Crow's Caw at Nightmoon Creek Page 11

  “You sure about this place?”

  “Positive. Look. The parking lot’s jam packed. Don’t let the lack of curb appeal fool you. They’ve got some of the best chilaquiles this side of the border.” His gaze shifts to mine. “If you like that kind of thing. Do you like Mexican food?”

  “I love it. I don’t eat it very often because we don’t have a good restaurant in town.”

  “This one was built by a couple of disgruntled suffragettes in the late nineteen hundreds. They were a mixed race couple – a Hispanic gal and a Caucasian working class individual. Further mixed by their gender.” A broad grin spread across his face.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “They were lesbians. This place has always carried a bit of scandal and loads of color. It’s why I like it.” He pulls the big truck into a parking spot facing the street, and turns off the engine. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  We enter the restaurant and are greeted by a woman called Rosalina, a curvy, warm as the sun shining in her country of origin, hostess. “Señor Lusk,” she says. “Long time no see. How you been?” She proceeds to chatter with him in Spanish, leaving me in the dark of my native language.

  “So you’ve frequented this place, eh, Señor Lusk?”

  “Sí, señorita,” he says, guiding me with his hand behind my back.

  “And you know Spanish fairly well from the sound of it.”

  “I get around,” he says, with a wink. “Traveled south of the border quite a bit.”

  Rosalina seats us and we scan the menus, ordering Lennon’s favorite chilaquiles, as well as tostadas and a pitcher of beer.

  “Prepare to be amazed,” Lennon says.

  And amazed I am, both by the ease in which we’re getting along, as well as the excellence of the food. By the time we leave, I’m stuffed and happy, and I like Lennon Lusk even more. I like him a lot. We’re actually laughing with one another as we exit the restaurant.

  Hence, I’m stunned as a creepy sensation falls over me as we stride toward the Chevy. “Whoa,” I say, sensing the weight of elephants fall over my shoulders.

  “Shit,” Lennon says. He’s walking all jerky and strange, like his skeleton isn’t connected to his muscles. “What the fuck?”

  “What’s going on?” I ask him, alarmed. My motor control seems to be failing, too. It takes supreme effort to navigate toward the Silverado.

  Finally, both Lennon and I fall into a freeze, as a pair of eyes stares first at Lennon, then me, from inside the tinted windows of a black Mercedes-Maybach S600. They’re so dark, I wouldn’t have been able to see the eyes except they’re luminescent, green glowing wisps of light.

  The vehicle seems to be moving in slow motion as it passes by on the street. I also seem to be in some sort of time warp. It’s like the world around me blurs into pitch black shadows and dark fragmented shapes. A cloak of darkness blots out the world around me. A heavy tug anchors me to whoever or whatever drives that car.

  My intestines, lungs, and heart want to stream from my skin, to be vacuumed from my body into the body of the being in the Mercedes. I smack my hands against my belly and heart and hold tight, as if that will prevent anything from happening. Two phrases swirl through my mind – you’re dead, and this is war, and I don’t know if the sentiments come from my brain, or the brain of the freak in that black vehicle. Finally, after an undetermined amount of time, the eyes turn from mine, and the car speeds into the rain.

  Both Lennon and I stagger and lurch toward the Chevy truck.

  “What the fuck just happened?” Lennon asks. He fumbles for his keys in his pants pocket and blips the lock free.

  “I’m guessing we met the wizard. What do you think?” I’m completely drained of energy, as if I’ve run the Ironman marathon. I lift a shaking hand to the door handle and fall inside, dragging myself upright in the seat.

  Lennon does the same. “Shit,” he says, as he breathes hard, attempting to recover.

  “Shit,” I say, mimicking him. “What did you see?”

  “I couldn’t see anything. I became immersed in complete darkness, void of even a pinprick of light. I thought I went blind. As far as terrifying moments, it tops the charts. You?”

  “I saw a pair of eyes. And it seemed like the person, wizard, whatever it was driving the car wanted to suck my internal organs out. Did you hear anything?”

  “Nothing. Absence of sound, absence of light. Nada. You?”

  “Yeah, I heard two phrases – ‘you’re dead’ and ‘this is war.’ And I don’t know if I transmitted them or the driver of the Mercedes sent me those thoughts.” I press my hands into my face and take a shuddering breath.

  “I’ve been in a lot of fucked up situations but that one trumps them all.” He rakes his hair with a shaking hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I wish I had a joint with me.”

  “I agree. But we don’t. So what now?”

  Lennon’s head falls back against the headrest. Eyes closed, he says nothing for a few moments and I wonder if he’s still conscious. Then his head whips up, he fires up the engine, and we take off.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I told you, there are bones in my domicile. I think we get to the bottom of the bones. If this is war, I’m in. I love a good rumble.”

  “This hardly seems a mere rumble. I’ve never tussled with a wizard. Have you?” I ask.

  “Nope, but I know someone who has. I’ll give him a call. After we find out what’s lurking in my walls.”

  “Right. Because this is now war. And I’m not the one who’s going to die.”

  Can cats greet you with urgency? If you think yes, like I do, then that’s the way Muffin greets us when we arrive at Lennon’s home. The moment Lennon unlocks the front door, the cat twirls around our legs, meowing loudly. We trip past him, while he makes a general pest of himself, weaving in and around our ankles.

  “Does he always do this?” I say, hanging my coat on the coat rack.

  “Never seen it. What is it, boy?” Lennon asks, scooping the elder feline in his arms.

  Muffin pushes away with one clawed paw, leaps from his grip and scurries into the living room.

  Lennon and I both do a double take when we enter the space. An eerie glow of greenish-blue light shoots from the two inch hole Lennon has drilled into the wall about three feet from the floor. Tiny bite marks and scratches ring the outline, as if Muffin has done his part, standing on his hind legs. Small wood and plaster chips litter the floor, testifying to his progress.

  The cat sits near the wall and looks at us expectantly, as if saying, “Well? Do something.”

  Lennon crouches in front of the opening and peers into the light beam. His face becomes ashen, color seeping from his skin. “Holy fuck, look at this, Mercedes.”

  I squat next to him, and yeah, I’m well aware of his heat, smell, and potent sexuality. We’re so close, but I put my eye near the hole when he moves his head away. I jerk when I see what’s in there. A skull peers back at me, light streaming from the eye socket as if it’s trying to see out the same way we’re trying to see in. Matter of fact, the skull is resting against the wall, as if leaning forward, the same way I was a second ago until I fell back in shock and horror.

  “Are you all right, Mercedes?”

  I blink rapidly. “What? Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Totally fine.” Completely copasetic, having fallen back on my butt, catching myself on my hands, very aware of Lennon’s arm around my back, assisting me to sit up. I brush the dust from my hands. “Startled me. It’s like it’s…the skeleton…it’s looking at us.” My entire body shivers in disgust. “Are you sure you want to know what’s in there?”

  “Honestly? Not so much now. But I’m worried what Muffin will do to my face in the night if I don’t. He seems to think it’s important.”

  Lennon’s face is inches from mine and he’s looking intently into my eyes. His arm is still supporting me. His mouth opens slightly and his tongue flicks along his upper lip, first one way, and
then the other. He closes his mouth and swallows, working his jaw as if contemplating his next move. “Aw, hell, Mercedes,” he says.

  “What?”

  “This,” he says. “I can’t take anymore.” He places his hand around my neck and pulls me toward him.

  Our lips connect and a fire lights inside me. I want this man. Wait -- want’s too wimpy of a word. I’m consumed with this man. We become a tangle of mouths, hips, legs, fingers and souls as we fall to the floor in heated passion. My hands work with fevered intensity as I explore his body, wanting nothing more than to rip his clothes off and fuck him on the floor, right here, right now.

  His hands do the same, stroking, kneading, caressing. He reaches for my shirt, inching it over my shoulders, when who should burst in the front door, but the young, bull elk, bird shifter himself, Hawke.

  “Hey, Uncle L,” he calls as he tromps into the hallway.

  I roll away from Lennon like my pants are ablaze, clawing my shirt back in place.

  Hawke stops when he rounds the corner, looking from one to the other, eyes narrowed.

  “What?” I say.

  “Nothing,” he says. Then his eye catches the light beam and he jumps backward, his hands flying in front of him like he’s warding off an attack. “What the hell?”

  “Our thoughts exactly. And why are you here so soon?” Lennon says.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, with teenage sarcasm. “But we got let out early. Some sort of terrorist threat in town. Someone blew up a building or something. I don’t know, I didn’t pay much attention. Thought I’d head over here so we could have some fun. The hills will be hella muddy. We can get dirty and…”

  “Hold up, hot shot. Don’t you think we should take care of the elephant in the room?”

  “You mean the light show? Can’t it wait?”

  “Don’t think so,” Lennon says. “Look inside the hole.”

  Hawke steps toward the wall, crouches, and pats the cat on the head. Then he places his hands on either side of the opening, looks inside and lets out a horrified teen shriek, falling back, same as I did. “What the hell. It’s looking at me. Whatever the fuck is back there is looking at me. I don’t think we should find out what it is.” He quickly stands and begins pacing the room. His hands shake as he walks to and fro. “No way, Uncle. No fucking way. That’s…it’s…it’s something you’d find if you were Indiana Jones, which none of us are.”

  Lennon gets to his feet, stops the kid and puts his hands on his shoulders. “We’ve got to find out what it is. We do it together. We’ve gone through thick and thin, right? We can get through this…this…” He swirls his hand in a circle. “This whatever it is, as a team, got it?”

  “I don’t know, Uncle L. Have you ever…? I mean…” He lets out a full body shudder, same as I did a few minutes ago.

  “Come on, kid. Trust me. Haven’t we managed so far?”

  Hawke’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, but you said you’re leaving me again. Your credibility is shaky at the moment.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “The other day. When you were blowing off steam with your knives. You said you’re outta here, leaving me with nobody.”

  Lennon’s jaw grows rigid. “You’re right. I was blowing off steam, that’s all. I’ll…we’ll find a way for me to stay.” Lennon’s gaze slices to mine and back to the kid’s. “You might have to visit me in prison, though, so…” He grins, then grimaces, as if realizing what he said.

  “If you’re in prison, I’ll deal. If you leave me…” An intense expression of betrayal, mistrust, and deep wounds crosses the teen’s face.

  “I won’t leave. I promise. I’ll find a way to stay in this small town.” Lennon starts chewing his lip. He runs a hand through his hair, making the coppery strands stick up every which way. “We’ll make it a landing spot between adventures, how does that sound?”

  “Promise?”

  “With all my heart, what little I have,” Lennon says.

  “I’m going to hold you to it, Uncle L,” Hawke says, suddenly enthusiastic, proffering his fist for a bump.

  I’m feeling pretty awkward as I witness this private exchange, wishing I could slip outside. “Where do you keep your tools?”

  They both turn and look at me, appearing surprised I’m still in the room.

  “What?” Lennon says.

  “Tools. For tearing down the wall.” I get to my feet and saunter toward them. “If we’re a team, we’d better get to work. Don’t think you want to navigate the hills in the dark, do you?”

  “Not on our bikes, no,” Hawke says. “As a hawk, no problem.”

  “Well…” I put my palms up, indicating the job ahead of us.

  “Right,” Lennon says. “Here, kid,” he says, fishing his keys free. “Get my tool box from the cargo hold in the back of the truck. Get the sledgehammer and the circular saw, too.”

  Hawke’s gaze once more slides between Lennon and me. “Okay,” he says. His mouth presses together as he strides away from us.

  I watch the kid walk away. “You two are pretty close, huh?”

  “Extremely. I’ve sort of helped raise him. His dad was a real dickwad asshat.”

  “No longer in the picture?” I say.

  “Nope. Gone,” Lennon says, his face becoming a blank mask. “I’d rather not talk about that. I’d rather get back to what we started.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, my face heating up.

  “You know. That was some kiss.”

  “You’re being kind. You probably have kisses like that with everyone.”

  “Not with anyone. It’s why I’ve been trying to avoid you since I met you.”

  My eyes narrow. “I don’t believe you. This must be a ploy.”

  “It’s no ploy, Mercedes, I assure you. I’ve…”

  Our conversation gets interrupted by the heavy footsteps of Lennon’s nephew.

  “Can’t find the sledgehammer, Uncle. It’s not in the cargo bin.”

  “It’s not? Let’s look in the garage, then.” He follows Hawke outside, leaving me with a whole bunch of mystery to sort.

  What does he mean, that was some kiss? Was it as good for him as it was for me? And to say it’s not a ploy? I shake my head. I’ve never had a real relationship. Only my one-night-stand sport fucks, then it’s back to hanging out, joking with one another, while I watch the guy make googly eyes at some new girl. I do not want to be some guy’s sloppy seconds while he’s pining for the dead girl he’ll never have. Hence, when he and Hawke return with the tools, my armor’s in place and I’m well-fortified against vulnerability.

  “Okay,” Lennon says, smiling warmly at me as he places his tools on the floor. Apparently noticing my frost-freeze, he looks at me questioningly.

  I shrug and give him my most convincing “no big deal, I’ve got this” look.

  He squints at me for a second, then, he shakes his head.

  Busted. He can see right through me.

  He turns to face the wall. “Who’s ready to excavate the dead guy?”

  “Yeah, Mercedes, ready?” Hawke beams at me, looking as if he and his uncle bonded again outside in the rain.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” For the excavation, I think, not for fooling around with Lennon Lusk.

  Lennon looks at the wall, his mind appearing to churn with plans and schema.

  Hawke and I wait for instruction, hands on our hips.

  “Okay,” Lennon says. “We don’t want the skeleton to fall out and shatter. I say we cut a large rectangle like so.” He spreads his arms about three feet wide. “Then, one of you steadies the wall while the other taps with the hammer from the bottom. We’ll force it to fall forward. Get my rubber hammer from the toolbox, Hawke. I’m thinking the sledgehammer is too much muscle.”

  “I’m on it,” says the kid, dropping to a squat in front of the sturdy plastic box.

  “What will you do?” I ask.

  “I’ll place my hands next to whoever’s holding
the wall, to help guide the plasterboard free. Everyone ready? Oh, and get the jigsaw, too, Hawke. This big saw won’t fit against the floorboard.”

  “Roger that,” Hawke says.

  Clearly, he and his uncle have done projects before, they work so seamlessly together. I’m like the third wheel in a triangle that’s cozy on one angle, misshapen on the other.

  “Okay,” he says again. “Here goes.” When he pushes the blade into the wall, the blue-green light disappears, like someone flipped a switch. “What happened?”

  “Beats me.” I drop to a crouch and peer into the hole. The hair on my head stands out in icy prickles. “Oh, fuck me hard, this is creepy.”

  Lennon smirks, like he’s been thinking that very thing—the fuck me part.

  “What?” says Hawke, pushing me aside to get a look. “Oh, hell, Uncle. The skeleton has moved away from the wall. It’s like…it’s…he’s…he’s pushed himself back to let us set him free. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Muffin immediately takes a claw to Hawke’s leg, swiping at his pants.

  “What the hell, cat?” Hawke says.

  “I think he’s telling you it’s a very good idea and to keep your opinions to yourself,” I say.

  “No way.”

  “Where are your balls, kid? They’ve dropped, right? We can do this,” Lennon says, although his expression is less than confident. He squares his shoulders, lifts the saw and says, “Here goes.” With expertise, he slices through the material, making two parallel lines, about three feet apart. The blade hums through the boards like a knife to butter, sawdust spraying everywhere.

  When he’s satisfied, he sets the saw on the floor. “Now get the hammer,” he says to Hawke. “You on the wall,” he says to me. “I’m going to cut the bottom. Then I’ll finish at the top.” He eyes the wall, thoughtfully. “We sure don’t want this to fall in on the bones. Grab a couple shims from the box, kid.”

  “Got it,” says Hawke.

  He works the shims into the parallel cuts at the top. “You hold these in position, Mercedes. I think they’ll keep the wood from falling on Mr. Bones.”