LAST WEEK: Jackson discovers his brother Jim’s corpse. Jim meets Kristjan on the banks of the river Styx and together they row into the afterlife.
Read last week’s installment here. See all installments here. Read the next installment here.
Chapter 83
River
San Francisco — 1985
Journey’s End
It is the night after Jim’s death. River and Jackson sit in Bert’s. It’s just past noon, long before Pam is due in for work. It might seem odd to be there in daylight hours, but the harsh fluorescent light and recycled air keep Bert’s in a state of perpetual, unnatural twilight, like an intensive care unit, or a casino. In Bert’s, you can easily lose track of the passage of hours, days, or seasons.
The diner is three-quarters full, but the booth in the back, where River and Jackson sit, is secluded. They each order a cup of the dingy brown liquid that passes for coffee. Two of River’s spiced muffins sit on a dish between them.
Despite the soporific effect of scotch, Xanax, and brownies, Jackson looks haggard. His normally pink, meaty face is rough and darkened by an undergrowth of stubble. His small blue eyes lie in shadows.
“I don’t know,” Jackson begins, taking a bite of the muffin. “A lot’s been made of the most bizarre features of the case, but I can’t help feeling like we’re missing something.”
He takes a long, teardrop crystal out of his front pocket, rubbing it in his palm. Iridescent tendrils of light weave between his fingers.
“There’s the fact that the killer… or killers… targets gay men, but why? Is he just a sicko homophobe? Somehow, I don’t think the killer is specifically targeting gay men. I don’t know why, no reason really, just a feeling. But I tell ya, River, I’ve been doing this job a long, long time… too long maybe,” Jackson sighs.
“I’ve learned to trust my gut. I’m not saying I couldn’t be wrong, mind you, but there’s a lot more here than a homophobe on a rampage. The men have had all the blood drained from their bodies.” He shivers. “Damned if we know how… Yes, yes,” he says, holding up a fleshy palm before River can interrupt, “there are those two small holes in the neck, but there’s no way you could drain a body that way.”
“The newspapers say…” begins River.
“The newspapers,” Jackson snorts. “Vampires.” He shakes his head. “Stories to scare people and sell more papers. I never believed in vampires, and I still don’t. It’s just the frickin’ press having a field day… playing on the fields of misery, that’s what they do.” Jackson purses his lips, blows a long exhale, and takes another bite of muffin. “There’s always chain marks around their necks, but no sign of bondage or restraint… And something else… I really shouldn’t be telling you. We’ve managed to keep it out of the news, God knows how, and I’ve never revealed confidential information before. But for some reason…” He breaks off. There are tears in his eyes.
River’s spiced muffins are rich, but not sweet. They’ve been mixed with baking soda, nutmeg, and trust, so it’s no wonder that just a taste opens the hole in Jackson’s heart. It’s no surprise that a mere nibble dissolves walls of caution and uncertainty.
“They all have another mark, right here on their necks.” Jackson points to the hollow in his throat. “At first, we just thought it was a scar, but they all have it, a white stain, like a tiny icicle… My buddy Slim Ferguson, the night watch at the morgue, says he’s never seen the like. And he’s been there over forty years.” Jackson returns the crystal to his breast pocket. “We’re keeping the bodies at the morgue. Usually, we get rid of them after a day. But there’s another thing about these corpses… they don’t decay. At first, I thought it might be the lack of blood, but no, the coroner said that shouldn’t make no difference. Flesh is flesh and rots, blood, or no blood. It ain’t like we plumbed them full of formaldehyde or anything… and they smell different… sweet, but not a good sweet. It’s hard to describe…” Jackson shudders and takes another bite of the muffin. “It’s like a decaying flower. It smells more like death than rotting flesh somehow. God knows I shouldn’t be telling you this, River, but I can smell it in my dreams.”
Chapter 84
River
San Francisco — 1985
Jackson
After his meeting with Jackson, River goes to Jo-Jo’s. Although he sinks his hands wrist-deep into rich, white batter smooth as water, he cannot relax. The almond cookies, which usually emerge fragrant as autumn leaves, burn to a crisp.
River crumbles them into bite-sized morsels and scatters them into the alleyway, but even the hungry pigeons that roost over the bakery refuse to eat them. The fragments disintegrate slowly, darkening the pavement with regret.
That night, Jackson does not come to Bert’s.
“Guess he must be on duty,” said Pam. “I hope he’s okay. I feel real sorry for him. I know what it’s like to lose someone before you had the chance to tell them what was in your heart. It makes the missing so much worse somehow, almost as if you caused it… even though you know…” Her voice trails away. Her eyes fill with tears and unspoken words.
It isn’t until the next morning, on the way to Jo-Jo’s, that River sees the paper.
Policeman Killed in Castro.
The headline stops River in his tracks.
The body of police officer Edward Jackson was discovered this morning in the Castro district. His body had been drained of blood. Two puncture marks 1.5” apart marked his neck, exactly matching the profile of other victims. He was not on duty.
‘Eddie’s brother had been found the night before,’ said his partner. ‘He was pretty broken up about it. It’s not like Ed to go off alone.’
Chief of Police Martin Arvis surmised Officer Jackson may have been on a private investigation. ‘It is not the policy of this department to send out lone officers. We can only assume that Officer Jackson was acting out of grief. It is a tragedy indeed. He was a fine officer and a fine man.’
Officer Jackson was a member of SFPD for thirty-five years. He is survived by two children.
He is the first victim who was not known as gay that’s been claimed by the Vampire Killer. Is this a change of pattern? Or was Officer Jackson hot on the trail of the killer who has been terrorizing the city?
River bows his head; a tear runs down his face. It sparkles like a thousand tiny rainbows before splattering on the hard pavement. Huck lands on River’s shoulder as softly as if his claws had feathers.
“Jackson,” he caws mournfully, “Jackson.”
***
Nona sits before a navy-blue cloth, tucking in the ends of the threads that Morta has severed.
“The same pattern, but all in all, not a bad ending,” Morta says.
Chapter 85
Jackson
On the Banks of the River Styx — 1985
Meeting Across the Water
Jackson waits on the banks of a cold, dark river. He sees a dim light that seems to beckon with ever increasing circles of light.
In the boat, a tall dark figure holds out a skeletal hand clothed by a transparent glove of dark flesh. Without even thinking, Jackson reaches into his pocket. To his surprise, a silver and gold coin is inside. He has forgotten it was there. It’s hot in his lifeless hand. It falls into the ferryman’s palm, slipping beneath his translucent skin like a sunset.
When Jackson steps onto the boat, it doesn’t even ripple. As the ferryman poles his way into the endless dark, Jackson hears Jim laughing. He is smiling before he even reaches the shore.
Chapter 86
River
San Francisco — 1985
The Labyrinth
River is walking in the hills above the Castro. The day is so beautiful it sings. A wild sun peeks out from behind the clouds swirling across screaming blue skies. A breeze runs soft fingers through River’s hair, but he doesn’t even notice. He’s caught inside a labyrinth, following Jackson through night-dark streets. He is seeing a small, white mark on pulseless necks. He is imagining corpses that do not decay. He is mourning his friend and trying to concoct a plan. He yearns for understanding. He craves revenge. He longs for justice, even though he is incapable of comprehending the crime.
Death is so final. River will never again see him sitting across from his sleeping partner. Never note his face cracking into a smile at the sight of Huck. Never watch suspicion melt into confidence at the bite of a muffin. River feels his absence like hunger. There is nothing, no touch of a caress in the gentle wind, no whisper from beyond. River is discovering places in his heart that did not exist until sorrow created them.
Ryo blows into his ear, “Just because you don’t see something, doesn’t mean it’s gone.” But for once, River does not hear him. His ears are blocked by loss.
Huck lands on his shoulder soft as memory, gentle as grief.
Everything falls away in the face of death, River thinks. I didn’t know I had a friend until I lost him.
“Don’t die, Huck,” River says, ruffling Huck’s feathers. “Please don’t die. I couldn’t bear it.”
Huck nuzzles River gently with his beak.
Chapter 87
River
San Francisco — 1985
Whipped Cream and Respectability
It’s a week after Jackson’s death. In Bert’s, Pam and River lean toward each other, the counter between them.
“I love that hat, Pamela,” River says, “It’s like a dollop of whipped cream.”
“Me too,” Pam replies, “Someone I loved very much, my nanny’s sister, had one like it a long, long time ago. I always coveted it. If I’d been really good, I was allowed to wear it. It seemed so grown up and respectable.”
River laughs, “Funny, I never thought about being ‘respectable’ when I was a kid. Where did you grow up? Having a nanny seems pretty high-toned to me.”
Pamela smiles ruefully. “Appearances can be deceptive.”
River looks into Pamela’s eyes and swallows. She is so beautiful. The only people in Bert’s, sitting in distant booths, seem so far away that they might as well be alone. Alone in a place centuries remote from Bert’s, a place where the harsh fluorescent softens into warm gaslight. A place where the glaring pink and orange walls ripens into mahogany panels and burgundy velvet. A place where rays of a phantom chandelier dapple the room with light.
River takes Pamela’s hands. They are white, bloodless with cold.
“How can your hands be so cold? They must be numb,” River says.
“It’s genetic, I think, a condition called Raynaud’s syndrome.
“Did your mom have cold hands?”
“She might have. How would I know? She never touched me. My brother was the love of her life. He died before I was born, and she never got over it. She always hated me.”
“Who could hate you, Pamela? I can’t—I won’t believe it. You are too lovable.”
Pam smiles and shrugs.
“Did you have any living siblings? How about your father? God, I know so little about you, and yet I feel I know you so deeply.”
Pam dimples. “No, no father, he died before I was born, too. I come from a classic dysfunctional family.”
River laughs. “Every family with more than one person in it is a dysfunctional family. What did your mom do?”
“Oh… she ran a boarding house… was always busy, always working…that’s why I had a nanny, there was nothing grand about it. I was pretty much neglected, relegated to the attic while Mama… Mama entertained.”
Watch the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
NEXT WEEK: A woman is standing behind him, a stranger so dazzling and pale that his breath catches in his throat. “Go quickly now, you haven’t long.” There is something familiar about her, and suddenly, he knows. It’s Lisa. But not the gawky Lisa of high school. This Lisa is ashen and gleaming, fragrant and ephemeral as the night-blooming cereus that flowers only once a year, on a single evening. She lays a hand against his scar. It burns cold as ice. She smiles sadly. In the darkness, her teeth glisten sharp and long as icicles.
Edited by Mitchelle Lumumba and Sophie Gorjance.
E.E. King is cohost of the MetaStellar YouTube channel's Long Lost Friends segment. She is also a painter, performer, writer, and naturalist. She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Ray Bradbury called her stories “marvelously inventive, wildly funny and deeply thought-provoking. I cannot recommend them highly enough.” She’s been published widely, including Clarkesworld and Flametree. She also co-hosts The Long Lost Friends Show on MetaStellar's YouTube channel. Check out paintings, writing, musings, and books at ElizabethEveKing.com and visit her author page on Amazon.