Whisper Lake (The Turning Book 2)

by Micky Neilson

  Carter fired, obliterating the security chief's neck just below the jaw. As the man fell, Carter closed the distance and stood an instant later over the prone, moaning Mastroni, silencer hovering just inches from his left eye.

  "Carter?" the boss said. His face twisted. "Aaaghh! Son of a bitch!"

  "Where's Ralph?" Carter asked.

  "Wha—Ralph? Jesus Christ, kid you didn't—"

  In one swift motion Carter flicked the barrel to Mastroni's right leg and blasted it.

  "AAGGHHH!!!"

  "Where's Ralph?"

  "Fuck! Christ! The goddamn rec room, last I know. Look Carter, I—"

  Carter swung the barrel back to the Don's forehead and cut off the rest of his sentence with a single trigger pull.

  Movement sounded from the bottom floor. The Remington's work was done. Carter tossed it, yanked the mini Uzi from its holster and hit the stairs at a blistering pace. Bullets from below shredded the banister and wall to his left as he descended. Several struck his vest, one skimmed his left temple, at least three ripped through his arms and two more bored through his legs. He managed to keep moving, holding the Uzi steady and fanning it as he descended. By the time he reached the base of the steps, seven of Mastroni's security force lay staring at the ceiling through lifeless eyes.

  Blood poured from a host of wounds all over his body. But he would live.

  Uzi held at the ready, he limped north through the library, then the parlor. Along a hallway he came upon one of Mastroni's boy toys, wearing tight shorts and nothing else. The young man was running from the other end of the hall and nearly collided with Carter when he looked up, emitted a clipped, terrified groan and pressed his back against the wall. He hugged his elbows tight to his ribs, hands clasped under his chin. Carter passed the whimpering wreck and shouted "Ralph!"

  Coming to an office on the right, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. A young dark-haired man had just emerged from beneath a desk in the room's center. He was shaking as he stepped around the desk corner, eyebrows drawn up in the middle, mouth working between expressions of shock and delight. This young man also wore tiny shorts and nothing else. His body was coated in an almost orange fake tan.

  As Carter stepped into the office, transferring the Uzi to his left hand, his brother rushed forward and wrapped him in a tight hug. "Oh thank God. Thank God, bro… you have no—no idea what I've been through."

  Laying the Uzi on the table, Carter placed his right hand on the back of Ralph's head. "You came for me," Ralph continued. "The Don, is he—"

  "Dead," Carter said and gently pushed on Ralph's right shoulder. His little brother looked up at him and smiled. "Oh God, thank you. How bad are you hurt, we need to get you—" Carter put his palm on Ralph's cheek and said "Things have changed for me. Things are different now. I've been thinking a lot about you, about what happened. I know you've suffered," Carter paused and locked eyes with Ralph. His brother's smile faded as he looked into Carter's eyes and recognized that "gift" of blankness.

  "But you're not going to suffer anymore," Carter finished.

  The hand slid from Ralph's cheek, back to his shoulder and spun him around. Carter whipped his left arm around his little brother's neck, grasped his own right bicep, placed his right hand to the back of Ralph's head, and squeezed his elbows together—a sleeper hold that would cut off the oxygen to Ralph's brain. "You became a liability to me. I ran because of you." Ralph stiffened, swatting blindly at Carter's head and arms. "Never again," Carter said. After thirty seconds he felt the tension in Ralph's body subside. The arms relaxed, then fell. The body in his arms turned to dead weight.

  "Never again," he repeated as he let his little brother go.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Jack's house was kind of like the old man himself, a crazy, confusing mess: old coffee and flour cans, an ice box, a wood stove, baskets, blankets—a shitload of blankets—snowshoes, fishing poles, books, bird cages, a spittoon, signs for a bunch of different gas stations…

  A lot of this shit looks like antiques. I wonder how much it's worth?

  CJ sat on a blanket-draped couch—wearing one of Jack's cowboy shirts—in what he assumed was the living room, waiting for the old Indian. A lot of what he was looking at seemed like woman stuff. CJ assumed the old man had been married, and began wondering what happened to his wife.

  Just then Jack entered the room. At some point after leaving CJ, the old man had taken off his hat and untied his thick, gray/white hair. "Follow me," Jack said.

  The sky outside Jack's house matched the old man's hair. It was still light out, but if there was a sun somewhere, CJ had no clue where it was hiding. In front of Jack's house was mostly open ground. Beyond that was a dirt road. Across the road, nearly lost amid weeds and bushes, was a structure that looked like it was half trailer, half shack. Sitting near the trailer shack was the remains of a car, a stack of tires, and a sumo wrestler-sized Indian sitting in a lawn chair that through some miracle was actually holding his weight.

  Jack called out "Hey" to the man. "Hey, Jack," the man called back. He reached a pudgy hand into a cooler and lifted out a can of beer.

  Grass, weeds, and dirt weren't the only thing in Jack's front yard. There was a sturdy old weeping willow, a milk crate, several piles of rocks, and parked off to the side opposite the willow tree, a jalopy of a truck that reminded CJ of the logger's crummies he saw in black and white pictures in Whisper Lake.

  Jack circled his hand in front of him, palm aimed at the ground. "You're gonna build a medicine wheel. The sacred circle representing the four directions and the elements."

  CJ frowned and scrunched up his nose as if he smelled a skunk, mouth hanging open at a slant. "What? Why?"

  "To learn more about yourself, dumbass. Each direction has a lesson to teach." Jack held up a finger. "Most important, for you, is focus. Your head's all fucked up from years of poison. Forgot what it is to concentrate on a problem and find the answer."

  Jack pulled up the milk crate and plopped his ass on it. The old man was clearly determined. CJ didn't see a way out of this unless he just ran, but he had already worked through that in his head. Just didn't make sense to leave right now. Besides, he was hungry and after he did this crap maybe he could eat.

  "Okay, fine. Do I like draw a circle in the dirt with a stick, or—"

  "Hell no," Jack answered with mild disgust, then tipped his head toward the piles of stones. "You're gonna use those."

  Twenty minutes later CJ was sweating his ass off. He had removed his shirt in spite of the chill air, and he was hungrier than ever. What he had to show for his work was a roughly twelve-foot diameter circle indicated by several rocks, with larger rocks at the ends of the "directions." Jack said these larger rocks symbolized animal guardians. The old man had done nothing but stare at the tree while CJ had worked, sometimes chanting softly to himself. When CJ had been about halfway done Jack had told him to think about the cycle of life, death and rebirth as he placed the stones.

  Finally, CJ put the last rock down to complete the circle and said "Okay, circle's done. Let's eat."

  "Now you make the spokes," Jack said. "As you create them, think about the areas of your life that lack balance."

  Head lolling, CJ stumbled over to stand in front of Jack at the milk crate. He leaned down, hands on his knees. "Let me tell you about a lack of balance, Bull Run. I got lack of balance in my stomach, because I'm hungry and there's no food in it. Got lack of balance in the rest of my body because it's hot and the air's cold. Got all kinds of balance lacking so why don't we call it a fucking day and eat?"

  At first the old man was silent. CJ waited. Jack leaned in. "You think you got it tough? What do you know about hardship, daffodil?" The old man stood up then, and though CJ was taller by an inch, he felt himself shrinking before the steady gaze and the weathered face of the Indian. "So your old man left you. So your mom ran off with who-knows-who, so what? You made your own choices."

  Jack circled, picking
up a large stone. He then advanced, backing CJ under the shade of the willow. "You could have done something with your life. You have no fucking idea…" the old man stepped under the thickest branch, looking up as he did so. "How precious every single breath is. Every moment, every embrace, every kiss." He lowered those eyes to CJ's… "Instead of wasting your life…" he shoved the rock into CJ's gut, backing him against the tree. "Try living it."

  ***

  Father Dreiling owned twenty acres of land on the northeastern outskirts of Whisper Lake. It had been an hour's walk for Jason and during that time he had been rained on twice. His mind flashed back to the nightmare that had awoken him before dawn: it had been the older Haversaw again, the one he had killed— terror-filled eyes, loose, open mouth. He had just been standing there, head lolled to one side. This version of the dream had been different from the others, though. This time the man had been bleeding from a gash in his arm. He had held the arm out toward Jason and said "For you."

  When it had come time for him to search he told Mom he was going for a walk, went out to meet Celine, and shared the dream. What could it mean? Another message from the goddess? Or nothing more than his guilty conscience tormenting him?

  Jason had spent a good portion of his walk along the only major road that led out this way looking for a place that might house Ghost. There were only a handful of farms, and Jason detected no chemical odor or drifting smoke near any of them. They had less than a week to find the kid, but where Jason was going now was of the utmost importance for ensuring his mother's and Trish's safety.

  As he made his way down the long driveway toward the Dreiling Farmhouse, rays of light speared through the cloud cover. Soon he spotted the pastor kneeling behind a row crop tractor, performing some kind of work on a rototiller.

  Wiping his hands with a rag, the pastor stood. He saw Jason and his head drew back in surprise, but a warm smile soon spread across his face and a mostly-clean right hand extended in greeting.

  Jason asked for a place to talk in private and a moment later found himself in the barn, seated on a wooden bench while the pastor leaned against a support beam, the sunlight painting diagonal stripes across his coveralls.

  "I don't know your reasons for wanting to disappear," the pastor said. "But I haven't told anyone about the day you came to church."

  "I know," Jason said. "I appreciate that."

  "What can I do to help you now?" Dreiling asked.

  Leaning forward, wringing his hands, Jason said "It's Trish. She's… sick. I need someone to look after both her and Mom. Give them a place to stay."

  "Does Trish need to see a doctor?"

  "A doctor can't fix what's wrong with her," Jason said. "I may be able to do something but by doing it I'm also putting my family at risk. If you do agree to help, you'd have to not tell anyone. If you did, you'd be putting your family at risk as well."

  "I see," Dreiling said carefully.

  Jason looked down. "Mom, she would never leave her home for anyone, except… God, I guess. And to her, you're the next best thing."

  Father Dreiling walked toward the barn doors, staring outside, hands in his pockets. "I'm a vessel, nothing more." Jason waited through a long silence. Finally, the pastor said "Your mother's a very strong woman. She's been through a lot. Your dad's death and then… thinking that you may have died also. She didn't show it but I think all the hardship nearly broke her. If anything were to happen to Trish…"

  "It won't," Jason said. "I won't let it."

  Dreiling turned, nodding. "God saw fit to bring you here, now, for a reason. I'll talk with Becky," he said, speaking of his wife. Most Catholic priests weren't married; the religion prohibited it. But Dreiling was Anglican—and married—before joining Catholocism. "As long as she's okay with it, your mother and Trish will have a home here."

  Jason found himself thinking once again about the pastor's assertion in the confessional that faith could stand against the pagan goddess. But Jason was unwilling to pray to a God he didn't believe in.

  Right now the only thing he had faith in was that time, especially for Trish, was running out.

  ***

  The realization had struck Celine like a thunderbolt as she had driven home from Jason's house.

  Why hadn't she thought of it before?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid…

  In her dad's notes, the sheriff had mentioned a possible connection between Carl, his junkyard, and Boil.

  The junkyard occupied several acres about ten miles southeast of Boil's trucking terminal, off Eagle Nest Road. There wasn't much nearby: a few open fields, a nursery.

  When Celine pulled up along the roadside, and spotted a white plume of smoke drifting up and out from somewhere behind the main building, she nearly jumped out of her seat. Not only was there smoke, but a faint chemical smell in the air as well. Leaving her Jeep behind the tree line, Celine made her way to the edge of the property, climbed the wall, and snuck around the offices to the trash heaps beyond. There she hid behind the remains of what had once been a school bus and peered further in the lot. Not far away sat an old but big—40 foot, she guessed—motor home with smoke billowing from somewhere up top. Standing several feet from the main door of the vehicle was a fat man in a flannel jacket holding a rifle.

  Fucking bingo. Alert the media. I found him; Jesus Christ I found him!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Celine had told Jason, as they both stood in the forest at the back edge of Bethany's property. His eyes had lit up and watered; the two of them had embraced, and a flood of joy coursed through her. Elation mixed with lust, she would have fucked him right then but it wasn't the time or the place.

  They both agreed that they had to be careful not to tip Boil off that they were snooping around. They needed to be smart. Jason said he would come up with a plan over the next several hours. Celine notified him that she was due at the station and she had left in good spirits. Maybe she could help fix what she had nearly destroyed, and get back into Jason's good graces.

  She was still smiling when she walked into the sheriff's station. Agent Bagby was there, speaking with Lieutenant Embury. Embury was crying. When Bagby saw Celine, she approached her immediately and said "we need to talk."

  They proceeded to the break room, where the agent poured herself a hot cup of coffee. "This isn't going to be easy," she said. "But there's been a development." Turning from the counter she asked "coffee?" Celine shook her head. The woman proceeded to a small table against the wall, took one of the two chairs there and motioned for Celine to sit across from her. Celine sat, eyeing the other woman intently.

  "I know the past few months have been difficult, and I'm afraid this news is going to be the most difficult of all:" the ground seemed suddenly unsteady as Celine's breathing quickened. "Our lab in Portland was able to identify the remains that were taken from the house. Two of the deceased were the brothers, Ned and Troy. The third victim…"

  Celine knew what she would say before she said it: "Was your father. I'm sorry, Miss Armistead, I really am…"

  Bagby's voice receded, becoming more and more distant as Celine felt the crimson tide rising within; her blood coming to a boil, pounding up into her throat. In one thoughtless burst of movement, she was out of her seat and charging through the station, barely aware of the agent's voice calling after her…

  Then she was in the Jeep, accelerator glued to the floor. The drive was nothing but a blur. An instant later she was out, whisking her way up the short steps and through the dispatcher's area where she kicked open Boil's office door.

  Empty.

  The fat dispatcher with the huge glasses had gotten up from behind his desk and was approaching Celine when she clamped his doughy neck with her right hand, shoved him back to the wall, snatched a pen off the desk, and held it a quarter inch away from his terror-filled left eye.

  "Where the fuck is Boil?" She breathed.

  "He, what? Uh, he's been out, he's—"

  "Where?"


  Celine was vaguely aware of Bagby storming through the door, followed by Embury and Trumbull, all shouting.

  "Didn't—didn't say…" the dispatcher blubbered.

  Through the corner of her eye, Celine could see that Bagby had drawn her weapon and was holding it in both hands on the other side of the desk. "You haven't done anything you can't walk away from," she said. "Just slow down and take a deep breath."

  "Ty wouldn't want this," Embury added.

  She was right. The fog lifted just enough for Celine to realize what she was about to do, just how far she was prepared to go. What did it all mean? If she had loaded that rifle back when she planned to scare Boil—

  "Come on Celine," Bagby urged.

  Celine took that deep breath. She put down the pen, let go of the dispatcher's neck… and then, slowly at first, the tears came. Her body quaked as if her bones might just fall apart. All of her strength left her; she collapsed to the floor, wailing…

  The tears didn't stop for quite a long time.

  ***

  "Did you know?"

  Jason clinched his jaw. Celine's eyes were red, wide spear tips thrusting straight into him.

  Damnit.

  "Carter said he'd killed him but I had no—"

  Celine let out something between a scream and a growl. Jason figured they were far enough away from the house that his mom couldn't hear. Celine's Jeep was parked along the main road, just before the turn-off. They were standing a few feet away from it beneath the half-light of a fading sky.

  Jason tried again: "I couldn't put you through that without knowing for sure. I meant what I said when I told you I'd find out no matter what but then the whole thing with Trish…"

  Tear-tracks glistened on Celine's cheeks. "Yeah, bring that up right now. Nice."