A God in the Shed

by J-F. Dubeau

  “Randy, she’s a teenager. She’s not gonna talk to me. Just tell me how bad it is.”

  “All right,” his brother said. “I won’t sugarcoat it; it’s pretty bad. How much of Dad’s notes did you even read?”

  “Somewhere in the neighborhood of none. You know what I think of that crap.” After the passing of Neil McKenzie, Paul and Randy’s father, the brothers had inherited a foot locker filled with notes, old photos, and torn pages from books written in long-forgotten languages. There were also stacks of receipts from trips around the world, spanning decades of the man’s life. The whole thing had gone a long way toward explaining why the McKenzie patriarch had gone, leaving his wife to raise two boys. When Neil was home, however, he was a controlling figure, prone to fits of anger at the slightest disobedience. His sons felt like an annoyance, something that distracted their father from more important work. When Paul found out that his father’s “work trips” had to do with research into ancient religions and the occult, he simply couldn’t come to terms with Neil McKenzie’s failings as a parent.

  “Yeah, well, the old bastard wasn’t making it up,” Randy explained. “He was part of a . . . gentlemen’s club, and they were into some pretty heady stuff. Old gods, magic, prophecies . . . you name it: the stranger the better. You want to know why he went to Peru? Indonesia? Iraq? All over the oldest parts of the world? Why he spent all that time researching the most ancient and secret religions? Well, they were trying to take down an ancient, evil entity. But they failed, Paul.

  “I thought I could figure things out on my own, but I can’t. I need to find some of Dad’s old associates, assuming any of them are still alive.”

  Paul shook his head. “I’ll help you, then. Whatever you need me to do. Just don’t get Venus involved.”

  “She’s been involved her whole life, Paul. You know at least that,” Randy said before his brother could voice any protest. “She’s part of this, and I need her help.”

  “What? Why?” Paul wasn’t a man who fell prey to anger easily. The back of his father’s hand had taught him to hate violence. Even raising his voice would rack him with guilt. But if there was one thing he felt justified in getting angry about, it was his daughter’s safety.

  “Katrina told your fortune. You know the prophecies—”

  “No, man. No. Fuck you and your prophecies.”

  “It’s too late, Paul. I’ve already sent her to my office. Think about it. She’ll be out of Saint-Ferdinand, where it’s safe. For now.”

  Before his younger brother could protest, they were interrupted by Sam Finnegan clearing his throat from the back of his cell. So far, the Saint-Ferdinand Killer had stayed quiet. The brothers fell silent, listening for any further noise from the old man.

  “Why don’t you put things into perspective, Randy?” Finnegan rambled just as Paul was about to renew his protest. “Why don’t you tell your brother what’s in his backyard?”

  CROWLEY

  “I DON’T CARE, ma’am. No, I don’t—” Crowley was starting to fume. He had stopped counting how many times the annoying woman on the other end of the line had cut him off. His right hand was beginning to cramp from holding the receiver.

  The shrill creature on the phone was but the latest in a long line of irritants to the inspector. She was a reporter, one of many who were trying to get the story of how the Saint-Ferdinand Killer had finally been apprehended. She and others like her had been wasting enormous amounts of the inspector’s precious time, and his patience was running short.

  The media paled in comparison to a much larger problem, though. It was one thing to keep news outlets and television stations out of the town’s business, but quite another to dodge the judicial system and his superiors, who were growing increasingly suspicious about the delays in processing Samuel Finnegan.

  Crowley was no idiot. He’d prepared every document necessary for the Saint-Ferdinand Killer case. The forms were filled, reports filed. Should the pressure get too intense, the inspector could, in a matter of hours, have Finnegan, the evidence against him, and everything relating to the case taken out of his hands. Short of a decorative bow, everything was ready to be wrapped up.

  But Crowley didn’t want to let Finnegan go. Not yet. Sure, there would be consequences to his delay. Reprimands for mishandling the case. Maybe even a demotion. But whatever price he had to pay to maintain his access to Finnegan was worth it. Anything to get his hands on his prize.

  But time was running out.

  “Ma’am!” Crowley slammed his broken hand on the desk, paying another toll for his short temper. Channeling the pain, he continued. “We are concluding our investigation and will issue a full statement when we’re done. But we’re a very small department, and every minute I waste with a reporter too dumb to understand what no means is a minute I ain’t getting things done here. Is there anything in what I just said that needs further explanation?”

  The woman fell silent. Crowley considered that she might have hung up and was about to do the same when she finally replied.

  “No, Inspector Crowley. Can we expect your office to get in touch with us when you are ready to issue your statement?”

  “Yes, Ms. Shepherd.” The inspector had to admit he was surprised. He had expected her to either be completely cowed or explode in self-righteous rage. Either way would have allowed him to finish the conversation. “I’ll make sure someone gets in touch with you.”

  “Inspector?” she said, maintaining her measured tone. “Make it quick. The world is watching.”

  Then she hung up. Twice this week, Crowley had been put in his place by out-of-towners. He was not used to having his authority questioned or being on the losing end of a conversation. Still, it was all a small price to pay if his larger gamble paid off.

  “Boss.” Lieutenant Bélanger’s voice cut through the inspector’s thoughts. “What are we still looking for?”

  Crowley had been having his staff investigate every little report that happened to make its way to the office. From Gaston’s claims of strange lights waking up his dogs at night to reports of missing pets to drunken tales of ghosts prowling Main Street after dark, they were checking anything that might lead him to the Craftsmen’s god. Anyone not following a lead had been assigned to keep an eye on Cicero’s Circus.

  “I’m just being prudent, Lieutenant. We caught our serial killer and got lazy. Then Gabrielle LaForest and the Ludwig boy get murdered. I’m not letting any more people get killed.” Brad’s body had been found yesterday, having been stuffed into several garbage bags and then dropped inside the drugstore Dumpster. The corpse was in such terrible condition that the time of death had yet to be determined.

  “How many crazed killers do you think live in Saint-Ferdinand, anyway?” The question had an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone to it. Crowley was about to reprimand Bélanger but then saw that everyone on staff had stopped what they were doing to hear the inspector’s answer.

  “We got both our guys,” the lieutenant continued. “I’m not one to tell you how to do your job, Stephen, but why aren’t we gathering evidence on McKenzie?”

  Because he didn’t do it, the inspector thought. In fact, if they couldn’t bring formal charges against Randy soon, they’d have to let him go. His alibi was rock solid; he’d been working at the hospital in Sherbrooke, over an hour’s drive away, when Gabrielle had been killed. Plenty of people had seen and interacted with him there. The only reason McKenzie was still being kept in jail was the Ludwig boy. Crowley could only keep him incarcerated until the time of death was narrowed down. Sooner or later he’d have to let Randy walk.

  “You’re right, Matt,” Crowley finally said, and sighed in agreement. “Let’s get a warrant to search Randy’s house and office. Hopefully we’ll find something that’ll help us hand that case to the courts faster.”

  Or enough proof that I’ll have to release the bastard. Putting McKenzie in jail had backfired horribly. It took a while for Crowley to realize it, but a
s long as there was no suspect in Gabrielle LaForest’s murder, he could use his staff to look for clues of the god’s whereabouts. But now that Randy’s guilt was being called into question, anytime the inspector ordered Matt, Gary, or any of the other officers under him to investigate something else, he could see doubt in their eyes. Soon his staff would become useless to him.

  “I’ll start the paperwork, then,” Bélanger said.

  Crowley didn’t bother acknowledging his lieutenant. It was moments like these that made him regret his course of action. Chasing after gods had been Marguerite’s life. When she left, he’d grudgingly taken up the quest, using her old notes as a guide. He was out of his element. Crowley didn’t know a thing about religion, magic, or miracles. If it hadn’t been for people like Peterson, McKenzie, and Cicero, he’d probably still be ignorant of what really went on. Wouldn’t that be grand? Unfortunately, he could no longer walk away from the things he’d seen or ignore the things he’d heard or forget the miracles he’d been promised.

  It had all been too much to take on by himself, and so Crowley had surrounded himself with others. Ambitious, idiotic followers who did nothing to help him on his quest. All they brought to the table was an endless stream of demands. Everyone wanted to see the god, yet, after all these years, even he wasn’t sure what he expected to gain from it. Power? It grants wishes, like a genie, he’d been told. Fifteen years ago that promise held much appeal, but after a decade as chief inspector, wielding as much authority as anyone could desire, he’d lost the thirst.

  Perhaps that was why he’d never caught the killer that was right under his nose. Maybe, when all was said and done, he preferred things the way they were. Could it be that somehow he had known that by apprehending his killer, he’d sabotage everything?

  It didn’t matter. The hands were dealt now and it was time to play the game. Crowley’s career, reputation, and what was left of his family hinged on this next play. If all went well, every problem he had would be solved. Should he fail and not find the god before it escaped, his whole life would topple like a house of cards.

  Crowley’s train of thought was interrupted when his office door slammed shut. The inspector was not a man used to intrusions, and he went from introspective to full-on furious by the time he’d spun his chair around.

  His visitor stood before his desk. Her plump fists were propped stiffly on her waist in an almost cartoonish accusatory pose. A frown of disdain split her red face while perfectly coiffed, fading blond hair was held in a loose bun at the back of her head.

  “Beatrice,” the inspector said. He didn’t bother to conceal his displeasure with Mrs. Bergeron’s presence in his office. “What can I do for you?”

  Crowley could have had the woman removed with the push of the intercom button. It was tempting. As his blood pressure rose, so did the pain in his hand. Dealing with William Bergeron was hassle enough, but when he sent his wife, the inspector knew the fat drunk meant business. Beatrice was less emotional, more calculating. She’d dealt with being married to an alcoholic, building no less than four successful businesses in town while her husband took the credit. To top it off, she had survived a troubled pregnancy only to have her beloved child snatched away at the tender age of eight. There was nothing the inspector could throw at her that would dissuade the woman. It was best to weather the storm.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Stephen?”

  “I work here,” he answered, flexing his wounded fist. The pain helped him to stay calm.

  “You should be in Sherbrooke, making sure Harry Peterson makes a full and quick recovery.”

  “He’s in a hospital, Beatrice. I think he’s in good hands.”

  “Then bring him his canvas and paints.” The big woman slammed her hand on the inspector’s desk for emphasis, her fingers like five malformed sausages covered in too much jewelry. “Or find someone else to do the painting.”

  There was no one else. The inspector knew it, and there was no reason for Beatrice to think otherwise. Even Peterson wasn’t ideal. His birds were certainly impressive, but he wasn’t good enough to paint a person back to life. Not like Amanda had been, but she was long dead.

  The Bergerons had always been obsessed with finding a way to fix their daughter’s poor health. Now that she was gone, they’d become fanatical. Beatrice didn’t care if what she was demanding was impossible; all she knew was how to demand it.

  “I think you should give up on Peterson . . . or anyone else to bring back Audrey,” the inspector said coolly.

  “Don’t you dare go back on your promises, Stephen.” By her countenance, Crowley might as well have killed Beatrice’s daughter himself. “Without William and me, you would have nothing. Our contacts built your career. We gave you this job so you could do what needed to be done when the time was right.

  “Well, that time is now, Inspector. You made promises to a lot of important people. You promised me my daughter! That is one obligation you don’t want to back out of, Crowley.” She spat his name out like it was sour milk.

  Despite the frustration of the fat woman vomiting threats at him, Stephen felt calm. Relaxing his wounded fist for the first time in days, he took a moment to savor the taste of serenity. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on the overbearing sow who had dragged herself into his office, the inspector slowly leaned back in his chair. He could feel Beatrice growing more frustrated with every second of his silence. Her plump face was shifting to an ever-darker shade of red, and her breathing was accelerating to the point where she had to keep her mouth agape. Crowley was tempted to see if she’d fall over dead from a heart attack.

  “I owe you nothing,” the inspector said, then continued on before she could interrupt. “Before I brought the Sandmen’s history to your attention, you and all the other beggars in this village had nothing. I blew the doors off your worldview. I figured out all that bullshit about the town’s past, the Craftsmen, Peterson’s paintings, and whatever weird stuff the McKenzies are into.

  “So you listen real good, Beatrice, and make sure you tell your drunk of a husband what I’m telling you: back the hell off. You can either let me do my goddamn job and maybe, maybe, get your girl back, or you can go back to mourning your only child and living out your dull, ordinary lives. Forget the stupid painting and forget about Peterson. If you let me get on with what I gotta do, you won’t need them.”

  Beatrice Bergeron closed her mouth, her lower lip still quivering with anger.

  “Now,” he said, savoring his next words, “why don’t you drag your fat ass home to think that over? If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’ve agreed to my point of view. Or not. Frankly, I don’t care.”

  Inspector Stephen Crowley didn’t bother knocking on the door. Partly because this was his station. He was lord and master of these offices and had no reason to ask permission before entering any of them, even the ones that were being loaned to outsiders. But the other part, the part he could barely admit to himself, was the very real chance that he might chicken out if he didn’t barge in.

  Regardless of his justifications, his rude behavior did not go unnoticed by Dr. Hazelwood. In fact, she almost jumped out of her skin when he entered. Her high-pitched scream was followed by a mumbled string of profanities as she clutched her chest.

  “God dammit, Stephen!”

  “Are we on a first-name basis now?” he said in lieu of an apology, stepping into the cramped office to take a seat.

  “We are if you’re not going to bother knocking, Inspector.”

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you, but I need your help with something.”

  With care equal to the brazenness of his entrance, Crowley closed the door behind him, making sure to lock it. The click on the handle was met by a raised eyebrow on Erica’s part. Being shut in with the intimidating inspector was not her idea of a comfortable situation. His attitude and behavior had become increasingly erratic and belligerent during the short time she’d known him. Every symptom pointed to
an overwhelming amount of stress and an imminent psychological breakdown. She half-suspected he was here to ask her for some kind of prescription to help him cope, something that was not in her power to do.

  “I’ll do what I can, Inspector, but I’m not sure there’s much I can do to assist you.”

  Crowley covered his face with both hands, sighing loudly. He struggled for a moment to find his balance and unearth the proper words. What he was about to do, he’d never done before. It wasn’t in his character and it made him uncomfortable, but after days, perhaps even years, of avoiding the issue, he’d come to an impasse.

  Removing his hands, he locked eyes with Erica. She had a look of concern on her face. Concern and a little disgust.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  He’d forgotten about the wound, the pain having somehow become part of him. The burning, tearing sensation of moving his broken fingers fueled his anger, painting anew the portrait of his goals.

  “Oh, this is nothing.”

  Who was he kidding? The bandage was so soaked with dried blood that it had come to resemble a red, rigid cast. Flowers of red with brown-tipped petals spread all over the gauze that wrapped around his fingers. He’d have to get it looked at sooner rather than later; otherwise, the bones would heal wrong and surgery would be necessary to fix the damage. There was no time now, however.

  “I might be ‘just’ a psychologist, but I took enough medicine to know that this isn’t ‘nothing.’ Who bandaged this?”

  She walked around the desk to take a closer look at the damaged extremity. Crowley made no attempt to stop her as Erica carefully inspected the dressing. The inspector had wrapped the injury himself, with only the first aid kit from his car and his own left hand. As shoddy jobs went, it was one for the books.

  “I did.” He sounded like Daniel when the boy did something stupid.

  “Wait here,” Dr. Hazelwood muttered before unlocking the door and letting herself out.