Syndicated columnist, Jerry Hoyle, has found a headless corpse in a New Orleans motel room, but horrors far worse await him. He's about to enter a world of bizarre religious cults, shrunken heads, and voodoo. A world from which, even death, offers no escape.

INTERCOURSE WITH THE DEAD

Dave McCourt © 2001

It started with the silly ad in the classified section of the Times-Picayune.

FOR SALE: WHITE COLLIE DOG BEST OFFER PLAYS EXCELLENT BOOGIE-WOOGIE PIANO CONTACT HERB - 689-8899

Normally Jerry Hoyle didn't read the classified ads and he certainly never read the 'Pets for Sale' section. Maybe it was fate. He had read the ad three times.

'A piano-playing dog,' he thought. 'Now there's something you don't see every day.' He chuckled. It was just the sort thing he was looking for, human interest with a twist, his kind of story.

Jerry Hoyle was New Orleans' Aesop of the unusual. His column was carried in papers all across the country but he made his home in New Orleans' French Quarter because it provided him with unlimited material, things like piano-playing dogs.

Some of his stories were almost folklore; the intriguing tale of the woman who tried to win money at the horse track using voodoo charms, the story of the shrimp boat skipper who found a sunken Spanish galleon, the saga of 'Jelly Roll' Morton's derby hat that brought bad luck to everyone who ever owned it. People remembered that stuff. They might not remember who the Governor was in 1990 but they remembered the story Hoyle did about the recovering alcoholic who had inherited a whiskey distillery in 1990.

Hoyle dialed the phone number.

"Hello."

"Hello, I'm calling about the dog, the collie you advertised in the Times-Picayune this morning. I'd like to see him."

"He's something, all right. Plays piano, just like I said in the ad. I wasn't joking about that. He plays good too. You remember a number the Andrews Sisters used to do called Piano Roll Blues?."

"Yes, I've heard it."

"That's what he plays, Piano Roll Blues. There isn't another like him in the world. I've had a lot of calls already. How much would you give for him?"

"Well, actually I'm not in the market. I'm a reporter. My name's Jerry Hoyle. I write a syndicated newspaper column. You might have read it at one time or another."

"I know who you are. You always writes about crazy folks, doing crazy things. You want to write about my dog?"

"Well, I'd have to see him first. But if he can really play piano I think my reader's would find that amusing."

"He can do it all right. I know it sounds crazy, but you come out and look. I guarantee you never seen anything like him in your life. You won't believe it but you'll see."

Much of New Orleans was old and picturesque, but the section that Herb lived in was only old. The bleakness of the buildings was reflected in the faces of the people on the street. Hoyle felt conspicuous. The eyes of every crack dealer, every hooker, every poverty-stricken person he saw were on him. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea coming down here. A guy with a new car was a 'mark' in this part of town.

He found the house. As he locked his car he wondered just exactly how long it took to bust a car window and drive off with it. He won't stay long, he promised himself, no matter how interesting the story was.

Hoyle rang the doorbell several times before he finally figured out it didn't work. He knocked and there were movements inside and the door opened a crack. An ancient eyeball peered across the chain latch and an aged little Negro woman with a squeaky voice asked,

"Yes, what is it?"

"I'm the man on the phone," Hoyle replied, "the one about the dog."

"Oh, come in," the woman said as she unlocked the latch. "You must have talked to my husband, Herbert. We must have had 50 calls about that dog this morning. One man offered us a thousand dollars. Can you imagine? A thousand dollars for a darned old dog! He said he'd be right over. That isn't you, is it?"

"No Ma'am, I'm afraid not."

"Well, my husband is upstairs with Fella. That's what he calls the dog, Fella. You can go see him but if we can get a thousand dollars for him we have to take it. My husband is on Social Security and I just work part time. If the man comes with the money we got to take it."

"Yes Ma'am, I'd take it too if he were mine." Hoyle started up the steps. They creaked beneath his feet and the railing wobbled when he put his weight on it. He moved up the stairs with a slow, unsteady motion.

"Herbert," the woman yelled in her squeaky voice, "A man's coming up to see the dog."

"Well, send him up," a voice from somewhere above answered.

As Hoyle reached the top of the stairs the voice said, "In here."

Hoyle walked down a short corridor and, as he entered a room lit only by a single lamp, he saw an old black man in a rocking chair, rocking slowly, with a newspaper in his hands, and a cane laying across his lap. The collie lay curled at his feet. It would have made a nice Norman Rockwell painting, an old man in a rocking chair with a dog sleeping at his feet, but the dog didn't look quite like a dog sleeping. One eye was shut and, if the other would have been shut, it would have looked like the dog was lost in some contented reverie. But the other eye was open and fixed on the old man's every move. There was something about the animal that just didn't look right.

"Herbert Randolph?" asked Hoyle.

"Call me, Herb. Come in. Are you the one who offered a thousand dollar's for Fella, here?"

"No sir, I'm not. I'm the reporter, Jerry Hoyle, the guy with the column."

"So you want to write about me and my dog, huh? Well, you ain't seen nothing like him. I'll tell you that."

"If he can do all you claim, then, yes sir, I think people would enjoy reading about him."

"Hear that, Fella?"

At the mention of his name the dog roused and turned his head toward his master. "This man's going to make you famous."

The dog yawned, laid his head on his paws, closed one eye, and resumed his nap.

"Well, I guess he don't care much but I'd like to see you write about him. He's the most amazing thing I've ever seen. You see how he sleeps? He sleeps with one eye open. I'll bet you never saw that before, did you?"

"No, I have to admit I haven't."

"You know why he does that?"

Hoyle shrugged and donned a blank expression.

"He does it because he was raised around crazy folks. You know how I know that? 'Cause my brother was crazy and he had a dog like that."

Hoyle began to wonder if Mr. Randolph might be little touched himself. It wouldn't have been the first time Hoyle went to check out some fantastic story only to find that the people involved were highly out of touch with reality.

"You're looking at me like I'm crazy!"

It was as if the old black man could read his mind.

"No, I..."

"Yes, you was! I know when somebody is looking at me like I'm crazy. I said my brother was crazy. I ain't crazy. I got flat feet."

Flat feet?

"My brother was in the war, World War II, the big war. My brother was a hero. I ain't no hero. I don't believe I'd want to be no hero. My brother come back from the war crazy. He was just like me before he went but he was crazy when he come back. He'd be walking down the street and he'd hear a truck backfire and he'd about jump out of his skin. And he couldn't sleep at night, always had one eye open. He'd wake up at night and start screaming. Some times his wife would find him in the middle of the night searching all the closets in the house with his gun in his hand looking for the enemy. 'Course, there wasn't no enemy, lest ways not in his closet. But he was crazy and the war made him crazy. They called it 'Shell Shock' back then. I'd don't know what they call it now. Probably got some big scientific name for it now. But you see he'd been where there was an enemy and he had to sleep like that and he had to always be looking out for the enemy because, where he'd been, you had do that to stay alive. They taught him to do that and he did it good and it kept him alive when a lot men around him got killed. It was like they turned on a switch in his head and he didn't know how to turn it back off."

"And your brother had a dog like this one?"

"His wife got him a dog. The doctors at the VA said it would help. They said sometimes people feel like they can't relate to other people because they're afraid of people but with a dog they ain't afraid, so they thought a dog might help and at first it did. But after a while the dog got to be like my brother. The dog got crazy. He'd sleep with an eye open. He'd go around sniffing at the closets, searching the house like he was on patrol. He got so he was scared to death of loud noises. Living with my brother made him crazy like my brother. So that's how I know this dog has been living with crazy people."

"So this dog lived with a war veteran?"

"I don't think so. He's crazy, but he's crazy in a different way. This dog doesn't do anything unless he gets an 'OK' from me. You know how you put down food for a dog when he's hungry and you can't hardly get it out of the can before he's got his face in it? Not this dog. This dog looks at me and until I say, 'OK, you can eat it', he won't touch it. You know how a dog sees a squirrel and he takes out after it? Not this dog. He looks at me and if I tell him 'OK' he goes after it and if I don't he just stands there looking at me."

"Well, I guess he's pretty well trained."

Mr. Randolph leaned forward and whispered, "Tain't natural. My neighbor's got a bitch in heat and I know she's in heat because every male dog in the neighborhood is on her. But not this dog. This dog looks at her like he wants it but then he looks at me to see is it 'OK'. What do think about that?"

"Well, he sounds like a mighty well-behaved dog. I wouldn't mind having a dog like that myself."

"No, he's a nice dog and I like him, but its like he can't think for himself. It's like he needs somebody to tell him what to do or he can't do nothing. It ain't natural. He's been around somebody crazy like my brother."

"What happened to your brother?"

"He's dead." Mr. Randolph twisted up his face and seemed to choke back a tear. "He died in the nut house, VA mental hospital. He got so he thought his wife was the enemy. He thought I was the enemy. He started attacking people. He had to be put away. He wasn't like my brother anymore. He was a stranger. They trained him that his only friends were members of his platoon and everybody else was the enemy and he just couldn't get that idea out of his head. I'd go visit him, but it was hard. It's hard to see those people in there. You ever been to a mental ward?"

"No, I never have."

"Well, it's scary and it's sad. It's sad because it's like a warehouse for broken people and you know most of 'em's never gonna get fixed. They just always gonna be broken and you know somewhere in each one of them there's a person that can't get back to the real world. The reason it's scary isn't 'cause they might hurt you, although there's some of 'em that might. No, the reason it's scary is because you sits there and thinks about it and you know that, if you didn't have flat feet, you'd have been drafted and it could be you in there crazy. That's what scary, knowing that but for the grace of God, it could have been you there fighting the world for no good reason and losing your battle. I think about that a lot. It could have been me."

The old man seemed so sad Hoyle thought it might be better to change the subject.

"Could I see your dog play the piano?"

"Sure. Come on, Fella." Mr. Randolph got up and moved over to the piano. He pointed to the wooden roll-top cover over the keyboard.

"If I leave that up, he plays all the time. Gotta put it down to make him stop playing. Believe he'd play 24 hours a day if I'd let him. Seems like the only thing he'll do all by himself." Mr. Randolph rolled the cover back.

"Do your stuff, Fella." The dog was at the piano in an instant and Hoyle prepared himself for some unmelodic plunking. The collie quickly braced himself on his hind legs and placed one paw an the wooden part of the piano beneath the keys for balance. The dog extended one claw from his free paw and began to plunk out Piano Roll Blues. He only knew the chorus but it was actually a decent rendition. The dog did about as well as a human being using one finger would do. It wasn't Jerry Lee Lewis but for a dog it was really rather remarkable. Even the tempo was correct. The animal seemed to enjoy the activity immensely. Hoyle was impressed. Fella finished and turned to Mr. Randolph who reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of rock candy, unwrapped it, and gave it to the dog. Then Fella returned to the piano but before he began to play the tune again Mr. Randolph closed the cover.

"I've never seen anything like it," said Hoyle. "How in the world did he learn to do that? I get the impression that you didn't teach him. Is that right?"

"Oh, I didn't teach him. He knew how to play piano when my wife first brought him here. The first day he came in this room, he walked right over to the piano, stood up on his haunches, and played that tune. That's something, ain't it? Could have knocked me over with a stick when I saw that. Well, he's a nice dog and all and I like him. I sort of feel sorry for him being so dependent. But we're struggling. I just have Social Security and my wife just works part time. I don't like her working. She's younger than me. She's 66, but a 66 year-old-woman shouldn't have to work, not even part time. I take a lot of medicine for my heart and what we get, it don't pay for it all, lest ways, not enough to still buy food and gas and keep the lights on. I told her, 'Elizabeth, this dog's worth a lot of money!' And he is worth money. I won't sell him if I didn't have to, but things are like they are. I sure hope that man with the thousand dollars shows up."

"Well, how exactly did you acquire him, Mr. Randolph?"

"Call me Herb. Everybody just calls me, Herb."

"OK, Herb, how'd you get him?"

"The way we got him was awful strange. My wife, she works part time as a cleaning woman at this motel out on the highway, The Rambler's Retreat, it's called. A girl checks in there about two weeks ago. A young girl, my wife said, about 19 or 20. This girl's got the dog with her and she's taking him up to the room with her and that's against the rules, ya see. They don't allow no pets down there. So Elizabeth tells her she can't house that dog there in the room.

"The girl pulls out 50 dollars and gives it to my wife. 'Mums the word, OK?', she says. Well mister, 50 dollars is 50 dollars, so my wife don't say nothing to the owner of the motel.

"So everyday the girl asks my wife, would she mind walking the dog, and she gives my wife 10 dollar's a day for that and when Elizabeth would get off work at noon she'd walk the dog. But one day my wife brings the dog back to the room and there's no answer when she knocks on the door. So she uses her pass key to open the door but the chain latch is hooked from the inside. She yells that she brought the dog back and there's a man's voice coming from inside the room and he say's, 'Go away, we don't want to be bothered right now. We aren't dressed.'

"So my wife figures maybe this girl is a prostitute and the man is in there on business, if you know what I mean. There's a lot of that goes on nowadays. Used to be, they wouldn't allow trash like that, but nowadays...Well, anyhow, when I came to pick Elizabeth up from work there she is with this dog. She told me what happened and asked me what she ought to do. I said, 'Well, he's a nice looking dog. Why don't we let him spend the night with us?' It's been years since we had a dog. I thought it would be kind of nice. That's when we saw him play the piano for the first time.

"The next day I take my wife to work and I tell her, 'You just tell that girl to come by the house and pick up her dog.' I sort of figured she should give us a little something extra for keeping him all night and I knew Elizabeth wouldn't ask for anything extra so I wanted that girl to deal with me. But a real strange thing happens that day. The motel manager, Mr. Minky, he tells Elizabeth not to go into room 204, that's the room the girl was staying in. Mr. Minky told her the party in 204 didn't want to be disturbed for a month."

"For a month?" said Hoyle. "That doesn't make sense."

"Well, of course, it doesn't. And that's just what my wife said. 'And what about the linen?,' she says, 'They aren't going to use the same linen for a month, are they?'.

"Mr. Minky says a man came in who was a friend of the girl. The man tells Minky the girl's mother just died and that the girl was flying home for the funeral. But according to this friend of hers the gal had just left all her stuff there in the room and she'd be back for it in a month. The man paid the month's rent in advance and gave Minky an extra hundred to be sure that nobody went into the room. He said that, if anything was gone from that room, he'd hold Minky personally responsible.

"Well, Mr. Minky, he's tighter than two coats of paint, so you can bet your booties he's going to do everything he can to make sure nobody gets into that room. He took my wife's pass key right away from her. That Minky's a rough man to work for. I told my wife to quit many a time, but she won't listen. Oh, we need the money, all right, but it still ain't right for him to treat her like that. I wish she didn't have to work."

"How long ago was this?"

"That was over a week ago and we've had Fella all this time and no one's come for him, or called, or anything. So I said, 'Elizabeth, we should sell him. Those people don't care about that dog.' And they don't neither. They won't leave him this long if they cared about him. No, they just don't give a damn. My wife, she don't like the idea much but she knows we need the money, ya see? You don't think I'm wrong for selling him, do ya? Those people don't care about him. He'd be better off in a good home. Don't you think so?"

"Well, the dog needs somebody to take care of him, that's true. But when you come right down to it, Herb, he's not yours to sell. I mean when a person's mother dies that's a very tragic thing. You can see where the girl might have been so upset that she forgot the dog, couldn't you?"

"She didn't forget about her belongings in the motel. She sent that man to see to it that nobody touched them, paid an extra hundred dollars just to see to it. But she didn't think twice about this dog here. You see, I can understand her being upset about her mama passing on. But it's been over a week. Now, do you mean to tell me that gal just plumb forgot about this animal for a whole week? No, sir, I don't believe it. And I don't think she's coming back at all."

"OK, Herb, I'll grant you that it's strange but you still don't have the right to sell the dog."

"It's awful strange. Whatever they're up to, it's no good. I'll bet you on that. Besides, I'll tell you another thing. They branded that dog. What kind of people do that to a dog? You brand cattle. You don't brand no dog. Those people are no good. They're crazy people. You can tell it from how the dog is."

"What do mean they branded him?"

"You take a look at his neck."

Hoyle bent down and examined the dog's neck. As he ran his hand across the dog's neck he noticed a spot where there was no fur. It was a circular spot with a design on it. It looked like an ape reaching up for a halo floating above its head.

"Huh?"

"Well, what do think about that?"

"I don't think it's a brand. It looks more like a tattoo. It looks like some kind of ape reaching for a halo."

"Well, my eyes ain't so good, no more. But it don't make no difference. Who in their right mind puts a tattoo on a dog? If God wanted dogs to have tattoos he wouldn't have give 'em hair."

"Well, they tattoo horses but that's on the inside of their upper lip for identification."

"I know all about that. I used to walk horses at the Fairgrounds when I was a youngster, but this ain't no race horse. This is a dog. And you don't tattoo no dog. And it ain't for identification."

"It doesn't look like it's for identification. Did the girl have any tattoos? Maybe she tattooed the dog to match some tattoo she had."

"That's crazy."

"You told me they were crazy people."

"Elizabeth said she had some marks on her neck, three little circles or something like that, but she didn't have nothing like that dog's got. Lest ways, my wife didn't mention anything about it and I showed her this mark on the dog. If the girl had a mark like it she'd have said something."

"Maybe the girl's tattoo is where you can't see it. They put tattoos all over nowadays."

"Ain't that the truth. Some of 'em look like the funny pages walking down the street. People today got no common sense, poking holes in their bodies, sticking rings in their noses, their heads, every damn place. I saw a man walking down the street the other day, a man mind you, wearing no shirt and he had a chain running from one of his nipples to the other. Can you imagine that?"

Hoyle laughed.

"You know what's wrong with people today, Mr. Hoyle?"

"I have feeling you're going to tell me."

"Well, I will tell you. You remember Joe Pyne?"

"No, I guess I don't"

"He was the first one on TV with all those weirdos. He'd bring out some nut who'd say they was from Venus and all the people on Earth were put here by people from Venus and we all had to get ready to go back home now. And old Joe Pyne would look at 'em and he'd say, 'You're a nut!' and he'd start yelling at 'em and he'd tell 'em they was crazy. I remember in those days I thought, 'This is about as bad as television can get. You bring out a nut and call 'em a nut and millions of people watch ya do it.' I didn't think it could get no worse than that but I was dead wrong. It got worse. They bring out these nuts today and they say 'Well, we don't really know how people got to Earth so maybe they did come from Venus and we gotta respect these people's beliefs.' That's what they'd say today. And there'd probably be 50 nuts wanting to follow them and go to Venus. Hell, there ain't nothing up on Venus. I seen pictures of it. It don't matter today how goofy the idea is, there's people that just can't tell baloney when they hear it. Look at those people in California."

Hoyle smiled. "I'm not sure who you have in mind."

"Bo and Peep, you remember them?"

"The Heaven's Gate People?"

"That's them. They told folks God was coming for them in a UFO hiding behind a comet and they had to 'shed their containers.' You remember that?"

"Yes, all their followers committed suicide."

"Well, that just shows you. People got no common sense. If they came up to me and said they was Bo and Peep and wanted me to 'shed my container', I'd take this cane and I'd whoop 'em a good one and I'd say, 'Well, you're Humpty Dumpty now!'"

Hoyle laughed. "I'll bet you'd do just that.

"It's monkey see, monkey do. Maybe that's what that tattoo means. Maybe it means 'if you see a bunch of jackasses being fools, run right out and join 'em and do like they do'."

"You've got a point, Herb, but you've never even met the girl who owns the dog. She might be a very nice person."

"Nice people don't tattoo poor dumb animals. Listen, you wouldn't mention anything about how we came to own the dog in your story, will you? You know, if that girl's crazy, she might try to do something to me."

"Herb, at this point in time I'm not even going to write it. If I did, you'd probably wind up in the slammer for selling stolen property and I wouldn't want to see that happen."

"But they abandoned him."

"Herb, they still own him, even if they're crazy, evil, dog tattooers. If they don't come back at the end of the month then you might be able to sell him legally. You do what you want, but if I were you, I'd wait." Hoyle's glance went back to the dog. "He is something, though. I would love to write about him. He's a dandy."

"You understand how it is, don't you, Mr. Hoyle?"

"Yeah, I do." said Hoyle. He extended his hand to Mr. Randolph. Well, hey, it's been nice meeting you and thanks for letting me see the dog."

"My pleasure. Good to meet you."

Hoyle started down the stairs. Elizabeth Randolph was just starting up the stairs with a tall blonde-haired man of about 40 who was wearing sun glasses and an expensive looking gray suit. The right side of the man's face had several deep gashes in it, as if he had been clawed by some sort of animal, and on his neck were 6 small circular scars.

"Oh," said Mrs. Randolph as she encountered Hoyle on the steps, this is the man who is going to pay us a thousand dollars for Fella." She was all smiles and so was the man in the sun glasses.

Mr. Randolph leaned over the top of the staircase. "Well, come on up," he yelled down to the stranger. It was obvious to Hoyle that Mr. Randolph had decided which course to take. The man with the scarred face paused for a moment on the steps and looked at Hoyle.

"I hope you're not too disappointed," said the stranger.

"Oh, I'm not here to buy the dog," explained Hoyle. "I'm a newspaper columnist. I just wanted to do a story about the dog for my newspaper column."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question," the face behind the sun glasses told him as it stiffened. The scar-faced man's whole demeanor changed and the gay, carefree atmosphere that pervaded the Randolph's dwelling suddenly changed to a menacing silence that was unbroken except for the slow, almost rhythmical, panting of the dog.

"Why is that?"

"Well, I represent the legal owner of the dog. She is willing to pay these people for their trouble, and pay them handsomely, I might add. But she does not want her neglect of the animal and her personal, what-shall-I-call-it, indiscretions pasted all over the newspapers."

"I see...Well, could I perhaps just talk about the dog's ability to play the piano. There'd be no need to mention any of the rest of it."

"There's no need to mention any of it." The stranger proceeded up the steps. When he reached the top the dog ran to him and lapped at his hand vigorously. Fella's tail wagged wildly, like a metronome gone berserk. There was little doubt that two old friends had been reunited.

Mr. Randolph stood at the top of the stairs uneasily shifting his weight from one foot to the other and not quite knowing where to look or what to say. He had obtained the dog by questionable means and it was obvious that a face-to-face meeting with a representative of the dog's true owner was a very unnerving experience for him.

"What's that tattoo on his neck mean? Did you have that put on him?" Hoyle asked.

The man with the scars turned from the dog and looked down the steps at Hoyle. His face was cold and rigid. "The subject is closed. Good day." He turned once more to the dog.

Hoyle had been dismissed, as it were. At that point he walked down the remainder of the staircase and let himself out the front door without further conversation. There was a Lincoln Continental parked on the street behind his car. He assumed it belonged to the stranger.

Oh, well, it was just a wild goose chase. A dead end. At least no one had stolen the stereo out of his car while he was gone. Hoyle got in his car and drove back to the French Quarter.

He got all the way to the corner of Canal and Baronne before he turned the car around and headed for the Rambler's Retreat.

The Rambler's Retreat was one of many motels clustered around the interstate exit on the highway. All promised reasonable rates, cable TV, and a pool. There were 60 little cubical rooms arranged in 3 decks. Jerry Hoyle wasn't exactly sure what brought him there. He'd already wasted an hour on a story he wasn't going to write and now here he was at the motel. So what next?

He had no idea, but he got out of the car anyway. He climbed the steps to the second level of the motel. At room 204 he knocked on the door. There was no reply. There was a single window but the shades were drawn and they were too thick to see through. It was then that he noticed the odor.

It was a strange odor, something he had never smelled before. It didn't smell good. Something was very wrong here.

He was letting the old man's rationalizations for selling stolen property become real in his mind. The hell with it. He'd wasted enough time. He started down the steps.

'But why would anybody rent a motel room for a month just to store their belongings in?' thought Hoyle. 'It would have been simpler and cheaper to have her stuff shipped to her. And what about the tattoo? And how exactly do you teach a dog to play piano?'

Hoyle paused at room 104. It was directly beneath 204. Maybe the people staying there might have heard something strange from the room above. But the girl left a week ago. If 104, or even 304, was occupied at the time, the people staying there had probably left long ago. The curtains of 104 were open. The room was unoccupied. It was a waste of time.

There was a Pepsi machine on the main level next to 104. Hoyle plunked in some change. There just wasn't any way to pursue the damn thing without going to the motel owner and telling him...telling him what? That he thought something funny was going on but he wasn't quite sure what it was? He popped the top on the can of Pepsi and it immediately foamed over the top and splashed all over his shoes.

Perfect.

The weather was too damned hot, he was wasting his time on an old man's fantasies, he was out ideas, and now the damned soda pop spilled all over his shoes. Hoyle looked back up at room 204. Maybe there was a way to get in there. Maybe spilled soda pop would provide an answer to some of the questions that were bugging him.

He went to the office. Mr. Minky was sitting behind a counter watching TV.

"Good morning, may I help you?" asked Minky.

"Yes sir, I'd like a room. Could I get something near the Pepsi machine out there? I drink a lot of Pepsi and it would nice to be close to the vending machine?"

"Not a problem. Room 104 over there is vacant. That's right next to the machine. Run ya $44.95 a night."

"Sounds like just what I'm looking for."

Hoyle signed the register, got a key, and went off to 104.

So far, so good.

Room 104 was a pretty typical motel room. There was a little night table next to the bed. On it there were the usual paper wrapped drinking glasses. Hoyle had hoped that there would be some kind of water pitcher there, but there wasn't. The glasses would have to do. He unwrapped one, took it to the bathroom, and filled it. He walked over to a spot about two feet away from the shower and threw the glass of water on the ceiling.

He repeated the process five times.

Now it was time to see Minky again.

Jerry Hoyle had a look of agitation his face when he walked into Minky's office. "Excuse me sir, but I think the folks in the room above me must have overflowed their sink, or shower, or something. I've got water leaking down into my room."

"Water? Oh, that can't be right. There ain't nobody in the room above ya. It's empty. You sure about this?"

"I'm positive."

"Well, let's go take a look." Minky grabbed his pass keys and headed for room 104. Hoyle followed him, smiling slyly. It was working. He felt like Sherlock Holmes.

When he got to the room Minky surveyed the ceiling and growled when he saw the water running down the walls. "God damn it, that's all I needed. The damn plumbing broke." Hoyle smiled to himself. It was beautiful. What a brilliant ploy.

Hoyle followed Minky out the door and up the steps to room 204. Minky fumbled with the keys and finally found the right one.

"Stinks. You smell that?"

Hoyle nodded in agreement.

"What the hell did they leave stinking in here," asked Minky.

He opened the door.

A suffocating stench poured out of the room like a deluge from a bursting dam. Hoyle pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his nose. There was a body on the bed. It was a specter-like figure devoid of all flesh except for a few little bits of gore still clinging to the joints. A drab bluish fungus covered much of the figure. The creatures skull was missing and was nowhere in sight. One of the skeletal arms was next to where the head would have been and its fist was clenched as if to ward off some unseen attacker. Some internal organs remained cradled in the rib cage. The sheets were drenched with the dried brown stains of blood. There was a woman's purse lying on the floor open and empty. The room had been ransacked. The dresser drawers were strewn about and the open closet door revealed only a pile of empty clothes hangers.

Minky stood transfixed in the doorway.

"Oh, my God," he began to mutter to himself softly. "Oh, my God."

Hoyle had a haunting feeling that he would find something evil in this room, but he hadn't been prepared for anything like the immolation that now appeared before him. The fact that such a thing could have occurred at all seemed alien to him.

It was sometime before he could speak.

After what felt like an eternity, Hoyle told Minky, "Don't touch anything, I'll phone the police." Later the idea of touching anything in that sepulcher of fright would seem ridiculous. Minky had completely forgotten about the plumbing. Hoyle hurried down the stairs. There was a pay phone outside Minky's office.

"I want to report a murder," Hoyle told the police. He gave them the location of the motel and also the address on Rampart Street. He told them that a suspect might still be at the house on Rampart Street, a tall man in sunglasses with a badly scarred face.

Hoyle worked in a media that thrived like a parasite on the grotesque. He'd always tried to isolate himself from the morbid side of journalism, but today fate had dropped this thing right in his lap. He couldn't very well ignore it. Not now. He'd have to write a story but it wouldn't be anything like the one he envisioned.

About ten minutes later two squad cars arrived with their sirens screaming. When the first police officer came up the steps Hoyle told him, "We haven't disturbed anything. This is the owner."

The police officer went to the room and looked in with disbelief.

Another police officer came running up the steps. The first officer turned and gave him instructions. "Bill, radio in that we need the coroner and the homicide squad down here. Fast. This is the most God-awful thing I've ever seen."

He turned away from the grisly sight, looking as though he might vomit. His gaze fell on Hoyle.

"What do you know about this?" he asked.

It was the first in what was to be seven hours of questioning that day. Over the next week the police would call Hoyle in for questioning five more times.

They were not amused by the little charade that he had staged to get Minky to open the room. Maybe police laugh when they are alone together but they don't laugh when they're questioning a man about a crime. And they don't believe people very much. They didn't believe Hoyle when he told them he 'just had a feeling that something was very wrong in that room.'

They didn't believe that he had told them all that he knew.

It's bad when they don't believe you. It's worse when you're telling the truth.

Their search for answers unearthed only more questions. The police had arrived at the Randolph's house five minutes after Hoyle had placed the call. But the man in sunglasses had already paid in cash and left. The scar-faced man had told the Randolphs his name was Joe Franks. There were 4 people in New Orleans with that name, but none with the unique description of the man who had bought the dog.

Room 204 was meticulously dusted for finger prints. There were none whatsoever. An argon laser was used to detect prints that might not be visible under the normal compounds of mercury, aluminum, and lamp-black, but, and this was most remarkable, it revealed no prints of the victim, no prints of the murderers, nor even prints of chamber maids or previous tenants.

An odontologist verified the fact that some of the flesh had been removed from the corpse's bones by knives and human teeth and the silicon impressions he made of the bites indicated that at least five people had partaken in the ogreish meal. But how could five people having consumed what must have been at least 80 pounds of human flesh?

The pathologist from the corner's office stated that, while he could not pinpoint the exact cause of death, he was certain that the skull had been removed from the main trunk of the body by a hacksaw. But when the police contacted people who had stayed at the Rambler's Retreat during the time period when the event occurred, they reported no outcry of any kind from room 204.

A forensic anthropologist examining the pelvis and other bones declared the victim to be female and approximately 20 years of age. But there were no bullet marks upon the marrow. A knife had been used to remove some of the flesh, but it was impossible to tell if the victim had been stabbed to death.

A serologist using a gas chromatograph and a mass spectrometer to examine the blood and body fluids found no traces of poison or drugs.

The victim had registered under the name of Angel Snowflake and had shown Minky a Louisiana driver's license listing an address in Baton Rouge as her home address. But Angel Snowflake had no car and the address in Baton Rouge was a vacant lot.

A police artist did composite sketches of Joe Franks and Angel Snowflake. Hoyle didn't think the one of Franks looked very much like the man. It was based on descriptions taken from Minky and the Randolphs. The police didn't seem to care much about Hoyle's opinion of their art work.

They broadcast the pictures on the television stations throughout the Gulf Coast area. The only response came from irrational alarmists and frenzied little old ladies. Every few weeks Hoyle and the Randolphs would be called down to the police station to identify suspects in lineups. They saw many men with scars on their faces, but the man they sought was not among them. During sleepless nights Jerry Hoyle would listen to 'Call In' talk shows on the radio.

Even here there was no escape. The talk show hosts received numerous calls about the case. Everyone had a theory. No one had any answers. So at least Jerry Hoyle wasn't alone. The experts had done their best.

The one fact which emerged again and again was that the killers were also experts. There simply was no trail to follow.

Dead end. Dead end. Dead end.

Jerry Hoyle became a haunted man. He wrote the story. It got attention. Even more attention than any of the good things he'd written had ever received. A nervous restlessness began to hound him by day and at night cold fleshless hands would reach into his nightmares and clutch his throat. He would wake at odd hours of the night, drenched in sweat, and search his apartment for unseen fiends.

He would never know peace again. His mind was constantly attacked by questions. He wouldn't get the answers for a long time. By then, of course, it would be too late... He would be part of it by then.

There must have been 50 people in the cafe. Susan Gaines felt that she would never get her order. There were other places to eat on Royal Street but this was the only one that had a diet lunch that she could actually stand to eat. Susan didn't really need to diet. She had a lovely figure but, like many young secretaries in the French Quarter, she felt that cottage cheese and salad were an inherent part of her social stratum. The waitress finally brought her order and Susan hurried through it, trying to look as much like a lady as she could while steam shoveling cottage cheese into her mouth.

Still 15 minutes before she had to be back at the office. There would be time to window-shop a little. She went out into the narrow street lined with quaint little shops that were filled with items she couldn't really afford. Royal Street had been a haven for boutiques long before the word became fashionable.

A handsome young man approached her. He was wearing slacks and a green sports shirt. He had short but well-styled sandy blonde hair. He was incredibly clean cut, except for the four small circular scars on his neck.

"Excuse me, miss, may I give you two of our cards? Every Friday night we have a party and we invite only the most beautiful women and most handsome men in New Orleans and you've been selected. I'm allowed to give out two of these and I want you to have them. I've searched most of the day and you're far and away the most beautiful girl I've seen."

A pickup? On the street? And with such a corny, screwball line? No way!

"No, thank you," she said, putting as much rejection into it as she could muster. She walked quickly down the street. He was history as far as she was concerned.

But the young man didn't see it that way. He pursued her, talking rapidly.

"No, no, you misunderstand." He was trying to keep pace with her and dodge the lamp posts and ornate wrought iron lattice work.

"I just want to give you some tickets to a party. Bring your husband, your boyfriend, your husband and your boyfriend. Bring whoever you like."

That made her laugh.

Susan stopped. She smiled at him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so rude. I don't have a husband or a boyfriend right now. What kind of party is it?"

"Free drinks, live music, dancing, and interesting people. You'll love it. And it's more than just music and dancing. We discuss the truly important issues that face our country today. We seek ways to solve problems right here in our own community. It's fun and it does a lot of good. And we invite only the most beautiful people." The twinkle in his eyes ignited one in hers.

"Thanks," she said, taking the tickets. "Can I bring my roommate? I'm not much of an activist but she lives to fight pollution and ban nuclear power plants."

"Sounds likes my kind of woman." He extended his hand. "I'm John Baptist. What's your name?"

"Susan."

"Are you from New Orleans, Susan?"

"No, I'm from Mobile, but I've lived in New Orleans about two years."

"What kind of work do you do? You look intelligent. I'll bet you're a lawyer."

"No, not hardly. I'm a secretary in a finance company."

"Well, that sounds like interesting work. Do you like it?"

"It's all right. Listen, I've got to run. I'm on my lunch hour. See you tonight. OK?"

"Will you promise me the first dance?"

"Sure."

"OK. Have a really sweet day, Susan. I'll be looking forward to tonight. And remember, love is the answer."

'What did he mean by that?' thought Susan.

John Baptist? Well, his parents must have had a hell of a sense of humor.

John Baptist, indeed.

He was nice looking. A very successful, clean-cut look. That would be something different from what she was used to. There wasn't anyone in her life right now. John Baptist might fill a void. Someone to go places with. Someone to talk to. Someone to care about her? Maybe. She daydreamed through her job the rest of that day imagining very pleasant futures. It was unlike her, delightfully unlike her.

When 5 o'clock came she hurried home from the office. Her roommate Vicki wasn't home yet so Susan started dinner. She decided to cheat on her diet a bit and make meatloaf. She was putting it in the oven when Vicki came in.

"I'm beat."

"Don't be too beat. We're going to a party tonight."

"Maybe you're going to a party but I'm going to eat, slip into a hot tub, and hit the sack. What are we having?"

"Meatloaf. Oh, why don't you go, Vicki? I met this great looking guy and he gave me two tickets."

"Tickets? What is it? A fund-raiser?"

"No, live music, free booze, dancing, lots of good-looking fellas, and best of all, a freebie. Are you going to sleep through all that?"

"Yep. You can stay and tape-record my snoring if you like."

"All right. I hate to bring this up but what about the time you asked me to go out with Jeff's brother?"

"What about it?"

"Well, he was the biggest horse's ass I've ever met but did I say Vicki, 'This is a real nerd you've fixed me up with, a dweeb deluxe?' No, I felt you were my friend and out of friendship to you I let that creep maul my tender young body until the wee hours of the morning. He kept insisting that he had to see the heart I had tattooed on my breast. I really want to thank you for telling him about that. I imagine you've probably written about it on the walls of every restroom you've ever been in. But I didn't hold those things against you. I thought, Vicki's my friend, she'd do as much for me. Then I ask for one little favor. I ask you to go to a party where you would have a wonderful time and what do you tell me? 'I'm tired Susan. I can't go. I worked hard all day.'"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, already, climb down off the cross. I'll go. Look, it's not a rave, is it? Cause I'm dead tired and I just can't do a rave."

"Well, no, I'd don't think it's like that. It's..."

"You have no idea what it is, do you? You just know the guy was cute, right? So, for all you know, we might be going to a party with white slavers in an opium den, right?"

"Well..." Susan smiled.

"So what's his name, this great looking guy you've got the hots for so bad?"

Susan giggled.

It was called the Savior's Palace. Susan had never heard of it before but Vicki had attended a Women's Social Consciousness Rally there once. The building was often used for meetings on social issues. Vicki told her that faith healers even used it to hold revival meetings. Susan and Vicki joined numerous other young people who were walking into the beautiful courtyard filled with lilac bushes. A band was playing inside the main building as they entered the building. A black girl's singing filled the cool night air with gentle music.

The men present were indeed handsome and the women were of such symmetry and radiance that Aphrodite would have envied them. Susan felt elated to be included among these supreme examples of the fair sex but she wondered if she really belonged in their ranks. Vicki had her doubts as well.

"You know, I feel like a plow horse that's just entered the Kentucky Derby. Will ya look at some of these chicks? It's like a Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Shoot," she muttered to Susan.

The Savior's Palace was an old mansion in the Garden District that had been lavishly decorated and it might well have passed for a real palace. Gargantuan marble pillars towered upwards to support a mammoth glass dome that covered the villa like a gigantic contact lens. Spectrums of starlight filtered through the immense dome and the dancers glided across the floor below like shadows trapped in a giant kaleidoscope. The dance floor itself was composed of large crystalline rocks that had been ground smooth and then polished. Light seemed to ricochet at random, like a bullet gone mad. The pillars were draped with red flags that pictured the bizarre image of an ape reaching for a halo. Above the bandstand was a colossal winged figure which was either made of gold or gilded with great expertise. At first Susan thought it was an eagle clutching volts of lightning in its claws, but upon closer inspection, she saw that the sculpture was of a dove.

'How paradoxical?' she thought. From the fierce position the bird was posed in it was almost impossible not to mistake it for a bird of prey.

"Susan, I'm really glad you could make it." It was John.

"Hi, this is my roommate, Vicki Farno."

"I'm delighted, Vicki. I think you'll find that tonight may change the rest of your life."

"Frankly John, I doubt that tonight will even bring about a change of my soiled panty hose but I hope you and Susan have fun." It was Vicki's turn to play martyr.

"Susan, you promised me the first dance." John led her onto the dance floor like a king displaying his queen. He was a powerful dancer. His embrace was firm and masterful as he swirled Susan around the floor to the beat of a rapturous latin number. He carried himself like a flamenco dancer, haughty and assured. While Susan was enjoying his embrace she noticed the four small circular scars an his neck again. 'I wonder how he got those?', she thought.

"Who sponsors all this, John? Some millionaire, who just likes to throw parties so people can have a good time?"

"Yes." She was kidding but he didn't seem to be. The music came to an end. A young man in a blue suit got up on the stage and picked up the microphone.

"You're probably wondering why I called you all here tonight," he said, giving a very bad impression of Boris Karloff. There was mild laughter from the audience and mild laughter from someplace else too. Susan wasn't sure if she imagined it or not but there seemed to be laughter coming from a loud speaker somewhere above her head and a little bit behind her. 'Could it be that this guy's so insecure that he has to use canned laughter', thought Susan.

"The truth is we're going to kill you all," said the man on stage. No laughter this time. Silence. Susan gave John a very puzzled look. "Gee, the place sure got quiet," the man on stage continued. "Can it be that you really value the lives you're leading now? Are they so good? Suppose you had to give those lives up? You obviously wouldn't give up those lives to rot in some grave; but would you give them up for power, for a life of never-ending highs, for a life of love and fulfillment? I think you would if you ever thought of how much of your life is just timed routine? At 7:00 AM you wake up. 7:15 - you brush your teeth. 7:20 - you shower. 7:30 - you get dressed. 8:00 - you arrive at work. And so on, and so on, day after day for the rest of your boring life. Christ, it's like a prison sentence! How many of you enjoy those dull little lives you lead?"

Silence.

"Oh, come now. No one?"

"I do, baby. I have a ball." It was Vicki.

"What's your secret?"

"I drink, screw, and smoke dope on a regular basis." Susan was wishing that Vicki had stayed home after all. Vicki liked to say things just for shock value and tonight she was going for the academy award.

"Do you crave pleasure or just escape from reality?"

"Most of the time, one's the same as the other."

"Wrong! The people that think that will realize they are wrong before the night is over. Your old selves will be dead. Your new selves will be born. I'm not talking about religion. I don't care if you believe in Christ, Buddha, or the great green globule. My name is Paul David and I'm going to roam among you tonight and ask you what you really want out of life. Then I'm going to do a really amazing thing; I'm going to see to it that you get exactly what you want. Do you want money?"

There was a mumbling of agreement.

"I didn't hear you. Do you want money?"

This time there was a unanimous 'Yes'. Susan couldn't tell how much of it was coming from the loud speaker. Suddenly, the man reached in his pocket and pulled out a large roll of bills. He threw them in the air. The crowd went crazy, jumping and diving for the bills.

"It's like Mardi Gras, isn't it? Do you want sex?"

Another united 'Yes'. The crowd had caught the mood now. This time there was no doubt in Susan's mind. A large part of the crowd's approval was created electronically.

"Do you want drugs?"

"Yes," said the crowd and the loudspeaker. "You shall have what you want! You shall not want for anything!" There was applause from the crowd and some cheering from the sound system.

"Tonight's going to be a great night. I hope you liked our little combo, here."

There was some applause. It seemed genuine.

"Did I mention that later on Mike Graceland is going to sing for us? Mike Graceland? The rock superstar? The Hercules of boogie-woogie? You've heard of him, haven't you?"

The crowd still didn't believe him. It seemed inconceivable that one of the highest paid singers in America would appear at a small gathering like this but at that moment Mike Graceland walked onto the stage and grabbed the microphone.

"You can go ahead and applaud, if you want. He's not bull-shitting." Graceland turned and left as quickly as he had came. The crowd went hysterical. There was laughter, and thunderous clapping and this time it was real.

"See," said Paul David, "What I promise, I deliver. You got to have faith. Love is the answer. It's all real. It's all happening NOW!"

The band came back out on stage and went immediately into an upbeat number.

John smiled at Susan. "He's just learning. He really didn't explain it very well."

"Explain what?" asked Susan.

"Come on, there's someone I want you to meet." John led her to a corner of the room where a tall blonde-haired man was standing, stroking the back of a white collie dog. The man had several hideous scars running the full length of his right check and, like John, he had small circular scars on his neck; six of them. Even though the sun had set hours ago, he was wearing dark glasses.

"Susan, this is Moses Anubis, our executive director."

The face behind the glasses smiled with icy calmness and the scars curled into gaping question marks upon his cheek. "Leave it to John to invite the most beautiful girl in New Orleans to our party."

Susan blushed.

"Where are you from, Susan?" he asked.

"Mobile, originally."

"Nice city, Mobile. One of our staunchest members lives in Mobile. She's 82 years old. A very fine woman. Her granddaughter just left our organization recently. His face twisted into a smile again. "Of course, once you join, part of you is always with us."

John smirked and looked at Anubis as if there was some sort of private joke between them. Anubis took off his glasses. His eyes were deep and intent, the kind of eyes you could trust and respect. Susan didn't know quite what to make of him. She decided that any man who liked dogs must be kind at heart and honest. Still, there was a certain aloofness about the man. But could a man with such a repulsive face be expected to be overly warm and friendly? It wasn't that Anubis said the wrong things; on the contrary, his words were well chosen and almost always they were an open invitation to friendliness. But for some reason the manner in which he delivered these well-formed lines disturbed Susan. His manner was that of a salesman delivering a pitch. Susan was friendly toward Anubis but yet somewhat on guard. The man was like a magnet twirling from a string; one minute he was attractive with unparalleled charm and the next minute he was repellent through some little sign or gesture that suggested malevolence. It was impossible to tell which part of him was real. The young man who had been on stage earlier joined them.

"Susan, I'd like you to meet our very talented Paul David," said Anubis. "Paul's a D.J. in Memphis. He's going to be chairman of our national membership drive."

"Hi," said Susan, "I've gotta ask you. Those names you've all got, they aren't for real, are they?"

Moses Anubis answered. "Susan, reality is what you make it. Just because you were born with a certain name and told you had to do certain things, that doesn't mean you have to spend your whole life trying to fit someone else's definition of what you should be, does it?"

She wasn't quite sure how to answer the question.

Anubis continued. "Our parents didn't give us these names, Susan. They didn't give us the lives we now lead or the beliefs we now have. We decided for ourselves what we wanted to do with our lives, and we're doing it, regardless of what the rest of the world thinks we should be doing. We are the people we've always wanted to be."

"Well, I suppose it's better than 'Puff Daddy' or 'the artist formerly known as Prince'," replied Susan. The men around her chuckled.

John looked deeply into Susan's eyes. "What do you want to be, Susan?"

"I don't know," she said, tossing it off with a smile.

"When you were a little girl, didn't you ever daydream about what you'd be when you grew up?"

"Yes, when I was little," she blushed again, "I dreamt I'd be a beautiful movie star."

"You are beautiful. Why aren't you a movie star?"

"I don't know," she giggled. But she did know. It was the mole on her left cheek that bothered her. She felt it made her look ugly. It was nice to hear people tell her otherwise.

"What does she do?" asked Moses Anubis, as if Susan wasn't there to answer for herself.

"She's a secretary in a finance company," said Paul David. Susan wondered how he knew. John must have told him. That was a good sign. If he was talking about her to his friends he was probably really interested in her. Susan noticed that the younger men always smiled after talking to Anubis. They acted like school boys telling their teacher that they had just solved the math problem he had given them.

"Do you like that sort of work?" asked Anubis.

"It's all right."

"But it's not super, is it?" asked Paul David. "It's not the dream of a lifetime."

"No."

"You're beautiful," said Anubis, "And you seem intelligent. Suppose I told you that the only thing that stood in your way was you, yourself? What would you say to that?"

"I'd say you're probably right, but everyone compromises. Nobody gets exactly what they want out of life."

"I did." the three men said almost in unison. They chuckled afterward.

"All right, tell me how."

"You wouldn't believe me," said Anubis as he stroked the white collie at his side.

"Yes, I would."

"I don't believe you really want to know. I don't think you want it bad enough to go after it."

"Tell me anyhow."

"Whatever you want to be, you ask me, and I'll see that you have the money and the help you need to get it."

"Just ask?"

"Ask and you shall receive."

"But you don't even know me."

"Yes, I do. Your name is Susan. You're unhappy and I want to make you happy."

"What do you want in return?"

Anubis looked really rejected. "I didn't ask for anything in return," he answered bitterly. He started to walk away but the white collie remained stationary. "Come on, Skinner." Anubis and his dog headed toward the crowd with Paul David following behind them.

"Skinner? That's an unusual name for a dog," said Susan, as Anubis made his exit.

"Well," said Anubis, walking away, "He's an unusual dog."

"How was my introduction tonight, Moses?" asked Paul David.

"Good, Paul, very good, but you shouldn't emphasize sex and drugs so much. Not everyone approves of that sort of thing." Then Anubis and his two pets were engulfed by the crowd and Susan could hear no more of their conversation.

"He's an unusual man, isn't he?" said John.

"I'll say. I thought he was going to cry for a minute there."

"He's for real you know. He meant everything he said."

Susan looked at John.

"Don't believe it, do you? I didn't either two years ago when I met him. But today I have everything I want spiritually, and materially, as well. Now I'm at the stage where I'm ready to get married and start a family and share that happiness with someone else. Right now I'm just waiting for the right girl to come along." He smiled.

They danced almost every dance together. For hours they danced. The beat of the music grew faster as the night reached for the dawn. Susan had a thousand questions she wanted to ask John, but she didn't. She liked him very much but she had no desire to become more involved with his organization. The members she met throughout the night were very interested in her. They all told her how lovely and intelligent she was. Smiling, charming, happy people. Maybe they had found something in life that had eluded her. She told John all about her past and her work. He was fascinated by every detail. Sometimes Susan felt that she bored men, but John was different.

It grew very late. Some people had left, but most stayed. Some of the party-goers were quite drunk. Susan was only mildly tipsy. She and John had been on the dance floor all night and she didn't drink much during the breaks. John didn't drink at all. Somehow, a huge cloud of marijuana smoke had fastened itself to the domed ceiling during the night and Susan was getting high just from breathing. In the euphoric dreamlike atmospheric new friends became lovers and stroked each other's bodies as they necked in the darkened archways that surrounded the room.

John and Susan continued to dance. Secretly, she wanted him to take her to one of the dark places, one of the places where she could be his. But she hardly knew him...

Suddenly, the house lights came up. A voice came booming out of the loud speaker.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mike Graceland!"

Graceland leaped on the stage and sang the song from his latest video. He followed it by singing four of his million sellers. The crowd loved it.

"Before I leave this stage tonight, I want to invite all of you to spend the weekend with me. Moses Anubis will be out here in a few minutes to give you the details. But I just want to tell you all to be sure and come. It's going to be a ball."

He did one more song and then left the stage with the audience yelling and screaming for more.

"Mr. Moses Anubis," the sound system proclaimed.

Anubis' arrival on the stage was greeted by only a smattering of applause. Members of his group seemed quite enthusiastic but the outsiders went back to doing what they were doing before Mike Graceland appeared. Anubis had taken off his sunglasses and was looking at the crowd studiously.

"Please, don't think the evening is over. It's not. It's just begun, and if you like, it can go on for the rest of your life. Many of you came here feeling sad, feeling bored, feeling unhappy. If you feel better now, why end it? I like happy people. I like them so much that I have made a career out of making people happy. I can make you happy. No 'ifs', 'ands', or 'buts' about it. I was just like you, doubtful, uncertain. I had no plan for my life whatsoever. But I've stopped living from accident to accident. I'm into certainty now. I have made my own world and in that world there is no poverty, no war, no hatred, nothing evil! It's like drugs! I see things! But unlike drugs, the things I see are real. I'm high because I see beauty and peace, and love all around me, and I know that I helped to create it.

"What have you done to make a better world? I know you're not happy with the one you live in, the one your parents gave you, the world your teachers lied to you about, the world your politicians want to sell to the highest bidder. It's your world, man, but nobody lets you run it. I'm going to let you run it. Believe me, the ultimate high is to look deep into yourselves for something good and to find it there.

"I recycle people. I'm not perfect, so I don't demand perfection from you. No one has that right. But there is a lot of good in you and anyone who tells you different is trying to use guilt to control you. I know you've been used, and used badly, but I'm not going to let you be thrown away on some scrap heap of humanity. You know what the worst thing in the world is? The worst thing in the world is not to make a difference. If you don't make any difference, if nobody cares whether you live or die, then you've got nothing. Nothing! But don't die, baby, cause I love you. I care. A lot of you ask me, 'Why?'. Simple reason. One very simple, very selfish, reason. I want you to love me. Love is the answer. I'm lonely, just like you are. I've found friendship and love by offering friendship and love. People want my money. I know that. But once they get to know me, a lot of them like me. Sometimes, by giving up something small, you gain something big.

"I have built an entire world, a world where we all love one another. It's real. It's on an island not far from here. Now, if you're looking for work, don't go. We don't have any. Nobody does any physical labor there. We've trained animals to do that for us. Sounds crazy, doesn't it? But it's true. You'll see howler monkeys running our water system, raccoons working in our fields, and horses and dogs doing things you never dreamed possible. We believe that animals should do the work of animals and leave human beings free to do the work of human beings.

"There's no shortage of energy on my island. The muscle energy, as I have said, comes from animals. Electricity is supplied to us by the sun and the moon; solar and tidal energy. And when it rains, we have a form of energy that no one else in the world even has. We tap lightning, itself, and use its energy.

"Outside the doors are some buses. The buses will take you to a little dock in a little town not far away. And at this little dock will be one hell of a big yacht loaded with luxuries you've never even dreamed of. And this yacht will take you westward along the gulf to Terrebonne Bay and there sits the most beautiful little island you have ever seen.

"All I ask is that you visit my island for the weekend. Mike Graceland will be there to entertain you, and you can swim, drink, smoke, fish, play volleyball or Frisbee, whatever you like. We'll bring you back Sunday night. We have phones. You can call your family and friends and let them know you'll be away. We have clothes, all styles and sizes. They're yours to keep when you leave. So think it over. We're not leaving for half an hour, or so. I think you'll have a weekend that you'll always remember.

"Remember, you are responsible for you. If you don't have anything fun to do this weekend, it's not my fault, because I offered you the time of your life. If you're here in the city sad, bored, and broke, that's your fault. So live a little. And you know," it seemed like he was looking right into Susan's eyes now, "it would make me awfully happy if you came." He put his sunglasses back on and left the stage.

The band came back again. They went right into We Built this City on Rock and Roll. The young black lead singer shook her head with happy abandonment, tossing her long black hair over her face. "Come on, everybody," she said. "You know the words. Join in." They did and woofers and tweeters on each side of the room helped them.

"Are you going?"

It was Vicki. Susan had forgotten all about her. Vicki was totally blitzed. She had her arms around a handsome young man with lipstick smeared all over his cheek.

"I don't know."

John smiled at her lovingly. "It would make me very happy if you'd go."

"Come on," responded Vicki, "Lets go. Like the man said, live a little. And Mike Graceland is going to be there. What more could you want?"

"OK, why not?" Susan was tired, but she felt content. A handsome man, who seemed to like her a lot, a romantic island, a weekend of free food and drinks, and Mike Graceland to sing to her it didn't sound bad.

The buses were all painted in pastel colors and covered with flowers. John and Susan sat together and Vicki and her friend sat directly behind them. They sang songs as they rode out into the swamp country, The Battle of New Orleans, Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow, even Genie in a Bottle. There were five buses, each with about 50 people on board.

"Hey Susan," giggled Vicki, "Wouldn't it be funny if Anubis turned out to be the devil and he was gathering lost souls?"

Susan laughed. "He came to the right place. You couldn't find two more lost than us."

Everyone laughed except John. Vicki leaned over the seat and talked directly into John's ear. Her breath was heavy with whiskey. "Everybody tells me, love is the answer. What the hell is the question?"

She giggled and fell back into her own seat as the bus crossed a bump in the road. Her male companion laughed.

"I've heard that over and over again tonight," injected Susan. "It's like some private joke between you guys. What does it mean?"

"Just what it says," explained John. "It's no more sinister than the Shriner's secret handshake. Love is the answer."

He smiled and a very faraway look entered his eyes. Susan thought he looked like a cat who had just gulped down a canary, but... maybe it was just because she'd had a few drinks. They came to a small village called Bayou San Crystobol. There were only a few buildings on the small main street which led to the dock. A gigantic yacht was anchored there dwarfing the little shrimp boats.

'This Anubis guy really must have some bucks', thought Susan. The town was still asleep, except for one old fisherman with deep lines etched in his ancient face. He watched the revelers get off the bus and board the boat. Then he went back to mending his nets. The ship sailed out to sea and the town of Bayou San Crystobol vanished. Off the starboard side of the ship the travelers could see a small band of lights that was the city of New Orleans and behind them the sun was rising an the Gulf of Mexico.

"Good morning, love."

Light flooded the previously dark apartment. Jerry Hoyle opened one bloodshot eyeball and quickly closed it again. It was as if a thousand demons in hobnailed boots were dancing in his head. What was she doing? Opening windows? God-damn-it! Why couldn't she be quiet?

"What would you like for breakfast?"

"Silence," he muttered into his pillow. "And no daylight. I can't handle daylight."

"Ah, the demon rum, love. It will get you every time."

"Go away."

"Only as far as the kitchen, love. I'll make you a nice big breakfast and then I'll tell you my story." She left him in peace for a while. What the hell was she talking about? He didn't even remember her name.

"How do you want your eggs?"

"Don't want no eggs! I want sleep!" He was begging now. He felt her sit down on the bed beside him. He opened one eye again to see if she looked as bad as he had visualized her. She did. She had long hair that had been dyed red. She was flat-chested, too damn skinny, and ten years past her prime, if she ever had one. Where the hell did he pick her up? He closed the shattered orb hoping that it would make her disappear. She started rubbing his back.

"You'll feel better after breakfast, honey. Then I'll tell you about Joe Franks."

"What?"

He was awake now.

"What did you say about Joe Franks? You know Joe Franks?"

"Well, I should. I was married to him for 24 years."

"Did you tell me that last night?"

"Yes, you seemed very interested in it."

"I was! I am!"

"Well, I'll tell you all about it after breakfast. It really is a miracle about Joe, you know."

"Hold it. Forget breakfast. Tell me about Joe Franks. What kind of miracle happened to him?"

"Well, all right," she said reluctantly. "He was my husband."

"You said that."

"Well, he used to be a carpenter. He was a very good carpenter. That was before he started drinking. He drank rum, just like you. You really should cut down, you know. It can ruin your whole life."

"Will you get to the point?"

"Well, I don't know what point you want me to get to. Joe just started drinking and he went bad. I mean real bad. He wouldn't work no more and he'd beat me up. He treated the kids bad. Well, finally it just got so bad I divorced him. He just went and moved into the Lighthouse Mission. Didn't even take his clothes. All he cared about was his dammed booze."

"Did he ever train dogs?"

"We used to have Grumpy. Grumpy was just a mutt but he was a cute little fellow. Joe tried to teach him to fetch sticks but he never learned too good."

"That was it? Fetching sticks?"

"What else should there be?"

"Did Joe ever kill anybody or try to kill anybody?"

"Joe? Why, you must be kidding. He'd beat me up now and then but he'd never kill anybody. Hell, as little as he is, he couldn't really hurt anybody too bad. Why, sometimes when we'd fight, I'd just about get the best of him."

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You say he was a little guy? He wasn't a tall guy with blonde hair?"

"Why no, silly, Joe is only 5'1" and he's as bald as a billiard ball. Here, I've got a picture of him in my purse." She found the photograph and handed it to Hoyle.

Wrong Joe Franks. Hoyle thought he was going to cry for a minute or two.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"Go make breakfast."

"All right, but I think the bacon's already burnt." She got up to go to the kitchen.

"Hey listen, did you tell me last night about him being a short guy?"

"Sure I did, sweetie. That was when you came in here and went to sleep. Remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, that figures."

"Why does that upset you so much?"

"Go make breakfast."

Hoyle got up and shaved. A shower would have been more than his nervous system could have tolerated. He put on his pants. A shirt could wait until after he ate. There was a half of a bottle of Pept-O-Bismol in the medicine cabinet and he downed it. He went into the kitchen.

"The bacon's shot, honey. I hope you like your eggs scrambled."

He didn't but he ate them anyway.

"Joe's doing great now. He ain't a drunk no more," she began cautiously. She wasn't sure if he wanted to hear any more.

"That's great, really peachy."

"He met this missionary who really helped him. It was at the Lighthouse Mission. This fella's with a group called the Savior's Heirs and he really helped Joe. Funny thing is; Joe don't call himself 'Joe' no more. Are you ready for this? He calls himself 'Mohammed Christ'. Ain't that too much? 'Mohammed Christ'."

"Yeah, Mohammed Christ. That's great, just great."

"And he said he's designing buildings on this island that the Savior's Heirs own. Can you imagine? My Joe, designing buildings."

"Yeah, that's something, ain't it? Eat your eggs." Hoyle went to the cupboard and got a loaf of bread. He put two slices in the toaster.

"Joe introduced me to Mr. Anubis, that's the man who rehabilitated Joe. Now, Mr. Anubis is tall with blonde hair and he likes dogs. At least he has one with him sometimes. Maybe, he's the man you're looking for."

Hoyle closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Well ma'am, there's a lot of guys with blonde hair in this world and there's even a lot of guys named Joe Franks. But you know what? I don't give a damn. I'm going to stop worrying about it. I not going think about it anymore. I can't spend the rest of my life trying to find people that probably don't even exist. Do you want more coffee?"

She looked at him strangely. "Yes, I'll have a little. Mister Anubis wanted me to come out to his island and look around but I didn't want to go. I don't really like to get involved with religious people."

Hoyle reached for the coffee pot. "That's right, lady. Don't get involved. Don't get involved with anything."

"You know, I was thinking, it was silly for me to say Mr. Anubis might be the man you were looking for."

Hoyle filled her cup and started to fill his.

"Why is that?"

"Well, he's got scars all over one side of his face, like claw marks. If you were looking for him, you'd have mentioned the scars. He's got some little circles on his neck too."

The coffee ran down the front of his pants and he dropped the pot, but he didn't scream. He just stood there looking at her, dumbfounded.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"What about the glasses? Does he wear glasses?"

"Why, yes, he wears dark sunglasses most of the time. Are you all right?"

"Come here," he ordered.

"Why?"

"Come here." She came close to him. He grabbed her and kissed her passionately. She couldn't believe it was happening.

"Cause I love you, that's why," he said, answering the questioning look in her eyes. He ran his hands through her long red hair and kissed her more slowly. She wasn't sure of his sanity, but she liked it.

"You're going to think I'm terrible but I don't remember your name. What was it again"

"Rita. Rita Franks."

He nibbled on her ear and whispered, "Hi there, Rita Franks."

"Ummmm," she purred. "Hi, yourself," she giggled softly.

Hoyle started to unbutton her blouse.

"Where did you say that island was?"

"Out in the gulf somewhere," she said, kissing his cheek and bringing her lips close to his ear. Hoyle could feel her warm breath upon the side of his neck and he enjoyed it.

"You don't know where exactly, do you?" He was unbuckling the belt on her jeans now.

"All I know is that they come and go from a place called Bayou San Crystobol, some where on the coast."

He took her to the bedroom and they made love for over an hour.

There wasn't much to Bayou San Crystobol; a grocery store, a tavern, a gas station, a fishing supply store, and a few buildings with 'for rent' signs in the windows. It was late in the afternoon when Hoyle arrived and there wasn't much going on.

A man was fixing a car at the gas station and a few fishermen down at the pier were working on their shrimp boats. Hoyle just wanted to look around. If he found anything, he would call the police, but for right now he was window shopping. He had stopped at his bank and withdrawn $500 in cash to loosen any tongues that might not speak to him otherwise. He was hopeful and happy and he thought he might get the answers that he had waited for so long.

He went into the grocery store. There weren't many customers. A middle-aged man was shopping with a little girl. A young man about 20, wearing a white sport shirt, was leaning against the checkout stand drinking a can of soda pop and chatting with the clerk. Hoyle walked up to the checkout stand and asked the girl there for a pack of Marlboros.

"Quiet little town, isn't it?"

"Yes sir, very quiet," the girl at the counter replied. The young man in the sport shirt watched them intently but said nothing. Hoyle noticed 4 circular scars on the young man's neck.

Coincidence?

"Fishing good around these parts?" Hoyle asked the salesgirl.

"Sometimes. It's been slow lately."

"A friend of mine, Mr. Anubis, told me to come down and try the fishing here." A trace of a smile slithered across the young man's lips as he continued to stare at Hoyle.

"I didn't know Mr. Anubis did any fishing," said the girl.

"You know him then?"

"He comes in most every day. Doesn't talk much though."

The young man still smiled.

"You don't know when he might be in again, do you?"

"He generally comes in about this time everyday. I'm surprised I haven't seen him yet today."

"Gee, I'd really like to find him. I came all the way from New Orleans just to see him."

The little girl who had been shopping with her father ran up to Hoyle and tugged at his pants leg. "Are you from New Orleans, mister?"

"Sure am."

"Maybe you know my sister. She went to live in New Orleans after we moved here from Mobile."

The girl's father left his shopping cart in the middle of an aisle and was coming to the checkstand in what seemed to be a great hurry. Hoyle also noticed that the kid in the sport shirt wasn't smiling anymore.

"Well, New Orleans is a big city. But I know an awful lot of people there. What's her name?"

"Her name is Angel. They show drawings of her on television sometimes."

Hoyle understood the concern that was encircling him now. He'd walked right into the pool of knowledge that he was seeking but from the looks on the faces around him he wasn't too sure whether or not he would be able to walk back out. The girl's father reached the checkstand and grabbed his daughter forcefully.

"Don't be bothering the gentleman, Linda. We gotta go home now."

They started out the door leaving the cart full of groceries standing in the aisle where it had been left. Hoyle followed them out.

"Maybe I did know Angel. Wait a minute."

"Her name wasn't Angel," said the girl's father. "Her name was Joyce and you didn't know her."

"Well, I found the body of a girl that was murdered and her name was Angel Snowflake," Hoyle yelled at them as they hurried down the street in the direction of a red pickup truck that was parked near the store. The little girl looked back but her father held her hand tightly and escorted her quickly to the passenger side of the vehicle.

"Why don't you let them go, Mr. Hoyle?"

The voice came from behind him.

"They won't tell you anything."

Hoyle turned and stood face to face with Moses Anubis. A wide grin covered Anubis' face. There were two young men in sport shirts with him.

"You've been looking for me, haven't you?" Anubis chuckled.

"Joe Franks, I presume."

"Yes, sometimes. People, names, you'd be surprised at how interchangeable they are. Well, you've found me. Why don't you come aboard my yacht and we'll have a long talk. We can talk about dogs, or piano playing, or corpses, or whatever you like."

"I think I'll talk to the police. They're looking for you, you know."

"Yes, I do believe I've heard rumors to that effect."

"I don't understand how they didn't find you."

"Good point. I am a very visible person these days. But you made that possible."

"I made what possible?"

"My features are rather unique, Mr. Hoyle. And there were people who saw a certain resemblance between that crude sketch the police made of me and myself. So we found it necessary to place a few scars on one of our tall blonde members and trot him down to the police station under my name. And do you know what happened then?"

"What?"

"You walked in. You and the Randolphs. You walked right in and looked at that man in the police lineup. You said 'No sir, that's not the man who bought the dog.' And then the police made a little note 'Moses Anubis isn't the man'. So now when people call up their little task force and tell them about me they just look at their records and say 'Moses Anubis? Why he can't be the man we want. Jerry Hoyle cleared him.' Isn't that sweet?"

"Just delightful. Why did you kill the girl?"

"Come aboard my yacht. We can talk more comfortably there."

"Let's talk here."

"Too hot," whispered Anubis. "If you change your mind come to the boat. It will be awhile before I leave." Anubis went into the grocery store. Hoyle followed him in. The two young men remained outside.

"All right, what about the girl," asked Hoyle. "Did you kill her?"

The female cashier stood and watched the conversation that was developing uneasily.

"Surely, you don't expect me to discuss this here, in a public place. Why don't you come to my yacht? We can discuss all of this there."

Hoyle turned to the cashier. "Do you have a phone?"

"Yes."

The young man in the white sport shirt was still leaning against the counter. He looked at the cashier and said, "It's out of order. Remember?"

"Oh yes," she said timidly. "It's out of order."

Hoyle suddenly had a desire for wide open places. He turned and went outside. No one tried to stop him but the man in the white sport shirt followed him out and joined the two other men in sport shirts on the sidewalk.

"Is that your uniform?" asked Hoyle, "Sport shirts?"

"We believe that appearances are important."

Hoyle got in his car and turned the key. No noise. The engine wouldn't even turn over. He looked out the window at the three man who were grinning at him. He got out and opened the hood. Everything looked all right but he was sure that they had done something to his motor.

"Car trouble?" It was the one in the white shirt again.

"Yeah, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Me? No, I don't know much about cars. Now, Noah here, he knows all about cars." He gestured to the large man in the red sport shirt. "You'd be surprised at what he can do to a car."

"Yeah, I'll bet." Hoyle looked up the street towards the gas station.

"That's Noah's brother up there at the station. He's good with cars too."

Hoyle looked down the other end of the street. "Too bad there's no pay phones, ain't it, mister? You could call your motor club. But it's a small town. If fact nearly everybody's related here." He spoke softly but the menacing tone in his voice was unmistakable. "We'd be glad to give you a lift to where ever you need to go."

"No thanks."

"Thirty miles to the next town. All through swamps too. You never know what might happen to a fella in the swamps. You don't want to walk through the swamp country, do you?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll swim." Hoyle turned and walked towards the dock. There were two small fishing boats moored there along side Anubis' yacht. An old man stood on the deck of one of the boats applying red lead to the bulkhead. Hoyle walked to the edge of the dock. The three men in sport shirts followed behind him.

"Is this your boat?" Hoyle asked the old man.

"Yes, sir, it is," replied the old skipper. "In this craft I have caught bigger fish than the owners of that aristocratic yacht over there have ever dreamed of. It's the skill of the fisherman that makes the difference. Modern techniques are fine but this I tell you from 60 years of experience you will never replace a man who knows the feel of the sea." The old man smiled a smile that bespoke confidence and all-knowing wisdom.

"Hey, you'd better believe it, old-timer. Sixty years experience. That's amazing. These young guys don't know the first thing about fishing. I'd sure like to talk to you about that a little more. Thing is, I've got to get up to New Orleans. I'll tell you what. Would you give me a ride to New Orleans for five hundred dollars?"

"Are we talking cash or check?"

"We're talking cash, American money. I can show you." Hoyle reached into his pocket and brought out the big roll of twenties that he'd gotten at the bank. A $500 trip out of town looked like a real bargain right now. He would still have to deal with the three goons behind him but at least he had transportation.

"Climb aboard." The three young men continued to watch, still smiling. "Watch where you put your hands. That red lead dries quick but it may still be wet in some places." The old man started the engines while Hoyle released the mooring lines. Much to Hoyle's surprise the three young men did nothing more than smile and watch. The old man's boat headed out of the harbor into the open sea. Hoyle began to breath easier now.

"Would you like some coffee?" asked the old skipper.

"That would go good right about now."

"There's a thermos under them blankets there."

"Thanks," said Hoyle. "Say, isn't it kind of strange for a big yacht like that to tie up at a dinky little place like Bayou San Crystobol?"

"It hauls drunks and dope fiends out to an island. They haven't got any sense. They think they're going to have a good time. The world is full of 'outs' looking for someone to lead them 'in'. Damn fools is what they are."

"Do you have any idea about what happens on that island?" asked Hoyle as he sipped his coffee.

"Mister, there's some people in this world you don't mess with. Haven't you learned that yet?" The old man smiled and the weather-beaten cracks in his face became broad valleys. The little boat was far from land now and most of Hoyle's apprehension was gone. If they were going to chase him they'd have been on his tail by now. There was a bench along side of the wheel house. Hoyle stretched out there and relaxed.

"You got it made, partner. Just you and the sea. No cares. No worries. That's the life. What's your name old-timer? I write a newspaper column. Maybe I'll write about you."

"Well, it used to be Admiral William C. Norquid but some years back I took to calling myself Gabriel Love."

The old man turned from the wheel and smiled at Hoyle. Hoyle tried to get up but he found it difficult to keep his balance. He wasn't much of a sailor. No sea legs, as the old man might have put it. The water which had looked calm was obviously a lot choppier than he had thought but why did the boat seem to be spinning. Perhaps they'd entered a whirlpool. And why couldn't his eyes focus properly when he looked at the old man's jack-o-lantern of a head. Sea sickness, perhaps. But the fog, how could the fog have come in so quickly? Hoyle felt his knees buckle as his face canon-balled into the metal plated deck.

"Gabriel Love?" his blood-stained lips muttered softly to the cold steel beneath him. The hand holding the coffee cup went limp suddenly like a severed rubber band leaving the cup free to roll in lazy semi-circles across the deck. The human being had left his body.

The old man laughed and changed course for Due-West. The fishing was good today.

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