J Rain - The Mummy Case

Ten feet away, emerging from the shadows of a smaller boulder, probably awakened by the gunshots-that is, if they even slept-was a tarantula. From my perspective, with my face pressed against the hot sand, the thing looked gargantuan.

The gargantuan tarantula took a few steps in my direction.

Jesus.

My skin crawled, and if I wasn’t currently under gunfire attack I might have jumped up and ran.

It continued toward me. Slowly, deliberately…

I swallowed. Sweat rolled from my temple and into my right eye, momentarily blurring the little monster. When my vision cleared, I saw that it had stopped. Now, slowly, it raised its two hairy front legs up into the air. Like a referee signaling a touchdown.

More movement behind it-

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Issuing out of a hole at the base of the boulder, as if straight from Hell, were dozens and dozens of tarantulas. All huge. All hairy, and all moving purposely toward me, like something out of a horror movie.

Like something out of a horror movie?

Hell, this was a horror movie.

Suddenly the water bottle next to me exploded, spraying me with water and briefly confusing the spiders. I had actually forgotten about the gunfight. Hell, the gunfight was almost a welcome distraction at this point.

I took a deep breath, tried to focus. They were just spiders, right? Were tarantulas even poisonous? I think some were. How about California desert tarantulas? And since when did California have tarantulas?

Another shot. As the bullet ricocheted off the boulder near my head, something touched my hand. I jerked my hand away just as a particularly fat and hairy spider tumbled onto its back, its legs kicking at the air furiously.

Sweet Jesus.

I gathered myself, mentally considered my choices, realized I didn’t have many, and then did the only thing I could think of. I fired a single shot from around the boulder. The blast sent the tarantulas scurrying-and me scurrying, too.

I stood suddenly, fired two more shots up into the cliff, and dashed off toward the north cliff wall. A single shot exploded in the sand near my feet. I had surprised the shooter. Hell, I had surprised myself.

Breathing hard, sweating even harder, I pulled up next to the curving cliff face, partially out of the shooter’s line of fire. Still, he was somewhere above me.

At least, I thought he was a he.

Typical male bias.

My skin was still crawling. I think I was going to have the heebie-jeebies for a week, if I survived that long.

A jutting rock buttress partially shielded me from the sun and, hopefully, from the shooter. I waited there another ten minutes without incident. Incident being, of course, gunshots and tarantulas. Now there’s a band name for you.

Keeping to the shadows of the cliff trail, I slowly worked my way back up the steep face. Already, I was regretting not having the water.

There were no more gunshots.

Or giant, hairy bugs.

I was about halfway up the cliff face when I heard it: the sudden roar of an engine. Recklessly, I pocketed my pistol, scrambled up the rest of the way as fast as I could.

Just as I crested the cliff ridge, I saw a blue Rawhide truck hauling ass out of here, kicking up about a mile’s worth of dust in its wake.

I looked over at my car; it appeared unmolested. Hopefully, it still had some gas.

A moment later, sitting in the hot seat, I slipped the key into the ignition. Praying hard, I turned the key. The engine started with a roar. I still had more than half a tank.

Thank God.

My mother’s cemetery, late.

I had been drinking all evening. Cindy was away in Santa Barbara with some girlfriends. Not a bad idea since I tended to spend the weekends watching football.

Alone for the weekend, I was free to drink. Whoopee. Only I didn’t want to get so drunk that I couldn’t enjoy football. That would just be stupid.

Fuck football.

Okay, now I knew I was drunk.

With the engine still running, I was parked along Vicente Street, next to the cemetery’s entrance. My lights were off.

The cemetery was massive and rolling, covering many dozens of acres. Lots of dead bodies here. Of those bodies, I wondered how many had been murdered. And of those murders, I wondered how many went unsolved?

At least one, I thought.

Would be an interesting, if not macabre, poll.

It was after hours. The cemetery was black and empty. Through the low wrought-iron fence, I could see the gentle sweep of the landscape, which was populated with black oak trees. There were no tombstones in this cemetery; rather, brass nameplates embedded in the grass. Those who cared did not allow the grass to overgrow the nameplate. I was one of those who cared.

I wondered if ghosts haunted the cemetery. If so, I wondered how many were now watching the Mustang and the drunken man inside and if they remembered what it was like to get drunk. I wondered if I really believed in ghosts.

On this night, with the full moon shining overhead, with too much alcohol coursing through my veins, it was easy to believe in ghosts.

I drank from a warm can of beer nestled between my legs. The beer tasted horrible.

The glass inside my car was steaming over. My leather seats were cold to the touch. I was sweating, could feel it collecting above my brow. Soon it would roll down my cheeks and nose. I always sweat when I drink too much. Not sure why. Maybe it excites me.

I finished the beer and crumpled it in my hand. I picked up the bouquet of flowers from the seat next to me and stepped out of the Mustang. The cool night air felt heavenly against my hot skin. A soft breeze swept through the graveyard, rustling the branches of the many trees. That is, I hoped it was a breeze, and not some poor lost soul.

Using one hand to pivot, I jumped the low fence, kicking my legs up and over.

On the other side, I staggered down the grassy slope, crossing over the final resting places of the dead, mumbling drunken apologies, until I stopped in front of a familiar nameplate near a small oak tree.

I stared down in numbed silence.

The brass plate glistened in the residual city light.

Today was November 2nd, my mother’s birthday.

There were no flowers on her grave, of course, for she had no family and no friends, other than me. I set the bouquet across the grave, in the area of her chest and her clasped hands

I closed my eyes and saw my mother as I always remembered her: beautiful and radiant, smiling warmly down at me, alive and healthy. I imagined her taking the flowers from me and kissing me on the cheek, then holding me at arm’s length, cocking her head.

“Thank you, Jimmy, they’re beautiful.”

I opened my eyes. The cemetery was empty. The grass looked black, and my mother’s nameplate was hidden now in a blur of tears. She was down there somewhere, beneath my feet. The woman who loved me with all her heart.

“Happy birthday, ma.”

Parents of the deceased are always difficult calls, and this one was no different. Over the phone, I explained to Edna Clarke, Willie’s mother, who I was. She was confused at first, but eventually agreed to meet with me.

An hour later, I parked in front of a stylish Tudor revival in the Fullerton Hills. I turned my wheels into the curb, as any good car owner should.

At the door, I knocked firmly. As I waited, I admired the door. Cut glass, brass trim, heavy oak. Hell, my knuckles were still smarting from the firm knock.

Footsteps creaked. A murky figure appeared in the opaque glass. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open. An elderly woman smiled at me. She was wearing reading glasses. Behind the narrow glasses, her amplified eyes were red. I smiled back. She asked if I was Jim Knighthorse and I said the one and only. She invited me in, and in I went.