“Shall I make them stop?” asks the grinning piano man.
Andrew speaks slowly, considering every word.
“I, Andrew Ranulf Blankenship, command you by the conditions of your entry into this sphere, and by the power of the words I here intone, which bind you to my service, to release all men and women currently in your power from said power, and to restore them to the state of independent thought and action in which you discovered them upon your entry to this building.”
The piano player stops playing.
“Nicely done.”
Raises his glass to Andrew.
It’s going to leave before I can ask it if the witch is really dead.
“To you, sir. And to wormwood.”
He knocks back his absinthe.
“Ichabod, wait…”
The room blurs.
The bearded boy in the bowler hat belts out “Werewolves of London,” his friend accompanying him on the harmonica.
The entity
it’s a demon just say it
is gone.
It came on its own terms and fucked with him until it got him to make a mistake.
It inched that much closer to liberty.
It kicked his ass.
Haint never comes, does not answer subsequent texts.
When Andrew gets back to the restaurant, he finds it closed and locked.
He will sleep among the crypts in the cemetery north of the Quarter, not far from Marie Laveau. He will sleep there, unafraid of molestation; he will make himself invisible.
Failing that, he has other means of self-defense.
Very persuasive means, indeed.
It will be the next day before Andrew takes his Hand of Glory and his unanswered question back through the rabbit hole, back to Dog Neck Harbor, New York.
To you, sir.
And to wormwood.
64
Cayuga County Deputy Brant McGowan follows the red Toyota on a hunch.
Just slips behind it as it pulls out of the Fair Haven gas station, decides to try to get a look at the driver.
A child abduction in Syracuse has everybody from here to Watertown on edge. This is the second one in two weeks, but the only one they’ve got a lead on. First one was an infant snatched from its stroller, just gone and nobody knows when or how, and that was in Red Creek. Mother is the primary person of interest. This time, some creep yanked a toddler off his sister’s arm while they were walking back from the park just two blocks from home. The suspect appears in flashes on a security camera, swooping up from his parked red Toyota Prius, the action reminding Brant of a trap-door spider he saw at an insect zoo when he was a kid. Not so long ago. Deputy McGowan is a young man.
So was the perp in the video. Young, and dirty to be in that kind of car.
Deputy McGowan is off duty, coming home from Auburn in his own Saturn—not the kind of vehicle to draw attention, although he would freely admit his sunglasses look a bit coppish.
He doesn’t think the driver knows he has a tail.
He’s seen maybe three of the distinctive Toyota hybrids in red since he saw the footage, but this is the first one driven by a male. Also the first one that makes his guts crawl. He has only seen the driver from behind so far, sees that it’s a bald or short-haired man, indeterminate age. He needs to get up beside him for a proper peek, but the one-lane roads here in farm country won’t allow for that unless he goes to pass.
Might as well stick with him for a while.
As it turns out, he sticks with him all the way to Marsh Road.
When he sees the Prius slow down and signal to turn off 104A, he has to decide whether to turn with it; if he does, there will be no ambiguity. The guy will know he’s being followed. If it’s the guy, that is. Most honest citizens don’t notice shit unless they’ve got a good reason to.
He turns, too, keeping a good distance behind, almost letting him get out of sight.
Got a glimpse of him as he turned.
Older guy, big beard.
Too old to be the perp.
But maybe he’s not the only one who drives that car.
When the beardy guy turns up the dead-end road leading to the cabins, the game is definitely up; he can’t just swivel in there after him. He drives past the turn, pulls in the driveway of a house, sits there until the Toyota is out of sight.
Wasn’t there a disappearance out this way, maybe these cabins?
Yeah… German tourist or something. State police said they got some weird DNA, but no body, no suspect.
A woman peeps at him through drapes.
He pretends to be checking something on his phone, pulls out, parks a bit farther down.
Heads down the road to the cabins on foot.
Just a guy taking a stroll.
In cop glasses.
I really suck at this.
I left my gun in the car.
I’ll never be a detective.
I need a story in case he talks to me.
He sees the Prius now.
Walks closer to the trees, in shadow now, pretends to look at his phone again.
Sees the man getting out.
Kind of a smarty-arty-looking old dude.
Getting something out of the back now.
A cage?
A cage.
With a rooster in it!
Flapping its wings halfheartedly, feathers floating.
The man wrinkles his nose.
Takes the cage in the house.
What does a latte-drinking guy like that want with a rooster?
Should I go talk to him?
I’ll say I’m looking for a buddy’s cabin.
Bob?
Too generic.
Kyle.
Big guy with a red beard, having a keg party.
He’ll hate that, he’ll be so busy hating it he won’t stop to wonder if I’m a cop, if he’s not involved.
If he’s not, who cares?
Might tip him off if he’s involved.
Looks twitchy, wonder if he’s scared about something.
I’d like to know what.
If anyone else lives there, I might see who.
Movement behind him.
He turns around, but whatever it was is still or gone.
Squirrel.
No, bigger than a squirrel.
He looks back toward the house.
All still and quiet.
Don’t think anyone else lives there.
This is stupid.
He stands with his arms folded, weighing the pros and cons of approaching the house.
Something weird’s going on here, but weird isn’t illegal. I don’t think this is the guy. And if it is, I’m more likely to fuck things up than make myself useful. Still, I’ll tell Syracuse about the car and chicken-man, see if they want somebody on duty to roll by and ask questions.
He senses motion behind him now, turns around just too late again.
Birds flutter near the crowns of the trees.
His hand strays to where his gun should be.
He decides it’s official.
He’s creeped out.
Hell with this.
He walks back down the road now, feeling watched.
He walks more quickly.
Strong late-afternoon sun, not even close to dark, and he feels like a teenaged girl in a graveyard.