El Diablo
Vandy, Vandy
Part 7 of The Lazarus Tremaine Saga
by CSyphrett
What happens when a specter from the past confronts a long-lived warlock intent on wooing a young lady to corruption? Can El Diablo redeem this warlock, just as he had been redeemed from his former life, or will it take the six-guns of Jonah Hex’s ghost to stop this villain?
***
Continued from Green Arrow: Unfinished Business
Vandy Millen was humming the song her brother often sang to himself as she walked up to the apartment they shared. Calder had a natural gift for music, and it was something they enjoyed every evening while she helped him with his schoolwork.
The song was a simple one, a tune that Calder had woven into the fabric of their evenings, a lullaby of sorts that spoke of love without condition:
Vandy, Vandy, I’ve come to court you,
Be you rich, or be you poor.
And if you’ll kindly entertain me,
I will love you forevermore.
The key turned in the lock, and Vandy stepped into the embrace of home, giving her brother a friendly wave. Setting his trumpet side to greet his sister, Calder’s smile was the kind that could light up the dim corners of any heart.
“What’s the plan for dinner?” Calder’s voice was hopeful, a thread of hunger woven through the words.
Vandy set her case down, a silent partner to the evening’s routine, and made her way to the kitchen. There, her brother’s schoolwork was spread out all over the kitchen table in stacks of books and papers, which decided things. It was her turn to make dinner before their father came home from the store, but cleaning up this mess would take too long for anything too elaborate. “It’s poker night, remember? Sandwiches should be good enough. Then it’s back to the grindstone for me.”
Calder’s nod was an acceptance of their father’s tradition, the card game that brought Tewk Millen’s friends together for a few hours before it broke up, a fellowship of laughter and bluffing. But tonight, Calder would have to cut his trumpet practice short well before the cards were dealt.
An hour ticked by, a slow march of seconds until Tewk Millen’s arrival heralded the beginning of the night’s festivities. The usual suspects filed in behind him, save for one — a stranger with eyes that seemed to take in more than they gave away, a quiet observer to the pre-game rituals.
“Dinner’s on me tonight,” Tewk announced, his voice a baritone of domestic authority.
Vandy’s reply was swift. “Sandwiches are ready, Dad. Next week, when I’m away, you can be the chef.”
Tewk’s smile was a crescent of amusement. “And the drinks?”
“Soda and tea are in the fridge, as always.”
The card table served as the centerpiece, around which the men congregated, their hands busy with sandwiches and drinks, their minds set on the game ahead. Vandy watched from the periphery, her smile a private affair as the stranger, an enigma wrapped in silence, absorbed the room’s banter like a sponge.
The doorbell’s chime sliced through the anticipation of the first hand, and Vandy excused herself to answer it. Her polite facade barely concealed her distaste at the sight of Mr. Lowden on the doorstep, his presence as welcome as a winter chill.
“Good evening, Mr. Lowden,” she greeted, her words dipped in courtesy, her mind racing for a tactful dismissal.
“For you,” Mr. Lowden declared, presenting a bouquet of roses with a flourish.
The flowers were accepted with a grace that belied Vandy’s intent to discard them later. Tewk Millen’s voice cut through the awkward exchange, his tone laced with an undercurrent of irritation.
“Decided to join us, Lowden?” Tewk inquired, his focus on the game undeterred by the interruption.
Mr. Lowden, seemingly oblivious to the tension, took his place beside the stranger, his gaze lingering on Vandy as the other men played out the hand, and Randy Hodges raked in the pot.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Lowden said, turning his piercing gaze, beak-like nose, and hatchet face to examine the newcomer. “My name is Lowden.”
“Lazarus Tremaine,” said the stranger, meeting Lowden’s scrutiny with an impassive calm, his blue eyes pools of still water. “Do you play cards often?”
“Not really,” said Lowden, loosening his black jacket but not taking it off. “I don’t remember seeing you here before,” he probed, his curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar face.
“A first for me,” Tremaine admitted, his voice a smooth baritone. “Star City is new to me, and I’m still searching for my niche.”
“Really?” said Lowden. “Are you staying here long?”
“As long as he wants,” said Tewk, dealing five cards to everyone.
“Lowden, huh? You wouldn’t happen to have any family in Arizona, would you?” Tremaine asked the man.
“I did have, once… but that was a long time ago,” said Lowden, peering at the stranger. “Why?”
“I knew a man named Lowden,” said Tremaine, filling out his hand and placing the cards down on the table. “He got killed in a gunfight in the street outside the Condor Saloon.”
Lowden stood up with a squeal of his chair. “What did you just say?” demanded the thin man in black, one hand going to his chest spasmodically.
“Sure,” said Tremaine, nonchalantly throwing his chips into the pot. The shadow cast by Lowden’s rising form looked like a mask across his face. “He ran into a bounty hunter and went for his gun.”
Without another word, Lowden stormed from the apartment.
“What was that all about?” Calder whispered, his sandwich momentarily forgotten.
Vandy’s smile was a crescent of amusement. “Looks like Dad’s new friend struck a nerve. At least Lowden won’t be making passes at me all night while I’m trying to work,” she mused, her attention returning to her papers.
“Is what you said true?” Kyle Cantor asked under his breath after upping the ante.
“About the gunfight?” queried Tremaine, smiling. “Yep. Of course, that was almost a hundred years ago.”
Tremaine glanced around to see if anyone else was betting, his face a mask of stoicism as he watched the hands reveal themselves one by one. Then, with a practiced motion, he swept the pot toward him. The group all laughed at his good fortune, a stark contrast to the silence that cloaked Tremaine’s thoughts.
He had sensed it — the undercurrent of something amiss, a discordant note in the evening’s symphony. The laughter did not reach his eyes; they were pools of contemplation, reflecting the enigma of Mr. Lowden.
As the clock struck the hour, the party disbanded with the punctuality of a well-oiled machine. Tremaine bade farewell to his hosts, the weight of his winnings a mere trifle compared to the burden of his musings. The night was a canvas, and his thoughts painted it with shades of mystery as he walked back to his hotel. Could the Mr. Lowden he met tonight be the specter of a past long buried?
That gunfight had occurred a century ago, shortly before Lazarus Tremaine’s first death, when he had encountered the original El Diablo. Tremaine’s encounter with the occult that night had irrevocably altered him, leading him on a century-long path of darkness and eventual redemption. (*)
[(*) Editor’s note: See El Diablo: Dueling Devils and The Phantom Stranger: A Helping Hand.]
The change that had come over Lazarus Tremaine back then, his transformation into an undead ghoul, had been a crucible that forged him anew. Tremaine had been on the run from bounty hunter Jonah Hex that night, and even after his gruesome rebirth he kept running instead of facing his pursuer, perhaps realizing that even his undead life could be snuffed out by his stalker. Jonah Hex was a name that stirred the souls of men, a legend incarnate. Anyone who had seen him in action knew it was best to run if you had any choice in the matter.
Tremaine had heard that the bounty hunter’s mortal remains had been stuffed and paraded in the grotesque theater of Wild West shows for decades. If those rumors were true, it was a sad ending for such a relentless fighter, one of the true legends of the Old West. (*)
[(*) Editor’s note: See “The Last Bounty Hunter,” DC Special Series #16 (Fall, 1978).]
Did Lowden’s abrupt departure signify recognition of some kind? Lowden might simply assume Tremaine’s passing reference to the duel outside the Condor Saloon to be an eerily accurate jest, but it was also possible that Lowden guessed Tremaine must have been present in order to have seen his ancestor shot. Either way, Tremaine’s curiosity was piqued. He needed to prepare.
***
The library loomed before Tremaine, its doors yielding to his otherworldly talents as the new El Diablo. Inside, he was a hunter, not of men, but of memories etched in ink and paper. He was no scholar, but he understood the value of the written word, the permanence of history captured by those who had witnessed the relentless march of time.
A book caught his attention, its pages a mosaic of fact and fiction. As he read, he filled the gaps in the narrative with his own recollections. Everything known to the newspapers at the time was recounted, just as he had hoped. With a decisive tear, he liberated two pages from their bindings, an act of vandalism softened by the note and compensation he left behind.
The pages safely ensconced in the inner pocket of his jacket, he stepped back into the night, his destination the hotel where rest awaited. But sleep would have to wait; a confrontation with Lowden loomed on the horizon. Tremaine clung to the hope that reason would prevail when morning came, that the man would listen, that the revenant would be left in peace.
In the stillness of the rented room, Lazarus Tremaine lay on the bed, the day’s weariness seeping into his bones. His boots, discarded with a casual thud, lay beside the bed as if standing guard. The world outside faded as he finally surrendered to sleep, his breath deep and even. But peace would be a stranger that night; something stirred in the darkness, a presence that whispered of unfinished business.
“The sleeper awakens,” a voice hissed, slicing through the silence. Mr. Lowden loomed by the table, a small fire dancing in the ashtray, casting long shadows across his gaunt features.
“You’re going to try to kill me,” Tremaine stated, his voice a calm counterpoint to the tension that crackled in the air. He had already attempted to move, only to find himself bound upon the bed not by physical bonds, but by something supernatural. Lowden was evidently well-practiced in the mystic arts.
“I am going to kill you,” Lowden confirmed, his eyes glinting with a cold resolve. “How much do you know, Mr. Tremaine? Your little escapade at the library did not go unnoticed.”
“How many years have you walked this earth, Lowden?” Tremaine inquired, his paralysis a mere inconvenience. “Your courtship of Vandy Washington — was it before or after your encounter with Hex?”
“Vandy Millen’s grandmother,” Lowden spat, scribbling furiously on a notepad. “Both Millen and that cursed bounty hunter interfered with my plans for her.”
“And now you want this Vandy?” Tremaine probed, his demeanor unflappable despite his predicament.
“She is the epitome of sweetness, the very best,” Lowden declared, his obsession laid bare. “I won’t be denied by some vagabond.”
“Consider repentance, Lowden. The world is in dire need of people who help others,” Tremaine suggested, his voice a beacon of reason. “A man of your evident talents would be welcome anywhere, I’m sure.”
“Be quiet, you weakling,” the hatchet-faced man replied contemptuously. “This is what’s going to happen…” He tore the top sheet from the pad, turning it around so that Tremaine could see it — a detailed, if crudely rendered, likeness of Tremaine himself. “I will bind your essence to this drawing. Then I am going to stab it with this.” Twisting his walking stick, he produced a hidden blade and placed it on the table next to the ashtray. “It will look like you died of a heart attack.”
“You should have heeded Hex’s warning,” Tremaine chided. “And now, you should heed mine. Abandon the darkness and reclaim your soul before it’s too late.”
“Hex has killed so many, I doubt I linger in his memory wherever he is now,” Lowden sneered, beginning an incantation over the flickering flame.
“Hex remembers more than you think,” Tremaine countered, his hand moving with a flash of light, breaking his invisible shackles. He produced a paper from his coat, the first of two pages torn from the library book, and cast it into the fire, disrupting Lowden’s ritual.
Lowden stood frozen, his eyes wide with terror as a thick cloud of smoke billowed from the small fire he had kindled. From within the murky haze, a figure emerged, clad in a gray jacket, his face partially obscured by a hat that cast a shadow over a grotesque wound.
He was a hero to some, a villain to others. He had two constant companions everywhere he went. One was the smell of gunsmoke, the other death itself. Jonah Hex, with his mismatched eyes, surveyed the scene with palpable distaste.
Lowden’s hand twitched toward his sword cane, but it was too late. The barrel of an ancient Colt stared him down, its ominous presence halting any further movement. A moment’s hesitation, and the Colt roared, the bullet tearing into Lowden’s cheek at point-blank range.
Tremaine flinched at the brutality of the act. Lowden crumpled to the floor, his ancient body finally released of its unaging spell as it fell apart at once, scattering a cloud of dust and mold across the wooden planks.
The shade’s gaze shifted to El Diablo, his pistol raised in a silent challenge. Obviously, Jonah Hex recalled Lazarus Tremaine, too. A long moment passed until, with a grim tip of his hat, Hex holstered his weapon, and he retreated into the dissipating smoke, leaving behind a grin that was anything but friendly.
As the room cleared, Tremaine rose to his feet, his eyes lingering on the fallen warlock. “I tried to offer you a last chance,” he murmured, a note of sorrow in his voice.
***
Lazarus Tremaine smiled at the festive glow of Christmas decorations as he weaved through traffic on his motorcycle. He pulled up to the Millens’ residence, a sense of purpose guiding his actions. From his jacket, he retrieved the second piece of paper ripped from the library book — a snapshot of history featuring Vandy Washington and her husband — and folded it into a sealed envelope. Sliding it under the door, he completed his silent delivery.
As he retreated, the melodic strains of Vandy Millen’s voice reached his ears. Tremaine’s lips moved in harmony with the tune, a soft accompaniment to her beautiful rendition.
Wake up, wake up! The dawn is breaking,
Wake up, wake up! It’s almost day.
Open up your doors and divers windows,
See my true love march away.
The song, as sweet as the one sung by her grandmother, lingered in the air as Tremaine rode away, the melody a bittersweet reminder of times long past and the enduring spirit of love that transcended generations.
As the wheels of his motorcycle spun, carrying him away from the echoes of gunfire and the ghosts of yesteryear, Lazarus Tremaine knew that the road ahead was fraught with both danger and hope, but it was a road he was destined to travel as El Diablo.