Night Prayers (28 page)

"You fucking hypocrite," the officer said as he stood up and turned around. "Why don't you give the state a break and go for my gun? I promise you'd die a lot faster than that old lady did."

Mica folded his hands slowly back into his lap and refused to give the mirror-eyed officer a reason to even look back into the car. The cop had called him a hypocrite
— the same way Allison had.

Allison.

The memory of her face and the way she'd looked under the spotlight the night before blended with images of long sweeping capes and yellowed fangs.

Allison. A Vampire.

If he got the chance he'd drive a stake through her heart as well. But he didn't think he'd have the strength to bless her. Not after everything that happened.

The sound of shoe leather on asphalt made him look up. A tall black man in a suit and tie was walking toward the car, nodding the uniformed officer away. When he got to the patrol car, he thumped the roof just above Mica's head.

It sounded as if a bomb had gone off.

Undoubtedly what it was supposed to sound like.

When the door swung open, Mica's backbone was already ramrod straight.

"I'm Detective-Sergeant Moran of the Los Angeles Police Department, assigned to the Hollywood division
—" All nice and formal to tighten any technical "entrapment" loophole Mica might have hoped to slip through. "— Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?"

"No, sir," Mica said as he swung his legs out and felt the man's broad hand protecting the top of his head as he stood up. "I don't mind."

"Good." The detective actually smiled. "I like it when people co-operate. It makes things so much more pleasant, don't you think?"

The man's voice was a deep and soothing baritone — the kind Mica'd always thought Jesus would have. He took it as a sign.

"Oh,
yes
, sir."

"Very good. Now, if you'll just confirm a few things for me," the man said as he pulled a small spiral bound notebook from his jacket and flipped it open. "You are Mica Poke?"

"Yessir… but my real name's Milo," Mica said, leaning closer to the detective so the mirror-eyed-possible-Vampire cop wouldn't hear. "I changed it to Mica when I got my calling."

"Your…
calling
." The man took out a gold cross pen and added that to the other
facts
scribbled across the page. "No problem, I know how that goes. My first name's Jerome but I go by Jay."

"But you shouldn't — Jerome is a
Holy
name. You should be proud of it, Jerome."

Jerome
cleared his throat. "Yeah. Anyway,
Mr
. Poke, according to your initial statement, you told the arresting officers that you alone were responsible for the death of
—" Jerome checked the notebook again. "—Mrs. Anna Berkovich, 84."

"And a half," Mica added. He wanted to co-operate as much as he could and was mildly surprised when the man didn't write it down.

"Okay… but you
did
kill her?"

"I sent her to Glory, yes sir."

"Interesting term," Jerome said, tapping the pen against the paper, "for murder."

"But I didn't murder her, sir, I just sent her on."

"Excuse me." Mica could see beads of sweat pop out across the thick upper lip. "But isn't that the same thing?"

This time Mica laughed — and saw every uniformed head twist toward him.

"
No
, sir. You can only
murder
somebody who's alive. Mrs. B was already dead when I —"

"Sent her to glory," Jerome said, snapping the notebook shut. "Yeah, you already said that. Would you mind accompanying me into the house, Mica? There're just a few more things I'd like to ask you about."

"I'd be pleased to, Jerome."

Mica fell into step next to the big detective and pretended not to see the man twirl a finger next to his temple. But that was all right… they'd understand soon enough.

Stopping just short of the back steps, Mica turned around and lifted his cuffed hands to those assembled — the uniformed police and paramedics, the white jacketed ambulance attendants, the overalled evidence technicians… the neighbors and street people hanging over the back and side fences
— lifted his hands the way Howard Beale had lifted his hands to the television cameras.

"And I say onto you all that the Lord God Most Mighty is looking down on us right now and Smiling… Smiling because we have come together this day to bear witness to the great
miracle
He has wrought. Right now He's probably singing along with the Heavenly Choir, rejoicing about the evil that has been put asunder."

Mica felt the Spirit flow into him from above and shook off the sweaty hand trying to pull him into the house.

"YES, Lord… we're with You.
Praise
Him brothers and sisters… lift your voices and let Him know!"

The scream of a fire engine roaring down Highland seemed unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent back yard. Mica lowered his hands slowly. They were all just standing there. Looking at him like he'd just squatted down and taken a crap on the bottom stair.

Jerome was the first to shake the look off. Taking Mica's arm, the detective turned him around and led him up the back steps.

"I think you just cinched the insanity defense, son," he said as he opened the squeaking screen door. "You can calm down now."

For a split second Mica forgot Mrs. B wouldn't be shuffling up to meet him, a cup of coffee or plate of kolatchky in her hand — and when he did remember, it almost knocked him to the floor.

"You okay, Mica?" The detective said. "Want to sit down?"

Mica shook his head and pressed his lips together. He couldn't show sorrow for having done a righteous thing. He just
couldn't
.

Say Hallelujah.

The house smelled worse than usual. Mica hadn't noticed it when he carried Mrs. B into her bedroom to lay her out "proper" before calling the police. But he noticed it now.

There was a stench that went deeper than the boiled cabbage-mildew-dust-spoiled bananas-aged mothball-old lady smell of the house. It was a darker smell… rank, like a toilet had backed up somewhere and kept going.

Mica got as far as the kitchen table and sat down.

"You're not okay, are you, Milo?"

Mica looked up and shook his head. No, he wasn't okay. He should be shouting praise to the Heavens for letting him free the old woman's soul… instead of wanting to bury his head in his hands and sob his lungs out.

"Want to talk about it, kid?" Jerome said, pulling up Mrs. B's chair and waving the other cops/detectives/attendants/etc. away.

Mica felt his mouth open and had to force it shut.

"Okay, Milo," Jerome said, "suit yourself. Feel up to identifying the body?"

Aw, shit, Lord. Is this really necessary? Didn't I do enough?

The detective stood up without waiting for an answer and physically hauled Mica to his less than steady feet.

Okay, Lord, I get the message. Praise Your name.

Mica followed the detective past Mrs. B's mismatched orange and olive green bathroom
("… that was back when we opened the shop, all peace and love and psychedelic colors
— what a year THAT was…")
where a female tech was carefully dusting along the edge of the mirror with an oversized brush.

He wanted to stop and tell the woman she didn't have to bother — that, being a Vampire, Mrs. B wouldn't have touched the mirror
— but Jerome seemed to be in a hurry, practically dragging him into the bedroom.

The stench was almost suffocating in the tiny room. The breeze coming in through the open window didn't seem to be doing any good.

It still smelled like
Hell
.

Mrs. B was still on the bed, just where Mica had left her — eyes closed, mouth tipped upward, feet and legs covered discreetly with the bedspread… her hands folded just below the Holy Mother's gore-crusted feet.

Mica felt better.

"She looks real peaceful," he said. "Doesn't she?"

"Yeah," Jerome answered, "
real
peaceful. Can you identify this woman as Anna Berkovich?"

Anna
… Mica had never called her anything but Mrs. B. Anna suited her.

"Yes sir. That's Anna."

Jerome nodded and checked something off in the notebook. Still nodding, he walked to the head of the bed and pointed to the Holy Mother sticking out of Mrs. B's chest.

"And
you
did that?"

"Yes, sir," Mica said as proudly as he could without sounding boastful. "I helped her back from the abyss and set her feet onto the Path of Glory."

"So you
did
kill her?"

"No sir."

Both of the detective's eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead. Mica felt his own forehead mold itself around the scar-cross.
Didn't we already go over this ground, Lord
?

"So now you're telling me you
didn't
kill her." Jerome looked about three shades lighter than when they started the conversation. "Is that right, Milo?"

Mica lifted his cuffed hands and clasped them to his chest.
Okay, so we go through it AGAIN
.

"Like I already told you and a half-dozen of your people, Detective, I
didn't
kill Mrs. B because she was ALREADY dead." Mica took as deep a breath as the stench would allow and rolled his eyes. "Look at her, man… I mean
really
look at her. Can't you see the Glorified smile on her face?"

The detective looked down at Mrs. B.

"That's the heat," he said. "They all smile like that when they're left out too long."

"Lord," Mica said out loud because he wanted Jerome to know
exactly
Who he was dealing with, "remove the scales from this man's eyes and let him
SEE
!"

Nothing.

"Shit, man," Mica yelled, "she was a fucking
Vampire
!"

Jerome's notebook snapped shut and he reached down toward Mrs. B's puckered mouth.

"No… wait!"

But it was too late. Mica's shout had been too loud. And the detective's reflex actions just a little too good.

Jerome's hand accidentally knocked into the side of Mrs. B's face… and all Mica could do was watch her head roll backward off the stained pillow and hit the floor.

It bounced twice and came to rest on its left ear — the freshly washed and blow-dried hair Mica had worked so hard on collecting dust bunnies like a magnet.

"Damn."

When he looked up, Jerome's ebony face had drained to the color of old fireplace ash.

"That's part of the ritual," Mica explained slowly… in case Jerome wanted to make more notes. "People think that a stake destroys them outright, but that's wrong. A stake through the heart only pins the soul back to its body. You have to cut off the head so that soul can never animate that body again."

Mica looked down at Mrs. B's head and sighed.

"After the head's been cut off you're supposed to stuff the mouth with fresh garlic, but she didn't have any." Mica looked up at the detective. "You think garlic salt will be okay?"

"You… you…" Jerome cleared his throat with so much force it made Mica drop his chin. "You cut off her head? But she doesn't have any teeth. Aren't vampires supposed to have teeth?"

"Well, of course she doesn't have them
now
," Mica said. It was like trying to explain something to a wall. Didn't the man ever read a comic book? "Once I released her soul from the Evil, all the embodiments of that Evil disappeared as if they never existed."

"How convenient," Jerome muttered as he turned away from the bed — turned back toward Mica, his fingers clenched tight around the golden pen.

"There is something else I have to tell you," Mica made it sound like he was going to confess to some wrong so the detective would listen.

It worked. Jerome stopped in his tracks and cocked his head to one side. "Yeah?"

"There are others," Mica whispered — aware that the policeman with the mirrored sunglasses could be listening, "the ones that
did
this to Mrs. B. I know where they are and even though this burden was laid at my feet I'm willing to accept your help in destroying the remaining Vampires."

Jerome's head began going back and forth in time to the Felix clock.

"You gotta be shitting me."

"No,
sir
! I'd never do that. There are four of them… one of them used to be my best friend and there's this new one with red hair —"

Allison…forgive me

"— Anyway, they work at the same place I do…
Luci's Fur Pit
over on Sunset. Now if you could just equip your men with stakes, I have enough Bibles to
—"

All the air was driven out of Mica's lungs by the force of Jerome's fingers grabbing a handful of shirt and skin.

"That'll be enough information.
Sir
. Thank you for being so cooperative. Now, turn around and start walking back to the patrol car. Keep your hands low and in sight at all times." Jerome's face was blank as he released his grip on Mica and pulled a laminated Miranda Card out of his coat pocket.

"I'm sure that one of the other officers has already told you this, but let's just make
doubly
sure, shall we? You have the right to remain silent… should you give up this right, anything you say can and
WILL
be used against you in
—"

Mica stopped listening .is he turned around. Instead he focused on the reflection of Mrs. B's headless body in the full length cheval mirror. And smiled.

A dusty beam of sunlight was tickling the Holy Mother's feet as it illuminated the dead body.

Just
a dead body. No fangs, no blood lust, no longer invisible to the power of mirrors. Just the dead body of a good woman.

"Praise His name," Mica whispered.

And accidentally
fell
into the bedroom door.