by Jake Parent
They made quick introductions, but Jeremy hardly seemed to notice through his tears.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Casey said.
In the company of the two others, the place seemed less scary. More sad now than anything. She thought of all the people she’d met in places like this. Some of them scumbags to the core, but most were kids whose biggest crimes had been having bad genes and no one to guide them through the troubled waters of life.
The three made their way out of the needle den, down the long hallway, past the mattress in the lantern room. Cristina stayed as far away from it as she could.
When they entered the last room, the weight of the building felt immense, like it wanted to trap them. The closer they came to the door leading outside, the more Cristina felt sure they were about to discover someone had locked it.
But Casey pushed it open with considerably less effort than it had taken her.
The screech of the hinges was just as bad, however.
Jeremy cringed at the sound.
Then the smell of rotting garbage hit him in the face. He vomited up whatever it was he had in his stomach. From the looks of it, Cristina guessed some kind of malt liquor.
Jeremy then flopped an arm over his brow to block out what little sun was penetrating the fog and the alley walls.
Casey laughed.
“Drugs are fun, huh kid?” he said, slapping him on the back.
Now that they were in better light, Cristina could see that “kid” was indeed the right word to describe Jeremy. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. If that. He stood six-feet-tall and weighed about 140. His gaunt face had piercings in the lip and through the right nostril. There was a mark under his eye that was either dirt or a poorly done tattoo. His nest of greasy brown hair was tucked under a Bula’s Surf Shop trucker hat.
In response to Casey’s comment, Jeremy raised his right arm and extended his middle finger.
“Look!” Casey said to Cristina. “He’s feeling better already.”
53
They loaded Jeremy into the backseat of Cristina’s car, on top of a beach towel from the trunk. He was snoring before she could get the door closed, and didn’t as much as twitch at the deafening roar produced when Casey fired up his Harley.
Cristina followed the motorcycle down the street, past the strip of abandoned stores. Again, she watched the denizens of Perkins Town scurry about like insects, moving from one impossibly important task to the next.
She tried to picture what the area must have been like before the cement plant closed. Jack had made it sound like a strong community of blue-collar workers. She was amazed by the devastation caused by one business’s decision to pack up and move.
She let go a sigh of relief as they rolled out of the neighborhood, coming to a stop at the T-junction in front of the creepy mansion. She never wanted to come back this way again.
In front of her, Casey’s strong back flexed and dipped under his leather jacket as he maneuvered the Harley into town.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Jeremy, face surprisingly peaceful, still wearing his hat, the brim knocked sideways when he collapsed.
Cristina didn’t know where they were going, but wasn’t surprised when Casey pulled into the parking lot of Surf City Donuts. Having gained five pounds since quitting smoking, she was very much aware that sugar could be a surprisingly effective substitute for drugs, even the hard ones.
They parked. Casey snapped off his helmet before walking over to the car. His face was brighter than it had been the day before, bringing Cristina a new wave of guilt. She suddenly realized that, despite what might be happening with the shop, he hadn’t gone back to old habits. He was choosing instead to focus on new ones. He’d left her house because he didn’t want to sit around wallowing in his own misery, worrying about things he had no power to change.
He told her as much while the two leaned on the hood of her car, woofing down apple fritters and bear claws while Jeremy continued to sleep. The misty coolness of the lifting fog felt wonderfully fresh after being in the abandoned building. But Cristina didn’t think she would stop smelling that acrid urine stench for a long time.
The back door of the Civic popped open. Jeremy sat on the edge of the seat, feet resting on the asphalt. He scratched his arms and looked dazed, but surprisingly more alert than he had been. Casey handed him a glazed donut, which he waved away. Casey insisted, and the younger man finally had a bite, washing it down with a few healthy gulps of orange juice.
“So tell me what happened,” Casey said.
Jeremy looked at Cristina with apprehension, then shrugged and started talking anyway.
It had all gone to shit a few days earlier, he said, his voice worn and raspy. A friend brought over a bottle of Oxy he’d stolen from his aunt’s medicine cabinet. It had crossed Jeremy’s mind to call Casey, but by the time the friend had the pills crunched up into dust and carved into perfect little lines, the thought had passed. He and his buddy snorted a pill each, and Jeremy knew right away that he was off to the races.
“Bro, I told myself it would only be for a night, and only the Oxy. But once I had that evil little tingle going inside me, I wasn’t going to stop anywhere short of heaven.”
So he’d made his way to “the PT” (as he referred to Perkins Town), hoping to score a sack. His plan had still been to do only enough to feel the thrill, then check into the drug clinic for detox.
The thought of coming down made Jeremy scratch harder at the little bumps on his skin. Casey told him to have another drink of juice. It helped a little, but Cristina knew that it wouldn’t be long before the poor kid really started jonesing.
Jeremy continued, “I actually didn’t have any money. I wanted to steal some shit on the way over there, but I couldn’t find anything worth jacking.” He looked at Cristina again, this time with shame in his eyes. “I figured I’d be trading some ass for a taste. But it turned out I didn’t need to. Some dude in that warehouse you found me in was handing out free samples like it was the fucking grocery store. He had needles and spoons and everything. All in a little package with this weird book inside.”
“A book?” Casey asked. “Like showing you how to use it?”
“Nah, dude. Some crazy shit. I don’t even know, really. I looked at it for a second, but it wasn’t really my priority, know what I mean? I think I still have it though.” He stood for a moment, reaching clumsy hands into each of the pockets of his cargo pants, then the back one for a second time. He brought out a small book that reminded Cristina of the miniature bible they give you in motels. He handed it to Casey, sat back down, and said, “I kept it just ‘cause I thought it was a damn trip.”
After one look at the book, Casey’s mood changed. He was now obviously upset.
He asked, “What did the guy look like who was handing these out?”
Jeremy held his hands to his temples and shook his head.
“Damn, dude. I don’t know. Bald. Shaved head. Hella tatts. Kinda like you, bro, I guess. But honestly it was crazy dark, and I barely even looked at him. All I really cared about was the fact he wanted to give me a vial with a decent amount of shit, and he didn’t want no blow job or nothing for it. He did say something kinda weird when he handed it to me, though.”
“What?” Casey asked.
“I don’t know, dude. Something freaky, like out of a movie.”
“What was it, Jeremy? It’s important.”
The kid looked up from behind his fingers and saw how serious Casey was. He strained to remember. His hands began to shake. He set them on his knees and rocked back and forth. Cristina knew he was trying – consciously or not – to stop the small tremors from turning into a full-body earthquake.
She said, “We should probably get him to a doctor, Casey.”
He ignored her, flipping through the book.
“What did he say?” he asked again, without looking up.
Jeremy started rocking himself harder. He dug his fing
ers under his hat, tugging at the greasy hair underneath.
“It was some biblical shit, dude. The guy said something like, ‘a new world is upon us, my friend. Soon the innocent will be slaughtered and a new day will dawn.’ He was a fuckin’ kook, bro. Probably higher than I was.”
Jeremy laughed.
Casey didn’t.
“Alright, kid. Let’s get you to detox. You’re never doing dope again, right?”
“Nah, man. Never.”
Casey smiled, the sad grin of a person who has heard himself tell the same lie.
54
After dropping off Jeremy at Pleasure Point’s busy drug clinic, Cristina and Casey went back to her house.
They took turns in the shower, then together flopped onto the couch.
It was barely noon, but both were exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” Cristina told him once more as she curled her feet onto the couch and snuggled against his chest. “I feel like a horrible person.”
Casey shrugged.
“Forget about it, OK? Seriously, it’s not even a thing.”
“OK,” she said, smiling to herself. “You’re one amazing man, Casey Peters.”
His only response was to run his fingers through her thick black hair.
After a yawn, Cristina asked what the deal had been with the book.
“Jeremy seemed pretty freaked out by it, don’t you think?” she asked.
Casey stopped stroking her head. His muscles stiffened.
He asked, “Do you remember that group I told you about the night of our first date? The one I got wrapped up with when I was doping on the streets?”
Cristina, of course, did remember. Although she felt a bit awkward about it.
They’d discussed a lot of things since they met. She’d pretty much told him her entire life story. And he’d shared more about his. But after that night on the pier, they’d never again discussed New Horizon. And she’d definitely never told him about her research into the subject.
It wasn’t that she’d purposefully kept it from him. Not exactly. But since he’d never made an effort to bring it up, neither had she.
She decided to continue playing dumb.
“New Horizon, right?”
“Right,” he said. “I thought they were long gone from Pleasure Point, given that the guy in charge got locked up. He killed some cops a few years back. Right about the time I got clean. It was pretty gruesome, too. He burned them alive in their car.”
Cristina nodded against his chest.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said.
Casey continued, “But it looks like maybe there’s some kind of a revival going on. That book is an updated version of what they called ‘The Handbook.’ It’s like their bible. Basically it spells out all the group’s bullshit in language that makes it sound like a way out to a vulnerable kid like Jeremy.”
Cristina sat up.
“Can I take a look at it?” she asked.
He hesitated, but removed the booklet from his jacket and handed it to her anyway.
He said, “Their biggest belief is this idea that the world is messed up beyond repair, and it’s going to take some kind of monumental shift in human perception to change things.”
Cristina’s face showed she didn’t think that sounded too far off.
“Right,” he said, answering her unspoken statement. “That part is what gets people to listen. Of course, according to these assholes, the transformation is only going to happen through two means. Drugs and blood. The drugs part is sort of obvious, and I think that side exists mostly just as a means to an end. A way to finance putting out propaganda like that book. Plus, the money allows the real die-hards to live out their sick fantasies about changing the world. Honestly, I never really bought into all that. I mostly just wanted to kill myself with dope. But I heard rumors there was . . .” He pointed to the book. “. . . or maybe I should say is a core group of people who go up into the mountains and do all kinds of weird stuff. I’m talking things like sacrifices. And I don’t mean just animals either. I heard they once—”
Cristina was crying.
Casey wrapped his arms around her.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s OK. Everything’s OK. We don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have been so graphic. It messes with me too, even after all this time.”
“N-no. I want to hear it, actually.” She gathered herself. “It’s just that . . . there’s something I haven’t told you about the house, and about what happened here with the little girl who died.”
Casey’s eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing.
She went on, “It’s not that I wanted to hide it or anything. I just didn’t want you to worry is all.” She looked into his eyes. “I talked to a guy from the FBI who told me that these New Horizon people might have had some connection to the girl’s death.”
“Really?”
“Yah,” she said, trying hard to gauge his non-reaction. “He didn’t tell me much, except that they could have been involved, and that the stepfather who they say killed that poor little girl was either a member, or he had nothing to do with it at all, and in that case must have been setup to make it look like he did.”
“Wow,” Casey responded. He considered something for a moment. “Cristina, I’m not gonna lie, that really freaks me out.” He took back the book and waved it. “This group is no joke. What I was going to say before is that there are a few real sickos involved. I never met them. But from what I heard, they really believe in all this end-of-the-world stuff. And I have no doubt they’d be willing to kill for it. If there’s some connection to the house . . . you’re sure your FBI buddy didn’t say anything else?”
“Only that he seemed to think whoever killed the girl might have gotten away with it. And if they did, they probably were either dead or in jail now, since people like that don’t usually stop. But he also said they could be waiting for the right time to strike again.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Cristina. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
55
Cristina was at work later that week, feeling in a rut.
The sun had already gone down by the time Officer Washburn called to let her know Anthony hadn’t shown up for his scheduled court appearance that day. His lawyer was there, but Judge Peterson had specifically ordered Anthony himself to attend the hearing, so he could answer questions about his involvement with the chocolates.
“I don’t want to alarm you, Cristina, but we just went to Anthony’s house. He wasn’t there. And his ankle tracker had been removed and bypassed to send out a signal as if it was still in working order. We talked to the doorman at his building. He saw him get into a cab earlier today with several pieces of luggage. When he asked Anthony where he was headed, he apparently looked distraught and mumbled something about taking what’s his and going far away.”
Panic.
“Cristina,” Washburn said after a moment. “Where’s Anise?”
“At home with the babysitter.”
There was a pause. And then Washburn’s calm, authoritative cop-voice said, “Cristina, I’m sure she’s fine. But I want you to call the house. Tell the babysitter to lock the doors. Don’t let anyone in. I’m going to get the PPPD out to check on them. I suggest you head there, too.”
Cristina was already gathering her things as she finished the call. Within seconds, she told her boss what was going on and headed out the door.
She was soon in the car, racing toward home as fast as the old Honda would go. With one hand on the steering wheel, she called the house and got no answer. She tried the babysitter’s cellphone.
Nothing.
She wanted to scream.
A long red-light stopped her. Her heart raced. Her face was hot, even after she rolled down the window to let in the cool, foggy air.
As she stared at the car in front of her, wishing she could somehow drive over it, she thought of her neighbor with the big truck, whom she still hadn’t seen sinc
e they drove past one another the day after she moved in.
Then Jack’s face popped into her mind. She tried his house number and he picked up after a few rings.
“Domino’s Pizza,” he said.
“Jack!”
“Cristina? Is that you? Hey, I was thinking maybe this weekend we could—”
“—Jack, listen. I need you to go check on Anise. Her dad might be coming to take her. I’m on my way, and there should be some cops there soon, too. But until they show up, can you go make sure her and the babysitter are alright? I just tried calling and didn’t get an answer.”
“Shit. OK. OK.”
He hung up without another word.
The light turned green and she gunned it past the person in front of her, who ended up making a right turn anyway. She flipped him off as she sped by.
Her car was pushing up the big hill when Jack called back.
He sounded worried.
“Cristina?”
“Yah, Jack. What’s up?”
“Um, there are a few lights on at your house, but I rang the doorbell and knocked, and no one answered. I tried the door, but it was locked.”
“Dammit,” Cristina said, trying to think. “OK, I’ll be there in two minutes.”
She slammed the accelerator all the way to the floor. It didn’t do much good going up the steep hill. But as soon as she hit the flat section under the trees, she was flying through turns so fast she almost ran off the road. The tires screeched when she turned the steering wheel toward the driveway. The back end fishtailed left and then right on the gravel, but she managed to get it under control. A thick cloud of dust trailed the car as it skidded to a stop in front of the house.
Cristina only glanced toward Jack as she ran past him toward the front door.
On the porch, she fumbled her keys. They went flying into the thorny rose bush under the window.
“Goddamn it!” she yelled, trying unsuccessfully to fish them out.
Instead, she picked up what looked like a rock and slid the secret compartment open, revealing a spare key.