Mona Livelong Page 8

  Junebug opened the double doors to his balcony and stepped outside to think. If Julia’s man knew she was cheating, she’d have to deal with him.

  I ain’t ‘bout to get between a man and his wife ... Unless he puts his hands on her.

  He knew he’d been invited to join Mona’s quest. He’d plucked this from her mind. But he didn’t like Mona’s becoming a bird. She’d never done anything like that before. He liked being put to sleep even less. And the nothingness he’d felt … It was like being dead. Dead for real. Like being erased.

  Junebug remembered his life as a young man. He was one of twelve children. His parents had both been farmers down South. Neither one had put up a struggle when he decided to leave home at sixteen. They loved him, but times were hard, and poverty made men and women grow up fast. He knew how to gamble, how to pick cotton and had a way with the ladies, even at his young age. So, Larry “Junebug” Walker had struck out on his own.

  It sho’ was hard on black folks back then.

  He’d made his living working odd jobs, made more with his cards and dice. He was a ladies’ man, a fighter and quick to draw his switchblade. He’d seen things, terrible things, and he’d done his share of dirt too. He’d killed a white man in Quincy—cut his throat over a woman—and had to get out of town fast. Running from a lynch mob, Junebug had found his way to Monterrey.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t afraid anymore.

  He’d lived through segregation, through the worst white folks could do—and kept on fighting, even after his heart had ceased to beat, his lungs ceased to draw air. I ain’t never walked away from Mona when she was in need. I ain’t ‘bout to start now

  ___

  Chapter 15: The Hunt

  What was that all about? Does she know she’s being tailed? Curtis gave the stranger time to get back to his room before venturing into The Sojourner.

  After fifteen minutes, Curtis got out of his steam-auto, crossed the street and went inside. He kept an eye out for the stranger as he made his way to the desk clerk. A balding middle-aged white man stood behind a mahogany and brass counter, wearing a striped shirt with sleeve-holders and a vest. Behind him was a wall of keys.

  “Good afternoon,” Curtis greeted him, “My name is Curtis Dubois,” he handed the clerk a hand-cut card. “I’m a Private Investigator. I wonder if I could take a look at your guestbook?”

  The innkeeper eyed Curtis with suspicious watery blue eyes. “I keep my nose clean. I never had any problems with the

  “There’re no legal problems involved. I just wanna get a look at the guests that checked in today.” Curtis reached inside his breast pocket, pulled out two coins, and slid them across the counter.

  The innkeeper flashed a lecherous smile, picked the coins up and pocketed them. “A case of cheating, huh. You following a woman or a man?”

  Curtis smiled dryly. “I’m sorry, but that’s confidential.”

  The innkeeper’s smile vanished. “Yeah, well just keep my name out of it.”

  “Wi, no problem.”

  The inn-keep pulled a heavy book from under the counter, slapped it on the counter and flipped through the pages to the current date. He spread the book out. “This is today’s registry.”

  Curtis bent over the pages. He didn’t see Julia’s name, but that meant the man had probably registered under his own name. He’d have to be more creative if he wanted to pin Julia down. He pushed the book back to the innkeeper. “Thanks for your help.”

  As Curtis turned to leave, his name resonated with the inn-keep. Curtis Dubois. That woman left a post for him. He shrugged. No big deal. He’ll get it tomorrow.

  ——

  Curtis took a beer from his parents’ coldbox, went outside and sat on the porch. The night was balmy, with cool breezes, and the streetlights were on creating a relaxing ambiance. He had coins in his pocket from a well-to-do client, although Dr. Dearborn wouldn’t be too happy to hear his latest report. Curtis sipped his beer and pushed his anxiety away, basking in his good fortune.

  ——

  Mona stepped out onto the balcony. She felt better since she’d eaten, and she was excited too. A new journey was upon her, a new task given to her by the strange entity, Opal. One unlike anything she’d ever encountered. But Junebug, her dearest friend, had walked out on her. He’s never turned his back on me. Her next thought felt like a gut punch, painful and frightening. Maybe he’s tired of helping me. Maybe my turning into a bird was too much for him. But I don’t wanna do without him. I lost Mama and Daddy. I don’t wanna lose him too. Besides Mama Laconia and Curtis, he’s the only family I got left.

  Yet Curtis disappeared so often. It felt strange to admit that though she loved Curtis, she trusted Junebug to always be there when she needed him. What if he’s gone for good?

  _____

  Junebug stood on the balcony, letting the breezes caress his face. He didn’t know where his preternatural gifts had come from and had never tried to find out. Perhaps, he’d been gifted with them so that he could help Mona, the passionate strange young woman the Creator had placed in his path years ago. And it wasn’t just about her. The cases she took on impacted their world and the men and women who surrounded them. She cared about them, and so did he. They were her burden and his, so long as he continued his strange existence, hovering between life and death.

  Junebug shut his eyes, awakening his telepathic spirit. Mona was here—in this very inn! He felt ashamed over the way he’d treated her. He’d find her tomorrow and make amends— tell her he would help her, as he always had. There were names that he’d plucked from her mind. Opal … She ain’t human. She’s a Guardian ...

  Junebug stood for another long moment. Listening. He sent his spirit further, stretching it as far as it would go, searching until he found the one he sought.

  Richard Starks.

  _____

  Chapter 16: Figure and Ground

  Curtis’ mother, a plump dark-brown woman, handed him the morning post. “It came for you this morning.”

  “Mèsi mama.” He tore it open and read through it quickly. Relief flooded his body. Mona was in Monterrey and staying at The Sojourner. She was probably there last night!

  “Are you going to the demonstration?” Madeline’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Your father and I were thinking of going.”

  Curtis lifted his eyes from the letter. “Mama, you and Papa need to stay away. It’s not safe.”

  “You think we too old?” Madeline’s face tightened in anger. “That we don’t have a stake in what’s happening to our city, our nation? Mwen fin mennen batay ou pa ka imajine— things that happened before you were born.”

  “Manman, people are dying—Constables are killing them. I don’t know what might happen. Please manman, don’t go. Please ...”

  Her face softened. Manman was the word Curtis always used to tug at her heartstrings. “Alright cherie, if it means that much to you. Just this once I’ll let me tell you what to do. But you’ll have to convince your father.”

  Relieved, Curtis bent down and kissed her on the check. She can handle Papa. “I’ll talk to him now.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Wi, I’m working a case.” His case had nothing to do with the demonstration, but Curtis didn’t want to get her stirred up again.

  “You be careful. You hear me, cheri?

  “Wi manman, I will.”

  ——

  In the Constabulary locker room, Joel Sánchez, a heavyset thirtish man buttoned his uniform, shut his locker door, and walked over to the mirror. He took a comb from his back pocket and pulled it through his thick dark hair.

  In the glass he glimpsed another Constable, Pete Connell, a big man with a wide face. For the last two days, Connell had been unusually quiet and withdrawn. Normally you can’t get him to shut up.

  Connell was creeping up behind a younger officer, Ryan Jackson. What the hell is he doing? In one smooth motion, Connell lifted his arms and wrapped a wire garrote round Jackso
n’s neck.

  “Hey!” Sánchez whirled and ran toward the struggling men.

  Ryan was clawing at the wire, buckling and twisting—his neck already bleeding— as Connell strangled him.

  “Let him go!” Sánchez hesitated, then drew his musket and shot Connell in the leg. He shot him again. Connell didn’t even bleed—didn’t even seem to feel it.

  What the hell—?!

  Sánchez gripped his musket by the barrel, and rushed forward, hitting Connell again and again in the head. Connell roared— his cry a synergy of beast and psychotic human—and bared his teeth. In a blur, he freed one hand and—without loosening his grip on the garrote—grabbed Joel Sánchez by the throat, lifted him and threw him across the room. Joel hit the wall and slid to the floor. Minutes later, Ryan slumped in Connell’s grip. Dead. Connell’s eyes swept the room. He dropped Ryan and strode to the stairwell.

  ——

  Curtis, dressed in a white shirt with sleeve-holders and black trousers, walked through the double doors of the station, and down the hallway to Chief Maxwell’s office, trying to ignore the hostile stares of officers. He was an outsider now. An interloper. And he keenly felt his distance from them.

  Chief Maxwell, a heavyset white man in his sixties, with silver hair and gray-green eyes, was sitting behind his desk. He smiled warmly. “Lieutenant Dubois, good to see you. “How you been?”

  Even though Curtis had quit, Chief Maxwell insisted on addressing him by his former title. He held onto a glimmer of hope that Curtis would dispense with “all this PI Nonsense” and return to the Constabulary.

  Curtis returned his smile. “Pretty fair, how about you?”

  “Not too bad. These old bones always tell me when it’s getting ready to rain. But that’s alright, I never forget my umbrella.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about today’s demonstration. I’m worried about what might go down.”

  Maxwell’s face tightened. The warmth left his voice. “We’ll be there to keep the peace.”

  “Yeah Chief, but Constables been a little trigger happy lately, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen under my watch.” Defensiveness crept into Maxwell’s voice. “Protect the innocent. That’s the Constable motto—that’s my motto. Always has been. We got a lot of good men and women on the force. A few bad apples can’t change that.”

  Curtis didn’t bother to remind him that there had been two shootings of unarmed black civilians within the last four months. Maxwell was a decent man, an honorable man, but he was only fooling himself if he couldn’t see the disease devouring his force.

  The door was flung open, and Joel Sánchez rushed inside, his eyes wide and agitated. Chief Maxwell scowled. “Sánchez, don’t you knock?”

  “Chief, we got a situation out here!”

  Maxwell jumped up and ran out the door with Curtis close behind. They followed Joel to the common room. A crowd of Constables had gathered there. His ex-partner, Harold, a lanky white man with an aquiline nose and black wavy hair, among them. Two officers lay dead: one with a garrote twisted about her neck, and another, Connell, with a musket wound in his head and two more in his legs. Curtis stared down at down at them, his eyes settling on Pete Connell. Connell’s wounds were bloodless, and his skin had a reddish-purple tint of a man who’d been dead for several hours.

  “There’s another stiff downstairs, Chief!” Joel said.

  “What happened here?” Chief Maxwell barked.

  “I was downstairs,” Joel said excitedly, “next thing I know Connell went crazy! He wrapped that thing around Ryan’s neck and started choking him. When I tried stop him he threw me against the wall. I blacked out—”

  “He ran in the common room and started choking Donna!” another officer, Carl Currey, cut in excitedly. “We couldn’t get him off her—even after I shot him! He just kept choking her! I hit him with my musket two or three times before I plugged him …! Then he fell. His face,” Carl looked uneasy, “I know it sounds crazy, but it didn’t look like that before he fell.”

  Maxwell ran his hand over his hair, looking haggard. “Alright Sánchez, you type up the statement. Currey get the lab in here and notify the morgue. I want these bodies moved as soon as the lab’s done. The rest of you get back to work. Dubois, you come on back to the office with me.”

  Curtis stared down at Connell’s body. Maxwell’s voice seemed to come from a distance. He raped Simone Starks. Ryan helped him. Then they killed her … Donna Tuffkin shot Terrance Cloud, an unarmed black man. She was acquitted. Burt Phillips is dead too—

  “Dubois!”

  Maxwell’s voice broke the spell. “Coming!”

  ——

  Maxwell sat down behind his desk. He pulled a bottle from his desk drawer and two shot glasses. The big man poured them both a drink and downed his before speaking. “I swear Monterrey is a magnet for this kinda shit.” He downed his shot and poured another one. “Tell me what you saw, so I’ll know I’m not crazy.”

  Curtis took a swig of his drink. “There’s no way Connell could’ve choked Donna to death with those wounds. And they were fresh, so they should’ve been bloody. His skin looked like he’d been dead for hours. I don’t even know how he was walking around.”

  There was a brief tense silence.

  “I just needed to hear somebody else say it.” There was fear in Maxwell’s gray-green eyes. “This is your case, Dubois. If you want it.”

  “I’ll take it. I’ll need to bring Mona in, too. But Chief, you might not like where this case leads.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m in.” But I bet there’re some things you’re not gonna wanna hear. Oh yeah. Some things about all those fine Constables, you got so much respect for.

  Chief Maxwell nodded. “I’m bringing you in as a special investigator. If it’s a spell or something ...” he frowned as he said these words. “I don’t believe in this kind of stuff —at least I didn’t used to. But I believe my eyes. If you need Mona’s help, I’ll okay it. But I’m hiring you today. I’m gonna stick Harold on the case with you. He knows the ropes with this stuff, too.” Maxwell smiled grimly. “He can’t stand his new partner; he’ll be glad to get a break from her.”

  ——

  Curtis sent Dr. Dearborn a post and then rode with his ex-partner Harold to The Airship, a nearby pub and grill. Harold was dressed in the detective uniform of a button-down shirt, vest and wide-legged pants. A watch chain dangled from his right pants pocket and his badge and musket were clipped to his belt. A geared headset, designed to help the wearer spot assailants creeping up from behind, lay on the seat beside him.

  “How you been, man?” Harold asked.

  “Alright, just trying to get my PI business off the ground.”

  “I went by your house. The new tenants said you moved.”

  “Yeah,” Curtis had known Harold too long to be embarrassed, but he was. “I had to let it go. I couldn’t keep up the payments. I’m back home with my folks for now.” There was an awkward silence, as they pulled up in front of The Airship.

  “Listen, just because you’re a PI don’t be a stranger,” Harold said. “Stop by for dinner sometime, or just stop by.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it.”