Will pulled the blade out of the knife with his teeth, clicking it into place. The taste of greased metal spread over his tongue.
Graham put his thumb on the hammer of the gun, ready to cock it and fire.
"Don’t be stupid, Graham," Will said. "You need to make the pact. Swear to the book."
"Fine," Graham said. "Get me a pen. I’ll sign whatever you want."
Will’s grip on Graham’s wrist grew tighter. Graham could feel his fingers growing numb.
"It doesn’t work like that, Graham," Will said. He held the knife as if it was a pencil, and he placed the edge of his fist on Graham’s wiggling fingers.
Graham brought the gun up to Will’s head. "I’ll shoot, old man," he said, as sweat poured into his eyes.
Will paid no attention to the pistol. He kept his eyes on Graham’s flattened palm, but his voice took on a curious tone of authority Graham had never heard before, like two voices were talking to him at the same time from Will’s mouth.
"These are the things that must be done, Graham," Will said. "They have always been done this way. The time will come when you will do this to someone else. Everything that has happened will happen again as it has happened before. We require the Sign. We require the blood. We require the Pact."
"Oh my God, Will, who’s ‘we?’" Graham whispered.
"Then you receive the badge and the gun. You receive the Book of Shadows. You become the Crossroads."
Will paused and coughed. When he began to speak again, his voice was back to normal.
"If you’re not willing to shed your own blood for the Keep now, then you don’t deserve to be the Sheriff."
Graham stared at the old man, the distinguished elder public servant, who was yammering in a monotone about magic rituals and myths and blood pacts. It was like listening to someone else’s grandfather, babbling in the grips of dementia. But when he looked into the man’s eyes, they were clear. Will’s physical strength certainly hadn’t flagged any. Graham made a final assessment of the situation.
"You’re not crazy, are you, Will?"
Will laughed. His grip loosened on Graham’s wrist. "Oh, son," he said. "There have been times I thought I was, times I wished I was. But I am terribly, horrifically sane. I hope you believe me. I don’t know what will happen to the Keep if you don’t."
Graham stared at Will a couple more seconds, and then he put the gun down on the table and slid it down a little ways.
Graham sighed. "Well, fuck," he said, and he flipped his hand over on the table so Will could get to his palm. "Do it, old man."
Will nodded. He touched his fingers on both sides of the blade and muttered some words Graham couldn’t make out. They did not sound like English. The blade seemed to glow red hot for a second, just a second. At that moment, Graham figured he was seeing things. Later, he knew he wasn’t.
"I’ve been practicing doing this for the last three decades," Will said. "Drawing it in notebooks, carving it in pieces of wood. I didn’t know when I’d get to do it for real. I guess it’s now."
Will stuck the knife about a quarter inch into Graham’s palm. Graham winced and hissed in pain. He shut his eyes and decided not to watch what Will was doing. He could feel the blade moving in a circle all the way around his palm.
"Okay," said Will.
"Okay," Graham said. "You done?"
"Nope," said Will, and he stuck the knife back into Will’s hand, into the center of the bleeding circle. It felt like a narrow line of fire, going back and forth, up and down, making smaller circles inside the larger. Graham gripped his pants leg with his free hand in agony.
"Goddammit! You cutting me in cursive, there, Will?" Graham asked.
"Shut it, boy. I’m almost done."
"Well, good."
"Drag the book over here," Will said.
Graham reached over and caught the edge of the book with his fingernail. He dragged it slowly until it rested in between the two men.
Will snapped the knife shut. "I’m done," he said. "Now, do it."
"Do what?"
Will took Graham’s hand and slammed it straight down onto the front page of the book. "Give it a couple seconds," Will said. Graham tried to make eye contact with Will, to try to read his face.
"All right," Will said. "Lift it straight up."
Graham did, and he stared for a few seconds at the impression of his blood on that ancient white page. It looked like letters, but not exactly. It could have been a maze, but it wasn’t precise enough for that.
"I’ve got gauze right here," Will said. "Let’s get your hand bandaged up. That’s gonna scar up nice. You’ll bear that mark for a long time."
"You’re a lot happier about that than I am," Will said. He was ready for another drink, something to kill the keen silver singing in his ravaged palm. "So what did you draw, old man?"
Will shrugged. "It’s a magical symbol. A sigil. It represents the Keep and what you are to it. It’s your key to all the places that intersect here." He began wrapping Graham’s hand, fingers together, thumb sticking out.
"You keep talking about other places, other worlds," Graham said. "What do you mean?"
"You know anything about leylines, son? Dragon lines? Rifts? Intersections? Portals?"
Graham shook his head. "No, sir. Not a thing."
"Well, those would be good topics for you to research. How’s that bandage? Too tight?"
Graham nodded. "A little."
Will smiled. "Good."
"Is that it?" Graham asked.
"Just about," Will said. "You’ve signed the Book. It belongs to you now. So does the Keep. Some people in the Keep are going to be happy and excited about that. Some people in the Keep are going to be extremely upset that you’re in charge now. Different reasons for both. There are some people in the Keep that aren’t people. They’ll find you, too, like it or not."
"Well, I guess you’d run into that at any job," Graham said.
Will shrugged and looked around, as if he were trying to find a place to politely spit. "The election, the voting, it didn’t matter so much. The Keep decided it was rid of me. The Keep chose you."
Graham shook his head. "You’re talking crazy again, old man."
"Why did you move back here from Knoxville? You’ve only got a brother here and he’s doing just fine. You don’t have a woman here or property to take care of. Why would you move back?"
"I missed it here," Graham shrugged. "I grew up here. I wanted to get back to my roots."
"Whatever you need to believe," Will said. "I know the Keep called you back."
"Hey, am I supposed to feel different? Can I shoot lightning out of my fingertips or conjure up endless cups of hot coffee?"
Will laughed a little, under his breath. "That’s not exactly how it works, Graham. It’s okay. You’ll find out."
"My hand really hurts, Will. I think you may have caused some nerve damage."
"No nerve damage here," Will said, as he held up his left hand. Graham could see the ancient scar, the tissue growing together in a strange swirling design that Graham could almost read. Will wiggled his fingers around. "I think you’ll be fine."
Will leaned forward and took the gun off the table. "That’s just about it, I suppose. The Keep’s all but yours now. I can give you a little insight into how the next hour is going to go."
Graham smiled. "Wonderful. Enlighten me."
"Nobody knows where I am. I’m sure some of the boys on the force will come looking around. That’s fine. They’re supposed to do things like that. They’re going to swing by the house. When Sarah doesn’t answer the door, they’ll go around back and get the key from under the mat. I know, it’s so delightfully small town, isn’t it? The spare key under the back door mat."
Graham could hear some cheering from the bar now, along with a few boos and hisses. The election results must be coming in.
"The boys will poke around the house until they find my wife in her favorite blue chair, right there in the living
room, where I shot her."
"Where you did what?" Graham asked, standing up.
Will continued on, calmly, no excitement in his voice at all. "The radio is gonna light up like a Christmas tree once they find Sarah. People are going to want to know where I am."
Graham sat back down and looked Will in the eye. "Am I the Sheriff yet?"
"The votes haven’t come in yet, but that doesn’t really matter. The Keep wanted you for the position, so the position is yours. But if you’re asking from a legal standpoint, no. You are not officially top cop yet."
"Then I’m going to have to perform a citizen’s arrest," Graham said.
"Just wait a couple minutes," Will replied. "I’m not finished talking yet."
"You seem remarkably unconcerned about shooting your wife, Will."
Will shrugged and rubbed his hands together. "It wasn’t my idea, Graham. The Keep had me do it. The Keep knew she couldn’t keep quiet. I loved her, but Lord, she was a loudmouth."
"You’re saying the town made you kill your wife? Jesus Christ, Will!"
"Now, don’t go bringing poor Jesus into this. The Keep was around long before him."
Graham moved closer to Will, making sure he was the only thing in Will’s field of vision.
"You know what I have to do now," Graham said. "I can’t believe my first case as Sheriff is going to be you."
Will smiled. "I know what you think you have to do. It’s all right, son. It really is. The Keep is going to take care of it all. Just watch yourself. Make good choices."
"The outgoing public servant who just killed his wife is telling me to make good choices?"
The door opened. Fluorescent light spilled in from the hallway. Crowd noises from Nine Back echoed throughout the mostly empty banquet room. Shelly held a fresh drink. "The votes are in, Graham!" she said. "You’re the Sheriff!"
That break in the conversation was all Will needed. He snatched the pistol up from the table, cocked it and held it by his throat. Will blasted his chin away and gun smoke rose through the hole in the top of his head, like a bone chimney. Shelley dropped the drink that Graham found himself suddenly wanting quite badly. The glass shattered on the floor. Then the patrons from the bar start venturing out to see what that noise was. This was followed by more screaming. At some point, Graham asked someone in the crowd to call the Sheriff’s office. Even then, he found that grimly funny. He had not learned his new work number yet.
***
THE READY ROOM at headquarters had been turned into a makeshift press office. It was filled with concerned townspeople and dispassionate news reporters, some from as far away as Chattanooga. Sheriff Strahan had spent his first night on the job directing his deputies, doing paperwork and wondering what the hell happened. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy and his headache felt heavier than his head.
Deputy Moon handed him a fresh cup of coffee. "They’re getting antsy in there, Sheriff," he said. Graham sipped the coffee and grimaced.
"Well," he said, "no sense trying to bullshit them now. Let’s just tell them what we know and don’t tell them what we don’t."
"Sounds right to me, Sheriff," Deputy Moon said.
Graham clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let’s go."
Moon’s face turned bright red. "You want me up there with you?"
"I can’t remember everything," Graham said. "I’m going to need you to back me up."
He took the cup of coffee from Graham’s hand and drank it dry. "Well then, let’s go," he said. He followed Graham into the meeting room, ignoring all the flashbulbs and people shouting for attention and townsfolk wanting to know what happened to their old friend, their beloved Sheriff Brackins. Graham stood behind the old podium, which had been moved back inside, and addressed the crowd.
"Everyone please, relax and keep the noise down. Let’s just get through this." Graham cleared his throat. "I’m Sheriff Graham Strahan and this is Deputy Kevin Moon, who is functioning as Lead Investigator. Here’s what we can tell you.
"Last night, former Pullman County Sheriff William Brackins shot and killed his wife, one Sarah Allardyce McCarter Brackins, at approximately five forty-five PM. The late Mrs. Brackins was sixty-one years old. Later that evening, Sheriff Brackins committed suicide in a banquet room at the Highlander Lodge. He was sixty-five years old. We are still waiting for a toxicology report to come back, but as of right now, we don’t believe drugs or alcohol were a factor in the crime. I believe I’ll open the floor for questions now."
The reporter from the local paper jumped first. "Sheriff Strahan, how does it feel to win the election like this?"
Strahan shook his head. "Well, I did win the popular vote before any of this unpleasantness happened, so for the love of God, don’t try to build a story on that angle. It’s unprofessional and wrong. However, I don’t think we’ll be having a victory party any time soon. We’ve all lost a friend and a colleague in a crime we don’t fully comprehend yet. I appreciate everyone’s vote, but I personally feel like shit. Next question."
That Chavez guy from Knoxville television was next. He must have the Pullman County beat, Graham thought, and this is the most news he’s had in five years. "Sheriff, what about the reports of Satanic symbols being drawn on the walls of the Brackins home, allegedly with the blood of Sarah Brackins?"
Graham stepped back and let Deputy Moon handle that one. "That’s crazy talk," Moon said. "Just dumb rumors started by kids and people wanting to make it even more tragic and sensational than it already is. No symbols, nothing like that."
The woman from the Chattanooga Free Press piped up. "Sheriff, is it true that Will Brackins killed himself in front of you?"
Strahan sighed and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "That’s true."
"Did he say anything to indicate that he was capable of doing such a thing?"
Strahan scratched the back of his head. "He didn’t have to say anything. He just went ahead and did it."
The reporter wasn’t finished yet, though. "Did he seem like the kind of man who would kill his wife and himself?"
"Does anybody?" Strahan asked. "Sit down. You’re finished."
"Sheriff?" came a small voice from the crowd. It was Miss Beulah, one of the Keep’s elderlies. She was the Queen of the Amen Corner and the head of the Friends of the Library.
"Yes, Miss Beulah?"
"Sheriff, what happened to your hand?"
Graham looked down at his hand, bandaged up with a little bit of bleed-through on the palm. A flashbulb went off somewhere in the crowd. Graham smiled crookedly and held his injured hand up for all to see. A couple more people took pictures. Graham couldn’t tell who they were.
"I, uh, I burned it on the curling iron this morning, trying to get pretty for you good people."
There was gentle laughter from the crowd and Strahan sensed the hard-hitting news questions were over. He turned the conference over to Deputy Moon and went to his office.
***
OF COURSE, IT wasn’t exactly his office yet. Will Brackins’ effects still decorated the place. Awards, photographs and citations, chronicling a long career in law enforcement, now oddly besmirched and soiled because of a bad ending. He hadn’t boxed anything up yet, in case the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation wanted to look through it.
They would never find the Book of Shadows, though. Right now, that was hidden in Strahan’s personal vehicle. He would take it home and not bring it back to work until things had settled down.
There was a knock at the door. "Enter," Graham called. Deputy Moon came stumbling in through the door, his face red.
"Did I do well? Did I handle that okay?" Moon asked.
"You did just fine, Deputy," Strahan said. "You did what I told you to do at their house, right?"
Moon nodded. "Oh, yes sir," he said. "Harris and I hung that mirror up in front of whatever it was Sheriff Brackins drew on the wall. Even if the news wants to take pictures through the front window, they’ll never see it. I never saw an
ything like that before, Sheriff. What do you think it means?"
"Well, Deputy," Strahan said, "I don’t know. I reckon I’ll have to do some police work and figure it out. You got plenty of pictures of it for me, right?"
"Yes, Sheriff," Moon said. "Sure did."
"You know, Deputy," Strahan smirked, "you seem awfully eager to please."
Moon’s eyes widened. "Do I? I don’t mean to. I mean, I’ve not been on the Force that long and I’m kind of, well, I guess I’m kind of a…"
"Kind of a nerd?" Strahan finished. "And I don’t mean any offense by that."
"I guess so, Sheriff. A little nerdy."
"Well, relax," Strahan said. "I need a nerd around here. You’ll be fine."
Moon straightened a little. "Thank you, sir," he said.
"Would it offend you if I asked you to get me some hot chocolate? Then I’m gonna go home for a couple hours. Grab some sleep before TBI rolls in here and takes over the building."
"I’ll be right back," Moon said, and he scampered off to the break room.
Strahan wandered around the confines of his office, touching things, aware of history. He could smell the decades of service, the vices and fears of the men who preceded him still present somehow. Cigar smoke and gun oil, whiskey, pussy and dice.
He allowed himself a minute or two to plan how he would decorate this office once Brackins’ things were catalogued and boxed up. Maybe having the door removed would send the right message to the community, a message of open hand and no subterfuge. He would certainly move the desk over a few inches. Graham liked to look out the window while he worked. There was no sense in that desk being right in the center of the room. That seemed egotistical somehow. He would change the pictures out, too. Well, some of them, anyway.
Strahan looked at the row of yellowing photographs, hanging in a jagged row on his wall. There was a picture of the late Sheriff Brackins being sworn into office. He looked so young. Black hair, anxious smile, a tinge of worry around his eyes. Next to that was a picture of his predecessor, Sheriff Layne, being sworn in. And the Sheriff before that, and the Sheriff before that, all the way back to the early 1800’s. Men he had never heard of whose children were long dead, all of them joined in a strange lineage, a devotion and a call to a town and her people.
Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition Page 4