This case had too many unanswered questions. I decided it was time to talk to Thomas without Chloe. That meant I was going to have to drive to his place. I assumed he lived in an apartment owned by the housing authority on the north end of town. There is nothing I enjoy more than heading into a poor African American neighborhood dressed like a lawyer. A white guy wearing a suit in a ghetto sticks out like a dark-skinned guy at a Klan meeting. I suspected I would be equally welcome.
That is why I was surprised, when I looked up his address, to find he lived in the country. I wondered why that fact had not struck me as odd when I first wrote down the address. Apparently Thomas lived somewhere between Urbana and Saint Joseph.
I drove past High Cross road, took Route 150 east, then turned left and traveled for about ten minutes. The sky was already dark from the recent rain, but it was getting darker as the sun went down. I hoped I would get there before it was pitch black. I turned right and followed the road for another ten miles until I arrived at the crossing of the two county roads Thomas had given me as his address. I saw a house maybe 100 yards from the road at the top of a small hill. It looked abandoned.
The house was brick and seemed to be one story but, given the tall arch of the roof, it could well have been two. The roof was made of sheets of tin, soldered together. On the front of the dwelling were two windows with limestone hangings underneath. The property was surrounded by a cast-iron fence of gothic design with sharp spikes atop each arch. The fence must have been a hundred years old.
The land was surrounded on three sides by corn fields. The house itself was on an island of about two acres of grass and weeds that had obviously not been cut this season. The lawn was brown and about as tall as the corn, with taller green weeds every ten feet or so. In front was some sort of overgrown shrubbery covered by leafy vines. It had only one tree, which was dead and looked as though it had been set on fire or struck by lightning in the past, since its trunk was black and burned. I wondered if it was infested with bugs or home to small animals.
I pulled my car to the side of the gravel road, leaving it in the mud, and cautiously walked toward the house. There was no driveway, and the path up the hill to the house was overgrown. The sun was starting to set—a deep orange, pink and purple. This place gave me the creeps, and I wanted to get moving so I would be gone before the sky was completely black.
I was walking quickly when a loud noise made me jump. I hadn’t realized how tense I was. The source of the sound was an enormous black crow standing on the roof of the house. The crow seemed to have bright green eyes, but that must have been an illusion created by the setting sun. It held the remains of a dead animal in its yellow beak; the long strand of red meat was hanging half in and half out. The bird was more interested in me than finishing its dinner.
As I neared the house I saw the ruins of a small wooden porch covered by foliage. Blades of grass grew between the ancient boards. The screen door, half ripped from its hinges, reminded me of The Wizard of Oz. The front door of the house looked to be as old as the boards of the porch. The large brass knocker at its center was green with age; it was decorated with the face of a demon who gave me a baleful stare. More disturbing than the knocker, however, was a red cross painted in what might be blood just below it. I thought of the story of Exodus and wondered if the Angel of Death would pass over this house or stop to hang out with his friends.
Although I knocked, I did not expect an answer; the house was clearly abandoned. I pushed against the door, which swung open with a rusty sound. Ten feet in front of me stood Thomas, pointing an old double-barrel shotgun directly at me. His eyes stared, unblinking. Sweat poured down his face. His skin was covered in strange, tribal-looking designs drawn in red paint. A cobra had been branded on his muscular chest; the mark was raised and inflamed as though recently inflicted. He wore cut-off jean shorts and nothing else.
“What the fuck do you want?” Thomas yelled.
“Give me a break! You should be pleased to see me. How many lawyers do you know who make house calls?” I yelled back.
He stared at me blankly; clearly this situation did not call for humor.
“If you stay here you gonna die.”
He had not meant the statement as a threat. He didn’t look as if he wanted to do the killing; rather, he was warning me this place wasn’t safe. I believed him. I stepped in and closed the door. I wasn’t going to turn my back on a gun. If I was going to die, I wanted to see it coming.
The room was larger than I thought it would be, maybe thirty feet by forty. I could see an open door leading to the kitchen and another door that was closed. The plastered white walls were marred by large holes every ten feet or so; through them I could see a series of boards. This house had been built long before simple frames and dry wall. The floor was pine, with wide boards in long strips. There had once been another floor, but now I could see up to the roof through the rafters. Patches of what used to be a floor were visible above us. The crumbling frame of the stairs to the second level was partially attached to the back wall. Through a broken window I could see out to the backyard. The top of three crumbling white tombstones peeked above the unkempt grass. The light of the setting sun glowed red upon them, making the markers appear to drip with blood.
The house reeked with the metallic odor of blood mixed with urine, sweat and rotten meat. I fought back the urge to vomit. From the rafters I could see the hanging carcass of a headless goat. Below it was a large copper cauldron to catch the blood. The contents of the cauldron were moving, and I involuntarily shuddered when I realized the small ripples were caused by maggots. The head of the goat was gone and a large butcher’s saw lay on the floor. Mercifully the entrails of the goat had also been removed. Everywhere I heard the soft hum of flies.
Hanging on the back wall was an African mask. It looked ancient. It was carved from a single piece of dark black wood. The face was half animal, half human. On either side of the mask two large wooden snakes were crawling. A slit had been cut in the wood for each eye and another for the mouth. The wood was dull and covered with a thin layer of dirt. The teeth in the visage were sharp and pointed. It lacked the friendly decorative look one finds at the local Pier One Imports. This mask was intended solely for ceremonial use.
In the far corner nearest the kitchen door stood a statue of The Virgin Mary. It was white plaster, the type one would expect to find as a lawn ornament in Mexico City. Next to the statue was a porcelain dinner plate containing a bloody piece of meat. I guessed it was the heart of a small animal, but I wasn’t going to get close enough to check. The entire room was bordered by candles, which provided the only light other than from the windows.
Blood was everywhere. Footprints painted the floor with various shades of red. Some were small enough to have been made by a child; others might have belonged to Thomas. It looked as though twenty people had been dancing in a large circle.
The only furniture was three plain wooden chairs, one of which was broken, and a small table with a dirty towel for a tablecloth. On the table were a crucifix, a few old square-cut nails and a wooden bowl half-filled with shotgun shells.
“You don’t have a bathroom by any chance?” I asked, breaking the awkward silence.
“No,” he said, putting the shotgun down. He must have noted the relief on my face.
“You know, it’s illegal to own a gun with a felony conviction,” I said.
“That is the least of my problems,” he said. “My dumb ass lawyer already killed me, so what do I care about anything else?”
“Anyone I know?”
“Why don’t you get the fuck out of here so I can talk to my ancestors before I get to see them firsthand?”
“What did I do?”
“You talked to me without Chloe. I’m nothing alone, I live only to serve her. I took a blood oath that covers my family, my daughter, my girlfriend. They are all dead now.”
I tried to change the subject, “I got the lab tests back.”
“So?”
“You were selling cocaine, but it was cooked with something else.”
He went through a door and returned with two bottles of cold beer. He must have had a cooler; I was sure this house didn’t have electricity. I took a beer, even though the thought of ingesting anything from this house made my skin crawl. I tried not to laugh when I noticed it was a Dixie Blackened Voodoo Lager.
“The chemist in Springfield can’t identify the substance,” I said.
“Then talk to the chefs,” he said, “but they are people you don’t want to fuck with.”
“It’s Chloe, isn’t it? Why don’t you tell the police and make a deal?”
“You don’t have a clue as to how far out of your depth you are. Chloe is not human and not a chemist.”
“Well, maybe she can identify who the maker is?” I offered.
“There are worse things than jail. Some worse than death. I will find out soon and firsthand. I suspect, so will you,” he said, ignoring the question.
“The crack you were selling contained almost no cocaine, so maybe the State will go easy on you.”
“Do you think I care? Unlike you, I know who and what we are dealing with. That knowledge provides no comfort, only terror.” Thomas’s voice was trembling.
“Then tell me. Let me help.”
He handed me a leather pouch tied with a leather thong. It smelled of herbs and death. “This may keep you alive until you get to your car. Put it around your neck.”
I did as I was told. I had more questions, but when he picked up the shotgun again I could tell I was being dismissed. I put down my beer and got up. As I headed for my car, I knew I wouldn’t see Thomas again.
It was dark, and I fell twice getting to the car. When I finally slid into the front seat I shook with relief. I prayed the car would start, and luckily my prayer was answered. When I looked down I noticed my shaking hands were covered with blood. I must have cut myself on the weeds when I fell. I heard a loud screech and looked up to see a small brown owl with green eyes. It stood on my hood staring at me through the windshield. It had a dead mouse in its beak. It shook its head and the bloody rodent landed on my windshield. I honked the horn and it flew away.
On my way back I drove too fast for the country roads and ignored the stop signs. Until today the only other owl I’d seen in Champaign County was at the nature center in Urbana. I thought about Thomas and then I thought about looking for a new job.
When I got home I turned on all the lights in the house and headed for the bathroom to clean out the cut on my hand. I then sat on the couch and turned on the television, where an old episode of Gilligan’s Island was playing. By some miracle Gilligan saved the rest of the gang from some angry headhunters. I couldn’t help but notice that Ginger seemed particularly grateful. I wondered if Gilligan would get lucky after the cameras went away.
When I went to bed, I left the lights in my bedroom closet on. I was surprised how quickly sleep overtook me.