26
By Wednesday night, I had come to a decision.
I had passed the workday in a kind of advanced dream state. Every object held a secret. Every word and gesture had a deeper and more arcane meaning. I spent an hour staring blankly at my computer screen and moving the mouse cursor between desktop icons, as if trying to navigate an unseen labyrinth. When I spoke, it sounded as if an insensate lunatic had taken up residence in my body.
No one noticed. The office cubicles were abuzz with chatter. Murmurs and excited rumblings passed from lips to ears and back again, spinning through the employees like a rising gale. All day long, my co-workers eagerly dashed from desk to desk with the newest, goriest details. Beneath the decrepit thunk of the useless air conditioning ducts, they shared rumors and half-grinned stories of blood, mutilation, and symbols carved deep into bare flesh.
The Bishop had struck again.
What little I did manage to process that day was often related to the incident. The local news networks and their respective websites were absolutely festooned in the story. They blazed with it.
POLICE DISCOVER NEW VICTIM.
Whoever she was, her body had been uncovered in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant. Farther afield this time – out in Thousand Oaks.
REPORTS CONFIRM FIFTH SLAYING.
The police were trying to keep mum about the whole thing. As new information trickled steadily in through the day, it was obvious that their PR blackout had more leaks than a broken colander.
BISHOP'S SYMBOL LEFT ON LATEST BODY.
For me, this was all a morbid little sideshow. It allowed me to continue my own grim musings and research unmolested for much of the day. Despite the constant whispery bombardment of new and ever-more-lurid information, I maintained a sense of surreal detachment. All these horrible things seemed to be occurring in a universe visible to – but inexorably divided from – my own. The moment the clock on the lower-right corner of my computer screen clicked over to five-thirty, I packed my things and made determinedly for the exit.
I spent the bus ride mulling my options and slowly refining the plan that had started forming in my head around noon. The slow, brutal sunset of a Los Angeles August singed the horizon. A rail-thin man in filthy dungarees and a grease-stained trucker's cap muttered to himself endlessly. A black woman with the figure of a beach ball and wide, nervous eyes clutched her purse close to her meaty forearms. A pair of overly-excited adolescent girls chattered back and forth in a patchwork cacophony of English and some Asian language I couldn't identify. The bus stopped and started, stopped and started. Figures entered and exited like silhouettes on an over-bright stage.
This was all background noise. I focused only on my hands and the briefcase settled beneath them on my thighs. I thought only of the Master Sword and all the uncertain horror it had brought into my life. I ticked carefully over the method by which I had decided to get rid of it.
As soon as I returned home, I slid into my room and opened the closet door. There it was: Cool silver in the shadows. The embossed Triforce shone like the winking eye of an old friend. It was as hatefully cheerful as ever.
You bastard, I thought. In the next moment, I considered how absurd it was to throw malice at an inanimate object. Still, I couldn't help but grin a bit at the prospect that I might be able to finally, after five long days, get rid of it. I felt an almost sadistic pleasure, coupled with subtle relief. When I turned over the next steps in my head, I felt my fingertips began to tingle in anticipation.
Between nodding blankly at breathless rumor-mongering and bouts of almost paralyzing paranoia, I had spent the workday plying the internet in search of possible answers. It occurred to me that I was perhaps looking at my situation too literally. Just because the sword resembled a fictional counterpart did not mean that the sword was its fictional counterpart. A simple Web search revealed that one could indeed purchase a replica of the Master Sword with relative ease. Various amateur blacksmiths and metal shop owners apparently supplemented their business by creating replica weapons for nerds with too much disposable income. Granted, few of the web sites mirrored the sure craftsmanship of the weapon propped against the back of my closet. However, it became apparent that, for a few hundred dollars or so, one could indeed get their hands on something that decently approximated a famous fictional object.
For a moment, this reassured me. The sword could be real and not necessarily in some abstract, belched-from-the-void manner either. Perhaps it was a gift, commissioned in acknowledgment of my lifelong Legend of Zelda fascination. But from whom? My mother? No – she had never been a very willing proponent of my hobbies. Lira? She would have mentioned it during our conversation the night before. Stuart and/or Allen? Improbable at best. Laughable, actually. It was more likely that they would be pulling some kind of elaborate prank if they were involved. So who had laid the recreated sword in my bedroom?
And why then, had I dreamed of it? Had I really experienced an acid flashback or psychotic episode, breaking into some poor bastard's house or shop to steal it?
I realized that, in the end, it didn't matter. All I wanted was to be rid of it. And as I scanned over the prices of replica swords from The Legend of Zelda, Ninja Gaiden, and Final Fantasy, it finally came to me. I had literally jumped in my office chair, startled by the grotesque obviousness of the answer.
It was simple. So simple. I just had to sell the damned thing.
With the realization came a sense of arcane and almost superstitious certainty. I was so sure of the conclusion that it was as if I had stumbled across the weakness of some previously unstoppable monster. It was like silver bullets, a stake through the heart, or speaking a secret name.
Yes. That was the ticket. If I simply threw the sword into a dumpster, buried it beneath a rock, or hurled it into the sea, it might eventually come back to haunt me. But if I sold it, then its innate ownership would change. And more importantly, another person would have to acknowledge its existence. By offering the sword up to a stranger, I would see final proof as to my possible madness.
Of course, I was still being a chickenshit. Had I truly been willing to take the plunge, I would have simply hauled the sword into the living room and presented it to Stuart. Instant gratification. Or disappointment, as it were. In any event, the route that I had settled upon was circuitous at best. Paranoid stoner logic at its finest.
I shut the closet door partway and sauntered out to the kitchen to kill time. Stuart emerged from his room, bleary-eyed and wild-haired. As we discussed the day's events, I made grilled cheese sandwiches in a frying pan and opened a bag of potato chips. After this quick, pleasing meal, I took two puffs of newly-procured dirt weed and watched some nameless science fiction movie. I felt nervously excited, like a kid staring up at his bedroom ceiling on Christmas Eve.
The afternoon had brought high, thick clouds that cast beautiful shadows across the city. For an hour or two, I had looked out the office windows and hoped dimly for rain. No such luck – the cumulus giants had moved on, sharing none of their moisture with the dark specks scurrying below. Still, the brief cloud cover had been just enough to dampen the effects of the incessant, godforsaken heat. As night fell, thermometers finally dared to dip back into the eighties. For the first time in what felt like decades, the evening didn't pulse like some dark, sweltering purgatory.
By the time the sun finally descended over the beaches and drowned in the Pacific, the air breathing through the apartment windows felt downright pleasant. Warm, but not overly so. Redolent with the smells of greasy cooking, freshly-watered lawns, cigarette ghosts, and high octane car exhaust. It was the kind of night that, had I owned a car, I might have traveled up to Mulholland Drive and taken in the lights of the valley, joint in hand.
Instead, I rose and returned to my bedroom. I stripped off my work clothes and donned a pair of loose, worn jeans and a dark green tee-shirt. The shirt featured a pre-faded "Old No. 11" on the front, spelled out in a blocky font. I had no idea what the inscription meant, but a shirt is a shirt and this one did its job well enough. I bound my hair back in a ponytail and proceeded with my business.
My mind was mechanical now, focused only on the task at hand and the steps needed to achieve it. I grabbed an old black gym bag – one emblazoned with the ubiquitous "swoosh" of the Nike symbol – from the top shelf of my closet and tossed it onto the bed. After zipping the bag open, I raided my dresser and placed four pairs of folded boxers along its broad bottom. I turned, grabbed the sword with one hand, and slipped it into the open duffle bag. Once I was sure that the whole thing would fit, I arranged it carefully on its cushion of underwear. Finally, I retrieved the following and laid them in discreet layers on top of the sword: Two old shirts, a pair of running shorts, and another pair of underwear. I regarded the clothes and the weapon hidden within them, then zipped the bag shut.
I hefted the whole affair over one shoulder and immediately felt a stab of pain shoot through my chest. Shit. Forgot about that. After a moment's consideration, I swallowed a prescription painkiller dry, hoping that it would tide me over through the night.
No hesitation now. I moved with android sureness and precision. As I exited my room and entered the side hallway, Stuart caught sight of me.
"Where you goin'?" he asked.
I had rehearsed my response all day. "I'm going to go work out."
One of Stuart's dark, bushy eyebrows rose up. "Where?"
"A gym. I joined on Monday."
"O . . . kay," Stuart chuffed. "You didn't mention that before." He thought a moment. "And it's not like you need to lose any weight, man. You're built like you just wandered out of Dachau."
I shrugged. "Eh. I didn't want to be ostentatious. I could use some extra muscle mass, y'know? It's fine to be skinny, but I have about no upper body strength to speak of."
Nodding appreciatively, Stuart asked, "Do you know when you'll be back?"
Oh shit – isn't that ironic? It's not like you bother giving me this courtesy, Stew. "Don't know," I said, honest now. "It's not far. Probably no more than an hour or two."
"Heh, well, don't let the Bishop get you."
Grinning, I said, "He only kills women, dickcheese."
"Well, you know," Stuart sniffed. "You do have that long, luxuriant hair. Even I think you're a chick sometimes."
"Whatever! I'll be back."
Stuart Ramirez smiled gently and raised a heavy forearm in farewell. "See ya', then. I'm gonna hop on and play some Call of Duty. I'll probably still be doin' that when you get back."
I returned the gesture. "Later." I strode to the front door and out into the night.
The cruel fire of day still clung to the west in glimmering tendrils. Above, the sky was a shroud of dirty black punctuated by the odd, dim glimmer of a star. As I walked down the cracked sidewalks to the nearest bus stop, the way was lit by the sallow, purgatorial glow of nocturnal Los Angeles. The desiccated forms of palm trees loomed in the dark like dead hands.
I stopped beneath the marker sign for the bus route, rocked back on my heels next to a doughy man in a rumpled suit, and exhaled sharply. I was really doing this. It was happening.
A weathered blonde man emerged from the shadows, sidled up to me, and jammed a cigarette between his lips. His tee-shirt advertised some death metal band; on it was a stylized ghoul greedily chewing at its own spilled entrails. The torn intestines twisted together to form the words "Tomb Wail." He rummaged about his pants pockets for a moment. Seemingly dissatisfied, he turned to me and asked, "Hey mate. You got a light?" He had a windy British accent.
I slipped a hand into my own pocket and felt my fingers curl around the plastic lighter within. It appeared in my hand like a magic trick, my thumb summoning a tiny orange flame mid-motion. "Here you go," I murmured.
He bent his whole body toward the lighter, dipped the cigarette into the flickering jet, and held it there a moment. His hooded eyelids fluttered with concentration. When he was satisfied that his cigarette was lit, he raised his eyebrows, took a drag, and said, "Cheers." And as quickly as he had appeared, he turned and strode casually down the street.
Moments later, my ride growled out of the night and shuddered to a stop.
Another bus, another blur of anxious faces and awkward glances. A different route, this time. Instead of taking me into the endless acres of office complexes and technology centers, this one wound deeper into Los Angeles proper. I didn't honestly know which stop I would get off at; this portion of the plan was meant to be improvised. It was only when I saw gaudy neon and barred windows that I tensed and readied to leave the bus.
When I stepped off onto the crumbling sidewalk, I wasn't really sure of where I was in relationship to my apartment. The neighborhood was the type that made you lock your car doors when you passed through. Each side of the street was covered in squat, ugly buildings built with cinderblocks and stucco. Some of the shops' windows were dark, either because of the hour or because the space behind them sat empty. Most blazed with light, even if they were closed for the evening. Skittering neon signs advertised the gritty, little-acknowledged underbelly of American culture: CHECK CASHING AND PAYDAY LOANS. LATE-NITE LIQUOR. XXX EROTICA – BOOTHES IN BACK!
I lingered only until I found what I was looking for: EXPRESS PAWN – YOUR TRASH 4 CASH. I started walking in that direction.
By now, the buzz of marijuana had exited my body, only to be replaced by the ghostly numbness of prescription painkillers. The night thrummed and rippled through a haze of Vicodin. An unpleasant, disconnected feeling. The paranoia remained – intensified, even. I walked the dark streets with the sensation that I now descended into a land of wind and hungry phantoms.
I passed two men in long coats, speaking to each other in tones of hushed panic. A homeless man approached me from a doorstep, holding out a skeletal hand. At one time, his skin must have been dark brown – now it was more of a dingy gray.
"Help a guy out?" he asked. His voice was full of sand and his breath stank of slow rot.
"Sorry. No cash," I sighed. It was the truth. I had purposely left my wallet at the apartment. I pushed past him, looking down at my feet as I went.
At last: The storefront rose up before me. Bright light flooded out between the bars behind the windows. I saw glimpses of stereo speakers, computer monitors, and televisions. I took a deep breath of ozone stink and entered the EXPRESS PAWN.
My entrance was greeted by the tinkle of bells.
I was somewhat surprised by the interior of the place. I had definitely expected someplace dark, dingy, and piled with half-broken spoils. Instead, the space was larger than it had seemed outside. High fluorescent light bulbs cast a wash of antiseptic light over neat rows of appliances and ordered racks of DVD's. On one wall were displays of sporting equipment; on the other, second-hand electronics. The blue carpet beneath my sneakers was clean and plush. The air smelled powerfully of window cleaner.
Still, I couldn't help but gaze around and regard the merchandise as the detritus of other people's broken, compromised dreams. No matter how organized and well-maintained the EXPRESS PAWN was, it was still a place of quiet desperation.
"Can I help you?" a voice called out from across the shop. I followed it to its source: A short, wiry Asian man standing behind a shop counter. Behind him was a rack of guns mounted on the wall, safely locked in a heavy steel cage. To either side of that were small television monitors, each showing a black and white angle of the store. I instinctively looked over my shoulder to the entrance, where one of the corresponding cameras perched like a homunculus.
"Sir?" the man behind the counter asked. He eyed my bag nervously, belying the ingratiating smile he now flashed.
"Oh – sorry." I rubbed a nervous hand across my forehead. My fingers came away coated in sweat. "Yeah," I said, approaching the counter, "I have something I hope I can sell."
The clerk – or owner, for all I knew – smiled even wider but dropped one hand tellingly below the countertop. It was obvious that he thought I meant trouble, and he intended to be prepared for whatever I might pull out of that long gym bag. "Well, we'll see what we can do," he said. He spoke with the brisk, clipped tones of a born-and-raised surfer. Up this close, I could see the weathering on his skin and in his hair. Years of wind, sun, and salt.
I winced as I lugged the duffle off my shoulder and onto the counter. "Yeah. It's . . . it's in here."
Though he had relaxed considerably when I took the bag out of my immediate control, the clerk's eyes remained wary. He watched my hands intensely as they rose to the zipper.
Here it was. Finally. The proverbial moment of truth. I took a deep, obvious breath and unzipped the duffle bag.
The clerk blinked and stared blankly into the depths of the gym bag, saying nothing.
Oh God. Oh God. In that moment, it became utterly clear – he could not see the sword. He didn't see the sword at all. My sphincter clenched and my teeth ground into one another. For two or three seconds, the world lost focus and became a kaleidoscope mosaic of meaningless color.
"Uh," he said, "you want to sell clothes? Gym clothes?"
I looked at him square and saw that the paranoia had fled him entirely. Now those dark eyes only showed a mixture of confusion and disgusted pity. Within moments, I had gone from potential robber to desperate crackhead.
I wanted to slap my forehead in embarrassment. Good Christ, Linus – get a hold on yourself. Get your shit together, son. Of course he can't see the sword – it's buried below your undies.
"Ha!" I chortled nervously. "Sorry about that. No – it's what's under the clothes. I needed to pad it, see?" I waited for him to remove the top layer of garments, realized that he had no intention of sticking his hands into a stranger's bag, and then folded back the shirts and shorts. The blade gleamed from the depths.
The clerk's eyebrows rose. "Cool!" He didn't hesitate now, darting both hands in to raise the Master Sword fully into the cold light.
Victory! Jubilation! Fireworks! Roman candles! Triumphant parades!
I could have leapt over the counter and hugged the man. I felt more relieved than I had ever been in the entirety of my life – more so than completing any final project or receiving the results of any health exam. I wanted to slump against the counter and fall to the ground in joy. It took great strength of will to hold it all together.
"This is sweet, man," the clerk smiled. "Where'd you get it?"
"My girlfriend bought it for me at a renaissance festival," I lied. "She knew how much I liked the games, so . . ." I spun my hand in the eternal gesture of And so on and so forth. All of this felt secondhand and numb – like my body was a puppet I was controlling from some great distance.
"Games?" he asked, genuinely confused.
I began, "Oh, you know The Legend of . . ." I trailed off, watching the continued puzzlement on his lined face. "Never mind," I said. "How much can you buy it for?"
He slid the sword over a forearm, closing one eye and peering down its length. "Why do you want to sell it? It's a bit beat up, but it's the kind of thing I'd love to put up on a wall or something."
"We broke up," I said. Man, I was getting good at this brand of bullshit. "About a month ago. This thing just brings bad memories."
The clerk's closed eye suddenly snapped open. "Uh huh," he said mechanically.
Something wasn't right. The utter euphoria of my vindication dulled. I traced his gaze up the blade of the Master Sword . . . and straight to the dried, flaking blood on its edge.
Oh no. Shit. Shit!
I began to jabber. "Oh, man. I thought I cleaned that up! Fucking thing. Has an actual blade on it, right?" I stuffed my hands into my pockets, on the borderline of panic, any sense of composure shot to hell. It did not help that I was doped up on both opiates and the endorphins spilled by my earlier relief.
"What is it?" the clerk asked flatly. His eyes were walls.
"Blood." I saw him twitch. "My idiot friend got drunk and tried to play with it a few weeks ago. Cut himself pretty bad. He deserved it, the retard." I forced a laugh so fake that even I cringed slightly.
Whether he was the owner or just a clerk, I'll never know. However, I do know that the man behind the counter at EXPRESS PAWN was not stupid. As I stood there with a painful smile, I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. Gears were clicking into place and spinning furiously. It was as if I could follow his thought process.
Here comes this kid out of nowhere, bearing a sword. Click. He seems pretty desperate to offload this thing. Click. There's blood on the blade – by his own admission. Click. Last night, some poor blonde got carved up like a roast and left beside a dumpster. Click-click-click. And here he is. Nervous as shit, sporting the remains of a black eye, sweating about a gallon a minute, looking as if he might bolt for the door –
And to be frank, as I created this little story in my head, I very nearly did. I managed to stand my ground.
Frowning, the clerk lowered the sword back into the waiting bag. "It's," he coughed slightly, "it's a moot point, man. We don't buy weapons."
Desperate now – almost as desperate as when I had walked through this man's door – I pointed to the guns behind his shoulder. "What about those?"
He shook his head slowly. The clockwork reasoning continued to clatter in his gaze. "Sorry, man. We don't buy knives or blades or what-have-you."
"This is more of a collectable –"
Adamantly, "Sorry. Store policy."
I felt my shoulders sag forward. So much for my grand victory. I would be lucky to get out of here without being dragged away in handcuffs. I quickly zipped the bag shut and shouldered it.
"It's okay. I can always try eBay," I said, turning away.
Behind me, the clerk's cautious voice: "Sorry I couldn't help you. Come back sometime, man." At that moment, I knew that he was going to phone the police as soon as I stepped foot out of the store.
I didn't even bother with a wave. I quickened my pace and sprang out the glass door of the pawn shop. The idiot jingle of bells swept me on my way. My breath began to draw hot claws across my ribs as I prepared to jog down the street and out of sight. So much for the painkillers. I focused only on getting distance between myself and the EXPRESS PAWN. My lips squeezed together in a bloodless grimace.
But then I stopped. My gait slowed, then halted. I stood at the corner of the EXPRESS PAWN building, which sat next to a three-story brick monstrosity of unknown age and purpose. Between the two was a long, darkened alleyway.
I was almost certain that I had heard someone scream.
Tilting my head, I shifted the weight of the gym bag and took a step closer.
No time for this. He's probably placing the call right now. Yes, officer. Stained with blood. A fucking sword, officer!
But – wait. "Help!" It was – yes. I heard it. Could have sworn I heard it. It reverberated up the alley and into the street. As I leaned in, my eyes adjusted slightly to the filthy darkness of the alleyway. A drainage gutter ran down its center, ferrying a thin stream of brackish, stinking water. At one spot or another, the high arc sodium lamps of the street cast their strange light in just the right angle to throw pools of sickly orange radiance on a section of wall or crumbling asphalt. The alley stretched back into pitch blackness. Somewhere along its length, something hissed and spat – a steam pipe, probably.
I did a foolish thing, then. "Hello?" I called out. My voice echoed between the bare walls and disappeared into the gloom.
Nothing answered except for the distant mutter of traffic and the continued sizzle of the unseen pipe.
Go. Go, you idiot. You're wasting time.
There it was again. Clearly, now: "Heeeeelp!"
A woman's voice. A girl's voice.
I heard another scream – distant. As if it were at some back-end, unseen section of the alley. "Help – please! Help!"
My hands began to shake. Jesus. Fuck!
I heard something odd then – a sort of low bleat in the darkness. It was very loud and alarmingly bestial. The girl's scream rose up and resonated against the brick and plaster. As it reached my ears, it warbled horribly and seemed to travel up and down my spine.
Don't do it. Run.
I almost did.
Don't do it! They're coming for you.
I have to help her. Someone has to help. She's screaming, you asshole!
My feet took off on their own volition.
Fuck fuck fuck! What the hell am I doing?!
I charged into the alleyway. The gym bag swung at my side like a pendulum. The walls, stained with mildew and run through with cracks, sped past me. The patches of umber witchglow splattered across my vision. The darkness loomed, oily and unrelenting. My pace slowed, but soon enough the light died out. All I felt was the asphalt beneath my feet; all I heard was the splashing of my shoes in the fetid gutter; all I tasted was the husk of my dry tongue; all I felt was the sticky blank air; and all and all –
I heard something familiar.
The darkness grew and enveloped me. It stretched across the world; it slipped; it shrank until it ran into my nostrils and down my throat.
My vision exploded. Dark, then bright. Overwhelming brightness. Beyond bright, and into something unnamable.
I saw nothing but white. And then . . . blue. A deep, sterling, depthless blue.
Warmth spread across my skin.
As I turned my head, I saw that the blue was dotted with slow, languid shapes that moved across it like ships across a perfectly calm ocean. Clouds, I realized. Clouds.
My pupils contracted.
A gentle breeze tickled the hairs on my forearms.
I looked down. "Oh my God," I whispered. My voice was very small.
I stood on a hill. Tall, swaying grass rose, by turns, to my knees and ankles. A bright, faultless sun sat amidst a sky that stretched like a colossus all the way to the green horizon.
Below me spread an endless, emerald prairie. The land undulated in lazy swoops and humps, dropping into shallow valleys and rising into pleasant little hills. Lush blades of dark green grass spread over almost every inch of ground. On the hilltops, small clusters of yellow and red flowers perched amongst the flawless fields of viridian. Here and there, groves of slim trees with fat, circular leaves sprang up like tight groups of worshippers. To my right, I could see the thin, shining line of a creek or river as it placidly wound its way between the taller hills.
The breeze blew, and the grass rippled like the waves of a jade ocean.
I did not blink. I dared not breathe. I felt the warm air, full of the taste and smells of rain and vegetation, as it settled in my nostrils and on my exposed tongue.
Then: "Please, please help! No! HEEEELLLLLP!"
And the screaming voice of the girl could not be more than a few hundred feet behind me.