Patron Saint of Demons

Wendell Eriksson

Darkwater Bay isn’t the worst place I’ve ever lived. That distinction belongs to Attica Correctional Facility, followed closely of course, by the never-a-picnic Riker’s Island. Despite the clouds and rain that have returned to the city with belated vengeance as the seasons slid from summer to autumn, the landscape remains lush and verdant. Provided one can see it through the wispy gauze of earthly cloud cover.

Outside the boundaries of land fed by the Elegiac River, the landscape changes drastically. In fact this Knox County, where my ward Hedra Dearhart was rescued several months ago, looks very different from the city. It has nothing to do with the sparse population, either.

The ground lacks that fruitful quality that makes Darkwater Bay green on the ground and gray in the sky. I recalled with great clarity the slimy red clay that could’ve sucked Declan and I into one of many ravines.

The soil doesn’t promote growth of green grasses, but more the variety that always look slightly sunbaked, on the cusp of extinction even. It grows in wiry patches interspersed with hardier weeds that strangle their way to dominance.

Even the trees look sickly. Mind you, I’ve never been a huge fan of neighborhoods manicured to artificial perfection, but these trees bear more dead limbs than live ones, lending a rather ominous specter to those drawn here because of isolationist tendencies.

The misty rain only added to the horrific gloom of this place, where weeds and unwieldy grasses vie for sunlight from thickets of overgrown brush and gnarled forests.

I found myself in the unwelcome position of inhabitation of a cold and damp deer blind on one such dreary day. To my left sat Helen’s friend Devlin Mackenzie. Yes, he knows my identity, and no, he has not yet warmed to the notion that I’m a fugitive living somewhat freely under the protection of Helen’s powerful husband, also Devlin’s boss.

I allowed Helen the delusion that I would come along on this little hunting excursion to convince Devlin that I am not evil incarnate—though taking a man with the reputed killing instincts of Jersey Third Eye on a hunting trip seemed a bit odd to me. Yet here we are.

The good detective agreed because, I suspect, my lately adopted adult son Crevan was correct. Devlin Mackenzie would roll naked through molten glass and rusty scraps of metal if Helen but asked him to do so.

The struggle between love and morality is difficult for him to hide, particularly when he happens to hold Helen’s husband Johnny in such high esteem, but also because he knows she is quite content in her new marriage.

Either Devlin has become more adept at masking his emotions when Johnny is present, or Johnny finally feels secure enough in his relationship with my daughter that he no longer minds all of the men who gaze at her with that sexual kind of longing.

I, on the other hand, am not so generous. Nothing has stirred my protective (and possibly even slightly homicidal) instincts more than these lustful buffoons undressing her with their eyes. If I didn’t see love and adoration between Johnny and Helen, I doubt I’d feel any differently toward him than the rest of the miscreants panting after my girl.

She doesn’t see it. Helen looks in her mirror and sees a monster, one I fear I probably created somewhat unwittingly. So I sat in the deer blind with a crossbow in my lap, hoping that whatever thing she imagined would happen if she put her friend and her felon father in tight quarters for an extended period of time, will happen.

Mackenzie held out a bag of pretzels.

No thanks.

They’re unsalted, he said. You know, in case you avoid sodium at your—uh, never mind.

I chuckled. At my age. It’s all right, detective. I realize I’m at the age where men normally pay attention to such things. My genetic constitution does not dispose me to that particular ailment.

He frowned. I felt it as sure as if he’d punched me in the side of the head.

What? I asked.

Do you always talk like that, like you’re some kind of professor of linguistics?

I do not have a great love of the corruption of speaking well, Detective Mackenzie. Though I find it curious, to say the least, that of all my shortcomings as a human being, that’s the one you find offensive.

It’s not offensive, he muttered. It’s just kinda stuffy, you know. Two guys out hunting deer, and one of ‘em sounds like he could start reciting Hamlet is all. Just odd.

Not nearly as odd as finding myself out in the navel of nowhere with a man who’d probably rather put me in restraints and deliver me back to New York State where I belong.

He sighed. Yeah, I figured that was why Helen pushed so hard for me to bring you out here, but for the life of me, I can’t quite figure out why you agreed to it.

I shifted on the tiny canvas folding chair and peered at him intently. Truly, you don’t know? If she asked me to turn myself in, I’d do it. If she’d come to me in Attica and simply asked for information, I’d have given it to her. If I could’ve convinced her that the guilty burden she’s borne all these years over my incarceration was nothing more than nonsense, I’d have done that too. And I would be sitting in a cell, segregated from the general population for the rest of my days, quite content in the knowledge that Helen has a good life.

He dug into the bag of pretzels and shoved a handful of the miniature knots into his mouth. Crunching filled the awkward pause in conversation.

Finally, Mackenzie spoke. I get that part, Wendell, I really do. He shook his head for a moment and sighed again. There’s something about her that inspires that sort of loyalty, isn’t there? I don’t even think she realizes how many people would sacrifice even their most sacred morals if it meant protecting her, giving her what she wants.

Well, I said, it has been my distinct experience with Helen that what she wants isn’t necessarily what she should get. I’d like to blame it on some genetic flaw passed on by that beast who actually sired her, but I’m afraid the fault lies squarely on my shoulders.

I don’t know about that, he muttered. Or did you secretly have some great influence over Crevan during his childhood too?

I grinned. He is a tad impulsive, isn’t he?

They’re like bookends. Helen once told me that she felt like Crevan was the polar opposite of her—calm, thoughtful, considerate, a man who weighed the consequences before acting. She said she was all passion and fury.

It is rather fascinating, noting how similar they truly are, though, isn’t it? I asked. To think they’ve only known one another for a little over a year…

So what do you think Helen expected to happen today? Mackenzie asked. Some great budding friendship?

I suppose that would be delusional at best. Listen, detective, I completely understand how you feel about me being out here, being a free man and all but—

I know a lot about the case against you, he said. Your prints weren’t on the money from that last heist. Marie was driving the car. The evidence at the scene would’ve supported an accident if not for the take from the robbery. You could’ve pretended ignorance.

And for a fraction of a second, I considered it. There were plenty of guys at the precinct who would’ve vouchsafed my whereabouts for the evening. I could’ve simply claimed that Marie picked me up from the bar or a poker game.

Why didn’t you? he asked.

Because the police were going to dig. It had been suspected for some time that this bandit, aptly named Jersey Third Eye, had an accomplice no one had ever seen.

I thought the crimes took place in New York, he said. I never found any indication how that nickname was born.

I chuckled softly. A witness of all things… I was actually in the observation room with our sergeant and one of the detectives working the robberies. The witness identified Marie as a man built like a Jersey cow. Small legs, big body.

Mackenzie grinned. You’re kidding.

"Nope. Of course all of the witnesses said she seemed to have eyes in the back of her head, which was where the third eye came from, but in truth, I was the one watching her back. After that accident, it was easily deduced who the third eye in the equation really was. I couldn’t put Helen through what would’ve happened had I challenged the charges or mounted an adequate defense."

But you pled not guilty, Devlin said.

Indeed. I didn’t plan that heist, nor did I take the money. I most certainly did not kill the guards carrying Marie’s loot that night. So in a very technical sense, I was not guilty of that crime.

He nodded. She planned that one on her own.

Yes, and look how it ended, I said softly. It had been more than a year since I’d helped her with that little side business of hers. She threatened to tell Helen the truth if I didn’t get back to work, toe the line with her lunacy, you see. I refused to plan the job. She did it herself, and then informed me, as we sped away from the scene of her very last crime, that she planned to kill me, since I’d proved to her that I was no longer necessary. She swerved the car—my side of it—toward the railing on the bridge. Things didn’t go quite as either one of us hoped from that moment forward.

You might’ve told Helen the truth then, he said. I’d imagine she felt very alone and isolated after she lost you.

You don’t have children, do you, detective?

He smiled thinly. Never met a woman I wanted to settle down with. Now I’m too old.

I laughed. You must be about Johnny’s age. That’s hardly too old for fatherhood, detective.

Perhaps, but then a woman is still required.

He refocused his attention on his own crossbow and peered through the slats on the blind. Starting to snow a little. Light, but maybe it’ll draw some game out here. I’d hate to think I wasted seventy-five hundred bucks on a parcel of land that’s useless even for hunting.

I noticed the house and shed were gone, I said. Hedra still has nightmares about this place. I guess my agreement to Helen’s request that I accompany you was rooted in a bit of curiosity too.

Is Heddy having special dreams again?

Ah, I shook my head. Run of the mill PTSD nightmares, I suspect. She wakes in a cold sweat after screaming herself hoarse, and I all can get out of her is that this place is evil.

The old Fangshorn property?

I shrugged. I assume. You weren’t here that day when Declan Dennison and I found her, detective.

For God’s sake, call me Devlin already, or Dev. Everyone else does.

She was a fraction, less than a hairsbreadth away from complete emotional shutdown. I’ve encountered some very paranoid and traumatized victims in my day, but Hedra…for someone so young to be that terrified, well, it had an impact.

Mackenzie hissed and aimed his crossbow through the slats. A second later, the whoosh-thunk of release echoed in the small room.

Dammit!

My eyes were riveted on the magnificent doe, staring warily at the blind when the arrow pierced her left flank. Even from forty yards away, her grunting snort was audible. The shot didn’t fell her, but it certainly slowed her down.

Devlin continued cursing as he scrambled out of the blind. I followed, my bow slung over my shoulder. The light dusting of snow would certainly make it easier for us to track the poor creature and put her out of her misery.

We trudged through thickets of things that might well be poisonous during the growing season. Fortunately, the hunting attire we wore prevented any contact with bare skin that might still be affected by oily residue on dried leaves.

I could hear her snorting and braying in the distance. A loud woof seemed indicative to me of a couple of scenarios. Either it’s taking more effort for her to move at this point, or she’s finally fallen, I said.

Devlin merely offered up a human grunt of his own—in disgust no doubt. It had to hurt his hunter’s pride to miss a shot like he had at what I’ve been told is practically point blank range with a crossbow.

A moment later, I observed the cause of his irritation. Posted to multiple trees along the path our prey had taken were numerous No Trespassing warnings. I couldn’t suppress my grin. I highly doubt that there are many enforceable laws or punishments that should deter us from gathering the spoils of your hunt, Devlin.

Sure enough, the doe was about forty yards on the opposite side of a rather sturdily constructed fence, bent to her front knees, frothing and barking in her misery. She managed to rise and take half a dozen wobbly steps forward while I concentrated on finding a likely means of traversing the fence to follow.

Mackenzie’s eyes darted around, some familiar dread entering them when I glanced at him to reiterate my justification for ignoring the warning posted right under my nose. Devlin, please don’t lecture me on the legalities of jumping a fence, particularly not when an animal is suffering and in need of a compassionate—

Jesus! Devlin yelled. I didn’t know why until a moment later when the air split with a crack and blood and guts rained down just beyond where we stood.

The concussion knocked me to the ground, and Devlin grabbed me under both arms and dragged me away from the fence.

What the hell just happened?

Christ! he hissed.

Dammit, man! What the devil happened? My eyes darted back to the clearing beyond. The poor doe lay in pieces, her suffering abruptly ended. But how?

"I…I’m really not…hell!" He rubbed his eyes, blinked rapidly and shook his head.

I scrambled to my feet, but before I could head back to the fence, Mackenzie gripped my shoulder. "No, Wendell! No!"

Why the hell not? What just happened?

It’ can’t be. It just…that didn’t just happen.

I dug my index finger into one ear and twisted. Damned blast left me little more auditory sense than muffled sound and exaggerated bells. What?

He grabbed my arm and steered me back away from the fence, far away from it, as a matter of fact.

In all the excitement, I didn’t notice that the detective had abandoned his crossbow at the fence. I watched him move carefully, like he was trying to trace the exact path we’d taken to get there. Once he had the crossbow in hand, he gingerly followed the same trail back to me.

Are you planning to explain any of this? I asked.

You never served in the military, did you?

I shook my head. My number didn’t get drawn for Vietnam, I said. Why?

That poor animal tripped…hell, I can’t believe what I just saw.

Clearly, since you’ve not been able to sufficiently articulate it to me, I grouched. Spit it out, man. Or are you having some sort of military flashback?

He glared. No. C’mon. We’d better get out of here before whoever set that little trap comes to investigate. I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling overly confident about defending myself with a crossbow against people who plant Bouncing Bettys to enforce trespassing laws.

Bouncing what?

Bounders, Devlin said, and then clarified, You know, M16’s?

I frowned. Someone is hunting deer with assault rifles?

"Mines, Wendell. M16 land mines. Bounders. The mine has an above-ground trigger. It’s ejected from the ground by an initial pyrotechnic device about two meters before the second pyrotechnic detonates the shrapnel. Christ, if we’d been just a few meters closer…"

The frown deepened. We’d be dead, I said.

Exactly. Somebody takes their no trespassing signs seriously.