Moonlight City Drive Trilogy

Chapter 4

The sign above Rippetoe’s flashed and buzzed, casting incandescent shadows into the puddles forming in the potholes of the sidewalk. Smith, not paying attention to his footing, accidentally stepped in one; water splashed up his leg, and the fabric of his pants around his ankle absorbed the liquid like a sponge. His socks became damp, too, as his shoes weren’t the best barrier for stepping in three inches of rainwater. He cursed, lifting his wet leg so he could wring out some of the excess water.

Music emanated through the walls of Rippetoe’s, and lights flashed inside. Smith ran a quick calculation through his head of what night it was—Jazz Night. That might be exactly what he needed. A little smooth jazz while he knocked back a few glasses before trekking downtown.

He entered the lounge and headed toward the long bar that lined the far back wall. He sat down on a dark gray stool and drummed on the counter with his open palms, waiting for Matt to notice him. He swiveled in his stool to face the band. A small banner hung above the drummer’s head, announcing their name: Anacostia Trio.

“Evening, Smith. Didn’t see ya come in,” Matt said, wiping the area in front of him with a damp white dishtowel. “What’s your poison tonight? Same as usual?”

“Nothing but the best.”

“So house whiskey?”

“Like I said, nothing but the best.”

Matt laughed and turned toward the multiple rows of liquor bottles in front of the lengthy mirror across from the counter. Smith directed his attention to the Anacostia Trio and tapped his foot as the stand-up bass player straddled his bass, almost riding it like a bull, and played a diminished scale over the boogie-woogie of the piano player. Smith glanced around the half-full room of patrons—mostly young couples—sitting at small circular tables with their drinks, watching the jazz band. A single candle was lit in the center of all the tables, throwing flickering glows against the front half of the lounge.

Smith was the only patron sitting at the bar, and his gaze fell on the jukebox.

“You got ol’ Loella fixed up?” he called, projecting his voice over the crescendo of the Anacostia Trio’s current ditty.

Matt turned around with Smith’s whiskey and placed it on the bar in front of him. “No, but it’s same exact model. Strangest thing. The other jukebox, the one I got from that bar Sneakers, just stopped working midsong right after you left a few nights ago.”

“Really? I thought you said it had been refurbished.”

“That’s what I had been told too. Smack-dab in the middle of Benny Goodman’s rendition of ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’—and you know how much his version just tickles me to pieces. Cockamamie thing flickered out, like someone had unplugged it. And talk about coincidences. I get a phone call the very next morning from Wurlitzer about Loella, and they tell me there was no reason it should have quit working like that. And to keep me as a loyal customer, they sent this one—Loella II—free of charge. Yes siree. Came yesterday morning on a big swanky truck with Wurlitzer in big silver letters on the side. Wooo-wee, it sure was purdy.”

knowWooo-weepurdy“That’s great, Matt. Glad to have any model Loella in the joint. Nice band you have tonight.”

any“Thems boys from DC. Call themselves the Anacostia Trio.”

Thems“I can see that from their banner.”

“Any further development with that there postcard?”

Smith wasn’t ready to open that can of worms and have to explain how now the Polaroid—the Polaroid Matt couldn’t even see in the first place—was slowly vanishing.

that“Nah, you were right, Matt. Turns out, it was a postcard all along. I must’ve been hallucinating or something.”

was“Or something is right, man. I gotta do my rounds to the people up front. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Or somethingSmith watched Matt approach the hep cats sitting at the tables to take their drink orders. The Anacostia Trio finished their song, and the crowd clapped softly. Wisps of smoke floated from many of the females’ long cigarette holders, clouding the area in front of the stage as the band played the opening notes of Louis Armstrong’s “Basin Street Blues.”

Smith lifted his glass and went to take his first sip when a hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. He craned his head backward and looked up, right into the smiling eyes of the Boulevard Killer.

“Would you like to get a table with me, or can I sit with you at the bar?” the killer asked.

Smith gripped his glass, the condensation making his fingers slippery. He glanced at Matt returning to the bar area. “A table would be safer.”

“Does your friend want a drink, Detective?” Matt called.

Smith slid off the stool and looked at Covington. “Do you want

a drink?”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Order a damn drink,” Smith whispered. “It’ll look less suspicious.”

“On second thought,” Covington said, glaring at Smith but speaking to Matt, “I’ll have whatever the barkeep suggests.”

“House special it is,” Matt said and turned toward the liquor.

Smith couldn’t take his gaze off the killer towering over him. Covington played with a wedding ring, spinning it around and around with his thumb and middle finger. Smith couldn’t tell if it was a nervous habit or a subconscious tell. Matt returned with the man’s concoction, and they headed for a table in the back of the pub, away from the jazz band and the other patrons.

“How did you find me?” Smith asked, pulling out a chair.

“You’re not the only one who’s been tailing their subject.”

“You’ve been following me?”

Covington unbuttoned his coat, letting it drape about his thighs, and sat down across from Smith. “I chose you.”

“Beg’a pardon? What do you mean, you chose me?”

you chose meThe killer stretched out his right arm, laying it across the back of the chair next to him, and rested his right ankle on his left knee. “Can you imagine what it’s like to want to hire someone for a job, but you’re not allowed to accept résumés, and the applicants don’t even know they’re applying?”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Covington quickly placed both feet on the ground and leaned forward across the table. “I’ve been looking for you for years. But I didn’t know it was you that I was looking for.” He leaned backward in his seat again. “I didn’t know who it was supposed to be. And it’s been a long and arduous process, whittling down and weeding through all the failures and just all the wrong people for the job.”

youwho“What job are you talking about?”

“My job, Detective Smith. My job.”

“We couldn’t figure out what your title meant.”

“Not that job. That’s easy. I’m a hydroelectric power technician at the Hoover Dam—night shift. I sit around and stare at dials and gauges all night, assessing water flow. Boring. I could care less about that job. I’m talking about my job that makes a difference. Makes an impact on the neighborhoods. An immediate cause and effect. Do I have to say it out loud, or are you tracking?”

thatSmith nodded.

“Trust me. We’ve been watching and studying you. You and a whole slew of your gumshoe cohorts.”

“We?”

We“Myself and the Mushroom Cult. My … people, if you will.”

“So you don’t work alone?”

“Strength in numbers, dear friend. Strength in numbers. You’ve proven to be the most exquisite subject, exceeding my expectations.”

“Could you just speak English please, Mr. Covington?”

The killer slammed his hands on the table. The two perspiring glasses bounced from the impact. Smith jumped backward in his chair.

“Because you want to be me!” Covington almost yelled, then lowered his voice. “Your disgust for the lowlifes that slither and feed off the streets consumes you too. You just never knew you could do anything about it. You joined the illustrious Clark County Sheriff’s Office as a young man, thinking that was your ticket to round up the scum and purge the filth from the streets. But that backfired on you when you realized the department was worse than the bottom-feeders you were hired to arrest. It’s frustrating, I know. The one entity we expect to protect us turns out to be just another black stain on the white fabric of society.”

beSmith shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was uneasy at how much this man knew, not only about Smith’s work history but his own internal thoughts and feelings. Like the man was some kind of witch.

Covington stroked his brown mustache. “Then you became a statistic. A cliché. A typical can’t-keep-his-wife, disgruntled, down-and-out, alcoholic private eye. So tragic. So damn predictable. Except for that one thing that makes you special—makes you very special to me.”

Smith coughed, and the Anacostia Trio finished their current tune.

Covington waited for the next song to begin before he spoke again. “You’ve always had this tiny egg inside you. An egg you never would’ve admitted to anyone else existed. Would never admit to even yourself. An egg that sat and just waited to hatch. You knew it was there, but you were afraid of what was inside the egg. I hatched that egg for you, and now you can see its contents. And you realize it wasn’t as bad as you thought. What you believed might make you a terrible person, a criminal even, has now blossomed into something you actually like.”

“You’re saying I’ve always harbored these feelings toward the degenerates of society?”

“And allowing you to come along for the ride with me has opened up a whole new attitude for you, a free pass to justify my … our … actions.”

our“Our actions?”

Our“Have you blown the whistle on me yet? Ratted me out yet? I’m sure you’ve conversed with your sidekick, but I can’t imagine you’ve told anyone else. So you are now vicariously involved—guilty by association. We’re in this together. And I think that makes you happier than you’re willing to admit to yourself.”

“Everything okay over here?” Matt asked, approaching the table.

“Everything’s peachy, Matt. We’re fine. Thank you.”

As the barkeep returned to serving drinks to the young couples enjoying the live music, Smith fished inside his trench coat pocket and removed the Polaroid. He gasped when he realized he was holding a postcard—a postcard with a well-known Norman Rockwell painting adorning the front side. All remnants of the original image had finally been replaced.

He handed the postcard to Covington. “Can we start with this? It’s been driving me mad. At first I thought everyone was insane because Wynn and I could see a photograph, but everybody else only saw a postcard. But now I think I’m the one who’s slightly deranged. Because it is only a postcard.”

isThe Boulevard Killer took the postcard from Smith and tapped it against his knuckles. “I see a picture of me in front of the old Vertigo Motel. That shouldn’t be hard to see for such a seasoned detective as yourself,” he answered indulgently. “Fun fact about the Vertigo—about forty years ago, the locals exposed a serial killer who had drowned all his victims in a well. The citizens banded together and killed the guy in the Vertigo Motel while he slept in his room.”

“Don’t patronize me. You know there’s something off with that Polaroid or postcard or whatever it is.”

Covington handed the Polaroid/postcard back to Smith, who pocketed it. “Maybe they’re suffering from postcard amnesia,” he said and laughed uncontrollably.

“I don’t even know what that means! I don’t even know what any of what you’re saying means.”

Covington stopped laughing abruptly, and his gaze bore into Smith’s eyes.

Smith swallowed hard and grabbed his glass without looking for it. He felt the man’s stare burn through his soul.

“I couldn’t let anyone else but you see who I was or what I looked like, or I’d certainly be sitting on death row right now, waiting for my turn to ride the lightning. No, I needed someone who saw the beauty in what I do, someone who’d be willing to partner up with me. I needed you to find me, and you only. I’m only one guy, and the filth multiplies like rabbits out there. I’m losing the fight. The Mushroom Cult helps, but, as servants, they can’t independently hunt. They can only spay whoever I’ve offered to them.”

you“Spay. That’s an interesting way to put it. I still don’t know what this Mushroom Cult is. You have other people helping you?”

“People is a very loose term. But, yes, something like that. They’re the true definition of yin and yang. Vaudeville assassins and porcelain angels, all wrapped into one. I like to think of them as born-again apostles. Their godless selves have been exorcised, and they’re resurrected as pure servants.”

People“Where do they come from?”

“They’ve been recycled. From the streets.”

“Are you saying they’re your victims? That you bring them back to life?”

“They certainly aren’t victims, Smith. How could someone be a defiler and a victim at the same time? Society is the victim. And I don’t bring them back. The vultures do.”

andA cold shiver snaked its way down Smith’s spine. He hadn’t been entertaining any of what the man had said so far, but, when the mention of the black birds of prey matched with what he had witnessed with his own two eyes in the desert, it seemed nothing should be discredited as a possibility now.

“Are we talking … ?” Smith paused. He had a harder time saying the word aloud than he thought.

“Say what you’re thinking.”

“Witchcraft?”

The Boulevard Killer laughed heartily, reminding Smith of a jolly Santa Claus. “That word has such negative connotations, don’t you think? I’d like to think it’s more than witchcraft and sorcery. I like to think it’s closer to the dark arts. A little shake here, a pinch of something there. That’s how you saw what I needed you and Wynn to see in the Polaroid. She’s the only one who’s proven to be completely loyal to you, and the only other one I could trust also. I spent a long time deciding on how to get your attention. How to get you to take the case. I knew I had one shot, but, if it was good enough, you’d be smitten to the point where you couldn’t rest unless you solved the mystery.”

“This postcard”—Smith pointed to it in his pocket—“was just a catapult to get me intrigued enough to follow you, so I could see what you were doing downtown, hoping I’d join you? You took a big chance revealing yourself to me like that. You really couldn’t have known I wouldn’t have turned you in.”

“Oh, I knew. I know you better than you know yourself.”

Smith folded his arms. “And pray tell, how can you make such a claim? You’ve never met me.”

“Because, at the end of the day, we might have different names and lead different lives, but you are me. We’re the same in what we want and how we think, and we share the same mindset to push aside what society says is immoral, even if acting in illegal ways to do so.”

areSmith was stunned and remained silent. He didn’t dare utter another word. Every time he countered anything Covington said, Smith had been shown an alternate side of what he considered reality. Instead he tapped a cigarette from his metal container and lit the end.

“You weren’t my first choice. I’ve been weeding through many inspectors over the years, searching for the one who gets me. It’s been a delicate and tedious process, and, after many failed attempts to find the right guy for the job, you were the only one to bite as hard as I needed someone to bite to know they’re the one. The others failed my audition process, if you will. But you proved to be a stellar candidate, hands down.”

getsSmith took another drag of his Smolens. “What happened to the ones who failed?”

“They were forced into, let’s say, early retirement,” Covington answered and winked. “But not before your name came up multiple times as the real go-to guy.”

“That’s what Eva, your grandmother, said to me too.”

“You told her that you wouldn’t take the case, but I knew you would at least try. And that’s all I really needed. The doctored Polaroid was the ticket. All I did was set the ball into motion. I never expected you to pick it up and run so fast with it.”

Smith retrieved the postcard and fondled it. “So this is the result of some curse or spell you put over a generic postcard?”

“Simmer down there, hotshot. No reason for you to get the burning stakes ready,” Covington said and chuckled. “Let’s finish our drinks while you decide on the most important conundrum of your life.”

“Which is?”

“Do you turn me in right now, or do you go for a ride with me? Downtown.”

Smith placed the postcard on the table and pressed on the young boy’s face in the Rockwell painting with his middle finger so hard that his knuckle turned white. He snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray and finished his whiskey in two gulps. The small crowd behind him clapped and cheered as the Anacostia Trio bowed at the edge of the stage.

Smith snatched the postcard off the table, ripped it in half, then ripped it in half again, and let the four pieces flutter to the table. “Let’s roll!”

The Boulevard Killer smiled and stood from the table. “Yes, let’s roll.”

Sitting in the passenger seat of the Rolls, Smith glanced out the side window. The moon was full and high enough to illuminate the entire city.

“Can I ask about the vultures? I saw them dispose of Candy. And it was frightening.”

“Yes, they can be terrifying. They need to be treated with the upmost respect at all times. They do not do my biding, however. They’re Anya’s pets. I can just give the green light for them to be called. And thankfully they’d never be used against us. That’d be treason. But they don’t listen to me. Only members of the Mushroom Cult underneath Anya’s control.”

“Anya?”

“You’ll recognize her when you meet her. All in good time, all in good time. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

Covington turned the Rolls onto Fremont Street and slowed the vehicle to a crawl. Smith could see the city was alive again tonight. Druggies, hookers, pimps, pushers, faggots, and addicts crept along the downtown area with him in the passenger seat of the vigilante’s car, a vigilante dedicated to exterminating the zombies walking the streets. The adult shops’ neon lights blinked, splashing the inside of the car with pink and purple hues.

“Right there. See that one who sticks out the most? The one who looks like she’s trying too hard?”

looksSmith scanned the sidewalk and then saw the tall brunette standing next to a postal box. “The one who thinks she’s Rita Hayworth?”

“Bingo! She’s our mark. Look how pathetic she is. Out here, dressed like one of them dames in the picture shows. Who does she think she is? She’s just a cheap whore.”

“She certainly doesn’t look like any of the other working girls I’ve ever seen downtown.”

“And that is why she won a free ride tonight.”

that“Because she’s different from the rest?”

“Because all work makes a dull man, Smith. Variety is the spice of life, and profiling a certain look down here starts to make it feel like work. Plus, who’s to say she isn’t dolled up like that because she thinks the Boulevard Killer is after a certain type? And, by looking like that—by looking completely different from my normal modus operandi—she believes she’s taking herself off my radar? Quite the opposite, sweetheart, quite the opposite.”

modusoperandiSmith glanced at Covington and swallowed hard as the Rolls eased to the side of the road in front of the girl. Hearing the man refer to himself with the same nickname the newspapers and police had given him was slightly unsettling.

Covington rolled down his window. “Hey, baby. You got time for two customers tonight?”

The Rita Hayworth lookalike stepped to the Rolls and leaned on the window frame. “I got the time, if you have twice the clams.”

“We have the money. Get in the back.”

Smith opened the passenger door and leaned forward so she could squeeze into the backseat. She fluffed the bottom of her manicured hairdo with the palm of her hand as she sat down.

“What’s your name, doll?” Covington asked.

“Greta. Greta White. Well, that’ll be my stage name, so I’m trying it out before I go to Hollywood.”

“You’re an aspiring actress?” Covington asked, making a left onto Interstate 15 toward Mesquite, Nevada.

“Sure am. Took me almost a month just to get to Vegas. My parents are probably still looking for me back home. I didn’t even leave a note. I’m hoping to make it the rest of the way after I’ve saved enough money to get my own apartment. Heard Vegas was the best place to make some extra moolah, so this is just a quick stopover for a few weeks to pad my pockets. My dream is for the world to see me dancing as smooth as a cobra on the silver screen,” she said and sighed, as if entering the daydream and visibly seeing herself on the theater screen. “Aren’t you two the lucky ones tonight! You’ll always look at me, larger than life, and think about how you had your way with the sexy superstar Greta White!”

seeing“Where did you come from?” Smith asked, stifling a chuckle at Greta’s benighted delusions.

“Salem, Massachusetts.”

Smith and Covington remained silent in the front seat, the Rolls shaking and rattling over the uneven roadway.

“You know? Where they burned all those witches,” she added.

“Are you a witch?” Covington asked drily, without any humor in his voice.

“What? No, silly! I’ll be a famous Hollywood star! I’ll take the world by storm and razzle-dazzle them. They’ll write headlines about me in the papers, and my name will be surrounded in lights on every marquee.”

Smith glanced back at Greta, and she wore a childlike smile as she stared out the window at the passing desert landscape. He tried to pinpoint her age. Nineteen? Definitely not more than nineteen. Seventeen? Fifteen? Definitely not less than fifteen, yet he failed to convince himself. She certainly looked the part of a Hollywood star, down to the blouse and skirt. Covington was wrong about her looking like this to hide from being the next victim. She was just naive and already method acting. Maybe she wasn’t the right mark for them. Maybe there should be some discretion about who gets taken. Maybe they should throw her back into the mix and hope she stays true to her Hollywood aspirations. Maybe he should say these things to Covington. Smith looked at the driver and saw Covington’s brows furrowed, his lips pursed, his body rigid, and his knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel—or maybe not.

Fifteen

“Oh, good. We’re going to the Desert Palms,” Greta said from the backseat when they passed the first distance-marker sign for Mesquite almost an hour later. “They’ve told me about this place. This is where married men take girls when they want to really get down and dirty all night long, since it’s so far away from the city. Is it true sometimes you’ll take a girl here for a few days and have your way with her? It certainly sounds like a good hideout if you’re planning on having one of those marathon drills and need to hide her away. Is that why you’re taking me here? Want to keep spicy Greta White all to yourselves for a few days?” Greta leaned forward and playfully tugged on Smith’s ear. “The girls tell me the beds are just so comfy!”

comfySmith rolled his eyes, convinced Covington hadn’t blinked once since they had entered the highway.

“Greta, maybe it’s best if you don’t speak until we get there, okay?” Smith suggested.

“Oh, sure thing. Whatever you want. You’re the boss,” Greta said and finished by making a catlike rawring noise and flexing her hands in front of her, as if she had claws instead of fingers.

rawrA few miles later, Covington pulled the Rolls into the parking lot and found his normal spot around the front of the building. He grabbed a briefcase from beside Greta in the backseat before exiting the vehicle. Being gentlemanly, he held the door open for Greta, and the three of them entered the lobby of the Desert Palms.

“Hey, Cheryl.”

“Good evening, Mr. Covington. Hey, that’s the man I told you about. The one who asked all those questions about your automobile.”

“I know. Thank you. He’s an old friend and recognized the Rolls and didn’t know how else to get in touch with me.”

Cheryl smiled. “That’s nice that he found you. Your regular room?”

Covington grabbed a handful of matches donning the Desert Palms Motel logo from a large candy bowl to the right of a box of tissues. “Yes, please.”

Cheryl handed him a large red key with the room number handwritten in gold ink as he slipped the matches into his pants pocket, and Smith and Greta followed him down the hallway. Greta reached across and gently grabbed Smith’s hand, intertwining their fingers. He snatched his hand backward in surprise.

“I’m sorry, mister. You just seem like a nice fella, and I thought we could hold hands. Make it more intimate.”

Smith’s heart felt like it would explode in his chest. Every moment Greta acted childlike was another moment that he didn’t think this was such a good idea. At least not with her.

her“Here we are,” Covington said and unlocked the door. He held out his hand to welcome his two guests into the room.

“Oh, wow. What a fabulous room! Is this a suite? You must be well-to-do to afford this room!”

Smith shook his head and wondered how anyone, even the most innocent, could ever think a tiny rat’s nest like this room could be a suite.

Covington placed the briefcase on the dresser and opened it. “Do you like wine, Greta?”

She straightened her skirt and tugged on her blouse. “I’ve never tried it. But who wouldn’t like wine, silly?”

Smith tried to get Covington’s attention to shoot him a disapproving look, but the killer never took his gaze off Greta. He watched her enter the bathroom and gently touch her lipstick line with her pinkie finger. Covington removed a bottle of wine and a single glass, along with two white unidentifiable pills. He filled the glass three quarters with red wine and dropped in the two pills. They sunk halfway, then floated to the top, swimming in the crimson-colored liquid. Greta exited the bathroom and looked at the two men as Covington handed her the glass.

“Aren’t you gentlemen joining me?”

“We will, after we have our fun with you.”

“Ooo, I like the sound of that,” Greta said and took her first sip. Then she poked one of the pills with her painted fingernail and watched it bob back to the surface. “What’s in here?”

Ooo“Just something to help you relax and have more … fun.”

“Swell. I love fun! Now, are you taking turns or doing me at the same time?”

loveSmith looked nervously at Covington. He hadn’t prepared for this part of the killer’s process. Would he have to engage with the girls too?

“I like to watch,” Smith blurted out.

“You dirty bird,” Greta said and grabbed his tie, letting it slowly slither through her fingers. Then to Covington she said, “Where do you want me?”

“Finish the drink first. All of it.”

Greta swallowed the rest of the glass’s contents, as well as the two pills, and choked on the last gulp. She placed her fingertips to her mouth and excused herself.

Covington took the empty glass from her and placed one hand on her hip and the other around the back of her neck.

Smith sat down on the chair next to the window—the same window he had peered into just last night.

Covington and Greta fell on the bed, with her giggling as he kissed her neck and opened her blouse to expose her b*a and cleavage. Then he pulled back the covers and adjusted her shoulder to strip the blanket past their waists.

“Under the covers? But I thought your friend wanted to watch,” she said.

“Oh, he’ll get a show all right.”

Smith used his teeth to tear the fingernail from his thumb and couldn’t help but think the killer was doing his deed under the covers purely for Smith’s benefit. Maybe he wasn’t confident that Smith was ready for the whole process yet.

Covington tossed a pair of undergarments from under the covers onto the shaggy carpet and pushed himself inside her. Greta wailed and sobbed when he pumped faster.

“Are you okay?” he asked, for the first time ever and slowed his thrusts.

She nodded and got control of her cries. Smith thought the sounds coming from Greta’s mouth were closer to an animal in pain than a woman in pleasure.

“Wow,” she said, panting. “That wine is going straight to my head. I’m feeling a little funny.” She moaned and closed her eyes. This time she didn’t open them.

Covington propped himself up on his palms and stared at her face. “She’s asleep.”

Smith stood from the chair. “What are you going to do?”

“I decided during the drive that this one would go peacefully. She didn’t seem to deserve the normal treatment.”

“Normal treatment?”

“Fear. Fear just before death. Fear during the violence. It’s such a rush. The look in their eyes is the only vindication and payback I need.”

“So now what?”

“Well, the vultures still have to have their way. I’ll hand her over to the cult.”

Smith watched in fascination when the killer kneeled upright—the covers falling around his upper body—and straddled Greta’s hips, wrapping his hands around her neck. He pressed his thumbs into her trachea, and she arched her back in a reflexive protest. But her eyes never opened. She was too far down, sedated in a medicated slumber. After a few moments, her back relaxed, and she remained motionless on the bed.

Covington felt for a pulse and placed his ear over her nose. “She’s gone,” he said and swung his leg over her body to get out of bed, accidentally dragging the sheets with him.

Smith stood, pointed with one hand, and covered his mouth with the other. “What the hell did you do to her?”

The sheets were already absorbing the puddle of blood that had pooled underneath Greta’s groin.

“Damn it! That was her first time.”

“She was a virgin?” Smith yelled.

virgin“Looks like it. Must’ve been her first night on the streets. Her first customer. Just trying to get to Hollywood, man.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just her period? How can you be so sure that’s the cause of the bleeding?”

Covington studied the darkened stain. “I can’t be sure. It’s either her period or I broke her hymen. I’m not really hip to how much tissue bleeds during a dame’s first time.”

Smith thought he would be sick. “What do we do now?”

“This doesn’t change anything. She was still selling herself, still defiling society. If it wasn’t us, it would’ve been someone else. And then someone else tomorrow. And the next day. And so on. We just caught it before it could spread. Before she could spread her legs, like a disease.”

Smith sat down on the chair.

“No! No resting. We got to get her to the desert so she can be recycled.”

A gray and bony hand slithered over Smith’s left shoulder from behind him, and a gruff voice spoke. “Is he ours now?”

Smith yelled and leaped from the chair, scurrying to the other side of the motel room, passing Greta and her b****y sheets. “It’s … you!”

Anya stepped forward from behind the chair, her black veil masking all her features sans her gray eyes.

“You’re Eva! How the hell did you get in here?”

“Detective Smith, let me formally introduce you to Anya.”

“But that’s your grandmother.”

“Funny. For being so smart, you sure believe most everything you’re told. She certainly looks like a grandmother, but Anya is far older than anyone’s grandmother, I can assure you.”

looks“Let’s get the broad out of here before she becomes cold and stiff,” Anya ordered.

“Ya know, Anya. I don’t appreciate being bossed around. This partnership is such a messed-up piece of work, and your directives are really fraying my tolerance.”

Anya glowered at the Boulevard Killer, giving him the evil eye. “Chop-chop!” she spat, clapping twice to punctuate each syllable.

“Smith, help me,” Covington said, shaking his head in defeated disgust. “We’ll go through the window.”

“I remember that part.”

Smith peered over Covington’s shoulder and gestured for the killer to turn around. Anya was on the bed on all fours, her nose inches from Greta’s crotch. She sniffed deep and long and closed her eyes to savor and analyze the scent.

“Well, gentlemen, it’s definitely not menstrual blood. What we have here is a tramp who was a bona fide virgin when she woke up this morning. Good going, chump. Now get her out of here before I lose my temper on you again.”

Smith inquisitively eyed Covington as the two of them grabbed a leg and an arm posthaste and lifted Greta.

“What about the bloodstains?” Smith asked.

“I’ll take care of those,” Anya answered. “You just worry about getting her to the motorcar.”

Smith didn’t want to find out what Anya meant by taking care of the sheets. None of this was what he had signed up for.

taking care

The Rolls bounced and bounded over the small sand dunes as they headed farther into the void of the desert. The moon was brighter than the previous night, so they killed the headlights and could still navigate without hitting a cactus or bull skull. In the backseat, Greta’s lifeless body flailed and jolted around with each bump.

Covington stopped the car in a clearing and leaned into the backseat to prepare Greta. Smith stepped out onto the sand and spun in a circle, surveying the landscape around him. Even with the moonlight, the darkness consumed the car from all directions. Smith placed his back against the front of the Rolls as the darkness seemed to eat the light, like a fog rolling in. Then it stopped, holding its position just a few yards from the vehicle. Smith looked into the invading darkness but couldn’t see anything past the frontline. He thought it looked like nothingness. Not just darkness but nothingness.

nothingnessThen he saw movement in the nothingness. A lot of movement. Creatures, resembling females, crept from the nothingness and into the moonlight surrounding the car. Smith bent backward over the Rolls hood, creating as much space between himself and the shuffling brood. He looked behind him and saw the same number of creatures saunter from the nothingness there too, like an incoming high tide toward the car.

“Um … Covington?”

The Boulevard Killer looked up from working on the dead p********e and noticed the arriving disciples. “Smith, meet the Mushroom Cult. They won’t hurt you. They might be a little overcurious, but they won’t harm you.” He returned to preparing Greta in the backseat as if the scene outside the vehicle was as normal as hot dogs at a baseball game.

“Are they all … girls?”

“Yeah,” Covington said, sticking his head out of the vehicle again to answer Smith. “They’re all stains of society who’ve been purified over the years. I inherited them when the previous guy … I dunno, retired? Not really sure. Anya is kind of their immortal queen, but whoever possesses the book holds ownership of the flock. That is, until she can one day locate the specified prized possession that’ll dismiss her limitations and then she won’t have any use for us mortals anymore. We’ll be tossed out with yesterday’s bath water and her exclusory reign will begin. But until then, she needs us just as much as we need her. That’s what the book alludes to, at least.”

“The book?”

“It dictates and decodes all her mysticism. Don’t get me wrong, Anya will serve you well, if you continue to add to her ranks. That’s really the only reason she keeps us—the generations of caretakers—around. She relies on us to deliver the polluted offerings.”

“You mean, like sacrifices.”

“Wouldn’t you like to think of it as more of a cleansing? She gets what she wants and—”

“An army.”

“Sure. And we get to help our community.”

The front rows of the flock stopped walking, and their decayed and paper-thin fingers fondled Smith’s lapel. His eyes grew larger when he recognized Candy reaching for his fedora, like an infant reaching for a toy. A gunshot wound had blown out the back of her neck.

“I saw Candy get taken away in pieces. But here she is, all intact.”

“These aren’t their original bodies. That’s why the law keeps finding girls buried in the desert graves. Baby vultures probably ate Candy’s real body. The birds need to eat sometimes too, you know. What you’re seeing are residual apparitions but solid manifestations. That’s why they’re all the same color and why the trauma of how they died is still visible.”

“Have you ever wondered what she might be building this army for?” Smith asked, taking a step sideways, distancing himself from the zombielike movements of the cult.

“I’m saving their souls, Mr. Smith,” Anya said, stepping from the shadows and flipping her veil over the top of her head so he could see her face clearly for the first time since that initial meeting in his office. “Without me intervening, they’d all be damned to Hell for an eternity of brimstone and gnashing teeth. This way they’re saved, both in life from their heinous crimes against your kind and from the atrocities of down there.”

“If you’re referring to me as ‘your kind,’ then what kind are you?”

kindCovington stopped yanking Greta from the car and looked at Anya with tremendous concern.

“You’ve found a bold one, Covington. Even you’ve never been so brash to ask me that question.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Smith asked, rubbing his hands together.

“I don’t know. Did you?” Anya asked, her nose almost touching his. “You tell me. How’s Wendy these days?”

“I don’t know what my wife has to do with any of this.”

“You asked if you had done something wrong. We can only answer that question when we slow down our thoughts and really dig into our souls. Introspection. Don’t you think so, Covington?”

dig“I do,” he answered and dragged Greta’s body from the backseat and through a few feet of sand.

“Let’s get this over with. This one doesn’t sit well with me,” Smith said.

“Why? Because she was a virgin?”

“That, and I’m not sure she was even old enough to be in high school yet.”

Anya bent down beside Greta’s body, flipped her veil like a curtain over her face, closed her eyes, and placed her decrepit hand on the girl’s forehead. When she opened her eyes, she said, “You can sleep easily tonight, Mr. Smith. This sapling was of consensual age. If a little bit of blood makes you that nervous, maybe you’re in the wrong business.”

Covington realized he needed to direct the focus back to the ceremony, or Anya and Smith would come to blows. “Pum’kin, would you like to do tonight’s honors and welcome a new sister to the clan?”

Pum’kin stepped forward with a grin splayed across her face. Smith thought, if she smiled any wider, her ears might fall off. The cult clapped and gurgled unintelligible noises, congratulating her for being the chosen one tonight. The inhuman guttural sounds that invaded the quiet desert night sent goose bumps down Smith’s arms and chest.

Pum’kin sat with her legs crisscrossed next to Greta on the sand and rocked back and forth. She hummed a tune Smith did not recognize but did not feel was foreign either. The melody wasn’t in the correct tempo, nor even in the correct notes, but, as soon as she reached the end of the first bar, he realized she was humming “Für Elise.”

feelFürElise.Just as he turned to mention the odd coincidence between Pum’kin’s choice of song to summons the vultures and Wendy’s musical box, the flapping of wings overpowered the murmurs from the Mushroom Cult. Smith looked to the sky, and the moonlight was blacked out, shrouded in a kettle of vultures. He took a step backward away from Greta’s body, knowing what they were after and unsure if they ever got confused and missed their target. He didn’t want to find out tonight.

Smith ran his fingertips along the Rolls to guide him, never taking his gaze from the approaching swarm. He collided with somebody—something—and turned to apologize, then realized an apology was futile when he saw the female he had bumped into; her head flopped from side to side, and she had a permanent stare fixated on the sky. She had no idea she had been struck.

The vultures descended so quickly on Greta’s body that Smith yelped in fright, and a plume of loose feathers rose into the air. The thunderous sound of the Mushroom Cult clapping was the last thing he remembered before waking up in the passenger seat of Covington’s Rolls as it traveled down the highway back to civilization.

Even all the years on the force and all the despicable things he had seen had not been able to drop the curtain from his eyes like it had been dropped tonight. Smith believed, after witnessing tonight’s events, the only truths he would ever see of his city were the miles of neon lights and shallow graves kept hidden from the loving, law-abiding families tucked snug and safe in their houses.