Bloodlust (Frailty Book 2) Read online

  “I need to get down in there,” Dwayne said.

  Okay, that brought Laura back to reality. And it was not just what Dwayne had said but how he said it – like a light bulb had gone off.

  “What?” Laura asked. “What is it?”

  “I think,” the forensics officer said, almost sticking his head down into the hole, “Yeah, I think we’ve got this backwards.” He stood quickly, throwing Laura off balance as she tried to move out of his way. The small flashlight went back into his pouch, while a larger one was retrieved from the field kit. Turning it on, Dwayne got down on his knees next to the tunnel-like formation and seemed to be measuring the width with his hands. “Okay, I’m going to need you to secure me while I wiggle down in there.”

  “Wait.” Laura, taking a turn to use her hands, physically emphasized what she had just said by throwing them up in halting gesture. “Just how in the hell am I supposed to do that, Dwayne? Really?”

  “Just hold my ankles.” The words came out, but Dwayne was way more preoccupied with what he was looking at. “Then pull me back up.” LED light in one hand, he grabbed his cell phone with the other.

  “Pull…you…back,” Laura struggled to take what he had said seriously. “Do you even hear what you are saying? What if you get stuck? And who exactly are you going to call while you’re down there?” She took a look around, but the two officers that had accompanied them had stayed back by their cruiser until called – far too distant to be of any help. “Look. We can call an exhumation crew in here and just get this thing dug up.”

  “No, no. I can fit.” Dwayne already had his arms in the smallish shaft and was squirming to find a good angle of entry. “Besides, I want to see this before it gets disturbed, and I won’t need to go all the way to the bottom, if I’m right.”

  Suddenly Laura found herself wishing they would just go back to him flirting. At least she did not have to worry about messing up her nails or breaking a heel, she thought, not in her current state of redux. “What if you get stuck?”

  Dwayne, now down past his shoulders, either did not hear or chose to ignore her.

  With a frustrated grunt, Laura grabbed two large handfuls of slacks and belt, as Dwayne’s body disappeared almost up to his waist. Wild visions of his pants pulling completely off and his body disappearing into the hole came to mind, and she was not sure if she wanted to laugh or panic. A moment later, her phone vibrated in its pouch on her waist right as a muffled yell came from the half-buried forensics worker.

  Hope that text wasn’t important, Laura thought as she began pulling on the pants with all her strength.

  Slowly Dwayne emerged, covered in dirt and holding a well-worn stuffed rabbit, complete with one of the sewn-on eyes missing. It had been replaced by a penned-in letter ‘X’. Putting the flashlight back into the kit, he began wiping himself off. “You get my text?”

  “What the hell? That was you?” Laura retrieved her phone from her belt. “Why in the world were you texting me from inside a grave? It better not be a penis picture.”

  “I figured you would want to see what I was seeing.” Dwayne tore open a wet wipe and cleaned his face.

  As she accessed the messages on her phone, the detective turned her attention to the item Dwayne had retrieved from the casket. “Grave robbing now?”

  “Oh, this.” He took a quick look at the faux animal before setting it on top of his kit. “Seemed…I don’t know…lame to leave it down there…all alone. I mean, it belonged to a little girl once. It was special to her.”

  “Shouldn’t you bag it?” Laura asked.

  “Really?” Dwayne replied, cutting his eyes.

  “It is evidence,” Laura teased back, her eyes locked inquisitively on the screen of her cell phone. “What am I looking at here?” she asked.

  “An exit,” he answered. The two exchanged a look. “The hole was made from the inside-out,” he added.

  “Dwayne, that girl died. I saw it with my own two eyes.” The comment had shaken Laura, and her answer came out of sheer emotion, cutting a lot harsher than she realized until after she had said it. Getting a reply back in a defensive tone would not have surprised her in the least, but that was not Dwayne’s style. Instead, her look was met with sympathy. She took a deep breath and gathered herself. “You’re saying she dug out?”

  The forensics officer moved over close to her and pointed at the picture on her phone. “There’s pieces of wood on the outside of the casket. Also, notice how it’s splintered out there and there.” He took a step back, and Laura was sure he was bracing for her response.

  There wasn’t one to give, though. It was another unbelievable event in a growing series of events that defied explanation. All that she had been taught in her law enforcement career had been based on finding the facts and on believable evidence. So what do you do when all of the facts and evidence begin to point more and more to a series of inhuman and supernatural occurrences? There was an old saying about something being possible or probable, but she could not recall it at that particular moment.

  Dwayne broke the silence and saved her from the brain implosion she felt like she was about to have. “We’re good here. Let’s go take a look at the other crime scenes. Maybe we’ll get some answers to just what is going on.”

  He took out a two-way and radioed the awaiting officers to come and tape off the area and bring in the forensics unit to mop up.

  Laura felt Dwayne’s hand on the small of her back, and she acknowledged the prompt to return to where they had parked. There was an instant relief in walking away, more than what she would have expected. Try as she might, though, she had no idea what mental folder to stash something like this in.

  More than that, one question followed her all the way back to the car: If the girl had come back to life, no matter how silly it sounded, and dug herself out of that grave, where had she gone?

  Laura had no idea that her answer was only a short distance away, watching from behind a large angel monument.

  Leaning against the marble statue, Constance rubbed her hand slowly up and down, stopping unconsciously to caress one of the bare breasts, as she watched the two disappear towards the parking lot.

  “And so she waltzed back into my life. Hello, Detective.”

  Two officers appeared and began taping-off the grave site.

  “Guess I’ll have to find a new place to sleep,” Constance said wryly. “And, I want my bunny back.”

  7

  Roofy entered the kitchen half expecting his naked mother to be standing at the stove waiting for him. Instead of the aggravatingly persistent image, though, he found Father Philippe sitting at a small wooden table in a room awash with the morning sun. The light, flooding through a bay window in a small eating nook, had a way of making the aged area seem less worn than what it was. Even the colors of the severely dated, green striped wallpaper appeared more vibrant in the very light that had accelerated its fading over the years.

  The kitchen was part of the preacher’s personal living quarters situated at the back of and sectioned off from the church. Father Philippe, like all of those employed with the calling of watching over the flock in the area, was required to live on-site in the cramped, humble accommodations.

  There had been noticeable attempts at renovations, but the updates were confined to the main sanctuary, including a large baptismal pool to accommodate requests from the growing number of people coming to mass in the parish. The father had explained that the reason for this was to reflect the emphasis on the needs of those attending, while the caretaker’s surroundings should be a demonstration of his humility. “God’s love should be enough,” Father Philippe had told Roofy when the Russian questioned the sparse personal conditions.

  “Come. Sit. Eat,” the father said, motioning towards a plate of fresh fruit and muffins, accompanied by a pitcher of orange juice.

  There really was not much of an age difference between the two men. The preacher was short and stocky, with a head full of coal black
hair and maybe ten to fourteen years Roofy’s senior, yet he assumed a parental role quite naturally.

  Although they did not share any immediate experiences in common, both had a common ground in the fact that they immigrated to America. The father had relocated from El Fuerte, Mexico with his oldest sister when he was young. Trading stories of their homelands helped in forging the bond that Roofy felt, and when they were not discussing demons, that was typically the topic that they passed the time with and usually at this very spot in the kitchen.

  Joining the man at the table, the chair creaked under the strain of the ex-wrestler’s large frame. Roofy filled his plate and began eating, despite the previous night’s dream leaving him with little appetite to speak of. The lesson, though, was one his mother had engrained in him many years ago: it was insulting to refuse the kindness of others. When you have very little, you must depend on each other. He remembered how all of the people in their struggling community pitched in to help each other: sometimes it was with food, sometimes with handing down clothing, and sometimes assisting with chores around the house or in the yard.

  “Thank you for what you do for me,” Roofy said, pausing between bites of fruit. “It is, how you say, very much appreciated.”

  Father Philippe gave a slight chuckle at the pronunciation of the last word caused by Roofy’s native tone. “I believe you have thanked me almost every day, my friend, but it is not necessary. God has asked me to care for others and provide a house of solace. So, that is what I do – graciously.”

  “That is true,” Roofy replied. “But you have done much more than just provide a place to stay. You could have called the police and turned me in. You have not. There is little I can do to repay you for your kindness.”

  The preacher took his plate over to the sink, washed it off, and set it in the basin. “Judgement is a great responsibility, my son, and one not to be taken lightly. It isn’t my position to pass it on others. That’s what our Lord and shepherd has the power to do. Like a gardener, I look for the good in all of His people and nurture it – help it manifest and grow.”

  The father sat back down at the table, adding cream to a fresh cup of coffee and stirring it gently, the spoon making light clanking noises as it hit the sides of the mug. “It’s not you that concerns me, Roofy. You seem to be a good man that carries a warm heart with you. No, it’s not you I fear that is trouble; it’s the demon you carry inside of you.”

  The Russian stared down at his juice, unable to look the holy man in the eye. Comforting words were great, but the weight of the creature growing inside of him was taking a toll.

  “People carry all sorts of demons within themselves. We all struggle with some part of ourselves or past actions that we do not like or regret. I just have never met someone where the problem was so literal,” Father Philippe said. “It’s dangerous for you and could cause further harm, not just to you, but to others. You said there was no way you could repay my kindness, but there is. Do what is right – what is necessary.”

  “I do not understand,” Roofy stated.

  “We have talked about this demon. We have prayed to the Almighty, and we have attempted to exorcise the beast. But that has not been enough,” The preacher said, pausing to sip the hot beverage from the mug he cupped in his hands. “I am sure you do not want to see innocents hurt nor the people you care about falling into harm’s way. Could you live with yourself if you hurt those that you care for?”

  Roofy thought of Miguel, Constance, and Laura. “Niet.”

  “Perhaps you should turn yourself in,” the preacher said.

  “But, I have not done anything wrong,” Roofy replied, his feelings visibly hurt by the weight of the words and what they meant.

  “Maybe not, my son, but there is the real possibility that you may. You have said yourself that you have lost control to this demon before, correct? Being jailed may not be the justice or solution you seek, but it could at least contain the beast.” Father Philippe took another sip.

  Roofy felt desperation creep up over him. It was not enough that he had to fight Apocalypse for control of his own body, but now, he may have to accept being locked up like a criminal for the rest of his life; an animal on display in some sort of freak show. No, his immediate inclination was to not let the vermin win. His mother had raised him to be a fighter – to overcome the obstacles. He never backed down to a challenge, and he was not going to start now. Roofy dropped his enormous hands down hard on the table defiantly. “Niet! I can find some way to beat this demon. You could help me, Father. We could banish him.”

  The preacher set his mug down on the scuffed table and stood. Making his way over to a curio, he retrieved a large flask filled with clear liquid and marked with a black cross. Calmly, he strode back to where Roofy sat, opened the container, dipped in a finger, and marked the Russian’s arm with a cross. The fluid immediately evaporated into vapor. Father Philippe showed the bottle to Roofy. “Blessed by the Lord.”

  “Ow!” A mocking voice said, echoing inside the former wrestler’s head. It caught Roofy off-guard, causing him to look around instinctively to see where the word came from.

  The father walked back across the room and placed the container in the curio.

  “Better tell him we’re going to need to call in an old priest too, but not for an exorcism…for a threesome! Whoo!” the voice said again. It was Apocalypse. The sound of the words reverberating in his head made Roofy’s blood run cold, and all the wind left his sails. The realization, once again, that the demon was bubbling just under the surface of his awareness suddenly made overcoming this particular obstacle seem insurmountable.

  “Are you okay, my son?” Father Philippe asked, picking up on his guest’s abrupt change in demeanor.

  “You are correct. I will turn myself in,” Roofy answered with a heavy sigh.

  “What a pussy,” Apocalypse said.

  “Did you hear that, father?” Roofy asked, and the preacher’s look of confusion and concern gave the answer the Russian already knew. “It is his voice,” Roofy said, rubbing his hands over his face and up through his short blond hair, as if it would swipe away the problem. “I would ask that you call the police now.”

  “Certainly, my son,” the preacher answered, using the old wall mounted phone to place the call.

  His words were drowned out, though, by the heckling only Roofy could hear. Apocalypse called him various names and reminded him that being locked in a cage would not prevent his body from being taken over. “You’ve already lost. It’s only a matter of time now. You are my vessel to own,” the demon cackled in self-amusement before disappearing back into the dark depths and recesses of the ex-wrestler’s subconscious.

  “You’ve done the right thing,” Father Philippe said reassuringly, although Roofy had not even been aware the call had ended. “I will be back shortly.” With that, the father exited the room and left Roofy to his thoughts.

  He opened the back door and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out through the tattered screen door even as the November day’s cool air blew in. Most would have grabbed a jacket, but his Russian skin had tolerated many days much colder in Rybinsk; enough to build his tolerance to the cool temperatures.

  Many of the old-timers he knew when growing up relied on vodka to ‘stoke the furnace’, as they would say. That the drink ‘put fire in the veins’. Although Roofy had a fondness for the alcoholic beverage, at least preferring it to most liquors, he had never over-indulged in it, as many others did.

  Some of the women in the area had even went so far as to utilize it for a multitude of purposes, including: washing clothes, cleaning the toilet, and as a mouthwash, which they had done by adding cinnamon to it and allowing the mixture to ferment for a number of days. Most of the creative uses had come about due to a lack of money for buying the products intended for those purposes. Ironically, Roofy thought, they probably would have had the money for such things if they had not spent so much on the alcohol in the first place.
/>   The Russian took one long last drag before opening the screen door and flicking the butt out into the graveled parking area. Closing the door, he turned to find the preacher entering the room carrying a small travel bag, which, after moving aside the plate of uneaten breakfast items, he set on the table. “I have something for you,” the holy man said.

  Inside the bag and made of brilliant red trimmed in yellow, Roofy found his wrestling uniform, cleaned and folded. It had definitely seen its share of wear and tear, especially after the escapade in Las Vegas, yet Roofy felt relieved to have it back, if not a little more complete.

  At one point, when he and Kate had been preparing to marry, Roofy had suggested wearing the costume during the wedding, an idea that the overbearing woman had abruptly and sharply denied. As a matter of fact, it was just one of the many things the woman had found fault with, often calling it his baby blanket, he recalled unhappily.

  To Roofy it had meant so much more than just security, though. The garb represented all he had achieved by leaving the doldrums of the dead-end life he was born into and making it to a successful life.

  “I took it off you when you arrived here and collapsed. I was sure it probably held some meaning for you,” Father Philippe said.

  “Once again, I am in your debt,” the Russian said, tucking the clothing caringly back into the satchel.

  “I must admit,” the father began, “watching wrestling has been one of my vices over the years. My favorite was always Lucha Libre, but after my sister and I moved to America, I began to appreciate the style here. Your matches with El Angel were some of the best I could recall seeing. Being a fan, I have even used some wrestling analogies in my sermons. I don’t know how the Almighty might feel about that, but surely He would not have given you the gifts you have if He did not mean for you to use them.”

  Roofy returned the reassuring, light-hearted smile the father gave him, but it only covered his true emoitons. The father’s words left him feeling guiltier than ever for what happened between him and Miguel. Being an avid watcher, there was a good chance that Father Philippe knew of the tragic injury that ended El Angel’s in-ring career and that it had come by Roofy’s hand. Still, he decided against bringing it up or divulging the details of their last encounter and the results of it – how Miguel met his end. It felt like just another explanation and series of excuses that would seem far-fetched and would insult the memory of his one-time friend. Instead, the Russian simply indicated he would always be saddened by what happened between the two of them.