Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

"Holy?"

"I know that's kind of a funny word. But that's how I felt. When I was young and was aware of my power. I was in touch with God and with myself and I felt a great peace, and a kind of wisdom. Like when my dad got cancer that time. I was really able to comfort him. And I think that helped him recover completely. I really believe I played a part in that, a part I don't even understand myself. I would go into church and make the stations of the cross and then kneel in front of the votive candles and look up at Blessed Mother and I felt-holy. That's the only way I can explain it, Robert. Holy."

"And you don't feel holy anymore?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

"And when you were walking around up here tonight-"

"Nothing. No kind of spiritual contact at all."

The owl got busy again. This time he didn't sound plaintive; he sounded triumphant. There was something regal now in his cry. "Thanks for telling me the truth, anyway."

"Laura's going to kill me."

I took her hand. "Maybe you should think about quitting."

"A has-been at twenty-eight."

"Maybe you'll find your powers again."

"I've thought of that, actually."

"You really were helpful to people, Tandy. And you really were holy."

She took my hand and touched it to her cheek. "Tonight? Am I still invited to your room tonight?"

"Absolutely." I tapped my wristwatch. "Now I need to get back."

"Oh, yes," she said, laughing. "I forgot. It's bowling time."

The taverns were all fired up and ready to go. There was a block of them. When we'd left town, there'd been only a few cars parked slantwise in front of them. Now both sides of the block were lined with pickups, vans, and cars. Some of the vans still bore traces of the seventies and eighties in the form of heavy-metal drawings on their sides. In the taverns tonight, as every night, there would be bumper pool and lottery tickets and fistfights and adultery and young love and old weary love and loneliness, lots and lots of loneliness in the neon shadows of beer signs and jukebox glow.

The streets were mostly empty. It was that limbo time when teenagers were actually at home stuffing food in their faces, fortifying themselves for the night ahead. Soon they'd burst forth in a rumble of glass-pak mufflers and rock music and hormones, and ignite the night into an explosion of joy, lust, cosmic ache and cosmic confusion and cosmic arrogance and cosmic terror, and lust lustlust.

As I drove into the parking lot, I saw, at the far end, the green Ford that I'd seen outside Iris Rutledge's office. I drove past it. Empty. I wondered where the big man was. The motel looked shabby in the soft lights of the parking lot, the prairie sky filled with stars now. I pulled into a parking spot near my room.

"I'm glad I told you," Tandy said.

"I'm glad you did, too."

"I don't blame you for not wanting to be involved."

She slid her arm around me as we stood in front of my door. Hugged me. I seemed to represent a mixture of Daddy, brother, and lover to her, and the combination made me uncomfortable.

"See you," she said, and walked to her own room several doors away. She gave me a tiny wave and inserted her key and went inside.

I went in and got the light on and took care of my bladder and washed my face and hands, and then the phone rang.

"Hey, pal. What exotic place're you in this time?"

Brady. Chicago cop. Friend of mine from my bureau days. I'd called him earlier this afternoon but he'd been busy.

"Brenner, Iowa."

"Wow. They got indoor plumbing?"

"Next year."

"Well, we all have to have our dreams."

"How you been?"

"Other than a teenage son who may be doing drugs, fine."

"Damn. You really think so?"

"His mother says the signs're all there. I wouldn't know. I rarely see him. I was a really shitty father to him when he was growing up-we had joint custody but I rarely took him on weekends-and now he's paying me back. Won't even return my phone calls most of the time. So I'm working on spending a lot of time with the younger kids."

"I'm sorry."

"Hell, even the commander's kid got into the drugs last year. Been in and out of two substance abuse programs already."

"It's everywhere."

"Kill 'em all, anybody who deals that shit."

"We're trying that with mandatory sentencing, Tom. It doesn't seem to be the solution. Maybe it's time we legalize it."

He sighed. "Who the fuck knows?" He was a big man easily given to depression. We needed to change the subject.

"You run a license number for me?"

"Sure," he said.

I gave him the number. It belonged to the green Ford that I'd seen earlier at the lawyer's and again in the parking lot.

"Be tomorrow before I can get to it."

"No problem. I'll send you twenty-five dollars. I appreciate it."

"Aw, hell. Forget the money. Just buy me a spaghetti dinner at Mario's next time you're in the city. We can swap cop stories."

I smiled. He loved cop stories. Not the violent ones so much. The odd ones. The four-year-old kid wearing his bathrobe like a cape and wanting to jump off a three-story roof. The wife who caught her police captain husband whacking off while wearing a pair of her panties. The nun who packed heat. The powerful mobster who took painting lessons in night school, complete with his bodyguard standing right next to him. They were Chicago stories and if they were slightly exaggerated, so what? Why couldn't cops take a little artistic license, too?

"Well, I'd better get ready."

"Heavy date?" he said.

"Yeah. Bowling."

"Nude bowling?"

"Yeah. Right. Nude bowling."

"Hey, you gotta do something out there to liven things up."

"Yeah, and nude bowling sounds just like it."

"You see this new gal the detectives got for a secretary, you'd want to see her bowl nude, believe me."

"Spectacular, huh?"

"Spectacular? And you should see them. What a rack."

"You sure they're real?"

"Oh, they're real all right. I got an eye for that. They hang a certain way when they're real." Then, "You know, women with the real thing should maybe start carrying papers."

"Papers?"

"Yeah. You know. Like pedigreed dogs. So you could know for sure they were real."

"I think we should let the United Nations work on that one, Brady."

"Yeah, like the UN can ever solve anything."

On that note, we hung up.

Iwent to get some ice and a Diet Pepsi. On my way back, I made the mistake of passing by the motel door belonging to Laura West.

She was shrieking at Noah Chandler. "Why would I want to marry some washed-up TV actor? Now get out and leave me alone!" Then, "Let me go or I'll start screaming!"

I paused. I might have to go in there.

"You ever grab me like that again, you bastard, and I'll report you to the police!"

"You bitch! I've done everything I could for you and look what I get out of it!"

Something smashed to the floor.

"Oh, great," she said. "Now you start breaking everything?"

"You'll be sorry you treated me like this, Laura. You damned well will."

I wasn't the only one being treated to this soap opera. Half the motel could hear it.

The door started to open.

I scooted down to my room.

He slammed the door so hard behind him, the entire motel wall shook

"Fucking bitch," he said, loud enough for me to hear. Then he stalked off to his own room.

Itook a quick shower and shave. Dry and naked, I walked out of the bathroom and over to the accordion-fold closet. I opened the door and looked at the two shirts and two pairs of trousers and sport jacket I'd brought. Then I saw him. Or rather, I smelled him before I saw him.

The closet was deep and dark enough to do a pretty good job of hiding him. He looked even bigger than he had in his car. The funny thing was, he still had his aviator shades on. The killer had stabbed him several times in the chest and then cut his throat. For good luck, maybe. He'd filled his pants, which was what I'd smelled. I went through his pockets carefully and found a small key in his shirt pocket. It looked like it belonged to a locker, and lockers were usually found at bus stations.