by R.M. Haig
September 13th, 2016. 12:00PM
Garthby, Indiana
Jake arrived at the Garthby Icehouse at eleven-thirty, after having spent several hours soul-searching and spying on Daryl Lane. He parked just about a hundred yards from Butcher's Lane Provisions, not entirely concerned with being inconspicuous, and sat staring through his binoculars while thoughts and memories were swirling, swirling with the smoke of many, many Newports. He needed to find another way to cope with everything going on in his mind, his throat wasn't pleased with how much tar and smoke he was subjecting it to.
Daryl didn't do anything suspicious, he simply opened his shop and went about his business. Several customers came and went, and at one point the man pulled another half of a cow out of his cooler and set to work cutting it down. There was absolutely nothing to see, which was fine because Jake was in no condition to see anything of consequence anyway.
The talk with Father Lovett had his head swimming, both the part about forgiving himself and the revelation that Ron Boudreaux was either a practitioner or student of the New Orleans incarnation of the religion known as Voodoo. Despite what the priest said about it being a white magic religion, Jake couldn't help trying to piece together the murders of old with Deputy Ron standing in as The Butcher Of Burlwood.
What a bitch that would be, he thought, if the man stalking the children of Burlwood was, in fact, one of the men sworn to protect them. As he watched Daryl Lane wrapping up orders of ribs and lamb shanks, his mind replayed the memory of little Timmy with his foot propped up over the backseat of a blue Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. Frantically, almost desperately, his head tried to shape the stature of the squat and portly Deputy Ron to fit the larger than life silhouette of the dark figure he watched driving the vehicle away during the Our Mother carnival, taking Drake off to meet his untimely death at the edge of a sharp and sacred blade. Try as he might, he couldn't quite make Boudreaux tall enough to fit the bill.
Still, he wondered. Part of what had saved Rusty Parker's backside in the past was an alibi for Timmy's murder that existed only because he was allegedly under surveillance at the time the boy disappeared. What if it was Ron Boudreaux who was assigned to surveil him that night? What if Deputy Ron knew very well who The Butcher was, and he was -- for one reason or another -- in bed with him? That would explain a lot, and it would tighten a noose around each of their necks. How apropos it would be if Boudreaux found himself on the executioner's table, receiving the needle he had reserved for Chucky in the death of Billy Marsh.
With that alternative possibility in mind, he tried to make the form of Rusty circa 1994 fit the image of the man behind the wheel of Evander Hughes' Brougham. That didn't seem like any more of a match than Boudreaux had, however, because Rusty was just as short as the Deputy. Making either of them the driver of that insidious sedan on that fateful night was like trying to force a large square peg into a small round hole, it just wasn't working for him.
He would be questioning Clyde Rambo either way, of course, regardless of his doubts about either of those people driving that vehicle. If Ron Boudreaux was the man responsible for watching Rusty Parker on the night of Timmy Lane's disappearance, the alibi that had protected Rusty for so many years was no longer viable and must be immediately declared null and void. If that was how it went, further investigation would probably find other connections between Parker and Boudreaux, which could blow the case wide open. Boudreaux was certainly of sound mind and body, he could've snatched little Billy Marsh and fed him to Rusty and his bladeless table saw. Then presto-change-o, cook up a scheme to make the town idiot take the fall and celebrate as a hero with a Hulk Hogan style pose-down while the pyrotechnics glitter behind the Elsmere County PD.
Of course, that would leave an open question regarding why there was no Voodoo trinket found with the Marsh boy... unless the now Sheriff Boudreaux removed it before the rest of the investigators arrived. But, then again, if he did that this time why wouldn't he have done it in the past as well? Why would any victim have been found with an idol if a member of the police department was involved with the murder? One who apparently didn't seek to hide his ties to Voodoo from the general public, no less. Certainly Father Lovett wasn't the only person in town aware that Boudreaux dabbled in it. With that said, why wasn't there suspicion around him in the past investigation when these idols appeared?
Jake had no answers to those questions, it was going to take further effort to find those answers. Watching Daryl Lane for two hours certainly didn't give him any insight, and his head was totally twisted and spinning as his date with Nikki was approaching. Feeling like a diversion would be nice before he got to working these new angles, he set a course for Garthby at eleven AM.
The swirling when he laid eyes on the Icehouse was worthy of an F-5 tornado, but for once it was largely pleasant memories that laid siege to his mind, so it didn't bother him at all. There was that one dark incident where he fucked up Kevin Largent, but that was the total sum of all the negativity he ever experienced in this place. The rest was glorious, and he felt a gladiator within himself waking from a long and lonely coma as he stepped out of his car and approached the front door.
Just inside was the hall of victory, exactly as it had always been. The walls on either side of him were lined with plaques, some brand new and some older than he was himself. The ones on the left listed sequentially by year the victors of the Varsity level Elsmere Cup, and just above each year's memorial was another slab complete with a picture of the league MVP for that season. Scanning as he walked, he pressed on until he found the plaques posted for the seasons of 1996/97 and 1997/98. Both years showed the proud and powerful Burlwood Bees as the champions, and both featured one Jacob Garrett Gigu?re as the league MVP above each year. Looking at 98/99 and 99/00, he wondered if he might've won the same distinction had he stayed in town long enough to play out the balance of his high school career. Instead, it was the Blackmoor Wizards winning his junior year and the Ashland Aces taking the crown in what would've been his senior season.
Stopping to look over the pictures of himself that were there so many years removed, he had mixed emotions about what he saw. Both pictures were of a proud and strong warrior, one of them just over fifteen and the second just over sixteen. Both boys were confident, both were striking, but both also looked absolutely exhausted. This wasn't the fatigue of a hard fought game or season he was wearing, though, this was the toll that living the life he was dealt had taken on his young and innocent soul. It was sad to see a look of such strife, an expression of such misery on the otherwise fresh and vibrant face of the young man holding up the Commissioner's Trophy.
In celebration of the memories, he pressed his hands against the four placards and tried to convince the boy in the pictures that everything would be okay. Even as he did it, he realized he was full of shit and lying to the kid. Everything was not going to be okay for the champion on the wall, everything was going to be completely fucked up, because -- surprise -- the kid on the wall was going to grow up to be him.
How was everything okay for him?
Nothing was okay for him, and it didn't seem that it ever would be... not until double indemnity, and that was still a little ways off on the horizon.
Wrestling himself away from the past, he marched into the lobby of the Icehouse and took a seat. It was around eleven-forty when he did, so he expected to see Nikki march her little self in at any minute for her promised skating lesson. As noon approached and there was no sign of her, he considered walking right back out and calling Clyde Rambo about his suspicions regarding Ron Boudreaux and pressing on with his probe into FGSI.
The whole skating thing was a bad idea anyway, he never was much good at teaching anyone anything. In terms of it being a date, it was obvious that he was too old for her, and that she was too fast and loose for him. Despite that, it stung a bit to think that she was the one that was going to stand him up. Hell, he'd never been stood up on a dat
e by anyone. Of course, the only dates he'd ever been on had been with Tracy, so perhaps that wasn't a wide enough data pool. Regardless, it certainly wasn't the way this thing was supposed to go, and it didn't do a whole lot for his ego to think that she would rope him into driving all the way out here just to leave him sitting on a bench by himself like a fool.
Why would she do that?
Because he was too cold toward her?
Because he didn't simply rip her clothes off and give her what it was very obvious that she wanted?
Because she thought he was a nut for his little anxiety episode and the night of hard liquor that followed? That one seemed unlikely, but he didn't have much else to assume as noon passed with no sign of her whatsoever.
At five after, he stood and prepared to make his exit. Feeling the cold blowing around him and seeing his breath on the air held him in place, though, and the sounds of people cutting the ice on the main rink just behind where he was standing sealed the deal. He was going to skate, whether Nikki ever showed up or not.
Stepping to the counter, he requested a size twelve rental skate. When the clerk produced them, he remembered why he never rented a pair of skates in his life. They looked more like bowling shoes with dull strips of steel at the bottom than they did a decent pair of skates, but they were all he had to work with, so he would just have to figure it out. Forking over his ten bucks for the skates and ice time, he walked into the main rink for the first time since he was sixteen years old.
It was amazing, with every detail just as he remembered it. Everything still looked new and perfect, nineteen years had done nothing to the place that its maintenance workers couldn't keep up with. Sitting on one of the spectator benches, he laced up his skates until they were tight enough to cut off his circulation; just the way he liked them. Standing on them for the first time took him even further back into his nostalgia, and it felt like the whole process was going to be as familiar as riding a bike once he stepped on the ice. There were two groups of people circling the rink, one composed of two teenagers who looked very much in love, and the other a father and his young son who was struggling to stay on his feet. Both pairs brought a smile to his face, which was incredibly refreshing given the fact that this one wasn't at all forced or artificial.
Once the teenage lovebirds passed him by, he took his first step onto the surface of the rink and felt immediately at home. Taking his first stride started his adrenaline pumping as the wind whipped through his hair and the world started to move quickly and smoothly passed him. With a few more strides, he was up to full speed and tearing into what used to be the visitor's zone for two of the three periods each game. Stutter-stepping, he cut through the face off circle and zipped in front of the crease, as he had done so many times on his way to putting the biscuit passed the opposing goalie and starting his patented goal celebration.
Suddenly the inside of his mouth felt a cool breeze as he cut back towards the blue line. Watching the penalty boxes whiz by, he realized that this was due to the fact that his mouth had fallen almost completely open with his growing smile. Zipping into what was most often his defensive zone, Jake spun to face a phantom forecheck and prepared to drop to the ice should some fool try to shoot one passed him. Backing nearly all the way to the goal line, he spun out of reverse and started his storm toward center ice.
Envisioning an odd-man rush, he skated hard and drug his toe to ensure he remained onside as his imaginary line-mate chipped the puck in deep. Reporting to the area behind the net to fetch it, he spun and prepared to tee it up for someone at the point. In his mind, he fed the puck perfectly back to his defenseman who let loose with a one-time clapper and put through the five-hole of a make-believe goal-tender.
Raising his arms to celebrate, he looked to the spectator area where The Swete family had watched every game that he ever played. For a moment, he could see them and hear their cheering as he put up another assist. They were all there: Nick, Nancy, Tracy and Chucky. They were young, they were proud, and they loved him -- and he loved them just the same. His mind at peace, he closed his eyes and reveled in the moment as he skated in the train toward his bench to exchange high-fives with his team.
Opening his eyes to the world again, the overhead lights reflected off the glass shifted the shadows until The Swete family was all gone. There was someone there though, some outline of a person who cheering him on as The Swetes had done in the past. As he approached the figure became clear. Standing in their place, where they had always sat, was the petit frame of a young girl he knew as Nikki Spencer.
"Alright! Woo-hoo!" She cheered gleefully as she clapped her mittened hands.
Jake's smile widened even further when he saw her, because he was having such an incredible time that he wanted to share it with someone. Tracy or any of the Swetes would've been ideal, but they were indisposed. Thrilled just to have someone, to have anyone to be with him while he was enjoying himself again, he skated to her. When he was just in front of the glass behind which she stood, he stopped with an aggressive power slide to up the wow factor, showering the glass in a hail of freshly shaved ice.
"You made it!" He said, legitimately pleased. "What took you so long?"
"The walk took a little longer than I expected," she replied. "Sorry about that, hun!"
"Wait, wait," Jacob replied, stunned. "You walked here? It's like, twelve miles to the park!"
Nikki nodded, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah, it was kind of a bitch."
"Why didn't you say something?" He asked. "I would've brought you!"
"I didn't think you were going to come at all," she chuckled. "Didn't think you were gonna take the bait."
Jake returned her chuckle and shook his head. "Well, you're here now!" He replied. "Still want to learn?"
"Oh, I dunno," she replied. "You look pretty -- advanced. I don't know if I can keep up with you!"
"Oh bullshit," Jake returned. "I'll slow it down for you, come on!"
Nikki approached the door and opened it, allowing Jake to look down at her skates. They seemed to be barely holding on to her feet, the left already bending her ankle and the right just plain jacked up. This made him laugh fully, so he covered his mouth to spare her any embarrassment.
"First of all," he said once he'd regained his composure, "you've got the wrong size. You're gonna want to ask for at least a size smaller than you generally wear in shoes. Second of all, when you get the right ones, you're gonna have to tie them a lot tighter than that! Come on, I'll take you back to the counter."
He did as he promised, and eventually they had her laced up as well as she could expect to be. He stepped onto the ice first and held his hands out for her, but she still fell instantly when she first tried to stand on it. He patiently helped her up and worked on getting her to maintain her balance by having her hold his hand as he led her around the rink. She stumbled and staggered several times, but she was smiling just as widely as he was with the sensation of gliding along sans friction.
After several laps this way, he insisted that she start taking small strides instead of simply moving solely at the expense of his effort. Each time she tried to push off she drug her skate across the top of the ice, nearly causing her to bite the dust. He steadied her in these instances, then offered his sage advice on what she needed to do differently. She took instruction well, adapting her technique until she was able to push off cleanly and help them along in their circumnavigation of the rink.
Still holding her hand to spare her further falls, he encouraged her to really put some effort behind her strides. He matched her output, moving only as quickly as she would be traveling without him. After a few more trips around, she really put her mind to making a speed pass. He shoved off hard to keep up with her, still clutching her hand as she built up a good head of steam. They passed the penalty boxes and entered the home zone, moving at a good clip through the face off circle and closing on the boards beyo
nd.
They were moving quickly enough now that they would be required to lean to make the turn behind the goal line. Realizing this only at the last minute, he tried to shout out instructions to her to keep them from smashing into the glass at top speed. As they passed the goal line she did lean, but when it came to holding it she failed epically. Losing an edge, she dropped to the ice like a cannonball fired down from the rafters. In trying to spare her the full impact of the fall he pulled up with his arm, which caused him to wipeout right along with her, and he hit the deck hard.
There was pain and laughter in the moments that followed, not to mention relief that Jake's Beretta hadn't accidentally discharged. Only when he hit the ice did he realize how terrible an idea it was to be wearing it. Once they were down they shared another instance of deep and intense eye contact. It was in that moment, in the second that their pupils locked and her cinereal eyes pulled him under, that he realized he was knee-deep in big trouble. As the ice chilled his aching behind and they held their scraped up hands clenched tightly together in mutual agony and humor, he came to the harrowing conclusion that he was actively and irrevocably falling in love with her.
THIRTY-NINE