ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
CHAPTER 28
A SACRIFICE OF LIFE

“Say, Betty,” Marlo snapped her gum and patted her red dyed updo. “You in some kind of trouble?”

“I saw some trouble at the spa. That kind officer’s going to take me home,” Betty said. “I need a chicken, Marlo. Do you have any left?”

“Must be a lot of black magic happening around here. I think we’re down to our last bird,” Marlo snapped a pink bubble back into her mouth. “You need an eye of newt; I might be able to help. Say, the law’s driving away on you, Betty.”

“It’s okay. He’ll come back.” Betty hurried down the rows of cereal, peanut butter, and snack bars to the meat counter. She pressed the buzzer and waited. The meat display was a reminder of the spa. Betty could think of nothing but the blood-soaked towel over the toeless body.

Betty had turned to bolt out the front door with a case of screaming meemies when the butcher barged through the swinging doors. His rubber apron was splattered with blood.

“I need a chicken, Roscoe,” Betty said. “A live one.” She showed him a ten-dollar bill.

He vanished and stepped back through a different door, holding a fluffy white chicken.

“It’s small,” she remarked.

“Only one I got,” the butcher replied. “Silly superstitious claptrap, Betty. But I’ll take that ten.” He crammed her chicken into a burlap sack and shoved the bundle into her arms. Betty walked back to Marlo, who was reading the National Enquirer.

“Say, Betty,” Marlo smiled. “Your cop hasn’t come back yet.”

“I can’t stay here, girlfriend. It’s a killing field back there,” Betty said. “Besides, I need to make a sacrifice, and I won’t rest easy until it’s done.”

Marlo snapped her gum, blew a bubble, and then popped it back into her mouth loudly. She winked at Betty.

“You be careful out there.”

Betty stepped outside and glanced back at the grocery store. The All-Nite sign was like a lighthouse, surrounded by a sea of walk-up flats and boarded-up storefronts. The chicken flapped inside its burlap prison as if it sensed its impending fate.

The moon lit up the sidewalk, casting the alley into deep gloom. Only the caterwauling of a tomcat and distant sirens broke the dense night silence. To Betty, it seemed like the dark man was walking just out of sight. She was tempted to set the chicken free and forget her silly notion about jujus. She had seen enough for one night to risk a nasty haunting.

Maybe it’s just plain foolishness, Betty reflected. Or maybe it’ll scare the walking dude off.

The chicken calmed down as Betty shuffled forward, but her anxiety kept increasing. Fifty more steps, and she would reach St. Alexis Chapel. To get there, she’d need to cross the cemetery.

I’ll grab a brick from the sanctuary. I’ll scrub the steps with it so no ghostly haunt can cross my front steps. That’ll fix those zombies. Saints alive, I haven’t brought a live chicken into my kitchen since Homer got laid off down at the plant. He was back on the job by morning.

The graveyard lay straight ahead, enclosed by an ornate iron fence that kept it separate from the passage of time. It was set in the shadows of the old church, where the moon’s light couldn’t reach. The chalk-white headstones looked like ghost troops ready to march in a Mardi Gras parade of death. The sanctuary doors were unseated from their frames and wouldn’t open. The gap was just wide enough for Betty to slip through.

Fallen bricks surrounded the Lord’s Table. Bats swooped in and out of the belfry, and Betty pulled her sweater over her head to keep them out of her hair. She picked up a blood-red brick and backed away. The chicken clucked loudly in the sack, as if sensing impending danger.

She was near the edge of the churchyard when the police car appeared. She ran to the curb and waved it down.

“Mr. O’Donnell, here I am,” she shouted, waving frantically. She might be waking the dead, and she didn’t want to look back at the graves. There could be an arm emerging from the ground even now. She ran, lugging her bundle of chicken and brick.

There was no traffic; the squad car pulled to the curb. But the man who got out of the driver’s door wasn’t Dougan O’Donnell. It was the nasty one, Stacy Bridges.

“That’s a devilish trick,” she mumbled to the chicken. “Now what?”

The chicken didn’t say anything. Betty watched Bridges lean against his cruiser with his arms crossed like James Dean. She approached him cautiously. She could have run and possibly reached a busy street, but she chose not to.

“I’ll be fine, officer. I don’t need any help.” She looked at his onyx eyes warily. “I do thank you just the same.”

“I told Dougan to take you straight home. It’s not safe out here, Mrs. Lamoreaux. Let me give you a ride.” Bridges opened the door; he seemed eager to help her get into the back seat.

“I made him stop at the All-Nite. He said he’d come back, but I was eager to get home. I figured I’d just walk. I really enjoy walking. So, I’ll just be on my way. Only two blocks to home, sir.” She backed up and felt him tense like a panther ready to pounce on a rabbit.

“I wouldn’t do that. I’ve already been to your house. Now give me the ring, and I might let you live.”

“Ring?” The burlap bag slipped from her hand. “You’d best not be giving Homer a fright. My husband’s got a bad ticker.”

Bridges grinned. A malevolent aura enveloped him, and she could feel it, like one of those invisible fences.

“Get in the car, Betty.”

The chicken clucked and thrashed on the sidewalk, struggling to get out of the bag. It flapped between Bridges and Betty, as if to protect her.

“Homer’s dead, Betty. And you’ll find your toes scattered all over this churchyard if you don’t hand over that ring.”

“You’re the devil himself,” Betty gave a pitiful, weak scream.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.” He shrugged. “Nobody can hear you. Everything’s boarded up around here. Now, hand it over.”

“You carved that rich lady up! You got a heart so black it’s nearly rotted right out of your chest.” An inhuman wail pierced the stillness, startling him.

Betty bolted through the graveyard as if an army of ghosts was hot on her heels. She squeezed into the chapel. Bridges let her get inside the building; no witnesses there except the ghosts of parishioners long dead.

“Sweet Jesus,” she shouted to the rafters. “I’m right with y’all. You can send that sweet ride anytime.” She tripped over a beam. Levered by her weight, it flew into the air and whacked Bridges in the jaw.

Betty’s knee split wide open on a big iron nail. She didn’t feel the pain. She pulled herself up by clutching a pew. Dragging her injured leg, she crawled to the base of the Altar.

“I want to be with Homer,” she wailed. “Oh, please, just show me a little mercy,” Betty cried out to God.

Stacey Bridges, recovering from the blow to his face, crawled over a pile of lumber. Betty dragged herself around to the back of the altar. Then she hurled herself into what was left of the wall. The broken-down rampart gave way; an avalanche of rubble buried her, crushing her thin frame beneath old bricks and fractured wood beams.

Bridges jumped back as the dust cloud whooshed past, filling his lungs. A mountain of rubble blocked his view of the ruby ring. The woman was clearly insane.

“Hey, are you in there?” he asked softly, coaxingly.

The mountain of rubble was silent. He reached into a narrow opening, and a spike pierced his hand.

“Damn.” He kicked the beam, but it didn’t move. Stacey brushed debris off his uniform. His jaw was swollen, and he could feel a dislodged molar with his tongue. He’d have to think fast to cover this mess.

Bridges carefully navigated around crooked pews, climbed over a fallen debris to the broken door. When he walked back through the churchyard, Dougan O’Donnell was waiting.

“Say, Bridges. I thought you went home.”

“Nope. I just thought I saw some kids running into the church. Then, as I got inside, the wall fell. It caught me right in the jaw.”

“I left Betty Lamoreaux at the All-Nite. Clerk said she didn’t want to wait around for me, and she started walking.”

“I told you to stay with her and take her straight home,” Stacy said, rubbing his jaw.

“I got called out on a robbery in progress. I told her I’d be back for her. I haven’t seen anything around here but your squad, Bridges. Have you seen her?”

“No, just those kids.”

“Well, I haven’t told you the worst part. Dispatch sent me to Betty’s address half an hour ago. Seems like a neighbor heard some noises. I get over there and Homer Lamoreaux’s been gutted like a deer.”

“I gave you an order, O’Donnell. You were supposed to take her straight home. This is your fault.”

“If you wanted to remove me from calls, you should have told dispatch.”

“Internal affairs will take care of this. You disobeyed a direct order, and I’m going to revoke your badge.”

“You do what you must do, Bridges. I’m going to look for Betty Lamoreaux.”

“That’s your guilt talking, O’Donnell. The bitch killed her old man. Shit, maybe she got home early and caught Homer with another woman. Maybe she roughed up the woman at the spa, too.”

Dougan looked at Bridges. He had a busted jaw and was covered with dust, as if he’d been in a fight with Azazel himself. Dougan was wary.

“Betty didn’t like you, Bridges,” Dougan said. “She was an observant old lady. She said you were evil, as a matter of fact.”

“You’re out of your league, O’Donnell. I’d watch my step if I were you.” Stacey opened his car door, signaling the conversation was over.

Dougan watched his superior pull away from the curb. It’s just out of my reach—I’m no Columbo, but I’m not Inspector Clouseau either. That store’s only a few blocks away. She had to walk right past here. And Bridges looks like a train hit him.

A scratching noise from the churchyard caught O’Donnell’s attention. He moved toward the ruins of St. Alexis, where he was confirmed years earlier. A fluffy white chicken scratched in the graveyard dirt, pecking at pea gravel as if it were chicken feed.

Betty was here. I knew it. Bridges did something to the old gal. And I’ve got a feeling he took care of Homer, too. How did that son of a bitch get to the spa so fast tonight? He wasn’t supposed to be on duty. Shit—this isn’t in the police handbook. What do I do?

“Here, chickee, chickee.” Dougan chased the chicken, which flapped and skittered toward the chapel. The door was ajar. Dougan pushed against it, but the damn door wouldn’t budge. He sucked in his stomach to squeeze through, ripping his uniform in the process. His flashlight beam revealed a path through the debris and overturned pews that led straight to the altar. Dust was thick in the air, like a jet engine had stirred the wreckage up.

Bridges said the wall fell on him. Dougan looked around for evidence of it. Behind the altar, clouds of gray dust rolled into the chapel. Ah ha. There was a room behind the altar. That’s where we stowed our robes. Maybe it’s still there. He circled the mountain of rubble to reach the antechamber.

He found the body among the rubble. Betty Lamoreaux wore a peaceful expression, nearly a smile. Her lower body was pinned by a beam and a heap of red bricks. Her hand was clenched tightly in a fist. He gently pressed her neck — no pulse. He opened her fingers. A ruby ring hit the stone floor with a clink. Dougan stared at it for a while, then slipped it into his pocket.

“I’m sorry, Betty. I should’ve known something was hinky when Bridges made it to the scene before I did.” She didn’t answer him, but he felt peaceful sitting next to her. “If I can believe Bridges, I guess Homer’s there with you, and that’s good.”

O’Donnell returned to his car. The night air was blessedly clear and fresh. The street was quiet, except for an occasional cluck from Betty’s chicken. Dougan had a plan, but it would take some time to get his ducks—or chickens—in a row. He could call Betty’s body in; maybe even reach Bridges during the investigation. But there might be a better way.

Taking down a dangerous criminal like Stacey Bridges was no easy task, but Betty and Homer would see justice done. And Stacey Bridges would have his ring, but only behind bars. He picked up the chicken. It was steady in his hands. He placed the chicken in the back seat of his squad car and started the engine.

“I hope you don’t lay any eggs back there,” he said. The chicken clucked and pecked a seat button. “I guess in a funny kind of way, you got a last-minute reprieve. Betty was going to lop your head off completely. And if she’d had time, maybe it would have worked. Because now, the walking dude is out there and he’s become my problem.”

Nobody but Dougan mourned Betty Lamoreaux. She was, by all accounts, only missing. Homer’s body remained unclaimed until a neighbor tracked down the address and phone number of Betty Lamoreaux’s cousin: Digby Brown of Arlington, Virginia.

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