Demon, Interrupted

2

2

Around midnight, the outskirts of Memphis appeared. Certain I wasn’t followed, I found a fairly active truck stop. Topping off the gas tank and reserve, I was careful not to remove my helmet and get caught on any surveillance cameras. A prepaid Visa card saved the little cash I had.

I drove my bike around to the back where all the truckers stopped to sleep for the night and parked between two eighteen-wheelers that would conceal me from any passers-by. The first deep breath I’d taken in hours burned with diesel fumes but I commanded my diaphragm to keep going in and out. I dug in my backpack and looked through the stack of Polaroids. All were objects I could locate and pawn for money, except for one. Written in large black letters across the top of one picture was “In case of extreme emergency” with the word extreme underlined twice. It was a necklace, nothing fancy, just a silver chain with a pendant of a Christian cross, but instead of two straight, intersecting lines, one vertical line intersected a chevron. It looked like an arrow with the long line extending past the point of the arrowhead.

What constitutes an extreme emergency? Having my apartment broken into and proof of my identity and family thrown in my face was a definite emergency, but was it extreme? I needed to start over again, and I could handle that on my own. This necklace wasn’t going to net me starting over money, so I shoved the picture in the back pocket of my jeans.

I flipped through the others and settled on a picture of a plain diamond ring on a gold band. No one would ask questions of a young woman pawning an engagement ring. I would use my powers to locate the ring tomorrow, pawn it, and add to my cash reserve. I didn’t own the ring so I could find it. Generations of my family had exploited the loophole in our power. You can’t find something you own, so have someone else buy it and hide it.

Once pawned, with cash in hand, I’d start research on a new town to call home. The Pacific Northwest sounded about right. After finishing my protein bar, I replaced the pictures, zipped the backpack closed, and rolled out from between the trucks. Keep moving, keep going, forward only, never back.

Two hours north, I spotted a small motel that looked like it took cash and didn’t care who the patrons were. The dingy parking lot held two cars on the far end. I paid for the last room on the opposite end on the back of the motel.

Another advantage of my small motorbike was that I could wheel it into my room, removing all evidence of my stay. With minimal furniture rearrangement, my bike wedged between the foot of the bed and the wall. I backed it in, in case I needed to leave in a hurry. With no room to walk around the bed, I crawled over to reach the bathroom. The alien vegetation in the tub convinced me that taking a shower would make me Stephen King’s next Jordy Verrill. Instead, I wet a hand towel in the sink, and did my best to wipe the grime and sweat from my face and body. I changed into another shirt from my backpack and settled down on top of the bed’s seedy comforter.

I closed my eyes and sent up a prayer that had changed very little since the day of my mother’s death.

Dear God. I am what so many people want—proof of your existence. I don’t need faith, I don’t need this cursed lineage, and I don’t need you. I hate what you have done to my family. What was supposed to be a blessing has killed everyone I love. I pray to you now to take it away. I know you are up there. Amen.

The nature of my life guaranteed light sleep; three hours after I closed my eyes, the noise of a car engine outside my window opened them. The red numbers of the cheap alarm clock declared it to be just after six in the morning. Early dawn light struggled in from behind the curtains I was trying not to touch as I glanced outside. The front end of a silver sedan parked right outside my door had Tennessee plates. Maybe it was a local. The engine was still running. They could have just checked in or they were waiting for someone. Logic was losing to alarm. I swallowed what little moisture was in my mouth and returned to the bed.

Forty-five minutes later, nothing had changed except the intensity of the sinking feeling in my stomach. I moved away from the window and put my backpack and helmet on the bike. Slowly I undid the deadbolt and security chain, but didn’t open the door. Instead, I turned and went into the bathroom. Inside was one small, frosted glass window, not visible from the parking lot.

I needed a test. Were they here for me or for someone or something else? I slipped out the window and forced my feet to walk along the length of the motel, down and around to the opposite end from where I was staying. You can do this, you can do this, stop shaking. I took a deep breath and stepped into plain view of the silver sedan. Walking three doors down, I made a show of attempting to unlock one of the room doors, praying no one would open the door from the other side. My ear twitched when the click of a transmission put the car in reverse. s**t. Another click and the sedan lurched forward picking up speed. I forced myself to be still. Not time to move yet. Just one second longer. Bring them closer. My mind and body synchronized with the need to survive the next five minutes.

How had They found me?

I ran. The carefully constructed dam collapsed and adrenaline flooded my system. The check-in blurred by, and a flash of silver caught my eye. I pushed myself even faster down to the far end.

Rounding the corner on the back of the motel, I heard car doors open and footsteps scrambling. I wasn’t going to waste time or jeopardize my coordination by turning to look. The open bathroom window triggered me to jump and shimmy my way back inside. I grabbed my backpack, knocking my helmet to the floor. No time to pick it up. Straddling the bike I darted over the handlebars and flung the door open, then slammed my weight down on the bike to kick-start the engine. It caught and I stomped the gas.

The bike jumped out the door, but was cut short when the back tire caught on my helmet. I hit the gas harder and the bike fishtailed. The right side of my body slammed into the frame with a loud crack and wood splinters showered me like confetti. The pain in my shoulder and knee howled for a nanosecond before I shut it down so I could get the hell out of there.

Just as I lurched forward again, a set of hands clamped on the handle bars and another set on my shoulders. I couldn’t let go with my hands or feet, so I leaned forward and bit into the huge hands gripping the handlebars. They jerked back and I hit the gas. The hands at my shoulders slipped to my backpack and pulled. I let one arm go, then the other, and slipped out of my backpack, never slowing down. I was free and speeding into the parking lot.

This time I did risk a glance back. There were two men, one holding his hand to his chest and the other sitting on the ground clutching my backpack. I faced forward, and got out of there as fast as possible.

Shit. s**t. s**t. I got on the first major interstate I saw and gunned it. Without my helmet, the wind chapped my face and tangled my hair. My mind was still numb from the escape but I felt hot tears streaking down my cheeks and blowing away. I never cried. Not when I lost my homes, not when I lost my friends, not even when I lost my family. Crying was useless; it didn’t help anything or anyone. I wiped at tears and snot like I was trying to push the nose off my face.

I was so screwed. Still alive, but screwed. The backpack held everything—clothes, money, food, and most important, those pictures. They were my freedom, my new life, and now they were gone. Even if I could remember what the diamond ring looked like, it could be used to bait a trap for me. I needed money. I needed to keep going. I needed to stay hidden.

My mind fixated on the pictures, going through them again and again until one bubbled up from the depths, spotlighted in front of all the others. My tears and my heart stopped. The picture of the necklace was in my back pocket. I reached back with one hand and felt the familiar crinkle of a Polaroid. A smile snuck onto my lips. No doubts this time, I had an extreme emergency.

I pulled off at the first rest area. All my gas and time were now devoted to finding the necklace. To be safe, I pulled my bike behind the small brick building that housed the dumpsters so I wouldn’t be visible from the parking lot.

My feet hit the ground and red-hot searing spikes of pain shot up from my right knee. Not wanting to be forgotten, my right shoulder throbbed in time to my heartbeat. Pain and heat radiated down my entire right side. The endorphins were wearing off. The knee scared me the most. I would need it to ride and possibly walk or run. A tentative flex and extend brought a scream of pain up from my throat. I smothered it to a few drops of spittle and some pathetic mewling. I grabbed the photo distracting me from the pain, and stared at it for a minute, giving myself one more chance to come up with something else, another plan…anything.

Once I tuned into this item, there would be no other way except finding it. No rest or release until I located it. My powers could be a b***h. The necklace was it, I told myself. This had to be done. Gripping the picture, I burned the exact image into my brain and closed my eyes.

“St. Anthony, perfect imitator of Jesus, who received from God the special power of restoring lost articles, grant that I may find this necklace which has been lost. To this favor, I pledge to remain your ever-faithful descendant. Amen.” I chanted with fervor for perhaps the first time in my life.

I repeated the prayer several times, tapping into my power, opening the part of myself most people reserve for toxic emotions and wasted memories. The black box where I hoped to hide my powers forever. The image in my mind blurred and swirled around and around and then stopped. The instant the image solidified, a faint buzzing started in my chest, like standing too close to a beehive. My own personal homing beacon. The necklace was west…far west, judging by the strength of the vibration. I wouldn’t know northwest or southwest until I got closer. I did know I was already headed west on the interstate I used to escape the motel, so I saved myself both gas and time. There are no coincidences.

I looked up at the cloudless blue sky, the sun making its morning ascent. “Still doesn’t make us even. Not even close.” I pulled the motorcycle back onto the highway.

*

The full moon hung over my right shoulder. I was within spitting distance. My bike quit hours ago. The gas tank and reserve tank carried me into a giant dustbowl somewhere near the border of Oklahoma and Arkansas. The intense humming in my chest made me rub at my ribcage until I thought the skin would come off. I was no longer standing next to the beehive; it was living in between my lungs. The intensity of the signal in my chest guided me into miles and miles of nothingness, toward the necklace. Thirty more minutes max.

The buzzing sensation urged me to hurry up but my body begged me to slow down. My knee looked like a melon on steroids, straining the fabric of my jeans, and my right arm hung limp at my side. Pain spread like a malignant cancer, disabling everything it touched.

Fear and pain battled. Pain moved me toward the necklace. Fear reminded me of the hospital signs I saw back on the main road. I expected to see a house, a building…something, being this close, but all I saw was miles and miles of nothing. I committed to a one-way ticket. My injuries would not allow a return trip. The necklace needed to come with food, and water, and shelter, and a doctor.

I paced in circles staring down at the ground. It had to be right here. From the corner of my eye, a slight shimmer caught my attention. I moved closer, constantly adjusting my eyes like looking at a 3D puzzle. The small shimmer increased in size as I approached it. Mesmerized by the giant shimmer that I could swear took on the vague shape of a house, I tripped and fell face first into….lush, wet grass? Dew soaked through my clothes and dripped down my face. I stilled for a minute. Was I dead? I checked in with my body. Abrasion of wet denim on my legs? Check. My t-shirt sloppily stuck to my stomach? Check. Horrible debilitating pain throughout? Check. I planted my hands and tried pushing myself into a sitting position. Nope, my shoulder had me regretting that decision. Instead, I rolled over onto my back and did my best to look around.

There must be an explanation for what I saw. Even in the dark, I could make out long hedges, large stone planters, a five-car garage and, even upside down, a very large house. This was a mirage, what happened to people who hadn’t eaten or slept enough. I could have hit my head on a rock when I fell and gone into a dream, or a coma. But the buzzing remained, just as intense. Why would that still be with me?

I rolled to my left, struggling to squat and stand without the use of my right side. Delusion or dream I didn’t care. I unstuck my t-shirt and my resolve. I was going into that house. If nothing else I needed something to eat and drink. Then I could keep looking for the necklace—when I woke up or returned to reality.

I half limped, half dragged my disabled body up the front steps of the massive home. In the moonlight it looked like a small stone castle. There were turrets to the right and left. The roof soared three stories above my head, dotted with peaks and dormers. I raised my hand to knock on the pair of large, carved wooden doors, but before I made contact they were pulled open.

Bright light streamed out from inside. I shielded my eyes with my one good arm.

“Who are you?” The sudden sensory overload of light and booming sound pushed me back a step.

My eyes finally focused on a massive male form in the doorway. The light from inside cast the man in shadow. He was several inches taller than me and nearly as wide as one of the wooden doors he stood beside.

Before I could answer his question, he stepped forward, way too far into my personal space. The hollow of his throat at my eye level, I blinked twice at a familiar silver chain.

“Who. Are. You?” the voice repeated, this time slower and louder like speaking to an insolent child.

I needed to see the rest of that necklace. Excitement sprang in my chest that it was the necklace. My mind quickly completed a puzzle from pieces my hopes created. He was a strong warrior-type meant to protect me. My grandmother had known this. I made the right choice. I would be safe now.

I tilted my head up to where I thought his eyes were and prepared myself. The words had never been said out loud. The moment gained gravity, crushing my shoulders and paralyzing my diaphragm. I stuttered, but finally got it out. “I am Saint’s Kin, a descendant of Saint Anthony of Padua, Patron Saint of Lost Articles.” A thick moment of silence passed between us while he considered my words. His eyes flicked up and down my body.

“No, you are not. They are all dead.” He stepped back in the house and slammed the door in my face.