We have a few sayings here in the Gutter. Our favorite, No good deed goes unpunished. Followed a close second by ... some doors aren't meant to be open.
You can add a third to that mix: Maybe Tipper Gore was right.
You can add a third to that mix: Maybe Tipper Gore was right.
Blood Rites by Mark Slade
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Rita stood in her backyard in the pouring rain as
Officer Davenport tried to jimmy the lock from the shed. He was on his knees,
in the mud, in his new uniform pants. She didn’t like the language he used when
the lock wouldn’t open. Rita would cringe every time Davenport blurted an
obscenity. This was shed number three he had to break into after a call he
received about some bones washed up in a neighbor’s yard earlier in the
morning. There was nothing unusual in the other two sheds. Unless power tools
and junk from a previous garage sale are considered suspicious. Davenport
chuckled to himself when he relayed that to his sergeant. The sergeant didn’t
find it humorous and quickly suggested Davenport was trying to get out
of finishing the search because he was a lazy son of a bitch. He was ordered to
check out the last shed. Why couldn’t a bolt cutter be in
either one? It was getting late and Davenport wanted to get home and have five or six
beers.
“I’m real sorry, ma’am. Usually my partner,
Meredith, is on time with this sort of thing,” he said, wiping rainwater from
his already drenched face. “And the bastard has my cutters too. Oh, I’m sorry,
ma’am. Excuse the language.”
Rita just flashed a quick smile and nodded. Her
expression soured when Davenport cursed again. “I’m not too sure what was in
this one. Henry never let me in this one. He was a very hard worker most of his
life, so I never questioned his privacy.” She pulled her plastic rain bonnet
closer to her forehead.
“Maybe he had a tall redhead stashed away—oh, sorry,
ma’am. I didn’t think before.”
“That’s alright, Officer. I knew you were making a
joke.”
“How long had your husband passed, ma’am?”
“Six months.” Rita struggled to say the words.
“It must be hard, ma’am. Being alone now … after
all these years.”
“Yes.” Rita bit her lip and lowered her eyes. “It
has been difficult to manage things lately. Our neighbor’s son, Rodney, helps
me out. Of course he used to help Henry quite a bit. They were very close.”
“Are you sure you don’t have the key to this
thing?” Davenport removed his hat and poured out the rain that had gathered
around the brim.
“No, I’m afraid Henry was the only one that had the
key,” Rita said.
“This lock is awful rusted. My God, when was this
thing made? 1924?”
“He did say it was old.”
Davenport jiggled the thin file in the lock, heard
something snap. The file itself had broken off. He held the bottom piece
between his thumb and forefinger, examined it. “Motherfucker!”
Davenport smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, ma’am.” He
stood and sighed, then looked up at the sky. “I don’t think it’s going to let
up. I don’t know where the hell Meredith is. He has my bolt cutters.”
“Maybe we should go inside and dry off.” Rita
patted Davenport’s arm.
“It’s getting pretty late, ma’am, and the sergeant
wants me to wrap this up. You know most of the force is at that school shooting
that happened at Wilcox West High this morning. The suspect is still at large. So
everyone is tied up. Weird how all this happened on the same time. I guess I’m
going to have to take the door off the hinges.” Davenport reached in his coat
pocket and produced a screwdriver.
“All right, Officer. You do that and I’ll get us a
cup of hot coca.”
Davenport went to work on the door and in no time
had the hinges off. He placed the screws in his wet trouser pockets and the
hinges in his coat pocket so as not to get them mixed up. He stepped inside the
shed, flicked the switch on and a light flashed a few times before burning the
low level bulb. A pungent smell filled the shed. Davenport covered his nose and
mouth.
Candles sat on a table dressed in a white
tablecloth decorated with symbols Davenport thought he’d seen once on a CD
cover for a heavy metal band. On the wall behind the table was a blood-smeared
quote in a language he didn’t recognize. In between those candles was a large, gold-plated
book. It was open to a page that had passages handwritten by what looked like a
quill. Again, it was in a language that Davenport hadn’t seen before, did not understand,
except one word.
Ragnarök
“Oh shit,” Davenport said. “We’re dealing with a
cult here.” He took a step and heard a crunching sound. He looked down and saw
the floor was made of bones. Human and animal. Beside his left shoe, he saw a
badge and the name on it. He gasped.
Something splashed behind him. Davenport turned and
saw a teenage boy steadying a .45. The boy fired two shots before Davenport
could even draw his weapon. Both bullets caught the cop in the chest. He fell
on his back in the shed, the bones underneath him rattling.
Rita appeared and stood beside the boy. She handed
him a cup.
“Would you like some cocoa, Rodney?”
“Thank you.” Rodney accepted the cup.
Officer Meredith stepped from behind the shed, and
came to stand beside Rodney and Rita.
He glared down at Davenport.
“So the end begins.”
