It had been a long time since she had heard Jason's voice, and it calmed her now; made the past couple of days seem almost bearable. Jason, however, sounded… rough. Both emotionally and physically, like someone who had been sick for a while and was trying to remember how to be healthy.
"I just heard what happened," he said. "How're you feeling?"
"Like shit," Celine responded. "Got a cool new scar under my left eyebrow, though."
There was a heavy exhale on the other end. "Jesus…"
"Don't worry about me. I'm tough."
"Oh I know. I just wish I was there. At least I'm back in the States. Got in this morning."
"Fort Stewart?"
"Yeah. I've got plenty of sick leave; just waiting on paperwork. I'll catch a plane soon as I can."
"Sounds good," Celine said. "How are you? How's your arm?"
"Pain don't hurt." Celine could hear the smile in Jason's voice. It was his favorite line from the movie Roadhouse. Never made a lick of sense to her, but she liked that he liked it.
"I got a sore-ass face that says otherwise," she answered.
There was a "hmph" on the other end, then silence for a long moment. Celine was just about to ask if he was still there when Jason said, "Do you really think it was CJ who did this to you?"
You're fuckin' right it was. "Whoever it was wore a mask. But if you're asking me what I think… yeah. Yeah I think it must have been."
Another moment of silence. "Don't you worry," Jason answered. "You're gonna be okay. You don't need to worry about anything." His voice was grim. Determined.
They talked for another ten minutes before Jason reluctantly said he had to go. After hanging up, Celine went and looked in the mirror. "Don't worry about me. I'm tough," she had said. And she was. But she was also angry, frustrated, humiliated, tired, hurting... and it all seemed to hit her at once. She broke down in front of that mirror, her body wracked with long gusting sobs, tears flowing and not stopping until she heard Mom's Pinto pulling up outside.
***
Sheriff Barclay often fantasized that he was enforcing the law in another era, like maybe the turn of the century or the roaring twenties. He enjoyed imagining the relative simplicity of the job. The flexibility. There were rules, sure, but that didn't mean you had to follow them. The gray areas were a lot grayer. He liked to imagine that back then the wheels of justice might have spun a bit more freely.
As he sat across from CJ Pruitt in the sheriff station's only interrogation room—a close space with one small table and only two chairs—Ty was wishing he could have just tossed CJ's worthless ass in a cell and let him stew until the prick felt like talking. But that wouldn't fly; no sir, not in this day and age.
"Cynthia Proust was out walking her dogs over by the laundromat, two blocks away from the Wayside. She saw you running, watched you hop into a box truck and saw the vehicle speed away."
Enough had existed in the way of probable cause for Ty to arrest CJ if he had wanted. But even as stupid as CJ was, the sheriff was fairly certain that good ol' monkey dick here would have said nary a word aside from "get me a lawyer." So Ty opted for the softball approach: bring the little shitstick in, let him know he was free to leave at any time, and that he didn't have to answer any questions… and then set to work on him and see how the cookie crumbled.
CJ couldn't sit still. Ty recognized the signs of withdrawal. Right now the dipshit junkie's insides probably felt like a nest of snakes. It would only get worse. "Man I told you twice already I wasn't anywhere near there," he said, scratching at the inside of his arm as if trying to dislodge a burrowed tic.
Ty stood and walked close to the needle dick. "Cynthia says it was you. But look, maybe you can get out from under all this. If I have to press charges you're lookin' at jail time. What's your boss gonna think of that? Talk to me and let's work on keepin' you out of a cage."
CJ shot Ty a look. The sheriff could tell that a cold realization was dawning on CJ, of just how fucked he might be. He ran both hands through his ridiculous hair.
"I was… alright look, I slashed her tires, okay? I was pissed, man. I know she's the one who dumped my fucking truck in the lake. I know that shit, okay? So yeah I slashed her fucking tires but that's it, man, that's it. That's all I did. I didn't beat her up, I wouldn't do that."
A lot of years Ty had been on the job. He even dared to think from time to time that he'd gotten pretty good at it. And here was the rub, he believed CJ. As far as he could tell, the kid wasn't feeding him a load of horseshit. Which meant Ty was looking for someone else, one of CJ's junkie friends maybe? Maybe…
Even if CJ wasn't the one, it could be that the Good Lord had dropped an opportunity in Ty's lap. Just because Ty believed CJ, didn't mean the shitbird needed to know that.
Ty half sat on the table and leaned an elbow on his leg, he got in real close and said: "Let's talk about your boss."
***
There was a picture, a 3 x 5 of Jason and CJ. It was taken by their buddy Dirk in the summer of '86. The two of them were just a couple of skinny kids. CJ had shot a rabbit with his crossbow. Jason had helped chase the rabbit out of the brush and into CJ's line of sight. In the picture, he and CJ were smiling. His friend was holding up the rabbit proudly with his left hand, his right arm around Jason's shoulders. Jason's left hand was on CJ's shoulder. Yes, Jason was smiling in the picture, trying to be cool in front of his friends. But the truth was he had felt sorry for the rabbit—felt like crap for killing it. CJ, if he had felt anything, had not shown it.
Jason had found the picture when he returned from Germany, among the personal effects he had left behind at Fort Stewart. He sat now, staring at the photo, his rage simmering. The attempted rape was him, there was no doubt… but the beating? Had CJ really fallen so far? Had he changed so completely in the relatively short time Jason had been gone? Was it the drugs? Maybe, but that was no excuse.
Thoughts of CJ forcing himself on Celine, of him beating her, bubbled to the surface slowly for now... kept on low heat, at least for the time being.
Being released on medical leave had somewhat eased Jason's burdened mind. Lack of sleep and paranoia had dogged him for so long that he had started to no longer recognize the man in the mirror. Knowing that the military was not determined to lock him up had brought him back in line, centered him, even if only just a bit. And his arm…
His arm was fully healed at this point. He only kept the bandages on because he felt like if he didn't, no one would believe he'd really been hurt. Even the scars were fading. Which while great, was also odd.
Jason looked out the airplane window where the first light of day was coloring the sky. He wiped his hand over tired eyes and a stubbly chin. He had fought sleep ever since takeoff. It wouldn't be cool to wake up screaming on a plane full of people. Not that the Vietnamese family behind him was displaying any consideration, they'd been arguing at full volume for the past ten minutes. Even as he thought this, though, they finally shut up.
The absence of that particular noise allowed other sounds to reach Jason's ears: behind the Vietnamese people a fat man was snoring, and behind him a little girl was humming to herself. Across the aisle from the little girl a man with a slight cough was whispering the words of his book to himself as he read… and Jason—it was just his imagination, it had to be—could hear the words. He focused on the hushed speech— "There are no words for childhood's dark turns and exhalations…"
A chill traced its way through Jason's veins. Why could he hear the whispers of a man three rows back over the noise of the engines? He closed his eyes. The rush of sounds continued: the clatter of ice in a freshly-emptied, descending cup; the food cart coming up the aisle; the crinkle of a magazine being folded; the gushing sound of a nose being blown; and conversations… a myriad of conversations. "How often do you visit Portland?" "I told him I was married…" "Yeah but their defense sucks." "The Invisible Man says, 'I don't know but my ass is killin' me!" – and, a meow. A meow from somewhere… b
elow. From what Jason could only assume was the plane's cargo hold.
Am I really hearing this?
Then, just as suddenly as it came on, the sensation receded. The Vietnamese husband fired heated words at his wife, and there was no more meowing; no more crinkles of magazines, no more whispered reading; only snippets of conversations too hushed to make out.
The experience of enhanced hearing had been bizarre, yet… exhilarating. Jason felt a rush. Energy coursed through the entirety of his body. It was as if he had just downed a gallon of coffee. Inside his pants, his dick lengthened, stiffened, pressing against his boxers and straining against his jeans so hard it ached.
What the fuck is happening to me?
The stewardess pushed the food cart just past his row, then leaned over to the seats across from him, asking if those passengers wanted anything to eat. Jason stared at her ass and fought back the sudden urge to whip up her skirt, rip off her panties, and fuck her right there.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Though the sun was rising outside, it was dark as hell inside the boss's office.
Newspapers had been taped across the windows behind the blinds. Boil wore sunglasses outside, said his eyes were sensitive to the light. Creepy fucker.
CJ's knees were shaking as he stood in front of Boil's metal desk. There was no chair, just bare walls and a concrete floor. Another kind of interrogation room.
Carter, the boss's main man, was standing to CJ's left, hands clasped in front of him. He had actually patted CJ down before letting him in, like CJ was going to pull a piece on the boss. Homeboy was built like a Mack truck. Didn't talk much. People who didn't talk much freaked CJ out. The boss wasn't talking right now either. He was too busy stuffing his face full of crab, and blowing airy gusts out of his nose onto his push-broom mustache like he was tryin' to clear a booger. The plastic bib he was wearing over his turtleneck that read "I've got crabs!" would have been fucking hilarious under any other circumstances.
What's he want with me? Why's it so— Goddamn I'd kill for a smoke.
"You know what I do, son?" the old man asked, mouth full of flaky white meat, a maimed claw in his left hand.
Just be cool. Chill out, it's good, it's good. "Sir?"
"It's a simple question. Do you know what I do?"
"Uh…" CJ answered. The old man sucked juice and anything else that remained from the claw shell, emitted a sharp belch, dropped the claw and said "I provide a service. A service frowned upon by the men and women of law enforcement—" he said this last with air quotes, dripping juice and flakes onto the table. "It all started with the fuckin chinks, see. Opium. Back in the early 1900s you could get opium anywhere. Fucking cough syrup. We used to sell that shit to China. Then the feds came and stuck their dicks in everybody's mashed potatas. Pretty soon there's talk about controlling the trade. Not just opium, though. Heroin, morphine, cocaine… Everything went to hell in a handcart from there."
Where the fuck is he going with this? Jesus I wish I could lay down. I just want to lay down.
Boil took a spear of meat, dipped it in butter, shoved it in his trap, and kept talking. "This great country of ours was built on freedom. Freedom's about bein' free to make choices. People want to get high, let 'em get high!" The old man took a swig of what looked like ginger ale from a clear cup. "What happens when you make the shit illegal is the addicts will get it anyway. But, they have to pay a higher price for it so they steal. They rob people. They kill people. It's the fucking law that's creating the crime. Now there's an ironic fucking racket. Someone like me, I run a business. I don't like people fucking with my business. This nonsense with the bitch, gettin' the police involved…"
CJ started shaking his head. "I didn't—"
He never saw Carter move, just felt the explosion of hot pain in his gut. He doubled over but Carter held him up.
"It's best you don't interrupt me, son." Boil yanked at the second claw. It came free from the body of the crab with a wet pop that made CJ jump. "You know, you remind me of another driver I had a while back. Honcho was the name. I never cared much for tattoos myself… Honcho had a few, not like your—whatcha got there, some Indian thing?" Boil pointed with the crab cracker at CJ's left arm, which was bracing his tortured gut. "Yes sir, I have tribal blood in me..."
"No shit?" The old man smiled at Carter, who stood as still as a statue. "Honcho wasn't no Indian but he had some ink, mostly symbols and such. Had one o' them… what's it, an infinity symbol on his right pointer finger."
I just want to go. Let me leave, man. I need a do up. I want to float. Just fucking float away…
The old man took the metal shell cracker, put the claw between the handles and squeezed. A loud crack broke the silence and made CJ flinch. "Honcho couldn't keep himself out of trouble. Fights, DUIs, shit like that. Always spendin' time with the cops. Word came round to me at one point that Honcho thought about telling the cops my business..."
CJ started shaking his head. Boil took his pinkie and dug out a chunk of meat, popped it in his mouth and said "He had a change of heart though." The old man mopped up butter with the crab meat. "Did Sheriff Barclay ask you about me? About what I do?" Boil said before stuffing the meat in his mouth, butter dribbling down his chin.
"He did, yeah but I swear to Christ I didn't—I told him that I drive trucks. And you run things—the company, is all. You run this company and that's all I said. Nothin' else, at all."
Boil's giant black-hole eyes were fixed on CJ, weighing his words. Assessing. A single drop of butter suspended from his chin. CJ was vaguely aware that he was taking a test; a test where pass and fail, and life and death were the same things. Boil's eyes shifted to Carter.
Oh fuck, oh God…
The eyes returned to CJ. The old man wiped his chin and took another drink from the cup. "He tell you not to leave town?" he asked.
"He-he said to let him know if I was leaving, where I was going." CJ went back to scratching at his arm. "I told him I didn't do what I was bein' accused of and I guess, I think he must have believed me."
Please let me leave, please let me leave…
"Isn't that nice," Boil replied, his jaw muscles bunching. He swallowed. "You tell him you're running a load out to Salem. What you don't need to tell him is that you're picking up someone there. Understand?"
Oh thank you Jesus…
"Yes sir."
"Carter'll tell you the rest." Boil sucked the remaining juice out of the shell.
Boil nodded to Carter, who pulled on CJ's arm.
"Son?" Boil called out. Carter yanked CJ to a stop. CJ turned to look back at the old man, who stopped chewing long enough to say, "Stay out of trouble." CJ nodded and was taken to the door.
He had never been so happy to see daylight.
***
Celine drove to Jason's house before sunrise. Her pain pills hadn't kicked in yet and if she breathed too deeply she got a sharp, stabbing jolt in her rib. The left side of her face ached, too. The skin there was a lovely blue/green/yellow. She had sucked her third cigarette down to the filter by the time she pulled into the driveway.
Bethany was outside preparing to load Trish into the minivan. Celine climbed out of the Jeep onto the gravel. Trish called out something that sounded like "Gaahh" and waved her arms. Celine ran over and gave her a great big hug.
Then she looked to Bethany and said "Hey," as if the two of them had spoken days and not months ago. "Glad I caught you… I thought maybe I could ride along, if that's okay? No sense in both of us driving to the airport separately."
Bethany leveled an even stare at Celine, and responded: "Suits me. Been meanin' to talk to you anyway, now."
The way she said "now" made it seem as if there was more to be said, but Bethany ended the thought there.
The drive to Portland was spent in protracted, awkward silence, broken only by the occasional vocalization from Trish in the back seat. Whatever Bethany had wanted to talk to Celine about, she didn't seem to be in a hurry to get to it.
"So," Celine finally said, "I bet you're lookin' forward to having Jason back."
"I don't want you comin' around the house," Bethany blurted out. "Whatever it is you got yourself mixed up in, whatever my son gets mixed up in with you, I don't want you bringin' it to my home, to Trish."
So that was it. Of course. Bethany thought that Celine had brought the beating on herself. That it was her fault. For just a brief second Celine questioned whether the big old woman was right.
Fuck that.
Celine felt heat rising. "I didn't ask for what happened to me!" She shot back.
"Everything you do in this life," Bethany continued, "Comes back to call on you; comes right back to your doorstep. Good and bad alike. You just make sure it stays on your doorstep and doesn't come to settle on mine."
The rest of the drive was spent in silence, Celine staring out the window, craving a cigarette.
They arrived at the airport and waited twenty minutes. Celine pulled a few strands of wavy black hair over the left side of her face. She wasn't a vain woman but still, the bruises—it wasn't the way she wanted to greet Jason when he finally made it home.
Trish was waiting expectantly, head cocked to one side, moving and contorting her limbs in nervous anticipation. Beth stood behind the wheelchair, lips pressed tightly together. Then, Celine saw Trish's eyes light up. She turned to see Jason pushing through the revolving door from the terminals into the baggage claim.
Trish leaned forward in her chair, holding her arms out and voicing loud, happy moans. Jason gave her a huge hug and a kiss on the forehead.
Beth came around from the back of the chair. Jason embraced her and when he did, she barely lifted her own arms in return. He pulled back and held her shoulders, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he turned to Celine.
She noted the brace on his left arm. Aside from that, he looked good. No, he looked beautiful. Hard and strong. Not just as good as she remembered, but somehow better; even more fit, a touch bigger, if not a little scruffy—apparently he had forgotten to shave. She grabbed his head, pulled him to her, and kissed him with abandon, pain be damned. She was ready to rip his clothes off right then and there. When she pulled away he smiled at her and brushed away the hair covering her bruise. She saw a change in his eyes; a shift from the Jason she knew to someone she had never met— even as mad as he had ever gotten at her or around her, this was a look that had never crossed his eyes. It was an expression utterly devoid of pity or empathy, the cold gaze of a predator. And maybe it was just a shift in the light outside, but it sure as hell seemed as if his blue eyes had gotten just a touch brighter.
Whisper Lake (The Turning Book 2) Page 5