Fourth in the O Scorpion adventure series. A twisted hero attempts to have a date on Christmas. His ghosts come along.
Someone was leaning against his doorbell. Cain went to see who it was. He opened the door, ready to rip someone’s heart out. “What the hell--Iris? What are you doing here?” “You’ve been trying to get me on a date for over a year now,” she said. “Well, it just so happens I’m in the mood.” “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Iris, but I don’t. Why now, all of a sudden?” “I have to go to a bad part of town on personal business. I need someone to watch my back.” “What about your partner, Detective Coleman?” “He’s at a local hospital playing Santa for the kids in the burn ward. So, what do you say?” Cain grinned. “Someone to watch your back, huh? I can’t think of a back I’d rather watch. Just let me grab my coat. He stepped to a nearby closet, pulled out a black leather split-tail duster, and slipped it on. Reaching over to the corner behind the opened door, he picked up a katana in a black lacquered sheath. Iris saw it in his hand, stared a moment, but said nothing. She’s getting used to me, Cain figured. She understands a scorpion needs his sting. He locked the door behind him and followed her out to the drive. Her Caramel colored Talon was parked behind the Mustang convertible he was driving that week. Having quite a few of them, he rotated on a regular basis so they wouldn’t get jealous of each other. His current favorite was midnight blue with silver flames on the sides. The hood ornament was a silver scorpion with a poised crescent tail. “Whose car do we take?” Iris asked. “Yours, of course,” Cain answered, patting his car affectionately as he passed her. “You said we were going to the bad part of town. I make it a practice not to endanger my vehicles unnecessarily.” “Fine. I’ll drive.” They settled into the Talon. Iris brought it to life and backed into the street. They hugged winding curves until a major cross street appeared. It led them to the highway where Iris surged into traffic with perfect timing and a deft economy of motion, giving the Talon a chance to strut its stuff. Cain was impressed. Iris was one of the few women drivers that didn’t terrify him. She was nearly as good as he was. As they headed toward the edge of the downtown area, toward the river, Iris turned on the car’s CD player. Steel guitars and a country back beat filled the car. A young woman’s voice came reeling out of the speakers:
Daddy bitch-slapped Momma They dragged him off to jail He found religion, And got out on bail. Jesus and Karaoke Are all that keep him sane. The doctors told us--he's got a tumor in his brain.
Cain resisted the impulse to tear the CD player loose and toss it out the window. Too much effort. Instead, he reached over and shut it off. “What’s wrong?” Iris asked. “Don’t like country music?” “The only good country song is a dead country song,” he answered. “So what do you listen to?” He reactivated her radio and spun the tuning dial until a death-rock anthem rattled the speakers. Cain grinned, nodding his head in time to the percussion. He raised his voice to be heard over the screamed lyrics. “Now that’s music.” It was Iris’ turn at intolerance; she shut off the radio, letting silence reign. “We’re almost there. Do me another favor and try not to embarrass me in front of Father Pete.” “Father Pete?” Cain echoed. He looked off the highway as they took an exit ramp that spiraled down toward the city streets. He saw several warehouses huddled together beside a small cathedral. A sign said St. Mary’s. Another structure was labeled: THE MISSION. A feeling of dread filled him. The small hairs at the nape of his neck were stirring, warning him of danger. Apprehension threatened to become misery as he saw they were pulling in there. Iris stopped the car and turned in the seat. Facing Cain, her eyes gathered in his stricken expression. “What‘s wrong? Allergic to crucifixes? I don‘t think God‘s going to mind you showing up here.” “Don’t be too sure about that? Look, maybe I’d better just stay here and guard the car. Some homeless guy might try to piss on the tires.” Iris gave him an icy stare packed with menace. “I have to go in so you’re coming with me.” Cain was impressed. He hadn’t suspected Iris capable of such cruelty. It made him want her even more. They climbed out and Cain helped her collect Christmas gifts from the back seat. “This is the personal business you mentioned,” Cain asked, “delivering presents to a homeless shelter? That‘s rather ironic since you cops will be busting them the rest of the year for drunkenness, panhandling, and vagrancy.” Iris sighed. “It’s not a perfect world.” “Not with me in,” Cain said. “Speaking of which, I want you to leave the sword in the car. This is a sacred place.” “So what? It’s a sacred sword. Like all my blades, it inducts my soul when in hand. Besides, you never know when you’ll desperately need to hack and slash someone.” “In a church?” Cain gave her a stare, serious as an open grave. “You’d be surprised.” “Cain, please don’t embarrass me. Father Pete’s an old friend of the family. He knows my mother. They play bridge together” “Tell you what,” his tone was soothing, “I’ll hide it under my coat and only use it in the most dire of circumstances.” “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.” “No,” Cain said, “you haven’t seen the sword I keep in my pants.” “Try to keep your thoughts pure so God won’t hit you with lightning, all right?” “All my thoughts are pure…” …Evil and otherwise. With the sword strapped to his back, he slipped his coat back on, gathered up presents, and followed Iris up the walk to the church. Place looks empty, but someone must be inside; light’s on, door’s open. Inside the front vestibule, Cain stopped by a stand that held a basin of holy water. It sparked a pleasant memory. He’d once pissed in such a basin, years ago, in Brazil. “This is as far as I go,” Cain said. “I have too many ghosts haunting me to feel comfortable in this place.” “Don’t be difficult,” Iris said. “We just have to leave this stuff under the tree, then go next door to the shelter for a Christmas Eve dinner.” “Fine,” he bit the word off, steeling himself for flashbacks that were sure to come. They entered the nave, strolling down blood red carpet, past confessionals and pews that smelled of lemon Pledge. Against the walls to either side, between stained-glass windows, alabaster saints stared at them from pedestals. They reached the tree. Iris began to lay presents out under it while Cain stared at the graven image of Mother Mary. A hint of green behind her head caught his eye. Can that be what I think it is? he wondered. He set his packages down and moved over to check the idol out while Iris was distracted. Behind the statue, he found a planter wedged into the recess. The mother of all pot plants was growing there. Hmmmm. This Father Pete might not be such a bad guy. Better get back before I’m missed. He rejoined Iris, and began a delighted study of her hind quarters. His favorable appraisement was interrupted by the arrival of a priest in tradition black suit and collar. The man was in his late forties, a fringe of gray hair emphasized a bald pate. The priest had the look of a couch potato about him, and his pale complexion indicated he didn’t get out much. But the man’s smile was hearty, welcoming, and his face was crinkled by good humor. Against his better judgment, Cain found himself liking the man. “Iris, my dear. It is so good of you to come.” Father Pete’s gaze went to the base of the tree as the detective climbed to her feet. “And you’ve come bearing gifts. The shelter children will be delighted. Who’s your friend?” “This is Cain,” she said. “Try not to mind him too much; he’s barely housebroken.” “As long as he doesn’t try to live up to his name, I’m sure we’ll get along.” It irritated Cain that they spoke as if he weren’t present. He'd rather be cursed than ignored. In retaliation, he let some attitude slip off the chain. “I’ve read about Cain. He was a weak-hearted sissy boy. He could have learned a lot from me.” The priest’s smile sagged a little, but he kept it going, gesturing toward a door behind the organ. “This way. As a reward for your generosity, I shall stuff you with turkey and candied yams.” “I’m not really hungry,” Cain said. “There’s probably pumpkin pie,” Iris whispered. “So, you know my weakness,” Cain said. “Well, lead on.” The priest did. Beyond the door, a passage took them past an office, to an exit. Cain noticed that Father Pete didn’t lock the building as they left. Cain mentioned this to Iris as they crossing an open stretch of graveled yard. The priest heard the comment. “I don’t believe in locking people away from God. I don’t believe a church should own anything it can’t afford to lose.” “That attitude probably explains why your superiors exiled you to the ass-end of nowhere,” Cain said. Iris jammed an elbow into his side to signal her displeasure at his lack of tact. "A little lower,” he advised, “and you can break a floating rib, driving it into a lung.” "Children, please,” Father Pete chided, “it’s Christmas, remember?” "She started it,” Cain insisted. "Did not!” "Did too infinity squared." They climbed a few wooden stairs. A door opened onto a festive hall filled with the shabbily endowed. The tables were trimmed with red, green, and gold tinsel. The walls were covered with cardboard copies of Santa, elves, and angels. One corner contained a rustic nativity scene. A wave of cheerful chatter broke around them. Cain found himself in line for the buffet. Most of the people in the room had already gone through so he didn’t have to wait long. He picked up a napkin, paper plate, and plastic fork. There was Kool-aid, ice tea, and coffee. He passed on these, promising himself a white chocolate mocha later on the way home. He accepted a few strips of carved turkey breast, a roll, and a generous slab of pumpkin pie. Iris followed Father Pete’s example and filled her plate. They settled at the end of the table near the outside door. Cain stuffed his roll with turkey making a small sandwich. “This is wonderful dressing,” Iris said. “What’s in it?” “Thanks,” Father Pete said. “My own recipe. It’s cornbread stuffing made with apples and sausage.” “Eeeyew!” Cain’s face mirrored his revulsion. “Please, not while I’m eating.” “I’m not surprised you don’t like this,” Iris said. “growing up in Brazil, you probably survived on grubs and monkey-on-a-stick.“ "Don't knock it if you haven't tried it," he said. "You'd starve to death back home. And for your information, we have fast food restaurants down there too.” Cain picked up a fork and started on his pie. It wasn’t long before he attracted stares. “Now, what’s wrong?” “You have one hand guarding your plate,” Iris said, “and you’re holding your fork with every finger wrapped around the handle. That’s how prison convicts eat.” “So what your point?” he growled. Iris shrugged. “Never mind.” He hurried through his pie, feeling an urge for a smoke, and the need to get away from the family at the next table. A woman was cajoling her preadolescent child to eat something besides turkey and cranberry sauce. The boy refused vegetables, demanding a slab of chocolate crème pie instead. The woman’s boy friend offered to haul the kid outside and beat some sense into him. Cain tended to sympathized with the wanna-be-father-figure. Sliding his empty plate away, Cain sighed with pleasure. He considered going for another piece, but his nicotine addiction was too strong. He excused himself from the table and headed for The door. Outside, the soft sigh of wind replaced chattering voices. Evening had darkened the sky but full night had not yet arrived. He lit up and filled his lungs with poisonous smoke. Wonderful! Finishing the cigarette, he ground out the butt underfoot. Across the yard, the door to the sanctuary opened. He saw two grimy men in second hand clothing hurry out, carrying Father Pete's pot plant between them. They had the gait and manner of men up to no good. It wasn't really his business, but he was the priest's guest. The man had just fed him pumpkin pie. Having accepted hospitality, old-world standards dictated that he owed the priest a small measure of consideration. That was reason enough to get involved, but he was also growing bored. The katana came out from under his coat. He moved intercept the men. They saw him coming but only scuttled faster with their prize. He caught up to them. They stopped. The closest man was heavy-built. He wore a Harley Davidson bandana and sported a ill-kept beard. The other man was scarecrow thin and lanky with a hyper quality, probably drug-induced. Scarecrow and Harley put the plant down to faced him together. "What do you want?" Scarecrow asked. "We wuz just…just…" "Doin' some landscaping," Harley said. "Yeah, going to work through the night were you?" Cain asked. "Get the hell outta here." They turned to pick up the plant. "Leave it," Cain said. "Hell, no," Harley roared. "We found it. It's our." The tip of the katana flipped up, catching the vagrant under the point of his chin, digging in without drawing blood. "Take a few branches for...medicinal purposes, and leave the rest." "Sure, Mac, whatever you say." Cain pulled back the blade. Harley gathered some leaves as Scarecrow straightened, one hand hidden by his body. "If that hand comes out with a rock in it," Cain said, "I'm slicing it off at the shoulder. You understand?" There was a soft thud as something dropped. The hand appeared, empty. "That's a good boy. Now beat it." They did. Cain put away his sword and gathered up the plant. It was heavy. With slow careful steps, he returned it to its place inside the church. Inside the sanctuary, his steps echoed. Moving away from the statue of Mary, he stared back at her carved face. It offered sympathy, compassion, and forgiveness. "Not today," he told her. Passing the confessional, he paused. A bad memory surfaced. The last time he'd used one of these, he'd been quite a bit younger, a continent away.
* * *
The afternoon sun was abated by the trees along side the trail. Cain put his new mountain bike through its paces, streaking along, enjoying the wind in his face. Seeing his best friend near the local cathedral, he pulled over. Paulo was bawling like a kid. It took a while, but Cain got the story out of him. His friend had just been used by the local priest in an unnatural manner. It was why he was pushing his bike instead of riding it. Paulo had been told that if he said anything, he'd be kicked out of the church, die, and go to Hell. "Go home," Cain said, his voice distorted by a terrible rage that nearly choked him. "Leave this to me." He went home for a necessary item, then sought out the priest. He was at confession. Cain waited until the last penitent left, then went in. He sat on a bench in the confessional, absorbing the darkness around him. The window panel slid open. After a long silence, the priest spoke through the grating. "Whenever you're ready." "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." "What have you done, my son?" "I killed a priest." A hammer clicked into place. A flash of fire shattered the startled silence. A bullet punched through the screen, and smashed the priest's face. He was thrown back, dead before his body crumpled to the floor of the booth. The execution came surprisingly easy. A deeply pleasing chord was struck in Cain’s soul as he learned his calling--death. A child of the furies, it was his destiny to pursue those using position and power to evade man's law. The wicked might evade the hand of man and God, but they would not escape Cain’s justice.
* * *
He shook the memory away. I ought to be getting back. Iris will think I ran off. He left the cathedral, heading across the court. The whinny child and mother's boy-friend were outside the door to the mission, arguing. The man had the kid by the shoulder, shaking him violently. The kid struggled to get away. He kicked the man in the shin. A back-handed slap rocked the kid's head, bringing tears. Cain stepped up to the two. He spun the man around, and bounced him off the wall. "He's a kid," Cain said. "That's how they're supposed to act. You're supposed to be an adult. You have no excuse." "So what's it to you?" "You'd be surprised." The door opened and Iris appeared with Father Pete right behind her. "What's going on here," she asked. "I was just minding my own business," the boy-friend said, "when this manic walks up and attacks me for no reason. Someone needs to call a cop." "She is a cop," Cain said. The news deflated the boy-friend instantly. Cain pointed at the kids face. It was red and puffy in the porch light. "He was hittin' the kid, Iris. Look for yourself." She did. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. She took the boy-friends arm and pulled it behind his back, pinning him to the wall while she cuffed him. The man protested. "Hey, what the Hell…!" "You were right," Iris told the man. "A cop is needed here." "You can't do this. The kid just walked into a door, that's all." "Yeah," Father Pete said, "and I'm the Pope." Iris shot Father Pete a skeptical glance. "Hey," he said, "it could happen." Cain grinned. "I hope it does." He turned to Iris as she set her prisoner down, and fished out her cell phone. It would be a while before she wrapped up this little matter, and he was cold. "I'm going to get some coffee," he said. Come get me when you're ready to go." Iris nodded, and read the offender his Miranda rights as Cain headed in. The laughter inside was thick and infectious. Voices murmured companionably. An ad lib choir belted out Silent Night in one corner as Cain made his way to the kitchen. Workers were bagging up trash and clearing the tables. Evening's winding down. It's strange; I didn't think I'd enjoy myself. I suppose everyone's ghosts need to get out once in a while. Eventually, Father Pete joined him. They sipped coffee together. "You don't like the church very much," Father Pete observed. "Mind telling me why?" "It's personal." "Everything is personal to someone," the priest said. "Let's just say I'm not into religion." "What are you into?" "I could tell you," Cain said, "but then I'd have to kill you." "That joke isn't funny. It's been way overused." Cain gave the man an icy stare. "Who's joking." He set his coffee down and walked toward Iris as she entered the room. He gathered up all his ghosts as he went. It was time to leave.
I agree with the rest on here, this is a very well written story -- I liked the interlude, "Daddy Bitch-slapped momma and went to jail." Very strong stuff right there. There are parts where I can say you really shined on this one, I've yet to write a song for a story you nailed it here.
You have addressed so many darknesses in these stories... we have all been taught to be afraid of the dark... you are showing us a different face to it, that dark exists along with light, is, in fact, part of, our known world. Neither can exist without the other, and must learn to embrace.
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