The Night Sheriff, page 17
I am outside the nearest employee door when I pause. Additional reasons for the new badge/lock system belatedly present themselves. It is obviously only a minor inconvenience, but it is an unexpected one, and it forces me to seriously consider what other modern tricks and traps may be waiting. In my time here I have allowed myself to feel invulnerable. I have been encouraged in this because when I act this way, it makes a good first impression, and this is such a theatrical culture that many of the people I deal with wouldn’t recognize a subtle threat if it set their shoes on fire. However I myself am not deluded. Close calls with the sun and fire have convinced me that either would work quite well, and, as the Wendigo proved, whatever I am, if you pummel me long enough and hard enough, I will take serious damage. My geas demonstrates to any potential foe that I am susceptible to curses and magic, and I must assume they will use them if they can. There is a time to be brash, and there is a time to be subtle, and this is one of the latter. Hopefully, this will catch my foes by surprise, as no one is really used to me being subtle.
I start by taking a more circumspect route into the offices, infiltrating myself into the ductwork and flowing along, silently. The offices I peer into seem to be functioning normally.
Then I come to my own. I pause in surprise. All of my belongings are still in place. Even more alarming, a small boy—no more than ten years old—is seated at my desk, idly surfing the web on my computer! While eating caramels! I don’t know what foolishness this portends, but I cannot and will not sit by and let this imp get my keyboard all sticky.
I prepare to flow down into my office. However, when I shift my position, I get another unpleasant surprise. Set up behind my door appears to be a large bank of powerful lights. From where I am, it is easy to see that things have been set up so that they would be triggered as soon as the door swung open. I sharpen my gaze and see that these are full-spectrum lights, the type used on movie shoots, possibly even more potent than genuine sunlight. That many, at that close a range, could very well destroy me. This oblivious child, sticky fingers and all, is obviously bait. Admittedly bait that whoever put him here must be all too aware that I cannot physically harm, but surely there must be some sort of consideration as far as psychological damage goes; on the other hand, this wretched child is now picking his nose and wiping his finger on the arms of my chair. This child needs to be terrorized, and I suspect that whoever set him here is hoping that I will. What kind of person am I dealing with?
I take a deep breath and continue onwards. To take my mind off the probable state of my office furniture, I contemplate my surroundings. I really should write a dissertation about air ducts. I mean, they’re such a standard staple for covert travel in fiction that you’d think people would demand a greater level of veracity. The flaw in this plan is that they’re not all that interesting. They’re a lot smaller and dirtier than the ones you see in the movies, for one thing, but if we’re being honest, that description applies equally to everybody and everything in the entertainment business.
This line of thought keeps me amused until I reach Mr. Donovan’s office and cautiously peer in. I see no sign of traps or alarms. Mr. Donovan is slumped at his desk, elbows planted and head resting upon his cupped hands. A pose I often found Mr. Shulman in. It must be something they teach them at security school.
I flow into the room and coalesce behind his chair. Bone Cat materializes on his desk. We lean in and, in unison, whisper, “Good evening.” But there is no humorous response. No response at all. I realize that something is seriously wrong. Even before I touch him I can tell that Mr. Donovan is quite dead. Unfortunate to be sure, but it’s not the first corpse I have found lying about the grounds that I had nothing to do with. But there is something odd about this one. I tip his head back and Bone Cat squeals in surprise, actually falling off the desk. I can see why. Mr. Donovan appears to have died of fear. It’s an expression I have some familiarity with, but seeing it cold gives even me quite a start.
“Whose turn is it,” Bone Cat asks. I’m actually considering this until I realize that this body is really not my responsibility. I need to report this and let the corporate machinery grind along as it should. Bone Cat believes that we should take him anyway and give him to the gremlins. There is merit to this thought, as it is possible that they might still be holding the whole gas explosion thing against me, though I cannot see how they possibly could. On the other hand, I really don’t know what they do with the bodies I provide them with already, so I’ll acknowledge that I am not expert in Gremlin psychology.
We are arguing this very point when we step out of the office, and into the late Mr. Donovan’s anteroom, eliciting a shriek of surprise from his secretary, whom, I belatedly realize, I never actually introduced myself to. My stepping out of Mr. Donovan’s office without her knowing that I was inside must be quite disconcerting.
“Who the hell are you?” she then demands. Some people are like that. Get them flustered and they try to hide their embarrassment with a coarse bravado. These people are usually hard to deal with.
With a little effort, I can produce vocal harmonics that ensure absolute attention. I do so now. “Be quiet. Call the police and medical services, although I believe them to be superfluous. Mr. Donovan is dead.” She claps her hands to her mouth and her eyes go wide. I assume that she came to California to get into the movies, and physically, she has potential, but watching her now, I must conclude that she learned how to emote from an intense study of Cartoon Network. “Yes, yes,” I say, “you’re very surprised. Now—”
But at that moment, the anteroom door slams open and a uniformed guard—one I was unfamiliar with—steps in, pistol drawn and aimed straight at me. “Freeze!”
I blinked at him in annoyance. “Thank you, young man, but—” And then he shoots me. I’m so astonished that the bullet throws me back against the wall. This is no nine millimeter “for show” pistol. This guard is packing heavy ordinance. A .45 caliber at the very least. I relax my cohesion in time that the next two shots pass through harmlessly and simply carve chunks out of the wall behind me. The fear boiling off the secretary serves as a tonic, focusing my mind as I flow towards the guard. This worthy stands his ground and continues to fire. I am counting his shots now, and I know that he is down to his last two. Evidently he knows it, too, as he straightens up, and with a sob, turns, and guns down the secretary.
I freeze in consternation. “What the hell did you do that for, you lunatic?”
“I saved her soul from you, you demon,” he shouts, and then he swings the gun up under his own chin and pulls the trigger.
Even as his fool head explodes, I’m kneeling next to the secretary, to see what I could do for her, though I am afraid it would be little enough. A .45 at close range can kill a human through hydrostatic shock alone, and I see that she is dead.
“Demon” he called me. I’m beginning to think he may have meant that literally. Bone Cat is already on the phone in the secretary’s desk, trying to call for the police.
I give the guard a cursory examination. I see that his exposed skin has an unseemly number of tattoos. This is not as unheard of as it used to be, as sometime in the last ten years or so the Zenon Corporation had rescinded its established hiring ban on people with visible tattoos, but even now they have to be innocuous. What I can see on the guard is anything but, as it appears to be a mix of crucifixes, bible verses, and handguns.
Bone Cat slams the phone down. “The line is dead,” he reports. “The jerk must’ve shot it up.”
But I don’t see any damage …
I think about the cellular phone in my desk—it’s no doubt been used as a depository for chewing gum—and sigh in annoyance. I’m about to search the gunman for his, when a clatter out in the hall alerts us that more people are coming. Marvelous. I briefly consider facing them, but I remember that light setup in my office. If they’re out to get me, specifically, then they might be better prepared than the fool at my feet.
With a grunt (that initial bullet impact still smarted a bit), I flow up and into the air vent. Just in time, as it happens, as when the door is kicked in, a flare of light fills the room. Even from where I am, the reflected glare is enough to make me congeal slightly, which is most uncomfortable inside that conduit, let me tell you. But I stick it out and am rewarded by a squad of uniformed security officers (none of whom I knew) pouring into the room, guns drawn, all equipped with head-mounted sun lamps.
Every now and then I realize that I have been immersed far too long in a corporate culture that takes its cues and social mores from the movies it produces. This was once again the case as I realize that I’m waiting for the men in the room to explain why they’re after me, and, possibly, where they’ll be meeting “the Boss.” Don’t judge me; I’d had a trying morning.
Needless to say, they do no such thing. These men are a step up in professionalism from their late, trigger-happy colleague, though there seems to be an unseemly amount of muttered prayer. This solidifies a growing suspicion; if you want to wholeheartedly hunt a “demon,” then go out of your way to employ people who are already convinced that demons actually exist. While I admire the deviousness thus displayed, I also find it vexing, as it means that my chances of rationally talking to these people are minuscule at best. There can be no negotiating when you believe you are fighting a Holy War. God wouldn’t like it.
If I’m honest, I can see how a credulous person, given a superficial outline of my activities and abilities, could be convinced that I was some sort of force for evil. It’s been people’s baseline assumption about me for almost a millennium, after all. But I really cannot fathom why the new owner has gone to all this effort to convince people that I’m so evil that the sin of suicide is apparently the lesser threat to their soul. Oh, any number of incoming executives have initially recoiled from me and my work here, but all too soon, they see the necessity.
Mr. Michael was one of the hardest to convince. He was the first CEO who came from outside of the family, though he had worked his way up from within the organization. Now, Mr. Raphael was an excellent manager, but whenever possible, the policies of his brother trumped competing suggestions from well-meaning underlings, and Mr. Michael always had suggestions. So it was unsurprising that Mr. Michael had over a decade of buried resentment to work through, which manifested in a determination to do things his way.
He was incredulous when he first heard about me, and was convinced that I was not, in fact, a timeless monster that patrolled the park and killed those who would prey upon children, but some sort of scam artist. It was that notion that seemed to anger him more than the reality, and when the time came, he was quite eager to meet me.
The official transfer of power was to take place the next day. Mr. Raphael brought Mr. Michael to the park that last night so that we might meet. I had been told that the new boss was a bit of a skeptic, and so I tried for a flashy entrance. When I saw them waiting near the newly erected statue of Mr. Bartholomew, I swooped down out of the darkness and made a show of coalescing before them. It was all rather spoiled when I tripped upon the curb and sprawled at their feet. Mr. Michael stared down at me with contempt. “This is your monster?”
Mr. Raphael was obviously embarrassed, but helped me up, nonetheless. Mr. Michael peered upwards, no doubt searching for the wires he assumed I had lowered myself down upon. “I thought I’d tell you in person,” he said, still looking upwards. “You’re fired. You can leave now.”
This was the first time someone tried to fire me. To be honest, it was a bit of a shock. “I don’t think you can do that,” I said. I looked to Mr. Raphael. “Can he do that?”
That worthy checked his watch. “The public ceremony takes place later today, but all the papers were signed a week ago. So, technically, as of midnight, which was five minutes ago, he is, in fact, your boss.”
“But … but it can’t be as easy as that, can it?”
Mr. Michael leaned in, looking me in the face for the first time. “It sure can, pal. I don’t know what kind of con game you ran on these guys, but it’s done.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a crisp tan envelope. “Here you go. All legal and above board. Your final check and your paperwork. You’re done. Let’s go.” Without another word, he turned and we headed towards the gate.
Walking beside me, Mr. Raphael coughed quietly and pulled out an envelope of his own. “I’m not really sure that this will work,” he admitted, “but if it does …”
Inside I found another check and an admittedly vague, but glowing, letter of recommendation, signed by Mr. Raphael himself. Before I could say anything, he waved a hand. “It’s the least I can do.”
We passed the gates, and just before we reached the sidewalk, I ran into the barrier. No easy way out for me. “This is as far as I can go,” I said with a shrug.
“The hell you say,” Mr. Michal growled. He grabbed my arm and attempted to jerk me forward, almost flying off of his feet when I didn’t move. “I’ve heard of stuff like this,” he said with a sneer. “Bracing yourself against the ground.” I had no idea what he was talking about. But apparently Mr. Michael had come prepared for any unpleasantness. He waved his hand, and doors opened on a sleek limousine parked at the curb. Four large men in dark suits hurried towards us. A few muttered instructions from Mr. Michael, and they all grabbed me. Curiosity stayed my hand, and I allowed them to try to push, pull, and eventually, lift and carry me across the invisible line. All to no avail. The largest of the men finally threw up his hands. “I dunno how he’s doin’ it, sir, but he’s doin’ it. We can’t move him.”
Mr. Michael’s eyes narrowed. He glanced over at Mr. Raphael, as if he thought the older man was playing a joke on him. Then he squared his jaw and nodded. “Fine. Let’s see how he does it when he’s unconscious. Tony—” He pointed to the leader of the men. “Get this trespassing bum outta my park.”
Mr. Raphael looked alarmed. “Michael, don’t!”
The men surrounded me and their grip was harder. Enough. I flowed out from between their fingers, and with two punches, a shove, and a kick, sent them flying back towards their car. I then swooped down on Mr. Michael, grabbed him by the collar of his very expensive suit, and hauled him high into the air. The two of us hovered above Electric Avenue. On the ground below, the five men stared upwards, their mouths open in amazement.
I’ll give him this, Mr. Michael didn’t scream. At least, not until I turned to face him and he saw my true visage. Then he screamed quite a bit. I don’t know what he expected me to do, but what he got was an argument for why, since I could not leave the park, I should continue to be employed there. I thought it was rather reasonable and well thought out, considering I had to deliver the whole thing off-the-cuff as it were. Naturally there might have been a few places where I needed both hands for proper emphasis, but I always caught him quickly.
In a remarkably short time, he agreed that the terms of my continued employment were more than fair, although I will confess that I used my current advantageous position (approximately 150 feet up) to wrangle a modest raise in pay. No doubt there are those who would call this sort of behavior towards one’s boss impertinent, and not really conducive toward long-term employee/management relations, and I cannot, in good conscience, argue. But evil? Worth trying to kill me evil? Ridiculous.
Oh, I suppose someone could be under the misapprehension that they are settling my karmic hash vis-à-vis the whole killing people thing, but to be honest, over the years, incoming CEOs are less fazed by the fact that I kill pedophiles than by the fact that I dare to contradict them. I do not know what they are teaching in management schools these days, but apparently humility and anger management are not in the curriculum.
But I have not even met the new owner, so I really have no idea as to why he should have taken so much trouble to cast me as a villain. These were my thoughts as I flowed through the conduit. I really had no particular destination in mind, but I thought a general reconnaissance was in order. I head towards the main security monitoring station. It was usually occupied by one or two bored guards, along with a multitude of screens displaying ever-changing views of the park and the underground complex.
Today it is packed with security people, both uniformed and not. The one in charge is explaining that I am dangerous and am to be destroyed on sight. On the main screen is an endless loop of myself coalescing behind Mr. Donovan and lifting his head to reveal his shocking visage. To me it’s obvious that I had done nothing, but to a more excitable person, I have to concede that you could interpret it as a monstrous attack upon a sleeping man. No wonder everyone is so upset. It doesn’t help that I have yet to see a familiar face amongst the security forces. There is no one with any experience in dealing with me to reassure them that, while I was creepy, yes, and certainly an inexplicable thing that was a power unto myself within the park itself, I cause no actual harm …
It is times like these when a person realizes that they have been inexcusably lax when it comes to the whole social media thing. I had rather gone out of my way to cultivate a mysterious persona within the company as a benignly dangerous entity bound by no laws but my own. Possibly it was time for a bit of a public relations makeover. Unfortunately, that would have to be postponed for the moment.
Below, the security officers present file out, and a fresh batch shuffle in. The room only holds ten people at a time. The man in charge allows the newcomers to get an eyeful of the damning loop on the screens before he calls for their attention. “All right, men.” I belatedly realize that sexual diversity in this particular workplace seems to have gone by the wayside. “This is the demon you heard about when you were hired.”
