The Ledberg Runestone

by Patrick Donovan

  “Wouldn’t do any good. Anything short of murder, the cops aren’t gonna give the Carvers the time of day. Too much pull,” my father said. “Sit down, Jonah. Let me take a look.”

  I sat down in a chair opposite of my old man. He sat down and gave my face the once over, using a wet towel to wipe away the blood.

  “Ain’t as bad as it looks, but I’ll still have to stitch it up,” he said, after a moment’s appraisal. “Probably gonna hurt like hell.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any Novocain in there?”

  “I think you’re numb enough,” he said, a hint of displeasure lining his words.

  “Yeah, well, given the way my day’s going,” I said, letting my voice trail off.

  He ignored me, turning his attention to Melly and his kit.

  “Mind giving me a hand?” he asked.

  “I’m not exactly a nurse,” she said.

  “Well, that works out then. I ain’t no doctor,” he said.

  Melly looked between my father and me, then shrugged.

  “What the hell?”

  Melly pulled a chair up next to my father and sat down. He poked and prodded around the wound with his finger, his fingertips rough with calluses.

  “Hand me that gauze, damn thing’s bleeding like hell.”

  Melly handed him the gauze, and he once more mopped blood from my face. The pain, once sharp, had become a dull, burning throb. He pressed the gauze to my face, sopping up more blood, and he did it none too gently.

  “There’s a suture kit,” he said. “Bottom of the kit.”

  Melly dug around a bit until she found it and handed it to him. He tore the little sterilization wrapper off with his teeth and spit it on the floor. He fixed the little curved needle into a set of clamps and held it up to the light, sizing it up, before placing the point against my skin.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “I—”

  He didn’t wait for me to finish answering. Instead, he pushed the needle through my skin, dragging the thread through behind it. Without missing a beat, he looped the thread around and pulled the stitch tight, tying it off.

  “Scissors?”

  Melly handed him the scissors and he clipped it off. He repeated the process another sixteen times, and before it was all said and done, I’d almost gotten used to it. When he was done, he cut a strip of gauze, applied some antibiotic cream to it and taped it to my face. He even changed the dressing on the other cut, his surprise evident when he realized I’d managed to keep all of those stitches intact. Once he was finished, my father stowed the gear back in his case and vanished down the hallway.

  I had a cup of coffee waiting for him when he got back. He took it without saying a word and went through the small door in the kitchen that led to the back porch. I made a cup for myself, then followed him outside.

  “Leg’s bothering you again, huh?” my father asked. He didn’t bother turning around when I’d stepped out, he just stood there, staring into the backyard.

  “Yeah, rough couple of days,” I said.

  He nodded, settling his mug on the railing. He pulled a pipe from his pocket, an old briar that he’d had since I was a kid and started packing it full with tobacco. Once it was loaded to his satisfaction, he clamped it in his teeth and lit it with a wooden match.

  “Jonah, you mind if I ask you something?” he said after a few minutes of silence. There was hesitation in his voice. Whatever was on his mind was heavy.

  My father didn’t know what I was, or what I was capable of. It was the one secret I’d managed to keep from him for years. I don’t think it was a fear he wouldn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t even know if he’d care one way or the other. There was just something inside of me that kept me from spilling, an irrational fear that I couldn’t put my finger on.

  “Yeah, what’s up, Pop?”

  “What the hell are you into, Son?” he asked, the question wrapped up in the sigh of a man who was setting down a heavy burden.

  I closed my eyes, sighed, and set my coffee on the railing, taking up a spot beside him.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “I’m sure, but from where I’m sitting it looks like you got roped into something.”

  “Suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

  “I’m guessing that rope’s just about the right length for you to hang yourself, too.”

  “That about sums it up,” I admitted.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, poking at the tobacco in his pipe with the tip of his matchstick. “So what’re the cliff notes?”

  I wanted to tell him something, anything, that would ease his worry, but I didn’t know what I could say that would do that. So, I went with the truth. Sort of.

  “I got involved with some bad people. I’m just trying to get out.”

  “Right,” my father said, eyeing the bandages. “Well, you’re obviously doing a stellar job.”

  “Obviously,” I said, the joke falling flat.

  “Yeah? So what about whatever it is you’re involved with sounded like a good idea at the time?”

  “The follies of youth?” I said with a shrug.

  “Too drunk to think?” he suggested. I didn’t answer.

  He relit his pipe, took a few puffs and exhaled in a long, slow sigh.

  “I’m gonna be straight with you, son,” he said. “For the last year or so, I been watching you drink yourself to death. It’s my fault. I ain’t said nothing, and I should’ve, God knows I should’ve. Hell, I was hoping you’d figure it on your own, but damn it, boy, you need help.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “You heard me, Jonah. You got a problem. I don’t even think you see it.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Pop.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Seriously? Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked, my ire rising.

  “I’m your father, Jonah, and you’re a god damned drunk. Whether you see it or not, I do, and I’m not going to watch it anymore. Hell, I can’t,” he said, turning his attention back to the yard. He held his pipe like he didn’t know if he wanted to smoke it or throw it, before finally locking it between his teeth again and taking a few rapid puffs.

  “This is bullshit,” I said, finally.

  “Really? Cause the son I know, my son, he wouldn’t be in this kind of shit. He’s too smart to get involved with the Carvers and he’s damn sure too smart to let them get the better of him.”

  “I—”

  “No, Jonah. Not another word. Here’s the situation. I’m gonna let you stay here tonight, give that Carver boy a bit of time to cool off, like I said. After that, you ain’t coming back here until you start getting yourself some help.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “You heard me,” my father said, turning his attention back towards me. “If your mother, hell, if Gretchen could see you right now,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “So it’s just going to be like that?”

  My father wiped his eyes absently with the back of his hand.

  “Yeah, unfortunately it is,” he said.

  For the next few minutes, neither of us said anything.

  “So, we clear?” he asked me, finally.

  “Crystal,” I growled.

  My father nodded once, turned, and went inside, leaving me standing alone on the porch.

  Chapter 18

  I stood on the porch for a long time, staring up at the sky, losing myself as the last of the sunset melted away, the reds and purples fading into a starlit darkness. I didn’t want to think about what my father had said, but I felt uncomfortable going back in and facing him. My coffee had long since gone cold, which was fine. I’d all but forgotten it anyways. There was no reason for what he said to bother me. It was utter crap. My father was just being over protective. I was in some shit, and probably in over my head. Hell, he’d come home and found some crazed nutbag in his house beating the bejesus out of his kid. That was enough to make anyone try and lay blame somewhere.
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  But I’d done it for him. If it weren’t for me, he’d have lost his business, his livelihood.

  “How’s your face,” Melly asked, stepping onto the back porch. She had a fresh mug of coffee, which she carried over and set down on the banister next to me. She picked up my cup from earlier, dumped it out, then held the mug loosely in one hand, arms crossed over her chest.

  “Attached. Mostly, anyways,” I said.

  I wasn’t really in the mood for company. I picked up the coffee from the railing and took a sip. Say what you will about Melly, she was a wonder when it came to making just about any form of consumable liquid.

  “Well, that’s something,” she said.

  “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

  “So this is where you grew up, huh?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of. We lived in Oregon for a little while, then New Orleans, both before my sister died. It’s mostly been here, though, for about as long as I can remember. Guess a better way to put it is that it’s all I remember.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Yeah, maybe. It’s not all happy memories, though. Lot of bad happened here, too. I guess that’s what makes it home.”

  “That tends to be how it works,” Melly agreed. “I wanted to say thanks.”

  “For?”

  “Everything you and your dad have done. I appreciate it. Especially your dad. He’s a character.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Seriously, thanks,” she said again.

  “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

  There was a long, awkward pause.

  “I wanted to thank you for not blowing up in there, too,” she added.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “When I was talking about…about what happened.”

  I nodded.

  “Didn’t seem right. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother me, but,” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I get it.”

  “Good, cause I’m not a hundred percent sure I do.”

  She snickered.

  “It means a lot.”

  I nodded.

  “Look, not to be rude, I’m not really in the mood for chit chat right now.”

  “I know,” she said. “Still, wanted to say my piece.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally.

  “Don’t be.”

  “Just not a good time,” I admitted.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not really.”

  “You sure?”

  I wasn’t. I wanted to get it off my chest. The problem was, I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. There was something that bothered me about what my dad said, about everything, but I didn’t know how to quantify it. I couldn’t make sense of it enough to put words to it, let alone vocalize it.

  “I don’t know,” I said finally.

  “I been there,” she said, leaning her elbow on the rails and staring down into the yard.

  “I doubt that,” I said.

  “I don’t.”

  I took another long sip of coffee.

  “I’m not gonna push it. If you wanna talk, we can talk. It’s the least I can do after all this. If you don’t, well, that’s on you,” she said, finally.

  “Yeah,” I said, a little harsher than I had intended. “Thanks.”

  Melly nodded and turned, heading back inside. The door shut behind her loudly. I looked back up to the stars and couldn’t help but wish, not for the first time, that Gretchen was here. She’d walked me through so much, helped me get a handle on things that I couldn’t comprehend when I was just a kid. After my mother had left, she was the closest thing I’d had to any sort of maternal figure. She’d know how to handle all of this nonsense.

  When I finally decided to move, I took the long way around the house, heading out front to my truck. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do, but I had few ideas on how I could kill some time until I figured it out. I had the runestone piece and the two books I’d stolen from Mama Duvalier. Given that I was strongly outgunned at the moment, I needed to try and drum up some leverage.

  Unfortunately, all I had was Gus.

  Gus was sort of the go to when it came to the weird. He made a decent enough living fencing trinkets, books, relics, and all kinds of other magic doohickeys that really only had any value to a very small, very select clientele.

  He was also a paranoid conspiracy theorist.

  I took a few minutes once I was situated in my truck to grab a few swigs from the bottle of rum I’d taken with my plunder and snap some pictures of my haul before I called Gus.

  The phone rang once.

  “This line isn’t secure,” he said and hung up. No “hello.” No, “Jonah, it’s been a while.” Nothing but good old-fashioned trademark Gus crazy. It was kind of comforting.

  A moment later, he called back. I let it ring a few times before I answered.

  “Jonah,” he said.

  “Gus.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to send you some pictures. Items I need to help—”

  “No, you’re not,” he snapped, cutting me off.

  “I—”

  “Don’t care. No pictures. Bring whatever it is to me,” he said, and hung up again.

  I sighed, started my girl up and put the truck in gear.

  Chapter 19

  Gus lived maybe forty, forty-five minutes outside Asheville, near some little no name incorporated town in the middle of nowhere.

  I’d helped Gus out with a few things way back when and technically he owed me a favor or two. Thankfully, his line of work meant that he was very clued into the supernatural world. Granted, he was also firmly convinced that all the bad things out of storybooks—the monsters, vampires, Fae, werewolves, spirits, and gods from mythology—were all involved in running some sort of shadowy shadow government. He also believed that said shadowy shadow government operated solely on the need to turn the entirety of the human race into slaves, food, or both.

  Gus lived in a farmhouse at the end of a long gravel road, isolated from the rest of civilization. The entire perimeter, roughly a few acres, was surrounded by a makeshift fence made mostly out of wooden pallets, old road signs, vinyl siding, and the occasional dilapidated car.

  I pulled up to the gate, which was set a good half mile from the house, and rolled down the window. A small security camera tracked my every move, a little bit of tech that stood out against the hodge podge of the fence. After a moment, the gate started sliding open and Gus’s voice came from an as of yet unseen speaker.

  “Leave the truck,” it said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I saw that,” the voice added.

  I sighed, killed the ignition and hopped out of the truck, my bag over my shoulder, the bottle hanging loosely from one hand, my cane in the other.

  As I trekked along the long gravel drive, I took in the land around me. Given the amount of spotlights he had trained on just about every last inch of the property, it was frighteningly easy. All in all, it would have been picturesque if the grass wasn’t knee high, full of brambles, rampant tangles of blackberry bushes, fallen branches from past storms, and more than a handful of cleverly hidden booby traps. A few trees, mostly massive oaks and willows, dotted the landscape. In the distance, I could see a small field, set just to the side of the house. Wooden boxes, beehives, were lined up in perfect little rows, five wide and five deep in the field. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the chugging of a diesel generator.

  By the time I made it to the porch, I felt like I’d hiked my way up a mountain. The porch itself was on the verge of collapse and littered with old lawnmower parts, a chainsaw or two, a few metal ammo boxes, gas cans, and various other random junk, from pink lawn flamingos to extension cords to yard gnomes.

  I reached out to knock on the steel-plated door and Gus’s voice sprang to life from another intercom.

&n
bsp; “Don’t. It’s live.”

  “What?”

  A little slot opened in the door and a set of eyes peered out. They were bloodshot, with heavy bags underneath them.

  “The door’s live.”

  “Live? What the hell do you mean live?” I asked.

  “It means if you touch this door before I disarm the security system, you won’t be.” He slid the little trap door shut. I heard a few noises from the other side, then the trap door opened again.

  “There. Come on in.”

  Gus’s castle of paranoia was a study in psychosis. He’d gutted the interior down to the wall studs, leaving the wiring and plumbing exposed to the open air. There were about twenty-five car batteries wired together and attached to the door with jumper cables running along the wall by the door. I understood what he meant about the term live, now. Thankfully, one of the terminals had been unhooked. If I’d grabbed the door before he’d unhooked it, I’d have been able to power a small city. The lighting came, mostly, from shop and work lights running off the generator I heard outside. He led me into what had probably once been a living room, where he did the majority of his work. There were six TVs in one corner, mounted to the wall studs, each one playing a different major news outlet. Next to that, was what I can only assume was some sort of server computer. Whatever it was, it had a lot of flashing lights, whirring fans, big metal boxes and brightly colored cables. There was a desk and rather fancy-looking office chair next to that. Computer monitors were mounted over the desk, the top of which held two keyboards and roughly a hundred empty food containers of various stripes, ethnicities, and shall we say, freshness.

  What boggled my mind the most was the sheer number of photographs, newspaper articles, magazine articles, and computer printouts stapled, tacked, and taped to every exposed wall stud, the ceiling and, in some cases the floor. There had to have been roughly a mile and a half of string connecting them all.

  “I see you’ve redecorated,” I said.

  “Blow it out your ass, Jonah,” Gus said, shuffling over to his desk chair, dropping down into it, and staring up at the various monitors. That was how we usually greeted each other.

  Gus was a big guy, pushing four hundred pounds, with a mop of black hair and a thick shadow of stubble over his cheeks. He wore bright blue basketball shorts and a long sleeve flannel shirt, which was buttoned all wrong. To be fair, when you never leave the house, fashion stops being a priority. He plucked a pair of glasses off the desk and put them on, peered up at one of the monitors, punched a few keys on his keyboard, nodded smugly, and then settled back into his chair.