Gristle

by Mark Allen

  Jack was surprised. Larry so rarely spoke of the past that it was sometimes easy to forget that the man had his own tragic cross to bear. Jack had one gravestone to visit at Union Cemetery. Larry had two.

  Wonder if he drinks away the pain every night too.

  “Difference is,” Jack said, “that cougar killed Holly before you even had a chance to do anything about it. You didn’t have the option of saving her. I can't say the same thing about Trisha.”

  “You were faced with an impossible choice.”

  “Shouldn’t have been a choice at all,” Jack snapped. “The only reason it was impossible is because I’m a damn coward.” Suddenly he didn’t give a crap about cussing in church.

  “Jack, listen—”

  But Jack put up his hand to cut him off. “No offense, Larry, but I really don't want to talk about it anymore.”

  “Okay, what do you want to talk about? I assume there’s a reason you're still here.”

  Jack looked down at his feet, shoulders slumped. “Kevin. He gets out tomorrow. I have to pick him up at eleven.” Just saying his son’s name made Jack hurt in ways he couldn’t even describe. Trisha might have been the one that died that horrible night, but she was not the only victim.

  When Jack looked up, he saw surprise on the preacher’s face. “I thought he'd be in there longer…” Larry’s voice trailed off, letting the sentence hang awkwardly.

  Jack knew where the awkwardness came from. Knew that what Larry was really saying was He should have been in there longer. Vesper Falls was a small town and they did not easily forget—or forgive—crimes against their own. “He was sentenced as a minor,” Jack explained, “which means they could only hold him until he turned eighteen, which he did a few days ago.”

  Larry nodded. “Well, that makes sense.” He paused, then added, “As long as a man is truly sorry, the sins of his past shouldn’t be held against him.”

  Jack almost laughed. It was obvious Larry wasn’t really talking about Kevin. Sometimes the preacher could be as subtle as a sledgehammer.

  “Anyway,” Larry continued, “what happens next? Between the two of you, I mean.”

  “He's my son,” Jack replied. “Nothing I would like more than to put this rough patch behind us. Just not sure that’s even possible at this point.”

  Larry put an encouraging hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That's good to hear. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

  “Yeah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm kind of at a loss on how to move forward with Kevin.”

  “When's the last time you saw him?”

  Jack lowered his head again, as if the floor of the sanctuary held answers to the problems of his life, and said, “The day he went to juvie.”

  He heard a quick intake of breath from Larry, followed by an incredulous, “They locked him up three years ago and you never went to visit him?”

  Jack looked up and gave him a cynical smile. “Oh, I went. Every Saturday morning, religiously. But he refused my visits. Every single one of them.”

  Larry said nothing, obviously at a loss for words. Jack filled the silence by saying, “My son hates me.” Though he had faced that fact a long time ago, it was the first time Jack had uttered the words aloud. It felt like a confession … a confession that hurt like hell.

  Larry stared at Jack for several long seconds, unblinking, apparently pondering something. Finally he seemed to reach a decision. “Maybe I do have something to help,” he said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. He removed one of the keys from the ring and offered it to Jack.

  “What’s that?” Jack asked.

  “It’s called a key,” Larry said, mouth quirking up in amusement.

  “Well, yeah, I know that.”

  “Hey, you asked. But to answer the question you were really asking, it’s the key to my cabin in Scar Lake. Why don't you and Kevin head up there for a few days, do some deer hunting together, try to reconnect?”

  Jack smiled, and it felt out of place on his face. “Not a bad idea. Thanks, Larry, I appreciate it.”

  “There is one catch,” Larry said. “You’ll have to share the place with another father and son.”

  The caveat didn’t exactly thrill Jack. He figured he and Kevin stood a better chance at rebuilding a bond if they were alone. Hard to have heart to heart chats and spill your emotional guts with strangers around. But it didn’t look like he had much of a choice. “Anyone I know?” he asked.

  “Paul Rickson. Moved here a few months ago. Know him?”

  “Just from crossing paths with him down at the store or here at church. Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “He is a nice guy,” Larry said. “A nice guy with a seventeen year-old son named Tom who suffers from anorexia. Been away in rehab for the past six months and just came home last week. Paul said he'd like to get away, spend some time with his son, so I gave him a key to my lodge.”

  Jack still would have preferred to have the cabin to themselves, but as the saying went, you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth. At least it sounded like the Ricksons weren’t assholes, so sharing the cabin wouldn’t be an unpleasant experience. Jack mulled it over for a few more moments, then said, “It’s fine. Really. I appreciate it.”

  “Are you sure? You could always go some other time.” Larry almost seemed to be regretting his decision.

  “No, the sooner the better,” Jack said.

  Larry hesitated for just another sliver of a second, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll call Paul’s cell and let him know you’re coming.”

  Surprised, Jack said, “You get cell service out there?”

  “Right around the cabin, yes,” Larry said. “Anywhere else but the cabin, you’re better off using a carrier pigeon. Now let me draw you a map so you can get on out of here.”

  As Larry shuffled off in search of pen and paper, Jack glanced back up at the cross he had so recently cursed. He considered offering an apology, but then shook his head. Not a chance in hell.

  ******

  A few minutes later, Jack exited the church with Larry’s key in his pocket and a map in his hand. He stood at the bottom of the terrace for a moment and enjoyed the crisp sensation of the cool autumn air kissing his skin. The sun burned high and bright in the cloudless sky. It was the kind of day that reminded him why fall was his favorite season.

  He breathed deeply, inhaling the earthy scents and the fresh mountain breeze, then moved across the parking lot at a brisk clip. Since Larry lived in the parsonage next door, Jack’s Jeep Wrangler was the only vehicle left in the parking lot. The Jeep was “murdered out,” meaning it was black from roof to rims. He had given the Wrangler to Trisha as an anniversary present a few months before she died and back then it had been bright yellow. Following her murder, Jack had blackened the Jeep, partly as part of his mourning process, but mostly just because it better matched his somber mood.

  Once settled in the driver’s seat, Jack closed the door, but didn’t start the engine. Instead, he swiveled his head three hundred and sixty degrees, then checked and double-checked his mirrors. Satisfied there were no witnesses to his imminent transgression, he leaned over and retrieved a flask from the glove box.

  Really? some inner voice chided. Right here in the church parking lot?

  That voice was always chastising him, but he had learned how to ignore it. Or rather, how to drown it. He uncapped the flask and took a slug, grimacing as the bourbon scorched his throat. Sweet liquid fire, he thought, twisting the cap back on and tossing the flask back in the glove compartment. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then started the engine and shifted the Jeep into gear.

  As he swung the Jeep out of its parking spot, the cross on the crest of the church steeple blocked the sun and splayed a cruciform shadow across the hood of the vehicle. From Jack’s vantage point, looking through the windshield, the cross appeared upside down. Gooseflesh abruptly infested his arms and he gunned the engine, spitting gravel from his tires, suddenly desperate to be a
way from this place. As he drove southwest on Route 3 toward Saranac Lake, he felt chilled to the bone despite the booze burning in his guts.

  Chapter 2

  Sins of the Father

  It was a ten-mile drive to Saranac Lake and by the time Jack stopped at the intersection by the burned down Chinese restaurant that had once featured the best General Tso’s chicken in the Adirondacks, the internal chill had pretty much faded away and been replaced by a faint sense of hope. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one he hadn’t felt in years. But tomorrow he got his son back and had a plan in place to at least start the reconnection process. It wouldn’t be easy—he suffered no delusions that it would be—but it was better than the drink-sleep-repeat pattern that had been his existence the last few years.

  He took a left onto Main Street and parked in the small lot at the far end that had once been a gas station, directly across from the Town Hall. This being the weekend, the parking lot was only half full; during the work week, you had a better chance of finding naked pictures of the Pope on Instagram than you did finding a spot in the village’s primary parking lots. For being a small, quaint mountain town, Saranac Lake was busier than most people expected.

  He locked the Jeep and strolled leisurely up the sidewalk, passing a variety of shops and businesses, waving every now and then when he saw someone he knew. He spotted Wanda, the bank manager who had helped him and Trisha set up their accounts when they first moved to the area, coming out of the furniture store. On the other side of street, Mark, the owner of Ampersound, the local music emporium, was outside washing his storefront window and Jack felt a twinge of guilt that he had converted to digital music last year and stopped buying CDs.

  Further up was what natives referred to as the “good” Chinese restaurant and as he passed by, Jack saw Tyler Cunningham inside, grabbing some greasy takeout. Jack didn’t stop to talk to Tyler; the man was a bit of an oddball with an assortment of quirks and kinks instead of normal social skills. And his smiles just never seemed quite right.

  Jack passed the small Sears outlet, novelty shops, insurance agencies, a tattoo parlor, and the Downhill Bar & Grill, recently transplanted from Lake Placid. He made a mental note to stop after his errand to grab some lunch to go—their Ranch Roast Beef sandwich was to die for.

  Just past the restaurant, he arrived at his destination: Big Bad Bill’s Sporting Goods. The sign dangling from rusty chains above the sidewalk was so dirty and worn that several letters were missing, so the sign actually read BI BAD ILL S S ORTI G GO DS. It looked like a giant cryptogram or a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

  When Jack walked into Bill’s, the first thing he noticed was guns. Row after row of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and even archery equipment and other assorted hunting gear. The place had been here forever and suffered a reputation as a hole in the wall, but there was no denying it was well-stocked and besides, it was the only game in town for firearms unless you felt like driving fifty miles to the Gander Mountain in Plattsburgh. Jack preferred to support local vendors whenever he could rather than toss his cash at fat-cat corporations. Besides, there was just something appealing about Big Bad Bill’s. He felt like a kid in a candy shop.

  More like an alcoholic at a Jim Beam distillery.

  Jack ignored the nasty voice in his head as the owner appeared from a back room. Despite referring to himself as “big” in his store’s name, Bill was actually an average sized man, though he did seem to possess a wiry strength; you could actually see cords of lean muscle beneath his skin. He had one of those faces that didn’t forecast his age, making it impossible to judge if he was closer to fifty or a hundred.

  “Hey, Jack, how’s it hangin’? Wait, don’t tell me—down an’ to the left.” He grinned crookedly. It was the same jokey greeting he used on Jack every time he came into the store. Personally, Jack thought it was getting a little old after all these years, but Bill apparently disagreed. “So what brings you down to my humble little rat-hole on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “Need a new deer gun,” said Jack.

  “I’ve got plenty.” Bill gestured around the store. “Rifles, shotguns, handguns, muzzle loaders—hell, I’ve even got some crossbows. What exactly are ya lookin’ for?”

  “I don’t know … what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest wiping your ass front to back before askin’ a gal to lick your balls.”

  Jack blinked at him, not exactly sure what to say to that. “Um, what do you suggest for a deer rifle, I meant.”

  “Oh. My bad.” Bill’s eyes twinkled merrily, clearly amused by his own unique brand of humor. “Well, that depends on what kind of huntin’ you’re doing.”

  “Uh, deer. Like I said.”

  Bill rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I got that. Whatta ya think I am, the north end of a southbound donkey? What I meant was, what kind of country you hunting in, what’s the terrain like?”

  “Oh, sorry. Going up to Scar Lake.”

  “Scar Lake, hey?” Bill suddenly looked pensive, his brow furrowing in thought. “Well, lemme tell ya, Jack, Scar Lake ain't exactly the friendliest place the Good Lord ever spoke into existence. Lots of big-ass rocks and bad-ass bush and bitch-ass thorns. In other words, nasty shit. Most any shot you get at a buck is gonna be up close an' personal, probably less'n seventy yards, would be my guess, so ya really don't need a high-power rifle. Shotgun would work best in that area and I got just the thing.”

  He turned, grabbed a shotgun off the rack behind him, and handed it to Jack while rattling off the particulars. “Stoeger Model 2000, semi-automatic, twelve-gauge, synthetic stock, rifled slug barrel. Shorter than a lot of other shotguns and weighs less'n seven pounds. Perfect for crawling around in that nasty bush up around Scar Lake.”

  Jack had to admit, it sounded like just what he was looking for. He hefted it in his hands and tried to catch a discreet peek at the price tag dangling from a string tied to the trigger guard. But no matter which way he turned the gun, the little white tag twisted away from him. After several seconds, Jack stopped trying to be discreet and just clumsily grabbed the tag to hold it still. He studied the price, then raised an eyebrow at Bill. “Are you serious?”

  “I can sell you a more expensive one if ya want,” he said with a grin that displayed strong, sturdy teeth stacked in his gums like tombstones.

  “No, this is good. Thanks.”

  Bill chuckled. “Thought you’d say that.” They wandered over to the cash register tucked into the corner of the cramped store. Jack handed over his credit card and listened to Bill whistle tunelessly while waiting for the receipt to print. A few moments later, Bill handed him the receipt along with a complimentary box of slugs and a final warning. “Be careful up there. Scar Lake is dangerous country if you let down your guard.”

  Jack pocketed the receipt, slung the gun over his shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry, careful is my middle name.”

  “Yeah, well, mine’s Cornelius.” Bill gave him a faux menacing glare. “Tell anyone and I swear they’ll never find your fuckin’ corpse.”

  Chapter 3

  He Saw A Spider Woman

  That Sunday evening as the sun begin to sink and impale itself on the pointed peaks of the Adirondack mountains, deep in the darkest, most remote corner of the Scar Lake region, a woman sat Indian-style, hands cupped in front of her. She had been pretty once, and maybe still was—she hadn’t seen a mirror in a very long time. But even without a mirror, she knew that any prettiness that might remain was buried beneath the dirt and filth and abuse. Like a sapphire covered in dung.

  Her home—well, prison, actually, but her captors insisted she refer to the place as home—was a ramshackle cabin that was little more than a large, dilapidated shed. She was taken outside once a month to bathe in the icy stream nearby, so she knew that the cabin squatted in a small hollow ringed by massive boulders and that bones carpeted the ground—some animal, but mostly human. Half-buried skulls with ghastly head fractures grinned out from the dirt, black socket holes brimming w
ith blind worms and brutal secrets.

  On the south side of the cabin, her captors had erected a makeshift lean-to which looked like it would collapse under the weight of the snow every winter but for some reason never did. It stored a variety of junk, mostly heavy logging chains and hopelessly twisted coils of ancient barbed wire coated in rust.

  In the clearing in front of the cabin towered a wooden cross, roughly hewn from heavy logs, the axe-marks clearly visible where steel had chopped into timber. The slap-dash construction of the cross didn’t detract from its deadly purpose, however; a skeletal corpse drooped from the beam like a Halloween prop, held in place by rusty railroad spikes impaling the wrists and ankles. Just enough ragged, rancid meat polluted the bones to swell with the stink of death. Had the woman been looking out the window, she would have seen a crow perched almost majestically on the cue-balled skull, claws digging into bone fissures for purchase. Then perhaps she would have turned away in disgust as the crow leaned over and darted its beak into the eye socket and wrenched out a fat, bloated white maggot. Feast secured, the crow took flight into the evening sky, a dark-winged shadow momentarily scarring the orange face of the setting sun.

  Inside the cabin, the woman stared at the walls around her. They had been her only view for so long, she knew every inch of them like the back of her hand. They were black and riddled with rot, the floor filthier than a slaughterhouse in a third world country. An apt comparison, given the horrific things she had seen. A large cauldron-like kettle brewed and bubbled on the stove, looking like it should be surrounded by a coven of cackling witches. Actually, the woman would have preferred wicked witches to the savage beasts that actually owned the kettle. She had always believed there were different degrees of evil, but this place had proved it to her. One large table, fashioned from rough-chopped logs like the cross outside and stained a rust-brown color, dominated the center of the squalid room.