Gunsmoke Blues Page 8

  White Jesus, in an African Methodist Episcopal Church? He thought. Ridiculous! He almost fled from the church, but forced himself to stay. If he did not confess his sins right then, he would only be making things worse.

  When the last of the others had left, Robert entered nervously into Reverend Clark’s. He closed the door firmly behind him, finding immediate solace in the still, calm gloom and familiar musty smell of the room.

  “Robert Charles,” the pastor said, smiling. “I am so pleased that you’re back from the hospital. Tell me, how do you feel?”

  “Bad, pastor,” Robert said nervously. “Forgive me, for I have sinned.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Reverend Clark said. “But we ain’t Catholics, boy. You don’t have to be all formal like that.”

  “Yes, pastor,” Robert said.

  “Now, go on. Tell me, how have you sinned? Don’t be afraid to say what weighs most heavily on your heart.”

  “Pastor, I killed a man.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the preacher. “I heard all about that, son. To kill another man is one of the most serious sins against God. Every man is created in God’s image and all human life is sacred.” The reverend paused. “But there were mitigating circumstances in your case. The Bible speaks rightly against the murder of the innocent, but from what I have heard the man you killed wasn’t innocent.”

  “He attacked me first,” Robert admitted. “But still, I killed him.”

  “Robert,” the reverend said, “the Lord teaches that under some circumstances it is not only justifiable to kill another man in order to prevent greater harm, but is, in fact, a duty. We must all stand up for the common good, must we not? Sometimes, it is necessary to act as you did in order to protect yourself and others. You saved the lives of four children, I hear. Now that is a brave act, not a sinful one.”

  “Yes, pastor, but how can it be right to commit a sin, even to prevent another one?”

  “Well, the Bible says that if a thief is caught breaking into a house and is struck so that he dies, the defender is not guilty of bloodshed.”

  Robert thought about Reverend Clark’s words for a moment. “I don’t feel brave, pastor, only guilty.”

  “I understand your wish for atonement, Robert. God has already forgiven you. Now is there anything else you wish to confess?”

  Robert took a deep breath. “It is hard for me to say it, pastor.”

  “I have heard all kinds of confessions in my years as a man of the cloth, Robert. You would be surprised. Say what is on your mind.”

  Robert lowered his gaze. “I lust for human flesh, pastor. I want to know the taste of human meat. I hunger for it.”

  The preacher was deadly silent. “I have never heard of such a thing,” said Reverend Clark eventually. “I trust that this is merely a thought and that you haven’t acted on such wicked impulses?”

  “Yes,” Robert said. “I mean no. I haven’t acted on it.”

  “Unnatural lust is a grave sin, indeed. It leads inexorably to ever greater sin.”

  “Is there a worse sin than eating someone?” Robert asked.

  “Do you seek to mock me?” Reverend Clark demanded.

  “Naw, pastor,” Robert said. “I seek your help.”

  “Then you must do as I say. Put all such wicked thoughts from your mind at once.”

  “I can’t,” Robert wailed. The words were out before he could stop them. “The desire is too great.”

  “For your soul’s sake, let it go, Robert before—”

  “Before what, Rev?” Robert said interrupting the pastor. “It don’t matter what I do—eat a person or not. If your words are true… if sin only leads to greater sin, I don’t need to fear going to Hell… I’m already there.”

  He sniffed at the air within the small office. The preacher gave off a terrible stink. His armpits stank of sweat. His breath smelled of absinthe. His hair, a short afro, was slicked down with pig grease. Stale tobacco lingered on his black cassock. And the room was filled with the man’s fear, like a black liquid. Yet beneath all those offensive smells lurked a more potent scent—living flesh and blood. In such close proximity it was driving Robert wild.

  The pastor wasn’t the most delectable dish Robert could imagine, but his hunger had become insatiable. Apart from the raw fish, he had not eaten for eighteen days. He had begged the nurse, Susie, and his roommate, Leonard, for red meat, but what he had really wanted all along was human flesh. Now here it was, close by, and his for the taking.

  Robert’s heart pumped blood to his limbs. The pastor’s words had angered him, rousing his passion, rousing his lust. He feared he could not control it any longer.

  Reverend Clark spoke again. “Robert, it is important for you to understand that God loves you, but that you can never indulge this wicked lust. Never. You must turn your back on it and never think of it again.”

  “Naw!” Robert screamed. “I can’t do that!”

  He exploded forward and grasped Reverend Clark’s stout body tightly in an iron grip, anchoring his fingernails in the man’s chest.

  The preacher howled in pain, his face twisting in terror.

  Robert sank his teeth into Reverend Clark’s wrinkled neck, biting deep into the corpulent flesh, rending, biting and chewing. He cut through veins and arteries, seeming to know exactly where and how to bite in order to kill quickly. Hot blood splashed his face and ran down his cheeks. He drank deep and felt the coppery liquid flood his senses, satisfying his craving like oxygen to a drowning man.

  After that he hardly remembered anything.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Decatur Street, French Quarter, crescent moon.

  Robert ran and ran until he was out of breath. By then the church and the body of Reverend Clark were miles behind him and he was in a part of New Orleans he rarely ventured to.

  He wandered aimlessly, seeking only to keep moving, to put more distance behind him, and found himself on the bank of the Mississippi River. He set off along a narrow, muddy path, keeping his eyes on the ground before him.

  In the time since killing the preacher, night had fallen, and he was glad of that. The overcast sky hid the crescent moon, and the path was unlit, but Robert found that he could see perfectly well in the dark. He preferred the night to the harsh glare of daylight, which irritated his eyes.

  He stopped at last in a secluded space beneath a low bridge. There were no people there. It was just as well. Robert couldn’t be with other people right then. He was a monster.

  He didn’t understand how it had happened, but he had become a beast, an outcast. It had all started that awful evening on Halloween. God had punished him for his sins. For the sin of murdering Reverend Clark, and for killing the teacher, Mr. Celestin.

  There was no way to redeem himself now. He had killed, not once, but twice. There was only one way out of the mess he’d made for himself. He had been weak, but now he had to be strong one last time.

  He picked up a big stone from the path and put it in his jacket pocket. He found a brick and dropped it into his bag. He added a large piece of rusty metal and another stone. The bag was full and he strapped it to his back. He wasn’t sure if it was heavy enough, but it was the best he could do. He sat on the bank, his legs dangling over the side.

  He stared into the cold, dark water flowing beneath the bridge. How long would it take to drown? Seconds, minutes? He had fallen into an icy pond once, up to his waist in freezing water. The shock had nearly killed him. If he jumped in the river in the middle of winter, he might well die of the cold before he drowned. However long it took, it would be quicker and better than a lifetime of misery, a lifetime of sin.

  Suicide itself was a sin, of course, but presumably a lesser one than cannibalism. And it would be a quick one, over in seconds, harming no one else. Maybe he could just stumble and fall into the river instead of jumping in. Would that excuse him, or would God know his true intention?

  A sound startled him. A woman descended the steps leadin
g to the path and started walking toward him. I should push myself into the water now before that woman comes, Robert thought. But if he did, and the woman saw him, she might try to rescue him. He would wait until the woman had gone.

  She came closer, sauntering confidently, whistling a tune. Tall, with ebony skin and angular features, she looked to be in her early twenties. She wore a gray fishtail skirt, laced with black ribbon from the waist down to above the knee, the remainder of the skirt flared out with a cascading set of ruffles and a white silk blouse that revealed a lean body, but with ample breasts, beneath.

  Ain’t she cold in this weather? Robert thought. And why is she out alone this late? Must be a prostitute.

  The woman smiled at Robert in a relaxed manner as if they were old friends.

  Yep, definitely a prostitute, Robert thought.

  He lowered his gaze. He didn’t want to attract any attention. He would wait for the woman to walk on by.

  The woman didn’t walk past, though. She came over to where Robert was sitting and joined him. She squatted down then stretched her long legs over the edge of the canal, lifting her strong arms over her head, as if she was settling down to watch the sun set on a summer evening.

  Something about the man was peculiar, and not just her summer clothes, or her odd manner. She smelled different from other people—familiar, somehow. Then it hit him. The woman smelled like a rat.

  He glanced sideways, and the woman returned his look with a smile full of shiny white teeth.

  “How are you doing there, brother?” The stranger had a deep voice for a woman, resonant, but quietly powerful. “It’s a cold night to be out counting fish.”

  Robert grunted, wishing the woman would go.

  “I assume you’re counting them, since you haven’t brought any fishing tackle along.” When Robert made no reply, the woman continued to talk. “My father used to bring me here when I was a fillette—a little girl. He showed me the best spots to fish, where you could avoid being seen by les flics—the coppers. They weren’t happy with Negroes fishing along the river. They’re jealous, you know—we’re better at fishing, hunting, cooking and screwing than any peckerwood. But I’m sure you already know that.”

  Robert’s bistre cheeks reddened to a chestnut-brown.

  “And they enjoy harassing us—still ain’t got over President Lincoln freeing the Negroes. But if you could find a quiet spot, like this one, you could expect a good catch—catfish, pike, walleye, bass and perch. You ever been fishing?”

  Robert shook his head.

  “It’s a good sport to do with your daddy. Mon père wasn’t much of a talker, not like me, but he liked to fish. Fishing was his way of saying to me, you’re my baby girl. Know what I mean? Anyway, he used to catch most of the fish, the big ones at least.”

  She stopped and put her hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I’m Virginia, by the way. Virginia Banks. What’s your name?”

  “Robert. Robert Charles.”

  “So tell me, Robert Charles, are you gonna jump in this river, or just sit here counting fish, because if you’re gonna jump, I don’t think I’ll be joining you. I’m happy to sit and count fish, though.”

  Robert stayed silent for a minute, staring at the silky indigo water slipping past. He couldn’t see any signs of fish in there. “I was going to jump,” he said at last. “I was ready to do it. But I don’t think I can, now.”

  “Too bad,” Virginia said with a grin. “Sorry if I bothered you. Maybe you wanna talk about it instead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s just that I noticed all this blood down your front, and I wondered if that had anything to do with it.”

  Robert looked at the mess of dried blood over his jacket. “I just killed a man.”

  “Yeah?” Virginia said. “Did he deserve to die?”

  “No,” Robert said. “Of course not. No one deserves to die.”

  “That’s what I used to think,” Virginia said. “And yet everyone dies, don’t they? My daddy don’t catch fish no more. He’s dead; my mama, too. No more frying fish for her. Even my little brother died, and he was just a child. Seems to me like life ain’t fair, so I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  “But I killed a preacher. I murdered him. That’s an unforgivable sin. How can I not worry about it?”

  “A preacher?” Virginia said with some amusement. “You really like to do things right, don’t you? I helped to kill a Doctor once, but never a preacher.”

  Robert turned to look directly into Virginia’s eyes. “You killed a Doctor?”

  “Oui, cher. That’s because I’m a bawegundane.”

  Robert shook his head and crinkled his nostrils. “A byway what?”

  The woman laughed. “A rat-kin.”

  Robert stared at the woman. “A rat-kin.”

  “We are what we are, Robert. You’ve never told anyone what you are, have you?”

  “I told Reverend Clark. Then I killed him. I wouldn’t say that I’m a rat, though.”

  Virginia laughed. “Right. What are you, then, a mouse?”

  Robert’s face turned hot. “I… I don’t know. I mean, I don’t remember much after I give in to my meat-lust, but I know I’m not a rat. And I’m definitely not a goddamn mouse.”

  Virginia put her hand on Robert’s. “Hey, easy. No one’s here to judge you. Like I said, we are what we are.”

  “I was just a man until a couple weeks ago.”

  “Listen, Robert. None of us knows all the answers. The world is too complicated. But we all have to make choices. So choose to be who you really are, Robert. Choose your own and be yourself.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Southern College, New Orleans, crescent moon.

  Bright gaslights illuminated the track of Southern College on dark winter evenings, and the harsh artificial light made Mose Tompkins wince. He pulled on a pair of dark, round spectacles to blot out the glare. People had laughed at his glasses the first time he’d raced in them, but he’d shrugged that off easily enough. Small-minded people always betrayed their jealousy in petty ways. Mose had trained at the track as an undergraduate, and had managed respectable times, but since becoming rat-kin he had become undefeatable. Gaslights or no gaslights, he would win this race by a country mile.

  As soon as the starting pistol fired it was obvious he was pulling quickly ahead of the other runners. That was no surprise. They were only human, after all. He leaned forward, enjoying the feel of the air rushing past, stretching out first one arm, then the other, powering forward with his strong shoulders, cupping handfuls of air to drag himself ever faster. His extremely well-defined legs drove him on, his feet striking the running surface with an unshakeable grip.

  He rounded the first bend quickly. He leaned into it, straining every muscle to take full advantage of his lead. The modest crowd cheered him on, but he shut them out, turning his focus inward, feeling the power throb through his limbs.

  He completed the bend and the next straight almost as if time had ceased to bind him in its worldly passage. He entered the final curve and almost floated around it, every nerve ending tuned to his goal. When he crossed the line, he knew he’d made a new personal best. He’d long since broken the college’s record and the state’s record. This would put him at international performance levels. And it had been less than a year since he’d changed. Who knew what he might achieve in another twelve months?

  He hardly felt tired after the race. While the other runners stumbled across the finishing line, bending over in exhaustion, he jogged another lap in front of the cheering crowd then went into the changing rooms to shower.

  Mary had warned him not to draw attention to himself. He was supposed to be keeping a low profile. But with Mary herself having bitten a Black Dispatch during the last full moon, and the newspapers running their stupid Beast stories, competing in college-level race events hardly seemed to matter.

  He found himself rubbing his nose where Mary had bitten him, back in Chic
ago. A honey-brown scar served as an unwelcome reminder of his humiliation. He had groveled before her then, but the bitch had better watch her back, he thought. Mose had never enjoyed being in second place.

  “Mose? Can I have a word when you’ve finished?” The athletics coach, Milton Davis stood at the entrance to the showers. He’d helped Mose improve his technique when he’d first started running, but he was out of his depth now. He could barely understand Mose’s extraordinary performance, let alone offer any useful advice on how to improve. Mose regarded the coach’s slightly out-of-condition body with ill-concealed disdain.

  “Sure, Coach, whatever,” Mose said. “With you in five.”

  Once he’d changed, he knocked on the door to the coach’s dreary office. He entered when Milton responded with a “Come in.”

  Mose stood in the cramped office in preference to sitting. His limbs still felt alive from the race. His exertion had not fatigued him, merely warmed him up. He felt as if he could repeat the race in an even quicker time now. “What’s up, Coach?” he asked.

  Milton sat behind an old wooden desk, his eyebrows knotted in a furrow. “You’re doing well, Mose, very well. And it’s only mid-year.”

  “Yep,” Mose said lightly. He wondered if the old man was going to tell him anything he didn’t already know.

  “You’re winning, Mose,” Milton said. “Always winning.” His voice trailed off. There was clearly something on his mind.

  “Is there a problem?” Mose asked.

  Milton fixed him with a hard appraising stare. “I don’t know, Mose. No problem with your times, that’s for sure. You’re winning every race.”

  “So?”

  “Everyone wants to win. Some people will do anything to become a winner. Anything at all. But I want to make one thing clear. I run a clean team at this college. You understand me? Clean.”