A God in the Shed

by J-F. Dubeau

  Long minutes passed while Erica was gone. It was late in the evening, and the station was mostly empty. That had been part of his plan, to get the doctor while she was alone. No witnesses that way. No one to hear or interrupt them. It had taken a while for him to work up the courage to do this, and just as he had the young woman trapped, he’d let her simply walk out.

  Crowley looked around the office. In the few days since her arrival, Dr. Hazelwood had turned the small room into a cozy work space. Copies of every report he’d allowed her to have were stacked into a pile on the corner of her desk. Other folders, neatly arranged by color and brimming with notes, bore the names of various villagers. From memory alone, the inspector could tell that they were all related to Sam Finnegan’s victims. The thickest file of all was labeled PENELOPE LAFOREST.

  The office door opened again. “Hold up your hand,” Erica ordered as she walked back in.

  Stephen did as instructed but kept his eyes fixed on hers. She pulled a pair of scissors out of the well-stocked first aid kit she’d found downstairs. With both care and frustration, she removed the bandage from his hand. The pain of dried blood being pulled and ripped from the raw wound underneath made Crowley draw a noisy breath between his teeth.

  “This isn’t why I wanted to see you, Doctor,” the inspector said, gathering his courage again. In all his years of chasing murderers and gods, he’d never faltered like this. “I . . . need someone to talk to.”

  Erica looked up from her handiwork to study her new patient. It wasn’t the hand that needed mending most. That was a wound of the flesh. As she slowly finished removing the blood-caked gauze, watching Crowley flinch with every pull on the wound, the doctor realized what he meant. Crowley needed her services as a psychologist.

  Erica finished removing the old bandage, curling her nose at the smell of pus and infection. She stood and pushed the door closed. This time, she was the one who turned the lock. The inspector appreciated the gesture of having his sense of privacy respected.

  “All right,” she said, and walked back to the desk, taking out some fresh gauze and sterile solution. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “Everything I say here stays here?”

  “Patient-doctor confidentiality. Everything you say here stays here.”

  A sigh escaped his lungs once more. The doctor began to clean his wound, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

  “I have a . . . very strict set of priorities, Doctor. I’ve always thought that everything I was doing was for the ultimate benefit of the town and above that, my family. Seems like the harder I work, though, the worse things get. How is that possible?”

  Even cleaned up, the wound on Inspector Crowley’s hand was terrible to look at. His middle and ring fingers stood at odd angles to each other. Not only had the bones been pulled aside, but the swollen, damaged flesh gave his fingers the look of two sausages. The gash between the fingers was no better. It had filled up with fluid, and the palm of his hand was a deep purple with a sick yellowish tint at the edges. The bones would need to be set properly, the wound disinfected.

  “Well, you haven’t been getting much, if any, sleep. That’ll lead to impaired judgment and manic episodes. Think of it as a DUI; except, instead of a vehicle you’re driving, it’s your whole life.”

  “It ain’t just the sleep.”

  “Okay, what else is there then?”

  The inspector winced as Erica put some antiseptic ointment on his wound. It wouldn’t do much, but it would slow down the infection. “I think my son hates me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Did Finnegan tell you what . . . what he thought was in that cave?”

  “It’s in my report,” said Erica, wrapping a new bandage around Crowley’s fingers. The clean, dry gauze felt good over the freshly washed hand. It wasn’t just wrapped like a child’s art project, either. The psychologist knew what she was doing, and the bandage was both tight and tidy. By the time she was done, the dressing was as immaculate and white as snow. “He rambled about some kind of god. ‘A god of hate and death.’ I told Randy about it, but he made it pretty clear he couldn’t discuss that aspect of the case.”

  She was fishing. Perhaps she thought a tired and wounded Inspector Crowley would be more amenable to divulging information than a paranoid Randall McKenzie. If so, she was out of luck.

  “Right. Well, I don’t know about a god, but there’s something in that cave. Was something. Something dangerous to the community. Maybe even more dangerous than Finnegan.”

  “And you can’t tell me what this hypothetical threat is?”

  The inspector shook his head.

  “You should know that, if you start to sound too crazy, I will look into getting you some forced leave,” she said, half-joking.

  “Fair enough. But humor me. This hypothetical threat, as you put it: I have a duty to stop it, right? To do whatever it takes to stop it? I should expect my boy to understand that, right?”

  The inspector wasn’t asking for her moral judgment; he was asking her permission to chase this boogeyman instead of attending to his family. It was hard for Dr. Hazelwood to accept that there was still something for the Saint-Ferdinand police department to chase down, something so important that Crowley would knowingly put his son aside. However, she didn’t know all the details of the case. Long before the inspector had started really going off the rails, he’d made it clear that he suspected one or more accomplices, and she’d seen where Gabrielle LaForest’s body was found. A god of hate and death sounded stupid, but a cult that believed in human sacrifice? That was much more likely.

  “That’s up to you, Stephen,” she said, making a point to add what the inspector thought was a touch of familiarity by calling him by his first name. “My recommendation would be to get some sleep and then take a good hard look at what your moral obligations are. In most situations like this, I find that it’s less about picking one priority, and more about figuring out a good balance between the two.”

  “I have people who depend on me. Not just Daniel. I don’t know that balance—ow!”

  The doctor had just flicked her finger directly at Crowley’s wound. Anger flared up in the inspector’s eyes. Withering rage boiled up as his face turned a deep shade of red. Erica may not have been as accustomed to these flights of temper as Randy was, but she quickly realized she might have gone too far. Still, she soldiered on.

  “Stephen.” Like a tightrope walker, she balanced her tone between soothing and commanding. “Listen to yourself. Get your hand looked at. Get some sleep. Figure it out in the morning.”

  A tense moment passed before Crowley finally flexed his wounded hand into a fist. No doubt this would exacerbate the damage and reopen his wound yet again, but it was the only tool in his current arsenal that would let him focus.

  “You . . . You’re probably right.”

  He stood, still flexing his broken hand, and walked out of the office.

  VENUS

  “MY MOM THINKS we’re dating.”

  It was an odd thing to announce, especially after a quarter hour of silence. Venus regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth, but she couldn’t bear the quiet any longer.

  She had told Daniel that they couldn’t visit her shed. He wanted to see the god, to have tangible proof of what had made his father become so obsessed. But Venus wouldn’t allow it. Not with her mother being so curious about her activities. The risk of her parents stumbling upon the thing in the shed was already too high. So far, every visit to the god’s prison had come at a cost. A life, a near-death experience, or, in Venus’s case, something more personal and existential. Daniel appeared to understand, but he remained curious. His deluge of questions and her refusal to answer had quickly killed the conversation.

  “Oh?” He sounded amused by the comment. The reaction of a boy who had gotten used to that kind of thing.

  Venus felt foolish. Daniel Crowley was almost two years her senior, well respected,
and an accomplished young athlete. He was handsome and popular in a nonthreatening way that appealed to the opposite sex. He was also currently dating a gorgeous girl from Sherbrooke who was on her way to a prosperous university career. Although he wasn’t known to mock or bully other teens, Venus knew how easy it would be to ridicule her comment. But Daniel didn’t do that.

  “I guess it makes sense from her point of view,” he said, lowering the volume on his car radio. “We’ve never hung out, and I bet your other boyfriends don’t have their licenses yet. Suddenly I’m picking you up to go who knows where without your usual friends in tow?”

  He turned to her. His eyes were a piercing blue.

  “Yeah. Makes sense.” Venus felt awkward, but it was a good kind of awkward. Normal embarrassment over normal problems. She’d always thought movie characters were idiots for letting their petty issues cloud their judgment or distract them while they were dealing with alien invasions, giant monsters, or whatever other apocalyptic scenario was going on. Now she understood. While taking refuge from cataclysmic events physically, it was natural to seek comfort emotionally, like she was doing right now. Realizing that, she wished they were dating, if only to feel normal.

  “Look on the bright side, though,” Daniel said as if he’d somehow read her thoughts. “Means your mom’s been spying on you.”

  “How is that a bright side?” she asked, frowning.

  “Don’t you keep complaining that your parents don’t pay attention to you?”

  He was right. Virginie had never before bothered to question the relationships she had with her friends. Venus had slept over at Abraham’s house several times, and never a word was spoken about it. Something had changed. Venus had always been envious of those with “normal” parent-child relationships. Penny and Gabrielle had often been the main focus of her envy, but it was the relationship between Inspector Crowley and his son for which she wished. Everyone in town knew the Crowley boys were best friends. Yet the inspector was also intensely protective of his son. Venus had always imagined theirs to be the perfect household.

  “What about you?” she asked. “How are you handling . . . all this?”

  The question was more direct than she would have preferred. Penny would have come at it from an angle instead of jumping right to the point, but subtlety wasn’t Venus’s forte.

  “I’m handling it.”

  If her goal had been to turn the tables, it was a success, but she was disappointed to see Daniel clam up so suddenly. He grew silent and taciturn, giving the road his full attention.

  “You can talk to me, y’know,” she said, though she was unsure where she wanted the discussion to go. “You clearly know more about me than I gave you credit for. I feel like I should return the favor.”

  Venus had never thought of herself as particularly empathic. She was smart, of that there was no doubt. Observant, when the subject held her interest. But gauging the mood of others was a skill at which she was mediocre. Yet she could tell from Daniel Crowley’s silence, his furrowed brow, and his white knuckles on the steering wheel, that he was grieving. As far as he was concerned, he’d lost his father to this Sandmen cult a long time ago. She could only guess at his feelings of betrayal, confusion, and uncertainty.

  “What do you see when you look at me, McKenzie?”

  It felt like a trick question. Venus had never really hung out with Daniel. They’d spoken a few times at school and she knew a little about him because Saint-Ferdinand was such a small place, but they weren’t friends.

  “You’re the star quarterback at school. I mean, whatever the hockey equivalent is, but you know what I mean. You’re the cool guy. You have the cool car and the hot, smart girlfriend. I mean, I don’t want to reduce you to a stereotype, but you’re . . . you know, the guy! I don’t know. I’m messing this up. Forget anything I just said.”

  “No, no! You’re right. I am that guy. Or I was during the school year. Now? My dad’s going insane, I’m pretty sure I’m not getting my summer job, and my girlfriend stood me up and won’t return my calls after I ignored her for a week. I’m pretty sure we’re broken up. It’s not just all these murders and gods and ghosts. I’m messing everything up.”

  “Welcome to the club. The only requirement is being a complete mess.” There it was, the patented Venus McKenzie lack of tact and empathy.

  “Ha! You’re right. This is a disaster.” He laughed, nervously at first, but it built to a cathartic guffaw. “I don’t know, McKenzie, at the end of the day, all I want to do is the right thing, y’know?”

  Venus let the comment sink in. It was an awful cliché but exactly what she expected from Daniel Crowley. The star quarterback. That guy.

  “After all,” he continued, “that’s kinda how he raised me to be.”

  A symphony of sounds wove together in harmonious purpose. The regular beeping of the heart monitor was supported by the constant hissing of a respirator. The careful ear could pick up the rhythmic drip of an IV while garbled PA messages served as occasional vocals. The music played was the beat by which Harry Peterson was slowly marching his way back to the land of the living.

  Venus and Daniel had been allowed to go in, although visiting hours were coming to an end. The nurse at the front desk of the intensive care unit had asked them to wake up the huge farm boy who was sleeping there. He’d have to leave for the night and come back to see his father the next morning.

  As far as Venus knew, Abraham didn’t have anywhere to go in Sherbrooke. He’d spent the previous night sleeping in the waiting area of the emergency room and would probably do the same again tonight.

  Her friend had been vague about the circumstances that had brought his father to the hospital. All she knew was that Abraham’s father had had some kind of respiratory failure and had been taken to Sherbrooke by ambulance. When she asked if it was the cancer, Abraham had been a little evasive before settling on a noncommittal “yeah.”

  She’d have preferred to be here sooner. Ideally with Penny in tow. They both knew about Mr. Peterson’s condition and had expected a day would come when they would need to be there for Abraham. But the plan had always been to do it as a group. A trio of friends, supporting one another.

  Light from the hallway illuminated Abraham’s large body; the boy was sleeping on a chair too small for him. He was awkwardly slumped to the side, his head rolled back and arms hanging to the ground. Awake or not, the farm boy had never worried much about how graceful he looked. A tender smile made its way to Venus’s lips as she moved to wake up her friend.

  Suddenly her ears noticed a change in the symphony. The accompanying background noise of the respirator had ceased. Her senses on edge, Venus saw a shadow lurking next to Mr. Peterson’s bed. And the shadow saw her.

  Thankfully, this shadow was human. A short man of flesh and blood, wearing gray denim pants and a leather jacket. He had black hair and dark, leathery skin that smelled of ash. He bolted from the corner and made for the door, not realizing that Venus was accompanied and that her companion was an accomplished athlete.

  Daniel did not hesitate. Without thinking, he tackled the intruder to the ground. His shoulder, its muscles hard from years of physical training, caught the small man in the upper chest, sending him bouncing to the floor. Lungs empty and his rib cage in agony, the stranger couldn’t even cry out in pain. Worse, he’d landed near Abraham’s feet, waking the huge boy immediately.

  “Abe! Grab him.”

  Before even getting up from his chair, the farm boy reached down and gathered a handful of the stranger’s jacket in his meaty paw. The man wasn’t going anywhere.

  Meanwhile, Venus tried to figure out what to do about Mr. Peterson’s respirator. Quickly realizing that she had no idea how to restart the device, or even if that was the right course of action, she half-crawled, half-leaped over the bed to push the call button.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  The reaction was immediate. Whether the nurse’s station had received her call, heard h
er scream, or was already aware that something was wrong with Harry’s vitals, it didn’t matter. Someone was rushing down the corridor with a cart.

  During these scant few seconds, Abraham dragged the doubled-over body of the stranger out the door, passing by her and Daniel. A nurse quickly rushed in to take his place, questioning Venus.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Venus croaked. “Someone turned off the respirator, I think.”

  Her words were lost in the crush of people rushing in. Another nurse, then a doctor, then more nurses. They all started exchanging medical jargon. The first nurse applied a breathing mask to Mr. Peterson’s face. She squeezed and released the large bladder attached to the device at a steady rhythm, pumping air in and out of his lungs. A doctor was fussing with one of the many machines next to the bed, trying to bring the life-sustaining music back into harmony.

  Shoved to the periphery, Venus watched, horrified. What had been meant to be a short visit on the way to her uncle’s office, checking in with her friend to offer her support, had turned into a potential tragedy.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Abraham yelled from the hallway.

  He had pinned the stranger to the wall, holding him a few inches off the ground by his fistful of jacket. Abe’s left arm was pulled back, hand balled into an enormous fist shaking with rage. Venus had never seen her friend like this. All six feet and seven inches of him were tense with fury. His face had become unrecognizable. The usually soft features with a bit of a dull edge to them were contorted into an animalistic snarl. His eyes bulged from their sockets and the veins in his neck pushed out of his skin. If he were to follow through with his swing, his fist would crush the short man’s skull into a pulpy mess.

  Gasping for breath, the stranger lifted his head to form an answer.

  “Abe . . . it’s me . . .”

  The farm boy blinked in recognition. “Ezekiel?”

  Just like that, Abraham was completely disarmed. As he set the man down, he transformed back to his soft-spoken self.