Will the Sun Ever Come Out Again?

by Nate Southard

  The phone rings once, and an operator appears, her voice calm, almost bored. He tells her his name and address, and he tells her what was in the sack. She says a police officer is on the way, and he screams when something brushes his ankle. The operator asks if he’s in danger, and embarrassment burns in his voice as he tells her he’s fine, that he’ll wait for the police.

  He hangs up the phone and reaches down to scratch the scruff of Simon’s chin. The cat wants to be fed.

  “Okay, for serious. What is it?”

  Jim slapped a flashlight into her hand. He clicked his on with the press of a button. “You’re not gonna believe it.”

  “When I don’t even know what it is? How can I?”

  “Just come on. It’s awesome.”

  Rose gave Jim a look that told him it better be more than amazing. Whatever he had to show her had better change her life. It had best shoot right past amazing and become amaze-balls. She’d only left her apartment and come to the restaurant because she thought she’d have to talk her boss out of burning it down. Now, he wanted to show her something?

  She followed as Jim led her out of Jimmy’s Party Harbor and across the parking lot toward the docks. Her boss almost had a skip to his step, and she wondered what could possibly have him so excited. By the time he waved for her to follow and started down the concrete ramp toward the boat slips, she’d decided he’d scored some coke again and was convinced that this time she really would fuck him. Stifling a groan, she rolled her right shoulder. Best to get the hook warmed up now. Last time she’d punched him, the arm had spent two weeks in a sling.

  “Jim, you know you get coke dick something fierce. Don’t make me slug you when you can’t even get it up.”

  “You wish, my darling.”

  He reached the first of the wooden docks and hopped onto it. A hollow noise rang through the valley. If he was hoping to nail her, he was searching in the wrong place for a hump-and-pump spot. Once or twice before, he’d tried to get her on one of the boats, but 2011 had been a brutal year. With eight months of clear, hot skies stretched out behind it, Lake Travis had reached new lows. Four of the restaurant’s five docks now rested on dry and cracked lakebed. What water surrounded the fifth was so shallow, few dared get close enough to consider using it.

  Rose paused at the end of the ramp. Beneath the stars and half moon, it appeared woefully depressing. Looking out at the beached docks, the cracked ground, she thought she’d never seen the lake this low, that it must have dropped a few more feet over night. She felt bad for Jim. The restaurant had been a great idea a few years back, a place you could drive or boat to, with great music and strong drinks. As recently as last year, Lake Travis had constantly been hopping, with good water bringing families out for a day in the sun and the drunk assholes coming in from Devil’s Cove. Now, those days were relics, gone the way of her food costs and the restaurant’s profit margin.

  “Move your ass!” Jim was at the far end of the dock, flapping his arms overhead, the beam from his flashlight leaping all over.

  “You promise you’re not just trying to fuck me?”

  “What?”

  “Promise me!”

  “Fine, I promise! Not even a handjob!”

  “Such a gentleman,” she muttered as she clumped her way down the dock, her boots like sledgehammers against the old wood. Jim waited for her with a child’s grin on his face, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Are you about to break out a pee-pee dance?”

  “Be nice. Earlier, I was up thinking, and I thought I saw something. The lake’s gone down some more.”

  “I noticed. Shit.”

  “Okay, yeah. It sucks and stuff. Anyway, I came down here to see what’s what, and I was right. I totally saw something.”

  “Good for you?”

  “Just come check it out,” he said

  “If I do it, will you let me go home? I need sleep if I’m gonna keep those stoned assholes doing their prep romorrow.”

  “You know I will. Now, c’mon!”

  Rose rolled her eyes and followed her boss. With the excited twinkle in his eye, he looked less like an authority figure than ever. Curly blond hair, black-rimmed glasses, and two day’s worth of stubble marked his face, while the short sleeves of his work shirt barely covered any of the koi, lilies, and other images inked into his arms. Even in the middle of the night, he wore flip-flops.

  She followed him to the end of the beached dock and down the iron rungs that had been sunk into its side. A small drop put her on the lakebed. She turned and saw the beam of Jim’s flashlight already trailing into the darkness. As carefully as she could, she caught up and fell in step beside him.

  “Is it amaze-balls?” she asked.

  In the darkness, he gave her a wink and then nodded toward the end of his flashlight’s beam. “You tell me.”

  Rose took a few steps forward, adding her own light to Jim’s. She squinted, wondering if the thing in front of her was real or some trick of her imagination. Another step, and she knew.

  She turned to Jim. “Holy shit.”

  Jenkins sat with his legs crossed, the yellow notepad resting on his knee. He finished writing the fourth name, his pencil sounding dry and violent against the paper, and then he looked up. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You think I wouldn’t be sure?” Thomas thought his voice sounded harsh, almost desperate to his ears. For an instant, he wondered if the man noticed. Then, he decided the question was idiotic. Of course, he’d noticed. He noticed everything.

  “Sometimes people forget things. Details...” Jenkins rubbed the pads of his fingers together and then opened them. Dust scattered.

  Still so much dust in the room. Another groan came from the bathroom, and he cringed.

  “Do you want me to...?” He jerked a thumb toward the bathroom door.

  “We have time. Let’s focus on this part, first.”

  “Sure.” He would never think to question the old man.

  “Do you think they might try to leave the area?”

  “What?”

  “We need to be concerned with containment, right now,” Jenkins said. “We don’t want this to spread.”

  Thomas nodded. A quick flush of shame heated him. “No. There’s no reason to think they might leave the area.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man pursed his lips and nodded. He appeared to be deep in thought, and Thomas wondered what terrible things had to travel through that mind.

  Something moved at the edge of his vision. Thomas glanced to the carpet and saw a line of ants marching toward one of the man’s scuffed black shoes. He looked at his own shoes to make sure none were near him, and then he looked to Jenkins again.

  He was checking his watch. “Well, if they’re not going anywhere, there’s no reason we can’t get some shuteye. I’ll take the chair.”

  The cell fills his hand, and Ben stares at it as he tries to decide what to do. He wants to call, to make sure she’s okay, but it’s half-past two and heading toward three. For a brief second, he considers driving past the house. It’s only five minutes away, maybe less. The police are on the way though, and it isn’t as though a drive-by will tell him anything.

  Fuck it.

  He punches in her name and hits the talk button. Pressing the phone to his ear, he squeezes his eyes shut and pretends her anger won’t be too awful. The phone rings five times, six, and then she answers, her voice groggy and cold.

  “What the hell?”

  For a second, all he can do is breathe. He’s so relieved to hear her voice, he forgets his words.

  “Ben?”

  “Sorry. I, uh…bad dream. I was worried.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It was really vivid, I guess.”

  “What was it?” she asks.

  “Well....”

  “Look, just tell me tomorrow. I’m going back to bed.”


  “Yeah, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I woke you. Glad you’re okay.”

  “Yeah, sure. Bye.”

  The phone goes dead, and a sigh pours out of him. Looking at the cell in his hand, he thinks about the pinched look that must have filled Melissa’s face. She always looks that way when she’s annoyed, and fatigue just makes it worse.

  Suddenly, his eyes feel hot. He shoves at the thought, trying to cast it out, and focuses on something positive. At least she isn’t hurt. Now, he only has a few dozen questions left. Even if they’re terrible questions, at least he knows Melissa is safe.

  He glances at the kitchen doorway and sees Simon eating by the fridge, his tail swishing joyfully. “Somebody’s gotta be happy,” he mutters.

  Again, he finds himself approaching the door. His hands flat against its surface, he presses his eye to the peep hole once more and looks across the hall. The sack rests against his neighbor’s door. He wonders if maybe he should bring it inside so an animal won’t wander off with it, but touching it is the last thing he wants. In his head, he can still see the bloody teeth, how they sat like tiny eggs in a nest of hair the same color as Melissa’s. Who would do something like that?

  He’s still wondering when the police knock on his door five minutes later.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not.” Jim’s voice buzzed with excitement. Even it he hadn’t bumped, he sounded coked up.

  Rose dropped into a crouch. With both hands, she brushed her dark curls behind her ears. Then, she trained her flashlight on the thing in front of her and tried to make some kind of sense out of it.

  It was a skeleton. Any fool could see that. In a way, it even made sense. With the receding waters uncovering more and more of the past, strange things were bound to turn up. Already, folks had discovered several forgotten peasant villages and a stolen car that had been missing since the eighties. This was different, though. The thing in front of her was a human skeleton, contorted in agony. Chains and weights had been wrapped around it, the tattered remains of a canvas sack clinging here and there. And somebody had shoved a stone in its mouth. That was the detail that really got Rose’s heart thumping.

  “Why would anybody do that?”

  Jim shuffled beside her. “Fuck if I know. Superstition? People are crazy? Shit is nuts?”

  “But this is insane. Whoever did this had a lot more than a grudge against this guy.”

  “Maybe grudges went a lot farther back then?”

  “I’m not sure this area was settled during the Dark Ages.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  With narrowed eyes, she looked at Jim, trying to pick his features out of the darkness. “Are you serious right now?”

  “About what?”

  She pointed at the skeleton. “What do you think, Jim? What are you going to do with that? Why are you calling me instead of the police or something?”

  “Why would I call the police?”

  “Because somebody shoved a rock in some poor fuck’s mouth and dumped him in the lake!”

  “Not recently! Shit, not for years! Something like this, it’s got to be decades old at the least.”

  For several seconds, all she could do was blink. Was he serious? “What does it matter? You don’t get to just guess at the statute of limitations. You have to report a body if you find it.”

  Jim shrugged and stepped past her, crouching directly over the splayed skeleton. “Whatever,” he said. “On a certain level, right, it’s just cool?”

  “You are coked up, aren’t you?”

  A string of giggles poured out of him. “Not going to be able to afford it forever. Might as well, right?”

  “Jesus. This isn’t some powder joke, is it?”

  “What? No!” He looked like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t plant this shit. I just found it.”

  “No. Whatever.” She stood there, looking from her boss to the skeleton and back again. Shit, it was just too much.

  “You didn’t notice the teeth?” Jim asked. He looked a little disappointed.

  “I was a little more concerned by the rock just behind them.”

  “You should look again.”

  She rolled her eyes and then turned back to the skeleton, leaning in to get a good look as she shone her light on the skull. Her stomach dropped, and her breath stuck in her throat like a rusted fish hook. The skull’s canines were far too long, easily double the size of normal teeth. Holy shit, the thing had fangs.

  “Interesting, right?” Jim asked.

  “Do you have any coke left, or did you do it all?”

  He nodded. His expression made him look like a happy puppy. “There’s some left.”

  “Good. Let’s go have a little. I can’t handle this sort of thing straight.”

  Thomas woke with a start when something knocked hard on the door. For one terrifying moment, he lay propped up on his elbows, eyes wide and staring as he tried to locate the threat. Had he really fallen asleep with the old man in the room? How could he be so stupid?

  Then, another muffled groan drifted from behind the bathroom door, and he realized the kick must have been what he’d stashed there. Sighing, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He still wore his clothes, the old pants looking almost as wrinkled as Jenkins. The scuffed shoes kept his feet warm against the morning air. Was it still morning?

  He looked around, swiveling his stiff neck, and realized the old man had left the room. Another sigh rattled out him, and this one sounded much more annoyed than the first. Great, so now he had to track down Jenkins on top of everything else. Already, he was exhausted. Sooner or later, the old man would be the death of him. Thomas could only hope he hadn’t started on the list. He still prayed he could talk his superior out of what was coming. It was a fool’s hope—he knew that—but the years had showed him stranger miracles.

  He stood and walked to the table that filled one corner of the hotel room, trying to ignore the pain in his sinuses. His suit jacket waited on the back of one chair, and the .45 waited in his shoulder holster on the back of the other. Joints creaked as he worked the holster on and then covered it with the jacket. Once everything was in place, he rolled his shoulders and felt the ache ease just a little. Okay, he could move.

  Before leaving the room, he stepped into the bathroom and checked all the chains. Everything remained tight and secure. The flesh beneath the metal was pink, but it hadn’t turned raw and bleeding yet. That was good. He muttered a warning and shut the door behind him. Then, he went to find the old man.

  As he walked across the gravel lot, he breathed deep. The morning tasted like dew and old motor oil, perfectly matching the pale yellow and dreary gray of the morning light. Beneath it all, he thought he could already smell cedar. Wonderful.

  Everything remained still, the crunch of his footsteps the only sound. He reached the middle of the lot and froze, realizing he didn’t know exactly where he was headed. The old man was a peculiar personality, to say the least. Following his particular brand of strangeness could be difficult.

  Seeing the diner made it easier, though. Thomas remembered the squat little building full of windows and dirty chrome. A neon sign blinked out of time, and when he listened he could almost hear the sign buzzing. Three cars and a pickup in various states of distress sat in the parking lot. Thomas looked closely, examining the windows for any sign of life. Sure enough, Jenkins sat in a window booth, sipping from a ceramic mug.

  His third sigh drifted into the morning air as he started across the street. With each step, he whispered a little prayer that he wouldn’t find anything too terrible in the diner, but he didn’t think anyone was listening.

  He forgets the cop’s name. Once or twice, he wants to call the man Detective Edwards, but he’s not sure that’s right. Instead of risking it, he stays silent and sips his coffee and waits for somebody to talk to him. Already, the detective has spent an hour questioning him, asking if he has any enemies or he can think of anybo
dy who might have pulled a prank. He asks the same questions again and again, as if trying to catch him in a lie, but Ben just answers the same way every time because it’s the only way he knows.

  Other bodies move through his apartment. Technicians and others in uniforms. The one who probably isn’t Detective Edwards weaves his way through them in a manner that suggests he’s a little excited. Why shouldn’t he be? This is probably a nice change from the typical shootings or stabbings or whatever else police investigate in a mid-size city. Occasionally, the detective stops to chat with his partner, a thin man with a face that looks like it’s been carved out of white marble.

  The first pale rays of sunlight creep through the window, and Ben remembers how long he’s been awake. Soon, he’ll need to be at work, but he doesn’t think he’ll make it in today. If he does call in, he’ll have to let Melissa know. She’ll be worried if she emails for their morning water run and he doesn’t answer, especially after calling her.

  Probably Isn’t Detective Edwards walks over and says they’re almost done, that they think they might have pulled some prints and will run tests on the bag and its contents. Ben sees the items in his head, but he’s too exhausted to shudder, so he just nods and thanks the detective, who presses a card into his hand and tells him to call with any questions. He looks at the card and sees he had the name right after all. Yay for him.

  Soon, the police leave, and the apartment is empty and quiet. Simon hops onto the couch and curls into a ball. He reaches out and strokes the cat, and then he decides he needs a drink.

  Shambling into the kitchen, he wonders if he’s moving so slowly because he’s tired or because he’s sad. He decides it’s probably a little of both, with a dash of creeped-the-fuck-out thrown in for flavor. Why else would he pull the bottle of vodka from his freezer at six in the morning? The cold liquor slices its way down his throat, dragging a cough and a shiver from him. He pulls again, and the second hit is a little softer. Not much, but he makes it through with only an ugly sneer to mark its passage.