by P. T. Phronk
She did her best to smile and bat her eyelashes, which felt weird with all the makeup on them. “This apple wouldn’t mind taking a bite of you,” she said, eyeing his scar again.
Dean’s shoulders tensed when he saw Wilcox leaning close.
Wilcox let his leg brush hers as he stood. He took a drag of his cigarette, then blew it in Mike’s face as he passed. “You shouldn’t let this gawking retard into your bar, Dean,” he said. “It’s bad for business.”
Mike seemed to shrivel.
Wilcox leisurely clomped out the door.
“You know him?” Annie asked Dean.
“Nah,” Dean said. The eyebrow above the black lens of his glasses twitched.
He resumed chatting with Annie as if everything were normal. She felt sick, nodding as he blabbed away, and wondered if Dean even remembered what just happened. As the smoke dissipated, even she only remembered snippets of the conversation with Wilcox, alongside a lingering anger that had made her fists clench so tight that her fingernails dug into her palms.
Mike had stopped moving to the music. He just stared at the table, frowning. He wouldn’t be putting on his song tonight.
A chorus still echoed in Annie’s head, though: Go to the church on Maple Street.
She could barely remember why, but she obeyed.
A motorcycle—probably Wilcox’s—was already parked outside the church. Like in a lot of small towns, the churches were the prettiest buildings around. Even in the dark, spotlights cut through the fog to light up the single white spire of the charming little Our Redeemer church. The addition stuck to the back didn’t quite go with the white siding, but its wide glass windows had their own charm.
They also gave Annie a good view into the meeting space inside. She stood against someone’s tool shed across the road and smoked a shaking cigarette while she watched.
Florence’s letter had called this an emergency meeting. The people inside seemed nervous as they milled about, waiting for the meeting to begin. There was Florence, in wrinkled clothing that looked too big for her, sitting at the end of a row, away from the gabbing crowd. Maybe she was always quiet and didn’t hate Annie after all.
There were the penguin-looking church ladies that Annie had seen around town, gathered in a tight group as they chatted and glanced around. Behind them sat some of the women from the diner who were selling Tupperware and other crap to each other. Even the guy in the MAKIN’ BACON hat was there, looking out of place.
Finally, an older lady in plain, churchy clothing stood up and addressed the crowd from a podium. Annie couldn’t hear what she was saying with her mouth, but her face sure said a lot. Whenever she was a dog, she realized that people’s faces said as much as their words.
This lady’s face said that she was excited, hopeful, but also scared as hell.
With a big fake smile, she opened her arms, pointed to a door behind her, and put her hands together in an exaggerated clap. The crowd followed suit, cheering as Jeffery Humber-Wilcox entered the room.
He talked calmly, like a professor on a TV show. No cigar this time; he wanted them to remember this. The group leaned forward in their seats, taking in every word. They clapped when he said something particularly poignant. Annie wished she could hear what it was.
The lights dimmed and he flipped on an overhead projector. Annie hadn’t seen one of those since she was a kid, when her elementary school teachers would read from transparencies and draw on them with squeaky markers. Apparently this town hadn’t heard of PowerPoint.
Annie’s eyes weren’t great, and the fog wasn’t helping. She squinted, but still couldn’t read the text projected on the wall as Wilcox lectured. She crept closer.
He was flipping through transparencies quickly. She caught one that read:
Pros:
•Lakeside living
•Off-the-grid independence
•Eternal life
Wilcox took it away before she could read the cons section. He held up a finger, addressing the audience with his blue eyes, expressing false concern. Florence glanced around nervously. He was warning them about whatever was coming next.
Annie snuck up right beside the wide window and leaned over to see inside. The next slide went up.
She gasped at the drawing. It was a creature with webbed hands and feet. Its skin was drawn as hairless, but roughly textured, with barnacles sticking to its knees and elbows. Its eyes were lifeless, with only pinpricks for pupils. And beneath its upturned nose, its smile held teeth like a row of steak knives.
The audience looked uncomfortable. Wilcox flashed an apologetic grin and patted his hands in the air, trying to calm the crowd. This close, Annie thought she could read his lips: not as bad as it looks.
He talked for a few more minutes, then turned on the lights and exaggeratedly raised one hand in the air as he leered at the audience expectantly.
The crowd fidgeted in their seats. Wilcox was still smiling, but his expression twitched, the corner of his mouth snarl-like enough that Annie could recognize anger boiling up within him.
He looked relieved when a hand went up. Florence. The crowd clapped as she shuffled to the front of the room. Wilcox patted her on the back, then shook her hand. He said some final words to the audience, then they all sprung from their seats as if they were sitting on hot coals.
Annie didn’t even have time to get away. One person burst from the door beside her, holding his hand to his mouth as if he was about to vomit.
A pair of the Tupperware women came next, looking calmer and talking seriously. They gave Annie a look of disgust before ignoring her entirely. She couldn’t very well flee without looking suspicious, though, so she leaned against the wall and lit up another smoke.
“It’s so good to finally have somebody who knows what he is talking about,” one of the church ladies said.
“Mmm hmm. And after all these years, a direct connection with them. No more guesswork. No more awful treks into the woods at night.”
Wilcox came out next, another cigar in his hand. Annie tried to hide her face, but the guy didn’t survive among vampires and sorcerers without being observant.
“My little apple followed me home,” he said to her.
“You live at the church?”
“An expression of speech.” A distinctly canine-related one. Was he starting to recognize her? “You should’ve come in. There is a fantastic community of ambitious individuals in this town.”
“I thought you said Newbury was rotten to the core.”
His eyes narrowed. He flipped a cigar out of his pocket. “You remember me saying that?”
Shit. She barely could remember anything he’d said at Ducks, thanks to his brain-scrambling smoke, but fighting it had let a few things through. “Oh, yeah. I was pretty drunk—still am—but you called me your apple, so I guess that, uh, flipped a switch.”
That seemed to relax him. “Good apple.”
She tried to maintain her best shit-eating grin as he fumbled with his cigar. This was her chance to get something out of him that she’d remember clearly. “So, where do you live?”
Wilcox laughed. “Christ, you fat chicks are eager, aren’t you?”
She gritted her teeth. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck, past the collar of her little coat, then soaked into her new blouse. “Dude, it’s been a while since my kitty got any playtime. You know what I mean. Why pussy-foot around it?”
Florence came out of the church. Annie swung around so her back was to the door.
Wilcox pointed at her. “Florence! My girl. I’ll be in touch to make the arrangements. Stay strong until then.”
“Yes. Thanks,” Florence said. She wouldn’t recognize Annie from behind; her clothes were all new and her hair was combed all pretty.
As Florence walked away, Wilcox reached a calloused hand to caress Annie’s dark hair. She did her best not to snap her teeth at him. “Where were we, Ms. Annie?”
“I believe you were about to let me
follow you home, Mister Wilcox. Is it nearby?”
Something changed in his face, but his smarmy grin quickly returned. “Come with me. I’ll show you.” He took her hand.
They walked in the opposite direction from downtown. Away from the church. “We’re not taking your bike?”
The sweat was soaking her back now. The last of the churchgoers pulled out of the parking lot and gave Wilcox a wave as they drove by. Suddenly she was aware of how silent it was around here. Of how alone she was with him. “It’s just down the road,” he said.
“I—I’m drunk,” she said. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
His hand tightened around hers. “Don’t worry. We’re friends, right?”
“Sure?”
“Not quite on a first-name basis though. ‘Mister Wilcox,’ you called me. I haven’t used that name since before I arrived in town.”
Shit. Shit. She’d slipped up.
His hand crushed hers. He veered off the sidewalk and through a row of hedges between houses, yanking her with him. When she tried to scream, his rough hand covered her mouth. It smelled like smoke, like seaweed, and like a wild animal.
Annie tried to bite down on his fingers, but he was too strong, too fast.
“Who are you?” he growled, pulling his hand away but keeping it hovering close.
“I told you who I am. You fucker, I’m warning you, I’m friends with the sherr—” His hand snapped back onto her mouth.
“You’re playing dumb. If you know who I am, then you know that a sheriff scares me about as much as a mosquito. Who are you? Did you come with Stanley?”
Tears flowed from her eyes. Her willpower was sapped. “Take me instead. Let his mom go and they’ll leave, they’ll never come back.”
“Oh, his mother is never coming back. I think Stanley knows that, and soon I will show him. I’ll show him what it means to have everything taken away. I’ll find his little rat dog, the one who ripped my throat out, and I’ll fucking eat it alive while he watches.”
So he didn’t know who she was. That was something. “He’ll find you first.”
“Haven’t you noticed this incessant fog? Hard to find anybody in this mess.” He still had his cigar; the tendrils of smoke made her brain fuzzy again. It was easy to forget that she was about to die, until he put out the cigar on her forehead.
His hand muffled her screams. She could smell her own flesh burning under the sizzling cigar, like barbecue.
“It’s too late anyway. You know, I appreciate that Stan brought me to this rotten town, because I’ve acquired some great friends and colleagues here. Some of them are on their way to escort Stan to the cave right now.”
Cave? She tried to force herself to remember that detail, but her forehead was stinging and, even worse, she couldn’t stop imagining what he’d do to Stan, who, even though he was a self-destructive asshole, was her asshole, and she would do anything for him. “Just … take me instead,” she said again, but she knew it was a bad offer. She was worthless to Wilcox.
“He must love having such a loyal friend. I’ll get a real thrill out of leaving every detail in when I tell him how you died. Much appreciated.”
Annie sobbed. She hated this—she hadn’t cried in years—but she cried for Linda, she cried for Stan, and yeah, she cried a bit for her own shitty life, about to come to an end.
Wilcox shoved her deeper into the bushes and darkness. She tried to scramble away, but he elbowed her in the face, then everything faded, and her knees felt like soggy fries.
He straddled her, then leaned close, whispering in her ear: “I wish you never said my name. I would’ve liked to have fucked you, truly. Goodbye, my little apple.”
With his massive hands, he gripped the sides of her head. His dirty fingernails dug into her cheekbones and temples. Then he thrust his thumbs into her eyes. She bucked, but his knees pinned her arms as he dug deeper into her skull. Jelly that had been eyeballs ran down the sides of Annie’s face when he pulled his thumbs back out, but that only made room for him to dig deeper when he plunged them back in.
She’d felt the pain of her body falling apart before, but this was different. Waves of agony shot through her whole body. Her arms stopped thrashing. She couldn’t get them to move again. As he dug deeper, her scrambled brain refused to do much of anything.
Wilcox removed his thumbs from her skull. She felt his weight lift off of her, but she couldn’t connect the will to move with any of her muscles. After one final scream, she noticed that she wasn’t breathing, but a plan to inhale wasn’t coming together in her mind, so she just lay, motionless.
There was shouting in the distance. Footsteps stomped away.
Details, details, what details could help Stan? The back of her mind only offered up a fantasy—leading Stan to Linda, then escaping back to Stan’s couch, his hands petting the fur on her head. But though her mind wanted to get up and make that fantasy reality, it was no longer connected with her body.
Annie bled, and then she died.
11. Strangers In The House
SEVERAL HOURS AGO
IT WAS good to know that Annie was okay. Stan saw her in the mirror at the rear of the bar when she hesitated in front of the window. Despite her reluctance to enter, she looked … confident. Like she was comfortable in her own human skin. Of course she was. Wasn’t that how it always went? The master reveals himself to be a complete fuckup, then the student—or pet, in this case—surpasses him in every way.
She turned and left Timber Jack’s like it was on fire. He saw it in the mirror. Probably for the best. He could see Dalla in mirrors too, even though nobody else could, and ended up driving a stake through her heart.
The bartender brought him his beer. It wasn’t even noon, and Stan was already fading into the relief of an alcohol-induced fog.
Another person burst through the door. Stan checked his mirror. When he saw who it was, he stood up straight and gripped his beer tight. The man ignored Stan and headed through the door beside the bar. There, he yelled at the cooks and serving staff for a while. “And you!” he said, emerging from the back and pointing at the bartender. “Where’s my beer?” His scowl turned into a smile when he saw there was a customer, but then he scowled even harder when he saw it was Stan.
“Hello, Joey,” Stan said.
“Stan Lightfoot. I heard you were back. And it’s just Joe now.”
“Joe, then. I heard you were out of town on business. Seems like it’s a good business to be in. You own both burger joints?”
He grabbed his beer without acknowledging the bartender. “It’s mostly Bree that manages Tweed’s, but yes. Business is best when your only competition is yourself. One person calling the shots. And since I own half the town, it’s me calling the shots here.”
“Must be nice,” Stan said.
“What? What must be nice, Stan?”
“I’m just trying to be happy for you, okay?” And he was trying, but he couldn’t look Joey in the eye. “You own the town, you got the girl. Your life is perfect, right?”
“Don’t you bring up the sanctity of my marriage,” Joey said, though Stan didn’t think he did. Did he know something about Stan and Bree’s little mistake? “I mean it. I call the shots. I’m gonna call one now. You’re not welcome here. This place isn’t your home anymore. Take your mother with you; I hear she hasn’t shown up at her little heritage subcommittee meetings, so maybe she’s done interfering with this town’s development.”
Stan took a long chug from his beer, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You know, you’re right. This isn’t my home anymore, so I’m a little rusty. But I could swear that owning a few shitty restaurants didn’t make you the mayor and the sheriff rolled into one?”
Joey slammed his hand on the bar. His fingernails dug into the lacquered wood and his biceps bulged under his dress shirt. “Oh yeah, you’re good friends with the sheriff, aren’t you? The one who’s under investigation for abusing police resources? You think he�
��d be able to do anything if I picked you up by the scruff of your skinny neck and dumped you on the other side of the tracks?”
Stan tensed. “Paul has nothing to do with this.”
“Distancing yourself from him. Smart. You hear he’s shacked up with a new woman? A fat bitch of a drifter that some trucker probably dumped by the highway.”
Stan’s blood was boiling. He could swear it was; hissing past his ears, making his vision cloudy. Every word out of Joey’s mouth turned up the temperature.
Joey’s words kept coming. “Paul. Fuck. He heard Florence was dying and replaced her with the first piece of trash he could find. You think he’ll stand by you when he can’t even stand by his wife?”
Stan stood, sending the bar stool crashing to the cheap carpet. “And you can? How is the sanctity of your marriage, Joey?”
They’d been friends, once, as kids, hanging out on their lunch breaks at the old high school, dining at each other's houses, discovering that old lodge in the woods that they broke into to explore. But then Joey went off to a military school for a few years, and came back as Joe, with a few business ideas, a lot more confidence, and the charm to catch Bree’s eye. Evidently, he’d also gained combat skills. His fist collided with Stan’s nose, turning it to mush before Stan even knew he was in a fight.
Raising his fists was as effective as stopping a train with tissue paper. Joey clocked him once more in the side of the head, then under the chin. Stan found himself lying on the cheap carpet, looking up at Timber Jack’s signature tree-beamed ceiling.
“I meant what I said. This isn’t a negotiation. There is no competition. I call the shots.” He held his fingers like a gun, and pointed them at Stan. “You’re no good to me. You’re no good to this town. You have until tonight, then …”
He jerked his hand back.
Pow.
This feeling was familiar, being dirty, in pain, slinking around and avoiding the gazes of the people passing by. Stan had done this for months when he’d lost his way in New York City. He’d never told his mother that he was homeless; if he did that, she’d only try to help. She helped now, inadvertently lending him her home.