Pockets of Darkness (7 page)

Eleven

By midnight Tuesday, Bridget concluded she could not rid herself of the briefcase through normal means.

She’d shoved it in a furnace.

Laid it on a subway track.

Tossed it into the river.

Gave it to Goodwill.

Left it in an alley.

Tucked it under a pew at St. Augustine’s Church.

Mailed it to a residential address in India she randomly picked off the Internet.

Returned it to the apartment she’d stolen it from—no sign of Elijah Stone; in fact it looked like the man had gone on a trip; there was a telltale gap in his clothes closet and only a few pairs of underwear in a drawer.

Dropped it into the sewer.

Left it in the coat closet at Assumption Roman Catholic Church.

Paid a bicycle courier to whisk it away.

And “forgot” it under the table at Frank’s Cocktail Lounge, where entirely out of character she drank four Jägerbombs in an effort to wash away the fetid-smelling monster while giving in to a bout of oblivion.

The briefcase returned every single time, unmarred, the creature appearing with it, and looking—if possible—surlier with each of Bridget’s failed attempts. It would be comical, Bridget thought, where the monster not so repulsive and her predicament not so hopeless.

It’s babbling was certainly language, some of it sounding vaguely familiar, but nothing Bridget could decipher. And though it had not harmed her, she suspected it capable of such. The thing flexed its claws and dug them into the plush carpet of her bedroom, arched its squatty back and narrowed all five of its eyes while it continued to ooze.

“I get that you’re trying to communicate, you gobshite of a beast.” Bridget had placed the briefcase by an open window in her bedroom. The winter wind that whistled in was uncomfortably cold, but the fresh air cut the absolute stench of the creature just enough so Bridget could keep her dinner and the alcohol down. She sat on the edge of the bed, as far from the satchel and creature as possible, her head pounding with the prelude to a hangover. “I can’t feckin’ understand you. I don’t want to understand you. I just want you gone.”

She’d elected not to share her dilemma with her staff or thieving underlings … since it was obvious they couldn’t see the beast anyway. She didn’t want them to know she’d been cursed, and by her own doing when she stole the ugly briefcase. Such an admonition would be a sign of weakness.

But Bridget knew people who might help. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. However, those people would not be amenable to a visit at this hour—and they were not people she wanted to risk upsetting.

Finally, she tried to “read” the briefcase using her psychometry skill. Once again, contact with the odd leather yielded nothing useful, just a stream of faces she assumed were previous owners, all of them looking like shards of a broken mirror spinning and rearranging themselves in her mind as in a child’s kaleidoscope. Elijah Stone’s face came to the fore, expression desperate and hateful; Bridget could pick up nothing else about the man.

She was tired, but not yet to the edge of utter exhaustion, and she knew that’s what it would take for sleep. Bridget thumbed the intercom to see if someone in her staff was still awake or could be easily woken.

O O O

Bridget stooped in the dusty attic. The light from nearby buildings faintly crept in through a dirty window and touched an assortment of boxes and oil cloth-wrapped bundles that were tied with string. The creature sat in the darkest corner, shining eyes and perpetual stench letting Bridget know just where it was. She couldn’t tell if the briefcase was there for all the shadows. The thing continued babbling, louder than before, sounding angry.

“Volume isn’t helping,” Bridget said. In fact, the nonsensical racket was giving her an even worse headache. She peered out the window and waited, minutes later hearing measured footsteps across the beams behind her. She knew her companion could not hear the creature, nor would he be able to see it—Bridget was the only one so blessed.

“Sheesh, boss, something’s a little stinky up here.”

Her companion could, however, at least to some degree smell it.

“Ready Jimmy?” Bridget heard the young man yawn. She’d wakened him, wanting a sparring partner, desperate to be so fatigued she could chase away the last of the alcohol-buzz and sleep. Obviously Jimmy, who’d been living in a bedroom in the basement for the past year and a half, had known better than to take a pass on the opportunity.

“I guess, boss.” Jimmy Hill was closing in on nineteen and done with the equivalent of high school, finally managing to gain his GED right before Christmas. That had been one of the conditions placed on Jimmy’s employment, room, and board—an attempt to earn that treasured certificate. Another was indulging Bridget when she wanted company exercising.

“Let’s be about it then.” Bridget unlatched the window and swung it open, looking up to the sky that was gray from the city lights. She wore black leggings that she’d purchased through a mail order ballet supply store; many of her underlings, including Jimmy, bought similar garb. The leggings were not restrictive and were perfect for these activities. Over this she wore a loose sweatshirt the color of cold ashes. Jimmy was similarly dressed, but his sweatshirt was black with white block lettering that read: LMFAO. Pulled down over his ears he wore a dark green stocking cap with a Jets logo.

Bridget stepped through the window, seeming to float in front of it before she moved to the right and vanished.

“Coming, Jimmy?”

“I guess, boss.”

One foot below the window was an impossibly narrow ledge slick with a layer of frost. Five stories below that was the thin alley that ran between Bridget’s building and the next brownstone. Bridget climbed up the brickwork and listened to hear that Jimmy was following, but taking a little easier route, using the drainpipe.

“So, boss, what are we doing?” Jimmy pulled himself up over the edge and gingerly stepped out onto the roof. He shivered. “We got a problem with the chimney? I hope.”

Bridget’s roof was not flat, it had a peak, and that was one of the reasons why she’d chosen this building. “I’m getting some exercise, and you’re getting a lesson.”

Jimmy tried to stifle a yawn. “A lesson in what? It’s really cold up here. I get that you want to tussle. But up here? It’s friggin’ freezing. What’s that old saying, boss, about a witch’s tit in January? It’s colder than that up here.”

Bridget usually sparred with Jimmy and some of the others in a well-padded room in the basement. But it was late enough, half past midnight, so few—if any—in the neighborhood would see them up here.

“Balance.” Bridget reached behind her and unsheathed two shinai, lengths of bamboo with sword grips. She tossed one to Jimmy, who caught it, but nearly lost his footing.

Bridget glided across the roof, making navigating the pitch look as easy as strolling down a city street. She didn’t look down, holding the shinai in her right hand and keeping her left arm out for stability. Jimmy tried to copy her, climbing slowly until both reached the top. Jimmy straddled the peak and crouched to meet Bridget’s attack.

“I dunno if this is such a good idea, boss. It’s pretty slippery.” Jimmy looked nervously to his right and left. “And I heard you weren’t feeling too well, that yesterday you—”

“Balance,” Bridget repeated. The air was the sweetest that she had smelled since acquiring the briefcase. There was no sign of the wretched beast. Perhaps it feared heights or the slick slope of the roof. For the briefest of moments Bridget considered relocating her bed to this roof; but she couldn’t live up here. Something else would have to be done to rid herself of the creature.

“Balance?” Jimmy asked. “I dunno boss, I—”

Bridget rushed him and the bamboo sticks met. Jimmy’s stick was knocked aside and he almost lost his grip on it. His left leg stiffened to take the impact, but his foot shot out and he hit the slate with a spine-jarring thud.

Bridget remained impassive, extended her hand to help Jimmy up. Jimmy took it, pulled hard, and then jabbed his mentor in the ribs.

The air whooshed out of Bridget’s lungs, as the youth nailed her hard in the ribs. They weren’t even a little tender, and there’d been no sign of the bruises from only hours before. She’d healed amazingly fast. But he caught her off balance when he thwacked her again. For a heartbeat her head swam and she swayed, slipping, trying to catch herself and failing. Her breath came hard and fast in her throat and she slid down the roof stomach first, hands in front, scrabbling. Her shinai clattered into the gutter. The slate glossy with frost, Bridget couldn’t find a purchase and wondered if she’d survive the impact with the alley.

Jimmy grabbed Bridget’s ankle, stopping a slide that would have sent her off the roof. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t mean to—”

Bridget righted herself and regained her balance. She laughed. “No, no. You did good, Jimmy. That was unexpected. You did good.”

Jimmy looked nervous.

“Good job, really.”

Jimmy appeared to relax, but only slightly. “We done, boss? Can we go back inside? You know, witch’s tit and all that. Brrrr.”

“Not yet.” Bridget managed to climb back up to the peak, straddling it and walking to the chimney. She leaned against it and looked out over the city. In the distance, she saw barges on the river, wisps of smoke coming from buildings everywhere, adding to the grayness of the sky. She saw delivery trucks on a street to the north, their lights glowing warm yellow. She heard Jimmy climb up behind her. Still, there was no sign of the monster. She thought that just under the scent of smoke and grime she could smell the river.

Without warning, Bridget spun and leaped, twisting in midair and landing lower on the roof. “Jump,” she told Jimmy. “Just make sure you land on your feet.”

“Oh, crap. Really?” Clearly hesitant, the young man crouched and sprang, not making it half the distance Bridget had but staying upright nonetheless. “Wow.” Jimmy paused. “Double wow. I am getting better, huh boss? Maybe I can go out with Marsh and Rob and them next time.”

Bridget didn’t answer, not one to hand out too many compliments. Jimmy had the body of a thief, compact, hard, lean, and he always appeared eager to learn. Bridget thought the young man would do well and advance in her illicit organization. She wanted Jimmy to take a few college business courses come the fall semester so he could understand bookkeeping, a pertinent component to the smuggling trade.

Leg muscles bunching, Bridget lunged at Jimmy, swinging with her fist. Jimmy staggered back, avoiding the blow, then turned and whacked Bridget with the bamboo, again hitting her with a considerable amount of force.

Bridget could swear she saw stars behind her eyes, but she didn’t stop. She pushed off and leaped for the eaves, as close to the edge of the roof as she dared. Jimmy followed, and Bridget’s hand reached, grabbing the young man’s arm, lifting, and spinning him out over the side of the building, holding him suspended.

“Holy Christ!” Jimmy’s shinai fell in the alley and he reached up with his free hand, finding Bridget’s arm and holding on. “Shit and two is four, boss!”

“And four is eight,” Bridget returned.

“You ain’t paying me enough for this!”

“You’re fine, Jimmy.” Bridget dragged the young man up to the roof, where they boxed for a few minutes.

Spent, they sat side-by-side at the very peak, watching delivery trucks motor down side streets and spotting the flashing lights of an ambulance speeding through intersections before being swallowed in the silhouettes of taller buildings.

“I’m filthy,” Jimmy said, looking down at his sweatshirt. “I’m bleeding. And I’m cold.”

When a church bell bonged “one,” Bridget stood and inched her way to the drain pipe. She shimmied down and crept along the ledge until she came to the open attic window. Jimmy was several feet behind her. She stepped inside and took a deep breath.

The stench was gone.

She looked into the darkest corner and didn’t see the beast’s eyes.

Bridget’s heart raced with the possibility she’d somehow shaken the monster. Maybe the ward had a duration. Maybe the magic was used up and the beast had vanished back to wherever it had been summoned from.

“We done, boss?”

“Yes, Jimmy. You can go back to bed.”

“After a hot bath, boss.”

Bridget didn’t see the creature in her bedroom either, and there was no sign of the briefcase. Indeed, the ward had a time limit. She poked her head out the window and looked down; the case wasn’t on the sidewalk, hadn’t fallen. Maybe Michael had managed to toss it out.

Maybe, but something didn’t sit right.

Bridget stripped and eased herself into bed and was tired enough that she fell instantly asleep.

***

Twelve

Bridget woke to an unrelenting tapping on her bedroom door. A glance at the clock: 2 p.m.; she’d slept for nearly a dozen hours. Stiff, but feeling considerably stronger, her bruised side only a minor annoyance, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the mattress.

“Miss O’Shea?” More tapping.

“Give me a minute, Michael.”

No doubt there was something Bridget needed to attend to; otherwise Michael would have let her sleep even longer. Bridget stretched and gagged. The stench and the monster were back. The creature and the briefcase sat side-by-side under the closed window … the creature must have shut the pane, Bridget thought. She’d remembered leaving it cracked open when she returned after the sparring match on the roof.

It fixed its five eyes on her and started babbling.

Bridget recalled alternately dreaming that she’d finally ditched the beast or that the past two days had been nothing but a nightmare. But she could still faintly taste the alcohol she’d foolishly downed last night.

More tapping.

“Yes, Michael.” Bridget raised her voice. “I said give me a minute!”

“It’s rather urgent. There are policemen downstairs.”

Bridget’s mouth went desert dry, and the monster babbled louder. She needed a shower, but wouldn’t take the time now. She dressed quickly, in casual, friendly attire—beige corduroy slacks and a slate blue sweater, thick socks and comfortable tennis shoes. She ran her fingers through her hair and tied it back, splashed some
L'Eau d'Issey
on her neck to cover the scent of her dried sweat, and came back to face the creature.

“Shut the feck up. Hear me?” Bridget kept her voice low, not wanting Michael to hear. “I can’t understand you. And I don’t give a damn what you’re trying to say.” She spun on her heels and went to the door. “And I am going to get rid of you today, you gobshite.” Bridget counted to ten, forced herself to breathe evenly. She actually worried more about the police than the monster, which appeared to be only a smelly, vexing aggravation, like a wart that wouldn’t dissolve. Bridget was meticulously careful with her smuggling operation, as one misstep would land her in prison forever—she’d done that many illegal things. She cracked the door.

Michael’s face gave her no clue as to how bad the situation was.

“How many?”

“Just two.” Michael paused. “Two policemen … and your son, Otter.”

Dear God,
Bridget thought. Her son had shown the bejeweled cup to her ex-, Tavio, and in one of his fiery moods he’d decided to act on it, to turn her in. But Bridget could get around that one piece; having an antique shop, she could claim she’d bought the cup from someone who came in off the street, and she had no idea just how valuable or old it was. It could get ugly and uncomfortable, but the trail would end there and the cup would be eventually returned to whatever museum it had come from. Or maybe Otter had done something horrible. No, they would be at Tavio’s condo if that was the case. Tavio didn’t work during the day.

The police were in the entry room at the foot of the stairs, shoulder-to-shoulder with their hats in their hands, jackets unzipped. Otter leaned against the opposite wall, coat still fastened and scarf wrapped around his neck. His school backpack was on the floor near him.

“Dad’s dead,” Otter said as Bridget came down the stairs.

Bridget felt the color drain from her face and her knees threatened to give out. That wasn’t possible. Tavio … there was a mistake.

“Dead,” Otter repeated.

“What happened?” Bridget went to Otter’s side; hand on his arm, a dozen questions flashing through her mind and waging war with disbelief. She’d seen Tavio Sunday night; he hadn’t looked ill. He was reasonably young—mid-fifties, roughly two decades older than her. “What happened? Was there an accident?”

Otter shook his head. “No. I don’t know. He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Someone killed him and—”

“Killed?”

“Your son’s a minor,” one of the policemen interrupted. Bridget didn’t know which had spoken; her full attention was still on Otter. “Miss O’Shea, in school records you’re listed as—”

“Yes, I’m his mother.”

“The last names—”

“I took my name back after the divorce. My maiden name.” Bridget swallowed hard. “What happened? With Tavio. Tell me.”

Otter’s shoulders shook. “Somebody got into the condo, Mom. Last night, this morning, I don’t know. I was getting ready for school this morning and Dad hadn’t come out of his bedroom. I thought maybe he had company, you know. He had company late sometimes. So I didn’t want to disturb him … them. I caught the bus. Then the cops pulled me out of world history and brought me here.”

For several minutes Otter continued to sob and Bridget didn’t move. The police were respectful, not intruding or interrupting.

“They said he was dead, in bed.” Otter pushed Bridget away, wiped at his face with his scarf. “I should’ve checked on him this morning. Before I caught the bus, I should’ve checked. Maybe I could’ve—”

“—done nothing to prevent it,” the same officer cut in. “Listen, Otemar, Miss O’Shea, we should—”

“I don’t want to stay here, Mom.” Otter said. “I want to go home, to the condo. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself at home. I want to go home.”

“Fifteen, not fifty,” Bridget said so softly she doubted the boy could hear.

Bridget finally regarded the policemen. They were both in their late twenties and rail thin, one with dark hair and the swarthy complexion of an Italian. That badge read: Bernardini. The other was Irish judging by the badge: McGinty. It was the Irish cop who’d been doing the talking, a sergeant by the insignia.

“How did it happen?” Bridget addressed the sergeant.

“Miss O’Shea, we’re not really at liberty to discuss the case yet. Detectives are at the scene.”

“He was murdered,” Otter said. “They told me someone killed him. They wouldn’t tell me more than that.” He paused. “I want to go home, Mom. I can take care of myself.”

“Miss O’Shea, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your ex-husband.” This from the Irish policeman. “Is there someone here Otemar can stay with while—”

“Of course.” Bridget gestured to Michael, who’d been keeping a courteous distance. “Michael, have Jimmy refresh Otter’s room. I’ll be going with—”

“I should call my grandmother,” Otter said. “She needs to know.”

Michael stepped forward. “In a little while, Otter. We’ll call her together. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me until some things are sorted out?”

Otter looked to Bridget.

“It’s okay. I won’t be gone long,” she told her son. “And I’ll get us some answers. I promise.”

Michael held out a heavy coat and Bridget took it and closed her eyes. The damnable beast was at the bottom of the staircase, babbling and oozing and adding to a headache that had suddenly sprang up behind her eyes. She prayed that the monster would stay behind, though she knew that wouldn’t be happening.

It found a way to fit into the back seat of the police cruiser, babbling and oozing puss the entire ride to the 7th Precinct, the ugly briefcase on the floorboard, though Bridget had not placed it there.

***