In the meantime, there was the matter of Boil's announcement. The sheriff pulled in and found a parking spot clear across the lot from the clinic, near the Rockfield Bank. It seemed like a quarter of the town had showed up to hear whatever the old crook had to say. Of course, many folks had already been there, providing whatever assistance to Doc Keen they could. That was the way in small towns; help your neighbor, because it's the right thing to do. And someday when you're in need, they'll return the favor.
By the time Ty walked back across the lot and shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, Boil was full into his spiel. He stood in front of the boarded-up front door of the clinic next to a stoic-looking Doctor Keen. The snake oil salesman was wearing those ridiculous Terminator sunglasses he always wore outdoors, along with a corduroy sport coat over a blue turtleneck.
"This town was built on logging," Boil said. "That proud tradition is reflected in the names of some of our great landmarks—Clearcut Cemetery, Bolt Cutter Inn… years ago, a train hauled timber from Speakers' Mill out to Salem." Boil's gaze swept over the crowd. "The mill's long since shut down. There's almost nothing left of the Bolt Cutter, and the rails out of town got ripped up for scrap…" he paused for emphasis. "And the future of Whisper Lake was left to what? The whims of fate?" Some of the folks in the crowd were nodding their heads. "Well first I brought trucking to your good town. Because of that, the logging companies are coming back… and the next thing I did was I got to restoring that old inn…" Voices were raised in acceptance and agreement. Boil gave a long, dramatic pause. "Now, last night some sorry son of a bitch tried to burn down this good doctor's clinic," he reached out and slapped a meaty hand on Keen's shoulder. "This man, who's dedicated his life to helping people. Healing people…" Boil's voice rose exultantly and the crowd's excitement rose with him.
"Well I'm here to announce my intentions… to breathe life back into this medical clinic! I will personally finance its reconstruction." Whoops and cheers greeted this statement. "We're gonna bring it back bigger and better than before! But this is just the first step! Together, we are, all of us, gonna tell fate to go screw itself!" Fists raised, pumping the air. "Together we will take our destinies back into our own hands..." Boil spread his arms like some tent-revival preacher. "And put Whisper Lake back on the map!" Voices cheered; hands clapped furiously.
Boil poured the cheese on six layers thick and the townsfolk ate it up. The old crook took several minutes to soak in the accolades. Keen shook hands with the dirtbag, who offered one more wave to the crowd before stepping away. Showing crooked teeth beneath his walrus mustache, Boil walked over to Ty, hand extended. The sheriff took Boil's thick calloused paw and squeezed, holding it steady.
"Sheriff," the charlatan said. "Glad you made it. What I said there about taking back our destiny, I meant every word." Boil returned Ty's grip firmly. "And I want you to be part of that," the old criminal continued. "Together we can accomplish great things for this town."
Somewhere behind those ridiculous shades, Ty could feel the mountebank's eyes assessing him. "Whatever your plans are," the sheriff said, "you can be sure that I'll get myself involved." The shaking stopped and for a brief moment the two men stood, face to face, hands braced, eyes locked.
Then Keith Lang, the town's resident Jimmy Olson, approached the two with his Nikon camera. Lang ran the high school newspaper and printed his own local periodical. He had aspirations of being a bona fide reporter someday, and at the rate he was going, Ty thought he might just make it stick.
"Hey guys," Keith said, "quick pic?"
The two men turned and faced the camera. Boil smiled. Ty did not. Keith snapped the photo. Boil released the sheriff's hand, slapped him on the back, and walked off to talk to the town's "mayor" Margaret Baxter— a worthless old woman who had basically gotten elected by winning a popularity contest.
Ty returned to his car, thinking that he should have told Boil to go fuck himself, knowing all the same that everything Boil had done would come home to roost. One way or another: "A gentleman accepts the responsibility of his actions and bears the burden of their consequences," William Faulkner said. Of course, Boil was no gentleman. He wasn't likely to ever accept the responsibility of his actions. Nevertheless, he would bear the burden of their consequences.
As he walked up to his driver's side door, the sheriff stopped. He had parked just in front of the Rockfield bank ATM. He walked up to the machine and leaned down to look at the camera, then turned around and stared back out, taking in the same view as the ATM camera. It wasn't a direct line of sight to the medical facility, but maybe it was close enough to have recorded something from last night when that Molotov cocktail was tossed through the window.
***
Jason's head was pounding. He couldn't get it out of his mind— the fact that he had almost killed her made him sick.
There was almost no memory of the night before; only snippets. The forest, the moon, the fabric of the Jeep top beneath his claws, the intoxicating warmth of blood (the divine essence) running through his teeth. It was a miracle that some sliver of his humanity had remained—enough to see reason, even if only long enough to allow for her escape.
But what if she wasn't so lucky next time? What if that sliver of him was lost?
Of course, Celine wasn't worried. Or scared. Nothing scared her. In fact, when she had returned later in the afternoon with food, water, and clothes (from her brother Roland's closet—man, all that guy wore was black and gray) she had been absolutely beaming. She was full of ideas, and more genuinely excited than Jason had seen her in a very long time.
She didn't know any better. He had tried to tell her about the nightmares, but she wasn't concerned. She simply didn't know enough to be afraid. Of course, Jason didn't really know anything either. There had to be a way for him to find out more. Maybe the dreams were more than just a kind of torment; maybe they were messages. He needed to learn, for both their sakes. Hell, he didn't even know if he would turn again tonight.
As he prepared to put on Roland's black button-up shirt, he looked down. Shot in the chest four times, and not a single mark. Not even a scratch. His eyes wandered to the "Hellbound" tattoo on his stomach. When he had gotten that ink, he and CJ had just thought it was cool. But there had been more to it… there was a part of Jason that believed if there really was a hell, he had probably earned himself a spot there.
You almost killed her.
On the floor nearby was an oxidized, jagged scrap of metal. It looked like something a prisoner might fashion into a shiv. Jason picked it up, held the tip to the left side of his stomach, gritted his teeth, and drew it across, over the inked letters from left to right. The wound burned. He brought the tip back, moved it up just slightly, and choked down screams of pain as he sliced across. He did this again and again….
***
There was no clock in Boil's office, so CJ didn't know how long he had been waiting. He was shaking like a leaf, begging repeatedly for Carter to just let him go and being told to shut up. It wasn't bad enough that he was being kept on the hook, but Carter had brought in a chair and forced CJ to sit facing the desk. The finger was sitting on the desktop, near the edge closest to CJ. While he sat, staring at it and going over the many different ways Honcho might have been killed, Carter stood behind him. There were noises, long metallic sounds like someone sharpening a knife. This went on for what seemed like hours until finally CJ heard Boil enter the room.
Boil walked around the desk, pulled the cigar box from the open drawer, and placed it on the desktop. He replaced the finger, closed the lid, and handed the box to Carter. The old man then sat with his elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him. He hadn't yet removed his sunglasses or coat.
"Do you honestly think there's a move you can make that I won't see coming a mile away?" He asked.
He knew. The sick sonofabitch knew I'd—oh fuck—knew I'd come here, and he left that finger there, right? On purpose. Christ.
CJ's he
art felt like it might come loose inside his chest. He remained silent. "I know junkies," the old man continued. "I know what you're thinking before you think it." He stood and removed his coat, placing it on the back of the chair. Next, he took off the glasses and placed them on the desktop. His gray eyes, pupils like bottomless wells, settled on CJ.
"I know the sheriff's lookin' to flip you," the old man said. CJ was suddenly very aware of Carter, standing just behind his right shoulder. Something flashed in the corner of his eye. Was that a reflection off a knife blade?
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck…
Boil was still standing, rolling up his shirt sleeves. "That must make you feel like you've got no more options. Hence, you come here for the gun."
"Please Mr. Boil, I—" Pain exploded on the right side of CJ's forehead. Carter must have hit him with the end of the knife handle.
"I told you last time about interrupting me, son," Boil said. He began rolling the other sleeve. "Now, if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that there are always options."
Boil stood facing CJ for a moment, assessing him carefully. CJ closed his eyes and waited for the first punch. There was silence, and the sound of Boil walking away. The old man stepped around and sat at his desk again. "So here's what you're gonna do for me. You're gonna tell our good Sheriff Barclay exactly what I tell you to tell him. And you're gonna be real convincing…"
The old man leaned forward, locking the gaping pits of his eyes on CJ. "As if your life depended on it."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was just after nine a.m. when Celine stepped (with only the slightest limp) into the Whisper Lake Sheriff's Station, looking and feeling like a million bucks… aside from the rumbling in her stomach. She had woken up early, fixed herself a full breakfast, and was already hungry again.
Admittedly, as she drifted to sleep the night before she wondered what kind of fucked-up nightmares might torment her, based on Jason's warning. But she had experienced only one dream that she remembered: she had been racing through a forest of massive, vine-covered trees, reveling in the cool air on her face and the leafy soil beneath her feet. Moonlight had filtered through the canopy, casting beams of silver light. It was beautiful, but beyond that it felt… right. Only toward the end of this fantasy did she realize she had been running not on two feet, but on four.
As she sat across from Sheriff Barclay inside his office she recapped in her head all the things she had been rehearsing on the ride over. It took her a moment to realize that the sheriff had already started talking.
"Hm?" She asked.
"I said that Jason's mom, Bethany, doesn't wish to file a report. What I want to know is, what would you like to do?"
"Yeah. Yes, I would like to file a report."
"Still think CJ's involved?"
"Maybe. But that's not why I'm here now."
Ty leaned back in his chair and waited, lips slightly parted. Celine continued:
"I want to intern here."
The sheriff's eyebrows shot up. "You what?"
"I've spent a long time… not really knowing what I'm doing. What I want. These last few weeks, it just kind of became clear. I want to do something in law enforcement. Even if it just means office work, a couple days a week, for now that's fine. Eventually… who knows? Maybe I could be a cop or something."
"There wouldn't be any pay for an internship," Ty replied.
"I'd stay on at the Wayside, and whenever I don't work here, I'd work there."
A loud exhale escaped Ty as he ran a hand over the thin gray hair of his balding head. "You were recently a victim of assault. I don't know that having you here—"
"Please," she said. "Look, I can help. I know I can. I'll do whatever you tell me. What else am I gonna do? Keep living with my Mom in a single wide? I don't want to end up like her."
The sheriff jabbed a finger at Celine saying "Don't you disrespect your Mother." His face actually turned red. Celine was quiet for a moment before saying "My life sucks, okay? I want to do more. I need to do more. I think I can learn a lot from you but you gotta give me a chance."
Ty lowered his hand, looked down at his desk, and exhaled heavily.
***
The word HELLBOUND was still there, plain as the daylight outside the mill. There weren't even any scars from Jason's cutting.
Earlier in the morning he had packed a barrel in the old boiler room with wood. Just a few moments ago, as the sun dropped below the western peaks, he lit a fire. His head throbbed from the constant bombardment of chemical odors. At least he hadn't turned last night, and wasn't worried about turning tonight; or the one after or the one after that, all the way until the next full moon.
But that was about all he knew. Though he had slept restlessly, there had been no dreams. None that he could remember anyway. Instead of feeling relieved he was simply confused. If the earlier nightmares had been messages, did their absence mean that the messages had come to an end?
Something else: although his senses were still heightened, they weren't nearly as sharp as they had been just before the turning. Celine's Jeep was less than a half mile away when he finally heard it.
A moment later she was there, a stack of blankets over one arm, and a large bottle of water in her right hand.
"Well," she began, "It's official. You're missing."
She dropped the blankets and handed him the water, which he accepted gratefully. The fire inside the barrel popped.
After a hefty swig of water Jason replied: "The CID will come looking for me, you know."
Celine nodded. "You'll have to lay low for a while."
Jason capped the water and set it down. "Next time you come, can you bring a pad and paper? I want to write down what I remember of my dreams. I want you to be as prepared as you can be."
"So far…" Celine bent over and pulled up her left pant leg. There was no bandage; only the slightest scabs and bruising. "This… whatever it is, is fine. It's better than fine. I feel great. Last night in my dreams I was running free. It felt good. It felt great! It felt… right."
It wouldn't do any good to debate the point further. Not until Jason had the opportunity to do more research. "How'd the rest of it go?" he asked.
Turning to the fire, Celine warmed her hands over it. Jason couldn't read her expression. "He didn't like the idea."
"Yeah, I—"
"At first. And then, then he said that with the attack on me and you going missing and the business with the bite and my Jeep, that having me close by might be the only way to keep me out of trouble. It's only three days a week, but…"
She turned toward him, and as she smiled in that radiant firelight, flames flickering in her eyes, she looked more beautiful than ever.
"I start tomorrow!"
***
The sheriff wouldn't say it, couldn't say it, but he was excited by the prospect of Celine working at the station. It would be strange, but… nice to have her around.
He hadn't mentioned it to her, but a reply to his fax enquiry regarding similar assault cases, from Salem P.D., had come in yesterday. A man wearing a black ski mask had beaten two women within the last month. Upon receiving the sheriff's fax, the women had been asked if they had recently undergone abortions.
Both had said yes.
Aside from bomb threats to the hospital and a few local clinics, Salem police had no further leads, but this latest info made Ty think—maybe their suspect lived in Salem, and had friends or family in Whisper Lake. Or vice versa.
Given Celine's situation, with Jason missing, he hadn't thought it prudent to pursue the abortion line of questioning with her. But now that she was coming on board, there would be ample opportunities to broach the subject.
The sheriff was whistling, pouring himself a coffee when fortune smiled once again: his lieutenant, Melissa Embury, had acquired the Rockfield ATM's camera footage first thing that morning. She swept into the break room somewhat dramatically, fixed her sky blue eyes on Ty and said: "Aren't
you Mr. Happy today? I've got something that'll brighten your mood even more."
Intrigued, he followed her into the interview room where they kept the TV and VCR. There she rewound the tape, directed the sheriff's attention to the screen, and pressed "play."
"The fire-bomb happens off screen," she said. "But, a few seconds later, this happens…" Grainy black and white footage showed a light-colored small car, what looked like a Ford Fiesta, speeding across the parking lot. Melissa rewound, hit "play" again, then "pause" just as the vehicle crossed under the light pole. The time stamp on the screen read 8:07 PM.
Melissa gazed at Ty expectantly. The sheriff scrunched his lower lip, bobbed his head from side to side. "Not close enough to get a plate number, and we don't have a color… "
The lieutenant's eyebrows dipped to a frown. "Just shut up and tell me 'good work'."
Ty rolled his eyes. "Fine, good work. Get the vehicle description out to all the local departments. I'll get Salem P.D. on the line."
At his desk, Ty had just sat down, hand reaching for the receiver, when the phone rang. He picked up and before he could even say "hello" CJ's voice said "Carl's Junkyard, ten tonight" and hung up.
***
Old Carl had owned a junkyard dog at one time, until it died of cancer. How fucked up is that? CJ thought. Even dogs die of cancer. Carl never bothered replacing the animal, which was one of the reasons Boil had chosen the location. That and the fact that Carl provided scrap and vehicle parts to Boil, who paid handsomely. All CJ had to do was make it look like he had chosen it; that he needed someplace remote— make it look like he was terrified of Boil finding out. The terrified part wouldn't be so hard to pull off.
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