Patrolman Isaac Deeks wandered over to the fax machine. FBI wanted flyers. He gathered them up and wandered back to the counter, sighing.
3 pm. Sheriff Biggins would still be humping Nolene at the Cathouse. It was a Wednesday. The cells were all empty and would remain so until Friday and Saturday night. Nothing much happened in Grunton, CA.
Deeks was studying the fliers. It wasn’t April Fools and it wasn’t Halloween. The faces depicted on the fax sheets were hardly inconspicuous. Was this some kind of FBI test? He kept looking at the Most Wanted sheet.
The door to the Police Station opened. Footsteps clicked across the floor , to the counter. Deeks registered the pointed toecaps of a pair of black cowboy boots.
‘Can I help you, S…’
The policeman’s gaze had travelled up the visitor’s body. When it reached the face, the eyes darted back to the flyer. Then to the face. Flyer. Face.
Deeks stepped back slowly, mouth working silently.
The visitor removed his top hat, and placed it carefully on the counter.
‘Good afternoon, Officer,’ he said to Deeks. ’My name is Doctor Dementer. I believe that the Federal Bureau Of Investigation are looking for me. I’ve come to give myself up.’
Deeks’ mind raced.
‘Sure thing, Mister. Step this way.’
He walked out from behind the counter grabbing a large bunch of keys, and led the way out back to the cells. He opened the door of the nearest cell, and waved the visitor inside.
‘If you please, Mister. Just a precaution. Until we can check your story out.’
‘Of course. I understand perfectly. You’re actions are a credit to the force, Officer.’
Dementer meekly entered the cell, and sat down on the small wooden bench. He leaned back against the whitewashed wall and closed his eyes.
Deeks shut the door, and locked it. He walked back to the counter and checked the fax. Sure looked like him. Shit. What now? Disturb Biggins or call the FBI himself? Deeks found he was sweating.
‘********************
Waylon Biggins was Casanova, John Holmes, Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson. He was giving Nolene the fuck of her life.
Nolene studied the ceiling and hoped the fat, sweaty bastard would get a frigging move on so she could get on with her accounts.
The ’phone rang. Nolene languidly reached and picked it up.
‘Grunton Cathouse. Our Pleasure Is Your Service.’ She sighed. ’Waylon, honey, it’s for you.’
‘Huh? Who the..?’
‘Isaac. Says it’s important. FBI Business.’
‘Shit.’ Biggins had lost his impetus and erection. ’Deeks? This had better be good.’
‘*************************************
Special Agent Johnson walked into meeting room G1 on the first floor of the Arizona FBI Office. Ranged around the table were Special Agents Ronson, Jones, Lorelei, Smith, Robinson and Jablonski.
Johnson nodded to them.
‘Agents. Just to fill you in. The mission in our home state has been considered a success. Aside from the recovery of 36 offenders with only the loss of 37 peace officers, the discovery of between 150 and 200 currently unidentified bodies within the Ghost Train and Tunnel Of Love edifices has given us carte blanche in the apprehension, or termination, of Dementer and his remaining accomplices. We should also go a long way to clearing up the State missing persons backlog once identification of the deceased has been accomplished.
In front of you are the photo fits of Dementer and accomplices. These were wired to all field offices three days ago, and have subsequently been released to the media. If the current adverse publicity being directed at the Bureau as a result of the appearance of these fugitives is continued, we will give out details of the mass murders perpetrated by these offenders.’
Ronson coughed.
‘Any truth in the rumour that the Wiz is on the case?’
Johnson grinned.
‘He is. We should have his thoughts any moment.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Enter.’
A rotund, grey-haired man wearing half-moon glasses and clutching a sheaf of papers bustled in to the room.
‘Lady and gentlemen, Mr Michael O’Shea aka The Wiz.’
‘Thanks, Special Agent Johnson.’
Michael O’Shea was a legendary figure within the FBI. He’d joined when Hoover was in charge, and swiftly became the Bureau’s foremost Data Collator. He had a sixth sense when sifting information, as to what was useful and what wasn’t. Even though most of the collation was performed by computers nowadays, retired O’Shea was kept on a retainer and liked to be called in on what he called ’the weird ones.’ Originally dubbed ‘the Wizard’, the faster pace of life had led to The Wiz.
Johnson and Ronson hummed ‘Git On Down, Git On Down The Road’ in tribute.
O’Shea raised a hand for silence.
‘Thank you gentlemen. And lady. As you are no doubt aware, I’ve been blastin’ through the muleshit for the last couple of days. Since the good Doctor’s visage has been transmitted into America’s homes, the devil has been popping up everywhere, from Alaska to Texas. His favourite pastime it would seem, is to peer into old ladies’ bedrooms, or even gain entry to their bathrooms. Needless to say, he’s long gone by the time an officer of the law arrives. Incidentally, he’s also been spotted surfing with Elvis in Hawaii, and riding the Runaway Train at all three Disney parks with Mr Presley. Some what disrespectfully, he’s been urinating outside Graceland, he’s taken the White House tour, and, most ambitiously of all, he’s converting the image of Abe Lincoln on Mount Rushmore to that of his own.’
O’Shea took most of his sheaf of papers and dumped them into the trash bin.
‘None of his cohorts, despite their…unusual…appearance have been seen. So, what does that leave us?’
O’Shea glanced around the table. He had everyone’s undivided attention.
‘I’ve come up with three items of interest. Although one is probably only of interest to me, I’ll share it with you. It’s an uncanny coincidence, but of periphal importance to this case.’
O’Shea smiled, then picked up a piece of paper and became serious.
‘Item One. Three days ago, Patrolman Isaac Deeks of Grunton, California reported that a person answering Dementer’s description had voluntarily given himself up. He is currently in custody in Grunton Jail. It’s tempting to think that this is just some whacko in a Halloween costume crying for attention, but this guy walked in ten minutes after Deeks had received our flyers, long before any media publicity. Deeks is sending us a picture. Says the guy’s just been sat in his cell. Not eating, not drinking, not even going to the bathroom.
Item Two. When our information reached the Sunshine State, our Florida office was besieged by calls from one P T Jiption, saying that he told us about this guy, and I quote ’Doctor Demented’ ten years ago, and would subsequently be suing the FBI for ten million dollars. A million bucks for each year we’d ignored him. Oh, and he wanted to sue ’Demented’ for ten million bucks, too.
Mr Jiption owned one of the last travelling carnival ’freak-shows’ in the US, before most states closed them down, or the PC brigade educated the ’unusual people’ as to their rights as physically challenged.
Jiption claims Demented, as he calls him, turned up one night ten years ago, waving a pistol and yelling that he was ’Spartacus, come to free the Oddities.’ The sideshow attractions at Jiptions carny fell for this Doctor’s spiel and turned on Jiption and his roustabouts. Beat ’em up pretty bad. Apparently Jiption’s in a wheelchair. Then the Doc and these Oddities took off into the night.
Item Three.Irrelevant, but I like it. All our nationwide alerts also go to Interpol. There’s a guy who does what I do over in England. Sid Fabian. Works for Scotland Yard. They’re looking into some strange cult murders at present, with the help of a Professor of the Occult. This Prof was with Sid when the fax arrived. Saw the picture and the name Dementer and flipped. Disappeared for a while, then came back and told Sid a tale.
16th September 1620. The Pilgrim Fathers are setting sail from England to help establish this great country of ours. As The Mayflower slips away from the dock in Plymouth, a Pilgrim Father who got up late comes charging down the pier, clutching his stovepipe hat, frock coat flapping. He leaps from the dockside, and manages to grab one of the lines being hauled up onto the ship.
Whoever this guy was he causes no trouble on the voyage, isn’t on the manifest, and disappears when the Mayflower reaches Cape Cod.
Back in England there’s a most unholy row. There are claims that the stowaway was none other than Doctor Devereux Delacroix Dementer, wanted for practition of Black Sorcery, surrounding himself with people of unusual shape, and crymes against the soul.
The Prof even dug up a woodcut that’s supposed to be this Doc. Faxed it across.’
O’Shea laid a piece of paper on the table next to the photo fit of Doctor Dementer. The agents leaned forward.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ barked Johnson.
An embarrassed looking young man poked his head round the door.
‘’Scuse me, Sir. Fax from Grunton. Picture of the guy incarcerated there.’
The paper was handed to Johnson, who laid it on the table next to the photo fit and the woodcut.
‘Well, well, well,’ said O'Shea. 'What do you get for three in a row?'
*************************************************************************************
Johnson and O’Shea walked into Grunton Police Station. Deeks and Biggins were waiting for them behind the counter.
‘What have we here?’
O’Shea reached out for the top hat sitting on top of the desk.
‘DON’T TOUCH IT!’ shouted Deeks and Biggins in unison, holding out their hands in warning. O’Shea studied the bandaged extremities.
‘It’s a trap!’
‘It’s full of electricity!’
‘It shocks you!’
‘It hurts!’
‘It burns!’
Gabbled the policemen.
O’Shea plucked a pencil from a God Bless America mug and gingerly tapped the hat with it. Nothing happened. He stared at the officers.
Johnson sighed in exasperation.
‘Give me that.’
A blue-white flash illuminated the area, followed by a sharp CRACK! Johnson was hurled across the room, to hit the opposite wall. He groaned and held up his hand. It was seared red and smoking.
Deeks grabbed a fire bucket, filled it with cold water and plunged Johnson’s hand in. Biggins handed the younger officer a first aid kit and said to O’Shea, ‘We warned him.’
O’Shea looked at the hat. It sat smugly on the counter, a wisp of smoke curling from the brim, a smell of ozone permeating the air around it.
‘Where’s Dementer?’ he asked the Sheriff.
‘This way,’ replied Biggins, reluctantly.
‘*******************
Special Agent Ronson looked out of the car window at the Greenfields Rest Home. It reminded him of an old plantation house. Spanish moss was growing on the walls. The Everglades were evidently trying to reclaim it.
Ronson left the car and lightly ran up the steps. He entered the building. A small desk sat at the bottom of a huge staircase. A middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform sat behind the desk. She looked up angrily at Ronson’s entry, then beamed him a smile.
‘Hell-o, Handsome! What brings you to this Happy House?’
Ronson flashed his ID card.
‘Special Agent Ronson. FBI. Can I speak to Mizz Mildred Etheridge , please? She is aware of my visit.’
‘You got it, Handsome. I’ll let her know you’re here. Coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
The Nurse buzzed through on an intercom, then led Ronson up the stairs. There was a low rumble of thunder outside. As they gained the landing, the first door on the left opened, and a sour-looking woman with a page-boy haircut and a pin-stripe jacket/skirt suit on, looked out.
‘Agent Ronson? In here please?’
Ronson followed her into a large room. Mizz Etheridge stationed herself behind an equally large desk, and indicated a leather armchair.
As Ronson seated himself, Etheridge plunged straight in.
‘You’re here to see Mr. Jiption? And you want to talk to him about his past involvement in Carnivals and Sideshows?’ she said with some distaste.
‘Indeed.’
‘Agent Ronson, Mr Jiption is in a very parlous state. We have spent a decade trying to give him some form of normal existence, and your organization has more or less undone all that work in a matter of days..’
‘Mizz Etheridge..’
‘Call me Millie, please.’ An unexpected smile.
‘Millie..’
The Nurse entered with a tray of cups and a coffee pot. After a sip of coffee. Ronson returned to the fray.
‘Millie, I do apologise for any distress this visit may cause yourself, your staff or Mr Jiption, but it appears that we are investigating the worst case of serial killing in American history. Anything I can glean from Mr Jiption may help us apprehend the perpetrators, and , I’m sure you’ll agree, a speedy resolution to this matter is best for everybody.’
Millie Etheridge sighed. ‘He’s downstairs on the verandah. I’ll take you to him. Please, be careful.’
‘***************
O’Shea glanced into the cell. Dementer was sat on a wooden bench, back to the wall, eyes closed, hands on his lap.
‘He’s been like that for days,’ hissed Biggins. ‘Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s even breathing.’
‘Let me into the cell, please, Sheriff,’ requested O’Shea.
Biggins stared at him.
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. I’ll take responsibility.’
‘Well, OK,’ grumbled Biggins. ‘I’ll stay here. Any funny business…’
‘I suggest you keep your gun in its holster, Sheriff. It shouldn’t come to that.’
Biggins unlocked the cell door, and O’Shea stepped in.
Biggins closed the door.
‘Lock it,’ advised O’Shea.
‘Hey, you can’t…’
‘Lock it, Sheriff.’
‘Your funeral,’ muttered Biggins, locking the door.
O’Shea leaned against the opposite wall to the bench and prepared to study Dementer.
The Doctor’s eyes sprang open.
‘Mike! Good to see you! If the Wizard has been called in, I know the Bureau is taking this seriously!’
‘I’m known as The Wiz these days, Doctor,’ replied O’Shea, trying to keep surprise out of his voice.
Dementer grinned and hummed ‘Git On Down, Git On Down The Road.’
O’Shea felt a trickle of sweat on his neck.
‘You’ve come on since Dallas in ’63,’ smiled Dementer. He reached behind him, and proffered a furled umbrella to O’Shea. ‘You missed this in all the excitement.’
‘Put that down!’ bellowed Biggins, his pistol aimed through the bars. ‘Don’t touch it! It could be a booby trap like that fuckin’ hat.’
‘I’m fine Sheriff,’ said O’Shea, trying to maintain a façade of calm. ‘Please put the gun away.’
Deeks and a partly-recovered Johnson were watching from the counter.
‘What they on about?’ asked Deeks.’ He didn’t have that umbrella with him when he came in.’
‘The Wiz was part of the Dallas investigation, you know, the Kennedy Assassination,’ breathed Johnson. ‘It was a hot day but several witnesses saw some guy open an umbrella as the motorcade was passing. Mike was put on that. It was one of his first assignments. They were looking for a white-haired guy.’ Johnson sounded almost in awe.
‘How was your trip on The Mayflower, Doctor?’ asked O’Shea.
Dementer roared with laughter. ‘Long and boring, Wiz, long and boring. All those sermons. Was never one for that stuff.’
‘How about P T Jiption then?’ supplied O’Shea, changing tack. ‘He remembers you. We’ve got a guy seeing him right about now.’
Dementer smiled a cracked smile at the collator.
‘Don’t I know it?’ he sneered.
‘*************
Millie Etheridge walked out onto the verandah at the rear of the Rest Home. Darkness was beginning to fall, and the storm was still rumbling toward them. Lightning flashed and illuminated a hunched figure in a wheelchair, staring out at the water backing on to the house.
‘Mr. Jiption?’ Millie whispered. ‘There’s someone to see you.’ She nodded at Ronson and withdrew.
Ronson held his badge under Jiption’s nose. Watery bloodshot eyes stared at the Agent.
‘About fuckin’ time.’
Ronson sat in a wicker chair next to the invalid. Despite the humidity, Jiption’s lower half was wrapped in a tartan blanket. He was bald, and wore huge shades, which covered most of his face. Ronson could still make out a faint net work of scars decorating his cheeks.
‘Look out there. What do you see, son?’
Ronson looked out. The water was covered with a white mist. Just visible in the mist were pairs of small yellow lights. Lots of them.
‘ ‘Gators,’ said Jiption. He turned to Ronson. ‘They’re waitin’ for me. Demented sends ‘em. To warn me. Now, you’re here, my time’s up.’
A weird roar came from the water. Ronson stared. An alligator’s broad head had risen above the mist, it’s jaws open. Then another. Another. Hordes of alligators were appearing from the mist, the noise deafening. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, adding to the cacophony. A teeming downpour began.
‘My God!’
Ronson turned to see Millie Etheridge and the nurse staring in shock at the alligator choir. A space had been left in the middle of the mist. A snout, twice the size of the others, rose majestically from the white fog. Alligators singing between the monster snout and the verandah parted like a reptilian red sea, and the giant ‘gator began to cruise toward Jiption.
The two women were struggling to move the invalid. Jiption had locked his wheels and was holding fast.
‘You can’t change fate,’ he screamed.
The women shrieked and retreated as the huge alligator hurled itself through the light balustrade between water and verandah. The wheelchair overturned and Jiption sprawled in front of the reptile.
Ronson drew his revolver and fired. The bullet bounced of the ‘gator’s inch-thick hide. The gigantic maw opened. The beast hissed and roared. Ronson fired again, to no avail. Jiption’s lower half was seized by the mighty jaws. The alligator twisted its head and ripped Jiption’s legs off. They, and the blanket, flew over the balustrade. The nearest ‘gators stopped singing long enough to fight over the scraps.
Ronson watched mesmerised as the reptile turned back to Jiption. A skeletal hand clawed at his trouser leg. The half-man was still alive!
‘Don’t let it get me,’ begged the upside-down face.
Ronson pointed his pistol at Jiption’s head and fired. The rain stopped. The alligators in the water stopped singing, and disappeared into the mist. The monster ‘gator nudged Jiption’s upper half, then raised its head to face Ronson. It opened its jaws, roared, then flung itself from the verandah into the water.
Ronson was shaking. The women were crying. He looked down at Jiption’s shattered skull. You’re sent all this way to interview a witness and then you kill him? he thought. Thank God Etheridge and the nurse had seen this.
Ronson holstered his gun, and turned to help the women.
********************************************************************************************************
The heat in Grunton Jailhouse was becoming oppressive. Sheriff Biggins sweated as he watched the war of nerves in the cell.
O’Shea had taken a break, and then returned to the cell with a chair. He and Dementer had discussed all manner of things, O’Shea relentlessly circling, trying to find a chink in the Doctor’s armour. Dementer sly, verbose, garrulous, then clamming up.
O’Shea was beginning to look tired, Dementer still seemed as fresh as a daisy. How could he with three days of starvation? He didn’t even smell rank.
Biggins was distracted by the return of Deeks and Johnson from the hospital.
‘Any news?’ asked the FBI Special Agent, nervously tugging at his new bandage.
‘Nope,’ said the Sheriff. ‘ The Wiz is getting’ no place. That freaky Doc just sits there, smilin’.’
‘We’ll have to take him to Washington,’ said Johnson. ‘Get the head guys onto him at HQ. Never known Wiz so subdued.’
O’Shea mopped his brow with his handkerchief.
‘What of your associates, Doctor? The ones you fled Peaceville with?’
‘The ones your licensed murderers ain’t killed yet? Wouldn’t you like to know?’
Music floated in through the high barred window from a car radio. Buddy Holly. Something about his love being bigger than a Cadillac.
Dementer’s hand began tapping to the beat on the bench.
Mesmerised by the heat, the humidity, the frustration, Biggins, Deeks, Johnson and O’Shea stared helplessly as the Doc slowly began to disappear.
‘He’s getting’ away,’ wailed Biggins drawing his revolver, but realising that there was almost nothing left to shoot at.
In fact, all that was left was a grin of large, white gravestone teeth between two thin, white lips, two eyeballs which revolved in time to the music, and the Doc’s two hands, one still pounding out the beat, the other waving a fond farewell.
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said the teeth. The eyes closed and vanished. The waving hand flipped the officers of the law the finger, then was gone. The beating hand stopped and went. A large red forked tongue protruded between the teeth, blew O’Shea a raspberry and then the floating mouth parts skedaddled.
O’Shea stared at the blank wall. Biggins opened the door and walked in, still staring at the space recently occupied by the Doctor.
‘Christ, Mike,’ wheezed Johnson. ‘We’re in a shitload of trouble.’
‘******
The Doctor had slowly materialised in the Thunderbird waiting outside the cell window.
‘You took your time, Doc’ said the driver. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never appear.’
The Doctor stared, partly aghast, partly amused, at what looked like a flexible mobile mannequin sitting in the driver’s seat.
‘Leopold? What in hell happened to you?’
The Thunderbird moved away from the sidewalk.
‘We bin to see that plastic surgeon, Merriwether. He’s just about removed all of Wade’s scales. Left him a bit raw, but when he’s recovered, they got these aerosols, full of SpraySkin. Told us to cover ol’ Wade in it when his ornery skin has healed. Well, while Hester was waitin’ for her liposuction, she done shaved her beard off. So I decided to rid myself of my fuzz. My skin is kinda mottled underneath. You know, like a hound’s belly? So I covered myself in SpraySkin, to cover up the all-over five o’clock shadow, and to reassure pore ol’ Wade that it’ll be OK. How do I look?’
Dementer guffawed.
‘Like the Pink Panther. On acid.’
Leopold sniffed.
‘It ain’t that bad. When Merriwether’s separated the twins, he sez he’ll dock my tail. How ‘bout that, Doc? I’ll be near as dammit a real person.’
Doctor Dementer remained silent. He didn’t like this at all. He’d wanted the surviving Oddities to visit Merriwether to assist in covering up their obvious differences. Not to get complete makeovers, or to try to be what they weren’t. The words Are We Not Men? popped into his head. Two legs good, everything else bad. Creatures walking amongst us.
He glanced at Leopold. The SpraySkin was already cracking around the eyes and mouth. Dementer smiled, more at ease. It wouldn’t be long before the Lion-Man burst out of his artificial shell in all his former glory.
Hester would soon be a relatively normal looking woman. That wouldn’t be a bad thing. He could live with that. The twins and Wade were another matter. His smile grew broader. And Dick and Claude would never change.
‘******
‘I’ve never, never seen anything like that.’ Michael O’Shea was still in a daze. He and Johnson were riding back to Arizona.
‘That Dementer’s something all right. Mike, what are we gonna do?’
‘We’ll have to call on the Bureau Occult Division, Johnson. Special Agent Lorelei is one of ‘em, ain’t she?’
‘That’s why she was at the meeting, Mike. Do you think they can help?’
‘If they can’t, no-one can. This is worse than I thought. This ain’t no penny-ante serial killer. This guy is…’
‘Is what?’
‘I don’t know,’ finished O’Shea, defeatedly.
*****************************************************************************************
Wilford Merriwether walked out of the back door of his surgery carrying a paper bag. He lifted the lid of his trash can, and jumped back with a shout. Like a malevolent jack-in-the-box, Doctor Dementer leaped out.
‘Merriwether, you traitorous dog! What’s in the bag?’
‘Jeez, Doc, but you give me a scare. Didn’t expect you back so soon…’
Dementer growled ’Obviously’ and seized the bag. Merriwether held on, and the paper ripped. Wade’s scales tumbled to the ground.
Dementer glared at the plastic surgeon.
‘Now, hold on, Doc…’
‘Put ’em back.’
‘What? Do you know how..’
‘I don’t and I don’t care. Put ’em back.’
‘I can’t! It’s…’
‘Doc!’
Klin (or was it Klang?) emerged from the back door. He held out his arms toward Dementer and staggered woozily across the yard.
Dementer caught him as he fell.
‘What have you done, Wilford?’
‘They asked me to! They said you wanted ‘em to ..to…blend into society! I thought you guys were on the lam. You wouldn’t last five minutes the way they were.'
Dementer hefted the single twin in his arms.
‘Pick the scales up and come inside. We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘*************************
O’Shea and Johnson made a few telephone calls. They flew from Phoenix down to Baton Rouge, and then had a car and driver take them across Louisiana toward Sulphur. Before they arrived in the small town, the car turned off down a dirt track. Part way through a small forest, they found themselves approaching a Renaissance castle.
‘What the heck?’ began Special Agent Johnson.
‘The Bureau Occult Division,’ exclaimed O’Shea.
The limousine swept up to the drawbridge. Special Agent Lorelei was waiting.
At the meeting, her black streaked with white hair had been loose, cascading across her shoulders. Here it was drawn back in a kind of beehive, transforming her into a cross between the Bride of Frankenstein and Amy Winehouse. She was wearing a smart black suit jacket with a matching skirt so small O’Shea wondered if she were wearing one at all. Black stockings and black boots completed the ensemble.
Johnson and O’Shea alighted from their car, which moved off immediately.
‘This way, Gennelmen,; said the female Agent, haughtily.
‘What’s this doing out here, Laurie?’ asked Johnson.
‘It’s the B O D headquarters, Johnson,’ she sneered. ‘Based on Himmler’s Wewelsburg. You know, the Nazi.’
Johnson and O’Shea looked at one another. Failing to come up with any other Himmlers, they shrugged and followed the girl under the portcullis and into the castle.
‘How does the Bureau justify all this?’ wondered O’Shea aloud, as they transversed the green marbled hall with inlaid golden sun wheel.
‘We deal with all kindsa nutjobs, weirdos, loons, devil-worshippers, freak-outs, Right-Wing assholes, Commie fruit loops and general fuckwits that claim to be into ’the Occult’ (she mimed inverted commas) . If we bring ’em out here, they’re convinced we’re serious and often spill. Or agree to work with us.’
A long-haired bearded benevolent looking young man in a kaftan wandered past. He flashed a two fingered peace sign at the Agents. Lorlei returned it.
‘You let these creeps wander around?’ marvelled Johnson.
‘Oh, that’s Special Agent Carpenter, our regional director,’ said the female Agent. ’We call him J Edgar Groover. In here, guys.’
She opened an arched wooden door, and waved her two companions through.
‘*********
The Oddities hung their heads in shame. Wilford Merriwether wondered how long he had left to live.
Doctor Dementer, arms folded across his chest, foot tapping in the embarrassed silence, shook his head.
‘I can’t leave you for five minutes, can I? What did you think you were doing? What did you hope to achieve? After all we’ve been through together. After all I’ve taught you. What were you gonna do in your brave new world? Pick on some weird lookin’ guys? Laugh at ‘em? Spit on ‘em? Beat’em up? Just like Real people did to you?’
‘We didn’t mean nothing’, Doc,’ said Leopold. ‘We just wanted to lay low. Blend in. Take the heat off.’
‘What then? What if you liked being ‘normal’? Your buddies died back in Peaceville, and you’re trying to turn yourselves into the people who did it. Well, I got news for you.’
Dementer walked toward the twins, who cowered together in an imitation of their previous combined shape. He ran his hands over them. They tried to move independently, but couldn‘t . They were conjoined again. They looked gratefully at The Doc. He smiled, and walked over to the couch.
Wade, trussed up in bandages like an economy size mummy, said, ‘I’m sorry, Doc.’
‘It’s OK, Wade. I know you was led astray by the others.’
Dementer began to unwrap the small figure. As the bandages peeled off, Wade’s scales were revealed in all their glory.
Merriwether frowned and looked in the torn paper bag. It was empty.
The Doc turned to Leopold and Hester.
‘You two got some growin’ to do.’
‘Sure, Doc,’ pleaded the former bearded lady, ‘but can I at least keep the weight off? Please?’
‘We’ll see,’ said the Doctor, reluctantly. ‘Leopold, we’ll give it a coupla days, then we’ll pull you outa your skin. What say?’
‘OK, Doc. It’s beginnin’ to get a bit itchy in here, anyways.’
‘My Oddities,’ sighed the Doc, brushing a tear from his eye.
‘**********************************
Special Agent Lorelei closed the door, turned to Special Agent Johnson, and slapped him across the face, hard.
‘You chauvinist pig! Had to have your token woman on the committee, didn’t you? Well, shit, you shoulda taken me to Grunton. Looks like you made a first-class hash of it.’
‘Calm down, Laurie! That’s unfair! You know I respect……Ow!’ Johnson gingerly touched his stinging jaw.
‘How’d it go down there, Wiz?’
‘Bad, Lorelei. Bad. We had him sitting in a cell in front of us. And he just…disappeared. Like that.’
O’Shea clicked his fingers.
Lorelei turned away .
‘He’s a prime bastard. If that asshole,’ She indicated Johnson, ’had brought me in, we coulda taken care of him. The B O D wants him destroyed. He’s been making mischief for too long. Now he’s been flushed out, we’ve got to nail him. We’ve got to. I’m working on orders from Special Agent Ipsissimus. He’s head of the B O D. Dementer’s his nemesis. He was getting all fired up to get down to Grunton when you two fucked up.’
‘Be fair, Lorelei. If you knew all this, why didn’t you speak up at the meeting?’ said O’Shea.
‘Orders,’ sighed Lorelei. ‘’Sides, I’ve met up with Dementer before.’
‘You have?’ gasped Johnson.
‘Sure. By accident. I was posing as a stripper down in N’Orleans prior to a vice bust. Dementer was scouring the area looking for God knows what.’ She shuddered. ‘We hooked up.’
‘You didn’t’ ejaculated Johnson. ‘Laurie, you…’
‘He was all man,’ sighed Lorelei. ‘And a half. I wonder if he’d remember ol’ Kandy Kane?’
She smiled, and O’Shea saw something in her eyes he didn’t like one bit.
*************************************************************************************
The only words exchanged between Johnson and O’Shea in the B O D car on the way back to Baton Rouge were ;
‘Special Agent Johnson, what’s your first name? Ron?’
‘Ray.’
‘Oh.’
When they were safely ensconced in their motel, the conversation picked up.
‘Ray, do you think we should leave this in the hands of the B O D?’
‘No way. I’ve got Jones, Robinson and Jablonski down here. They should be watching the castle now. If Laurie makes a move, we’ll know.’
'What about Smith?'
'He's on standby. He's my secret weapon. He's a properly ordained priest. Kosher. Not one of your send away for a certificate sky-pilots.'
O’Shea wasn’t quite sure how to broach the next subject, but decided to plough ahead.
‘Are you carrying a torch for her?’
Johnson squirmed.
‘Yeah. Goes back to the Academy. We were just getting acquainted when she was plucked from our class to be specially trained up for the B O D.’
‘You realise that she seems to be carrying a torch for Dementer?’
Johnson strode to the window, hands in pockets, and looked out.
‘I think that may have been for my benefit, Mike.’ He paused. ‘Do you know anything about Ipsissimus?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘*******
Lorelei climbed the crumbling stone steps of the North Tower. She removed her jacket, and stopped to open a window. Warm rain was blown in, soaking her white shirt and black tie. She looked down. The white material had become see-through. He would like that.
She closed the window, and carried on up to the top.
A dark oak door faced her. She knocked, gently.
‘Come.’ The voice was deep. She entered.
It was very dark inside. She could hardly see the enormous four-poster bed surrounded by black muslin laying at the far end of the room. She sashayed across the wooden floor boards, twirling her jacket, then throwing it behind her. She began to unbutton the shirt.
‘Come closer.’
She turned her back to the bed, and slipped off the shirt, keeping the tie on. Arms folded across her chest, she glided closer. The muslin twitched.
‘Closer.’ There was a hint of desperation in the voice now.
She undid the slip of a skirt and slid it over her hips.
She pulled her boots off and stood beside the bed. The muslin parted and an enormous three-fingered hand emerged to completely cover her stomach.
‘Leave the stockings on.’
‘Yes, father.’
The claws hooked onto her black panties, and tore them off. She parted the muslin, lifted the covers, and climbed into the bed. It should have been warm. But it was so, so cold.
‘*********
Doctor Dementer, hair now black, mooched around the seedier end of Baja, California in a powder blue zoot suit, and black-and-white co-respondent shoes.
He’d had to get away for a while. His mind was in turmoil. Everything was almost back on track. He and the Oddities just had to find a new place to hide in plain sight. Then they could start to build up the carnival again. But something was preying on his mind. Some deep, cobweb-infested, dark, rancid corner of his thought process had screamed Get out in the sun! Get away and think! Leave your flock! Have some me time!
So here he was. Checking out bars, strip joints, whorehouses, ….for what?
He came to a halt in front of the Sleezarama. A huge blown up photograph of a terpsichorean ecdysiast with the most amazing flame-red hair covering her essentials drew the Doctor’s attention. There was something familiar about this particular exotic.
Dementer moved into the entranceway. The obligatory gorilla asked him for his membership fee and found himself pressed up against the wall with his windpipe rapidly constricting. Apart from the fact he couldn’t breathe, the bouncer found it disconcerting that the oddball hadn’t laid a finger on him.
Released and gasping for breath, he decided that he wouldn’t pursue the matter.
Dementer walked through the club. A bored looking young lady was half-heartedly gyrating to an over-amplified instrumental. The Doctor walked down the side of the milk crate stage and into a sticky corridor. He opened the first door he came to. Red was combing her amazing tresses whilst studying her reflection in a fly blown mirror. As a concession to showbiz, there were lightbulbs arranged around the frame. One of them worked.
The combing slowed as Dementer materialised in the mirror. She turned to face him.
‘Doc?’
Realisation hit him like a truck.
‘Kandy?’
She launched herself into his arms. They tore at one anothers clothes. It’s been too long, thought the Doc. He paused the frenzy to jam her chair under the doorknob, and they resumed relations.
Afterward, lying on the hard , grimy floor, the Doc tried to think past the post-coital ennui. Everything was for a reason. What was happening here?
Kandy Kane’s baby blues opened.
‘Doc?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re a real Doc, aincha?’
He frowned . ‘Yeah. You wanna talk about your operation?’
‘No. It’s …it’s my pop. He’s bad sick. Written off. Could you take a look?’
The Doc grinned. A trap. He’d have to walk into it.
‘Sure, honey.’
She choked back a sob.
‘Meet me at Pier 49. In an hour. He’s dying, Doc.’
‘We’ll see.’
The Doc dressed quickly. He left the club dressed in his black ensemble, top hat stashed in a plastic bag. He made a telephone call to Merriwether’s, then made his way to the Pier, settling himself in a café looking out on to the water.
‘*****
Johnson and O’Shea were now in another motel. This time in Baja.
‘Jablonski’s at Pier 49. He’s got Dementer in his sights. The guy’s waiting.’
Johnson paced the room, agitatedly.
O’Shea sighed. ‘Looks like Lorelei’s got him where she wants him.’
‘*****************
Kandy Kane’s hair looked magnificent in the sunshine.
‘Doc, thanks for coming. Let’s go. Time is of the essence.’
They walked along the pier and climbed down a wooden ladder into a small boat. Kandy started the outboard, and the craft moved out into the bay, sunlight sparkling on the blue water.
Down on the left, a small fishing boat chugged away from its moorings. Up on the right, a motor cruiser slipped away from the dock.
‘***********
After about fifteen minutes, the Doc realised that they were heading for the rusting hulk of an abandoned oil rig.
‘Your pop live out here?’ he mused.
Kandy/Lorelei attempted a smile, but it came out as a grimace.
‘He values his privacy.’
A short while later, she tied up at a small docking station, beside one of the mighty supporting legs. Dementer followed her up the iron rungs, enjoying the view.
They caught their breath on the platform, and looked towards the main building.
‘He’s in there. C’mon, Doc.’
She hurried off. Dementer noted the two boats, each approaching a different support leg.
Into the fire, he thought, and followed the girl.
Once through the door, they were plunged into darkness. Dementer followed the clicking of the high heels. Once inside the next room, it was even darker. The clicking stopped. Dementer could hear phlegmatic breathing. He strained his eyes.
‘Welcome, Doctor.’ The voice came from the far wall. Dementer slowly approached its source, aware that the girl was now holding a pistol.
Whatever it was, it was big. It seemed human, but not quite. The rasping breaths were beginning to unsettle the Doctor. He made out the vast head, bald, with pointed ears. Faint red lights glowed where the eyes should be. The odd shaft of sunlight eased between buckled metal sheets. The skin was sallow, yellow even. Two long arms ending in three-fingered talons supported the bulk of the upper body. Below the vast waist, everything ran into a bulbous, amorphous mass, tapering off into a gigantic tadpole-like tail that undulated slowly..
The Doc nodded.
‘Anton Krolok. You old fraud. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to bring me here. What’s on your mind.’
‘Your demise, Dementer. I’ve dreamed of this for years. You will die in screaming pain, slowly. And I will prove that my mind is superior to yours. And the only witness will be my daughter.’
‘She’s a nice piece of ass, Anton…’
‘I know.’
The ooze that was Krolock grunted, closed his cat-like red eyes and moved his claw-like hand up to his temples. A golden circle of light appeared in the centre of his forehead.
Dementer performed the same actions, and a green circle of light appeared before him.
Lorelei aimed her pistol at the Doctor. It wavered as a shape appeared in the door. A slim woman with a nicely shaped goatee, toting a Colt .45 stepped into the room.
The two women surveyed one another, then fired at the same time. The luck was with Hester. Lorelei clutched her stomach, groaned and fell to the floor.
The golden ball of fire wavered, then launched a stream of light toward Dementer. His green ball retaliated holding back the yellow light with green.
‘What’s happening?’ Leopold, his pink skin crumbling, short, stubby tufts of red-gold hair poking through the cracks, walked up behind Hester.
‘The Doc’s fightin’ a duel.’ She whispered. ‘A duel of the mind.’
Slowly, silently, Wade, the twins, Dick and Claude crept in to watch the struggle of light. The dark room was lit by the energy streams, and they gasped at the hideousness of Krolok.
A triangle of white light appeared at the opposite end of the room, as a group of dark suited armed men burst in.
‘Freeze!’ bellowed Johnson. ‘What the f…’
O’Shea, Jones, Jablonski and Robinson stood in awe of the sorcerors’ struggle. Smith, clad in the outfit of a Protestant priest walked calmly out from behind them, swinging an incense censer. He whirled the receptacle round, as though throwing the hammer in the Olympics. Three circuits, and he released the chain. The censer fell between the two streams of light. The greem flew off toward the ceiling, the gold refracted back toward the massive and revolting Krolok. Bathed in a golden light, Krolok screamed. The censer flew into his open mouth. Smith knelt and prayed. Krolok exploded in a welter of yellow skin and black bile. Everyone got soaked. As the bang receded, an agonised voice called ‘Pa!’
‘Laurie?’
Johnson ran forward, straight into a bullet from the girl’s pistol. An involuntary death spasm caused his finger to jerk the trigger of his own weapon, and the girl’s red hair got redder.
Doctor Dementer wiped gunk from his face and stared at the priest.
‘Reverend Smithy?’
‘Hi, Doc. How’s tricks?’
‘Not bad. I had him on the ropes, there.’
‘Two wrongs don’t make a right, Doc. Two big piles of evil are just more evil. It takes good to destroy evil.’
‘And you’re good?’
‘I’m the best,’ laughed the Reverend.
‘I still haven’t forgiven you for punching me in the nose.’
The two conversants became aware of the FBI men, and the Oddities pointing their guns one another.
After a minutes silence, O’Shea exhaled loudly and pointed his automatic at the floor.
‘Let it go, boys. We’re outgunned.’
‘Peace through superior firepower! Just the way I like it’, crowed the Doc.
‘Hell of a Mexican standoff,’ wheezed the Wiz.
The Doc clicked his fingers. ‘Mexico! Hell, it ain’t far from here! We can sail down the coast.’
‘Better than Canada,’ agreed Hester.
‘It’ll sure be warmer. And there’s no bears. Heck, there’s desert. And jungle. We can be ourselves.’
‘Get goin’,’ rasped O’Shea.
‘You lettin’ ‘em go?’ queried Jones.
‘Lesser of two evils,’ said the Reverend Smith. ‘We’ve got enough cleaning up to do here.’
O’Shea saw the fanatical look in his eye.
‘The B O D can be absorbed into my new section, the Bureau Division of Christianity,’ he gloated.
‘See you around,’ said the Doc, herding the Oddities toward the door.
‘We’ll be comin’ after you,’ shouted Smith.
Dementer turned and grinned.
‘You got no jurisdiction in Mexico.’
‘Since when has that stopped us?’ laughed O’Shea. He gave them five minutes then wandered out onto the platform. Smith was directing the others in the clear up.
The Wiz leaned on a metal barrier and watched the Oddities preparing the fishing boat. He could hear their yells of delight and excitement.
Like Eagle Scouts going on their first camp away from home. Wish you were going with them, you old galoot? he thought.
No comments:
Post a Comment