The Ballad Nocturne (The Midnight Defenders Book 3) Page 8

  At once I recognized him as the man from the diner. The wolf what appeared confident in the room of cattle. He was still dressed in his fancy, well-tailored suit, and his white hair was just as slicked back as it had been previously, not a hair out of place. Standing dead-on with him as I was this time, I was taken aback by the severity in his eyes. They were cold, haunted.

  The man just stared at me. There was a plastic quality to his pallid complexion.

  “Are you the pastor?” I asked.

  The man didn’t say anything, just slipped a hand inside his jacket and removed a business card, handing it to me. I looked at it. The card was black and shiny, very expensive, no doubt. The lettering was done in a silver calligraphic hand that read, “Victor Treiman, Collinger Industries, CEO.” The way he continued to look at me suggested he thought I should be impressed.

  Instead, I said, “Victor Tree man?”

  “It’s pronounced Tremaine.”

  “It’s not spelled Tremaine, mate. It’s spelled Tree man. You’ve got the I in the wrong place.”

  Rather than answer me with words like a normal person, he simply glowered at me, which, for reasons I didn’t understand, sent chills throughout my body. It wasn’t a normal reaction, which told me one thing for certain. This bloke wasn’t normal. Hell, he likely wasn’t even human.

  I slipped his card into my pocket and pulled out one of my own. It was infinitely simpler by comparison, white with black lettering: “Jonothan Swyftt. Private and Paranormal Investigations.” Then under that in a smaller font, “Your last line of Midnight defense.” Where his was void of any contact information, mine held my phone and fax numbers for my Seattle office.

  Aside from a quick, casual glance at it, the tree man ignored my card altogether. I shrugged it off.

  “Is St. Clair inside?” I asked.

  The tree man didn’t answer. He pushed past me down the stairs and walked around behind the church. I stood there for a half second, a little dazed from the encounter. A second later, he pulled around in a black Lamborghini, which was the type of car that stood out like a third nipple in a town like this.

  I watched the car peel off down the street about a mile before making a sharp left turn and disappearing altogether. Then I stepped inside, closing the door behind me and listening to the roar of the Lamborghini’s acceleration as it sped on.

  The church, as I could have predicted, was just a one-room deal. There were about twenty pews, ten on each side, with a walkway down the middle. About three-quarters of the way down, stood the pulpit. Behind that, a riser built to hold maybe eight choir members sat off to the side, flanked by a couple of candle stands, and at the back of the room, directly beneath a large, ornate stained-glass window was a little baptismal tank.

  Electric chandeliers hung at regular intervals along the main walkway, and wall sconces burned along each wall, but all of it was lit in vain due to the deluge of natural sunlight that spilled through the large peaked windows that marched along each side wall.

  The room was empty. And quiet. Yet, as I stood there, I became aware of a slight clicking sound. There was no rhythm to it. Just quick staccato pecks in procession before dying away. Silence for a moment before it would start up again. It occurred to me that it was someone typing. That’s when I discovered the vestibule door that was cracked at the far left side of the room.

  I peeked inside to see a man in his mid-forties sitting at a desk. While I’d expected some young, fresh-out-of-Bible-College kid so on-fire for Jesus he was going to single-handedly convert all the heathens in Louisiana, St. Clair was just a slightly overweight man that still had all his hair. He wore eye glasses and a sweater vest over a polo shirt as he typed mindlessly at his laptop.

  He looked up as I knocked, and I entered without waiting to be invited. He gave me a curious look as he said, “Can I help you?”

  My business card was still in my hand from where the tree man didn’t take it, so thinking it the customary gesture, I passed it to St. Clair. He took it, stared at the card for a second, and then looked back up at me with a look that was possibly more confused than before.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Swyftt?” he asked.

  “I was just hoping to ask you a few questions.” There were a couple of chairs sitting opposite him on my side of the desk, and I sat.

  “That Mr. Tree Man, he’s an interesting fellow. How do you know him?”

  “Who? Mr. Tremaine?”

  “Oh, you can’t read, either.”

  “He’s a member of the congregation, a deacon of this church, and a friend of mine.”

  “What was he doing here?”

  He ignored me. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Does he support the way you mistreat and ostracize the law-abiding citizens of the town?”

  “I… What in the world are you referring to?”

  “So there are multiple occasions and patrons that have suffered abuse at your hand and had it called the Love of Jesus, then?”

  He stood. “Mr. Swyftt, I don’t appreciate being spoken to in this manner. If there’s something I can do for you, I will, but otherwise, I’d like to ask you to leave.”

  “Sit down, St. Clair. I’m only here to talk.”

  “Then I’d encourage you to get to the point.”

  “Sure. Ezra King.”

  “Who?”

  I adjusted in my seat. “Really? We’re going to play it this way?”

  “Who is Ezra King?”

  “For fuck sake, Thomas, you moved to town and closed down her shop, forcing her to conduct business out of her house. I hear you also forbid her from attending church here, though why anyone would want to is beyond me. Also, I hear you’re the one responsible for all of her friends skipping town.”

  He looked nervous, but his eyes narrowed as he said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Swyftt. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  I stood suddenly and took a step toward his desk. He scooted his chair back and picked up the receiver from his desk phone. “I’ll call the cops.”

  I held up both hands in surrender and said, “Easy. I’m going.”

  I walked out to the rental car and opened up the trunk. I had to pull my suitcase almost all the way out of the trunk to open it. Inside, were a few shirts, a second pair of jeans, a jacket, and a hard-sided case. I unlocked it, opened it, and pulled out one of my FN-57s. Nadia said she wouldn’t mail them, so I looked it up. Turned out, you could travel with firearms, so long as you followed their guidelines. It just meant I was heavily restricted on the amount of ammo I could bring along.

  I loaded the magazine quickly and marched back into the church. St. Clair had shut and locked his office door, but the door was old and splintered under the heel of a well-placed kick. The pastor screamed and leapt out of his chair, throwing himself back against the wall of his office.

  The gun was in my hand as I grabbed him by the shirt collar and shoved him against the wall so hard it dented the drywall. He was crying by the time I put the cold steel of the barrel at the corner of his jaw.

  “Last chance, St. Clair. I’m jet-lagged and not in the right mood for this shit. Ezra King.”

  “Yes,” he whimpered. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes, just kept staring off to the right.

  “You know her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  He was crying. Hard to talk, hard to understand him. I was coming on too strong.

  “I’m going to let you go, but I still have this gun. I just want to talk. Do you understand me?”

  He mumbled something.

  “I don’t understand gibberish, mate. Nod if you fucking understand.”

  He nodded.

  I let him go and moved to the telephone, unplugging it from the wall, just in case he got any bright ideas. Then I stood against the wall, beside a small filing cabinet, staying on the same side of the desk as him. St. Clair stood there for a moment, dumbly,
whimpering and feeling his chest to make sure I hadn’t added any holes to it.

  “Sit,” I said, calmer than before but still firm.

  He did. He sat there for a minute, staring at the floor, then he said, “I’m sorry about before, Mr. Swyftt. I truly am. I should have been more forthcoming with you. I apologize for that.”

  “I’m not interested in your apologies. Save those for Ezra.”

  He took a deep breath and said, “I’m sure you’ve spoken with her. You’ve heard her side of the story. Of course, she wouldn’t tell you everything.”

  “What does that fucking mean?”

  “Ezra King is wicked,” St. Clair said. “She’s a temptress knight and in league with a demon from the inner circle of Hell.”

  “Demon?” I said, not caring if he caught the skepticism in my voice. “Or Fallen angel?”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “I know what you teach in Sunday School, but trust me that it isn’t.”

  He stared at me. There was fear in his eyes. And anger.

  “How do you know her?” he asked.

  “I don’t. Not really. She’s the ex-wife of an old friend. I’m here on his behalf, not hers.” I lifted the gun and said, “Can I put this away now? Will you behave?”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry again for earlier. That woman scares me. I thought she sent you.”

  “Just tell me what happened, okay.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I came to this town a few months ago. The previous pastor had suffered an attack…a stroke, a heart attack. Some medical condition. He died. It was very sad. I officiated the funeral and then I stuck around to take over the church, as the people found themselves without a shepherd.”

  “I’m not here for the Oprah life story, pastor. Tell me about Ezra…”

  “She had a group of women. They were all like her: young and pretty. They were always together. She called it her Bible study. They met in the back room of a shop she had downtown. I…I’m not sure how to put this… I felt something about her.”

  “It’s called a boner.”

  He wrinkled his brow in disgust as he considered me a moment. “No. Nothing like that. There was a spirit there. I felt it when she was nearby. Eventually, I discovered that her ‘Bible study’ was really a coven.”

  “Of witches?”

  He nodded, but before he said anything else, he paused, cocked his head to the side, and studied me for a second. It was unsettling.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You didn’t even blink when I suggested a coven. Most rational people would have laughed me off. Most of the congregation did. I was discredited by many just for suggesting what she really was.”

  “You saw my business card, mate. You really think that’s gonna spook me?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “So you learned she was a witch and decided to do something about it? Swoop in and save the day?”

  “I was the new pastor. People were looking to me for guidance. The new sheriff doesn’t turn a blind eye to the gang of bank robbers.”

  “A wild west metaphor?”

  “Have you read the Bible, Mr. Swyftt?”

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “It is for you to understand my side of the story. As a pastor, I’m charged with the spiritual health of my congregation, just like a doctor is charged with the physical health of his patients. Sometimes, you need to quarantine.”

  “Like a leper colony?”

  “Essentially. Her lifestyle is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Exodus 22:18, ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’”

  “You hurt her livelihood. You persecuted her.”

  “She told you those things?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she tell you about her attacks? Vandalisms. The church was set on fire.”

  “She said you framed her for the attacks. To discredit her.”

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, nodding. “Did she tell you about the golem?”

  “What golem?”

  “She created a golem. A monster made of clay and earth. Another abomination. The golem attacked the church at her command.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because it attacked me, too.” He opened his eyes and stared straight at me. They were puffy, swollen, and ringed with red. “I can tell that you’re not a bad person, Mr. Swyftt. But if you lie down with dogs…”

  I felt an itch behind my ear and reached for it, but stopped myself.

  “I didn’t come here to start a war,” he continued. “I’m ashamed it’s gotten to the level it has. When I learned of her practices, I invited her to my office. We talked. She wasn’t accommodating. Aggressive, would be a more fitting term. When that didn’t work, I asked Mr. Tremaine and some of the other deacons to accompany me to her. Again, she was hostile towards us. Then, we asked her and her followers to leave the church.”

  I thought of Ezra, the sweet façade she portrayed in her house – probably still was portraying to Nadia. “You turned the whole town against her.”

  “That was a by-product, I’m afraid. I was just trying to raise awareness. The people in this town can be very superstitious.”

  “You said they didn’t believe you.”

  “At first. They were skeptical. But once you pull that word out of your hat, in a town like this, where voodoo and superstition wear beads and parade through the streets… Whether they believed it or not, people began to talk. They fear what they don’t understand.” Then he added, “Too bad that Ezra doesn’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The golem is just one indication of the power that she’s controlling. Or rather, thinks she’s controlling. I told you, she’s in league with a demon. She may not be aware of everything that she’s doing, but when you wield dark powers, you can’t always control the outcome. The spirits she summons will wander on their own.”

  “You know I’m going to have to verify a lot of this, right?”

  “Please do.”

  “I saw the church window. What else was vandalized?”

  “My house. The factory. Some buildings downtown. You can look around and see the damage. Her evil sigils have appeared in graffiti all around town.”

  “Can you make me a list of places? It would help me talk to her if I can be specific.”

  He nodded.

  My business card was left sitting on the desk, and I took a pen and wrote my cell number on the bottom. “Call me if you think of anything else, okay?”

  His eyes found mine and held my gaze for a minute. “You’re a good man, Mr. Swyftt. I can see that. Do be careful. I don’t have a good feeling about any of this.”

  10

  As I left the church and crossed the lot to my rental car, I studied the boarded window. It looked like a plain act of vandalism, not one induced by golems or demons. Slipping my glove off, I approached the brick wall and felt the thrum of energy beneath my palm as I reached out. When I touched it, I saw only one image, a shadow. It was tall and inhuman, slender. There came with it a very moist scent, very swampy. While it felt ancient, it didn’t give off the air of evil. It was hostile, not malevolent.

  I put my glove back on and called DeNobb. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hey,” he said. “You on your way back?”

  “Maybe. There’s a few things I’d like to check out. On account that Ezra’s story doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t what…? Oh, check out. Got it. Sorry.”

  “How’s Nadia?”

  “Fine, I guess. Ezra’s showing her some of her dad’s shit. Photos and stuff. What did you find out?”

  “Nothing solid yet,” I said. “But if you get a chance to do some spying, do it. That bitch is hiding something.”

  “Okay.” The line went silent for a minute as I fumbled in my pocket for the keys. As I neared the car, DeNobb said, “Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?”

&nb
sp; I was at the car, about to open the door, when I happened to look up. Across the street, coming out of a bakery and walking down the sidewalk was a tall black man in a top hat and long coat. My first thought was that it was too fucking hot for a coat like that, what looked halfway between a tattered old businessman’s trench coat and something a pirate captain would wear. It didn’t matter that the man wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. I was sweating my bollocks off in a ruddy tee. Yet this man, whose skin was dark as molasses, seemed completely unbothered by the heat.

  My second thought was that I knew the wanker. Well, not in the traditional sense of knowing someone, and certainly not in the fucking Biblical sense. I recognized him was all. Long ago, I’d seen him with Huxley. Maybe I’d even been introduced, but I couldn’t remember his name for the life of me. I couldn’t even remember exactly where we were or how long ago it was.

  The not knowing made me uneasy. Maybe I was paranoid from the past two days, but I suddenly found myself very suspicious. What would he be doing around here? I’d never come to Louisiana with Huxley. I didn’t suspect he lived around here. I had a nagging suspicion that it couldn’t just be coincidence he’d show up at the same time as the recent troubles.

  “Swyftt?” DeNobb said. “Are you still there?”

  The mystery man turned the corner and began walking away from me.

  “Huh? I gotta go. Find out what you can.”

  I hung up the phone and crossed the street, walking at a brisk pace. As I came around the corner, he ducked into an alley between a couple of old, brick buildings. The street was empty, which seemed a little odd, but it didn’t matter. I hurried past the empty store front windows, barely registering the For Lease sign taped there, and ducked into the alley.

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting or what I would find, but there was nothing there. Apart from a little green dumpster and a few bits of trash, the alley was empty.

  I stood there for a minute, trying to figure out how I lost him. There was a door on either side of the alley, right beside the dumpster, but neither had a handle or any way to open it from this side. There was no fire escape, nowhere discernible for him to disappear to. There was just one long alley that emptied out onto the next street.