Where Stars Won't Shine

by Patrick Lacey

  She tried to push the thoughts aside, told herself she was being silly.

  Zeke paid the waitress at the bar and grabbed a large cup of coffee. As he turned toward the front door, she fought the urge to drive off.

  Those eyes, she thought. They’re not his. They belong to someone else.

  He walked—shambled—toward the car. He did not smile when he caught her looking.

  There’s something seriously wrong here. It’s not just bad vibes.

  A few feet from the door, sipping his coffee. Staring with his stranger’s eyes.

  If you’re going to leave, now’s the time. The last time. Because any later will be too late.

  She frowned. What the hell did that mean?

  Zeke reached the car and opened the door. “Sorry I took so long. I think the waitress was on something and the line was out the door.”

  She smiled. “How’s the coffee?”

  “Fine, I guess. Try a sip.”

  She lifted the cup. It was bitter to the point of no return, tasted more like motor oil. Zeke apparently hadn’t noticed.

  “You ready?” He strapped on his seatbelt.

  She opened her mouth to respond but he was already driving. The dirty diner and rusty bathrooms shrank in the rearview as their car merged back onto I-95. She turned on the radio and tried to forget her last train of thought but it was useless.

  Any later will be too late.

  “You won’t believe the rental car they gave me,” Ivy said into the phone in between drags of her cigarette. She spoke like nothing was wrong, like she was off on some tropical vacation. Blowing off steam instead of fighting off demons.

  “A Jaguar?” Mariah’s voice seemed even farther away than the thousand miles that separated them.

  “Even better.”

  “A Ferrari.”

  “It’s a PT Cruiser.” She looked at her vehicle, the sole car in the parking lot of the convenience store. According to her GPS, it was the last stop before Marlowe.

  “Who did you have to blow for that?”

  Ivy knew it was a joke but she winced. She hadn’t been with anyone since Scott. To be honest, she hadn’t had the urge to speak to another man, let alone sleep with one. Her libido had all but vanished, along with her sanity.

  “Ivy, you still there?”

  She shook her head. “Yeah, sorry. I’m here.”

  “You’re smoking again, aren’t you?”

  She tossed the cigarette onto the ground, putting it out with her foot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Just because you’re on the phone and not in front of my face doesn’t mean I can’t smell bullshit. You’ve always been a terrible liar.”

  “I’m as honest as they come.”

  “If you’re so honest, then tell me what you see right now? Not the convenience store or the gas pumps. The other stuff. Tell me about the blood.”

  Ivy froze. She’d never opened up about the carnage she saw on a daily basis. She’d simply told Mariah there was a bit of blood. In reality—using the term loosely—it varied. Sometimes, there was only a smear along a wall. Then there were the bad days, the days when you couldn’t block out the death to save your life.

  Today was a bad day.

  Liquid spilled into the nearby sewer grate but it hadn’t rained recently. The blood seemed to originate from the store, leaking from underneath the front doors. On either side of the road, for as far as you could see, were trees. And on many of those trees hung heads, the eyes open as if watching, the mouths frozen as if screaming.

  “You know,” Ivy said, “you’d think it would be bad out here, considering how close I am to Marlowe, but I’ve got to say it’s the opposite. I haven’t seen anything since we landed.”

  Mariah sighed, the sound harsh in Ivy’s ear. “Cut the shit.”

  “I’m telling the truth. I think this place, this trip, really is helping. Which is exactly what I’ve been saying all along. You can stop worrying, okay? I’m in good shape.” She looked at the sign for Marlowe down the road. Someone had spray-painted over the words. She couldn’t make out the message but she had a feeling it wasn’t welcoming.

  “Promise me one thing,” Mariah said.

  “You know I’m bad at promises.”

  “Promise you’ll get the hell out of there if something goes wrong.”

  Ivy’s heart stopped for a moment. “Wrong? Like what?”

  “Just promise.”

  “I pinkie swear and hope to die.”

  “That’s not how it goes.” Mariah said something else but her voice cut out.

  “Sis, you there?” Her words were lost in a fit of static. “The reception’s awful out here. Listen, I’ll call you later, okay? Love you.”

  She listened to the distortion for a moment longer before hanging up.

  Her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten since this morning, when she’d forced down a stale coffee roll back home. She stepped around the stream of blood and went inside the store.

  A large man sat behind the counter, his gut threatening to burst through his stained shirt. He chewed something she at first thought was tobacco but then he blew a pink bubble that popped onto his lips.

  His cheeks reddened as he caught her staring. He sucked the wad back into his mouth and nodded. “Afternoon. Need any help?”

  “Point me in the direction of your coffee and junk food and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Last aisle on the left.” He pretended to read a crumpled newspaper while she looked through the food but every so often she caught him staring at her ass. He seemed harmless enough but out here, this close to Tucker Ashton’s hometown, she didn’t quite trust anyone. It was irrational, she knew. The people had nothing to do with the murders but she couldn’t shake the feeling.

  She settled on her snacks—beef jerky, no-name brand potato chips, and a bag of circus peanuts for good measure—and sifted through the coffee flavors. The bells above the front door jingled as two customers—a man and a woman—stepped inside. The man was talking too quickly, barely breathing between words, and the girl eyed him with concern.

  “More coffee,” the guy said. “Then I’ll be fine.”

  “I think you’ve had more than enough,” the girl said. “And I told you I’d drive. You look exhausted. Why don’t you take a nap and let me drive the rest of the way?”

  The guy reached Ivy’s aisle. “Are you kidding? Look at how close we are. I want to be awake for all of this. Hell, I don’t want to blink if I can help it.”

  For some odd reason, Ivy didn’t want to look at the man’s eyes, let alone talk to him. It was the same sensation she’d had back on the plane, only her neighbor hadn’t been quite as … what was the word?

  Menacing.

  She frowned, not sure why she’d settled on such a term, but it seemed fitting. On the surface, the guy seemed normal enough: late twenties or early thirties, black hair, a five o’clock shadow bordering on nightfall, but his eyes—his eyes were what made Ivy’s stomach drop not unlike the rough descent from her nightmare.

  She wasn’t sure how she knew but she was certain of one thing.

  The man’s eyes were not good. Worse yet, she could’ve sworn she’d seen them before, though she couldn’t pinpoint where. She forced herself to look away, pay him no mind, and blindly pour the nearest pot of coffee into her cup. She tossed in sugar and milk and hurried before the man reached the snacks.

  In the reflection of the nearest freezer door, Ivy noticed the girl staring. Her eyes were much saner. Much more innocent. She seemed helpless, like she’d been kidnapped and was trying to signal Ivy’s help. Surely that wasn’t the case. Surely Ivy was overtired, her imagination overactive.

  The longer Ivy stared at the reflection, the more obscure it grew. Not because her eyes went out of focus but because blood began to seep from an unseen crack near the ice cream. It covered all the frozen items until even the highest shelf, filled with yogurt, was submerged. The glass looked ready to crack
from the pressure and she once again had the sensation of impending doom, like if the blood was released, she would drown within moments.

  It was the worst vision she’d had yet. The other freezers followed suit until every unit was filled with dark red. She held onto the nearest rack for support and noticed the magazines were sodden, their pages stuck together. They smelled of mold and copper. Her pulse raced and she grew dizzy.

  It’s that guy and his weird eyes. He’s bad news and you need to get the hell out of here.

  She wasn’t sure what to make of the premonition but she also wasn’t about to question it. She sped to the counter, threw down a ten-dollar bill, and told the bubble gum attendant to keep the change.

  On her way out she heard the guy spewing facts about Marlowe but more specifically about its most famous resident. He sounded like he was giving a lecture on his most beloved subject, only instead of nerding out over physics, he spoke of victims and torture.

  Ivy forced back her vertigo as she stepped into the PT Cruiser—looking very much like a hearse now—and sped out of the parking lot. In the rearview mirror, the blood still flowed from the store. It seemed to follow her, willing her forward on her journey.

  The sign with the graffiti appeared on her left but she was going too fast to read its message.

  Something told her that was for the best.

  FIVE

  ON THE OTHER side of Marlowe, riding along the same road, a man named Ethan Roberts slammed his fist against the steering wheel and uttered several creative curse words. He stepped on the gas pedal of his car, a 2002 Honda Civic that had been on its last legs for the past three years, but it wouldn’t go any faster. His speedometer read one hundred, but it felt like he was barely pushing thirty.

  He needn’t look in his rearview to see the police cruisers. There were two of them now, gaining quickly. Their lights spilled red and blue onto the road before him, making him feel like he was at a carnival. His eyes played tricks. In the trees on either side he swore he saw shapes, humanoid shapes that watched and waited and used the shadows to their advantage. He could’ve blamed this on his nerves or the high-speed chase but there was more to it than that.

  In the back seat was a garbage bag filled with various prescription pills. Mostly pain killers. Medicines for people who were in pain but also those who were addicted. It was the latter group that would make Ethan money but it was the former group that made him agree to the robbery in the first place.

  His brother Andrew had been selling for years now, in and out of prison since high school. Fresh off a five-year sentence, he swore off all illegal activity. Until two weeks ago when he’d met Ethan at the Ipswich Sports Bar. They didn’t speak much anymore. Andrew only called when he needed something. The last time they’d spent any time together had been the ride home from prison.

  He could see it in Andrew’s face that night, hear it in his salesman-like voice. He may have been a criminal but he was quite persuasive. Charming even. “I’ve got something planned,” he’d said. “Something big. And I need your help.”

  “No way,” Ethan said like a reflex. “Whatever it is, count me out. Don’t even tell me about it. In fact, I’m walking away now.” Andrew grabbed his arm. No one took notice. The music was loud and the clientele was louder.

  “Hear me out, okay? There’s money at stake. A lot of it if we play our cards right. And if we’re being honest, buddy, you need money these days.”

  Ethan gritted his teeth and pulled his arm away.

  “You want to hit me, don’t you?” Andrew said. “I know that look. I’ve been on the other end of it most of my life. I get it. But I’m strapped for cash and you’re drowning in medical bills. I’ve heard chemo is expensive.”

  Instead of hitting him, Ethan went slack. His eyes clouded and he pretended he had to piss.

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” Andrew said. “Then we can talk. Things are going to work out with this one. Your girl’s gonna have all the treatments she needs.” That smug grin of his again, like he was convincing Ethan to sign up for a magazine subscription instead of robbing a pharmacy.

  The bathroom was a single toilet that was usually clogged and a sink that never seemed to have hot water. The mirror was busted into three sections. He wondered who had hated their reflection enough to smash it. At that moment, Ethan hadn’t blamed them.

  Though he’d said no to Andrew, he’d already changed his mind on the walk across the bar. It wasn’t because he was easily persuaded. It was because Andrew had been right about one thing. Chemo was expensive. His daughter, Lisa, who preferred to go by Princess Lisa, had been diagnosed the prior year. Leukemia. Luckily, it was in the early stages and highly treatable. She was taking the treatments like a champ, drew and colored while she was hooked up to poison. But the prices were astronomical. He’d thought his insurance was good until the bills started coming. He worked as a loan officer at the Ipswich Cooperative Bank and he’d picked up several night shifts at the local gas station. It still wasn’t enough.

  Alexis worked too but his wife’s schedule had to be flexible. She was the one that took their girl to the appointments, of which there were plenty.

  “You’re stupid if you agree to this,” Ethan said to his reflection. “Whatever scheme he has, you should just walk away.” But he knew he wouldn’t. He knew he’d already been reeled in.

  A few minutes later he sat back down at the table. Andrew was still smiling, as if he hadn’t moved an inch since Ethan left. On the table were two fresh beers. Ethan drained his within seconds. He belched. “Say what you’ve got to say and make it quick.”

  “It’ll take no more than ten minutes. You’ll be in and out and debt free.”

  The worst part, the part that made Ethan scream those creative curses now, was he’d actually believed Andrew.

  Up ahead there was only darkness, like he could drive forever and never reach his destination. But in a few miles, he’d pass the Marlowe town line. Then he’d lose the cops. He knew his way around, had grown up there, though he hadn’t been back in years, not since just before the massacre. Supposedly, more than half the town up and left. He would’ve done the same had he still been living there.

  Tucker Ashton was bad news, except that wasn’t a strong enough term. It may have sounded cheesy but the guy was pure evil. Had been since they were children. Ethan had promised himself never to go back to Marlowe but the drop off was there. The second he got the money he’d speed back out even faster, cops be damned.

  The closer he got, the more his periphery swam with movement. Those shapes were everywhere now. He didn’t dare take his eye off the road. Not because he worried he’d lose control. He’d lost that miles back when he busted through the back door of a pharmacy and bagged every pill on the list Andrew had written. No, it was much simpler than that.

  He knew whatever he’d see in the trees would make him scream.

  He passed the welcome sign and felt something wash over him. A feeling in the air, something stirring with electricity like the world’s worst thunderstorm was on its way.

  Or worse.

  “Pull over,” Zeke said.

  “Already? We just got back on the road.” There was a hint of annoyance in Amy’s voice but she hid it well. Their relationship was still in its infancy. They rarely argued, rarely showed anything but utter affection, but he could tell Amy was less than pleased.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “You should’ve just gone in the store.” She used her turn signal, as if they weren’t alone on the road, and pulled over to the curb.

  “I don’t have to piss. And this is the wrong side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Without answering, he grabbed his camera from the backseat, opened the passenger side door, and jogged across the street. Despite Amy’s insistence that she man the wheel for a while, he wasn’t the least bit tired. Quite the opposite. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t in years. The closest sensation he could think of was the thr
ill he got reading Tucker’s letters, especially the most recent, but this—this took the fucking cake.

  He stopped in front of the green road sign, the one that welcomed them to Marlowe, Massachusetts, population of ten thousand, though it was much less these days. Someone had spray painted the text. The artist had drawn horns coming out of the town’s name, like the word was a face just waiting to open its eyes. How cute.

  That wasn’t the best part, though. They’d also scribbled out two words and managed to change the sign’s meaning. It was perfect in a way he couldn’t even begin to describe. He raised the camera and peered through the screen.

  He hadn’t been joking earlier. He felt as if they were heading for home instead of away from it.

  Which made the deletion all the more fitting.

  “You coming?” Amy called from across the way. She fidgeted in her seat. She did not seem as excited. He hoped her interest didn’t continue to wane. He needed her alert and happy, needed her to share in his elation when he came face to face with his hero. Perhaps he’d tell her as much tonight.

  But Tucker told you to keep it a secret.

  Then there was the issue of finding him. Where would Ashton be? How would Zeke know where to look? Something told him he’d figure it out as he went. This was much more than a vacation or business trip. It had all the markings of a game changer. The interview could make him millions, sure, but that was the proverbial icing on the cake. The money was great but the feeling in the air, the sensation of his skin coming alive with a pleasant tingling, told him he was on the path to something special.

  “Be right there.” He snapped several photos, the last of which zoomed in on the painted-over words. He smiled as he read them aloud. The artist had removed “before highway” so that it simply read—