiers dispatched to investigate could find any sign of Indians, anywhere. So everyone started saying the man had fired on a ghost.”

  The fire burned hot now. Pierce traced the horizon, found the moon peeking through the trees. He unslung his leather goatskin. Then he reached into his pocket and removed a small pouch, closed off with a drawstring.

  Reverend Swain shifted his weight from one side to the other. “Now, about why we’re here?”

  “Tell me, Reverend. You ever heard the Comanche’s version of creation? Their tribal myth?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. Why?”

  “The Comanche believe the Great Spirit created them from dust, just like it says in Genesis. They also claim something else was made, that from all the bits of darkness in the Earth that God brought together, a demon was formed, an evil, shape-shifting devil. To protect the people, the Great Spirit cast that demon into a bottomless pit. But its presence can still be felt in the fangs and stingers of various creatures, sources of pain and death meant to torment us in revenge.”