Skeleton Crew (10 page)

“So these shells go mad and then they go hunting.”

“Yeah. We figure the first two lines might indicate a cause but we can't decode them.”

I shook my head and chuckled. “It's fucking obvious. The claimant and messenger is lost. When people die, they don't just catch the next bus to the afterlife. They need psychopomps to guide them.”

Dr. Niles frowned. “What are psychopomps?”

“Reapers.”

“Oh. What about the second line?”

“I have no idea. What the hell is harmonic motion?”

“It's a mathematical term. Simple harmonic motion is like the movement of a pendulum. Complex harmonic motion is what you get when you combine simple harmonic motions, such as in musical chords. It could describe planetary motion or the music of the spheres. Or it could just be a metaphor that has nothing to do with modern mathematics.”

“Okay, skip it. The point is, the psychopomps have stopped doing their jobs.” I felt more than a little stupid for not considering it sooner. At the club, I'd even made a comment about something putting Death out of business. Then again, I'd never actually seen a psychopomp. It's not like there were skeletons in black robes wandering around L.A. whacking people with scythes on a typical day. Despite the world I lived in, I had a tendency to assume folklore was bullshit until proven otherwise.

“And they're for real? Reapers, I mean?” Dr. Niles had gone a little pale.

“Apparently.”

“You don't know anything about them?”

“Not really,” I said. “But I know someone who does.”

My mother was a psychic. She never had quite enough juice to be a real sorcerer, but she knew her game well enough to do fortune-telling, palm reading and the occasional séance. I figured if anyone could tell me about psychopomps, she could. She met me at the front door of her little bungalow in East L.A., as she always did, and we shared a hug before going inside. I waited patiently at the kitchen table while she made coffee and set out fresh-baked empanadas.

“You're here about
los zombis,
” she said as she took her seat across from me at the table. Like I said, Mom's a psychic—you get used to it. It didn't surprise me she knew why I'd come, or that she knew about the zombie problem. She wouldn't have been much good at her job if she didn't.

“I need to know what's causing it. I got a tip it might have something to do with psychopomps.”

Mom nodded. “The Xolos are missing,” she said.

“Mexican Hairless Dogs?” I mumbled around a mouthful of empanada. It was delicious—light and fluffy with a golden-brown crust, filled with fresh strawberries and some kind of cream.

“
Xoloitzcuintli.
Not all of them are hairless. Just the psycho
pomps. Usually one in every litter is coated, and they're just normal dogs.”

“Psychopomps are
dogs?
” I wondered who'd come up with the bit about skeletons in black robes wielding scythes.

Mom shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Here, and in Mexico, God has given the Xolos this duty. It has always been so. I don't know how it is in other places.”

“Tell me about them, Mom.” I'd learned long ago to let my mother get to the point by her own path. Besides, I loved her stories.

“The Xolos are a gift from God,” she said. “They were created from a shard of Adam's rib. God gave them to us and commanded us to love and protect them, and in turn, they would guide us to Heaven when we die.”

“That sounds like a Christian story. I thought the Xolos predated the Conquest.”

“Adam also predates the Conquest, child.” My skepticism toward dogmatic Catholicism was no secret, but Mom never missed an opportunity to chide me for it when it slipped out. “The Mexica had their own stories, of course, but I believe it is the same story with different names. They believed the god Xolotl created the Xolos from the Bone of Life that they might safely lead the dead into Mictlan, the underworld.”

“I see what you mean about it being the same story. Okay, so the Xolos are psychopomps. They've gone missing and the souls of the dead are trapped in their bodies. That's what's causing the zombie problem. How do the Xolos get the souls out of the dead bodies?”

“With their teeth, I suppose.” She said it like it was common sense.

“Any idea why they'd be missing? And isn't it kind of
strange they're missing and no one has noticed? I mean, they're not the most common breed but they're not exactly rare, either. Not in this part of the country.”

“I don't know why they're missing or where they've gone, Dominica. But there aren't as many of them as you think. Not all Xolos are psychopomps.”

“Yeah, you mentioned the coated ones are just dogs.”

“Not all of the hairless dogs are psychopomps, either. Only the purebred ones, and there aren't very many of them left. At one time, they were almost extinct. Now they're bred for shows, and as pets.”

“You think they might have died out? And even if they did, wouldn't other psychopomps move in to pick up the slack?”

Mom pressed her lips together and shook her head. “We were charged with protecting the Xolos, Dominica. If we failed in that, it is not God's responsibility to spare us the consequences.”

God lets humankind lie in the bed it made. News at eleven.

I watched my mother as she refilled our cups. Her hands seemed a little unsteady as she poured. I saw her often enough that the little physical changes sometimes escaped my notice. Mortality was a patient beast. It stalked its prey slowly and you never saw it coming until it was too late. I tried to look at her with fresh eyes and I didn't like what I saw. Mom was only in her fifties but she looked older. She looked tired.

I knew very soon I'd have to make a hard decision. I used youth spells to slow my own aging. I tried not to overdo it but I used them. Fuck getting old if you don't have to. I could probably stop aging altogether if I chose—my boss had been kicking around for six millennia and he didn't
look much older than forty. But in a year or two, maybe five at the outside, I'd have to decide whether to use that magic on my mother or to let her go. I'd never talked to Mom about it and I never would—she'd
hate
me if she ever learned I'd used magic on her. The chances were pretty good I was going to lose her either way.

“People die,” my mother said. “Like the Xolos, this is God's gift to us. Perhaps He sent
los zombis
to remind us of that.”

“Speaking on behalf of humans everywhere who still prefer the taste of chicken, message received. How do I make it right?”

“The commandment hasn't changed. Find the Xolos and protect them.”

“But what if they're gone? What if there aren't any more purebred Xolos to protect?”

Mom crossed herself. “Then perhaps it is a different message God is sending.”

“Game over.”

“‘But the day of the Lord will come like a thief. The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything in it will be laid bare.'”

“Yeah, and the eigen variables are asymptomatically stable,” I said.

“I don't know what that means, Dominica.”

“It means we're…uh…in trouble,” I said. “I have to find out what happened to the Xolos. The psychopomp ones, I mean—they can't all be missing. If every Xolo in L.A. had suddenly died or vanished, we'd have heard about it. There must…” I stopped in midsentence and slapped my forehead.

“What is it, dear?”

“If anyone knows where the psychopomps have gone, it'll be the Xolos who were left behind. The normal dogs.”

“It's possible, I suppose.”

“You have to get out of town, Mom. Today. I don't know how bad this will get, but it could get
really
bad. Go visit Aunt Teresa—you should be fine in Calexico, at least for now.”

“
Los zombis
will not frighten me from my home. I have nothing to fear from the dead. The Lord will protect me.”

“The Lord is sitting this one out, Mom. You said it yourself.” I reached across the table and grasped both of her thin hands in mine. I looked into her eyes and held her gaze. “I'm not asking, Mom. If you don't leave on your own, I'm going to make you leave. You won't even know what I've done. I don't want to do it—I hate the idea of it. But I will if it's the only way to get you out of here. Don't make me. Please.”

My mother looked at me for a while without speaking. “I will do as you say, Dominica. May God have mercy on you,
mi hija.
”

I stood up and gave my mother a hug and a kiss on the forehead. “Thanks for the coffee and the empanadas, Mom—they're wonderful. I've got to have a sit-down with a dog.”

 

When I got bumped up to wartime captain, I'd made Rafael Chavez my lieutenant. I'd known him since I was a kid. We came from the same neighborhood and grew up on the same streets. He was probably the only gangster in Rashan's outfit I really trusted.

Chavez had a nice little Spanish Colonial on Amalia, not far from Atlantic Park. With its clean white stucco walls and red clay roof tiles, the house would have looked like
nothing much in some L.A. neighborhoods, but it was a palace in this one. A low stone retaining wall and white wrought-iron fence fronted the small yard, and a vibrant palm tree gave the house a little shade. The grass was so green it almost glowed, and the ferns and flowering plants that hugged the walls of the house gave it the feel of an oasis in the barrio.

I rang the doorbell and winced at the bedlam that erupted inside. One of Chavez's five kids opened the door, a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy maybe seven or eight years old. His face split in a jack-o'-lantern grin when he saw me, complete with missing front teeth.

“Carlos, right?” I said, and returned the smile.

“I'm Miguel,” the boy said. “Carlos is with his
girlfriend.
” He said it like he didn't think much of his older brother's judgment. Jesus, how long had it been since I'd stopped by? Miguel was the little one. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been a toddler. Or maybe that was Jorge.

“No way,” I said. “Miguel is a little kid. You're obviously a young man. Where are you hiding the real Miguel?” I poked my head in and pretended to look around.

“
I'm
Miguel!” Miguel said, giggling. He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into the house. “Come on, Aunt Domino, I'll take you to Papa.”

Miguel led me through the kitchen where Chavez's wife was making sandwiches and struggling to control the damage inflicted by her youngest daughter's assistance. She smiled when she saw me and stopped wiping mustard from the countertop long enough to give me a hug.

“Domino, you don't visit us anymore,” she said. “It's been too long.”

“I know, I'm sorry, Cecilia. Things have been a little crazy at work.”

“Yes, but you still have to take time for yourself. Like the king back there.” She nodded in the direction of the backyard and laughed.

“Can I have a few minutes with him? I promise, I won't be long.”

“You're always welcome here, Domino. Elsa will make you a sandwich.” The little girl nodded and smiled, reaching for the mustard bottle.

I went through the back door and out onto the patio. Chavez's backyard wasn't much larger than the front, but it was big enough for a grill, a picnic table, a few patio chairs and an above-ground pool. A small wooden trestle canopy provided shade for the patio. Chavez lounged in a wicker chair, drinking a Tecate and watching a couple more kids splashing in the pool. He was wearing plaid shorts, flip-flops and a faded red tank top with enough holes to let his belly breathe.

“Looking good, Chavez.”

“Hey,
chola,
” he said, pulling another of the wicker chairs closer to him. “Come and sit with me.” He opened a plastic cooler next to his chair and grabbed another beer. He popped the top and handed it to me. I noticed there were three cell phones sitting on the glass-topped wicker table next to the cooler. Chavez never completely stopped working.

I sat down and took a pull on the bottle. It was cold, and crisp, and little flecks of ice clung to the bottle and slowly slid down the glass.

Chavez leaned back in his chair and took a long swig. He sighed. “Life is fucking good,
chola,
” he said. Then he looked sharply from side to side to see if any of the kids were in earshot. “Cilia works me over when I cuss around
los niños,
” he said.

I laughed. “The domestic bliss is almost more than I can take, Chavez.”

He shook his head. “This shit here's what it's all about,
chola.
It doesn't get any better. You should try it.”

For some reason, I felt a little lump in my throat and took another drink to wash it down. “Hey, Chavez, you have a Xolo, right?” I'm not sure whether it was the sense of urgency I felt or I just wanted to change the subject.

“Yeah, he's around here somewhere. Why? You thinking about getting a dog? It's a start, I guess.”

“I was wondering if I could talk to him.”

Chavez stopped with his beer halfway to his lips and looked at me. “You want to talk to my dog,
chola?
” I filled him in on my theory about the zombie problem and the missing psychopomps. When I finished, he just shrugged and whistled.

“Caesar!” he called.

“Your dog's name is Caesar?”

“Yeah.”

“Caesar Chavez.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Like Cesar Chavez, only Caesar instead of Cesar.”

“Yeah, I get it,” I said.

Caesar turned out to be somewhat smaller than you might expect from his name. He might have come up to my knee. He was long and lean, with an angular snout and a tapered tail that whipped back and forth. And he was hairless. His color was something between a dark gray and blue. Honestly, he looked a bit like he had a full-body bruise. He came loping around the side of the swimming pool and sat down in front of Chavez with his tongue lolling out.

Chavez scratched his head and nodded to me. “Go ahead. I can't guarantee he'll have much to say.”

“I won't freak out your family?”

Chavez shook his head. “They know the game. They see what you're doing, they'll probably want you to translate so they can talk to him, too.”

I'd learned the Doolittle spell when I was a teenager. It hadn't taken long to figure out most animals weren't much for engaging conversation. It had probably been close to twenty years since I'd last used the spell.

“Our expression and our words never coincide,” I said, incanting the words of the spell, “which is why the animals don't understand us.” The pattern formed in my mind and I let the juice wash over Caesar. He yelped and jumped to his feet, then turned in circles a few times before sitting down and looking at me.

“Tickles,” he said.

I nodded and smiled at him. “Hello, Caesar. I'm Domino.”

“I remember. You were here before, when I was new to this pack. Smell is the same.” He had a slight Chicano accent, though it must have been coming from my subconscious, through the magic.

“That's right,” I said. “I remember you, too, Caesar. I have some questions for you. Will you answer them?”

The dog's tongue flopped out of his mouth again and he lay down. “I will answer. Maybe the male will give me food. The female is making sandwiches.”