Authors: Harry Shannon
Behold the Child
| Behold the Child |
| Harry Shannon |
| (2010) |
This short novel first appeared in the Cemetery Dance anthology "Brimstone Turnpike." Each character was to be given a brief encounter with a wise old man named Johnny Divine, and one object that would affect the outcome of the story. In award-winning author Harry Shannon's entry, Sam Kenzie is an LAPD cop who can't escape his obsession with a serial killer due to demons of his own.
"Behold the Child", by Harry Shannon, is the perfect mix of classic Noir and the supernatural. A maverick, burned-out cop haunted by his last city case ignores advice and a "wrong" turn en route to his retirement gig in the isolated desert town of his youth. It's dark, brooding, and reminds us that unfortunately, not everyone takes advantage of divine second chances."
-Shroud Magazine
"This eerie collection includes five chilling tales with a common motif—a deserted highway with a ruined gas station where an old black man gives a traveler a special gift that could change his or her destiny. From Thomas F. Monteleone's story of a reporter's collision with the truth ("The Prime Time of Spenser Golding") to Harry Shannon's depiction of a detective's journey into darkness ("Behold the Child"), these tales delve into the realm of nightmare and wish fulfillment."
-Library Journal
"Master craftsmanship."
-Cemetery Dance
"Shannon is a writer who is never afraid to walk into the shadows and drag the things living there kicking and screaming into the light."
-Brian Keene
"Harry Shannon takes age-old themes and gives them a new and fearsome bite. Vividly realized, his writing is controlled, assured, and filled with the kind of spooky atmosphere that used to make you hide your head under the bedcovers on wind-wracked nights."
- Tom Piccirilli
Copyright © 2010 Harry Shannon
BEHOLD THE CHILD is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
In order to better enjoy this novella, you should know that it first appeared in a limited-edition hardcover Cemetery Dance anthology called
Brimstone Turnpike
. Editor Kealan Patrick Burke asked me to participate, along with authors Scott Nicholson, Tom Monteleone, Tim Waggoner and Mike Oliveri. Kealan also created the keys to the book's puzzle. Each character was to be given a brief encounter with a wise old man named Johnny Divine, who lived in a mysterious town called Brimstone Turnpike. That person would be given one object that would affect the outcome of the story. In my entry, Sam Kenzie is an LAPD cop who can't escape his obsession with a serial killer due to demons of his own.
Brimstone Turnpike
. Editor Kealan Patrick Burke asked me to participate, along with authors Scott Nicholson, Tom Monteleone, Tim Waggoner and Mike Oliveri. Kealan also created the keys to the book's puzzle. Each character was to be given a brief encounter with a wise old man named Johnny Divine, who lived in a mysterious town called Brimstone Turnpike. That person would be given one object that would affect the outcome of the story. In my entry, Sam Kenzie is an LAPD cop who can't escape his obsession with a serial killer due to demons of his own.
Shroud Magazine clearly got the point: "
Behold the Child,
by Harry Shannon, is the perfect mix of classic Noir and the supernatural. A maverick, burned-out cop haunted by his last city case ignores advice and a "wrong" turn en route to his retirement gig in the isolated desert town of his youth. It's dark, brooding, and reminds us that unfortunately, not everyone takes advantage of divine second chances."
Behold the Child,
by Harry Shannon, is the perfect mix of classic Noir and the supernatural. A maverick, burned-out cop haunted by his last city case ignores advice and a "wrong" turn en route to his retirement gig in the isolated desert town of his youth. It's dark, brooding, and reminds us that unfortunately, not everyone takes advantage of divine second chances."
Library Journal later wrote: "This eerie collection includes five chilling tales with a common motif—a deserted highway with a ruined gas station where an old black man gives a traveler a special gift that could change his or her destiny. From Thomas F. Monteleone's story of a reporter's collision with the truth ("
The Prime Time of Spenser Golding
") to Harry Shannon's depiction of a detective's journey into darkness ("
Behold the Child"),
these tales delve into the realm of nightmare and wish fulfillment."
The Prime Time of Spenser Golding
") to Harry Shannon's depiction of a detective's journey into darkness ("
Behold the Child"),
these tales delve into the realm of nightmare and wish fulfillment."
Thanks for reading. I sincerely hope you enjoy
Behold the Child.
Behold the Child.
—Harry Shannon
"Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw."
—Alexander Pope 1688-1744
"Please, man, let me go!"
The terrified girl with the runny nose could have been any age between twenty and forty. Her name was Pearl, or so she claimed. She was skeletal; with badly pocked skin and stringy brown hair. Pearl wore a man's blue work shirt, filthy jeans and tennis shoes with no socks. She kept scratching at the scabs on her arms. Years of junk and physical abuse had rendered her features generic, although at some point she might have been pretty.
"Is that Oso's house?" Kenzie drawled, softly. "The blue one yonder, with an old Ford up on blocks in the front yard?"
Pearl nodded her head furiously, her breath steaming in the cold air. She tried to shrink down in the passenger seat and disappear. Her voice was thick with fear. "If he comes out and sees I brought you here he'll fucking kill me, mister, no shit he will just flat fucking blow us both away."
As if on cue, the front door opened and an impossibly large, busily tattooed Hispanic man in stained boxers wandered out onto the front porch. He stood there in the yellow light, scratching his balls and watching the sunset. Between the patterns of snakes, gargoyles and prison gang insignia lay a random series of dark, rectangular burn scars. He had a quart of malt liquor in his left hand and a 357 Magnum in his right. Detective Sam Kenzie felt his heart thump and his gut tighten in anticipation.
"That's him, right Pearl? That's the man with the scars, that sold you the speed, the one you said was holding a little girl hostage. That's Manuel Ortega, also known as Oso?"
Pearl had her face so far down it looked like she was kissing her ass goodbye. She was whimpering into her cupped palms. Kenzie grabbed her greasy hair and yanked her head back against the seat.
"I need you to look," he said. "And tell me if that's Ortega."
Incongruously, Pearl began to rock and whispered the Lord's Prayer at breakneck speed. Then she nodded. Said: "That's him. And there's one other biker in there with him, a prick called Gato." Kenzie reached across and unlocked her side of the car. He pushed her head back down.
"Ease on out of here and stay low," he said, not unkindly. "I do believe this old boy is likely to throw down on me."
"You're fucking crazy, mister."
Kenzie smiled. "That's probably true, Pearl. But if I shoot him it just means you won't have to testify at a trial."
"I already told you I couldn't do that," Pearl wailed. "I'd be good as dead."
Detective Sam Kenzie watched the scarred, tattooed Ortega pace the porch and drink beer. He looked down at Pearl, twisted her hair again. "Listen to me," he said. "If we need you, you're going to be in rehab in Pomona, just like we agreed. You're anywhere else, I'll find you and make you sorry. Now get."
Pearl slipped out of the car, sank to all fours and crab-walked backwards into some brush. Sam Kenzie watched her ease behind a row of overflowing trash cans and then beat feet down the alley like a track star. He felt his adrenaline kicking in. He slipped his Glock 9 out into his palm and reached for the radio. He paused for a minute; thinking things over, playing out various scenarios in his mind. How many others in the house? Had to be guns all over the fucking place, the prick was running a crank lab.
The rap sheet on Manuel "Oso" Ortega, also known as The Bear, was longer than the Florida recount. It stated that he had been badly abused by his crack-addicted, prostitute mother and her customers. She had burned him with a hot iron when he misbehaved. So now Oso was psychotic, drug addicted, armed and dangerous. He was also wanted in three states besides California, on charges ranging from assault and battery to grand theft auto; drug trafficking to homicide.
And he had started kidnapping children; this latest a young girl, apparently for sexual purposes.
Kenzie knew he was acting like a cowboy, but the capture of Ortega or a righteous shoot—not to mention the rescue of one of the kidnapped children—would be quite a feather in his cap. He also knew he had an obligation to call for back-up. After all, he was out of his jurisdiction and operating without a partner or even a proper warrant.
But the car in the driveway, a battered Chevy truck with flames painted on the side, had broken tail lights; an old excuse for probable cause. Also, a man known to Kenzie to be on parole was both drinking and packing a fire arm. A witness had now identified Oso and indicated that he had sold her some drugs, not to mention that a kidnapping would be Ortega's third and final felony strike under California law.
Yeah, and your wife is pregnant . . .
Kenzie sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He listened to the crickets sorrowing in the weeds and examined the peculiar truth that fatherhood scared him more than a pitched gun battle. His world was a sick and violent place.
Oso's mother burned him with a hot iron when he misbehaved . . .
Sam Kenzie also wanted to believe Laura's pregnancy was an accident, but he didn't. He didn't want the mere existence of a fetus to have changed his attitude towards his career and his life . . . But it had. What was that sound?
"Fuck!"
The squeal of tires: Bright headlights lit up the car before Kenzie could react and duck out of sight. He had a very brief glimpse of a much older man with a thin face whose eyes went wide at the sight of him. Kenzie had lost the precious advantage of surprise.
At that same moment Manuel Ortega grinned and started down off the porch towards the vehicle approaching the driveway; now revealed to be a Nissan without plates. But the startled man driving the car honked three times. He gunned the engine and roared away. Ortega, reacting to what was obviously a pre-arranged signal, dropped the quart of beer. He moved back towards the dilapidated blue house, gun up and eyes searching the street. Time began to slow down. Ortega's mouth narrowed and his face registered rage.
Kenzie yanked open the driver's door and rolled out into the street just as a shot splintered the windshield. The sound followed a split-second later; a thumping boom that started dogs barking all over the crime-infested neighborhood. Kenzie felt the lining in his jacket tear and he swore as the sharp gravel sandpapered the skin from his palms. He considered clambering back into the vehicle to use the radio, but a second shot flattened the front left tire, missing him by less than a foot. He rolled, rolled again.
BLAAAAAM!
Oso was down on one knee, trying to track Kenzie under the car and then flat on the dying grass, squinting and squeezing off another round. Kenzie used the engine block for cover, threw his long body over the hood and let fly. Shells flew into the air and tinkled to the ground all around him. Oso watched divots travel up his lawn and decided discretion was the better part of valor. He zigzagged back onto the porch, shrieking something in Spanish to whoever was inside. The situation was becoming seriously messy.
Oso was down on one knee, trying to track Kenzie under the car and then flat on the dying grass, squinting and squeezing off another round. Kenzie used the engine block for cover, threw his long body over the hood and let fly. Shells flew into the air and tinkled to the ground all around him. Oso watched divots travel up his lawn and decided discretion was the better part of valor. He zigzagged back onto the porch, shrieking something in Spanish to whoever was inside. The situation was becoming seriously messy.
"The hell is going on?" Somebody was coming down the alley. He saw Kenzie with the gun and ducked back into the encroaching darkness. Kenzie managed to free one hand and dragged out his shield, waved it in the air.
"Call 911, asshole!"
Bitter laughter: "Call 'em yourself, pig!"
Oso on the porch, Oso in the doorway: Kenzie fired again, and the porch light exploded into fragments. Once more time and blood spurted from Oso's forearm just as the door slammed shut.
Got you, motherfucker . . .
Got you, motherfucker . . .
Now, what?
Kenzie wiped sweat from his brow and weighed his shitty options. He heard a siren somewhere to the west; saw the flashing, twirling lights of a black-and-white as it ripped through rush hour traffic. He jumped back into the car and used the radio to introduce himself and explain the situation. To their credit, the San Bernardino cops didn't demand much of an explanation beyond a clear Sit-Rep and his exact location. Kenzie swallowed bile, then lied and told them he was at the foot of the front porch.
Kenzie stared firing at the house and then sprinted away from the safe cover of his car.
The kid, I've got to get the kid away from them.
He ran across the yellowing lawn and threw himself flat at the foot of the steps. His heart was hammering, now. Kenzie realized that he had never been so afraid in his entire life. He thought:
God damn, Laura
as he huddled there in the dark and changed clips,
you made me hesitate.
The kid, I've got to get the kid away from them.
He ran across the yellowing lawn and threw himself flat at the foot of the steps. His heart was hammering, now. Kenzie realized that he had never been so afraid in his entire life. He thought:
God damn, Laura
as he huddled there in the dark and changed clips,
you made me hesitate.
A squad car raged down the street. It slammed into a pot hole in the asphalt and bounced, then shrieked itself sideways to block the driveway. Now the air stank of cordite, trash and burning rubber. The two cops placed themselves behind the black-and-white and threw down on the weathered blue house. One looked a little past veteran; the other was a rookie with a huge nose and wide, panicked brown eyes. The partners searched the yard and the porch, found Kenzie's position and the older one shouted: "Stay down!"
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