Madisonville Murder, Part 2

Confrontation

Need an earlier part?

The fluorescent lights above us sizzled and went out. Since there weren’t any windows in the immediate area, we were left in semi-darkness. There was light at the far end of the hall, but it was partially obscured by a shadowy figure moving gradually toward us, scraping its right hand along the lockers as it walked.

My heart pounded faster as I noticed that the hall dead-ended in the other direction, not too far from the supply closet. The closet itself was locked, but even if it hadn’t been, going in would have been a dubious tactic. A demon with enough physical presence might be able to rip the door right off its hinges, and we’d have no way to escape.

Not that we had much of an escape route, anyway. There were no doors or windows in between us and the slowly advancing figure.

It was hard to make out what it was. Its clothing looked reasonably modern. At least, it wasn’t wearing a robe. I couldn’t see much else about its physical form, except that its head was hooded, and its hand was presumably clawed to make that kind of scraping sound.

“What do you want?” I asked, trying my best to keep my voice steady. The demon—if that was what it was—continued to advance at a steady rate. If it heard me, it gave no sign.

“I should have brought my baseball bat,” muttered Gavin.

If the demon was trying to kill us, it ought have rushed us by now. Was it just trying to scare us? If so, it was doing a pretty good job, but I couldn’t afford to assume anything. It might be playing with us before it killed us.

As it continued its leisurely advance, I took out a mixture of St. John’s wort and black cohosh, sprinkling it in a line that separated us from the demon. The first ingredient was supposed to repel evil, and the second was designed to dispel negative energy. In theory, a demon shouldn’t be able to cross such a line, though a really powerful one might manage it. I had to hope this one wasn’t that powerful.

It was hard to be sure the line was unbroken in such poorly lit circumstances, but I did the best I could and then backed away. The demon continued to advance until it got very close to the line, at which point it paused. Score one for the good guys.

But my momentary elation was short lived. The creature moved again almost immediately—and stepped right over the line as if it weren’t there.

Either it was very powerful—or it wasn’t a demon at all. Acting on impulse, I splashed it with the agrimony oil. The oil might have bubbled a little, but its spicy apricot scent didn’t change to the odor of sulfur.

“Not a demon!” I said, hoping I was right. Gavin moved forward, took a good swing at the shadowy figure, and dropped it as if it had a proverbial glass jaw. The moment it hit the floor, the lights came back on.

“Anticlimactic,” said Gavin.

Needless to say, what lay on the floor was no demon. It was only a man, probably in his early twenties, wearing black jeans and a black hoodie. His face was human and unremarkable—the kind of guy you might pass on the street and not notice.

As for the scraping sound, he’d dropped one of those three-pronged hand cultivators. He had used that to create the noise.

He started moving, but before he could do much, Gavin grabbed him and pulled him up.

“What were you trying to do?” he asked.

“Scare…scare you,” mumbled the guy, sounding scared himself. His blue eyes looked unfocused, a common symptom of demonic manipulation, though not a foolproof sign.

“That didn’t work out too well,” said Gavin. “What did you have planned? It must have been a lot more than what happened.”

“Who told you to scare us?” I asked.

The guy didn’t respond to either of us. Gavin tried to intimidate him into saying more. Though he had the right tone of voice, body language, and facial expression to convince the guy that Gavin might beat him to a pulp if he didn’t respond, the guy kept his mouth shut. Either he sensed that Gavin was just bluffing, or he was more afraid of the demon who’d put him up to this.

“Well, if nothing else, he’s vandalized school property,” said Gavin. “If we turn him in for that, it’ll be a while before he messes with us again.”

I would have liked to try to get the guy to repudiate his pact. Satan had carefully cultivated the myth that such deals were binding, but people really couldn’t sell their souls. They were bound only as long as they believed they were. But this particular victim was too far out of it for me to reach him, anyway. So I picked up the cultivator, which was now evidence, and walked along behind Gavin as he hauled the squirming vandal back to the office.

---

“That got us exactly nowhere,” I said once the police had finished questioning us, and we were on our way out to the parking lot.

“It got one more nuisance off the street for a while,” Gavin replied. “That’s something.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t exactly catch him committing a felony. He’ll be out all too soon. Maybe he’ll even get off with a fine.”

“Are you sure he was under demonic influence?” asked Gavin.

“You mean, could he be a random nut case? I doubt it. You pointed out yourself how odd it was that the school was empty. And he had no way to switch those hallway lights off—they’re operated by a key, and the interface wasn’t tampered with. He had to have used magic, at least for that. My herbal line couldn’t stop him—but it wouldn’t stop a human, demonically manipulated or not. What it might have done was drain most of the energy the demon lent him to get the job done. For someone who seemed to have power, he was defeated awfully easily.”

“Well, that just leaves one question. What do we do next?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “It’s going to be tough to ask Cynthia’s family and friends about her suicide. I don’t want to tear open old wounds, particularly if we can’t be sure whether or not they know anything useful. Anyway, we have no logical reason for asking questions. They might refuse to talk to us at all.

“That means our best shot—maybe our only shot—at getting information is Cynthia herself.”

“You’re seriously proposing a seance?” he asked.

“After what you’ve seen since you first came to my rescue, are you surprised? But there are a lot of fake mediums around. We need someone with actual ability. Are any of those supernatural friends of yours mediums? Or might they be able to recommend someone?”

I wished I’d had time to meet more of Gavin’s mysterious friends, who lived in the Santa Barbara area. Carla, a powerful sorceress, had come at Gavin’s request to help me when my own soul was at risk. Who knew that other things she or someone else in that group might be able to do?

“Actually, one of them has…an affinity for the dead,” said Gavin. “Give me a minute.”

He whipped out his cellphone and started texting furiously, frowning a little as he did so.

“They’re all…out of the area at the moment,” he said finally. “But I did get a number for someone who might be able to help us. She’s an authentic medium but doesn’t advertise herself—which is probably a point in her favor, right?”

I nodded. “The really commercial ones are practically always frauds. How far away is she?’

“Right here in Madisonville. I’ll give her a call.”

He dialed as fast as he texted. “Hello, is this Ms. Gomez? I’m Gavin Johnson, a friend of Jimmie Stevens, who recommended you to me. I’ve got…Oh, he called to tell you I was on the way? Great, we’ll see you then.”

“She’s available right now,” said Gavin. “Since we both have cars here, I’ll give you the address, and we can drive to her place.”

Actually, we could have walked from the high school. She was only about two blocks away. Despite knowing she didn’t advertise, I’d half expected to see a sign in front of her house or in the window, but there was nothing like that. Her home was just like any other tract house in Madisonville—nice, relatively new, generic.

When she answered Gavin’s knock, she was nothing like I’d expected, either. I’d visualized an older woman dressed in black but with a colored head scarf, wearing exotic jewelry of various kinds, squinting at us a little as if unused to daylight—a stereotypic carnival fortune teller who would read my palm after hers had been crossed with silver.

Instead, she looked like a relatively young businesswoman. She wore a pale blue blouse, darker blue dress pants, and sensible black flats, suitable for lots of walking. Her long black hair was tied back in a bun, no doubt for practical reasons, but she wore no head scarf. She also wore no jewelry.

She was pretty enough that, if I hadn’t already been in love with someone else, she would have caught my eye. If she wore makeup, it wasn’t noticeable. Clearly, she didn’t need any.

“Alma Gomez,” she said, offering me a hand to shake. “You must be Chris Murphy.” As soon as I introduced myself and released her hand, she moved on to Gavin. “And you must be Gavin Johnson. Come in, please.”

Her home decor was minimalist—white walls, gray-upholstered furniture, a kind of modern-art-museum feel.

“Elaborate decor sometimes distracts the spirts,” she said as if she could read my mind. Maybe she just read my facial expression, but mindreading probably wasn’t impossible.

She led us through the living room into what must have been the dining room and seated us at what looked like a highly polished, mahogany dining room table. It was small enough to indicate she didn’t host large dinner parties, but just big enough for the three of us to sit around and be comfortable.

“Now, tell me about the spirit you wish to reach,” she said. I liked her right-down-to-business style.

“Her name is Cynthia Jenkins. She committed suicide about two years ago.”

Alma leaned back in her chair and looked at me curiously. “That’s a long time to wait to contact a loved one. So I have to ask—why now?”

“She’s not actually a loved one,” I said. “She was a student at my former high school, but she killed herself right after I came to the school. I never even met her.”

“You want to contact a total stranger? That can be done, but it’s much harder. So I have to ask again, why?”

The conversation confirmed that she was a serious medium. No charlatan would push back against doing a seance.

“I have reason to believe that her suicide wasn’t really a suicide. At the very least, I think Cynthia was manipulated into killing herself.”

“Manipulated by whom?” asked Alma.

The only possible answer I could give would sound insane. But I was afraid that if wasn’t completely honest with her, it might be more difficult for her to reach Cynthia.

“Satan.”

Alma’s eyes widened, and she leaned closer to me. “Are you telling me…that you want me to try to communicate with a soul enslaved by Satan? Because that would have been a good piece of information to pass on when Gavin made the appointment.”

“If it costs more—” I began.

“What do you take me for?” she asked, glaring at me. If looks could kill, I would have slumped over dead right then. “My job is software design. I use my gift as a public service, not as a way of making money.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, studying my reflection on the table top. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Alma, still clearly upset, though she waved a hand dismissively. “But the kind of seance you want requires much more preparation. I have no problem inviting spirits into my home—but I have to make sure Satan doesn’t come with them. If you’re willing to wait, though, I can still do the seance today.”

“We’ll wait,” I said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“I do still have one question before I begin,” said Alma. “For what purpose do you seek contact with Cynthia Jenkins?”

Fortunately, I’d been thinking about what I was trying to do ever since Gavin raised the question.

“I want to get her out of Satan’s clutches if I can,” I said. “I know people can’t truly sell their souls. Maybe it isn’t too late to convince her of that.”

“You’re right that people can’t sell their souls, but after two years, do you really expect that you can get through to her?” Her tone made her skepticism clear.

“Maybe not—but I have to try,” I said.

“He’s saved people from Satan before,” said Gavin. “They were still alive, but I wouldn’t put it past Chris to get through to a dead girl.”

“If nothing else, what I learn from her might enable me to help others better,” I added.

“You do this all the time?” she asked, looking at me as if I’d sprouted a second head, or at least might sprout one in the near future.

“Whenever I can,” I said.

“You’re crazy,” she replied. “But you’re my kind of crazy. Give me about half an hour.”

Alma started bustling around in the kitchen.

“I have quite a few herbs if you need anything,” I said.

“Of course you do,” she replied. “But I’m well stocked here. I’ll let you know if you run out of something, though.”

“That sounded a little snarky,” I muttered to Gavin.

He smiled. “You should know.”

“To be on the safe side, I’m going to place a ring of consecrated salt all around the house,” said Alma. “I do not want to give the devil any kind of opening.”

I wanted to offer to help, but I knew I lacked the faith to place the salt with the right kind of intent. Gavin could have done it, but he shook his head when I suggested that.

“I get the feeling this woman is a perfectionist,” he said. “She wants to make sure everything is done right, and the only way to be sure—”

“Is to do it herself,” I finished.

So we waited as Alma made her salt ring, a process punctuated by conversations with some of her neighbors, for whom she had to spin stories about how salt rings kept ants out of the house.

Eventually, Alma came back in, bustled around in the kitchen some more, and came out with a bowl of some kind of oil that smelled like cinnamon and something else I couldn’t place. Gavin could, though.

“You make your own holy oil?” he asked.

“The myrrh is a dead giveaway, right?” she asked.

“But it isn’t consecrated,” said Gavin. “Will it be as effective?”

“A sympathetic priest has blessed the cinnamon, the myrrh, and other ingredients, as well as the olive oil base. I also add a couple of drops of holy water for good measure. I’ve found it to be just as effective as ‘the real thing.’ Anyway, I’ve found fresh oil to work better than the I’ve-had-it-in-the-cupboard-for-years variety.”

Alma rubbed a little of the oil on her own forehead, then did the same for Gavin and for me.

“You should be wearing a cross,” she said to me. “I have an extra—”

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough faith for a cross to protect me very much.”

“You know Satan exists but don’t have faith in God?” she asked. “How does that work?”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

She laid a small gold cross next to me. “You know the old saying, ‘There are no atheists in foxholes.’ If Satan attacks, you may find you have enough faith. I’ll just leave it there in case.”

Her tone almost made me want to pick it up, but I resisted the impulse. Maybe later…

Alma was nothing if not thorough. She also put a salt ring around the table and started some sage burning, a way to keep negative energy from accumulating.

At some point, she’d put on a crucifix, though I hadn’t noticed until that moment.

“You smell like apricots,” she said. “I’m guessing that’s not aftershave.”

“Agrimony,” I said, glancing at my clothes. “I must have spilled a little on me.”

She looked at me with new appreciation. “Ah, so you do know herbs. Well, if you have any left, get it out. We might need it.”

I took out the bottle of essential oil and put it on the table. Alma nodded approvingly and sat down.

“Join hands,” she said. “It’s important to hold onto each other, no matter what happens. Now, this next part is going to be tricky. Since you don’t know Cynthia, I don’t suppose either of you have a personal item of hers.”

We both shook our heads, and Alma sighed. “I thought not. Well, do the best you can to focus your thoughts on her. Without a real connection, we may not have any luck, but we can try.”

Alma closed her eyes and began chanting in Latin at a level far more sophisticated than my interrupted Catholic school education had prepared me to understand. Gavin and I closed our eyes and tried to think about Cynthia as hard as we could.

I didn’t open my eyes to check the time, but we must have been going about ten minutes when I began to doubt we’d succeed. The lack of personal connection was going to be our undoing. I should have known.

But then the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. I’d never experienced this phenomenon before, but I’d heard about it. It was a sure sign of the presence of a spirit.

“Cynthia, are you with us?” asked Alma.

“Yes,” said a voice so faint I wasn’t sure whether or not I imagined it.

I also heard what I thought might be scratching, but I tried to block it out. Cynthia didn’t seem as if she would have tolerated rats or mice in her house, and I couldn’t imagine what else it could be.

“Are you able to answer questions for us?” asked Alma.

“Yes,” replied the voice, sounding even weaker than before.

“Chris, ask your questions,” said Alma. “But be quick about it. We could lose this connection at any time.”

Under such constrained circumstances, I didn’t have the time to be sensitive or diplomatic. I might have time for only one question. I knew which one it must be.

“Cynthia, did Satan have something to do with your death?”

I was so focused on her answer that I didn’t immediately hear the front door swinging open. But I did hear footsteps, and driven by instinct more than conscious thought, I opened my eyes.

I could see a slight silver glow in the air, right in front of Alma—Cynthia, no doubt. But it only took me a fraction of a second to see someone else. Right behind Alma was a stranger, his eyes unfocused, raising a carving knife.

“Alma, behind you!” I yelled, tearing my hands away from her and Gavin as I tried to distract the stranger, keep him from stabbing her before she could move out of the way.

Fortunately, she had better reflexes than I. She shoved back her chair, jamming it into the prospective assailant. Before he could complete his plunging stab, she dropped to the floor, rolled, and jumped up.

Gavin, never one for half measures, managed to raise and angle the table enough to use it as a shield, after which he lumbered awkwardly in the knife wielder’s direction. Sage scattered and fell, though it probably wasn’t burning hot enough to set the hardwood floor on fire. The agrimony bottle also hit the ground, but it didn’t break.

The attacker, now focused on Gavin instead of Alma, tried to rush around the table, but Gavin, despite the fact that table wasn’t designed to be a shield, managed to keep it between himself and the assailant.

Alma grabbed a table lamp and tried to use it like a club. I longed to join in the fight, but I couldn’t see a decent weapon. Not for the first time in my life, I felt like the odd man out.

The stranger tried to stab at the table—not the smartest move, given the thickness of the wood. Gavin took advantage of the situation to push forward, shoving him against the wall. That gave that attacker little room to move his arms and no easy way to extract the knife point from the table.

Gavin pressed his advantage, squeezing the stranger against the wall. The man cried out as the carving knife hilt pressed into him. But he wasn’t in pain for long. Alma delivered a good hit with the lamp, and he slumped, apparently unconscious. Gavin let go of the table and shook his arms, which might have suffered some strain from having to execute the awkward manipulations of the table.

“Well, that was…unexpected,” said the medium, her eyes still on the intruder.

“Just how many deranged thugs could Satan possibly have in Madisonville?” asked Gavin.

“At least two, apparently,” I said, breathing slowly in an attempt to calm down.

“The devil knows his human minions can get through protections intended to stop demons,” said Alma.

I should have remembered that, too, especially since I’d just seen someone do it. I should have been better prepared somehow.

“Both salt rings are broken,” said Alma. “The sage is out…and the connection we made in the seance wasn’t closed properly. We need to settle down and take care of that right now.”

But she was already too late. Where the silver glimmer of Cynthia had been only a short time ago, there was now an angry, blood-red glow.

Satan had decided to join the party.

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Madisonville Murder is related to the Soul Salvager trilogy. (The action falls between the prologue and chapter one of the first book.)

(All three books are on sale during the month of October.)

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