Lord Sheelbeth studied him. “Beel, I have to trust you, have to know you will do the right thing this time.” She leaned down, staring into him with her one intense eye. “Before I send you into her, I have to be sure you know who you are.”

  She laid a hand on Beel’s chest. “I have to be sure,” she whispered and pushed her cold, hard, fingers into his flesh, shoving her hand into his brittle ribs, snapping right through them.

  Beel wailed and clawed at her arm, but her flesh was like stone. She didn’t relent, pushing her hand further inside, gripping Beel’s heart and tearing it from his chest.

  Beel screamed and toppled over.

  Lord Sheelbeth held the charred organ out for the shedim to see.

  “Your heart, it is dead.” She began to squeeze the heart. Pain racked Beel’s body. He writhed amongst the ash, clutching his chest.

  “Now … tell me your name. Tell me what you are.”

  “Please,” Beel begged, his voice tearing his throat. “Please, stop!”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Beel,” he sobbed. “The shedim … the soul thief!”

  She smiled. “And who do you serve?”

  “I serve you, Lord Sheelbeth. Only you.”

  She released her grip on the heart, began floating around him, moving in straight lines, her long curled toenails dragging in the ash, each line connecting until she had formed a star with Beel at its center.

  She began to chant, the words echoing up the chamber. The worms, the ones in her belly, responded with their song, her voice and theirs forming a chorus. She kissed Beel’s heart and it swelled, fleshed, quivered, then began to pump right there in her hand, black blood trickling from the severed arteries. She dribbled the blood, his blood, upon each point of the star.

  “God has no place for you on his earth … but I do. I am your only ally. Follow me, Beel, and I will see to it they, none of them, ever bring you harm again.” She smiled at him, it was beautiful and it was terrible. “Are you ready to redeem yourself?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No more birds?”

  “Never again.”

  “Swear your allegiance.”

  “I swear.”

  She studied him, his supplication seeming to please her. A brief glow sparked deep within her eye. “Good, then it is done.” She squatted, presenting the beating heart. “Here.” She shoved the organ back into his chest.

  The pain was sharp, but brief, then Beel felt its pulse, the blood coursing through his veins, and slowly his form regained its flesh. The pain subsided. He blinked and felt wetness on his cheeks; he was crying.

  “We wait,” Lord Sheelbeth said. “The girl hears my music. She cannot resist for long. She will return for the ring, and when she does, she will be yours to take.”

  * * *

  It’s me, Richard.

  I found the bench, the one in Marion Square, in downtown Charleston, South Carolina. The very bench that I’d first shared a Mountain Dew with Becky, my then soon-to-be wife. That was thirty-one years ago. Forever and yet … only yesterday.

  I was heading south on 17, on my way to Atlanta after a brief stay in Jacksonville, then saw the signs, and … well, ended up on that bench.

  I’ll say this, Charleston, with its palmetto-lined streets and historic homes, is most certainly a charming city. I don’t think anyone would argue with me on that. But that’s not why I was there. Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure why I was there. Maybe it was because all my best memories happened there. I was nineteen when I first arrived and on my own for the first time, met and fell in love—true love—also for the first time. And photography … how I lived and breathed it. It was the bee’s knees, let me tell you. I was so full of passion and possibilities. Just sure I’d be the next Ansel Adams or Man Ray. Because at that age, I could be anything, life could take me anywhere.

  So maybe that was it, I was just hoping to stir up a few old feelings, that was all. Some trace of lost passions for me to hold on to for a while. And why not? Everything was almost just as had been, the park, the old buildings, the campus, the smell of the ocean and marsh. I should’ve been brimming with nostalgia, energized by all these memories … the good and bad.

  But I wasn’t.

  If there were ghosts there, they were hiding from me. If anything, this place just compounded the weight, the smothering sense that I’d died and was still walking the earth, little more than a husk of my former self. Just one more reminder of how dead the world was to me. Lord, that sounds melodramatic, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t true. So, I guess that whole trip was almost a waste, because I’m telling you … you can’t go back … no matter how bad you want to.

  So what next? I knew what. I knew exactly what.

  A young woman walked past; I barely noticed her, too busy stewing in my own pity pot, probably wouldn’t have noticed her at all, but something fell out of her hand, clattered along the walkway. It was the cassette she was trying to put into her Walkman.

  She stopped, bent to scoop it up, and I thought I was seeing my wife, the Becky I’d met all those years ago in that very park. It was her hair—dark and curly, and piled on top of her head in a kind of poodle hairdo, just like my wife used to wear it back in ’56. But it was more than that, she was also wearing a sleeveless, pink plaid summer dress in a classic fifties’ cut. I swear my wife had that same dress. The only thing out of place was her large red triangle earrings.

  Perhaps she was one of those new wavers, or maybe she just liked vintage clothes—either way it all played into the illusion, the time warp.

  I caught sight of her face then, and the spell was complete—moon pale, so out of place there in that sun-kissed city, again, like my wife. But it was her eyes, they were the chef’s kiss, pale blue and with hardly any makeup, giving her a lost fay look. It was as though I’d stepped back in time, and for one blissful moment I remembered what it felt to be young and in love and to have my whole life ahead of me.

  But she wasn’t my wife … her face too wide, half a head shorter, much thinner. A strange thought struck me—she could pass for our daughter, the one I never had. She was about the right age. I stared at her, surprised to find a wave of paternal feelings flowing through me as I suddenly wanted to know her, to take her to lunch, ask how school was going, to give her some advice, to be there for her.

  Becky and I had never had children. We had tried, but it hadn’t worked out. Which was too bad, because if we had, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be the way I am now.

  She left the park without so much as a glance my way and entered the adjoining library. My pulse raced. I’d like to say I wondered why, but I knew exactly why: Is there any crime more heinous than a parent, a father, murdering their own child? I felt a chill, not of dread, but of pure adrenaline, horrified at the thought. Truly, because if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have been so excited. I tried to push her from my mind. Honest, I swear it, but the more I tried not to think of her, the more I did. The wrongness of it. The evil. I knew she wasn’t my daughter. It didn’t matter, the thought, the fantasy had been planted.

  I should add a footnote to this whole evil thing. Everyone has wicked desires. That doesn’t make them evil. You’re only evil if you act on those desires. Do you follow me? Coveting your neighbor’s wife doesn’t make you evil, no matter what the Bible says. Diddling your neighbor’s wife because you covet her, on the other hand, that’s evil.

  I needed to be evil.

  I followed her into the library, spotting her at a table near the back, watched her slip a couple of notebooks out of her backpack. I slowly made my way toward her, poking about in one aisle or another until I was behind her. She was leafing through a notebook, tapping her lips with her pen. I walked by, passing just behind her. She was slight, just a waif of a girl … an ideal candidate, as I tended to avoid women who looked like they could put up a real fight, avoid anyone I couldn’t pick up and shove into my van, really. Which pretty much leaves young women and children. Hadn’t murdered a child, not yet, not sure if I could. But two years ago, I would’ve told you I couldn’t hurt anybody. So never say never, right?

  I stood behind a row of books, flipping through them so I could watch her, waiting, tasting her. She appeared happy, doodling away with the slightest smile on her lips, her eyes dreamy. I wondered if she was in love.

  She left the table, heading down an aisle; when she did, I slipped up and flipped open the front page of her notebook, found her name—it was Alice Brooks.

  I waited a minute and followed Alice, began perusing the shelves; we had the aisle to ourselves. She gave me half a glance, hardly seemed to see me. That was no surprise, as one of the reasons I was able to get away with murder time after time, was that I was just so unremarkable, so gosh dern ordinary in every way as to be all but invisible. Part of it was my age—let’s face it, when you hit fifty no one’s checking out how your rump looks. I also dressed plain, that I did on purpose, but I was neither overweight nor skinny, not tall, not short, not bald. My hair was thinning, with just a touch of gray, nothing notable, just good old, all-around, everyday generic, middle-aged white guy.

  There was a little more to it. Evidently, I didn’t seem to set off any creep-alarms; women and kids never minded getting into an elevator alone with me. When people did notice me—usually only when I was in direct contact with them, like a grocery cashier or bank clerk—they tended to give me a distracted smile, as though looking through me. Just another aging man on his way out to pasture.

  Alice tugged out a book and began thumbing through. I acted as though I was searching for my own book, tapping titles, moving closer until finally I stood behind her. I pulled out a book, pretended to be reading while I cautiously peered round at her. But there was no need for such charades, she was engrossed in what looked to be an architectural photo journal. Did this young woman, this girl really—she couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen—have hopes of becoming an architect? Was she right that minute dreaming of making her mark on the world with her cutting-edge designs, hopes of a grand office building or stately museum in her future?

  I took the opportunity to lean closer, noticing how small and delicate her hands were. I could just make out the fuzz on the nape of her neck, could smell the scent of her bath soap. My heart sped up. That, I have to say, was the cat’s pajamas: me, her very worst nightmare, me, unbearable pain and torment, literally breathing down her neck and her not having a clue. It was the bee’s knees, I tell you. And I did that to most of my potentials, getting as close as I could, sometimes stalking them for days, tasting them, seeing how they make me feel. Sometimes, most times, it wasn’t right, as usually they did or said something that made me dislike them, sometimes despise them. Once I dislike them, it was no good, it was over. No, I had to like them, to feel they were decent human beings, to care about them in some way. Otherwise, it’s just murder. But if they were wonderful, if they were a little gift to this world, if I was sure I’d be snuffing out a truly bright flower … that’s when I knew I had the right one. That’s when I knew what I was about to do was truly evil, that it would bring me to my knees, break my heart … make me feel alive.

  My hands trembled. No, I thought as a wave of horror rushed over me. Not this one. Please, spare this one. My heart was drumming so loud now, I felt she might hear and that was when I knew.

  I put my book back and moved on, leaving her there with her dreams of a wonderful future.

  I headed outside, the day was waning, cooling down a touch. I returned to my bench, the one where I’d met my wife, and waited for the young woman—the one who could be my daughter—to leave the library.

  “Alice,” I whispered, as the adrenaline pulsed through my whole body.

  RING

  Ruby caught a whiff of rot and spice, sniffed her shirt; the smell was all over her. She blinked, steadied herself, realized she was going the wrong way and stopped. She was trying to get home from Mr. Rosenfeld’s. She knew the way, it was only a few blocks. “Get it together,” she said, trying to stay focused, but her mind kept drifting back to that ring, to that beautiful song and how wonderful it had made her feel, how badly she wanted to hear it again.

  She found her street, then her house, and headed up the drive, her head finally starting to clear. She passed her mother’s car and the truck, then tripped over something, slapping against the side of the truck to catch herself.

  There came a loud cry from beneath the truck and out rolled her mom’s boyfriend, Eduardo, a smear of grease across his cheek.

  “Watch it!” he barked. He was holding a wrench, looking ready to bash her with it.

  “Shit, Eduardo, what the hell are you doing with your legs sticking out where folks are supposed to walk?”

  “Get your paws off my truck!”

  Ruby backed away with her hands up. “Okay, man! Geesh, don’t have a duck. Didn’t hurt your Precious.”

  He jumped up and examined the truck, searching for a scratch. He licked his fingers, then dabbed her handprint, buffing it out with the bottom of his T-shirt.

  Eduardo had bought the truck about a year ago—a shiny black Chevy Silverado 4x4, with big mud tires. He’d installed the obligatory glasspacks, CB radio, and gun rack. There was a plastic crucifix hanging from the rearview because, as Eduardo put it, he liked to ride with Jesus.

  “See,” she said. “Precious is fine. No harm done.”

  He stepped forward, leaning in on her. Eduardo was tall, hefty through the chest and trunk, with shoulder-length black hair combed back from his forehead. He had a full beard with just a speck of gray in it. His size was intimidating enough, but it was his dark, intense eyes that Ruby found the most unsettling, the way they bore into you. “You missed church again.”

  She shrugged. “Had to help out Mr. Rosenfeld.”

  “Don’t look so good, you skipping out. Attending Sunday classes is part of your probation.”

  It wasn’t, not exactly anyway. She’d agreed to it as part of her staying with her mom. But it was more Eduardo’s idea than her mom’s, certainly nothing to do with her probation.

  “Church is important, Ruby.”

  Ruby struggled not to roll her eyes; she didn’t want this to turn into one of his sermons. “Yeah, I know. Can’t ever have too much Jesus. Right?”

  “Don’t do that, don’t try and make me out to be some kinda Jesus nut. You need compassion and support, folks to keep you on the straight and narrow, and there’s no finer folks than those down at First Baptist.” He seemed to think on that a moment before adding, “And Ruby, having Jesus in your heart sure don’t hurt. This is coming from personal experience, as you know.”

  Oh, she knew alright, and was hoping to Jesus right now that she wouldn’t have to hear, one more time, how the Good Lord had turned his life around. Eduardo had a long history with the drink, culminating in a felony DUI that resulted in a Daleville mother being crippled for life. But Eduardo didn’t have to live with that guilt, because Eduardo had been reborn, so Jesus had all his guilt now. Ruby thought how nice, how truly wonderful it must be to not have to hold yourself accountable for being a total shit.

  But Ruby didn’t want to think about any of that right now. She wanted to get to her room and lie down; her head felt weird. So, she just nodded agreeably and started away. She made it half a step, then stumbled, would’ve fallen, but Eduardo caught her arm, steadying her.

  He looked hard into her eyes. “Are you stoned?”

  “What? No!”

  He sniffed her then, actually sniffed her.

  Ruby jerked her arm away. “What the hell, Eduardo? God, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Is that marijuana I smell?”

  “No! Fuck, you really think I’m stupid enough to smoke dope when I got a pee test in a couple of days? It’s just from some old moldy stuff I was helping Mr. Rosenfeld with.” She could see he didn’t believe her.

  “I’m serious, Ruby. I promised that judge I’d keep an eye on you. Told him I’d see to it you stayed away from dope.” He seemed to be waiting for something from her, a thank-you maybe, she didn’t know. “And another thing, I’m not about to be letting you bring drugs into this house. Not with Hugo living there. We clear on that?”

  Ruby fought back a snort. Hugo was his thirteen-year-old son; the son he’d had out of wedlock with some woman he’d met in a bar. Ruby knew for a fact that Hugo smoked pot with his pals whenever they could score a bag.

  “Okay, Eduardo. This has been swell, but I’m going in now.” She headed away.

  “Your mother’s sleeping,” he called after her. “She’s working the late shift again tonight. So, keep it down.”

  Ruby slipped into the house, careful not to let the screen door slam behind her, and headed downstairs. The basement was half-finished, one side a workshop full of her dad’s old tools, the other her bedroom with a small bathroom attached. Ruby had moved down here after her dad had died. Forever it had been her refuge, but that ended about a year ago, when Eduardo and his son moved in upstairs; it felt more like a prison now.

  Ruby entered her room, steadying herself against her dresser, her head swimming. She thought she heard that strange singing again, beautiful and mournful. She shivered, tried to shake it off. She wanted a shower, wanted to wash that weird smell off her, wanted to wash away the whole experience. She tugged her shirt over her head, unbuttoned her jeans, slid them down to her knees, when all of a sudden there came a flash of bright light.

  “What?” she cried, startled, then heard a loud snort.

  Hugo was standing just outside her door, his Polaroid in hand, a sleazy smile on his face. He was like a little pudgy version of his dad, same shoulder-length black hair, no beard of course, but those same dark intense eyes. He tugged the photo out of the camera and waved it at her. “Gotcha!”

  “Motherfucker!” She jumped for him, forgetting her pants were around her ankles, and went sprawling as he dashed away up the stairs, laughing.

  Ruby didn’t even bother to find her shirt, just pulled up her jeans and took off after him in her bra.

 

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