Searching For Armis

Bergin Benoit sips his glass of vermouth. Studying the numbers on his computer screen, he smiles at the profit he’s made in the stock market.

A loud explosion lights up the starless night. He jumps from his chair, running to the front door of his spacious mansion.

His wife, Cecily, joins him at the door.

“Cooke?” she asks.

“Did the cloud of smoke over his laboratory give it away? Call the police. Hopefully, he blew himself to bits this time.”

***

Los Angeles Officers Hutton Holiday and Bill Bruck knock at Conway Cooke’s door. Bruck admires the three-story mansion’s pitched roofs, palm trees, and expansive front lawn.

The door swings open.

Six-foot-two and handsome, with sweeping jet-black hair and a tapered mustache, Conway Cooke radiates intelligence, style, and class.

“Well, if it isn’t the Starsky and Hutch of the L.A. P.D.”

Accepting the compliment, Holiday flips back his blonde hair, saying, “The neighbors are complaining again, Mr. Cooke.”

“But I’m on the verge of an interdimensional breakthrough…”

“That’s what you said last week,” Holiday replies. “You know how persnickety your neighbors are. Try to keep the noise contained to a minor nuclear holocaust, okay?”

“Certainly. I appreciate the way you gentlemen protect and serve the community.”

Holiday nods politely, turning away.

“Why do you keep letting that guy off the hook?’ Bruck asks.

“Mr. Cooke? He’s charismatic, visionary, beyond intelligent, and possibly crazy. His father patented all those forms you use to file your taxes, and his mother was Cookie Cooke, the actress.”

“She played Cat Woman. She was my childhood crush.”

“Oh yeah, he also invented Gluggo,” Holiday adds.

“My kids love that stuff!”

“And someday, he’s going to perfect time travel.”

Bruck's mono brow rises as he gives Holiday a cynical look.

“Either he’s nuts, or you are.”

***

An avid reader of poetry and Greek mythology, Conway Cooke is a follower of Davidism, a religion with occult ties founded by writer and entrepreneur Dallas David. David claims to have traveled the astral plane, communicated with the dead, and spoken directly with Davidism’s most sacred deity, Armis. His followers ignore his five-year jail sentence for passing bad checks, his polygamy, and the rumor that his many degrees are bogus, saying a nonconformist is the perfect leader for such a progressive religion.

Conway and his wife, Melina, are followers of Davidism, which espouses that time travelers led by Armis, a red-haired deity, will visit the present and mate with humans to create the perfect being. Conway has taken up the task of creating a time machine to hasten the process. The machine has two poles labeled North and South. The North Pole creates positive energy, while the South Pole generates negative energy. Together, the poles create a pocket of energy between them that Conway believes can transcend time.

Conway has orchestrated one failure after another in an attempt to open a time travel corridor. He sends Dallas David weekly progress reports, but has never received an acknowledgement from his mentor that his work is meaningful.

A more methodical scientist, Melina has come to see her husband as a wistful optimist chasing an impossible dream. Conway’s adventuresome nature and his devotion to his work, the very qualities Melina found attractive when they met in Chemistry class at Harvard, have now made him an absentee husband. Melina feels unloved, unappreciated, and unwanted.

Melina knows that if Conway succeeds in traveling through time and meeting Armis, she’ll lose him altogether.

“Maximum power this time,” Conway says, adjusting the machine’s instruments.

“Is that wise? Last time we blew out the electricity for four blocks,” Melina replies.

“Something began to materialize before we blew out the circuits. Tonight, we make history.”

***

Sitting in the comfort of his easy chair, watching “Mad Money,” Bergin Benoit groans when the lights flicker and go out. He reconsiders calling the police on Conway when they return.

Conway pushes the generator to its maximum capacity.

A wave of energy appears between the two poles.

A deafening hum carries through the room. The couple covers their ears, cringing.

The head of a cat-like creature with elongated canine teeth appears between the poles. Growling fiercely, it snaps its jaws at the couple and tries to climb through the portal.

“A Saber-tooth tiger!” Conway shouts.

Conway stares at it in awe as Melina stealthily moves to the controls of the machine, shutting it down.

The Saber-tooth tiger’s severed head falls to the floor.

“The maid isn’t going to like this,” Melina notes.

***

Conway jumps up and down like an overjoyed child.

“He finally answered one of my emails! He’s coming! Dallas David is coming to look at our research!”

Melina is surprised by her lack of enthusiasm. “What if he thinks what we’re doing goes against the beliefs of Davidism?”

Conway flashes a confident grin. “The whole point of Davidism is for us to join together with Armis to create the perfect being.”

“What if he’s not impressed?

“Wasn’t it Wayne Gretzky who said, ‘You miss 100% of the shots you don't take?’ Trust me, he’s going to be impressed.”

***

Conway bows when he opens the door, surprised that his mentor looks more like a waxy ventriloquist’s dummy than an all-knowing sage. David has red hair, blue eyes, and the toothy smile of a crooked car salesman.

When Dallas David sets his baby blues on Melina, he knows he’s found a conduit that will help him suck up some of Conway’s millions.

Over the next three weeks, Dallas shows Conway how to communicate with the dead, never telling him that the voices he produces come from tape recorders he’s hidden around the room. He’s surprised but not overly concerned when Conway communicates with his dead mother, figuring Conway is using recordings from Cookie Conway’s films to try and fool him.

Dallas shares volumes of ancient texts he claims will give Conway the power to control the elements, including time. He doesn’t tell him that he wrote the books himself while sampling hallucinogens in Arizona.

When Dallas witnesses Conway’s time device at work, he wonders if Conway is a better con artist than he is.

***

The lights flicker, going out. A deafening hum carries through the room.

When the lights return, Dallas sees a cloudy vision materializing between the North and South poles of the time machine.

Gregori Rasputin stares at them through a hazy cloud of energy. His cold, blue, hypnotic eyes blink, and he makes the sign of the cross.

Dallas tries not to sound too surprised. “He can see us.”

Rasputin’s hand reaches out, appearing in the present.

“Pull him through!” Dallas shouts.

Conway hesitates, slowly reaching for Rasputin’s hand.

Melina rushes to the controls, turning the machine off.

Rasputin pulls his hand back, gruffly saying, “Вот чёрт!” as his visage fades.

“What did he say?” Conway asks.

“I believe it was the Russian equivalent of ‘Oh, crap!” Dallas replies. “Why did you shut the machine off?”

“We don’t want a man like him in this time period, do we?”

“I’m sorry. I got carried away,” Dallas replies. “But we’re talking about a man who healed the Tsar’s son’s hemophilia with his touch, predicted his own death, and the fall of the Romanoffs. He’s the most gifted psychic of all time.”

“I thought you were,” Melina says shrewdly.

***

Dallas pushes his dinner plate aside. Raising his glass of champagne, he says in a smooth, sensual tone, “I’m afraid I’ve fallen for your intelligence, and those wonderful hazel eyes. You’re the brightest star in here.”

Looking around La Mage at the movie stars and other celebrities in the restaurant, Melina blushes. Since Dallas’s arrival, he’s done all the things her husband has neglected, showering her with flowers, compliments, intimate dinners, and laugh-filled nights on the town, while Conway struggles to perfect his method of time travel and communicate with Armis.

“All this is very nice, Dallas, but what’s your game?” Melina asks.

“Game? All right, I’ll admit that at first, I thought about swindling your husband. But now that we’ve gotten to know each other, I can see living the rest of my life with you.”

“And your other wives?”

Dallas’s pale skin reddens. “I promise you; they’re history.”

“And your plan to bilk Conway?”

“Buried.”

“Well, get a shovel and dig it up. I’m tired of almost succeeding. I may not be able to travel through time, but from this moment on, I intend to live every second as if it were my last.”

***

Dallas tells Conway that instead of spending his own money, the two of them could create a profitable business to fund his research. He suggests they buy sailboats and sell them to people in Florida at a steep markup. His head still swimming from the sacred magic knowledge Dallas has given him, Conway readily agrees to invest $200,000 without even asking how much Dallas plans to contribute.

He’s less than thrilled when Dallas announces that he and Melina are taking a trip to Florida to look at some sailboats.

“We’re in the midst of important work. You can’t just take off on me, especially with my wife.”

“I need her administrative expertise,” Dallas says.

“Administrative expertise, my eye. I see the way you two look at one another.”

He looks between them once more and says, “It’s either her or me…”

“It’s her,” Dallas replies.

***

Melina unties the sailboat’s rope.

“I kind of feel sorry for Conway.”

Dallas takes the wheel. “It’s natural. You were married for fifteen years. You grew up, Conway didn’t. It comes from him having a silver spoon in his mouth. He sure didn’t put up much of a fight for you. He was so bull-headed about satisfying himself that he forgot about your needs.”

“I feel bad about sneaking out and taking so much money.”

“Two hundred thousand is a drop in the bucket to him,” Dallas says, steering the sailboat out to sea.

***

Conway screams Melina’s name as he searches the mansion’s twenty-five rooms. He tears her study apart, coming across a file of sailboat brochures.

He knows she’s headed for Terra Verde because they had talked about sailing there for years.

***

Incense wafts through the air as Conway chants Bartzabel’s name. Dallas had taught him that Bartzabel, a powerful demon spirit, governs the wind.

A pile of thistles, brambles, and tamarind burns on the table in front of him as Conway slips into a trance.

***

The wind tears at the boat’s sails, pushing the craft sideways.

Melina’s hair blows in her face as she squints, trying to look through the thick fog. “I thought you said it was clear sailing.”

“I checked the charts, the radio forecast, and the weather channel,” Dallas replies, struggling with the wheel.

A wave crashes over the boat’s bow, and it dips dangerously low in the water.

Melina gets on the radio. “MAYDAY! MAYDAY! This is the Crowley, we’re floundering fifty miles west of Tampa. SEND HELP!”

A twenty-foot wave swells in front of them. It crashes against the boat, knocking the couple off their feet.

Melina cocks her ear against the din of the howling wind.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“I thought I heard someone calling my name.”

“Yeah. Maybe it was me screaming for you to batten down the sails!”

“Swindling Conway was your brilliant idea! I should never have fallen for your sweet talk!”

“You’re the one who wanted to live in Terra Verde!”

Their bickering stops when they look at the sea ahead.

An enormous hand breaks through the fog. It reaches out for them with the intent of crushing the boat.

“It’s wearing Conway’s wedding ring,” Melina sadly notes.

***

Crying crocodile tears, Conway buries Melina’s empty casket. Then he interviews dozens of candidates to serve as his assistant. All of them walk away muttering he’s either eccentric or insane.

He intensifies his experiments, succeeding in bringing fish, frogs, and squirrels through the time portal. But they enter the present dead. The mice, cats, and dogs that he sends through the portal never return.

Conway also continues to enhance his knowledge of Davidism. He tries to summon Armis, figuring he should be the one to mate with her and create the perfect being.

A month later, a woman with scarlet red hair knocks on his door.

“I’m here to apply for the position of your assistant.”

“…Armis…”

“My name’s Merle Octoberon, and I’m flattered you think I look like her, but I’m flesh and blood.”

“So, you’re familiar with Davidism?”

“Yes, it’s a passion of mine.”

“You’re hired.”

***

Merle tells Conway she’s a fan and has followed his work since he created Gluggo. She also confesses to spending a month battling schizophrenia at the Inglewood Sanitarium.

“I have six different personalities,” she admits.

“Then another one won’t matter, Armis.”

Merle neglects to mention that her ex-con boyfriend, Chuck, sent her to seduce Conway.

Conway keeps referring to Merle as Armis. She begins to believe it herself.

“You have a destiny to fulfill, Armis.”

“And what is that?”

“To be the mother of the perfect beings that will inhabit the earth.”

For the next two weeks, Conway and Merle follow Davidism’s mating rituals.

Begin and Cicely Benoit happen to be sitting on the balcony of their mansion the night Conway and Merle conduct the Davidism dance of fertility.

“Please don’t tell me they’re naked,” Bergin says.

“Like Adam and Eve,” Cicely replies.

“I’m going to call the police.”

“They’ll just send Holiday and Bruck. I think Holiday’s taking bribes from Cooke, so he won’t do anything. And Bruck, well, he’s as thick as his eyebrows.”

Bergin harrumphs. “Well, what would you suggest?”

“Competition. Care to dance?” Cicely says, taking her surprised husband by the hand.

***

A few nights later, after a sumptuous dinner, Merle drugs Conway’s wine. She turns off the outside lights, the cameras, and the security system.

Chuck and his ex-cellmate, Nemo Pesce, back a U-Haul truck up to the door, stealing Conway’s valuable paintings, antique furniture, and the $40,000 in cash he told Merle he kept under the floorboards in his bedroom.

When Conway comes to at two o’clock in the morning and sees the carnage, he opens Dallas David’s book of spells.

***

Incense wafts through the air as Conway summons Bartzabel…

***

Chuck squints as he tries to see through the thick fog. Clamping both hands on the wheel, he presses the accelerator.

“I’d say we got half a million in goodies,” he says. “What’s the matter, short cake?”

“He was kinda charming. He called me Queen Armis, and he treated me like one.”

“Did you fall for him?” Chuck asks. “You’re as soft-headed as you are soft-hearted.”

“That’s not nice, Chuck,” Nemo says. “You should always treat loved ones with care and respect.”

“Didn’t you bludgeon your wife to death, Nemo?”

“That was before I took sensitivity classes in the pen.”

“Right. You're just as soft in the head as Queen Armis. Jeez, this fog keeps gettin’ thicker.”

“Easy on the gas, Chuck. I’m pregnant,” Merle says.

“That’s not what I meant when I said you should get close to Cooke,” Chuck growls.

“What’s that ahead?” Merle asks.

An enormous hand breaks through the fog, reaching out for the truck.

Chuck spins the wheel. The weight of their loot causes the truck to flip over, ejecting Merle and Chuck from the truck.

Conway gets most of his property back and becomes more determined than ever to bring Armis to him.

***

Bergin is about to close his eyes when an explosion practically lifts him from the bed.

“Cooke?” Cecily asks.

“I’m fed up with that mad scientist.”

Donning his robe, Bergin stomps outside.

A sink sits on his front lawn along with a chair melted into the shape of a heart, half a table, and a mangled cart.

Bergin rushes to Conway’s home to find that most of the first floor has been obliterated by the explosion.

Bergin encounters a creature running amok in the backyard. It shrieks from the pain of having its skin burned off.

The creature has the body of a man and the head and tail of a bull.

Bergin backs away when it snorts at him as if it's going to charge at him.

Officers Hutton Holiday and Bill Bruck arrive moments later, looking at the mushroom cloud dissipating over the property.

“I told him to use less rocket fuel,” Holiday laments.

“Over there! Look over there!” Bergin shouts.

Bruck draws his gun. “I gotta go to church more often. What is that thing?”

“It’s called a Minotaur,” Holiday says. “They’re myths. They don’t exist.”

“The hell they don’t. What else do you think we’ll find in Cooke’s house of horrors?”

The minotaur shrieks in grievous pain. Lowering its head, it runs at the police officers.

They empty their guns at the charging monstrosity. Snorting, it raises its hooves in anger. It groans, keeling over.

Holiday and Bruck enter the devastated home. Amid the debris are pages covered in pentagrams and text written in unknown languages.

“Was he some sort of devil worshipper?”

“There was no need for Mr. Cooke to summon demons. He had enough of his own.”

“What do you suppose happened?”

“His wife once told me he was careless in the lab. Maybe a chemical slipped out of his hand and sparked an explosion.”

Pushing aside the debris, the officers uncover Conway’s time machine.

A watery, unstable cloud of energy wavers between the North and South Poles. Both of the rods are awkwardly bent in half.

Bruck tries to touch the whirlpool between the rods, but his hand is repelled.

“Is that some sort of vortex?”

The whirlpool fades, disappearing.

A man’s laughter makes the two officers shiver.

“That sounded like Mr. Cooke,” Holiday says.

“Do you think he was in that cloud? Do you think he traveled somewhere else in time?”

“Maybe that’s why he was laughing. He finally got it right.”