《Hunt for the Maji: The Blue Guitar》 01 Prologue - The Viking He opened his eyes to find himself standing naked, surrounded by a bundle of Gretas. They were in the crumbling parking lot of a boarded-up shopping center. A trash barrel fire burned in the circle with him. Each woman was wrapped from head to toe in an eclectic combination of fabrics. They had slits cut for their eyes, and they were all staring at his feet. The guitar rested on the dark, cracked pavement, glowing soft blue, lighting a clump of dead grass in its aura. No one spoke. The woman closest held out a neatly folded garment. He took it and unfolded a long trench coat while she set a pair of flip-flops by his feet. She wore a shroud of red¡ªa red sweater, red pants, and a red handkerchief over her nose and mouth. She stomped in her muckboots, then dropped to her knees and touched her forehead on the pavement. ¡°No,¡± he said. She sat up, lifting her palms to the sky, fingers spread wide. The other women knelt one by one, repeating the gesture. He¡¯d been gone a long time from this world. Something had changed with the Veil. They shouldn¡¯t have been able to see him, or the guitar. ¡°Where am I? What year is it?¡± The flicker of the flames danced over their masks. Gretas did not speak¡ªthey were the silent faithful waiting for a revelation. He stepped into the sandals and put on the coat. As he cinched it, a familiar weight materialized inside the lining near his chest. Placing a hand over the orb, he sighed. There you are, my friend. I cannot escape you. The woman in red pointed to the guitar then ripped a square of fabric off her shoulder¡ªbare, pale skin beneath. She rummaged in a satchel slung across her front and came out with a neat little kit from which she threaded a needle and began to sew. The sound of ripping fabric circulated as each Greta followed suit. In short order they brought their work together, sewing onto each other¡¯s rags. It was a hasty and frenetic business there in the cold center of the parking lot. A woman in black yanked the last thread, and the woman in red carefully slipped the guitar into its cover and handed it to him. She stared at him for a long moment, the fire reflected in her eyes, then she slung her backpack over her shoulder and crossed the parking lot into the dark field beyond. The others in faceless fashion formed a mute parade whispering into the void of the field until they were gone, and he alone in the firelight, holding the guitar in the patchwork case while the stone of his fate pressed in the pocket against his heart. The Viking carried the guitar through the darkness of the subway tunnel. He stopped to listen in a shadow between the dim red-orange LEDs that illuminated the length of the narrow maintenance path. Up ahead he heard footsteps shuffling along, determined but not urgent. Still as an iron pillar he gazed down the walk trying to spot the mirage, a flicker, a shift of light that would reveal her, but it was empty to his eyes. She was good with her camouflage. On his waist he carried a revolver. He didn¡¯t like guns, but this morning was an exception. In the secret pocket sewn into the breast of his jacket, the orb¡¯s weight shifted once again. The damn thing had been lively since he¡¯d crossed over. He resented the artifact as he might a more intelligent but silent brother. Over the years he had come to believe it had a will of its own, and whatever choices he made during the fleet blip of his lifespan only played into its mysterious and bloody mission. There! His eye caught the disturbance. Down the tunnel a hunched figure emerged, forging ahead, picking up speed through the lights, slowing in the shadows. When he was close enough he matched her pace footfall for footfall so she couldn¡¯t hear him over her own shuffling. Suddenly she stopped, turned, and held him in her furious gaze. One arm cradled a bundle slung to her chest, the other stretched toward him, not a human hand but the foot and razor-sharp talons of a raptor. ¡°It¡¯s you,¡± she hissed. ¡°You¡¯re late.¡± ¡°I had trouble with security. You said everything would be taken care of.¡± Her bird foot changed into a wrinkled old hand with long, bony fingers. Her white hair spilled over her shoulders and her bundle. ¡°Shit slips up. You¡¯re here, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Aye, I¡¯m here.¡± ¡°Show me.¡± Her words echoed in his brain. ¡°Show me,¡± she repeated. Her scratchy voice reverbed into his bones, his teeth, his neck where it seemed to clinch, to choke. He tasted the ozone of enchantment on his lips and the tip of his tongue. A blue glow washed away the amber of the walk lamps, making everything appear as if sculpted from marble. ¡°You bloody witch,¡± he said. She circled, inspecting him closely, dragging her hand over his arms, down his back. Her touch was ice. ¡°Just making sure you haven¡¯t been followed. Never know you got a shadow until it¡¯s too late.¡± ¡°I¡¯m clean.¡± She closed her hand like she was grasping a string. The blue light evaporated into the dark tunnel like a mist, and the warmth of the walk lamps returned. He hefted the guitar case. ¡°Is this it?¡± she said. ¡°It is. The Dreamer didn¡¯t want to let it go.¡± ¡°Is it in one piece?¡± ¡°Aye. It¡¯s whole.¡± ¡°I thought it¡¯d be smaller.¡± ¡°It was a sword on the other side. Real useful against the bats. She had to change it to get it through.¡± The old woman made a gruff sound of acceptance. She would have to deal with a guitar. Down the tunnel, the lights of a train winked into existence. A cool wind brushed his face. A vibration in the masonry tickled his joints, rising to a rumble as it neared, swift and strong the train was upon them. He pressed against the cement, the guitar between him and the cold surface as the iron beast screamed its passage a mere yard behind. It could not be lost by any chance. It bore responsibility for the dead. He touched his face against the cold wall and clenched his eyes. I¡¯m so sorry, Em. Did he say that, or was it part of the rattling rails? With the receding growl, he could think again. ¡°You okay?¡± asked the old woman. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he said. ¡°Come on, the sun is almost up.¡± From the bundle, a wailing cry broke the stillness left in the wake of the locomotive. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a baby, you idiot.¡± ¡°Fucking hell.¡± He gritted his teeth. ¡°Is he the one? The one you wanted me to¡ª¡± ¡°Anybody else here?¡± ¡°No. Not a baby.¡± She scowled at him. ¡°Almost time. Come on!¡± She shuffled a few more yards to a steel security door, turned the handle and pushed. It didn¡¯t budge. In the distance, another train flashed the darkness. ¡°Help me goddamnit!¡± she said. He pushed the door, but it stayed fast. He tried again with his shoulder. Nothing. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s locked from the inside,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s not. It¡¯s just stuck.¡± The headlights growing large and near. He kicked it with his heel and all his weight. It jarred his leg, but the door budged half an inch. ¡°Fuck!¡± He got a running start. Slam! The wind left his lungs as the door burst open against the force of his shoulder. They stumbled into a pitch-black chamber. He shoved the heavy door shut, dampening the grinding metal of the morning commute.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Here, it¡¯s a flashlight,¡± said the woman. The baby was crying bloody murder. He felt for her hand and took the small cylinder. ¡°You gotta twist it.¡± A bright beam hit the ground at their feet. ¡°There you go.¡± She rocked the baby back and forth. ¡°He doesn¡¯t like the dark.¡± She began to sing like a sick crow. ¡°Hush, little baby, don¡¯t say a word, White Owl¡¯s gonna wish you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don¡¯t sing, White Owl¡¯s gonna wish you a magic ring¡­¡± He held the light up and inspected the room. It was a stone circle, textured, almost like¡­ He moved the light close and his heart thudded in his chest. Hieroglyphs were chiseled into the wall, covering the entire surface. He pointed the flashlight up to find they extended into the inky darkness above. ¡°Do you recognize it?¡± she said, raising her voice to be heard above the baby. He ran his hand over the writing as if it were braille. Yes, yes, I know this. But from where? An inkling in his mind gave it away¡ªd¨¦j¨¤ vu. That was how it worked. Whenever he crossed through it messed with his memories. ¡°It¡¯s from beyond the Veil.¡± He swooped around, raising the light close, and retraced the characters. ¡°How long, witch? How long have you been weaving this enchantment?¡± The old woman laughed. At once frail and fierce, she lifted her chin proudly. ¡°Two hundred years, Viking! And I¡¯m not gonna let you fuck it up now. So do your job and do it well. Time, as they say, is of the essence.¡± ¡°Hush, lil¡¯ baby, don¡¯t say a word¡­¡± The baby quieted. He closed his eyes tight and strained his mind to conjure the memory library until the presence of a gothic hotel surrounded by palm trees rose up against a black sky void of stars, its doors wide open, waiting for his return. He ran through the banquet hall where flags hung from the rafters. Candelabra on the tables set as if for an extravagant feast. Not stopping for the ghosts of lives past, he dashed through the kitchen into the back room to the stairs that took him down to the basement. There, upon a table, like a file in a small concavity of a hard drive, was a silver soccer cleat representing a lifetime of memories. On the tongue of the cleat was the key to a language he had once known by heart. His eyes flew open, and he read the hieroglyphs, nodding to himself in understanding. The thesis of the enchantment was evident, and the calculations of the ripple effect were precise. The old woman had done her research. ¡°It will encircle the Earth,¡± he said. He pulled his beard on his chin¡ªthe pain helped him think¡ªand followed the phrasing of the spell until he found what he was looking for in the elusive syntax of symbols. Here. He felt where the stone had been chipped away. ¡°You¡¯re good,¡± said the old woman. The baby cooed. The enchantment would be cryptic even to the most studied scholars of the Den, indecipherable to the Sisters and their dark methods. ¡°The lamb upon the altar. God help us.¡± His voice was dry. The old woman nodded gravely and rocked the baby. ¡°Oh, Mr. Norse. Yes, I know your name. Norse! Norse the Viking, isn¡¯t that what they call you? God cannot help us. We can only help ourselves.¡± She bounced the infant, eliciting a burp. ¡°It¡¯s too much. How can he defend himself?¡± Child in hand, she pressed him back against the wall. ¡°How many have you killed in your long, entangled career? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands?¡± ¡°He should have a choice,¡± he said. ¡°Did you have a choice?¡± she countered. He did not answer. ¡°There is no time for choice, only action. If you don¡¯t do it now, then all this will have been for nothing.¡± She gestured to the room, the inscriptions, the articulation of the enchantment, the guitar sitting on the floor in its patchwork case. ¡°Who is¡ª?¡± ¡°He¡¯s no one. Just some mutt from the Rez.¡± The baby stared back at him with inquisitive eyes. ¡°Here comes the sun. You have the orb. It is your burden. Do it, goddamnit. Do it now!¡± She unfurled the baby and let its swaddle fall to the dirty floor. Suspended upside down by one leg, naked in the beam of the flashlight, the pathetic thing wiggled and stretched its tiny hands toward him. The baby boy¡¯s shrieks cracked his ears and sent a wave of nausea coursing through him. He took long, deep breaths until the crying stopped. ¡°He¡¯s Maji.¡± Norse whispered. ¡°Indeed, and rare to find the gift so strong.¡± ¡°Gift or curse?¡± He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and drew out the pouch, untied the drawstrings, turned it over, and let the sphere fall into his hand. He held it up and looked into it. Sometimes he thought he could tell something of its intentions, a hint at what would come. For an instant, deep within, a faint flash, and then gone. The old woman gazed as well, mouthing silent words. The orb¡¯s gravity shifted and pulled toward the infant. He struggled to keep his hand steady. The world clouded at the margins, the vignette closing in. Focus. Hold it together. The vision came swift and vivid: A city laid to waste, empty of inhabitants. Smoke rose from the rubble¨Cair of ash and fire. A giant wall of war and suppression towered into a slate-dark sky. A room in the city, an office torn to shreds. A boy strapped to a large desk. He¡¯d been gagged with tape. A dark hand grabbed his long hair and yanked his head back, exposing his delicate neck. A woman loomed over him, holding a dagger with a cruel blade. The boy¡¯s eyes were wide with fear as the metal touched his skin, but he was not seeing his tormentors. He was looking beyond into the darkness. He was looking at Norse, pleading. Norse tried to grab her wrist, but he had no arms to reach out, no voice to shout. He was the shadow itself, specter of darkness. He could only watch as she slid the blade across his throat, a spring of blood and bubbles painted his neck and flowed down onto the table. The orb¡¯s vision dissolved back to the room and the upside-down infant. They want your voice, little one. You¡¯re already damned. The orb is the only chance you have. He relinquished and let the artifact press against the tiny throat, right beneath the baby¡¯s chin. The scream came high and pure, then caught and changed into a mournful song of want. For what? He did not know. For a mother¡¯s warm breast? Wasn¡¯t that what babies needed most? The old woman clutched the babe to her, kissed his cheek, and laid him on the floor. ¡°Kneel, Viking.¡± He dropped to the stone foundation, hard against his knees, and shined the light on the baby. He blinked and smiled, showing his toothless gums. The old woman set down her satchel and took from it a plastic bag containing an ounce of red powder. She took a pinch and sprinkled it over the baby from head to toe. He whined when some of it drifted into his eyes. ¡°Ash,¡± she said, ¡°from a world that was burned in the fires of Chaos.¡± He felt the acceleration, like he was sitting in a car that was speeding up, faster and faster. The orb against his chest was hot and heavy. The baby shrieked in delight and grasped for the ceiling. Long strands of light floated like spider¡¯s silk in the air. They sparkled and pulsed with deep colors, then dimmed out completely. The etchings on the wall and floor shone gold. The hieroglyphs were alive. Lines and squiggles started to move around the room like insects scurrying through an endless maze. An eagle transformed from beneath his knees, flew across the floor and up the wall where it battled with the image of a musclebound minotaur wielding a lance in one hand and a sun-marked shield in the other. The struggle startled a flock of tiny red birds, thousands of them. They exploded up the stones, flying madly into the flickering darkness. The threads of light returned en masse, an aurora of orange and red that conglomerated and blazed into a pillar of fire in the center of the room above the baby. So intense it set the wall on fire, searing away the inscriptions, and when there was nothing left, a black crust like the burnt and striated bark of a tree grew over the wall and encircled them, a weeping sap deep in its midnight terrain reflected the fire in shimmering veins of lava. Norse held his breath, unsure if he could breathe in the eye of the enchantment. The fire swooped down and engulfed the baby, its flames the arms of a horrific and conflagrant mother. He felt the heat and he screamed, but he had no mouth. A white-hot furnace exploded in his head, blazing and unquenchable, and his eyeballs melted in their sockets. And then dark unconscious. As in waking from sleep, he felt there had been a great passage of time, or none at all. He¡¯d lost the flashlight, or he¡¯d been struck blind. He turned his hands over to feel for his eyes. The lines of his palms sparkled like little rivers. ¡°Look,¡± whispered the old woman. The Veil¡¯s light infested the ancient crevices and folds of her face. And then there it was, floating in the air. A tiny, sparkly mote, a speck like a distant star, no larger than a firefly, softly settled on the baby¡¯s throat and sank beneath his skin, lighting his flesh from the inside out, revealing the intricate nebulae of blood vessels and tendons, then fading, fading, until it was gone. The stone again became the still stone floor and wall covered in the etchings of the enchantment, now cold and barren of any magic. ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± she said from the blackness. A great sigh fled her body. He fumbled on the floor and found the flashlight. He shook it, and it came on dimly, the battery almost dead. ¡°Thank you, Norse,¡± she said. ¡°So¡ª¡± He moved to get up. She stopped him. ¡°Wait. This is our only chance. We need to hear him sing.¡± ¡°Witch, every hunter in the city will have sniffed your chant by now. You don¡¯t fuck with the Veil like that and get away with it.¡± ¡°Viking, we need to see. You need to see. Just a moment. Just one more enchantment. I got it here in my bag.¡± His hand felt for the revolver on his hip, heavy and certain. ¡°Fast then,¡± he said. She took from her pack a dark glass bottle with a rubber stopper. She held it up, and a little piece of the Veil revealed itself in the air and swarmed around it. ¡°My feeble magic.¡± She shook her head. ¡°The boy is a wonder. He will save so many.¡± She pulled the plug and sniffed, closed her eyes and smiled, then held it under Norse¡¯s nose. It was sweet and fresh, like wild roses in the rain. She opened the baby¡¯s toothless mouth with her thumb and tipped the bottle to his lips. ¡°The unfertilized egg of a mermaid still in her sheen.¡± The baby drank, and the lights of the Veil wormed into his mouth. From a jewel box, she lifted a knife with a hilt of ebony. ¡°A silver dagger stained with the blood of a hunter.¡± She whispered to the baby, ¡°Hide them, kiddo.¡± Then, deft as a surgeon, she shoved her thumb into his mouth and pierced his small tongue. Blood coated his tiny lips and dribbled down chin. The baby cried, but his note was pure. Norse¡¯s bones resonated with the ripple of the enchantment. The focus came hard with a cramp that started at the base of his neck and climbed up the back of his scalp. At the top of his head, it sank into his brain and peeled back the crusted cataracts of his vision. ¡°There!¡± The old woman jumped to her feet as agile as a dancer and pointed up. Above them was the vast night sky studded with the Milky Way¡¯s brilliant suns. And something else¡­ Monstrosity. His first urge was to cry out in despair. Sweat trickled down his back like a cold spider. Across the dome of sky, from horizon to horizon, a jagged scar leaked a crimson blood-glow into the night, as if a galactic beast had torn the very flesh of Heaven. ¡°My God,¡± whispered Norse. ¡°The Chaos,¡± said the old woman. ¡°Turns out those bitches in the Den were right after all.¡± ¡°When?¡± ¡°I fear sooner rather than later. It doesn¡¯t matter. I expect the Sisters already know, or they will soon. You can bet they¡¯re gonna call all the hunters out now. The Veil grows thin. The d¨¦tente is over. The hunt for the Maji begins.¡± She wrapped the baby in its swaddling clothes. ¡°Can I hold him?¡± asked Norse. She let him take the child, light as nothing in his hands. It¡¯s not going to be easy, little one. You¡¯ll be running all the time. The old woman cackled. ¡°So there is a softer side to the terrible Viking¡ª¡± A harrowing howl came from the depths of the tunnel. She snatched the child back. ¡°They¡¯re coming.¡± He pulled the metal door open and picked up the guitar. The old woman clutched his arm. ¡°It¡¯s not over. He¡¯ll need you again.¡± She took the instrument, checked the baby was secure, and started her laden shuffle back down the way they¡¯d come, determined but not urgent. The howl rose much closer, chilling his blood. It was the cry of a wild, tormented creature bursting with fury. He whipped around and peered down the walk. There, far ahead, something moved from shadow to light, shadow to light, coming at them fast. He spun back to tell the old woman to run, but she was gone. ¡°Fucking witches,¡± he said. The hunter came, certain, silent, deadly. He felt its presence, the dark signature of its magic. This one was old, wise from ancient battles. ¡°Maji!¡± it screamed, a horrid hybrid of human and beast. He could not afford to lose. That child needed to survive. He drew the revolver loaded with silver bullets and took a stance, ready for the moment. 02 Night Call
Raven Maddox: I think it¡¯s fair to say that once-long-shot-candidate Jane Allgood shellacked her political opponent, embattled President Amanda Knutson. We¡¯re going to keep our eyes on this. There¡¯s still time. From the city of Chicago and the final presidential debate, this has been Raven Maddox, reporting live for the Free News Broadcasting Station. Back to you in Washington, George.
Alan pressed the side of his VR glasses. The large screen before his eyes faded, and the lenses cleared. He stood at the window. The cement sidewalk three stories below glistened wet beneath amber streetlights. He took off the headset and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It had been a gift to himself for getting through most of October, yet he resented the contraption¡ªtoo absorbing. He had to be wary of things that were absorbing. That morning he¡¯d lost himself for two hours on a DIY pornography channel full of shaky videos and bad lighting. Twisting the glasses in his hands, he felt the plastic crack and the lenses pop out. He went to the kitchen, dropped the mangled devise in the trash, then poured himself another glass of wine. ¡°TV on. Sync.¡± The television that monopolized most of his living room wall, another gift, instantly sprang to life.
George Staff: Thank you, Raven. For post-debate analysis, we are joined by two people at the very top of this electoral race. President Knutson¡¯s campaign manager, Hillary Reed, and Joseph Porchsmith, campaign manager for Security Party candidate Jane Allgood. Joseph, to you first. How do you think the debate went? Joseph Porchsmith {laughing}: Well, George, what you witnessed here tonight was Jane Allgood¡¯s death blow to Amanda Knutson¡¯s jugular. As Allgood stated, under Knutson¡¯s leadership the economy has tanked with anywhere from fifty percent to sixty percent unemployment¡ªdepending on whose figures you¡¯re inclined to trust. The war on the eastern front is caught in a quagmire. A fact Knutson avoids at every opportunity is that we¡¯ve actually lost ground in the country of Georgia. The nuclear strike on Tbilisi, now more than thirteen years past, goes unaccounted for by yet another liberal hive-mind administration. You¡¯ve got to wonder whose side these people are on! The Federation of Eastern European Nations, FEEN, is clearly responsible for that tragedy, and they need to be dealt with like the fiends they truly are! It¡¯s time to bring President Orlov and his sons to justice! Hillary Reed {clapping}: Bravo! Very nice rhetoric, Joe. I think the American people see it for what it is. The Security Party intends to use Allgood to bulldoze through a radical agenda designed to trample on the Constitution. There¡¯s nothing in your platform that will fix the challenges America is facing. Joseph Porchsmith: Excuse me, Hill, is this how you want to play? Fine, let¡¯s talk about domestic policy. President Knutson has failed to pass meaningful health care reform¡ªa key campaign pledge she made four years ago. Additionally, because of this administration¡¯s liberal policies, the nation¡¯s youth have been devastated, absolutely devastated, by the scourge of designer Escape drugs. What¡¯s the death toll now? I¡¯m afraid to look. Fifty million! That¡¯s straight from the CDC. Fifty million dead, and an estimated one hundred million more are addicted¡ªand that number is rising daily. Not only that, since Knutson took office, the average age of first use has dropped to below eighteen. On top of everything, we at the Allgood campaign have come across studies that suggest Escape may be responsible for certain viral infections. Anyone in their right mind can see that this administration has lost control¡ª Hillary Reed: Viral infections? George, I can¡¯t let this go. Those studies were conducted by agenda-driven research. Haven¡¯t the drug-addicted suffered enough? And now you¡¯re trying to stigmatize them with rumors about viruses. Nice talking point, Joe. Joe the Scarecrow! George Staff: Ms. Reed, please¡ª Joseph Porchsmith: George, I know this is your show. I¡¯m sorry, but I¡¯m just going to keep talking until I¡¯m given a chance to actually speak¡ª George Staff: Ms. Reed, please. You will have your chance. And I think we¡¯re above name calling on this show. Joseph Porchsmith: Thank you, George. Finally, and most critically, under Knutson¡¯s watch, America suffered the largest terrorist attack since 9/11. Of course, I¡¯m referring to the Super Bowl Los Angeles attack two years ago when a radical environmental organization¡ªlinked to the Gretas and President Knutson¡ªreleased a chemical weapon at a stadium filled with innocent men, women, and children¡ª Hillary Reed: Lie! That¡¯s a Lie. George. There was no link to the president, or the Gretas! Joe, you know that¡ª George Staff: Ms. Reed. Don¡¯t make me cut your mic. Joseph Porchsmith: Bomber number one was a Greta. That¡¯s established. What is also established is the fact that these homegrown terrorists had ties to the Knutson White House¡ª Hillary Reed: Stop! George¡ªJoe! Stop! I can¡¯t let that go. Half-baked truths, lies, and conspiracy theories! That¡¯s what you¡¯re peddling today, Joe. You pull these things out of your ass, and you¡¯re never held accountable. George Staff: Ms. Reed, language, please! Your mic is off. You will have your say in just a moment. Mr. Porchsmith, get to the point. Joseph Porchsmith: Thank you, George. So, Hillary, you might want to listen carefully. What America is desperate for, and what Jane Allgood proposes, is a radical restructuring of society to restore the values of our founders and America¡¯s safety. That is why on day one of Allgood¡¯s presidency, she is going to introduce the Third Eye legislation to Congress¡ªthe votes are there for its passage¡ªand she¡¯s going to sign it on the same day, thus granting her the authority to install cyber and homeland security that has been lacking under your boss. How many hacks in this admin?¡ª George Staff: Okay, Mr. Porchsmith, thank you. That was a lot in one breath {laughs}. Hillary Reed, to you. Your response to Porchsmith and the debate. Hillary Reed: Thank you, George. First, I want to say it¡¯s disgraceful that Porchsmith and his candidate continue to lie and perpetuate these conspiracy theories about that terrible attack. Everyone knows¡ª Joseph Porchsmith: It was on her watch. It happened on President Knutson¡¯s watch! Hillary Reed: Excuse me, Joe. Don¡¯t interrupt me. I let you make your point. Now I¡¯ll tell the truth. First, the Gretas are a massive, global phenomenon, and there are a lot of nut cases out there. They cannot be held responsible for one¡ª Joseph Porchsmith: Do you deny that bomber number two was once an intern for Knutson when she was on the board of directors for Earth Peace, itself a far-left environmental group? George Staff: Mr. Porchsmith. Ms. Reed, please finish.
Alan opened the back door, stepped out onto the little balcony covered by a half-awning to keep the weather from coming directly through the entry, and lit a cigarette. The sleet still fell, and above the apartment block, the low carpet of clouds reflected the amber hue of small-town lights. Snow incoming. The pinot noir and tobacco swirled an intoxicating dance in his mouth. The television droned on.
Hillary Reed: As I was saying, President Knutson has had to fend off this disinformation campaign by Allgood and her goons in the Security Party for almost two years now. Anyone who wants to can go read the Independent Investigator¡¯s report, the CIA¡¯s report, and the FBI¡¯s report, all of which have found absolutely no link or relationship between bomber number two and the president. That terrorist¡ªI¡¯m not afraid to say it¡ªthat terrorist was one of three hundred volunteers working at Earth Peace on a part-time internship administered by a third party. President Knutson did not know the man, nor had she ever met him. Those are the facts. See, George, this is what Porchsmith and the Allgood campaign have done from the very beginning. They twist, mislead, and obfuscate through lies and conspiracy theories in order to muddy the waters. And then, while Americans are distracted, they plot to destroy the Constitution. The point is, if Americans elect Jane Allgood, they are going to get this Third Eye legislation, giving the president broad powers to allow artificial intelligence to track your every move. There will be intrusive psychological monitoring and profiling, and who knows what else because the bill is expected to be classified as soon as it¡¯s introduced. A vote for Allgood is a vote against American values. Joseph Porchsmith: Nice Try, Hill. That was desperate. George Staff: Thank you both. Emotions are high. The stakes are high. We¡¯ll be back with further analysis by our expert panel.
Alan switched off the television. His wall turned black, and silence pervaded his small apartment. Like many Americans, he was riveted to the drama of this election season, and like many Americans, he¡¯d lost hope in the political process. He had no plans to vote. He flicked his cigarette into the alley. To avoid getting worked up over things far outside his realm, he poured himself another glass of wine, tipping the bottle up to get the last dribbles of the crimson nectar. The warming numbness of onsetting drunk warmed his cheeks and fogged his mind. His fingers tingled. Something smooth behind his eyes said, relax. He turned the music station to midnight jazz and dimmed the lights. A mournful trumpet wept into his apartment. The expensive sound system was a gift to himself last Christmas for making it through the year. This year, a mountain bike. The plan was to tackle the second half of middle age with a vengeance. Somewhere near the crepuscule of sleep in his cushy leather recliner, his phone began to vibrate, which caused the coffee table to hum, sending little ripples across the surface of his wine. ¡°Alan, it¡¯s Paul. Put the Merlot down and listen,¡± said a rough voice that sounded like it had choked back a couple hundred thousand too many filterless cigarettes. ¡°I¡¯ve got a client for you.¡± ¡°Jesus, Paul. It¡¯s 11 PM, and it¡¯s pinot.¡± ¡°What are you, eighty-five years old? I¡¯m still fucking my mistress at 11 PM. I really need your help on this one.¡± ¡°No, Paul. No more AI analysis. No more displaced worker syndrome. No more election derangement cases. I don¡¯t care if they are in the manual.¡± ¡°You told me you were looking for something different. I¡¯m just doing my part to keep psychotherapists off the breadline.¡± ¡°I figure as soon as Allgood gets in, I might as well join the other over-educated, under-employed professionals. You know the Security Party is going to gut the clinic¡¯s funding.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t drink the kool-aid, Alan. It¡¯s just a bunch of political bullshit. If there¡¯s one thing AI won¡¯t be able to replace, it¡¯s shrinks. Nobody is gonna want to talk to a robot about the robot that stole their job.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll be singing a different tune when AI red-flags you for your lunchtime cigar and cognac problem.¡± Dr. Paul Murphy, it was well known, enjoyed things a little bit on the luxurious side for a homegrown Montana psychiatrist. ¡°Who says there¡¯s a problem?¡± said Murphy. ¡°Anyway, Alan, I called you because I know you did your dissertation on juvenile offenders.¡± ¡°Oh, did you finally read it?¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Abstracts and conclusions are all that matter. Christ, I¡¯m an old man, grasshopper.¡± Alan suppressed a bitter chuckle. Apart from his dissertation adviser and Zoey, no one had actually read his research. His adviser didn¡¯t wholly agree with his conclusions, and Zoey had read it because she loved him, and she was a whiz at grammar. ¡°It¡¯s a kid,¡± Murphy said. Silence spanned between them. The trumpet was wailing in his ears. ¡°No,¡± said Alan. ¡°Alan¡ª¡± ¡°Paul, I¡¯m not¡­ I don¡¯t¡­ I can¡¯t¡­¡± ¡°He¡¯s a native boy, lost as fuck, Alan. County¡¯s going to run him through the ringer.¡± ¡°Becky, Paul. She went after me before.¡± ¡°If you don¡¯t take this, I¡¯ll have to put it on her desk. Do me a solid, for Christ¡¯s sake. I don¡¯t care about the other ones, but this one, Alan, this one is for you. And I don¡¯t want Dr. Madison to touch it with a ten-foot pole.¡± Alan opened the door and stepped back out onto the little veranda. The snow had started. He lit a cigarette. ¡°She¡¯ll just go to the board and tell them the dream-interpreting Escape addict is working with children again. They¡¯ll run me through the whole gamut.¡± ¡°You detoxed. That¡¯s an achievement in itself. I¡¯ll lobby on your behalf. I founded this clinic. I might be emeritus, but I still got pull with the board. Christ, she¡¯ll medicate him first thing.¡± ¡°They can¡¯t do that. He¡¯s a kid.¡± ¡°They can do that because they¡¯re going to play the predator card.¡± ¡°Cunt,¡± Alan breathed. ¡°I didn¡¯t hear that, Dr. Smith.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not suited...¡± ¡°Look, at least do the initial eval and tell me what you think.¡± Alan slammed the last of his wine. He had a bottle breathing on deck. ¡°Fine, alright. I have time on Monday.¡± ¡°Nope. It¡¯s got to be tomorrow. First thing in the morning.¡± ¡°Shit, I got a 9:30 with a spinner. Need to convince her that her dead husband isn¡¯t talking to her from the toilet bowl.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll have time. Or cancel with the spinner. She won¡¯t know the difference. You need to get there before the sheriff gets in. This shit is going to blow up. There¡¯s a big name involved.¡± ¡°Yeah? Like who?¡± ¡°Like John Taylor¡¯s daughter.¡± ¡°The senator, that John Taylor?¡± ¡°The one and only.¡± ¡°Christ.¡± Alan rubbed his eyes and wished he hadn¡¯t uncorked the second bottle. ¡°They brought him in tonight from the police station. They¡¯re going to interrogate him tomorrow. He¡¯s Native, so the tribe will want an eval first since he¡¯s a minor. Cover their bases, and make sure he¡¯s not loony tunes. It¡¯ll be an uphill fight.¡± ¡°Anywhere but Montana,¡± said Alan. ¡°Be careful who you talk to. This case is a little sensitive. I¡¯ll send the file to your email. He¡¯s almost a John Doe. Both parents are MIA, probably spinners. Orphan most likely. No address. We got him in D-Pad for his safety and comfort.¡± ¡°Fuck, is it that bad?¡± D-Pad, or Padded Room D¡ªdeep, depressed, dungeon¡ªwas the clinic¡¯s safe room for clients, usually Escape addicts, intent on self-harm. ¡°Better safe than sorry. Better than a jail cell. Security Sam is on the job, so I¡¯m confident the boy¡¯s okay until you get there tomorrow morning.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be there.¡± ¡°I know you will, Alan. Thank you. I feel better now. Oh, and one more thing. You didn¡¯t forget, did you?¡± ¡°Forget what?¡± He played dumb. ¡°Come on, man. The Lake County Halloween Gala is the day after tomorrow. You promised. The deep pockets are gonna be there.¡± ¡°Yeah. Fuck it. I know. But I¡¯m not dressing up.¡± ¡°Fine, fine, come as you are. It¡¯s costume enough.¡± Click. The thought of getting off the chair annoyed him. He had to do something with that wine. The screaming in his head told him to dump it down the sink. He jerked to his feet, went into the kitchen, and picked the bottle up by the neck. ¡°?k¨¹zg?z¨¹ Bo?azkere,¡± he said, trying to read the label. His research on the internet had informed him that the two little dots over the vowels meant you pronounced them in the back of your mouth. The crescent moon over the g meant you didn¡¯t say it at all. ¡°Ookuuzgoozuu Boazkeray.¡± Satisfied with his pronunciation and gripping the bottle by the neck, he took it to the veranda along with another cigarette. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. The snow had matured into a proper front. Flakes hit his face and melted. From the sound system, the trumpet spoke to a piano about sorrow. He brought the bottle to his lips and let the wine unfurl its ribbon over his tongue and through his teeth. He closed his eyes and could smell and taste the sweet oats they used to keep in a bag on the tack shed floor for the horse, the plum fruit of her nape, the crisp pine needle crushed between finger and thumb and inhaled up a nostril, and a dark chocolate finish. ¡°?k¨¹zg?z¨¹ Bo?azkere.¡± The design on the bottle was a field, and in that field the golden silhouette of a man walked against a black sky. He filled his lungs with smoke again, then tipped the bottle to his lips, and did not pull away until the wine was gone. He stepped in his bare feet onto the wet deck, sucked on his cigarette, and threw the bottle with all his might over the corner of the next block, where it shattered on the street in a moment of racket. A dog barked. A porch light came on. He finished his cigarette and flicked it down into the inch-deep snow. The swoon took him in its swell, and he became sick, leaned over the rail, and expelled two bottles of wine, crackers, and cheese from his gullet. He stayed leaning over, saliva dripping from his nose and mouth, and tried to breathe and to decipher the Rorschach of his handiwork on the street of new-fallen snow. *** At 6:15 in the morning, Doctor of Psychology Alan Smith left his man cave apartment in the small Rocky Mountain town of Ronan, Montana and headed due north on Highway 93 for fourteen miles to the Clear Hope Mental Wellness Clinic in the uppity, lakeside town of Polson. Ronan and Polson, sister cities in the cradle of Mission Valley, were bitter rivals on the football field¡ªblack and orange for the Ronan Chiefs, purple and gold for the Polson Pirates. He sipped his coffee from a stainless-steel tumbler and let the self-driver (a gift to himself for making it to forty) take over as it synced with a little jolt into the automated grid of the road. He closed his eyes, fighting back the soft thump thump in his temples and the temptation to nap. Over the radio, the calm, authoritative voice of FNBS host Raven Maddox read the news and commentary, a soothing salve for millions of liberal early-bird commuters across the country. On his right the foothills of the Mission Mountains were skirted in snow. They rose from the earth and vanished into the low bank of clouds that had ceased their precipitation but held the world hostage should it get any colder. In the broad ditch off the highway, fitful camps of climate refugees hunkered¡ªperhaps still in sleep or warming themselves by internal heaters¡ªbeneath canvas tents butted up against un-gridded vehicles; sometimes a smokestack belched a plum into the morning dusk. It was the twilight hour. He preferred its anonymity to the revealing light of day. He felt alone, incognito, only him and the occasional self-driving truck full of cargo but empty of any conscious human mind on its predestined course. Going to meet the occupant of D-Pad, an unsettled sensation filled his chest. Why had Paul Murphy saddled him with this task? ¡°Raven,¡± he said to the AI. ¡°Good morning, Dr. Smith, PhD, winner of the Distinguished Dissertation award for the best dissertation in a class of seventy-five students. How can I be of assistance?¡± responded the car¡¯s computer in a rather sultry, if robotic, deep fake of Raven Maddox. The journalist had been a sex symbol in her prime. Her reportage from the Korean peninsula as the North descended upon the South and the sea washed inward was renowned. She¡¯d been fond of white dress shirts left open to reveal ample bosom, her wild, wavy hair blowing across her face, and her old-fashioned microphone held forth like a sword to the throats of warlords, dictators, and democrats alike. ¡°Uhh¡­ Please read the file I received last night from Paul Murphy.¡± ¡°Of course. Shall I use my sexy voice?¡± The fact that he had to ponder the question. ¡°Professional voice, please.¡± The computer read out in an academic tone, ¡°October 29. Case report. Written by responding officer Gwendolyn Wolf of the Lake County Sheriff¡¯s Department. ¡°Francis Builds A Fire, thirteen years old, was arrested Friday morning at Ronan High School for suspected sexual assault of a classmate, fourteen-year-old Amy Taylor, and the attempted sexual assault of a teacher, fifty-seven-year-old Dorothy Dale.¡± ¡°Pause.¡± The narration fell silent. ¡°Project the PDF.¡± The case file appeared on the heads-up display of his windshield. He flicked to the front matter of the holographic document. The profile picture had been taken from a school photograph. The boy¡¯s face seemed thin and undernourished, his eyes large and questioning, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wasn¡¯t smiling. The fields for his birthdate, home address, and parents were all blank. ¡°What¡¯s the place of birth for Francis Builds A Fire?¡± ¡°Searching¡­ Place of birth: St. Luke¡¯s General Community Healthcare.¡± ¡°Legal guardians?¡± ¡°Unknown.¡± Odd. This information should have been readily available in the school district¡¯s files. ¡°Can you read the description of the assault?¡± The computer continued: ¡°Two witnesses were interviewed by the responding officer. Here is the quote from the first witness.¡± ¡°My name is Dorothy Dale.¡± A woman¡¯s excited voice spoke too close to the mic. ¡°I¡¯m an English teacher here at Ronan High School. I teach freshman English. I came into class about 8:25 this morning and saw Francis in the back of the room with his hands on Amy Taylor. She¡¯s Senator Taylor¡¯s daughter, you know?¡± ¡°I¡¯m aware of that, thank you,¡± said deputy Wolf. She had a soft, almost smoky voice. ¡°Amy was crying. I had to act quickly because of our no-physical-touch policy. I knew something was wrong. I shouted at him to get his hands off her!¡± Alan rolled his eyes. The teacher sounded like a spoiled child having a fit. ¡°That¡¯s when he came at me. I don¡¯t know what he would have done. It looked like, you know, he was sexually aroused.¡± ¡°You mean to say he had an erection?¡± asked Wolf. There was a moment of silence. ¡°You need to verbalize. This is a recording.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. He could have!¡± said the teacher. ¡°And you think he intended to assault you?¡± said Wolf. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve been through the training module on male aggression. You can¡¯t be too careful with boys his age.¡± said the teacher. ¡°You said he came at you? Did he run at you?¡± said Wolf. ¡°Why are you interrogating me? I¡¯m the victim.¡± said the teacher on the verge of tears. ¡°Ms. Dale. I need¡ª¡± said Wolf, but the teacher cut her off sharply. ¡°It¡¯s not Ms. it¡¯s Mx. Shi/hir, with an i¡ªOkay? Get it right. He came at me. He came toward me. I was too far away from the panic button, but luckily another student stopped him. Mac Winesworth.¡± Alan shook his head. Goddamn schools, they always overreacted. Once you passed through those doors, common sense and reason were replaced by politically correct groupthink. It could have been anything, a lovers¡¯ spat, anything. The computer narrated Deputy Wolf¡¯s report: ¡°The victim, Amy Taylor, was taken to St. Luke¡¯s General Community Healthcare for evaluation and immediately flown to Helena. She was unable to give a statement.¡± ¡°What about the Winesworth boy?¡± asked Alan. ¡°Witness. Mackenzie Winesworth, age fifteen,¡± said the computer, followed by a teen¡¯s deep voice¡ªagain too close to the mic. ¡°I came into the room when I heard Mx. Dale yelling and saw that fucking pervert going after her, so I took him down. He¡¯ll feel that in the teepee for at least a week.¡± Deputy Wolf: ¡°How did you subdue Francis?¡± Winesworth: ¡°Clocked him in the face with a right hook. I went to State last year in boxing, and I work out with the Junior All-stars, so he went down hard. I kicked him a few times cause my dad says you don¡¯t let a bully get back up.¡± Deputy Wolf: ¡°What makes you think Francis was a threat that you had to use force on him?¡± Winesworth: ¡°Oh, he¡¯s a weirdo, alright. Always in his own world. Nobody likes him, and I guess now we know why¡ªsexual problems. Can¡¯t fix someone with sexual problems. Pastor Tony says you gotta put a bullet in their head.¡± ¡°Jesus Christ,¡± Alan muttered. ¡°Are there any more statements?¡± ¡°No further statements,¡± the computer replied. ¡°Have charges been filed?¡± ¡°Charges should be filed by noon today, pending primary mental health evaluation.¡± ¡°Ethnicity of the people in this report?¡± ¡°Victim: Amy Taylor, Caucasian. Witness: Mackenzie Winesworth, Caucasian. Witness: Dorothy Dale, Caucasian. Perpetrator: Francis Builds A Fire, Native American. Enrolled member of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes. Parents¡¯ identities are absent.¡± Due to the Escape pandemic and the refugee crisis, orphaned, even homeless, children were a common issue across the United States and the globe at large. ¡°Why aren¡¯t the names of Builds A Fire¡¯s parents listed?¡± ¡°Authorized redaction.¡± ¡°Authorized by who?¡± The computer did not respond. Racial tensions in Ronan were long-simmering but had escalated in recent years. Most of the problems originated from disputes over water rights between White farmers and the tribe, that was, by treaty, in charge of the Mission Valley¡¯s water works. When Knutson came into office and declared such resources a strategic asset, the pressure cooker started to rattle. In the intervening years, the price of water climbed. As it got more expensive, White nationalist groups began to come out of the woodwork. Of course, they were always there, but now they were asserting a presence in the Mission Valley. They would guard irrigation ditches with hunting rifles to block the ditch rider from turning off the water. They gained a Robin Hood mystique with some of the locals. Many businesses displayed covert symbols of White power in their windows. Each January 6th the local militia, the High Mountain Rangers, and other far-right groups would boldly march down Ronan¡¯s Main Street, showing off their guns, tattoos, and bad haircuts. There was even a crypto supremacist organization in the local high schools, Pastor Tony¡¯s Junior All-Stars, the child-friendly version of Pastor Tony¡¯s Boys. It masqueraded as a fitness club, but curiously, all the members were lily-white. Pastor Tony, the moral compass of conservative America, was a steroid-enhanced mountain of a man whose vehement sermons were tinged with innuendos of supremacy and an Old Testament view of how the world should be. No expense was spared as he took his message to the metaverse. Among his many lunatic claims was that a certain variety of AI had a soul. It was not uncommon to see a group of Pastor Tony¡¯s Boys standing on a street corner wearing their VR glasses and preaching up a storm to a virtual stadium of bots. ¡°Did the police find any signs of sexual assault?¡± ¡°No evidence of physical or sexual assault can be confirmed at this time,¡± said the computer. ¡°End session.¡± The computer-generated voice went silent to be replaced by Raven Maddox. Alan sipped his coffee as the self-drive grid sped him silently him to his set destination. 03 FNBS + D-Pad FNBS Raven Maddox: I think what¡¯s intriguing is that a look into Jane Allgood¡¯s proposed security plan for America, should she win the presidency this coming Tuesday, presents us with a shroud of secrecy and unanswered questions. First and foremost, what does the implementation of the Third Eye surveillance system mean for our lives? And should we be concerned that Nosticorp, the corporation behind Third Eye, will effectively become another department in the executive branch of the government? Is it Constitutional? Joining me today from MIT is a young man who wears many hats: child prodigy, professor of Artificial Intelligence, high-tech guru, and now an activist and vocal critic of what the Third Eye bill is proposing. I¡¯m happy to bring you Peter Kim. Peter, welcome. Thank you for coming. Peter Kim: My pleasure. It¡¯s good to see you again, Raven. Raven Maddox: Professor Kim, I¡¯m not anywhere near an expert on computers. I can barely get my car to sync with the automated driving networks. How do you explain to me, and people like me, what this bill means and why you¡¯re concerned about it? Peter Kim: Well, Raven, the easy part is the artificial intelligence. The world has been using AI for roughly a hundred years now, and more recently in the sense of true Artificial Super Intelligence. AI is an ingrained facet of society, most notably in self-driving cars and other automated applications and industries. We¡¯ve had some road bumps along the way, but since the grid was installed, deaths by automobile accidents have pretty much been eliminated. But what this SP legislation wants to do is introduce Third Eye into the arteries of the internet. This will mostly be felt as an effect called ¡°integration.¡± Raven Maddox: Integration. Yes, this buzzword has been trending. What exactly is integration in this context? Peter Kim: Since Third Eye is true ASI, let¡¯s think of it as a living thing, like a virus. At some point it will be initiated from a source server inside the Nosticorp complex and start infecting technology from there. Raven Maddox: Do we have a choice whether or not to download this¡­ thing? Peter Kim: No, we will not have that choice. Third Eye will start to explore places to inhabit, starting with your phone, your car, even your refrigerator. The things those computer scientists are doing over there is game changing. Yes, I can see the positive implications for national security, but the negative side effects are all too real. The technology-atrocity hypothesis argues that major advancements in technology are often accompanied by an increase in the scale or severity of human atrocities. For example, the Holocaust. The systematic genocide of six million Jews by the Nazis could not have been carried out without the advancements in transportation, telecommunications, and data processing brought about by the industrial revolution. Raven Maddox: Or weapons of mass destruction. Peter Kim: Yes. The bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the Second World War. Or, thirteen years ago, the bomb dropped during the Battle of Tbilisi. Raven Maddox: On the other hand, presidential candidate Jane Allgood says America needs to catch up with technology, that Third Eye is what we need in our society to defeat terror and get us back on the cutting edge so that we can survive as a nation. Peter Kim: I think we should be suspicious of this kind of rhetoric, and we need to require transparency. Nobody really knows what will happen once the integration begins. Nosticorp is a very secretive company, and they do not allow anyone to study the code or the alignment philosophy with which Third Eye was created. If this is going to be imposed on the American people, we need to demand transparency. Raven Maddox: Peter Kim, I¡¯m not sure, but I think I understand better now. Thank you for your time. I believe we¡¯ll need your expertise as things move forward. You¡¯re always welcome back. Stay tuned, because coming up next, we have a guest who says the mega hit series Eternal Love is actually indoctrinating children into the occult. That should be interesting. Stay tuned. D-Pad Clear Hope Mental Wellness Clinic Everyone Deserves Peace of Mind The sign hung large and gaudy off the stone fa?ade of Paul Murphy¡¯s labor of love. Alan got out of his car and set the warm McDonald¡¯s sack on the hood. He had five minutes, so he lit a cigarette. The snow hadn¡¯t stuck in the humid environment of the lakeside town, but the cement was wet, and there was a chill in the air that smelled fresh off the water. The clinic occupied prime real estate above Riverside Park. It was Murphy¡¯s philosophy that the mentally ill should be able to take a short walk and settle their troubled minds on the natural beauty offered by Montana. Like one of the patients, Flathead River seemed sad and deflated in the cockcrow of morning. The stony beach ran out farther than the dock, and the waters were melancholic, somewhere between daphne and gravestone gray. A man in a black jacket loitered down by the swings; a junkie, no doubt a spinner, a drifter, a refugee, a shadow. He flicked his cigarette into the street, grabbed the cooling bag, and punched his access code into the front door. The lobby was empty and silent. He went to a large set of double doors, entered his access code again, and walked down the echoing linoleum to the high-security area in the back that housed D-Pad. Clear Hope was a joint operation between the benevolence of Dr. Paul Murphy and the State of Montana¡¯s Health and Human Services Department, providing mental health services to residents of Lake County who could not afford them otherwise. Part of that service was to work with juvenile offenders when the need arose, which was why Francis Builds A Fire was here. ¡°Hi, Sam.¡± ¡°Morning, Dr. Smith.¡± The large Black bodybuilder had his feet up on the reception desk. He was deeply engrossed in something happening in the reality of his glasses. ¡°How¡¯s our guest?¡± ¡°Quiet as a church mouse on Sunday. But I don¡¯t think he slept at all. He¡¯s been sitting in the middle of the floor like that most of the night.¡± Sam pointed to the computer monitor on the desk. It showed a video feed of D-Pad and a hoodie-clad figure sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to the soft wall. ¡°Around 3 AM, he started talking to himself. I couldn¡¯t make out what he was saying. That lasted an hour. He¡¯s been quiet ever since, just sitting there like that.¡± ¡°Why¡¯s he in D-Pad and not a normal room?¡± Alan asked. ¡°It was Dr. Murphy¡¯s orders. He told me to keep a close eye on him.¡± ¡°Any suicidal ideation?¡± ¡°None,¡± said Sam. ¡°Okay. I¡¯m going to go in and see if he wants to talk.¡± ¡°Yes, sir. I¡¯ll monitor from here in case you need anything. Cameras and microphones are recording.¡± Alan approached the heavy, glass door to see the boy exactly as he had been on the monitor. Bzzt. The door automatically unlocked. He slid it to the side and stepped into the room. A faint odor of unwashed teenager hung in the warm air. ¡°Good morning. I¡¯m Dr. Smith.¡± The boy looked up at him, his left eye so swollen it was almost shut. He briefly focused on Alan and then glanced behind him from wall to wall to ceiling like a scared animal. The movement reminded him of the rabbits his sister used to raise for 4H¡ªcreatures destined for the chopping block. His bottom lip was cut and swollen, and the right side of his face was a massive bruise of purple and yellow. Mac Winesworth had really done a number on him. For thirteen, the boy was small. He had a shag of black hair that protruded from his dark green hood and fell across his face past his shoulders. He wore a pair of baggy, gray sweatpants, the clothes he had been wearing when Deputy Wolf picked him up. It didn¡¯t matter. They¡¯d make him change when they arrested him in a few hours. No socks or shoes¡ªD-Pad rules. His feet were small and scuffed with dirt. ¡°Are you okay?¡± ¡°Hello, s-sir,¡± he said, almost whispering, slouching his shoulders forward in a protective posture. ¡°C-can I g-go h-home now?¡± ¡°Hey, buddy. I really want to help get you home, and we¡¯re working on that, but I don¡¯t know what the timeline is.¡± The boy just stared. Fuck, he knew he sounded fake because that was the way the system wanted him to sound. ¡°My name is Alan Smith. You can call me Alan. What can I call you?¡± ¡°F-Francis,¡± the boy said. ¡°Okay, Francis. Hey, look here, I got you an Egg McMuffin and some orange juice.¡± Alan sat down cross-legged and put the bag with the food between them. ¡°I got one too, but the coffee¡¯s for me. Do you drink coffee?¡± The boy pushed off his hood and brushed his hair out of his face, causing it to flutter like the mane of a shaggy pony. He fished out a packet of hash browns and took a crunchy bite, chewing carefully. ¡°There¡¯s ketchup if you want.¡± ¡°Thanks. They gave me food last night, but I didn¡¯t eat it.¡± ¡°I understand. This place can serve some real crap. There¡¯s no kitchen, so they just do microwave meals. I¡¯ll make sure you get something good for lunch.¡± Francis nodded and chowed down on his McMuffin. McDonald¡¯s was junk food, but it was delicious and familiar. One of the best ways to strengthen a bruised psyche was with a little culinary comfort. They ate quietly. Francis sipped his OJ, Alan his coffee. ¡°Francis, we need to talk. The county has asked me to evaluate you to see if you are a threat to yourself. Do you know what that means?¡± It was a cold question right off the bat but necessary to gauge the boy¡¯s level of maturity.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. Francis nodded. ¡°You want to know if I¡¯m gonna kill myself or something.¡± ¡°Yeah, basically. And just see how you¡¯re doing. I¡¯m sure this is a frightening experience for you.¡± Francis shrugged. ¡°Before I start asking a bunch of questions, I want you to understand I¡¯m not a police officer, and I¡¯m not a lawyer. I¡¯m just a?¡ª¡± ¡°A shrink,¡± Francis said. Alan laughed. ¡°Yeah. I guess that¡¯s what we¡¯re called. You know why we¡¯re called that?¡± The boy shook his head. ¡°Well, there used to be a tribe of headhunters in the Amazon, the Jivaro. When they killed their enemies, they would cut off their heads and... well, actually, the process is pretty disgusting.¡± ¡°Sounds like it,¡± said Francis. Was that a smile at the corner of a swollen lip? ¡°The point being, the process of shrinking the head is quite difficult. There¡¯s a relationship there between what the Jivaro did and what psychiatrists do. Anyway, it got popular in the 1950s in Hollywood. Back in the day, going to a shrink was kind of trendy with the movie stars who were known to have huge egos. So they¡¯d go to the headshrinker to get their feelings of self-importance deflated.¡± ¡°Interesting. You kind of suck at telling stories, though.¡± Francis took the last bite of food and gulp of orange juice. Alan chuckled. He was terrible at telling stories. ¡°Are you here to see if I have an inflated ego?¡± Francis asked. ¡°No. Not really. Being arrested is a traumatic experience for anyone. I want to help you if I can. Maybe all I can do is be someone you can talk to, someone who¡¯s on your side.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think you can help me, Dr. Smith.¡± ¡°It¡¯s just Alan.¡± ¡°Alan,¡± said the boy softly. ¡°Why do you say that?¡± ¡°Cause I¡¯m really fucked up.¡± ¡°Do you want to talk to me about it? Maybe we can figure things out together.¡± Francis pulled his knees up to his chest and hid his face between them. ¡°Listen, Francis. At some point today, the police are going to come in here and officially arrest you. They will start asking you questions. Tough questions. Whatever you say to them, they are going to use it as evidence against you in court. The county is going to give you a lawyer, and I¡¯m authorized to advise your lawyer based on what we talk about together. So, if there are things you need to say about how you¡¯re feeling and what you¡¯re thinking, you can tell them to me. Maybe I can help your lawyer understand your situation better.¡± ¡°I¡¯m scared.¡± ¡°I know you are. You know, as a doctor, I have some privileges. Whatever you tell me, I¡¯ll keep it a secret. It¡¯s protected by law, something called doctor-patient confidentiality. That means no one can make me reveal anything you say to me as long as I live.¡± ¡°So, I tell you all my secrets, and you won¡¯t say anything?¡± ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± ¡°What if they set your car on fire?¡± ¡°My lips are sealed.¡± ¡°What if they take all your money.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have much money. But, still, mum¡¯s the word.¡± ¡°What if they arrest you, lock you up, and don¡¯t let you sleep for forty-eight hours?¡± ¡°They can¡¯t arrest me. And¡­ torture is illegal. But I wouldn¡¯t say anything just to piss them off at that point. If I counsel you, I swear on my honor, I will not break my oath as a medical professional.¡± ¡°And what if I¡¯m crazy?¡± said the boy. He sucked on his fat lower lip. ¡°Crazy isn¡¯t a term I like to use. It¡¯s slang. It¡¯s a non-clinical word, like shrink. If you think you can, try to put a little trust in me.¡± ¡°Okay, but you¡¯re gonna think I¡¯m fucking crazy.¡± ¡°No. No, I won¡¯t.¡± He wanted to put a reassuring hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder and comfort him, but the rules of medical professionalism prohibited even that small gesture. Francis looked like he was sizing him up for a foot race. He smiled and winced at the pain. ¡°I¡¯ll trust you, Alan. You can be my shrink.¡± ¡°Deal.¡± Alan held out his fist, and Francis gave him a bump. ¡°I¡¯m going to ask you some questions. All I need you to do is tell me the truth. Can you do that?¡± The boy nodded. ¡°Promise?¡± ¡°Promise.¡± Francis held up his little finger, and Alan hooked it with his own. ¡°Okay. Where are your parents?¡± He shrugged. ¡°You don¡¯t know where your parents are?¡± ¡°Dead, maybe,¡± he said. ¡°Why do you say that?¡± ¡°White Owl said they were on the spin pretty bad.¡± ¡°Is White Owl a relative?¡± ¡°No. I live with her¡­ sometimes. She¡¯s a witch.¡± ¡°You mean like a medicine woman or a shaman?¡± Francis shrugged. ¡°More like a witch.¡± ¡°That¡¯s cool. I¡¯m culturally sensitive.¡± Francis smiled. ¡°Is she your guardian then?¡± ¡°No, she¡¯s just the only one who would take me¡­ on account of my¡­ issues.¡± That last word came out with a breath of shame. ¡°Listen, Francis. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s productive to talk about yourself like that.¡± ¡°I¡¯m crazy.¡± The boy raised his voice. ¡°I say it because it is what it is.¡± ¡°Okay, tell me. What makes you so sure you¡¯re crazy?¡± Francis buried his head in his legs. Minutes passed until he finally looked at Alan. His lips tried to form a word, but he was mute. Alan had seen similar behavior before in people who had suffered abuse, usually long, traumatic ordeals at the hands of a family member or caretaker. To speak would be to make real the suffering they had experienced for so long. It meant they would betray their abuser, maybe someone they loved who had hurt them profoundly. Their world would crumble, and they would not know how to pick up the pieces. ¡°Hey now, Francis.¡± Alan used a tone of voice he¡¯d learned working with veterans from the eastern front who had experienced the horrors of war; a kind voice but strong, a voice that promised refuge, release, and protection. The kid peeked from between his arms, shielding his face. ¡°Francis. I¡¯m here for you. You¡¯re okay. Everything is going to be alright.¡± ¡°It will not be alright.¡± Barely a whisper from deep within a well. ¡°It will. It will. Tell me who hurt you. I¡¯ll make sure they won¡¯t hurt you anymore.¡± ¡°You won¡¯t believe me. You¡¯ll call me crazy.¡± The boy was on the precipice of panic. ¡°Whatever happened is in the past.¡± Alan was lost there with him. All the frustration. The weight of the world was crushing him down. ¡°Not just the past,¡± said Francis. He looked around the room as if a monster was going to jump out of the shadows and eat him. ¡°Past. Present. And Future. And maybe¡­ maybe beyond¡­ cause no one knows what happens after¡­¡± The boy stared at him, then stood and turned away. At first he didn¡¯t move, then, in a moment of courage, he grabbed the hem of his hoodie and t-shirt and lifted them so they bunched around his neck. ¡°Oh my God,¡± whispered Alan, his mouth gone suddenly dry. A long, angry scar, darker than the rest of his skin and jagged like a lightning bolt, ran from between his delicate shoulder blades, across the bony ridges of his spine, down to his narrow waist. Francis pulled his sweatpants down a little to show it continued across his right buttock. He lifted his arms and turned. Small, round scars dotted his rib cage, some old and dark, others scabbed over, others pale where the scabs had peeled away. Cigarette burns. He faced Alan and revealed another gash across his chest that looked fresh and weepy in the early stages of healing. He allowed him to look, to inspect, then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, bit on his swollen lip, glanced up at the security camera, and lowered the front of his sweatpants. Alan¡¯s stomach churned. He felt a pounding between his eyes. ¡°My God.¡± Above a light dusting of pubic hair¡­ a brand¡­ He had been branded. Some sick fucker had etched a word into the boy¡¯s tender flesh¡ªMAJI. ¡°Francis¡­¡± was all Alan could say. Francis lowered his shirt, pulled up his sweats, and slumped onto the padded floor, pulling his legs to his chest. A tear trickled down his cheek. His hands trembled as if freezing, but the room was warm. It was too warm for Alan. He was sweating. ¡°Was it White Owl, Francis?¡± Alan asked as softly as he could. ¡°No!¡± the boy shouted. ¡°No! She¡¯s the only one who helped. They all left me, and she¡¯s the only one!¡± He sobbed. ¡°Tell me, Francis. Let me help. Who did this?¡± A rage was growing in the pit of Alan¡¯s stomach; it wanted to leap out and attack someone. ¡°The hunters.¡± ¡°Hunters?¡± Francis nodded. ¡°They¡¯re angry because I helped Amy. They¡¯re coming for me.¡± ¡°Francis, no one can hurt you. Let me?¡ª¡± ¡°What the fuck can you do?¡± he cried. ¡°You¡¯re blind. You don¡¯t know anything. You¡¯re just like them!¡± He pointed behind him. Alan turned. Two police officers in full gear were walking toward the D-Pad door. A tall, muscle-bound brute with a bald head and sharp-trimmed facial hair, and the other a petite woman with fiery red hair. ¡°I¡¯m going to talk to these officers,¡± said Alan. Fear of the unknown shone in Francis¡¯s eyes. He went to the padded bed that stuck out of the far wall, curled into a ball, and pulled his hoodie protectively over him, motionless. Alan approached the door, wary of their intentions. He needed more time with Francis. More time to connect with him, to figure out how broken he was, who had hurt him, and what it would take to help him. ¡°Hello, are you Dr. Smith?¡± asked the female officer. ¡°That¡¯s right. This is my client. We¡¯re in a session if you don¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°I¡¯m Deputy Wolf from the Lake County Sheriff¡¯s Department. This is Acting Sheriff Comstock.¡± She gestured with her chin to the large cop who rested his hand on his holstered sidearm. ¡°Mr. Smith, we¡¯re here to transport the prisoner downtown for questioning,¡± Comstock said. ¡°It¡¯s Doctor Smith, and he¡¯s my patient, not a prisoner. I¡¯m evaluating his mental condition, and I¡¯d appreciate it if I could finish my session with him.¡± Comstock stepped forward until his face was only inches from the glass. ¡°We¡¯re taking him now. You can file the paperwork to meet with him after he¡¯s been processed.¡± ¡°Come on. He¡¯s just a boy. He¡¯s scared to death.¡± ¡°Doctor? What kind of doctor are you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m a psychologist.¡± The burly cop laughed. ¡°Right, okay, Doctor, that girl he tried to rape is just a girl, and she¡¯s sitting in a hospital room right now, afraid to speak.¡± ¡°I read the police report,¡± said Alan. ¡°Deputy Wolf, your report. It states there were no signs of assault, sexual or otherwise.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Dr. Smith. It¡¯s just the way the system works,¡± said Deputy Wolf. Her voice was kind and familiar. ¡°As far as I can tell, this boy doesn¡¯t have a recognized guardian. As his mental health professional, I¡¯m exercising my right to act as guardian pro tempore.¡± ¡°Pro tem por ray?¡± Comstock shook his head with an ironic leer. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s Latin for temporary. I want to be there for questioning.¡± ¡°Mental health practitioner? You liberal fucking snowflakes. Fine!¡± He shouted back to Sam, ¡°Open!¡± Sam¡¯s voice came on over the intercom. ¡°Sorry, Dr. Smith, they have a warrant.¡± Alan nodded to the camera in the corner of the room. ¡°Francis, you¡¯re going to be okay. I¡¯ll see you soon.¡± The boy didn¡¯t move. Bzzt went the door, and Comstock shoved past Alan. He grabbed Francis by the scruff of his hoodie, ripping him out of his protective fetal position, slammed him against the wall with a thud, and twisted the boy¡¯s skinny arm behind his back. ¡°Ow!¡± cried Francis. The acting sheriff pulled his wrists together and cinched them with a pair of heavy handcuffs. Francis sucked air through his teeth at the pain. ¡°What the fuck?¡± Alan shouted. ¡°You got a goddamn misconduct complaint, you sonuvabitch.¡± Now Alan was in the cop¡¯s face. ¡°Make my day,¡± said Comstock, dragging the boy through the clinic. ¡°Francis Builds A Fire, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law¡­¡± Sam rose from his desk, but Comstock pointed a gloved hand at him. ¡°Back off, boy.¡± Sam did not flinch. They burst out the front door into the dim morning. ¡°Dr. Smith,¡± said Wolf under her breath, ¡°don¡¯t fight him. It¡¯ll just make everything harder along the way. Follow the process.¡± She tried to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but he pulled past her, jogging after Comstock as he dragged Francis to an SUV with flashing lights. An elderly couple in pastel jogging suits, each walking a poodle, stopped on the sidewalk to gawk. ¡°Francis! Francis! Listen, you don¡¯t need to talk to them. Wait for your lawyer. Do not talk to them.¡± The boy turned his swollen face on Alan with a look of defeat, as if to say, See, I told you. There¡¯s nothing you can do to help me. ¡°Francis,¡± Alan said, panic in his throat, throwing out professional decorum for something more primal. ¡°I won¡¯t lose you, boy. I won¡¯t lose you again.¡± Francis had heard him. He looked up at Alan and said something. Something about a hunter, just as the heavy door of the police vehicle was slammed in his face. ¡°Listen, you shrink fuck,¡± snarled Comstock. ¡°That little girl, you know who her father is? Look it up, you fucking shrink piece of shit! Don¡¯t you ever get in my fucking way again, or I¡¯ll teach you the meaning of pain.¡± The doors slammed, and the next thing Alan knew, the SUV was spinning its tires and whipping out onto the deserted street. ¡°Fuck!¡± he shouted. The elderly couple were still staring. ¡°What the fuck are you looking at?¡± Sensibilities reasonably offended, the pair pulled their poodles close and continued on their way, casting skeptical looks over their shoulders. 04 TBOS Day 6 + The Greta
TBOS Day 6
My birthday was 6 days ago. But I didn¡¯t write on days 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 because I didn¡¯t know what to say. I been thinking about it. Don¡¯t worry. I left some empty pages, so I¡¯ll do some makeup work. Ha ha¡­ I¡¯m not even in school anymore, but I still got to do makeup work. Fucking thanks, Hawk.
Hawk says I should write every day. He said, ¡°Nulla dies sine linea.¡± This is Latin and means never a day without a line. I confirmed that one word is a line! Hawk said it should be a sentence at least, but every book ever disagrees.
Rhonda helped Nine give Mom a bath.
I had to stay in my room.
Oh, and BTW, TBOS means The Book of Spike**. That¡¯s why I couldn¡¯t start right on my birthday, because I didn¡¯t know the title yet! Everyone knows a title comes first!
Nine! Stop! Cease! Desist! This book is PRIVATE.
I never get any privacy!
TBOS Day 7
Bored. I wanna watch Eternal Love**, but no fucking phone!
TBOS Day 8
I hate Nine and Rhonda!
FUUUUCK! Bored!
I wanted to go skate at the Cage cause Tuesday is free until 7. Right, I¡¯m 12 now. But I tell them I¡¯m 11 anyway. They don¡¯t care. Hawk was going to be there. Hawk would look after me.
Nine thinks the black van across the street is spying on our house. I don¡¯t think so. I watched it for five hours and it didn¡¯t move, and no one got in or out¡­
TBOS Day 9
The lady from the bank came by. She gave us a letter and said we have ninety days before action will be taken. Mom¡¯s room was quiet. Nine said I can¡¯t see her now.
The black van is still there.
I miss Hawk!
TBOS Day 10
I discovered something new. I could feel it. It happened in a dream, and I remembered it. I need to talk to Hawk¡­ FAST! I don¡¯t want to do anything stupid.
TBOS Day 11
Rhonda made me do reading today. I hated it. I like to read, but I don¡¯t like to read the books she wants me to read. Nine said I should study math, but I¡¯m already good at math, and I¡¯m better than him at it.
Mom was singing in her room. I sat by the door, but I didn¡¯t go in there.
Hawk came to our house today. He says he can get Mom some medicine. I¡¯m not fucking stupid. I know that means Spin. I know he can. Hawk can do anything. Then Mom will feel better.
The Greta
His eyes watered. He tried to breathe through his mouth as he shuffled in the cluttered drawer of his desk for a fresh filtration mask. When he found it, he politely removed it from the cellophane, placed it over his nose, and adjusted the straps around his head. It helped a little.
The Greta sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, holding her hands up in front of her. The tips of her fingers poked through the ends of her wrappings. They were on the verge of turning blue. Her fingernails were broken and dirty. Three black zip-ties cinched around her wrists were cutting off her circulation.
Old Mr. Piedaloup, owner of the Lake Breeze Trailer Park, paced the linoleum of the lobby in his wide-brimmed straw hat and gun holstered on his hip, which was his ¡®God-given and Constitutional right.¡¯ Upon finding a bundle of them in one of his abandoned trailer houses, he¡¯d performed a citizen¡¯s arrest.
¡°Goddamn it, McGreevy. Where the hell is Sheriff Comstock?¡±
¡°He¡¯s out on a call,¡± said McGreevy. ¡°Should be back soon.¡± He found his department-issued pocketknife in a cup on the desk and opened it with a click. He lowered his voice an octave to sound more authoritative. ¡°Mr. Piedaloup, I can take it from here if you don¡¯t mind.¡±
¡±I do fuckin¡¯ mind. I want those raggedy fuckin¡¯ bitches off my goddamn land, yesterday! Hear me? What the hell you lettin¡¯ her go for?¡±
McGreevy carefully placed the knife¡¯s blade in the groove between the woman¡¯s wrists. Snap, snap, snap.
The Greta rubbed her wrists and turned her shrouded face to Mr. Piedaloup.
¡°Jesus Christ!¡±
¡°The law¡¯s the law, sir. You gave them a warning. Now they¡¯ve got seventy-two hours to clear out. We¡¯ll do a drive-by and check to make sure.¡±
¡°Mother¡ª¡° The man took off his hat and punched the air with it. ¡°Bullshit! Three days!¡±
The law allowing People of the Earth¡ªclimate refugees for the most part, but also the Gretas¡ªseventy-two hours of respite on abandoned, vacant, or unused property was a tender topic in Montana, where property rights were the only thing more sacred than Jesus.
¡°I¡¯ll tell you what. In five days, Allgood¡¯s gonna turn this bullshit around. I wasn¡¯t gonna vote for that fuckin¡¯ dyke, but I am now. You can take that to the goddamn bank!¡±
¡°Well, until then, I can have Acting Sheriff Comstock give you a call when he gets back in.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t fuckin¡¯ bother. I got his number. You know the sheriff told me you were a spineless little simp.¡±
¡°Acting Sheriff,¡° mumbled McGreevy under his breath.
¡°What¡¯s that?¡±
¡°I said, that¡¯s your right, sir.¡±
The Greta was staring at him through her wrapping of rags. She wore a mask made from what appeared to be a child¡¯s t-shirt displaying a rainbow and dancing pony on the side of her face and a slit cut for her to see through. Her gray eyes, flecked with green, were accentuated by an emerald scarf tied around her head over the t-shirt.
¡°And I¡¯m headin¡¯ over to the Melvin place. You know I bet their lil¡¯ girl took up with them rags.¡±
The Melvin girl was a troublemaker. She¡¯d run away before, but this was the longest she¡¯d ever been on the lam.
The Greta was standing right there. He should say something.
¡°Now, Mr. Piedaloup, we don¡¯t use that kind of language¡ª¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
¡°You sayin¡¯ what kinda language I can use? Your generation¡¯s what the problem is. Those fuckin¡¯ rags! Shit, I bet that Melvin girl is in that trailer house right now lickin¡¯ snatch with the lot of ¡®em. This used to be fuckin America!¡±
Mr. Piedaloup kicked the counter and jerked the heavy glass door on his way out, but it caught on its slow-action hinge and closed with a soft chukchuk of the latch catching. ¡°Christ damn it¡­¡± he faded into the parking lot, soon followed by the screaming engine of his pickup and peeling tires.
¡°You know, you really should get off that man¡¯s land,¡± said McGreevy. The woman took out a square piece of fabric from a pocket inside her large coat and held it out to him.
He took it and read it.
Our Mother the Earth is on fire. The oceans are dying.
The air is poison. Alms for the Earth.
From her portmanteau, she ferreted out a small plastic plate with a red LED that glowed at him in knowing accusation. He rarely recycled.
He sighed, picked up his phone, and placed it on the plate. The LED turned green and blinked quickly three times, a digital thank you. His phone vibrated. He glanced at the message confirming a donation of exactly one dollar from his bank account. The Gretas never asked for more.
¡°What are you doing here? You should really get going. Head to Missoula. It¡¯s more friendly there with all the hippies.¡±
She took out a square of fabric, needle, and thread from a little tin and began to sew. A minute later, she handed the patch to McGreevy. Neatly stitched in the center was a word:
Waiting
¡°Is the Melvin girl with you?¡±
She pulled the patch from his fingers and worked the needle quickly. The clock said five minutes to eight. He wanted to get her out of the station before Comstock and Gwen got back from picking up that boy or before one of Comstock¡¯s militia buddies showed up. The woman stopped her stitching and draped the fabric before his eyes.
Waiting. All are welcome in the arms of The Mother.
~ Greta 5:12.
It was sometimes a fad for teenage girls to get caught up in the Greta movement. Maybe it was their silence, or their nomadic lifestyle, or their devotion to the Earth¡ªhell, maybe it was the lesbian thing. But every now and then, a bundle of Gretas would lumber through a town, and in their wake, a family would report a missing daughter, mother, or niece, along with a suitcase full of hand-me-downs or a butchered wedding dress. More often than not, the girls would quickly become disillusioned to the extreme lifestyle of The Gretas¡¯ Road¡ªthe discrimination, the silence, the total deprivation and destitution of all they had once known¡ªand, by and by, return home, shaken up, a bit more humble. But sometimes they didn¡¯t. Sometimes, they vanished forever into the muted folds of those wrapped women.
¡°Come on.¡± McGreevy got up, and when the Greta stood, the top of his head came just below her shoulder.
At the large glass door, he watched as Comstock¡¯s SUV swung into the parking lot, lights flashing. ¡°Shit.¡± Now he¡¯d have to deal with this. He stepped out into the dismal chill and held the door for the woman.
Gwen was helping the boy out. Fuck, they¡¯d cuffed him. He was a small kid, shorter than McGreevy, skinny, and malnourished. It looked like someone pounded him good.
With his phone to his ear, Comstock walked around from his side and grabbed him high on the arm, right in the pit where it would hurt him.
¡°Comstock, I¡¯ll take him,¡± protested Gwen, but he was already marching toward the station, furious eyes locked on McGreevy.
¡°I¡¯ll handle it,¡± the broad man growled into his phone. ¡°What did you think? You should¡¯ve called me before you took her in. The only thing he follows is the book. I¡¯m not doing that fucking paperwork for a bunch of rags. Just wait. I¡¯ll send some of the boys by.¡± He shoved the phone into his pocket.
¡°Sheriff Comstock, I¡ª¡±
¡°Did Gus Piedaloup bring me a present?¡± Comstock eyeballed the Greta. The corner of his upper lip started to twitch.
¡°I was just going to drive her back. They got their seventy-two-hour warning.¡±
¡°Book her,¡± Comstock said.
¡°Sheriff, the law¡ª¡±
Comstock jerked the boy up the steps, making him cry out, and jabbed his finger into McGreevy¡¯s chest. ¡°Book her now.¡±
¡°There¡¯s a procedure, Comstock,¡± Gwen said, hands on her hips.
McGreevy felt the Greta pulling. She dropped to her knees on the cement in front of the boy, bowed her head, and placed her fabric-covered hands on his chest.
¡°What the hell?¡± Comstock lifted his jackboot and shoved the woman into the wall of the station with a heavy thud. She slunk down to the sidewalk, clutching her ribs and gasping for oxygen like a fish out of water.
¡°Don¡¯t hurt her,¡± cried the boy.
¡°Shut up, Tonto.¡± He grabbed the young teen by the hair and dragged him into the station.
McGreevy sat at his desk in his jacket with a scarf wrapped around his neck. Comstock had ordered him to open the front door and all the windows to air out the stench. Across from him, the Greta sat holding up her hands, this time bearing heavy, metal handcuffs. Her head was tipped onto her chest, and her eyes were closed, yet her posture was rigid. Was she sleeping? Behind her, shackled in chairs against the wall, were the four other women from her bundle, each in their unique wrapping of rags.
The Melvin girl had not joined up with them after all. McGreevy had taken a call from her family saying the strong-willed teen had been hiding out in her boyfriend¡¯s bedroom and, after his parents caught on, had been returned safe and sound. That hadn¡¯t stopped Comstock and his ¡®deputies¡¯ from taking the van down to Gus Piedaloup¡¯s and hauling the women out of the abandoned trailer house¡ªdespite Deputy Gwen¡¯s protests.
Kroker, who resembled a kangaroo on steroids¡ªa large man with a long face, bleached goatee, and a shaved head bearing the tattoo of a cross on the back of his scalp¡ªhad his oversized feet up on the desk where they did the fingerprinting. He stared, mesmerized, into an expensive pair of VR glasses that he¡¯d jacked from the evidence locker.
¡°Ol¡¯ sheriff¡¯s giving her hell!¡± said the man.
Comstock¡¯s muffled shouts seeped through his office door.
Ol¡¯ sheriff, ol¡¯ sheriff. There was nothing ol¡¯ sheriff about Comstock. He was an acting sheriff, placed there through a favor in the county commissioners¡¯ office by someone snuggled in tight with the High Mountain Rangers.
McGreevy bristled at the insult. Gwen should have gotten that position. She had a degree in criminal justice from a fancy university and had been Sheriff Ryder¡¯s¡ªthe real ol¡¯ sheriff¡ªrighthand gal for five years. Comstock had a military background but no degree, nor had he gone through the academy. Even McGreevy had those bragging rights over the man. His diploma, signed by the attorney general at the time¡ªTo Serve and Protect¡ªrested on the back of his desk in a golden frame, a gift from Sheriff Ryder. He remembered the man¡¯s firm handshake and proud smile.
¡®It¡¯s a damn fine achievement, Collin. You¡¯re going to make an exemplary officer of the law.¡¯
Sheriff Ryder had been there for him. Sheriff Ryder had been there for everyone.
With the election on the horizon, McGreevy had hoped Gwen would run for sheriff. Indeed, she had been approached by several interested parties keen on sponsoring her, but she refused. She wasn¡¯t a politician. Now Comstock¡¯s ugly mug was all over billboards under the Security Party logo, an SP inside of a triangle.
McGreevy had learned to survive by growing up as a ward of the state¡ªkeep your opinions to yourself, keep your head down, and do your job. Comstock was running the way he liked doing everything else¡ªunopposed with no one to criticize him¡ªand he would be elected in a few short days. McGreevy was seriously considering taking that job with the Billings PD. After spending all his life in the Mission Valley, maybe it was finally time for a change of scenery.
The office door opened, and Comstock stormed out, followed by Gwen. ¡°Christ, it stinks in here!¡±
The Greta jerked her head up.
¡°Sheriff¡­¡± Gwen only used Comstock¡¯s official title when she was attempting to reason with him. ¡°They have more lawyers than you know what to do with. You do this, and you¡¯ll have paperwork up your ass for the next year.¡±
¡°Shit¡¯s changing come election day, Wolf. Besides, isn¡¯t that what I have this little munchkin around for?¡± He kicked McGreevy¡¯s desk. ¡°Chop, chop, McGreevy. Let¡¯s do it by the book. Prints, mugshots, the whole nine yards. Get them into some jumpsuits and burn those rags.¡±
McGreevy didn¡¯t move. He glanced at Gwen. Their eyes met.
¡°Is there a fucking problem?¡±
¡°Uh¡­ Sh-sheriff¡­¡± McGreevy held up the judicial code he¡¯d printed out with trembling hands. ¡°Section three, paragraph two. G-Gretas are c-considered People of the Earth and are granted leave to shelter f-for no more than seventy-two hours upon notice¡ª¡±
Comstock grabbed the paper and looked at it.
The phone at the front desk began to ring.
¡°Wolf, answer the goddamn phone.¡± He stared McGreevy down. ¡°Is this a coup? Are you rebelling?¡±
¡°N-no, sir, but their lawyers¡­ My record¡ª¡±
¡°Grow a fucking spine. How the hell did you get into law enforcement?¡± Comstock tore the document down the middle and dropped it on the desk in front of McGreevy. ¡°I¡¯ll do it my own goddamn self.¡±
He grabbed the Greta and hauled her to the mugshot set. ¡°Take it off, sister,¡± he barked.
The Greta didn¡¯t move.
¡°The hard way then.¡± He ripped the emerald scarf from around her head. Then he grabbed the eye hole of the rainbow t-shirt, ripped it off with one swift motion, and tossed it onto the floor.
The four other Gretas stood in unison.
¡°Christ!¡± Comstock stepped back.
The four Gretas raised their cuffed arms above their heads, opened their palms, and started wiggling their fingers.
The Greta, now exposed, looked helplessly at McGreevy. The skin on the left side of her face was textured like blistered paint on an old barn wall. Her hair sprouted in small tufts from the bald half of her skull, and she was missing her lips and her ear where the fire had reached her.
¡°Sheriff Comstock¡ª¡± Gwen stopped short when she saw the woman.
¡°What is it, Wolf?¡± Comstock was picking up the camera.
¡°That was the Mental Health Clinic. They have a lawyer for Francis Builds A Fire. He¡¯s en route.¡±
The Greta¡¯s hands were still raised, their fingers wiggling like flickering flames. 05 Interrogation The orange jumpsuit sagged off the boy¡¯s right shoulder. The baggy sleeve bunched up past his elbow, his wrist cuffed to a metal link on the table. He stared down at his hands. The bruises on his face darker and more severe under the accusatory glare of the jail lights. The door behind Alan opened and a short, portly man in a brown polyester suit bustled into the room as if blown in by a storm. ¡°Howdy, howdy,¡± he said, dropping a fat briefcase¡ªthe same color as his suit¡ªonto the table. Papers crept out the sides, looking to escape as soon as it was opened. He wiped little drops of water off his bald pate with a blue handkerchief procured from an internal pocket. ¡°What a day for a snowstorm. It¡¯s gonna get worse. I got a trick knee for weather.¡± With that, he plopped down across from Alan and peered at him over the top of bifocals held together at the bridge with electrical tape. He extended his hand. ¡°Name¡¯s Mickey Verona. Lawyer¡¯s my game. I¡¯ve been appointed counsel for, um¡­¡± He popped the briefcase open¡ªa page fell onto the table¡ªand thumbed through a manila folder. ¡°¡­for Mr. Builds A Fire.¡± He looked through the glass at Francis and seemed taken aback by the boy in the chair. ¡°And you are?¡± ¡°Alan Smith from the mental health clinic. Francis is my client.¡± ¡°Okay, Alan, I have one question for you. Friend or foe?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Friend or foe?¡± ¡°I¡¯m his psychiatrist.¡± ¡°Right, AKA shrink. I had a girlfriend once who made me go to Gestalt therapy for two months before she dumped me. I¡¯m still having goddamn flashbacks. Hear me? We don¡¯t have a lot of time. King Kong will be here in about thirty seconds. His job is to break that kid. My job is to make him sound innocent and believable.¡± Mickey Verona looked sternly at Alan over his spectacles and repeated slowly, ¡°Friend or foe?¡± ¡°Friend,¡± said Alan. ¡°I¡¯m a friend.¡± ¡°Make sure of that.¡± The door opened and Comstock entered with his lawful presence. The redheaded deputy slipped in after him and closed the door. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± said the massive cop, ¡°you can observe, but don¡¯t interfere.¡± Mickey laughed. ¡°That¡¯s a good one. Use it on all the girls? I¡¯ll need a moment with my client before you start. Mic off. And I¡¯m going to sit right there next to him as you do your¡­ thing.¡± Comstock glowered at the lawyer, who was easily half his size. ¡°Five minutes. Make it snappy, Verona. I don¡¯t have all day for your bullshit.¡± ¡°Thank you. I missed you too.¡± Mickey flipped a red switch next to the two-way mirror, cutting off sound and communication to the interrogation room. ¡°Dr. Smith here will be joining me, as he is the boy¡¯s mental health provider.¡± Alan could see Comstock¡¯s face getting increasingly red and wondered if it could be a lawyer strategy to piss off the interrogator. Francis watched them warily when they entered the room, but then, for an instant, he almost smiled before he went back to staring at the table. ¡°Hi, Francis. It¡¯s me again,¡± said Alan. Now the boy did smile. ¡°You keep turning up,¡± he said. ¡°I do, like a bad penny. Francis, this is Mickey Verona. He¡¯s going to be your lawyer.¡± ¡°Hi.¡± ¡°Hi there.¡± Mickey grabbed his free hand and shook it. ¡°No time to get friendly, kid. Rule number one, you don¡¯t say shit to the police unless I say so. Rule number two, you have to tell me everything, one hundred percent honesty. Got it?¡± Francis nodded. ¡°Good. We have four minutes. Answer my questions.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± ¡°Francis, did you sexually assault Amy Taylor on October 29?¡± ¡°No¡­ no!¡± ¡°Did you do anything pervy with her ever? You know, touch her tits, hand on ass, etcetera?¡± ¡°Mr. Verona, I don¡¯t think¡ª¡± ¡°Please, Dr. Smith, let me do my job. Francis?¡± ¡°I never did.¡± ¡°Did you try to attack Mx. Dale, physically or sexually?¡± ¡°No!¡± ¡°Then why did Mackenzie Winesworth punch you?¡± Francis lowered his eyes to the table. ¡°That guy hates my guts.¡± A buzzer went off. Comstock¡¯s voice came over the intercom. ¡°Alright, Verona. Time¡¯s up.¡± Mickey gave a thumbs up at the window. ¡°Okay, kid. I¡¯ll be right here next to you. Dr. Smith will be behind that window, watching the whole time.¡± As Alan left the room, he had to step aside for Comstock coming through the door like a wild boar. Deputy Wolf sat at the table next to Verona¡¯s scuffed briefcase, a pad of paper in front of her. ¡°Why don¡¯t you do the interview?¡± he asked. ¡°Comstock¡¯s taking this one personally,¡± said Wolf. ¡°I was the responding officer, so I have a right to follow up. If I don¡¯t do this, it¡¯s just another piece of procedure that gets incinerated in the barn fire that is Comstock.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t see why he couldn¡¯t stay at the clinic. We have security. He¡¯s just a fucking kid.¡± His heart pumped. The muscles in his neck strained. If there had been a little glass ashtray like there always was in the old movies, he would have smashed it against the wall. ¡°Dr. Smith, I need to ask you something.¡± The deputy¡¯s voice held that note of control that must have been handed out along with law enforcement badges.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Okay.¡± ¡°I was the one who processed Francis. You know¡­ I cleaned him up and got him changed.¡± A tremble in her voice; her emerald gaze searching him for an answer. ¡°What happened to him?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not exactly something a kid explains in an essay,¡± said Alan. ¡°You need to build a dialogue. Lay a foundation of trust. Kind of hard to do when a raving madman with a badge slams him against the wall.¡± She looked down at the table. Her hands were small; An elegant finger tranced a vein in the faux-marble surface. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I should have¡ª¡± ¡°Look, Deputy¡ª¡± ¡°Just Gwen. I don¡¯t play the authority game. Comstock does that enough for the whole department.¡± ¡°Gwen. I don¡¯t know what happened to him. He has a story. It¡¯s hard to believe. I need more time.¡± Inside the interrogation room, Comstock was checking the boy¡¯s shackles while Mickey shuffled through a notebook. Francis stared through the two-way mirror as if he could see beyond his own reflection, as if he were looking at Alan. ¡°To be honest. I¡¯m just his initial evaluator. I¡¯m not¡­ I mean¡­ I don¡¯t work with kids. They¡¯ll assign him someone else.¡± ¡°The way you stood up to Comstock this morning. I hope you¡¯re the one. What they¡¯re going to do to him. He¡¯ll need someone strong.¡± Strong¡­ ¡°The scars. Did he say anything to you?¡± asked Alan. ¡°No, but I¡¯ve seen sever trauma before. I know a broken spirit. I didn¡¯t put it in my report yet, but I¡¯ll have to¡ªsoon.¡± The speaker to the observation room came alive in tinny resonance with the lawyer¡¯s voice. ¡°Francis, this is Acting Sheriff Comstock. I¡¯m sure he needs no introduction, right?¡± Comstock leaned forward, hulking over the boy. ¡°State your name and birthdate for the record.¡± Francis looked at Mickey. ¡°Don¡¯t look at him. Look at me,¡± Comstock barked. ¡°Saint-Francis Builds A Fire. March 15, 2160. But on my s-school papers, it just says F-Francis Builds A Fire. The S-Saint got lost somewhere.¡± He stumbled over the joke, falling quiet at the end; he had probably used before to break the awkward ice. ¡°Is this funny to you?¡± said Comstock. ¡°No, sir.¡± ¡°It better not be.¡± The boy nodded. He picked at a scab on the back of his hand. Alan felt his blood run cold. He wasn¡¯t speaking to anyone as the words came out. ¡°What did he say? His birthday?¡± ¡°3.15.59¡± Wolf read from her notes. ¡°Christ.¡± He rubbed his face with his hands; a clammy sweat from his brow transferred to his palms. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± said Wolf. He could only shake his head. A vision of decking Paul Murphy played out before him. ¡°I need to remind you, Francis, that you¡¯re in the custody of the Lake County Sheriff¡¯s Department. You have been read your rights. Anything you say or do here can and will be used against you in a court of law. Your attorney is present.¡± ¡°I understand,¡± Francis whispered. ¡°You¡¯re gonna have to speak up!¡± ¡°Sorry.¡± ¡°Do you know why you¡¯re here?¡± ¡°Objection,¡± Mickey said. ¡°That question implies guilt. My client does not need to answer it. Don¡¯t answer that, Francis.¡± ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake, Verona, save it for the judge.¡± Francis kept quiet. Comstock rubbed the back of his bullish neck. ¡°Francis, you¡¯re here because Amy Taylor is in a hospital, and two witnesses say they saw you doing something to her. Additionally, one witness, Ms. Dale, says you tried to assault her too.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t Amy¡¯s my friend. She¡¯s nice to me. And why the hell would I want to touch Mx. Dale? Shi¡¯s like a hundred.¡± Mickey tried to hide a grin by looking at his notebook. ¡°Watch your tongue, boy.¡± Comstock shoved a finger in Francis¡¯s face. ¡°Then why did Ms. Dale say she saw you touching Amy?¡± ¡°Excuse me, Sheriff,¡± said Verona. He leaned over and whispered to Francis. The boy nodded. ¡°I wasn¡¯t doing anything bad to Amy.¡± ¡°Why were you touching her? You know about the ¡®No Touch¡¯ law?¡± ¡°Yeah. It¡¯s a stupid law. Nobody follows it.¡± ¡°Apparently it¡¯s there for a reason. I¡¯ll ask again. Why were you touching Amy Taylor when Ms. Dale came into the room?¡± ¡°I had to.¡± ¡°Excuse me? I couldn¡¯t hear you.¡± ¡°I said I had to. I had to touch her. That¡¯s how it works.¡± ¡°That¡¯s how what works?¡± ¡°Sheriff Comstock, my client already answered.¡± ¡°One more time, Verona, and I¡¯ll arrest you for interfering with an investigation.¡± The cop¡¯s hands were balled into fists on the table. ¡°Francis, that¡¯s how what works?¡± ¡°The enchantment,¡± implored Francis. ¡°Say again, what?¡± ¡°The magic,¡± said the boy, raising his chin, looking straight ahead, but not at the overbearing police officer, looking through the mirrored glass¡ªat Alan. ¡°Does this magic involve any sexual¡ª¡± ¡°Stop! Objection. My client has a right to consult with his mental health provider.¡± ¡°No,¡± said Comstock. ¡°He answers the questions.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay, Mr. Verona. I¡¯ll tell the truth.¡± ¡°Francis, Ms. Dale says she saw you touching Amy on her breast, and you were kissing her neck.¡± ¡°No. Mx. Dale is mistaken.¡± ¡°Are you saying Ms. Dale is lying?¡± ¡°No, but shi doesn¡¯t know what shi saw. Shi doesn¡¯t know what I was doing.¡± ¡°So, you were touching Amy Taylor?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Were you sexually aroused, Francis?¡± ¡°Comstock, damn it! Objection. Francis, don¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°No. No. No!¡± Francis said, pressing his uncuffed hand to his forehead. ¡°It¡¯s not about sex. I was touching her heart. and I was touching her head. I was guiding her through it.¡± ¡°Guiding her through it?¡± Comstock laughed sardonically. ¡°Is that what you call it? Just what exactly were you guiding her through?¡± ¡°Through the Veil!¡± Francis shouted, wiping tears from his one good eye with his loose sleeve. ¡°Sheriff, unless my client can consult, I will have this interrogation ruled inadmissible.¡± Comstock slammed his fists on the table, making both Francis and Mickey jump. ¡°I know what you¡¯re doing, you greasy snake!¡± He pointed a trembling finger at the lawyer. ¡°You¡¯re angling to play the crazy card with this little pervert.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not the court of law, Comstock,¡± retorted Verona. ¡°Francis?¡± Comstock pushed. Francis clenched his fists and closed his eyes. ¡°I was guiding her through¡­¡± The boy searched for the words. ¡°Sh-she¡­ was lost in there. I was helping her get through¡­ It-it w-was s-so dark, and they were hunting her. She had heavy things, s-so I carried them for her and helped her b-because I w-was th-th-there before. I knew the way. It was dark, and and?¡ª¡± ¡°Bullshit! That girl is lying in a hospital bed, not talking to anyone. What the hell did you do to her?¡± With as much bravado as a thirteen-almost-fourteen-year-old boy could muster in the presence of a force like Comstock, Francis said, ¡°It¡¯s because¡­ she¡¯s still lost. She¡¯s still there. But I think she saw it. I think she saw the path. Maybe she¡¯ll be okay. I think she¡¯ll get through it. Amy is strong, and smart.¡± Francis smiled and chewed on his fat lip. Comstock¡¯s chair screeched when he stood. ¡°Shut up! Just shut up. You¡¯re not helping yourself. No one is going to buy your lies. Francis Builds A Fire, I am remanding you into custody where you will await trial on the charges of aggravated sexual assault against Amy Taylor and the attempted assault of Dorothy Dale.¡± ¡°The prosecutor sets the charges, man.¡± Mickey shook his head. ¡°The prosecutor will back me up. You know it.¡± Comstock signaled the camera. A deputy with a tattooed head entered through a door at the back of the room and unlocked Francis. Mickey Verona whispered something to the boy and put a calming hand on his shoulder. The man twisted Francis¡¯s arms behind his back and cuffed him. Together, he and Comstock pulled Francis away into the jail¡¯s depths. ¡°Oh my God,¡± said Deputy Wolf, letting out a sigh. Alan¡¯s heartbeat pounded in his chest. Mickey Verona emerged from the interrogation room and picked up his briefcase. ¡°Well, that went better than I had anticipated,¡± he said, pushing up his glasses. ¡°What the hell are you talking about? They¡¯re going to charge him,¡± said Alan. ¡°They were always going to charge him,¡± he replied. He turned to Deputy Wolf. ¡°What kind of outfit do you guys have going here? Sheriff Ryder is probably rolling in his grave.¡± ¡°Some of us try to be good cops,¡± she said. Mickey shook his head. ¡°By terrible coincidence, Amy Taylor¡¯s father is John Taylor¡ªstate senator, former marine war hero, CEO of Taylor Securities, and contender for some big-ass role in Allgood¡¯s administration.¡± ¡°That shouldn¡¯t matter,¡± said Alan. ¡°Oh, it matters. Do you know what the news headlines are going to say tomorrow? ¡°No.¡± ¡°John Taylor does,¡± said Mickey. You should talk to the boy. He¡¯s probably scared shitless.¡± ¡°I will. I need to make a phone call,¡± Alan said. ¡°They¡¯re putting him in holding,¡± said Deputy Wolf. ¡°Holding? I want him in a juvenile unit,¡± said Mickey. ¡°We can¡¯t put him in there. He could be around other children. You¡¯ll have to petition the judge.¡± ¡°This place is insane,¡± said Alan. ¡°Like I said, some of us try to be good cops.¡± She put a reassuring hand on his arm. ¡°I have desk duty for the next few days. I¡¯ll do my best to ensure he¡¯s treated fairly.¡± ¡°Ahem,¡± the lawyer cleared his throat. ¡°Anyway, I¡¯m hungry, and we got a lot of work to do, Dr. Smith. Let¡¯s make it a working lunch. Here¡¯s my office. Stop by. Ask for Mickey.¡± He handed Alan a business card. ¡°Dee¡¯s? Your office is the diner by the lake?¡± ¡°Yep, booth C-3 in the back. I find a constant supply of food and coffee helps me think.¡± 06 Day Call ¡°Paul, it¡¯s Alan.¡± ¡°Alan! How is he?¡± ¡°Fuck you, Paul.¡± ¡°Just hold on. I¡¯m in a meeting. Can I call you back?¡± ¡°No!¡± There was the sound of shuffling. Muffled voices. A door closed, then Paul Murphy¡¯s rough voice. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have even bothered If I had said anything.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to play your fucking games.¡± ¡°Believe me. It¡¯s not a game.¡± ¡°March 15, 2160. If that¡¯s not a goddamn game, then I don¡¯t know what is.¡± ¡°Jesus, Alan. Decenter yourself, maybe.¡± ¡°Decenter myself? You sonuvabith! I got the records. Saint Luke Community Healthcare, 9 PM, March 15, 2160. You think this is fucking therapy? Are you trying to fucking help me?¡± ¡°No, Alan. It¡¯s not a game. It¡¯s not therapy.¡± ¡°Then what, Paul?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a coincidence. It¡¯s just a damn coincidence. Please tell me there¡¯s still room for that in your philosophy.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have a fucking philosophy.¡± There was a long silence. ¡°I¡¯m not doing it, Paul. You get someone else. You get fucking Becky to do it. I can¡¯t¡ª¡± ¡°Then you tell that to him, Alan. You look that boy in the eyes and tell him.¡± The call ended. Alan looked at the phone in his hand and thought of crushing it, of hurling it onto the parking lot asphalt. He would have done it too, had his last phone not met a similar demise less than a month ago.
The holding cells were down a hallway at the back of the station. It was one large room partitioned into eight cells with cement walls on three sides and bars on the front. This must have been an older part of the building because they had to step down into the cell room. The pungent aroma of body odor instinctively brought Alan¡¯s hand to his nose. ¡°Sorry about that,¡± said Gwen. ¡°They don¡¯t bathe.¡± In the first cell, five heaps of dirty clothes were arranged against the wall. No, not heaps¡ªthere was a hand, a leg, a foot. ¡°Since when did you start arresting Gretas?¡± Alan asked. ¡°Since about eight-thirty this morning when Comstock went off the deep end. He tried to get them in jumpsuits, but it didn¡¯t work out so well.¡± Each cell had a bench extending from the back wall, similar to D-Pad but without the padding. In the corner was a stainless-steel toilet.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Against the walls outside the cells, concrete benches had been poured ages ago so guards and the curious could sit and watch the prisoners like animals in a zoo. There was no clock in sight nor a window. Anyone locked back here for more than a few hours would quickly lose their sense of time. The boy was in the last cell facing the Gretas across the room. He was slumped in the corner on his bunk, a knee hanging over the edge, too short for his foot to touch the floor. ¡°Francis?¡± said Gwen. ¡°Dr. Smith is here.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I can¡¯t let you in. Comstock is still processing your paperwork.¡± She looked up at the security camera that was centered on them. Alan grabbed the cold, solid bars. ¡°Give us a minute,¡± he said. ¡°You have ten. The best I can do right now.¡± She gave him a faint smile, then returned to the front. ¡°Francis?¡± The boy stared at him from the back of the little cell, but he could have been a thousand miles away. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Alan. ¡°It shouldn¡¯t have happened like that.¡± Francis barely shrugged. His hair spilled over half his face, hiding his bruise like the broken wing of a sad, black bird. ¡°You see?¡± Francis said. Alan had to strain to hear. ¡°I¡¯m crazy.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re crazy.¡± ¡°Do you believe me?¡± He chose his words as if he were defusing a bomb. ¡°Francis, when they assigned me to¡­ evaluate you¡­¡± The boy¡¯s gaze was penetrating. He felt his heart thudding. ¡°When they asked me to help you, they didn¡¯t tell me some things.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need you,¡± said Francis loud enough that his words bounced off the walls. ¡°I¡¯m not the best person to help you.¡± ¡°Because you don¡¯t believe me.¡± ¡°I believe that you believe. But it¡¯s not that.¡± ¡°Then what?¡± ¡°Your birthday¡­ it¡¯s¡ª¡± ¡°I know my fucking birthday. The ides of March,¡± said Francis. ¡°It¡¯s unlucky. I¡¯m unlucky. I know.¡± ¡°No. God, no. It¡¯s me¡­¡± said Alan. He was fucking this up. ¡°Just go away. I¡¯m fine.¡± The boy crossed the cement floor of his cell on bare feet. His small frame. His bruised and swollen face. The too-large orange jumpsuit drooping off a slender shoulder. He stood before him, arms crossed defiantly. At that moment, Alan should have turned and walked out, gone directly to the liquor store and maxed out his card on the strongest gut-rot he could find. Instead, he heard himself say, ¡°Come here.¡± He slipped his arms through the bars and held them out. For a moment, Francis didn¡¯t move. He looked at Alan, then at the Gretas across the way, then up to the camera that was no longer looking at them. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Alan,¡± he whispered. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± said Alan. He leaned into Alan¡¯s arms. His frame trembled. He was feverish. His small hand between the steel bars on Alan¡¯s shoulder. He cried. He would have been the same age. The same age to the hour, to the very minute. Would that other boy have placed a grubby hand on his shoulder and cried against his chest? Who was he kidding? His career wasn¡¯t going anywhere. He had six months at best until Paul Murphy was totally retired. It was Murphy who kept him in the clinic. The professional wall crumbled, leaving his life in a heap of rubble at his feet. Becky would be furious. She¡¯d say he wasn¡¯t fit. She had blocked him from every juvenile case since¡­ since that night. And she would do the same when she learned of Francis. Fuck her. The memory came so hard, so brutal, he couldn¡¯t push it down. He needed the vodka. There was a new bottle in the back of his car. It was a cold night, God, so cold. There was the crust of frozen snow, glowing like a pearl. He¡¯d been writing the book and was almost finished. Zoey should have been in bed with¡ª Next the fire. He burned the book before he called 911. Burned it in his hands. He would need a skin graft. Alan shook his head. No. No memories. Only the alone feeling. Focus on that¡­ They say it¡¯s because the drugs change the way you think, and if they miss a jump¡­ there¡¯s no telling what they¡¯re capable of. Three percent. That was the number who could detox. Only three percent. If Alan could do it, why couldn¡¯t Zoey? Damn you, Murphy. You knew. I¡¯ll protect you, boy. I¡¯ll protect you from the shadows. I know all about them, how they move beneath the stars on winter nights when the breath is steam. They come to freeze you forever and make you afraid to do anything until you die. ¡°Dr. Smith? Alan. Alan!¡± Gwen was shaking him. ¡°You should go now. I gave you an extra twenty. Comstock will be back.¡± The lights flickered. That smell of unwashed bodies and sweaty clothes. Alan extracted himself from the cold bars. Francis was on his bunk, a knee up, one leg over, a little foot with a scar dangled above the floor. In somber silence, he watched Alan leave. 07 Lumberjack Stack From the enviable booth at the rear corner of Dee¡¯s Diner¡ªin all its antique, wood-stained glory, and the disembodied bison head, named Chip, staring down at him from its mount behind the coffee station¡ªMickey Verona, Esq., sipped his incredibly rich coffee and watched as Dr. Smith entered the vestibule disheveled, brushing snow off his tweed coat and unwrapping his scarf. This was why his spot at Dee¡¯s was the best office in the Flathead Valley. Eventually, everyone came into the diner, so if you stayed long enough you got to watch them. As a student of human nature and an armchair anthropologist, this position suited Mickey well. The half-moon booth butted against the southwest corner, facing the door; its leather was soft, worn into the exact dimensions of his ass. If he needed a break from all the lawyerly bullshit, he could gaze out at the cradle of a valley formed by the friendly Salish Mountains to the west and the majestic Missions to the east. These two ranges held in their arms the great Flathead Lake¡ªthe largest natural body of freshwater west of the Mississippi. It was a moody, aqueous gem that turned, on some days, cobalt, at evening, amethyst, or, as it was now, beneath the snowfall, a granite tombstone. And like all great bodies of water, a folkloric cryptid¡ªportrayed as an orca on postcards¡ªdubbed the Flathead Monster lurked elusively within its volume. Dee¡¯s food was delicious, and the coffee was strong and always hot. But what kept him coming back for more, day after day for the last five years, was the waitress. Foxy Prewwett, with two Ws for Wow Wham! And two Ts for Tits and Tush. Five years he had fantasized about popping the pearly buttons of her uniform to free those full, firm milk melons. He imagined the softest, pinkest areolas studded with hard yet tender nipples. And what the hell would he do with her if he could ever¡ªever in a million years!¡ªgrow the cojones to ask her out? Oh, he¡¯d come close a few times, but had always ended up entangled in the wreckage of his own words. Today, however, was going to be different. It had happened the moment Comstock began shouting at that boy in the interrogation room. Something in his head had popped, a pressure that had been building for years, and in that second, he¡¯d made up his mind that the world needed more love than hate, and that each individual had to do their own part. For Mickey Verona, today was the day. Besides, he wouldn¡¯t be able to look at himself in the mirror if he had to go stag, yet again, to the Lake County Halloween Gala. ¡°Over here, Doc.¡± Mickey waved. Dr. Smith navigated between the tables, bumping the backs of two occupied chairs on the way, oblivious to the sharp looks from their annoyed occupants, to arrive and seat himself across from Mickey. ¡°Your office?¡± he asked. ¡°Best seat in town. Let¡¯s munch and work. I got a few ideas for a defense strategy.¡± He pushed a menu across the table. ¡°I know it¡¯s lunchtime, but I suggest the Lumberjack Stack. Hot cakes are so fluffy you¡¯d think you were eating a cloud.¡± ¡°I¡¯m okay.¡± Smith pushed the menu aside. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work.¡± ¡°Suit yourself, Doc. More for me.¡± ¡°Alan,¡± said the shrink bluntly. Mickey guessed the man had crested the hill of middle age with as much grace as he walked through restaurants. His brown hair salted with gray, and a few days¡¯ growth of facial hair threatening to bloom into a beard if left unchecked, helped him look the part of his profession. The aloof stereotype of a shrink would have been his first guess as to the man¡¯s career. Yet, there was a fire in him now that he¡¯d been looking for but hadn¡¯t found back at the jail. Only¡­ he couldn¡¯t discern whether it was a fire of passion or something else. There were a lot of hurting people these days. Perhaps he was a vet and had put his time in fighting FEEN¡ªa fate Mickey was lucky to avoid due to bad genetics and the influence of his father¡¯s doctor: flat feet. Hell, for all he knew, the guy across from him could be on the spin right now. Escape drugs were getting better every year: more addictive, more subtle, more deadly. At the very least, there was a puffy weariness around his eyes that suggested he didn¡¯t sleep well. Was he a drinker? ¡°Hair of the dog that bit ya?¡± Mickey ventured. ¡°Foxy stirs a beautiful Bloody Mary.¡± ¡°Just coffee, thanks,¡± said Alan. Yep, a drinker. Poor guy. In his work, Mickey had met a lot of shrinks. It wasn¡¯t uncommon for them to find a crutch for their depressing careers in either bottle or barbiturate. ¡°Hey, Mickey, who¡¯s your new friend?¡± asked the pretty blonde woman holding an order pad. ¡°Hey there, Foxy. This is Dr. Smith, head shrink extraordinaire. But just call him Alan. He doesn¡¯t like titles. So, toots, you have anything you wanna get off your chest?¡±If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Foxy looked down with long, purple eyelashes at her ample bosom straining against her waitress smock. ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± she replied, smacking her strawberry-scented bubble gum and straightening the yellow ribbon pin on her lapel, just above the firm slope of her cleavage. If the boys on the Eastern Front knew they had this depth of warm support back home, it¡¯d stiffen their resolve against FEEN through those long, hard, lonely winter nights. ¡°You sure? Looks like you do.¡± Mickey let her catch his wink to Smith. ¡°Oh, Mickey, you¡¯re so bad!¡± She smacked him on the shoulder with her order book. ¡°So, what can I get you fellas today, huh?¡± Foxy was no broad, but she played the part to a T. ¡°Numero uno, a pot of fresh coffee, and I¡¯ll take the Lumberjack Stack, side of bacon¡ªmake them black¡ªand eggs, you know how I like them.¡± Foxy giggled. ¡°Sunny side up,¡± they said in unison. ¡°And you, doctor, er, Alan?¡± ¡°Just coffee, please,¡± said Alan. ¡°Oh, cat got your appetite?¡± ¡°He¡¯s had a hell of a morning, darling,¡± said Mickey. ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll be right back.¡± She strutted off to place the order with the kitchen, her shapely hips swaying seductively from side to side with the rhythm of her rump. Mickey whistled and peeled his lustful gaze away. Alan stared at him narrowly, so he reluctantly dawned his professional fa?ade. ¡°The way I see it,¡± said Mickey, ¡°we have certain cards in our hand and need to play them very carefully. There will be an arraignment on Monday in front of Judge Myers. Francis will appear virtually. He¡¯ll plead not guilty, of course. Because of our unfortunate luck in winning the John Taylor lotto, Myers has asked for an emergency calendar session tomorrow morning. We¡¯ll know more about what the prosecution has up its sleeve at that time. In short, this isn¡¯t gonna be over next week.¡± ¡°I guess Taylor has an election to win,¡± said Alan. ¡°I think what we need is time on this, so maybe a few weeks isn¡¯t a bad thing.¡± ¡°Can we get Francis out of there?¡± ¡°We¡¯ll try. I¡¯ll make a motion to have him moved to a juvenile facility, but don¡¯t hold your breath. 8 AM. Don¡¯t be late. And don¡¯t wear a red tie. Judge Myers is a confirmed Democrat.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t own a tie,¡± said Alan. ¡°Even better. Makes you look more relatable.¡± ¡°I am relatable,¡± said Alan. ¡°Sure you are. My first move will be to try and get the case thrown out on lack of evidence. They don¡¯t have much to go on.¡± ¡°CCTV?¡± asked Alan. ¡°What appears to be a hug,¡± said Mickey. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± ¡°It¡¯s hard to make out. The camera had a glitch.¡± ¡°Figures.¡± Mickey added, ¡°There¡¯s the play of witness bias. The Winesworth boy¡¯s father is in the High Mountain Rangers, and Mx. Dale, well, shi-with-an-i has filed complaints against male students three times in as many years.¡± ¡°Open and shut then.¡± ¡°Not really. Like I said, John Taylor¡¯s daughter has obviously experienced some form of trauma, enough that she¡¯s still mute. You know anything that could cause that?¡± Alan shrugged. ¡°If trauma is severe enough it can cause people to stop talking. It¡¯s called psychogenic aphonia. I¡¯ve seen it in soldiers. It¡¯s usually temporary. But I don¡¯t think Francis could have done anything to her in the few minutes they had before class started.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s hope she finds her tongue soon. Comstock wasn¡¯t bluffing. You should prepare yourself for the prosecution to elevate this to a sexual offense. It plays better with the jury.¡± ¡°Bullshit. This is all bullshit,¡± said Alan. ¡°The system knows that,¡± replied Mickey. ¡°Our cards aren¡¯t looking so strong.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got to make them strong. It would be nice to have a couple of character witnesses who can attest that Francis is a good boy. Teachers. A friend, preferably White, preferably female. But at this point we¡¯ll take anyone. Maybe his guardian since his folks seem to be out of the picture. Look, I¡¯m going to be filing paperwork all day. Can you drop by where he lives, see if someone can say something on his behalf?¡± ¡°I can do that. What if the judge doesn¡¯t dismiss the case?¡± Mickey sighed. There was a better chance of getting a tiger-blood snow cone in Hell. But he wouldn¡¯t tell the shrink that. He knew these types of cases. It was important to keep rays of hope, even if they were false. He looked out the window at the flurries. Here it comes. The trick knee always wins. ¡°You heard him today¡­ magic, hocus-pocus. I think we have a strong case for mental incompetence. He won¡¯t be able to stand trial. That is an option.¡± Alan¡¯s hands balled into fists on the tabletop. ¡°I don¡¯t think Francis is crazy. That¡¯ll tarnish his record forever. It¡¯s important we don¡¯t go down that path. Claiming something like that has a way of turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.¡± ¡°Alan,¡± Mickey used his well-oiled, courtroom voice, ¡°Hunters who? The magic what? He¡¯s psychically leading her where? Down the Yellow Brick Road? That shit is now in the fucking record.¡± Alan turned to watch the flakes. Eyes locked on the rough surface of the lake he said, ¡°He¡¯s been abused. He¡¯s got scars all over his body.¡± ¡°Christ,¡± whispered Mickey. ¡°Listen, we¡¯re not gonna mention that fact tomorrow unless we have to. This prosecutor, I know her work. She believes in the doctrine that the abused become the abusers.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not where the literature is. It¡¯s a gross oversimplification,¡± objected Alan. ¡°Hah! The literature? Welcome to reality, Doc. This is crime and punishment. Entertainment for the masses. The ¡®No Touch¡¯ Policy. They wanted that.¡± He gestured broadly to the smattering of customers throughout the diner. ¡°We have only ourselves to thank. I know it sounds callous, but in today¡¯s world, being officially classified as insane is a hell of a lot better than having ¡®sex offender¡¯ printed on your license plates.¡± ¡°Fuck, he¡¯s too young,¡± said Alan. ¡°This is going to destroy him.¡± ¡°Welcome to reality, Doc. Nothing is a secret these days. Look,¡± Mickey pushed his phone across the table. On the screen was a headline from one of the local newspapers: TEEN SEXUALLY ATTACKS CLASSMATE AND TEACHER. Alan read the caption aloud: ¡°Names are being withheld because the victim and perpetrator are underage, but sources say a male juvenile was taken into custody on overwhelming evidence and the testimony of several witnesses.¡± ¡°Shit,¡± said Alan. ¡°Not just shit,¡± said Mickey, ¡°a good old fashioned Montana winter shit storm.¡± 08 Spirits The grandfather clock in the corner of Dr. Paul Murphy¡¯s office showed a quarter past three. Alan had a niggling itch to drink. It had started during his meeting with Mickey Verona and slowly blossomed until¡ª ¡°That fucking bitch! Fuck her cunt!¡± ¡°Getting all worked up isn¡¯t going to solve anything,¡± said Murphy in his deep, gravelly brogue. ¡°And going after Becky is a fool¡¯s errand. It¡¯s already gone too far up the chain.¡± He held out a piece of paper bearing the Montana State seal. ¡°It dropped in my box right after lunch. The Secretary of Health and Human Services sent it himself. Helena will not allocate funds to represent the boy. And if you do it pro bono, they¡¯ve threatened to cancel our license.¡± ¡°The fucking hell?¡± ¡°Senator Taylor¡¯s reach is long and wide, and his pockets deep.¡± ¡°The Mariana Trench.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to say not to do this, Alan, but it¡¯s over my head now.¡± ¡°I¡¯m in this, Paul. Whatever his issues are, I don¡¯t think he¡¯s a sexual predator. I don¡¯t believe he did anything bad to that girl. And just to be brutally honest with myself, I never really had a career. You know that. Not after¡­¡± ¡°What happened with Zoey, the drugs. No, they were never going to let you practice what you trained for,¡± said Murphy. ¡°Becky would see to it,¡± said Alan. Murphy shook his head despondently, then rose and went to his cabinet of Norwegian pine where he inspected the bottles. ¡°You on the wagon?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t think so.¡± He lifted a squat bottle full of a rusty spirit. ¡°1977 Pineau des Charentes.¡± Murphy had been a strongman in his youth. Pushing eighty, he had the back and shoulders of an ox. The golden statues of his feats stared down from their Olympia atop the booze box. The cork made a satisfying pop. He centered two delicate snifters from a tray at the northeast quadrant of the desk and poured. He missed on the second glass and spilled a tablespoon onto the finished surface. Then he opened his drawer and withdrew two fat, dark cigars. ¡°Cohiba?¡± ¡°Paul¡ª¡± ¡°Don¡¯t judge me,¡± the old man cut him off. ¡°We might as well enjoy what¡¯s left of Cuba.¡± The cigar smelled sweet-of dried earth and dung. ¡°This must have cost a fortune.¡± ¡°It did. Luckily, it¡¯s my wife¡¯s money.¡± Murphy held up his glass. ¡°To a good friend, a scholar, a doctor, and a compassionate man. I wish you the best on your new path.¡± ¡°My new path?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s about time?¡± ¡°Time?¡± Alan repeated. They clinked glasses. The liquor swamped his tongue like syrup. He swished it across his teeth and gums and swallowed. Campfire smoke and honey warmed his throat and chest. Murphy took great care lighting a cigar over a warm flame, occasionally inspecting his progress on the leaves, giving a gentle wind from his lips to encourage the coal. Once he was satisfied, he handed it to Alan and lit another. They smoked and drank. Alan fought the pull of memory. ¡°We¡¯ve had this before. This exact combination,¡± he said.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. He closed his eyes. It had been atop Pete¡¯s Hill overlooking Bozeman over twenty years ago. He was in college then, a newly minted PhD. The state was in a drought, the hottest summer on record. Smoke burned their eyes. The fire line snaked up the Bridger Mountains to the north as the lodge poles combusted like wicks soaked in kerosene. Skyscrapers of a burgeoning Asiatown rose from the center of the old western city. A hologram advertising something in Chinese cut through the murky atmosphere. He¡¯d successfully defended his dissertation that day against a cold committee. ¡°She was beautiful.¡± Murphy sat back in his chair, eyes glistening. He was talking about Zoey. ¡°A real Native princess.¡± A lump congealed in the back of Alan¡¯s throat. He doused it with the ancient cognac. ¡°It was a beautiful ceremony.¡± The old man closed his eyes, cherishing a serene memory. Murphy, an ordained minister of some Unitarian sect, had married them that night atop the hill. Becky was a witness along with several of Murphy¡¯s undergraduate acolytes. Goddamn it, he remembered. He had looked into her eyes and kissed her in the blood-red sunset while the chant from a temple¡¯s loudspeaker called out vespers in a refugee language. ¡°I¡¯m not in therapy,¡± said Alan. ¡°Well, maybe you should be! It¡¯s okay to feel something,¡± said Murphy. ¡°Not that,¡± he said. ¡°Not that.¡± His glass was empty in his hands. ¡°Nothing matters in the end.¡± ¡°Mnemosyne will always get you in the end. Trust me. Her reach is the longest.¡± Murphy swilled his drink and wiped his beard. ¡°One for the Devil, two for the soul?¡± ¡°Why not?¡± Alan held out his empty glass. The old professor¡¯s large hands trembled as he poured, filling the glass halfway. The shaking had worsened in recent years. He caught Alan¡¯s eye and said, ¡°You function well drunk.¡± ¡°I know,¡± he replied. ¡°You drink too much. Stop.¡± ¡°It hurts.¡± The man nodded his lugubrious and bearded head. He touched the puddle of spirit on his desk, then wiped it away with his bare palm, leaving a smear. ¡°I have lung cancer,¡± he said. This confession hovered between them in a shared gaze. ¡°Oh, Paul. God¡­¡± He wasn¡¯t surprised. The man had always been an enthusiastic inhaler of tobacco. ¡°They caught it too late. Notice how vernacular allows us to shift the blame?¡± ¡°What can I do?¡± ¡°Christ, don¡¯t worry about me. I¡¯ve had my share of go-rounds. The end times aren¡¯t all that bad. I get to spend them bombed out of my gourd. I¡¯m eating magic mushrooms tomorrow in a sweat lodge. And I need to finish that¡ª¡± He jerked a thumb at the liquor cabinet. ¡°Shiiit,¡± said Alan. They clinked glasses again. ¡°Zoey would want you to do this,¡± Murphy declared. Hearing somebody else speak her name in that modality brought the cringe deep inside. ¡°You know, I thought you¡¯d turn this down.¡± ¡°You knew his birthday before you asked me.¡± The clock ticked heavily. A muffled conversation passed in the hallway. They sipped and smoked. ¡°And?¡± asked Murphy, blowing a ring into the air above his head. ¡°I remember everything like it was last night. They took him back to clean him. There was some confusion¡­ Do you think? Maybe¡ª¡± ¡°Oh, my friend.¡± Murphy stood and came around the desk with his arms wide, his proud, gray beard running down his chest. He hugged him, firm and hard. ¡°Alan, he¡¯s not.¡± ¡°The same hospital, Paul. The same night, the same time. There was some confusion.¡± ¡°You could take a DNA test.¡± ¡°No.¡± The word came out sharp like a fang. Murphy held his shoulders in his iron hands. He nodded his understanding. ¡°Don¡¯t lose touch.¡± ¡°I was never in touch to begin with.¡± Murphy laughed and slapped his right shoulder hard. ¡°That¡¯s the sense of humor I once knew. Builds A Fire¡ªnow that¡¯s a fucking name. What¡¯s your professional opinion?¡± ¡°He¡¯s just a kid. Those scars don¡¯t come without a price. Maybe he¡¯s living in a self-constructed reality in order to cope with whatever hell he went through. If that lawyer is going to walk him through an insanity plea to keep him off the registries, he¡¯ll need all the help he can get.¡± ¡°There¡¯s the fire!¡± A devilish twinkle sparked in old Murphy¡¯s eyes. He raised his arm, projecting his voice. ¡°Hark, warrior, behold! Your doom has been laid out before you.¡± ¡°Fuck you, Paul.¡± ¡°Come on, you remember the line.¡± A childish glee encompassed the man. ¡°Fuck.¡± Alan cleared his throat and spoke, ¡°I am petrified. My knees grow weak, and I think I¡¯m gonna shit my pants. My own kin have come to cut me down.¡± Murphy lifted his palms toward the ceiling and said his line around his cigar. ¡°Then rise, slayer of armies. Live or die, thy Grindel is nigh.¡± They laughed together with their drinks and cigars. ¡°You make an old man happy,¡± said Murphy. ¡°It was a terrible play,¡± said Alan. ¡°Can you believe they accused me of appropriation?¡± ¡°But it was the feminists who canceled you.¡± ¡°That was unfair. It was you who wrote the sex scene.¡± Murphy slapped the table with his palm. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine. Like you said. Feelings.¡± A vision of Zoey and Becky naked on the stage floor haunted him again. ¡°Well, Paul.¡± Alan picked up the box that held the contents of his office. The bronze nameplate that had adorned his door sat on top. ¡°Just to piss her off, you should make her wait until Monday before she can move in.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do just that. Listen, you¡¯re off the hook for the Halloween party tomorrow night, but as a friend, I think you should go. You spend too much time holed up in that little apartment. Hell, you might even get laid.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, maybe.¡± ¡°It¡¯s off the books and unofficial, but I¡¯ll provide whatever support I can. I¡¯ve always thought there¡¯s something noble about helping a kid.¡± He set the cognac and a handful of cigars on top of Alan¡¯s things. 09 Witness - Part 1 The autopilot of Alan¡¯s car slowed to a crawl, and the word PEDESTRIAN scrolled across the windshield in large, red block letters. A caravan of shrouded pilgrims trudged dolefully north on Highway 93, occupying the entire lane. Where they came from and where they were going were mysteries. They were phantoms, women all, who had chosen to walk away from it¡ª the shit show of the world. One day they weren¡¯t there and the next they were. Ubiquitous in their presence and ambiguous in their purpose, connected by the esoteric matrix of their alms plates and the mute mantras of their fabrics bearing the words of their mother-prophetess stitched into the back of an old t-shirt, the pocket of a pair of pants. Their cloth colportages pollinated tables at fast food restaurants, slipped into a purse in a department store, or were shoved under windshield wipers. Your Mother cries out of the melting ice Her blood is the creatures of the Earth Her wound is by your hand ~ Greta 1:1 Everyone knew it by now. Like a hot knife through butter, the new religion cut into the global zeitgeist. Men and boys, the true pollutants, arbiters of war and industry, watched the taciturn parades of girls and women taking the shawl, covering themselves from head to toe in repurposed clothes and refusing to speak. Their alms pads, linked via an encrypted network of satellites, filled their crypto wallet with a balance that eclipsed the GDPs of small nations. From the outside looking in, it seemed like a simple scheme devoted to the singular task of disseminating The Book of Greta, verse by verse, on random and often unexpected pieces of fabric. Some years ago, Alan had found a small, blue brassiere hanging on his car mirror. Stitched over the size B cups were an astounding twenty-two sequential verses from Book 14, dubbed The Book of Air by the academics who kept tabs on such things. He had anonymously posted a picture on an aficionado forum where others put up their own findings. Within an hour, his mailbox had received a dozen serious offers to purchase the item¡ªcontingent upon authentication. In an age of fakes and effortless reproduction, there was a raw lust for the authentic. The stakes skyrocketed a few days later when his photographs were confirmed by a verified forensic investigator who matched the stitching pattern to a single, anonymous Greta nicknamed Daphne due to the fact her scribing was exclusively found on Daphne brand underwear. Daphne had garnered an impressive cult following based around her unique production of the manuscript. The bra now completed the Autumn line of 2167 from the Daphne catalog for petite women: stockings embroidered with golden thread, panties written in tight crimson, an acorn camisole with black, and now the bra¡ªwhite on sky blue. When the Universitas Luminis Stellarum¡¯s Department of Modern Languages made him an offer under their Gretas Study Project, he declined and sold to the next highest, most offensive offer; a private collector from an eastern European city well into FEEN territory who ran a VR simulation focused on the fetishizing of barely legal Gretas. Alan posted the receipt online, being sure to tag the university. The department chair responded, deploring the move as a tasteless attack on women. That night, he celebrated alone, with only a thousand-dollar wine and caviar set to keep him company. It was small and petty, but so was the rejection letter they had sent him years before when he had applied for a lectureship: Dear Mr. Smith: Thank you for your interest in the ULS Psychological Studies Department. Although your application was highly competitive, we are committed to selecting from a pool of women and at-risk scholars. Therefore, we will be passing on your candidacy at this time¡­ At that time, he had savored the metaphorical significance of the salty, unfertilized sturgeon eggs and the bloody vintage cleansing his palate. When not sewing their leaflets, the rags, as the slur went, were begging alms to fund the cuttings: rallies with congregations that ranged from dozens to hundreds to a few thousand. (Since the fire, however, the great gatherings of a hundred thousand or more had faded into lore.) During these events, the initiates engaged in an act of ritualistic self-mutilation¡ªa precise operation on the vocal cords that left them forever mute. A Greta was said to be able to leave the community if she was not yet cut. For those initiates who had been seduced into their soft folds, it was a mad scramble by families and friends to find and deprogram their loved ones before they were rendered voiceless.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. There was no reliable footage of said ceremonies, though conspiratorially, there was a string of dead and missing undercover reporters and influencers. The entity that controlled the Gretas was a mystery, but having the bankroll of several trillion tax-free dollars brought power and fear. Entire ranches were bought up for the purpose of one cutting, used once and never again, never resold. Thousands of these dormant parcels pockmarked the country and the world. Sometimes they were used as safe-havens for squatters and refugees, but if a jurisdiction attempted to subsume them, the silent women would litigate. It was common knowledge that once wrapped in their muffled robes, there was no escape. Their lawyers worked under strict non-disclosure agreements with some authority. Iconic footage sometimes showed a bundle of Gretas walking in formation from their rough sleep beneath an underpass into a courtroom where they would sit or stand in accord or disagreement as they purchased right of ways and negotiated treaties. The orange light of a drone camera flashed and whizzed over his car. ¡°Raven, identify drone.¡± ¡°Yes, Dr. Smith?¡± A moment¡¯s pause. ¡°Drone is an autonomous broadcasting agent, live streaming #gretas #POE. The best country hits and Russian folk music of yesterday and today.¡± ¡°Play stream.¡± As his car crept along, an old voice sang in Russian, accompanied by an accordion. The cab darkened, and the windshield became a screen revealing what the eye of the camera saw. The drone pulled back to give a long view of the Gretas extending a mile in each direction. The camera zoomed down, following the procession, and then stopped. The pilot, an unknown force at a data center somewhere in the world, had taken an interest in one particular woman. She was not like the others, who were downtrodden beneath their burdens. She wore a mask of mesh and a tight-fitting bodysuit. A small black backpack appeared to be well supplied. The woman looked at the drone for a moment, then she swung. The picture jerked and went black. The stream ended. The windows regained their transparency. He passed a line of climate refugees trailing the Gretas. Safety in numbers. Campers, trucks, cars, people on foot pushing or pulling wagons laden with possessions. People of the Earth, generations now drowned out of their homes and adrift in the world, often followed what were deemed large or important threads of the Greta movement, adhering to them like saints as they navigated the countries and municipalities that had ratified the Earth Treaty. A pickup truck with a handmade apartment on the back of it was holding up traffic. A man worked a jack, and a boy sat on a spare tire. A woman stood by with a child on either side and a baby in her arms. Behind the caravan of cars, a tribal police cruiser crept along, its lights flashing. Behind the cop, two trucks followed, in the back of which men in battle dress uniforms held rifles and baseball bats, their balding heads and potbellies revealing they were not a government-sanctioned unit. Behind the militia, a straight line of self-drivers remained orderly and composed, even if their occupants were falling apart.
Ten miles south of the clinic, the little town of Pablo, headquarters of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, consisted of¡ªjust barely¡ªmore churches than bars. A small government complex and a university were the hamlet¡¯s lifeblood since the death of the lumber industry during his great-great-grandfather¡¯s generation. He was fond of the school. When it was clear he¡¯d been blacklisted from the ranks of private mental health facilities, Murphy had pulled some strings and secured him a residency at the university¡¯s clinic. However, he did more teaching than counseling. Two nights a week, he had facilitated an autonomous learning environment for the local Job Corps kids. They were the children of the depression: neglected, abused, abandoned, drug-addicted and criminal, feral and savage. They were there to write essays and work on their resumes, but instead, they wrote rap lyrics, songs full of love and heartbreak and death. And he himself was a broken spin addict, one of the very, very rare specimens who had been able to withstand the withdrawals of Escape at velocity. He reeked of death. Becky wanted him out. She petitioned, but Murphy, all-powerful Murphy, Murphy the Magus, kept him in. Murphy knew that, in part, it was the job of the academy to provide a structure for the mind and, within that structure, a refuge. Murphy believed Alan could do great things, even after¡­ He had been wrong, of course. The traffic jam cleared behind him, and he was alone on the road. The AI drifted the car to the right to avoid a pothole under construction. Deep in the hazy heart of the lodgepole forest, ramshackle houses sat with acute roofs designed to deny Old Man Winter his angle of repose. They were guarded by rusted cars worth less than the cost of outfitting them for the navigation grid, rusting bicycles, children with dirty faces, and angry pit bulls with suspicious glares. The economic downturn had hit the valley hard about twenty years ago and never lifted. The tribe had done all it could to support its members, but after the massacre of the Highwaymen (a movement of truck drivers violently opposed to the autonomous grid), a number of whom were Natives, the vote was taken to cut ties with the federal government. Washington quickly responded by freezing all federal funds. The tribe¡¯s next move was a vote to ratify the Earth Treaty, which opened a feeble line of money from sympathetic individuals and organizations concerned about the refugee crisis or looking to build a headquarters to replace the one that was washed away by the rising tides. The Gretas, in their wordless mystery, lubricated the wheels of politics, and a right of way was negotiated that would become part of the Silent Trail that stretched from California to New York through reservations, public lands, and friendly municipalities. The United States sued on grounds that this was illegal immigration. The tribe responded by calling a powwow. And the militias stewed, oiling their guns, waiting for the day. Rampant poverty pushed the crime rate up, more violent year by year. Like everywhere in America, the Escape pandemic had ripped through the reservation, leaving the orphanage bursting at the seams. For those who miraculously avoided the spin, there was still the succor of booze and meth. 10 Witness - Part 2 Joe¡¯s Jiffy Stop & Casino, time capsule of an extinct era, was once a thriving mecca for long-haul truck drivers on the south-north route from Mexican fields plush with produce up to the cold Canadian border. The architecture was a squat, torpid Quonset hut that had been used to store crop dusters over a century ago. The half-moon building¡¯s corrugated and galvanized steel was a chalky blue, but the base had been gentrified by a red brick front with pillars adorned with sconces. The mirrored windows were protected by bars and chicken wire and neon signs advertising beer and chewing tobacco. There was a pop machine with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the front. Next to it, a broken hologram advertising Burnt Lime Spin¡ªthe unfortunately named energy drink, not the deadly drug¡ªinspired both wakefulness and diarrhea. The holo-ad glitched, and the image of a half-materialized woman holding a bottle turned to tints and shades of red, then faded completely. A broken-down semi¡ªan early model of the self-drivers when they still bothered to look like real trucks¡ªslept on flat tires next to a line of dried-up fuel pumps. He pulled up to the side of the building, got out, and lit a cigarette. A cold wind carried the humid threat of a real snowfall. Out on the highway, a small car passed in a hurry. Memories echoed across the parking lot. When he was a boy, he would come here with his father and little sister, Ashley. There was always some attraction, usually a faction of a carnival long disbanded. Tractor-trailers burning their diesel into the vast sky, carnies set up on the side of the road shouting catcalls. Come and dunk the clown, knock the pins down, pop the balloons! Winner winner winnerrrr! One free for the lady! Pink fuzzy dice, corn dogs, fry bread¡­ And smoke spiced the air. Music¡ªNative music¡ªdrums making his heart thump. Dad on the poker machines, their holographic projections were a new thing. Ashley and her girlfriends giggled; among them Zoey, her cinnamon breath and lips painted pink against her dark skin. She¡¯d let him kiss her and touch her tits out back between the fry-oil dump and the cement wall where it was hottest, then running off into the early night, leaving him craving, like this memory slipping away into the biting wind. He took a long last drag and flicked his cigarette next to his car, where it smoldered. A bell above the door jingled as he pushed through. Antique video poker machines, which would never again see electricity, had been pushed against the walls, relics mummified in plastic and duct tape. The Jiffy Stop was little more than a convenience store now, a shop of curiosities. ¡°Hey, Dr. Smith, ain¡¯t no lunatics in here,¡± said the obese man behind the counter. ¡°Hey, Little Joe, what¡¯s up? Long time no see.¡± Little Joe and one of his employees had briefly visited Alan years ago at the clinic when they were planning on getting married. She¡ªhe had forgotten her name, something Spanish¡ªwas a pretty girl, and Little Joe was a fat old bastard even then. The story went that one night when he was passed out and his fianc¨¦e was working the counter, a handsome Mexican trucker had pulled in with a Big Mack so beautiful it looked just like a chrome dragon snaking through the lot. Maybe it was the fumes of the heady fossil fuel, a man with grease on his fingers and perfume in his hair, or maybe it was love at first sight, because when that beast pulled out, bound for Baja, Little Joe¡¯s betrothed was on it, never to be seen again. ¡°Don¡¯t need no white man¡¯s medicine here.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I quit my job today,¡± Alan said. ¡°Oh, shit. Congratulations.¡±Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ¡°I am looking for someone. They listed this place as a mailbox.¡± Through the fat and wrinkles around his eyes, Little Joe stared dispassionately back. ¡°Really? Half the tribe lists this place as a mailbox.¡± ¡°She goes by the name of White Owl.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know her. Now get. I¡¯m busy, can¡¯t you see?¡± A scan of the store revealed a vast amount of nothing happening. ¡°Sorry, Little Joe, it¡¯s kind of urgent that I speak with her.¡± ¡°This about the Indian boy?¡± ¡°It¡¯s about Francis Builds A Fire, yes.¡± ¡°Did he do it?¡± ¡°No. He didn¡¯t do anything. I¡¯m trying to help him, so I need to talk to this White Owl and find out some things. If his parents could be contacted?¡± Through the window out on the highway, the truck with the apartment on the back passed by strapped to a flatbed. The family sat on the side, legs dangling over. ¡°I knew the boy¡¯s daddy.¡± Little Joe took a gulp from a giant water bottle and wiped his lips. ¡°He was Koots. Name was Pierre. Used to run around with the Margeaux gang¡­ a real tough bunch them boys were. Sold Escape, and other nasty shit.¡± ¡°What happened to him?¡± ¡°Nobody knows. I think they took care of him.¡± ¡°They killed him?¡± ¡°You¡¯re real smart, Dr. Smith. They should give you a degree.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s they? The Margeauxs?¡± ¡°Sure. Why not? The world is full of theys. Theys that kill ya and theys that don¡¯t. Theys that¡¯ll sit back and watch it happen.¡± ¡°And what about his mother?¡± Little Joe leaned his massive bulk back in his chair¡ªit creaked¡ªand laced his fingers across his stomach. ¡°His old man brought her here pregnant. She was really far along. Thought she was gonna drop the baby out on the floor. She wasn¡¯t from this tribe. Maybe she was a White woman, but who knows. Bloodlines run real thin. She didn¡¯t fit in, you know. But they were lovers. And they were running. I could tell. I let em stay in the sleepers upstairs for a few weeks. She had the baby in Ronan. Didn¡¯t even stay in the hospital overnight. Then one day it was just her and that crying little brat. Shit, he cried like a cougar. And she too was crying and crying, said Pierre was gone and wasn¡¯t coming back. After a while, she goes into Ronan and gets on a bus to Spokane. I know this because I bought the ticket for her.¡± Little Joe went silent and regarded Alan with black eyes like olives. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± ¡°That¡¯s it. She was gone, and I know nothing of her story from that point onward.¡± ¡°And the boy?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not a history book, Dr. Smith. You want to buy some Chardonnay? Got a sale on Gallo.¡± ¡°Come on, Joe.¡± ¡°Fine! Couple years ago he showed up dirty and bleeding. He had a guitar. That¡¯s all he had. Someone really worked him over. That¡¯s when White Owl came down and took him away.¡± ¡°And?¡± ¡°And that¡¯s all, folks.¡± ¡°Francis called her a witch.¡± The enigmatic smile evaporated from Little Joe¡¯s face. ¡°Nobody knows where she comes from or who her people are,¡± Spoke Little Joe with reluctance. ¡°She ain¡¯t from this Rez, that¡¯s for sure. That boy, Francis, was here right where you¡¯re standing now, bleeding all over the place. I don¡¯t know how White Owl knew he was here, but she came down in that old jalopy of hers. And that¡¯s crazy because White Owl never comes down from the mountain. She loaded him up, and I thought that was good enough. What¡¯s done is done. And word on the Rez, everyone knows he did something bad to that girl, and everyone believes it because White Owl took him, and White Owl is cursed.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± Alan rubbed his neck. ¡°I need to go see her.¡± Through the wire mesh covering the windows, he gazed at the Mission Mountains, their very tops obscured by the clouds. ¡°That¡¯s tribal land up there. Nobody but White Owl goes into the canyon. Not even Indians go in there. Superstitious, you know.¡± ¡°How do I get there?¡± For a moment, it looked like Little Joe wasn¡¯t going to tell him. Then he looked around the store and up at the bank of CCTV monitors. He leaned forward. ¡°Take Old Canyon Road all the way up to the four-corners. The road gets bad, but keep straight past the sign that says dead end. Go past the sign that says no trespassing. Past the sign that says no return. You¡¯ll come to where an old bridge is broken in half. You got to walk from there. Keep on the trail. You¡¯ll see. You really going up there?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He made to leave. ¡°You¡¯ll need this.¡± From the key chain rack behind him he pulled down one of the tacky dream catchers, a white one with blue feathers. ¡°Hang this on your mirror. It¡¯s for the bad spirits¡­ and the Indians with guns.¡± Then he reached down under the counter and pulled up a rusted old cowbell. ¡°This is for ol¡¯ White Owl. Tell her Little Joe says hi. And Dr. Smith, I don¡¯t want any more to do with this.¡± 11 Witness - Part 3
Old Canyon Road climbed the foothills until it offered a view far out over the Mission Valley. A carpet of clouds threatened precipitation.
Up ahead, three figures stood in the road: teenagers¨Ca shirtless boy, skinny-nearly-skeletal, jacket hanging over his shoulder, and two girls. They did not move. He slowed to a stop, careful not to hit them. The boy had curly black hair tied in two ponytails on either side of his head. He smoked a long, thin cigarette. One of the girls held up a phone. She giggled and took a selfie with the valley as the backdrop. The boy let her finish her pictures, then slowly migrated to the side of the road.
Alan pulled up and rolled down his window. ¡°Hey there.¡±
¡°Hi,¡± said the boy. ¡°You here for the spin? Hundred bucks, easy.¡± He held up a delicate glass vial of blue liquid between his fingers. ¡°L1. Strongest ever. Don¡¯t even need L2 with this shit.¡±
Alan swallowed hard. ¡°You¡¯ll always need L2,¡± he said.
¡°Yeah?¡± said the boy. ¡°Hundred and we can make it happy.¡±
¡°I¡¯m looking for someone,¡± Alan said.
¡°I know people. I know everyone!¡± He turned to the valley, threw his hands up, and shouted something in Salish. ¡°I know everyone!¡± The kid was riding the ecstasy of the spin.
¡°White Owl. I need to talk to her.¡±
The boy smiled down at him. ¡°Who?¡±
¡°She goes by White Owl.¡±
The kid shouted to the girls in Salish. They stopped dancing and shouted back, and he laughed.
¡°What¡¯d she say?¡± Alan asked.
¡°She said just keep on your current journey if you want to get into trouble. Owls fly on silent wings, and white owls are suspicious. Anything white is suspicious. You should take a picture before the snow comes. White owls are invisible in the snow.¡± He trotted down the hill after the girls. The shorter of the two did a pirouette and fell into his arms, and he kissed her.
Alan got out and stretched his legs, watching them shrink away until they were three indistinct figures. The side of the road was marked by a guardrail, beyond which the earth banked and tumbled down into a patchwork of fields and farmhouses and the great Highway 93.
He held up his phone, turned, took the photo, and stared out at the far distant hills. ¡°You don¡¯t have a job anymore, you stupid son of a bitch.¡± He looked at his contacts. His thumb hovered over a name and then touched it. It rang a long time before someone answered.
¡°Hello? Hello?¡± said a woman¡¯s soft voice.
¡°Hey, Ashley?¡±
¡°Alan?¡±
¡°A couple years, I guess.¡±
¡°Try fourteen.¡±
¡°Sorry.¡±
¡°Fourteen fucking years.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry, Ash. There¡¯s no excuse.¡±
An extended moment passed where he could hear his sister¡¯s breath. It was familiar to him.
¡°It¡¯s my fault, too¡­¡± she said. ¡°After¡­¡± Her voice fell off with an unspoken reference. ¡°I told you I¡¯ll never go back to the Rez.¡±
¡°This isn¡¯t on you, Ash. I said I¡¯d visit.¡±
¡°Time is a river, right? You okay, big brother?¡±
¡°I just wanted to say hi and hear your voice.¡±
¡°Hi,¡± she said. ¡°Dad would have liked you staying there. He loved the valley.¡±
¡°He did,¡± he said.
¡°I was thinking of trying to call you. Like, for the last few weeks.¡±
¡°How¡¯s Bran?¡±
¡°Good. Big now. Grown up.¡±
¡°I¡¯m going to come and see you¡­ soon,¡± he said.
¡°No, you¡¯re not. But I love you,¡± she said.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
¡°I love you too.¡±
¡°I bought a restaurant,¡± she said.
¡°No shit? What do you cook?¡±
¡°A little bit of everything.¡±
¡°Dad would have liked that,¡± he said.
¡°Are you okay?¡± she asked again.
¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± he told her again.
¡°We¡¯re a couple of nut cases, aren¡¯t we? Love ya, big brother.¡± She was crying.
¡°Love ya,¡± he said.
She ended the call.
The kids had vanished down the dirt road altogether. Were they ever really there? His face felt numb. His eyes stung from the cold wind.
DEAD END
It was snowing. Past each sign the road grew steeper.
NO TRESPASSING
The trees grew taller, their trunks like massive arrows shot through the earth, turning daylight into gray shadow.
NO RETURN
He parked in front of the fallen bridge and a green-primer car set on its rims with a smashed windshield and a sapling growing through its rear bumper. He got out and smoked a cigarette while inspecting the steep bank. The canal was deep and empty and lined with sharp rocks dusted with snow. Night was coming in.
He stepped on his cigarette and carefully navigated down the embankment, his shoes slipping on the rocks and the thin gauze of snow. At the bottom of the canal bed, he gazed up the slope of the other side. Old-growth evergreens towered over him; their tops reached up and were lost in the flurry.
He grasped a diving root and pulled himself up the other side until he could reach a branch crusted with ice. The cold numbed his fingers, making them clumsy. Three hours earlier, in Murphy¡¯s office, he could not have imagined that he¡¯d be on the side of a mountain surrounded by wilderness, tragically dressed the way bodies that have gone missing are found: slacks, dress shirt, a light windbreaker, and shoes with treadless soles.
A clump of soil under his left foot gave out, and he went down hard, the metal cowbell in his pocket punching him quickly in the gut when he hit the rocky slope.
¡°Ow! Fuck!¡±
Wind blasted down through the canyon of trees, peppering sleet into his face. If he didn¡¯t know better, he¡¯d think the mountain did not want him to continue.
The forest felt hostile and alien. He was a Montana boy, born and raised, but he¡¯d never been one for the outdoors. He preferred to spend his time stuffed in a book, hanging out at the mall, or lounging in the coffee shops. He laughed at himself. Ash had loved nature. Funny that it was she who¡¯d immigrated to the city.
What was that?
Near the corner of his vision, he thought he saw movement to his left. He stood still, taking short, shallow breaths so he could hear. Only the wind through the branches. Had he seen anything at all? He was unsure now.
Bears and wolves inhabited the Mission Mountains as protected species. Last summer, farther south on the range, a Japanese tourist had been killed by a grizzly and devoured over the span of several days by nature¡¯s scavengers.
Or was it the Native Americans? He was, after all, trespassing on their land.
He trudged forward.
After they lost the old farm, they moved into a trailer park where his friends and enemies were all Natives. He used to pray his pasty white skin would darken. Even if he could get a tan, it might have stopped him from getting his ass kicked after school. Alas, his people were seemingly allergic to the sun.
Then there was Zoey, who was Kootenai. How he¡¯d memorized her color¡ªsummer¡¯s honey and smoky dusk.
¡°Hello!¡± he shouted, but his hale was swallowed by the wind and foliage. He tried to scan through the primeval wood and impenetrable undergrowth.
¡°Hello!¡±
The signal indicator on his phone bore a red line through it. The trees and the mountain were too dense. Maybe he was lost. Perhaps Little Joe had no idea where White Owl lived. Possibly, there was no such person as White Owl. It might be better to return and help Mickey devise a defense for Francis. If he went back now, he would still have daylight.
The tracks he made had already been erased by the snow. He attempted to use his GPS, but his wet screen wouldn¡¯t recognize his fingertip.
Something on the side of the mountain caught his eye. He focused on it for a second, and it was like a secret image emerging from a 3D picture: a handrail made from dead branches had been nailed and tied to the trunks of the great pines.
He grabbed the rail and found crude steps hewn out of the rocks. As he climbed, he looked up and saw the webbing of a gigantic dream catcher in the trees above him, larger than the span of his arms. A loop of branches, about six feet across, supported a web of white, spindly hair that fluttered with large, white feathers. At the center of the dream catcher was the skeleton of a dead bird, the bones of its wings outstretched and bound with the hair like the prey of a gigantic spider.
Slowly, carefully, he ascended. Progress was arduous in the new fallen snow. In the dead of winter, it would be impossible. If this was the way to White Owl¡¯s house, Francis would have to undertake this journey to get to school¡ªevery morning down, every evening up.
When he reached the dream catcher, he could barely maintain his grip. The skull stared at him with empty eyes and open beak, shouting a warning he could not possibly hear as he transgressed its frontier.
The stairs leveled out onto a ledge no wider than a yard, and a massive wooden door built into the cliff face stood before him.
He knocked.
Nothing.
He turned on the ledge and looked down the way he had come. Down there in the snow, blending into the shadow, a face stared up at him, wild and savage. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked again. No, not a face, just a mesh of branches.
He knocked again as hard as he could. He spun back around and scrutinized his retreat. There. Something had certainly moved, had leapt across the forest floor.
He took the cowbell from his pocket and rang it vigorously. Dong, dong, dong, dong echoed up the rock wall of the little alcove.
Flush with the rock, the door had its hinges bolted into the cliff with large, rusted lags.
Then, from the other side, came a muffled pounding, and the slab of wood cracked open an inch.
¡°Pull hard!¡± a voice shouted through the barricade.
He wedged his fingers into the gap between the door and the rock and pulled with all his strength. He could feel the negative pressure of the wind being sucked into the mountain. Slowly, the door came open, and someone shoved a plank of wood through to stop it from being pulled closed again.
¡°Fast,¡± said the voice.
He slipped inside with a gush of wind, and the door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into complete darkness. 12 Witness - Part 4 ¡°Where¡¯d you get that bell?¡± a woman¡¯s voice echoed all around him. ¡°Little Joe says hi.¡± ¡°Hah! I was sure that old lard ass was dead by now.¡± She hummed, as if not fully accepting the prospect of Little Joe being alive. ¡°What the hell do you want?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here because of Francis.¡± ¡°Who?¡± ¡°Francis Builds A Fire.¡± ¡°Oh? What happened?¡± ¡°He¡¯s been arrested.¡± A moment¡¯s pause for a decision to be made. ¡°Follow me,¡± she said. There was a snap, and a red glow stick illuminated the stone walls. She held it low to light the cave around their feet, keeping her face shrouded in shadow. She wore what looked like a poncho, buckskin pants, and moccasins. Long hair, pink in the light, hung to her waist. He followed close behind her, trying to step where she stepped. They descended deeper into the cave, and at some point, he thought he could hear the splash of water. Their descent leveled off, and they stopped in a pocket of humid air. Water bubbled down a piece of rock worn smooth by time. In the light of the glow stick in her hand, it looked like blood. He saw her face for the first time: old and lined by wrinkles; small, dark, intense eyes inspected him too. She pulled back her wild hair, leaned over, and drank deeply, then wiped her mouth and grinned at him with crooked, broken teeth. ¡°This water has been traveling these mountains for a thousand years. Drink and kill your thirst.¡± Like her, he put his lips to the stone. It was cold and pure. He washed out his throat, burned by the cognac and cigars, and took deep swallows until he panted for breath. The woman observed and nodded seriously. His legs grew tired and began to ache as they climbed and climbed, turning right then left until he was lost for any sense of direction. ¡°Here.¡± They halted in an alcove and she pulled back an animal hide that camouflaged a hole in the rock. He followed her inside. Candles burned throughout the cavern. Computer equipment at random places beeped, whirled, and blinked with LEDs of various colors. The house was split into three levels as the natural formation of the rock required. The upper part, where they now stood, was a kitchen with a long counter where a slab of rock pushed out of the wall. A microwave and toaster sat next to a portable gas range on one end. On the other end was a large stone bowl for a sink. A pipe jutting out of the stone above poured a constant stream of water into its basin. On the level below the kitchen, computers and monitors occupied a long, wooden table¡ªcables jumbled everywhere. The lowest level, padded with heavy, hide rugs, had a long sofa and a cast iron stove containing a fire that crackled softly. A small pot atop the stove simmered, its vapor exhaling the sharp fragrance of pine needles. A massive window spanned the breadth of the cavern and reached from its ceiling to the floor. It was night now. The snow had stopped. The bejeweled sky twinkled, and far below in the valley the glittering lights of a town grid stretched out until they vanished into the countryside. ¡°Come,¡± said the woman. She led him down the rock stairs to the sofa. He stood next to the window and gazed at the magnificent view. The slab of glass was thick and prismed, and the stars and city lights diffracted within its density. ¡°It¡¯s beautiful,¡± he said, reaching out to touch it. He jerked his hand away¡ªit was freezing cold. ¡°Quartz crystal,¡± said the woman. ¡°A natural feature.¡± ¡°It¡¯s Ronan,¡± he said of the lights, peering deep, searching for his apartment, finding it. ¡°The Salish call it Ocket, the place where water is born from the earth.¡± ¡°Are you White Owl?¡± ¡°You have found me.¡± She tossed her head to fling a long braid of hair over her shoulder. She seemed older than anyone he had ever known, yet her posture, her method, possessed a refined vigor. ¡°So, Mr. White Man, can I have my bell?¡± He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rusty bell. She snatched it and twisted off the top to reveal a small compartment stuffed with a piece of orange fabric. She made a happy sound with her breath. ¡°At least I thank you for this. I¡¯m afraid Little Joe is far too out of shape to bring it to me up here.¡± She unwrapped a jagged electrical device the size of her thumb which she secured into a pocket beneath her poncho. ¡°I¡¯m Dr. Alan Smith.¡± He held out his hand, but she didn¡¯t take it. ¡°A medicine man then?¡± ¡°Psychologist.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. ¡°The worst kind of medicine man. Sit.¡± She pointed at the sofa. ¡°Your house is really interesting. This window is¡­¡± ¡°Were you expecting a teepee?¡± She laughed. ¡°Ah, no. I guess I don¡¯t know what I was expecting. Does Francis live here?¡± White Owl took two mugs from a shelf near the stove and filled them from the steaming pot. ¡°Sit. Drink this. It will warm you.¡± She sat down next to him. ¡°These tunnels, some are natural, some were dug out during the gold rush days by men who were sick with a greedy fever. But there¡¯s no gold in these rocks, at least not where they were looking. They found only toil and sorrow, and eventually death.¡± Alan sipped the drink, wincing at the bitterness of it. ¡°Francis?¡± he asked. ¡°Yes, the boy. Tell me his story,¡± said White Owl. ¡°Yesterday, he was arrested for allegedly assaulting a girl at the high school. I was appointed his counselor.¡± ¡°That would explain why he hasn¡¯t been underfoot lately.¡± ¡°Haven¡¯t you been worried about him? You should have called someone.¡± ¡°Builds A Fire comes and goes on his own clock. Though I am impressed, the White man works his justice very quickly.¡± ¡°The girl is the daughter of a very powerful man.¡± ¡°What do you think? Is he crazy?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t use that term. It¡¯s not what I do.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t that your job? To draw the line between the sane and the insane?¡± ¡°Honestly, I haven¡¯t had time to fully evaluate him. I was hoping you could help.¡± ¡°I¡¯m in no position to help him.¡± ¡°Are you serious? You¡¯re his guardian.¡± ¡°No. Not me.¡± ¡°But he lives here?¡± ¡°He shows up from time to time.¡± ¡°Then who is his legal guardian, for Christ¡¯s sake?¡± Alan felt the urge to shout. ¡°As far as I know, there is no one to protect him,¡± said White Owl. ¡°Not since the Viking left. ¡°He¡¯s an orphan?¡± ¡°Yes, his parents are dead, sadly.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s the Viking?¡± ¡°He bears an artifact. An orb of immense power.¡± Alan rubbed his face with his hands. The woman was obviously a lunatic. The earthen tea was working. He felt warm. ¡°Francis showed me his scars. Who did that to him?¡± ¡°He was attacked.¡± ¡°Yes, obviously! Who attacked him!¡± ¡°Not who, what.¡± The woman stood abruptly. ¡°Dr. Smith, I thank you for bringing me the bell. It will help immensely in what I must do next. You might want to consider that you are in over your head with Francis. If you value your life, your comfortable existence, I advise you to forget about him here and now.¡± ¡°What the hell is that supposed to mean?¡± He jumped to his feet. ¡°Someone abused him very badly. I¡¯m going to find out who did it, and I will get the authorities involved in this.¡± ¡°Aren¡¯t they already involved?¡± ¡°Listen, White Owl, I don¡¯t know what fucking game you¡¯re playing at.¡± ¡°There is no game. Tell me, what is it you need that you can¡¯t already give him?¡± ¡°I need someone to testify for him that he is of good character, goes to school, does his homework, has friends. You know, that he¡¯s a normal kid.¡± She laughed loud and hard. ¡°He rarely goes to school. He¡¯s terrible at homework. And I doubt he has any friends. He¡¯s not normal at all.¡± ¡°They¡¯re going to make him out to be a sexual deviant.¡± ¡°Oh yes, the favorite scapegoat of the Western world. I tell you this. Some people have it easy. They slip through life on a magic carpet. Builds A Fire has always had problems, and he always will.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t he have anybody? Why won¡¯t you help him?¡± Alan was wondering if he was going to have to beg. ¡°How are you doing with all this, Dr. Smith?¡± ¡°Me? It¡¯s not about me. It¡¯s about Francis.¡± She sipped her tea as she inspected him. ¡°Can I tell you a story? Have you heard the one about Coyote?¡± ¡°Coyote?¡± ¡°Yes, the trickster.¡± ¡°I¡­¡± He wanted to mount a protest, but he found himself sitting clumsily and reclining back into the sofa. His extremities were tingling. He needed to think about a lot of things. About Francis. About his job¡ªor lack thereof. There was something he wasn¡¯t seeing. White Owl towered over him. The fire in the stove cast shadows across her face. The Ronan city lights extended behind her like a field of glittering diamonds. ¡°Coyote is a greedy animal. He always wants something, and when he gets it, he¡¯s never happy with it. One night, he¡¯s hanging out with his friend Owl. He can¡¯t see too well in the dark, so he asks Owl to trade him eyes because he knows that Owl¡¯s night vision is unparalleled.¡± ¡°Excuse me, but¡­¡± He wasn¡¯t in the mood for this. He had shit to do. ¡°Dr. Smith, the point of a story is to listen.¡± She stared at him intensely, like a creature, like a bird of prey. ¡°Owl gives him his eyes, and Coyote can suddenly see everything in the night as if it is day. Later, he meets Eagle who is bragging about how he can see so far that he can spot a mouse in the grass from a mile above the earth. Coyote begs to trade eyes with Eagle. He could really use that telephoto vision. Eagle agrees, and Coyote is just blown away. He can even see the ladies swimming in the river, boobs and everything! He really likes this.¡± ¡°I see I¡¯ve wasted my time,¡± Alan murmured. ¡°I need to go.¡± His legs were numb and heavy. ¡°Yes, you do. You need to go,¡± whispered White Owl. ¡°Next, Coyote meets Dragonfly, and Dragonfly says, ¡®Those are some pretty nice eyes you have, Coyote, but I have three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision. No one can surprise me.¡¯ Coyote, of course, could use this. It would be a great advantage against his enemies, so he trades for Dragonfly¡¯s eyes. Well, he was content for a long time¡ªnobody could attack him! Then one day, Coyote is sitting by the side of the road when he sees a blind man coming, poking along the path in front of him with a stick as blind men do. From a far distance, the blind man shouts, ¡®Hey there, Coyote. How are you?¡¯ ¡®Fine,¡¯ says Coyote, ¡®but how did you know it was me? You are blind.¡¯ The man says: ¡®My eyes allow me to see with my ears.¡¯ This is impressive to Coyote, eyes so strong you can see with another part of your body. Coyote says, ¡®Let us trade eyes so I can see with my ears.¡¯ So, the man gives him his old, cataract-covered eyes, and he takes Coyote¡¯s dragonfly eyes. However, when Coyote puts them in, he is plunged into the deepest darkness he¡¯s ever known. As dark as the cave you entered to come here, Dr. Smith. For a long time, Coyote is upset because he is always stumbling around, and ever after, no one will trade him their eyes. Because who wants a set of blind eyes? Well, when he is at his most miserable, he wants to kill himself. He is going to jump off the mountain. So, he gropes his way to the highest cliff to meet his moment of doom. But right before he does the deed, he begins to hear. He can hear the mouse deep in the grass, he can hear the snake slithering on its belly, and he can hear all the trees in the forest and the grasses as they bend to the wind. He can hear the void of the precipice he is going to jump off of. And he can finally hear the dead bones of his ancestors as they churn to dust under the earth.¡± White Owl fell silent. Alan tried to find the sense in her story, but it was nonsense. He was only glad he couldn¡¯t hear the bones of the dead. ¡°White Owl, the day after tomorrow Francis is going to face the American justice system on some very serious charges. I¡¯m trying to keep him out of prison.¡± The woman sipped her tea and smiled that slight, enigmatic smile. She put a hand on his shoulder. ¡°Come.¡± They moved slowly through a stone tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a bedroom with a cot. There was a small desk with a little lamp illuminating schoolbooks and homework. On the wall over the cot hung a poster of the teenage heartthrobs from Eternal Love. At the foot of the cot, a guitar leaned against the stone wall. It was old and blue; its paint chipped and faded where the lacquer had worn away. White Owl pointed at the instrument. ¡°Could you take this to Builds A Fire? Tell him White Owl wishes him luck on his journey.¡± This dismissal was too much for Alan. ¡°What the fuck? You¡¯re giving up on him?¡± he said sharply. ¡°You need to go now,¡± said the old woman. ¡°Go, it¡¯s not safe for you anymore.¡± ¡°What? Why? He needs someone to testify.¡± White Owl picked up the guitar and handed it to Alan. ¡°You are his witness. You must bear testimony when the time comes. Now go before it¡¯s too late!¡± 13 TBOS Day 14 TBOS Day 14 Today was eventful. I was bored for only two or three hours during the entire day. The first eventful thing was that when I woke up, Rhonda was puking. Because she¡¯s PREGNANT! How did that happen, Mr. Nine? Hmm? Anyway, I felt bad for her, so I made her the last of the chicken soup. Then Nine woke up. The lazy ass was sleeping when he should have been helping his pregnant puking girlfriend. He wanted to eat the soup. But it was gone ;< So we had to go shopping. Shopping means me and Nine get to go out! We decided to go to Super Foods. Super Foods isn¡¯t my favorite because it doesn¡¯t have the big soft Texas Toast, which is the best for bologna sandwiches with sour cream and onion chips or peanut butter and honey with Cheetos. Basically, you make the sandwich like normal and then put on the chips. Don¡¯t mix them up because they don¡¯t taste the same. Sour cream and onion with bologna. Cheetos with PB and honey. Super Foods only has the thin bread, which is shit and isn¡¯t even worth getting busted for. However, it¡¯s the best place to shop because it has big ass floors for skating. Wider than Rhonda¡¯s ass, Nine says ;P. This is not true. I looked. But I think Nine is happy cause her butt¡¯s gonna get bigger during pregnancy. Hawk says I should describe everything when I write because that¡¯s what good writers do. They describe every¡­little¡­detail. He says it¡¯s important because it¡¯s a matter of record, and someday, I might want to look back in TBOS and see how the weather was on Halloween. Which is bullshit because in Billings, Montana, the weather on Halloween is only ever snowy or rainy, and I confidently predick-t ;p that it is going to be wet. ;p The first step to going shopping is to make yourself look nice. If you look like shit, they won¡¯t even let you in the door. So I bathe. The water was so fucking cold because we don¡¯t have hot water. We haven¡¯t had hot water for a long time. Sometimes we heat it in the fireplace, but Nine says we can¡¯t waste the wood. He says we can either go shopping or go wood hunting, but we can¡¯t do both in one day. It¡¯s too stressful. He just wants to cuddle with Rhonda. There¡¯s your wood! My room has a bathroom, but it¡¯s a terrible color. The walls are like the color of limes. The floor is white and so is the bathtub. It has a white sink that has a crack in it, so you can¡¯t lean on it when you brush your teeth, or it will break. And the mirror is really big. The shower curtain is also white, like the floor, and the ceiling is white, like the shower curtain. There are no lights, so I have to use my nighttime safety lights. I like the pink ones, so everything becomes pink, except for me, cause I¡¯m Black, so I¡¯m more of a brown-orangish. The best way to take a cold bath is to wash everything then rinse. So I wash my body with a washcloth and soap really good. The washcloth is blue, so in the pink light, it¡¯s purple. Then I rinse off in the shower real quick and dry real quick with a purple and blue towel and jump under my covers until I stop shaking. Okay. I can¡¯t describe everything because that would take forever. So whoever reads this ¡ª Not Nine! DO NOT READ! ¡ª Whoever reads this, just try and use your imagination. Like, if I say it¡¯s cold, try to imagine the cold. I¡¯m not going to explain how it¡¯s cold. Your cold is probably the same as my cold. Or my skateboard. I¡¯m not going to describe how it¡¯s an Edge Grinder 5 with BlackIce Formula Z wheels, the best wheels you can possibly get. Okay? Your board is probably very similar. It takes about thirty minutes to get to Super Foods. It would be faster if we just walked there like normal people, but we are not normal people. First, me and Nine peek out the garage windows for like ten minutes, watching the street. We check out every car and make sure no one is in them or watching us. When it¡¯s time, we take the alleys. I¡¯m wearing my white shirt and black tie, and Nine is wearing his prom clothes from last year. We both got black covid masks for the job. Rhonda said we looked hot. I think we look like we should be carrying Bibles. I told Nine that we could pretend we were just some of Pastor Tony¡¯s Boys, and then people would give us anything we wanted. He hit me and said Black people can¡¯t be Pastor Tony¡¯s Boys. But we¡¯re only half Black, and he said if you take one spoon of chocolate syrup and mix it in a big glass of milk, do you have white milk or chocolate milk? I said it was light chocolate milk. He said, Exactly! I asked him about Hawk. Can he be one? And he said, Asian people can¡¯t be one either, that you gotta think along the lines of milk tea. I said, that¡¯s fucking discrimination, and he said, I know. And then he hit me for cussing. It wasn¡¯t too cold, but I could tell it was going to rain. Super Foods is stupid big. It takes up a whole block. We stood across the street, staring at it from the alley, waiting for the rent-a-cop to leave. The rent-a-cops are JTS, and they don¡¯t fuck around. They have real guns. Nine pointed up, and I saw a big drone circling over the parking lot real slow. We hid under the back porch of the house on the corner and waited until the drone landed in the back of the truck and the truck pulled out of the parking lot. The way we do it now is we split up. We stash our backpacks on the back porch of this BLUE house. No one lives there, as far as we know. It¡¯s rundown, and there¡¯s spray paint on the walls from the gangs. Nine goes in first, like he¡¯s just a normal shopper. He always gets in easy because he¡¯s a smooth talker. I have a temper, and so he says I have a harder time. This is propaganda, cause Nine¡¯s the one with the temper. :p I¡¯m supposed to wait fifteen minutes to give him time to get the things on the list. I remind him he better get the fucking Cheetos. He says if he has time, but he¡¯s gonna make sure he gets nourishing food first. He says I¡¯m not eating enough vegetables. Which is bullshit. Peanut butter is a vegetable. I hate waiting alone. I watched a cat come through the alley. It stopped and stared at me for a good three minutes, and then it jumped the fence and went into the yard on the other side. The cat was gray and black. At night, it would¡¯ve been pretty much invisible. Then, two guys walked by. I¡¯m sure they were spinners cause they were talking really fast together, and the fat one looked like he pulled all the hair out of his head. Then it was quiet except for one thing I didn¡¯t tell Nine about cause all he does is worry, but I¡¯m going to tell Hawk as soon as I see him. A black van with black windows slowly pulled through the alley and stopped right behind the house. I hid on the porch, and it didn¡¯t see me but just stayed right there for like ten minutes. I started to get that feeling, and I used Hawk¡¯s technique to relax. I¡¯m pretty sure I can kick their asses if they ever fuck with me. That made me late, which sucks because when you do a job. Timing is everything. I skated across the parking lot to make up time, which is breaking the rules. At the door was a really mean-looking lady with blue and yellow hair and big glasses and a fat ass. She said, No. I don¡¯t think so, mister, and shook her finger in my face. I didn¡¯t want to do it, but I started to beg. I was like, bitch, I¡¯m wearing a tie. Can¡¯t you see I just came from church or a wedding or something respectable? I knew that all I had to do was get past her, and I was home free cause Super Foods only has three human employees online at any time. The rest are bots with seriously narrow AI. So I did what works on Hawk and Rhonda, but not Nine cause he¡¯s a dick. ;p I brought out the sad puppy eyes. Rhonda always says, put those big brown eyes away. Hawk says, Christ! and then he hugs me. The way it works is you gotta tear up a little¡ªwaterworks is key. You gotta think about something real sad. That¡¯s easy. I have a lot of sad memories. I think about my dad. I think about my mom. I think about going to bed hungry. I think about waking up hungry. I think about the dreams. Then, you gotta kinda look down at their feet, like that¡¯s the direction you¡¯re going. Straight to the grave, cause you¡¯re so sad from just a sad, sad life you¡¯re gonna throw yourself off the Rims, and the cops will be cleaning up your guts for days. The dumb bitch melted like ice cream and told me not to use my skateboard and to leave my backpack at the counter. I told her, Sure, not a problem, that it would be extremely disrespectful to skateboard in a business establishment as nice as Super Foods. She steps aside and lets me into the kingdom.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. My eyes are my superpower. But not my ultimate superpower. That¡¯s top secret! As soon as I¡¯m through the door, the fun part begins. I dig in my bag and put on my sunglasses and a black face mask. I say thanks a lot! And do a backflip right in her face. I throw down, and I¡¯m off. She yells something at me, but I just give her the middle finger. No retreat, no surrender! I shout. As I kick turn down aisle 9, I hear her crazy voice over the intercom. Code Yellow aisle 9. Code Yellow aisle 9. African American male on a skateboard. I¡¯m half White! I shout, but I guess Nine was right. It only takes a little chocolate to change the milk. I stop at the candy bars and shove the best ones into my pack. Almond Joy for Rhonda. Snickers for Nine. Twix for me¡ªcause you get two! And 5th Avenue for Hawk. Can¡¯t forget Hawk. The woman and another guy come into the aisle. They¡¯re both pretty much overweight so when they run toward me, I can feel the floor shake. That¡¯s impressive cause the floor is cement. I zoom out of aisle 9 into the large aisle that goes around Super Foods like a racetrack. Nine is right there at the frozen meats, taking his good old time. The shopping cart is almost full. He gets an oh-fuck look on his face, and I turn. A big, black roller bot is at the end of the aisle by the beer, coming out of the back. Fuck! They¡¯ve upgraded since the last time we staked out this place. Someone has put a jacket and tie on it, so I figure it must be the manager. Its eyes are flashing yellow and pointing right at me, scanning my features for facial recognition, getting nothing cause I¡¯m a professional. Hawk always says you gotta be able to think on your feet. And timing is key. The human employees are barreling at me like a couple of rabid rhinoceroses. The roller bot is coming from the other direction. I grab a big bottle of olive oil from the shelf on the end and smash it on the floor. The shit goes everywhere. I just skate out of the way. The rhinos can¡¯t stop and hit the oil. They go down hard, just as the roller bot hits the oil, and its wheels start to spin, then... Bam! They all collide! The bot wobbles and falls over on top. I feel kinda bad cause the woman is crying, and the man is cussing. I skate by Nine and look in the cart. No fucking Cheetos! Get out of here, he says. To make it look real, I slap the meat out of his hands and push off for aisle 20 and my Cheetos. There are like a thousand kinds of Cheetos, but my favorites are the puffy orange ones. I shove two bags into my backpack and take a leisurely skate over to the magazine racks to check out the comic books. As I¡¯m choosing a selection of unread new releases, I hear a tap, tap, tap. It¡¯s one of those bots that looks like a dog. I¡¯m thinking, like, you¡¯ve got to be joking. I was just going to skate away, but I shouldn¡¯t have ignored it. It reaches out and locks something onto my ankle, then it just folds up and lowers to the ground. I try to pull away, but it¡¯s heavy. Maybe a hundred pounds. Fuck. And that¡¯s when the alarm goes off. Nine comes running around the corner and sees me, looks down at the bot, and I can tell he¡¯s pissed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he says. Three fucks is pretty bad. It got me, I say. Just go. Save yourself! Maybe you can name the baby after me. Shut the fuck up. Don¡¯t be dramatic, he says and closes his eyes for a moment, and I feel it. I feel his power. It scares me because I know that if I can feel it, so can¡­ other things. Just like he¡¯s breaking dried spaghetti, he twists the arm off the bot, then grabs the cuff around my leg and rips it apart. Then he picks up the bot and body slams it on the cement, and a million pieces go everywhere! Let¡¯s go, he says, before JTS gets here. We race with the cart across the parking lot, across the street into the alley, and we load everything into our backpacks. Nine has a huge green duffel that was our dad¡¯s. He carries most of the heavy stuff cause he has muscles. We throw the cart into the backyard and head down the alley. We have to get some distance and go the roundabout way home so they can¡¯t tell where we live. I take one last look behind and see that black van pull into the Super Foods parking lot. The most non-boring day ever! Well, almost! ;) Nine made us walk around in a maze pattern all the way home cause he said we couldn¡¯t take the chance of being followed. We went all the way up to the canal and walked through the trees behind the big houses. He was pretty pissed most of the way home and wouldn¡¯t talk to me cause I made him do an enchantment. Finally, we got home and found a big surprise. Hawk was there! Him and Rhonda were playing cards. They¡¯d been waiting for two hours. He also brought some wood ;p¡ªa lot of wood. It looked like enough for a week, maybe two if we¡¯re careful. And he brought some gas canisters for cooking and heating water for a hot bath. And lastly, he gave Nine five hundred dollars and said to lie low and not steal any more food. Nine said to save it for the medicine. But Hawk said not to worry. He got a new job and would have enough for the medicine soon. That¡¯s crazy cause mom¡¯s medicine is super expensive. I figure he¡¯s hacking ATM machines with one of the tech gangs in the BAT. That, or he¡¯s robbing old ladies, which is fine by me. They¡¯re easy to rob and have a lot of money. Nine says he doesn¡¯t want any handouts, but Hawk is like part of our team, and he¡¯s the only way we can afford Mom¡¯s medicine. And I¡¯m not stupid. I¡¯m not some little baby who doesn¡¯t know what¡¯s going on. I know the medicine is really Escape, and Mom got stuck on her spin just like all the other Escape addicts. Stuck at L3. And I know that¡¯s not good. I know that¡¯s like being stuck in Hell. But Hawk will help us. He¡¯s Nine¡¯s best friend. He¡¯s Rhonda¡¯s friend cause Nine got her pregnant. And he¡¯s my best, best, best friend. Hawk will help us. Hawk stayed for dinner! We made beef stew cause we didn¡¯t have a way to keep the meat frozen, and Rhonda says you need to eat red meat to stay healthy. After dinner, Nine and Rhonda wanted some alone time. It¡¯s not like he can knock her up twice! Hawk said he was going home, but I begged and did the puppy dog eyes, so he stayed with me, and we watched season three of Eternal Love on his phone. I¡¯ve seen season three already, twice, but it¡¯s the best one. I know Hawk likes it too, cause he¡¯s gay. He doesn¡¯t say he¡¯s gay, but he is. It¡¯s not a secret, but it is. I let him read a little of my journal, and he said my writing was good, but I have to work on something called tense and paragraphing. I asked him why, and he said because that¡¯s how life is. Our minds divide everything into sections, and we keep track of things by a series of past, present, and future events. I said no, life is one paragraph that happens all at once, so all tenses can live together in that paragraph. He laughed at this and said I shouldn¡¯t have quit school. But we both knew I had to. And he pushed my nose, and pulled my dreads and tickled me until I cried, and I hugged him and thought of Dad and Mom and Nine and Rhonda and the unborn spawn, and Hawk, and we should all go camping up in Glacier National Park where Dad used to take us. We could go up to our special spot near the old log and the river. I told him about my dream and how real it was. And I tell him about the black van that I didn¡¯t say to Nine. He gets really quiet, and when I ask him what¡¯s wrong, he says nothing and just hugs me and asks me if I remember the relaxation exercise. And I said, yeah. Close your mind and focus on breathing. Bad thoughts out. Good thoughts in. You must focus on it until you are only the breath. I can feel his heat. He¡¯s hot, almost burning up. That¡¯s Hawk¡¯s superpower¡ªhe has the fire. We¡¯re down in my room watching Eternal Love on his phone. He brought an extra power bank. He lets me surf the internet and use my social. Our Super Food heist made the news. I watch the videos and read the stories. They get my backflip perfectly! The news says crime is up across the city, across the state, across the nation, and around the globe. No one has jobs anymore because of the bots. The People of the Earth are flooding in. The BAT is growing. Drugs are everywhere. Hawk tries to give me some money, but I say, No, please keep it for Mom. She needs it bad. He says, Okay, he¡¯ll work on it. He¡¯ll have the money for her medicine soon. He¡¯s got a new job coming up. A few days at most. We stayed together all night. We watch all of Eternal Love season three¡ª the gay season. It¡¯s the best season because you never guess what¡¯s coming. But we didn¡¯t watch the last episode. I saw it once, and I¡¯ll never watch it again. Too sad. He asks me how Nine is doing, and I say he¡¯s good, but I say more and say he¡¯s stressed. Sometimes he yells. I know Hawk¡¯s secret. I know he loves Nine, but Nine doesn¡¯t love him. We talk about things until the early morning: dreams, fears, hopes, plans for the future, love. I ask him about love, and he says he¡¯s not good at that. But when you find love, try to hold on to it, because love has wings and can fly away. Then he shows me the picture on his phone of Love from the old myths, and he¡¯s right¡ªlove always has wings. When it starts to get light outside, Mom starts screaming. I know there¡¯s nothing I can do. I hear Nine get up and go to her, and she screams at him. And Rhonda tries to help. Eventually, she stops, and Nine and Rhonda go back to bed. The house is quiet and cold, but I am warm in Hawk¡¯s arms, so I sleep. 14 Sharks - Part 1 Dee¡¯s Diner, early morning, was alive with the clatter of breakfast consumption. The early bird gang¡ªa group of bald men in denim and women in polyester, their hair light pastel shades of pink and lavender¡ªsat around a table at the center of the restaurant, arguing over the finer points of the encroaching election: Old Man 1: I don¡¯t care how much carpet she munches, as long as she ain¡¯t a Lib. Woman with Pink Hair: I told Janice that I¡¯m just afraid the pumpkins are going to freeze. Old Man 2: So you want another AI crawling up your ass? Third Eye is nothing to fuck around with. Woman with Lavender Hair: Well, my pie comes in a can. I dare you to tell the difference. Ya¡¯ll know it¡¯s all in the crust. Old Man 2: Someone needs to get shit under control. Old man Vance found them camping on his back eighty¡­ Near the far wall, a long table held a team of young, boisterous men chowing down their Lumberjack Stacks, occasionally laughing or reaching across to offer a high five. Alan felt old. A headache had taken up residency in his skull¡ªand it had brought a gong and friends for background orchestra. It didn¡¯t help that Mickey Verona was whistling a happy tune as he highlighted sections of a document on his old laptop, which, like his glasses, was held together by electrical tape. Alan massaged his temples. Mickey stopped his song and work long enough to impale two triangles of his pancake, logged with buttery maple syrup, and plunge them into the sunny center of an egg. The chubby man wiped a dribble from his chin and regarded Alan. ¡°It¡¯s going to jeopardize your professional testimony,¡± said the lawyer, sipping his coffee, dull morning light glinting off his balding head. Clack! Alan¡¯s mug hit the table. He nearly stood. ¡°Being ruled insane will destroy his life. The state will have sole custody over him. He¡¯ll be institutionalized until he¡¯s eighteen.¡± Mickey raised his mug and, like a schoolteacher, looked skeptically over his glasses. ¡°Being found guilty and listed on the sex offender registry will destroy his life,¡± he said. ¡°He¡¯ll never be able to go within a thousand feet of a park, a school, a movie theater, or a shopping mall. He¡¯ll have to publicly list his address. He¡¯ll have a special driver¡¯s license with ¡®predator¡¯ written all over it. He¡¯ll always be looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next internet vigilante to track him down and livestream the harassment. They¡¯re doing it in the metaverse these days¡ªhave you heard? That shit happens, Doc. You know what they did to that guy out in California.¡± He shoved more pancake into his mouth and chewed while watching Alan. Alan recalled the famous case from several years ago when a teacher in California had been convicted of having carnal relations with his underage pupil. The man had avoided a lengthy jail sentence due to a technicality, but that didn¡¯t stop a group of pedophile hunters with big-name sponsorships from tracking him down. Pretending to be a pest control company to get inside his home, they tied him to a chair and held a virtual trial, allowing their viewers to vote. Predictably, the man was found guilty. For punishment, they put a tire over his neck, filled it with gasoline, and struck a match. To that day, it remained one of the most-watched internet events in history, and it had inspired hundreds of copycat streamers. ¡°Warmer upper, boys?¡± The buxom blonde waitress swooped in with a steaming carafe of dark coffee. Mickey beamed. ¡°Oh, you bet, Foxy. This coffee is mighty fine, and the hot cakes today, perfecto!¡± He kissed his fingertips. Alan picked up the Valley News and held it in front of his face to hide his eye roll. ¡°And some for you, Dr. Smith? You sure you don¡¯t want more than an English muffin?¡± ¡°I¡¯m good, thank you.¡± He turned to the last page: horoscopes and chess moves, a crossword puzzle, and a comic. There¡¯d been no mention of Francis and the events at the high school. ¡°Watcha gonna go as?¡± asked Foxy. ¡°I was thinking a vampire or a leprechaun,¡± said Mickey. ¡°I¡¯m feeling a dark Alice in Wonderland vibe. How about the Mad Hatter as Dracula? Oh crap! I forgot table five¡¯s hash browns!¡± Alan found the courage to lower the newspaper. The lawyer¡¯s eyes were locked on the shapely curves of the departing waitress. ¡°I asked her to the Halloween gala. She said yes!¡± ¡°Congratulations. I¡¯m beside myself.¡± ¡°Come on, Doc, you ought to go. There¡¯ll be some fine things there. I know for a fact that little red from the sheriff¡¯s office is going. Fire down below, know what I mean? Yep, I think we should move to dismiss this afternoon. It¡¯s not there. The evidence is just not there to go to trial. Any luck with this White Owl character?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t trust that crazy hag to be the guardian of a turnip, let alone a human child. She was nonplussed when I told her about Francis.¡± ¡°Shit. Well, there might be a workaround. I do recall a case where they got the lunch lady to testify¡­¡± The adventure in White Owl¡¯s cave had proven unproductive, and he highly suspected the tea she¡¯d given him had been a sedative. He remembered everything vividly up to that point. Then there had been a story, Francis¡¯s bedroom, and his flight down the mountain as though he were being carried by an indistinct and winged creature, pursued by murky forms through the trees, across the canal, to his car, where the self-drive, the angel of the future, had whisked him home. The next thing he remembered was jerking wide awake at 4 AM in his own bed, still in his clothes, a dry, bitter taste in his mouth. He would have sworn it was all a dream, but when he went to make coffee¡ªthere on his kitchen table was a faded, old, blue guitar.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The courtroom seemed better suited for a business conference. The room was large and unassuming. A double-wide conference table with an oval hole in the center accommodated microphones, monitors, cameras, and power strips. The midday gray of October¡¯s final day filtered through the windows. They¡¯d come thirty minutes before the scheduled time at the advice of Mickey, quoting his father, ¡°Things happen early at courthouses.¡± ¡°Just so you know.¡± Mickey rubbed the back of his thick neck. ¡°Judge Myers, the prosecutor Janet Bell, and I have what you might call a history.¡± ¡°What do you mean, ¡®history?¡¯¡± Alan asked. ¡°A procedural argument, really¡ªdetails aren¡¯t important. Let¡¯s just say I¡¯m not on anyone¡¯s Christmas card list. Hey, you only live once, right?¡± He held up a chunky fist to bump. Behind him, a man stood in the doorway. ¡°Excuse me, gentlemen,¡± said the man, young and blond and fit beneath his suit jacket. He walked right up to Alan, getting in his face with his sleek AR gear. ¡°Alan Smith, doctor of psychology.¡± ¡°This is a legal proceeding. And you are?¡± asked Mickey in a licit tone. ¡°Timothy Boothe, Senator John Taylor¡¯s personal security. I need to scan you. It¡¯s protocol.¡± He pulled aside the lapel of his jacket and produced a pen device. With a flick of his wrist, he extended it into a long wand and ran it up and down Alan¡¯s front and back. It beeped twice at his phone. Boothe repeated the procedure on Mickey, who puffed up his chest and said, ¡°You want to do that to yourself?¡± The young man¡¯s healthy, enigmatic smile did not change as he retracted the wand with a snap and slipped it back into his pocket. He then opened the side of his jacket to reveal the hefty grip of a holstered weapon. ¡°Are we done, or you going to probe my ass like a gentleman?¡± said Mickey. ¡°My apologies, Mr. Verona.¡± ¡°Good job, you can use the internet.¡± ¡°Senator Taylor would like a quick word before everything gets complicated,¡± said Boothe. ¡°I¡¯d say it¡¯s already complicated.¡± Mickey slammed his briefcase on the table. ¡°All clear,¡± Boothe spoke to a mic hidden somewhere in his glasses. The door opened, and a figure that had dominated the news screens during the election cycle¡ªa tall, chiseled mountain of a man¡ª strode in, followed by an attractive young woman, skin dark as chestnut, long platinum blonde hair done up in a tight bun, save for braids painted silver and gold in the current fashion. She wore sophisticated glasses and a skirt that stretched around her ass and across her crotch. Her blazer was open, and the two moons of her breasts were trying to rise out of her dress shirt. ¡°Gentlemen, I¡¯d like to come to an out-of-court arrangement,¡± said Taylor. His deep voice filled the room, making Alan¡¯s skin tingle. Like Mickey, he had to look up into the man¡¯s face, which was clean-shaven with dark, striking features, perfect teeth, a buzz of salt-and-pepper across his temple, and the famous white scar beneath his right eye¡ªa torture wound from his days as a POW. For the last year, the war story had been plastered all over the news and rung dry of any political juice it contained. ¡°How about this?¡± Mickey squared his stance to match that of the powerful man. ¡°You drop all charges against my client. You don¡¯t have the evidence.¡± ¡°There¡¯s CCTV footage,¡± said Taylor. ¡°Of a hug,¡± retorted Mickey. ¡°And then the camera cuts out because you cut funding on education.¡± ¡°He broke the ¡®No Touch¡¯ law. And he¡¯s male and Native, and our two governments are on the rocks at the moment.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re going to racialize this?¡± Taylor flashed a wide smile. ¡°I have the Chief on speed dial if you¡¯d like to talk to her. The tribe is one of my biggest clients in Montana. What with refugees and Gretas swarming in like a plague of locusts, devouring up precious resources, I don¡¯t think she wants another scandal on her plate.¡± ¡°Is that a threat?¡± said Mickey. ¡°I can bring it up to the judge.¡± ¡°No, no, not a threat. I don¡¯t make threats, but I¡¯ll tell you what I will do if you proceed.¡± He gestured with a hand larger than Paul Murphy¡¯s to his companion. ¡°This is Ms. Sule.¡± The woman held out her hand, and Mickey shook it. ¡°Sandra Sule. Call me Sandy. I¡¯m the senator¡¯s personal legal adviser. I¡¯ll be advising Prosecutor Bell throughout the trial.¡± ¡°Of course you will,¡± said Mickey. ¡°I read your profile in Time. You probably make more in a week than she makes in a year.¡± Sandy smiled; her candy-apple-red lipstick gave her teeth a hungry glimmer. ¡°Mickey, if you don¡¯t mind, I like to be on a first name basis with council.¡± ¡°You can call me anything you like,¡± he said. She bit her bottom lip and fingered the fringe of her shirt against the smooth skin of her breast. ¡°As you know, Senator Taylor is engaged in high-level political affairs. He doesn¡¯t want the media to exploit his daughter¡¯s suffering, which they will do.¡± ¡°Unless you own the media,¡± said Mickey. ¡°Funny enough, there wasn¡¯t a word in the papers this morning.¡± ¡°We¡¯re hoping there won¡¯t be much to say about this issue,¡± said Sandy. ¡°Our justice system is what makes us a civilized nation. Besides, justice is blind, right?¡± When she didn¡¯t answer, Mickey added confidently, ¡°I believe Francis Builds A Fire will be found innocent in any court of law, based on the evidence.¡± Sandy perched her shapely rear on the conference table and stared at the door where the security guard stood with his arms crossed, observing all, probably recording everything on his glasses. ¡°If you take this to court, we will bury you,¡± she said. ¡°We will throw the book at the boy. We will have him labeled a sex offender and chemically castrated, or surgically, whichever he prefers. I¡¯ll make sure he¡¯s on the list for all the new pervert treatments. I¡¯ll make sure he¡¯s famous. We will launch a billboard campaign. We¡¯ll pin his location on the map as a level 3 predator, so people will be able to find him in real time. Even if we lose, which we won¡¯t, but even if we do, that boy¡¯s life will be over.¡± ¡°That¡¯s depraved,¡± Alan cut in. He couldn¡¯t help himself. She reminded him of Becky Madison. ¡°That¡¯s the law,¡± said Sandy. ¡°Your offer?¡± Mickey asked. She crossed her legs, leaning back on her arms. She was looking at Tim Boothe. He was looking at her. John Taylor had somehow receded and seemed like a spectator on a stage, or a game master admiring his arena. ¡°Francis pleads guilty to assault.¡± ¡°Not sexual,¡± Mickey said quickly. ¡°Not sexual.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the hook?¡± ¡°Cross Heirs, Pastor Tony¡¯s reformatory program for troubled youth. Your client agrees to enroll until his eighteenth birthday.¡± ¡°Will I have access? Will his mental health professional and temporary guardian, Dr. Smith, be able to visit whenever he wants?¡± ¡°As an organization of faith¡ª¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I thought, Sandy,¡± said Mickey. ¡°He¡¯ll receive an education. His record will be expunged.¡± She stood and turned to Alan. ¡°If you give a damn about this kid, you¡¯ll take this deal.¡± ¡°Give us a moment,¡± said Mickey. ¡°Of course.¡± Mickey pulled him to the door, which Tim Boothe held open for them. There was a nip and bite to the outside air. Dark clouds above threatened to drop snow. He needed a heavier jacket. ¡°What the fuck is going on in there?¡± Alan asked. ¡°Listen. I think we should take that deal. She¡¯s not lying. If we go to court, regardless of the outcome, Francis¡¯s life is going to be forever altered, and not in a good way. Hell, I wouldn¡¯t give him a year before the vigilante streamers start to track him down.¡± And then Francis would be gone forever, and everyone could get back on with their lives. ¡°No, I want to see the judge. He¡¯s innocent. You know it. I know it.¡± ¡°With all due respect, Doc, this isn¡¯t about you.¡± ¡°Francis has a right.¡± ¡°Okay, alright.¡± Mickey threw up his arms. ¡°We¡¯ll talk to Francis.¡± He followed as Mickey stomped back to the courtroom. Inside, the lights had been turned on, and a warm breeze blew out of a vent. Taylor and Sandy had moved to the far end of the table, conferencing in front of a large laptop. A plump woman in a dress that made her look like a blueberry arranged items at the head of the table. ¡°Hey, John,¡± hollered Mickey upon entry, ¡°why the fuck you want that boy so bad?¡± Taylor jerked to his feet, but Sandy had a hand on his arm. He looked at her, whispered something, and she returned a whisper in his ear. He sat, his face flushed red. ¡°Have you considered our offer?¡± asked Sandy. ¡°We¡¯re going to confer with our client. We¡¯ll need two weeks.¡± ¡°You have one.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± Mickey sat. Sandy smiled. Taylor glared. 15 Sharks - Part 2
¡°All rise. The Honorable Judge Charles M. Myers presiding,¡± growled Comstock.
Everyone stood. Through a back door, the judge came into the courtroom in his black gown. He was a tall, thin, regal man of seventy with a full head of curly gray hair and a bushy mustache.
¡°Please be seated. Thank you, Sheriff Comstock, for standing in as bailiff today. Seems like Jeremy came down with the pre-game sniffles.¡±
¡°Not a problem, Your Honor. Go Griz!.¡±
¡°We¡¯ll see tomorrow,¡± said the judge. ¡°Sit down, damnit.¡±
A chuckle tickled the room as everyone sat.
Judge Myers took a seat in an oversized chair at the head of the long conference table. Beside him, the blueberry stenographer worked her apparatus and entered every utterance into the official record, even as the cameras captured them in high definition.
Mickey and Alan were on one side of the table. Mickey fumbled with his laptop. He had to jar it twice to get it to start. His briefcase was open, showing a pile of papers, the top of which was Francis¡¯s report.
John Taylor, his military physique square and powerful, sat at the center of his now fully assembled entourage. On his right was the prosecutor, a grandmotherly woman in her sixties named Janet Bell. Next to her, two wiry, middle-aged men whispered and worked on their AR devices by making random flicks and wiggles with their fingers. Sandy Sule¡ªher skin even darker and her hair more platinum beneath the harsh, white lighting of justice¡ªwas seated on Taylor¡¯s immediate left. Mickey¡¯s eyes were glued to her tits. Next to her, a husky man worked on the large laptop computer, now and then bringing Sandy¡¯s attention to something on the monitor.
The young security head, Tim Boothe, guarded the door, legs wide, arms crossed in front, his AR glasses glinting in the overhead lights.
Comstock stood against the wall. The Great Seal of Montana was his backdrop. He stared at Alan without blinking. Alan felt like he was in a shark cage.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen,¡± said the judge, ¡°I have called this procedural because of the election and Senator John Taylor¡¯s eminent role therein. This should not take long, as I have every intention of being home in time to hand out candy to my grandkids when they come by. So, let¡¯s get on with it!¡± He opened a thick folder. ¡°I have gone over the evidence, as have you all, correct?¡± The lawyers, including Mickey, all nodded. ¡°Janet, is this going to trial?¡±
The prosecutor stood and spoke almost as deeply as the judge. ¡°Your Honor, there is an offer on the table to avoid trial, but for prudence¡¯s sake, we want to continue with the procedural today. My office will be working with Senetor Taylor¡¯s private council. We intend to prosecute Francis Builds A Fire as an adult.
¡°Very well. I¡¯m open for motions, and we¡¯ll set them in the record. Ladies first.¡±
Mickey Verona, who until now was lost between a document on his computer and Sandy¡¯s boobs, bolted upright. ¡°Objection, Your Honor. The defendant is only thirteen.¡±
¡°You¡¯ll have your chance, Verona. Sit down!¡± barked Judge Myers. ¡°I still haven¡¯t forgotten that little stunt you pulled in my courtroom.¡± He shot Mickey an evil glare. ¡°If anyone wants to know why there¡¯s a court rule banning alpacas from the witness stand, thank Mr. Verona here.¡±
Mickey caught Alan¡¯s glare and shrugged.
¡°County, anything further?¡±
¡°No, Your Honor,¡± said Janet Bell, a smirk on her lips for Mickey.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
¡°Thank you. Noted in the record,¡± said the judge. ¡°Defense, do you have any motions?¡±
Mickey stood. ¡°Yes, Your Honor, several.¡±
¡°Let¡¯s hear them.¡±
¡°Your Honor, first is a motion for dismissal of all charges. The evidence does not comport for sexual assault, or assault of any kind.¡±
¡°I see,¡± said the judge. ¡°Motion is denied.¡±
Sandy gave a victorious fist pump.
John Taylor sat broad and silent, shooting daggers across the table with his stare.
¡°Next motion, Mr. Verona.¡±
¡°We would like to keep the case in juvenile court, considering the defendant¡¯s young age.¡±
¡°County, what say you?¡±
Sandy stood. ¡°Your Honor, my name is Sandra Sule, private counsel to John Taylor. We object to the Defense¡¯s motion under the State of California vs. O¡¯Brian, which was supported by the Safe Children¡¯s Schools Act. Defendants may be tried as adults if they are male and above the age of twelve at the time of the offense. We intend to prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.¡±
¡°That¡¯s crazy California. This is Montana,¡± Judge Myers said dryly. ¡°Furthermore, the SCSA is on the docket.¡±
¡°Your Honor, interstate juris¡ª¡±
¡°Save it, counsel,¡± Myers cut her off. ¡°That argument is tenuous at best. I will take the defense¡¯s motion into consideration, as well as the prosecution¡¯s objection, and render my decision in due course. Thank you for keeping it relatively clean today. With any luck, we¡¯ll be home before¡ªYes? Verona, anything else?¡±
Mickey was holding his hand up like a timid schoolboy. ¡°Yes, um, Your Honor, Defense is willing to accommodate the senator¡¯s political schedule, in trust that it does not drag out too long. We request the defendant be released, here today, into the custody of myself and his mental health professional, Alan Smith.¡±
The judge eyed Alan.
Taylor murmured into Sandy¡¯s ear. She stood, adjusting her cleavage for all to see.
¡°Objection. Builds A Fire poses a threat to the community. And considering the nature of the offense, he may be safer behind bars.¡±
Alan was on his feet, moving from instinct. ¡°Is that a threat? What the hell does that mean?¡± He shouted.
Bam! Bam! Bam! ¡°Order! There will be order in my court!¡±
Taylor pounded his fists on the table. ¡°My daughter is lying in a hospital bed saying gibberish to the ceiling lights, you obnoxious little fuck.¡±
¡°Bailiff!¡± hollered the judge. Comstock stood. Taylor stood, eyes burning into Alan¡¯s face.
Thud, thud, thud, his pulse beat in his ears.
¡°Sit down!¡± It was Mickey, pulling his arm. Across the table, Sandy was doing the same to her boss.
¡°Order!¡± shouted Myers. ¡°Mickey, denied. Bail denied. The boy will stay detained with the Lake County Sheriff. Anything else?¡± Dead silence ruled the room. ¡°Very well. I will set a trial date within the agreed-upon schedule. My clerk will be in touch. I hope you all have a safe Halloween. Go, Cats!¡± He slammed his gavel down one last time, stood, and vanished through the back door in a flourish of robes.
The stenographer, stern of face, gathered her items and waddled out the front.
Taylor marched like an emperor to the door held by the security man. The entourage followed.
¡°I¡¯ll be right out, Barry,¡± said Sandy to her hulkish assistant. He glared at them, grumbled something, and left. ¡°Take the deal, Dr. Smith. You should do it for the boy. Mickey.¡± She licked her lips. ¡°I hope we do it again real soon.¡± She casually picked up her briefcase, her hips swaying back and forth as she walked away. The door closed behind her, and they were alone.
¡°What the fuck was that?¡± Alan hissed, his heart still racing.
¡°That went better than expected,¡± said Mickey. He organized the files on the table.
¡°Are you fucking kidding me? Now what do we do?¡±
¡°We wait. We talk to Francis. We think about Taylor¡¯s offer.¡±
¡°No. Fuck him. Francis is innocent. There¡¯s the rule of law.¡±
¡°You know the climate these days. Males, especially poor males, don¡¯t get the benefit of doubt. What do they call it, toxic masculinity?¡±
¡°Fuck,¡± said Alan.
¡°Look. Janet Bell is a shrew, but she has a soft heart when it comes to kids. Go through the channels. Request a meeting with her and make your case, appeal to her emotions. Ask for limited release for Thanksgiving and Christmas.¡±
¡°Isn¡¯t that your job?¡±
¡°Yes, but she hates my guts.¡±
¡°Christ, Mickey.¡±
¡°Hey, it wasn¡¯t my fault the alpaca took a shine to her Mercedes. It tried to breed with it. I think it was the aged white leather.¡±
¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to tell your client these things before you take their case?¡±
¡°I was appointed based on my expertise. It wouldn¡¯t have been so bad, but Bell was in the car. Who knew alpacas were so well-endowed? Jizzed all over her dashboard. I guess it caused some of the instrumentation to fizz out. Can you believe she tried to stick me with the bill?¡± 16 Pumpkin Spice - Part 1
He lingered near the entrance to the ballroom, watching the guests in their Halloween costumes come and go. A man in a tuxedo ported a large, silver tray arrayed with tantalizing beverages. Behind him was a robot in a horse mask, its gimbaled arm bearing a platter of cookies and dainty squares of cake.
The annual Lake County Halloween Gala provided an open bar, but Alan wasn¡¯t drinking. Instead, he decided to judge the costumes. With two days to go until the election, the most popular getups were political. In a subtle simile, a man in drag with bulging biceps entered the hall disguised as Jane Allgood, ¨¤ la vampire. His skinny date portrayed President Knutson as a mummy. Moments later, the Constitution, in fabric flames, skipped past, nibbling on an hors d¡¯oeuvre. A raucous group of young men wearing AR glasses, white, billowy shirts, and short black skirts over fishnet stockings giggled their way onto the dance floor.
Perhaps just one drink to calm the nerves?
Alan had come as himself, a role he found increasingly challenging to maintain as the party progressed.
¡°What the hell is this?¡± he asked when a pretty server extended her tray.
¡°Pumpkin spice champagne, sir,¡± the girl replied.
¡°Jesus, that is tragic.¡± He snagged a glass and pressed the rim under his nose. It smelled like a seasonal latte.
¡°The Mission Valley Winery donated two hundred bottles for charity. You can buy them in the coat room if you want to take one home.¡±
¡°Why would I do that?¡±
¡°It¡¯s for the People of the Earth. They¡¯re setting up a tent city in Pablo for the winter.¡± She turned to a group of girls staring upward at some digital image in their glasses, their fairy wings and wispy dresses drooping to the floor.
Just a sip.
The bubbly washed over his tongue in a tsunami of infused vanilla and cloves. It finished with an aftertaste of cinnamon.
¡°Christ,¡± he muttered to no one, drained the glass, then strolled to the server and plucked another.
¡°Not bad, huh?¡± she said.
He mentally edited the self-imposed rule of not-gonna-drink to not-gonna-drink-much. With this bit of liquid courage warming his stomach, he decided to test his toes and, as a last favor to Murphy, do a lap around the perimeter of the party before calling it a night.
The centerpiece of the ballroom was a large round table bearing a gigantic cornucopia that spilled its bountiful assortment of crackers with ham and cheese, olive skewers, miniature vegan dogs, pumpkin pie topped with chocolate mousse, little bottles of flavored vodka, and a phalanx of the glittering champagne.
He executed a casual walk-by of the table while bobbing his head to the haunted hits soundtrack blaring over the speaker system. No one paid him any mind except for his own broken willpower, shaking its head like a disappointed parent.
He stole one of the vodka bottles, slipped it neatly into the internal pocket of his blazer, and then rewarded himself with a fresh glass of champagne.
Near the far wall by the door, he took a holding position where he could observe the crowd and run an inspection of the decor. At first glance, the walls of the ballroom seemed made up to be either a dungeon or a castle, but on closer review he saw how in a few weeks the same fa?ade could be altered into Santa¡¯s workshop.
¡°Doc!¡± Mickey, dressed as Count Dracula, and the beautiful waitress from the diner waltzed through the mix. ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful night, is it not?¡± said the lawyer in a bad Transylvanian accent. He was shorter than the waitress by a good six inches, his arm around her hip, his hand encroaching on its target.
¡°Happy Halloween, Dr. Smith,¡± said Foxy. She was a fairytale princess with two garish puncture wounds on her neck and fake blood stains on her dress. Her breasts looked like they might pop from her bodice at any moment.
¡°Eyes forward, Doc! This one has been bitten.¡±
Mickey brazenly kissed the swell of her chest at the very moment a boy dressed like Zorro pushed by, brandishing a plastic sword. The youth¡¯s eyes zeroed in on the womanly mounds as ¡°Monster Mash¡± started to play, and Mickey raised his arms up and down to its rhythm.
¡°Shall we donce, my dear?¡±
Foxy let the bald, chubby lawyer sweep her in a circle.
¡°See ya around, Alan. Go easy on that stuff. It¡¯ll lay you out.¡± The couple swirled away into the crowd.
Mist from a fog machine concealed beneath one of the tables gave the illusion that everyone was floating. His stomach churned a bitter, lonely rumble, and the happy music grated on him. He had considered asking his landlady to attend¡ªa homely and grumpy gal, fonder of her cat than any human¡ªbut, God bless her, that would have made him feel¡­ old.
He scanned the crowd for one of his colleagues and spotted Jan Oliver (family therapy) with her partner, Rose. Jan, who made it a practice not to speak to Alan, had come as a mutilated vagina, and Rose was a badly circumcised penis. Through the crowd at the opposite end of the ballroom, Stephen Shunter (personality disorders) floated around with an obscenely young and gorgeous woman on his arm.
And then there was Rebecca Madison (victim therapy). Becky, like himself, was always alone. She briefly emerged from a group of laughers and toasters before vanishing back in. She was the one person he did not want to bump into on this night, or any other night, for that matter.
He backed up against the wall and turned his face away from the crowd.
¡°Alan, you came!¡±
He jumped, spilling wine on his hand.
Paul Murphy, beard dyed green, was a praying mantis. He wore a green tuxedo with long coattails that had been rigged to stick out behind him like wings. He¡¯d wrapped ski poles in felt for his legs, and his thorax was a tall, green top hat atop which should have been the mantis¡¯s head.
Murphy pointed to the empty spot. ¡°My wife took my head. Get it?¡± He laughed heartily, coughing up a lung in the process. ¡°It¡¯s great to see you. Enjoying the party?¡±
¡°Yeah, you know me, social butterfly,¡± said Alan.
¡°More like a moth.¡± Murphy laughed. ¡°Try to have a good time. Lots of sponsors here tonight. Maybe you can let them see you talking to some of the other shrinks. No one knows you retired.¡±This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
¡°Is that what you¡¯re going to call it?¡±
Murphy looked at the glass in Alan¡¯s hand.
¡°Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ve already set my limit.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what concerns me.¡± Murphy slapped him on the back, sending another splash of champagne overboard, this one wetting his shirt cuff.
¡°If you¡¯re telling me not to get drunk, that¡¯s why I bought a self-driver. Autopilot is set for home.¡±
Murphy sighed. ¡°The future is now. I¡¯m afraid mankind is going to forget what it¡¯s like to almost freeze¡ª¡± He stopped short. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean¡­¡±
Alan gulped the remainder of the champagne, then replaced his empty glass with a full one from the top of a passing robot server, and in a final, deft move, he snagged one for Murphy.
¡°It¡¯s alright, Paul. I¡¯m not the thought police.¡± He handed his old mentor the glass. ¡°Happy Halloween, Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year. I won¡¯t be doing this again anytime soon.¡±
¡°Cheers. Linda and I worry about you a lot these days. Take some time. Go see your sister. How long has it been?¡±
¡°A decade... and some change.¡±
¡°Christ. You know how to do them.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll save them the wreckage of my life.¡±
Murphy put a heavy hand on his. The ski pole looked like a bone.
¡°How is Linda?¡± Alan asked.
¡°She¡¯s good. Just finished a new book, a murder mystery. She¡¯s around here somewhere. Look for a wicked Mantodea bitch carrying my head.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure you deserved it.¡±
¡°Talk to someone. It¡¯s what we do,¡± implored Murphy.
¡°Are you serious?¡± He stared at the old psychiatrist with his beard and face painted green. ¡°You think I need to take the couch?¡±
¡°I think it would help. Shame can be crippling.¡±
¡°In vino veritas.¡± He held up his drink to toast the changing of the subject.
¡°What about the boy?¡± said Murphy.
¡°Last chance, Paul. It shouldn¡¯t be me,¡± Alan said. He sipped his champagne, forcing himself not to turn the flute upside down and open his throat.
¡°It¡¯s either you or Becky, and we know where she stands on the male issue.¡±
¡°On their cocks¡ªin stilettos.¡±
¡°What I¡¯ve always respected about you, Alan, is that you never caved to the rat-maze psychologists. You never bent your knee to the hysteria.¡±
Murphy was a mystic, more an artist than a scientist, a rare adherent to a school that traced an ethereal thread of Depth Psychology back to the mythical stones of Delphi, to a place where dreams mattered. The man had groomed a handful of disciples in his long career, but they had all either been obliterated by the politically correct mental health industry or surrendered their tomes of Freud and Jung to the pockets of big pharma and AI analysis. Alan had been the last holdout, but he had gambled it all on the spin¡ªand he¡¯d lost.
¡°Someone hurt him bad, Paul. He got into the gears, and now it¡¯s grinding, just like it was designed to.¡±
¡°Analysis?¡±
¡°I need more time with him. Maybe he has a delusion of fantastical thinking. He says he was helping the girl, guiding her, or something.¡± He took another sip.
¡°Guiding her, huh? We all create our own fictions, and either cast ourselves as the hero or the victim.¡±
¡°Those scars. I can¡¯t get them out of my head. If I ever find the sadistic fuck who did that¡­¡±
¡°Don¡¯t take the sexual angle.¡± The old man shook his green head. ¡°You know what they¡¯ll do with that.¡±
The music in the background transitioned from classical to an old Halloween creep.
¡°Okay, I need to mingle,¡± said Murphy. ¡°I¡¯m here if you want to talk¡­ about the boy, about anything.¡±
The old shrink gave his arm a warm squeeze and lifted his glass for a toast. As he was leaving, he paused. ¡°You know, there¡¯s another possibility. Maybe Francis is telling the truth.¡± Then he turned, shaking hands and giving thanks as he went. From behind, he truly did resemble a massive, headless praying mantis.
Adjacent to the ballroom, near the doors that led out to the valet, the resort¡¯s art gallery had been transformed into a coat room for the evening.
Champagne in hand, under the pretense of inspecting the art, he tried to disappear into the forest of jackets while the doorman with a serious jawline kept a wary eye on him.
The exhibit showcased a selection of early Western painters. Horses, bison heads, studies of First Peoples, and cowboys with guns lined the walls. In the center of the room, a wide column displayed miniature works of a minor artist mounted under track lights. On the far side of this column, he could drink and be alone.
Stay here and wait it out, don¡¯t make a scene, and exit with grace¡ªa simple plan for a simple man.
To steady himself, he examined a watercolor painting no larger than a postcard. The painting depicted a starving pony on a snowy field in the frozen dead of a winter storm, its hip bones and rib cage visible beneath its hide, while hungry wolves circled in the background, waiting for the animal to succumb so they could feed.
¡°It¡¯s a bleak portrayal.¡±
He startled, and a splash of wine landed on his shoe.
¡°I¡¯m sorry, Alan. I didn¡¯t mean to scare you.¡±
¡°You didn¡¯t scare me,¡± he said. He did not turn to look at her.
¡°Do you know the artist?¡±
¡°No, I guess not.¡±
¡°Karl Rutherford, cowboy artist. Not a native cowboy, but he moved out West and pretended to be. He soon earned the reputation of being a layabout. He always seemed to disappear with his drawings when there was real work to be done.¡±
¡°Maybe he was just following his true calling.¡±
¡°Oh, for sure. As soon as he made a name for himself, he hung up his boots and took to the salons of Livingston. I¡¯m not a fan of his style. It¡¯s too appropriative. But this piece I really like. Do you know why?¡±
¡°Because it¡¯s cold and dead with a creature suffering in it?¡± He sipped his drink.
Becky Madison chuckled. ¡°Not exactly. You know, Alan, if I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d say you¡¯re avoiding me.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t flatter yourself. I wouldn¡¯t make the effort.¡±
He wanted to look at her, but his neck felt stiff, and he feared turning would damage something internal. Instead, he studied the painting¡ªthe circling wolves, the hunger in their jaws, the focus in their eyes. In the background shadow of snow and night, he thought he could detect another, more sinister creature.
¡°I wouldn¡¯t expect you to. But we have a lot in common, more than most coworkers.¡±
¡°That was a long time ago. Things change.¡±
¡°Goddamnit. I miss her, too. She was¡­¡±
There was a quiver in her voice, like a string about to snap.
¡°I don¡¯t talk about it,¡± he said.
¡°Right.¡± She crossed her arms and regarded the painting, or him¡ªhe couldn¡¯t tell.
¡°I hear you have a new patient. A real live one this time.¡±
¡°You think you¡¯re better for the job?¡±
¡°No, I don¡¯t counsel sexual predators. I help their victims.¡±
¡°What makes you think he¡¯s a predator?¡±
¡°What makes you think he¡¯s not?¡±
¡°Fuck you, Becky!¡±
He did not anticipate that he would say that, nor that it would roll off his tongue so loudly, so easily. The doorman stepped into the room to inspect. He gave Alan a distrustful look and went back to his work.
¡°Here¡¯s the thing, Alan,¡± she said with venom, ¡°I don¡¯t think you should be working with people, let alone children. The Escape fucked you up, but you¡¯re hiding it, and when you break, explode, or whatever¡¯s going to happen, I don¡¯t think other people should have to suffer for your mistakes.¡±
He looked at her for the first. She was tall and lean with fine, beautiful features. Her blonde hair was cut short and tucked behind her ears. She wore a black dress and a pair of wire-frame glasses that lent her an air of sophistication.
¡°I protested with Paul,¡± she said. ¡°He doesn¡¯t seem to care. I also filed a complaint in Helena, but no doubt it¡¯s all going to be over before the bureaucracy gets around to it.¡±
¡°What do you want from me?¡±
¡°I want you to quit. I want you to find a different career. I want you to suffer every fucking day.¡±
¡°I am suffering.¡±
¡°I want to know you¡¯re suffering.¡±
He flicked his wrist. It happened so fast. Pumpkin spice champagne spotted her glasses and ran down her chin. Becky, empress of her emotions, clenched her jaw.
¡°Okay, buddy.¡± The coat man marched in, walky-talky in hand. ¡°I think you¡¯ve had enough. Miss, are you alright?¡±
¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± She stood for a few more seconds, eyes latched onto Alan, then walked out of the room.
¡°Sir, why don¡¯t you call it a night? That pumpkin spice is a bit strong.¡±
¡°Yeah. Call it a night,¡± he mumbled.
He looked around. A little boy was pulling on mittens. His mother stooped to help him, placing herself between the unstable man and her son. An Elvira, unaware or modest enough to ignore his disgrace, worked her red lipstick in a compact mirror.
He would leave, and this would be his last engagement in polite society. But first, he gave himself the mission of making it to the cornucopia and retrieving a supply of miniature vodka bottles for the ride home through the dark corridor of Pablo, where the Gretas huddled in ditches, and the People of the Earth peered out the windows of their broken-down RVs. 17 Pumpkin Spice - Part 2
¡°Ow! Do you have any idea who I am?¡± a woman cried and stumbled into the center of the ballroom. Her red hair was rolled into double buns that covered each ear like two oversized snail shells, and she wore a white gown with long, flowing sleeves.
It took a moment for him to register that it was Deputy Wolf.
The crowd made space around her and a group of men in stormtrooper getups. But their weapons looked far more realistic than plastic replicas of blaster rifles.
The largest stormtrooper gave the princess a shove with the side of his gun, causing her to stumble forward.
¡°Asshole,¡± she muttered. She saw him gawking at her. ¡°Okay, guys, take five. Get some treats.¡±
The troopers were drawn to the refreshments table as if pulled by an invisible force.
¡°Alan, I didn¡¯t know you¡¯d be here tonight.¡± Her face was flushed, and she struggled to straighten the buns on each side of her head as she approached.
¡°Oh, uh, I was just leaving. My director asked me to come, but¡ª¡±
¡°No. Don¡¯t go so soon.¡± There was urgency in her voice. Despite her well-toned body beneath the clinging gown, she seemed fragile tonight, like a frightened girl who had ended up with the wrong crowd.
¡°Does the princess order it?¡± It was the booze talking.
¡°Haha, yes! I mean, no, but¡­ I don¡¯t know why I agreed to play along with those guys.¡±
¡°Does her highness desire a drink?¡± He tried to channel his best Han Solo. Without waiting for her response, he picked two champagnes off the nearest server drone and handed one to her. ¡°I¡¯ve been drinking these all night. They¡¯re great.¡±
¡°Why, thank you.¡± She lifted the glass. ¡°Happy Halloween!¡±
¡°Happy Halloween.¡±
From across the room, Paul Murphy gave him a thumbs up, then disappeared into the party.
The clink of their toast was lost within the gala¡¯s chaos.
She made a face as if she had tasted battery acid. ¡°What is it?¡±
¡°Pumpkin spice champagne!¡± he intoned, raising his drink even higher.
¡°Oh, my Lord, that¡¯s¡­¡±
¡°A tragedy, I know. But it grows on you.¡± He took another swallow.
The largest of the stormtroopers pushed his way through the guests and stood towering over Gwen. He held his gun so it pointed at Alan¡¯s chest.
¡°Are you sure you can have a drink? He looks like he¡¯s transporting you to the nearest Death Star.¡± Alan gently pushed the barrel askew. ¡°Classy, real guns.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t fucking touch my gun, shrink,¡± came the muffled voice of Comstock through the mask.
¡°Is that you, Acting Sherrif Comstock? The uniform of fascism fits you perfectly.¡± He couldn¡¯t see Comstock¡¯s face, but he was certain it was red with anger.
¡°Let¡¯s go, princess!¡± The large man shoved Gwen away from Alan.
¡°Shit, Comstock. I¡¯m done with the role play.¡± She took the pins out of her buns and let her hair cascade down her back.
The large white mask with big black eyes stared at Alan. For an instant, he thought Comstock was going to shoot him.
¡°These guns don¡¯t have a stun setting,¡± said Comstock.
Emboldened by the liquid courage contained in the pumpkin spice champagne, Alan waved his hand in front of the stormtrooper¡¯s face. ¡°This is not the princess you¡¯re searching for. You may go.¡±
Gwen blew champagne out her nostrils, the fine mist landing on his neck.
¡°Fuck you, shrink,¡± said Comstock. The man twirled and stomped off, shoving the badly circumcised penis out of his path as he went.
¡°I need a smoke,¡± said Gwen.
¡°There¡¯s a back door. Bottoms up.¡±
They drained their drinks and, with tipsy grace, waltzed through the party to the rear of the ballroom.
Wind nipped their faces as they departed the warmth and light of the gala into the cold night.
¡°Careful, princess, watch your step.¡±
They followed a narrow sidewalk to the docks. In the summer season, the Flathead would have been flush with water and boats, but in October, the log stilts jutted out of the muddy lakebed, making their platforms appear like dinosaurs lined up in a museum.
They sat smoking, legs dangling over the edge. Cars buzzed distantly on the highway. Across the bay, lights from other resorts ran the spectrum from blue to amber.
¡°I¡¯m sorry about the way Comstock dealt with Francis. He was out of line,¡± said Gwen.
¡°I¡¯m guessing you couldn¡¯t do anything about it,¡± he replied.
¡°He¡¯s my superior.¡± She took a drag, the ember lighting the front of her face.
He swigged the vodka. ¡°Cops went bad in the valley,¡± he said
¡°There¡¯re a few good ones left. McGreevy¡­¡± she said
¡°The little guy?¡±
¡°He¡¯s good people. Grew up rough. He has a backbone. Just forgets sometimes. Makes a mean pot of coffee.¡±
The booze and the cold were making him shiver. They had neglected to bring their coats.
He smoked. Her brand of cigarettes was strong.
¡°What about Francis?¡± she asked.
He sighed. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t say too much. I promised him¡­ He¡¯s seen better days.¡±
¡°Poor kid,¡± she said. ¡°I interviewed the responding physician at the hospital in Ronan. You can imagine, tight-lipped. She did say that Taylor moved his daughter to his ranch. He pays for his own doctors.¡±
¡°He can afford it,¡± said Alan.
She laughed suddenly.
¡°What?¡±
¡°I just remembered a handsome, sophisticated substitute teacher my first year of high school.¡±
¡°Are you fucking kidding me?¡± he said.
¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°Mrs. Sullivan¡¯s freshman English. You taught Romeo and Juliet. You were good. You had Brian Conley and Andrea Marshal do the death scene. I still remember. Oh happy dagger¡­¡± she trailed. ¡°Okay so maybe not.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
¡°This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.¡± He finished the line for her.
¡°Told you. You were good.¡±
¡°You¡¯re saying I was your teacher? Now I feel like a perv.¡±
¡°Do you remember a quiet redhead in the third row? I always sat in the same spot next to the window.¡±
He closed his eyes and dredged his memories. He''d done a long substitute gig for a teacher who had suffered a nervous breakdown after being locked in the supply closet.
¡°It was a long time ago. I¡¯ve forgotten a lot about that time.¡±
¡°I never wore panties,¡± she said.
A distant, illicit memory struck him quickly. He was glad it was dark, so she couldn¡¯t see the expression that must have crossed his face. He¡¯d let it go as the least of his issues during those dark, intoxicated years after¡ª
¡°Christ,¡± he said.
She laughed. ¡°Yeah, now it¡¯s coming back, ain¡¯t it? I had¡­ issues back then.¡±
¡°And now you¡¯re a cop, locking up the men you used to jailbait.¡±
¡°And you¡¯re a shrink. I wonder who¡¯s more fucked up?¡± She took the last drag of her cigarette and flicked it to vanish over the side of the dock like a falling star.
¡°I¡¯m going to turn into a pumpkin in about thirty minutes,¡± Alan said. ¡°Do you have a ride home? I¡¯d hate for you to leave with the same assholes.¡±
¡°I can walk. I don¡¯t live far.¡± Gwen replied.
¡°I¡¯ve got a self-driver. I won¡¯t even touch the steering wheel. If you want¡­¡±
There was a pause in which the music from the party filtered in before she said, ¡°Alright, it¡¯ll be my first time in a civilian self-driver.¡±
¡°Are you serious? Do you have running water in your house?¡±
When they rose to leave, he noticed a woman in a long, black dress watching them from the end of the dock. As they approached, he saw her face painted white with lips of crimson red¡ªthe costume of the romantic vampire he¡¯d glimpsed earlier in the coatroom.
¡°Looks like we¡¯re not the only ones who wanted to get out of that party,¡± Gwen observed.
¡°Dr. Smith?¡± said the woman.
¡°Yes, that¡¯s me,¡± he said.
¡°I was hoping I could have a word with you.¡± She spoke with a French accent.
¡°We were just leaving.¡±
¡°Please. It will take but a moment.¡±
He looked at Gwen. She shrugged.
¡°Well, I guess so. Let¡¯s chat inside.¡±
¡°No,¡± she said abruptly. ¡°Here is fine. I don¡¯t have much time.¡±
¡°I¡¯ll meet you inside,¡± said Gwen.
¡°Please stay, Deputy Wolf,¡± the woman interjected.
¡°Did I catch your name, ma¡¯am?¡± asked Alan.
¡°I am Dr. Lethe Vonnix. I am an emissary from a group called the Roanne Collective. We¡¯re contributors to your clinic.¡±
¡°Thank you,¡± said Alan, realizing that this was some of the elbow bumping Murphy wanted him to do. ¡°Clear Hope appreciates it. Dr. Murphy is the one you want to talk to.¡±
¡°I have spoken to Dr. Murphy. He directed me to you.¡±
To his left, he noticed the stormtroopers marching toward them in single file from the resort.
¡°Okay, we¡¯ll probably just need to exchange emails or something.¡± He nudged Gwen and indicated the approaching company.
¡°Shit,¡± said Gwen.
The woman who called herself a doctor implored, ¡°Please, Dr. Smith. I need to know the methodology you plan to use with Francis Builds A Fire.¡±
Alan nodded. Now he understood. ¡°That bitch! You can tell Becky Madison¡ª¡±
¡°Dr. Madison is not of my concern,¡± said Vonnix. ¡°Dr. Smith, I have a sincere reason to believe that Francis Builds A Fire is in grave peril.¡±
¡°Peril? Peril from me? You think I would hurt him? No. I want you to tell Becky to go fuck herself.¡±
Gwen put a hand on his arm. The Empire was upon them.
¡°Wolf, we¡¯re going,¡± Comstock¡¯s voice boomed. The muscular cop held his costume helmet under his arm while his friends stood behind him, their weapons resting on their shoulders.
¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± said Gwen.
¡°Peril from something you¡¯re not ready to understand,¡± said Vonnix.
¡°Are you fucking with me?¡± Alan said.
¡°Fuck you, shrink.¡± Comstock spat.
¡°I¡¯m giving her a ride home. You guys can go play make-believe under the covers.¡±
¡°Dr. Smith, I won¡¯t have another chance to speak with you before they find you. You must protect the boy.¡± The woman turned and hurried back to the resort.
The bitter wind had picked up, carrying on it a newly minted flurry that wet his face. His mind was a slurry of alcohol and rage.
¡°It wasn¡¯t my fault! It wasn¡¯t my fault!¡± Alan shouted after her.
The next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrel of Comstock¡¯s gun.
¡°You¡¯re drunk. You¡¯re not driving,¡± insisted the cop.
¡°Jesus, Comstock, he¡¯s got a self-drive. Put that down,¡± said Gwen. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, it¡¯s not loaded.¡±
Comstock didn¡¯t move.
Gwen grabbed Alan¡¯s hand. ¡°I¡¯m ready to go.¡±
They pushed past the stormtroopers and headed back up the walk that had turned slick since their outing. Some of the gala goers had stepped outside and were staring at the dock. A few of them whispered as Alan and Gwen walked by.
The purple canopy of the port-cochere did little to shield them from the ice flakes whipped by the wind.
Jacketless, Gwen crossed her arms. He was in the initial stages of being a gentleman and offering her his coat when his midnight-gray self-driver pulled up with a soft hum.
Inside, the car was warm, and the seats radiated heat.
¡°Where to, Dr. Alan Smith, sexiest man alive,¡± said the sultry AI voice. He glanced at Gwen. A grin spread across her face.
¡°Is that Raven Maddox?¡± she said.
¡°Kind of a joke. Raven, normal voice, please.¡±
¡°Yes, Dr. Smith. Turn me on again whenever you wish.¡± There was a soft beep, and the computer continued in a robotic manner: ¡°Please state your destination.¡±
¡°Passenger¡¯s directions,¡± he said.
¡°Passenger enabled.¡±
¡°Just tell it your address.¡±
¡°Ninety-eight Highland Avenue,¡± Gwen said.
¡°Affirmative. ETA in ten minutes.¡±
¡°I thought you lived close by,¡± he said.
¡°Exercise never killed anyone,¡± she said.
He reclined in his seat and stared up through the sunroof at the passing streetlights. His head swam. Now that a very attractive woman was sitting next to him, he regretted drinking.
Gwen followed his lead and put her seat back. In the reflection of the glass, he saw her hand gripping the armrest. ¡°It¡¯s so strange letting a computer do the driving,¡± she said.
¡°You just need to relinquish control and put your faith in the machine.¡±
¡°Fuck machines. They¡¯re going to be the end of us.¡±
¡°Before the self-drive grid, human error killed roughly forty-thousand people a year on American roads. Compare that to seventy-two deaths that can be solely attributed to autonomous vehicles.¡±
¡°Thank you, Dr. Facts.¡±
¡°Sorry. I watched the promotional video for the car.¡±
¡°I guess someday even us holdouts will be forced onto the grid.¡±
¡°Sorry about back there,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m a walking faux pas.¡±
¡°It¡¯s alright. It¡¯s Halloween.¡±
For an instant, he felt her soft hand on his.
ALERT! ALERT! flashed on the windshield¡¯s display. ¡°Driver alert. Possibility of being followed,¡± announced the computer in an elevated tone.
Alan sat up, craning his neck to see out the back window.
¡°What the hell?¡± Gwen said.
¡°This thing is funky.¡± He hit the dash, but the computer repeated its warning.
¡°Are you sure?¡± She was now looking back over her shoulder.
¡°The computer is programmed to detect the possibility of being tailed. It¡¯s an anti-kidnapping feature.¡±
The headlights of the car behind them flashed three times.
¡°I think they want us to stop,¡± said Gwen.
¡°Let¡¯s stop at the Town Pump. It¡¯s usually busy. We¡¯ll see what they want. Computer, take us to Town Pump.¡±
They made slow progress through the town. Christmas and Halloween lights glittered in shop windows. Little kids dressed in ghoulish costumes and heavy overcoats carried large bags full of candy. The autopilot slowed in calculation of the holiday foot traffic.
The car behind them backed off but kept its lights on bright.
¡°I bet it¡¯s Comstock,¡± Alan said.
¡°It¡¯s not his car. Could be one of his goons. He¡¯s the type to have me followed.¡±
¡°Are you and him¡­¡±
¡°Hell no.¡±
At a red light, the car pulled up close behind them and flashed its lights again. It was a black SUV without front plates.
¡°Unsafe distance achieved,¡± said the AI.
¡°No shit,¡± he muttered. At the next red light, the SUV pulled alongside. He had to look up to see a window with blackout tint.
¡°ETA in three minutes,¡± said his car.
Gwen was clenching her hands on her lap.
¡°Do you have a gun?¡± Alan asked.
¡°Does it look like I¡¯m carrying a gun?¡±
¡°Right,¡± he said. ¡°Stupid question.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t use guns when I¡¯m off duty. Hell, I don¡¯t use them on duty. What are they doing?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ve never been followed before. Town Pump is busy. There¡¯s always a security guard on duty and probably a cop eating donuts.¡±
When the light changed, they merged into traffic on Highway 93. Ahead, Town Pump loomed as an illuminated oasis. They pulled in under the bright canopy and stopped at the front door.
The SUV parked at an angle next to a charging bank.
¡°Computer.¡±
¡°Yes, Dr. Smith?¡±
¡°Authorize passenger without driver.¡±
¡°Passenger authorized.¡±
¡°If anything happens, it¡¯ll take you wherever you tell it to go.¡±
¡°You¡¯re going out there?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t like being followed,¡± he said.
¡°Pretty brave for a shrink. Want back up?¡±
¡°I¡¯ll be fine. If I¡¯m abducted, you can have my car.¡±
¡°Alan, I can have backup here in five minutes.¡±
¡°Have they done anything illegal?¡±
¡°Not technically.¡±
¡°Let¡¯s see what¡¯s up. I prefer losing a kidney to dealing with Comstock again.¡±
As he stepped out of his car, the SUV shut off its headlights and sat there like a sleek, angular predator waiting to pounce. 18 Pumpkin Spice - Part 3
Town Pump¡¯s lone security guard stood inside the store looking out. The night wind ruffled Alan¡¯s hair as he approached the driver¡¯s door, feeling suddenly sober.
¡°Hello?¡± He knocked on the SUV''s black window. ¡°Hey?¡± He knocked harder.
The rear window rolled down, and a woman¡¯s voice came from inside. ¡°Please get in, Dr. Smith. It¡¯s cold.¡±
¡°What¡¯s the deal?¡±
¡°I assure you, I mean you no harm.¡±
He looked back at his car where Gwen was watching.
The door to the SUV opened, and he climbed inside. The door closed behind him on an automated mechanism. The air inside was chilled and purified.
The dark interior was lit by an indirect, blue glow. The front of the SUV was partitioned by mirrored glass, and a classical violin played distantly over the sound system.
A woman in a black, leathery bodysuit sat across from him. Her hair was sharply bobbed, and her face held the blue tint from the lights. Over her shoulders rested the glistening midnight pelt of some unfortunate creature, which she stroked as she appraised him.
¡°What the hell is this?¡± he said.
¡°My apologies for alarming you. It was urgent that I talk to you tonight. I tried calling, but you didn¡¯t answer your phone.¡±
Alan pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was on silent and showed he had missed six calls from an anonymous number over the course of the evening.
¡°And who are you?¡±
¡°I am Sister Jillian.¡±
¡°Sure you are. So, you¡¯re a nun? Well, I¡¯m an atheist.¡±
She smiled as her fingers continued to run through the fur of the dead animal. ¡°I have taken vows, but don¡¯t let the title confuse you. I don¡¯t care about your soul. Tonight, you were contacted by this woman.¡± She held up a tablet and showed him a picture of the woman who had tried to speak to him on the dock.
¡°So she dresses like Halloween every day? You could have talked to me at the gala.¡±
¡°I was otherwise engaged, and it wasn¡¯t the place for a scene.¡±
¡°Right. Scenes are for midnight rendezvous at gas stations.¡±
¡°I need to know who I¡¯m dealing with.¡±
¡°Dealing with?¡± he said.
Her hand stopped petting. Her eyes stopped on his, unblinking. They were, like the rest of her, sharp, and they held a quality he¡¯d only ever seen in predaceous animals.
¡°You want to know something about me? I¡¯m the most boring person you¡¯re ever going to meet. I¡¯m a washed-up shrink with a drinking problem. I¡¯m always late for work and never make my bed, and I don¡¯t wash my dishes until I¡¯m down to the very last one.¡± He crossed his arms. His temple was pounding. He wanted to go home, sleep, and forget.
¡°Correct,¡± she said. ¡°And you graduated from Montana State University¡ªa mediocre school at best¡ªwith a doctorate in adolescent psychology.¡±
¡°How did you like my dissertation?¡± he sniped.
¡°Pedantic. Idiosyncratic. Esoteric,¡± she said bluntly. ¡°You were married. Your wife¡ª¡± Full stop. She scanned him for a reaction, as if she were waiting for him to do something before she continued.
He swallowed the saliva instead of spitting in her face. Beads of sweat tickled the nape of his neck. His hands clenched into fists. This was Becky¡¯s work.
¡°You tell Becky I¡¯m going to get a restraining order.¡±
¡°Yes, Rebecca Madison. Your wife¡¯s lover¡ª¡±
¡°Fuck you!¡± He grabbed the door handle. It pulled impotently. ¡°Open this goddamn door, you hoary cunt.¡±
The mirrored partition slid down. A bald face in black glasses peered back.
¡°I¡¯m alright, Sister,¡± said Sister Jillian, never taking her gaze off his face.
The window slid back up.
¡°It¡¯s all in my dossier.¡± She reached into a black case that had been resting beside her and held out a folder.
He took it. It was an inch thick. He thumbed the pages, letting them fall open as he scanned the contents. It was all there. His diplomas. The time he was written up in college for drinking in the dormitory. The marriage certificate. The report from the hospital. The birth certificate. Everything, even the death certificates and¡­ He choked down the heavy lump in his throat.
¡°I¡¯ll kill her,¡± he whispered through dry lips.
¡°I investigated Dr. Madison. She doesn¡¯t concern us. You concern us, Dr. Smith.¡±
The final pages contained photographs. One of Francis when he was a little boy with wild, black hair and an impish grin. The next page was his mug shot, followed by the documentation of the scars on his body. The very last page was a picture of a CCTV capture of Alan kneeling before the prison bars, holding the boy in his arms.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
¡°What did he say to you?¡± said Sister Jillian.
¡°Fuck off. Where did you get this?¡±
¡°I work for a firm that deals in sensitive information. We¡¯ve been contracted by Senator John Taylor to help him with this situation.¡±
¡°This conversation is over. I don¡¯t talk about my patients.¡±
¡°You¡¯re recently unemployed.¡± She returned to her petting of the pelt.
He opened the dossier and let the papers scatter at her feet. This time, when he pulled the handle, the door opened with a mechanical whirl.
¡°Talk to Mickey Verona,¡± said Alan.
¡°I will, eventually,¡± said Sister Jillian.
¡°We¡¯re done,¡± he said.
¡°Very well. I¡¯m obliged to warn you, Dr. Smith¡ª¡±
He laughed. He wanted her to feel his hate. ¡°Fuck you.¡±
¡°My job is to pursue things outside of court,¡± she said as he stepped out.
The door slowly shut.
The vehicle drove off into the night like a cat slinking into the jungle.
He went into Town Pump and bought two hot, black coffees. His hands trembled as he paid.
¡°What was that all about?¡± asked Gwen.
¡°I think it was a threat from John Taylor.¡±
¡°98 Highland Avenue,¡± said Gwen.
At night, Highland Avenue was dark and lined with tall evergreens that would block any view of the lake during the day.
They drank the coffee on the front porch. The night wind blew the smoke from their cigarettes back into their faces.
¡°I want to see him tomorrow,¡± he said.
¡°Comstock is delaying your paperwork,¡± she said.
¡°Fuck him. Can he do that?¡±
¡°Yes, but he¡¯s only working a half day. He¡¯s going to watch the game with his militia buddies. Come by in the afternoon. I¡¯ll let you in. You¡¯re his counselor. Francis still has rights.¡±
He shook his head. ¡°I quit my job for him.¡±
¡°Why did you do that?¡±
¡°They took me off his case. One of the mucky-mucks doesn¡¯t want me working with children.¡±
¡°This Becky?¡± A gust of frozen wind blasted their faces. ¡°Because you were on Escape?¡±
¡°You pulled my file,¡± he said, grinding his teeth.
¡°Dr. Madison came by the station.¡±
Alan went to his car. He threw his coffee into the road and slammed his fists on the hood.
BEEP BEEP BEEP went the horn. FLASH FLASH FLASH went the lights.
¡°Disarm!¡± The car fell silent. He held his hand. ¡°That bitch will never stop.¡± He jerked the door open.
¡°Alan, it¡¯s okay. Come see him tomorrow. He asked for you tonight. He didn¡¯t eat. He said you were going to bring him McDonald¡¯s.¡±
¡°I can¡¯t fucking do this.¡± Alan cried.
She was next to him, her soft hands finding his. ¡°Come inside. You don¡¯t need to be alone tonight.¡±
¡°You want me to come in?¡± He felt like a little boy asking the question.
¡°Or get into your spaceship and fly away. There are options.¡± Gwen climbed the steps to her porch.
¡°I¡¯m drunk,¡± he said.
¡°Beer¡¯s in the fridge. Booze is on the top.¡± She went inside, leaving the door ajar.
His heart pounded in his ears.
Her house was spartan. A lamp on the living room wall lit the stage of her modular existence: an empty living room but for a pair of pants on the floor and a sofa burdened with a pillow and a rumpled blanket.
¡°You live alone?¡±
¡°Yeah.¡±
She faced him, a bottle of rum in her hands. She tipped it back, took a long, deep pull, then passed it to him.
¡°Gut rot,¡± he said before drinking deeply.
¡°Yeah.¡± She shrugged. She reached behind her back and undid something, and the flowing white gown was falling to the floor like a pair of discarded angel wings.
She was nude beneath but for a pair of light-green panties. Her breasts were small and firm, studded with pink nipples that faded into her freckled skin.
She approached him.
He could feel her heat. He lifted a trembling hand but dropped it before he touched her.
¡°How long?¡± she whispered.
He cleared his throat. ¡°I¡­ um¡­¡±
¡°It doesn¡¯t matter.¡±
¡°Fourteen years,¡± he whispered, ¡°almost.¡±
She gripped his hand and brought it up to her tit. He felt its shape fill his palm. He brushed his thumb across the nipple.
She bit her bottom lip.
He felt obscene. What he touched turned into shit. Say no, his mind shouted.
He traced her collarbone up to her shoulder, thin yet toned. With the back of his hand, he made to caress her cheek, but she caught it and stopped him.
¡°I guess we¡¯re a couple boxes of damaged goods,¡± she said.
Her emerald eyes sparkled in the soft light.
¡°You don¡¯t need to,¡± he said.
¡°Maybe I do.¡± She groped at him through his jeans. ¡°I can take care of this.¡±
She undid his belt and pants and let them fall to the floor.
With both hands, he explored her breasts. He twirled her hair between his fingers and brought it to his nose. It smelled of apples and spices. He found her hips and toyed with the weak elastic of her panties. But when he tried to remove them, her hands covered his.
She pushed him back onto the sofa and knelt between his legs, her red hair webbing over his thighs. She laced her fingers through his as he thrust. She coughed and pulled off, looking at him with flushed cheeks and puffy lips as she caught her breath.
¡°Can I ask something?¡± she said.
He nodded and guided himself back to her lips. Soft wet tongue on tender skin.
¡°Do you remember me?¡±
¡°Yeah,¡± he whispered, almost a cry.
¡°Show me.¡± It was a plea.
As pathetic as he was, maybe she also needed something from him. He tried to touch her face again, but she moved her head.
¡°Show me,¡± she repeated.
Fourteen years. He would not think about Zoey, not tonight.
He pulled Gwen onto him. She was light. His lips found her left nipple, and he suckled. She panted. He reached between her legs. She shaved. Smooth and wet.
¡°Please,¡± she whispered, as if afraid someone lurking in the other room might hear.
He wrestled her over, pushed her knees back to her head, and roughly yanked the crotch of her panties aside. Her sweet, musky scent caught his nostrils, and he went down on her like a starving man.
¡°Oh, God!¡± she squealed.
When his jaw could work no more, he fell back, dizzy. She crawled over him, griping him hard at his base, and sat herself down, riding him. He teased her nipples between his lips. She came first, thighs trembling, grinding against his pelvis. And then him, releasing into her.
And they were still. Panting. Breath mixing. Their mingling fluids dripped down between his legs.
On the sofa in each other¡¯s arms, he moved to kiss her. She pulled away.
¡°Sorry,¡± she said. She laid her head on his chest.
After a time, when sleep threatened them, she got up and went down the hall into a back room without a word. He heard a door shut; its lock clicked.
He remained on the sofa, listening to the night. Somewhere off, a dog barked. She was not coming back. He went out, locking the door on the inside knob. Behind him, it secured a dream he was unsure he had experienced. Highland Avenue was deserted. His eyes watered from the night wind.
His car took him home through parked caravans of climate refugees and bundles of shrouded Gretas, hiding from the cold.
He turned on the radio and listened to a news story about the Eastern Front. The war dragged on with no end in sight.
He felt a wildness that he could not tame. The feeling had been lost for so long that it was new. It rose through him like a surge, and he screamed inside his car until his throat was raw, and he was coughing and sobbing. 19 Builds A Fire Brings the Rain - Part 1
He poked at his sandwich. In the small caf¨¦ and sandwich shop across the street from the sheriff¡¯s office, the pelt of a beaver hung on the wall above a display case of huckleberry jams and syrups. ¡°Now what?¡± Alan asked. He dropped a potato chip next to his half-eaten sandwich.
¡°We wait,¡± said Mickey. ¡°Use the time to build our case.¡± The chubby lawyer took a bite of his onion and roast beef hoagie, causing mustard and mayonnaise to ooze out the side onto his thumb, which he sucked clean with a wet pop. He took a swig of his Coke to wash it all down before tossing a French fry into his mouth.
¡°It doesn¡¯t seem like we have much of a case,¡± said Alan.
¡°Nor do they,¡± said the lawyer. ¡°I¡¯m no shrink, but as far as I can tell, nothing happened. A big, fat nothing burger. Now, this kid suddenly goes mute like she¡¯s a Greta or something. It doesn¡¯t add up. I¡¯m starting to think it harbors a racial element. You know, Native American kid gets a White girlfriend, and it rubs someone the wrong way. Everyone knows the sheriff¡¯s department is snuggle-buddies with the High Mountain Rangers militia. And to garnish it with a golden cherry, the girlfriend just happens to be the daughter of a powerful right-wing politician.¡± Mickey wiped his hands with a dirty napkin.
It was plausible to Alan. In the Mission Valley, race relations had grown bitter along with the water crisis.
But there was another piece to the puzzle that didn¡¯t quite fit. ¡°Why the hell does the daughter of one of the most powerful men in America go to a public school on an Indian reservation?¡±
¡°Hell, that one¡¯s easy, Doc. Politics. She started school there two years ago, about the time Taylor and Allgood made their power pact. The one thing the elites want that they can¡¯t buy is not to look like elites. Before that, she was enrolled in one of the most expensive private schools in New York.¡± Mickey took the final bite of his sandwich and spoke as he chewed, ¡°You sure White Owl didn¡¯t mention anything else?¡±
¡°She made me laced tea and told me a story about Coyote and eyeballs and told me to bear testimony.¡±
Mickey raised his bushy eyebrows above the black rims of his glasses. ¡°Now that, I say, is an angle.¡± He smacked his hands together. ¡°Feel like a milkshake?¡±
¡°No. That woman could use some therapy if you ask me.¡±
¡°She sounds like a Mormon. I used to have a Mormon friend when I was a kid. I¡¯d go to church with them sometimes. You know, for the food and girls. Mormon girls!¡± Mickey whistled. ¡°Anyway, they were always giving a testimony, as they called it. Sort of a confession of faith, I guess.¡±
Alan looked out the window. The parking lot was busy for a Sunday afternoon. ¡°I need to go see him¡ª¡±
The door to the caf¨¦ burst open. A woman entered wearing a biker jacket and leather riding chaps. She was followed by a boy in similar attire, motorcycle goggles shoved up on his forehead.
¡°Excuse me,¡± she said to no one in particular, ¡°anyone know where the concert is?¡±
¡°Sorry, ma¡¯am,¡± said the girl behind the counter. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard of any concert.¡±
¡°Okay, but the GPS says it¡¯s here. Actually, it says it¡¯s at the jail across the street, but that can¡¯t be right. I figured maybe in your parking lot.¡±
¡°Nope, no concert here. I think I¡¯d know. Is there a website or something?¡±
¡°Billy, honey, run and grab the poster from the bike.¡±
The boy, who looked to be about twelve, slammed the door behind him. The waitress cringed as the jars of huckleberry jam clinked on the rack.
¡°We¡¯ve been riding for five days. I don¡¯t think we can go much farther without killing each other. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s colder, the weather, or our relationship.¡±
¡°Tell me about it, girl,¡± chatted the waitress. ¡°Got a daughter about his age. I can never tell if it¡¯s war or ceasefire.¡±
The women laughed in motherly understanding.
Mickey made the loopy sign with his finger next to his forehead and popped a French fry into his mouth.
The door banged against the wall, and the jars clinked loudly.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
¡°Here it is, Mom!¡± The boy handed the poster to the waitress, who read it out loud.
Are You Thirsty?
Free Concert for Tree Lovers
Builds A Fire
Brings the Rain
Mickey choked, sending Coke and chunks of French fry across the table.
The waitress handed the poster back. ¡°Sounds interesting, but I haven¡¯t heard a peep about this. And I¡¯m kind of a know-it-all. It¡¯s part of the job. Good luck to you, though.¡±
The mother let out a long sigh. ¡°Come on, kiddo, we¡¯ll look around some more.¡±
¡°Excuse me,¡± Alan said to the woman, ¡°you say you¡¯ve been driving for five days?¡±
¡°Riding, actually. We would have been here sooner, but we had engine trouble down south.¡±
The boy shot his mother a look, hinting to Alan that something was being fabricated. More than likely, they¡¯d run into family drama.
¡°Can I see that poster?¡±
¡°Sure, keep it. He¡¯s got another one somewhere.¡±
Alan examined the poster. ¡°Where did you get this?¡±
¡°They were on the wall at the skate park,¡± the boy piped up.
¡°He really got into this guy¡¯s music about a year ago. He¡¯s been bouncing off the walls for this for a couple months.¡±
Alan showed the poster to Mickey.
There was a painting of a kid on a shadowy stage, indistinct phantoms lurking behind him. His head bent forward in concentration. He was in profile, and he had Francis¡¯s iconic raven wing of hair that was always falling across his face. In his hands was the blue guitar White Owl had given him. The guitar that now sat in the back of his car.
Alan read slowly, ¡°Are you thirsty? Free concert for tree lovers. Builds A Fire Brings the Rain. Nov. 1, 7 PM.¡±
At the bottom of the poster was a QR code. Mickey scanned it, and it brought up his phone¡¯s GPS. The map zoomed down on Montana and zeroed in on the building across the street. LAKE COUNTY SHERIFF DEPT.
¡°Come on,¡± said Alan.
When they got to his car, Mickey was ranting. ¡°It¡¯s got to be a hoax. Probably a sick plot by one of those internet vigilante groups. I¡¯m calling Judge Myers. This case was supposed to have a gag order.¡± He whipped out his phone and began to dial.
¡°Just wait. Look.¡± Alan pointed to the back seat of his car.
Mickey looked perplexed.
¡°Five days ago, Francis was a normal eighth-grade student. None of this had happened. That woman said they¡¯d been planning the trip for two months.¡±
¡°Timeline malfunction,¡± said Mickey.
¡°We need to¡ª¡±
¡°What the hell is that?¡± The lawyer pointed across the parking lot to an old white and blue Volkswagen van. A camp chair and smoking barbecue were set up outside of it. A hippie with gray dreadlocks played an air guitar. He was smoking a marijuana cigarette.
When they approached, the hippie gave them a friendly salute and took a drag of his joint, blowing the smoke into the air.
¡°Sir,¡± said Mickey, ¡°that¡¯s not legal in the state of Montana.¡±
¡°Oh yeah? I remember when it was. Besides, it¡¯s medicinal, dude,¡± drawled the hippie.
¡°Really, what for?¡± asked Mickey.
¡°Existential angst, maaaaan.¡± He took one last drag and flicked the roach into a mud puddle where it died with a sizzle.
¡°Florida?¡± said Mickey, referring to the van¡¯s license plates.
¡°Burned and razed.¡±
¡°What brings you to this neck of the woods?¡±
¡°Oh, the same thing that brings me anywhere. Good music and good bud! Despite current legislation, y¡¯all got the best weed in the lower forty-seven and the Independent Jurisdiction of Texas.¡± He hit a chord on his air guitar and plopped into the camp chair. ¡°What is this anyway, the fucking Inquisition? You don¡¯t look much like a cop, man. I wanna see a badge number, buddy. I know my rights.¡±
¡°Lawyer,¡± said Mickey. ¡°But if you aren¡¯t careful, there¡¯s a mean bastard over there who¡¯ll lock you up before hello. Then you¡¯ll be paying me.¡± Mickey extended his business card.
¡°Mickey Verona, Esquire, huh? I¡¯ll keep you in mind, son.¡±
¡°Alan,¡± Alan said, extending his hand.
The hippie shook it with a firm grip. ¡°Another lawyer?¡±
¡°Nope,¡± Mickey blurted, ¡°Unemployed psychologist.¡±
¡°Sir, that will not shrink my opinion of you. Name¡¯s Carter Nash, but everyone calls me Nash, and this here beautiful lady is Ol¡¯ Betsy.¡± With a gesture of his arm, he dramatically presented the van.
¡°So, you¡¯re here for the¡ª¡±
¡°Free concert. You bet yer sweet p¡¯tater. Wouldn¡¯t miss a Builds A Fire concert for the world. A real experience, know what I¡¯m sayin?¡±
¡°You¡¯ve heard him play before?¡± said Mickey.
¡°Just once. Two years ago up in Spokane. The kid lit the house on fire. And that¡¯s putting it mildly. His music changed my life. I¡¯ve been a follower ever since.¡±
¡°Never heard of him,¡± said Mickey.
¡°He¡¯s just a lil squirt, but his music is outta this world! But Builds A Fire ain¡¯t for everyone. Kind of an underground phenomenon.¡±
¡°You got a song?¡± asked Alan.
¡°Sure, let me play one of my favorites.¡±
The hippie climbed into Ol¡¯ Betsy. The speakers crackled to life, then did nothing. He emerged bumping his chin to a song playing only in his head.
Alan looked at Mickey. The lawyer rolled his eyes.
¡°Are you trolling? I don¡¯t hear anything,¡± said Alan.
¡°Probably cause you ain¡¯t listenin,¡± said Nash. ¡°You oughta come to the concert tonight. The music grows on you. It¡¯s the launch of his first tour. But don¡¯t say I told you. That¡¯s some inside gossip from his label.¡±
¡°He¡¯s got a label?¡± Mickey said.
¡°Yep, White Owl Records. Groovy name, right?¡± The man went back to jamming out to the unheard music.
As they walked back to his car, Alan noticed the parking lot was starting to bustle with activity.
A plump woman with purple hair was selling blue guitar t-shirts out of the trunk of her car. The biker mom and her biker son were picking through them.
¡°You know that moment when you realize you¡¯re completely out of the loop?¡± said Mickey. 20 Builds A Fire Brings the Rain - Part 2
¡°Shit!¡± He heard as he entered the sheriff¡¯s department.
Deputy Gwen Wolf slammed her palm on the old keyboard sitting in front of her. ¡°McGreevy! Keyboard again!¡± she shouted.
¡°Technical difficulties?¡± said Alan, causing the petite woman to jerk around with her hand on her chest.
¡°Christ, Alan. Hasn¡¯t anyone ever told you not to startle a woman with a gun?¡±
¡°Sorry. I didn¡¯t see Comstock around, so I figured no one would shoot me.¡±
¡°He left, thank God. Him and his militia decided to throw a tailgater to watch the Grizzlies smack the Bobcats.¡±
¡°Maybe that¡¯s why we don¡¯t get along,¡± he said, referring to the historic rivalry between the University of Montana Grizzlies and the Montana State University Bobcats. Alan had spent his entire young life west of the great Continental Divide (also known as Griz Country), but when he¡¯d gone off to college, it was east to MSU in Bozeman.
¡°So, you¡¯re a Cats fan?¡± she asked.
¡°Not really. Just an alumni.¡± He couldn¡¯t stop his eyes from tracing her body; nor could he rid the night before from his mind.
¡°It¡¯s enough to get on Comstock¡¯s bad side. He thinks this¡¯ll be the year they break the losing streak.¡±
¡°People have been saying that for years,¡± said Alan.
¡°Hell, if the Griz lose again, they¡¯ll be back here drunk and angry,¡± said Gwen.
¡°Then go Griz!¡± Alan said. Was he flirting? ¡°So who¡¯s your team?¡± He was¡­
¡°Bulldogs,¡± she said flatly and hit the keyboard. ¡°McGreevy!¡±
¡°Georgia?¡±
¡°Yale.¡±
¡°Oh. Oh, wow.¡±
¡°What? Didn¡¯t think a redneck from the Rez would ever wear the ivy?¡±
¡°Not that.¡± He glanced around at the drab decor of the oppressive building.
¡°I could have done better for myself?¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t say that.¡±
¡°I wanted to make a difference here. I was sixteen the first time I set foot in this building. My dad was in the Highwaymen. He shut down I-90, trying to stop the automated trucks. They locked him up back there.¡± She indicated the cells where Francis was currently being held. ¡°They destroyed him with the legal system. So, I got into Yale, criminal justice. I thought a fancy degree would do something.¡±
¡°Those were crazy times,¡± said Alan.
¡°AI took over the roads anyway.¡± She pushed a clipboard across the counter. ¡°You¡¯ll have to sign in to see him.¡±
¡°How is he?¡±
¡°Quiet. Doesn¡¯t say much. Doesn¡¯t eat. Try to get him to eat.¡±
Alan held up the McDonald¡¯s bag he¡¯d been holding.
¡°He¡¯d be better off with jailhouse food,¡± she said.
¡°Yeah, but this is familiar,¡± he said.
¡°You¡¯re the shrink.¡± She gave him a weak smile. Her eyes were too beautiful, too green, for this fucking place.
¡°I guess... you know, about last night,¡± he mustered.
¡°No.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Stop.¡±
The short deputy came out of the back and picked up the keyboard. ¡°I¡¯ll have you up and running in no time, Gwen,¡± he said.
¡°Thanks, McGreevy. Alan, Francis will be happy to see you.¡±
He followed her down the drab corridor. Paint was peeling off the cement walls. She stopped before the drop into the holding area and looked up at him. Thumbs notched in her duty belt. ¡°Look, last night was a thing, but I¡¯m¡­ distant. I deal with it.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t need to explain yourself,¡± he said. ¡°Can I ask you something? I mean, something official?¡±
¡°Of course.¡±
¡°I¡¯ve read your report about a dozen times. I still don¡¯t understand why Francis was arrested.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not supposed to talk about cases,¡± she said.
¡°Please, Gwen, I¡¯m desperate.¡±
¡°I wasn¡¯t going to arrest him.¡± She lowered her voice. ¡°The order came from higher up.¡±
¡°Comstock?¡±
¡°No, Alan, the attorney general in Helena.¡±
¡°The AG? Why?¡±
¡°I¡¯m assuming Taylor was notified instantly. And, well, you would have found out tomorrow¡ªthey¡¯re transferring him to Deer Lodge. He¡¯ll await trial there in high security.¡±
¡°Fuck.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Deer Lodge was the state prison town of Montana and home to a number of maximum-security facilities. Alan had visited the town on several occasions to consult with patients and other mental health professionals, and every time he had to go, he felt a dark cloud descend upon him. It was a place where the worst of the worst were kept. If the criminal justice system was a mechanical beast, Deer Lodge was its steel jaws and teeth¡ªa place where hope was crushed.
It made him shudder to think of Francis being shoved into one of those desperate units behind a gauntlet of security cameras and buzzing doors.
The boy was curled into the fetal position on the hard bench of his cell, arms covering his eyes. Gwen opened the cage door with her badge and motioned for him to enter.
¡°I¡¯ll give you guys some time.¡± She briefly placed her hand on his shoulder. With her leaving, the door locked with an electric buzz.
Alan sat by Francis¡¯s feet. ¡°Hey there.¡± He gently touched a bony ankle.
Francis stirred and lifted his arm away from his face. The swelling around his eye was going down.
¡°Dr. Smith¡­ I mean, Alan.¡± His voice was uneven and defeated.
¡°You okay?¡± Alan asked.
The boy nodded.
¡°Gwen said you won¡¯t eat. You need to eat if you can.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t like it here, Alan.¡±
¡°I know. I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m trying.¡±
¡°Fuck this place.¡±
¡°Yeah, fuck it.¡±
Francis extended his hand, and Alan held it. He felt a feeble pressure. The boy¡¯s fingers were cold.
¡°Thanks for coming to see me.¡±
¡°Got something for you.¡± He set the fast-food bag between them. Francis looked at it but did not move. Alan gently pulled him up.
¡°I¡¯m not hungry,¡± he said, brushing back his hair.
¡°Come on.¡± He put his arm around his shoulder, and the boy leaned into him, light and frail. ¡°You got to eat, buddy.¡±
Francis reached into the bag and pulled out the hamburger, unwrapped it, and took a large bite. ¡°There,¡± he said with his mouth full, ¡°you happy?¡±
¡°Thanks. Pretty good, ain¡¯t it?¡±
¡°It¡¯s unhealthy,¡± said Francis as he chewed.
¡°Yes, but you know¡­ better than jail food.¡± Alan used the little square napkins to wipe away a dollop of ketchup on the corner of Francis¡¯s mouth. ¡°Francis, we need to talk about some stuff. I know you¡¯re feeling overwhelmed right now.¡±
Francis shrugged, regarded Alan sideways, and said, ¡°Let me have it. I can take it.¡±
¡°I know you can.¡± He was a brave kid. Alan would have crumbled in his position. ¡°Tomorrow, they¡¯re moving you to Deer Lodge.¡±
The boy dropped his burger back into the bag and faded against the cement wall. Deer Lodge was lore, the worst place on the Earth. The place you went when life was over.
¡°I can¡¯t.¡± It was a plea, almost a cry.
¡°I¡¯m going to do everything I can. And if you go to Deer Lodge, I¡¯m going with you, and I¡¯ll see you, just like now. I¡¯ll see you every day. I¡¯m with you through this. All of this. Every day of it.¡±
¡°They¡¯ll get me there.¡± His eyes were those of a cornered animal, darting around the cell.
Breaking all formality and rules, Alan opened his arms. Francis, shaking with tears rolling down his face, fell into his embrace. He stroked his back, careful not to press too hard on his wounds.
¡°It¡¯s going to be alright. I¡¯m here. I¡¯m not going to leave you,¡± he said, giving a promise he didn¡¯t know he could keep, a promise he had broken in the past.
Gwen was watching on the corridor step.
Francis pulled back and wiped his tears and runny nose with his jail-house sleeve. He sighed heavily, shook his head of hair out of his face, and smiled.
Alan brushed his cheek with the back of his hand and tucked that unruly strand behind his elfish ear.
¡°I¡¯m sorry. I won¡¯t be such a pussy anymore.¡±
He chuckled. ¡°Language, kid.¡±
¡°Sorry.¡±
¡°We will get through this¡­ one day at a time.¡±
Francis squeezed his finger. ¡°Thanks,¡± he whispered.
¡°No problem. Um, so, I have a question.¡± He dug the concert poster out of his pocket and unfolded it. ¡°I really don¡¯t understand this.¡±
Francis¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Oh my god! What the fuck? Cool! I never saw one before.¡±
¡°You didn¡¯t make this?¡±
¡°No way. It¡¯s good Photoshop. I look kinda badass.¡±
¡°If you didn¡¯t make this, who did?¡±
¡°Dunno. Probably White Owl had something to do with it. Yep, see! White Owl Records.¡±
¡°Are you a singer?¡±
Francis shrugged and said, ¡°I guess so.¡±
¡°And you have a record label?¡±
He nodded again with a huge grin.
¡°The person who gave me this poster said she heard about it two months ago from her son. They¡¯ve been driving for five days.¡±
¡°That¡¯s crazy!¡±
¡°The GPS indicates this building. The jail. Did you know you¡¯d be in jail two months ago?¡±
¡°Nope. I didn¡¯t even know I¡¯d be having a concert until you told me.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t have a concert here, now.¡±
¡°Not now,¡± chimed the boy. ¡°The poster says 7 PM.¡±
¡°It¡¯s almost five-thirty. Francis, you can¡¯t have a concert here in jail.¡±
Francis rested a hand on Alan¡¯s shoulder and said with a tone of wonder, ¡°The music just happens. You can¡¯t stop it.¡±
An electric excitement had taken over his body, and there was an impish sparkle in his eyes that moments before had been full of fear and tears.
¡°Shit! I don¡¯t have my guitar.¡±
For a moment, Alan considered not telling him that he had his guitar, that the system could be navigated, could be survived. It was the prudent thing to do. The thing he would have done¡­ before. But maybe it was the point of a midlife crisis. Maybe it was the stress of quitting his job and throwing all in for this fucking kid. Maybe it was that winter night thirteen years ago, or maybe it was something more, like the wildness he¡¯d felt inside last night after believing it had forever died.
Or¡­ it was the fire in Francis¡¯s dark eyes. How could this kid have such determination after all he had been through? The scars on his body were graphic signifiers of an abuse he did not want to imagine. Torture. There was no other word for it.
¡°I went to see White Owl.¡±
¡°You did what? Shit, man, you could¡¯ve died. There¡¯re bears up there¡­ and worse.¡° The last part was a whisper.
¡°Well, Little Joe gave me a bell and a dream catcher.¡±
¡°I know LJ! He starts off like a jerk, but he¡¯s a good guy. Did you see the big dream catcher I built?¡±
¡°The one in the trees? I did. You built that?¡±
¡°Yeah. Well, White Owl helped. She found the owl.¡±
Alan remembered the soft white feathers and the owl skeleton stretched out, its bleached skull staring into the void.
¡°It¡¯s magic,¡± said Francis. ¡°It stops the hunters. They haven¡¯t been able to get to the cave since we put it up.¡±
¡°The hunters? Who are these hunters?¡±
Francis shook his head. Fear returned to his battered face.
¡°You can talk to me.¡± He held the boy¡¯s hand in his. His fingernails were long and hard, the nails of a guitarist. ¡°Who are the hunters, Francis?¡±
Gwen was at the cell door but stopped when Alan held up his hand.
With the sincerity of a child who believes in his own nightmares, Francis said, ¡°The hunters want to stop the music forever.¡±
¡°Stop the music,¡± repeated Alan. He looked up at Gwen. She nodded. ¡°Francis, I have your guitar.¡±
¡°What? You¡­ you got it?¡±
¡°It¡¯s out in my car.¡±
¡°Aw, hell yeah!¡± he shouted. Jumping into Alan¡¯s lap, he kissed him on the cheek.
There was movement from the Gretas in their cell across the room.
¡°I need to go find Mickey,¡± Alan said.
¡°Yeah, bring Mr. Verona!¡±
¡°I¡¯m sure he wouldn¡¯t miss it.¡±
As Gwen locked the cell behind Alan, Francis said, ¡°Don¡¯t forget, seven o¡¯clock!¡±
¡°What¡¯s at seven?¡± asked Gwen.
Alan let her read the poster.
¡°Oh shit.¡±
On his way out, he saw the Gretas, still in their dirty rags, now on their knees, their hands over their heads in a mute gesture he did not understand. 21 Builds A Fire Brings the Rain - Part 3 At 6:50 PM, a crowd filled the parking lot in front of the sheriff¡¯s department. People stood or sat on the hoods of cars. They were laughing, talking, taking selfies, or live streaming videos onto the various tubes and metaverses¡ªand the congregation grew denser and more excited as the minutes ticked away. ¡°I can¡¯t let them in,¡± said Gwen. ¡°Where the hell did they all come from?¡± Alan and Mickey were inside the department, staring out at the phenomenon with Gwen and Deputy McGreevy. ¡°We need to do something,¡± said McGreevy. ¡°But I used to work concerts, and the one thing you learn real quick is that people who come to concerts don¡¯t like it when there¡¯s no show.¡± ¡°Why?¡± asked Mickey. ¡°Why do anything? We haven¡¯t done anything up to this point. Why get involved now?¡± ¡°Because you can¡¯t hold a concert in a jail,¡± Gwen said. ¡°Johnny Cash gave a concert at Folsom Prison. Best music he ever made,¡± replied the lawyer. The clock on the wall indicated five more minutes to go. The monitor displaying Francis¡¯s cell showed the boy sitting cross-legged on his little bunk. The next monitor displayed the Gretas. They all knelt in a semicircle as if in prayer; except for the tall one who was standing, gripping the bars, and staring at Francis. ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening here,¡± said Alan, ¡°but tomorrow they¡¯re shipping him to Deer Lodge. Gwen¡­ I mean, Deputy Wolf, Deputy McGreevy, I realize this might be a huge breach of protocol, but I¡¯d like you to look the other way for a moment. I don¡¯t want you to get in trouble for this¡ªand if you need to, you can arrest me, but I¡¯m opening that door in two minutes. I¡¯ll deal with Comstock.¡± ¡°Alan, as not your lawyer, I highly recommend you not do that,¡± said Mickey. Gwen stepped in front of the door and faced Alan, hands on her hips. ¡°The hell you will, Smith,¡± she said. He didn¡¯t want to argue with her, but he knew the danger Deer Lodge posed to Francis. Boys like him went in all the time, and if they ever came out, they were not the same. He¡¯d seen how his mood had changed when he saw the concert poster. If he could do one thing to bring him a shred of happiness on this of all nights, he was going to try. ¡°Gwen, please. Tomorrow, they¡¯re taking him¡ª¡± She held up a finger to silence him. ¡°If anyone is going to stick it to Comstock, it¡¯s gonna be me.¡± She opened the door and stepped outside. The crowd went silent. ¡°Folks, I realize you all are here for a concert. Against better judgment, I¡¯ve decided to let you in. I need you to move slowly, and do not push or shove. Please be quiet and respectful. I am a cop, and this is a jail, as crazy as that sounds. I will arrest you if I need to.¡± With that, she propped the doors wide open, and the people began to stream inside. ¡°Oh, shit. Orderly now, folks,¡± hollered McGreevy, the diminutive officer disappearing in the line that had quickly found its way down the hall to the holding cells. Alan pushed against the flow of people to get outside and bumped into the old hippie. ¡°Hey, dude, right on! Glad you could make it!¡± Retrieving the blue guitar from his car, he carefully carried it back to the jail. It was a full house now; no one else could get in. Those outside were getting comfortable. A group of rough-looking youths in black clothes surrounded the door, their faces painted with heavy scramble paint meant to confuse facial recognition cameras. For a brief moment, he thought they were going to jump him, but as he approached, they reverently parted. Whispers traveled among the people.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Make way!¡± someone shouted, and a narrow path opened for him into the jail. In the cell room, they squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. As he moved forward; he had to lift the guitar over his head. Francis smiled when he saw him. It was just narrow enough to slip through the bars. The boy, in his Lake County orange detention jumpsuit that sagged off his skinny limbs, raised his arms to receive the instrument. All while holding Alan with a penetrating gaze. He inspected the instrument almost lovingly. His hands glided gently over the faded body. Seemingly satisfied, he faced everyone and said, ¡°Listen carefully,¡± then turned and sat on the cement bench with the guitar on his lap. ¡°Maji,¡± someone said. ¡°Maji,¡± said another. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and brushed his fingers over the strings. Alan heard nothing, neither the sound of the strings nor Francis¡¯s voice when he opened his mouth to sing. Shoved into a little jail in the midst of the Rocky Mountains, he heard only the silence of the people who¡¯d come to listen. He noticed the biker mom and her son. She held the boy in front of her, arms across his chest. They swayed back and forth, enraptured. Next to Mickey, a big, burly man with cut-off sleeves and chains hanging from his vest clenched his fists, eyes fixed on the young Native American musician behind the bars. A tall man in a suit and tie had his AR glasses pushed up on his forehead. His lips moved silently. Two young lovers held each other, kissing and singing along to a song beyond a wall of deafness. He caught Mickey¡¯s eye, and the lawyer shrugged. After a few minutes, Francis stopped playing. He stretched his shoulders and flexed his fingers. ¡°That was an oldie just to warm up,¡± he said like a pro. The crowd broke into rapturous applause. ¡°Right on,¡± said the hippie, Carter Nash. And then they got quiet again, very quiet. Francis spoke. His soft words held a resonance that Alan suspected even those outside sitting on cars could hear. ¡°Maji, you¡¯ve come a long way. I will take your fear now.¡± He looked at Alan with sadness on his face, a deep pain in his youthful eyes. ¡°If this is your first concert, come here and close your eyes. Draw near the music if you cannot hear.¡± The crowd adjusted to allow a few people to the front of the room. Deputy McGreevy grabbed the bars¡ªGwen next to him, a head taller. The Gretas were standing in their cell, their pungent smell mixed with the sweat and body odor of others. Alan closed his eyes. They were as heavy as lead weights. He was in a dark place, surrounded by people he did not know. Pushed against people. Pushed against the cold, unyielding bars of Francis¡¯s cell. Panic threatened to take him, the childhood symptoms of claustrophobia rushing back. The darkness was vast and deep, a measure he could not fathom. A labyrinth of memories shrouded in shadows, and despite all those pressing in around him, he was alone. In the dark distance, he thought he could smell water. The lake? No, not the lake. Larger than a lake¡ªan ocean big as the sky, and a warm, damp wind blowing against him, at first softly, then more forceful. He was afraid that the shadows would be blown off the memories, and he would at long last be forced to look upon his shame¡ªhis terror; and that would crush him like that frozen night of sorrow long ago. He needed to get away from this trap of despair, away into the stillness. Just when he thought he could no longer bear it, that his bones would break along with his heart and mind, he heard the music. So soft, so delicate. The gentle brush of the boy¡¯s fingers against the strings. Each note, each chord of the music, reached out to him. He heard Francis take a deep breath, pulling him in, sucking in the weight that was burying him down. The boy¡¯s falsetto rose in a chant that, though he¡¯d never heard it before, was familiar as a primal sound, the sound from the womb, the warm yolk nourishment of the unborn, the sound from childhood, the rhythm of laughter and tears. The sound of time: ebb and flow, growth and decline, taken in and emptied out. The music directed him to one place only, the jail cell, sung from this boy¡¯s mouth, off his tongue like honey. Alan wept. He felt something warm on the top of his head. Perhaps someone else was crying on him, but when at last he opened his eyes and looked up, his tears were washed away by the rain. The ceiling of the jail was a bank of clouds, where lightning flickered deep within, red and green and purple. The clouds rolled, thunder rolled, another crackle of light, and the room sizzled with ozone. Next to him, Mickey Verona held the steel bars, his head pressed into them, his shoulders shaking. Next to him, the hippie Carter Nash tried to keep a stoic face, eyes red with his salty tears. Alan looked for Gwen and saw her pressed between two large men in cowboy hats. She had her hand cupped over her mouth to hold in her sobs, and she was shaking her head. The old hippie looked at him and smiled. ¡°Builds A Fire brings the rain,¡± he said in his thick accent. The rain came from those clouds. It poured and washed all the people in that room, all those who could hear, soaking them to the bone, soaking Francis and his guitar. There was no accounting for the passage of time, and then it was over. The note died with the closing of those swollen lips. Francis set the instrument on the bed. He got up and came to Alan, lifted his hands to the clouds, and like any boy would do in a rainstorm¡ªeven if that rainstorm was inside his own jail cell¡ªhe opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and tried to drink the raindrops, laughing, finally laughing. 22 Party Crashers - Part 1 Deputy Gwendolyn Wolf of the Lake County Sheriff''s Department tried to focus on the reality of her hands gripping the bars while simultaneously clutching to the event that was quickly fading like a dream upon waking. But it had been no dream. Her hair and her uniform were soaked through. She rubbed water out of her eyes and took a deep, humid breath that had the smell and taste of warm, wet bodies. The screaming started softly at first. The commotion came from behind the crowd, out in the parking lot, and worked its way inside. Someone pressed their full weight against her back. She turned, trying to find McGreevy so they could get control, but the deputy was nowhere to be seen. The slight man was lost somewhere in the mass. She shouted, but her voice was overpowered. She needed to get outside. Then the shouts and screams crescendoed, and she was shoved in unison, her head banging hard against the iron bars. Another scream rang out, but this one came from her own throat. The next she knew, the fleshy muscle of a fat, tattooed arm worked its way between her and the human wall, granting her enough space to turn and fall against Alan. She craned her neck and stood on her toes but still wasn''t tall enough to see. "Alan! What is it?" "Comstock," he said. "Fuck." The people, pressed together like a conglomerate of rock, began to give way, and she saw the massive sheriff shoving into the cell room. He wasn''t alone. Half a dozen other men dressed in military fatigues were with him. In slow motion, they slammed their riot clubs into people''s heads, tasers zapping out left and right. They were not any cops she recognized; they were Comstock''s militia buddies. The people in front of her parted. A man was picked up off the floor and thrown into the swarm, and Comstock was looming over her, baton in one hand, taser in the other. He looked up at the rapidly dissolving clouds, now a fine mist through the ceiling lights, and then down at the inch of water surrounding his boots. His eyes were wide and wild, and on his mouth a sardonic grin. "Everybody out!" he bellowed. The hippie went down under his stick. His taser snapped and crackled as he jabbed it out, sending people jerking to the ground, knocked senseless by the powerful jolts of electricity. His wrath turned to the cell, and his fury locked on Francis. He ran his badge over the key panel and threw open the door. "Comstock, no!" she tried to pull him back, but he shoved her hard into Alan. He grabbed the guitar from Francis and hurled it against the bars. The delicate wood cracked and snapped on impact. "Ahhh!" cried Francis, but his protest ended sharply when the baton slammed against his stomach with a thud-uff that doubled him over. Comstock brought his stick down on the boy''s back with a shuddering blow that sent him to the concrete floor where he lay still. "You son of a bitch!" Alan shouted. "Alan!" She tried to stop him, but he pushed into the cell and grabbed the stick to prevent it from striking Francis again. For his effort, he got a swift elbow to his face. Gwen saw him spin, and blood started to pour from his nose. Comstock shoved his taser into his neck and pulled the trigger¡ªonce, twice, three times¡ªthen slammed the truncheon into the back of his head. The psychologist crumpled, and Comstock bolted out of the cell, his next target a young woman in a tank top. Fear crossed her face as the sheriff bore down. Gwen felt someone pushing against her leg. She looked down to find McGreevy on his hands and knees. "Hey, we gotta do something," she hissed. He looked up at her, put his finger to his lips, then reached through the bars and pulled out the smashed guitar. Turning carefully, holding it to his chest, he vanished amid a stampede of people trying to make it out the door. The heavy heel of a combat boot scuffed the top of the late Sheriff Ryder''s antique desk. Gwen sat next to Mickey Verona, waiting as Comstock traced his mustache with his finger and thumb from under his nose down the sides of his mouth to his chin. In his hand was the poster advertising the concert. He gave a ridiculous laugh. "Builds A Fire Brings the Rain. You expect me to buy this bullshit?" He looked from Mickey to Gwen. "You know, I can see this swindling piece of shit lawyer and his psycho-babble boyfriend pulling this load of fecal matter, but you, Wolf? You are an officer of the law. Verona, I don''t know what your game is with this publicity stunt¡ª" "It''s not a game," Mickey interjected. "Didn''t you see the rain?" He indicated their wet clothes. "Broken pipe," said Comstock. "You know, Verona, I got every right to toss your ass into that cage with your shrink." "You''ve got no cause," said Mickey. "Alan didn''t do anything but try to stop you from killing Francis." Comstock crumpled the flyer and tossed it on the table, where it bounced off and disappeared. "Hah! You think anyone would care if that raping little¡ªFuck! Assault on an officer!" said Comstock. "And he had a weapon."Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. "It was a guitar," said Gwen, "just an old guitar. And Francis was only singing. And you didn''t have to break it." "You''re lucky the water shorted out the surveillance, but from what I could see, there was no music, just a bunch of hippies standing around staring at that _prairie ni¡ª_that, that boy, like a bunch of fucking retards." He dropped his boot to the floor and leaned forward. "And where the fucking hell is that chicken shit McGreevy? Christ, when I''m elected, his ass is gone along with yours. I am done with the bullshit in this department." "McGreevy left after he finished the filing. I said he could go early," Gwen lied. McGreevy, for some strange reason, was nowhere to be seen on the water-damaged salvages of the surveillance video. She''d sent him a text to this effect, and that she''d cover for him. If Comstock did fire them, at least he''d be able to fight it with a good lawyer¡ªpossibly not Mickey Verona. "I guess it''s his lucky day. He can take a vacation and think about responsibilities. Wolf, pack your shit. You''re suspended without pay pending further investigation." "Really? Who''s going to run the department with me and McGreevy gone?" "My deputies." "You mean your militia pals?" "I mean, as sheriff, I can deputize at my discretion. I don''t care if you have the nicest, most liberal degree in the nation. I''m in charge. I call the shots." He jabbed his thumb into his chest. "Verona, get the fuck out of my sight before I book you for aiding and abetting." Mickey raised his hands. "The paperwork wouldn''t be worth it." Kroker, with the cross tattoo on the back of his head, knocked at the door and loomed there silently at parade rest. The man carried a semi-automatic rifle over his shoulder. "I have some stuff to do," Comstock said. With that, he got up, donned his heavy police slicker, and marched out of the office. "See ya around, I guess," Mickey said, heading to the door. "Mickey, wait," called Gwen. He stopped. "Did you..." "Hear the music?" She nodded. He wiped his balding head. "Yeah, I did." He looked out into the lobby. In a whisper, he said, "I saw something. I''ll be back in the morning." With that, he strode across the lobby and out into the night. Gwen looked at the scuff mark on the old desk. She took a wet wipe from a plastic container and tried to rub it off. It stayed. She sighed. Even though Gwen had been at the department a good two years longer than Comstock, the responsibility rested with the county commissioner to set the line of succession until the next election. It was no surprise she was bypassed and the job given to Comstock on the basis that he had prior military service on the Eastern Front. A little patriotism went a long way in the conservative nest of the Mission Valley. For Gwen, McGreevy, and a handful of other career employees, there was the knowledge that both the commissioner and Comstock were militia members in good standing. Comstock had never liked Gwen. From a litany of workplace micro-aggressions and procedural disagreements, she had come to the conclusion that the man saw her Ivy League credentials as a sign of a liberal mole in a department that he was steering hard to the right. To his credit, Comstock was not wrong. Gwen was extremely liberal, but if it was a conspiracy, it was a conspiracy of one. She simply did all she could to inject compassion and common-sense police procedure into her job, which was enough to stroke the new jack-booted sheriff the wrong way. She picked up her stapler and turned it over to read the engraving: Procedure is the voice of Justice. She placed it carefully in the bottom of the box on her desk. A gift from Sheriff Ryder commemorating her one-year anniversary as a deputy. She missed the old man. He had brought a sense of humor and experience to the department that was earned from a lifetime in law enforcement. He was a tough, no-bullshit kind of guy. But unlike Comstock, Ryder had possessed compassion. "People, we''re a weird species, Wolf. We all think we''re perfectly sane, until we''re not. That''s why we''re here. And eventually, when we break, there''ll be someone there to catch us and put us in a strong room until we calm the fuck down." Gwen peeked over her box at the militiamen in the lobby¡ªboys, really. They were laughing and playing on their phones, taking selfies with their guns. No one was watching her. She put a few more random things in the box. Then, as if she owned the place, she headed down the hallway. Fuck these people. She''d spent the better part of five years working her ass off to make the office functional. And then Comstock, and now these interlopers! Alan was asleep on the floor, gently snoring with his arm draped over his face. His clothes were soaked, and there was a damp circle around him on the concrete. He probably had a concussion. Francis had made it to the bunk, where he was curled into a ball. Mickey Verona would deal with Alan''s legal problems in the morning, and Francis would be on his way to Deer Lodge and out of her jurisdiction for good. She had done everything on an administrative level to keep the boy where he was, but with Comstock''s stamp of approval, the matter was out of her hands. Short of kidnapping the kid and fleeing into the night, there was nothing she could do. Task number one for the morning: lawyer. Not Mickey Verona. She would also make one final bid to Helena. For what good it would do, she did not know but was determined to shed light on Comstock and his paramilitary-juiced operation. She could go to the press. There were whistleblower protections. That was what her dad used to say: "You need to be better than them. Sometimes they''re bigger, and sometimes they''re smarter. That just means you hustle your bustle." "Deputy Wolf?" The question came softly from the lump on the bunk. "Yes, Francis?" she whispered. "Did you like the concert?" he whimpered. "Yes, Francis. It was... it was... amazing." It was beyond amazing. And it had shaken her to the core. "Thank you." The words came out raspy. "I''m glad you liked it." She turned to leave. "Deputy Wolf?" "Yes, Francis?" "Do you have a gun?" "Umm, well, I''m a cop, so yeah. I have a gun. Why?" "You''re gonna need it." "Need it?" "Yeah. They''re here." The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickled. "Who''s here?" "The hunters." "What? Who are the hunters?" "They''re the ones who do this." Francis sat up. The front of his orange jumpsuit was stained dark red. He pulled down the zipper and let the top fall to his waist. The scars that crisscrossed his body were oozing blood. "It hurts, but I won''t cry." "My God," she cried for him. Her breath caught in her throat. "They come for me after the concerts," he said, "while the ripples are still on the guitar." "I''m going to take you to the hospital." "No." He approached her, the fabric of the jumpsuit bunched around his waist. The scar on his chest throbbed and split open. "Get my shoes. I need my shoes." She had been running prospective hospitals through her mind when the meaning of what he''d said struck; and parroted, "Shoes... need shoes." "Deputy Wolf, you gotta run." The look in the boy''s eyes and the fear on his voice said it all. "Okay," she said and headed back to her desk. 23 Party Crashers - Part 2
In the lobby, three of the deputized militia men were glued to football highlights on the big-screen television meant solely to display missing person alerts. Two of the three, with square jaws and dark, neatly trimmed hair, were obviously brothers. The third was a fat man with long blond hair and an unkempt beard that grew down to his chest. A short man had fallen asleep on the sofa. A tall, skinny man was playing a game on the office computer. Kroker, the one who seemed to be in charge, was a hulk with a platinum-dyed goatee and a cross on his shaved scalp. He sat at the processing desk with his feet kicked up on a chair. He had the radio tuned to a sermon by Pastor Tony. The deep broadcasting voice boomed out of the little speaker:
¡°Without God, the evil in this country will devour you. Jane Allgood will be our next president, and, despite her sexual perversions, she will be God¡¯s sword. I have no doubt He¡¯s going to cure her of that sin, just as He¡¯s going to cure this country of all its transgressions¡ª¡±
Kroker saw her, gave a wink, and licked his upper lip. A silver stud pierced the tip of his tongue.
Pretending not to notice the lewd gesture, she casually strolled to the window, as she would on any other night, and peered out. It was snowing again, much harder now¡ªheavy flakes made a dome of white around the single, solar-charged yard light in the center of the parking lot. She strained her eyes to see through the storm. Just another sleepy night in the early hours.
Comstock¡¯s vicious attack must have opened the boy¡¯s old wounds. He was probably hallucinating. He¡¯d taken a nasty hit to the head when he went down. She¡¯d finish packing, and before she left, she¡¯d have a medic come and check on all the prisoners. It would keep these idiots busy and out of trouble, at least for a few hours.
She was about to turn away from the glass when movement caught her eye. Just beyond the range of visibility was the faint outline of someone standing in the snow. Maybe nothing, just a mirage, her imagination¡ªand then it moved and was gone.
It had been a crazy day. The chances the boy was a little bonkers were elevated, but it wouldn¡¯t hurt to be cautious. She dropped the steel bar across the front door. The sound brought the deputies to attention.
¡°What the hell, lady?¡± said the fat deputy.
¡°I thought I saw something,¡± said Gwen. ¡°We need to secure the premises.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t be stupid,¡± said Kroker. ¡°Didn¡¯t Comstock tell you to get your shit and go home?¡±
The shortest of the men, the one who¡¯d been sleeping, now stood next to her at the window with his face pressed against the door and his hands cupped around his eyes¡ªhis breath fogged up the cold glass. ¡°I don¡¯t see nothin¡¯ but snow.¡±
¡°Sit down, Mark,¡± said Kroker. ¡°She¡¯s just trying to spook you.¡±
Gwen looked at the CCTV monitor and saw Francis sitting in the corner of his cell with his knees pulled up against his chest; he was rocking back and forth. Alan was awake and rubbing the back of his head. The Gretas were huddled in a corner.
¡°Hey, what the fuck? Internet died,¡± groaned the tall deputy at the computer. ¡°Shit, no phone signal either.¡±
Kroker picked up the desk phone and put it to his ear. ¡°Line¡¯s dead.¡± He kicked his feet off the chair and came to the window. ¡°It¡¯s just a bad storm.¡± He took the CB from his belt and called out, rather unprofessionally, ¡°Uh, hello, this is the sheriff¡¯s office.¡± There was nothing but static. The lights flickered and went out. The roistering voice of Pastor Tony blipped out of existence.
¡°Fucking shit!¡± cursed one of the brothers who¡¯d been watching the game.
¡°Sheriff¡¯s officer here. We¡¯re having internet and electrical issues. Do you read?¡±
The yard light¡¯s amber monochrome doused the quiet lobby. Now, all the deputies stood by the window, peering into the storm.
¡°Someone¡¯s out there,¡± said the short one.
¡°I only see snow,¡± Kroker said.
¡°I swear. Right there, by the edge of the parking lot. You see it?¡±
¡°She¡¯s got you pissing your panties. You¡¯re seeing things. Why don¡¯t you go check it out anyway?¡± barked Kroker. ¡°Danny, Donny, go with Mark.¡±
The short deputy, Mark, looked nervous.
The three men bundled up. Kroker unbarred the door, quickly locking it again when they were outside with their flashlights and guns.
¡°You guys read me?¡± he spoke into his walkie-talkie.
¡°Yeah, we hear you. It¡¯s fucking cold out here. Like someone turned down the temperature a hundred degrees.¡±
¡°Then hurry the hell up.¡±
The men trudged out and faded into the snow.
¡°It¡¯s hard to see,¡± came a voice over the walkie.
¡°Walk the perimeter and get back here,¡± Kroker ordered.
¡°Roger that.¡±
Quiet settled so heavy a pin drop would have startled them. Gwen, Kroker, the tall deputy, and the fat, bearded deputy were glued to the window, trying to see.
Her body jerked involuntarily when the walkie crackled.
¡°Jesus, I saw it!¡±
¡°Say again,¡± said Kroker, a tremble in his voice. ¡°What did you see?¡±
¡°Jesus, no¡ª¡±
¡°Mark, come in. Respond!¡±
¡°Danny? Donny? Respond, please.¡± Panic intensified. ¡°You guys come back in now. You hear me?¡± There was no reply. They waited. Eternal seconds, minutes. No reply.
¡°Can you hear me?¡± a voice called at last, but it did not sound like one of the deputies.
¡°Mark?¡± asked Kroker. ¡°Was that you?¡±
¡°We want the boy,¡± said the voice, low and gritty, almost a growl.
¡°Who is this? Guys, get your asses back here now and quit fucking around.¡±
Gwen felt the overwhelming urge to run, a primal instinct gripping her body.
¡°We need to help them,¡± said the tall deputy.
¡°No. Stay put. Call Comstock.¡± Kroker¡¯s voice trembled.
¡°Still no signal,¡± said the fat deputy.
Someone started broadcasting again, a faint whimpering, like the sound of a scared puppy.
From out of the whiteness, a figure emerged, took form, and stumbled slowly toward them with its hands out in front as if feeling the air for resistance.
¡°It¡¯s Mark!¡± said the fat deputy in relief.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
As he got closer, instead of going directly to the door, his hands searched for the window.
When she saw why, her stomach lurched, and it took everything she had to keep its contents off the lobby floor.
¡°What¡¯s wrong with him?¡± said the tall deputy.
¡°Jesus Christ,¡± said Kroker. ¡°Jesus fucking Christ.¡±
Mark¡¯s hands shook as they gently touched the window. He placed his face against the glass and peered inside, gaping holes where his eyes should have been. Blood poured down his face in two crimson streams.
¡°Fuck fuck fuck! Get him in here!¡± cried Kroker, but no sooner had he spoken than the shadow came out of the blizzard.
¡°There!¡± she whispered. At first, Gwen thought it was a man, but then she saw it was a dog, a large dog. It carried that savage hunger she had only seen in the wild.
¡°Mark, look out! Behind you! Mark! Mark!¡± screamed the tall deputy.
But how could Mark look without any eyes? Blind Mark turned in the nick of time to catch the full force of the animal as it jumped and hit him, slamming him back against the window. The glass cracked.
The scream that came from short Mark was one of final horror. Even in his blind and wretched state, he could surely sense the presence, and that presence from the stone age meant death.
The scream ceased as the beast¡¯s jaws sealed around his neck, and with one great twist, it ripped his throat out and let the body stumble back, the arterial work of the neck spewing forth a crimson fountain of the man¡¯s blood. Mark¡¯s hands went to his eyeless face, then he let them flop, and he fell over.
The beast stared at them with its gory, dripping maw, matted with blood and the fleshy residue of their friend¡¯s throat. Its long, forked tongue lapping its shards of razor teeth. Then it looked sharply in the other direction, its attention absorbed by something in the distance, and it prowled back into the storm, leaving Mark to bleed to death on the walk.
Mark¡¯s boot twitched once and didn¡¯t move again.
¡°What the hell was that?¡± the fat deputy implored.
¡°It killed Mark,¡± cried the other.
¡°I think it was a wolf,¡± said Gwen.
¡°It¡¯s about to be a fuckin dead wolf,¡± said Kroker as he pulled on his jacket and picked up his gun. ¡°Danny, Donny. We¡¯re comin¡¯ for you. Shoot to kill.¡±
Gwen ran to her desk and grabbed her flashlight from the box she¡¯d been packing. She also took Francis¡¯s shoes and a jacket from the collection of confiscated items.
¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Alan said when she entered the cell room.
¡°Something killed one of the deputies.¡±
¡°Killed? Something? What?¡±
¡°It happened so fast. I don¡¯t know. I think it was a wolf. It¡­ it ripped his throat open. He¡¯s dead right outside the front door.¡±
¡°The hunters,¡± said Francis.
Gwen unlocked the cell doors. ¡°Francis, put these on.¡± She set his shoes by his feet. ¡°They talked to us on the walkie. At least, I think they did. They said they want the boy,¡± she whispered.
Behind her, she heard the click of a gun being cocked.
¡°And we¡¯re going to give him to them,¡± said Kroker.
¡°The hell you are,¡± said Alan, stepping between the gun and Francis.
Kroker raised his weapon and leveled it at Alan¡¯s head. He was about to say something when the two men in the lobby started shouting. Overwhelmed with decisions, he turned and sprinted back to the front.
¡°Can we make it to my car? It¡¯s in the caf¨¦ parking lot,¡± said Alan.
¡°There¡¯s a side door,¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s a straight shot from there.¡±
In the cell at the front of the holding room, the Gretas were pressed against the brick wall, peering with wide eyes from behind their fabric masks.
¡°We can¡¯t leave them,¡± said Francis. ¡°They heard the music.¡±
¡°Christ.¡± She unlocked their cell door and yanked it open. ¡°Come on.¡±
The tall one came first, and the others followed, a hand on each shoulder in a train.
She led them down the hall and peeked around the corner. The deputies were at the large windows with their guns raised.
¡°This is the Lake County Sheriff¡¯s Department. We are under attack. Repeat, under attack!¡± Kroker screamed into his radio. At the reception desk, Gwen reached over and grabbed her confiscated revolver. In all her years on the force, she¡¯d never drawn her weapon in the line of duty, but she was a crack shot at the range.
¡°Do you see it?¡± one of them shouted.
¡°There it is! Right there! The fucker¡¯s just watching us,¡± said the other.
¡°Shit, there¡¯s another one. How many is that?¡±
She could just see out the front window where an animal paced back and forth.
¡°Alan, those things,¡± she whispered.
Alan squeezed her arm. Francis was between them.
¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± Alan whispered.
They had a corridor of twenty meters to the side exit. First Gwen, then Francis, then Alan, followed by the Greta parade.
When they reached the door, Gwen said, ¡°Let me lead. Straight shot to your car. I¡¯ll cover. Get in and haul ass. The roads will be slick. We need to put some distance between us and whatever¡¯s out there.¡±
Alan nodded and held Francis¡¯s hand. From the front, they heard something hit the window, then again, then the tremendous shattering of exploding glass and the rapid firing of weapons.
¡°Now!¡± She kicked the door open and stepped into the storm. The freezing wind drove snowflakes into her face like needles of ice. On this night, as they raced across the snowy knolls, her senses were surging, and her gun felt alive in her hand.
Francis slipped and went down hard. Alan lifted him to his feet without slowing.
¡°There!¡± He pointed. His car was parked next to the caf¨¦, already covered with a layer of snow.
Gwen turned around, and in a split second, a dark sense of horror rose in her at what she saw. A Greta had fallen, and the wolf¡ªno, not a wolf, something else; wolves don¡¯t get that big¡ªwas crouched over her, ripping away her fabric wrappings to get to her flesh. The other women kicked at the beast to get it off, their soft fists only causing the animal to snarl and snap. It grabbed the woman on the ground by the neck and shook its head violently. Then, it turned its deadly attention to the others.
¡°Run!¡± she shouted to them.
The tall woman looked at her, then at the beast now tearing at another of her companions.
¡°Fucking run!¡±
The tall woman raised her hand over her head, put her palms flat together in a silent salute to the dead and the dying of her sect, and bolted to the car in her long, flowing garb.
¡°Raven, unlock! Start!¡± shouted Alan. The car came to life, the snow over the headlights lighting up, casting their beams in a blue-green storm of swirling snowflakes.
It dropped down from the caf¨¦¡¯s roof, crushing the hood with its mass. It crouched and snarled; all its intention directed at Francis.
¡°Majiiiiiiii!¡± came the crooked sound from a maw unsuited to human words. Its fangs, as long as fingers, dripped with a viscous drool.
BANG.
Gwen¡¯s shot was sure, right through the creature¡¯s chest. It flipped over and hit the caf¨¦¡¯s wall, squealing like a stuck pig. Then it was gone, and all was silent.
¡°In! In!¡± said Alan.
Gwen grabbed Francis and tossed him into the back seat as she got in behind him and locked the door. The last remaining Greta climbed in the front and covered her head with her hands. She started to rock back and forth.
¡°Raven, override!¡± Alan was already slamming the accelerator. The electric engine gave a high-pitched whine, and the tires spun on the snow, moving the car only a few feet.
¡°Steady, steady¡± said Gwen with forced calm. Alan tried again. This time, the tires caught traction, and he headed for the road.
¡°Wait! Wait!¡± she heard, then saw Kroker running over the little hill that separated the department from the caf¨¦¡¯s parking lot, nearly falling over the strewn bodies of Gretas, dark lumps on the white snow. He waved his arms, and Alan slowed.
¡°No,¡± Gwen shouted. She¡¯d seen something behind the deputy.
Alan gunned it, taking a hard right. The rear of the car fishtailed as they hit the city street.
There was the deputy, waving his arms, and behind him, the wolf.
The last thing she would remember of the vulgar militiaman, with his shaved head and tattooed cross, were his screams and how they faded as they drove away.
¡°Where do we go?¡± asked Alan.
¡°City police,¡± she said.
At the end of the block, Alan took another right onto Main Street, where every streetlight was decorated with green, red, and gold Christmas ornaments, and all the shops were glittering with lights.
At this hour, the stoplights flashed orange, giving them a clear shot out of town.
Her adrenal glands firing, memory recording in HD at ultra-high speed allowed her to capture the black sedan flying down First Avenue directly at them in crisp detail. The sound was like being inside of a popping balloon. Her teeth shook.
Had it hit the back door, it would have killed her and Francis instantly, but it missed by a millisecond and impacted the rear of the car, sending the self-driver into a spin, bashing her head against the door frame, and toppling Francis onto her lap. The airbags deployed, a grinding of metal and breaking glass. They smashed through the front of a shop.
A security alarm blasted a piercing trill. Alan punched the gas, the engine whined, and the tires spun, but they did not move. She looked over at the car that had hit them and saw someone dressed in black get out, but what came around was not a person.
Gwen felt for her gun, but it was gone. Alan kept punching the gas to no avail¡ªthey were high-centered on the concrete steps.
The beast came to her window and opened its jaws. She saw the fangs, saw the dark eyes reflecting the strobing Christmas lights.
¡°No! Leave us alone!¡± the boy shouted. He buried his head against her shoulder.
From a distance, the sound of shifting gears, drawing closer, getting louder: MWAAA, MWAAAA, MWAAAAAAAAAAA.
The creature turned its head just in time to see the metal grill and let out a sharp, short yelp as its body was struck head-on with a crunch and snap of bone.
Down the street, the vehicle braked, came to a stop, and backed up, running over it again. Thump-a-thump.
The window of an antique, blue and white Volkswagen van rolled down and an old hippie in dreadlocks stuck his head out.
¡°Hope you got insurance. Ya¡¯ll need a lift somewhere?¡± 24 Joes Jiffy Stop - Part 1 The hippie Carter Nash''s 1963 Volkswagen van cut through the blizzard like an intrepid ship through a stormy sea. Alan could barely make out the edges of the gravel and snow-packed road, straining to see through the large, wet snowflakes that reflected the headlights. Nash slowed the van to a halt at a crossroad and looked to him in the passenger seat for directions. "Keep going straight. Maybe three or four more miles, and we''re there." Nash flipped a toggle switch, and an orange 4WD blinked on the windshield display. The van surged forward. "I installed this after my last trip north. Most of America you don''t need four-wheel drive, but I been learnin you do, if you want to see the most beautiful places," spoke the hippie, not taking his eyes off the road. Back in Polson, at the scene of the accident, it hadn''t taken much for Nash to convince them to pile into the van. He told them to hurry because he didn''t know if the thing he''d hit was dead or not. Gwen and Francis huddled together on the sleeper bed in the back while the Greta sat on the floor, gently rocking with her hands over her face. Nash had asked Alan to navigate the back roads. He thought it best to avoid Highway 93, the main artery of the Mission Valley, because he''d seen what he said were a hundred suspicious vehicles with tinted windows watching the main routes in and out of Polson. At one point, men in trench coats had halted him by standing in the middle of the road. They didn''t say anything, just scrutinized him carefully through the window before finally stepping aside. He was certain they were searching for those who had attended the concert. After Comstock''s invasion, Nash, nursing minor injuries, had hightailed it to his van, which he''d kept parked down by the river, as he was familiar with the gluts traffic during concerts and festivals. It was well past midnight when the snowstorm hit. He decided to roll south an hour and a half to Missoula¡ªhippie Mecca of the Rocky Mountains¡ªand find a place to lie low off the grid. However, curiosity got the best of him, and he cruised by the scene of the crime. That was when he spotted Alan''s car spinning out of the caf¨¦ parking lot, pursued by a werewolf or what damn sure looked like a werewolf to him. Curiosity killed the cat, and he''d turned the corner onto Main Street just in time to see the black sedan broadside Alan''s self-drive. With the pedal to the metal, he doled out a bit of retributive justice to the damned shapeshifter and rammed the sonuvabitch for all Ol'' Betsy was worth. "The thing with werewolves," Nash said quietly so not to be overheard in the back, "is ya don''t know they''re fuckin dead less you shoot em with a silver bullet right in the ticker or between their eyeballs." Alan didn''t know what to say. He''d seen what he had seen, yet the scientific part of his brain groped for a rational explanation to the night''s chaos. He did not believe in the supernatural, so for now, he was operating on the explanation that whoever had attacked the sheriff''s department had done so with vicious dogs trained to kill. The lights of Joe''s Jiffy Stop appeared faint through the blizzard. They paused at the intersection to observe the establishment before crossing Highway 93. The only vehicle in the large parking lot was the broken-down drone semi-truck. The forgotten vehicle was heaped with fluffy pillows of snow. A neon sign blinking HOT FOOD & BEER beckoned them to the warmth inside. "I think we''re okay. Sometimes you got to trust your refuge," said Nash. He accelerated through the drift across the highway and pulled around back, out of sight of anyone passing by. Little Joe was behind his counter, holding a shotgun across his lap when they entered, the copper doorbells ringing gayly overhead. "Sorry, all closed up," he said and pointed the gun in their general direction. He looked at Gwen, Nash, and the Greta. When he saw Francis, he pumped a round into the chamber.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. "Christ, Joe," said Gwen, "put that damn thing down. Something''s happened." "Goddamn right something''s happened. Scanner''s been on overload for the last hour. They''re looking for you, Deputy Wolf. And you, Dr. Smith. And him." He pointed the gun at the boy. "Francis," Alan said. "I know who he is, and I don''t need his kind of trouble." "Can we get to White Owl''s cave?" Alan asked. Little Joe scoffed. "You can bet that canyon is crawling with all manner of vicious things," said the fat store clerk. "There''s a chant on tonight. Didn''t you tell them, boy?" Francis looked down. "Figures. And now I''d like you to leave before they smell your stink in here." "They can''t track me. They can only track the guitar," Francis whispered. "Or your magic." "I''m done. I''m not doing any more magic. I hate magic!" "You can''t help yourself, and you know it." "Take it easy." Alan turned to Nash. "Let''s keep going. We can make it to my place¡ª" "No, you can''t," interrupted Little Joe. "They blocked the highway north and south." He let out an exasperated sigh and lowered his gun. "Damnit. Pull your rig into the garage. You can use the lounge. I''m going into lockdown mode due to weather and strange-ass shit! Stay away from the windows." Little Joe looked at Francis and added, "And no fucking singing. I swear to God, if I hear so much as a note out you... I''m doing this for White Owl. Only because I owe that old witch one last favor." The boy nodded, eyes wide, lips pressed tightly together. Little Joe acknowledged the Greta by tapping the barrel of the shotgun to his forehead. "Our mother the Earth," he said. The woman stared blankly forward. Alan, Francis, Gwen, and the Greta sat at the deli counter while Nash and Little Joe put the van into the garage. Francis leaned forward and put his head down. His hair matted to the side of his face. Alan wanted to pull it away and tuck it behind his ear like a mother might for her child. He looked at the ceiling for that baptismal rain, but it was just the Jiffy Stop. A clock with digital blue hands and a red second hand displayed the hour. 3:52:52AM. 3:53:03AM. Gwen reached across Francis''s back and grabbed his arm. Their eyes met. She looked tired. The Greta was rocking like a pendulum. Nash and Little Joe returned and locked the front with a heavy chain and padlock, then pulled down a steel security gate he secured with another, larger padlock. Finally, he pressed a button under the counter that lowered the arm at the entrance to the parking lot. Joe''s Jiffy Stop had seen little use since the shipping industry had gone full AI. Now it was a storage area packed with old gambling and arcade machines, expired candy and beer, and t-shirts that just wouldn''t sell anymore¡ªa museum of tacky relics. The trucker''s lounge consisted of a dining area with comfortable booths by large, barred windows that looked down on the old self-driving semi and beyond to the highway obscured by snowfall. Down a short hallway were the restrooms and showers. A sign scrolled HOT SHOWER ? OFF ON RAINY DAYS! A television room with a sofa and several oversized recliners glowed with the ambient light cast by a bank of arcade machines from another era that would now and then play a quiet electronic tune or a heroic call to the melancholy emptiness of their existence. By and by, he noticed Francis shyly acknowledging the video games, as any boy would, a trove of lost treasures waiting to be rediscovered. Little Joe threw down a pile of cardboard boxes and duct tape and told Alan and Nash to block out all the windows but to cut out a couple of peepholes. As they were doing this, he shut off the lights to the building, charging stations, and parking lot, dousing their world into the soft blues and reds of the neon LED signs and other electronic gizmos that populated random places throughout the store. A faint EDM track played over the speaker system. A childhood memory returned to him, of his father spending late hours at Joe''s on the poker machines, trying to win a month''s worth of rent. While Alan dropped quarters into the latest arrivals in the arcade and tried to flirt with the beautiful Indian girls who drifted in like truants with nothing better to do at their wrecked homes among the lodge poles, or take a beating from their angry cousins who cursed White boys falling in love with their kind. This was where he''d first met Zoey. How old was he back then? No older than Francis is now¡ªand she, a little younger. Eventually, she would let him kiss her and slip his fingers into her shirt. Meanwhile, both their old men gambled nickels and sipped their complimentary beers. There had always been that music playing in the background. He took a deep breath and pushed the memory down into the darkness where it belonged. 25 Joes Jiffy Stop - Part 2
Little Joe came huffing up the stairs, carrying an armful of fluffy, turquoise towels. ¡°You can shower and get cleaned up. Get some dry clothes. You can have them off those racks over there. Take whatever you need. Probably all went out of fashion ten years ago anyway. I haven¡¯t sold anything since the truckers stopped coming.¡± He slapped down a pair of scissors in front of the Greta. ¡°Have at it, sister.¡±
The woman pressed her hands together and raised them over her head.
¡°Our mother the Earth¡­ When you¡¯re all done, I¡¯ll nuke some hot dogs, and we can drink hot cocoa and tell ghost stories. Indians tell the best ghost stories. Ain¡¯t that right, Francis?¡±
Francis shrugged, eyes still locked on the floor.
¡°I bet you have a story to tell, don¡¯t you, kid? I bet the stories you could tell would make all our hairs turn gray.¡±
Little Joe sniffed the air. ¡°Maybe you can go first,¡± he said to the Greta. He moved to leave but stopped. ¡°No phones, AR glasses, anything that gets online.¡±
¡°Comstock took mine,¡± Alan said.
¡°I left mine at the department,¡± said Gwen.
¡°Haven¡¯t used a damn phone since I went off the grid thirty years ago,¡± said Nash.
¡°Good, you can use these.¡± From a denim pocket, Little Joe handed a pink phone to Alan and a red one to Gwen. ¡°Pink for the shrink, red for the red.¡± He laughed. ¡°They won¡¯t be able to track these. You can use them on my internet, but if you use them from a Wi-Fi, like at a coffee shop, and you log into your social media, they¡¯ll be able to pinpoint you within a few minutes.¡± He eyed each suspiciously while adding, ¡°Do not log into fucking social media.¡±
Alan turned the device over in his palm. It was much fatter than any phone he¡¯d ever used.
¡°You like that, doc? Made them myself. Good old reservation craftsmanship. There¡¯s a market for anonymity these days. Militias can¡¯t get enough of them.¡±
¡°I should call Comstock,¡± Gwen said, ¡°and explain what happened.¡±
Nash chuckled. ¡°Whatcha gonna say? That you were attacked by werewolves?¡±
¡°You should call him, Deputy Wolf,¡± said Little Joe, ¡°and listen to his words. If he¡¯s part of this, you¡¯ll know it.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t even know what this is. How could he be part of this? He¡¯s acting sheriff.¡±
She put the phone on speaker and dialed. It rang for half a minute.
¡°Hello, Lake County Sheriff¡¯s Department. How can I help you?¡± said a woman¡¯s voice.
¡°Hello, Sheriff Comstock, please?¡±
¡°May I ask who¡¯s calling?¡±
Alan nodded when she looked at him. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ Deputy Gwen Wolf.¡±
There was a pause. ¡°One moment, please.¡±
The line switched to an old Christmas song, ¡°I¡¯ll be home for Christmas.¡±
¡°Gwen? Where the hell are you?¡± There was a quiver in Comstock¡¯s voice.
¡°I¡¯m okay. I¡¯m alright,¡± Gwen said. ¡°The department was attacked.¡±
Another pause.
¡°What do you mean, attacked?¡±
¡°I mean, attacked. By people with wolves or trained attack dogs. Comstock, listen to me. This is going to sound crazy. I think they were werewolves.¡±
Alan could hear muffled voices in the background.
¡°Damn right it was attacked. Someone busted out that shrink and the boy.¡±
¡°Comstock, people died.¡±
¡°Goddamn right they did. I¡¯ve got six dead deputies here.¡±
¡°Oh my God, all six?¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
¡°And dead Gretas everywhere.¡±
The tall Greta hid her face with cloth-covered hands.
¡°Ambushed. Gunshot wounds to the head. Assassination style. It takes a real sick bastard¡ª¡±
¡°No, there were no gunshot wounds. They were attacked by animals.¡±
¡°Bullshit. You need to come in right now. The FBI¡¯s on the way.¡±
¡°I told you! We saw them. One of the deputies, I saw him attacked. Check the CCTV.¡±
¡°CCTV was offline. Come in now. We can help you. Is the boy with you?¡±
¡°No,¡± she said flatly. Her trembling emerald eyes locked on Alan.
¡°Gwen, help us get the boy back. We have reason to believe he could be in some danger. Perhaps some sort of grooming by this Dr. Smith.¡±
¡°Comstock, that¡¯s ridiculous, and you know it. I can¡¯t come in until I figure out what¡¯s going on.¡±
¡°I know Dr. Smith and the kid are with you. I also know you helped them kill the deputies, my deputies.¡±
¡°No! We didn¡¯t! It was the wolves!¡±
A long pause and a series of beeps and clicks.
¡°Where are you calling us from?¡±
¡°I have to go.¡±
¡°The only wolf is you, Wolf.¡± There was a sneer in Comstock¡¯s voice. ¡°You got nowhere to run. We¡¯re going to find you. We¡¯re going to find that fucking boy.¡±
Gwen ended the call with a shaking finger. She looked at them all and said, ¡°I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening.¡±
¡°He was lyin,¡± Nash stated.
A pall passed over the group, quiet as the Greta herself. From downstairs, there was a loud DING. Alan¡¯s heart jumped.
¡°Hot dogs are ready!¡±
Little Joe brought them each a large hot dog in a fluffy bun smothered in mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, and relish, along with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
Alan chewed carefully with his swollen lip. It was the best hot dog he¡¯d ever eaten. The meat was hot and juicy, and the bun was soft and warm.
Francis scraped off the fixings before devouring his.
¡°I gotta say, Lil¡¯ Joe, you do make a gourmet dawg,¡± the hippie complimented.
¡°Papa Joe¡¯s secret recipe. Remove from package, microwave for three minutes.¡±
When they¡¯d finished eating, they all sat in the soft booth, drinking their hot chocolates. Francis leaned his head against Alan¡¯s shoulder. He wanted to pull the child into his arms, rock him, and say that he would protect him from the world. But he could merely sit there with his heart beating. The father who had never been. He was no defender. He was not wise.
The Greta sat cross-legged on the floor across the room, her back against the wall, a neon BEER sign shining down on her as she cut up a black t-shirt.
The hippie leaned against the cardboard, and Little Joe had pulled in one of the comfortable chairs from the TV room and was reading something on his phone.
¡°The National Weather Service just declared emergency travel only for all of Lake and Flathead counties. Seven to twelve inches by morning, and it looks like the temperature is going to drop tonight. Minus forty.¡±
¡°Sweeeeet Lord,¡± exclaimed Nash. As if on cue, a gust of wind shook the side of the building. ¡°I say we stay cozy as peas in a pod here.¡±
Gwen laid her head on the table. ¡°I¡¯m so tired, but I doubt I could sleep.¡±
¡°We¡¯re all going to need sleep. But not all at once. We¡¯ll need to keep watch,¡± Little Joe said.
¡°Keep watch?¡± Alan questioned. He realized that he was probably in a state of shock. The events at the jail, the accident on Main Street, they felt like scenes from a movie and not something that had actually happened. Yet Gwen¡¯s call to Comstock had confirmed the authorities, including the FBI¡ªif Comstock could be believed¡ªwere looking for them as suspects in the murders of the deputies and the Gretas.
Francis pulled his hoodie tight around his head. Poor kid. He had warned them, hadn¡¯t he? He tried to tell Alan about the scars on his body, about the hunters.
¡°Doc,¡± said Carter Nash, ¡°I think we need to seriously consider our situation here and start cookin up a plan.¡±
¡°Fuck, Nash, I don¡¯t know what the hell happened,¡± Alan said.
¡°Well, you did go up to see White Owl, didn¡¯t you?¡± asked Little Joe.
¡°I did,¡± said Alan.
¡°No offense against White Owl, but there¡¯s a reason she lives up there in a rock and no one ever visits her.¡±
¡°Who¡¯s White Owl?¡± asked Gwen.
¡°She¡¯s the woman Francis has been living with.¡±
¡°She¡¯s a damn witch,¡± Little Joe interjected, ¡°and trouble finds her wherever she goes. And trouble finds you too, boy.¡± He pointed a fat finger at Francis.
¡°Sorry,¡± mumbled Francis, looking down at the tabletop.
¡°It¡¯s not your fault,¡± said Alan.
¡°It is my fault,¡± the boy persisted. ¡°If I hadn¡¯t given the concert, nobody would have died. They always come when I sing.¡±
¡°The hunters?¡± asked Gwen.
Francis nodded.
¡°Those things,¡± said Alan, ¡°Do you know why they come?¡±
¡°Werewolves, call em what they are,¡± said Nash.
¡°They want to kill me. They want to kill the Maji.¡± His voice was soft and lost. ¡°White Owl told me never to sing unless I have a plan to escape. I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t have a plan in the jail.¡±
¡°Who are the Maji?¡± Gwen asked.
¡°We are,¡± said Francis, weak of voice.
Nash took a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was one of the posters. ¡°Builds A Fire Brings the Rain,¡± he read. ¡°You sure did make it rain. I guess when it rains, it pours. Gotta say though, little guy, your music, it¡¯s¡­ I don¡¯t know how to talk about it. It¡¯s magic, sure as Heaven.¡±
¡°Here is where you are,¡± Little Joe declared. ¡°Hippie, I don¡¯t know anything about you, but Dr. Smith and Deputy Wolf, you two are professional people, logical people, yet here you are holed up in my gas station while the cops are out there looking for you because of some bloody tragedy tonight. And how those poor people died, well, you¡¯re just going to have to believe your eyes. And you¡¯re just going to have to accept that the shit has hit the fan, and things as they are now, are not as they were.¡±
¡°Cheers,¡± said Nash. He lifted his cup aloft, and so did they all, and touched them one to another in solemn recognition of their new reality. The Greta, shrouded in dry black fabric cut from the expired fashions of the Jiffy Stop, curled in a ball on the floor. 26 Hawks House
The knock came shortly after sunset, but he didn¡¯t open the door because it wasn¡¯t the secret knock. Was it too hard to do the secret knock? Two short, three fast. It could damn well save their lives one of these times.
¡°Hawk, you there?¡± The flimsy door did little to muffle the voice of his¡ªfriend? Yes, friend, best friend, only friend, and that was all. Hawk stayed silent and listened to the shuffling on the other side of the door.
¡°Maybe he¡¯s not here.¡± It was Rhonda.
¡°Oh, he¡¯s fuckin here, he just wants me to use his secret FUCKING KNOCK!¡± shouted Nine. He must have had his face planted against the door. BAM! BAM! ¡°Hawk, open up!¡±
¡°You jackass. I got it. Move.¡± It was a boy¡¯s breathy falsetto: knock¡ªknock¡ªknock knock knock.
Hawk turned the deadbolt and opened the door. Nine, a head taller than him, strode boldly into his one-room apartment, followed by Rhonda wafting the strong scent of flowers, followed by Spike wearing a big grin¡ªhe¡¯d changed his hair. He gave Hawk a fist bump as he passed. His skateboard strapped to his backpack displayed a worn middle finger stencil blazed with the motto
grind this
asshole
Hawk poked his head into the dismal hallway. Nobody¡ªjust a vodka bottle set against the wall. He closed the door and reset the deadbolt.
¡°See, I told you I¡¯d remember the knock,¡± said the twelve-year-old boy, puffing his chest up with pride. ¡°Can I use your phone?¡±
¡°Sure. Probably no Wi-Fi.¡±
¡°Thought you were busy.¡± Nine picked up one of his uncle¡¯s notebooks piled on the narrow bed in the corner. ¡°You know.¡± He made the motion of a cock going into his mouth and pushed his tongue against his cheek.
¡°Shit, Nine,¡± said Rhonda. ¡°How ya doing, Hawk?¡±
Rhonda was Nine¡¯s girl. Her long coat covered her swollen belly.
Hawk shrugged. ¡°Okay, I guess.¡±
¡°You miss school?¡±
¡°Fuck no.¡±
Of the four of them, Rhonda was the only one still in school. She loved school and got perfect grades. Just couldn¡¯t keep her legs closed around Nine¡ªbut then, who could?
¡°You should put these on the internet, get a few clams. Folks are into weird shit these days.¡± Nine threw the notebook back on the bed and pushed his little brother, who was standing on the sofa, holding the phone up trying to steal internet from the air.
The building had free Wi-Fi, but slow as shit and rarely reached the top floor.
¡°Stop it, asshole,¡± said Spike, kicking out distractedly at his big brother.
The lights dimmed and blinked out. Spike whipped around, and Nine tensed up. They listened, but all they heard was the rev of a car engine on the street below, and a faint song from some distant alley in the labyrinth of the city.
¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± Hawk said. ¡°The power¡¯s been going off and on all day.¡±
Spike went to the window and drew up the shades. The blue and red glow from the neon sign of the Chinese soup kitchen across the street filtered in.
¡°It must get freezing in here,¡± said Rhonda. She leaned against Nine, and he put his muscular arm around her.
¡°You know you can come stay at our house,¡± said Nine. ¡°Isn¡¯t it kind of creepy being here alone, you know, where he died?¡±
¡°Christ, you have like zero filter,¡± said Rhonda, punching her boyfriend¡¯s solid chest. He stole a kiss.
Hawk shrugged. That would be awkward, being in the presence of Nine, seeing him and Rhonda all the time. But mostly, the thought of their mother up in that room made him queasy. He was done with spinners.
¡°So, uh, did ya get the money, man?¡±
Hawk went to the TV on the wall¡ªthe screen was shattered¡ªand reached behind for the envelope. He tossed it to Nine.
¡°Fuck yeah! Thank you, bro! Thank you!¡± He thumbed through the cash. ¡°Five Gs, on the dime. I knew you could do it.¡± He slapped him on his shoulder, and Hawk winced. ¡°The fuck, dude?¡±
¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±
¡°Let me see.¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
¡°I said it¡¯s nothing.¡±
¡°Shut up.¡± Nine lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal the white bandage covering his shoulder. ¡°Dreams?¡±
¡°Yeah,¡± said Hawk.
¡°Let me see.¡± Rhonda carefully peeled back the gauze to reveal a deep gash. ¡°Did you disinfect?¡±
¡°Yeah, peroxide and antibiotic cream.¡±
¡°Do it again before you sleep. This time, no peroxide, just alcohol. You got that?¡±
¡°In the bathroom.¡±
¡°You okay, Hawk?¡± Spike approached with wide eyes.
¡°Lil¡¯ nigga had his first dream this week,¡± said Nine, tousling the boy¡¯s loppy dreads.
Hawk¡¯s heart jumped into his throat. Their eyes met. The ever-so-slight shake of Spike¡¯s head, imperceptible to all except for him, his eyes saying the rest. He hadn¡¯t told his brother. The thought of the hunters coming for Spike infuriated him, but there was no fight, just helpless despair. Hope that it was just a passing, and they weren¡¯t on his trail.
¡°Show him, Spiky.¡±
¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± said the kid, slapping the offending hand from his hair, ¡°Asa! Der it iz, signal, signal!¡± shouted the boy. He was already flicking through posts on his social.
Nine grabbed the hem of his little brother¡¯s hoodie and lifted it. Across his chest was an angry scratch, jagged with an upward swoosh at the end. In the light cast from across the street, he examined the mark. A scratch but not a cut. A warning. A marking. He knew that sadistic flourish, the signature of that hunter.
¡°Just those stupid fucks passing in the night. He¡¯s alright,¡± said Nine, to encourage the boy, to encourage himself.
But Hawk detected the uncertain vibrato in his friend¡¯s voice.
Spike flexed his muscles. ¡°Ain¡¯t no thang. Fuck.¡± He pulled down his hoodie and pushed Nine away.
¡°I guess my lil¡¯ boy¡¯s becoming a man.¡± Nine swatted his brother¡¯s butt. ¡°Next, you¡¯ll be ringing out your PJs in the morning.¡±
¡°Asshole, merdumashiba!¡± said the boy as he flicked through posts.
¡°Hey, none of that devil tongue, hear me! We speak English in Montana.¡±
¡°Ain¡¯t ¡®tana, you in the BAT now, bitch,¡± spat Spike. He shot a glance at Hawk and did his wink, grin, tongue-tip nipped between his pearly white teeth. The kid had spent enough time in and around the Asiatown ghetto that he¡¯d picked up the sloppy slang dialect like a native, a m¨¦lange of half a dozen refugee languages.
¡°Maybe we shouldn¡¯t go out tonight,¡± said Hawk. ¡°I feel¡­ we shouldn¡¯t go out tonight. I¡¯ll call Mrs. Olsen and do a pick-up tomorrow.¡±
¡°No! Fuck! It can¡¯t wait,¡± said Nine. ¡°She¡¯s really bad.¡±
¡°They¡¯re close these days. This!¡± Hawk pulled up his sleeve. ¡°I wasn¡¯t even sleeping.¡±
¡°You made the deal, right?¡± asked Nine.
¡°Yeah, but¡ª¡±
¡°We can¡¯t piss those people off. They¡¯re our only source. Shit, bro, you don¡¯t fuckin diss a deal.¡±
He felt the anxiety building.
Spike was kicked back on the sofa, absorbed in his phone. God, he prayed again the mark on his chest was in passing, that they hadn¡¯t locked onto the trail of the boy¡¯s chant. Nine wasn¡¯t a believer. They¡¯d almost come to blows over the topic before, but he couldn¡¯t hold it in. This was about Spike.
¡°Let¡¯s find the fuckin¡¯ Maji. Fuck, come on!¡± Hawk said it for the hundredth time.
Nine¡¯s look was cold. ¡°There ain¡¯t no goddamn fucking Maji! That shit your uncle wrote, he was blissed the fuck out, gone spinning a thousand fuckin¡¯ miles an hour, a fuckin¡¯ million.¡±
Poor out-of-the-loop Rhonda tried to calm her hunk with the softness of her touch.
¡°He knew about this,¡± countered Hawk. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t have made that shit up.¡±
¡°You wanna get yourself killed? Get us all killed, going around asking about the Maji?¡± Nine headed for the door. ¡°Let¡¯s get a move on. She¡¯ll be there in an hour.¡±
Hawk resigned with a sigh. ¡°Fire exit,¡± he said. ¡°Keep your comings and goings confusing.¡±
¡°Christ,¡± muttered Nine. ¡°Paranoid much?¡±
Spike was already climbing the ladder that led up to the roof-hatch on the ceiling, showing off his strength by using only his arms.
They stood on the roof of his building, staring out at the crowded skyline of the Northwest Refugee Project. This strange addition to the Rocky Mountain front had been constructed years ago, long before Hawk or his friends had popped into this world. It had begun on an expanse of unused rail yards and had since crept slowly, mostly in shanties, toward the Yellowstone River, where everything was built on stilts to avoid the floods that sometimes came in the spring.
It was a dismal night. A carpet of clouds hung low, threatening precipitation, perhaps snow. The Crystal Tower shot up and vanished into this foggy morass. He¡¯d never gone into that building. He wondered if it went so high that it pierced the clouds into the thin frozen air, into the night, and that those who walked its uppermost floors could see the stars above.
No one except for the government called it the Northwest Refugee Project¡ªthat just sounded pitiful. The BAT (Billings Asiatown) was what everyone who lived in or interacted with the project knew it as, because most of the refugees were Asians escaping from the rapidly rising waters. And like other Asiatowns around the world, the BAT accepted all under the Earth Treaty, a place of dry land and indeed refuge, but you had to follow the rules, and some of the rules you just didn¡¯t talk about. And just because it was a slum didn¡¯t mean there was no money. Towering up out of the shacks and shanties of the lower levels was the great city in the sky, skyscrapers built by the wealth of displaced super conglomerates, chaebols, industry, legal and illegal, technology, luxury apartments that were said to house the super-rich users of the Escape drugs. Elites lucky enough to afford the leaps to the highest levels. There was even a rumor that the penthouse floors of the Crystal Tower were inhabited solely by those who had ascended to the serene enlightenment of Level 21.
The BAT was his home. It was here in this very building, in the apartment they had just left, where he had been born to a prostitute and Escape addict. Her name had been Nhi Ng?c Nguy?n, and he only had two images of her in his memory: one of her sitting at the table eating little dabs of diluted Escape. There was always a candle beside her, and when the nightmares came, she¡¯d light it from a box of matches, put it out, and light it again. The other memory was near the end, her in the bed now covered in his uncle¡¯s mad books and scribblings; fingers curled like claws and the screams of her anguish, night after night, as her mind slowly splintered into a million fragments. And then one night on the street below, the police lights and cries for help, and after that, it was silent, and he was alone¡­ until his uncle came to watch after him, but he was on his own spin¡­ and that was another story.
¡°Damn, Hawk, you got a great view,¡± said Rhonda.
¡°You okay, man?¡± Nine put a strong hand on his back, a friendly gesture, but it made Hawk flush, and heat sprung up from his toes.
Little Spike took his hand and squeezed. ¡°We¡¯ll find the Maji,¡± he whispered.
Hawk squeezed back. These were his friends. 27 Hawks Job
¡°Pregnoids,¡± said Spike. They watched the tuk-tuk pull away from the curb, carrying Nine, Rhonda, and the money. ¡°He¡¯s totally gonna grab her tits.¡±
¡°Hey, words, man,¡± said Hawk, but he was laughing on the inside.
¡°What? He said they¡¯re swollen ¡®cause she hatchin¡¯ an egg.¡±
¡°Christ.¡±
¡°You jealous?¡±
The kid was fishing for a reaction.
¡°No, and what the hell did you do to your hair?¡±
¡°Oh, you noticed! Sun-kissed. Rhonda did them for me.¡± Spike took one of his soft dreads between his grubby fingers and inspected it. The blond highlights accentuated his caramel complexion.
¡°I bet we can beat em to the Cage.¡± Hawk dropped his skateboard onto the cement, wet from a flurry that had fallen and melted. Judging from the low clouds reflecting the flashing lights of Asiatown, it would probably snow again before morning.
¡°Oh, hell yeah,¡± said Spike.
Hawk surveilled the alley in front of his building one last time: the woman selling dumplings, their steamy essence evaporating into the air. The red and blue lights of the restaurant across the street cast on the crumbling cement in front of them. That man who tended the trash barrel fire with wooden detritus he collected; now he warmed his hands (gloves with the fingers cut off, a tattered jacket from his military deployment) over the leaping flames, skin darker than Nine¡¯s but different, a bit of the South Asian russet to him, a scar across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. He kept to himself and, at times, kind of mumbled in the slang, but watched everything like a meticulous recorder. He was handsome but had that edge of a fucked-up veteran. That was all. The coast was clear.
They skated the smooth sidewalks of Minnesota Avenue. On their left, the old, historical, red brick buildings of downtown Billings. On their right, the jungle of Asiatown: low shanty shops, food stalls, and family businesses alight and flickering with elaborate LED signs written in scripts and logographs from far-off lands that were now sinking into the sea or had been swallowed altogether. Large cement tenements rose into the rolling clouds where their tippy-tops faded, home to the countless and growing population of climate refugees, of whom Hawkson Nguy?n, if only by half, was one.
Spike gave a hand signal and turned a block from where the sidewalk ended in a pile of gravel. They skated into the density of the BAT on a narrow side street, weaving in and out of pedestrians and around markets that had stolen street space to display their wares. A tall, White man carrying a tray of bamboo steamers cussed, ¡°Seki-fuckers!¡±
Spike narrowly avoided him.
¡°Sorry!¡± Hawk shouted as he sped by. The smell of rich broth, meat, and garlic assaulted his nostrils, making his mouth water.
He¡¯d not eaten all day long. Maybe he¡¯d grab a slice of pizza at the Cage. It was the best. He¡¯d done a couple of extra jobs, so he had a little pocket money. He wanted to do something nice for his friends, especially Spike. Let him skate. Let him get lost in a VR game and forget about his troubles.
Christ, those fucking dreams.
The narrow path curved and opened slightly, the market falling away as it started to descend. Hawk copied Spike by crouching to pick up speed as they zipped from the sparkling lights into unattended shadows in the deepening night.
Blocks away, he could already hear the rhythmic pounding of the Cage. Spike dared to look back, a wicked smile on his face. Fuck, he was gonna take the shortcut. Hawk shook his head in warning and mouthed, ¡°No.¡± The boy gave him the finger, leaned back at just the right moment as the road diverged at a wedge-shaped building, and was gone, and Hawk was alone.
He tucked, grabbed the corners of his board and focused on the road ahead. The wind ripped through his hair and stung his eyes. He barely missed smashing into a delivery motorcycle as it cut in front of him. Out of the corner of his vision, he glimpsed a long black car and a dark figure moving into the shadow. Then he was skating past kids loitering and smoking. Their AR glasses flickering, their laughter and languages mixing together, the music ever louder, and the cold smell of water and the rushing river a constant, basic drone.
The road ended in a long ramp into the hundred-year-old warehouse, elevated on massive concrete pillars over the river. Spike stood at the top, resting his head on his skateboard behind his neck, a kiss-my-ass grin plastered across his face.
¡°You¡¯re gonna kill yourself one of these days,¡± chided Hawk.
¡°Maybe. But until then, I win,¡± bragged the boy.
Together, they entered the sprawling arcade and skate park, the pulsating beat of the music drowning out his thoughts. A giant gas heater blasted hot air down from the rafters. A throng of dancers undulated their bodies as they wove in and out of holographic projections of stars and planets and ghostly ether-dancers. Spinners, most of them. He had to grab Spike by the scruff of his hoodie and pull him away from the sight of two lovers practically mating in the open. The boy feigned a shocked expression and said something, but it was lost in the sultry chaos.
A fat man wearing small, round AR glasses sat at a desk guarding access to the skate ramps. He was distracted arguing with a heavy-breasted woman in net stockings and flashing fingernails, and did not see them drop in on their boards without paying and slip into anonymity among the other skaters.
The music dimmed behind them. Spike boasted his ground tricks: a kick flip, a rolling handstand that sent his t-shirt and hoodie falling up around his armpits, showing off the taut muscles of his torso¡ªmaking sure Hawk saw him¡ªthen landed a flawless impossible, as if he was born on a skateboard. He kicked off to the far bank, where he waited in a crouch like a superhero, not moving until Hawk rolled to a stop beside him.
¡°D¡¯ja see that?¡± The boy beamed, as if he were God of the ramps, as if nothing could hurt him, as if by hubris alone he was invincible.
¡°Nope, missed it, sorry.¡±
Spike glared and let his pink tongue dart out between his lips in the trendy gesture practiced by the kids of the Cage¡ªhalf enticing, half insulting.
There was that nagging tingle in his solar plexus, the sensation he¡¯d get before the nightmares came with their clawed phantoms, as if someone was watching. He looked back to where they¡¯d come from but saw only skaters and, beyond them, the lights of the dance floor and the dancers.
On this side of the ramps were the PC-Bangs, small shops packed with computers and dredged-up VR units. Here, the kids, mostly of Japanese and Korean ancestry, stared into the simulated war beyond their glasses. Their fingers working the air in front of them, striving to reach the top of the leader boards; in their young way, claiming a semblance of honor for their ancestral homelands now sunk beneath the waves.
¡°Let¡¯s play!¡± said Spike.
Hawk shook his head, took the boy¡¯s hand, and led him up the stairs to the Loft.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
The Loft, part shopping mall, part food court, was the open second level of the Cage. When you were tired of games, dancing, or skating, you could escape to this relatively secluded place to make out or peer down on the action below. In one corner was a large theater with an array of different HD screens; tonight, each showing an episode of Eternal Love. It was packed with a gaggle of giggling girls taking selfies whenever a heartthrob appeared on the large screens behind them. Spike dropped his board and skated past the food stalls, rubbing his tummy. He sucked it in to look like a waif.
These shops sold street-food favorites such as banh mi, siu mai, tteokbokki, and steaming noodles of a dozen different ethnicities. There were the milk tea shops, coffee shops, slushy stores, and the aptly named Buffalo Chip Pizza that never, never rested. Operated by a dangerous-looking man with a handlebar mustache, pompadour, and white shirt, who was always either drinking his coffee, smoking a cigarette, or spinning a pizza dough into a level plane above his head.
¡°Hawk, can we get some pizza? Please, please, please!¡± begged Spike. It was his favorite place, despite his frenemy repartee with the owner. An one-time insinuation of pepperoni shortage had been lodged by the boy, and the man of some northern name had thereafter indignantly loaded up Spike¡¯s pizzas with absurd amounts of extra meat.
¡°Later, let¡¯s wait for your brother and Rhonda and do this shit.¡±
Knowing he¡¯d get fed either way, Spike skated to a large, round, stainless steel table on the balcony. They sat and stared down at it all and waited.
The business at the Cage was hypnotic to watch, a microcosm of Asiatown reflected in its youth. A cacophony of cultures trying to survive and etch out an existence on refuge granted by the state of Montana.
¡°I bet they stopped for a BJ,¡± said the boy, his dirty sneakers kicked up on the railing.
¡°Fuck, do you ever stop?¡±
¡°No.¡± Spike pulled out Hawk¡¯s phone that he¡¯d taken from the apartment and logged on to the Cage¡¯s free internet.
Maybe the kid was right. Asiatown was safe, mostly. Hawk didn¡¯t worry about Nine; his friend could handle himself if he could keep his sarcastic mouth shut, a trait his little brother obviously shared. But Rhonda was a true outsider, a trailer trash girl from Billings. She was soft, and she¡¯d been known to freak out at the most inopportune times. If it wasn¡¯t for the fact she loved Nine¡ªand that she was pregnant with his child and he wouldn¡¯t let her out of his sight¡ªand Nine loved her, Hawk¡¯s sphere would have never coincided with hers, and she would have never even given him the time of day.
¡°Penny for your thoughts,¡± Spike said.
¡°Huh? You ever seen a penny before?¡±
¡°No, but it means¡ª¡±
¡°I know what it means.¡±
¡°What the hell are you thinking about?¡±
¡°Where the hell¡¯s your brother?¡±
Spike did the crude gesture with the invisible phallus and his tongue.
After a bit... ¡°You love Nine,¡± he said without looking up from the phone.
¡°No, I don¡¯t.¡±
¡°Yes, you do.¡±
¡°He¡¯s my friend. Just my friend.¡±
¡°Dude, it¡¯s okay. I know a lot of fags.¡±
Hawk raised an eyebrow. ¡°Like who?¡±
Spike looked up, furrowing his brow, thinking really deep, then with his middle finger pointed at Hawk, he mouthed silently, ¡°Like you¡± or ¡°Fuck you.¡± Hawk couldn¡¯t tell.
The boy jumped to his feet and pointed. ¡°There they are!¡±
Down below, Nine was guiding Rhonda on the walkway next to the ramps. He had a protective arm around her, and she had her fingers shoved into her ears.
Hawk rolled his eyes.
Spike saw him. ¡°Rhonda gaaaa!¡± said the boy in the slang.
¡°Tuk-Tuk double booked,¡± said Nine as he plopped down. Rhonda slipped off her shoes and put her feet on his lap. He absentmindedly began to rub them.
Hawk tried not to stare at her heel, pushing into his crotch.
Nine reached into his jacket and tossed the envelope onto the table.
¡°She¡¯s here,¡± said Hawk.
From the stairs, a middle-aged woman dressed like a schoolteacher in slacks and pumps headed deliberately in their direction. When she got to their table, she looked down on him with motherly disapproval.
¡°Hawk,¡± spoke Mrs. Olsen in her slight Norwegian accent, ¡°Thor hopes this isn¡¯t for you.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t spin,¡± he said.
Mrs. Olsen was a representative of the drug dealer known only as Thor. As anonymous as he was legend, no one outside his tight circle could identify him, but Hawk always pictured a mountain of a man with a horned helmet wielding battle axes and machine guns. His syndicate, like many, had slowly been pushed abroad by the endless war between the West and FEEN and the shrinking real estate due to the rising ocean levels.
The woman took a seat at the end of the table and set a small, blue pillbox in front of her. ¡°This is the fourth time you¡¯ve purchased L3 from us this year. That¡¯s twenty-eight thousand dollars. A lot of money for a kid.¡±
¡°I got the money.¡± He pushed the envelope past Spike. The boy was lost in his own little world of social media¡ªor pretended to be. But Hawk knew Spike saw all with his curious, wondering, beautiful eyes that twinkled with undiscovered possibility and an equal share of mischief.
She looked at the envelope for a moment, then back at Hawk. ¡°It¡¯s come to Thor¡¯s attention that someone has been selling dabs in Billings. Three soccer moms were hospitalized up in the Heights last week.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not selling dabs.¡±
¡°You¡¯re not selling dabs. You¡¯re not using it. Like I said, a lot of money for nothing.¡±
¡°I got a job,¡± said Hawk.
¡°A job?¡± She looked them over, picked up the pillbox, and put it in her pocket.
¡°Please,¡± said Nine. ¡°It¡¯s for my mom.¡±
¡°It¡¯s always for somebody else.¡± She started to walk away.
¡°Hawk, what the hell? Stop her. Mom needs that.¡±
¡°Hey, wait. Please,¡± called Hawk, but she kept walking. He shut his eyes in frustration so he would not cry and said louder than he intended, ¡°I sell my ass.¡±
She stopped.
In their little company in that loft in the corner of the Cage, sequestered from the night¡¯s fun, time seemed to slow down.
¡°Hawk,¡± spoke Nine, his voice breaking.
He looked at the tall, dark boy, his strong presence, his pleading eyes. ¡°What? Is there a problem with that? Where else would this money come from, huh? How do you think I live? How do you think I pay rent for that fucking hole? I suck cock too! So, I guess you¡¯re right.¡±
Mrs. Olsen returned to the table and sat with poise in the empty chair next to Spike, who, for his part, stopped slouching, put his hands on his lap, and looked at Hawk.
He wanted to shrink into a microscopic spec and vanish into the air or explode into a trillion dust particles and have a hurricane blow him away.
¡°How old are you?¡± the woman asked.
¡°Fifteen,¡± he said. He was going to lie as he did on all his profiles, but it didn¡¯t matter. ¡°I¡¯ll be sixteen in a few months.¡±
There was a look on her face of sadness and compassion. Perhaps she had a son. Perhaps she could recognize.
¡°Times are tough,¡± she said. She took out the pillbox, pushed it to the center of the table, picked up the envelope, and put it in her pocket.
¡°Thank you,¡± said Hawk, staring down. The stainless steel of the tabletop had been vandalized in a m¨¦lange of languages; the etching of a shooting boner protruded from the forehead of his dull reflection.
¡°Be careful,¡± she warned. ¡°A boy could meet the wrong person. The BAT isn¡¯t all flashing lights and music.¡±
The words stung with their truth¡ªthe truth of what he had learned from experience. But she didn¡¯t know shit about him, about the fire that burned inside¡ªthe fire he could barely control.
¡°I¡¯ll be fine. There¡¯re worse things than jizz.¡±
They were all looking at him, his friends. He could feel their eyes on him, mapping the contours of his shame.
¡°Yes. Yes, I guess there are.¡± She said to Nine, ¡°Fifth dose of L3. You know what that means?¡±
In the looking glass of the table, Hawk saw him nod.
¡°Has she started to splinter?¡±
He nodded again.
¡°I¡¯m sorry then. Good luck to you.¡± She stood, stopping for a moment as if she had a final dose of motherly wisdom to inject into the scene, but instead walked away without turning and was gone.
Someone grabbed his fingers¡ªa dark little hand pressed warm palm to palm. He pulled away from Spike¡¯s touch. He shouldn¡¯t be anywhere near him, lest the perversion of his nature already add to the wreckage of the boy¡¯s world.
Nine fell into his chair and laid his head on the table between his outstretched hands. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, man. Hawk, I¡­ I shouldn¡¯t have asked you. Don¡¯t do that anymore.¡± There was gravel in his voice.
¡°It¡¯s okay, man,¡± said Hawk. But it wasn¡¯t.
The muscles in Nine¡¯s neck began to tense.
¡°Nine?¡± Had he spoken?
Nine¡¯s fingers twitched and tapped on the table. The air became crisp, and Hawk¡¯s teeth tingled. He wanted to lie down on the floor, stretch out, and take deep breaths.
Spike¡¯s hands on his shoulder were hot. ¡°Nine¡¯s gonna¡­¡± The boy¡¯s voice was distant, like an echo across a canyon. ¡°Nine¡¯s gonna chant!¡±
¡°Nine, don¡¯t,¡± pleaded Hawk. ¡°It¡¯s okay. I¡¯m okay. Don¡¯t. Don¡¯t. They¡¯ll feel it.¡±
His friend¡¯s hands bunched into fists.
The boy stood up fast, trembling with his strength. He raised his fists and yelled, ¡°Arhhhhaaa,¡± and brought them down on the metal mirror of the table. The stainless steel buckled and bent in half as if it were tinfoil, and the tiles beneath it shattered as the floor shook. 28 Hawks Flight
Nine held his hands out in front of himself, his chest heaving, muscles flexing. The eddy of his enchanted rage flowed out and away, lapping at every surface it passed.
Hawk took a deep breath and shouted, ¡°Stop!¡±
¡°Oh, fuck¡ªoh fuck¡ªI¡¯m sorry!¡± The teen¡¯s hands gripped his head.
Hawk looked around. The music pounded. The girls were still taking selfies with Eternal Love as if nothing had happened. They hadn¡¯t noticed. Hadn¡¯t heard. But the man with the handlebar mustache in the pizzeria had stopped. He watched them for a second, then went back to spinning the dough on an invisible plane above his head.
Below, on the first level, they danced, skated, and played their video games. Maybe they were safe, but there was that flutter in his solar plexus like a swarm of moths trying to escape.
There¡ªthere, in the middle of the ramps. A man in a black jacket stood with his back to them. Hawk knew it the moment he saw him¡ªhe was searching for the source of the ripples.
¡°We gotta go, now!¡± His voice scratched in his throat. His knees felt like jelly. ¡°Back door!¡±
¡°Shit, shit, shit!¡± said Nine.
¡°Come on.¡± Hawk grabbed Spike¡¯s hand.
¡°Don¡¯t worry, Hawkson. We got this!¡± Spike sang with bravado. The boy was itching for a fight. He had learned something about himself, and he wanted to test it.
¡°No, we run!¡±
¡°Nine, what¡¯s going on?¡± asked Rhonda. She looked around them nervously, not comprehending. She was not like them. Could she even see the Veil? He never knew what normal people saw, just that it was different for them.
¡°Baby, it¡¯s okay. I got you. I got you.¡± Nine took her face in his big hands and kissed her deep. Kissed her hard, and she kissed him back. ¡°You gotta listen to me, baby. Remember what I told you about?¡±
¡°Yeah, about the thing, the people?¡±
¡°Yes. Now we gotta go, baby.¡±
At the back of the loft, a grated fire exit led to the walkways of the city in the sky¡ªthe building tops to passages and the doors that would take them to safety. But they had to run.
He prayed the ripples hadn¡¯t traveled far, but it could be all of Billings. Nor did he know how many of the dark creatures lurked in the streets, waiting for some careless freak to make himself known.
The back stairs were lit by red overhead lights and blue diodes that marked the slick steps exposed to the elements. It had started to sleet. Nine held tight to Rhonda so she wouldn¡¯t fall. Spike slipped once and went down, but he picked himself up and kept going.
¡°Hawk, she can¡¯t do this,¡± said Nine.
¡°Get a tuk. Get her out of here,¡± said Hawk.
They took the stairs down to the matrix of narrow alleys that webbed out into the maze of the BAT. At the bottom of the steps, Nine kicked open the gate, and they started to run.
¡°Stop! There!¡± said Spike.
They froze. Ahead of them in the shadows, something moved.
¡°It¡¯s just a dog,¡± said Rhonda.
¡°Not just a dog,¡± said Nine as he stepped in front of the group.
The cur, black and sleek, thick with muscle, bared its fangs, a low snarl filling the narrow passage. Hawk put his hand on Spike¡¯s shoulder when the animal rose before their eyes onto its hind legs as if performing a trick, then fully extended with a popping and grinding of bone and dislocating joint into a man, thin, tall, and naked. The red lights from the stairwell behind them lit his body, save his face obscured by shadow. Between his sinewy legs, a heavy appendage seemed to breathe with him. Protruding from his right arm, a long blade scraped the concrete of the alley floor.
¡°Don¡¯t come any closer,¡± said Nine.
¡°What have we here? A bunch of little freak babies?¡± Like the dog he¡¯d been, he growled.
¡°Leave us alone,¡± said Nine.
¡°That was pretty impressive in there. Woke up the whole town. I doubt you can do it again.¡±
¡°Come here and find out, you fucking asshole.¡± Nine cracked his knuckles.
¡°I¡¯ll tell you what. There¡¯s a way out, a way you can live tonight. We¡¯re looking for a few good candidates. Got a program that can fix you up.¡±
¡°Nine, who is that? What¡¯s he saying?¡± said Rhonda.
¡°Shhhh,¡± Nine hushed her sharply.
¡°Oh, she doesn¡¯t understand. Oh my.¡± He took a step forward, the blade scraping like fingernails on a chalkboard, bringing his face into the crimson light.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Hawk first saw the glinting eyes, large and narrow, tapering toward his pinned back ears, then the teeth, jagged incisors dripping a viscous salivation onto his chin and down his chest.
Rhonda let out a squealing gasp and put her hand protectively over her swollen belly. Spike pulled close to Hawk.
The hunter¡¯s laughter was cruel. He shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s too bad. Should¡¯ve kept it in your pants, son.¡± His black blade scraped the wall next to him. ¡°Now I have to cut it out. Those are the rules. Kill the Maji. Stop the Chaos.¡±
Footsteps behind them on the wet cement. Hawk jerked around. There stood a hooded figure blocking their only path of escape.
¡°No, Hunter-seki,¡± said the man¡¯s voice from the blackness of his hood. ¡°Children, go behind me. Balinahn!¡± His accent carried the thick tones of an Asiatown ghetto.
Hawk pulled Spike aside as the man moved past them. He held his hand high, a gloved hand with the fingers cut out.
¡°Maji, you all die!¡± screamed the creature.
With a fluid and graceful motion, almost faster than the eye could see, the hooded man reached into his pocket and tossed something at the hunter¡¯s feet. It sounded like marbles.
The hunter gnashed its teeth and sprinted with blade leading, but then stopped and looked down, then back up again with an animal fear in its demonic eyes. It couldn¡¯t move. It roared and swung its blade, but the hooded man sprang forward, inside the weapon¡¯s arc, grabbed the creature¡¯s head, and twisted, as though dealing with an unruly soda cap.
SNAP!
He gouged his thumbs deep into its eyes, emitting a sound like sucking mud, sending blood dripping onto the stones.
In his hands, the hunter withered, and the corpse of a dead dog hit the ground with a soft thud.
Rhonda was sobbing.
¡°Holy shit,¡± whispered Spike.
The man stepped away, picked up one of the pebbles, inspected it closely, then flicked it into the alley and said, ¡°So they¡¯re finished. Good rock, rare rock, but all finished now.¡±
Somewhere off in the depths of the BAT, a howl rose that cooled Hawk¡¯s blood, followed by another and another, as if a pack of wolves had wandered into the urban jungle.
He realized now that he was sweating. His hands were tingling, but he hadn¡¯t enchanted. He¡¯d held control.
¡°Hunter-seki sad now.¡± The man nudged the dog¡¯s corpse with his boot. ¡°We leave. Others coming.¡±
They followed him out of the alley, giving the dog¡¯s lifeless body a wide berth.
In the light of the street and the music from the Cage, the man from the trash barrel fire in front of his building, the man with the scar across his face, the man with the fingerless gloves, put Nine, Rhonda, and Spike into a closed tuk-tuk. Hawk saw him give the driver money and a little bag of white powder.
¡°Your friends are safe. Driver is good fighter. I¡¯ll take you home,¡± he said. ¡°Can you run?¡±
They sprinted into the twisted streets. When Hawk thought his heart would burst, they slowed to a jog and then to a fast walk. A couple of times, the man put his hand on Hawk¡¯s chest to stop him as he looked around a corner. When he touched him, he felt something, like a surge, a river of untapped strength.
The man took him down an alley he¡¯d never seen. Asiatown was like that, full of hidden passages, secret doors hiding secret rooms and shameful things. They climbed a ladder to the top of a building and traversed streets from building top to building top until they could go no farther. At last, the man pointed. ¡°Home,¡± he said.
There was his building, blinking red and blue from the sign of the Chinese restaurant. The electricity looked to be still out.
¡°Can you jump?¡±
Hawk looked down. It was far, at least three stories. On the street below, pedestrians hurried, coming and going. A motorcycle porting crates of beer swerved between them, balancing its cargo.
¡°That¡¯ll kill me,¡± he said.
The man shrugged. ¡°We all different. We take stairs.¡±
The janky stairs led to an old refinery from the railroad days that had been subsumed into the rhizomatic architecture of the BAT. They came out onto a path no wider than his shoulders that emerged from behind the old woman¡¯s locked-up dumpling cart onto his very street, which was vacant of any pedestrian or vehicle at this late hour.
At the trash barrel stove, the man fed the smoldering coals from his pile of broken chairs and dressers. Soon, like a happy phoenix, the flames were dancing up into the cold air, which carried the lightest of crystalline snow.
¡°Warm,¡± he said and held his hands over the flames. Hawk held his over, too. He had an urge to touch the fire, and when he did so, the man laughed and said, ¡°Fire boy.¡±
¡°Who are you?¡± Hawk asked after a silence.
The man did not acknowledge the question.
¡°Thanks, for back there.¡±
¡°A favor. Long time ago. Favor paid.¡± His gaze rested on the fire¡¯s hypnotic dance. ¡°What you looking for?¡± he asked.
¡°What do you mean?¡± said Hawk.
¡°I watch you. You looking.¡±
Did it matter to tell this man? He had saved them from the hunter; he brought Hawk home safely. He had been there for nearly a year now, tending his fire. He was obviously Maji. He had killed a hunter with his bare hands.
¡°I¡­ I want to find the Maji. Do you know?¡±
The man shook his head and said, ¡°The Maji is here.¡± He reached out over the fire and touched Hawk¡¯s chest. That feeling. That rush. The man jerked his hand away.
¡°They come for our dreams. You know, they do this.¡± He pulled up his shirt to reveal his scars.
The man touched his hand to lower the garment.
¡°My uncle, he said the Maji can help us.¡±
¡°Okay then.¡± The man reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and gave it to him.
Hawk unfolded it. It was an advertisement. A picture of a blue guitar with the caption: ¡°Build A Fire Shakes the Earth. Come if you can hear¡ªdetails will be announced on 11.14 Country FM 101.¡±
¡°Build¡¯s A Fire? A concert?¡±
¡°Burn it,¡± said the man.
Hawk read the poster again and dropped it into the fire¡ªa single tongue of deep blue leapt up and then faded.
¡°You better go.¡± He looked up at his building. ¡°Boys shouldn¡¯t be out on the streets tonight.¡±
The fire illuminated the scar on the man¡¯s face.
¡°Do you¡­ do you want to come up?¡± asked Hawk. What did it matter? He was alone. They were both alone.
The man gazed at him like he did not understand a word that was said.
¡°I mean¡­ if you don¡¯t have a place to sleep tonight. You can stay in my place. I¡¯m alone.¡± He bit his bottom lip. ¡°Please.¡± The fire surged through his blood. He might cry.
The man turned his hands over the flames. ¡°Go to bed, boy. No terrors tonight.¡± He reached out and brushed a tear off Hawk¡¯s cheek. His thumb was warm from the flames. ¡°Fire boy,¡± he whispered.
Hawk climbed the dark stairs to his door and unlocked it. Breathing heavily, he went to his window and looked down. The man was still there, tending the fire.
It was cold. He pulled his mother¡¯s old chair over to the window. Then he picked up one of his uncle¡¯s notebooks and curled up under a heavy blanket. He opened it at random and read the drug-addled words in the neon light. Though he could not understand, they were familiar to him, and they made the room less lonesome, and the night less dark. 29 The Blue Guitar - Part 1 Collin McGreevy never knew his parents growing up. It was the policy of the Mission Mountain Home for Troubled Boys not to divulge such information until the ward reached eighteen years of age and was no longer the institution''s responsibility. On his birthday, when he was to be ejected into the cold, hard world of reality, the director handed him his savings of twenty-five hundred dollars-earned from working on the ''ranch'' and a manila envelope containing the file on his mother and father. One hastily photocopied page, front and back, in a rather large and faded font, was all he would ever know about them. Lawrence McGreevy and Heather M. Keller, both of Buffalo, Missouri, were identified through DNA analysis as victims of a house fire in Pablo, Montana. They perished along with five other individuals. The reverse side of the page held a newspaper clipping. Escape Addicts Die in House Fire, Baby Left in Car A house fire in the early hours of Sunday morning claimed the lives of seven individuals. Police are still working to identify all of the bodies. Upon arriving at the scene, the fire department was unable to stop the blaze from consuming the structure. Lake County Sheriff Patrick Ryder was present and reported hearing an infant crying in one of the nearby cars. Ryder quickly extracted the baby from the car and rushed him to St. Luke Community Healthcare in nearby Ronan. A search of the vehicle identified the infant as Collin McGreevy. His parents have been positively identified as casualties of the blaze. Both were known to law enforcement agencies as heavy users of the L1 Escape drug, and the father was wanted in Flathead County for armed robbery. Donations for the baby can be sent to St. Luke Community Healthcare. Growing up on the ranch, McGreevy learned that bullies came in all shapes, sizes, shades, and hues, and they all had one common gift: learning the weaknesses in their victims and exploiting that to their own twisted ends. As a runt in stature and bearing a speech impediment, he had endured the worst of them, but he never lost hope. He studied hard and passed his high school equivalency exams with flying colors. Instead of going to college or enlisting in the military, he opted for the police academy in Helena, driven by a deep conviction to do what he could to protect the weak and vulnerable. Upon his graduation from the academy, the Lake County Sheriff''s Department hired him on as a full deputy, where he worked under the guidance of Sheriff Ryder, the very man who had rescued him from that car on that fateful and fiery night. During his short career, he gained a sobering view of human nature''s depravity. He was even the arresting officer of several of the men who had bullied him as boys. Lost in the system, they had gone on to lives of crime and addiction, fighting for scraps in the great depression that filled the wake of the artificial intelligence revolution. In a position of authority, he saw how men who were once so cruel now cowered. A few wept openly and begged for forgiveness when they recognized him. McGreevy, for his part, swore to follow the book, be fair yet firm, and use force only when necessary. And above all: to never use his position to enact revenge. Then the accident happened. Sheriff Ryder''s overweight heart had exploded in the middle of consuming an old-fashioned donut. Perhaps he could have been saved, but at the time, he was engaged in a high-speed police chase. The one-hundred-and-twenty-mile-per-hour impact with the mountain cut-through on Deadman''s Pass, and the resulting automobile fire, assured an impossibility of resuscitation. During the mourning period and the search for an acting sheriff to fill the big man''s shoes until Election Day, Gwen Wolf ran the department in a manner that would have made Sheriff Ryder proud. Despite her flawless execution of the job, which garnered praise from every office of law and justice, Comstock was brought in on a favor from one of the commissioners well-connected with the local High Mountain Rangers. It was a scandalous move that briefly made the local news channels but subsequently dwindled away; squashed, McGreevy suspected, by influential persons higher up the food chain. This confirmed what he had learned in his childhood: the bully virus could manifest anywhere. In Comstock, he recognized what he''d seen growing up: an individual with unquestionable authority using his power to prey on the weak. McGreevy should have quit long ago, but he stayed on, thinking he could make a difference. He could not. Or perhaps he wasn''t brave enough or didn''t try hard enough.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Comstock saw Gwen and him as unfortunate baggage from a past administration that had been too soft and too liberal. Gwen, it seemed, was fearless and ready to engage the new Acting Sheriff at every turn. But McGreevy felt a relapse of the fear that had haunted him during his days at the ranch. The taunting returned. Comstock and his militia buddies, whom he sporadically deputized for short-term assignments, had nicknamed him Mouse. He was often relegated to desk duty, and his sexual orientation had become the target of innuendo. But tonight, something special had occurred. A crowd of faithful followers, a mysterious fandom, materialized out of the late-autumn evening and swarmed the station. A mix from all walks of life: young, middle-aged, elderly, tattooed bikers, pierced anarchists, men and women in suits, kids in blue jeans and sneakers or boots and cowboy hats. From this multitude, he heard soft murmurings of a single word, Maji. And when the doors opened, they flowed like a religious procession through the lobby, past the booking station, and down the hall to the cell room, where several dropped to their knees and reached out their hands, just as the Greta had done. They were there for the music of that fragile child, Francis Builds A Fire. And then the crowd parted, and he remembered Dr. Smith carrying the blue guitar. The bars were just wide enough for it to fit through. He saw the boy play, saw him sing, and though he could not hear it at first, the reaction from the crowd was a murmur of awe at a song that defied description. The moment of sound shattered him. Simultaneously a wounding and healing, for the ears needed to be ripped off and the raw hurt laid bare for the salve. The music cut like laser shards through the wool that clouded his mind. Sound to sight; sight to heart. He saw things that should have been impossible. It was night. He was in a barn off a highway. A small fire burned in the center. A man, who must have been his father, danced around it, waving his arms frantically, casting his shadow onto the far wall and screaming unintelligible syllables at it. Soft, motherly hands lifted him from the gritty earth, dirt and bits of hay sticking to the blood, wax, and amniotic fluid of the womb. He inhaled the first breath of that smoky air. His wails mixed with his father''s, driving the man to a peak of enthusiastic madness. And then the warm clutch of his mother, her face like the moon, as she wiped the fluids from his nose and mouth, pressed him to her teat, and let him drink the sweet, thick, savory, creamy colostrum that simultaneously gagged him and whet him, filled him and lulled him. Then he was in his car seat, watching the strange house that had swallowed his parents. It was dark inside for the longest time, and there were glittering stars above the roof. He grew cold and hungry, and he cried his infantile tears until the flames began to lick out the windows, growing larger and larger, charming him into silence. And then other lights, red and blue, and the shadow and the shattering glass as he was taken into strong, manly arms and delivered to the ever-after, ever-lonesome white lights of the institution. The day in the forest when the bullies were hunting for him, calling his name, taunting, teasing, full of violent and vicious intent. He was hiding in a burned-out log beneath a sea of emerald flora. They drew nearer and nearer with their cruel laughter, and the fear rising higher and higher. Until his heart pounded louder and faster, and he couldn''t hold it anymore. The urine ran down his leg, soaking his blue jeans, and the boys pulling him up. Beating him, breaking his nose, breaking his teeth, and leaving him as callously as they had found him, promising a time would come again. Alone in his aching adolescence, he bled in the verdure of the forest. The blue sky had turned to gray, the mean clouds had tumbled in, the distant thunder rumbled from the strings of the guitar, and the lightning flashed from fragile fingers. And the rain, the branches, and leaves were the hiss of breath across his lips. The rain was warm and full of light that wet him to the core, got into his eyes, mingled with his cries, and washed away the agony in his heart and the terror in his mind. More than anything, he wanted to thank the boy. Wanted to tell him that he would do anything for him, he would help him continue his song so others who hid like mice from the cat could see what he saw, feel what he felt, and be changed the way he was changed. But the next thing he knew, Comstock was bursting in with his crew, madness and fury in his eyes, beating down innocent people with his club. Beating down Dr. Smith. Beating down Francis. Smashing his guitar. For his part, McGreevy had cowered yet again, hiding on the floor in the farthest corner behind everyone. At that instant, he was ashamed. He hadn''t changed after all. He was wet and drenched, people were stepping on him, and at any moment, one of the attackers would notice him and make him hurt before asking questions, because that was the way of bullies. But then a stillness settled over him. The tumult faded to a distant clamor. A path emerged between the legs and falling bodies, and at its end he saw Francis, his bloody and swollen face. Their eyes met, and his soul lurched, a flutter in his mind, and everything about him, his darkest fears, his deepest secrets, his sacred memories, were revealed. Francis smiled. He smiled at him and gave a little nod, and then, so gently, he touched the soundboard of the smashed guitar, and a blue light reached out to guide McGreevy. Suddenly, a jackbooted foot violently slammed into Francis''s stomach, throwing the boy across the cell. McGreevy crawled on his hands and knees like a little mouse through the legs, limbs, and stomping feet. He reached through the prison bars and pulled out the instrument. Holding it to his chest, he crawled unseen the length of the cell room floor, up the steps, and down the back hall to the emergency exit where his truck waited to take him home. 30 The Blue Guitar - Part 2
He wouldn¡¯t do it anymore, damn it. He was going to quit the very next day. March into the office, slam down his badge in the big man¡¯s face, and say everything he should have said months ago. He was going to escape that toxic environment and apply for another police job in another city. Start anew with a conviction for justice and fairness that had been lost in the Sheriff¡¯s Department of Lake County.
He climbed into bed and closed his eyes, weary but not tired. Rising, he settled in his soft chair in his little trailer house at the end of a large field that used to grow winter wheat but had been fallow for a decade. It was his. He¡¯d bought it on a deal and was able to make the payments. But now he didn¡¯t want it. He had it figured out. After quitting in the morning, he¡¯d march right over to the real estate office and put the place up for sale. Rock bottom, get rid of it, and move on.
Hell, Billings PD was always hiring. He would move down there where nobody knew him, maybe rent a cyberpunk hovel in the vast skyscrapers of the BAT. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he¡¯d find a girl who fancied him. One of the climate refugees who didn¡¯t mind short men or having short children¡ªsomeone who was looking for love and a dry place to sleep. Yes, in the morning, he would start over.
The snow began about 1 AM with a gust of wind that rattled the windows. He got off his chair and peered out. The flakes were broad and heavy in the faint light from his porch, obscuring everything beyond his truck parked a few yards away.
The broken guitar rested on the kitchen counter. A couple years ago, he had gained some familiarity with the instrument when he¡¯d taken a month¡¯s worth of lessons at a music studio on Main Street¡ªhe had no interest, so he quit. This guitar was something else. When he had snuck away from the chaos at the station, he hadn¡¯t noticed it, but carrying it into his trailer, he perceived an unusual heft; indeed, a burden to the thing. It held an ancient quality. More than just a guitar, it bore the echoes of time. To be honest, it unnerved him.
Tap tap tap came the knock¡ªsoft at first, then faster and much harder. BAM, BAM, BAM!
Who in hell would come way out here on a night like this? Comstock?
¡°Open!¡± a voice shouted. He got up and peered through the peephole. An old woman wrapped in a big coat stood on his porch, snow covering her long, white hair.
¡°Yeah, what do you want?¡± he shouted back. ¡°It¡¯s damn near 2 AM.¡±
¡°Open! You were at the concert. I need your help, now.¡±
He unlocked and opened the door, and she shuffled in. He had to look up; she was at least a foot taller than him.
She surveyed his home and then glanced down. ¡°Shut the damn door and lock it,¡± she commanded. She shuffled in, her eyes landing on the broken guitar. She shook her head. ¡°What a shame. It¡¯ll have to be repaired.¡± She limped over to his chair and plopped down. ¡°You got any coffee?¡±
¡°Coffee?¡±
¡°That¡¯s right. I¡¯m speaking English, aren¡¯t I? I never know sometimes. I need espresso, triple shot.¡±
He was almost out of coffee, maybe enough for the morning. They were on his shopping list, but other things had taken priority. ¡°I got a percolator, that¡¯s all.¡±
¡°Shit, I guess that¡¯ll do.¡±
¡°Listen, lady¡ª¡±
¡°Coffee first, damn it! I¡¯m having a hard time staying awake. Need to stay awake.¡±
He thought it a good idea to humor her until he could figure out what she wanted. She was obviously off her rocker. Maybe a spinner. He¡¯d give Sue at the women¡¯s shelter a call. She had experience in this department.
She peered at him through a mass of wrinkles as he turned on his electric kettle, pulled out the coffee fixings, and scooped two heaping spoons into the top.
¡°A little more. I need it strong.¡±
He turned the bag upside down and finished its contents.
¡°Sugar and cream?¡±
She laughed. ¡°Do I look like I take sugar and cream?¡±
The machine started rumble and perk.
¡°So, how did you¡ª¡± He was going to get to the bottom of this, but she cut him off with a shush, and stared meditatively at the squat little pot until it burped it¡¯s last, and the dense aroma of his favorite dark roast permeated the air.
He filled a mug and handed it to her. Then poured a half in his own. There was an inkling in his mind that it was going to be a long night.
She sniffed at it, grunted, sipped slowly, and let out a long sigh. ¡°I guess it¡¯ll do.¡±
¡°Listen, lady. My friend works at the women¡¯s shelter. I can give her a call and have her come and get you. Give you a warm bed for the night, at least.¡±
She blinked at him over her steaming cup. ¡°The women¡¯s shelter? I don¡¯t think so. I¡¯m staying here tonight.¡±
¡°You can¡¯t stay here.¡±
¡°Why not?¡±
¡°Because.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
¡°So you don¡¯t die,¡± she said matter-of-factly.
¡°Just what the hell? I¡¯m not going to¡­ die?¡±
She gave him an appraising look. ¡°Yes, you are.¡±
¡°Am I then?¡±
¡°Yep, but not tonight. Not if I can help it. I need you around a little while longer.¡±
¡°Okay, I¡¯m calling Sue. That¡¯s her name. She¡¯ll fix you up.¡±
¡°No, you¡¯re not.¡±
¡°And why¡¯s that?¡±
¡°Because there ain¡¯t no signal.¡±
McGreevy looked at his phone. SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL. ¡°What the fuck?¡±
¡°Listen, Mr. What¡¯s your damn name anyway?¡±
¡°Deputy Colin McGreevy.¡±
The old woman grunted. The snow had melted off her, leaving a puddle beneath the chair. ¡°A cop, eh? You got a gun?¡±
¡°Yes, I have a gun.¡±
¡°You got any silver bullets?¡±
¡°What? No, I don¡¯t have any damn silver bullets!¡±
¡°You need silver bullets to kill werewolves. Don¡¯t you know shit?¡±
¡°Werewolves? Silver bullets? You¡¯re off your meds. That¡¯s it. I¡¯m taking you to the women¡¯s shelter. I¡¯ll drive you myself. Sue is a real good gal. She¡¯ll take care of you.¡±
She gave him a disapproving grunt. ¡°You got security cameras on this old boat?¡±
¡°Yeah. And it shows you coming into my house, just for the record.¡±
¡°Good. Turn it on.¡±
He reluctantly turned on his television to the security channel. The yard, through the night vision of the camera, revealed his truck faintly in the heavy snow.
¡°So what?¡± he said.
¡°Look,¡± she said. ¡°There. Look!¡±
He peered at the television. At first, there was only his truck and the blizzard. ¡°I don¡¯t see anyth¡ª¡± But then he did. A figure, a man¡ªhe appeared not to be wearing clothes¡ªemerged from the storm, stood for a second staring at his trailer, and then turned and disappeared back into the gale. ¡°What the hell?¡±
¡°Here.¡± The woman reached under her coat and set a matchbox on his coffee table.
¡°What¡¯s this?¡±
¡°It¡¯s for you.¡± She grunted and sipped her coffee.
He picked up the matchbox and slid it open¡ªthe precious metal glinted.
¡°It¡¯s a silver bullet,¡± she said. ¡°Put it in your gun and get ready.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not putting that in my gun.¡±
¡°Forty-five caliber, right?¡±
¡°Yeah. But¡ª¡±
¡°That¡¯s a forty-five. It works. Put it in your fucking gun.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t just put someone¡¯s bullet in my gun. Do you realize the liability? Where did you get this?¡±
¡°I made it. Melted down my own jewelry.¡±
¡°No.¡± He closed the little matchbox and placed it firmly on the coffee table.
She grunted, sipped her coffee, then reached back into her coat and withdrew a dagger with a long blade that tapered to a sharp point. She set it on the coffee table next to the matchbox.
¡°Suit yourself.¡±
McGreevy felt the goosebumps rise on his arms. His police instincts made him back up, ready to tackle her if she reached into her jacket again. She looked ancient, but she could still be dangerous, and he had no idea what else was concealed in that voluminous overcoat.
His gun was in his holster, hanging on the coat rack by the door.
¡°What the hell is this?¡± He picked up the knife. It was heavy and cold as ice.
¡°It¡¯s a silver knife, Einstein. Silver kills them fastest. Cuts through the beast¡¯s enchantment.¡±
¡°Do you have a gun on you?¡± he asked.
¡°Not my style. This coffee is shit.¡± She sipped and watched the television.
¡°Who the hell are you?¡±
¡°These days, they call me White Owl. There it is again.¡± She pointed at the TV. ¡°And it¡¯s got a friend. That¡¯s what I was afraid of.¡±
Now, he could faintly make out two figures standing in the storm on either side of his truck. The picture flickered, turned to static, and went black.
¡°If we¡¯re lucky, there¡¯s only two. You¡¯re not so big. Maybe they think that¡¯s all it¡¯ll take.¡±
¡°All what will take?¡±
¡°To kill you and get the guitar. The reek of it wasn¡¯t hard to follow.¡±
¡°White Owl? You know Builds A Fire? Dr. Smith mentioned you.¡±
She stood, towering over him. ¡°That shrink has his own battle tonight. Everyone who was at the concert has their own battle tonight.¡± She held out her hand for the dagger.
Reluctantly, he gave it to her.
Before he could react, she had slid the blade across her hand. The blood formed a puddle in her palm, dripping onto the floor.
¡°Holy shit!¡±
She waddled to the door, said a word he could not make out, and pressed a bloody handprint on the white paint.
¡°Jesus, lady, you¡¯re crazy.¡±
¡°Did you hear the music?¡±
¡°The music? You mean the concert? Francis?¡±
¡°Did you feel the rain? Did it run into your eyes and into your mouth?¡±
¡°Yeah, but¡ª¡±
¡°Then it¡¯s forever in your brain. Prepare to fight, Maji.¡±
¡°Maji?¡±
BAAAM! The entire trailer shook.
¡°We must kill them and burn their bodies.¡±
She hobbled over to the sofa, pressed her hand against the wall, then went over to the other wall to do the same, leaving a third bloody print.
¡°I ain¡¯t killing anyone,¡± he said.
¡°Yes. You are. Or they will kill you. And for this to work, I need Dr. Smith alive. That means I need you alive.¡±
McGreevy went for his gun. ¡°I¡¯m going out there.¡±
¡°You are? Tell me how that goes.¡±
McGreevy loaded a clip into his sidearm, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
¡°Headshot,¡± she shouted after him, ¡°you might have a chance.¡±
The snow blasted his face. Out by the truck, in the little halo of the porch light, a tall man stood in the snow, naked.
¡°Hey, hey you!¡± McGreevy shouted.
The man looked at him as if he¡¯d been startled. He opened his mouth and came forward, his flesh turning black, now covered in hair, his face distorted¡ªhe let forth a growl that filled the night. Then, he started to run directly at McGreevy.
¡°Shit. Stop! I¡¯ll shoot!¡±
The man did not stop.
BAM! McGreevy fired into his chest.
He stumbled, and howled in rage but still did not stop.
He aimed for its legs and let off two more rounds. BAM BAM. Direct hits.
The man jumped, shattering the wooden rail of the porch when he hit it. McGreevy tripped on the threshold and fell back hard on his ass, the creature coming down on top, crushing him, rancid breath steaming in the snowstorm, razor-sharp fangs going for his throat, his gun spinning back somewhere inside the trailer house.
From over his head, he saw the dagger in the woman¡¯s hand. She plunged it into the monster¡¯s eye and twisted it in a circle with a sickening slurp and cracking of bone.
An inhuman scream pierced his ears. The beast snarled and thrashed its head, then slumped and was still, its mass covering McGreevy.
¡°Get it off!¡± he shouted. ¡°Get it off!¡±
She shoved the animal off him and down the steps. With strength belying her age and frailty, she pulled him inside and slammed the door behind them.
¡°There¡¯s at least one more out there. We can¡¯t let it return to the pack. It needs to die.¡±
¡°Christ! Holy fuck!¡±
¡°Yeah, they¡¯re nasty things.¡± She wiped the blade on her jacket.
The lights flickered, and they were plunged into darkness.
¡°What¡­ what the hell was that? Werewolves aren¡¯t real.¡±
¡°Shut up. They¡¯ve got good hearing. You got any candles?¡± 31 The Blue Guitar - Part 3
They sat on the floor of the trailer, listening to the wail of the blizzard. A candle burned its scant flame between them, casting their shadows across the ceiling.
Footsteps on the porch. Someone knocked. He jumped. White Owl put a hand on his arm and a finger to her lips. Footfalls back down the steps, the crunching of snow stopped, and nothing else but for the storm.
¡°Put the silver bullet in your gun,¡± she whispered and handed him the matchbox.
With shaking fingers, he chambered the bullet.
She nodded when he was done. ¡°Good.¡± From a pocket, she pulled out a plastic bag that contained a clump of stringy moss and held it over the candle flame until it lit in a soft, blue fire. Black smoke vanished into the dark. A pungent, sweet aroma filled his nose.
¡°What¡¯s that?¡± he asked, a little too loudly, his voice cracking.
¡°Shut up. It¡¯s dryad¡¯s hair. Very rare. From the other side,¡± she said.
¡°Smells like cotton candy.¡±
¡°It can draw the human out of the beast if they get a good whiff of it.¡±
¡°That¡­ that thing. It was a man.¡±
¡°Yes, it was. Now it¡¯s dead.¡±
¡°I saw it change.¡±
She nodded and gave a grunt. ¡°Do you believe your own eyes? They call themselves the Hunters.¡±
¡°I heard Francis Builds A Fire talking to Dr. Smith. He said the hunters gave him those scars.¡±
¡°They did, and now this one is hunting you.¡±
¡°Me? Why? I didn¡¯t do anything.¡±
¡°Didn¡¯t you?¡± she spoke, her voice hushed and low. ¡°You were at the concert. You heard the music. The rain got in your eyes. You stole the artifact.¡±
¡°The blue guitar,¡± he whispered. ¡°Builds A Fire Brings the Rain.¡±
¡°You like that?¡± She chuckled quietly. ¡°That was my artistic touch. I ain¡¯t half bad with Photoshop, right?¡±
¡°What the fuck is going on, lady? I¡¯m an officer of the law¡ª¡±
¡°You still want to haul me to the women¡¯s shelter?¡±
¡°I just¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡±
¡°Look, kid, now you see things in a different light.¡±
¡°Werewolves?¡±
¡°Yeah, and were-tigers, and a whole assortment of other nasty were-things.¡±
¡°Next, you¡¯re going to tell me there¡¯s dragons.¡±
¡°No, not yet, they haven¡¯t made it through,¡± she said soberly.
¡°Made it through what?¡±
¡°The Veil. The Veil hides what¡¯s hidden. It hides what¡¯s real. It hides the things that this world cannot abide.¡±
¡°Like werewolves?¡±
¡°No, these monsters are not from the other side. They ar abominations, the creations of the Den. No, they¡¯re not from beyond. Their only goal is to hunt the Maji.¡±
¡°Maji? You called me Maji.¡±
¡°That¡¯s what you are.¡±
¡°Because of Francis, the music, and the rain.¡±
¡°Wow. Very good, you¡¯ll make detective for sure.¡±
The radio on his jacket started to crackle with static: ¡°Hello, this¡ªSheriff depart¡ªNo electric¡ªHello¡ªAny¡ªout there¡ª¡±
Then silence.
¡°Francis and the good doctor got some problems too,¡± said White Owl.
¡°We¡¯ve got to help them,¡± said McGreevy.
¡°There¡¯s nothing we can do. We have our own mission tonight.¡±
¡°I¡¯m going to help them.¡±
She grabbed his arm like a vise. ¡°We need to kill that thing and get the guitar to safety. As dawn approaches, it will go into a frenzy. It¡¯s a young one, so it¡¯ll try to make a kill before sunrise when the enchantment is at its weakest. I need you to put that bullet in its head. Then, when the sun rises, you¡¯ll need to burn what remains of the bodies. Closer to your house, the better. Burn them to ash.¡±
¡°This is the last candle,¡± he said, lighting it with a match. White Owl produced moss and burned it between her fingers, lighting her face in blue flame. She appeared even older now.
He could not seem to focus on time. They said nothing as the house got colder and the light between them weaker. He jerked when the radio crackled again. Had he fallen asleep?
¡°Help¡ªout there¡ªThis¡ª Sheriff de¡ªHelp¡ªOfficer down¡ªunder attack.¡± From the background of the radio, he heard what sounded like shattering glass.
¡°Fuck, we got to help them.¡± He stood, but White Owl grabbed him and pulled him back down with great force.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
¡°You¡¯ll never make it to your truck,¡± she said. ¡°That thing will take you down.¡±
He lifted his pistol to the side of his face. ¡°I¡¯m going to try. I got your silver bullet in the chamber and ten rounds under that. Headshot, right?¡± He got to his feet.
¡°Fine, you crazy fucker,¡± she said. He thought he saw a smile on her lips.
McGreevy had his hand on the doorknob. They both listened but could hear only the wind. White Owl clutched the silver dagger in her hand. He had attached the flashlight and laser to his sidearm. It would give him the best chance of getting a headshot.
¡°On the count of three,¡± he whispered. ¡°One...two...three!¡±
He shoved the door open and stepped onto the porch. The wind blasted his face, and the snow made him squint. He swept the area with his light, the laser beam tracking in the snow¡ªnothing.
At the foot of the steps was a snowy heap. He could make out the clawed hand of the creature White Owl had killed. He clicked his key fob for his truck. The fog lights blinked, indicating that it was unlocked and the electric engine had started.
¡°Go, go,¡± he said, leading the way, stepping over the body, the snow already up to his shins.
He swept the perimeter with his light. What was that? Nothing, only the outline of the apple tree that grew at the edge of the yard.
Once inside, he locked the doors, turned on the headlights, threw the rig into reverse, pulled around, and headed down the long driveway to the edge of the field and the narrow dirt road leading into town. The truck, just the week before, outfitted with heavy snow tires, plowed through the drift.
¡°There, look out!¡± shouted White Owl.
In the middle of the road, caught in his beams, stood the figure of a man.
¡°Step on it, kid. Smash that sonuvabitch.¡±
The man crouched, and the next thing McGreevy knew, he was slamming on the accelerator, bearing down on the crouching¡ªwolf!
The animal didn¡¯t move; a split second later, he felt the impact on the grille of his truck, followed by a thump, thump as he ran it over.
¡°Stop,¡± she said, ¡°you must finish it off. It¡¯ll track you forever if you don¡¯t.¡±
They stood at the back of the pickup truck, bathed in the red glow of the taillights, McGreevy with his gun, White Owl with her silver dagger.
¡°It¡¯s gone,¡± he said.
The snow was stained dark with blood where it had struggled for a moment. There was a trail where it had crawled out into the open field.
¡°Trust me, it ain¡¯t gone, but it looks like you hurt it pretty bad.¡±
¡°You think it¡¯ll die?¡±
She laughed, ¡°Nope, you need to find it.¡±
¡°Shit,¡± he whispered to himself.
His nose and cheeks were numb where the flakes struck his face as he edged down the already vanishing trail in the heavy snow. Ten yards out, he looked back the way they¡¯d come¡ªthe truck was already obscured. A few more yards, and he thought he saw something. He swung the beam of his light from side to side until he saw the eyes. Two yellow orbs peered at him, accompanied by a deep, menacing growl. The eyes vanished. He moved forward to find the empty place where it had been. It was as if someone had tossed a bucket of blood across the snow.
¡°Don¡¯t hurt me,¡± came a voice from the frozen dark¡ªnot a man¡¯s deep voice but a child¡¯s.
¡°Do not listen to it, kid,¡± hissed White Owl.
¡°Shhh,¡± McGreevy hushed her.
¡°I¡¯m hurt real bad.¡± It sounded like the voice came from behind them now.
¡°Fuck, what have I done?¡± He swept the light in a circle.
¡°It¡¯s deceiving you,¡± warned White Owl. ¡°It came to kill, and kill it will. Unless we get it first.¡±
The creature whimpered, farther out now, to the right. He cast his light in that direction and started walking. ¡°Let me help you,¡± he called.
¡°Please help me,¡± came the faint reply. It was crying.
A vivid memory encroached upon his mind of when he was a child, and bullies had attacked him. They had hurt him so bad that he couldn¡¯t walk, and no one had come. He had to drag himself into the showers and wash off the blood. When he told the monitors at the ranch, they didn¡¯t believe him or didn¡¯t care to do anything.
¡°Back, you dog!¡± yelled White Owl. ¡°Don¡¯t let it get into your mind, kid.¡±
He ignored her. ¡°Hello?¡± he called out. ¡°Let me help you.¡±
¡°I¡¯m here,¡± came the voice, softer now.
Panic rose through him. What have I done?
He started running, leaving White Owl behind.
¡°Where are you?¡± he cried. ¡°Call out to me?¡±
¡°Here. I¡¯m over here. Please don¡¯t hurt me.¡±
He ran in the direction of the voice. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna hurt you. We gotta get you to the hospital.¡±
Up ahead, he saw the vague outline of its form and ran toward it.
The boy was standing, holding his thin arms around his body, trying to conserve warmth. He was naked and shaking. One hand went down to cover his exposed privates.
McGreevy felt sick to his stomach. The boy couldn¡¯t be older than fifteen or sixteen, small and weak¡­ like he was at that age.
¡°I¡¯m scared,¡± said the boy, a hand going up to shield his eyes from the light.
McGreevy held his pistol slant, unable to plant the bead of the laser on such a vulnerable child. ¡°Can you walk to me?¡± he said. ¡°Keep your hands where I can see them.¡±
¡°What?¡± said the boy.
¡°Walk this way, steady. We¡¯ll get you warmed up. What¡¯s your name?¡±
The teen began to approach. He had scars all over his body and a giant bruise up his right side.
¡°My name? I¡­ I¡­¡±
He put down his hand. McGreevy saw the animal glint of his eyes¡ªthe reflection that human eyes can never make. The kid¡¯s body rippled, every muscle standing out. He stopped and growled.
¡°Shoot him in the head!¡± shouted White Owl.
The boy crouched and let out a scream that chilled McGreevy¡¯s blood. Just as the young wolf, now fully changed, sprang, he planted the bead of the laser on its muzzle full of fang and frothy fury.
BANG!
The animal dropped and was still. The naked youth settled in the snow.
A weary wave washed over him. He fell to his knees and started to cry silently, so the bullies could not hear him, the way he had not done in many years since leaving the ranch.
White Owl passed him and looked down at the body. ¡°Nice shot. It¡¯s dead.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Sometimes we have to make a sacrifice.¡±
A block away from the sheriff¡¯s station, they saw the lights of a dozen police cars. ¡°Stop here,¡± said White Owl. He pulled into the parking lot of a pet store. They watched an ambulance pull into the station, followed by a fire truck. ¡°You can¡¯t tell anyone about tonight,¡± she said. ¡°They¡¯ll kill you for sure. Did anyone see you at the concert?¡±
¡°No,¡± he said. ¡°I¡­ I got out. I went out the back and went straight home. Deputy Wolf is covering for me.¡±
¡°Alright then, you need to assume anyone left alive down there is compromised.¡±
¡°But the¡­ the werewolves¡­ the hunters, they found my house.¡±
¡°They were following the residue of the guitar¡¯s enchantment. That¡¯s over now. But you need to get the guitar fixed and get it back to Francis before the next concert. It¡¯s gonna be in Billings¡ªsoon, I think.¡±
¡°Can¡¯t they find me again, the same way?¡±
¡°No, congratulations. His music hides you. That¡¯s why Builds A Fire is so dangerous to them. He can hide the Maji. He can make them safe.¡±
¡°What do I do?¡±
¡°Go in there and tell them you heard the call and came as soon as you could. There¡¯ll be a cover-up, so they¡¯ll try to get rid of you. Go home and make a fire. Make it hot. Burn those bodies down and let the snow cover them.¡±
White Owl opened the door and got out of the truck.
¡°Then what? What do I do?¡± He could hear the pleading in his own voice.
¡°You think you are weak and cowardly. No, you are not. But your nightmare is not over. It hasn¡¯t even started yet. At the darkest hour, you will see the light, and you will know.¡± The wind picked up and blew her wild hair so it blended with the snow. ¡°Maji rising!¡± she said into a gust, and she was gone.
Collin McGreevy started his truck and drove slowly in the direction of the station. Men in black, shouldering rifles, were running to and fro. Black SUVs were parked along the side of the road, and the whole scene was lit in the flashing red, white, and blue of emergency lights. 32 Mirror, Mirror - Part 1
Early morning of the election, Mickey Verona looked out of his living room window to see Comstock and a woman trudging up his walk through the snow. Behind them, parked in the road, was a brown truck with SHERIFF emblazoned on the side in bold white letters and a red emergency light flashing on top. The vehicle had been fitted with mattracks to travel over the deep blanket of unseasonably early snow cast upon the Mission Valley.
Comstock was clad in a heavy parka and boots. The woman, wearing a beige waistcoat over slacks and shoes, slipped and almost fell.
¡°Christ,¡± Mickey grumbled. He hadn¡¯t even made coffee yet.
His eyes felt heavy and hot. He¡¯d sat up most of the night waiting for his phone to ring, hoping Alan or Deputy Wolf would contact him and tell him what the hell had happened, or at least send some sort of signal they were alive. But the call never came.
Mickey made it a habit to monitor all the police bands in the valley. A friend in the Polson City Police Department provided him with the encrypted channels, just in case his services were needed. At two in the morning, his scanners had gone wild. It all began with a call out from the sheriff¡¯s department asking Polson PD across town if they had internet and electricity.
¡°Affirmative. No problem here,¡± was the reply.
Thirty minutes later, another call had gone out, ¡°We¡¯re under attack!¡±
¡°Repeat. What did you say?¡± said the city dispatcher. ¡°Repeat, Lake County!¡± But there was no further communication from the sheriff¡¯s department.
After a solid two minutes of what must have been panicked confusion at the PD, the dispatcher radioed, ¡°We¡¯re sending a unit over now.¡±
Fifteen minutes later, a city police officer called back, screaming with adrenaline, ¡°Officers down! Officers down! Send backup!¡±
Mickey sat at his kitchen table, listening intently to the back-and-forth chatter. Polson had requested backup ten miles up Highway 93 from the Tribal Police in Pablo and then six more miles up the road from the Ronan City Police Department. Every time there was another call, the body count increased.
¡°I found another one. That makes three.¡±
A few minutes later: ¡°Body next to the caf¨¦...¡±
¡°¡­body in the jail cell...¡±
¡°¡­human head on top of the cruiser¡­¡±
¡°Holy Christ, they look like Gretas.¡±
Then, a caller to Polson 911 reported an accident on Main Street. A car had plowed through the front door of Brown¡¯s Dental Clinic. It looked like a crash and run, as there was no driver to be found to the black and gray late-model self-driver, registered under the name Alan Smith.
Mickey had been debating heading out into the storm on foot when the final call from Sheriff Comstock crackled over the scanner, the call that perplexed him more than anything and made him sit tight.
¡°This is Sheriff Comstock. I have an all-persons bulletin for three individuals suspected in the murder of my deputies. Forty-five-year-old White male, roughly six feet tall, 190, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a beard. The name is Alan Smith. Twenty-six-year-old White female, five-four, red hair, green eyes, Gwendolyn Wolf. Thirteen-year-old Native American male, long hair, injun style, brown eyes, five feet tall, eighty-five pounds soaking wet, goes by the name of Francis Builds A Fire. All suspects are wanted for multiple homicides of law enforcement officers and possibly other victims. They are considered armed and dangerous.¡±
Then in the pre-dawn hours, a knock on his back door. It was McGreevy, urgent, panicked, telling him a story about men turning into wolves and how he, with the help of a strange old woman, had killed them and burned their bodies.
And now Francis¡¯s smashed guitar rested in plain sight on the sofa.
The front door vibrated like a drum. Comstock was pounding.
Mickey sighed and opened.
¡°I have a warrant to search your house, Verona.¡±
The large cop pushed past him into the living room. ¡°This is Special Agent Nor-Nora-Nor-something from the FBI.¡±
The agent stood next to Comstock and looked around, melting a puddle on his living room carpet. She flashed her identification and reached out to shake Mickey¡¯s hand with a firm grip. She removed her fogging glasses in the warmth of the house. ¡°Norelhouda. FBI. Domestic Terrorism. Is it correct that you are the lawyer representing Francis Builds A Fire?¡±
¡°That¡¯s right,¡± said Mickey.
Norelhouda stayed in the living room while Comstock tramped through the house.
¡°You break it, you buy it,¡± he called after him.
¡°And you¡¯re a friend of Dr. Alan Smith?¡±
¡°Alan is Builds A Fire¡¯s psychologist. We were coordinating on the boy¡¯s defense.¡± A loud crash came from his office, and he flinched. ¡°I heard the calls last night.¡±
¡°You did?¡±
¡°I¡¯m an ambulance chaser.¡±
¡°I see. When was the last time you saw Gwendolyn Wolf or Alan Smith?¡±
¡°I didn¡¯t look at my watch. Between midnight and 1 AM at the sheriff¡¯s station. Alan was unconscious in a cell, probably suffering from a concussion, thanks to the rabid ape tearing up my house. Comstock beat the boy down, too. If I thought it¡¯d make a difference, I¡¯d file a report.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Agent Norelhouda raised her eyebrows.
¡°Anyway, Gwen and I had just finished talking to Sheriff Comstock. He told me to get out, so I came home, took a shit and a shower, and then all living hell broke loose over the scanners.¡±
Norelhouda frowned. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way. Remove the glasses and, well¡­
¡°Have they tried to contact you?¡± she asked.
¡°No, they haven¡¯t. What the hell happened over there?¡±
The FBI agent closed her eyes tight and shook her head. She looked as tired as Mickey felt. ¡°I don¡¯t know. We¡¯re trying to piece it together.¡±
¡°Do you really think a boy, a cop, and a shrink are responsible for all that?¡± asked Mickey.
Comstock came back into the living room, his face red. ¡°No one is here but this greasy little lawyer.¡± His gaze settled on Mickey¡¯s sofa and the busted blue guitar. ¡°Where did you get that?¡±
¡°I rescued it after the concert. It¡¯s evidence. Go ahead, take it.¡±
Comstock looked like he was going to pick it up and smash it again. He jabbed Mickey in the chest to emphasize each word. ¡°Do not leave town.¡± He slammed Mickey¡¯s door behind him and headed for his truck.
¡°Looks like you got fun company today, Agent Norelhouda,¡± Mickey said.
¡°Shit. I could¡¯ve been in Cancun today. Thank you for your time, Mr. Verona.¡±
¡°Just Mickey.¡±
¡°I guess you¡¯ll understand that we¡¯re going to station a patrol on your house.¡±
¡°And my phone?¡±
¡°We have a warrant to monitor it, but if you get any information¡ª¡±
¡°I know the drill.¡±
¡°Sorry about the mess.¡± She paused at the door. ¡°One more thing, does it always snow this much up here?¡±
¡°It¡¯s Montana. It always snows this much. Might be a tad early this year.¡±
¡°I better buy some boots then. Don¡¯t forget to vote, Mickey.¡±
She made her way through the snow and climbed clumsily into Comstock¡¯s rig. Mickey noticed a small, unmarked SUV had parked across the street. Two men were sitting in the front watching him. His stomach rumbled. He needed coffee and maybe a Lumberjack Stack.
Bundled in his heavy winter coat, his work bag slung across his chest like a sash, Mickey ventured out into the world. He waved to the two men in the SUV as he snowshoed across the white powder of his yard, heading down the lane that would take him to his office. Hot coffee, food, a beautiful view of the lake, and hopefully an even better view of Foxy¡¯s firm ass.
Mickey heard the rev of an engine. When he looked back, he saw the surveillance vehicle had become lodged in the snow as it tried to follow him. He waved, leaving the team behind.
Despite the horrific events that had transpired over the last twelve hours, he breathed deeply, savoring the crisp air of the valley winter come early. Just days ago, the town of Polson had been mired in the brown muck of late autumn. Now, it was a wonderland of frozen white, the whitest snow he¡¯d ever seen. Ice crystals sparkled with hues of blue, red, and yellow, like diamonds catching the sunlight.
He made yet another turn into a decrepit trailer park. The long units, covered in drifts, looked like the set of a science fiction movie. Smoke rose from the chimneys, carrying the fragrance of burning pine logs.
He passed a boy pulling another on a red sled down the sidewalk. The kid was trying his damnedest to dislodge his rider, who, looking like a future astronaut in his snowsuit and ski mask, held on tight. As they hit the slope, big brother jumped on top, and down they went, reveling in their freedom of an unexpected snow day from school.
¡°Hello? Anyone home?¡± Mickey called into the diner. There was no reply. The parking lot was heaped with snow and empty, but the neon OPEN sign shone in the window, and the door was unlocked. A tinkling Christmas melody played over the speaker system. He hung his wet coat on the rack and walked through the large dining area to his booth in the back next to the windows.
Dee¡¯s Diner occupied the entire ground floor of a three-story redbrick building constructed in the early 1950s. The original owner, a Mr. Clarence Lindberg, had been a successful local pharmacist and businessman. Inspiration struck when his wife, Alice-Desar¨¦ (everyone called her ¡®Dee¡¯), mentioned she was bored and wanted something to take her mind off the tragedy of a child lost in the war.
Legend had it that the core of Dee¡¯s clientele back in those days were the lumberjacks from the logging camps in the foothills of the Missions. Every morning, the lot of them would clean Dee out and grumble for more, so she was forced to design a breakfast sure to satiate those voracious men. The Lumberjack Stack: six buttermilk pancakes drowning in real butter and maple syrup, four eggs, six strips of bacon, hash browns, and the lumberjack¡¯s choice of four pieces of toast or two giant buttermilk biscuits.
Coffee flowed like water.
Even if Foxy hadn¡¯t worked here, the food would have kept Mickey coming back for more.
He wasn¡¯t surprised the place was empty¡ªmost of Polson would probably stay empty today, save for the few disillusioned who still believed their votes mattered¡ªbut Dee¡¯s was also famous for never closing.
¡°Hello?¡± he called out again.
He thought he heard something back in the kitchen. Poking his head through the double swinging doors, he felt the warmth from the massive, gas-fired griddle on his face. The smell of freshly beaten pancake batter, resting on a bed of ice in a large stainless steel bowl on the center island filled the air. But Foxy was nowhere to be seen.
He¡¯d been coming here at least six days a week for the last ten years. Hell, he¡¯d even worked here washing dishes for a few months when he first migrated to the picturesque lakeside town after college, so he didn¡¯t think it was inappropriate to cross that boundary and look behind the curtain. And he was glad he did, because what he saw pleased him.
There was Foxy, on her hands and knees, doing something under the long sink at the far side of the kitchen. Her very shapely rump was sticking up in the air, her tight polyester skirt showing off each ham of her ass in fine detail.
¡°Lose a contact lens?¡± he said.
The waitress squeaked and smacked her head on the underside of the sink. ¡°Ouch! Jesus! Mickey!¡± she said, standing up, rubbing her scalp.
¡°Sorry, Foxy, I didn¡¯t mean to startle you.¡±
¡°Oh, Mickey, it¡¯s alright. I broke a damn plate and was trying to get all the little pieces of glass. Those blue ones shattering is the worst.¡±
Her long blonde hair was done up in a net, but a few wild strands still managed to sneak out and fall across her face, where a dash of flour freckled over the bridge of her nose.
¡°I¡¯ll just pour myself a cup. Take your time.¡±
¡°Office hours on a day like this?¡± she asked. That was how she referred to booth C-3, Mickey¡¯s office; and except for times when they were slammed, she never let anyone sit there.
¡°You betcha. Is it a one-lady crew today?¡±
¡°Yeah, everyone¡¯s snowed in this morning. They asked me to open up. The perks of living above your workplace,¡± she said, slopping a dirty rag into a bucket.
Foxy, in addition to being the most loyal waitress Dee¡¯s had ever known, lived on the third floor in a cozy apartment.
¡°Well, if you need any help, let me know. I can still wash dishes.¡±
¡°Okay, Mickey, I¡¯ll let you know, but by the looks of it outside, it ain¡¯t gonna get too busy.¡±
She wore no makeup today, and she was just as pretty as the night of the Halloween Ball. God, that had been a night to remember. She¡¯d been the perfect date, and perfectly in character as the buxom wench fallen under the spell of a lusty vampire. In the end, he¡¯d been a perfect gentleman. He bought her two bottles of the overpriced pumpkin spice champagne, and drove her home safely, kissed her on the cheek, and asked her to the movies the following weekend¡ªto which she replied in the affirmative.
Chip the bison trophy stared down at him. 33 Mirror, Mirror - Part 2
In his office, Mickey was perplexed. He searched the Valley News on his old laptop. There was no mention of the attack at the sheriff¡¯s department. That should have been a huge story on the front page. Hell, it should have been national news, or at least statewide, but the only thing in the paper were the headlines:
BLIZZARD HINDERS VOTE
ALLGOOD EXPECTED TO SWEEP
COMSTOCK A SHOO-IN FOR LAKE COUNTY SHERIFF
The night before lingered in his head. Not just the horror of the murders¡ªhe wasn¡¯t sure how to tackle that one yet¡ªbut he couldn¡¯t stop thinking about the concert. Even after he¡¯d heard that first note, Francis¡¯s music had echoed within him. The memory of the music, the impossible rainstorm inside the jail, and what he¡¯d seen, a vision now faded like a dream, sent shivers down his spine.
When he got home from the police station, he searched the internet to see if someone had uploaded anything. Oddly, there was nothing on the video tubes or socials. It took some hunting, but at last, on a poorly coded, back-web indie forum that looked like the entrance to an old barn, a user by the name of Firefan79 posted: Builds A Fire Brings the Rain (raw). It was Firefan79¡¯s first and only post, and their profile card revealed a registration time of yesterday.
There was one comment by an anonymous user: Check your file, bruh. Don¡¯t hear shit.
During the live performance, he had not, for some strange reason, been able to hear the first song¡ªjust like when he and Alan had met the hippie in the sandwich shop¡¯s parking lot¡ªthen something changed. Francis had drawn him in, spoke to him, taught him how to hear, and there it was, the boy¡¯s sweet, soft voice and the pluck of his guitar.
Resisting the urge to listen to the entire concert again, he skipped to the last few seconds. Firefan79 had left a period of silence without music in the recording, but it included muffled voices, laughter, the sound of rain, distant thunder, and the first scream that marked Comstock¡¯s arrival. A girl¡¯s voice said, ¡°Let¡¯s go¡ª¡± and the recording ended.
The presence of Foxy standing next to his table snapped him out of his trance. ¡°You¡¯re listening to Builds A Fire,¡± she said.
¡°Yeah¡ªhey, yeah! You know him?¡±
She nodded, an expression on her face he couldn¡¯t quite place. ¡°The Maji. That¡¯s from last night.¡±
¡°At the sheriff¡¯s office. There was a¡ª¡±
¡°Concert,¡± she finished his sentence. ¡°I know. I was there.¡±
¡°Wait, you were there? I didn¡¯t see you,¡± he said.
¡°I know.¡± She bit her lower lip in concentration. Her expression held words that needed to be spoken. There was something about her now, something he¡¯d not seen in all the years he had crushed on her, as if she were taking off a mask to reveal a depth, a mystery.
She leaned close to him to look at his computer screen. He could feel the warmth from her face and chest and smell her perfume, lilacs and honey.
¡°I¡¯m surprised it made it online so fast,¡± she said.
¡°Foxy, what do you know about Builds A Fire?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve been waiting a long time for that concert. He¡¯s the Maji. His music¡­ Wait, I have some of his songs on my phone.¡± She retreated behind the counter, and after a moment, the sound of guitar strings replaced the Christmas jingles on the restaurant¡¯s speakers. ¡°This song is called ¡®Steal the Fire.¡¯ It came out about a year ago. It¡¯s about finding your power.¡±
Just as it had the night before, he felt the music reaching out to him, touching him, drawing him down deep into his mind.
She sat across from him and rested her chin in her hands.
He lost track of time and urgency, like he was a kid again, daydreaming in school. At some point, Francis began to sing¡ªor had he always been singing? Mickey wasn¡¯t sure. The words were gentle at first, narrating a story of a journey. The way the boy controlled his voice was mesmerizing, and the voice controlled Mickey. He tingled with excitement, an unexplored energy suggesting infinite iterations. In the next stanza, the hero of the ballad came into focus¡ªa young girl in a frozen land. She was a fierce fighter with a sword in a vast forest where lurked a dark danger.
Mickey trembled intensely with the intuition that he was on the verge of understanding a point of monumental importance. He needed to know this wisdom, to capture it, possess it, yet it flitted like a shadow at the boundary of his comprehension¡­ of his courage.
He had been watching her gaze out the window into the falling snow that hid the lake beyond its dense curtain. Her expressions fluctuated as the music played. He thought he could read them; from joy to longing, to a single tear that formed at the corner of her eye and slipped down her cheek. He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb. She was warm and soft. She smiled at him. The song faded.
¡°Alright?¡± he asked.
¡°Yeah, I guess I hear a lot of sadness in this one. It makes me think of my mom. I wish she could have heard the music.¡±
¡°I¡¯m sorry. Did you lose her?¡±
The beautiful waitress nodded, wiped her eyes, and said, ¡°No makeup to smear today.¡±
¡°You¡¯re stunning,¡± he said.
She blushed. ¡°You would say that, Mickey Verona.¡±
¡°Maji?¡± he said the word he¡¯d heard her use.
Foxy opened her mouth to speak but stopped.
¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he said. ¡°I need to know.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know anything, really. Not much.¡±
In his mind, he saw the clouds rolling across the ceiling. It had rained inside the jail and drenched him. The water had run into his eyes, blurring the world. When he wiped it away, he had seen another world, briefly. He had known and understood, but then it had been ripped away by Comstock¡¯s insanity, like a baby from a mother¡¯s breast.
¡°This boy, this singer, is my client.¡±
¡°You represent the Maji?¡±
¡°Francis Builds A Fire. He got into some trouble. Remember I was in here with Dr. Smith a couple days ago?¡±
¡°Yeah, the tall guy, Dr. Handsome but Brooding.¡±
¡°Right, the tall, brooding guy. That was Francis¡¯s shrink.¡±
¡°What¡¯s he need a shrink for?¡±
Mickey told her of Francis¡¯s arrest because he was suspected of doing something to John Taylor¡¯s daughter. He told her about finding the poster that had predicted Francis would give a concert at the jail, about how so many people had come, and how he at first couldn¡¯t hear the music, but then he could¡ªthe guitar and singing¡ªhow it had rained, and how he¡¯d wept, how everyone had wept.
¡°Then Comstock showed up and crashed the party. He beat Francis down, busted the blue guitar. He got Alan, too. But I can¡¯t believe I didn¡¯t see you there.¡±The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
¡°Mickey,¡± Foxy reached across the table and took his hand in both of hers. ¡°Call it my faith, but that boy, whatever happened, he wasn¡¯t trying to hurt that girl. I know it like I know myself.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t believe he did. There¡¯s something else, Foxy, something terrible. Last night, there was an attack on the sheriff¡¯s department. Ten people were horribly killed.¡±
She gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
¡°Comstock and an FBI agent paid a visit to my house this morning. He said Francis, Alan, and Deputy Wolf are missing. They¡¯re suspects in the murders. Hell, the FBI¡¯s watching my house as we speak. I gave them the slip to get here.¡±
Foxy squeezed his hand hard. ¡°It was the hunters. That was a big enchantment. They tracked it to the jail for sure.¡±
¡°Hunters,¡± he said. ¡°Francis used that word, and this morning, when Deputy McGreevy brought me the boy¡¯s guitar, he said that hunters had come for him. That he killed them¡­ I almost thought he was having an episode.¡±
¡°You¡¯re saying you have the Maji¡¯s guitar?¡±
¡°That¡¯s right. It¡¯s sitting on my sofa, all smashed to pieces.¡±
He relayed McGreevy¡¯s visit in the predawn hours. He¡¯d been at his table, hoping for more information to come across the scanners, but there were only the garbled messages of encrypted transmissions. The knock had come at the back door. The storm was raging so hard that when he opened it, the short deputy blew in with the snow and shoved the guitar into Mickey¡¯s arms. ¡°The hunters came for me. I killed them. I burned their bodies just like she told me to,¡± McGreevy exclaimed. Mickey could tell he was manic; his eyes were wide, and his breath was coming in gasps. ¡°You need to get this to Francis. Tell him the next concert is in Billings. He needs to get to Billings. You didn¡¯t see me. Promise me, Mickey, you didn¡¯t see me.¡± And with that promise, he was gone back out into the stormy night.
¡°The hunters are real, Mickey.¡±
¡°I have no reason to disbelieve it,¡± he said. ¡°I sure as hell find it more likely than Dr. Brooding ever lifting a finger. Alan can hardly blow his own nose without having an existential crisis.¡± He grunted at his own wit. ¡°What is it, girl?¡±
The waitress¡¯s face had gone pale.
¡°Last night after the concert, I felt the hunters prowling around. I thought they were after me. For what I did.¡±
¡°After you? You mean they came here?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know. I didn¡¯t look out the window. I came home, locked the door, and pulled the blankets over my head, like when I was a little girl. I said the words my mom taught me to¡ª¡± She pursed her lips then sipped her coffee. ¡°It must sound crazy.¡±
¡°You can tell me. I need to know. It¡¯s all different now.¡±
¡°Oh, Mickey,¡± her voice trembled. ¡°They¡¯ve been after me for so long.¡±
¡°Foxy, if anybody fucking touches you, I will rip their goddamn nuts off!¡± The idea of Foxy being a victim of what transpired at the jail made his heart pound in his chest. ¡°What did you do that made you think someone was after you?¡±
She sat upright. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll understand.¡±
¡°Try me.¡±
She took a gander around the restaurant. It was still empty.
¡°Do you believe in magic, Mickey, real magic?¡± There was no hint of amusement on her face.
¡°Like hocus pocus?¡±
¡°I guess so. Why not? Why not like that?¡±
¡°Lawyers are pretty logical types, apart from the odd superstition here and there.¡±
¡°What superstition do you have?¡±
¡°Who? Me?¡±
¡°Yeah, you.¡± She poked a finger in his face and, for a glorious instant, touched the cleft of his chubby chin.
¡°It¡¯s kind of embarrassing.¡±
¡°Darn it, just tell me. I won¡¯t laugh. Then I¡¯ll tell you my secret.¡±
¡°You have a secret?¡± To learn anything from Foxy¡¯s heart chamber made his throat dry. He had to sip some coffee.
¡°Sure, I do, silly, real interesting secrets.¡± She bit her lip, and Mickey spilled the beans.
¡°So, when I go to court, I only wear a special pair of underwear. They were my dad¡¯s. He wore them the day he passed the bar exam.¡±
Foxy let out a giggle. ¡°Are you serious?¡±
¡°Hey, you asked me. But it¡¯s a superstition. I don¡¯t actually think it¡¯s magic.¡±
¡°Sure, that¡¯s magic, and a bit perverse.¡± She grinned. ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about. You do something that affects something else. The thing you do, the way you think, has some bearing on what happens when you¡¯re in court.¡±
¡°It¡¯s just psychological.¡±
¡°But you feel better when you¡¯re wearing your magical lawyer-daddy dungees. It changes you, even just in your head.¡±
¡°Yeah. Court can really fuck you up, but I got my magic underwear, so come at me.¡± Mickey did a little matador dance with his arms.
¡°Christ, Mickey, you¡¯re too much! Are you wearing them now?¡±
¡°Nah, I¡¯m free balling. No court today.¡±
¡°Ya know, you¡¯re pretty funny for a guy being watched by the FBI.¡±
She retrieved a pot from the coffee island and filled his cup.
¡°And what about the concert last night? Was that magic? I think rain inside a building is pretty magical.¡±
¡°It was crazy,¡± he said. ¡°The clouds, right where I could touch them. I even saw lightning.¡±
¡°And the music?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve never heard anything like it. I could listen to it forever. I could lose myself in it.¡±
¡°But you said at first you couldn¡¯t hear it.¡±
¡°That¡¯s right. I couldn¡¯t, not the first song. It was totally silent. I could see he was singing. I just couldn¡¯t hear it.¡±
¡°But then you did. Now you can hear that song you didn¡¯t hear before.¡±
¡°Yeah, Francis, he did something. He did¡­¡± Mickey began and then stopped, as if saying it to another person would make him a true believer.
¡°Magic,¡± Foxy finished for him.
¡°You think he really did magic, like real hocus pocus? Real magic?¡±
¡°The fact that magic is not real has never crossed my mind,¡± Foxy said. ¡°To me, it¡¯s always been real. I¡¯ve always been able to hear his music, and I¡¯ve always known it was special.¡±
¡°That¡¯s a crazy scenario. I don¡¯t know if I can accept it.¡±
¡°What about your psychologist friend?¡±
¡°Alan?¡± There was something about Alan he couldn¡¯t understand. He was completely devoted to Francis. He wanted to fight all the kid¡¯s battles and lash out at the forces rallied against him. But at the same time, he seemed to fear the boy. ¡°Yeah, Alan drank the Kool-Aid. That thing for him last night was a baptism, not just¡ª¡±
¡°Mickey, listen to yourself. You were there. And now you¡¯re saying it wasn¡¯t real.¡±
¡°I¡¯m saying that my client, his shrink, and the cop who arrested him have fled, accused of murdering six law enforcement officers and others. I can¡¯t afford to play fucking Harry Potter. I have motions to file. The fucking FBI is on my doorstep.¡±
Foxy placed a hand on his arm. ¡°Come here.¡±
She led him through the tables to the door of the ladies¡¯ restroom. He pulled back slightly at the taboo of crossing that threshold.
¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±
¡°You gonna show me your secret?¡±
¡°I am. I trust you.¡±
The bathroom had the flowery smell of just having been cleaned.
¡°Look at yourself.¡± She pointed into the mirror. ¡°What do you see?¡±
He had never been a fan of his own reflection, yet he forced himself to look. A short, middle-aged man who was bald on top with messy black hair around the sides. He had gained some weight in the last year¡ªshit, he needed to get back into the gym. The dark circles under his eyes that never seemed to go away were darker today.
¡°What do I see?¡±
¡°Yes. Be honest.¡±
¡°I see a not very handsome man,¡± he said.
¡°I¡¯ve always thought you were handsome.¡± She quickly pecked him on the lips. His heart jumped at the stolen kiss. She squeezed his arm harder. ¡°Look again.¡±
As he looked, she traced his cheek with her finger. His double chin vanished. She ran her thumb under his eyes, and the dark circles faded. She caressed his bald head, and healthy locks of full, thick hair, like he had in high school, spilled between her fingers. She pressed her palm on his stomach, and his gut melted away. Foxy lifted his shirt, and he saw the fine definition of a six-pack.
¡°You look quite handsome to me, Mickey Verona,¡± she whispered like nectar in his ear.
He felt her weight slump against him, and he caught her before she could fall.
¡°Foxy, are you okay?¡±
Her eyes were closed. ¡°Yeah, just a little bit dizzy,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve always wanted to try that on someone else.¡±
The veritable Adonis in the mirror faded. Once again, there was the old Mickey Verona, bald, chubby, with dark circles and all.
¡°That was incredible!¡± he said.
¡°Thank you, but like I said, not very useful.¡±
¡°How¡­¡±
¡°Call it magic, I guess. I¡¯ve always been able to do it, but¡­¡±She went back into the restaurant and looked around¡ªempty. ¡°But before last night, the hunters could have found me. That¡¯s why I went to that concert. The Maji¡¯s music helps people like me.¡±
¡°What do you mean, people like you? You¡¯re perfect.¡±
¡°I mean¡­ there are others. We cross each other¡¯s paths from time to time. It¡¯s rare, but it happens. We all know to keep it a secret, keep to ourselves. It¡¯s the only way to survive. Don¡¯t do enchantments. Enchantments bring the hunters.¡±
¡°Those people at the concert. They were¡­ like you?¡±
She nodded, ¡°Most of them anyway. Running scared. They needed to hear the Maji¡¯s music. And, if they survived the night, the hunters can¡¯t find them now. That¡¯s why.¡±
¡°I need to find Alan and Francis. He needs that guitar.¡±
¡°I¡¯m going to help you,¡± she declared.
¡°No, it¡¯s too dangerous,¡± he said boldly.
¡°I¡¯m tired of hiding,¡± she nearly cried. ¡°You can¡¯t understand.¡±
The waitress was easily six inches taller than him, but he couldn¡¯t help himself. Ever so slowly, ever so timidly, he leaned forward, stood a little on his toes, and kissed her. And she kissed him back. The passion that had incubated as a spark for a little more than five years suddenly burst into flame. When at last their lips parted and their tongues ceased to dance, Mickey and Foxy were both breathless.
¡°Was that okay?¡± Mickey asked. ¡°I¡¯m not as handsome as that man in the mirror.¡±
¡°Shut up, Mickey Verona.¡± She pressed her lips against his one more time.