Mysteries at Midnight

MYSTERIES AT MIDNIGHT

A Collection of Dark Fantasy Tales

By Gary Alan Ruse

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Gary Alan Ruse

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Dark Angel originally appeared in the anthology, PHANTOMS, published by DAW Books in 1989. Night Tidings originally appeared in the anthology, VAMPIRE DETECTIVES, published by DAW Books in 1995. All other stories in this collection are published here for the first time. All rights for these stories, the collection and the cover art are reserved by the author.

Dedicated to my wonderful parents and grandparents, without whose steadfast support, confidence and encouragement my accomplishments in writing would never have taken place. G.A.R.

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1

Mama Lu’s

Saint Dominique was the last place Peter Brant wanted to be, even now, five years after the murder. But Ian Coulter wanted him to firm up the hotel deal with Iverson, and when the head man of Coulter Resorts International wanted something of one of his junior executives a refusal on any grounds was corporate suicide.

Not that the job was that unpleasant. Brant was well acquainted with Daniel Iverson from his previous stay on the island, when he first joined CRI. That was probably why Coulter demanded he handle this business now. He knew Iverson’s business tactics, his quirks and moods.

And the working conditions were certainly not what weighed so heavily on his mind. The Caribbean was delightful this time of year, Saint Dominique especially so, and Brant was being wined and dined in the best establishments the capital city had to offer. Although Iverson hardly needed to make a good impression he seemed determined to show Brant how well he had done with his local enterprises. And how little he needed the deal with Coulter.

No, what haunted Brant’s thoughts now was something else altogether. A face, her face, lingered in his mind, and it was an image at once both beautiful and terrible. It seemed to dance and swirl through his consciousness with the same compelling rhythm of the island drums.

Peter--- Iverson’s voice intruded ---I say, are you with me?

What? Oh, sorry. Mind must have wandered. Brant took a sip of the drink he had been staring at meditatively. The ice had melted, but the glass still felt refreshingly cool in his hand. Just recalling my last visit here. What were you saying?

Nothing terribly fascinating, obviously. Iverson’s tanned face bore a polished smile. He was well groomed, well manicured, well dressed to say the least, and very European. But while you’ve been strolling down memory lane, I’ve been bringing you up to date on my latest hotel acquisition. Or I should say, trying to.

Iverson’s tone, as was often his manner, was charmingly acerbic, a kind of snobbish sarcasm masquerading as dry humor. Perhaps it was only the pressure of the impending business deal, but Iverson seemed to be sparring with him more than usual. If only he weren’t so damned polite.

My apologies, Brant told him, his business persona rising to action once more. Needless to say, my momentary inattention notwithstanding, all of us at CRI are very, very impressed with what you’ve accomplished here and throughout the Caribbean. That’s why Ian Coulter personally arranged for me to meet with you.

Iverson smiled oddly, as if amused at some secret joke. Yes, well, at any rate I am doubly glad to welcome you back. What has it been---five years since your last visit here? Tell me, do you find Saint Dominique has changed much?

Not greatly. Coming in from the airport I saw a few new building projects, most of them yours, but otherwise it all seems pretty much the same.

Yes. Life in the islands moves at its own pace. It’s a different world down here, Peter. Different in ways the casual observer does not comprehend. Different rules. Different players. Iverson raised his own glass in a gesture that encompassed the resort’s dining room and the splendors beyond. But it is not without its rewards, and I intend to make your visit here truly...memorable.

Peter Brant clinked glasses with the polished man who sat across from him, but what should have been a pleasant toast instead sent a faint shudder down his spine. Brant wasn’t sure what sort of game Iverson was playing, but if he was trying to gain some sort of business advantage by unnerving him, then he was doing a good job of it. He could barely concentrate on the deal Coulter had sent him here to consummate, barely keep his mind on the facts and figures it was his job to weigh and evaluate. Perhaps it was the incessant tattoo of the ever-present drums, cooler and more sophisticated here in the resort setting, but still animalistic and powerful. The sound of them seemed to catch him up and hold him prisoner. Perhaps...perhaps. Or maybe it was just the strength of the native rum that was making his thoughts spin, turning him again and again in a direction he did not want to face.

Her image seemed to pass before his unwilling eyes once more. Mariette’s face, cool and ethereal in its beauty, but whose vivid blue eyes and expressive lips sparked with passion. She had barely turned twenty on his last stay in Saint Dominique, and had led the sheltered life of a diplomat’s daughter. There was still a lot of little girl innocence about her back then, five years ago. Perhaps that was what had made the horror of her murder so terrible, so exquisitely wrong. Perhaps that was why it haunted him with such intensity even now.

Perhaps.

Brant’s eyes met Iverson’s as they sipped at their drinks, and he had the uncomfortable feeling Iverson was reading his thoughts. Iverson had known Mariette Duval as well as he had; perhaps better, for Iverson had always been influential among the island’s diplomatic circles. Brant had even toyed with the idea that Iverson may have been her killer, though the police had found no evidence to connect him or anyone else to the senseless crime. Brant did know that Daniel Iverson had wanted her, had competed with him for her attention, for her affection, for everything that her lush beauty offered.

The fact that Iverson had lost that competition might have provoked him to murder. It was possible. There was something chilling in Iverson’s calm manner and implacable stare, like the

unlidded eyes of a snake about to swallow its prey. But in the end, neither of them had won her. Not truly. Only Lord Death could claim that honor, and he was a lover whose embrace was too strong, too eternal, to contest.

Brant vaguely wondered if the police file on that case was still open...if the killer was still being sought. He had seen nothing further in the press about it.

Well, said Iverson, calling for the check and preparing to leave, the night has just begun, my old friend. There is still much more to show you, and I would be a poor host if I did not entertain you properly....

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The darkness lay over the island of Saint Dominique like a velvet cloak, black and heavy, an almost tangible thing. A breeze from off the sea, a warm breath from an unseen mouth, stirred the trees in ominous ways. Wild birds uttered their last cries for the day. Radios blared from small cafes and native huts of leftover plywood and thatching. A thousand insect dialogues rustled and whispered through the night, and there came the sounds of animals and other things unknown, unseen, out there beyond the pools of light that did not quite completely knit together the human settlements.

And above it all, and beneath it all, and behind it and around it and through it all, crept a sound that permeated the tropical landscape. The drums. Always the drums.

Brant rolled up the window beside him as the silver grey limousine rolled along the highway. The sound of the drums became muted, but did not fade completely. Brant could still hear them, still feel them. Was he only imagining it, or were they real? Perhaps he was getting spooked by Iverson, more than he realized.

Where is this place of yours? said Brant, mopping at the cold sweat beading up upon his forehead. Out in the sticks?

Iverson smiled Cheshire-like in the darkened car’s interior. Away from the hustle and bustle of the city, yes. And it is not truly mine. I only have a partial holding in it. Nothing substantial.

Brant forced a smile. But you wouldn’t be investing in it at all unless it were remarkable, I’ll wager. Might it be something CRI would be interested in?

Well, I’ll leave that for you to decide, Peter. You must form your own impressions.

Brant squirmed a bit in his seat. The plush limo was well appointed, as would be expected for a man like Daniel Iverson, but Brant could not get comfortable. As the car drove deeper into the night he could not shake the feeling that his host meant him harm. Brant already suspected the man might have killed Mariette Duval. And if he had, then it was no great leap of logic to consider he might have similar plans for Brant.

Nonsense, said a voice inside Brant’s head. Iverson is a shrewd businessman, nothing more.

It was a cold and reasoning voice, a voice of intellect speaking against gut feelings. But did it speak with authority?

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Another twenty minutes brought them to a large structure at the end of a country road. The trees and undergrowth were thick on all sides, darker silhouettes against a dark sky, but a clearing had been cut in their midst with just enough room for the building and the parking lot beside it.

The place was picturesque, almost gaudy in appearance. A two-story wooden structure, at least a decade or two old, reared up from the tropical setting like some bizarre cross between a native hut and a colonial mansion. There were pillars at the front, and shutters by the windows, and a balcony running around the second floor. But the shutters were hanging at odd angles, and they and the pillars, and even the uneven balustrade of the balcony, were painted bright, garish colors. Potted palms flanked the entrance door. The place glowed with mellow light, diffused and hazy, spilling out through windows that gave the impression of primitive stained glass. Some of that hazy light, or perhaps it was the inside air itself, oozed out through the cracks and open spaces in the imperfect windows and hung about in the open, as if uncertain where to go.

Despite the building’s grotesqueness, it was lively and oddly appealing. Mounted across the front, above the entrance, was a sputtering neon sign that etched the place’s name in glowing lines:

Mama Lu’s

Well, said Iverson as they emerged from the limo, first impressions...?

Peter Brant gave a nervous chuckle. It’s nothing like what I expected, but it is interesting. Has it been here as long as it looks?

Iverson nodded gravely as they approached the steps. Oh, my, yes. A good thirty years that I know of, and with the same proprietor as well.

How odd that I never heard of it before, on my previous visit.

Not so odd, really, Peter. It’s not well known in the capital, and the exclusive clientele it caters to seldom speak of it in polite circles.

Infectious island music with steel drums and gourds and other native instruments made the place seem to twitch in time to the rhythms. Even the ongoing undercurrent of drums seemed less ominous here.

Not spoken of in polite circles? said Brant with another chuckle. Now you have piqued my curiosity. What is this place, anyway? Some sort of nightclub, or a fancy bawdy house?

Iverson arched an eyebrow in knowing amusement. I guess you could say it’s whatever you want it to be. Tell me---what would you like it to be?

Peter Brant only smiled and shook his head. But the corner of his smile had a nervous tick to it, and he rubbed at it clumsily, wondering why this place sent a tingle coursing through him that was not altogether pleasant.

Stepping through the entrance brought them into a foyer where a black woman stood waiting. She was plump, her graying hair tied up in a bandana of luxurious green silk. Gold bangle earrings and chains played against the rich chocolate of her features, and finger rings studded her pudgy hands. Her gown seemed made of diagonal twists of orange and purple silk, and her sandaled feet wore no hose.

Welcome, Mis-ter Iverson, she greeted them, her accent and cadence as rhythmical as the music from the large room beyond. Your table is ready.

She walked with a kind of regal slowness as she led them to a table on the far side of the main room, then stood aside as waiters pulled seats out for Brant and Iverson. Then with a nodding bow, she left them.

Quite a striking hostess, commented Brant.

That, said Iverson, is Mama Lu, herself, the owner. Some say she is a hundred years old. Others claim she is much older than that, but that is merely local legend.

I wouldn’t guess more than fifty or so, from the look of her, said Brant. But I suppose the allure of mystery doesn’t hurt business any. And business looks very good indeed.

As Brant let his gaze sweep the busy room, he noticed a lot of familiar faces. People he knew, or thought he knew, from government and industry were scattered about the tables or moving about the dance floor. Some of them glanced his way curiously before resuming their own business. There were few empty seats in this place, and the very atmosphere seemed charged with the golden glow of the lights, the driving rhythms, the pungent smells of food and drink. And again, Brant felt the oddly mingled and contradictory senses of comfort and discomfort, belonging and not belonging.

The two waiters hurried over once more and pulled out the two empty chairs at Brant’s and Iverson’s table. As Brant looked up in puzzlement, two young women appeared from out of the crowd and approached the table.

Ah, Ladies, you’re just in time, Daniel Iverson told them, rising from his seat. He looked around as Brant rose, and as the women were being seated. Peter, I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve asked these two charming young ladies to join us here. This is Gretchen and that is Clarissa.

How could I mind such lovely company? replied Brant, settling into his seat once more. He smiled as he studied the two women. He guessed them to be in their twenties. Both had the look of European girls, were slender and attractive, and seemed fairly high class. Are you tourists on holiday?

Oh, no, replied the one identified as Gretchen. We live here on Saint Dominique.

Brant toyed briefly with the idea they might be call girls, but that hardly seemed Iverson’s style. Still, in a place like this...it was hard to know. He dismissed the thought. More likely, they were simply hangers on; society groupies who liked partying with wealthy and influential men. That was fine. He had no objection to it, though it was a further distraction from the business at hand.

Clarissa, the young woman nearest him, had a cool and quiet charm about her. She was nearly as pretty as Mariette Duvall had been, five years ago, and would no doubt be better looking if she wore less make-up. Still, it seemed to suit her, with her vivid red hair and bold jewelry. Gretchen, the one seated next to Iverson, was blonde, as Mariette had been, but she could not hold a candle to the young woman he had loved and lost.

Why could he not stop thinking about Mariette? It was a painful memory he had been avoiding for years, but now it all came flooding back. The look of her, the sound of her, the exquisite thrill of her touch, the way she felt in his arms, the...the...the horror of seeing her lovely, almost angel-like form crumpled on the beach where she was found, so near her house, the obscene ugliness of the dark bruises upon her throat, the vacant and terror-provoking stare left in her dead eyes. It sent a chill down his spine even now, as fresh as when it happened.

That frightful apparition faded as quickly as it had come and Brant found himself staring into the emotionless gaze of Daniel Iverson. They were the eyes of a shrewd businessman, all right. Were they the eyes of a merciless killer, as well? Brant felt an odd chill of a different sort now, and questioned his wisdom in driving out to this place with Iverson. They were so far from the city and civilized parts of the island. No one knew he was here, or would know if anything happened to him.

What’s the matter, Peter? Iverson said abruptly. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.

Brant swallowed hard, then tried to conceal his discomfort with a polite chuckle. Just thinking of the upbraiding I’ll get from Coulter if I can’t convince you to accept our offer. I’ll probably end up sharpening pencils in the steno pool.

Oh, I doubt that very much, said Iverson dryly. You’re a very convincing salesman, Peter. I’m sure you could convince anyone of anything, even yourself. But let us not rush matters. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a few things I think you’ll enjoy. Why not make the most of the evening...and the delightful company.

Before Iverson could finish speaking, their waiters reappeared with loaded trays and began placing dishes before the foursome. There was curried goat and rice, roasted vegetables, soup, a few items of French cuisine, breads, fresh fruit, and bottles of the ever-present rum and better liqueurs.

Brant could do little more than sample the abundance of foods. Everything was delicious, but he had already had a complete meal at the resort restaurant before coming here. And he was already feeling a bit tipsy from the alcohol. He resolved not to drink any more. He wanted nothing to impair his judgment.

The music was infectious, compelling, unavoidable in its hedonistic call. Brant soon found himself on the dance floor with Clarissa, moving to native rhythms that wore down his inhibitions and brought a real smile to his lips for the first time all evening. He glanced over and saw that Iverson was enjoying himself equally