

These Truths

By: R.M. Haig

## © R.M. Haig 2017

Published by: Valhalla Earthrise

Dedication:

For my wife, Amanda

And my son, Aidyn

For standing by my side when

_double indemnity_ made

perfect sense to me

& Brandon Messerschmidt,

without whom none of

this would've been possible

Authors Note:

Since there has been some confusion on

the origin, nationality and pronunciation

of Giguére, the last name of our

protagonist, I feel it necessary to clarify.

Giguére, pronounced Zhig-gair, is a largely

French Canadian surname, and our

friend Jacob is of French Canadian

descent.

"Tonight, we run.

We'll hide in the dark

When the moon steals the light

From the dying sun.

Oh, run.

It's a better thing

Than we have ever done"

-Dio

"You don't know my mind,

You don't know my kind.

Dark necessities are part of my design"

-The Red Hot Chili Peppers

"There's no such thing as nothing.

There's no such thing as nothing at all.

There's no such thing as nothing.

But my finger's on the trigger,

And I'll turn off the world"

-Chris Cornell

Before...

In The Depths Of Booger Woods

August 12th. 1991. 2:00PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"Are you ready, Chucky?" Darkwing asked.

Chucky wasn't ready... he was scared, just like he had been every other time the boys pressured him into playing manhunt in Booger Woods. It was dark in there, and Chucky didn't like the dark.

"I dunno guys," he objected, his voice shaking. A red plastic flashlight slipped forward in the sweaty palm of his tightly clenched hand, forcing him to loosen his grasp enough to adjust his hold on it.

What if he dropped it while they were in there? What would he do then?

The midday sun was high, bearing down on them with its fiery rage like the glowing element of an electric oven overhead as they stood at the mouth of a small patch of wilderness that served as the southern border of Burlwood Meadows; the trailer park in which the three of them lived. The woods weren't very deep -- Route 4 was only a few hundred yards from where they stood on the other side -- but they were untamed and dense.

Once the boys crossed the tangled threshold of vines, the forest's canopy would choke off most of the light cast down by the fire in the sky, swallowing them up and wrapping them in the suffocating arms of what amounted to, so far as Chucky was concerned, nearly total darkness. It didn't seem that bad to the other boys, but when the wind was blowing and the greenish-black shadows of leaves danced around him, Chucky felt there was no darker place in all of the world.

If he dropped the flashlight, he wouldn't be able to see the monsters that lived in there coming if they snuck up on him. The monsters were in there; that he was sure of. He didn't know which monsters, but he knew there was at least one \-- and probably more -- that called Booger Woods home.

Perhaps it was a mummy, or a wolfman. Maybe a zombie, or a murderous scarecrow that had escaped the post to which it had been lashed. Scarier yet (if that were possible) would be if it was that damned clown that lived in the storm drain... the one he had seen in the TV movie his mother insisted on watching last winter... the one that eats children. What was that clown's name?

Pennywise... that was it.

Pennywise terrified Chucky, especially when his teeth somehow changed from what looked like normal ones into rotten fangs. Fangs that seemed specifically designed for chewing on the flesh and bone of little boys, like him.

Chucky figured it was Pennywise that had killed little Gary Duncan last year, even though Momma said that was impossible. The movie had aired just a week before the police found Gary in the woods behind the horse track, just a mile east up Route 4. The news said he had been taken by a kidnapper, but Chucky knew that wasn't the case. That was just what they told everybody so people wouldn't be scared that Pennywise had come to Burlwood after the boys in the show had chased him away from Derry.

"That's Tim Curry," Momma said between sips of her cocktail. She tried to tell him that Tim Curry was an actor who had been in another movie called Rocky Whore Picture Show or something like that. The fangs were fake, she said, and the clown suit was just an outfit. Some people (including Chucky) were afraid of clowns, and they would get a cheap thrill out of being scared by Tim Curry pretending to be a monster. It was silly, and Chucky was silly for believing it was real.

Still, he knew Pennywise was out there; waiting for some little boy or girl to come along so that he could eat them up like The Big Bad Wolf had eaten up Little Red Riding Hood. And where had that wolf caught her? In the woods... possibly right there in Booger Woods, right behind their very own trailer park.

Darkwing and Launchpad thought Chucky was silly for believing in monsters, too. They were only nine, though... so what did they know? At thirteen, Chucky knew better than to believe everything a grownup said -- especially if that grownup had been drinking cocktails, like Momma was when she tried to convince him that Pennywise and the boys who fought him were all make-believe.

Sesame Street was make-believe, she said, because birds don't get as big as people and can't talk. Star Trek was make believe, because there's no such thing as a Klingon or a transporter room. Even Darkwing Duck (his favorite show) was make-believe because the characters are all cartoons; just made of drawings. In fact, most of the scary things he saw on television, in movies or in comic books were make-believe. Make-believe things only existed in someone's imagination and, therefore, couldn't hurt him.

What was left of Gary Duncan in the woods behind the race track wasn't make-believe, though, despite the fact that he had heard about it from the television news. Chucky knew it wasn't, because he had seen the flashing lights of police cars all the way from his bedroom window, and the track was a mile up the road; that's how many cars there were. They don't send that many police cars to a place for make-believe, they only send them when there's something very wrong. Gary Duncan himself certainly hadn't been make-believe, Chucky had seen him at school before he went missing and then turned up in those woods. He had been happy, healthy, alive and all put together... things that he wasn't anymore.

"Whoever it was that put him in those woods must've been some kind of monster," Momma said when they heard about it on the news. "Whoever it was must've been almost purely evil..." like Pennywise.

Pennywise wasn't a bird as big as a person, nor was he a Klingon, nor did he travel by transporter, and he certainly wasn't made of drawings. He was a clown, and clowns were real -- Chucky had seen some of them when the circus came to town. Pennywise wasn't like them, though... he was a monster. It was a monster, and it was just as real as Gary Duncan had been... Chucky knew it was.

"Come on, Chucky!" Launchpad snapped. "Stop being such a pussy!"

"Shut up, Launchpad!" Chucky whined, flipping the flashlight to his left hand so he could wipe his clammy palm on his shorts.

"I told you not to call me that, retard!"

"Hey!" Darkwing barked, jumping to his defense. "Don't you call him that either!"

"Don't argue, guys! Please!" Chucky begged.

Chucky hated it when Darkwing and Launchpad argued. He hated when his parents did it, too, back before Papa moved home to Tennessee. Arguing was loud and mean, and those things were almost as scary as monsters to him.

Usually, when Momma and Papa had fought, it was about whether or not Momma needed any more cocktails that day. Darkwing and Launchpad didn't fight as often as his parents had, but when they did, it was usually about him. That made him feel bad.

Launchpad was always saying that Chucky was stupid, or an idiot, or -- if he got really mad -- that he was retarded. Darkwing didn't like for him to say those things, and had told him so. Those were bad things to call someone, especially when those things weren't true.

Chucky wasn't retarded; he was just special. Momma said so -- even when she hadn't had any cocktails yet \-- so he knew that it was true. Papa used to say that it was all of the cocktails Momma drank while she was pregnant that had made him so special. This seemed like it should've been a good thing to Chucky... that Momma had done something to make him special, like Darkwing Duck is special (the cartoon, not his friend -- though he thought his friend was pretty special, too), while most of the other kids in the world were just normal. For some reason, though, it made Momma cry every time Papa said it.

That didn't make any sense... why would she be sad that her boy was special? Drake-El and the lady duck, whose name Chucky had never heard, didn't cry when they thought about their son being special. Why should his Momma cry when she thought about him being special? He didn't know... but he wished one of his special powers would kick in and make him as brave as the other boys, he needed to find a way to be brave now.

"That's not cool, though, Chucky," Darkwing objected. "Calling him Launchpad isn't mean -- calling you that is!"

"Calling me Launchpad is mean!" Launchpad replied. "Launchpad McQuack is stupid... I'm not stupid! If anyone should be called Launchpad, it's him -- because he's the one that's stupid! That's why we're standing here instead of playing manhunt, because he's stupid and scared to go in the woods!"

"I'm not scared!" Chucky lied. "I'm just deciding which way I'm gonna go!"

"Well then decide, and let's go!"

Of course, there was only one way that Chucky would even consider going once inside Booger Woods. There was a natural path that broke diagonally to the left from where they stood which would lead him, eventually, to a small vernal pond. He knew because, when he was younger, he and his mother would sometimes go there to have a picnic. Afterwards, she would watch him swim in the water there. It wasn't swimming, really, because the pond was only about two feet deep, and even that was only in the spring. Sometimes there would be no water at all in the pond, Momma said it depended on how rainy it had been lately.

He was never scared of the woods back then, but that was because Momma was with him and he was too young to appreciate the true dangers that monsters represented. It was also before Pennywise came to Burlwood and did what he did with Gary Duncan's parts.

Plus, back then, he and Momma just called it the woods. It had been Darkwing and Launchpad that christened it Booger Woods, after a scary place they heard about in a Charlie Daniels song. Chucky didn't like that, because according to the song there were things that crawl, things that fly, things that creep around on the ground \-- and they say the ghost of Lucius Clay gets up and he walks around. Chucky didn't like to go to places where ghosts were known to get up and walk around. Especially when the place was so dark that a ghost, or Pennywise, could be hiding anywhere... just waiting to snatch him up and tear him to little pieces.

"Okay," Chucky finally conceded, realizing that his friends would only argue more if he told them he didn't want to play manhunt anymore. Moving the flashlight back to his right hand and pushing the switch forward to turn it on, he took a deep breath and prepared to run. "I guess I'm ready..."

"Okay," Darkwing declared. "Remember, we get a full minute this time so we have a chance to find a really good spot... that's sixty seconds."

"I know how many seconds a minute is," Launchpad said, "I'm not the one that's stupid."

Darkwing didn't acknowledge the comment this time, and Chucky was glad. His mind was already racing about the things that could be waiting for him in the cool shade beneath the trees of Booger Woods. He didn't want to have to deal with their arguing again.

"Okay, then. Ready," Darkwing began. Chucky nodded to him, taking another deep breath. "Set... go!"

"One, two, three," Launchpad began, counting way faster than real time. That wasn't fair, but there wouldn't be time to get upset about it.

At three, Darkwing sprung forward and started hauling balls into the forest. Chucky let out a yelp with that big breath he had taken and forced his shaky legs across the threshold of brush -- into the darkness of Booger Woods. He followed the path, his heart pounding like a kick-drum in his chest as shadows raced by, each of them looking like a monster in the periphery of his vision. To his horror, Darkwing darted to the right -- off the path, and into the wild.

Alone, now, each step he took propelled him deeper and deeper into the horrific place. With every inch, he moved further and further away from Darkwing... away from Launchpad... away from Momma, and away from the safety of his house, where he wished he could be. He wanted to stop and race back, but his body was on auto-pilot, now, running at full bore in desperate strides that he wouldn't be able to control until he was clear of the woods altogether. He wouldn't be safe until he broke free of the shadows and ended up on Route 4, just a mile from where the police had found Gary Duncan... Gary Duncan, who had been all chopped up and spread around in the woods by the old horse track.

Distantly, Chucky heard Launchpad counting. He was at nineteen, now, though it certainly hadn't been that many real seconds.

The fact that he was alone started to sink in, and he was scared -- so scared that he started to scream the biggest scream he could ever imagine making. He screamed so loud that it hurt to do it; hurt his throat, hurt his ears, hurt his chest and the lungs inside. It sounded ridiculous; a girlish wail in soprano with a fine vibrato brought on by the bouncing of his stomach with each hurried step. Interspersed with it was the manic rustling of last year's leaves, crunching under foot as he ran. That sound seemed like snarling to him... the snarling of hell-hounds hot on his trail, and closing.

In his mind, he saw all of the monsters he had feared were there; the zombies, the vampires, the werewolves, the mummies, the ghouls and the ghosts... Lucius Clay, up and walking around. Then, there was that goddamned clown... Pennywise... showing its awful teeth and reaching for him with its white-cotton-gloves. Gloves that were stained with the blood of little Gary Duncan... Gary Duncan, whom it had torn to shreds and left in little piles in the woods behind the horse track just a mile up the road.

"Stop screaming, Chucky!" Darkwing ordered from somewhere off to the right. "He'll be able to find you just by following the noise!"

Chucky didn't care, he wanted Launchpad to be able to find him; wanted this stupid game to be over so they could go far, far away from this place and play something less scary. Basketball, baseball, football or tag -- anything but manhunt, and anywhere but Booger Woods. Launchpad was at forty, soon the manhunt would be on and this game would be closer to being over.

Still screaming, Chucky blew passed the place where the pond used to be. It was dry, now, in the heat of this rainless summer, save for a patch of muddiness that felt like quicksand underfoot. Thinking it would swallow him, he ran harder, even though it felt like his lungs were going to explode. Eventually, his screaming stopped because he simply could not spare the air for it to continue. He coughed and wheezed, his cardiovascular system not accustomed to such sustained periods of effort and panic.

Before long, the path dissolved around him and he was charging through a maze of brush and vines, shoving stray branches out of his path as he zig-zagged around trees and ducked under hanging brambles. Still, he ran, charging forward without a thought or plan as to where he might be going, certain that the monsters were about to catch him and tear him limb from limb. They would take off his arms, split his legs at the knees, separate his waist from his torso and saw off his head \-- just like they had done to poor little Gary Duncan. Gary Duncan, whose parts had been all together and alive when Chucky had seen him at school, but were now all taken apart and dead... dead, like Chucky would be when Pennywise caught him.

"60!" Launchpad's voice emphasized in an echo, barely audible now through the thick blanket of forest between them. "The manhunt is on!"

Chucky wondered where Darkwing was... wondered where he was, and how long it was going to take for Launchpad to find him. His run had slowed to a jog, his body unable to maintain its frenzied flight thanks to the steady diet of Coca-Cola and Twinkies he had forced upon it in days prior, when he had no notion that he would have to flee through the wilds for his life this afternoon.

It was just as he was realizing that he couldn't keep up this running for much longer that Pennywise finally got him! He felt the clown's arm wedge between his legs; his right foot catching it near the elbow as it came up to take another stride, the wrist slapping against the back of his left ankle, tripping him up. His upper-body, captive to the inescapable forces of inertia, careened forward as his tangled legs folded underneath him. The Earth seemed to race up to meet his face, slapping him hard with its leafy palm as he crashed and slid several feet through the burs and twigs.

Finally grinding to a stop in a crumpled heap, he became aware that he had lost hold of his flashlight. A bolt of pain in his right wrist accompanied the realization, prompting him to grab it and squeeze it tightly. A tingly and warm sensation came over it, masking an undercurrent of agony that froze him in place on the ground.

"D-W!" He bellowed, gasping and writhing. "Help me, please!"

No one came immediately, and Chucky worried that Pennywise would have him eaten up before they got to where he lay. He pictured the clown looming in the distance, blood dripping from its fangs like molten rubies as it approached. The sound of its footfalls sent chills through his body, each chill traveling a circuit that led to his throbbing wrist where they all collected and climaxed in pulsating explosions of unbearable pain.

Time seemed to drag out and stretch into infinity, the clown probably taking pleasure in seeing him lay there in mortal terror and pain... waiting for it to come and rip his cock off, just like it had done to Gary Duncan. How long would it let him live? Where would it spread his parts when it was eventually through with him? Tears streamed down his face as he started to sob in fear and pain for what felt like forever before \--

"Gotcha!" it bragged, in a voice that sounded much like Launchpad's. Chucky summoned the courage to look up to the sound, squeezing his wrist as tightly as he had squeezed the red plastic flashlight before.

Instead of Pennywise, he saw Launchpad's small and wiry frame... frozen in place near a tree. He was just standing there, silent, his face showing the same terror that Chucky felt. He was paying no mind to Chucky's crying, staring down at something on the ground. It was something that frightened him, and it was right there... just a few feet away.

Silently, Darkwing emerged from the woods behind him. He stepped slowly and cautiously, also staring toward the thing -- whatever it was. He stopped and lingered, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth hanging open in a way that only added to Chucky's sense of foreboding. Bending at the waist, he reached out and grabbed hold of the thing half-buried in the brush and leaves. Chucky's heart was booming, now, even louder than before, in a deafening and uneven rhythm. It was so loud that he could hear nothing else as Darkwing lifted the thing from the ground and held it in the waving rays of light breaking through the dense forest canopy.

There, in the depths of Booger Woods, stood the leader of their group... clutching in his hand a small, pale and bloodied arm.

ONE

September 8th, 2016. 1:00PM

Indianapolis, Indiana

LeTonya Hughes sighed and shook her head as the short arm of the Jaeger-Lecoultre Atmos clock on her desk swung into the territory beyond the "I". Her husband was running late, and that meant more work for her... as per usual.

When he eventually sauntered his portly frame through the door and into the lobby of his office, he would claim that his case was called last -- or that the judge was long-winded, or that there was bad traffic, or some other damned thing. She wouldn't believe anything he said, but she would have to accept whichever he claimed as his excuse this time, because it really didn't matter anyway.

All of the extra work it would mean (for her) would have to be done regardless of what had detained him. Whether the excuse he invoked was valid (and it generally wasn't) or whether he had just decided that life should operate on his time, at his whim, she would just have to smile and do the work... as per usual.

Miraculously, though, somehow \-- in the face of what he would claim were the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune -- he would have found the time to waltz his big black-ass into the deli on 5th and Main to pick up a couple of Reubens, which he would be carrying with him in a greasy paper sack. She would remind him that he's supposed to be on a diet, per his doctor's orders, and he would smile and admit that he did need to be on one, but it would have to start tomorrow, as he had already purchased the sandwiches. Waste not, want not, he would say. Then, in an attempt to deflect her attention, he would stop to admire the seven-thousand-dollar clock on her desk (which she thought was garish, by the way) and marvel at the fact that it required no winding or electricity to operate.

Thinking only about himself and how much time he could devote to those sandwiches, he would ask her what his afternoon looked like. As she rattled off all of his appointments -- appointments that he himself had scheduled -- he would act like she must be crazy for having so terribly overbooked his day.

At his request, she would push back all of the appointments scheduled before two-thirty -- cancelling those that couldn't be adjusted -- and the day that had been slated to end at five o'clock would stretch on until at least seven or eight... as per usual.

On most days, that was fine... this was, after all, his practice; his business. It put good food on the table, nice clothes on the children's backs and that god-awful looking Atmos paperweight on the rich mahogany desk at which she sat.

On those days, though, they didn't have an invitation to what promised to be the most incredible, sensational, absolutely fabulous dinner party that Indiana had ever seen at eight o'clock. On those days, there was no plan to visit the exclusive estate of Forrest and Chantel Woodard -- a grown-up's Neverland.

LeTonya had met Chantel at the nail salon (where she went every week, despite her husband's never ending chagrin at the mere suggestion that she might spend a whole fifty-bucks on something so trivial), where the two commiserated for the better part of an afternoon on the inherent suffering of the working lawyer's wife. They proved to be soul-sisters; kindred spirits who were completing each-other's sentences within minutes of meeting and swapping stories that were all too familiar to both of them. Now, they met regularly just to talk -- and talk they did.

The stories Chantel told were much more interesting than those that LeTonya had, however, because Forrest Woodard worked in entertainment law. As a result, Chantel could drop the names of NFL, NBA and R&B music personalities into her anecdotes with an ease that left LeTonya seeing stars.

The party this evening was to celebrate something big -- maybe it was the couple's anniversary, or Forrest's birthday, or some holiday that only the super-rich know about -- she couldn't remember, she had been so excited about it that the occasion had slipped her mind. Whatever it was, the date had something to do with it because it was a Thursday, and who the hell has a massive dinner shindig on a Thursday? Whatever it was, it was gonna be big. So big, in fact, that a whole roster of the who's who in the entertainment industry was going to be there -- including Diana F'ing Ross who was in town to perform a show this weekend!

Well Touch Me in the Morning, It's My Turn Love Child, and Ain't No Mountain High Enough 'cuz I'm Coming Out my Endless Love! The Hughes' weren't going to miss this party, no sir! They were going to roll up on that big house at eight o'clock sharp, no matter what excuse Donnell tried to cook up to get out of it. Come Hell or high water, LeTonya Hughes was gonna meet Miss Ross and sip Cristal from diamond-studded Calleija flutes before the sun went down this night!

She was gonna do the Electric Slide side-by-side with Paul George and Kobe Bryant, rub elbows with that gorgeous corn-fed white boy Eli Manning and sing Take Me To The River with R Kelly. She was gonna eat crab, fresh fruit, prime rib and the finest collard greens that money can by until she felt like she might burst at the seams. It would be her reward for all the hard work she put in... dragging Donnell through law school, slaving over a hot stove to build up his rotund physique, and for making all of those goddamned phone calls to adjust his schedule so that he could coast through life on his own timetable -- as per usual.

...and anything he would try to do, or to say, that might make them arrive even a single, solitary second after the hands of his hideous, useless, self-indulgent clock clicked into place over the hour of eight PM? Well... like her coffee mug says, ain't nobody got time for that!

The office phone rang as she took a sip from the aforementioned mug, the display flashing restricted caller with no number underneath. Little did whomever it was know, today, restricted caller was French for go take a hike, because she wasn't trying to hear anything but grab your purse, honey, and let's get on down the road. Restricted Caller would just have to call back later, because LeTonya was already at the party munching on Club crackers piled high with Petrossian Imerial Special Reserve Persicus Caviar and chasing them with pork rinds.

It was probably just another dead-beat criminal calling, anyway. He would say he still couldn't send a payment towards his overdue balance, which was probably already in collections. If not that, it would be a prospective client... one with bad credit, no collateral and no hope in Hell of ever paying a red cent for the services he sought from her husband. She hated those people... hated that Donnell always took them on, knowing full well that they couldn't afford a court-appointed public defender who was free, let alone a well-respected homicide lawyer whose wife had aspirations of some day hosting such hedonistic parties as the one they were going to attend this evening.

How would they ever get the keys to that ten-million dollar mansion on the lake if he kept taking cases that cost hundreds of hours of work and paid in no more than a modest stipend of twenty or forty dollars a month? Shit, cases like that were gonna buy them a one-way ticket back to the trailer park her husband had grown up in... and ain't nobody got time for that for sure. She was doing the two of them a favor by not answering that phone, Donnell just didn't know it.

It was almost one-thirty according to that shitty clock (which she swore was slow, sometimes) before the door to the hallway finally swung open and all five feet, nine inches of her husband's three-hundred pounds marched in. His bald head was glistening with sweat, which he promptly wiped away with a handkerchief retrieved from a pocket inside his suit coat. If he had an inhaler in there, he would've taken a puff at that, too, because the walk in had obviously been an effort based on his labored breathing. He seemed to be making a show of putting the hanky back where it came from, as though to seek her approval of the fact that the hand not carrying his attaché case was otherwise empty.

"Mmmm hm," she declared matter-of-factly. "That's all well and good, but there's a trail of Thousand Island running down each side of your jacket -- so I know you already ate at least two of those sandwiches!"

The man stopped where he stood, setting down his briefcase and smiling an I'm busted smile. "Wow," he said, pointing to her desk. "Isn't that an Atmos clock? The kind that runs on atmoshperic pressure -- no batteries, no plug? Gee, that clock is out of sight, where'd you get it?"

"You're running behind... again," she admonished.

"Yeah," he sighed. "The judge spent all morning meeting with somebody in chambers, so my case didn't even get called until it was almost lunch."

"Did your client take the plea they offered?"

"What's that, sweetie?" Donnell asked, moving to the water cooler in the corner.

"The plea-bargain you worked out for him, did he take it?"

"Oh, no," he explained, filling a paper cup. "He wants to try for an insanity defense."

She shrugged. "He seemed pretty sane to me when he was in here whining about how he would still be loose if his buddy hadn't sold him out!"

"Yeah, you know these guys," he said, taking a sip. "Facing life without parole, any opportunity for a break seems like a good one."

"Did his mother give you a check for the retainer?"

"Oh," he chirped feigning ignorance, the way he always did. "We didn't get the retainer from them at consultation?"

"Noooo, I told you that this morning, before you left. They claimed they didn't have it just then, but they were supposed to have it today!"

"Well, I'll just get it from them at the jury selection -- which is set for November 1st, by the way."

"Nine AM?"

"You know it, sugar!" he smiled, winking at her as he pitched his cup and retrieved his attaché.

She swirled the mouse around on her desk to wake up her computer, then opened his calendar to make an entry -- and to get a look at which appointments she would have to adjust due to his having spent so much time wolfing down seven-dollar sandwiches that his blood-pressure couldn't afford.

"What's the rest of my day look like?" he asked, right on cue.

"Well," she replied, scrolling through the listings. "You've got a consultation at -- now, but apparently they're not coming since I don't see them around here anywhere... a teleconference with Wilmer Laporta at two, a consultation at two-thirty and another at three, then depositions in the Omar Timlin case down at county at four, four-thirty and five."

"Timlin, Timlin," he muttered in a feeble attempt to jog his memory.

"He's the one that beat his mother to death with a garden spade."

Donnell winced, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head to the side. "Allegedly beat his mother to death with a garden spade," he corrected her.

"Right," she conceded, rolling her eyes. "Could be he used a full-size shovel."

Donnell frowned, both at her response and at the schedule she had laid out for him. "See if you can reschedule those consultations, Wilmer and I need to talk about the witnesses he wants to call, and I don't know how long it's going to take. Maybe we can push those depositions back to start at four-thirty, just in case."

"Nuh-uh," she exclaimed, knowing just what this would lead to. "No, no, no \-- not today, no sir!". Her husband's face was overcome with surprise at her outburst, which only angered her further. "You know we need to be across town by eight, and we need time to get dressed! With traffic the way it's been, that means we need to be leaving here by six o'clock, no later!"

"Across town by eight? What's at eight?"

LeTonya threw up her palm (talk to the hand) in frustration. "Donnell," she began, trying to keep cool. "You know we've got that dinner party tonight --"

"Whoa," he tried to calm her, raising his own hand as though to signal her to stop and waiving it towards the ground in a futile effort to get her to step it down. It was too late, he had already started her going.

"...and we're gonna get there right\--on--time!"

"Okay," he tried again.

"Now I don't wanna hear no guff, no bull, no but honeys, no \--" she continued, counting her charges out on her fingers.

"Okay!" "--

"...excuses, no nonsense, no flak out of your mouth! You know how important this is to me, and I'm not gonna be late on account of your foolery!"

"Okay, honey," he continued once she'd stopped, still waiving like he was trying to cool her jets with his fanning. "Just calm right down, forget I said anything, and e-mail me the information for the telecon and I promise we'll get there right on time -- okay?"

She said nothing; just glared at him. He took the cue, lowering his hand one last time and inching his way towards his office carefully, cautiously... never breaking eye-contact with her in case this was the time she decided to jump him. Once he crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind him and collapsed against it. Relieved at having escaped, he drew the handkerchief again and dabbed it on his brow.

"Who the hell has a dinner party on a Thursday?" he wondered, reasonably.

Taking no chances, he flipped the lock on the doorknob up and jiggled the handle to be sure it was secure. Convinced he was safe, for the moment, he set his briefcase on his desk and melted into his plush leather computer chair.

Tapping the space bar lit his monitor, revealing his crowded and unorganized desktop. He scanned the icons for the beige one marked Outlook and double-clicked to open his mail-box. There were many bold entries that indicated new messages he needed to sift through before he had to dial into the telecon.

Spinning the wheel of his mouse, he tried to triage those that needed his immediate attention and those that he could try to read while Wilmer was rambling about why he felt it was important to put his former supervisor on the stand as a character witness for him. It wouldn't matter much anyway, Wilmer was guilty as sin, but the detectives working his case had botched it. A t not crossed here, an i not dotted there, leading a witness and an unlawful search and seizure -- nothing too terribly out of the ordinary, but enough. Their mistakes would prove fatal to the prosecution, it was a shoe-in. Wilmer would walk even if they didn't call anyone to the stand, it was all just window-dressing in the grand scheme of things.

A win on a technicality wasn't necessarily ideal in Donnell's eyes, but he would take it... had taken it on several occasions before. To him, such things were simply the inevitable hallmarks of the justice system as it is designed. All else being equal, the burden of proving guilt was supposed to rest squarely on the shoulders of the district attorney and the state -- and there was a clearly defined set of rules under which they were expected to carry out that duty.

Perhaps there would be greater justice in a society that shoots first and asks questions later; a world that would do away with the pseudo-wins he had enjoyed so many of throughout his career. In a society such as that, though, sans due process, the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike would be on the hands of every citizen -- and they would have to be comfortable with the blood's existence. In the out, damned spot world that men have built, however, the gloves of those charged with prosecuting the accused must be squeaky clean and beyond reproach.

As it happened, in the case of Wilmer Laporta, that simply wasn't how it had gone. As a result, a killer would go free... but perhaps, thanks to the diligence of Donnell and attorneys like him in making sure the process was followed just as it was designed, the next guy -- who was truly innocent -- would be free of the shackles that a persecutory justice system would otherwise place him in. Clinging to that notion allowed him to sleep at night... he hoped it wasn't contrived.

When it came to the e-mail, he could tell right away that there wasn't much of substance to see in his box. There was one message, though, buried deep among the clutter, that caught his attention; sitting wedged between spam that warned it was the last day for him to save up to eighty-percent on Viagra and a message from his mother. The subject line read URGENT: Donnell please call, and an L in a blue circle appeared next to text that said the message was from Louis.

"Louie Rambo?" he wondered aloud, clicking to open the message. When a window expanded to show the entirety of the text, he saw that his feeling had been correct. At the bottom, the message had been signed Deputy Louis Rambo, Elsmere CPD, and it was not the sort of wordy legal mumbo-jumbo communique he typically found in his inbox.

DONNELL, it read in all caps. I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD SEE THIS. I TRIED TO CALL JAKE BUT HIS BUSINESS NUMBER IS DISCONNECTED. MAYBE YOU HAVE HIS PERSONAL CELL? PLEASE CALL ASAP.

Below the text was a blue hyper-link, referencing the Elsmere Monitor -- a newspaper that served the county of his hometown. He clicked it, Firefox opening in response and splashing an article across his screen. At the top was a headline in bold, dramatic type declaring Police make arrest in murder of local boy; claim correlation with "Butcher Of Burlwood" killings unlikely.

"Ho-ly shit," he mumbled to himself, a flood of memories rushing through his mind at the sight of a phrase he hadn't considered in nearly twenty years. Shaking off his momentary distraction, he began to read the article, which had been posted the day before.

Elsmere County Sheriff Ronald Boudreaux announced yesterday that his office had served a warrant for the arrest of a suspect in the murder of William Marsh, 9, of Burlwood. Marsh was last seen on July 24th, and his dismembered remains were discovered floating in a pond behind the Burlwood Meadows trailer park on the 26th.

The suspect, Charles Murphy, 38, also of Burlwood --

"Chucky?" Donnell gasped, continuing.

\-- was arrested at his home in Burlwood Meadows yesterday morning in the culmination of an investigation that Boudreaux says has been his department's "number one priority" since the remains were discovered.

The murder touched a raw nerve in the small town of Burlwood, rekindling the fear that gripped residents in the period between 1990 & 1994, when a string of grisly murders were committed by a killer dubbed "The Butcher Of Burlwood". All of "The Butcher's" victims were between the ages of 8 & 12, and their remains similarly dismembered.

In a special address, Boudreaux acted to assuage fears that "The Butcher" has resurfaced to continue his bloody reign by stressing his belief that this was a one-off crime not connected in any way to those of the past. Murphy is being held at the Elsmere County jail and is expected to be arraigned on charges of 1st degree murder, kidnapping, torture and mutilation of a corpse within the next several days.

Sheriff Boudreaux also renewed his call for anyone with information pertaining to the case to report it to either his office or to crime-stoppers, no matter how insignificant the details of that information may seem.

Barely believing what he read, Donnell went through it all again... trying to absorb and process the words that seemed so entirely surreal and abstract to him. Reaching for his phone with his eyes still glued to the screen, he knocked the handset from its cradle. Yanking at it blindly to untangle the cord, he minimized Firefox and scanned the original e-mail for Louie's number.

Before he could dial it, though, he pressed the Intercom - Lobby button and made a pre-requisite declaration. "LeTonya -- clear my schedule."

TWO

September 8th, 2016. 2:30PM

Detroit, Michigan

Three hundred miles away, Jacob Giguére took a long drag on his cigarette. The glowing ember was perilously close to his finger, which could feel its heat as his lungs felt the Newport cool that they craved. It's the menthol, he thought, not the nicotine, to which he was addicted. This was probably a ridiculous notion, and he knew it... but it seemed more plausible than anything else in his life at that moment, so he clung to it.

The furious orange of the smoldering tobacco caught his attention, so he gazed into it after he drew the filter away from his mouth. The lambency fascinated him. In it, he saw chaos, rage, insanity and animosity... all were very familiar to him. He felt the fervor and bridled torment of the flame desperately seeking birth, bound in chains and irons from which it could not possibly hope to escape without some foreign intervention. He understood its longing for birth, its begging for some loosely wadded paper on which to feed or for a sip of some invigorating accelerant to set it off... anything to quiet its insatiable thirst; to set it free and further it along in its epic quest for ruin and for destruction.

There would be no relief for the fire this day, though, and none for him, either. It would die a slow and lonely death, fading out with no pomp and no circumstance atop a pile of recently deceased comrades on a filthy slab of concrete just outside of his car. Perhaps it would shine its brightest in the moment before it disappeared forever; or perhaps that honor is reserved solely, in antithesis, for the cold and damning power of the dark before the dawn. Would he fade so uneventfully, too?

Fearing the loss of himself to its depths and feeling the sting of searing flesh upon his fingers, he dropped it lazily out the slightly lowered window of his Chevrolet sedan. It fell with little inspiration, and was thus cast out of his life forever... cast out, as he had been from the world at large.

With nothing on which to dwell, now, his mind resumed its frenzied churning... dark thoughts pulsing in fits and starts that were jarring and disconcerting. Feelings and emotions cycled without pattern or definition... swirling, swirling, swirling, in confusion and discord. Over clouds of black and shades of gray he teetered, his psyche breaking down in cascading faults and failures like tepid plumes of water spilling over the thunderous crest of mighty Niagara. Hopes that had long since turned to ash stirred and coalesced, cremains of dreams and broken promises bequeathed to none and promised to all.

Through the cold and musty void spun those words; those spears of pride and honor that refused to settle with the dust. Those two words that twirled, sparkled and pierced the veil. Sinister and cruel, they stalked him in the dusk of all he was like demons out for blood... stalked and caught him now, when life had forced him to his knees, and preached to him a dark parable of rest and resignation. They called to him from the abyss, from the tomb of what could be and what had been, in tongues of fire billowing smoke. Silent and vociferous in thunder and quiescence... immortal and surcease in triumph and in tragedy...

Double indemnity, they cried... the aphasic scream of sorrow... the sullied virgin of virtue... the rusted glitter on the gold... double indemnity...

The rain sounds nice on the windshield and double indemnity... strangers wandering by and double indemnity... the reels of a slot machine spinning on his phone and double indemnity... seven, seven, seven and double indemnity... arbeit macht frei and double indemnity... the power of Christ compels you and double indemnity... the goddamned bitch and the papers and double indemnity in the darkness and fire burns double indemnity the fucking whore and what an excellent day for double indemnity I can't believe it's real in double never wanted this to happen indemnity smell gin and piss with double indemnity watch for the sounds moving through double an albatross, by God indemnity hate slow moving in motion double crutch like wasted away indemnity filing island in the woods double indemnity in the trunk with -- fuck.

Have to stop... have to focus.

He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, feeling the filth in it -- smelling the smoke in it. Smoke, menthol and he wanted another smoke. He took one from his pack, which was running low, and lit it before the last one had a chance to burn out. Looking at his phone, above the spinning reels, he noted the time... two-thirty PM... a half hour, he'd been awake, now, double indemnity... a half hour spent treading water on the cusp of madness.

Where the fuck was he? Looking around, he saw nothing that he recognized. He had woken up sprawled out in his fully reclined driver's seat -- at least it was his car, double indemnity \-- his head pounding, his eyes burning.

In a momentary lapse of judgement, he made the mistake of looking at himself in the vanity mirror. The man he saw in it looked pathetic; pale, slimy and unshaven. Inflamed and irritated blood vessels in his eyes confirmed his suspicions that he had been drinking last night. Based on how he felt, he had drank a lot... he was dizzy and nauseous still, and there was an odor wafting through the window that he was quite certain must be coming from a pile of vomit on the concrete where his cigarette butts were stacking.

Apparently, he had passed out with his keys in the ingnition and the car running. Perhaps he had the intention of driving away in a drunken stupor... thank the gods, he hadn't done that... at least he hadn't done that.

Upon waking, he had quickly turned the vehicle off and pulled the back seat forward, stashing the keys and other items that would spell trouble if a police officer happened by in the trunk. Then, he moved into the passenger seat and double indemnity. Still, he was worried that a cop would happen by... was surprised that one hadn't already while he was sleeping.

While he wasn't sure exactly where he was, it was quite obvious that he was in the parking lot of a seedy-looking dive bar, probably the one in which he had spent the prior night. Vaguely, he could recall loud country music and rock... could taste the pungent flavors of Jaegerbombs and Martinis... could smell gin, in fact, though this was a mystery because he hated gin with a passion. Slowly, though, double indemnity, details started coming back to him.

There had been a woman... a chubby woman, no less. She was drinking gin and -- shit, had he been sucking face with her? He wiped his mouth and came back with rouge on the back of his hand... that's why he tasted gin, shit. That's why his shirt was all disheveled and half-unbuttoned, too, the skank had run her hands all over him.

Suddenly, he wanted a shower. How long had it been since he'd had one, he wondered? Two days? Three? Four?

That's right, he thought -- she jammed her hand up my shirt and felt my gun in the shoulder holster. Did she jam it down my pants as well? She thought I was a cop... a very drunk and sloppy cop, I guess, and she bailed out and ran. Maybe because the baggie belonged to her? Christ, he hoped the baggie had belonged to her. It was on his dash when he came to, empty, save for the powdery white residue that stuck to its sides. Certainly, it was hers... he hadn't fallen so far -- had he?

Either way, the damned thing was in the trunk, now, with his keys and his Beretta 92. He had a permit to carry, of course, and the gun was legal -- but better not to have to explain all of that if a cop came asking why he was loitering around some seedy country-western bar with a firearm while probably still drunk in all the ways that count. If he had the keys on him or in the ignition, that amounted to physical control, and physical control amounts to driving while intoxicated -- even when there's no driving involved. Even with them in the trunk, there could still be questions.

There wouldn't be any questions about the baggie, though, just the popping of a test capsule and a sudden rush of blue before a nice long stay as a guest of the county -- or the city, depending on where exactly he was. All in all, everything added up to gotta get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.

That wasn't advisable in his condition, though, he would have to wait it out just a bit longer, double indemnity. He was a prisoner to his thoughts until such time as he felt comfortable to drive, and his thoughts were wholly unkind to him, now, as usual.

In an effort to quiet the screaming in his head, he tried to reconstruct the past several days, which were all a blur to him in the hazy afterglow of liquor and God knows what else. He remembered the padlock on his office door... remembered getting the papers... remembered punching a hole in a particularly fragile wall... remembered going to the bank and draining his account, the account of his business not his wife's... remembered making it rain on some whore with no top on... remembered slamming shots like they were water... remembered wishing it would stop, remembered putting the Beretta in his mouth, remembered pulling back the slide, remembered clicking off the safety, remembered his racing heart and sweat running down his face, remembered... remembered wanting to run away.

The sound of a slamming door jarred him, his heart falling at the thought that it was his imaginary cop finally happening by. It wasn't, but that made the moment no less sobering. It turned surreal when he realized the face of the man getting out of the car a few spots away was very familiar to him, indeed.

"Shit," he chuckled quietly, "It's Dan Tripp!".

He lowered himself in his seat a bit, an attempt to make himself inconspicuous born of habit and of instinct. In another time, he had invoiced Misses Tripp for six hours of surveillance -- many of which were spent melted into his seat with a pair of binoculars to his eyes, waiting for Dan to leave work and travel to a place just like the one at which he sat now. She was sure he was having an affair... coming home late, smelling of cigarettes and booze, spending inordinate amounts of money and generally acting out of character.

Jake had staked out his office, followed him from there to a bar -- where he was going -- but not to meet with any secret concubine of the female predilection. It had been a male colleague, and the conversations he had listened-in on, posing as a fellow patron, were about financial troubles and not illicit sexual desires. They were about the hell that would be paid when Misses Tripp learned of the money they had lost in the market, about divorce born of disappointment instead of infidelity. He had told her about this, as it was what he had been hired to do, and she had gone ghost-white pale with embarrassment and shame before cutting a check against an account with insufficient funds, perhaps to her surprise.

That was long ago, though, and it was obvious that this visit to the local honky-tonk wasn't related to the vicissitudes of Wall Street. Dan Tripp was nervous, fumbling his keys as he tried to lock his car and looking over his shoulder constantly as he hurried his way into Bottoms Up, a name as rich in double-entendre as the establishment was in vice.

If he had his camera, he would've taken a picture of the man serruptitiously sliding the golden band off his left ring-finger as he marched -- a courtesy to a former client of Giguére Investigative LLC, no charge for this coincidental service. As it happened, though, he didn't have it with him... and Giguére Investigative was as good as defunct, anyway, so fuck it.

He supposed he could've taken a picture with his phone, but the man was inside before this occurred to him. Plus, that would've meant exiting out of his slots game, and he was winning for a change. If only he had such luck with the ones that took real money...

The momentary thrill of catching a philanderer in the moments before his pants would be down, literally and figuratively, having passed, Jake realized he wasn't feeling very much better with the passage of time. How long until he would eventually feel up to driving? Even when he did, where the hell was he gonna go?

What the hell was he gonna do?

What becomes of the broken-hearted?

Where do broken hearts go?

To double indemnity, he imagined... it seemed the last viable option. A sad realization, but one achieved through a logical process of thought and reasoning (depraved though it may be) that satisfied all of the prerequisite conditions and wrapped everything up in a convenient, bite-sized morsel with a pretty little bow and glittery ribbon on top.

Selfless, noble, honorable, charitable, merciful -- necessary...

Now there was only to decide where, and to flesh out the background a little bit. Shit, he had that covered pretty well as it was with the apparently wild night that had delivered him to this place... maybe he shouldn't wait, maybe he should go now \-- before his blood-alcohol content dropped any further.

Did his BAC negate double indemnity, though? Fuck, he didn't know... did anything other than .00 make it gross negligence? That would sure screw the pooch... would change everything... make it selfish instead of selfless.

As he considered this, he felt the strange sensation he realized was that of his lap vibrating. It took longer than it should've for his clouded mind to piece together the fact that it was his slot machine ringing -- his phone, rather, ringing. Looking down, he saw a number he didn't recognize... an Indianapolis number.

Puzzled, he thought for a moment -- or tried to think, it was tough against a backdrop of double indemnity. The reality of the happening seemed to thrust him back further into the haze... back into confusion.

Unable to reason anything out, he simply swiped the screen to answer. Should he answer Giguére Investigative? No... this was his personal phone... the business phone was shut off, probably because he hadn't paid the bill in, well -- a while.

"Hello?" he offered quizzically. There was silence for a moment, then --

"Jake," a familiar voice... deep and full.

"Speaking"...

"Jake, it's Donnell... Donnell Hughes."

"Launchpad?" he replied, memories circling... swirling together with the shadows of drunkeness with double indemnity, forming an abstract like the inept doodling of an autistic child on a perpetually moving canvas made of fluids mounted in nothing.

"Chucky's in trouble, Jake," the disconnected voice replied sternly. "They found another body in Booger Woods."

"Booger Woods," more memories... memories of the sun, of the heat, of the running... running... memories of the cold, dead and clammy flesh... memories of the slipping skin, the smell of rot, the dried blood... the thumb \-- oh God, it's missing its thumb and I can see the bone in there...

"They arrested Chucky, Jake, they think he did it."

"Chucky?" more memories...

"He's being arraigned tomorrow morning in Garthby, I'm going up there to represent him... can you come?"

Jake didn't answer immediately, still lost in the afterimage... lost in the fog of liquor and depression, the fog of desperation and resignation. The world seemed to be flying by him, now, in contrast to the slow motion in which he had lived just moments before his slot machine rang... moments of double indemnity, and what am I gonna do about the baggie, and Dan Tripp and why the fuck do I still taste martinis?

Then, the answer came to him \-- plain as day, obvious... obligatory... "Of course," he said. "Yeah, of course, Donnell."

"Good... at the courthouse, ten o'clock... I plan to get there at eight, you should come early too. I'll meet you there, Louie will be there as well."

"Louie..." more, swirling...

"We'll talk more then, I've got some loose-ends to tie up and then I'll be on my way."

Loose ends, he thought... loose ends and double indemnity... it would have to wait... have to wait until after...

"Jake?" Launchpad asked... Donnell asked... "Are you okay, buddy?"

"Yes," he answered, snapping himself back into reality by sheer force of will. "Yeah, Donnell, I'm good... I'll see you in the morning."

"Great..."

"Donnell?" he said, more swirling.

"Yeah?"

"Look, I know the last time we \--"

"Don't mention it, Jake," he interrupted, "it was a long time ago... we were just kids..."

Swirling, swirling and relief... "Thanks, Donnell... Chucky will appreciate it, too..."

This time, the pause was on the other end of the line, then, "Yeah, no problem."

Then, the tone... call ended... the slots were back... the cobwebs were back... The Butcher was back...

...and double indemnity? It would have to wait... have to wait until it was over... he needed to go home for a few things...

Fuck, that would mean having to face her again... he hadn't wanted to do that

THREE

Joshua Banks

August 12th, 1991. 10:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"Darkwing?" Chucky's lightly slurred speech called through the speaker. Then there was static... a pause... the voice again. "Darkwing, are you there?"

Jacob hurried into his room, blue and red lights painting his walls as he kicked his die-cast DeLorean and sent it tumbling into the corner along the way. Diving into his Batmobile car bed, he grabbed for the blue walkie talkie near its foot.

"Yeah, Chucky," he replied, depressing the button on its side. "I'm here."

"Are they still out there?"

Looking out his bedroom window, the one that faced Booger Woods, Jacob could see that they were. Floodlights lit the forest brightly, now, erasing all traces of the darkness that had frightened Chucky; erasing the darkness of the night itself, painting the world with the whitewash of high-pressure sodium lamps. Yellow tape cordoned off the entirety of what had been their playground, men and women -- some in uniforms, some in suits -- ducking underneath it from time to time.

Some of the men Jacob knew. Clyde Rambo, the town sheriff, had gone in early in the day and had yet to come back out. Ron Boudreaux, the deputy, had come and gone a few times. Father Lovett went in, too, but only for a minute. It was quiet when he did; no one moving, no one rustling, no flash-bulbs flashing. When he left, it all resumed -- and it continued, now, in the wee hours of the night.

There were many others throughout the evening, people Jacob didn't know but had seen around town at some point or another. Most everyone was carrying something with them into the woods. Pads of paper, cameras, briefcases, shovels and digging tools, mostly. One group had pulled up in an ambulance and tried to push a rolling stretcher in, but there was no use with the tangled brush. Instead, they took a board off of it and turned it on its side, weaving it through that way.

There was a television news crew with a camera set up facing the scene as well, a sharply dressed woman speaking loudly into a microphone and pointing into the trees. She said the same things over, and over and over again, saying them in different ways and different tones of voice each time. Sometimes she would stress one word -- like child, then the next time it would be murdered or dismembered. Then, she started saying things like molested, sodomized and predator... things Jacob didn't understand. The only predator he had ever heard of had been an alien in an action movie, and he knew that couldn't be what she was talking about. At one point, not long after that, he heard her say the word butcher with a great deal of emphasis. Thus, a nickname was born... entered his lexicon, and began its haunting of his childhood.

He had watched for hours, fascinated and curious, but had grown tired of the activity as the evening stretched on. Rambo and Boudreaux had come by earlier and asked him questions. Questions about what they were doing in the woods, what they had seen and what they had done once they found Joshua Banks' arm.

Joshua Banks, that's whose they said it was. He had been nine years old and gone to school in Garthby, where he lived; had been missing for two weeks, since his mom and dad had a big fight and he ran outside to get away.

They asked if Jacob had seen any grownups in the woods through his bedroom window... asked if he had heard any noises out there in the recent days or weeks. He hadn't, and he told them so as his mother cried and hugged him tight. They asked him lots of things, and the whole time he just wished that they would stop... stop, so his mother would stop with the crying.

She was always crying, always upset about something -- and Jacob hated it. She had barely stopped since that Christmas, two years ago, when they found his dad out hanging in the shed, wearing a sign on which he'd written I'm Sorry. Sheriff Clyde and Deputy Ron had come out then, so had Father Lovett. Having the policemen in the house probably reminded his mother of that day; that cold and wrenching Christmas, which had started off like any other Christmas and ended up in such life-changing despair. All she had done was cry since then... cry and take her pills.

Now, she was crying for Joshua Banks; crying for her son and what he'd seen. "So much death," she sobbed... "Why should my little boy be exposed to so much death?"

He told her it was okay... told her it hadn't bothered him, that he could deal with it like he had before. It was true, mostly -- he could cope. It had scared him just a bit... holding a dead arm, an arm that was cold and stiff and just a little bigger than his own. Seeing the missing thumb had turned his stomach, and the print his own fingers left in the gooey flesh had almost made him puke... but he could cope. He had experience... he knew how to do it.

Telling her these things only made her more upset, though, and he couldn't understand why, no matter how he tried. He just wanted her to stop... to take her pills and stop.

The police gave her their cards when they left, told her to call if he remembered anything else that could be important. Once they were gone, he got her medicine from the cabinet and sat with her until it made her fall asleep. When she was sleeping, she wasn't sad... so Jacob liked it when she slept.

"What are they doing now?" Chucky asked through the static.

He watched for a moment and saw people coming back out of Booger Woods, carrying small yellow bags at arm's length. He wondered why they hadn't used the board they took in earlier, but figured it was probably too much of a maze to get through with it flat. The woman with the microphone tried to stop some of them, but they just kept on walking... as though she wasn't there. Eventually, a police officer shooed her away -- like you would a dog. She was from the city, that was probably why... one of the city people who only come to Burlwood to make fun of the backwoods rejects, that's what his mother said about them.

"I think they're bringing him out," he explained. "They're carrying bags... lots of them."

"Do you think they found more of him? More than his arm?"

"I guess so, Chucky, there are lots of bags," he replied.

Looking closer, he thought he could see the vague outlines of what were probably Joshua's body parts, pulling at the bottom of each bag. One had a sharp ridge hanging down, like the point of a knee or an elbow, with the plastic tracing a form at forty-five degree angles around it. Another was bigger and had a person carrying it at each end... probably his torso. Yet another was almost perfectly round... that must be his head, he thought.

"Doctor Loomis said my wrist is broken," Chucky recounted. "It's all big and swollen, and it hurts really bad. I have to wear a cast for six weeks, then I can have it off." a pause. "I guess we can't play any more sports this summer."

"I'm sorry, Chucky," Jacob said. "Sorry that we made you go in there... sorry that you got hurt... sorry that you had to see--" his speech trailed off into silence, so he released the talk button and let the silence say the rest. Silence was the answer he got, too, for a reasonably protracted period, before Chucky finally spoke.

"Do you think it was Pennywise that did it?" he asked. "Do you think he's here, and out to get us?"

"No, Chucky," he said assertively, "Pennywise is just pretend!"

More silence, then "I'm afraid, Darkwing..."

"Don't be, Chucky!" Jacob ordered, trying to send his strength over the air to comfort his frightened friend... the way he comforted his mother when she was feeling low. "You know I won't let anything hurt you... I'll never let anything hurt you, Chucky, because we're blood brothers \-- remember?"

Chucky thought about it for a moment... remembered the day last summer, when he cut his hand on broken glass buried in the sand around the swing set at Memorial Park. He was crying, squeezing his bleeding palm like he squeezed his flashlight when it was dark at bed time. There was so much blood... he thought losing so much meant that he was going to die. Jacob told him he was okay and hugged him, then picked up the piece of glass and cut himself... on purpose. Then, taking his dripping hand, he told him that he was giving Chucky his blood... that he wouldn't die, because his blood would make up for that which he had lost.

Looking at the scar on his left palm, Chucky remembered that Darkwing had been right... he didn't die... Darkwing had rescued him and kept him alive. Afterwards, Darkwing said that sharing each other's blood meant they were brothers now... blood brothers... inseperable, together and with each other forever. Plus, he had strong blood in his veins, now... blood that would help him be less afraid of scary things.

He called on the power of that blood as he lay wrapped up tight in his sleeping bag -- a new, blue, flashlight clenched tightly in his sweat-lined right hand. He wondered if he would have nightmares... nightmares about Pennywise, or about Joshua Banks' parts. Joshua Banks, who had been all put together before but was all taken apart now... taken apart and dead, dead like Gary Duncan, and spread all over Booger Woods... Booger Woods, just two streets down and around the corner from his house.

"I promise, Chucky," Darkwing said through the crackling walkie talkie. "I won't let anything hurt you... ever."

These were words spoken to comfort, but also spoken as a pact... words he would have to live up to, time and time again.

FOUR

September 8th, 2016. 9:30PM

Sterling Heights, Michigan

Tracy took a sip of Chardonnay, emptying her glass. Her nerves were still raw, so she reported promptly to the fridge and drew another from the box. It was running low itself, but in the garage were plenty more -- a Rhine, a Pinot Grigio, the Blush and Chillable Red -- should it become necessary to restock. She wasn't a lush, nor a wine connoissuer by any means; but she thoroughly enjoyed drinking a nightly glass, just to take the edge off.

Having gotten through another day with Garrett -- another day with autism -- was cause for celebration and justification for decompression in the arms of the very-slightest wine buzz, and she needed it. It was a full-time job keeping up with him; ensuring he ate when he was hungry and drank when he was thirsty, that he made it to the bathroom when he needed to go, that he didn't hurt himself. Therefore, the period from nine o'clock until bed was Tracy Time... time to be spent with a nice glass of vino and the quiet.

One glass would suffice on a normal day, but it was bound to take more -- perhaps several more \-- on days like this one had been, but it was the exception to the rule, so she had no qualms with drawing another. As much as she wanted -- as she needed \-- to unwind, she checked her cell phone constantly, nervously, for an e-mail or a text. She hadn't heard from Jacob in three days and two nights, and that wasn't like him at all.

She had long since begun to worry, and worrying seemed to be all that she could do, outside of tempering the nerves with ever increasing amounts of Franzia's finests. Jake had no friends that she could call to track him down, no family still alive that he would be likely to reach out to, and nowhere he would likely go for such an extended time if he had simply decided he needed to get away for awhile.

She had considered phoning the police, but that wouldn't go over well at all... her husband was a big boy; a big, independent boy who could handle himself and wouldn't look kindly on being hunted down like a fugitive.

She thought about calling the hospitals, but Jacob hated doctors with a passion and would've stormed out at the first opportunity. Besides, he keeps a card in his wallet, with his private investigator's badge, that lists her as his emergency contact -- and she would've heard something by now if he had been hurt.

There was the morgue as well, of course, but she didn't even want to consider that possibility... surely, they would have called her, too -- unless he had lost his wallet. Perish the thought...

He would have told her if a case had called him away... if he needed to comb the underbelly of the city or to stake out some seedy motel in search of a runaway addict. He always had before, even when things were at their worst. No heated argument or screaming fight, no matter how severe, had kept him from at least telling her where he was going.

Besides, there had been no screaming fight, no ugly spat to drive him off as of late. In fact, they had barely spoken at all the last time he was home. He had gotten out of bed at two AM, again, and said he was going to work on something for a client. When he came back home at noon, she knew that he had, in fact, spent the morning at the casino instead. He stank of cigarettes and Red Bull, hallmarks of his nights at Greektown Of Detroit. He looked deflated and depressed, which meant he had a losing night -- again. Really, though, he always looked deflated and depressed anymore... it was just his thing.

He spent a few hours home, with Garrett, barely acknowledging her existence, and left again just after two, saying he was going to catch up on paperwork at the office. That was the last she'd seen of him... the last she'd heard from him, as well. That was most unusual, and the revelation that he'd emptied the business' bank account was most alarming.

"What the hell could've happened?" she wondered aloud, taking another sip. She didn't swish the wine around as she would when trying simply to relax. Instead, she gulped it down, and chased it with more.

Two-thousand dollars is what he'd taken from the bank... two thousand and change, almost the entire payment he'd received from State Farm for investigating a case of suspected insurance fraud. That was a rare case; one that he actually completed, which had become unusual. He worked very sparingly anymore, even though he wanted her to believe that he was at it all the time. He was always going to work, but the nearly complete lack of checks and deposits to the account of Giguére Investigative told another tale.

Two-thousand dollars... just enough to pay the arrears owed to the landlord for his office. She had logged into the account with the intent of setting up the transfer when she discovered he had emptied it, and that's when the worry really started. It wasn't enough money to fuel his habit for more than half a day at Caesars, though, so he should've been home by now -- all else being equal.

Unless he'd finally won a bit, she thought, but even his winnings were usually gone fairly quickly. A couple of extra hours at a slot machine, or one big hand at the blackjack table -- potentially over in a flash. No, even if he'd won a little, he should've been home by now. He never stayed out overnight without telling her where he'd be -- if nothing else, in case something happened with Garrett. He never ignored his phone when she called, either, but she was unable to reach him now.

It didn't make any sense... was not at all normal.

Of course, she thought, if he got the papers... another swig of wine, a voluminous one at that.

What did he expect? He must have seen it coming...

He had laid the foundation for what was happening between them... gradually, over five or six years. He had pulled away from her almost entirely, in body, mind and spirit. He had become so distant lately, in fact, she often wondered if he had found someone else... another woman to soothe his mind.

Plus, he was in some kind of tailspin -- gambling away money like he could print it; could swim in it, like Scrooge McDuck. First it was the money from his business -- then the money set aside for bills, the mortgage payment, the money on the credit cards... now, the money from the state meant for Garrett's care. As a result of his recklessness, they were teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, the debts piling up while the money was leaking out.

And the drinking, God, the drinking... he was drinking like a fish. Not a glass of wine here and there like her, he was hitting it hard \-- and often. His eyes were constantly bloodshot, his speech constantly slurred. He never drank in front of her, though, and went to great lengths to hide the fact that he was doing it at all. Chewing Altoids, spraying himself with Old Spice, drinking more coffee than is probably healthy and using red-eye-relief eye drops that never quite seemed to do the trick. Still, it was plainly obvious, she could smell the liquor oozing from his pores.

Then there was the sex... the lack of sex, that is, which was completely out of character for him. He was a man of raging libido; completely insatiable and always eager. That had waned slowly, over the past two years or so, but was completely absent, now. Six months it had been since he touched her... hadn't even asked for a blowjob, which had been his bread and butter from the beginning. That, above all, led her to believe that there could be someone else...

Suspecting infidelity, she sniffed his clothes constantly for hints of perfume... checked his cell phone while he slept for secret messages or calls, checked his underwear for signs of come. No matter how she tried, she had never found anything to suggest his guilt. He was clever, but she doubted he could cover all the bases as well as they were covered if it was really going on. Her heart told her he would never cheat anyway... he just wasn't the type. He was surrounded by cheaters in his work, and he looked upon them with disdain and contempt. It's the ultimate betrayal, he often said. The ultimate dishonor, to everyone involved. The territory of the dregs.

If it wasn't that, though, what was it?

Depression was a suspect; had always been a suspect... he was a very depressive person. His mother had been a poster child for it, and his father -- well... that went without saying. Fearing it was coming for him, like a curse bestowed upon him in his blood, Tracy had scheduled a series of appointments with a counselor and psychiatrist several years ago for him. He went, but only because she made him... and when they prescribed him Zoloft, he had taken it -- but not for very long. Makes me feel like a zombie was his primary objection... then there was the bit with the orgasms, that had struck the death blow. He assured her he was fine without it... and she accepted that on his word.

Regardless of what it was that came between them, he couldn't expect that she would ride along with him on the kamikaze trail that he was blazing. She had Garrett to think about, and that was a lot in-and-of itself. The collection calls, the bounced checks, the forclosure notices -- the food from Hospitality House lately... how could he think that she would stay the course with him while he pulled them all down into the gutter?

She had consulted an attorney in the spring, and thought it over all summer long... deciding only recently it was the final recourse. Talking about their troubles clearly wasn't on the table, she had tried and tried for months. When she did, he always went to work... though there would be no invoice to draw up for his time.

At best, the shock of such a drastic step would serve as a scare-tactic to make him open up... to tell her what was happening, so that they could work together to fix it. At worst, she would have to see it through... to cut the cord, as it were, so that they could all move on with their lives, if that's the way he wanted it.

Whichever way it went, she supposed she would be okay... beaten, battered and bruised -- but okay, whatever the outcome.

Resigned to not knowing where he was for another restless night, she let herself sink into the supple arms of their Natuzzi leather couch and exhaled as much of the tension as she could. She clicked on the television and took another sip of wine, then set everything down on the end table and removed the scrunchie from her hair.

When the dirty-blonde locks tumbled down in front of her face, she saw more gray in them than she wanted to believe was real. Just thirty-four years, she thought, not even half-way through, and I feel like the tank is running empty. She saw every one of those years in the fine and thinning strands, felt the weight of them on her shoulders despite the alcohol's intervention. She felt them each upon her face, tugging at it and leaving marks despite the efforts of Olay. She felt them gnawing at her soul, wearing her down despite her prayers for strength.

Part of her hoped he would just stroll through the door and pick back up where they'd left off... before the trouble started. They'd been together for eighteen years... it would be a shame to throw all of them away. Garrett needed full time care, would need it for the rest of his life. That was a daunting hill to climb, and she'd rather not have to climb it alone.

If he just walked in and said he was sorry, she thought, that he knows he dropped the ball... we could just put the pieces back together and carry on.

Even as she thought it, she knew it couldn't be real. She recognized that there would be no catharsis, no mea culpa in the cards. That just wasn't him... wasn't in his nature, not with all his stubborn pride. She had knocked the first domino, and there would be no stopping the cascade.

The rollercoaster was moving, now, though she had no idea just why. She could only ride the ride, holding on and checking Garrett's restraints to be sure that he made it back to the station unharmed. As she closed her eyes, exhausted, she saw the crest of the first hill approaching; heard the chain lift clicking faster, preparing to disengage the car. The drop would start any time, now -- the only question was how long the drop would be.

FIVE

Jake's throat objected to the onslaught of another Newport with an irritation he likened to that which one would experience while gargling broken glass. The moon was full over the colonial ranch he once called home, and the hush of the suburban evening was well set-in. Scanning the house, he saw no sign of light, save for the flickering of the television in the living-room window.

It was a quarter to eleven when he first dimmed the headlights of his Malibu and pulled into the driveway, and nearly midnight as he smoked his cigarette, idling there. Tracy was probably sleeping, likely passed out on the couch after her nightly glass of wine. Garrett was certainly sawing logs, charging up his batteries for the bedlam of the morning.

Try as he might -- and oh, how he tried -- he couldn't piece together a feasible plan to avoid going in the house. He would need clothes, at least several days worth, maybe more. He would need toiletries; a toothbrush, a comb, deodorant, contact solution, a razor, shaving gel, his Brylcreem. He would need a charger for his phone, a notepad, some pens, fresh socks, a tie, a tie-clip, his dress shoes and, perhaps, his camera. He would need more bullets for his Beretta, just in case.

Tabulating in his mind, which was an effort in the shadow of his brutal hangover, he figured the cost of purchasing these things would easily approach a hundred dollars... plus, it would require effort, which he wasn't keen on making. Having counted the cash in his wallet several times, each time hoping it would count up to more, he was sure it amounted to just five hundred and fifty three bucks. With that, he couldn't figure a way to start from scratch and still get by.

He would need a hotel room for at least one night to get cleaned up for court, perhaps more if sleeping in his back seat seemed as unappealing when the time came as it did while he sat there thinking about it. There were toll roads on the way to Burlwood to consider as well, though the total cost was negligible in the grand scheme of things. He would also need fuel, which is tantamount to rape when working on a budget. It didn't seem to matter how he sliced it, five-fifty-three minus give-or-take a hundred just wasn't enough to last.

He found it stunning that he had burnt through so much of his initial two-grand in such a short period of time. Maybe the chubby woman had robbed him while she was feeling him up... maybe her hands had strayed into his wallet on their quest to find his cock, which he was increasingly confident that she had never quite discovered. There was that to be thankful for, at least, he wouldn't end up with Herpes to show for his adventure.

It was possible that he dropped a few bills on the contents of the baggie, the remnants of which he had since pitched out the window along the interstate. Perhaps a few hundred bucks? More? He had never done the stuff before -- had certainly never purchased any before -- so he wasn't quite sure just how much a sample might have set him back, if it was his to begin with.

Either way, he couldn't waste a hundred smackers on things he could secure for free by just swallowing his pride and walking into what was still his house -- for the time being, at least. It just wasn't feasible. He wanted desperately to avoid facing his wife -- his soon to be ex-wife -- but there didn't seem to be a way out of it.

What would he say?

What would she say?

Well, hopefully she'd be asleep... that would make it easier.

Hoping that was the case, he laid out a plan of attack in his foggy mind. He would go through the side-door, as far from the living room as was possible, and slink through the kitchen as quiet as a mouse. Once he was in the main hallway, he would hit the bathroom first, pitching the toiletries he wanted into his shaving bag. With those in hand, he would press on to the master suite, taking care not to disturb Garrett as he passed by his room. He had a duffle bag in there for cases that took him out of town, so he would stuff a few sets of clothes in it -- not taking time to fold them -- making sure to grab his shoes as well. While in the closet, he would open up his gun safe and grab a box of ammunition. There were notepads in his bedside table, so he might as well grab a few. With everything together, he would creep back down the hall and out the door he came through. If all went well, he could be in and out in less than three or four minutes, with Tracy none the wiser.

His fingers started to burn again as he realized he'd smoked another cigarette all the way down to the butt. There would be a tremendous callus soon, if he kept this habit up. He almost chucked the smoke out the window, but caught himself in the nick of time... what would the neighbors think of butts all over his lawn? Trying to find the car's ashtray instead, he discovered that he'd never looked for it before, because the car didn't seem to have one at all. Cursing modern sensabilities, he rolled down his passenger window and gave the nuisance a mighty flick into the Peters' front yard instead... fuck the Peters, he never liked them anyway.

Dreading the five-hour drive ahead of him, he decided he couldn't wait any longer. With a mighty sigh of resignation, he stepped out of the car -- but left the engine idling. Hit and run, he thought, hit and run.

Marching with purpose, he made his way to the side door, only considering when he got there the fact that it would be locked... and a lock requires a key.

Fuck...

Back to the car...

Key in hand this time, he approached again. He ran through the steps in his head once more before setting his plan into action. Things went swimmingly from there, all the way up to the point at which he opened the door and... the alarm sounded.

Bemoaning his lack of forethought with another heavy sigh, he punched in his code to disarm the system, but it was too late. The living room lamp came on immediately, Tracy's exhausted and concerned face appearing around the corner thereafter.

"Jacob?" she asked, seeming remarkably coherent considering she had just been roused so rudely.

He said nothing in response, moving somewhat less silently than he had planned towards the hallway and the bathroom. She paused for a moment where she sat, then followed him, her white silk nightgown trailing behind her.

"Christ, Jacob, where the hell have you been?" she asked in a hushed but frantic tone, presumably trying not to wake their son. "It's been three days, do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Still, he said nothing, an unexpected and intense anger building in him that he only hoped he could control. He reached the bathroom and retrieved his shaving bag from underneath the sink, then had to open all three compartments of the vanity in search of his contact solution and case -- he never removed his lenses nearly as often as he should. Upon closing the last of the mirrored doors, he saw his wife standing in the doorway. The glaring eyes of her reflection froze him for a moment, her visage an odd hybrid of the angelic and the demonic in this moment.

"Jacob?" she said again, more a demand for acknowledgment than a question this time.

Trying to avoid making eye contact, he brushed her out of his way and moved towards their bedroom. The scent of her floral perfume and lotions as he passed gave him pause; a comforting aroma that reminded him of Halston, the lingering scent of his childhood. For a moment, he longed to hold her... to take her in his arms and cry like a toddler whose balloon has floated off into the sky at large. Then, her gown brushed against the flesh of his arm, calling him to her embrace... but he would not succumb to these temptations. He could not follow that path of least resistance, for that path required a wrenching departure of pride that he couldn't imagine swallowing.

Once he'd made it to the bedroom, he tossed his duffle bag onto the bed and started blindly yanking clothes down from their hangers. Thankfully, Tracy kept the closet organized in clearly defined hers and his compartments, so he didn't pack any blouses by mistake. As he turned toward the bed to begin the stuffing process, he caught another glance of her in the hallway. She was watching his every move, her mouth agape in confusion.

"Jacob," she said quite assertively this time, "what the hell is going on?"

When he failed to respond yet again, she stepped into the room. Still paying her no mind, he fetched a notepad from his nightstand. Moving hurriedly, he returned to the closet and punched the code into his gun safe.

"Goddam it, Jake!" she snapped now, still maintaining a spirited hush. "Talk to me!"

Again, he gave no notice, and it was infuriating to her. His insolence, his gall in ignoring her. Who did he think he was? Who did he think she was? Some doormat to rub the shit from his shoes on? Some throw-away hussy to whom he owed nothing? No explanation of where he'd been, of where he intended to go?

She stormed toward him, now, and reached for him as she spoke. "You owe me answers, Jake, just where the hell do you think you're going?"

He felt her hand upon his shoulder, and something exploded inside of him at her touch. The feeling was inexplicable; a rush of hot and cold agitation that baffled him entirely. As if by reflex, caught in the throes of this new emotion, he immediately swatted her away. He was angered by the imposition, angered at her supposition that, after what she'd done, he owed her anything at all. A white-hot rage clenched his jaw tightly, and spittle flew from his mouth as he snarled "don't you fucking touch me!"

She gasped and recoiled from him, pulling her hands away as she would from a dog prepared to bite. There was a momentary fear in her face, but it quickly dissolved to loathing and spite as he spoke his next words at her, thrusting an accusatory finger as he barked.

"You don't get to touch me and I don't owe you shit, not anymore! That's what 'petition for divorce' means, Tracy! I don't have to answer to you anymore!"

She was frozen for a moment in shock and a fury of her own. She felt her fists spasm and clench, her uneven nails digging deep into the tender flesh of her palms. Once his words had registered, once she'd processed what he'd said, her venom peaked and she lashed out. "Oh, so that's how you want it to be?"

Feeling the tension ready to explode out of her, he dialed his code again and opened the gun safe, withdrawing two boxes of nine-millimeter rounds. Jamming them into his overstuffed bag, he took a frenzied inventory; trying to check off the pertinent items so he could bid a quick retreat, before things got really ugly.

"Fine, then!" she continued, her voice raising now. It was loud and shrill, shaking with rage and sorrow both. "You wanna get nasty? Well I can get nasty too!"

"Oh, I know," he quipped back. "Believe me, I know!"

"What was I supposed to do?" she shouted, all regard for quiet gone as her arms darted out to her sides in frustration. "Let you destroy us like you've destroyed yourself? Let you take us down with you?"

"Destroyed myself?" he reeled, a nervous chuckle escaping that only served to escalate her anger. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Yes! Destroyed yourself!" she cried. "You've destroyed yourself! Destroyed your business, destroyed your credit, destroyed US -- probably destroyed your liver for Christ's sake!"

"Right," he snapped, wrestling with the zipper to get his bag to close. "You've got it all figured out, don't you? You've got all the answers!"

"And now, you're gonna do YOU!" She took a nasty tone and moved closer to him, nearly in his face. "You're gonna run away, just like you do! Just like you've ALWAYS done!"

"What?" he asked in an intentionally snotty cackle, this time, as he finally managed to zip his bag, which was bulging at the seams. He swiveled around to face her, only realizing how close she really was when their noses nearly brushed. "What the fuck are you even talking about?"

Further irritated by the dismissive tone he took, she leaned in closer to him -- close enough for him to feel the heat of anger on her breath. "Well go ahead, you coward!" she yelled, pushing him away and stepping between him and the bed -- between him and his bag. "Go ahead and run away! Run like your fucking father did!!"

Suddenly, Jake's world turned to red and he was absorbed in a blinding fog of rabidity. He felt completely detached from his body as his possessed arms rose and shoved her with every bit of force they could muster. It was enough to lift her from her feet, sending her careening to the matress where she landed on her back.

She flipped the wild hair from her eyes and looked up, seeing him standing there above her, fuming. His right-hand was pulled over his shoulder, as though he was preparing to place a backhanded slap across her face.

In this moment, they locked eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever. She stared into his green depths, the eyes that had looked upon her with such tenderness in days passed; with such passion and such caring. In the clouded, glassy, windows to his soul, she saw none of those things, now... saw nothing of the man she loved... nothing of her husband.

Summoning a false bravado, she addressed this intruder, this stranger in her home. "Do it!" she said resolutely, though her voice was trembling. "Go ahead and do it, Jake! God knows it'll make everything easier on me!"

Seeing the fear in her eyes -- the fear of him, whom she had loved so unconditionally in days not long ago -- he shuddered and recoiled his anger. Reclaiming his body, he lowered his raised hand and sheepishly turned his gaze away. Shaken in the turbulence, he tried to extricate himself from the moment and erase it before it had a chance to take hold in the catacombs of his memory. Disgusted with himself, feeling he deserved pain as punishment, he bit his lower lip so hard he was amazed to taste no blood.

As Tracy watched him stand down, the words you don't have the balls were on the very tip of her tongue. She wouldn't say them -- couldn't say them -- though. The sum of all the turmoil that had existed between them, in their eighteen years and in this moment, was not enough to dissolve the predicate fact that she loved him... had always loved him, through all that came before. In this moment, he was not himself -- and he may never be himself again. That changed little on the whole, even though it changed everything. Considering every bump they'd hit thus far, every mountain they'd climbed together, she choked back tears and asked sincerely "What happened to us? What have we become, Jacob?".

He paced back and forth toward the closet frantically, running his hands over his brow and through his hair as he exhaled all the tension of the argument. When he finally stalled and summoned the courage to face her, he stood as far from her as he could possibly be without leaving the room entirely. His eyes burnt through her head this time, cold, intense and detached... tearless, but red and swollen.

"Time," he answered softly, almost tenderly. "Time happened, Tracy, that's all..."

Finally, as though sensing the waning of hostilities, Garrett let out a cry. A call too deep to be a child's, yet too juvenile to be a teen's. She started to rise instinctively, pausing when her thoughts caught up and begging one last answer from this man, who had once been her husband.

"Jacob," she said quietly now, her voice gentle and pleading. "Where will you go?"

He considered for a moment, then replied sedately. "Burlwood."

"When will you be\-- " she paused, decided to rephrase. "Are you going to come back?" Watching for a hint in his mannerism, she waited an eternity for his response.

He thought longer, harder, now, than before. His mind said double indemnity, and that answer was the most truthful he could've given. Knowing she wouldn't understand, wouldn't allow him to leave if he elaborated, he spoke one final lie to end the chapter.

Softly, almost sweetly, he replied "I don't know, Tracy."

SIX

White lines sped by in blurs, racing at him out of the black then trailing off to die behind as reflective glimmers in his mirrors. Words etched in glass marked their departure, and the words dug into him like the claws of a frightened cat desperate to escape the clutches of an overzealous child. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear, an eternal warning so profound to him, now, that the phrase screamed all throughout his mind... screamed and chanted incantations with the chorus of double indemnity, you goddamned fool.

He was numb and cold, shell shocked and distraught in the hazy fallout of emotion in excess. The colonial ranch was far away, now, though the events which had transpired seemed to linger in the ether... traveling with him in his flight.

The mental recording played in his mind from beginning to end on a constant loop, from the sounding of the house alarm to the squealing of his tires on the pavement of Atlas Avenue East, with every excruciating moment in between brought to him in high definition with Dolby THX surround. The moments of rage and ire, the moments of agony and torment. The seconds that seemed like hours after he dropped his bag on the passenger seat of the Malibu and waited for the tears to come. Those lonely, desolate seconds in which crying seemed like the only logical thing to do -- but in which he had discovered that he simply couldn't cry anymore.

Perhaps he'd gone to the well too many times, perhaps he hadn't gone enough to keep the pressure up and the reservoir filled. Perhaps, with the final gasps of hope and promise, his tears had simply willed themselves to die and in so doing had left him forever. There had been a stinging sensation for a moment, but nothing more... and soon, even that had passed, leaving anesthesia in its wake.

He drove for hours in silence, cruising through the night like a torpedo fired at the ghostly images of warships scuttled long ago. The roads were empty, as vacant as his spirit, and he felt the plight of the Mary Celeste in his heart... the futility, the absence of purpose, the cessation of responsibility. Perched on every concrete barrier and overpass were sirens, singing their sweet siren song of double indemnity in tones of peace and tranquility that beckoned him to come... to come crashing into their arms like the haggard sailors of old, who met their fate on the rocky shores of Anthemoessa in answer of their call. Their voices were so sweet, singing their aria of respite and repose so clear and strong... singing for him and him alone, in the cold, anonymous embrace of this dark and stormy night.

When the sign declaring Indianapolis - 160 Miles floated by him on the concrete ocean, he felt the hands of sleep and death pulling at his eyelids with their soft and bony fingers. With hours left to ride, he turned the radio on to stimulate his mind.

The first station to tune in was Young Country, and that simply wouldn't do. He was a hard rock man at heart, but any port in the storm -- just so long as the natives don't speak in drawls and twangy notes. The next played the rock of yesterday... close enough, he figured. As if by design, the playlist of the auto-shuffle DJ seemed perfectly synched-in to the events and mood of the evening... the rhythm of the state in which he lived.

First, it was The Doobie Brothers telling him that What a fool believes, no wise man has the power to reason away. Then it was Lou Gramm declaring in my life, there's been heartache and pain. I don't know if I can face it again. Soon after it was Golden Earring and I'm fallin' down a spiral, destination unknown. Then Queen, you can beat him, you can cheat him, you can treat him bad and leave him while he's down. That one was a conundrum...

She hadn't beat him, or cheated him -- or even treated him bad.

What had she done? Left him while he was down? Was that all?

Before he had it figured out, the most damning tune yet came through the speakers in the plaintiff wail of Steve Perry, telling of his torrid affair with Sherrie and how it holds on... holds on. You should've been gone. Yes, he thought, she should've. Knowing how he made her feel, she should've been gone... long ago, far away.

Oh Tracy, our love... holds on... holds on... double indemnity and it holds on... holds on...

Christ, he wondered, what did happen to us?

Where did we go so wrong?

It had all started out so perfectly; so sweetly, so innocently, and now... now --

None of it made any sense... none of the causes were clear, none of the root problems, none of the intentions...

Oh, I wanna let go... you'll go on hurtin' me... you'd be better off alone, if I'm not who you thought I'd be...

He wasn't who she thought he'd be -- wasn't who he thought he'd be... who the fuck was he? Christ, he didn't really know... didn't really want to know, didn't think it was possible to know... didn't think it made much difference anyway.

Cut... and that's a wrap, it's in the can...

It's over...

It's done...

It's all been done...

Why?

Who threw in the towel?

Or was this a knockout?

A doctor's stoppage?

A win, a loss or simply a declaration of no contest?

Nolo contendere?

Was he persona non grata?

Ego te absolvo?

Quod nomen mihi est?

Double indemnity, motherfucker, double indemnity...

No -- not now -- not yet... but soon... soon enough, indeed.

Occasionally, the emaciated hand of the reaper tugged at his steering wheel... pulled him in the direction of the rocks, of the sirens singing on them... but he counteracted the action each time... difficult though it was.

He just couldn't understand... couldn't figure out how he'd ended up this way, how he ended up in this place... this dark and lonely place...

Destroyed, Tracy said... he'd destroyed himself... destroyed his business... destroyed his credit... destroyed his marriage... destroyed his family... had he? If so, how? If so, why?

Shit, he didn't know... didn't remember, at least, if he had known before... did he know before?

With nothing to do but think as the white lines passed him by, he decided this was his chance to figure that out once and for all. He mulled it over -- and over -- and over... but he still couldn't come up with any answers, couldn't come up with any hints as to why he'd done the things he'd done.

What had he done?

Nothing... was that the problem?

He hadn't done anything?

Had just checked out?

Well, there was the money... he did do that... threw it away, basically... but he had good intentions, that nice vacation was always just a spin away... that fancy necklace for his honey was just a roll of the dice from being under the Christmas tree... the nice new floor for the bathroom just a double down from being real... but then, the 7's landed just out of alignment... but then, he crapped out... but then, he was dealt a king and, fuck, that's 23... he was in the hole, and they needed that hundred bucks to meet the mortgage... he would have to win it back, so another hundred on the pass-line to recover... split the sevens, because I can't leave until I've won that fifty back... change that twenty for more quarters, because I can't leave without that money... where's the ATM, because Tracy's gonna have a fit... but there's nothing left in the bank, so I'll just take a cash advance off the Visa -- I'll pay it right back, though, once I've won enough...

That he did... he did ruin his finances, his credit...

...but, so far as his marriage was concerned, he never raised a hand to her, never let her go without, never lied about anything besides the money, never confided in another, never put his dick somewhere it didn't belong, never told her how important she was to him...

Fuck, he did pull away from her... but not because she did something wrong, just because he realized he wasn't living up to her expectations. Because he didn't earn enough, didn't provide enough, because he was selfish in bed, because his love handles were getting bigger while their bank account was getting smaller, because their house wasn't as nice as her friend Ellen's was, because their car wasn't as new as her friend Tina's was, because they didn't have a boat like her friend Linda had, because they couldn't go to the fancy restaurants that her friend Sue went to, because -- because he just wasn't man enough for her... because he didn't deserve her...

It was easier to hide from her... easier to make her hate him, the way he hated himself, because he did hate himself and, therefore, she should hate him too -- because he was a failure...

That he did, too... he did ruin his marriage, his finances, his credit...

...but, so far as Garrett was concerned, he never yelled at the boy, never denied him any toy he wanted, never spanked him, never belittled him, never missed a milestone, never failed to recognize his progress, never helped Tracy take care of him...

Fuck, he made her bear that cross alone... made her change his diapers, made her cook his meals, made her take him to his appointments, made her worry about his schooling, made her manage his medications, made her -- made her do it all...

Why?

Because she would?

Because she could?

Because she did?

Because he was ashamed of the boy...

Because he was disappointed in the boy...

Because he wanted a normal boy...

Because he wanted a boy that could talk, that could use the bathroom on his own, that could read and write and control himself, that he could teach to hit a baseball, that he could teach to catch a football, that he could teach to shoot a puck, that he could teach about girls, that he could teach to be a man, that he could show off to his friends...

Because he was pissed at fate for having done that to the boy... for having done that to him.

That he did, too... he destroyed his family, his marriage, his finances, his credit...

...but, where his business was concerned, he never failed to work a case, never turned down a client, never charged a dollar more than was justified, never cheated to get ahead, never really gave a fuck about it to begin with...

Yeah, he had kind of let it go... it was boring, it was tedious, it was menial, it was not what he had expected, it was beneath him, it was all about who was fucking who when they weren't supposed to, and who was milking the insurance company for money they didn't deserve, and where the punk teenager that couldn't stand to be around his parents anymore had run off to, and stupid shit that doesn't make a lick of difference in the grand scheme of things... so he quit trying... let everything go to pieces...

That he did, as well... he destroyed his business, his family, his marriage, his finances, his credit...

...but when it came to himself, he never \--

Fuck, there's no use...

That he did, just the same... he destroyed himself, his business, his family, his marriage, his finances, his credit...

Oh, and his liver... yeah... can't forget the liver... it could well be shot... he'd drank enough whiskey to float a battleship around, as Lynyrd Skynyrd once said...

What a fucking heel, he thought... what a heel am I for doing things so terrible... what a heel is the universe for setting me on this path... what a heel is life...

You don't deserve to live, he thought, because you're a fucking asshole... because you're a piss-poor husband, you're a piss-poor father, you're a piss-poor person, you're a piss-poor man, you're -- you are just not good enough... at anything... you never were... you never will be... you never could be, because -- because... because...

Because what?

That was presumably the question... presumably the secret... presumably... presumably...

Just because?

Double indemnity, that was presumably the answer... presumably the key... presumably... presumably... definitely..

Eventually, he was in Garthby... at The Best Western...

A hundred and ten fucking dollars for a night...

The desk clerk explained that since it was after midnight -- four-thirty AM, to be exact -- the room would be his until Saturday at noon, so there was that at least. He would've foregone it all together if not for the horror he saw when he caught a glance of himself in his rear view mirror. He didn't look at his face, he couldn't stand the site of himself, but the scraggly black hair standing up all over told the tale of how he looked... not fit to see his friends -- not Donnell or Louie, at least -- whom he hadn't seen in, Christ, was it sixteen years or more?

Chucky wouldn't care how he looked, he wasn't one to judge... wouldn't judge Darkwing, his blood-brother... his most beloved friend for life... his idol... his best and treasured pal... shit, how could he have just left Chucky behind? Left him to rot in that trailer park? How could he have just shirked him off, cast him away like so much garbage? Just let their bond fade to black, shrivel and die entirely?

What was more important than keeping the promise he made?

The promise to keep him safe?

Tracy...

Tracy was more important... and boy, how he'd taken care of that relationship... how he made it sparkle and shine...

It was time to make it right, though, to live up to his word -- at least one time -- before... before...

Shit, shave and shower, first... shit, shave and shower, and then -- tying up loose ends... at least this one loose end... and then, double indemnity...

SEVEN

Nathan Dawson

March 16th, 1992. 6:00PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"Who is she?" Darkwing asked, spinning the focus wheel of his binoculars to get a better look.

Chucky didn't know, Launchpad didn't care. The blonde girl in the distance was just another kid to them -- a girl no less -- and she was probably crawling with cooties. Chucky didn't like cooties, he had them once before. The principal at school had found them in his hair when he dug through it with those toothpicks. Darkwing and Launchpad didn't know about that, though, and Chucky wasn't about to admit it.

"We're wasting time, Jake," Donnell objected. "We're never going to find the Dawson kid if we sit here all day staring at that chick."

"But she's beautiful," Jake replied, tracking her every move as she carried a box that was way too big for her down the ramp of a U-Haul truck. "Do you think she's gonna live here?"

"Duh!" Donnell said. "Why else would she be helping carry all that shit in?"

Chucky grimaced. Launchpad swore a lot -- too much, really. More than any grownup he had ever met. Momma said that was because his family was low class. Chucky didn't know what that meant, but he thought maybe it just meant that they were black, which he knew already. There were other black people in Burlwood, but not many... one of the teachers at his school, a guy who worked on horses at the race track and another family in the trailer park. None of them besides Launchpad's parents had any kids, though, so Chucky didn't know whether they were low class or not.

"Look," Launchpad continued, "are we gonna go look for Nathan Dawson or are we gonna stand around with our thumbs up our asses? Because if we're gonna just stand here, I'm going home -- it's too fuckin' cold for that!"

Darkwing didn't say anything, he just kept watching the girl. She was going in and out of the pink trailer on the corner of Applewood and Oakwood, doing her business with no idea that she was being watched. The trailer, which was just up the road from Chucky's, where they stood, had been empty for quite a while. That wasn't unusual, though, there were lots of empty trailers in Burlwood Meadows since they found Joshua Banks. They had all been full, once, but people were moving out all the time. Momma said that was because they were scared and there was nothing in Burlwood worth staying for -- just the horse track, and even that was in decline.

Some of the empty trailers weren't very nice, but neither were some of the ones that had people living in them anyway. Chucky's wasn't very nice... it was small and dirty, and sometimes the toilet overflowed and water got all the way to his bedroom. Momma said they had to stay there, though, because she didn't have much money since Papa moved back to Tennessee and stopped sending her any. They didn't have much money before he moved, either, but at least Papa always knew how to fix the toilet so that it wouldn't spill all over the floor.

"I agree with Launchpad," Chucky said timidly, drawing shapes in the snow with his foot. "It is pretty cold out here."

"The Dawson kid is probably dead anyway!" Launchpad added, but Darkwing never took the binoculars from his face.

"Like Gary Duncan and Joshua Banks?" Chucky asked. That made his heart beat faster, even though the thought had occurred to him before.

"He's been missing for two weeks!" Launchpad said. "That's way longer than the other kids lived after they went missing! The Butcher probably cut him up days ago!"

Chucky thought this over, and realized it was probably true. Nathan Dawson, who was ten, had disappeared thirteen days ago from the Citgo by the horse track. His mom had left him in the car while she went in to pay for gas -- she shouldn't have done that -- and when she came back out, he was missing. The television news said she saw a blue car speeding away, but she couldn't tell what kind or who was in it.

The whole town had been looking for him ever since, trying to figure out where he was. Darkwing had decided the three of them should try, too, because every set of eyes would help. Chucky didn't like that idea... he hadn't liked finding Joshua Banks at all, so he figured finding Nathan wouldn't be very much fun either. Donnell didn't seem to care either way, but he said his parents argued a lot, so anything was better than being home.

"If we're gonna be outside in this cold," Launchpad continued, "we should at least go sledding down Muddlefoot Hill!"

"No!" Chucky blurted out. "We're not going sledding on Muddlefoot Hill!"

The hill, named by Chucky after the neighbors on The Darkwing Duck Show, was a small knoll at the back of the trailer park, not far from Darkwing's house. Sledding down it wasn't scary -- it wasn't high enough to be scary \-- but the good side to sled down faced the trees of Booger Woods. That made the idea of sledding down it very scary to Chucky, especially after what happened there last year.

What if he got going too fast and couldn't stop before he was in the woods? What if Pennywise saw him come sledding in and decided to grab him, like he grabbed Joshua Banks? Like he probably grabbed Nathan Dawson from that gas station... grabbed him and ripped him to little pieces, then tore his cock off -- just like he did before.

"Relax, guys, we're gonna look for Nathan!" Darkwing said. "Just let me watch for another minute..."

Launchpad rolled his eyes and cursed, but Chucky didn't hear exactly what he said. Whatever it was, Chucky kind of agreed with him... he was getting tired of just standing around outside in the snow. They were supposed to be walking the neighborhood, looking for blue cars and trying to see who they belonged to. Darkwing said he had seen lots of blue cars around, and some of them belonged to people who were speficious, or something like that. He thought one of them could be the person who took Nathan Dawson, and he wanted to figure out which one it was.

It was getting late, though, and Chucky wondered if they would have a chance to look at all before it got too dark. Darkwing had been worried about time when they had to wait for Chucky to get his boots on, but now it was him wasting time, by looking at that girl. That was irritating to Chucky, but he wasn't brave enough to say anything.

He always had a hard time getting his boots on so it took a few minutes, so what? Launchpad said it took so long because he was too fat. That if he lost his gut it would be easier for him to reach his feet. That hurt his feelings almost as much as being called stupid or retarded, but Darkwing didn't stop him because the girl and her family were unloading boxes from their truck and taking things into the pink trailer. Watching her was more important than defending his friend... that made Chucky sad.

"Look, they are moving in," Launchpad snapped. "She's gonna be there every day, you can look at her more later!"

"Okay," Darkwing conceded, "okay."

Even after he said it, though, he didn't lower his fancy binoculars. They were really powerful, and probably too expensive for a kid to be playing with. They had been his dad's binoculars, actually, but he had taken them over, now. He always seemed to be looking at things with them; looking at people he thought were speficious or at things he thought were strange. Chucky thought that was because Sheriff Rambo had asked him to keep an eye on Booger Woods after they found Joshua Banks' parts there. Darkwing seemed to like Sheriff Rambo -- wanted to help him out by seeing something -- by seeing anything \-- that might help them crack the case of The Butcher.

Chucky liked Sheriff Rambo too, who wouldn't like to have Rambo as their sheriff? He couldn't figure out why he didn't look the same as he did in his movies, though... that didn't make any sense. He had a big belly, now, and his hair was short and blonde instead of being long and black. He never showed off his bazooka either, which Chucky really wanted to see. Every time he asked about it, Rambo just laughed and said It's in the trunk, Chuck.

When Launchpad cursed again and announced he was giving up, Darkwing finally stopped looking at the girl. Of course, he tried to lead Donnell and Chucky in the direction of the pink trailer when they started to canvas the neighborhood, but Donnell insisted that they go the other way, instead. Darkwing didn't like that, but he followed when Launchpad started storming towards his house.

They walked around the park for hours, sneaking and creeping through the crunchy snow and dropping prone on their bellies every time they saw a car that was even remotely close to blue. They would lay as flat as possible to avoid being seen, then Darkwing would look through the binoculars to see if anything speficious was going on. Chucky would try to crane his head to get a look as well, but Launchpad kept yelling at him -- telling him to hold still or saying he needed to hide behind something because he was too chunky to blend in just by laying in the snow.

They found three cars that Darkwing decided were interesting enough to tell Rambo about, and he got a chance to do so just a few minutes after the street lights had come on. They were walking along Tikiwood near Pikewood when he drove up, flashing his police lights and chirping with his siren to get their attention.

"Boys," he said sternly, "what in Sam's Hell are you doing out at this time of night? Don't you know there's a curfew on right now?"

"Hi, Clyde," Darkwing said.

That mortified Chucky. Momma told him to respect the law, and calling an officer by his first name -- calling any adult by their first name -- was something that you just shouldn't do. It didn't seem to bother Sheriff Rambo, though, if anything it made him nicer.

"Hello, Jacob," he replied with a smile, then nodded at Launchpad and Chucky. "Donnell, Chuck," he said. "Look, I'm not trying to bust your chops, boys, but it's dangerous for you to be out here -- what, with everything that's been going on."

Launchpad nodded back cautiously, his parents had told him to be careful of the police, too.

"But we're all together!" Darkwing answered. "We're not alone, just like you said! You said we shouldn't be out alone, that we had to look out for each other!"

"That's true," Rambo explained, "but you can't be out after dark, even if you're all together... it's just not safe."

"We're looking for Nathan Dawson, though!" Darkwing said. "We're trying to help you find him!"

For some reason, hearing that made all the color run out of Sheriff Rambo's face. Chucky saw it happen, his smile falling slowly to a look that reminded him of his own face after he had a tooth drilled by the dentist. It looked like Rambo went numb, like someone gave him that shot they give so that the drilling doesn't hurt. The drilling hurts anyway, and Sheriff Rambo looked just like that. Like a person who just had his tooth drilled and it hurt, even though it wasn't supposed to. He didn't say anything at first, just sat there looking at them with his after-drilling face. Nobody said anything, actually, and there was what Momma would've called an awkward silence for a little while.

"Get in, boys," he finally said, looking numb and as though the drilling hurt.

Since he was the police, they listened -- they didn't want to get arrested. He said he was going to drive them all home, each to their own house, where they had to stay until at least the next morning. Along the way, Darkwing asked about the family they saw moving into that pink trailer.

"Oh," the Sheriff said, coming back to life. "That's the Swete family. They just moved from Ohio and they're a very friendly bunch."

"They have a daughter," Darkwing replied. "A girl our age, with blonde hair."

"Yes, Tracy is her name, I think."

"Tracy," Darkwing said dreamily.

"Yep, Tracy Swete... she'll be going to school with y'all starting next week." Rambo took his serious tone, his police voice, as he said "I want you boys to keep an eye on her. She doesn't know anybody around these parts, and she's gonna need some friends. Can you promise to look out for her?"

Darkwing promised eagerly. Chucky and Launchpad did too, but not as excitedly as he did.

They were closest to Launchpad's house, so he got dropped off first. Darkwing's should've been next, but that would mean going close to Booger Woods. Chucky didn't like to go anywhere near Booger Woods after the sun went down, even with a grownup -- even with Rambo, who had his bazooka in the trunk. Darkwing knew that, so he asked the Sheriff to take Chucky home instead.

When they got there, Rambo made Chucky promise not to go back outside at night. That would be an easy promise to keep, since Chucky was afraid of the dark -- even when he had his flashlight. When he got inside, the television said that Nathan Dawson wasn't missing anymore...

Nathan Dawson, who had been alive and all put together just two weeks ago, but was all taken apart now... taken apart and dead, dead like Gary Duncan and Joshua Banks...

Nathan Dawson, whose parts were found frozen in the snow... frozen and spread all around, behind the old church in town.

EIGHT

September 9th, 2016. 8:15AM

Garthby, Indiana

The Circuit Court was bustling, attorneys and defendants scurrying around everywhere, making preparations for their cases and their weekends in a frenzy that was familiar to Donnell Hughes. He was amazed as he stood, though, that there was so much activity in this particular building.

Elsmere had always been considered backwoods country, a quiet place with a minuscule population as compared to the neighboring counties of Grant and Howard. The fact that there were so many cases pending was startling to him, as was the nature of those he overheard whispers of.

Prostitution, armed robbery, organized retail crime, home invasion, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon... these were city cases, things that he would expect to hear adjudicated in his home county of Marion, where the decay of Indianapolis exerted its pull to delinquency and called the depraved out to play. He remembered none of these things being major problems during his youth in Burlwood, where it was liquor, meth and The Butcher that ruled the roost of crime.

Those things had been issues, sure -- the murders were certainly an issue -- but they were problems largely dealt with in, and kept confined to, a family's home or trailer. They were certainly not pulled out and brandished in the public light of day, never ended up in court as these people were now. Even The Butcher was only spoken of in whispers within the limits of Burlwood, it was the voyeurs from out of town who had given him so much pomp and circumstance in the past.

Seeing so many accused lingering around this morning, seeing that they looked much the same as the people he'd grown up with, was staggering to him. These were not the faces of crime as he knew them, certainly not of crimes on the scale of those which they spoke of. He saw the faces of single mothers, unemployed or underemployed fathers, outcast siblings, underprivileged youth, the faces of his friends from another life -- from another place in time. They were him, just without the William Fiorvanti suit and Christian Louboutin shoes. Without the Hublot watch or the Jacob & Co. cuff links. Without the drive and determination, without the advanced degree from Purdue paid for with -- well... with things he wasn't proud of.

These weren't the foreign city folk he was used to seeing in court halls, the type that looked as though they'd just as soon shoot you as let you stand underneath their umbrella in the driving rain... the ones he tried so hard to assimilate with, largely at the behest of LeTonya. These were his people, black and white alike, and they didn't look the part of the charges they were facing.

Perhaps most disturbingly, many of them were familiar to him, too... maybe even most of them. They were the ones left behind; the ones who couldn't escape Burlwood Meadows, couldn't escape the liquor, the meth, the spousal abuse, the neglect, the deviance, the shadow of The Butcher and his damning of the town.

He felt pity for them... pity and sympathy both. They were victims as much as they were perpetrators, that much they did share with many of the city folk he'd represented in his career.

The evident spike in their numbers, this increase in crime per capita, wasn't something that had happened overnight or without a tangible cause. It had built slowly, brewed for many years in a stew of depression and depravity, seasoned by their parents -- by his parents -- and held in a rolling boil with the nocuous passage of time until the double distilled hot-load of criminality bubbled over. The malevolence of this generation was no more than a symptom of the sickness that had ravaged the one that came before. The wasting disease that had slowly gnawed away at the notion of taboo until it was absent entirely, toppling the walls of decency and unleashing a torrent of pent-up debauchery that had festered inside for years.

Well, that and the work of Ron Boudreaux, that is...

How apropos, Donnell thought, that he heard no talk of drug-related cases in the chatter of those around him. No possession, no under the influence, no manufacture of or intent to distribute was on the menu.

In Donnell's experienced life, he observed that narcotics generally fuel the engines of crime. Illicit drugs stoke the flames and raise the ante, giving birth -- after limited gestation -- to felonious behavior that results in the listing of an otherwise innocent name after the threatening words The People Of Indiana Versus. All else being equal, drug charges typically go hand in hand with indictments as serious as those on the docket in the quiet town of Garthby this morning.

When it came to the man Donnell had known as Deputy Ron \-- now Sheriff Boudreaux, in all his glory -- all else was far from equal. The people of Elsmere County wear blinders, though, not unlike those sported by their champions of the dirt at Burlwood Downs. The shady deeds in the periphery are, and had been, apparently unimportant, so long as the track ahead is clear and fast. Gathered at the wire would be an eager crowd; a frothing electorate, ballots and bet slips in hand, cheering for their hometown hero, their prized stallion of virtue. Each of them gathered there, in their fervor, were either unaware of, or unconcerned with, the dangerous levels of Aminorex in the bloodstream of their victor. They stand indifferent, so long as the payout odds are slanted generously in their favor.

Even the finest thoroughbreds, born of pedigreed blood, are known to shit upon the grass beneath their hooves from time to time. And even as steaming heaps of manure begin to mount, the legacy of a champion is held beyond reproach. A king will not be perceived as any less a god in shitting, even as the flies begin to circle and congregate, even as the odor becomes noxious and suffocating to all who behold it. Such is the legend of Sheriff Ron Boudreaux... such is the blessing, such is the curse.

The fruit of all his labor was in bloom and ripe throughout the court house, plump and juicy and sweet, all prefaced with that immortal and condemning phrase -- The State Of Indiana Versus.

The State Of Indiana Versus Charles Edward Murphy, read the one-sheet indictment provided to Donnell as Chucky's counsel. The Grand Jurors of the state of Indiana, for the County of Elsmere, upon their oaths, present that CHARLES EDWARD MURPHY, on July 24th, 2016, in the city of Burlwood and/or other municipalities within the County of Elsmere, within the jurisdiction of this court, did purposely, knowingly, wilfully and feloniously abduct a minor child, one William Marsh, to-wit, with malice aforethought, in violation of Title 35-42-3-2 of Indiana Code, a Level 4 felony, hereto referenced as count 1. It is further alleged as to count 1, that on or between July 24th, 2016 and July 26th, 2016, the aforesaid did purposely, knowingly, wilfully and feloniously kill William Marsh, a human being, without authority of law, with malice aforethought, in violation of Title 35-42-1-1 of Indiana Code, a capital crime, murder in the first degree, hereto referenced as count 2. It is further alleged as to count 2, that the aforesaid did purposely, knowingly, wilfully and feloniously mutilate the corpse of William Marsh, a human being, in violation of Title 35-45-11-2 of Indiana Code, a Level 6 felony, hereto referenced as count 3. The Grand Jury, taken from the body of good and lawful men and women of Elsmere County, in the state of Indiana, elected, impaneled, sworn and charged to inquire in-and-for said County in said State, in the name of and by the authority of the State of Indiana upon their oaths return this, a true bill, and request and require that CHARLES EDWARD MURPHY, a citizen of Burlwood in the County of Elsmere and the State of Indiana, be apprehended and dealt with in a manner accordant with the law. Presented by the Foreperson of the Grand Jury, in the presence of the Grand Jury, in open District Court of the County of Elsmere, in the State of Indiana, and filed as a record in said Court this 5th day of September, 2016.

The words made his blood run cold, the mere idea that Chucky could stand accused of such a heinous crime sending chills up his spine. He had seemed so gentle, so harmless in the days and years they spent as children and adolescents at large in Burlwood Meadows. When life was new, and the atrocities of The Butcher so difficult to comprehend.

He checked his watch nervously, aware of time more acutely now than LeTonya would believe was possible as he wondered why no one had come to speak with him yet. No district attorney had appeared, no bailiff instructing him where to find his client. It was eight-thirty and there had been no sign of Jake, who had promised to be there, nor of Louie Rambo, whom he had expected to meet with a half an hour ago. He was frustrated beyond belief that -- on this occasion, when he had finally taken control of his day and exercised a degree of punctuality -- no one seemed concerned with the seconds that were so hurriedly and futiley ticking away into the realm of The Langoliers.

Surely, he thought, it can't be this maddening to LeTonya.

Louie Rambo eventually appeared, shucking and jiving his way through the gathered masses, and met Donnell with a half-smile. Under different circumstances, the grin of reaquaintance would've been complete. The inner satisfaction of laying eyes on an old friend who appeared to be doing so well in life had coaxed the side of Rambo's mouth that was rising, with only the turmoil of the past several days holding the other in paralysis.

There was much more of Donnell Hughes to see than had existed in 2000, when graduation had sent him off to college and Louis to Fort Wood for basic training two years later. The Donnell of old -- Launchpad, as it had been -- was a thin and lanky young man with aspirations that fully dwarfed his stature. The husky definition of his curves at present told a tale of perseverance, and the annihilation of obstacles and limits that demographics had bestowed upon him. Those limits were dead and dismembered, now. Their remains cast aside, left to decompose in the billowing trail of smoke that was his wake. He was larger than life, in stature and in standing, and Louie was proud to behold the man Launchpad had grown to be.

"Louie Fuckin' Rambo!" Donnell chuckled through a wide, full smile.

Watching his old pal approach, he subjected the officer to a similar assessment. There was no surprise on his part, though, as Rambo was exactly what Donnell had always known he'd be. A tall drink of water, thick and solid in his crisp khaki uniform with a glistening golden badge upon his breast, as was predestined from the moment of his birth. His light brown hair was tight to his head, just as it had been in days of old. The only visible difference was that its neatly cropped outline was pulling back from his forehead a bit -- exactly as his father's had. His mustache was standard-issue highway-trooper, a carbon copy of his father's just the same. The rattle of cuffs and keys on his belt announced his authority as he approached, an authority he carried with honor, reverence and distinction.

"Donnell!" Rambo returned, reaching out his hand as he broke free from the crowd. "Or should I call you Launchpad?"

"Do it and die," Donnell laughed, being swallowed up in Rambo's firm and authoritative handshake. "How the hell ya' been, buddy?"

"Been good, man, I'm good," the deputy replied. "How's the murder business been treating you?"

"Killin' me, man, it's killin' me," he quipped. "Say, how's the old man been? Still busting up all the teenaged parties at the park?"

"He would if we let him," Rambo acknowledged with a smile. "He's on a garden detail lately, and God help any weed he catches trespassing since he doesn't have to worry about pulling warrants anymore!"

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," Donnell returned, still beaming.

"Did you catch up with Jake?"

"Yeah, I tracked him down -- said he's coming, should be here any minute, I imagine."

"Good! Chucky will be excited to see him!"

Donnell finally lowered his smile, shifting his attention to the business at hand. "So what's going on here, man, how'd Chucky get caught up in this?"

Rambo's face changed immediately and drastically, a flummoxed grunt marking the moment. "I don't know exactly, man, but it's not a good deal... not a good deal at all."

"What's the story?"

"Well," he began, taking a deep and long-winded breath as he gathered his thoughts. "Chucky had been working at Our Mother Of Sorrows, still, with Father Lovett."

"Right," Donnell responded.

"A few months back, we got a call at the office from Sally Marsh -- that's Billy Marsh's mother."

"Billy Marsh, that's the vic -- right?" Donnell asked, pulling a legal pad from his attaché and making a note.

"Right," Rambo nodded. "She and her family are parishioners, been going to Our Mother since they moved here last January. Billy went to Sunday School while the Marsh's were at mass, and they started to notice that Chucky was always talking with him when they went to fetch him from the class."

"What kind of talking?"

"They didn't know exactly, partially because Chucky always shied away when they turned up. They asked Billy about it, and he told them that they talked about cartoons."

Donnell acknowledged this, making more notes. "They thought that was strange, right?"

"Right," Rambo agreed, "they found it hard to believe that a full-grown man had any interest in Phineas and Ferb. Naturally, they wanted to know if Chucky had any kind of record. He's not the cleanest cut guy -- kind of looks like the type that could be trouble."

"Can't blame them," Donnell said, "I imagine I'd be pretty suspicious too -- if I didn't know Chucky."

"They were very suspicious," Rambo emphasized. "I talked to them myself, tried to explain to them that Chucky's..." he paused, struggling for the proper word. "Challenged?" he offered as his first instinct. Donnell nodded, accepting that phrasing. "But they didn't want to hear it. They insisted we do something -- even though I told them there wasn't anything to be done... he hadn't committed any crime, didn't present any imminent danger."

"Then what happened?"

"Nothing, for a while," Rambo continued. "About six weeks ago, there was an incident..."

"What kind of an incident?"

"Well," Rambo winced, as though pained by what he would have to say next. "They claimed that Billy told them Chucky took him to the maintenance room, wanted to show him something."

"Okay?" Donnell asked apprehensively, not sure exactly what to expect was coming next.

"Apparently," another hesitation, "according to the boy, at least," he qualified, "Once he was in there, Chucky closed the door -- and tried to kiss him."

"What?" Donnell gasped. "You don't think he'd do anything like that, do you?"

Rambo considered, his eyes wandering with his thoughts. "I don't think so... but I guess I really don't know. I haven't really talked to the man much since we all went off our separate ways, just in passing... we were never really close like that anyway."

"Did you go talk to him about it?"

"Yeah," Rambo explained, "we had to, we couldn't just let that drop."

"What'd he say?"

"He said he did take the boy to the maintenance room, but insisted he only wanted Billy to watch SpongeBob with him. He said he was lonely, that he didn't have anyone to talk to or spend time with since his mother died in 2012. He thought Billy would be his friend, and he was just inviting his friend to pass some time watching cartoons with him."

Donnell raised an eyebrow.

"Before you jump to any conclusions," Rambo continued, "there was a TV -- and a SpongeBob DVD was in a player connected to it."

"So, what? The kid made the whole kiss thing up?"

"If you believe Chucky, yes... he said Billy skipped the lesson -- which the teacher did confirm -- and spent the hour watching with him. When it was time to go, the teacher saw Billy, so the kid was scared that his parents were gonna be mad at him. They'd told him he wasn't allowed to talk to Chucky, and he thought the teacher was gonna narc him out. I guess throwing in the bit about the kiss could've just been an effort to deflect their anger."

"Sounds feasible," Donnell noted.

"That's what we thought... so we let it go, again. The Marsh's were pissed, they went to Father Lovett and demanded that he fire Chucky. He wouldn't, came to us for advice. I talked it over with him, then the two of us had a conference with The Marsh's to see what we could hammer out. If it were me, if I was concerned about someone at the church, I think I would've just found somewhere else to go. They didn't want to hear that, though \-- said they were good Catholics who refused to be driven away from worship, and there's not another Catholic Church within thirty miles of Burlwood. They also insisted that having Chucky around the other children presented a danger they couldn't turn their backs on, so they kept working Father Lovett until they got him to agree it would be best to keep Chucky away from the Sunday School altogether. So, he told Chucky to keep away from the church until three PM -- when everyone would be out the door."

"How'd he take that?"

"He was hurt, but he agreed... figured it wouldn't last too long, that things would settle down and go back to normal. Then, on the 24th, the shit really hit the fan."

"What exactly happened then?" Donnell asked emphatically, knowing full well that any details he gleaned from his old friend were in excess of what he was owed. The full details of the evidence on which The State staked their case were not due him until the furnishing of a discovery packet, which they had two weeks to deliver.

"I don't know all of the details, Donnell," Rambo prefaced, knowing just as well what the man was after. "All I can really tell you is that when the Marsh's went to fetch Billy, the teacher said she hadn't seen him."

"They didn't deliver him directly to the class?" Donnell asked.

"They say they did," Rambo replied, "but the teacher was running late, so they just left him in the room with the other kids."

"Did you talk to any of the other students?"

Rambo nodded.

"And?"

"They said Billy left to use the bathroom, then they heard the church van start up outside, it's that same old Dodge Ram van, loud as hell. Then, it sounded like it drove away. Nobody knew anything was wrong until The Marsh's were out of mass and went to get Billy, which is when the teacher told them he hadn't been in class. When the other kids told them about him going to the bathroom -- about hearing the van, they called us. We responded to the church when their call came in, and found no sign of the boy or the van. They suspected Chucky right away, of course. We went to check his trailer, but it was almost three by that point and he just strolled into the church -- acting perfectly normal, perfectly fine."

"And the van?"

"Still no sign of it... not at the church, not at his place."

"Did it ever turn up?

"Not yet," Rambo said, perplexed. "We've had a BOLO out on it since the minute it happened, and nobody's seen it, like it disappeared off the face of the Earth."

"What did you do about Chucky?"

Rambo sighed heavily. "Boudreaux had us take him down to the station -- and he interrogated him personally for six hours! Probably gave him the works, you know how Ron is!"

Donnell returned the sigh, his in frustration and disgust. "Any idea what he had to say for himself?"

"Not much, from what I understand." Rambo answered. "Apparently said he was home the whole time, had no idea anything was wrong"

"And how did you get from there to arresting Chucky?"

The officer swallowed hard, as though he were choking back a nauseated urge to vomit his next revelation. "Chucky gave Boudreaux permission to search his trailer... we found the keys to the van on his kitchen table."

"Shit!" Donnell gasped in dismay. "Shit, are you serious?"

Rambo simply nodded again, several times, his eyes closed and solemn faced.

"Fuck me runnin'," Donnell shook his head and reached into his attaché again, retrieving a bottle of Tums this time and chewing several at once. "That's obviously bad news, but not enough to arrest the man..."

"No," Rambo agreed, "and Chucky said it was a spare set that he always kept, with The Father's permission, when Boudreaux pressed him."

"Father Lovett confirm that?" Donnell hoped aloud.

Another set of nods, this time more positively. "Boudreaux couldn't get him to cop to anything, either, so he put him on a 72-hour hold and had us tear the county apart in search of that van -- or for anything else that might link Chucky to what happened. We searched his trailer again, searched the church, searched his Buick, went over his phone records, went over the activity on his bank card -- hell, we spent so much time digging into Chucky we barely had a chance to actually look for Billy Marsh! Then, of course, we found the remains... that's when Boudreaux really lost his shit. He took the whole thing pretty personally, people were starting to point fingers, thinking it was the return of the fabled Butcher -- the one that got away. I've never seen anything like it, Donnell, he was like a rabid dog. He had us working around the clock trying to convict Chucky. He wasn't happy at all about the press -- he was pissed, frankly, that something like this happened on his watch. He wanted this thing squashed, and quickly. He was out to get Chucky, determined to pin this on him. When we couldn't find the van or any other smoking gun, he had to let Chuck go."

"Right," Donnell grunted, "with a perpetual tail from the moment he walked out, if I know Boudreaux at all. What happened?" he asked, as though expecting bad news to come of it.

"Nothing," Rambo said. "He didn't do anything that was remotely suspicious -- until this past Monday. He apparently had a tire blowout on the way to work, and stopped to change it. Some wiseguy private eye claimed he saw some kind of discoloration in the liner of his trunk."

"Through a glass, darkly," Donnell snarked.

"Yeah, basically!" Rambo concurred in frustration. "So, Boudreaux got another warrant for the car -- and of course, lo and behold, they find a patch of fabric that looks like it's been shampooed. Nobody noticed the first time, conveniently." More obvious frustration. "They cut a swatch out, and there were -- stains, I guess, that Boudreaux suspected were blood."

"Dried or wet?"

"Dry."

"They test it?"

"They sent it off, we don't have a lab here in Elsmere."

"Is that all they've got?" Donnell asked, trying to piece it all together in his mind. "The keys and what they suspect is blood? That doesn't seem like enough to charge him if they haven't linked it to the kid."

"I don't know, Boudreaux's playing everything close to his chest, suddenly." Rambo asserted, "I agree, that doesn't seem like enough. I don't know what else there could be, though. Unless, of course, Ron knows what will come back from the lab... it's hard for me to say that, I have my issues with Boudreaux, but I don't know if he'd go that far."

Donnell mulled this over for a moment, tried to read between the lines. "Yeah, I dunno about that either. Do you think it's possible he just jumped the gun on it? Charged him on a whim?"

Rambo shrugged half-heartedly, sighing as he did. "I dunno, maybe, I guess," he admitted. "To get things to quiet down, maybe, you know how these things go -- path of least resistance, right?"

Donnell knew, nodded to show he did. "Chucky's an easy guy to pin it on -- especially since he obviously had a connection to the boy. What else could they have?" he probed, wondering if Rambo was holding anything out on him.

"I wish I knew, Donnell, but I really mean I don't." the officer said convincingly, knowing just what Donnell was hinting at. "And I don't know whether Chucky did this or not -- that's why I called you, why I tried to get in touch with Jake. It sure doesn't sound like the Chucky I know."

"Yeah, it would be a stretch."

"If he did, then justice should take its course. If he didn't, though..." he trailed off.

"You don't want him to be the fall guy," Donnell concluded.

"Right. Boudreaux doesn't seem to care either way, just wants it over."

Donnell scanned his notepad, examining what he'd written and trying to extrapolate anything he could from the words. "Were you able to get me what we talked about?" he asked, nearly in a whisper.

Rambo scanned the entirety of the hall, peering over the heads of the people around them cautiously, before surreptitiously reaching into the pocket of his pants and withdrawing a tightly folded packet of papers. Donnell took it, stuffing it into his attaché with practiced discretion.

The deputy was obviously uneasy, even once the transaction was complete. "Donnell, if Boudreaux ever found out I gave that to you..."

"I know," Donnell interjected, fanning him as he often fanned LeTonya when she became agitated. "It's cool, I've got you, don't sweat it."

In a forced whisper, nearly inaudible over the din around them, Rambo elaborated. "I got the coroner's report, redacted versions of the reports from the old murders, the log Deputy Marx took in Booger Woods and a redacted version of the arrest warrant, but I couldn't get anything else -- you'll have to wait for the discovery packet for anything else."

"It's a start," Donnell replied. "I appreciate it."

Checking his watch again, he wondered what was keeping Jake. Past experience suggested he wasn't the type to flake out, especially when it came to matters involving Chucky. He wouldn't be able to wait, though, if much more time ticked by. Preparing himself to go it alone, he asked one final question of his old friend.

"Well, when do I get to see him?"

NINE

More broken glass, more gargling, more nicotine, more menthol... menthol, precious menthol, Jake's throat was tired of all the rest, but it still craved that soothing cool of Newport's menthol. He'd spent all of three hours at the Best Western of Garthby, a good portion of that time simply standing in the shower beneath a refreshing cascade of cleanliness.

Enriching the experience was the fresh scent of a complimentary bar of soap, insignificant though it was in size, which had triggered an epiphany when he found it on the bathroom counter. There were two of them, one labeled cleansing and the other exfoliating, right next to tiny bottles marked hair purifier and hair protector. Nearby was a similarly puny flask of mouthwash with a folded card declaring that toothpaste, a toothbrush and shaving supplies could be had by simply calling down to the courtesy desk.

Fuck, why hadn't he thought of that... perhaps subtracting the cost of those items from his mentally tabulated flight package would've allowed him to avoid the disastrous encounter with his soon-to-be ex-wife. Still, there would've been no time to shop for a replacement wardrobe suitable for court, and the investigation that would follow.

There hadn't been time for sleep either, but that was okay -- he wasn't tired, not yet at least. His mind had been racing for the entirety of his drive, and it still refused to slow down as he sat in the parking lot of the courthouse. He still heard the call of double indemnity, felt a strong desire to go there -- for a long and lonely vacation, in the oblivion of the abyss. He drank the complimentary Best Western coffee just in case, though it was more a choking down than a drinking because it tasted like day old liquified shit -- warm and rancid, with notes of hazelnut creamer and corn.

His eyes were dry and bloodshot, tired of being subjected to the open air and crying out for relief in the shelter of their lids. As it happened, he was never without an elixir to mend that omnipresent problem. Fishing through his cluttered glovebox, he found the bottle of Rohto Maximum Cooling Relief eye drops that lived inside, buried under enough Burger King napkins to make the fearless warrior known as seasonal allergies quake in its boots. Two drops in each eye, then blink repeatedly... simple and familiar, soothing and resolving.

When he checked Rohto's work in his vanity mirror, he saw a man much more recognizable to him staring back than the imposter of the night before. The onyx strands of his hair were tamed and gleaming, swept back from his face dramatically with the aid of Brylcream and a fine toothed comb. His pale white flesh was clean and rid of the oils that often plagued it, likely because the exfoliating soap cake was a fountain of wonders he wished he could've discovered before now, when his life was in its dusk. His eyes were sparkling and clear, thanks to the drops. The influence of excessive alcohol consumption had passed, with the crimson vessels that had risen in objection to his lack of sleep under siege and fading.

A glowing red zit had erupted on his neck, a byproduct of his oily skin, but it was the only visible blemish on his otherwise pristine and put-together appearance. It resided just above his collar, which was crisp and starched to perfection under the expert tutelage of Tracy Swete Giguére; master housekeeper and steward of her husband and his son. The shirt he'd chosen was a dark navy blue -- he never cared for white dress shirts, they made him look washed out -- and was complimented well by the pinstriped black suit coat he wore over top of it. A black silk tie made everything pop, a sterling clip just below his chest fixing it in place along its plunge and making it sparkle. His pants matched the jacket and were as crisp as the shirt, pulling everything together in a flattering and sharp package.

He looked like a million bucks... if only he felt that way.

Much to his dismay, however, he felt the clothing touching his left ribs and torso. That meant he wasn't wearing his Beretta, and that was unsettling given his predilection to carrying it at all times while out amongst the people of the world beyond his home. He wouldn't be allowed to have it on him in the courthouse, so it would be stashed under his seat until this portion of the affair was over, at which time he would promptly unbutton his shirt and strap it back on.

His fingers sensed that heat again, though it stung less than it had before, so he disposed of his cigarette butt and resolved to finally make his entrance. There were a lot of people loitering about inside the court -- more than he expected to see -- but he gave them little consideration as he scanned their faces cursorily in search of the one belonging to Launchpad. His highly polished dress shoes made adamant click clack noises on the marble flooring as he strode briskly across it, and the heads of several women snapped up to take him in feverishly with their eyes as he passed.

Donnell saw him in the crowd, recognizing his distinctly chiseled face immediately. In the days of old, Darkwing had been the alpha pretty-boy of all Burlwood Meadows -- a crown he could be heir to just the same at present. There was a rugged edge to him now, which he had earned with age, but it suited him well. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, he was every bit the heartthrob he had been before. He looked so confident, so self assured -- almost cocky. There was no outward indication of the total mess he was inside, which is just the way he wanted it.

"Jake!" Donnell beckoned over the noises of the crowd, throwing up his hand since he was too short to be seen over the heads of those around him. "Over here!"

Jake saw the hand, a solitary flash of black standing out amongst the sea of whiteness that represented the constituency of Elsmere County. Apathetic with lack of sleep, his face was as stoic as his mood when he finally caught sight of his old friend. They shook hands when he was close enough to do so, but made no small talk in their meeting. Time was becoming an issue, and he wanted to get right down to business irregardless.

"So, what's going on?" he asked plainly, no inflection in his voice.

Donnell told him about his discussion with Deputy Rambo in as much detail as he could remember, referencing the notes he'd taken to be sure he didn't leave key information unaddressed. Jake simply nodded with understanding as he summarized the events concisely, showing no bias in favor of or malice against the accused, their mutual friend.

Of all the talking points conveyed, only one stirred something in him. When Donnell revealed the fact that Chucky had allegedly asked Billy Marsh for a kiss, memories started breaking through the fog of physical exhaustion in his mind. Memories of tears and of crying, of tight hugs and Chucky's trembling voice. Will you give me a kiss, Darkwing?

Wearing a thousand-yard stare, Jacob stopped Donnell to offer his only counter-commentary. "He was scared," he said, memories swirling, swirling. Memories of begging, of pleading... memories of compliance. "He likes people to kiss him when he's scared... it makes him feel better."

Donnell paused, thinking. Contemplating and piecing together.

"We don't even know for sure that it happened," he finally said. "They can't prove it did. They can't prove a whole lot of anything, really, at least until the blood results come back. Even then, I can discredit those if I need to, based on the way Louie says Boudreaux had a hard on for Chucky. I'll go full Steven Avery, if I have to -- they could've planted that shit, it's suspect that they didn't see anything wrong the first time they searched the car. Didn't see anything until they needed to. So far as Rambo knows, there's not much more to this case. We'll know for sure when we get the discovery packet... they'll have to show their hand."

"How long will that take?" Jake asked.

"They've got fourteen days from today to turn it over. They'll probably use up all of them, too, they usually do."

Jake considered this, deciding immediately that two weeks was too far out. He'd be in the land of double indemnity by then -- he would have to find the answers on his own, working blind and uphill. Hoping for a leg-up, he asked if they had any information to set a foundation on which to build. Scanning the crowd almost nervously, Donnell revealed the packet Rambo had given him.

"It's a start, I figure," he said. "I'll have LeTonya scan it when I get back to the office this afternoon, and then I'll email you a copy. Other than that, we've only got the indictment to work with, and it says a whole lot of nothing."

Jake still wanted to see it, so Donnell retrieved it from his attaché and gave it to him. He read it, and seeing it in print was much more sobering and surreal than he expected.

"Jesus," he said, "these are serious charges."

Donnell shrugged. "We're talking about a murder here, Jake, murder is pretty serious. If he's covicted on all three charges, they could execute the man."

This made Jake shudder visibly, he'd forgotten that the death penalty was still on the table in his home state of Indiana. "They would do that?" he asked. "Even though he's --"

"Retarded," Donnell finished for him, when it was obvious he either couldn't or wouldn't say it. "We could argue against it," he explained. "The Supreme Court ruled that executing a mentally handicapped person is cruel and unusual punishment... but the threshold is extremely low, Jake -- we might have a hard time proving that he's challenged enough to earn that protection. Generally, it's only afforded to those whose IQ tests at 70 or below, and I'm not sure Chucky's would come back in that range. I'll ask the judge to have him evaluated to determine if he's competent to stand trial, that'll let us know where we're at... what our chances are of sparing him that way. It's a tough hurdle to jump, though."

"So," Jake wondered, surprised, "they've executed people like him before?"

"Ricky Ray Rector," Donnell replied in a sing-song and matter-of-fact manner. "For his last meal, he requested pecan pie as dessert. He didn't eat it, and when the guards asked him why he said he was saving it for later... for after the execution."

Jake looked disgusted. "And they killed him?"

"With 100 mEq's of potassium chloride, yes sir they did! I mean, there were a lot of extenuating circumstances in that particular case. He had been of sound mind when he committed the crime, essentially lobotomized himself in an attempt at suicide before he was arrested. He was definitely incapable of understanding what was happening when they killed him, though, and they did it anyway. I doubt they'll think twice about executing Chucky, if they decide he did this to Billy Marsh."

Jake stood stone-faced, witnessing the final moments of Rector's life in his mind, then imagining Chucky in his place. He saw the nurses set the picc line, dipping the needle in alcohol and swabbing his arm, as though infection was of any concern. He watched them flush it with saline, blood and water racing into the convicted's veins. He imagined the executioner, a highly educated and distinguished professional, to meet with modern sensabilities -- not the barbarian of antiquity, not wielding an axe or wearing a sackcloth hood to mask his identity. He envisioned the pressing of the button, heard the gasps of pneumatic machinery answering. Saw the plungers driving a deadly cocktail of poisons into the condemned's veins, and considered what the doomed man would be thinking. Was he looking forward to that piece of pecan pie he had saved? That last dessert, intended for him, that would end up, instead, being the bounty of the rats that called the prison's dumpster home. Now becoming the condemned, he felt the cool rush of chemicals in his bloodstream, the sting of impending death and the cessation of breathing as his systems began to shut down. He lived the death, experienced the fear that came when a low-functioning mind finally realized the end was imminent. Only when the attending physician had made the final declaration did he reply.

"We can't let that happen."

"Well, that's the goal," Donnell replied. "If Boudreaux is as determined to stake a claim with this case as it seems, he's probably going to urge the district attorney not to offer much in the way of a plea bargain. We'll probably be facing either life without parole as a deal, or the risk of execution if we take it all the way through trial."

Jake was obviously disturbed at what he heard, looking down into Donnell's eyes with conviction and confidence. "Chucky didn't do this, Donnell," he said. "He couldn't have done this."

"That may be true," Donnell replied, "but in this country, it's almost always guilty 'til proven innocent, you can take that from me. It sounds like Boudreaux is pretty hot-and-bothered, he's gonna give us a hell of a fight. I know Louie isn't sure, but I can't imagine he'd risk bringing this to court if he didn't have some pretty serious and compelling evidence that Chucky did it. Shit, it would be a disaster if he did... if a not guilty verdict came back, that would be a hell of a blow to his career. It's gonna take a lot of effort to get Chucky clear of this, that's what my gut is telling me... and my gut is usually right."

"We'll figure it out," Jake said, still confident. "I will figure out who really did this. I owe the man that much."

Donnell nodded, impressed at his conviction. "Okay," he said simply. "They're supposed to be bringing him to a conference room to meet us, then we'll be headed in to face the judge. It'll be quick and painless, just the reading of the charges and setting of bail."

"We could bail him out?

"No, it's just a formality... bail is automatically denied in murder cases contested here in Indiana. I'll ask for the psych evaluation, they'll agree to have it done, and we'll be in standby mode until I get the discovery packet."

"No," Jake said in retort, "I'm gonna go to work right away!"

Donnell nodded again. "I understand -- but it's still gonna be a long process, Jake. Could be up to a year before it's all been said and done."

"I'll find the answer," he replied, resolute. "He'll be out before you get the discovery papers, trust me."

TEN

It was almost nine-thirty before a bailiff finally appeared to take Jacob and Donnell to see Chucky. He led them to a small conference room just next to courtroom 2-A, gaining entrance with a large key chained to his belt.

"Ten minutes," he advised coldly as he swung the heavy door open.

The air of the room that met them was filled with a familiar musk. The smell of old sweat and body odor seemed to emanate from Chucky's flesh, accompanying him constantly, traveling on the wind everywhere he went throughout his life. It was born of a general lack of hygiene, spurred along by the accumulation of moisture in folds of flesh from his neck down to his knees, which had always carried ample extra weight.

Jake entered first, laying eyes on the man his friend of old had become for the first time since 1997, when he was sixteen and Chucky nearing twenty. The person in the bright orange jumpsuit shackled to the table inside this conference room was a man of thirty-eight, now, but he looked much the same as the boy Jake remembered.

His shaggy brown hair was matted and filthy, but was otherwise just as it had been before. It was thick and full, cut just below his ears and even all the way around -- as though it had been clipped around the lip of a bowl placed atop his head. The head itself was small in circumference, looking almost too small for his body. Skin folds at the corners accented his similarly small eyes, a low nasal bridge, the complete lack of a philtrum and a thin upper lip completing the picture of a soul who was the innocent victim of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. He looked as though he hadn't shaved for weeks, but it seemed likely in the shag that he had worn a mustache and some semblance of a goatee when fully groomed. This may have been an effort on his part to hide some of the abnormalities of his face, but it was futile in light of the other inconcealable evidence that something just wasn't right with him.

The manacles on his wrists were heavy-duty and serious, perhaps a larger set than normal to accommodate his thick and hulking wrists. A similarly heavy chain was wrapped around their center, then passed through an eyebolt that was protruding from the stainless steel table at which he sat. The contraption forced him to lean forward in his seat, the chain not allowing enough slack for him to assume a more natural and comfortable posture.

It appeared he hadn't grown much beyond the 5'5" of his youth, and his weight was even more out of control than it had been before. He looked every bit of a soft and doughy two-hundred-fifty pounds, if not more. His weight had stood in contrast, in the days of old, to Jake's toned and defined musculature, and Donnell's thin and wiry frame.

It blew Jake's mind to consider the idea that, at least so far as overall physical condition was concerned, he had the most to show for the eighteen plus years that had separated the three of them. His six feet was still firm and toned, two hundred and twenty pounds of well maintained humanity born of only sparse and limited periods on weight machines and treadmills. It hadn't required the level of effort that many have to devote in order to maintain such a physique, he seemed predisposed to athleticism and fitness. He was a perpetual Vetruvian Man, no matter how many calories or carbohydrates he subjected his body to, no matter how haphazard his training regime became in the face of other things to tend to. If the physical were an expression of overall wellbeing, he stood head and shoulders above the others and was the healthiest of the three of them.

Sadly, of course, that was not the case... beauty is only skin deep, as is physical conditioning, and beneath his skin was a cesspool. His friends would plunge directly into fits of nausea should they catch a whiff of it, and all would point and laugh at what he had become. Their roles would be completely mirrored opposites, he thought, if the contents of their souls and psyches were on display on the surface. Chucky would stand out as the most beautiful of them all, in all likelihood.

The prisoner's childish brown eyes lit up with recognition as Jake stepped inside, his sullen face transforming to a glowing, wide and beaming smile.

"Darkwing!" he exclaimed, his crooked teeth showing through his lips.

"Hi, Chucky," Jake replied with shame. Shame in the knowledge that he hadn't met the obligations and requirements that were implicit with their friendship, shame in the fact that he hadn't kept his oath.

"Launchpad?" he said after, surprised at the mass of manhood that was now Donnell.

"Goddamn it, Chucky!" Donnell smiled. "I told you not to call me that!"

Jake's trademark grimace broke into the slightest grin as the two of them laughed, Chucky more exuberantly and enthusiastically than Donnell.

"Oh my gosh!" Chucky exclaimed, overcome with joy. "I'm so happy you guys finally came back!"

Across the small table from him were two rather spartan chairs, institutional and minimal in appearance -- and perceived comfort. Jake sat to Chucky's right, Donnell to his left as he set his attaché on the table and opened it wide.

"Chucky, Chucky, Chucky," Donnell shook his head. "You really got yourself in deep this time, didn't you?"

Chucky sheepishly lowered his head, looking ashamed and frightened. "I don't understand what happened," he said. "I've never been in trouble before, guys, not since Momma used to get mad at me for leaving the toilet seat up. She grounded me that one time, when she fell in, and I haven't been in any kind of trouble at all since then!"

"What happened, Chucky? Jacob asked. "Tell us what they did to you."

Chucky's seemed to zone out and disassociate as he recounted the tale. "I dunno, guys, I just went in to work -- there were lots of police there, like when they found Gary Duncan behind the track, and they took me to the kitchen and started asking questions about my friend Billy."

"What kind of questions?" Donnell asked.

"Lots," Chucky replied emphatically. "They asked if I'd seen him that day, if I took him away in the old Dodge van. I told them no, but they wouldn't believe me. Then, they took me to the station, and Deputy Ron got really, really mad... he yelled at me a lot, said he was gonna put me in jail and do all kinds of bad things to me."

Donnell and Jake exchanged a pained glance, knowing plenty about Ron Boudreaux's temperament and full well how he operated in his craft. They commiserated in silence, hating the idea of anyone being subjected to what must've been an intimidating interrogation.

Chucky's eyes widened as he thought, looking up to his friends with tears welling as he spoke. "He said they're gonna put me to sleep -- like Doctor Morris used to do to stray dogs he found in the park. Is that true, guys? Are they gonna put me to sleep, like Doctor Morris did to old sick dogs?"

Deep and agonized breaths were the initial response offered by Darkwing and Launchpad, each of them exhaling loudly and through pursed lips.

"We're gonna do everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen, Chuck," Launchpad offered. "But we're gonna need you to help us, okay? And to help us best, you need to be one-hundred-percent honest with everything you tell us -- no matter how bad you think something might be. The only way we can help you is if you tell us the truth about everything, okay?"

Chucky nodded, though he was visibly nervous about the idea. He had a habit of painting half-truths to lessen the impact of things he had to say when he thought something was bad or would lead to trouble. He was apologetic in every matter, even when he bore no fault or malice to justify guilt.

"The first thing I need to know, Chuck," Donnell continued, articulating the importance of the question with hand gestures as he stared intently into Chucky's eyes. "So that I can decide what route is best to take, which way we want to go," he paused, consciously slowing the dialogue to avoid losing Chucky in the words. "And remember, we're on your side, here. What you say in this room will never leave this room. I will never repeat what you say to anyone, it's for my information only," another pause, time to let it all absorb. "Chucky, I need you to tell me," he resumed, "did you kill Billy Marsh?"

Jake flinched at the question, reeling, and assaulted Donnell with a glare of disgust. "What?" he cried in objection. "Of course he didn't, Donnell! What the hell kind of question is that?"

Donnell noted the outburst with a calm and collected nod, then a hint of his fanning, but remained focused on Chucky, who seemed perturbed at Jake's irritation. "Is that right, Chucky?" he asked.

"Mm hm," Chucky replied, his anxiety obvious.

"Okay," Donnell resumed, "then there's no sense in talking about a plea, we'll focus on fighting this."

Jake calmed himself outwardly, though he was infuriated on the inside. Donnell had never really liked Chucky, that made him angry -- had always made him angry. The implication of the question sickened him.

"Now that we've got that out of the way, we need to talk about what Sheriff Bo--" he stopped, modified for Chucky's level of understanding, "what Deputy Ron said when he talked to you."

"He talked to me a lot," Chucky said. "For hours and hours. I can't remember everything, it was too much."

"That's fine, Chuck, I don't need to know everything. I just need you to try to remember anything he said about evidence... anything he said linked you to the crime... anything he said that he knew."

Chucky considered this at length, his eyes rolling up and to the left as he was scanning his memory banks. "He said he knew I drove the van. That's true, I do sometimes drive the van. And that he knew I wanted Billy to kiss me."

"Is that true?" Donnell asked. "Did you ask Billy for a kiss?"

Chucky looked embarrassed, his head dropping in shame. "He tripped on my broom in the maintenance room," he explained. "I thought he got hurt, that he was gonna tell people I hurt him."

"You got scared?" Jake interjected. "You just wanted him to kiss you, like I used to, because you were scared?"

Chucky nodded. "That's all."

"What else, Chucky?" Donnell asked.

More long thought, then "he said there was blood in my trunk... that they found blood under the fabric."

"Is that possible?"

"Not Billy's blood!" Chucky insisted. "I did put a deer in my trunk a few moths ago. I found it by the side of the road, and it made me think of the venison sausage Mister Lane used to make when we were kids! I wanted more of that sausage, so I took the deer to Mister Lane's butcher shop. You remember Mister Lane, right? Timmy's dad?"

Memories swirling, swirling. A nod. "Yeah, Chucky, we remember." Jake said.

Donnell took a note, scribbling madly on his legal pad and changing to a new page when he'd exhausted the first.

"Mister Lane said the deer wasn't any good," Chucky noted with disappointment. "He said it had been dead too long, that it was in decay or something like that... like Joshua Banks was when we found his arm. Boy, did it stink bad! He helped me throw it out, then gave me some venison jerky he had in his shop. That was good, but not as good as the sausages we used to eat."

"That's where you think the blood came from, Chuck?" Donnell inquired. "Did you notice that it left blood in there?"

"Well, yeah -- probably... and it smelled so bad in there, even when the deer was gone, that I went to the old car wash and tried to clean it with that vacuum that uses water and soap."

Donnell nodded, more notes. "Did Deputy Ron say anything else?"

"Just that he knew I did it... knew I killed Billy and ripped him up to little pieces, then dumped his parts in Booger Woods by that pond where Momma and I used to have picnics. I told him I didn't do that, but he wouldn't listen."

There was a loud and sudden set of raps on the door to the courthouse lobby, an authoratative voice calling two minutes thereafter. Donnell scanned through his notes and asked one final time if there was anything else Chucky could remember. There wasn't, so he repacked his briefcase and snapped it shut. He told Chucky about what would happen in the courtroom, how he should behave and what he should say if the judge asked him any questions.

Jake told him he knew everything was very scary, and Chucky agreed that it was. In an attempt to comfort him, he assured him everything would be okay, just like he always had before. The words brought the tears down Chucky's face, childish sobbing following in short order. Jake hugged him as best he could, given the fact that he was chained to the table, and placed a friendly, though awkward, kiss on his forehead.

The sound of keys rattling in the door announced the arrival of an officer. When the door swung open quickly, a man they hadn't expected to see appeared on the other side. Despite the knowledge that they were law-abiding citizens, a cool chill swept through each of them when they were met with the cold and accusing stare of one Sheriff Ron Boudreaux.

ELEVEN

Kirk Wade

October 20th, 1992. 5:35PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Darkwing spun the focus adjustment of his father's binoculars to sharpen the image of a building in the distance. It was a small store, built of white concrete blocks that looked like the walls of the classrooms at his school. Protruding from its rear, visible from the sideways angle at which they surveiled it, was an even smaller metal-walled enclosure with refrigeration units on the roof.

"That's where I think he is," Darkwing declared confidently. "In that big refrigerator."

Chucky exhaled heavily, trying to steady his nerves. He didn't want to be in this place, didn't want to be watching Butcher's Lane Provisions for signs of anything speficious. This had been all Darkwing's idea, with Launchpad simply playing along so he could get away from his arguing parents. Chucky wanted to listen to the advice of Deputy Ron and stay close to home. To stay within the limits of Burlwood Meadows, so he didn't end up missing -- like Kirk Wade was missing.

"This isn't a good idea," he objected fearfully. "Kirk Wade probably isn't in there anyway, we should just go home!"

Kirk Wade was twelve years old, just a little younger than Chucky, who was fifteen now. Darkwing and Launchpad were eleven, old enough to know that you should listen when a police officer tells you not to do something... when he tells you to stay inside. That's exactly what Deputy Ron had done, too, told them not to go out looking for Kirk Wade or trying to solve the case of The Butcher Of Burlwood anymore.

Sheriff Rambo would've said the same thing, if not for the fact that he was at home recovering from a heart attack he suffered when Kirk Wade disappeared from Burlwood Downs. Kirk's parents had taken him there and hadn't been watching while they cheered for their horse during the seventh race. They were worried right away when they couldn't find him, because they knew about The Butcher... knew about what happened to Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks and Nathan Dawson.

Chucky wasn't sure why they only worried when he went missing -- Momma was worried about him all the time. She was always telling him he couldn't go out to play because The Butcher might snatch him up, like Pennywise snatches up children. Once the day was wearing on, though, and she had enough cocktails to drink, she stopped caring whether he went out or not. Darkwing and Launchpad knew he could usually play after three or four o'clock, so that's when they came to get him.

Usually, they played sports or games -- never manhunt in Booger Woods, though, not anymore -- and generally behaved like young boys. When it was cold and snowy, it was almost always hockey, which Chucky didn't care for. He couldn't skate very well, not nearly as good as Darkwing, so he had to just glide along the ice in his shoes. Launchpad couldn't afford skates, so the two of them couldn't keep up with any of the other boys in the game, and that made hockey boring.

Since Kirk Wade had gone missing last week, though, there was no hockey being played. There wasn't any snow, just crisp autumn cold, but that wasn't the only reason. Really, it was because most of the other children were confined to their trailers, their parents sick with worry and afraid to let them go outside because it seemed The Butcher was back -- seemed Pennywise was hungry again.

Darkwing and Launchpad were always out, though, because Darkwing's mom was always sleeping after taking her pills, and Launchpad's parents didn't seem concerned about him or what he was doing much at all. Of course, all Darkwing wanted to do was to try and find Kirk Wade, since Sheriff Rambo had asked him to keep an eye out after the incident with Joshua Banks in Booger Woods. He seemed to think he was a member of the police or something, like he was supposed to be helping them solve the case.

Kirk's story had been on the television news a lot, and the news always blamed The Butcher when a kid went missing -- not Pennywise, whom Chucky suspected was really the kidnapper and killer. They showed lots of pictures of Kirk, and everybody was trying to find him before The Butcher cut him all up.

Momma said they used the nickname The Butcher because of the way the previous children had been torn apart, and hearing that name made Darkwing wonder if it was Mister Lane who was doing the killing.

Mister Lane owned Butcher's Lane Provisions, a small shop off Route 4, not far from Burlwood Meadows. Chucky had been in there before, there were lots of good kinds of jerky and sausage for sale inside, which he enjoyed eating. Mister Lane himself was a very nice and gentle man, and he sometimes let Chucky taste samples for free when he didn't have any money. One time, he brought a box of hamburger meat to Chucky's house when Momma said they were too poor to afford any food. Momma burnt the burgers, she had too many cocktails that night, but they were still juicy and tasty once you scraped off the black parts.

Knowing Mister Lane, knowing how nice he was, Chucky didn't think there was any chance he was the one who killed Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks or Nathan Dawson. Nor did he think he had taken Kirk Wade, so watching his shop seemed like a stupid idea, so far as he was concerned. He tried to tell Darkwing that Mister Lane was too nice to do such terrible things, but Darkwing insisted he was speficious anyway.

"One of us has to go in there," Darkwing decided, still looking at the big refrigerator behind Butcher's Lane. "One of us has to go see if Kirk Wade is in there, so we can be a witness!"

Chucky was looking away, staring down Route 4 towards Booger Woods to be sure that Pennywise wasn't coming after them. He could feel eyes upon him, though, as Darkwing made his suggestion... could sense that Darkwing and Launchpad both were staring at him. Feeling their gazes, he wrestled his eyes away from Booger Woods and saw them smiling at him.

"Oh, no!" he blurted out, "no, no, no no NO! I am not going in there, guys, there's no way I'm going in there!"

"Well somebody has to," Darkwing said, "and it can't be me, because I have to keep a look out with the binoculars!"

"Then it should be Launchpad!" Chucky argued.

Launchpad frowned, but not in fear or sadness. It was more of an are you kidding kind of frown. "Chucky," he said, "just look at me. I'm black! Do you have any idea what they do to little black kids who break into places where they don't belong? It's not gonna happen, it has to be you!"

"Why me?" Chucky begged of Darkwing. "Why do I have to do it?"

"Think about it, Chucky," Darkwing began. "If you get caught, we can just say you got confused... that you didn't know what you were doing, didn't mean to go in there at all! It's perfect, they'll just take you home, they'll feel sorry for you! Either one of us will get in trouble if we get caught, but they'll just tell you to be more careful!"

Chucky didn't like this idea, didn't like it at all. It was obvious they weren't going to drop it, though, so all he could do was start preparing himself.

"You just go down and find a door," Darkwing explained. "You walk in and look around, check for any signs of Kirk Wade, then come right back out. You'll be a hero if you find him, Chucky, they'll put you on the news as the boy who caught The Butcher!"

Being on the news did sound like fun -- and Momma would be proud to see her boy on TV. That wasn't much consolation, though, in the face of such a scary mission. What if he did find Kirk Wade in there? What if he was just in little parts, like Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks and Nathan Dawson? What if all he found was his arms or legs, or his ripped off cock? That wouldn't be very good at all, would be very scary, in fact... would give him more nightmares.

"You have to do it, Chucky -- it's the only way!" Darkwing ordered. "We'll be here watching, we'll see if anyone is coming, and we'll warn you if they are."

"How will you warn me?" Chucky asked.

Darkwing thought for a moment, trying to come up with a plan. Eventually, something came to him and his face lit up. "I'll hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a screech owl!" he decided. "Just like in that book I've been reading to you!"

"Just like Dildo Baggins?" Chucky asked.

Donnell shook his head, laughed.

"It's Bilbo Baggins, Chucky!" Darkwing advised. "But yes, just like Bilbo Baggins!"

This made Chucky think of something else from that book, about an ugly creature named Gollum. What has it got in its pocketses, he remembered Darkwing saying in a scary, whispery voice. What if Gollum was in the refrigerator?

That made his heart beat even faster than it was already, but he knew he didn't have any other choice. His friends would pressure him until he agreed, just like they had pressured him to play manhunt in Booger Woods, so he might as well prepare himself for whatever he might find.

"Did you bring your walkie-talkie, like I said?" Darkwing asked.

Chucky had, so he pulled it from his pocket and turned it on.

"Testing, Testing," he spoke into it.

His voice came back to him a second later, through the speaker of Darkwing's paired device.

"I'll talk you through it, the whole way!" Darkwing promised.

He was terrified and his legs were shaking, but he agreed to go because he was afraid his friends would get mad if he didn't. If Kirk Wade was in there, maybe he was still alive... if he was alive, Chucky would really be a hero for finding him -- like Chip N' Dale, The Rescue Rangers are heroes when they rescue somebody. He tried to focus on that idea as he cautiously started to crawl along the tall and frosted grass, inching toward the building slowly.

"Chucky," Launchpad's voice called through the walkie-talkie a minute later. He was so close, he could still hear Launchpad's real voice. "You can't just crawl the whole way, we'll be out here until it's dark! Get up and walk!"

That was a scary thought -- both getting up to walk, with no cover, and being there until it was dark. He didn't much like either option, but when Darkwing spoke through the speaker and agreed that he should walk, he finally had to stand up. He crouched as low as he could, though, slinking his way along until the grass turned to gravel and he was in the parking lot of the store. It took him nearly five minutes to creep all the way up to the building, his heart thudding away in his chest the whole time.

When he finally reached the concrete pad on which the refrigeration building stood, he scanned along the metal wall in search of some kind of door.

"I don't know how to get in!" he called through the walkie. "I don't see a door!"

Darkwing scanned the building with his binoculars, looking for an entrance. "It must be around the back," he said in a whisper, "or on the other side, where I can't see."

"If you can't see the door, then you won't be able to see me!" Chucky worried. "I'm coming back!"

"No!" Darkwing ordered. "We've got to know what's inside! Just go around the back, I'll still see you!"

Chucky did, but he wasn't happy about it. His heart was pounding, just as it had when he raced through Booger Woods trying to find a place to hide before the Manhunt would be on. Darkwing watched him round the corner of the metal building, then noticed action inside the store that made him nervous.

"Uh oh!" he said to Launchpad, not keying up the mic of his walkie-talkie. "Something's happening!"

The sound of tires crunching down the dirt and gravel surface of Route 4 told them that there was a car coming. It was approaching from the other side of Butcher's Lane, dust billowing up behind it. Checking with his binoculars and dialing in the focus, Darkwing saw that it was a police car... it was Deputy Ron, in his cruiser.

"Chucky!" Jacob called into his walkie. "You have to hurry up!"

Chucky was fully panicked when he heard that, not knowing what was happening or why Darkwing suddenly sounded frightened. Stepping lively, he walked around the back of the cooler in search of the elusive door. It wasn't there, either, so he hurried around to the other side. He disappeared from Darkwing's line of sight as Deputy Ron pulled into the lot and parked. Jacob watched through his binoculars as the officer stepped out of his car and walked casually toward the entrance of the store.

"Oh boy!" Darkwing exclaimed to Launchpad. "This could be bad!"

"It's over here! I see it!" Chucky called into his walkie as he rounded the far corner of the building, his signal breaking up in static as he approached the limits of the toy's effective range.

"Woot woo! Woot woo! Scraaaaaw!" Darkwing called, trying to warn his friend. Only static answered back, meaning Chucky wouldn't be able to hear him. He was out of range, out of touch... on his own.

His entire body trembling, Chucky crept up to the swinging door he saw on the far side of the cooler, almost all the way up to the concrete brick of the store. Trying to steady himself, he flattened out against the cold metal wall. It felt hot instead of chilled, its strange bumpy texture feeling as though it was searing his flesh as he pressed against it. There was a heavy metal handle he had to pull to release a lip that kept the door closed and sealed. He pulled it slowly, frosty air spilling out along the sides as he did.

"I'm going in!" he whispered into the walkie-talkie, having no idea that Darkwing couldn't hear him anymore -- couldn't warn him of Deputy Ron's presence.

The inside of the cooler was totally dark, even the daylight refusing to go in as a result of shadows and naked tree limbs rustling, filtering out the distant sun. He had forgotten his flashlight at home, a fact he realized only now -- realized in fear and anger at himself.

"It's really dark!" he said, fighting the reluctance of his feet to cross the threshold, the objections of the monsters in his mind. He hoped to hear Darkwing advise him to retreat, to instruct him to abort the mission, because Darkwing knew Chucky was afraid of the dark and wouldn't force him to go into it.

No such word came, so he assumed they must want him to press on -- assumed they wanted him to be brave. Summoning all of his courage, all the power of the blood that Darkwing had transfused into him through his hand, he slid his feet across the damp concrete just inside the dark cavern. He felt along the walls for a light switch, but could find none. He instinctively started humming rock-a-bye-baby, the lullaby that Momma often sang to soothe him when he was frightened. He pressed on, through the darkness, through the horror.

The place seemed massive once he was in, like a giant cave that went all the way through a big mountain. He walked slowly forward, still scanning for a light switch or anything the break the darkness. In the black, he felt something brush against his arm as he moved. Something big, with wiry hairs, like the body of a werewolf or a Bigfoot. The sensation froze him there, and whatever it was he touched seemed to move away from him. Then, with a frightening metallic clink clank, whatever it was collided with him hard, pushing him back and almost knocking him down.

Terrified, he turned to run back toward the daylight of the entrance. After only a few strides, he felt an incredible impact as he smashed into another heavy, wiry-haired mass. This one did knock him clear off his feet, sending him flying backwards and crashing into yet another furry creature. His feet trailing him in the air, he crashed down to his bottom on the hard and wet concrete floor. His wrist hurt again for a moment, like it had when he broke it in Booger Woods.

He heard another clink clink, like the sound of chains clattering around him, and felt the frigid air billowing and swirling. Sensing things swinging around him, he realized that the monsters were dangling from the ceiling! Hanging above his head, like giant spiders spinning their webs! In his mind, the webs were thick, sticky and dense -- and they were holding, in suspension, all the parts of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks and Nathan Dawson! Gary's leg, Joshua's arm, and Nathan's missing cock!

Kirk Wade was there, too, still all put together and alive, begging to be rescued from the terrible creatures that left him there! Once the giant tarantula -- or whatever it was -- saw Chucky, a delicious thing to eat, it would swoop down and bite him! It would kill Him, like it had killed the others before!

Fearing he was about to die, he felt another terrible scream building in his lungs. Almost without his consent, without his pushing it out, the scream broke free and echoed in the dank world around him. As he cried, a sillhouette appeared in the glowing light near the door of the cooler. It looked like a giant to Chucky, even though it was, in reality, a person smaller than himself. Its black arm reached inside the room and felt along the wall, finding and flipping some recessed lever that made bright halogen lamps ignite overhead.

When the blinding rays struck his eyes, Chucky covered them by instinct. The sudden illumination made his head ache for a moment, but soon the feeling of a cold hand on his shoulder forced him to look despite his discomfort.

Expecting to see Pennywise, the master of the spiders, he screamed out again -- louder and more frightened than before.

What he saw, instead, was the disarming visage of a little boy, no older than nine or ten. His face was kind and gentle, though concerned and a bit on edge. Looking at it closer, Chucky saw a resemblance in it to Darkwing, his best and treasured friend. The boy's hair was black like DW's, and it was slicked back -- just like his friend wore it. This wasn't Darkwing, though, the boy was just a bit too small to be Darkwing.

"It's okay!" the little boy said comfortingly. "There's nothing to be afraid of!"

Chucky caught his breath as best he could, shell shocked and disoriented in the suddenly brightened room. The space seemed much smaller, now, than it had just moments before. Pulling himself together, he wrenched his eyes away from the boy and examined the ceiling, looking for the spiders that had scared him so badly. What he saw was almost worse -- was almost more frightening, even, than seeing a giant black widow would've been.

Swinging above him, all around him, were the dead and bleeding carcasses of disemboweled deer! The sight caused another scream to come, a terrible and shrill cry that spooked the little boy standing near him.

"Freeze!" Ordered a distinctly southern voice, deep and full of authority, from the direction of the door.

Chucky shut up immediately, looking toward the sound to see Deputy Ron. His legs were spread wide, his arms locked out in front of him and clutching a large caliber chromed handgun. Fear in his face, he held the gun trained on the children -- trained on Chucky.

That was the last image Chucky remembered before waking up inside the storefront of Butcher's Lane Provisions. In this new, blurry world, Mister Lane was standing above him while Darkwing and Launchpad sat on a bench across from the deli case.

"Are you okay, Chuck?" Mister Lane asked tenderly, leaning close to where he lay on some sort of cot. "You had a heck of a scare!"

"Did I die?" Chucky asked, groggily.

"No, no," Mister Lane chuckled. "You just fainted is all. Guess all the deer scared ya', either that or Deputy Ron here, with his gun out and staring down the sights at ya'!"

Deputy Ron was pacing around the shop, sweat beading all over his bald and distinctly Creole head. The rolls and loose flesh on his olive-colored neck looked like a pack of hot dogs, and his saggy face reminded Chucky of a bulldog, though the countenance it wore was much more grumpy looking than any pooch he'd ever met. It didn't help that he was visibly angry, now, and maybe even frightened -- like Chucky had been -- by all of the excitement.

"No business, they've got no business out here!" he barked with his Louisiana drawl. "What in the name of Jesus Christ did you boys think you were doing out here? Sweet Santa Muerte, shit!"

"Trying to help find Kirk Wade," Darkwing explained in a muted, depressed voice. "We didn't mean to cause any trouble, we just thought Mister Lane might be The Butcher."

Lane laughed, Daryl Lane, that is. He had been the literal butcher of Burlwood for nearly twenty years. His nine year old son, Timothy, was assisting today, learning his father's trade.

"I guess I am the butcher," he said, "I can't fault your logic, kids!"

"You coulda' been shot, I coulda' shot you dead, son!" Deputy Boudreaux lamented. "Coulda' shot all of y'all dead, and been justified to do it! Scarin' me like that, Jesus! Got no business out here, these punk kids, got no business whatsoever!"

"It's okay, Ron," Daryl Lane offered. "Nobody got hurt, and they didn't mean any harm."

"Are you okay, Chucky?" little Timmy Lane asked, brushing his hands over Chucky's head gently. "You looked really afraid!"

"I think so, now," Chucky replied, still breathing heavily. "Will you give me a kiss?"

Seemingly not offended at the suggestion, Timmy obliged without apprehension. Feeling the tenderness in his expression of sympathy and caring, Chucky's heartbeat slowed. A wave of calm swept through him, a physical sensation that swept from his head to his feet and worked to ease his fears.

"I should take them all downtown, all three of 'em!" Boudreaux continued, venting his frustration. "Should take 'em in and make their parents come pick 'em up, maybe that would teach 'em! The punk brats!"

Darkwing and Launchpad looked like they were scared too, looked like they were afraid of Deputy Ron and what he might do to punish them. They were both staring down at their feet as the officer continued his frenzied pacing, purging his adrenaline like a steam locomotive blowing off excess pressure.

"Punk kids," he continued, "little snot-nosed brats, sticking their snotty noses in places they don't belong! I told you boys to stay in the park, told you not to come out at all! Then I find you here, trespassing at the butcher shop! Trespassing in places where you have no business being at all! Scared the Holy Ghost out of me, mother of God! Scared me, and almost got shot dead for their efforts!"

"Look, Ron," Daryl Lane tried to calm him. "It's no big deal, really -- it's not. I think what we need to do is just to catch our breath, let this thing settle down and then take all these boys back home to their parents. Nobody will be served by dragging them down to county, not with everything else we've got going on in this town!" He turned his gentle eyes to Chucky. "Chuck, how would you like some of that venison sausage you seem to care for so much? You see I've got plenty of deer hanging in the cooler, I think I can spare a pound or two for you and your Momma to enjoy!"

"I would like that," Chucky said tentatively, his mouth watering at the suggestion. The sausages would be delicious, once he peeled away the black where Momma would surely burn them.

"Let's do that, then!" Lane concluded, moving behind his counter. "Let's all calm down, I'll put together some care packages for the boys, and we'll just take them home to their parents! Does that sound good to you, Ron?"

The deputy didn't respond, still pacing back and forth and muttering under his breath. Wiping sweat from his brow, he considered the idea between curses.

"If I catch 'em out again, I'll take 'em in!" he insisted. "If I catch 'em sticking their little bratty noses where they don't belong, I'll haul 'em all down to county and book 'em into juvie! Lock 'em up like little pups, lock 'em up and hold 'em! Christ, what if they'd stumbled into some kind of trouble? I have enough trouble to worry about, don't need these kids seeing things they shouldn't see!"

"Don't worry, boys!" Lane responded. "It's over now, all over." Rolling meat in butcher's paper, his voice lowered with concern and sadness. "Besides, you won't have to worry about them being out looking for Kirk Wade anymore, rest his soul. That ship has sailed... oh merciful Lord, that ship has sailed and gone away..."

TWELVE

September 9th, 2016. 9:20AM

Garthby, Indiana

"Get him out of here!" Boudreaux ordered, pointing his pudgy finger accusingly at Chucky.

At his command, two officers entered the small room and unlocked the chain that bound the prisoner to the table.

"Hey, take it easy with him!" Jacob snapped as the men unceremoniously yanked Chucky to his feet. He stumbled, nearly falling, which led the bailiffs to tug him up by his jumpsuit. "Is that really necessary?"

Boudreaux said nothing to modify his officers' handling of their quarry, just stood smugly in the door, looking like he truly believed that he was king shit of all the world. Chucky grunted and groaned at the rough treatment, crying ow as the handcuffs tightened around his wrists in the jostling. Seeing this happen broke Jacob's heart, his friend was such a gentle soul -- he didn't deserve this treatment.

"Come on, guys, he's special!" Jake offered, hoping to persuade them with that knowledge. "He doesn't pose any threat to you, you don't have to be so fucking rough!"

"That man," Boudreaux began, pointing that chubby finger again, "is a vicious, savage and calculated baby killer!" He paused for drama's sake, chopping Chucky in two with his razor sharp eyes. "If you had seen what he did to little Billy Marsh, I promise you, you would want us to handle him harder!"

Donnell was shaking his head, trying to support Chucky with his hands so that the arms of the bailiffs wrapped around him wouldn't exert full pressure in pulling him up. Once they had him squarely on his feet, they practically dragged him from the room. The shackles around his ankles didn't allow him to take strides wide enough to match the frenetic pace of his escorts, so he staggered and tripped with every step.

"Jesus Christ, Boudreaux!" Jake condemned the man. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" He asked, realizing finally why it was a good thing that his gun was back in the car.

The bailiffs pulled Chucky passed the sheriff, the man not moving an inch -- forcing them to push and shove the prisoner around him, manipulating him as though he were a piece wedged in an awkward spot at the narrow mouth of a klotski puzzle. The contempt in Boudreaux's eyes was palpable as they passed, and for a moment it looked as though he would spit in Chucky's face. When they were gone, his lips broke deviously into some semblance of a grin, his coffee and tobacco stained teeth glimmering devilishly behind his dark lips.

The smile didn't last for long, the Sheriff snatched it back the very moment he realized it was showing. The squeaks of Chucky's sneakers trying to keep up on the marble floor trailed off to silence, Boudreaux just staring at them menacingly until it was inaudible entirely.

Donnell seemed reluctant to pay the man the courtesy of looking at him, focusing, instead, on the surface of the table at which he sat. Jake, on the other hand, was glaring at him with a heavy loathing stirring in his guts.

Ron Boudreaux's was a face he'd never wished to see again. One he was glad to have forgotten and had hoped would remain sealed away forever. He had worked long and hard to see that the face and the deeds of Deputy Ron would exist as no more than ghostly apparitions, barely latent prints on brittle sheets of parchment, bound loosely in a musty and decaying volume. By force of will, he kept that volume stored away in a dark, forbidden chamber of painful memories in his mind... memories he never wished to relive or to remember. Memories which he tried consciously to banish into dust and remove from his reality entirely.

Every one of those intrusive anamneses came swirling back at the sight of the man, swirling, swirling madly in ashen afterimages of pain and sorrow... of betrayal and injustice, of lies and wanton destruction. His face projected all of this to Boudreaux, a look of disdain and disgust that Jake thrust at him like a razor sharp rapier in the hands of a champion duelist.

He piled upon Boudreaux's fat face the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar... as if his chest had been a mortar... as if his chest had been a mortar...

"You son of a bitch!" he fired his heart upon him. "You low-life fucking son of a bitch!"

Boudreaux was unmoved by the outburst, not phased by the glare or the feelings Jake poured out behind it. With his hands clasped behind his back, he casually waddled his way into the room and assumed the chair where Chucky had been seated. With his weary ankles relieved of the burden his girth placed upon them, he groaned with satisfaction that he surely didn't deserve.

"I think y'all need to listen to me for a minute, boys!" he said snidely. He took note of Donnell, still staring down at the table, and addressed him. "Donnell, I'm surprised at you! You ain't even gonna look at me, boy? Is this the thanks I get? The thanks for all the good things I done for you? This is how you repay me? Surely, I deserve at least to be acknowledged!"

He frisked Donnell with his eyes, and the frisking was an unwelcome violation. It sent a chill through him that was almost visible, coaxing him to take several labored breaths as he continued to focus on the tabletop.

"If not for me, boy" Boudreaux continued, "if not for what I done for ya', you wouldn't be sitting in that chair right now! Hell, you'd probably be sitting in this chair -- probably be chained up to this table, like an animal!" he paused to frisk some more. "If not for what I done for ya', I doubt you'd be wearing all of those fancy clothes that you're wearing... wouldn't be wearing \-- this fancy watch!"

He fondled the golden band on Donnell's wrist, Donnell pulling it away sheepishly at his touch.

"My lord, son," Boudreaux exclaimed, "that's a twenty-thousand dollar watch! I know you didn't have things like that when you were growin' up back in Burlwood! I know your daddy didn't have anything like that! I would stake a bet that you still wouldn't have anything like that, if not for me and what I done! Now, given what I done, I should think that a man who's been as good to you as I been deserves -- deserves... oh, I dunno, perhaps a modicum of respect from somebody like you! From somebody who had nothin' -- wouldn't have nothin' -- if not for the kindness of someone like me!"

Still, Donnell didn't look up.

"I figure that someone like me is at least due the courtesy of a kind and reverent glance from somebody as indebted as you are! Don't you think that's right, Donnell?"

Knowing he wouldn't stop, that he would persist until he finally gave in, Donnell raised his eyes slowly, though his head remained down in shame and disgust. He made eye contact with the man, but only as much as would be considered enough... enough to make him drop it.

"Theeeeerrrrre it is," Boudreaux said, dragging the words out sarcastically. "And you, Jake," he continued, shifting his stare to the face of loathing he saw beaming back. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again." He paused, let it simmer for a second, took a deep breath and sighed. "Probably would've been better that way, wouldn't it?" he concluded.

The room was uncomfortably silent, the droning forced air of the cooling system not enough to break the tension.

"Now, I don't have a lot to say," Boudreaux said, "but I want you to listen very closely to the words I do speak."

Donnell was looking back to the table already, Jake still watching with disgust as the Sheriff put exclamations on his next sentence, jabbing out each word by pounding his stumpy finger on the table.

"This \-- investigation -- is -- closed!" he said. "I have everything I need, I know exactly what happened, and there's nothing here that concerns either one of you! The two of you need to go home and go about your lives, because you have no business getting involved in what's going on here!"

The insinuation angered Donnell, and his frustration was evident as he spoke, though he didn't lift his eyes again. "Chucky has a right to an attorney," he said, "I am licensed to practice law and in good standing with the Bar, you cannot restrict my access to my client or hamper my efforts to \--"

"To what?" Boudreaux interrupted. "To what, Donnell?"

The immediate answer was silence, so Boudreaux let it fester before he filled it in with his own assertion.

"To defend a guilty man? To look into a crime that's already been solved? To stick your nose somewhere it doesn't belong? To shove it way up my ass, right here -- in my yard? To shit on my investigation? Oh, no -- no, no, Donnell, that's not a very good idea at all."

"Guilty or not, he --"

"This ain't your playground anymore, boy, you left this place behind!" Boudreaux interrupted, yelling now. "And you need to keep it there, behind you! Believe me when I say that this deal is signed, sealed and delivered!" He gave three more exclamatory jabs at the table with this, then calmed and resumed in a normal tone. "All that remains, now, is to close the book and throw it at that no good piece of shit that you called your friend in another life! You can't help that man, Donnell, nobody can! He's going up the river, and he's going for a long, long time! If I have it my way, he'll never see the ocean because he'll have those lines in his arms and that burnin' in his veins! This is not a case for you, Donnell, this is a prime-time, grade-A loser! Being associated with it will only soil your good name, son, and you don't need it soiled -- not like this!"

Donnell said nothing, just kept staring at that table. Finished with that portion of his tirade, Boudreaux turned his attention to Jake.

"And you," he said damningly, pointing again. "You have less business here than this boy does!"

"Chucky's my friend!" Jake snapped. "I have every business being here!"

Boudreaux was silent for a moment, a look of surprise on his face. Then, he let out a congested, half-hearted laugh before responding. "Your friend?" he asked. "Your friend -- whom you haven't talked to or seen in almost twenty years? What kind of friend are you, Jake? What kind of friend of his are you?"

"I'm also a private investigator," he retorted, "bonded and licensed, and I intend to look into this investigation of yours and figure out exactly what you're up to here, Ron!"

"A private eye?" he laughed again. "By God, Donnell, we got us a regular old Richard Diamond here! A Philip Marlowe, a Rocky Fortune, a Johnny Dollar, a Sam Spade! A regular gumshoe, I bet, a hundred dollars a day plus expenses!" He laughed even more heartily this time, breaking out of it only when a cough born of many bourbon-dipped Backwoods cigars took over and sent him into a choking fit. Once recovered, he produced a hanky from the breast pocket of his uniform and spit a wad a phlegm into it. Wiping his lips, he put the hanky back and continued. "You say you're bonded and licensed, Jake, did I hear that right?"

"Yep!" he replied confidently. "You got it!"

"Well, tell me, Jake," he said condescendingly, "when you're travelin' around, peepin' on cheatin' husbands and watchin' people fake a limp as they walk into the chiropractor's office, what state are you generally in? Geographically, that is, in what state, exactly, are you licensed, bonded and, presumably, insured?"

Jake didn't reply, he knew what Boudreaux was getting at... knew that he was right, and that there was no way around it.

"Is it Indiana, Jake, because I sure didn't see your name in the database when I checked it this morning!"

There came no reply -- there wouldn't be a reply. Jake knew there was no reciprocity between Indiana and his adopted state of Michigan, and he knew Boudreaux was well aware of that, too. Legally, his license wasn't anything more than a piece of paper here. It was useless, powerless, and to use it in practice in Burlwood would be completely illegal. He was a private citizen here, no more, no less.

"That's what I thought!" Boudreaux smiled. "And believe me when I tell you, son, if I hear anything about you digging any dirt in Burlwood -- God as my witness, Jake, I will have you arrested and charged with obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence! If you don't believe me, just try it... try it and see what happens!"

"So, what?" Jake asked accusingly. "Chucky doesn't get a chance to defend himself? Nobody can investigate his innocence, because you already decided he is guilty? Is that what you're trying to say, Ron?"

"Not at all!" The Sheriff disagreed gleefully. "That's not what I'm saying, Jake, not at all! If Chucky's counsel, whomever it may be once Donnell sees the light and runs off, if he decides that there's any shred of merit in examining the evidence we put forth, he's free to hire an independent investigator to check it all out... an investigator licensed to practice in this state, that is."

Jake stewed for a moment, calculated his response. "What is it this time, Ron?" he snapped. "What are you hiding now? What are you afraid I'm gonna dig up this time?"

At this, Boudreaux's eyes exploded wide open, his face was overcome with rage. His fingers stretched apart, widening as far as they possibly could, and dug into the stainless steel tabletop as though they were prospecting for gold that lay just below its surface. If it had been constructed of any other material, Jake believed his clawing hands would've broken the entire table to little bits and crumpled it as he clenched his teeth and glowed with anger.

"You listen to me, Jacob!" he barked through his tightly locked jaw. "You keep away from Burlwood, goddamnit, you keep FAR away! You've got no business there, you worthless fuck! No business there at all!"

"You're right," Jake chuckled, amused at his ire and the turning of the tables. "I have no business there." Now it was his turn to pause for dramatics. "I'm just going home to see a few old friends, that's all!"

He stood forcefully, his chair rocketing out from under him and slamming into the nearby wall as he did. Reaching out, he brought his hand down hard on Boudreaux's shoulder and squeezed it tight, as he would do to share his strength and show appreciation of a close and trusted friend.

"...and I think I'll start with Clyde Rambo!"

Boudreaux was fuming, his fingers still trying to mine their way into the table as hatred bubbled inside him and seemed to spew exhaust from every orafice of his body. Without another word, Jake turned and stormed out. Donnell followed quietly, taking his briefcase gingerly to avoid rousing the angered giant.

When they were gone, Boudreaux cursed in fury, sweat dripping down and stinging his widened eyes. Paying it no mind, he shouted with all his being to the hallway beyond the door.

"Louie! Gitch'yer narrow ass in here! Now!"

THIRTEEN

Directly from the conference room, Jake and Donnell marched into courtroom 2-A. Soon after they were seated, Judge Eldon Casella took the bench and called the proceedings to order. Two cases were heard before Chucky's, both involving matters related to prostitution. They were only initial hearings as well, so the Judge breezed through them in no time at all.

"Next before the Court is the matter of The State Of Indiana versus Charles Edward Murphy," Casella said, stone-faced.

Doors on the far side of the court swung open, Chucky emerging and being pulled along by the same officers that had extricated him from the conference room. A cacophony of clicking and popping erupted, a myriad of flashbulbs exploding around the room the moment he appeared and continuing as he was led to the defense table. Photographers and videographers bobbed and weaved to get a better angled shot of the alleged savage, the vicious child killer who stood before them now as a powerless, downtrodden defendant bound in chains and painted with the scarlet letter of inmate orange.

Jake was stunned at the outburst, amazed that so many members of the press had turned out to witness this event. They were rabid in their determination to snap that perfect shot, as rabid as any of Chucky's imaginary monsters lurking in the depths of Booger Woods, as rabid as any Butcher who preyed upon the children of Burlwood past, as rabid as Ron Boudreaux behind the facade of a badge.

Seeing the intensity and purpose with which they operated erased any lingering illusion that this wasn't as much of a witch hunt as it seemed. Boudreaux sought nothing less than Chucky's head, to jam it upon a pike and put on display, perhaps right next to the Elsmere County Welcomes You Home sign... a sign on which the population of Burlwood could be indelibly declared as two thousand five hundred and seven minus one. Minus Charles Edward Murphy, minus the Butcher Of Burlwood, past and present, minus the shadow of any doubt that Sheriff Ron Boudreaux always gets his man and rules his roost with an iron fist.

Casella pounded his gavel futily, pounded the drum of justice in absentia. He called for order where none was present, called for the uniformity and procedure of practiced law in a courtroom filled with people of the opinion that the verdict was already decided before a single witness had been deposed, before a single expert gave his testimony, before a single objection to the proceedings had been raised by the counsel for the defendant. Before anyone had a chance to figure out that Chucky just wasn't capable of doing a thing so heinous.

The bailiffs positioned Chucky at the table reserved for the defense, a table that was rather dull and simple as compared to the glorious wooden lectern and desk, carved brilliantly of maple or some other richly textured wood, which would serve as the hub for the prosecution -- for the almighty State. The desk from which the hammer of the gods would pull back and strike the molten steel of public opinion, would forge a sword as magnificent as Excalibur for the hooded executioner to wield in the public square, was a hub of power with District Attorney Richard Hagan manning the helm with visible pride.

Donnell approached his client, pushing and shoving his way through the press, and sat beside him as chaos ensued around them, Casella ceaselessly hammering his gavel with growing sincerity. The atmosphere was such that Jake expected to hear a rousing chorus of boo exploding from those gathered, expected to see thumbs turning down and jeering those who would stand side by side with the monster as he was paraded around the gallows.

Jake stayed in the last row of spectator benches, barely able to see anything as the gathered masses swirled and swirled, swirled like memories of better days, swirled like hope and promise around the bottomless drain of damnation that would swallow them whole.

Eventually, the passionate pounding of Casella's gavel won the day and brought an orderly hush over the room -- though the reporters still held their microphones high in the air to record any words that might be spoken into the annals of history.

When Casella called for the parties to identify themselves for the record, Richard Hagan declared himself as appearing on behalf of the people of Indiana. Donnell answered the charge and declared himself as Chucky's counsel. It would've come as no surprise to anyone if, at that moment, Michael Buffer had appeared from the Judge's chambers to announce that it was time to rumble, but Casella spoke instead in language suited to the situation, reading the indictment aloud and in excruciating detail.

As Donnell had said, the judge recounted the fact that bail was off the table and asked if either side had anything to say in answer to the charges. Donnell raised his concerns with Chucky's competency to stand trial, asking politely and professionally that the court assign specialists to evaluate his mental faculties. The prosecutor fired a salvo back, citing Chucky's independence in living alone and holding a job at Our Mother Of Sorrows for nearly two decades. Donnell reminded him, in response, that Chucky was merely a part-time custodian -- his role limited to the polishing of pews and cleaning of floors. Undeterred, Hagan argued that the request for evaluation was no more than an effort to stall the wheels of justice and cause an unnecessary delay. Casella sided with the defense, ordering psychiatric testing to remove any shadow of doubt in the matter. Donnell seemed to take this as a minor victory, as hollow as it may be, and thanked the court.

With that out of the way, the Judge issued an Omnibus date of October 31st. A quick Google search revealed to Jake that this was the date on which all evidence -- that presented by the state to implicate and that by the defense to absolve -- must be declared and admitted or challenged by either side. Casella explained that he had allowed extra time for the competency evaluation, apparently more time than Hagan felt was reasonable, which he noted in an objection. Casella overruled immediately, announcing his intention to see that a case as serious as this be adjudicated with due diligence, whether the timeline was satisfactory to the prosecution or not. With a final strike of his gavel, he closed the hearing and remanded Chucky to the custody of The Elsmere County jail.

Everything was over just as quickly as it had begun, the bailiffs seizing Chucky from the table again and leading him back out the door he had come through initially. There was another blitz of photography, this one not nearly as intense as the first, and Donnell marched his way back to Jake. With a nod, he led him out of the courtroom -- then out of the building altogether.

Once outside, in the blinding light of day, Donnell sighed heavily in decompression.

"I've been involved in some high profile shit, Jake," he said. "But I've never seen, felt or heard of anything like the charade I witnessed in that courtroom today in all my life! This is crazy, man, it's crazy! They've got Chucky's cell ready for him in the death house, and they're in a hurry to see him file a change of address card and move in. I've never heard a prosecutor object to a minor delay like that, it's usually the other way around! It's usually the defense arguing against a delay while the state tries to flesh out their case -- is very rarely the opposite. We're gonna need some kind of a miracle here, man, this deck is stacked! The only reasonable person in that whole courtroom was Judge Casella, and I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that Boudreaux tries to have him recused before it's all said and done!"

Jake considered this, recounted in his mind everything he had witnessed since walking into the courthouse. It was overwhelming, but seemingly not insurmountable. There was evidence of Chucky's innocence out there, somewhere, he knew there was. There had to be. Maybe Hagan feared a delay because, with time, that evidence could come to light -- could cloud the matter, make it more difficult to secure a conviction. Murder will out, that's what they say... that's what he hoped. The real child killer was still out there, The Butcher Of Burlwood was still at large... and it was incumbent upon Jake to find him before -- before -- before double indemnity, for him... not for Chucky.

"You hungry?" Donnell asked.

"A little," Jake lied. He hadn't been hungry since he'd woken up in the parking lot of Bottoms Up, even though he knew he needed to eat... would eventually have to force himself to eat.

"Let's go to lunch, then... my treat."

FOURTEEN

Jake followed Donnell's silver S-Class Mercedes a few miles up the road, towards Burlwood, to a small restaurant called Uncle Jim's Pancake House. He assumed Donnell hadn't sought this particular establishment out, he had simply driven until they were clear of Garthby's Main Street district and then pulled off at the first quiet, backwoods looking diner he spotted.

This place looked like home, looked like their childhood. Stopping there was like making a symbolic return to innocence, a return to a time and place they had occupied before plunging themselves headlong into adulthood. A time before they dove into the rat race, so eager to take the world by storm and leave Burlwood Meadows behind them.

In their hearts and minds, both of them wished they could wind back the hands of time... wished they could return literally instead of symbolically to where it all began. Each of them longed for an opportunity to do things just a bit differently than they had, but each for distinctly different reasons. For Donnell, the wish was born of guilt and shame at the things he had done to claw his way out of the gutter, into a better life. Born of regret of the means, even if they justified the end. For Jake, the wish was born of confusion alone. Confusion about where things had gone so wrong, why things that started out so purely had become so tarnished as to be unrecognizable to him now.

A bell mounted over the door announced their arrival when they stepped inside, a sweet aroma of cheap coffee and high fructose corn syrup masquerading as maple greeting them and calling them to sit. Bacon grease popped and crackled in the open kitchen behind a stool-lined counter, egg whites wheezed and bubbled on a hot plate and grungy looking cooks dipped bread in bowls of batter then sprinkled cinnamon recklessly. The air was full of smoke, the blue-haired patrons all around the place puffing madly on sticks of cancer as they sipped from dark brown mugs with spoons swiveling around the rims.

All of the pressure and stress melted off their backs as they inhaled the calm air, air that was free of the madness and desperation that permeate the very stratosphere of any metropolis under the sun. Casting their burdens aside like Atlas simply stepping away and standing erect, they chose a booth in the far corner of the diner, as far from the heat of the kitchen as they could get. Jake assumed the seat facing the door, as was his routine, and they settled in the comfort of the plushly padded booth. The tabletop was grimy, sticky with the residue of syrup wiped away with filthy wet rags, leaving the stink of lemon disinfectant and mildew behind.

Donnell rolled his head around his shoulders, cracking his neck and releasing all the tension of the day, of the week, of the years he had spent living amongst people he did not know and could not identify with. He had been a stranger in a strange land for many moons, but he sat now -- upon torn pleather mended with duct tape -- as the prodigal son returning home, at long last. He melted in repentance into the welcoming embrace of the country, melted and begged forgiveness for having stayed away so long.

Jake was almost absorbed as well, but as he teetered on the precipice of peace, the balance was disturbed by the appearance of their waitress. The girl sauntered up with natural seduction, a force she was probably apt to wield but which occurred organically, whether she was trying to apply it or not. Her nametag read Nikki, and immediately the voice of Prince was in Jake's ear.

Met her in a hotel lobby, masturbating in a magazine.

Prince's description of his Darling fit her perfectly, as did the tight top and skinny jeans she wore underneath the faded white apron, emblazened with Uncle Jim's near her left breast. If asked to describe the girl, Jake's breathless response would've been that she looked like sex... like a connoisseur of it in all of its forms, like a master of it and all of its techniques, like an experienced practitioner who had been around the block and had cul-de-sacs scattered along it named in her honor. She looked like a girl who knew sex well, who thrived on it and sought it out with every breath she drew.

She was young, maybe old enough to buy herself a beer, which she would never have to do because there would always be some drooling man nearby with a rock hard cock begging to buy it for her. She was petite, maybe 5'2" and an ounce or two over a hundred pounds, if she wet her long black hair and wore heavy shoes, that is.

Despite her apparent frailty, her body was curvy and an hourglass to perfection. Her perky, firm breasts were obvious but not obtrusive, her waist bold but not overstated, and her juicy little ass -- well, it was equally perfect. Her legs were thin as toothpicks with a wide clearance between them, surely more than adequate spacing to allow for the mounting of any man's saddle, upon which she could ride comfortably and sink in with ease.

Her face was china-doll white, the skin upon it clear and free of defects. Perfectly applied eye-liner, shadow and mascara accentuated her almost inhumanly smoke colored eyes. She wore just the right amount of blush too, and her luscious lips glistened in a brilliant and glossy red that cried out to be sucked.

As she approached, menus in hand, she met Jake's gaze and was as visibly rocked in locking eyes with him as he was in seeing her. She stalled mid-stride, a smile she probably greeted any old customer with collapsing on itself and transforming to a gaping awe. The look did wonders for Jake's ego. He knew he was blessed to be an attractive man, but for his appearance to have such a profound effect on someone was still something he couldn't quite wrap his mind around. Nikki was probably used to the roles being reversed -- was probably more accustomed to being the subject of prying eyes than she was being the one doing the prying.

They exchanged all the secrets of their souls in the moments that they spent with their pupils fully engaged, sharing a spectacular osmotic symbiosis beyond anything he had ever experienced in all the days of his life. He felt her tenderness, felt her passion, felt her lust... felt everything that lived inside her, including -- to his surprise -- a deep and profound intelligence that one wouldn't necessarily expect to find dwelling within a shell that seemed more suited to embracing the pleasures of the flesh than those that could be shared with the mind.

On the surface, she was shallow. Vain, promiscuous, desperate for attention and affection. Underneath that armor -- that facade -- though, he saw a glimmer of something else all together. Something that he recognized at once. It was a glimmer of understanding... of insight and introspection. A sign that, beneath the mask of sexuality and sleaziness that she wore, she was a highly cerebral creature.

She was the type that would be stimulated just as deeply by the recited verses of Rumi as she would by a practiced hand gently massaging her clitoris. It was more the former that appealed to him than the latter... though the latter wasn't without its charm.

Perhaps subconsciously, perhaps intentionally and provocatively, she licked and bit her lower lip. In all likelihood, he figured, this was the side of her that she found most men responded to. It was the ice breaker, the sizzle as opposed to the steak. Most men probably didn't care about the steak at all, that's what it usually boils down to. He wasn't most men, though, not now -- perhaps not ever. If she was absorbing as much of him in their encounter as he was of her, she should've sensed that. The fact that she didn't was a bit disappointing, but he couldn't blame her for defaulting to the lowest common denominator. For succumbing to the standards of society at large, trying to conform to the basic rules of the game, as it's played by most.

The intensity of her stare and the disappointment in her falling back on physicality jarred Jake into looking away -- into looking toward Donnell. In the corner of his eye, though, he could see her gray pupils scanning down the length of his torso and then further along. Undressing him with her eyes, tracing his form and feeling him up. Suddenly, his left hand was ablaze as her fiery eyes locked on it where it sat atop the table. She was examining it, studying each finger and probably wondering if they were trained and practiced in that secondary stimulation. Eventually, her focus settled on the titanium band he wore to signify his commitment to Tracy Swete and his family.

Feeling her dismay at discovering it, realizing that there wasn't much purpose in his wearing it, given the events of late, he snatched both his hands from the sticky table and placed them on his lap -- where things were stirring... things that hadn't stirred at the sight of a woman other than his wife for many years, things that hadn't stirred at all at the sight or thought of anything as of late. Things that certainly hadn't stirred when that chubby woman with the baggie ran her hands across his flesh less than thirty-six hours ago.

He was embarrassed, was disgusted with himself for having such feelings in thinking of a woman that wasn't Tracy. He had been hers and hers alone, in body and in spirit, since the two of them became one for the first time when they were just sixteen years old. She had been his first, his one and only, and he was proud of that fact. His eyes had wandered occasionally, sure, but never his mind -- never his body. They were soul mates, that had never been in question. They were destined for each other, drawn together and held that way, without remorse or regret, for eighteen years. The thought that all of that was over still hadn't sunk in entirely, and the idea that he should be sitting here -- in a ratty diner -- with a throbbing erection brought on by what amounted to a girl -- one at least eleven years his junior -- was something he just couldn't allow himself to accept. Ashamed of himself, he tried to think of anything he could say to spark a conversation with Donnell. Thankfully, it looked as though he was oblivious to all that was happening, was probably still mulling over the case, which is what they needed to be doing anyway.

Nikki either registered his discomfort or had become uncomfortable herself for one reason or another, so she seemed to clear her mind and simply strolled to the table, placing the menus down in front of them before reciting the script that she was trained to deliver.

"Welcome to Uncle Jim's!" she declared in a warm, unintentionally sultry voice. "My name is Nikki, I'll be taking care of you today! What can I get the two of you to drink?"

"Coffee," Donnell answered swiftly, hardly looking up at the girl and taking no notice of her raw appeal.

Jake's mind called for a Jack and Coke, his system longing for and missing the influence of the liquor on which it had become dependent in days past. Realizing that this wasn't the time nor the place for such indulgences, that alcohol probably wasn't on the menu anyway, he simply muttered water with no further acknowledgment of the succubus or her charms. She moved away just as casually, Jake's body tense with desire and fighting the temptation to look and study her backside as she went. Overcome with lust and feeling the lack of sleep catching up, he buried his face in his hands and rubbed as though to coax another couple of hours out of his reserve.

"So," he said, pushing aside the fantasies that tried to hijack his barely rolling train of thought. "Let's talk about how we're going to do this."

Donnell sighed again, exhaling the last of his pent-up frustration with the fast-paced world of city life. "Before we get into that, Jake, there's something I need to say."

Jake pulled his face from his palms, lowering them slowly and folding his arms on the table top, the ring he still wore clicking against it.

"Yeah, shoot," he said.

Donnell took a breath, long, deep and contemplative before continuing. "When we talked on the phone yesterday, you tried to apologize for what happened last time... for what happened between the two of us. That was wrong -- it's not you who needs to apologize."

"Oh, Donnell," he objected, "let's just leave that --"

"No, no," Donnell replied, fanning in full force. "We can't -- I can't just let it sit, not anymore. It's been on my shoulders for almost twenty years, Jake. The memory of that day... the memory of her face... it took up permanent residence in my head, man, I see it every fuckin' time I close my eyes!"

Jake just stared at him, reluctant to rip off an old scab. Reluctant to open that musty volume of tattered parchment and look upon the words written inside. It seemed important to Donnell, though, so he knew he would have to endure it -- if only for the sake of his friend's peace of mind.

"It wasn't your fault, Donnell," he said. "It was bound to happen -- had almost happened before you got involved. If not you, it would've been someone else... could've been anyone, had nothing to do with you specifically."

Donnell's head snapped back, his eyes darting up to the ceiling and burning through the fiberboard like x-rays to expose the heavens and whomever or whatever resides above the clouds. It looked as though he were begging the sky for words... begging for the proper verbiage to articulate his sorrow. To Jake's surprise, a single tear spilled out and plunged dramatically down his cheek. He cleared his throat, choking back suppressed emotion in an attempt to maintain his dignity as he spoke.

"But it was me, Jake." he said simply. "I was there, I was doing what I did, and I played my part."

"You don't have to do this, Don."

A tear fell from the other eye, now, which was one more than he could allow to show through. He wiped the both of them clean, sniffling once -- and only once -- reasserting his control and looking deep into the soul of his friend.

"I'm sorry, Jake." he declared. "I wish I could take it back... I wish I could take everything about it back -- but I can't."

Jake raised his eyebrows and they hung high, memories swirling, swirling. Frozen there, he let them remain fixed as he shook his head solemnly. "The genie never wants to go back into the bottle, Donnell." he said, reflecting. "I've let a few of them out myself, I know how it goes. I don't blame you, brother, I really don't. I did at first, it was my first instinct to blame you -- but I didn't know shit back then... didn't know shit about life, didn't know shit about struggle, didn't know shit about what it means to be desperate... to be backed into a corner. We're all just products of our environment -- you, me, Rambo, Chucky -- every one of us. We're just the sum of all our parts. In your shoes, I probably would've done the same things you did... and look what you turned it all into, Donnell, you took a shitty hand and made it pay out in spades."

Donnell considered this, saw the logic in it, it did make sense. There was no absolution in it, though, no justification for what went down... but there was understanding, and perhaps that was the best that a man in his position could ever hope for. Still swimming in regret, still caught up in the undertow and drowning, he closed his eyes with the hope of seeing something new behind their lids. Nothing had changed, however, and he knew to desire any change, to see anything different, was to make a wish that Jake's genies would never see fit to grant him.

"Thank you, Darkwing," he answered, grateful for the gesture despite the lack of resolution it provided. "Your mom would be proud of what you've done with your hand, too -- I know she would. She was a good woman, Jake... I'm sorry for the part I played in what happened, for my role in the events that took her away from you."

This time, it was Jake who closed his eyes. He sought no comfort in the darkness, no change in his perception -- and there would certainly be no tears, that well was just as dry now as it had been during his final flight from Tracy. For him, it was simply an escape... simply a cop out. If Donnell only knew the state his life was in -- if he only knew of the turmoil... he didn't, though... and he didn't need to.

"She took herself away, Donnell," he said. "She just used you to help her."

Nikki brought the conversation to an abrupt end when she appeared with one of Uncle Jim's brown mugs and a translucent plastic amber cup of water.

"Do you take cream?" she asked, clutching a flask of half-and-half in her hand.

"No," Donnell answered. "I like it black, like me!"

This made Nikki chuckle, and her laugh was as angelic as her smile. "How 'bout you, honey?" she asked Jake. "Would you like a lemon for that?"

Jake shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes again for fear of getting lost inside them, as he nearly had before. She asked if they were ready to order, which brought the realization that neither of them had so much as opened their menus.

A creature of habit, Donnell simply asked if they served reubens, which they did. He ordered two, putting Jake on the spot to decide what would fuel his body for the remainder of the day. He settled on three eggs, sunny side up, with white toast and hash browns. Nikki asked if he'd like bacon or sausage links for only a dollar more, so he took the bait and specified that he liked his bacon soggy. She nodded silently, apparently deciding that the favor of his dismissive attitude toward her should be returned in kind. Once she'd sauntered away again, the conversation turned to the more pressing matter at hand.

"Where do we go from here?" Jake asked, his own ideas already in mind. "How do you figure we should go about this?"

Donnell gazed into his coffee, trying to scry something in the blackness of its depth. The image that came to him was of the Dodge van -- the vehicle labeled Our Mother Of Sorrows in sun faded blue lettering. The answers they sought lie in the physical evidence that could be recovered from inside... the finger prints upon the steering wheel, the stains of blood and tissue cast off by the potentially unwilling passenger, the secret of where it sat in wait and who had put it there, the things they could infer from determining where it had been stashed.

"Find the van," he answered plainly. "If we find the van, we find the answers."

Jake nodded, this had occurred to him too. He had a few notions, a few suspicions in regard to where it could be hiding. "If it's gone, though," he propositioned. "If it's been -- disposed of..."

Donnell considered, calculated. "Without it, without what we could find in it, we might have to rely on tying Billy's death to the deaths of the boys who came before him. I mean, Chucky was just a kid when the others were killed... no one would believe that he was some kind of Michael Myers, racking up a body count when he was no more than a little boy himself."

Jake agreed. If he could link Billy Marsh's death to that of Gary Duncan... of Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade and all the rest... if he could prove that The Butcher was back on the prowl, that he had returned to continue his reign, that would all but exonerate Ron Boudreaux's chosen fall guy of the more recent crime. There were likely similarities between the way in which Billy Marsh was dispatched and that of the boys who proceeded him in death, there were certainly similarities in how his remains were discovered. Some basic link was evident in the limited details he gleaned from Donnell's recounting of the facts that Louie Rambo had relayed to him.

The autopsy reports would reveal more, perhaps enough to seal the deal if the stars and planets were aligned just right. Donnell held some of those answers in the packet given him by Rambo -- a packet that would require much scrutiny in the hours and days to come.

"Make sure you get those papers scanned and sent to me ASAP," he said. "I'll dig into them as soon as I get them, perhaps consult with Clyde Rambo about them."

"Yeah," Donnell concurred, "I'm sure he had his thoughts about the identity of The Butcher, and we know what his relationship with Ron Boudreaux was like... I'm sure he's not intimidated or a subject to the tyranny of the man, if I know old Sheriff Rambo at all."

"I guess that's the foundation, then," Jake surmised. "Look for the van, find the link that relates Billy Marsh to all the others... figure out who was stalking the cradle back in the day, and put this one on his ass just the same."

"If we can get that done, we're home free," Donnell concluded. "Sounds easy to sit here talking about it, but I doubt it will be that way in practice."

Jake shrugged. "Well, I'm game. With the two of us working together, I'm sure we can run the table pretty quickly. I'll work the van, you get on the old cases and --"

"Wait, wait, wait," Donnell interrupted. "Jake -- you don't think I can stay here, do you?" he asked, perplexed. "I mean, we're not little kids with nothing better to do anymore, you know that, right? You know I can only help from afar this time?"

"But --" he began, confused. "I thought that's why we came? I thought we were here to clear Chucky, to figure out what we couldn't back when we were kids? What do you mean you can only help from afar?"

Donnell shook his head as he said "It's not like it was before, man! I'm not on the run from my parent's trailer, free of responsibilities and eager to get out of the house! I have a practice, Darkwing, a heavy load of cases pending -- a bunch of people counting on me to help them out just the same as Chucky. I came here to represent the man -- pro bono, no less. That's gonna be tough as it is, putting time in for nothing at all... I've got bills, man! That's all I can commit to do, to represent him! I can't go galavanting around Burlwood, digging into shit like it's nineteen ninety three and I'm a twelve year old Launchpad McQuack who doesn't have obligations and children to raise! I mean, I'm here to help you out -- I want to help you out -- and I'll do what I can... but I have to do it while living the rest of my life, I can't just turn my back on everything else and dive right in!"

Jake seemed dissapointed \-- was disappointed. He had hoped to take the town by storm, the Burlwood Boys -- reunited and coming to the defense of one of their own. He was supposed to be the leader, the one to call the shots just as before -- not to be a solo act. He expected more of Launchpad, expected a full partner in this affair. The revelation that this wasn't in the cards changed things... made things that much more difficult.

Let down as he was, he understood Donnell's plight. The fact that he, Darkwing, had no irons in the fire -- had no greater calling beyond double indemnity \-- didn't mean that everyone else's circumstances were the same as they had been so long ago. Launchpad had a career, so did Louie Rambo... Chucky was in bondage and Timmy Lane -- well... Timmy was indisposed.

There was no Burlwood Boys anymore, that team was now defunct. There was only him... there would be only him. He would bear the full weight of the cross. He would have to shoot the moon, to go it alone and hope he held enough trump to turn the tricks. He held neither of the bowers, no one to his left or right anymore. There was no partner across the table, no table talk to make in earnest whispers, no signals to be flashed in inconspicuous hand gestures. It was Jake Giguére against the world -- against Ron Boudreaux, against The Butcher... against the odds, and against time itself.

When was the insurance premium due? Tracy didn't even know about the policy, she wouldn't pay the bill, wouldn't receive a paper statement anyway.

How long was the grace period?

When did double indemnity lapse, how long could he dedicate to this solo venture?

The food arrived, Nikki delivering it with loaded arms and suggesting that they enjoy.

How could they enjoy?

How could he enjoy? He wasn't capable of enjoying, not anymore... not like before, not now... not ever again. That ship had sailed... oh merciful Lord, that ship had sailed and gone away.

They ate in abject silence, Donnell certainly realizing that Jake was disappointed... was angry at him for speaking his peace, for speaking the truth as it was in this time and place. When they finished, Donnell paid the tab. As a token of appreciation, Jake insisted on covering the tip. Feeling guilty for having essentially ignored Nikki after their initial exchange, he left a healthy twenty-eight percent -- just to prove he wasn't a total and unconditional dick.

Three hundred and fifty seven dollars, that was the figure he was left to contemplate. Three hundred and fifty seven dollars to cover the rest of his expenses... not a good look.

Wishing Donnell well and reminding him to scan and send the packet from Rambo as soon as he could, he climbed into his Malibu and drove back to the Best Western. He was feeling the strain of over thirty hours without sleep on the heels of a dreadful hangover, so he collapsed directly into the foreign queen sized mattress once inside the room.

The emptiness of the space to his right weighed heavily on him as he lay there, much more so than he would've expected. He'd slept alone before, in hotels much like this one, when a long-distance case took him far from home for a night or two here and there. The vacancy beside him hadn't seemed so big a deal back then, perhaps because he knew it was only temporary... that Tracy would be at his side, draped across his naked body, when his business was concluded and he found himself back in the familiar comfort of the luxurious colonial ranch they shared between them.

Knowing now that he would never feel the plush memory foam of their King Koil Supreme beneath his back again tugged at the strings of his fatigued heart. Knowing that he would never feel Tracy's warm breasts pressed against his chest made him want to throw in the towel immediately, with extreme prejudice.

How am I supposed to live without you, now that I've been loving you so long? How am I supposed to carry on, when all that I've been living for is gone?

He had no answers, no plan in mind for that... he had no desire to consider it, no desire to acknowledge that her intent to leave him was real and true. It was a published and filed fact, though, spelled out in plain English on the petition for divorce he had crumpled and pitched into his backseat.

Irreconcilable differences... that's what stood between them. That blanket excuse, that one size fits all complaint. Irreconcilable differences and double indemnity... a marriage made in heaven, a perfect pair, perfect pattern.

Expelling those thoughts from his mind, he reminisced about the moment he shared with Nikki. Trying to feel the comfort and longing he caught a glimpse of, tasted a sample of in her gray eyes. When he brought it all back to the surface, he allowed himself to imagine her sprawled out beside him. As things started to stir, as blood started to flow, he briefly considered masturbating. There was no time for that, though, no energy to see it through. In all the hate he felt for himself, now, he had lost sight of even the most primal urge... even the most basic desire... even the most natural instinct to partake in physical pleasure, the motivation to jack himself off and achieve a measure of spiritual release.

He didn't deserve it anyway...

He went to sleep instead, and his sleep was filled with the dreams of better days gone by... of a time when Tracy Swete still loved him, still cared about him -- still wanted him.

FIFTEEN

Ricky Marshall

April 3rd, 1993, 4:00PM.

Burlwood, Indiana

The civic center was filled beyond capacity with a good percentage of the three thousand residents of Burlwood Township gathered there, called to an emergency meeting organized by Sheriff Clyde Rambo. The auditorium they crowded into generally received only a dozen or so diehard denizens for the quarterly meeting of the township board of trustees. It was not designed to host, nor prepared to accommodate, the number of people that turned out to hear from the Sheriff this evening.

Volunteers and Deputy Boudreaux raced to keep up with the crowd, bringing in folding chairs, constantly feeding a popcorn machine and mixing batches of orange drink to fill almost perpetually empty dispensers. Bagels and donuts donated by a local bakery had long since been exhausted, leaving only dwindling sleeves of Chips Ahoy and the small sacks of popcorn to compliment the libation being sucked down by the masses.

Darkwing, Launchpad and Chucky were there, hanging out in the back corner of the room with Timmy Lane, their new friend. Louie Rambo was there too, wandering around trying to acclimate and familiarize himself with his new community. His mother, who raised him in Ohio, had recently decided she didn't want to be a single parent anymore. Resolving to change her life, she had flown the coop and moved to California -- dropping Louie off with his overworked father and vowing never to return to claim him. He was ten, just two years younger than Jake and Donnell, the same age as Timmy.

Eager to assimilate, he lingered around the boys and tried to hear what they were saying. They were wary of him, at first, because he was the new kid on the block and was unfamiliar to them. They didn't know who he was, weren't aware that he was Sheriff Rambo's son. Shy and feeling isolated, he listened to them from a distance.

"I think we should look in Booger Woods," the older looking of two blackhaired boys suggested. "Since he was swimming at the trailer park pool when he went missing."

"That's fuckin' dumb," a black kid replied. "Why would The Butcher hang around the place where he took him from, knowing people would be looking for him? He would take him somewhere farther away! We should look around the horse track or down Main Street, that would make more sense."

"I'm not going in Booger Woods, guys! I told you I won't go in there!" the oldest looking one insisted, his voice a little slurred. "And the track is too far away, how would we get there?"

Listening intently, Louie wondered if the boys were making plans to look for Ricky Marshall. Surely, they knew that the police were on the case -- that his dad was on the case. Why would they look for him when the police were already doing it? How could they possibly help? The police were grownups and had all of the resources and information that was available -- these kids didn't. There was also a new dog, one who was specially trained to smell for dead bodies. A cadaver dog, that had already done its job for the missing boy.

The idea that a group of kids could investigate a murder or a kidnapping was crazy to Louie. They didn't know what they were doing, didn't have any experience or training to know how to do it... but boy, did it sound like fun!

"Are you guys talking about Ricky Marshall?" he asked shyly, keeping his distance.

The boys all stopped talking and looked at him, examining him. For a moment, no one said anything. He wasn't sure whether that was because they were irritated that he interrupted their conversation, or if they just thought he wasn't cool enough to be a part of their group and planned to simply ignore him altogether.

"Yeah," the older black haired one finally answered. "Why?"

"He's dead," Louie declared plainly. "My daddy found his body, it was in a culvert off Route 4 -- up by the butcher shop."

"Is that what that smell was?" the youngest one with black hair asked. "We smelled it this morning, when my dad and I opened the shop. It smelled awful! We thought somebody ran over a raccoon or something and left it by the road to rot."

"My dad says it hadn't been there for long, it was probably put there sometime last night." Little Rambo explained.

The group went silent, as though they were trying to solve a riddle in something he said. They looked to the older black haired one, the one that seemed to be the leader, and waited to see if he would ask the question they were all considering.

"Who is your dad?" the boy eventually asked.

"Clyde Rambo," Louie answered, proud to declare it.

"Sheriff Rambo is your dad?" the black kid asked. "Oh shit, that's cool!"

Suddenly, the group warmed up to him. They were excited to meet the son of a police officer, the son of Rambo. Smiling, they introduced themselves.

The leader said his name was Jacob, but that everyone called him by his nickname, which was Darkwing. The black one, who looked about the same age as Darkwing, was named Donnell. His nickname was Launchpad, but he insisted that Louie should not call him that. The youngest one, who looked a little like Darkwing, said he was Timmy Lane -- the son of the man who owned the butcher shop. He explained that the boys called him Drake, which was the real name of Darkwing Duck on the Darkwing Duck show.

The fourth boy, the one who seemed to be the oldest, looked a little strange to Louie. There was something about his face and eyes that made him seem -- defective. Louie figured that was why he wasn't the leader, since it's usually the oldest member of a group that takes command.

Louie looked at him, waited for him to introduce himself as well, but he just stood there seeming shy and nervous. Darkwing spoke up and said that his name was Chucky, and that he was sometimes scared of strangers -- but would be friendly, once he felt more comfortable.

"We call ourselves The Burlwood Boys," Darkwing said. "We're kind of a club, I guess."

"A club that investigates things that are speficious!" Chucky blurted out.

Launchpad shook his head and covered his face with his hands, as though he were embarrassed.

"He means suspicious," Darkwing explained.

"So -- what?" Louie asked. "You guys search the town and try to figure out who The Butcher is?"

"The butcher is my dad, silly," Timmy laughed. "We try to figure out who the killer is... try to find clues and put them all together."

"That sounds like fun!" Rambo added. "Can I join?"

The Burlwood Boys looked at each other, checking with one another to see if adding a new member was a good idea. After a bit of whispering, they turned to Darkwing for his decision.

"If you want to!" he said enthusiastically. "We could use someone who knows a real cop -- who can give us information we don't already have!"

"Great!" Louie exclaimed in celebration.

"We'll have to get you a nickname," Chucky said. "Do you have any idea what kind of nickname you might like?

"Well, I dunno..." Louie said. "I've never really thought about it."

Darkwing asked what his real name was, suggesting that they might choose something with the same initial or basic sound. When Rambo told them it was Louie, Chucky's face lit up.

"Cool!" he exclaimed. "That's just like Scrooge McDuck's nephew! There are three of them, they're called Huey, Dewey and Louie! That's what his nickname should be -- Louie! Like Louie McDuck!"

That seemed odd to young Rambo... the idea that his nickname would just be his real name. Nobody else seemed to have any other suggestions, though, so he accepted it at face value and simply said sure.

"Awesome!" Timmy -- or Drake, actually -- added. "Now that Louie's in the club, we'll be able to know everything the police know!"

"Well," Louie replied, "probably not everything. My dad doesn't talk about work a lot, only when he's giving me advice on how to stay safe. I'll tell you anything he does say, though... that will help us investigate."

Chucky looked like he was thinking, looked disturbed about whatever it was that he was considering. When he finally summoned the courage to ask, his voice was raised with fear. "Was Ricky all torn to pieces too? Like Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson and Kirk Wade?"

Louie lowered his head, knowing what he was going to say was bad. "Yes, he was," he explained. "And he was sodomized, too... just like all the other kids."

There was another moment of silence, the Burlwood Boys looking at each other, puzzled. None of them had ever heard the word sodomized before, except for Jacob. He heard it when the news reporter was outside Booger Woods after they found Joshua Banks, and also on the TV every time a new body was found. He didn't know what it meant, though, he just assumed it was a word used to describe that someone had been murdered and cut into little pieces.

Louie hadn't known what it meant when his father first said it, either. He explained that he couldn't play outside alone because there was a maniac on the loose that kidnaps, sodomizes and kills little boys.

When Louie asked what that word meant -- what being sodomized was -- his father blushed. He explained it gingerly, not in too much detail... just enough to make Louie understand.

"I don't get it," Launchpad said, breaking the silence. "What does being sodomized mean?"

Louie felt a blush come over him, just like his father had, and tried to recall the words as they were told to him, "It means..." he began, hoping no grownups would hear him say something he shouldn't. "It means somebody had butt sex with him."

The other boys flinched when he said it, with the exception of Timmy. His dad hadn't told him about the birds and the bees yet, so he had no idea what sex was at all. The other boys, the ones who did know what sex was, were surprised to find out that it could be done that way... that a boy could do it with another boy, and that it would involve someone's butt. It was a new concept, a disgusting idea that they had never considered.

To think that The Butcher wasn't just killing children -- to think that he was having butt sex with them too \-- made them all feel a little sick. It was a new dimension to add to the nightmares that already plagued their sleep at night. Being caught by The Butcher was no longer just a sentence of death and dismemberment... it was something more. Something disturbing, something beyond anything else they ever imagined. This made their fear even greater, made the threat of being a victim even more horrific.

Rocked with this new knowledge, the group went silent completely -- each of them processing things in their own way. The conversation died like Ricky Marshall had, like all of the others had as a result. Darkwing was the first to walk off, heading toward the refreshment table for a drink to rinse the bitter taste of new ideas from his mouth. The others followed, and when they arrived Deputy Ron was filling the Gatorade cooler with the latest batch of orange drink. They fell into a single file line and each took a small paper cup to fill from the spigot.

Darkwing would be the first to have his chance, just as soon as a blonde girl in front of him was finished. When she had taken as much as she wanted, she turned to see who had come up behind her.

Jacob felt butterflies dancing in his stomach when he realized it was Tracy Swete, and the butterflies danced a jig when she swiveled around and met him with her beautiful sapphire blue eyes.

"Hey Jacob!" she smiled, her brilliantly white teeth catching the light and glimmering.

"H--hi," he replied nervously.

Much time had passed since he'd watched her and her family moving in to the pink trailer up the road from Chucky's. The two of them sat next to each other in Misses Brault's sixth grade English class and, in his mind, they talked the entire period away from bell to bell. They spoke about themselves, about their lives, about their feelings for each other. When the class would come to an end, though, he would realize that they hadn't said a single word to each other the whole time.

There was so much he wanted to say to her... so many questions he wanted to ask her about herself, so many things he wanted to know about her life and her family. He wanted to share his thoughts with her, too, and to grow closer to her in the sharing. He wanted the two of them to be best friends, to be boyfriend and girlfriend, even -- but he could never summon the courage to say anything more than hi to her, and he usually stuttered and stammered just to get that much out.

Every time the class bell rang and he left his desk without having grown a spine and tried to engage with her, he would vow to man up and take action next time... that he would make his fantasies become a reality by simply opening the flood gates and letting his words spill out when he had another chance to do so. He never did it, though, because every time he found himself in her presence -- when he found himself face to face or side by side with her -- all of the words that he had spoken to her in his daydreams left him. His mind went blank, his preconceived talking points fleeing like mourning doves taking flight and sailing away into the expanse of the horizon on the wind. Their verbal exchanges were always limited to the same hi and bye, stuttered and stammered, no matter how determined he was to make it more.

Occasionally, though, when he was struggling with an answer on a quiz or homework assignment, she would tap his arm with the eraser of her pencil and slyly tilt her paper. With a smile, she would let him take a peek and copy. He always felt a warmth sweep over him when this happened, because it meant that she must be watching him... must be looking at him, realizing he was stuck on a question.

Gosh, she was looking at him... the way he often looked at her. The difference was, of course, that she wasn't spying on him -- spying like he did on her, with binoculars, from Chucky's porch. Since she had moved to Burlwood, he made a point of spending even more time than before at Chucky's, just so that he could have a chance to watch her playing outside.

What would she think if she knew about that? About his spying on her? What would she think of him then? That was something that a creep would do... something that someone bad would do. If she knew that, maybe she wouldn't be so nice to him anymore... maybe she would think he was weird, or some kind of stalker. That would be terrible, but he just couldn't resist... couldn't keep his eyes off of her, so long as she didn't know.

If she did know he was looking -- if he tried to look at her while they were in class -- he would freeze. He would lock up, be unable to speak... just like he was now, as she was staring into his eyes with her orange drink clutched in her sweet little hand.

"Okay, honey," a kind and feminine voice called from behind her. "It's time to go sit down now."

Jacob pried his frozen eyes away from his crush and looked up to the woman, looked to see who it was standing behind Tracy. She looked like Helen Hunt, the actress in Mad About You, a show his mother watched all the time. Jacob thought Helen Hunt was beautiful, and he felt the same way about the woman standing behind Tracy now. Examining her closer, he realized that the woman looked a lot like what a grownup version of Tracy might look like, too.

"Oh!" the woman said, taking note of Jacob. "I see you're talking to someone! So sorry to interrupt!"

"It's okay, mom," Tracy said. "We were just saying hi!"

"I see! Tell me, sweetie, who is this good looking young gentleman?" her mom asked gleefully.

"It's Jacob!" Tracy explained. "He sits next to me in Misses Brault's class!" She looked to Darkwing, then motioned her hand towards the Helen Hunt woman. "Jacob, meet my mommy!"

"H--hi, ma--ma 'am," he stuttered in reply.

She smiled, and as she did a friendly looking man approached the two of them and wrapped his arm around her.

"Are we ready, babe?" he asked before realizing he had barged into their conversation. When he figured out what was happening, he looked down at Jacob as well. "Oh! Who's this?" he asked.

"This is Jacob," Tracy's mom said, smiling. "He sits next to Tracy in English class!"

The man gave Darkwing a once over with his eyes, scanning him up and down with a glimmer of recognition showing in them.

"Ohhhhh," he said. "This is Jacob... the boy with the binoculars!"

Mortified, Jacob froze. How could her dad have seen him? Had he only seen him once, or did he know he did it all the time? Was he going to be angry? Was he going to yell at him, tell him to knock it off? To stay away from his house, from his daughter?

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Jacob!" he said, warmly and with a smile. "If you're ever in the neighborhood," he continued, emphasizing this, "feel free to drop by and say hello! Tracy hasn't made a lot of friends since we've been here -- she would probably like someone to hang out with from time to time. Maybe we can have you over for dinner one night or something?"

Tracy's mom raised her eyebrows. "Over for dinner?" she asked, slyly. "A boy?" she paused, feigning surprise. "I dunno, Bob, this boy looks like he could be trouble!"

"No sweat!" Bob replied. "I've got my rifle, if I need it!"

The both of them chuckled and smiled, Bob ruffling the hair on Jacob's head with his hand.

"Seriously, Jacob," Tracy's dad said. "It was nice to meet you. Please, don't be afraid to swing by. We'd love to have you, you're welcome any time!"

Tracy smiled at this, then smiled at Jacob. His heart was afire, even though he was irritated that his hair was messed up now. The three of them walked off as he watched, walking hand in hand like the happy family they were. He wanted to go with them... wanted to be a happy family, like they were... to be together with Tracy, and to be a part of a happy family.

Meanwhile, Timmy Lane ended up as the last in line. As he stood waiting patiently, he felt a leg crash against him from behind. It was a long leg, this he could discern, because he distinctly felt the knee strike not far below his buttocks.

"Oh," a deep and gravelly voice said after the collision, which almost knocked Timmy down.

Staggering to catch his balance, he felt the dry and rough skin of a hand grasping his shoulder firmly and tightly. Once recovered, the boy turned and tilted his head far, far back to meet the face of a stranger who was reaching out to help steady him.

"I'm sorry, son!" the man said.

He was a black man, very tall and lanky. He towered above Timmy, like a giant sequoia over a bonsai tree. His eyes were a thick burnt sienna, even the scleras looking tan instead of white. They were warm and kind, even though their darkness was intimidating.

His head was bald and egg shaped, curving up from his chin and then rounding out around his ears, rising in an ellipse at the crest of his great height. The tight and bumpy flesh of his cocoa colored brow was cleft almost perfectly in twain, a long and depressed scar originating just below where his hairline would be and diving down vertically until it was interrupted by his nose, From there, it diverted to the left and continued almost all the way down to his thick upper lip.

It was frightening to Timmy... ghastly and horrific. It looked like it should hurt, like whatever happened to make it had probably hurt really badly.

"Are you okay, son?" he asked softly, warmly. He had a mild accent, one that Timmy didn't recognize. It smoothed the coarseness of his voice, but did nothing to temper Timmy's fear.

Timmy didn't respond, his mouth agape in shock at the sight of such a menacing person... such a frightening scar. The man smiled in response, trying to soothe the child with a display of kindness and friendliness.

Deputy Ron, who was stirring up more orange drink, turned when he heard them and looked up. He recognized the voice of the man, one that was an old acquaintance of his.

"Well I'll be damned! Sarge!" the Deputy exclaimed, interrupting the stranger's attempt to make a friend of Timmy.

"Ron!" the man responded. "Long time, no see, my brother!"

Launchpad, who was just in front of Timmy, took note of the exchange. Looking to the adults, he wondered if they were really related or if this was just a term of endearment. He decided that they couldn't be family, because Deputy Ron wasn't black -- just olive skinned. He wasn't what his father would call a brotha' at all, so he was utterly confused about what Sarge meant. He decided it was just an expression of fondness, because Sarge seemed like a kind and friendly man to him.

"How the hell ya' been, buddy?" Boudreaux replied, reaching out a hand to shake enthusiastically.

"I've been good brother, life is good!" Sarge answered with a glowing smile. "I'm afraid I almost knocked over this little boy, though!"

Timmy was still in shock, still staring at the scar on the man's face. Boudreaux looked at him and laughed, finding the expression of terror humorous somehow.

"Relax, Timmy!" he said. "This is Mister Simmonds -- everybody calls him Sarge. He's a good guy, I promise!"

This didn't ease Timmy's anxiety at all. He was still frightened, still transfixed.

"They been treatin' you okay over to the downs?" Deputy Ron continued, turning his attention back to Mister Simmonds.

"Yeah, they treat me fine!" he replied. "Keep me workin' like a dog, though, keep me doing my thing! Even in the off season, they keep me runnin'!"

"I've been meanin' to get down there and play the ponies myself, but it seems like every time they're runnin' there's somethin' else I got to tend to, some business I've got to mind instead!"

"The trotters are runnin' tonight, brother, I'm absconding as we speak!" Simmonds replied. "Be headed down there after this, though, you should tag along!"

"Ya' know," Boudreaux replied, "that might not be a bad idea at all! I'll have to ask Clyde, of course, but it's not out of the question! A man deserves a break, once in awhile, right? Tell me, though -- If I do go -- what's the smart money bet, in your expert opinion?"

"Well," Simmonds chuckled, "you know they won't let me bet, seein' as how I'm on the rolls. If I could, though, there's a colt on the loose that I would pick to win every time!"

"Which one is that?"

"His name is Sweet Peter Jeeter, and he's got the heart of a champion, so far as I'm concerned. Won his first four starts, lookin' to make it number five! It's like he's made to pull the sulky! Strong legs, solid hooves, and I put the shoes on him myself -- so you know he can get on the good foot and go!"

"Is he runnin' tonight?"

"Number six in the third race!"

Boudreaux smiled, already counting his winnings. "If I make it down there, I can put a bet in for you by proxy if ya' want!"

"Oh no!" Simmonds laughed again. "I'm not tryin' to get caught up in any trouble like that, it's just not a good idea! Keepin' my nose clean, brother, it's the only way to go! Tough enough out here as it is, I don't need no trouble like that!"

"Well, if there's anything I can do for you, Sarge, you just let me know!" Boudreaux replied.

"Will do, friend, will do." Sarge answered. "Say, have you seen Rusty Parker running around here anywhere? I've got a question for him, if I can find him in this crazy mass of folks."

The other boys had filled their cups, now, only Timmy was without orange drink. He just kept staring up at that scar on Simmond's face, like he was in some kind of trance. Realizing this, Jacob drew a cup of drink for him and grabbed an extra sack of popcorn before taking his hand and pulling him away. Everyone else was taking their seats as well, because the meeting was about to start.

SIXTEEN

As Darkwing scanned the room, it seemed to him that everybody from town was there; his mom -- half way to cloud nine under the influence of her Xanax -- , Chucky's mom, Timmy Lane's parents, Tracy and her family, the parents of other kids from around Burlwood Meadows. Even the Duncan's, Dawson's and Marshall's were there. Then there were the teachers from school, Father Lovett and Rusty, the maintenance man from the church, and people he recognized from Burlwood Downs. Just about everybody he could imagine, except for Launchpad's parents. For some reason, they hadn't seen fit to come.

No sooner were the boys settled into a group of plastic folding chairs in the back row, munching their snacks and drinking their sweet drinks, Sheriff Clyde Rambo approached the podium at the front of the room. He tapped the microphone mounted to it a couple of times, dull thumps booming through loudspeakers positioned to his left and right as he did.

"Okay, folks," he began, clearing his throat. "If everybody can find a seat, we'd like to get this thing underway. I know it's Saturday, everybody probably has things they want to be doing, so we'll try to keep it short and sweet."

The few stragglers that were still standing closed in and hurried around, as though the song had stopped and a game of musical chairs was afoot. Fellow citizens scooted towards the center of the rows they sat in to open up seats by the aisles, trying to be sure that everyone had a chance to find a place to sit. When it seemed they were all settled, Rambo continued. Deputy Ron was standing not far from him, just a bit behind him and to his left.

"Before we begin, I'm going to invite Father Lovett up to say a little prayer for us. Father, come on up."

On command, the priest took over the lectern and asked those gathered to bow their heads. Nearly everybody did, including most of The Burlwood Boys. Jacob didn't, though, he didn't like to pray... didn't believe there was any God listening anyway.

What kind of God would've taken his father away from him the way he had?

What kind of God would let his mother suffer in such misery, now that her husband was gone?

What kind of God would let The Butcher do what he was doing to so many little children?

If there was a God, he wasn't the kind of person Jacob wanted to have a conversation with. He was a person Jacob didn't like at all, so why would he offer prayers to him?

Watching with his eyes open, his head held high, Darkwing listened as Father Lovett prayed for the souls of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade and, now, Ricky Marshall. He prayed that God reach out to their families, to their friends and their neighbors. He prayed that God watch over Burlwood in the challenging days to come, that He bless everyone and keep them. He prayed for Sheriff Rambo and Deputy Ron, that He might guide them and steer them in the right direction to bring an end to this terror.

When he was finished, he cried amen in a voice that was obviously fraught with emotion. Those gathered uttered a similar amen, then opened their eyes on a world that was much the same as it had been before they offered their prayer.

Nothing had changed, in fact, as a result of their efforts. The dead were still dead... the evil was still alive... the killer still at large... the children were still in danger.

God had apparently not heard their appeal, that's all that Jacob could assume. He was apparently out of the office, apparently otherwise engaged. More likely, he figured, God wasn't there at all. Perhaps he was dead, like Jesus, who hadn't risen from his grave because coming back from the dead is impossible.

Or, perhaps, there had never been such a creature as God to begin with. Perhaps he was make-believe, just like the monsters Chucky thought were lurking in Booger Woods. Maybe it was all just a fairytale, a fantasy -- like he figured the place called Heaven was.

His mother insisted that her husband, his father, was looking down on them from this glorious place... looking down and watching over them. Jacob knew he wasn't looking down, not from Heaven, at least. If he was looking down at all, it was from the rafters of the shed... swinging at the end of a noose he'd tied around his neck. His shoes were dangling over the ground, hanging halfway off his feet because he'd been kicking his legs around after he pushed the ladder out from underneath him. He was wearing a sign that said I'm Sorry, even though he wasn't. If he was watching them at all, it was with his dead and bulging eyes... with his pants filled with shit and blood dripping from his mouth, just as he had been when Jake found him that cold Christmas morning.

He wasn't guiding them or protecting them, either... not the way she said he was.

His father would never have allowed her to spend so many nights crying until her face was swollen, until she was having a hard time breathing because she couldn't keep up with her sobbing. He would never have allowed her to curl up in a little ball, to pull her knees to her chest and wrap her arms around them so tight that it seemed it would take the jaws of life to tear them apart.

He wouldn't have allowed Jacob to feed her little pills, like they were Pez candy, until she was so stoned that she eventually forgot why she was crying to begin with.

He wouldn't have allowed her to call her son by his name when she was so high... wouldn't have allowed her to take off her shirt, her bra, and then ask Jacob to touch her... wouldn't have allowed her to run her hands up his leg until he had to pull away because, Jesus, she was going after his private parts... wouldn't have allowed him to have to sit and watch her chest to make sure that she was still breathing when she finally passed out... wouldn't have allowed her to exist in a drug induced stupor.

Garrett Jacob Giguére -- his father, after whom he and his son, in turn, were named -- would never have allowed them to live the way they were living. They would be better off dead, like him, than living the way they were living.

Even his mother realized that, and she talked about it all the time... said she wished she was dead, wished that she could die. Wished that she could take Jacob with her, so that they could be together... so that the three of them could be a family again, in Heaven... a place that Jacob didn't believe was real.

His father was not looking down on him from Heaven...

God was not looking down on him from Heaven...

If He was, He was the worst, most frightening, most deranged, most depraved boogeyman of them all.

To pray to God was to waste breath... to waste energy... to waste hope, to waste faith on a deadbeat fantasy that never failed to break its promises. Our father, who art in Heaven... hollow be thy name, and hollow be thy heart.

Thanking Father Lovett, Sheriff Rambo returned to the podium and took over the proceedings.

"First of all, I want to thank all of you for coming out," he said. "I also want to thank everyone for their kind wishes and for the outpouring of support I was blessed to receive after my recent cardiac episode. I want everybody to know that I'm doing much better, and my doctors tell me this was an isolated incident. They say I'm in fine condition, and I have nothing to worry about moving forward."

There was a round of applause, which made the man smile. The cheering was in celebration of a white lie, nothing too severe or egregious. He needed to shed some weight, watch his diet and pop blood pressure pills a few times a day. There would come a time to consider a pacemaker soon, but that was down the road a ways. It was nothing terminal, so long as he was careful.

Nodding and smiling, he waited for the cheering to quiet before continuing. "I know you're all concerned, and I hope you know I'm the most concerned of us all. As you've probably heard by now, we found the remains of Ricky Marshall near Butcher's Lane Provisions early this morning. Based on the evidence we have available to us, we're convinced that the perpetrator or perpetrators were the same as those that killed the other children."

There was no collective gasp, no surprise among those gathered at this revelation. They were used to this sort of news, they knew how things would end up when a child went missing. The Sheriff had refrained from using the sinister moniker issued by the press, The Butcher Of Burlwood, to identify the assailant, which was also no surprise.

The phrase had become taboo, they didn't care to hear it uttered by the man in charge any more than they liked seeing it in print or hearing it on the television. Refusing to embrace it made it easier to pretend these things weren't happening here... that they were things that only happened in other people's cities. To invoke the name The Butcher Of Burlwood was to acknowledge that this was their problem... to fully accept the crisis that was percolating in their town.

"I've consulted Sheriff Dickinson of the Elsmere County PD, who's been working with us since Gary Duncan's murder, and he's suggested that I seek the assistance of state and federal authorities to help us get through this."

This bit of information did illicit a response, a chorus of whispers that swept the crowd as they discussed the ramifications amongst them. Sheriff Rambo had expected this reaction, he knew the mindset of the populace he served. The people of his town would lament the decision to reach out to higher powers, it was just their way. To bring them in was to invite prying eyes into their humble and otherwise quiet neighborhood... to bring judgement and subjugation.

The State Police had assisted in the investigation of every slaying since Joshua Banks, but the people of Burlwood were largely unaware of that fact. They may not have minded, even had they known -- the state police were still Hoosiers, still of a similar creed. What was coming now, though, was something much bigger. Something much more intrusive.

Now that the tally of the dead had reached five, all of them having been boys between the ages of eight and twelve, all of them having been sexually assaulted and dismembered, there was no denying the fact that a serial killer was at large. One that had an affinity for the young boys of Burlwood.

A serial killer on the loose represents a major threat to society, that alone can draw attention. The fact that he preyed sexually upon children sealed the deal. It meant that reports filed at the local level were escalated and reviewed all the way up the chain of law enforcement. These facts combined, this equation that was not singularly unique in the greater scheme of The United States as a whole, set in motion a series of events that culminated in the ringing of Sheriff Rambo's phone late the night before.

When the fact that Ricky Marshall was missing had traveled the circuit, all the way to the top, Special Agent Gomez was obliged to call... to cast his hat, the biggest hat of them all, directly into the very center of the ring where a championship fight was imminent.

There was no choice, no decision to be made regarding the involvement of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Not on the part of Sheriffs Rambo or Dickinson, at least, and not even Commisioner Dix of the Indiana State Police had any real voice in the discussion. The arrival of the Fed was compulsory and inevitable, whether any of the officers or citizens involved liked it or not.

They would turn the town upside down and shake it, like an old couch that had swallowed up a bounty of coins that they intended to retrieve. They would pull back all of the veils, rip down all of the curtains and peek through all of the windows. What's more, they would huff and puff and blow a house in -- if it looked like something inside could be of any consequence.

No proud person likes to concede that they can't take care of their own business, that they can't clean the messes within the four walls of their own house. To call a maid -- to call the FBI \-- is, so far as most proud people are concerned, an admission of incompetence... of unwillingness or incapability. An acknowledgement of the fact that they are unable to handle things on their own.

Clyde Rambo didn't feel this way, though, he was glad that help was coming. He needed help, this train was getting away from him. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to see more innocent children lose their lives.

He was tired of trying to suppress the memories, the photographs and blood spattered canvases of murder done in portrait. He was tired of smearing Vicks Vapor Rub under his nostrils to mask the stench of death, tired of looking upon the tortured and bloodied faces of kids he had watched grow up -- until their right to continue growing was taken away from them so brutally. He was tired of seeing them end up in little pieces, torn asunder and spread around like so much trash out by the curb.

If Agent Gomez could close this case -- if he could find the killer and bring an end to all of this -- that would be just fine by him. He didn't need to claim the glory of catching the bad guy. He didn't need to be remembered as the hero of the day. He didn't need to be remembered at all, he just needed this madness to stop... before he lost hold of it entirely.

Knowing that the community he policed was sensitive, though, that they were independent to a fault, and that they wouldn't appreciate the arrival of people they considered outsiders, he presented this information in a manner that he hoped would help to soften the blow. He would paint it as a choice. As a decision he made, of sound mind and with good intentions, as a plea on their behalf.

"I know this might not be a popular decision, folks," he said, "but I find that I must agree with Sheriff Dickinson. There's too much at stake here! Too much to lose, if we don't take action. As a result, based on that conclusion, I've contacted the FBI. I've spoken with Special Agent Alberto Gomez, who will be personally managing the case and assisting us in investigating the murder of Ricky Marshall. Together with him, we will examine all of the murders, including those of all the other children we've lost in days gone by."

The whispers continued, growing in volume and liveliness, as the people expressed their concerns and discontent among themselves. In the back row, Darkwing and the gang didn't understand why this troubled their parents and neighbors. They weren't the ones in mortal danger. What did it matter to them if city folk swept through the town in search of answers? What did it matter if the cavalry conquered the villain instead of The Lone Ranger. What difference did it make if it were Sheriff Rambo or Agent Gomez that caught The Butcher, so long as he was caught?

The intensity of the audience grew and doubled, people shouting out their objections and cursing the Sheriff for taking such unilateral action. They cried this is a democracy, this is our town, and keep Uncle Sam off my property until they were blue in the face. What does the FBI know about us? What does the FBI care about our kids?

"This isn't about the FBI!" a sobbing woman cried from among them.

As she jumped to her feet, everyone saw who she was... knew who she was. She was Penny Marshall, mother of the most recent decedent, Ricky. Her face was fiery red and painted with tears, snot dripping from her nose as she pointed accusingly and damningly at Rambo upon the stage.

"This is about YOU, Clyde!" she shouted. "About YOU and how you can't handle it! About YOU and how you've failed us!"

Another citizen stood and rushed to Penny's side. It appeared to be Rita Duncan, Gary's mother, but she moved so quickly that it was hard to tell. She grabbed hold of the distraught woman, trying to calm her and return her to her seat. Her efforts were in vain, Penny wasn't finished yet... hadn't spoken her peace yet.

"It's YOUR fault!" she howled, as loud as any person has ever howled upon this Earth. "You told us you would take care of this! You told us you were gonna make this right! YOU were supposed to be protecting our kids! YOU were supposed to be finding this monster! Where the fuck were YOU when my little boy was being killed, Clyde? Where were you when he was scared and crying out for help? When he was being raped like some kind of dog? Where were you and your fucking badge when he was being chopped into little pieces? What good was your fucking investigation to him? How could YOU let this happen? How can you sleep at night, how can you live with yourself? How can you live with the knowledge that YOU let this happen? Fuck you, Clyde! Fuck you and damn you, you bastard!"

Rambo offered no rebuttal, made no attempt to settle her. He looked defeated on the stage, defeated and deflated. Had the audience started casting stones at him, he would've stood right behind the podium and accepted his fate with shame. Had they built a crucifix in the hall, he would've carried it up to the stage and laid down upon it, spreading his arms and crossing his feet to accept the nails. Had they declared that he should draw his service revolver and fire a bullet through his brain, he would've done so to appease them. If the spilling of his own blood would've washed clean the blood of the children slaughtered on his watch, he would've slit his throat over a trough and let it fill until there wasn't a drop left in him.

He was at a loss... a loss for words, a loss for answers, a loss for hope and for comfort to give.

Seeing this, Deputy Ron asserted his authority and used his heavy hand to regain control. He waived to a few Elsmere County PD officers that had been stationed in the back, instructing them without words to remove Penny Marshall from the room. She kicked and screamed the whole way, Rita Duncan still trying to comfort her with tears of sympathy and understanding.

"Okay, people, settle down!" Boudreaux barked, brushing Rambo aside and laying claim to the microphone. "Now this ain't helpin' nothin', all y'all's hootin' and hollerin'! It is what it is, and there ain't nothin' we can do about it, so let's not dwell on it! The dead are dead and gone, there ain't a thing we can do to bring them back! This man has worked day and night on this case, he eats No-Doze like it's candy! Taking it out on him is not what we do, not here, not in Burlwood! When it comes to the Fed, The Sheriff has made his decision, and he's right! Now let's hush up and let the man speak! Have some dignity, people, let him speak!"

The crowd quieted at his urging, at his order. Without a word, he backed away and let Rambo continue. The Sheriff seemed to appreciate what Boudreaux had done, signaling him with a nod of approval and thanks. He was still shaken, though... still troubled.

"I'm sorry," he said, a weakness in his voice that no one present was used to hearing. "I'm sorry that I don't have all the answers... sorry that I can't bring back the dead... sorry, that I'm failing you in your time of need. Like Ron said, I don't get much sleep... I can't sleep, even if I wanted to, because when I close my eyes all I see is... all I see is the kids..."

The hush that had swept the crowd deepened, the people moved by his display of emotion and regret. Not another word came from their lips for the remainder of his speech... not a shout, not a peep, not a whisper. Darkwing looked over to Louie, the son of the man who seemed to be losing himself before them. Remarkably, the kid was stone-faced... looked strong and brave, unshaken in seeing his father struggling. This could've been the product of a great internal strength and fortitude -- or simply a result of a lack of understanding of the gravity of recent events unfolding in the township of Burlwood.

Sheriff Rambo steadied himself, clearing the lump from his throat and trying to grab hold of the reigns of control for what was left to say. "All I really want to accomplish here," he continued, "is to make sure everyone knows we're doing all that we can to keep our children safe. When the FBI shows up, I urge you to cooperate with them fully. If they want to question you, talk to them openly and freely... if they want advice on where to look, tell them what's on your mind. If you see something, say something -- that's all."

Continued silence was the response, so he resumed.

"There are a few other things I want to say -- things that you need to be aware of. The curfew for children under sixteen has been rolled back another hour, it's six PM now. I don't want to see any children outside after six unless they are accompanied by their parents. You've all been pretty good about that lately with the seven o'clock restriction, so I don't expect this adjustment to be a painful one. Also, I suggest that you keep close eyes on your children at all times, especially if they're boys and fall into the age range that has been an issue. This isn't to say that girls or children younger or older than the others are in any less danger, we can't say that as a fact. Know where your children are, be there with them whenever possible. Please, please don't let your child go far from your home alone. That can't lead to anything good at all -- even if we weren't having these difficulties. I've tasked Deputy Ron Boudreaux with organizing a community watch force... a group of volunteers to help those of us who can't be home with our children all the time. I'm going to turn the podium over to him now to explain, so please listen and do all you can to remain vigilant and mindful of what's going on at all times. I know this is all very tough, but I'm confident that we can come through it -- if we all pull together like the community that we are... if we work together. If we take care of each other. Thank you for your attention and attentiveness, and thank you for your understanding and patience. Now, let's hear from Ron Boudreaux."

Deputy Ron took the floor eagerly and laid out the details of his plan. The town was to be divided into sectors, a concept he explained with the aid of a map projected on a screen hanging from the ceiling. Each sector was identified by a color and a number, and each would be overseen by someone called a block captain -- even though Burlwood was a town that didn't have what would generally be accepted as blocks. The roads were curved and winding, the neighborhoods amorphous and not well defined. Some of the sectors seemed too big, others too small and insignificant. They weren't all just squares, either, making the block terminology even more confusing.

Boudreaux explained that these block captains would have direct access to him via a mobile phone, a concept that was new to them. They were to call him twice a night, every night. First, they would make a quick patrol of their sector when the curfew commenced, ensuring there were no children lingering on the streets. When that was confirmed, it would be communicated to him with the first call, this one at around six thirty. A second patrol was to be made around nine o'clock, another call communicating anything suspicious thereafter. If anyone who wasn't a block captain saw anything, they were to report it to the block captain -- who would then relay it to Boudreaux, immediately and urgently, no matter what time of day or night it was.

This didn't seem like a bad idea to young Jacob, except for the simple fact that most of the disappearances hadn't occurred after dark at all. It was futile, in his mind, to police this curfew so diligently, when the curfew couldn't have done anything to save the children who'd been killed anyway.

This was a bandaid on a bullet wound, not an answer to anything at all. The concept appeased the citizens, though, gave them some sense of control and security. If that was the case, it couldn't be a bad thing, he supposed.

What was a bad thing, though -- something that made his stomach drop when he discovered it -- was the listing of a name that appeared on the projection as the block captain of sector seven in the portion of the map marked G. The sector itself was fairly large, covering the territory between Ashwood and Ledgewood, from Eastwood to Driftwood, and including the small patch of forest he knew as Booger Woods.

There beside the map -- in plain text, for everyone to see -- was the name of a person he knew was not suited to do the job as it should be done. In bold, black, Times New Roman print, appeared the familiar letters... the ones that spelled out the name of one Janet Giguére... Jacob's mother.

SEVENTEEN

September 10th, 2016. 10:00AM

Garthby, Indiana

Jake had slept long, but not hard -- not without interruption. He passed out almost immediately upon falling into the hotel bed, before it had reached seven o'clock, in fact. He woke several times in the hours that followed, though, and the waking wasn't subtle. Each time it happened, his heart would be racing and he would be sweating profusely. He would smell the perspiration, feel it dripping from him and soaking the sheets he was wrapped up in. Terrified, he would shoot up in the bed. Shaking, panting and frightened of something, having no idea of what, no clue as to why he was so alarmed.

Most of the episodes subsided quickly, once he'd scanned the room and realized there was nothing out of the ordinary. He would chalk the whole thing up to some forgotten nightmare, some terrible dream that left his mind the moment he opened his eyes, leaving no trace of a memory behind. As the night progressed, the episodes became more intense, his fear more palpable.

Then, at two thirty in the morning, came the first of the things... the terrible, horrific things that weren't nightmares -- weren't dreams at all. His eyes opened when he heard a rustling in the room, so he resisted the urge to sit up as he had when he'd awakened before. He did nothing at first, stirring only slightly in the bed to convince himself that he was utterly and totally awake. Before he reacted to the noise, he needed to be sure that he wasn't teetering on the realm of a dream, not lingering in the ignis fatuus of some alternate reality.

When he was positive that the sound was real, he carefully and cautiously peered to his right, in the direction of the rustling. There, as plain as day and as real as real can be, he saw a man crouched on the floor... the intruder was clothed in black from head to toe, and he was rummaging through Jake's duffel bag as though there was something inside he intended to find, something that was important and valuable, something that he was determined to have and take.

In as fluid and sudden a motion as he could manage, Jake ripped open the drawer of the bedside table and snatched out his Beretta, sending the Giddeon Bible under which he'd hidden it flying. Moving as quickly as a bolt of lightning cracking the sky, he slammed in the clip and pulled back the slide. Releasing the safety, he trained his sights on the spot where the man had been and nearly squeezed off a round before he realized that there was no one there... nothing there... nothing at all. His bag was on the floor, right where he had left it... zipped up and intact. There was no indication that anyone had been tampering with it, no sign that it had been disturbed in any way.

He wanted to be relieved that there was nothing, but the fact that there was nothing meant that something was wrong. Something was happening to him, something happening to his mind, and this might only be the beginning.

He locked the safety of his gun again and returned it to the drawer, not bothering to fetch the tossed Bible or to release the clip, nor to eject the bullet that was now ready in the chamber. This incident may have been no more than a night terror, but he wasn't taking any chances. It took him a bit to get back to sleep after all of this, enough time that he had to get up and take a piss before finally settling back in and dozing off once more.

The second episode came at about a quarter to four, and it led him to leap clear out of the bed. Having felt the mattress rock, as though someone had climbed onto it with him, he threw back the covers and laid eyes on Nikki \-- the waitress from Uncle Jim's. She was stark naked, positioned at the foot of the bed on all fours, with her rear pointed towards him -- presenting to him. Her anus was mutilated and gushing like a fountain of blood. It was a deep red blood, and it poured from her like water from a faucet, racing down her leg in a grotesque crimson cascade.

There was a constant deluge of it, heavy and profuse, and it seemed as though she would fully exsanguinate in seconds based upon the volume she was losing. A deep puddle had pooled on the sheet below her and was dripping to the floor, soiling the carpet as well. Slowly, menacingly, she swiveled her head around to face him -- showing no distress in her countenance, no fear or emotion of any sort. Her mouth hung open and loose, the teeth inside black and brown as though decayed by years of death and decomposition.

Her eyes weren't gray anymore, they were glowing red... ablaze with torment, hatred and hunger. He could see her longing in them, could see that she was as desperate as Tantalus in the land of Tartarus, desperate for the fruit that was just beyond her grasp. Her hunger was not for any sustenance that was on offer at Uncle Jim's Pancake House, though, she was hungry for him. Hungry for that throbbing erection that she knew damned well she'd coaxed from him. Hungry to have every last inch of him jammed inside her, jammed like a finger in the dyke to stem the flow. Hungry to have him pump and thrust with all the lasciviousness of his lust, hungry to have him grab hold of both her shoulders with his firm hands and pull her into him with all the effort of his might. Hungry for him to fill her, for him to lay claim to her bloody bounty.

"What's wrong, baby?" she asked in a demonic cackle. "Don't you want to take me? Don't you like it in the ass?"

He gasped in horror, physically grabbed his chest to keep his heart from bursting out of it like the creature in Alien, which it felt as though it was making preparations to do. He felt faint and nauseated, a foul odor of rot and iron cycling through his sinuses and causing him to gag. Just when the horror was coming to a climax -- when it seemed his chest would finally pop, when he felt certain that he would simply go vasovagal -- as mysteriously as she had appeared, she simply vanished into nothingness.

There was no blood, no warmth on the bed where she had been. The smell was gone, the terror was gone, the succubus was gone.

It was extremely difficult for him to climb back into the sack, but he needed to sleep. His system needed rest, there was no way he could function effectively if he didn't get more sleep. If he couldn't function, he couldn't be of any use to Chucky -- couldn't be a thorn in the side of Ron Boudreaux.

Shortly after he finally managed to return to the realm of Hypnos, he opened his eyes once more to see a giant, furry spider, dangling just above his face. Its legs were twitching and rolling around, clinging to a thin strand of silk that held it suspended from the ceiling above him. It wasn't there either, of course, but he would've sworn that it was completely real. It was spooky, it was disgusting -- but it was nothing compared to the other things he'd experienced this night, so he calmly blinked his eyes until the creature was gone.

His fear of the terrors diminished with his realization that they were only delusions, that there was nothing in the dark that hadn't been conjured up in some dank chamber of his mind. Suppressing the anxiety with the knowledge that this was the case, he had an opportunity to contemplate what he was going through. It didn't take long for him to reach a sensible conclusion, either, once the fear was gone.

The most logical explanation for the events of the evening, he decided, was that he was experiencing the side effects of alcohol withdrawal. Hallucinations brought on by detox... hallucinations that were terrifying, but had no basis in reality, no substance in the real world. He longed for pink elephants, wished for dancing munchkins or Oompa Loompas spilling out of the closet instead of the horrors he was being subjected to. Anything but what he was seeing... anything at all.

He hadn't consumed a drop of liquor in over forty eight hours, at this point. That was a good deal longer than he had abstained from hitting the bottle in the months of the recent past. He never would've thought that things could get so bad from staying dry for just two days. Apparently, he was so dependent on it that, now, in its absence, his brain chemistry was thrown totally askew.

Trying to tough it out, resisting the urge to race to the nearest liquor store and drop five percent or more of his remaining three hundred and fifty bucks, he laid back down after each successive incident. Willing himself to sleep, he managed to make the periods between waking longer -- the visions subsiding in severity with each occurrence.

He could sleep it off, he figured... could wrestle it into submission, if he could just get over the initial hump... if he could just hold on through the initial detox.

He woke for good when the courtesy desk rang his phone at eight AM, per his request. Even knowing that he needed to get up, knowing that there was work to be done, he was tempted to hang up the receiver and pass back out until his body decided it was ready to be awake.

He was still tired, but he had to get moving. He needed to put his shoulder to the wheel and push, no matter how hard that might be. Shaking off the cobwebs, he choked down another cup of complimentary caffeinated shit water, cursing the Best Western brass and their coffee supplier of choice.

It helped him wake up, but just barely.

He was functioning, but hardly.

He was determined, but not really.

Checking the inbox of the Giguére Investigative Services email account, he saw a message from LeTonya Hughes. There was one from Dianna Tripp, too. One that probably said she had renewed suspicions about her husband and wanted to retain his services. This time, those suspicions were almost certainly justified. Mister Tripp seemed to have developed a taste for the chubby country-western women that hang out at a seedy dive called Bottoms Up in downtown Detroit. He probably liked to snort coke off of their tits, too, coke that he purchases from a bitch who drinks martinis and likes to jam her hands up strange men's shirts.

That was none of his affair, though, not anymore.

Opening the message from LeTonya, he was greeted by nothing more than the auto-populated signature of Hughes At Law. Underneath it, though, was a PDF attachment... the only thing that really mattered.

He downloaded it and took a look immediately, trying to zoom and pan around the documents on the small screen of his Galaxy phone. It was futile, there was no way he would be able to soak everything in by fiddling with it in miniature. It didn't help that large swaths of the text looked to be redacted, blacked out as though someone had pressed a broad-tipped Sharpie over the words and covered up entire sentences and then made a photocopy.

Deciding it was time to checkout, he picked up his duffle bag and gave it a quick once over \-- just to be sure that the creeper in the night was truly just a figment of his alcohol-starved imagination. Unzipping it just a bit, he somehow found room to pack what remained of the small bottles of toiletries scattered about the room. Even though they claimed to be complimentary, he was confident that he'd paid triple their value under the umbrella of the exorbitant nightly rate he'd shelled out the morning before. The shitty coffee probably came at a premium of six bucks a cup to boot.

He'd be damned if he was going to leave them behind... if he wasn't going to get every dime of his money's worth. He was going to ask the courtesy desk for the promised shaving supplies and toothpaste as well, he'd paid for them. He considered borrowing a towel or two -- perhaps a washcloth to make it a set -- but decided that his bag would likely burst if he tried. Strapping on his piece and getting dressed, he prepared to make his departure.

He checked out at nine thirty, requesting and receiving his razor and shave cream. They claimed to be out of toothpaste, but that was probably bullshit. He suspected they would find some in the back if he plunked down another hundred bucks for a second night... fucking leeches.

As he was preparing to walk out of the lobby, a bit irritated about the toothpaste, he heard a pattern of clicks and clacks that he immediately recognized as the sounds of a copying machine at work. Stopping mid-stride, he turned and asked if they offered printing services. They did -- and he could print as much as he wanted, for the low-low price of fifty cents per page.

Deciding it was worth it, that it had to be done anyway, he beamed the PDF via Bluetooth to their laser printer and waited for the twenty pages of reports to print. Ten bucks later, he had a manila envelope containing the hard copies in hand.

When he climbed into his Malibu and pitched his bag onto the passenger seat, the thud it made on the leather transported him back in time to the night on Atlas Avenue East. He remembered the screaming fight, remembered Tracy's tearful rage... remembered the squealing of tires, remembered his desperate retreat from the train wreck that his life had become.

He didn't dwell on it -- couldn't afford the time or emotional energy to dwell on it -- so he simply closed his door, started the car and pulled the papers from their envelope. Not taking time to organize them or pick and choose which ones to read first, he simply began thumbing through the pages of reports and making quick scans of each of them.

On the crisp white pages, he saw diagrams of body parts and crude sketches of crime scenes. He saw words, both typed and written by hand, and he saw lots and lots of blacked out redactions.

Trying to decipher what little print wasn't covered up, he wondered what he might be able to see... what he might deduce. He tried hard, as hard as he figured he possibly could with the current chemical imbalance of his brain, but he slowly started to realize that he couldn't see anything in the reports that would be of use to him.

It was all Latin to him, and some of it was literally Latin. Descriptions of the human anatomy postmortem, descriptions of defects and wounds, measurements, weights and remarks about the condition of tissues and organs. They could have been described as perfectly normal, or their condition might be entirely suspicious and some sort of smoking gun that had been overlooked, he didn't know.

Was a liver supposed to be smooth, reddish-brown and weigh 1.44 kilograms, or was that an anomaly? Was the thymus gland supposed to be pinkish-gray, soft and lobulated with a weight of 38 grams, or was that a sign that something had been done to it? Without the prerequisite knowledge of how dead, decaying organs and tissues should appear, he could make no assumptions as to what was relevant and what was not in these clinical descriptions.

The only thing that jumped out at him immediately, the only thing that was plainly obvious, was the fact that the entirety of the sections labeled Toxicology and Trace Evidence had been redacted from every report he had. Every one except for that of Billy Marsh, that is, which simply declared results pending. It was a small wonder that even that statement wasn't redacted, considering how heavy handed the censor seemed to be. It was just as useless being printed there as it would've been if they had blotted it out with a marker, though, because no results means nothing to go on.

Since the information had been concealed in the findings of all the other reports, it seemed likely that the facts contained in those sections must be of some significance. Even if they weren't of consequence, the administrators who had chosen to redact them had certainly done so with the feeling that it was in the best interests of their investigation to keep the results a secret. That made the facts curious, if not pertinent... if not crucial.

In all of the other sections, the ones referring to the individual organs and limbs, the redactions were more sporadic, more hit and miss. There would be a word crossed out here, a sentence blacked out there, a diagram off in the margins of the page covered up. Just bits and pieces missing, but it seemed as though they were the corner pieces... those segments of the puzzle that make up the border and the edges. The ones that any wise and experienced dissectologist lays out and assembles first, to set a foundation around which to fill in the center and complete the picture.

The drawings of the scenes at which the victims had been discovered -- all of which looked like they'd been sketched by his autistic son -- had similarly blocked out segments near what he assumed were supposed to be body parts. It was hard to tell, since the artist who had created them was certainly no Da Vinci. Pablo Picasso himself would've likely struggled to discern anything that resembled a human form in these drawings. He could be looking at arms, legs and heads -- or they could be abstract depictions of trees, twigs, fallen branches or patches of grass -- there was simply no way to tell.

Examining all of the pages which seemed to depict the places bodies were found, he noted that the diagram of Booger Woods drawn to show what detectives saw when they recovered Billy Marsh's remains did not have any sign of redaction upon it. This was curious, since the drawings of every other victim did have at least one redacted section in the diagram.

Was this because Louie Rambo got his hands on the diagram before the censors had a chance to have their way with it? Or was it, instead, because something was missing... something that had been present at the other scenes, but wasn't found at this one at all?

The knowledge available to him being only that which was depicted on the pages, in toner black and Hammermill Bond white, didn't allow him to speculate as to which answer was correct. He would need to know what had been excised from the blacked out maps to make that determination, would need to know what was drawn beneath the scribbled patches of erasure and was being held as a secret. Being denied to, and concealed from, inquiring minds that wanted to know.

The toxicology results for Billy Marsh would likely take weeks, if not longer to come back. He knew that much, based on his experience when he was curious to know how a particular celebrity had died when drug abuse was a probable culprit. Even when they did come in for Billy, that information may be deemed as privileged as well... subjected to the same redaction process.

Frustrated at the way these censored documents paralyzed him, how they hampered his investigation, he scrolled through his phone log to find Donnell's number. Copying it to his dialing screen, he turned the radio up so that he could hear the audio through his vehicle's hands free system.

"Hughes at law, it's Saturday \-- we're closed." a snotty, feminine voice answered.

"Um, hi," Jake began, "this is Jake Giguére, I'm trying to reach Donnell."

"Hold," she replied... no please, no hi Jake, I've heard a lot about you, it's a pleasure to speak with you, no how's the family... nothing.

"Donnell speaking, how can I help you?" Launchpad's voice announced shortly thereafter.

"Donnell, it's Jake," he said. "Hey, I'm looking over these reports... I can't make heads or tails out of them! There's stuff blacked out, redactions all over the place! I have no idea what the hell I'm looking at! Is there a way we can get clean copies of this stuff?"

Donnell grunted, thought for a moment. "We can," he advised, "but we'll have to get a court order, and they'll want to know why we need it. I imagine I can tell them that we're looking into whether the crimes are related, whether evidence from the old cases could be exculpatory and, therefore, covered under Brady. If it could exonerate our client, we could get it -- but it's gonna be a pain in the ass, man, and it's gonna take time."

Jake didn't know what Brady was, didn't care to know. It didn't matter. "What kind of time?" he asked.

"Well," another grunt, "considering it is Saturday, I can't even make a motion until Monday -- which is a bad day for me as it sits already. I figure I could get it filed on Tuesday. Hagan will probably make a fuss, either him or Boudreaux. They'll probably request a hearing, where we'd have to explain why we think it's important and get a ruling on it from Judge Casella. He could deny our motion, shut us right down. Even if he agreed with us, it could be weeks... maybe a month. That's the straight dope, no bullshit."

That wasn't soon enough, not nearly. Double Indemnity could be in danger of lapsing by then, he couldn't wait. He needed to know now, right now \-- not in a week, not in two weeks, certainly not in a month.

This made him mad... pissed him off, actually. "Christ!" he barked. "There's no way to get it faster?"

"Nope," Donnell answered without hesitation. "We'll get the Marsh stuff within the two weeks as part of discovery, that much we're entitled to. All that extra shit, though, the stuff about the old murders, that's another matter altogether. They're not linked, not so far as The State is concerned, so we haven't got any right to see those reports -- to see what they were trying to protect. We can make a request under the Freedom Of Information Act, which would result in us being furnished exactly what you're holding now." He paused, realizing they were in a pickle. "Fuck, now that I think about it, we shouldn't even have what we do yet! Rambo snuck it to us on the down low, so I actually have to make a FOIA request to get the same shit we've got, then make a special request to get access to what's been redacted. We're talking at least a month now. Maybe two, if we don't wanna risk getting Rambo's ass in a sling -- which we can't do -- I promised him that. The man has to work with Boudreaux every day, that's tough enough without us revealing that he's sleeping with the enemy."

"Two months?"

Donnell chuckled a bit. "That's nothin', Jake, the wheels of justice turn slow as a motherfucker. The court moves at a glacial pace, that's just how it is. Like I said, we could be talking about a year before we get a verdict in this case... nothing is gonna happen fast, you're just gonna have to learn to accept that."

"There has to be another way, Donnell!" Jake insisted. "There's got to be a way to figure this out faster than that!"

There was a pause, Launchpad was thinking. What came to him was a shot in the dark, but it was a chance \-- more than they had before.

"You can try to beat it out of Clyde," he suggested. "If anybody's gonna know what's written in those reports, it's old Sheriff Rambo... he probably wrote up half of them himself, is probably the one who decided what was kept secret and what was released to the public and the press. If I know Clyde, he'll remember every word of those reports, redacted or not. Try him, that's the only shot we've got."

Upon hearing this, Jake became even more enraged. It wasn't anger directed at the system, this time, nor at Donnell. He was furious with himself, now, for his failure to figure this out. Hell, he had used the threat of talking to Rambo to twist the knife in Ron Boudreaux's heart just the day before -- how could he have forgotten about that? Why did it take Launchpad's help to figure out something so elementary, so basic and remedial?

Shit, what kind of help could he possibly be to Chucky if he was functioning at such a low level? If his body's refusal to operate up to spec because he had spent so many nights poisoning it caused his friend to spend a single day, a single hour, a single minute, a single second longer in bondage than was absolutely necessary, how would he ever be able to forgive himself? The stakes of this game were too high, the antes too rich and the penalties too severe for him to limp through this thing like some hack rookie detective leaving all of the important stones unturned. He needed to get a grip on himself, and he needed to do it fast... perhaps faster than he could.

"Do you think he'll tell me?" he asked, not letting his frustration speak out in his voice.

"He shouldn't," Donnel said, "he isn't supposed to. If he does, nothing he says will be admissible in court, because he's not at liberty to divulge that information anymore. We'll have to go through the process if we want to use anything we find to defend Chuck, so I'll plan to get it started anyway. If you choose to go talk to Clyde before the stuff comes in, that's on you. I can't really be too involved in all of that, I've got my license to consider, bro. Do what you're gonna do, but play it on the QT. You heard what Boudreaux thought about the idea of you diggin' up his backyard. It's a dangerous game, Jake. You'll have me driving back to Garthby to represent you if you're not careful."

"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," Jake answered. "I want this over -- quickly."

"Yeah, I've noticed," Donnell remarked. "I'm tempted to ask you why you're in such a hurry, but I have this strange feeling in my gut that I'm not gonna like the answer that you give me."

"Let's just say that I don't like the idea of Chucky sitting in a jail cell and leave it at that," he replied. "I can't imagine he's enjoying himself in there."

"Oh, of that much I'm sure. He's gonna be there for a minute though, man, no matter what we figure out. Do what you've got to do, what you feel like you need to do... just do it carefully, step lightly. Tampering with evidence and obstructing justice can be serious charges, Boudreaux could saddle you with a third degree felony if you play your cards wrong. Thirty six months, Jake, he could put you away for three years if he got charges like those to stick."

Jake appreciated his friend's concern, but he couldn't care less about Boudreaux or his threats. Dead men can't be sent to prison, that was the least of his worries.

"Alright, Don," Jake concluded. "I'll be in touch if I need anything."

"Sounds good, thanks," Donnel replied.

Without saying bye, he pressed the end call button on his steering wheel. It was a preemptive measure, because he was inclined to thank Donnell in return... to thank him for nothing, which was what he had contributed to climbing the mountain in front of them thus far. He seemed completely unengaged, entirely indifferent to what was happening and what needed to be done.

Perhaps he had been right about Launchpad after all... perhaps he should've left things where they landed when the dust settled after their last encounter -- when Deputy Ron had to step in to peel them off of each other and nearly taser the both of them. Maybe it would've been better that way... if they'd stuck to their shouted oaths to never look upon one another again.

Confident that looking through the reports would do no more to serve him, he stuffed them back into their envelope and pitched it unceremoniously to his passenger seat. It was time to go back home, to return to the scene of the crime that was his childhood. He wasn't thrilled about the idea, wasn't eager to see the sights... to rekindle the emotions, to relive the nightmares.

There were things living on the streets of Burlwood that were more horrific to him than any withdrawal-induced hallucination he'd experienced during the night gone by. They were more lurid, more ghastly, more obscene and more revolting than any of the images that had been conjured by the changing chemistry of his brain. They were morbid, they were depraved, they were flagitous and perverse. They were shadows, they were specters, they were ghouls and they were wraiths. They were memories, and they were real...

I wear the chain I forged in life... I made it link by link, and yard by yard. I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it...

...except he hadn't forged it, others had forged it for him. His father, his mother, The Butcher and Ron Boudreaux... Launchpad...

There's more of grave than gravy about you, whatever you are... not the other way around... not at all, not in his case... there was more of grave, for sure.

EIGHTEEN

September 10th, 2016. 1:00PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"God, I hate that fuckin' tree!" Clyde Rambo remonstrated.

His lumbar region objected to the angle at which he leaned to take in the entirety of the oaken monster despite the supplemental support he provided by pressing his hands against it as he looked up to the leaves hanging high in the sky. The tree was a giant, nearly a hundred feet tall and at least as many years old, and it rose up from the Earth just ten yards beyond his property line.

Just ten yards, just thirty goddamned feet beyond his jurisdiction. Thirty feet to the north, as fate would have it. As a result, it cast a thick and heavy shadow across the entirety of his largest, most fertile garden. The soil was perfect, moist and rich in nutrients, just begging to take in bulbs or bushes and furnish them with everything they needed to live long, happy, healthy lives. The only thing missing was sunlight, thanks to the influence of that godforsaken tree.

When he called the first surveyor to determine whose tree it was -- whether it was on his plot of land or that of Zack Brown, his neighbor -- the fool tried to say it was twelve yards on the wrong side of the line, the side that belonged to Zack Brown. That was crazy. Ludicrous, really.

A second surveyor concurred with Clyde in the fact that he had mismeasured, determining that it was, in fact, only ten yards that kept that blasphemous tree alive. Ten yards might as well have been ten miles in the scheme of it all, though, he couldn't touch the dastardly thing. Couldn't do anything about it.

Rambo's relationship with the tree had started out peacefully enough, he actually found it rather majestic. Thought it added character to his retirement estate when he purchased it in 2005, when he finally had to have that pacemaker put in.

Ron Boudreaux had been elected to fill the position vacated by Sheriff Dickinson in 2004, and had thus taken his seat upon the throne as ruler of all law enforcement in Elsmere County. He was all but shouting gimme the loot when he started urging the citizens of Burlwood to dissolve their cumbersome and meager police department. His campaign was successful, of course, largely because Clyde Rambo was too tired to put up a fight. He found he just didn't care enough anymore, he wasn't interested in trading blows with his former partner. With the big six-zero closing in quickly anyway, he figured it was just time to hang up the gloves and put the past to rest, to be interred with the remains of those poor young souls that were murdered so brutally while he was at the helm.

He stood relieved of his duties on the first day of January, 2005, and purchased his sprawling retreat in February. It wasn't until the spring that things went sour with the tree. Taking up an old hobby, one he'd neglected for the duration of his tenure as sheriff, he planted two hibiscus bushes in the patch of land that seemed eager to make their acquaintance. Within a month, that beastly tree had brutally murdered them by starving them of sunlight.

Deciding that some modest concession to the shade was obligatory, he'd tried a set of peonies thereafter, only to have them slaughtered just as viciously. Still trying to maintain order, trying to see that cooler heads prevailed, he resolved to settle for butterfly bushes. They had made a valiant effort, had held on for several months, determined to persevere. The task was beyond them, though, and they eventually succumbed to the stranglehold of that infernal tree, just as those that went before them.

Now it was after his hydrangeas, and it was winning the war. The leaves of this, his bush of last resort, which had struggled to thrive for nearly three years now, were beginning to turn yellow. The blooms were withering and looked pathetic, like discarded scraps one would find in the dumpster behind a florist's shop. For them, the end was extremely nigh. All four of his bushes were obviously making amends and coming to terms with their pending demise.

The damned tree wouldn't be happy until he was reduced to planting hostas, a level to which he refused to stoop. Something had to be done about that tree. Something drastic, something final.

It didn't respond to being shot, he'd tried that on several occasions. Many a miniature bonfire had witnessed him sucking down Budweisers to drown out the whispers of the ghost of murders past, the flames just crackling away indifferently as he emptied all fifteen rounds from the magazine of his Glock 22 into the trunk of his archenemy with malice and premeditation.

Zack Brown didn't much like it when he did that, and he once threatened to call the cops if he heard shots ringing out in the middle of the night again. He really lit the tree up that evening, and -- surprise, surprise -- there wasn't a flashing light bar to be seen. No beat cop had the balls to reprimand Sheriff Clyde Fucking Rambo, he could pop off as many caps as he wanted without fear of redress or recompense.

It's not as though Brown's person or property were in any peril, his home was nearly fifteen hundred yards removed from the damned menace. That put it well beyond the effective range of his former service weapon. The horses Zack had purchased so much land to raise had all been sold off and divested -- probably because they proved to be the drizzling shits, once they hit the dirt of the downs -- so there would be no innocent bystanders to speak of, either.

Bearing this vacancy in mind, Clyde had made an offer to purchase the southern tenth of an acre that was now no more than wasted space. He had no interest in the property, really, beyond his desire to bask in the pleasure of cutting that fucking tree down and watching his garden spring to life in the golden rays of the sun. It was a generous offer, too, one almost too good to refuse. No reasonable man would've walked away, leaving more money on the table than the land could ever possibly be worth.

Knowing what he was after, though, knowing how badly he wanted it, Brown had turned it down just to spite him. He was a vindictive bastard, he probably loved the fact that his tree was such a curse to Clyde and his chosen hobby. He probably laughed every time he rode by smugly on his tractor, probably reveled in being an accessory to murder most foul, the rotten cocksucking hick.

Since there was nothing else to be done, Clyde resigned himself to the fact that this particular garden was simply doomed to be the domicile of coral bells, ferns and astilbes. The dregs of all foliage and flowers, those which can survive and flourish in the cover of suffocating shade. With those things taking residence, the patch would be of very little appeal to him. Who would care to sit and read a good book in the dark shade of an old oak amongst the bottom feeders of all flowering plants? He'd simply plant them and write them off, pay them little attention... simply walk away, as he did from the case that was just too big for him to handle so many years ago.

Determined to fight it out until the last, though, to try for the win all the way to the wire, he stalked the struggling hydrangeas with his trimming snips in hand. The blossoms that were beyond salvage would soon be laid to rest. Amputated with surgical precision, they would be collected in a plastic shopping bag and pitched into the inferno as he sipped his brew and smoked his Marlboro later in the evening. Perhaps he'd take more target practice then as well, if the spirit happened to move him. After all, who knows just how much lead is too much for an old and well plugged tree to endure? There's always that last straw to be placed upon the camel's back, the one that would prove one too many to bear.

Having found a particularly wilted stem, he crouched down and prepared to start his pruning. Just as the sounding of a snip had marked the death of another friend, the approaching clicks of lifters begging for oil announced the arrival of an uninvited visitor.

His body sore and stiff with age, Clyde swiveled his head as far as his arthritic neck would allow without requiring any other joints to pivot or flex. He saw a beige sedan pulling up his gravel drive with only the very corner of his eye, not bothering to determine the make and model as he would've been inclined to in days gone by. Whomever it was, they were a stranger to him, because this car was unfamiliar. He disliked even visitors he did know, when they showed up unannounced. He didn't take kindly to strangers at all, not anymore.

Returning his attention to the patient, he waited to hear the car's door open and then close to signal the emergence of the intruder as he made a few additional snips. The sound of footfalls that came next were far off, at first, since his garden was a good distance from the spot where the grass began. When they grew near enough to him that his voice could cover the distance, he made his declaration with no qualms and no ado.

"Whatever you're selling," he said expressly, "I'm not interested in buying it.

The visitor, who was really no stranger to him at all, continued his approach. Taking in the man he'd idolized in his youth, Jake felt his heart warming in the moment. Rambo's hair was white in its entirety, and long locks of it spilled from underneath a distressed canvas sun hat he was wearing. He was still tall, but his huskiness was new. What had been a potbelly in the past was now a full grown barrel, extending all the way up to his chest which was thicker and more burly than before. He had himself crammed into a set of denim overalls that were perhaps a size too small, and it looked as though they were begging to split as he knelt in genuflection. His face was filled out now as well, Jake could see his puffy cheeks with wrinkled skin upon them protruding from the sides of his head as he looked upon him from the rear. They were accented with snow colored curly hairs, indicative of a thick and scraggly beard that hadn't felt the shearing of a razor or a clipper for the passing of many moons. From his vantage point, Jake would've sworn it was Uncle Jesse of Hazzard that he was visiting instead of Clyde Rambo.

"I've got nothing to sell you, Sheriff," he replied, nearly shouting to be sure that he was heard.

This gave Rambo pause, he hadn't been referred to by that title in over a decade's time. He didn't hesitate for long, only halting his trimming for a matter of five or six seconds before he continued with the work.

"If you want to talk about Jesus, you're barking up the wrong tree just the same," he advised.

Jake smiled, drawing leisurely closer. "Nope, not here to preach about The Lord either."

"What, then?" Rambo asked. "Wanna tell me about Jehovah? It's certainly not Allah, you're definitely in the wrong neighborhood for that!"

"None of the above, sir!"

"Then you want to tell me how to vote, right? Want to peddle the bullshit rhetoric of Hillary or The Donald? Abortion, gun control, gay rights or immigration? What's your poison, pal? Either way, I should tell you up front that I don't vote -- not anymore."

"I'm not much interested in politics either," Jake remarked with less volume in his voice, since he was now within ten yards of the man.

"Well, unless I pulled a Rip Van Winkle, it isn't 2020 -- so I know it isn't time for the census yet."

"That's true," the visitor agreed, stopping just a few feet behind the gardener.

"Then excuse my Swahili, son," Rambo began, taxing a few additional joints to rotate ninety degrees toward the man accosting him. "But what the fuck do you --" he stalled mid sentence, his crow's feet fading slightly as his eyes widened in surprise. "Jacob!" he exclaimed in immediate recognition and delight.

Jake smiled a grin far beyond anything he'd worn in quite some time. "Howdy, Clyde!" he said with glee. "How the hell ya' been?"

Getting a full look at the man's face, he realized that he was, indeed, a doppelgänger of Uncle Jesse en toto. In his old age, he was as far from the Sylvester Stallone of Chucky's imagination as he could possibly be. He looked worn down and overcome by the years, as though the rest of his retirement had done nothing to soothe his soul. His face showed fatigue, as though he were still caught deeply wrapped up in the tumult and commotion of a full blown inquisition, an inquest into matters of murder and mutilation. He looked as though he was haunted by The Butcher... by the victims, by the struggle, by the malignancy of Burlwood itself, circa 1993.

"Oh my God," Rambo exclaimed in disbelief, never taking his eyes from Jacob's as he pushed off of his knee with both hands to force himself erect. "What in Sam's Hell are you doing back here, son?" Looking him over further, he saw what only a cop would notice and addressed it immediately. "What the fuck kind of gun are you wearing, boy? What, you couldn't anything bigger?"

"A Beretta 92," Jake answered with his smile. "Never leave home without it!"

A smile broke through Rambo's whiskered lips, a hint of his elation in a reunion long overdue. The man he saw hovering over him as he struggled to his feet looked strong and proud. He was a victor, a triumphant survivor of dark days and long odds. He was thriving, unlike his embattled hydrangeas, and he came as a delegate of the children he hadn't failed to protect and save from the demons of the past. The pleasure of seeing him in full bloom was tempered, though, by the thought that he might've been Gary Duncan coming home to roost instead. He could've been Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade or Ricky Marshall. Or, it could've been the last of them... oh God, the last of them...

Any one of those boys standing in his presence, returning home after so much time away, would look vastly different than the man representing their legacy now. Their flesh would not be so vibrant and full of life. Their limbs would not move so freely, would not be so loose and unincumbered. They would not smell so fresh and manly, the wind around them would not carry the luxurious fragrance of Acqua Di Gio.

They would be a rotten shade of purple, showing signs of lividity well set in and festering. Rigor would be in full effect, their bodies fixed and rigid, stiff with atrophied finality. They would stink of rot and decay, of maggots and formaldehyde. Glutaraldehyde, methanol and phenol, the serum of death and preservation. The juices of pickling and mummification.

These thoughts, these images in his mind's eye, wrenched the smile from his face and returned the scowl -- the atrophy of his own, the atrophy of shame and failure.

"I'm here for Chucky," Jake replied. "Came to make things right."

Clyde's face didn't change any further at that, it remained fixed and frozen, but his eyes were overcome with a hint of concern and worry.

"What's wrong with Chucky?" he asked, fearing the worst.

Clyde knew the man was unhealthy, was unsupervised an ill prepared for self reliance and independence. He was supposed to be watching over him, was charged by his Momma from her deathbed with helping to maintain and monitor him, was enlisted to be a caretaker and steward. He had neglected that duty, had disavowed his responsibility in the shadows of his own struggles.

Was he responsible, now, for the death of another son of Burlwood? Had he failed Chucky, like he'd failed the others? Had he delivered another soul unto the void in his ineptitude?

Jake's face was the one to change, now, taking on a look of befuddlement. Surely, old Sheriff Rambo was aware of what had happened... of what was transpiring in the town he'd taken an oath to serve and to protect.

"You don't know?" he asked, confused. "You haven't heard?"

Rambo's eyes widened further and lost focus, clouding over and drifting off.

"How did he die?" he asked in a cracking voice, preparing himself to bear another heavy cross.

"No no!" Jake cried, trying to spare the man the torment of the thoughts stirring in his mind. "He's not dead, it's not that!"

This brought an obvious relief to Clyde, seemed to lift a weight from his chest and shoulders. Still, it was amazing to Jake that he hadn't heard... an outlandish idea that word had not spread. There had been enough of a media presence in the courtroom to tell all of the world about the stirrings of suspicion, about the verdicts rendered prematurely and judgements passed hastily. Surely, the small town of Burlwood -- the epicenter of the quake -- was enraptured with speculation and gossip. The rumor mill must be cranking and chugging along at full bore, spewing out its toxic cocktail and inviting all to drink of the Kool-Aid.

How would it be possible that Rambo didn't know about Billy Marsh? About Boudreaux's campaign to take down Chucky? About the possibility that The Butcher was back in business...

"What's wrong with him, then?" Rambo asked, angered at having been alarmed by the implication.

"You don't know about Billy Marsh?" Jake asked. "Don't know anything about what's going on? It must be all over the news out here, Clyde, how could you not know?"

Relieved of the immediate anxiety, Rambo rubbed his hands together to clear them of the soil and floral debris, to wash them of the garden as he had washed them of society and the world at large.

"I don't have a television, Jacob," he began, tying off his plastic bag of dead blooms once his hands were as clean as he could get them, as clean as Pontius Pilate's were of the blood of Christ. "I don't subscribe to any newspapers, to any periodicals or digests. I don't have a computer, I'm not on the web. I do not own a cellphone, and I do not talk to my neighbors \-- who are all a good distance from me anyway, as you can see. I have a radio, but I rarely turn it on. I stay away from town most of the time, would do so altogether, if it were feasible and possible. I spent thirty seven years of my life knee-deep in the shit and dirty dishwater of this town! When I turned in my badge -- when Ron Boudreaux saw to it that The Burlwood PD was dissolved so that he could seize the throne -- I also turned my back on this place, on this world. These eyes have seen enough, Jake. Seen enough of the refuse, enough of the tailings of vice and perversion. I've seen enough of the entrails, both the figurative and the literal. I don't desire to be involved, to be complicit \-- not any more. All I want is to be alone, young Jacob, to convalesce in my solitude. I come out here, I tend my gardens and I read my books, and I keep to myself. I'm out of the shadows, now, save for that of this one goddamned oak tree... the last villain of my life, one that refuses to step aside just as vehemently as the ones of old, the ones of my antiquity."

Turning to face the criminal topiary, Rambo seemed to cast the aggregate of all the hate and despair in his heart toward it with the fire in his eyes. With a heavy grunt of pain and displeasure, he spun the plastic bag containing the most recent of the tree's victims, like a softball pitcher winding up, and chucked it at the beast in the distance. It fell well short... as he himself had fallen short in his quest to bring an end to the bloody reign of The Butcher.

"It lives to kill!" he cried. "It exists only to remind me of my failings."

Uncomfortable and uneasy under the heavy weight of Rambo's sorrow, Jake examined the garden near which he stood and looked for any sign of goodness, for any hint of brighter things.

"Those are pretty," he said plainly, pointing to a patch of umbels that seemed content in their earthen home. "Those white flowers, there. What are they?"

Rambo pulled his gaze from the tree, looked to where Jacob was calling his attention. He stared for a moment, then spoke with unchanged inflection.

"Daucus carota," he explained. "Better known as Queen Anne's Lace... and it's a fuckin' weed."

Jake curled back his finger in submission, let his hands drop to his sides in resignation. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. He understood the man's state of mind, knew what it was like to live in that cold and lonely place... that mausoleum... that crypt reserved for the cremains of hope and peace, where all optimism goes to die and rot in solitude.

"That's all that remains anymore, Jacob!" Rambo continued. "All of the flowers are dead in this world, in this time. It's only the weeds that survive. Masquerading, deceitful, pretentious weeds that have no value and nothing to add. Just a bunch of fucking Queen Anne's Lace and Poison Hemlock. Just the Masque of the Red Death! Toxic, mephitic and virulent! Contagious and consuming, decimating and disastrous! I don't associate with weeds anymore, son! I don't look at them and I don't hear their whispers! I exist for me, now! To Hell with all the rest... to Hell with it all."

Jake didn't respond, let the silence do the talking. This was something he did often, because the silence usually said all there was to be said. Eloquently and fluently, too... in a language that most people can easily comprehend.

Rambo looked up to his face and locked eyes with him, and their eyes were brethren in their awareness. There was another osmotic symbiosis -- one similar to that he'd shared with Nikki -- but one that covered different territory, different emotions altogether. Without a word, Rambo understood the nature of the problem... the crux of the matter... the bodies that would need to be unearthed.

When the exchange was complete, the transaction fully processed, Jake placed his hand upon Rambo's shoulder as he had done to Boudreaux before. His grasp wasn't the tight vice that it was in that instance, nor was it acrimonious or sarcastic. It was benevolent and comforting, loving and philanthropic.

"I need your help, Clyde," he said softly. "Chucky needs your help."

Rambo sighed and quailed, not eager to wade in the dark waters once again... not inclined to tread there, where wise men feared to be. Through his mind ran the voice of Father Carl Lovett and verses that lingered in his ears for all the years gone by. Just as double indemnity called to Jake, the words written in The Book called to Clyde. Those words, so cold, that were given unto Man as Revelations. Revelations that brought fear to his heart and anxiety to his mind:

And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened. And the sea gave up its dead, and Hell delivered up the dead which were in it. The kings of the earth hid themselves in the dens of the mountains and said to the rocks "Fall on us! Hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne! For the great day of his wrath is come!".

Now, the great day of wrath had come for him... the wrath of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade, Ricky Marshall... and the last one, merciful lord, the most painful of them all... little Timothy Lane.

"Let's go inside," he said, choking back his tears and drawing from the strength of Jacob's hand to steady him. "We'll have some tea, and we'll talk."

NINETEEN

Timothy Lane, Part 1

September 24th, 1994. 4:30pm

Burlwood, Indiana

Darkwing, Launchpad, Drake and Louie sat in the nave of Our Mother Of Sorrows, the church of Father Lovett and the only house of worship in all of Burlwood. Darkwing and Launchpad settled in the second pew from the pulpit, Drake and Louie in front of them, in the first. The hall was wondrous and glorious, the ceiling vaulted in a tremendous arch over the chancel. Every square inch of the place was ornate and magnificent.

Behind the regal walnut lectern at the ambo was a towering effigy of Christ upon the cross. To its left was a colorful stained glass depiction of The Annunciation, to its right the same of The Pietá. Along the periphery of the apse were frescos of The Adoration Of The Magi and The Coronation Of The Virgin.

Not far from the lectern was the holy altar on one side and the baptistery on the other. Icons decorated the walls on either side of the nave, adorning them in sacred images that stretched all the way back to the narthex, except where interrupted by the entrance to the confessional.

On the whole, this building seemed much too elegant for a town as backwoods and reclusive as Burlwood. The citizens were very reverent, though, very spiritual and engaged with their faith. They filled this hall to capacity on any given Sunday -- most Wednesday's as well -- and made the compulsory tithes, even when doing so strained their finances direly. Cognizant of the hardships that many of his parishioners endured, there were often masses at which Father Lovett called off the deacons when they took up their long-handled offertories, intending to collect the alms. When the cup of the diocese runneth over, Father Lovett stopped demanding water... it's just the kind of man he was.

As they waited for Chucky to be released from his duties, the boys sat silently and patiently.

Darkwing was thinking about Tracy, about a conversation they'd recently had upon returning to school. They shared many classes this year, and always chose adjoining desks when the seating chart wasn't assigned by the teacher.

He had overcome the nerves that kept him from speaking with her in the seventeen months since the meeting at the Civic Center, the meeting at which he'd been embraced by her parents as a potential friend for their daughter. They chatted regularly, now, though usually not about anything of substance. He often told her about his experiences playing hockey in a local youth league, and she generally spoke of music she liked or things that happened on her favorite television program, Blossom. More profound issues, like his continuing struggle to maintain the sanity of his mother, Janet Giguére, were usually not topics that came up in their conversations. .

With her ongoing responsibilities as the block captain of sector 7, Jacob's mother was required to call Ron Boudreaux on his cellphone twice each evening. She was in much more regular contact than that with him, however. They often spoke for hours on end, and talking with him seemed to cheer her up a bit. As a result, he hadn't heard things like touch me, Jacob spilling from her stupefied lips in the days of the recent past. She hadn't asked him to fondle her, hadn't tried to grope him like she did in the past. Thank God for that, he didn't think he could deal with that anymore.

Deputy Ron was a stand-in for him when it came to that, now... one that was happy to oblige when she wanted someone to touch her... one that was happy to have her touch him... one that spent the night at their house quite frequently, in fact, and didn't seem to mind when she cried out harder, Garrett, harder \-- apparently thinking it was her long dead husband riding her -- in the heat of their passion. Nor, apparently, did he mind that a thirteen year old boy could hear every sound they made.

That made Jacob sick... the fact that Deputy Ron, a righteous man of the law, would take advantage of a woman who was clearly vulnerable. That he would do so knowing that her young son was listening in an adjoining bedroom. What a man of scruples he was, this high and mighty officer. What a winner, what a role model... what a creep.

If he made her happy, it was fine... the problem, though, was that he sometimes seemed to do her more harm than good. If he snubbed her or rushed her off the phone before she was satisfied, if he decided not to come jump in the sack with her when she wanted him, she would melt down instantly.

The resultant episodes were similar to the ones she'd always had, the ones that required Jacob to feed her pills until she passed out, but these new ones were much darker \-- the bottom much deeper. There were moments at which Jacob felt she was headed for the rubber room -- that she needed to be carried off by the men in the white coats, to protect her from herself. She spoke of suicide regularly when her relationship with Boudreaux ebbed, spoke of her desire to just give up when things weren't going the way she thought they should. There wasn't any more mention of taking Jacob with her, presumably because she thought he was old enough now to take care of himself, if she decided to see it through.

Watching her ride this rollercoaster, seeing her rise and fall with the tide of Deputy Ron's treatment of her, he prepared himself to find her dead every day when he arrived home from school or after visiting with his friends... prepared himself to become an orphan, to be alone. He didn't want that to happen, but he sometimes wondered if things would be better that way -- for the both of them. It weighed heavily on him, brought him down -- made him depressed, just like she was.

He tried to put it out of his mind -- tried to focus on better things, happier things... like his shallow conversations with Tracy. She could always bring him up, elevate his mood, so he leaned on her a bit. Doing so scared him a little, though, because he understood what it meant to be leaned on. He didn't want to be a burden to her, as his mother was to him.

Launchpad wasn't thinking about anything as they waited, he just sat with his face rested in his hands and his elbows digging into his knees. Nothing had really changed, for him. Life was pretty much just as it had always been. His parents still fought a lot, still smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style and drank malt liquor like it was an elixir to cure all ills. They were smoking something new now, too, something he hated the smell of even more than the cigarettes. The odor was slightly sweet, but there was another layer to it that wasn't pleasant in the least. To him, it smelled like cleaning chemicals. Sometimes it was like nail polish remover or cat piss, it seemed to evolve and revolve from time to time. Whatever it was, it usually gave him a headache when he smelled it. That gave him all the more reason to find things to do away from home.

Louie Rambo was just relaxing as well, thinking about how much he'd enjoyed his second summer vacation in Burlwood. This one, which had just recently expired, had been much more laid back and gratifying than that of 1993. Coming on the heels of Ricky Marshall's murder -- and marking the beginning of a very taxing time for his father -- that respite from study had been spent much more sedately and nearly in seclusion.

In those days, the FBI was everywhere you looked around town. Wearing their fancy suits and patrolling in their unmarked cars with the deeply tinted windows. They were omnipresent and dictatorial, especially when it came to matters that concerned young males like him and his friends. That meant there was little chance for The Burlwood Boys to do their thing, they were on a tight leash, that summer. Kept close to the heel, they were essentially confined to their homes, with only limited opportunities to get together and play outside. Even when it was allowed, it could take place only under the watchful eye of Big Brother, of the Federal Agents.

Since Louie's father was the sheriff and an adult, he could move around a bit more freely. Sensing Louie's loneliness, he often drove his cruiser around Burlwood Meadows to pick up Jacob, Donnell, Chucky and Timmy so that they could just hang out at his house. The boys always enjoyed that, since Louie was the only one of them that had cable television -- the only one who could get Cartoon Network. They spent many an evening laughing and talking, growing closer and cementing their bond.

With seventeen months separating them from the last murder committed by The Butcher, things had lightened up a bit as of late. The Feds were still around, but not nearly as many of them. They were more inconspicuous, now, and mostly unobtrusive. They hadn't cracked the case -- hadn't captured the killer -- but keeping him at bay was a small victory in and of itself. With the matter still unresolved, they would not be leaving town entirely, not just yet. There was a little more slack in their bridle, though, and the minor concessions they made allowed boys to be boys. Allowed the children to enjoy their break from school as they desired.

Special Agent Gomez had taken up residence in the town, and nothing happened in Burlwood without his permission. Sheriff Rambo seemed surprisingly okay with that, apparently at peace with the fact that he wasn't the king of the hill anymore.

When Gomez insisted that they cancel the annual Our Mother carnival in '93, Clyde essentially said so let it be written. That was a major disappointment to The Burlwood Boys and all of their contemporaries, because the carnival was the most exciting event of the year for them. Everyone loved the rides, loved the games, loved the fried food and the small circus that accompanied it all. As the time to plan for the festivities of '94 approached, Gomez wanted to call it off again. He claimed it was still too risky, that it would be difficult to manage and patrol with their sizably reduced resources. This sparked a rare disagreement between the agent and the sheriff, a contest of wills that Rambo had eventually won after much debate and rumination.

As a result, the sounds of the midway were echoing through the hollow expanse of the chantry around them. They were eager to join the fun, to see the sights and partake in the conviviality. To do so without Chucky -- their brother in arms, investigations and amusements -- would be wrong, though, so they simply sat and waited.

He had taken a job at Our Mother Of Sorrows when the latest summer vacation began. His Momma insisted that, since he was sixteen now, he needed to contribute to the family and help to carry the load. She had gone to Father Lovett seeking advice on where to find a job that he was capable of doing, and he had smiled in saying look no further, Misses Murphy!

The church had only one employee besides the priest, a man called Rusty who was in charge of making repairs and keeping the facility maintained. He was overworked with those duties, had no extra time to clean and make things as presentable as Father Lovett believed that they should be \-- the way that his parishioners deserved them to be.

As a result, he offered Chucky a job on the spot. It paid minimum wage, $4.25 per hour, and would amount to no more than twenty or thirty hours a week during the summer. When school resumed, they would meet to discuss how things were working out and how they would proceed moving forward. When Momma drove him back to the church on the eve of the new school year, Father Lovett praised Chucky's work and begged him to remain in his employ.

That was excellent news, because the extra money was really helping out, and having a job bolstered Chucky's self esteem. Working with the staff at Burlwood High, the Father was able to hammer out a co-op arrangement under which Chuck could leave class three hours early three days a week and spend that time working at the church. He would earn credit and money both, helping prop up the household and learning what life would be like beyond graduation all at once. He loved the job, and he took pride in the work he did there.

Occasionally, though, he would arrive home in the afternoon and not go out to join in the playing of Darkwing and the other Burlwood Boys. They thought, at first, that this was due to his being tired and worn down from a hard day spent polishing the pews. When they were together, as a group, and asked if this was the case, he told them that it was. Only when he was alone with Darkwing did he reveal the truth... the real reason that he sometimes just wanted to be alone.

"It's Rusty," he said tearfully. "Sometimes he's really mean to me!"

Jacob asked him why, asked him how he was mean. Asked what he did or what he said. Chucky couldn't explain, really, not in a way that made much sense to Darkwing. It seemed that it wasn't so much his words or deeds that were malicious, it was more his general temperament on certain days that bothered him.

Some days, he would be nice. He would praise Chucky for his work and thank him for his help. On other days, though, he seemed totally different. Grumpy and dismissive, rude and unfriendly. He would yell at things -- at nails that bent while he was hammering them, at drills that lost hold of their bits while he was using them -- and just be crotchety in general. It scared Chucky when he was like that, made him uncomfortable and nervous.

Sometimes, Rusty would yell for no reason at all, would shout things that didn't make any sense. He would say things like FALL BACK! or THEY'RE IN THE TREES! Once, he started yelling at people when there was nobody in the building besides the two of them. He would bark orders at the invisible people, warning them that others named Victor or Charlie were coming. That really scared Chucky, because it made him think there were ghosts in the church that were coming for him... the ghosts of Victor and Charlie, whoever they were.

Knowing that his not coming to hang out meant it had been a bad day with Rusty, Darkwing would always leave the group and go to Chucky's house to comfort him. He gave lots of hugs and kisses on those days, which was starting to get a little weird considering Chucky had the beginnings of a beard coming in and Darkwing was thirteen years old, now. He obliged him anyway, because it was the only thing that seemed to make him feel any better and get him to go out to play.

Darkwing had met Rusty, and he didn't seem scary to him at all. He was a short man, not terribly much taller than Chucky, and was as skinny and wiry as Launchpad. His hair was short and messy, as was a full beard that he wore. Both were blonde with a tinge of red, which could've explained why he was called Rusty. He looked to be in his mid 40's, and had lived in Burlwood for only a few years. Based on the slight twang in his voice, Jacob imagined he was from somewhere in the south.

He'd been perfectly kind to Darkwing, had shook his hand and smiled when Chucky introduced them. This side of him that Chucky described, this crazy side was in no way evident on the occasions that they ran into each other in passing. It seemed like Chucky was speaking of someone else entirely when he sobbed and begged for kisses, like there was a completely different Rusty that came to work sometimes than the one that Jacob knew.

Darkwing didn't believe that Chucky was lying, he had never known him to lie before -- not about something serious. Little things, maybe, like whether he'd remembered to put on his deodorant or to wear a fresh pair of underwear when his Momma asked him, but nothing on such a grand scale.

He did wonder, though, if he was, perhaps, misinterpreting the man... was filling in the gaps of actions or behaviors he didn't understand with trumped up notions or assumptions. He hadn't spent much time with anyone besides his tight-knit group of friends, didn't fully appreciate the diaspora of quirky personalities that was the small town of Burlwood. He had been sheltered, not exposed to the people of the world at large. That combined with his unique psychological challenges could certainly lead to misunderstandings, to misgivings and uncertainty. He hoped that was what was happening... hoped that it was all in his head, that he wasn't really being subjected to the things that he perceived.

Expecting him to be done for the day at any minute, anticipating their opportunity to go enjoy the carnival, The Burlwood Boys just waited in silence in the nave as the muffled sounds of people laughing and screaming in joy outside echoed all around them. Time seemed to creep by once four-thirty had passed, once Chucky was overdue.

The only one of them who didn't seem irritated with the passage of time was the one they called Drake. Timmy was in a trance, not unlike the one he'd experienced when he first met Mister Simmonds and was stricken with fear by the scar upon his face. This time, though, it was the giant effigy of Jesus upon The Cross that kept him transfixed.

This particular depiction, the largest in all of Burlwood, was the most gruesome and grotesque that he had ever seen. Most of the households in town had a small one hanging over their door, Timmy's father actually had two -- one at Butcher's Lane and one in their modest trailer in The Meadows. Those idols, which still depicted either a dead or dying Christ, were tame and serene as compared to the one in the hallowed hall of Our Mother Of Sorrows.

The alabaster man upon this cross, who was much larger than life, didn't look like an exalted deity or glorious figure at all. He looked, instead, like a tortured victim of The Butcher -- covered in blood and ghastly wounds -- from the top of his drooping head to the bottom of his awkwardly contorted feet. His ribs were bruised and emaciated. His left wrist was pulled far from his body and driven through with a giant spike, his right arm held at more of an angle and similarly tacked to the dogwood from which he hung. His chin was pressed fully to his chest, as though he were utterly and completely deceased, and his hair seemed to be wilted around his head. The skin on the right side of his abdomen was sliced open and gaping, the majority of the blood upon him leaking from it and soaking the white drapery he wore around his pelvis. His knees were dirty and black with soil and blood, his ankles cocked unnaturally to position his feet one atop the other, a third large nail piercing them and locking them in place.

And that plaque over his head... that one that read INRI... that was a mystery to him. He didn't know what the letters stood for, Father Lovett was probably the only man in town who knew they stood for Isvs Nazarenvs Rex Indaeorvm, words Timmy didn't know and wouldn't understand. What he did know, though, is that the letters were supposed to declare the man Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. That was the mystery... what sort of king could he be, looking like that?

If the crown of thorns upon his brow signified his position as the King of the Dead, that could make sense. If he was alive as he hung there, he was in torment and begged for death. If he was dead, he had suffered a miserable passing and was relieved to meet the end when it came. He could, therefore, be the king of those who have passed on so brutally... the King of the Tortured... the King of the Descecrated... the King of the Damned.

If he was the king of anything besides those things, he didn't look it... if he was a god, he didn't resemble one... if he was a lamb, he was the type that his father had hanging in the cooler... one that was bound to meet with the saw of The Butcher, and then to be consumed... to be eaten... to be destroyed...

After what seemed an eternity to the other boys, their friend finally emerged from the door that led to the sacristy with Rusty by his side. Timmy wrestled his eyes from the statue to see him, still feeling detached and entranced by what he'd been studying at length.

"Hey guys!" Chucky shouted, his voice booming through the empty space.

Rusty laughed and smiled, wiping grease from his hands with a dirty rag.

"Maybe a little louder next time, Chuck," he said, chuckling. "I'm not sure that Father Lovett heard you all the way in the rectory!"

Thinking this was an instruction instead of sarcasm, Chucky repeated his greeting in a considerably louder voice. This made Rusty laugh harder, almost as loudly as Chucky had called to them the first time.

All four of the others stood and stretched their legs, eager to get on the Tilt-A-Whirl and Ferris Wheel. When they did, Rusty realized that the shirt Jacob was wearing wasn't just a plain blue short-sleeve. Emblazoned in white on its front was the design of a leaf, the outline of inflammatory words knocked out of it and showing proudly.

"Ohhhh shit!" Rusty cried, his face pulling down in a frown. "Please tell me that you're not standing in my church wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs shirt!"

Jacob looked down at the emblem on his chest, smiling slyly and declaring that The Leafs were his favorite team. His father had been from Ontario and was a big fan of the club, so he figured he was paying homage to him by becoming one himself.

"This is Blackhawk country, boy!" Rusty joshed spiritedly. "Don't nobody around here like The Leafs! Blasphemy! Right here, in the house of God! Blasphemy, I say!"

Jacob laughed, but then poked back by citing the six game conference quarter-final series of the previous season \-- the one in which The Leafs had knocked The Hawks out of Stanley Cup contention.

"A fluke!" Rusty rebutted. "It won't go that way this year, just you wait and see!"

Hearing the rides spinning and twirling outside, hearing the people having fun and devouring funnel cakes, the boys made it clear with non-verbal cues that they weren't interested in Darkwing and Rusty's conversation. As a result, Jacob let the comment stand, despite his desire to express his conviction that Toronto would go all the way this season.

Chucky unbuttoned his khaki over shirt and ditched it on a pew, an action that displeased Rusty and brought a mild scolding.

"After all the cleaning we did today, Chuck, you're just gonna pitch that dirty shirt onto the pews and leave it?"

"No sir," Chucky replied politely. "I'll come back in and get it before I go home, I promise!"

"Be sure you do!" Rusty advised, "Because it'll be hell to pay if the father finds it there in the morning while he's preparing for the mass!"

"We'll make sure he gets it," Darkwing replied. "We're just excited to get out there."

Rusty smiled and nodded, putting aside their difference of opinion as relates to the politics of the National Hockey League and taking him at his word.

"Behave yourselves out there, guys!" he said more seriously. "I don't want to see any of you in the paper tomorrow morning as suspects in a case of stuffed-animal-napping! And be careful! Above all else, by God, be careful! Look out for each other, just like Sheriff Rambo told you!"

TWENTY

September 10th, 2016. 1:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"You've got two choices," Clyde explained as a teapot whined on the flaming gas burner of his stove. "Will it be Earl Grey, or Darjeeling?"

Jake wasn't much of a tea drinker, so he had no idea what either of the options were. Had Rambo asked him to choose between Jack and Jim Beam, or Bacardi and Captain Morgan, he could've offered a response immediately. The look of uncertainty on his face illustrated how much of a conundrum this was to his host, so Rambo tried to better define the options.

"Do you want a womanly tea or a manly one?" he offered.

"Manly," Jake replied confidently, figuring it to be the most reasonable answer.

"Then it's Earl Grey," Rambo said, pulling a tall square tin from a cabinet.

The process Clyde undertook from there was fascinating to Jake, because he always thought that tea was simply prepared by putting a bag containing leaves into a cup of hot water and then dipping it in and out. He had never known anyone to do it in what Rambo said was the traditional manner, the only way to do it, in his opinion.

When the man opened his tin, the air was filled with smells that were as foreign to Jake as this new technique. It was rich and heavy with notes of citrus, perhaps licorice as well. It smelled quite good, actually, which led Jake to wonder if this tea business was something worth looking into. It was a fleeting curiosity, an idea that was quashed by the ever present imperious cry of double indemnity before it had even the slightest opportunity to germinate and bloom.

Clyde dipped a spoon into the container and came out with a scoop of black swirls and things that looked like twigs. Unceremoniously and without a hint of grace, he flung the first of several heaping spoonfuls into the pot, then replaced the lid to let it steep once he felt it was metered out to taste..

While the roots infused the boiling water with their flavors, he retrieved two teacups, complete with saucers, and placed them on the dining room table at which Jake was seated. Using an oven mitt to protect his garden-savvy fingers, he brought the teapot over and set it at the center, where steam billowed from around its lid as it sat. Reaching into a drawer and digging through what sounded like an incredible stash of silverware, he produced two wire-mesh baskets with handles. He placed one over the top of each cup before finally taking a seat across from his guest.

Jake had placed the manila envelope full of reports on the table when he'd sat, waiting for the former sheriff to be settled in before he broached what could be a tender subject. He knew that he would be asking a lot when he exposed the papers and begged for answers, knew that he would be putting Rambo in a tough spot by requesting information to which he was not entitled. Part of him was nervous about the endeavor, afraid that he was asking too much of an old man who wanted nothing more than to mind his own business and enjoy the serenity of his gardens.

It was crucial, though, that he at least try to get the answers he was after... that he make every effort to learn as many details as were possible. The reports gave him nothing to go on, no logical arc to follow in pursuing an investigation. The redactions were standing between him and a thorough understanding of the cases of old with impudence, refusing to reveal the similarities between the murder of Billy Marsh and the children of the past, like a villain twirling his Sharpie-black mustache with a mischievous grin. A malefactor flying under the tattered flag of The State, the seditionist held valuable clues as hostages... clues that would exonerate Chucky once Jake liberated them and paraded them around in the open light of day.

"So, Clyde," he began shyly.

Rambo threw up his index finger, demanding one last moment of peace before the orb of sanctuary that was his retirement would be torn asunder and obliterated . Reaching for the teapot, he twirled it in the air slightly to ensure a thorough distribution of the flavors inside before he began to dole it out.

Jake marveled at the hot liquid pouring from its spout in a bit of awe -- seeing a much darker looking concoction than he expected emerge from it, bearing bits of debris and smelling like heaven in libationary effluence. The black swirls and twig-like miscellany collected in the strainer over his cup, allowing only the glorious juice to trickle through and prepare to please his palate. Once his cup was filled, Clyde pulled the pot to his side of the table and drizzled the brew into his own mesh basket. Watching for guidance in how he was expected to proceed, Jake studied Clyde's lifting of the strainer from his cup. He saw the sage and learned master whirl the colander around a bit, presumably coaxing the most delectable drops of tea from the leavings in the basket. With a final set of taps of the handle against the cup's rim, Rambo lifted the strainer over the table and placed it on an empty saucer at the center. Trying to duplicate each of his motions exactly, Jake whirled his own strainer and tapped it as well, placed it down on the empty saucer just the same.

The Sheriff was the first to take a sip, wincing at the temperature as the liquid met his lips. Eager to share in the pleasures of this ritual, Jake mirrored his old friend and cautiously slurped just the slightest bit into his mouth. When the tea hit his tastebuds, he cringed as well -- but not because it was too hot... it could've used another minute or two to cool down, of that there was no doubt. That was not the problem, though, not even just a little bit. The real problem, the true cause of the grimace he must certainly now be wearing, was the fact that this particular nectar of the gods -- delicious as it smelled -- tasted to his mouth like so much sewage, filtered through twice used potting soil and left to brew in kettles filled with moth balls.

Clyde laughed heartily at this, at the face Jake was making, and grabbed hold of his large belly as it jiggled.

"I told you it was a manly tea, Jacob!" he chuckled.

Jake set the cup back on the saucer and pushed it away as politely as he could. Apparently, he should've chosen the womanly concoction -- Earl Grey sucked ass. Rambo took another sip, as though to show off just how much more manly he was than the little boy who sat across from him.

Probably has a chest covered with thick and curly hair, that one, Jake thought... could probably bench-press the Colossus of Rhodes and take his showers in the plunge pool of Niagara, that supreme lord of masculinity. To enjoy a taste like Earl Grey, he must have balls of polished brass and a cock that drags under foot as he walks, that champion gladiator of Valhalla.

"Here's what's going on," Jake started again, tempted to spit the tainted saliva from his mouth to aid in cleansing his palate.

As he began uncoiling the red string that kept the envelope sealed, the table suddenly shook. A loud whomp sounded out in unison with the tremor as Clyde slammed his hand down on the packet, stopping Jake's attempt to open it and startling the hell out of him all at once.. That awful tea swirled in the cup he'd pushed away, spinning in a cyclone that made a good amount of it spill over the rim and collect in the saucer underneath it.

Jake's hands instinctively pulled back and froze out in front of him, palms down and fingers spread wide. Shocked and surprised at the seemingly angry outburst, he raised his eyes with his head still bowed and saw Rambo glaring at him ferociously. His eyes were flared and fiery, the intensity of them sending a hot flash through Jake's body.

"Do you know Holmes, Jake?" Clyde asked curtly and mysteriously.

Jake sat still for a moment, confused and mortified. "What?" he asked. "You mean, like, Sherlock Holmes?"

Rambo nodded, then recited from memory. "It's a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly, one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."

Jake wasn't sure what he meant by that, wasn't sure how it pertained to his trying to open the packet. His hands still held out in consternation, he tried to reason out what the former sheriff was getting at. The man still held the envelope pressed to the table, still scowled at him as though he was incensed.

Insistently, Rambo elaborated. "I don't want to hear anything from you about what you think is going on! What you think, feel or believe is irrelevant! All that matters is what's in black in white, what's on the record!"

"Sooooo --" Jake said, cautiously. "You don't want any of the back story?"

"Did you witness the backstory?" Clyde asked.

Jake shook his head, he hadn't... had only heard it from Donnell, who heard it in turn from Louie. Perhaps Clyde figured it would work out like those games of telephone played in elementary school, where a sentence ends up twisted and disjointed as it's whispered around the circle. He didn't have an opportunity to ask, though, Rambo didn't give him the chance.

"Then it's hearsay!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't mean shit. If you tell me what you want me to see in these papers, I'll mold my opinion either around it or against it subconsciously. I can only give you a true opinion if I'm taking everything at face value. Unobjectified, uninterpreted, unprofaned!"

Jake nodded slowly, finally lowering his hands from their bewildered hovering and resting them on his lap. Whatever Clyde was insinuating, it was obvious that he didn't want Jake to touch the envelope -- didn't want him to pull the papers out or explain what they were.

Rambo slid the packet across the surface of the table, dragging it closer to him before reaching for his tea with his opposite hand. He took a long sip, then wiped his lips. After rubbing the moisture from his fingers onto his overalls, he finished uncoiling the red string that kept the envelope sealed. Opening it wide, he pulled all of the papers from it at once and set them down in front of him.

Reaching into the front pocket of his overalls, he retrieved a pair of glasses and fixed them over his eyes. When he looked down to examine the first page, his brow furled -- as though he were perturbed at what he saw. He lifted it from the others and set it to his left, then scanned over the second page through his spectacles. The sight of this one apparently even more shocking to him than the first, his mouth dropped open in what could only be described as astonishment. His brow still rippled, he ripped the glasses from his face briskly and recklessly. The arms hyperextended with the violence of the action, the frames only being spared destruction by spring hinges, purpose-built and specifically installed to protect themselves in the event of just such an occurrence. Holding the bifocals between his thumb and index finger, he looked up to Jake with contempt.

"Where the hell did you get these reports?" he asked bluntly.

Jake didn't respond immediately, his mind racing in a tizzy of conflicting thoughts. Donnell had spelled out the risk Louie was taking in producing them pretty explicitly, he didn't want to get his old friend in any trouble -- even if the trouble was only with his father. Thinking back on Launchpad's description of the proper way to get them, he fibbed a bit to keep things on the legal side.

"Donnell filed a Freedom Of Information request, that's what we got back."

"Bullshit!" Clyde declared in a combination of a chuckle and a firm assertion. "These records are sealed, son!"

"Well, yeah!" Jake stammered. "That's why they're all redacted!"

"Redacted and sealed are quite different, Jake!" Rambo barked. "Sealed means you get nothing! These reports are only available to law enforcement personnel, even the redacted versions! You didn't get these through any FOIA request, there's no way in Hell!"

The man's glare was angry, and Jake was immediately unnerved. He felt backed into a corner, trapped with no clear path of egress.

"Did Louie give these to you?" Clyde deduced, fuming.

Jake remained silent, which was answer enough. The old sheriff snorted, threw up his hands in exasperation. Shaking his head, he drew a deep breath to steady and calm himself.

"You know this is a crime, right?" he asked, bordering on belligerence. "These papers, even in this form are essentially classified! Shit, if Boudreaux knew you had these..."

"But he doesn't know!" Jake answered provisionally. "And I'm certainly not gonna tell him!"

Rambo ruffled through the rest of the packet, trying to determine exactly how deep they were in the shit by ascertaining how many restricted documents they were looking at. When he'd scanned them all, he posed the twenty-five thousand dollar question.

"What exactly are you thinking I'm gonna do, Jake?" he asked. "How many laws do you expect I'm going to break here?"

"As many as are required in order for you to tell me what's been redacted from those papers!" Jake suggested. "You're a smart man, Clyde, you've probably figured out that Billy Marsh is dead! I need to tie his murder to The Butcher. If I can figure out who that was along the way, all the better."

This made Clyde laugh heartily again, made him grab hold of his jiggling belly to steady it just as before. It wasn't clear to Jake which part of his statement was so funny to the man, which part he found so ridiculous. He realized there were several portions that were subject to dissection, and the old man was sure to vivisect each of them.

"You think it's just that easy, huh son?" he snickered. "That is why you came back to Burlwood? To make a name for yourself? You think you're just gonna roll into town twenty two years after the fact and crack a case that professionals couldn't break? A case that some of the most superb detectives in the country spent years trying to solve? What, you think you're gonna track down The Butcher and shoot him a couple of times with that big old gun of yours, like you're the Lone Ranger of 2016? That's the goal?"

Jake didn't find this funny in the least, and he made it obvious in his facial expression. Seeing the affront in his countenance made Rambo giggle more, and he wasn't inclined to make an effort to stifle his laughter. He folded his glasses dismissively as he chuckled and stuffed them back into his pocket, then offered his thoughts as a final declaration.

"I can't help you, son, I don't think it would be wise to encourage you in this endeavor. I'm really sorry to hear about Billy Marsh, I met the kid once at Our Mother -- he seemed like a wonderful boy. Frankly, though, I find it very hard to believe that his death was in any way related to those of the other kids -- The Butcher is retired, quite possibly dead to boot."

"How can you say that?" Jake asked incredulously. "If you didn't know who the man was, how can you assume that he's retired or dead?"

Rambo settled into his chair a bit and tilted his head back, as though he was relaxing in consideration of how he would respond. Taking another long breath, he ran his hands through his scraggly beard contemplatively. Reaching a conclusion of some sort, he eventually answered the charge. "Knowing who committed a crime doesn't necessarily equate to proving who committed a crime, Jake. I'm going far beyond my purview in confessing that I have very strong suspicions about who the legendary Butcher Of Burlwood was -- but I can say quite certainly that the men who were the prime suspects are either dead or very old at this point. I doubt highly that they've decided to reignite the fire twenty two years after they retreated with their tail between their legs, under the pressure we applied to them. And on that note, trust me when I say that we applied a lot of pressure."

"So, what then?" Jake asked cantankerously. "You won't even look at the report on Billy Marsh to see if it fits the pattern? You won't even consider the idea that this is somehow related? You're just gonna let Ron Boudreaux crucify Chucky?"

Clyde recoiled and balked just as he was preparing to rebut Jake's argument. His eyes bolted open, wider even than they had when he first caught sight of and recognized the visitor in his garden earlier in the day. There was no conflict in his oculi any longer, no sign of any apprehension. He gawked stupidly at Jacob, now, his mouth falling agape once again.

"They think Chucky did it?" he asked, dumbfounded.

Jake was as flabbergasted as Clyde, now, but his bewilderment was simply at the fact that Rambo hadn't pieced that much together. He prefaced this entire meeting with Chucky needs your help, it doesn't get much more plain or obvious than that. He had invoked the name of Sherlock Holmes just moments ago, a man who would certainly have deduced this basic premise upon consideration of their dialogue. Shit, Watson probably would've picked up on it.

Giving the man -- the very old man -- the benefit of the doubt, he simply expounded upon the fact more explicitly. "He's facing kidnapping, first degree murder and mutilation of a corpse, Clyde! Boudreaux wants to see him get the death penalty! That's why I'm here, Clyde, to clear Chucky! That's why I need to tie Billy into the old murders, why I need to figure out who The Butcher was, so I can pin this on his ass!"

Rambo seemed to ponder this for a moment, seemed to be calculating and computing the odds. He didn't figure there was much chance that The Butcher would've crawled out of the shadows he'd hidden in for two decades, but he suddenly wanted to believe it was somehow possible. Twisting facts to suit theories, he put his glasses back on and started sifting through the reports again.

Jake watched as he cursorily scanned each of the papers, setting one pair to his left and then riffling through the others until he found another in particular that he was looking for. Once he found it, he placed it just to the right of the first. After more riffling, he pulled several sets of papers from the pile and placed them to the right of the second set. Having only a few pages left, he set one pair to the right of the third -- making four distinct piles -- and then gathered what was left into a small packet that he held in his hands.

Clyde studied that set carefully, his eyes scanning the words and images slowly as wheels turned in his mind. He gave no outward indication of what he saw, allowed no muscle to move on his face that might give away what he was discerning. After a few tense and silent moments, he pulled one paper from the group and turned it in Jake's direction.

"Did you read this report?" he asked categorically.

Jake looked at the page, realized it was the coroner's report for Billy Marsh. This gave him pause, made him think. He had looked at it... but did he read it?

Clyde saw his hesitation, jumped all over it.

"Look here," he said, pointing to a typed sentence. "Read that, will you? Read it out loud."

Jake focused his eyes where Rambo was pointing and did as instructed. "The penis is normally developed and unremarkable," he recited.

Rambo stared at his face, waited for him to make the connection. It took a few seconds, but he eventually figured it out. It came as a memory, swirling, swirling... it came in Chucky's voice, saying why do you think Pennywise rips their cocks off, Darkwing?

"See?" Clyde put on the exclamation point with the question. "Now look at this part..."

Jake followed his finger, read aloud again.

"The left hand is normally developed and unremarkable."

Swirling, swirling... oh God, it's missing its thumb and I can see the bone in there!

"If you read the rest, you'll find other things, too," Rambo explained. "Shit, I see a ton of things... things you won't see, because you don't know... things that are redacted in the other reports you've got... things that we managed to keep out of the press. We tried to keep a lot out of the press, in order to protect our investigation. Some of it leaked... some of it always leaks. Look closely, though, and you'll see that Billy Marsh was not sodomized, either."

Trying to pry himself away from the swirling, Jake considered what this meant -- what it could possibly mean. "You're saying this isn't related to the others?" he asked. "You're saying this is entirely different?"

Rambo sighed, rubbed his forehead. "It's not entirely different," he conceded. "There are some things in this report that raise my hackles, I can't deny that."

"What kinds of things?"

"Things that worry me," he replied vaguely. "Let me start by saying that my first impression, upon looking at this report, would be that this was the work of a copycat killer. Our troubles here were well publicized, you know that. The public at large knows the basics \-- the ages of the kids, the circumstances of their murders and the manner in which they were disposed. The thing with the missing thumbs we managed to keep quiet... you knew, because you saw the Banks boy's arm. The press never got a hold of that, so it would make sense that a copycat killer would just not know that he was supposed to take the left thumb. It was, however, publicly known that they boys had been molested, and that they had been castrated. I'm not too sure how that got out, but it did. Some asshole CSI tech probably took the chance to have his fifteen minutes of fame, I don't know, but it doesn't matter anyway -- it was out there. Most copycat criminals try to duplicate the crimes exactly as they had been done -- try to recreate history, as it were. Therefore, I have a nagging doubt that this was just an homage to a serial killer of old."

"Then don't you think it's possible that it was The Butcher. That he just changed things up a bit? Just threw in a curve, to confuse things?"

Rambo considered this, but dismissed it quickly. "There are too many differences." he explained, volunteering no additional examples. "I mean, I guess maybe he got lazy... sloppy in his old age... hell, maybe his dick doesn't work anymore, that could explain the lack of sodomy. It doesn't explain the other things, though, the other differences."

This confused Jake. If things were so remarkably different, what had raised Rambo's hackles? What troubled him, worried him, as he said? It must've been that there was some other similarity -- something that a run of the mill copycat wouldn't have known, wouldn't have done.

"What are you holding back from me, Clyde?" Jake probed, trying to be as gentle about it as he could. "What do you see on that paper that worries you?"

Rambo spun the report so that he could read it himself again, scanned it once more just as thoroughly as he'd scanned it the first time. He seemed hesitant to speak, hesitant to reveal anything crucial \-- as though he were still trying to protect some investigation that was covered with twenty two years worth of dust. A case that was as cold as ice, its file still guarded with all the secrecy of 1994.

"Come on, Clyde!" Jake begged. "Help me, here!"

Running his hand over his brow, pulling it down through his scraggly beard again, Rambo took arms against all of the training he had ever received. He struggled to suppress his better judgement, struggled to force himself to confide secrets that he had guarded for so long that they seemed locked away even from him... locked away tightly, filed in a musty volume and forbidden to his lips. Wrestling with it, wrestling with himself, he cracked the book carefully.

"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I could get into if I tell you what's under the black on those reports of yours?" he asked. "When I say that shit is sealed, I mean it is sealed! To get a peek under those redactions, you need the expressed permission of the FBI -- of Alberto Gomez himself!"

"I don't have time for that," Jake said. "Chucky doesn't have time for that! You've got to do this, Clyde, you've got to help me, here!"

Rambo thought more, thought harder... tried to think of any alternative. None came to mind, none that solved the riddle -- none that would be of any use to Chucky.

They sat in silence, but this wasn't that vociferous silence that spoke so freely in Jake's previous experiences with it. He couldn't infer anything from it, had no idea what Clyde was thinking. He cogitated as thoroughly as he could, turned it over and over in his mind -- for what it was worth, in his withdrawal -- and could only hope the old sheriff would show his hand.

Making his decision, locking in his answer, Rambo postulated a scenario. "Let's pretend for a moment, Jake," he began, illustrating with bizarre hand gestures. "Let's make believe that you were some kind of maniac psycho... that you were out for a cheap thrill, that you wanted to get off on an act of depravity."

Jake absorbed his words, not having to stretch his imagination far to meet with Clyde's machinations. Given his behavior of late, he might be diagnosed with ill-repute if subjected to the examination of a psychiatrist.

"Now," Rambo continued, framing things with more gestures. "Let's imagine you decide that you want to recreate a murder of the past, that you want to follow in the footsteps of The Butcher Of Burlwood and duplicate one of his crimes."

"Okay," Jake acknowledged.

"You pick a kid, you take him... and then what? Based on what you know about the murders -- based on what the public knows about the murders... what do you do?"

Jake wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to describe, which aspect of the affair he was expected to outline. He held his hands out as if to ask what do you mean, needing further instruction before he responded.

Clyde picked up on the signal and articulated in response. "How do you actually kill the victim? Specifically, what do you do?"

This furled Jake's brow, his eyebrows raising in realization. As familiar as he thought he was with the atrocities committed by The Butcher, he discovered that he couldn't answer this seemingly fundamental question. He knew the children were sodomized, he knew they were dismembered, he knew they were castrated -- but he wasn't sure exactly how they were murdered... exactly what had brought about their deaths.

The silence that followed this inquiry did speak to Rambo... it answered his query just the way he expected it to.

"There were only five people on the face of this planet that knew everything that is redacted from those reports! That includes the details of exactly how they were killed, and how they were dismembered. Only five people who knew precisely how those things were done. You're talking to one of them now. The others were Agent Gomez, Ron Boudreaux, Doctor Felton and The Butcher Of Burlwood. Doctor Felton passed away three years ago... so there should be only four, now."

The way he spoke those words led Jake to believe Rambo wasn't sure that was the case... that something on the coroner's report had him questioning that theory. The old man steepled his fingers and bowed his head to them, closing his eyes and retreating from the suspicion he was still struggling to utter aloud.

Seeing his struggle, Jake let him think about it for a moment. When he felt the time was right, when it seemed the soup was ready, he opened his mouth in anticipation of the spoon. "Are there only four?" he asked.

Clyde looked up and gazed deeply into his eyes. Jake could see a certainty in the old man's expression that was immutable and intense. Not relying on the osmotic connection between them to communicate the answer, Rambo destroyed the chains that had kept his musty volume of secrets sealed with a savage blow of mighty revelation.

"Not unless one of us killed Billy Marsh!"

TWENTY-ONE

Timothy Lane, Part 2

September 24th, 1994. Time Unknown

Location Unknown

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

Clank, click, twirl...

Clack, click, sway...

Around and around, side to side, forwards and backwards... over, and over, and over...

Timmy was so tired. His eyelids were heavy, as though they had weights lashed to them somehow... holding them closed as he tried to pry them open. Even when he managed to force them, his eyeballs rolled back into his head and tried to return him to a deep, dark sleep... a sleep deeper than he'd ever experienced, darker than he knew to be possible.

Why was he so tired?

Where was he?

He didn't remember going to bed... didn't remember going home... didn't remember leaving the carnival.

His thoughts were sluggish and confused, his memories hazy and seeming to trail behind him as he struggled to recall them. He remembered leaving Our Mother with Chucky and the rest of the boys... remembered buying an armband with the money his father had given him, remembered the person in the ticket booth strapping it around his wrist...

He remembered riding the Ferris Wheel, wishing Darkwing and Launchpad wouldn't spin their gondola so fast when they got to the top. It was scary when they were at the top, and the spinning was making him dizzy. He remembered them laughing, remembered Chucky screaming like a girl.

He remembered strapping himself into a bumper car, remembered crashing into the wall and not being able to figure out how to get his vehicle turned around... remembered the car with Darkwing and Chucky coming at him way too fast, crashing into the side of him and spinning his car free.

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

He still couldn't keep his eyes open, still couldn't figure out where he was... he wasn't in his bed, he could tell he wasn't in his bed...

Was he on another ride?

It sounded like he was... felt like he was. He was disoriented and dizzy, and more than that, he was just so tired.

Trying to piece things together, he struggled to free his thoughts from the confusion they were in. The fog was clearing, but only slightly -- only very slightly, and very slowly.

Thinking hard, trying to think hard, he remembered the boys wanting to go on The Ring of Fire. He was afraid of that ride, it was too big and too loud... looked too scary for him. It was a giant circle, rising high into the darkened sky of the evening. Colorful lights flickered and strobed on the sides of the track, red, yellow, pink, green, purple, orange, blue... the colors of fire, the colors of flame... they were mesmerizing to him... hypnotizing to him... the name of the ride flashed in fiery red and orange bulbs, Ring of Fire -- Ring of Fire -- Ring of Fire -- until he was in a trance... until he felt like he was feeling now, dazed, distant and confused.

He remembered watching a train of caged cars starting at the bottom of the ring, watching it being pulled by a big cable halfway up the circle and then rolling back... going halfway up the other side, in the opposite direction. The noises got louder, the rumbling and roaring more intense -- like metallic thunder -- until it was almost deafening. The train raced back to the bottom of the circle, went farther up the other side than it had the first time... the people in the car screamed, the noises growing louder still, more intense still. The train raced back down to the bottom of the ring and rocketed up the other side until it was all the way upside down, where it stopped and hung... just froze there, upside down... like he was now... hanging, like he was now... the people screaming... screaming like he wanted to. Then, the enclosed cars shuddered and roared down around the other side, clicking, clacking, clinking and clanking so loudly as it plunged down and back up... back around the entire circumference of The Ring of Fire... Ring of Fire... Ring of Fire... Ring of Fire... flashing, flashing, flashing, flashing...

Clank, click, twirl...

Clack, click, sway...

Was he on the Ring of Fire? Did he get on The Ring of Fire and faint, because he was so terrified?

No... no, he didn't...

He remembered saying no... saying he wasn't going on that ride... remembered the boys teasing him, calling him a pussy... all except Chucky, because he was scared too. And Darkwing, because Darkwing was nice... he remembered going to another ride, a different ride... what was it?

The Matterhorn... that's what it was. He remembered climbing into a car on The Matterhorn, remembered the car swinging as Louie climbed in with him... remembered Launchpad whining that he had to ride alone because Chucky insisted on riding with Darkwing... remembered Louie telling him there was room in their gondola, remembered Launchpad climbing in and remembered feeling squished like a sardine in a can.

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

He remembered The Matterhorn starting, remembered rolling forward slowly... spinning slowly around a circle, going up and down over humps, picking up speed and the car rocking back and forth... centrifugal force, that's why the car started to sway up into the air... he remembered thinking about science class, remembered learning about physics and centrifugal force, remembered thinking that's why the gondola was fully parallel with the wooden slats of the ride's platform as they spun, and spun, and spun...

Clank, clink, twirl...

Clack, click, sway...

There had been loud music, he remembered the music... he could hear the music in his head, still, over the strange ringing in his ears, he could hear it... he could hear the words, but he couldn't understand what they were... it sounded like he was in a tunnel, sounded like the music was muffled and echoing around him in a tunnel... the words were being sung fast, but they were slow to him, now -- like time was slowed down... still, the words ran together... still, they didn't make any sense... why did he hear them, still? Was he still on The Matterhorn? Was he losing consciousness because he was being squeezed too tightly in the car with Launchpad and Louie?

Prettylittlethingletmelightyourcandlecausemamaimsohardtohandlenowyesiam...

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

No... he wasn't on The Matterhorn anymore... he remembered getting off, remembered being dizzy and feeling like he wanted to throw up... he needed to eat, he remembered needing to eat... wanting to eat to settle his stomach...

Funnel cakes... that's what they got, with the rest of the money his father had given him, he got a funnel cake... Launchpad didn't have any more money, so Timmy told him he would share... he did share... shared his funnel cake and his Coke... shared them with Launchpad...

Clank, clink, twirl...

Clack, click, sway...

Then what happened?

The Gravitron... that's what happened next. He remembered getting on The Gravitron... remembered leaning against a smelly pad on the wall, remembered starting to spin... faster and faster, round and round, clockwise with a bullet, he remembered more centrifugal force... too much centrifugal force... overwhelming centrifugal force... he remembered his chest feeling heavy as he was pressed into the smelly red pad... remembered a click and clack, remembered a clink and clank as mechanisms were released and the wall he was being held against rose up from the floor and he was floating... floating, like he was now...

Was he still on The Gravitron?

No... he remembered the rest of the ride...

He remembered feeling sick, remembered his funnel cake wanting to come back up... remembered tasting it again, the fried dough and the powdered sugar together with stomach acid and burning as puke sprayed out of his mouth and the centrifugal force made it spread all around his face... remembered the operator stopping the ride, remembered the chunky remnants of the funnel cake coming down off of the red pad and settling on his shoulders, running down the chest of his shirt and getting everywhere... remembered not wanting to wear the shirt anymore, remembered taking it off and throwing it away in a big fifty-five gallon drum... remembered the boys laughing at him -- all except Darkwing, who was really nice to him about it... remembered Darkwing telling the other boys to shut up... remembered the shirt...

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

He remembered going to the area with the porta-potties, remembered going inside of one... remembered how bad it smelled... remembered crying just a little, but not about the smell... crying because he was embarrassed, because he was humiliated. He remembered taking a leak... remembered going back outside, remembered the whoosh and the sound of the plastic door slamming shut... remembered looking for the boys, remembered... ouch!

My neck! Something happened to my neck! It hurt! It feels like a bee stung me on the neck... where did the bee come from? There are no bees here... and it burns... why does it burn so bad?

That's where it all trailed off... that's where the haze began, where the path ended... now, he was here... here and so tired...

Clank, clink, twirl...

Clack, click, sway...

A voice... he could hear a voice... it wasn't a memory, wasn't the screaming of joy and terror of people at the carnival, wasn't the voice of any of his friends... it was strange, deep and slow... a man's voice, but it was distant, it was disjointed... it was angry... it was arguing... what was it saying?

Wrong... same... fucked... blue... black... close... fault... late... anyway... finish...

What did that mean?

What was going on?

Where was he?

Why was he upside down?

Why was it so cold?

Why did it feel like he wasn't wearing any clothes?

Why did his behind hurt?

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

A dark figure moving towards him... a shadow... a silhouette... something in its hand... a familiar figure... a familiar outline... a familiar face... but a shadow...

Clunk...

No more swaying, no more twirling... hands on his torso... cold hands... something pressing against his neck... pressure... swift motion... wetness... lightheadedness... black...

Nothing...

TWENTY-TWO

September 10th, 2016. 2:15PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"The Jews call it Shechita," Clyde explained, pouring Jake a glass of lemonade since Earl Grey was out of the question. "Muslims call it Dhabihah. It's essentially the same thing either way, a ritual slaughter to make meat either Kosher or Halal, pick your God, pick your poison."

Jake listened intently as Rambo finally confided the secrets hidden beneath the redactions of his illicitly obtained reports. He was familiar with the terms Kosher and Halal, but didn't really know what either meant. They certainly weren't considerations in his diet, which had largely consisted of Whoppers and Big Macs as of late. He took a sip of the lemonade and found it incredibly sour, incredibly tart. Apparently, the old man's tastebuds required strong flavors to be stimulated. It would do, though, so he drank and clung to every word spoken.

"Traditionally, it's done with an animal either standing or laying on its back. That wasn't the case with the children, they were all hung upside down. Quite obviously with a chain, wrapped around their ankles."

Clyde turned several of the reports towards Jake so he could look down at them on the table.

"Here," he said, pointing to swaths of black on each of them under the heading of external examination. "These are descriptions of the bruising each victim had around his ankles. They were very pronounced, very dark. You could see the individual links of the chain, could see how they'd dug into the flesh. They were probably left hanging for a good period of time, based on how set in the bruises were."

"Is that ever done with the animals?" Jake asked. "As part of the Shec -- Shec--"

"Shechita," Rambo finished for him. "Well, yes. In mass production situations, it can be. Same with the Dhabihah, it's not unheard of. The ultimate goal of either method is complete exsanguination, so hanging the carcass upside down can help speed that process. It can also help keep the mess, if you will, confined... allow the blood to flow straight down, like a waterfall, instead of just spurting out all over the place."

Rambo referred back to the Billy Marsh report, checking the details to be sure he wasn't twisting facts to suit theories too severely. Satisfied that he wasn't, that it was all there, in black in white, he continued his description of the process.

"In the Dhabihah rite, the person carrying out the ritual must keep the blade he'll use concealed as he approaches the animal and feels for the jugular. Before he completes the act, he must invoke Allah by saying Bismillah -- which means in the name of God. That's where the differences between Dhabihah and Shechita end, though, the rest is exactly the same. The executioner uses a knife called a Hallaf or Sakin, which is basically just a long, sharp blade with no point... kind of like a meat cleaver, but razor sharp."

Tilting his head back, exposing his aged neck, he simulated the process with a finger as he explained.

"The blade is pulled across the length of the neck swiftly and smoothly, with no pause or hesitation. In a single pass, the trachea, esophagus, carotid arteries, jugular veins and the vagus nerve are severed."

Looking back to the table, Rambo cited several more redacted sentences in both the external and internal examination sections.

"Here, here, here," he said as he pointed. "It was the same for all the boys... the same for Billy Marsh. It's not a bad way to go, really -- it happens very quickly. They would've experienced a rapid drop of blood pressure in their brains, been rendered unconscious and insensitive to pain almost immediately. We're not even sure they were conscious when it happened, really, based on the levels and types of drugs we found in their systems."

"Yeah," Jake said, his memory jogged. "That's right, I wanted to ask you about that. I noticed that the toxicology results were redacted entirely. What was that all about?"

"It was about the drugs!" Clyde laughed. "We figured it was a lead, so we quashed it!"

"What drugs?" Jake asked, a suspicion stirring in him. "Was it meth?"

"Meth?" Rambo snorted. "What in God's name would make you think that? Hell no, it wasn't meth! What, you think the boys were addicts or something?"

Jake didn't respond, just let that exchange trail off and die for a moment. This wasn't the time nor the place to talk about the meth... neither the time nor place at all. When it settled, he resumed. "What was it, then?"

The old sheriff looked at the reports in the piles he'd laid them out in, the four stacks he'd made initially when he'd pulled them from the envelope.

"It changed," he explained. "Evolved, I guess, along with a couple of other things. I set this spread out in illustration of the progression. I guess it'll be easier if I just explain everything at once, point out all of the differences so you can understand the growth of The Butcher. The first pile over here on my left, these are the reports about Gary Duncan. His toxicology report revealed that he'd been subdued with Halothane. It's an inhaled general anesthetic, you could douse a rag with it and hold it over someone's mouth and nose, like they do with Chloroform in the movies. It would take a minute, it doesn't happen like it does on television, but that's likely how it was used. That can be dangerous, though, because the person doing the sedating could end up sedated himself, if he wasn't careful. The alternative would've been to vaporize it and mix it with O2, then administer it as a gas through a mask. That requires equipment and know how, so we figured it didn't go that way. In either case, Halothane would produce complete anesthesia. The victim would've been entirely unconscious, entirely asleep. Doctor Felton said that practically anybody who was determined enough could get his hands on Halothane, though it's typically a bit of a pain if you're not a doctor."

"Was Duncan the only one it was used on?" Jake asked, seeing that the next report over from that was Joshua Banks, the second victim of The Butcher.

"No," Clyde responded. "Joshua Banks' system had Halothane in it, too, but I've put his reports in this second pile because there were two other differences worth noting. The first is that Gary was sodomized postmortem... apparently, the creep didn't much enjoy necrophilia, because it was the only time we could say for sure that this was the case. The other difference was that Gary's remains were hacked into pieces. Felton figured it was done with an axe or similar tool, it was crude and savage. Very sloppy."

Jake was caught in a momentary swirl of memories, thinking back to that afternoon in Booger Woods... thinking back to holding Joshua's arm, which seemed cleanly and smoothly severed at the shoulder.

"The Banks boy was molested while he was alive, and he was cut up cleanly." Rambo continued. "Our first impression was that it was done with some sort of saber or jig saw, but we had forensic anthropologists study his remains, and they disagreed. Their determination was that the cutting action was unidirectional, that it couldn't have been done with any type of reciprocating blade. The kerf was smooth, with only microscopic striations. They wouldn't rule out a circular saw with a very fine toothed blade, but they figured a bandsaw was the most likely culprit."

Nodding, Jake thought about all of the bandsaws he'd seen in his youth... every red-blooded man in Burlwood had a bandsaw, it was like having a microwave oven for Christ's sake. That didn't give him anything to go on, nothing that would lead him to an answer.

Rambo looked down to the third pile of papers, the one that was the thickest of them all. "This is where The Butcher got settled in," he explained. "Dawson, Wade and Marshall... all three were almost identical, almost the same in every regard. They were sodomized while alive, and sedated with Xylazine. This was a major change, Xylazine is injected, not inhaled. All three of the boys, and Timmy Lane, too, had puncture wounds on their necks. Doctor Felton said they were consistent with an injection given with a hypodermic syringe, most likely using a 22 gauge needle. The choice of drug was interesting, too, because Xylazine isn't typically used on human beings."

"What is it used on, then?" Jake asked.

"All manner of animals, usually large ones. It's almost exclusively a veterinary drug, though, so Felton was a bit puzzled that The Butcher had transitioned to it. It's more easily acquired, so that could've been the motivation. Any veterinary supply shop would have it, especially around here, with all the farm animals. You don't need any kind of prescription or certification to get it. It's also available on the street, it sometimes finds it's way into speedballs -- along with cocaine and heroin. The effect isn't quite the same as that of Halothane, either. It can be used for general anesthesia, but it's primary action is just a mild sedation. The boys could've been conscious, but would've been very groggy and confused. "

"You said it was used on Timmy, too, right? And I know he was sodomized, so why is his report off to the side of that set?"

"Because, as you also know, Timmy's remains weren't found for over two months. That was a change, as was the fact that they were spread all over the goddamned town instead of dumped all together. Plus, I guess Timmy holds a special place in my heart, so I didn't want to put him in with the other boys. It wasn't The Butcher who killed Timmy... it was me! Me and my goddamned arrogance! I thought we had it covered, thought it was all under control! I practically begged Gomez to let us have that carnival, to restore a sense of normalcy! I told him I would take care of it... told him I would make sure nothing happened... and I failed... I failed Gomez, I failed Burlwood, and I failed poor little Timmy Lane!"

Jake nodded, understanding why his case was different. He didn't want to think about it, so he moved on and pressed the conversation forward.

"Billy Marsh was also injected with something, right?" he asked.

"Says who?" Rambo retorted.

The response wasn't what Jake had expected, and it jarred him. Thinking it over, he realized he'd only assumed this because it seemed to go hand in hand with the manner of execution. He figured Billy had been, figured that played a role in leading Clyde to believe that only someone with inside information could've carried out the murder.

"If he was, it's not on this autopsy report!" the old man concluded.

"So, what then?" Jake wondered. "He was just fully conscious for the whole thing? Wouldn't that be a glaring difference between his murder and those of the other boys?"

Studying the papers, Rambo offered only educated conjecture and speculation in his response. "There's nothing about a puncture wound, but I see references to petechial hemorrhages in his eyes. Do you watch any CSI? Forensic Files?"

Jake shook his head, he didn't.

"It's a sign of asphyxiation \-- or at least near asphyxiation. Some of the other findings in this report would suggest to me that Billy was still alive when his throat was slashed. It makes me wonder if whoever did this went the Halothane route and pressed a little too hard. Either that or he was strangled until he passed out, and it went from there. I don't see anything about any ligature or bruising on his neck, so I figure he either had to be smothered with something or have a rag with some kind of chemical on it over his mouth and nose, there's no way to know for sure until you get a peek at the toxicology, which will probably be at least another week yet."

"I don't get it," Jake said, "why would The Butcher revert to an old technique when he had a new preferred method? I mean, I assume it became his preferred method, considering he used it on four of the six other victims."

"That's a damn good question, Jake!" Clyde said sarcastically. "Maybe because this wasn't The Butcher at all!"

"So," Jake began, formulating his counter on the fly. "What you're suggesting is that someone -- some copycat -- correctly guessed that The Butcher drugged the kids, hung them upside down with a chain around their ankles, and slit their throats ritualistically? You really believe someone got all of that right?"

"I don't know what I believe, son!" Rambo replied sharply. "I don't see how they could've, no! But I also don't see how The Butcher \-- if it was really The Butcher \-- could've gotten so much wrong, either!"

Frustrated, the old sheriff cursed and threw up his hands. The entirety of the situation was boggling to him, he didn't understand how what he was seeing was possible. How any of the similarities he'd described in purging the secrets of the old case files were possible was a mystery that he just couldn't comprehend. With the differences, though, the reports on the Marsh boy didn't fit into the progression of the true Butcher at all. If this was supposed to be another piece of the old puzzle, it was not at all a proper shape to complete that familiar mural... that lingering bloodied canvas of murder done in portrait.

This crime was similar to the atrocities of the past... too similar.

However, it was also different than the others... too different.

"I don't know, Jake," he sighed. "I'm having a really hard time convincing myself that this is some sort of infernal resurrection... that it's the return of The Butcher Of Burlwood... at the same time, I can't explain the similarities away. I'm trying to, by God, I'm trying! Believe me, I'm trying."

"I know you are, Clyde," Jake agreed. "But I wish you wouldn't. I wish you would treat this as the seventh murder, because that's how I see it. On that note, I want to know more about the first six. When I looked at the old reports, I noticed that all of the trace evidence sections were redacted, too. What's that all about?"

Rambo shook his head and frowned, shrugging his shoulders as though to say nothing. "We processed Vitullo kits -- rape kits -- on all of the boys, but nothing came back. No foreign DNA, no hairs, nothing. It was suggested that the remains were soaked in or sprayed with bleach before they were discarded. If not that, they were at least thoroughly cleaned. We didn't find anything at all to help us."

"Why redact it, then?" Jake asked, confused.

Clyde glared at him accusingly again, took his cop tone as he barked "in case some asshole like you got ahold of the reports! We didn't want the press to see that we had nothing! If it leaked, we could say we had a lead... could say we were on the trail."

"What are these, then?" Jake asked, pointing to patches of black on the sketches depicting scenes at which the victim's remains had been discovered. "Something's been covered up on these, too, but not on the one for Billy Marsh."

Rambo looked at one of the examples, that of Gary Duncan, and answered dismissively. "Oh, that's nothing, too."

"It has to be something!" Jake insisted. "Do you mean to tell me that you blotted out nothing just for the sake of doing it?"

"It was a red herring, Jake, that's all! It's not even worth the time to talk about it!"

"How so?" he challenged. "How much time does it take to just tell me what it was? I mean, what the fuck was it, man? It takes two seconds!"

The old man rolled his eyes, realizing that Jake wasn't going to give up. "It won't help you, son" he began, "but if it will make you shut up, I'll tell you. We found these little things near the bodies. All of them, from Duncan to Lane. They were --" he paused, struggled to find the proper words as he cradled his hands as though to hold one of them. "They were idols, I guess."

"What kind of idols?"

"Oh, I dunno," he continued to fight for verbiage. "They were made of sticks and cloth, sometimes a bit of straw... they kind of resembled a little person, like a little doll or something. Somebody said they looked like Voodoo dolls, and that took us right down the rabbit hole. We tried to make some kind of connection with them, but we couldn't. It ended up derailing us for a while, pulled us off course and into things that we didn't have any business getting involved with. It was a dead end, I don't think it meant anything."

"How so?" Jake asked, flummoxed. "I mean, you've just described to me that these kids were ritualistically slaughtered, how can you say that finding something like that didn't tie in? Something with a religious connotation?"

"Because it's bullshit, Jake!" Rambo yelled. "It doesn't have anything to do with anything, we're in fuckin' Burlwood, Indiana here! You know of any Voodoo stirrings in fucking Burlwood? Besides, the ritualistic slaughter was sylized after Judaism and Islam, both so far removed from Voodoo that it's beyond ridiculous! Like I said, it was a red herring... something to throw us off the scent, that's all. Whoever The Butcher was, he was smart! Shit, he had to be smart to evade us for as long as he did! To leave no traces behind for us to sniff him out! Besides, you said it yourself, there wasn't one when they found Billy Marsh. That doesn't help you tie his death to the others now, does it? Like I said, it's useless... so forget about it, don't fall into the same traps we did! That shit will lead you around in circles, and you'll end up nowhere!"

That made sense to Jake, especially the part about it not being at the Billy Marsh scene. Even if he found some mysterious Voodoo sect buried deep beneath the devoutly Catholic facade of Burlwood, it wouldn't serve him in freeing Chucky, considering there was no indication that any such sect was involved in Billy's murder. If there had been an idol there... well, that would've been an entirely different story.

"Okay, point taken," Jake replied. "So, let's press on."

"I've told you all there is to tell, son," Rambo said. "I've told you way more than I should've, there's nothing left to say."

"Oh, there's plenty left to say!" Jake asserted.

"Like what?" Clyde wondered.

"You said The Butcher was either dead or very old... you said knowing something and proving something are different... you said you had a very strong suspicion about who he was... so -- let's hear it! Who do you believe was The Butcher Of Burlwood?"

Rambo laughed heartily yet again, his belly shaking just as before. "You remind me of more Holmes, my friend!" he smiled.

"By all means," Jake grinned back indulgently, "let loose!"

"We approached this case with a blank mind, which is always an advantage!" he said in a poor attempt at an English accent. "We had formed no theories, we were simply there to observe and to draw inferences from our observations!"

These words killed Jake's complaisance. Slaughtered it, actually. Perhaps ritualistically. Perhaps with a Hallaf, no less.

"I haven't got the kind of time you guys had, Clyde." he said. "Chucky is in jail \-- right now! You know Chucky, you know he's not suited for that kind of an environment. I need to get this done, and I need to get it done quickly. Would it be better to start from scratch? Yeah, maybe. Is there time for me to start from scratch? Hell no! Just give me a place to start, Clyde! That's all I'm asking! Just put me on the path! Do you want me to beg? If so, I'll beg... hell, I'll get down on my knees, if that's what you want! Just throw me a bone here... please... just help me a little bit more!"

The old sheriff thought about it... kicked the tires and looked under the hood... considered...

"I don't want you to beg, son!" he eventually said. "If I'm to tell you anything else, I guess I want you to trade!"

Jake drew back at this, wondered what he meant. What the hell could he possibly trade with Clyde Rambo? What did he have that the man wanted?

"Quid pro quo," Rambo continued, "tit for tat!"

Still perplexed, Jake raised an eyebrow. "What is it that you're after?" he asked.

Clyde chuckled an I can't believe you haven't figured it out chuckle, looked at him with conviction. "I want Ron Boudreaux, son!" he said. "I want you to tell me some of your secrets... some of the things that you unearthed back in the nineties!"

This brought the eyebrow back down, brought it crashing down into a scowl of contempt and anger. Not at Rambo, of course, but at Boudreaux... at Deputy Ron. There was more to it than those things alone... there was also apprehension... there was also trepidation... there was also presage.

"I know you had him by the balls!" Rambo continued. "I have some ideas about what he was wrapped up in myself, but I'm sure you know much more! You know names, you know places, and you know dates! That's what I want! A trade!"

Jake had to think about this, had to decide whether or not he could do it...

Did he dare to erase the black splotches over things he had redacted?

Did he dare to pull back the musty veil that he hid things behind, the way his friend had done for him?

Did he dare to rip off the bandaid, to expose the festering wound beneath it?

Did he dare to make it right?

"If I tell you," he said, still turning it over and over in his mind. "If I give you what you want... what will you do with it?"

Clyde shrugged, scratched at his beard. "I guess it depends on just what you've got," he explained. "Maybe I just keep my mouth shut, keep it to myself -- if it's not enough. At least I would have the satisfaction of knowing, I could probably be happy with that alone. If it is enough, however, if it's verifiable... perhaps I put in a few phone calls, I don't know. I've still got a few friends in high places, maybe I rock the cradle a little bit."

"But you'd keep me out of it? Keep the people I care about out of it?"

This made Rambo chuckle a bit. "How many people that you care about are left, Jake?" he asked. "How many that would be involved, as it were?"

Thinking about it, he realized there weren't any... none at all, besides Launchpad -- and he still hadn't decided how he felt about that situation.

"That's what I thought," Clyde smiled, even though Jake hadn't said anything at all. "But you have to give me all of it! No holding back, no holds barred. Can we call it a deal?"

Jake nodded, hesitating only slightly in doing so. Perhaps it would be best to let the skeletons out of the closet... they'd been in there for a long time... they might just turn to dust, like an aged and tired vampire, when exposed to the light of day. Divesting them couldn't hurt anyway, not with double indemnity pending... what better prologue than the clearing of his conscience?

"Okay," Rambo said. "I don't know if it's a fair trade, though, because I can't give you anything definite. Believe me when I say that every male older than sixteen in 1990 who lived in or around Burlwood was a suspect at one point or another. Once Alberto Gomez came to town, it was everyone who fit that demographic in the entirety of the county. Shit, he had field agents out questioning everybody! He even had a team of two guys whose sole assignment was to inspect and take swabs from every bandsaw blade in Elsmere!"

"Yeah, I remember that," Jake said. "My old man had one in the shed, we just let it rust in there once he was gone. I remember a couple of guys in suits taking the whole damned thing apart... they took all the guards off and inspected the pullies, the gear box -- everything."

"And they didn't put it back together when they were done, did they?" Rambo laughed. "Yeah, they hit it hard! Didn't come up with anything, though... not a goddamned thing. Eventually, after more debate and discussion than you could possibly imagine, we narrowed our list down to four primary suspects. Most of them were only linked circumstantially, we never had any real proof that any of these were the guy. I've got four names for you, but there's a big caveat that accompanies the two primaries. A hurdle that I'm not sure they can jump -- any of them, actually. They were the best we could come up with, the only ones we thought were realistic."

"Shoot," Jake replied, clearing his mind so he could absorb more readily.

"The first two were favored by your buddy, Ron Boudreaux. He vacillated between the both of them, certain this week that it was the one, positive next week that it was the other. The one he leaned toward the hardest was Evander Hughes."

Jake almost fell from his chair at the mention of this name, the name of Donnell's father. "What?" he bellowed, shocked. "Where did that come from?"

The old man smiled slyly, cocking his head as though he were surprised that Jake found it so mysterious. "Evander was a hot mess, son, you know that! He had a rap sheet a mile long! Everything from drug possession to aggravated robbery, grand theft and aggravated assault!"

While he hadn't been aware of the man's criminal record, the revelation that it existed was no major surprise to him. He knew about the drug habit, knew he often went to great lengths to feed his addiction. Still, it seemed a stretch to think that he would do things so depraved as the deeds attributed to The Butcher.

"More than that, there was the thing with the car," Clyde continued. "A 1986 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, blue in color."

Again, the memories swirled... swirling, swirling... swirling in an afterimage of confusion, swirling like white-wall tires kicking up the dirt as the tail end of a blue vehicle sped away from Our Mother Of Sorrows... swirling, swirling, squealing when they hit pavement and, where's Timmy? Oh God, where's Timmy?

"You remember now, I see," the old man said. "You picked a Fleetwood Brougham out of a photo lineup of sorts, as did the mother of Nathan Dawson. A witness who was around when Ricky Marshall went missing, too. Really, it was the only constant when it came to any eyewitness statements. They all saw a blue car, and they all picked a Fleetwood Brougham when given an array of choices. There was only one blue Fleetwood Brougham registered in Elsmere County, and it belonged to Evander Hughes. He told us he sold it, of course... that he needed the money to get a fix, so he pedaled it off for two grand to some stranger in 1991. Nobody ever registered it again, though, nobody ever transferred the title. We questioned him, surveiled him. We gave him the works, but we never got anything solid on him, and we never saw him in possession of the car. Cars dealt off for drugs have a tendency to fall off the radar, that's nothing new. It wasn't a stretch to believe him, it's feasible that things went exactly as he described. Plus, there's nothing to prove that the vehicle the people saw was native to Elsmere anyway, there were lots of blue Broughams registered in the state. We looked into a bunch of them, but they were all dead ends. I don't think Evander had it in him anyway, it just didn't fit. I was never sold on him, neither was Gomez. I don't think Mister Hughes had anything to do with the murders, but his name was kicked around. The car sure did, though -- either his in particular, or one very similar to it."

Jake took the idea in, filed it away for later reference. "Who was Boudreaux's second guess?"

"That would be Jack Morris," Rambo said. "As in Doctor Jack Morris, the veterinarian. The man didn't have any criminal record to speak of, I think Ron just looked his way because of the Halothane and Xylazine. Morris would've had those things, would've known how to use them. He was a strange bird, too. He seemed to almost enjoy putting animals down. You couldn't talk to him for more than five minutes without him telling you how many he had to do away with, what a big problem we were facing with the pet population in Burlwood. I don't know if you ever had any dealings with him, but it was well known that he had an aversion to children... wasn't very pleasant with them. Those things combined made him creepy, I'll give him that much."

"But you don't think he was The Butcher?"

"No," he replied quickly. "No, I think old Deputy Ron was grasping at straws with that one. I always put more stock in the other two guys -- the ones that Agent Gomez and I often debated with each other over."

"And who were they?"

"Well," Clyde offered, "Agent Gomez was pretty convinced that if it looked like a duck, walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, then it must be a duck. He thought that The Butcher was quite literally the butcher."

"Daryl Lane?" Jake asked, remembering his own suspicions... the ones that led to The Burlwood Boys adding their fourth member.

"You got it!" Rambo replied. "I have to admit, I wondered about him myself. If anyone in Burlwood was familiar with or equipped to carry out The Shechita or The Dahbihah, it was none other than Mister Daryl Lane! He had the hardware to tear a body down, too. You ever see him take down a full cow? Some of those saws he has are incredible, they cut through bone like it's butter! We checked out his gear, but we didn't find anything unexpected. They were all dripping with blood and flesh, but of all the samples we took, none ever came back as being of human origin. He changes blades frequently, as you might expect, so... take that for what it's worth. Gomez had me half convinced it was him -- until the whole thing with Timmy. Of all the men I've met in my life, I can't think of anyone who was a better father, nor one who treated their son with so much adoration and fondness as Daryl Lane did with Timmy. I find it incomprehensible to think that he could've done something like that to his own boy. Gomez disagreed, he thought it was a strategic play to divert our attention... thought that his killing Timmy was a way to deflect all of the heat, because we were putting quite a bit of heat on him. The fact that Timmy was the last said a lot to Alberto, too. It was further proof, in his mind, that Daryl was our boy. He figured that he lost his appetite, after having to butcher his own son... I can see the logic in that argument, as hard as it is for me to imagine it being possible. Lane was a close second in my mind -- but if it was him, that hurdle I mentioned before comes into play. Hell, it comes into play with my main pick too, though, so I guess I can't use it to disqualify Daryl."

"Before we talk about the hurdle, then," Jake said, "who was your pick?"

Rambo leaned back in his chair again and thought, trying to zero in on the facts that were most important to mention along with his accusation. Jake half expected to hear I believe it was Professor Plum in The Conservatory with The Knife, based on how thoroughly he was considering his answer, but there would be nothing so simple.

"If you want my opinion, Jake, then I can say with only the slightest hesitation that I believe The Butcher Of Burlwood was a man better known as Russell Davis Parker!" the old sheriff declared.

"Rusty?" Jake answered, almost as surprised at this as he was at the mention of Evander Hughes.

He didn't know Rusty well, but the man never struck him as a monster. He was a bit strange, sure... a bit mental, based on the stories Chucky related, sure... a recluse when it came to his social life, sure... but a child molesting murderer? A Butcher? That was a stretch that would require further explanation.

"I can tell by your surprise that you don't know a whole lot about our old friend Rusty," Rambo commented. "If Donnell's dad was a hot mess, this man was a complete wreck! He came from Indy in '89, which is where he landed after a long period of what can only be described as vagrancy. He was born and raised in North Carolina, and was lucky enough to be inducted into the service in 1969... just in time to spend two tours over in Nam. From what I understand, he was deep in the thick of it, too... saw some ugly shit, probably did some ugly shit. He was discharged in 1972, and his DD-214 papers were coded 261 -- which means they released him for a psychiatric disorder. If it were today, perhaps they would've called it PTSD... but I think it ran way deeper than that! The man was off his rocker, trust me -- I spent many hours interrogating him, and he's batshit crazy."

"Why did he come to Burlwood?" Jake asked.

"The short answer is that Father Lovett is a bleeding heart." Clyde explained. "Rusty wandered into town in July, and somehow ended up at Our Mother... probably in a breadline, I imagine. They got to talking, Rusty probably gave him some sob story about being a homeless vet, having no place to go and no work to get a leg up. He had maintenance experience, so the good Father offered him a job. What he didn't know was that the man had just been run out of Indy by an angry mob! I'm talking straight up Frankenstein style, son, the man was in a pinch!"

"Why? What happened in Indy?"

"I don't know the whole story, only what I heard from Sheriff Blake. He was the big cheese in Indy, at the time. We happened to run into each other after the Kirk Wade murder and I mentioned that this Rusty character was on my radar, that I got a weird vibe from him. Blake went ghost-white when I mentioned him, just about fainted as a matter of fact. I asked what was up, and he proceeded to tell me about an incident that had occurred at a high school in the city. Rusty had managed to get a job there as a custodian, and Blake started getting calls on him pretty much straight away."

"What kind of calls?"

"All kinds," Rambo emphasized. "From complaints that he was shouting out weird shit to allegations of him giving kids dirty looks and threatening to beat their asses, you name it! Blake tried to squash it, tried to reign the guy in. It didn't do much good, but he had nothing to charge him on, so it just kept chugging along. Eventually, I guess he propositioned some teenaged boy and, as it happened, the kid was gay. I guess he was inclined to take Rusty up on the offer, so the two of them went into the boiler room for some privacy. Somewhere along the line of whatever it was they were doing, things went sour. According to the kid, Rusty got angry -- and tried to kill him!"

"You're kidding!" Jake cried.

"I wish I was, Jake," the old man replied calmly. "Kid claimed he cornered him and pulled a blade... said he fought his way out, somehow, and ran right to tell a teacher. The teacher didn't believe him, I guess he was a problem student and the guy thought he was just making a wild excuse for being tardy. When he got home and told his parents, they called it in to the precinct."

"How the hell did he end up out here, then? Didn't they arrest him, for Christ's sake?"

"No, they didn't. Apparently there were some issues with the boy's story, some issues with the boy himself, too. Blake said he could never substantiate any of the kid's claims, so all they could do was question Rusty about it. He denied any knowledge of the boy, shy of admitting to having seen him around the school. With no evidence that anything had happened \-- anything at all -- they cut him loose and let it go. The parents around town caught wind of the whole thing and did believe the kid, so they got together and they nearly pulled a Freddy Krueger deal on his ass. He was lucky to make it out of there alive, and he just happened to land in Burlwood after."

This story was shocking to Jake on many levels. The fact that the investigation of the allegations seemed so shallow, the fact that everything was seemingly just glazed over and that Rusty was allowed to saunter his way into their small town, like he was just an average Joe down on his luck. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, trying to digest a new angle to everything he thought he knew about law enforcement -- about the treatment of potential sex predators. "They didn't give you any kind of heads up about him? Didn't tell you to keep an eye out, to run him off if he came through? Nothing?"

"Prior to '94 there wasn't even a sex offender registry out here, son!" Rambo replied. "Even had there been one, he wouldn't have been on it, because he was never charged! You can't just take an accusation and tattoo it on someone's forehead, it doesn't work that way!"

"He had to be your prime suspect, then. Once you found out, I mean."

"Of course he was!" Rambo barked. "I questioned him immediately, and he gave alibis for all of the murders that had happened up to that point. I was able to verify most of them, even though some were kind of shaky when it came to time frames and such. People weren't always looking at their watches when they saw him, so it was all kind of general. I kept a close eye on him, had Boudreaux watch him too. What's more, we were watching him when Ricky Marshall was kidnapped! He wasn't anywhere near The Meadows when the boy disappeared, so I have no idea how he could've been involved. That's part of the caveat I mentioned, which only gets more daunting when we talk about little Timmy Lane! As you know, Agent Gomez arrived after the Marshall boy's death... we had a nice, long period of peace once he got here, probably because he cranked up the pressure all around. He turned it up to eleven on the people we suspected, kept them under 24/7 surveillance. We kind of dismissed Boudreaux's picks as time went on, BUT -- and this is the biggest but in the history of but's -- we never pulled the teams off of Rusty Parker or Daryl Lane! Therefore, both of them have rock solid alibis for the disappearance of Timmy Lane! There's no way in hell that either one of them snatched that boy, it's just impossible!"

Clyde pounded out the impossible on the table with a fist clenched in frustration. Jake felt his pain, because he figured that digging into Rusty would be the key to solve the riddle. The details Rambo revealed up to this point had him convinced that he was the fabled Butcher... that he was also the man who killed Billy Marsh. That last bit, though, the fact that he was under the watchful eye of The Fed when Timmy was taken meant that he wasn't behind the wheel of any blue Fleetwood Brougham on September 24th, 1994... meant that he wasn't the one that had snatched Timmy away from the carnival... meant that he was quite possibly not The Butcher Of Burlwood at all, as well as the shoe fit him otherwise.

"So," Jake began slowly, trying to piece alternative ideas together on the fly. "What does that mean? Does it mean it couldn't have been Rusty? Does it mean there's no way he could've slipped his watchers and found time to take Timmy? No way he could've been the guy?"

"Not unless you're willing to change the nomenclature a little," Rambo answered. "Not unless you're willing to start using the term The BUTCHERS Of Burlwood! We certainly tried that angle... it didn't get us anywhere, but we tried nonetheless. Even if he had a partner of some sort, I still can't explain how he ended up in the same place as Timmy in order to carry out the murder. Neither he nor Daryl Lane did anything out of the ordinary in the days after the kidnapping, we obviously watched them even closer in the immediate aftermath."

"What made you eventually stop trying? Why did the investigation just end?"

"It didn't, really," he explained. "But after '97, when we'd gone three full years without another incident, Washington got tired of footing the bill for what had become a pile of cold cases. They pulled Gomez, and I certainly couldn't get any further by myself than we had together. I checked in on Daryl Lane as often as I could, and I kept an eye on Rusty until he retired from the church in 2001. I tried, but I was still running just a two-man cop-shop in a town with other troubles to be dealt with. Thankfully, mercifully, it just never happened again..."

"Until now," Jake asserted.

Rambo shrugged, exhausted in having relived what was certainly the most trying period of his life in conversation. He wished he were a younger man, that he could dive into the investigation of the Marsh boy's death and finally finish the puzzle he'd spent so many of his days and nights trying to piece together. There was nothing that he could do, though... nothing more than to tell the tales of old.

This was today's problem... and he was yesterday's sheriff...

Closing his musty volume, he took the final sip of his now ice cold Earl Grey tea and sighed.

Que sera sera, he figured... que sera sera, indeed...

Meanwhile, Jake's mind churned madly about the contents of this deluge of information he'd received. There was a groundwork, now, a foundation on which to build. Rambo had provided exactly what he needed to get the ball rolling, and now it was all on him.

The mission was clearly defined, the parameters set. He needed to work on finding the missing Church Van, and he needed to stick probes way up the asses of Jack Morris, Evander Hughes, Daryl Lane and Rusty Parker. He needed to look into the blue Brougham, needed to find out who had been at the wheel and whether or not that person tied in with any of the other suspects. If he could squeeze just the slightest bit of blood from any of those stones -- the four names, the van, the Cadillac -- he could lubricate the wheels of justice and work to see his friend exonerated.

Before he could get to any of that, though, before he could put rubber on the road and earn the title gumshoe, as Boudreaux had teased, he was obliged to return the favor that his old pal Sheriff Rambo had just done for him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he prepared to make good on his word.

"Well," he said, "I guess you've lived up to your end of the deal. Now, I suppose, it's my turn to talk..."

"I'm all ears," Rambo advised, settling in to his seat. "Tell me what you've got."

"A lot, believe me... probably more than you expect. I guess a good place to start would be on Thanksgiving of '94... two months removed from Timmy's abduction."

TWENTY-THREE

Frosted Glass

November 24th, 1994. 7:20AM

Burlwood, Indiana

Dawn was barely breaking as Darkwing walked down Oakwood Avenue, alone. It was freezing cold, but he was wearing no jacket to keep him warm. The snow was deep, but he hadn't bothered to put his boots on to keep his socks dry. He just didn't care anymore... didn't care that he was cold, didn't care that his socks were wet, didn't care that he hadn't slept a wink the entire night, didn't care that he was breaking the rules by walking alone, didn't care that he was being followed...

Timmy Lane -- Drake -- had been missing for eight weeks. Everybody knew that he'd been taken by The Butcher, but no one wanted to admit it. They refused to acknowledge it, didn't dare to say the words out loud, as though to do so was somehow forbidden.

All of the other murdered boys, the ones that went before him, had been found all chopped up within a week or two of going missing. With eight weeks having passed, Timmy's remains should've turned up by now. His parts should've been sniffed out by the cadaver dogs, or tracked down by the FBI, or stumbled upon by some hunter out stalking deer in a patch of woods around town. They hadn't, though... they were still missing.

That fact, coupled with the collective unconscious -- with the tincture of Burlwood's denial -- compelled the people, as a whole, to stubbornly and inexorably shield their eyes from what Jacob knew to be the naked truth. It was unreasonable to believe that Drake was still alive, but the fools around town simply wouldn't concede the obvious. Timmy Lane \-- the sweetest and most innocent boy to ever walk the face of the Earth -- had fallen prey to, and become the sixth victim of, the man the city folks called The Butcher... the monster who sat upon the throne and ruled over their small town like King Solomon, insisting that all the children of Burlwood be cut at least in two... preferably in nine or ten.

It was their ignorance that led them to post signs with Timmy's picture on the telephone poles around town. The cardboard placards declared that he was a missing and endangered child, which was a ridiculous grouping of words. He was endangered before he was missing... before he was taken away from his life, from his friends, from his father. He wasn't endangered anymore, he was extinct. Pretending that he wasn't was nonsensical and ludicrous, and Daryl Lane's pleas for the return of his son on the evening news were futile and grotesque.

Timmy Lane was dead, Jacob could feel that he was dead... he could sense it... but he couldn't cope with it.

As soon as he realized that Drake was missing, when he couldn't find him as he searched around the outhouses at the carnival, he knew that it was over... that Timmy Lane was over... that life, as it had been, was over. When he saw the blue car speeding away, when he saw the shadowy figure driving and Timmy's small foot propped up on the headrest of the backseat, he understood immediately that the boy was destined to end up scattered around the woods somewhere... that he was condemned to be cut into little pieces, to be sodomized and have his penis cut off. He knew then that there was no hope... that Timmy would never come home again.

He'd spent every night since it happened trying to wrap his mind around it, trying to accept it. He couldn't, though, this one was just too close to home. The other boys -- Duncan, Banks, Dawson, Wade, Marshall -- they had been strangers to him. They certainly hadn't been friends of his, certainly hadn't been close to him... certainly hadn't been members of The Burlwood Boys. For all of his evil doings, The Butcher had never claimed anyone as familiar and sacred to him as Timmy Lane.

That made this latest incident particularly and uniquely hard to swallow, hard to deal with. In his braggadocio, in his delusional conceit, Jacob thought he'd gotten pretty good at coping with things over the years. He'd certainly had plenty of practical experience and on the job training, so he'd allowed himself to naively believe that he was a master in the art of moving on.

With Timmy disappearing, though, with the knowledge that he was dead, Jacob came to realize that he was as much a fool as the people who clung to the fallacy that the boy was still alive. A fool for believing that he was some sort of learned, enlightened practitioner in the craft of surviving loss. He'd taken imbecilic pride in believing that the mountains he'd climbed in the past prepared him for anything, had given him the skills to overcome all obstacles that he would face in life. But this one... this one was too much, this one was beyond him.

In an effort to deflect the disappointment he felt in himself, he tried to focus all of his emotion on being angry with the adults. They were the ones that failed to protect Timmy, not him. Not Darkwing, the leader and guardian of The Burlwood Boys. He wanted badly to believe that, wanted to convince himself that the blood of his friend was on their hands, not his.

It was the adults who should wear this albatross, the ones like Deputy Ron, at whom he was particularly angry. The fool constantly tried to convince Jacob that Timmy could still be alive, that he could be overreacting in being so distraught.

"It was probably his mother that took him," the idiot said on one occasion, just moments before he went into the bedroom for another loud nap with Janet Giguére. "She and Mister Lane have been involved in a custody dispute for years, maybe she just decided to take matters into her own hands. We'll get her, and we'll bring Timmy home!"

That was bullshit, and it made Jacob furious. Partly because it was just an ignorant supposition, and partly because it essentially meant Boudreaux assumed that Jake was stupid. He didn't know Timmy's mother -- had never even seen a picture of her before -- but he knew that it definitely wasn't the former Misses Lane driving that blue car away from Our Mother Of Sorrows two months ago. It was no woman behind the wheel at all, the figure was too large to have been a woman. Unless Timmy's mom was some kind of giant Amazon wench, there was no way in Hell that she had been the one to take him.

As the only witness to the crime, he couldn't give the police much information to go on. He didn't get a good look at the driver, couldn't make out any of his features or say anything at all about him beyond the simple fact that he was a dark shadow and larger than the average person. He had no idea who it could've been, didn't even have a guess to offer when Sheriff Rambo and Agent Gomez questioned him in the rectory. Whoever it was, though, it wasn't Timmy's mother... of that much he was sure.

The days since had been long and lonely, an eternity condensed down into two months. With the reappearance of The Butcher -- which everyone knew this was, despite their predilection to deny it -- the FBI had come swarming back into Burlwood. With their return came the reinstatement and escalation of the Draconian rules and regulations that made the small town a police state again, just as it had been for the duration of 1993.

The iron grip of The Fed was inescapable, and it was why he was being followed as he walked. He had a tail on him almost as soon as he'd left his trailer, a black Ford Crown Victoria with limo-tint all around, and it was still with him as he ambled his way through the snow down Oakwood Avenue. As a thirteen year old boy, he was a prime target to suit the tastes of the omnipresent tormentor. Burlwood's own Zodiac Killer, Son Of Sam and Night Stalker... The Ripper, The Strangler, The Slasher... the fucking Butcher.

The sedan was following him because he wasn't playing by the rules, because he was placing himself in danger, in their eyes. The latest set of orders, as announced at another overcrowded meeting at the Civic Center, declared explicitly that young boys weren't allowed to wander the streets of Burlwood Meadows without the accompaniment of a parent or group of friends at any time, let alone at the ass-crack of dawn.

What he was doing was a flagrant violation of the rules, and he knew it. Similarly, he knew it meant he would draw attention. The watchers tried to keep their distance, tried to surveil him without him being aware. They weren't having any success in that, the agent in charge of doing the driving totally sucked at being inconspicuous. There was no reason to rub his nose in it, but Jacob was half tempted to do it anyway. It would be funny to stop and waive at them every time they thought they were invisible, but what purpose would it serve?

It didn't help their efforts that Jacob seemed to have a sixth sense about him... a sense that tingled when he was being watched, stared at or followed. He didn't know why he had this ability, he certainly hadn't tried to develop it. He figured it was just a natural instinct he'd been born with, or something he'd developed subconsciously because his mother was always so protective of him in the days before her pharmaceutical zombification. She warned him about the dangers of the world at a very young age, told him to always be mindful of what was happening around him.

"Always be aware of your surroundings," she used to say. "Always know who's who and who's where, and leave yourself an out."

As a result, he couldn't sit with his back to the door of any restaurant he ever went to... he couldn't enjoy a movie in a theater because there was no way to watch the doors and the screen at the same time. Regardless of what had brought it on, the sense existed -- and it was strong. Given that fact, the men in the black Ford simply couldn't sneak around well enough to fool him.

Occasionally, they would turn down one of the park's side streets and drive off, only to reappear at an intersection a little further ahead of him. When it got there, it would sit and wait until the agents behind the blacked out windows thought that he could see them. Little did they know, he knew exactly where they were at all times. He would pretend to be oblivious so as not to shatter their likely fragile egos. What kind of federal agent could feel even slightly worth his salt if his clandestine maneuvers were so plainly obvious to a thirteen year old boy?

As much as being stalked irked him, Jacob knew it was because he was acting in violation of their rule. The problem was he just didn't care anymore, didn't feel any obligation to abide by regulations enacted by the overlords to protect him.

Why take such measures to protect the life of someone who just doesn't care to live anymore? Why try to hide from the dreaded Butcher, when meeting with death at his hands would bring a final and irrevocable end to the misery that his life had become? In the shadow of all that he'd experienced in his thirteen years on Earth, under the suffocating cloak of everything he'd endured, death didn't seem like such a horrible fate to the ever-fearless Darkwing, the leader of the pack.

What was there to live for anymore, anyway? It was Thanksgiving, now, but what was there to give thanks for in his life?

He had loved his father -- had treasured him, in fact -- for the limited and truncated number of days that he was allowed to have him. That time was over, now, his father was gone... gone forever.

He had loved his mother -- had cherished his relationship with her -- when she was herself, in the days before she became a tranq-zombie. That time was over, now, that woman was gone... gone forever.

He'd loved his friends -- had valued their kinship -- when The Burlwood Boys were whole, in the days that they numbered five. They would never be whole again, though, because Timmy was no longer with them. That time was over, now, Timmy was gone... gone forever.

Perhaps he could've made due with his three remaining friends, if they could've recovered from this tragedy and leaned on one another in their sorrow. It hadn't gone that way, because everything was different in the wake of what happened to Timmy at that goddamned carnival. There seemed no hope of rehabilitation, no hope of rebuilding what had been. After what happened to Drake, the group was inexplicably pulled apart instead of being drawn together.

He still talked to and visited with Chucky, but there was little time to hang out anymore, considering the demands of school and Chucky's job. They didn't see each other nearly as often as they used to, and they weren't nearly as close as they were before.

Perhaps that was due to the fact that Chucky was growing up, that he was transitioning from life as a child to life as an adult. A pseudo-adult, at least, in light of all his challenges. If that was the case, Jacob didn't want to interfere with his blossoming in any way. Chucky needed to grow up, to become as much of a man as he possibly could.

Perhaps, instead, the change was due to Chucky just being too scared to go anywhere he didn't feel safe \-- anywhere besides work, school or home. If that was the case, it was because he was normal in that regard. He didn't want to die, didn't want to fall prey to the savagery of The Butcher. Jacob didn't want to subject him to any more fear than he was facing in dealing with every day life, the fear he suffered in dealing with Rusty and his strange behavior. He would gladly step aside, if that was what Chucky needed or wanted to help him cope.

Either way, whatever the cause, their relationship was strained.

He still saw Louie at school, but the son of The Sheriff never seemed to want to talk or hang out with Darkwing anymore. He offered no explanation, gave no indication of why he had stepped back. Jacob couldn't help but wonder if it was because the boy blamed him for what happened to Timmy. Since they were the youngest members of the crew, it was incumbent upon the leader to keep a close eye on Timmy and Louie both. Darkwing had failed in his duty to do so at the Our Mother carnival, so who could argue with Rambo if he did blame him? If that was the case -- if it meant that Louie just didn't want to hang out anymore, didn't feel safe with him anymore -- then he would just have to accept that. Louie seemed to have turned his back, all Jacob could do was to pat him on it... and to walk away.

Launchpad had distanced himself, too, and had similarly offered no justification for doing so. Jacob still heard Donnell's parents arguing every time he walked by their trailer, still smelled strange odors pouring out of the windows in thick clouds of smoke, but he never saw Donnell trying to sneak out and get away from it anymore. If anything, it seemed that Launchpad was trying to engraciate himself to his old man. Jacob had seen them walking the neighborhood together, seen them having long conversations on their porch and forging a bond that hadn't existed in the past. Maybe he blamed Darkwing for Timmy, too, and was simply leaning on the only father-figure he had -- regardless of his faults -- for a sense of security. There was no way to know, there was only to accept his decision as well... and to walk away.

Whatever the cause -- whatever the reasoning behind each member's withdrawal -- apparently, the loss of a member had essentially disbanded The Burlwood Boys. In the absence of his old friends, he found an opportunity to grow closer to Tracy. That was the only silver lining in the storm cloud that seemed to be hovering over him, following him wherever he went in his life. He was happy about that, so he tried to bolster his desire to continue living by daydreaming and fantasizing about what life would be like if he could spend all of his time together with her.

In the months since Timmy was taken, he'd spent more time with her -- in the flesh and in his imagination -- than he did with any of his old chums in total. In fact, he spent more time with her than anyone else in his life -- his mother included.

That was partially due to the fact that Janet Giguére was totally enraptured with Ron Boudreaux now, even more so than she had been in the months leading up to the Timmy incident. The woman could barely form a simple thought, could barely speak a full sentence, without including something about Deputy Ron. He was at their trailer constantly, was practically living there with them. He was an intruder... living in his father's house, eating at his father's table, sleeping in his father's bed and having sex with his father's wife. Jacob loathed the very idea of that. It made his skin crawl, made him so angry that this man was trying to assume his father's life.

If there was any silver lining to that situation, it was only in the fact that his mother wasn't leaning on him nearly as hard as she had been before the usurper arrived and started settling in. He still had to keep an eye on her from time to time, when she was popping her pills. That was something she only seemed to do when Deputy Ron wasn't around, so Jacob wasn't sure which of the two evils was the one he should hope for.

Had she chosen anyone else to latch on to, perhaps it would've been okay... perhaps he could've handled it. He just didn't like Ron Boudreaux, even though he couldn't figure out exactly why. There was just something about him that seemed malevolent, something that seemed malicious... something that seemed off.

As it happened, the officer was on duty today... on Thanksgiving. Not inspired to put forth effort with the knowledge that her Romeo wouldn't be around, Jacob's mother decided that there would be no holiday dinner in their household this year. Apparently, cooking for her son alone was no longer adequate justification to keep up the tradition. Without a purpose to remain sober in Boudreaux's absence, she popped her first pill the moment she woke up. There would likely be many more to follow throughout the afternoon, enough to keep her numb until her beau was by her side.

Jacob knew he should probably stay home, that she probably needed someone to keep an eye on her, but he longed for a break from the train-wreck of his day-to-day life, so fuck it. He needed something more upbeat than parental babysitting, something to take all of the negativity off his mind.

When Nick and Nancy Swete -- the parents of his fantasy lover -- heard that there would be no holiday joy in the Giguére trailer, they invited Jacob to partake in their celebration and giving of thanks. While he didn't feel there was much to give thanks for, he decided the diversion was a chance to spend more time with Tracy, and that was worth the effort of pretending.

He climbed out of bed and got dressed the moment he heard his mother stirring, since he hadn't been sleeping anyway. It was no surprise to him when he heard her immediately retrieve her pills from the medicine cabinet. It would be no surprise to her that he found somewhere else to go, because she probably wouldn't even notice he was missing. He had no desire to watch her descent into intoxication on this day, a day meant for rejoicing, so he set out on his walk to Tracy's cozy pink trailer just a little earlier than he'd intended to this morning.

The Feds babysitting him were parked under a tree on Maplewood as Darkwing strolled through its intersection with Oakwood, the main vein of the park. They'd been there for several minutes, presumably oblivious to the fact that he knew they were sitting there. He was only a few hundred yards from his destination anyway, so they wouldn't need to follow him much further.

His route would take him right passed Chucky's trailer, and he could hear a familiar sobbing as he drew close to it. The sound tugged at his heart immediately, as it always did, because he hated to hear the noises of his friend in suffering. Stepping up his pace, he found the sixteen year old toddler sitting on his porch with his face buried in his hands.

"Chucky, what's wrong?" he asked, wrapping him in a preemptive hug. "What's going on?"

There was no answer at first. None that was intelligible, at least. He was crying harder than Darkwing had ever seen him cry, harder even than when he'd broken his wrist playing Manhunt in Booger Woods. He could barely catch his breath between his blubbering, gasping like a child as Jacob squeezed him tight.

"Are you upset about Timmy?" he asked, wondering if there had been news that his friend's remains finally turned up. "Did they find Timmy?"

"N--N--No!" Chucky bawled.

"Then what?" Darkwing wondered. "Why are you so upset?"

"It's Ru-Ru-Rusty!" the boy-man sniffled. "I'm sc-sc-scared, DW!"

"Shhhhhhhh," Jacob prodded him, putting a set of kisses on his forehead, as was customary. "Why are you scared? Chucky? Why are you scared of Rusty?"

"He's being re-re-really mean, and now I ha-ha-have to go to work with him, to help him deliver the fo-fo-food!"

Jacob had forgotten about that, forgotten the fact that Our Mother Of Sorrows delivered pre-cooked Thanksgiving dinners to indigent families around town. Chucky helped do it the previous year, too, as a volunteer instead of as an employee. By all accounts, he thoroughly enjoyed doing it. He even said himself that it warmed his heart to see people get so happy when he carried a steaming turkey up to their doorstep. His only complaint had been that Rusty, who did the driving in the church van, had made him carry all the heaviest stuff up to each trailer while he lugged around the pumpkin pie.

"I thought you liked delivering the food, Chucky?" Darkwing said. "I thought you said you had a good time last year? How is he being so mean that you're gonna let it spoil the day for you?"

"He's just so-so-so mean!" Chucky answered, his tears showing no sign of waning. "Ye-ye-yesterday he yelled at m-m-me, because I went into the coo-coo-cooler to count the cans of bis-bis-biscuits! He told me I couldn't do it 'cuz I'm too stu-stu-stupid and threw me ou-ou-out!"

"Shit," Jake complained. "He's an asshole, Chucky, you know you're not stupid! Fuck Rusty, who cares what he says? He's a nut-job, don't let him spoil your Thanksgiving for you!"

"I don-don-don't wanna g-g-go!" he continued. "I don't wan-wan-wanna do it, Darkwing!"

At a loss for words to offer in comfort, Jacob just kept hugging and kissing his friend. As he held him, he saw the black sedan of The Feds roll slowly passed them and disappear into the distance.

"Dammit," he objected, "now they probably think we're gay!"

Much to his surprise, this comment brought the very slightest chuckle through the barrage of Chucky's sobbing.

"What?" Jacob laughed, trying to capitalize on the moment. "You don't think I'm hot?"

Somehow, his jestful remark broke the episode of fear and sadness that had held Chucky captive. There were still a few lingering tears, but it was mostly laughter, now, in response to a well timed joke.

"Just calm down, Chucky," Darkwing continued. "Everything is fine, Rusty's just a dick! If you really don't want to go, just call Father Lovett and tell him that you're sick or something. He won't be mad, everybody gets sick sometimes."

With a few more tight squeezes and one final kiss, Chucky was settled. His face was red and puffy, his khaki work shirt marked with trails of tearstain and snot.

"I do want to deliver the food," he said, sniffling just a bit.

"Then go," Jacob advised. "But you'll need another shirt, that one needs a wash! Do you have another one?"

Chucky nodded, choking back the last of his sobbing.

"Good," Darkwing said. "Aren't you supposed to be there, like, now, though? Shouldn't you be on your way already?"

Chucky checked the digital Casio on his wrist and realized his friend was right, he needed to get going. Thankfully, he'd taken driver's training recently and acquired his license. Our Mother was just a two minute drive, and he already had the keys to Momma's Buick in his pocket. If he hurried, he could still get there on time.

Leaping to his feet, he nearly forgot Darkwing's advice to change his shirt before setting off for his duties. Jacob called out to remind him when he was half-way to the car, so he quickly spun and darted back into his trailer to get his spare uniform. Within a minute's time, he was rumbling down Oakwood in his Momma's Buick. Jacob watched him go, weaving side to side a bit, because he was by no means an expert driver yet.

A heavy sigh marked the end of this particular drama, and he tried to purge his sympathetic anxiety with a hearty exhalation. After taking a moment to ensure the calm was well set in, he stepped down from Chucky's porch and continued up Oakwood until he arrived at The Swete Family home.

He knocked on the door and was welcomed by the kind smile of Nancy, who was still just as beautiful as Helen Hunt, even at eight in the morning. She explained quietly that both Tracy and her husband were sleeping in, but invited him to help her in the kitchen until they woke.

Jacob didn't know a thing about cooking, had never done any that didn't involve the microwave. Nancy moved around the kitchen like an expert and seemed enthusiastic about the idea of teaching him, so together they made a stock and stuffed the turkey. Removing the giblets made Jacob gag, which the Swete matriarch found hilarious. She laughed and put her hand on his shoulder, and in the moment he could feel her warmth radiating through his body.

The sensation awakened something in him, something that had been dormant for quite some time. It felt like comfort, it felt like hope... things that were foreign to him, now. Somehow, the feelings seemed to restore a degree of faith in him. A measure of optimism and belief in the potential goodness of life on the whole. It freed him of all the burdens he generally carried with him, and he was floating as they trussed the bird and she took him step by step through the process of making biscuits from scratch.

By the time they were shucking the corn, Tracy's dad emerged from his bedroom in pajamas. His hair was wild and tangled, which made Jacob smile. For the first time in many years, he felt as though he was fully engulfed in normalcy. It was envigorating, refreshing and fantastic -- but devastating just as well.

To realize just how wrong things were in his life, to absorb how wonderful things could feel when they were right, left him feeling shell shocked. He could barely process the emotions, could barely stand to consider the fact that he would have to leave this comfort eventually. As the day wound down, so would his welcome in this, someone else's home. Understanding that it was inevitable, that all good things must come to an end, he resolved to bask in the serenity as fully and completely as he possibly could so long as it lasted... until he would be required to go back home, where all the vulgarity of his life lie in wait.

He rose from his perch on cloud nine to at least eleven or twelve once Tracy woke up and joined in. He clung to her as closely as he felt her father would allow, he certainly didn't want to face down that rifle the man mentioned in the past.

Together, the family talked and laughed -- accepting Jacob as one of their own. Together, they said grace, and it wasn't hard for him to bow his head and take the hands of The Swete family as they praised the God they seemed to genuinely believe was watching over them. In this environment, in this setting, the existence of some kind of God didn't seem like such a stretch as it generally did to him. He could almost feel a guiding light, could sense a warmth in the universe, when he was under the roof of people who fully and truly believed.

"Dear Lord," Nick Swete said with fortitude. "As we gather around this table, laden with your plentiful gifts to us, we thank You for always providing us with what we truly need. Today, let us be especially thankful, for each other -- for family, and for friends. Let us join together now, in peaceful, loving fellowship to celebrate Your love for us, and our love for each other."

As Jacob listened, as the words filled his heart, he felt a stinging in his tightly closed eyes. He clenched them shut, as forcefully as he could, to keep the tears that longed to fall as prisoners. To cry was to show weakness, and he did not want to appear weak to The Swetes. They weren't crying, and he wanted to be as they were -- so he mustn't cry himself.

"As we celebrate, Lord," Nick continued, "we ask that you bring comfort to the heart of Daryl Lane on this day, in his time of need. We ask that you shelter him and keep him. While we pray for the best, Lord, we ask that should you encounter the soul of his son, Timmy, you welcome him into your kingdom with open arms."

With that, there was no more holding back. His eyelids fought valiantly, but the tears won the day and spilled down his face unchecked. Those that rained down the right side, though, didn't have a chance to cascade all the way down to his jawline and roll toward his chin as the ones on his left did. They were intercepted in their plunge, cut off by the gentle touch of a small and caring finger. He didn't have to look to know that it was Tracy wiping them from his face, having let go of his hand so that she could tend to them. He didn't dare to open his eyes anyway, because to do so would've unleashed the full torrent -- and there were enough tears inside of him to flood the entirety of the small trailer.

As though he sensed that Jacob needed more time to recover, Mister Swete drug his prayer out beyond anything that resembled a reasonable length. By the time he cried Amen, Darkwing was back at the helm and secure. His eyes were moist when he repeated the phrase and opened them, but he wasn't sobbing and, therefore, didn't need to feel ashamed. Even if he had been weeping, he didn't believe the people around him would've allowed him to feel that way... they would've taken him up in a tight embrace, the kind he took Chucky up in when he was feeling low, if they felt that it was necessary. They were a special breed, this family... a special kind of people.

The food was delicious, better than any holiday bounty he'd ever enjoyed. He figured that was because of all the love Tracy's mother had baked, boiled, roasted and fried into it... he'd never tasted food infused with love, but he knew now just how wonderful it was.

When the time to clean up came, Jacob tried to help the girls. Tracy's dad seemed to take offense at this as he was settling in to watch The Green Bay Packers take on The Dallas Cowboys. He insisted on having company on the couch with him, insisted that Jacob sit beside him. This seemed rude, though... to enjoy the meal and then make no effort to clean up the mess. Nancy and Tracy told him to go ahead and enjoy the game, that they would take care of the after dinner business... so he did.

Sitting with Mister Swete reminded him of the vague recollections he had of sitting next to his father on their couch so long ago. The act of lazing after a big meal brought back memories of fatherly love, memories of family unity, that he thought he'd lost to the fog of time entirely.

Shortly after the game began, he heard a familiar rumble outside and peeked through the living room blinds. He smiled as he saw just what he expected, the white van with Our Mother Of Sorrows emblazoned on the side rolling slowly down the road. To his surprise, it was Chucky at the wheel with Rusty in the passenger seat. He wondered if that meant the man was being a bit more fair with his friend this time... if he was carrying some of the heavy things himself, letting Chucky off easier than he had the year before.

Occasionally he would see one of the black Ford sedans of The Feds rolling by, too, but he paid them little mind. The troubles of Burlwood seemed far removed from the serenity of The Swete household. The Butcher seemed worlds away, like the dissolving memory of a nightmare in the bright sun of the morning.

Soon, the women had finished with their cleaning and joined them in watching the game. It was nice to have them, even though they didn't always understand what was happening and mistakenly started cheering when Dallas intercepted a pass -- breaking up the offense of the more local and more favored Green Bay team. By the time The Cowboys had dispatched The Packers, Jacob felt he'd reached cloud fourteen or fifteen in his ascension.

Turkey comas were starting to set in, everyone was yawning and feeling the holiday naps approaching. As much as the idea pained him, he knew that it was time for him to go... knew that he was obliged to spend at least a portion of the day with his mother, with what was left of his own family. He was showered with hugs and smiles when he announced his intent to depart, including a particularly long and fond embrace with the girl who was the subject of his ever-growing crush. Holding her tightly made things stir in him, things he didn't entirely understand in his young adolescence. He knew he liked it, though, whatever it was... knew that he wanted to feel more of it, in the days to come.

As he walked away from the pink trailer, he felt no sweetness in the sorrow of their parting. There was more sorrow than anything else, of that there was no question. The weight of the world fell directly back onto his shoulders the moment he crossed the threshold, leaving peace and joy behind him and setting off for the more familiar emotions of despair and depression. Instantly, he was sucked up by the current of the rapids that were his life. Feeling, smelling and tasting the fishy whitewater splashing in his face and going up his nose, he knew his break was over. The ocean of his misery seemed even deeper, now, the tide higher than it had been before. Plunging back into the turmoil of the abyss was a shock to his system, after having spent so many hours lounging in comparatively shallow and calm waters.

Oddly, he saw no black sedans trailing him on his return walk. He figured that was either because they weren't around or because he simply couldn't sense their presence through the fading halo of peace that was collapsing with every step he took toward home.

Before long, he had arrived at twenty-three fifty-seven Ashwood... The Giguére Family single-wide trailer. It seemed like a belligerent to him, now, an antagonist in the conflict of his life, after having spent a day in a place that was its antithesis in every regard. The dull gray siding looked even more haggard than he remembered it being, weather worn and in need of repair. The cheap and aged shingles of the roof appeared to be just barely hanging on, many of them flapping up and dancing in the frigid breeze blowing around him. He stopped and studied his home, feeling the bite of the November cold more intensely in that moment than he had all day. For the first time, he wished he'd worn a jacket... wished he'd worn his boots to keep his socks dry... wished he never had to return to this place, this pocket of Hell at the backside of Burlwood Meadows.

The naked trees of Booger Woods seemed to mock him as he slowly approached the front door, seemed to whisper to him their tale of death and dismemberment in the voice of Joshua Banks... in the voice of Timmy Lane. They were as glacial in their essence as he had become in his soul, but he felt the chill more intensely now, having seen the other side. Having felt the warmth and tranquility of greener pastures, his homecoming was gutwrenching and heartbreaking in ways he never could've imagined.

Longing for at least the comfort of their space heaters, for any reprieve from the gelidity, he approached his front door and tried to enter. To his surprise, the door was locked. This was unusual, his mother generally only locked the doors and night -- and she often forgot to do even that, leaving it to him to ensure the security of their home when they retreated to their beds.

Having not anticipated this, he hadn't taken his key when he left for Tracy's in the morning. Wondering why she would've done this, he moved around to the side of the trailer to try the door that led into the kitchen. Finding that one locked as well, his heart skipped many beats and he felt his blood pressure start to rise.

"Mom?" he called, pounding on the door. "Mom, let me in!"

There was no answer to his plea, so he ran back to the front and tried knocking there as well -- knocking so hard that it hurt his hand to do it.

"Mom?" he shouted, anxiety building with every second that brought no answer. "Mom, it's me! Let me in!"

Still, there was no response. The silence flipped a panic switch in him, and suddenly he was totally freaking out. He feared something just like this would happen one day, but found himself wholly unprepared to battle the trepidation it caused when he was face to face with the macabre possibility that she had made good on her threats. He was freaking out, wondering what could've happened and assuming the worst... assuming that she was dead, that she had finally taken the plunge.

Memories of his father swirled through his mind, memories of the smell -- of the sight of Garrett Giguére's corpse, twirling, twirling lazily at the end of a frayed and knotted rope.

"MOM!" he hollered with every fiber of his being, pounding, pounding on the door as though he were beating her chest to pump her prematurely stilled and dying heart. He tried to lean over the precipice of the porch, to peer into the windows and see what was going on inside. The shades were drawn, though, he couldn't see a damned thing.

Lowering his shoulder, he prepared his body to physically destroy the door while preparing his mind to find her swinging, to find her twirling just inside. He pulled back, clenching every muscle in his body and firing them in a spasm of ferocity that sent him crashing into the wooden barrier that separated him from the horror that was likely waiting just inside.

The heavy slab of faux rustic mahogany chaffed him and his first effort, absorbing every bit of his kinetic force and leaving him in physical agony. The collision hurt him much worse than it hurt the door, but he recoiled and prepared to do it again without a moment's hesitation.

The second impact brought only a minor concession from the structure, sending particles of dust and debris billowing out like the wind that surged from his chest. His shoulder went numb with pain, his back cried out in agony and his legs threatened to buckle in weakness -- but he couldn't heed their call to stop. With the third impact came a loud crack as the doorframe started to surrender, but still he was locked out. The fourth and fifth collisions brought more progress, the beast finally faltering and reeling under Jacob's unrelenting assault.

By the time he struck the door the sixth time, he couldn't feel anything. His body had given up in the arms of shock, his brain so overwhelmed with signals of pain and weakness that it simply shut everything off. He could've made no seventh attempt, he'd given all he had. Fortunately, though, the door jamb finally acquiesced, shattering in a flurry of splinters and chunks of wood.

Jacob crashed through it with his inertia and crumpled to the floor, the carpet of the living room burning the flesh of his face as he slid across it. Immediately, he could smell the smell... the odor of puke and acid, the stench of death and dying.

Trying to force himself from the ground, he pushed off with his trembling arms and lifted his spinning head to see the frame of his mother hanging off of their couch. Her rear was in the air, only the very backs of her thighs still resting on the cushions. Her torso was draped over the coffee table, her arms hanging loosely against it as they dangled at her sides. Her face seemed melted to the wooden surface, the flesh of it mashed and contorted, her mouth agape with white foam spewing from it. As he stood and staggered closer, he could see air bubbling in the froth... she was still alive.

"Mom?" he bayed, stumbling on legs that tingled with pins and needles.

The woman moved her lips, murmured something unintelligible and barely audible. When he finally stood over her, he saw something else on the table... something he'd never seen before. There were pieces of it, whatever it was, which looked like shards of frosted glass strewn about. There was a hammer set to her right, near pieces of the stuff that looked as though they had been broken and crushed into a fine powder.

"Jammacaa ahhmmam," she bleated, stupefied and spuming. "Obbobbama innttaa."

"Jesus, mom!" he cried. "What the fuck did you do?"

He placed his hand on her brow and felt fire behind her flesh, felt sweat sizzling from her pores. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he tried to pull her erect and settle her back onto the couch. Her body was a heavy, dead weight that he could barely manage to lift. As her face peeled away from the table, a green plastic bendy straw that had been underneath it clung to her cheek in a fiery red impression it had mashed into her face. Solid bits of debris fell from it on the froth that soaked it, hunks of caked powder sticking to it and her skin alike.

When he almost had her center of gravity over the couch, when she was just about to flop back into a sitting position, he felt her body start to shudder and shake. Suddenly, she was overcome with violent convulsions that made her weight even more untenable and unmanageable to him. Her right arm flew up and its elbow dealt him a blow directly to the ear, his vision going blurry and pixelated momentarily with the strike. Clutching his head, he fell away from her. Without his support, the woman collapsed into a heap upon the table again as she continued to seize and wiggle.

Panicked, he raced to the kitchen and snatched the phone from its cradle on the wall. He dialed 911, but heard no ringing. Confused, he jiggled the cord and tried to hang up and start over. This time, he listened for a dial tone first and realized that there wasn't any. The fucking phone was disconnected, she hadn't paid the bill again.

Frantic and pissed, he chucked the receiver against the wall, shattering the cheap plastic, and looked around for anything that might be of use -- anything that might give him an idea of what to do. Suddenly, he felt a strange sensation passing over his body like a wave. When it struck him, he felt as though he'd been knocked clear out of his body. He could see himself standing there, near the busted phone with a look of panic on his face. Somehow, he'd dematerialized. He was a third party in this scenario now, seeing the room from a different and strangely altered perspective that made him wonder if he was losing his mind. In the swirling ether, as if they were drawn there, his eyes locked upon the clutter of the kitchen table, honing in on a bulging gray mass in the middle of the pop cans and empty food wrappers. It was her cell phone, the one Deputy Ron had given her to use for the nightly neighborhood watch reports.

Flipping it open, Jacob realized he didn't know how to use it. He had never tried to use it, never asked for instructions on how to do it. Among the buttons on the face of it was a green one, and green means go, he figured. Pressing it wildly, over and over and over, he listened for any sound coming from the earpiece. There was beeping at first, and then ringing... thank God, it was ringing. But who was it calling? He didn't know, didn't care -- anybody that it called could help him, and he needed help, now.

Eventually, the ringing ended and a voice answered -- a voice he knew quite well.

"Howdy there, darlin'!" Ron Boudreaux said excitedly. "How's my baby do--"

"Help!" Jacob shouted, cutting him off. "She's dying! Help me, please!"

"Jake?" Boudreaux asked, surprised. "Jake, what the hell is going \--"

"PLEASE!" he yelled again. "She needs an ambulance! Something's wrong with her!"

"I'm coming!" the officer replied, an urgency in his voice. "I'm right around the corner, I'll be there in a minute!"

Jacob heard a click and dropped the phone, racing back to the living room to check on his mother. She wasn't convulsing anymore, but the foam was pouring from her mouth as she lay sprawled across the table. He didn't dare to try to lift her again, in case it was his lifting that had caused her violent seizure.

"It's okay, mom!" he said to comfort her, though his voice trembled with fear and anguish. "It's going to be okay!"

It seemed like forever before he heard squealing tires outside his house, like an eternity before the figure of Deputy Ron appeared in the busted remains of the doorway with a look of terror on his face.

"Janet?" he yelled at seeing her there, melted to the coffee table like the cheese on a freshly baked pizza. "What the fuck is going on?" he asked Jacob, as if he should know.

"I dunno!" he answered. "I found her like this!"

Boudreaux raced to her side, his handcuffs jingling on his gun belt as he moved. Brushing aside her hair with his hand, he grabbed at her neck and felt for a pulse. "Janet, can ya' hear me, darlin'?" he asked.

"Mmbababmma," she uttered, still spuming.

The deputy grabbed her by her shoulders, just as Jacob had done, and lifted her gently from the table. Moving her exposed those shards of frosted glass, the hammer and the bendy straw. The sight of it all seemed to shock him, seemed to anger him immensely.

"Oh fuck!" he gasped, surveying the mess. "Sweet Santa Muerte, what the fuck did she do? Snort it? Why the fuck would she snort it?"

"She needs an ambulance, Ron!" Jacob insisted. "Did you call for an ambulance?"

The deputy reached for his radio, unclipping it from his shoulder epaulet and keying it up like Jacob keyed up his walkie talkie to speak with Chucky in the past. He didn't say anything, though... just stood there holding the button depressed as though he was struggling with himself and his duty, as though he was unsure of what to do. After a few protracted seconds, he released the transmit bar and scanned the scene with his eyes again.

Jacob didn't know what was happening, didn't understand why he wasn't calling for help. Instead, he was just looking around -- seeming totally distraught, totally confused and petrified.

"Fuck!" the officer shouted again, inexplicably clipping his radio microphone back to his shoulder as he took several frantic breaths. "The whole fuckin' town is crawlin' with Feds and she's gonna pull this shit on me? The stupid bitch, what the fuck is she tryin' to do to me? I can't afford this shit!"

"Ron!" Jacob barked. "Call the ambulance, she's DYING!"

Without another word, the deputy reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of leather gloves. Slipping them on, he held one hand just under the lip of the coffee table and used the other to sweep up all of the pieces of whatever his mother had been snorting. Once all traces of it were gone, he raced into the kitchen and turned on the faucet. Jacob was dumbfounded as he watched the man dump all of the frosted glass shards into the garbage disposal and flip the wall switch to turn it on. He let it spin until there were no more clicks or clacks, until the only sound was the whirring of the blades and the rushing of the water.

"CALL THE FUCKING AMBULANCE!" Jake demanded again, his fists clenching in fury as veins popped up on his neck.

Still not complying, the officer turned everything off and rushed to the bathroom. Jacob heard him hyperventilating as he opened the medicine cabinet, heard him digging through the bottles inside of it in search of something. When he emerged, he was carrying the orange vial that contained his mother's Xanax. Opening it, he dumped every pill inside into his gloved hand as he approached the coffee table again.

Jacob watched as the man spread a number of tablets around the surface of the table haphazardly, then stuffed a good portion of them into his pocket. Taking up the hammer, he pounded several of the pills into a powder. Setting it back down, he stepped back and surveyed the scene. Apparently satisfied at what he saw, he took a long, slow breath and tried to steady himself before finally snatching his radio from his shoulder again.

"Burlwood two-two to Elsmere dispatch, do you copy?" he asked as calmly as he could.

"Go ahead Burlwood two-two," a woman's voice responded.

"Ma'am, I need a ten-fifty-two to two-three-five-seven Ashwood, code three, for a possible two-forty-four," he said.

"Ten-four, Burlwood two-two. Rolling ten-fifty-two, code three, to two-three-five-seven Ashwood, your city, eighteen-fifty-two hours."

Boudreaux swallowed hard, closing his eyes and still trying to catch his breath. Janet Giguére still lay half on the table, still foaming and mumbling.

"Jacob," he said, trying to stay calm. "Look, I know this ain't easy -- but if you have any idea what's good for you, any idea what's good for your mom, you need to take a hard look at what you see right now! Unless you wanna go through all kinds of mess, you need to absorb what you see right now and tell anyone who asks you that this is exactly how you found her! That you found her, you called me, that I came, and that I immediately radioed dispatch! Don't say anything about what was here before, don't say anything about what I done when I got here, don't say anything about what you really saw! You got here, and she was snorting Xanax. Do you understand that, son?"

Jacob did, of course. He understood exactly... understood what the valiant Deputy Ron was so panicked about... understood why it was so important that he didn't tell anyone what he really saw... understood that what's good for you and what's good for your mom didn't mean shit. All that mattered to Ron Boudreaux at this moment was what was good for him, and a complete and proper account of what had happened wouldn't be very good for him at all. Not given his relationship with the woman... not given the fact that he had destroyed evidence... not given the fact that he probably played a part in introducing her to the frosted glass in the first place.

Glaring at the man, Jacob simply nodded.

"Are you sure you understand?" the officer asked again emphatically, drilling a hole through the boy with his eyes as the sound of screaming sirens began to echo through the rustling limbs of Booger Woods.

Jacob gave no second nod, and he gave no verbal reply... he just stared at him... stared with ill intent... stared with loathing... stared with hatred.

He would comply, though... he would do as he was ordered... not because it was the right thing to do, but because it seemed to be the only thing he could do. Deputy Ron was right about one thing he'd said, there would be all kinds of mess if he told the truth. More mess, even, than there was already. He couldn't deal with that kind of mess right now, he was dealing with too much as it was.

In true homage to the idiom no rest for the weary, there was more trouble in the cards this Thanksgiving anyway. As the fates would have it, there would be no gap between its arrival and the appearance of the ambulance out front of his trailer. While they waited for the EMT's to enter, the first word of the next trauma came crackling through Deputy Ron's police radio.

"Dispatch, this is unit seven-one-two. I need a CSI unit and The Feds to Burlwood Meadows for a possible six-thirteen. I'm at Tikiwood and Oakwood with a male jogger who flagged me down, we've got what appears to be a foot in the bushes."

TWENTY-FOUR

September 10th, 2016. 4:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

By the time the oil-starved lifters of Jake's Malibu fired up again and he pulled away from Clyde Rambo's home, his head was spinning just as frenetically as the worn down vehicle's crank shaft. His throat was dry and his voice was hoarse, thanks to the old man's lack of anything palatable to drink. Even his water was foul, tasting of rust and hard minerals. With nothing to soothe his vocal chords and old wounds objecting to being exposed after so much time wrapped in bandages, the sixty five minute dissertation he gave was particularly unpleasant.

Jake expected the session that followed their discussion of The Butcher to be like an interrogation, but the former sheriff surprised him by simply listening quietly as he told his tale about the misdeeds and chicanery of Deputy Ron Boudreaux. Occasionally, Rambo would make note of a particular tidbit on a pad of paper or record a specific date that Jake mentioned in his deposition, but he largely just absorbed and digested with a hint of intrigue in his countenance. He did ask a few questions, but they were generally just requests for elaboration or for a more detailed account of a portion of his story.

Once his narrative of the period between 1994 and 1997 had been told, Rambo just ran his hands through his beard and nodded contemplatively.

"Very good, son," he said praisefully, offering no clues as to whether or not he intended to take action on anything he'd learned. "I must admit, I'm a bit impressed at how thorough you were with your investigation! Makes me wonder how you didn't end up wearing a badge, like Louie."

"I thought about it," Jake had replied. "But life just kind of ran away with me once I left Burlwood behind. Tracy was pregnant by the time we were nineteen, that didn't exactly leave much opportunity for me to pursue an education. A criminal justice degree or military experience is just about a requirement to get your hands on one of those badges anymore, and the salary it gets you..."

That made Clyde laugh, as he was well aware of the pittance that his son was earning in exchange for putting his life on the line for the citizens of Elsmere every day. They conversed briefly about how much of a shame that was, denouncing the state of the economy and the country on the whole for a couple of minutes in lighthearted banter. Even depressive topics like the consequences of recession and the dupery of trickle-down economics seemed to resonate with lighter notes than the melancholy baritone of the rhapsody that had been the meat of their dialogue in the hours prior.

With each of them exhausted at the conclusion of their file-swap, they began to close the session with well-wishes, the exchange of phone numbers and a firm handshake. It was then that Rambo asked how long Jake intended to be in town and where he planned to stay for the duration. Jake answered the questions honestly, saying until it's settled and in the backseat of my car, the latter of which brought a grimace to the old man's face.

"You're welcome to stay here, I think you'd be more comfortable." he'd suggested.

Jake politely declined, noting that Rambo's estate was on the far side of town -- the part the boys had called Bumfuck Burlwood, back in the day -- and that he felt he needed to be closer to The Meadows, closer to where everything went down. Clyde held up a finger to beg a moment at that, looking as though a lightbulb had just flickered on above his head, like a character in an old comic strip. He walked out of the kitchen and disappeared deeper into the house for a few seconds, then returned with a key. It was a solitary Kwikset, complete with a large rubber Our Mother Of Sorrows fob dangling from it.

"What's that?" Jake asked.

"It's the key to Chucky's trailer," Rambo explained. "His mother gave me a spare so that I could keep an eye on him, make sure he wasn't letting the place fall apart or living in squalor and filth once she was gone. I don't think he'd mind if you stayed in it, considering you're working on his behalf."

"Is that even okay?" he wondered in reply. "I mean, I know they served a few search warrants on it... are you sure I'm allowed to do that?"

"Unless they've got a padlock on it and crime scene tape up, they're done with it," the old man declared. "A search warrant isn't an open invitation to come and go as they please, it's a finite license. Somebody's gonna have to look after the place anyway, it's not like Chuck will be around to cut the grass or anything. I have enough on my plate trying to kill that fucking tree, I certainly don't want to deal with it!"

Not looking forward to anything beyond a day or two crammed into the back of his Malibu, Jake took the deal and they bid each other goodbye. The trailer park was about fifteen minutes east of Rambo's place, down Route 4, and the drive would quite literally take him through the entirety of the rural township. He would pass all of the old landmarks as he crossed from the historically wealthy end of Burlwood to the perpetually poor side of town. The Downs, Butcher's Lane, the high school, the K-8 school, Our Mother and the ruins of the old Super Socket Fasteners building.

The SSF factory -- at which Garrett Giguére and many of the residents of Burlwood Meadows served as wage-slaves, subsisting on the cusp of poverty -- had been abandoned by the company when they transferred operations overseas in 1993. As Clyde Rambo was now aware, it hadn't been entirely vacated until 1996, but that ball was in his court, now. Exposing the truth about what happened there in the past had essentially erased it from Jake's mind, he was no longer the superintendent of those secrets. Nineteen years of blight had probably seen it crumble to the ground by now, but Jake wasn't planning on scoping it out this afternoon anyway. The crimes committed in that building weren't related to what happened to Billy Marsh, and that case was his sole concern.

In fact, the physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted grownup version of Darkwing didn't plan on surveying any of the sights en route to eighteen-seventy Maplewood, because none of them were of consequence to the matter at hand. Having slept like shit the night before -- thanks to the night terrors and still nagging alcohol withdrawal -- and subsequently exerted so much effort in both talking and listening at Rambo's house, he was just too tired to relive the past. His tank was almost as empty as that of his vehicle, and the orange needle on the dashboard was teetering just above the E. Consequently, he was not compelled to allow himself to be swept up in the antipathy of his less than triumphant return to what was surely a dilapidated skeleton of his old hometown.

Determined to escape the deluge of memories and feelings, black and white alike, that he would eventually have to face in his homecoming, he tried to develop a self-induced tunnel-vision by focusing his eyes and his attention straight ahead. He locked his pupils on the faded yellow line that split Route 4 in two ahead of him, and simply pressed forward. Lighting a cigarette, he held his neck fixed and willed himself to resist the temptation to let his head swivel and survey the landscape around him as he drove on. It was easy enough to do on the open road, but that would likely change when he hit Woodstock Boulevard... when he drove along the backside of Booger Woods, the southern border of Burlwood Meadows.

Reviewing the map of the trailer park in his mind, he tried to plot out the best course to avoid as many of his old haunts as was possible on the way to Chucky's place. Staying clear of Ashwood wouldn't be a problem, and he knew for a fact that the trailer he'd grown up in had been removed and replaced with a new one anyway. The challenge, though, would be planning a route to avoid fourteen-thirty Applewood... where there may or may not still stand a particular pink double wide, which was one that he wanted to circumnavigate at all costs.

He would have to travel Oakwood to Tikiwood, turn right and follow the curve around to Ledgewood, where he would veer left. Ledgewood would dump into Ravinewood, which he could ride until it intersected Oakwood near the back of the park. If he was careful, he could approach Maplewood in such a way that he didn't have to look down towards Applewood at all. He could park in one of the spots designated for Chucky's trailer, and climb out of his car without looking to the left... without looking toward the former Swete household.

As he cruised ever closer to those familiar landmarks he didn't want to face just yet, he puffed heartily at his smoke. It was the first he'd had in several hours, and it fucked him up royally. He felt as high as a kite, and it was kind of nice.

Comfortable in the arms of nicotine and menthol, he dialed Donnell's number. The conversation would serve as both a distraction and an inquest of sorts, so it was a win/win as the ringing sounded out through The Malibu's speakers and Launchpad answered straight away.

"What's up, Jake?" he asked, sounding more relaxed than he had since their reunion.

"Plenty," Jake replied. "I'm back in Burlwood and just had a crazy conversation with Clyde. He talked, so that's good, but he gave me a lot to work on. I guess I'm calling to ask how much help I can expect in dealing with it from you."

"I'll do what I can, man, just keep in mind I have a lot on my plate. Give me the Reader's Digest version of the shit you figure I can do from a distance, and I'll tell you how reasonable it is to expect that I can work it in."

Jake had prepared a mental checklist of the things he felt he needed help with, so he rattled them off concisely and in rapid succession, hoping not to scare his friend off with the breadth of the assistance he would need to wrap things up with haste.

"I need a contact number for an old cop," he began. "Guy's name was Blake, he was the sheriff in Indy back around the time The Butcher was at work."

"Okay," Donnell replied succinctly.

"I need full criminal records, if there are any, on Rusty Parker, Jack Morris and Daryl Lane."

"Got it."

"I need current addresses for all of those people as well."

"Right."

"I need details about the Our Mother van -- at least a plate number, preferably a VIN."

"Check."

With all of the easy ones out of the way, Jake took a deep breath and prepared to potentially touch a nerve. "I need a list of every 1986 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham in the state. If possible, I need that list to include not only vehicles actively registered now, but all of them that were around in the nineties as well."

"Sure." Donnell replied with no noticeable change of inflection.

"This one might be a little hard to swallow, Don," he continued, "but I also need a copy of your old man's record and his contact information, too. Are you still in touch with him?"

"Yeah," he replied, "and if you think it's a surprise to me that you're looking into him, it's not. I did grow up in the man's house, I heard the stirrings. I saw The Feds following him, saw Gomez questioning him, I know the lay of the land."

"Great," Jake said, relieved. "I was hoping the idea wouldn't be a shock, I know it's a hell of a thing to consider."

"Is there anything else you need?"

Running over his mental checklist, he thought for a moment before answering. "No, I think I'll be good with those things for now. I'm sure more will come up, but it'll all just flow with the investigation."

"Perfect!" Donnell exclaimed. "Now, are you ready for the bad news?"

"What bad news?" Jake wondered.

"The news that I probably can't get you any of that shit!" Donnell answered quickly, though not angrily, not spitefully. He presented it as a matter of fact, not a matter of contention.

"Why not?" Jake asked, confused.

"Because I'm not a fuckin' cop!" Launchpad laughed. "I don't have some all-knowing database I can dial into, man, all I've got is the exact same shit that you've got! Google, Yahoo, Bing -- that's it! I mean, I'll try... but don't hold your breath, bro! If it's not readily available as public record, I can't get it! If you want shit like that, you're gonna have to get Louie on the case."

Jake rolled his eyes, irritated with himself again for not thinking of that before being told. Louie was a cop for fuck's sake, he could peek behind the curtain. Since he didn't have a number for him, he asked Donnell to text it when they were finished, and they continued their conversation.

"So far as my Pops goes," Donnell continued, "I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree if you think for even a second that he was The Butcher. First of all, the man was toasted out of his mind ninety-nine percent of the time, and he wasn't the type that could function well while he was toasted. Had he tried some shit like cutting a body up, the damned fool probably would've taken his own arm off in the process!"

"What do you remember about The Brougham, though?" Jake inquired.

"That it always smelled like weed," Launchpad chuckled again. "Whomever he sold it to probably got their money's worth just by scraping up the crumbs in the upholstery, shit was like something that Cheech & Chong should've been driving! I can tell you without hesitation that I don't believe my Pops had anything to do with the old murders, even if the car did. He really sold it \-- gave it away, more accurately -- in exchange for a fix. Any link between him and The Butcher ended there, take that on my word. He definitely didn't have anything to do with Billy Marsh's death, that much I can promise is irrefutable."

"You can say that as a fact? How?"

"Because the old fuck flipped his lid in 2009, right after my mother died. He's crazy as a loon, they keep him under lock and key at the West Winds nursing home, in the Alzheimer's ward. Old bastard didn't cost me enough back in the day, I guess, that joint milks me of twenty-five hundred bucks a month beyond what Medicare covers."

"Oh shit, Donnell, I'm sorry," Jake said in consolation. He was feeling more disappointment in the fact that Evander would likely be of little help in tracking down the Cadillac than he was true sympathy for what the man's condition meant for Donnell, but he tried not to let it show in his tone.

"About his illness or the money?" Launchpad quipped. "His sanity wasn't a big loss, he's not much different in his condition than he was when he was under the influence. You know as well as I do that he was under the influence constantly, so..."

"Still, I know what it's like to see your father in a bad way," he replied and swirling, swirling...

Swirling memories of how his father's death had affected him, how the lack of a male role model that was anything near decent had shaped his life. Swirling sympathies and premonitions, precognition of what his own son would go through when double indemnity came to pass. What would Garrett Jacob Giguére the second think, what would he feel when he found out that his father was never coming home again? When he was told that daddy was never going to hug him, to read him a bedtime story, to tuck him in again?

For him, the processing of what lay ahead wouldn't be so terrible. He was very limited in his ability to feel and reason due to the severe nature of his Autism. At 13, he was emotionally stunted far worse than even Chucky had been. He would probably notice that his father wasn't around, but he wouldn't understand... wouldn't appreciate the permanence, the finality. Perhaps there was solace in that... or perhaps there was merely delusion, perhaps there was only selfishness in not acknowledging what the loss would mean to him. Maybe he would feel the sting when the time came... maybe he would suffer the pain, as Jacob had suffered it himself.

Jake thanked Donnell this time, even though he hadn't proved to be of much more use on this occasion than the last, when there was a compulsion to thank him for nothing. He got Louie's number out of the deal, as well as the name of the facility at which Evander Hughes could be tracked down... that had to count for something.

Hoping for better luck with the man who had been the final addition to the Burlwood Boys crew, he dialed up the junior Rambo and listened to ringing for a long, long time. Eventually, his call was dumped into Louie's voicemail, forcing Jake to think very carefully about how to proceed. With Ron Boudreaux's order to keep far away from Burlwood echoing in his ear, he left only a simple message. Name, number, time of call, request for a call back... the standards.

By the time he hung up, the Malibu had sped passed Butcher's Lane without Jake even realizing. With that landmark blowing by unnoticed, he nearly missed his turn onto Woodstock Boulevard -- the road that would take him into The Meadows. He punched the brakes a little harder than he would've liked, but made the turn without incident. Once inside the park, he followed his route exactly as devised. As he drove, he tried to focus his thoughts on the tasks at hand to keep the memories and observations of the neighborhood's decay at arm's length.

He couldn't tune all of the stimuli out, though, there was an unexpected intrusion as soon as he pulled passed the Welcome To Burlwood Meadows sign that proved inescapable. It was a terrible malodor, redolent of shit and sewage, that permeated the air and poured into his vehicle through its vents and the seams around his doors and windows. It was foul, repugnant and strong, turning his stomach and nearly causing him to gag.

Christ, he thought, has it always smelled like this?

It was possible, of course, that it had. Those foreign city folk of the nineties might've been able to smell it all along, The Burlwood Boys and their families could've simply been nose blind to it from the beginning. Nearly nineteen years removed from his last visit, the palate of his olfactory system would surely have been cleansed of it, by now. That was just as likely an explanation of his revulsion at it as was the idea that it was something new, some problem that had sprung up in the days since his departure.

The more he thought about it, the more he came to believe that it had always been around... that he used to be immersed in it, that it used to cling to him and his clothing wherever he roamed in the blissful ignorance of his youth. It probably traveled with him, like the indelible mark of Cain, until he strayed from the beaten path and tried to find his own way in life -- a path beyond Burlwood, to bigger and better things.

If he was right, if that were the case, the fact that he could smell it now must mean that he had left it behind. If only the other shadows of Burlwood had been so easy to step away from... if only everything else had been so easily shirked off when he crossed the line into adulthood... if only he had remembered to help pull his best friend, Chucky, free of its grasp when he left... if only he didn't have to come back now, under these circumstances -- with his life in this condition... if only he hadn't lost sight of the road, hadn't taken his hands off of the wheel... if only he hadn't wrecked it all... if only he could start over, appreciating what he had to lose this time.

Fuck, his mind was running away from him... he was falling into the abyss... he was descending into the familiar depths of dark waters, the rolling sea of depression, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Fuck, he was losing control...

Shifting his focus to avoid looking left when he parked beside eighteen-seventy Maplewood, Jake's body felt numb with avoidance and exhaustion as he grabbed the oh shit handle and pulled himself out of his car. The Murphy family trailer looked much the same as it had in the past, excusing a few minor signs of neglect and the ravages of time. Its yellow siding could use a new coat of paint, the bushes in front of it could use a shearing and the roof had seen better days, but all in all the condition of the place was reasonable... but it looked menacing, looked foreboding... because he was in the haze, in the fog of a depressive episode.

The porch seemed smaller than he remembered as he slowly climbed the steps, swirling, swirling... binoculars and tears, hugs and black sedans... comedy and tragedy, humor and horror, the flood gates barely holding. Still forbidding his eyes to look down the road, he fought a desperate urge to glance over his left shoulder in the hope of seeing a little blonde girl unloading a U-Haul truck in the distance. Maybe if he looked, she would be there... maybe it would all have been a bad dream,

It was hard to not look, hard to not wish that Rod Serling would round the corner of Chucky's trailer and make his introductory announcement, as only he could make it.

"Submitted for your approval," he would say, "a story of regret filed under F for failure. A harrowing tale of two decades that never were. A saga of days that could've been but transpired, instead, only in the imagination of one Jacob Giguére. A little boy lost, in the miasma of stranger aeons... in the murky pit of nothingness that is... The Twilight Zone!"

He couldn't be so lucky, couldn't be fortunate enough to have fallen from the porch before the original three Burlwood Boys set off in search of Nathan Dawson. Nothing would've made him happier than to wake up in the past, at that very moment, having struck his head on the pavement while gawking at an eleven year old Tracy through his father's binoculars. Having been subjected to a post-concussive nightmare, he would take the terrible experience as a warning from The Gods about how not to play his cards... if he could just wake up in those bushes, if he could just catch a break like that...

Shit, he would've been happy to wake up suspended from the ceiling, feeling the tightness of a chain wrapped around his ankles. He would've been happy to realize that what he presumed to be his life was really only a series of horrific hallucinations, brought on by the influence of Xylazine. Under those circumstances, he would likely smile as The Butcher drew close with his blade concealed, preparing to slice his throat from ear to ear... preparing to put an end to it all.

Bismillah! The Butcher would shout, pressing his hallaf against Jake's jugular. Bismillah! and it's over! In the name of God, and it's over! It was all an illusion, and it's over!

Even that seemed preferable to what he was facing as he slid the key Rambo gave him into the lock of Chucky's door. Sadly, this was not the key of imagination... beyond it was not another dimension, a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight and of mind... he was, however, moving into a land of both shadow and of substance, of things and of ideas... he was in a place that lie between the pit of his fears and the summit of his imagination... but he had not crossed over into The Twilight Zone.

This was his life, as it was now...

This is where he'd made himself an appointment to be...

This is how he'd fucked it all up, and this is what he had to do before he made his exit, stage left.

There was no young Tracy playing in the yard up the road, there was no young Chucky waiting inside to go out and hang with his best and most treasured friend, he was not eleven years old, Janet Giguére was not half way to the moon on the boosters of benzodiazapines, it was not March 16th, 1992, and he did not have a chance to make everything right by taking another run at it.

It was September 10th, 2016, he was about to turn 35, his mother was dead, his wife hated his guts, he was bankrupt, his business had failed, he was bound for divorce, Chucky was in prison and fuck it all, he wanted to swallow a bullet NOW, wanted to close the book NOW, wanted to get it over with NOW and let the rest go to Hell NOW, let it go back where it came from and fucking rot!

As the door of eighteen seventy Maplewood swung open, it wasn't the foul smell inside that made him wince... it was the white-hot sting of the cold Beretta steel smoldering against his ribs. The gun was cocked, locked and ready to rock, there was one in the chamber and one is all it would take. One step inside the trailer he never thought he would see again, one motion to retrieve the weapon from under his shirt, one flick of the safety, one pull of the slide, one shot, one kill, one case closed definitively, one life over, and finally... finally...

But that option was no option at all...

It wasn't viable, wasn't feasible... wasn't fair...

Double indemnity was fair, that's the way it would have to go...

But he was obliged to do this one last thing, first... he had to take care of this thing first, so he fought the longing, fought the desire, fought the fight he'd been fighting since he was thirteen fucking years old and resolved to hold on for just a few more rounds... just a few more seconds, a few more minutes, a few more hours, a few more days, a few more weeks at the most.

Then he could do it... then he could get it over with, the right way... the way that paid off for his wife and for his son, even if they did loathe him, even if they didn't care, he owed them that much. The sooner the better, though, so he needed to get to work... but he needed sleep first. Just the temporary kind, for now, just the type that lasts an hour or two and refreshes the body, the spirit.

Before he could sleep, he was going to have to clean... literally, that is. The terrible funk in the air of Chucky's trailer was coming from dishes in the sink, that much he could tell, but the entire place was a total disaster. It looked like a bomb -- like several bombs -- had gone off in the single-wide, but these were the sort of bombs that wore badges... the sort that carried a warrant to lay ruin and walk away. The cops had trashed the place, dug every loose bit of junk out of the recesses of every drawer and every crevice of every piece of furniture throughout the home.

Since he stepped into the living room first, he started there. He put the cushions back on the couches, restored some semblance of order to the knick-knacks that Chucky's Momma would roll in her grave if she saw as disheveled as they were, hung the framed photos back up on the nails protruding from the walls and just cleaned everything he could in general.

Once the living room was settled, he moved into the hallway. The search team had pulled up much of the carpet, presumably looking for blood stains or something of the like, and had left it bunched up in a ball against the bathroom door. Jake spread it back out, using only his foot to press it back down on the tack strips -- he wasn't a contractor, for Christ's sake.

Pressing on, he surveyed the bedrooms. This particular trailer had two, one each for Chucky and his Momma, when she was alive. He stuffed all of the clothes back into the closets and drawers of the dressers in each of them, put all of the scattered jewelry back in the dead woman's broken open safe, put the box-springs and mattresses back on the bed frames and just tossed the linens on top of them, not bothering to actually make the beds properly because he wouldn't be sleeping in either of them. A person's bed is sacred ground, Jake would be sleeping on the couch for the duration... that was a tenet he'd held for quite some time, one he wasn't going to break now for the sake of his personal comfort.

The next area off the hall was the bathroom, which was the most daunting mess thus far. The raiders had completely emptied the medicine cabinet and the vanity, casting all sorts of a electronic devices and boxes of medications from hither to yon. Having brought his own self-care paraphernalia, he gathered the hair dryer, the electric shaver, the beard trimmer, the curling iron, the straightening iron and all of the other corded implements in one big bundle, which he then stuffed into the cabinet under the sink unceremoniously. When it came to the toiletries and medications, though, he realized he wasn't prepared for any physical ailment that might arise, so he took more care in packing those back into the medicine cabinet. He neatly arranged the shelves with the Tylenol, the Advil, the Benadryl, the Tums, the Pepto, the Kaopectate, the Ex-Lax, the Immodium -- and Christ, Chucky has a lot of stomach issues -- the Carters, the Trojans, the Visine, the hydrogen peroxide, the rubbing alcohol, the bandaids, the Epsom salt, the Neosporin, the tweezers, the nail clippers. Closing the door once everything was situated, he realized that the mirror was filthy, but he wasn't concerned with it at the moment... he didn't care to look at himself anyway.

With that room set, he tackled the kitchen. It wasn't too horribly bad in there, excusing the disaster that was the sink. Putting the silverware away went quickly, as did the pots and pans and cooking implements. A quick glance at that horrific sink left him feeling that the plates, bowls, forks and spoons in it were just about unsalvageable, so he weighed the option of simply throwing them all in the trash for a moment. With further consideration, he decided that Chucky probably wouldn't have the money to replace everything if he did. Having just over three hundred bucks to his name, Jake could offer no financial assistance to him. That meant he would have to endure washing the mold and grease from the used dishes with the ever-formidable power of Dawn detergent and a firm sponge, as much as the idea disgusted him.

He gagged a few times in the process, but managed to get it all taken care of in decent time. As he was drying the last of the bowls with a dishrag, he heard a distinctive clink and felt the vibration of the porcelain throughout his left hand. Turning the ugly 80's style crock around, he realized the sound was that of his wedding band catching a chip around the rim of the dish. Gazing into the titanium, he reflected on his marriage to Tracy Swete. The tale was bitter, now, a mental film as depressing as any he'd ever seen on the silver screen, from beginning to end. When the curtain fell and credits rolled, it left him feeling as hollow and empty as the bowl he'd just washed.

As an epilogue, he remembered the events of the night before... remembered sitting at the sticky table at Uncle Jim's Pancake House and feeling the ring alight with the fire of Nikki's gray-eyed stare. He remembered how he felt when she saw it, how he realized it was silly that he continued to wear it -- not because he was on the market, but because the thing was a relic, now. It used to stand for something invaluable, used to represent his love for and his vows to the woman who was his wife. It used to stake her claim on him, used to reflect her affection and dedication to him, the man who was her husband.

It didn't stand for anything anymore, wasn't worth an equally sized ball of shit... it was a symbol of a broken bond, of a lost cause and resignation under duress. With those things in mind, he took advantage of the lingering lubrication of the grease he'd rinsed away from Chucky's dirty plates and slid the token of their love off of his finger. It was the first time he'd taken it off for any reason, other than to clean it, since he was eighteen years old.

His first thought was of putting it in his bag, tucking it away until he figured out exactly what to do with it. Maybe he would hock it, maybe he would will it to Garrett, maybe he would just give it away to a stranger in the street, he didn't know.

In the end, though, he decided there was only one thing to be done with it... there was only one place that it truly belonged. Having made his decision, in light of everything that had transpired since Tracy spoke the words with this ring and slid it on him, he walked directly to the trash can. Stepping on the lever, opening the lid, he dropped the worthless thing on top of wadded paper towels sinking into the congealing gravy of a Salisbury steak TV dinner tray.

With nothing left to do for the moment, with no energy left to expend anyway, he reported to the couch and laid down to take a nap. If he woke before the evening was up, he would get right down to business. If he slept all the way through to the morning, that was just as well. It was just a matter of time, it was all coming to a head. As he closed his eyes and the fog of this depressive episode started to dissipate, he realized that he could slow the pace just a little, if that's the way he needed to do it... he could relax, just the slightest bit.

He needed to relax... if he wanted to keep that bullet in the chamber.

TWENTY-FIVE

September 10th, 2016. 9:20PM

Burlwood Downs,

Burlwood, Indiana

Ronnie James lifted his rear from his sulky and shifted his weight, something about the seat of this particular race bike hurt his left ass cheek. That was going to make the race miserable, but there was nothing to do about it at this point. The gate car was pulling into turn one, soon the bugle would sound out the familiar notes of Call to Post and he would have to guide Dixie LaRue to her starting position.

He'd drawn number seven for this, the eighth race overall and his third of the night. This was cause for concern, because Dixie was a spirited fillie who liked to run close to the rail. She'd never placed better than fourth when starting on the outside, and he'd never done better than sixth with her from any position. She was trotting well as he took her through her paces in the warmup, so he was hopeful, despite the fact that she would be going off as the nine-to-one long shot.

Settling into the sulky and bracing his feet on the stirrups, he pulled on her left driving line to spin her around, just in time for the sounding of the horn. She rode up tight to the gate as the pace car started rolling, chomping at the bit and ready to burn the mother down. If he could control her, he had a chance...

Pulling the lines lightly, he tried to settle her a bit as the field fell in around them. His goal was to start slow, to fall behind the aggressors of the pack just enough to tuck her to the hub, where she wanted to be. With any luck, he could drop into the middle of the pack and would be running in fifth or sixth as they entered turn three, the first turn of their lap-and-a-half around the five-eighths of a mile track.

If he could keep from getting boxed in, if the horses running along the rail pushed the pace, he would start to open her up when they got back around to turn one and two. They would cruise the backstretch, not giving or taking any positions, and just hold on. Envisioning himself as running no worse than fourth as they approached turn three for the second time, he would really push the girl and move to the outside coming out of turn four. He would be heavy handed with the whip in the homestretch, trying to beat his way to an upset victory and his share of the four thousand dollar purse that went with it.

So long as Patriot Patty wasn't in front of him once they exited turn four, he had a shot. That horse was stupid fast down the stretch. If the bitch was in the lead or had an inside line, he and Dixie LaRue were totally fucked. Dixie's owner had already lectured him, already told him that to place would be okay, to show would be acceptable, but that anything worse than that would spell trouble with a capital T. If he couldn't lead the fillie to the wire in at least third place, he knew his chances of ever running her again were somewhere between slim and none. There were only two other owners that would put him in their sulkies as it was, he couldn't afford to lose Dixie's as a client.

As they thundered up to speed out of turn two, still tight to the rolling gate, he steadied himself and planted his feet. When the bell sounded and the gates folded to the sides of the pace car, he pulled at the lines just the slightest bit -- just enough to let the front of the pack collapse on itself ahead of them. When they were passed him and there was space to do so, he tugged twice with his left hand and tucked her tightly to the rail, just where she liked it. He was running sixth as they rounded turn three... not great but not terrible, not beyond the parameters of what he had hoped for.

The track was fast and Dixie wanted to run the stretch. She had the lungs to do it, but that wasn't the plan, so he didn't like it. She pulled hard and closed in on the jockey in front of her, almost too close for Ronnie's comfort. Leaning his head just a bit, he saw the pink and white checker of Bruce Harris' silks. Fuck, it was Patriot Patty!

Letting LaRue do her thing, he left slack in the drive lines as she leaned into turn one and overtook a stalling pair of competitors on the outside. They were running fourth down the backstretch, which was perfect so far as he was concerned.

Looking to his right, though, he saw a painted fillie trying to pull alongside of them as they entered turn three for the final time. If he wasn't careful, he would end up trapped behind that cunt Patriot Patty and sandwiched to the hub all the way to the wire. That wouldn't do, there would surely be a line pressing hard out wide, a line that would blow by him like they had afterburners jammed up their asses and leave him finishing toward the back of the pack.

Terrified of the damned painted screwing him, he flicked the lines a few times to demand more out of Dixie. They were into turn four when the horse running second slowed and fell back, presumably having gassed herself in maintaining the intense pace of this particular run. She became an equine barrier that forced the painted to slow, opening up a window as the time to pull away from the hub and let loose with the whip was approaching.

Patriot Patty's jockey was already at it with his crop, shouting and beating the ever loving shit out of the horse, which was picking up speed in response and threatening to pull away. Two yanks on the right line and Dixie did as she was instructed, moving off the rail and fixing to take a run at that whore nag.

They were running third, now, with only Patriot Patty and Starshine standing between them and the full winner's purse. The track was wide open in front of them, they weren't far behind and they had every chance at an excellent finish! Starshine didn't have enough gas, she always blew up in the stretch, so second was almost assured -- and first was within reach!

Excited, Ronnie pulled back with the whip and hollered Ya! Ya! at the very top of his lungs. The wind started to whistle in his ears as Dixie really put her foot in the tank and started to close the gap. Closing in on the leaders, closing in on the wire, he was twirling his whip hand like a windmill in a blistering gale and assaulting Dixie's backside with a vengeance.

In mere moments the flashbulbs would explode, the race would be over and a winner would be declared. A reputation would be made or tarnished, a future would be assured or destroyed.

"Ya! Ya!" he cried. "Ya, Dixie, ya!"

Starshine broke down, slowing dramatically, and the pink checkered pattern of Bruce Harris' silk was drawing nearer! As Starshine fell behind, Ronnie kept up his assault and they were fixing to overtake Patriot Patty -- threatening to finish and trot like champions to the winners circle!

"Ya! Ya!"

More whipping, frantic whipping, and Dixie found her second wind! She picked up speed, just when it seemed there shouldn't be any more speed in her at all! Harris looked to his right from Patriot Patty's sulky and saw Dixie overtake his horse, the man's eyes bulging in horror and surprise as his share of the purse was shrinking! He looked like a goddamned fool, like a deer in the headlights, a bug under a magnifying glass!

They were winning, Dixie and Ronnie, they were going to take it all!

"Ya!" he urged her, begged and demanded her. "Ya baby, ya!"

Thirty yards to go, twenty-five yards and -- wait \-- more speed?

How the fuck was she picking up more speed?

He had never trotted a horse so fast, had never felt the breeze so strongly except -- except in pacing races! Spooked, he looked down to her legs... her left hooves struck in unison, then the right hooves, then the left hooves, and FUCK!

She broke, the fucking heifer!

She had broken stride, started pacing instead of trotting!

She'd snatched disqualification and defeat from the jaws of victory and of triumph!

Snatched hundreds of dollars from his pocket for tonight, perhaps thousands in potential future dollars! Snatched him right out of her sulky, right out of her owner's good graces!

Pissed, he threw up his hands in disgust. The blinding flash came as he cursed, and Dixie LaRue would be in the picture. She would be in first place by a neck, but she might as well be back in the stable because all of her efforts didn't mean shit! Because she choked, because she blew it! Because he blew it by pushing her so hard!

Also in the picture, in the background -- blended into the crowd gathered at the wire -- would be the face of a man who hadn't been seen in the lights of Burlwood Downs in quite some time. He would stand out on the photo distinctly for two reasons: firstly, because he was a very handsome man as compared to the faces of Joe Public around him, and secondly because he had his hands thrown up in the air, just like Ronnie James did.

Upon careful examination, a paper ticket would be seen flying from his grasp as the Inquiry light flickered to life on the infield board... a ticket on which was his wager, twenty dollars on number seven to win.

The ticket was garbage, now... not worth a red cent, not worth the paper it was printed on.

Two-hundred and eighty-four dollars, that's all Jake had left when the race was over. After paying for gas, paying for a new pack of cigarettes, paying for parking, paying for a hot dog and a coke, then dropping twenty bucks on a fucking horse that broke stride and turned his ticket to toilet paper, his financial situation was becoming dire.

He was going to need a good chunk of what was left to buy groceries to stock Chucky's fridge, or all of it if he continued eating out and had to stay for any length of time beyond a week or two. He would have to be more careful, would have to be more frugal... unless he could pick a winner in the ninth race.

It was fifteen minutes until post time for the next showdown, and he could've spent every bit of that time studying the program only to come away with no clue as to how he should bet. The facts and figures reported on its pages would serve him just as well if they were redacted, like the recently unearthed secrets of murders past, because he didn't understand what any of them meant in the scheme of things. What difference does the stretch time make if a horse is stuck in traffic? What bearing does a horse's last three finishes have on how they would stack up against the contenders of a totally different field?

Hang out by the stables, the raspy voice of Evander Hughes directed in his memory. Watch to see which horse takes a shit, and bet it all on him! What kind of horse you know can run with a belly full of shit? That's the ticket! That's the key!

As ridiculous as it was, he gave it thorough deliberation as he weighed the options and tried to decipher the tables on the paper. He watched the odds on each participant undulate as other patrons of the track cast their vote for the winner with cash-money, and it was obvious in the wild fluctuations that none of them had any idea how to bet either. The crown title of favorite changed hands more frequently than the names of some small African countries, which was frustrating as hell to him. Following the pack was a sucker bet anyway, because the payout amounts to nothing when everybody picks the winner. When a horse goes off at three-to-two, there's little to gain and the total sum of your bet to lose. Whose idea of a good time is that?

The process of trying to decide started to irritate him, primarily because this wasn't what he'd come to The Downs for in the first place, and he wasn't sure how he'd managed to get so wrapped up in it. Horse racing had never been his thing, he preferred a good game of dice or cards. Those rackets were at least honest and upfront about the fact that there was more luck involved in winning at them than there was any degree of skill. Even the most strategic Blackjack player occasionally busts out with an unexpected face card, it's all quite literally a crap shoot.

This joint, The Downs, tried to masquerade what amounted to pure chance as something that could be prognosticated by a keen and learned eye. He figured that was why he saw so many familiar faces among the crowd, they were the addicts who had enough disposable income to continue their delusive quests to master the art of predicting the results of chaos. They were older, they were more worn down, but they were largely the same faces as those that hung around the dirt back in the early to mid-nineties. There were some newbies, but the rest were the same people he used to see back when The Burlwood Boys would find a way to watch the races from Route 4, or to follow a man and wife in, pretending to be their children. All these years later, they were still at the track... still clinging to some long darkened hope that they might get it right for a change and hit it big one day. Like a leech, the track would feed on them, would suck up their money like a Dyson vacuum until they had none left, and then their welcome would expire.

While it was inherently dishonest, there was still a thrill in this activity... there was still that rush of possibilities as the field raced for the win. The pounding of the hooves, the whipping and shouting of the jockeys, the grunts of the strained horses being pushed to their physical limitations and the hollering masses cheering and jeering... the sights and sounds came together, like a symphony of adrenaline, that built to a crescendo as the rabid steeds came thundering home down the stretch, racing for the glory all the way to the wire.

It certainly wasn't without its charm, as parasitic as it was in its nature. Resigning himself to simply picking the horse with the best sounding name, he folded the program and resolved to get back to business. There were twelve minutes until post time, at least eight of which he could dedicate to studying the crowd for anything that might strike him as unusual before he would have to report to a teller to place his wager. Reconnaissance was the purpose of this visit to the park, allocating another eight minutes to that end seemed the least that he could do.

He'd awakened from his nap at just after seven-thirty, having slept harder in the hour he managed to squeeze out than he had through the duration of the prior night. Apparently, his system was growing more accustomed to being without the alcohol. His thoughts were still a bit hazy -- and he still longed for a tall seven and seven or scotch on the rocks -- but the desire was fading in intensity. Thankfully, the track wouldn't aid in derailing his progress because they only served beer... and he loathed beer with a passion.

The goal of this evening was simply to get a feel for what had become of the town. Outside of the services at Our Mother, this place was host to the largest concentration of people to be found at any given time in Burlwood. He arrived about an hour after the race card began and spent a good deal of time driving around a gravel lot, where the pleasure of parking your car costs ten fucking dollars. It wasn't gated, it wasn't well lit, it wasn't patrolled by any type of security -- it was basically a shakedown without any pretense.

Driving every aisle, he slowly crept along in search of anything that resembled a Cadillac Brougham or Dodge Ram van. He knew it wasn't likely that he would stumble upon either of his targets so auspiciously, but what could it hurt to try?

Having found nothing speficious, as Chucky used to say, he found a spot not worth a tenth of what he'd paid and locked the Malibu up tight, lest someone like him come along with their prying eyes and decide to scope out his ride. Once inside the track's lobby, he surveyed the people and found that little had changed in the small town over the many moons of his absence. The citizens and visitors congregated there looked a little more downtrodden than he remembered them being in the past, but he was kin to them when he'd last looked upon their faces. His life, at present, was probably as much a mess as he assumed theirs were, but he was returning to them in descent of a tangled and bent spiral staircase. He could still claim the esteem of looking down on them from a class or two above, for the moment, but his twisted passage would see him looking up at them before too long... both figuratively and literally, in all likelihood.

He'd hoped to cross paths with Rusty Parker, Jack Morris or Daryl Lane in his travels, but such was not to be on this night in particular. After an hour or so of taking in the lay of the land, when it became obvious that further assiduous observation would prove fruitless, he allowed himself to be sucked into the void of gambling and had yet to emerge from its grasp. There were four races left; four more chances to either squander his endowment or to bring prime rib dinners for the duration within his reach.

Nothing in the crowd caught his attention as he looked around, until the dot-matrix pattern of light bulbs on the infield board flashed in indication of a change. The second digit had fallen dark in the Time to Post display, meaning he was down to nine minutes to place a bet. Not desiring to live on Ramen Noodles if it wasn't necessary, he deferred to the program again in a futile effort to discern the indiscernible.

Falling back to his best name strategy, his eyes were drawn to a particular listing in bold black letters. It stood out amongst the banality of titles like Black Light Stallion and Tommy's Topgun Hero, speaking to him and resonating in his mind.

It was the horse that would sport the number three and wear the black tack and cloth... the horse that was currently set to go off at five-to-one, a midfield pick with every chance of paying off. Those details were convenient, since the black suited his mood and the odds were a fine balance of risk and reward, but it was the name of the two year old colt that called to him. A name so simple and yet so profound... so perfect and so intense...

The horse was called These Truths, and that was brilliant.

We hold These Truths to be self-evident, his inner voice declared doggedly and intrepidly. That all men are created equal, except for Jacob Giguére -- who is an absolute fucking asshole. That he was endowed by his creators -- Garrett and Janet, CERTAINLY not God, He would never take credit for this bit of flotsam -- with a penchant to turn everything he touches from glittering gold to rancid shit. That Tracy Swete, the woman whose life he hijacked and completely destroyed, and her son, Garrett, have an unalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of being made whole -- through the benefit of a life insurance policy rider known as double indemnity. That, upon completion of this, the first and last unselfish act of his entirely wasted life, his continued existence becomes destructive and inhibitive to those aforementioned ends. At that time, it becomes his unalienable duty to alter and abolish himself in such form as, to him, seems most likely to be maximumly sufferable and painful, and most likely to effect the safety and happiness of those he leaves behind. When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under him, it is his right, it is his duty, to throw himself off and find new guards for their future security.

These Truths... these fucking truths...

Folding the program and stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans, he marched into the enclosed concourse and approached an open betting window. The teller's back was turned as he approached, apparently in counting the money to balance a till or something. It was plainly obvious that he was a black man, but when he spun around at the behest of Jake clearing his throat, his familiarity became just as evident.

The recognition came with that familiar swirling, swirling of thoughts and memories, swirling like the wrinkles on the man's flesh, where none had been before, swirling like the curve at the bottom of a distinctive scar that split his face in two. Swirling like the horses turning around in their paddocks, during a tour of the stables at The Downs. Swirling in a strange and soft accent that sounded slightly French, but wasn't quite right. Swirling and I got this scar in the war, I was a soldier... that's why they call me Sarge!

There was no apperception of their aquaintance, nineteen years removed, in the dark eyes of the man wearing a name badge that read Grover. He turned and smiled warmly at what amounted to just another customer, in his mind. Kindness emanated from him in his demeanor and that smile, a grin worth at least fifteen bucks an hour in the year 2016, when it was held in the possession and control of an old and tired man.

"Good evening, sir!" Grover said wholeheartedly in that familiar soft accent. "Are you prepared to make your wager?"

It took a moment for Jake to respond, as was typical when he found himself caught in a whirlpool of reminiscence. He tried to mirror the man's graciousness when he did finally speak, but the effort was Herculean and perhaps beyond him, in the darkness of his mental state.

"Hi Sarge," he said, awkward in his delivery.

The man's head cocked a bit at the greeting, as though the sifting over of many vast volumes in the library of his memory required some form of physical exertion. He looked thoroughly puzzled as he examined Jake's face carefully, scrutinizing and comparing it to mental photographs of all the people he'd encountered in his time.

"Do I know you, young man?" he asked, still affectionate in his bewilderment.

It didn't come as a terrible surprise that Grover didn't remember Darkwing, the two of them had only crossed paths twice, to his recollection. The first time as a ships in the night incident at the Burlwood Civic Center, and the second during the school field trip to The Downs. Sarge had been their escort, and the man conducted a thorough, interesting tour complete with humor-infused insight into the world of harness racing and equine maintenance. He probably did it a hundred times with thirty students at a clip, there was no reason that Jacob should've stood out among them in his mind.

"Uh, no," Jake stammered, "not really. I grew up out here, took the tour of the stables with you... twenty years or so ago."

"Oh yes," the man grinned, "I used to love giving those tours! Sadly," he sighed, "this old body of mine just can't take standin' up all day anymore! That's why I'm doin' this now, workin' the ticket counter at least gives me a chance to sit! That's about all I'm good for, at my age!"

"I understand," Jake said, as he feigned a smile in return. "I'm not getting any younger myself."

"Forgive me and my shoddy memory, my friend!" Grover begged. "And tell me, while there's still time... who's gonna be the winner of this next race?"

"Huh?" Jake asked. There was another slight pause as he digested the question and pieced together the fact that Sarge was asking for his bet. "Oh," he resumed, "number three, please."

"Ah yes," Sarge countered, "These Truths! A fine pick, young man, a fine pick indeed! He's a beautiful young Cremello colt, gonna have a strong career ahead of him! Are you gonna try for a quinella or trifecta, or are we gonna just go with number three to win?"

"Just the win," Jake replied, "I'll be lucky if I can manage to pick that right."

"Very good, very good!" Grover praised. "And how much are you in for?"

Doing the mental math, he calculated the payout if These Truths was still going off at five-to-one. Deciding that a hundred bucks sounded nice at a twenty dollar wager, he concluded that a buck-and-a-half sounded even better at the thirty dollar level. "Thirty, please," he said.

Two-hundred and fifty-four dollars left to go... two-hundred and fifty-four dollars, or over four-hundred if the old boy turned the trick.

The old man punched a few buttons on his touchscreen display, a printer to his right firing out a stub and a receipt in response. Pulling the tickets from their cradle, Grover extended his hand to present them before he actually had the cash required to complete the transaction.

"There you are, young man!" he said.

Without being asked, Jake handed over a twenty and a ten in exchange and thanked the teller. Sarge called out good luck as he turned and walked towards the courtyard, where he would take up a position at the wire and hope for the best.

There were only two minutes left before the contest would begin, so the gate car was taking up its position and extending its arms across the width of the track. As the mechanism worked and the vehicle sat, brake lights ablaze, Jake examined its rear end and was rocked with an abrupt and accidental discovery of revelation.

The vehicle was maroon in color, but the shape and form of the American steel lines were very familiar to him and swirling, swirling. A swirling coat of arms, one that belonged to the family of Baron Sylvester, but was most famous for having been borrowed by one Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac... an emblem that was emblazoned on the tail end of every Fleetwood Brougham ever produced, an emblem that was polished and shining under a thin film of Burlwood dust as the gate car sat and waited for the horses to approach.

His eyes wide, he pulled them down from the ornament and searched for the vehicle's license plate. There wasn't one, this car had been modified and was no longer street legal, no longer worthy of the road, no longer required to be registered.

Christ, could it be?

As the car started to roll, crunching on the surface of the track under its old and haggard tires, Jake studied it like it was the Rosetta Stone. The field drew close behind it as it rounded the corner, including the illustrious albino-looking contender These Truths.

He wasn't concerned with watching how his pick behaved as the gates swung open and the starting bell sounded, he was focused, instead, on trying to ascertain exactly what it said on either side of the pace car. It pulled away from the pack in their first turn and led the way, rounding the bend that would bring it down the stretch and afford him a closer look at the beige letters on its quarter panels that were just a blur in the distance at present. Inside the vehicle, he could see the shadowy silhouette of a larger than life driver focused on the track as another form clutched what appeared to be a microphone in the passenger seat. That one was scanning the action behind them frantically, providing a play-by-play narrative that shook the air as it spilled from loudspeakers over the grandstands, where the gathered masses hooted and hollered.

As it came roaring around turn four, the dust billowing up behind it, there was a moment at which the outline of the microphone was situated such that, from his vantage point, Jake would've sworn that it was a little boy's foot sticking up over the headrest of the back seat. In the yellow light cast down by floodlamps from above, the color of the vehicle itself seemed to change. It seemed to turn blue as the cinders of dirt and memory were swirling, swirling in its wake.

The amalgamation of stimuli in coincidence took him back, far back, to a place he never thought he'd be again... to a place he never desired to revisit... to a moment that would live in infamy in the recesses of his mind... to the gravel lot of Our Mother Of Sorrows, to the carnival, to the outhouses, to the blue car and oh God, where's Timmy? Is that his foot? Jesus Christ, what's happened? What have I done? Why wasn't I watching for him? Fuck me, it's all my fault! Fuck me, I let The Butcher have him, and he's gone!

Gone, forever!

The rumble was deafening as the car and the horses blew by him, These Truths holding on to a narrow lead as Jake felt the blast of wind that marked their passing. It was as crushing and as demoralizing as the passing of Timmy Lane had been, and it shook him to his core. Nearly blown over by the gust in his trembling, he focused on those beige letters... those potential clues to the mystery at hand.

FGSI Services... that's what the letters spelled.

FGSI Services, Blackmoor, Indiana.

He repeated the title in his mind, his thoughts racing, his heart pounding. FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI -- have to remember! -- FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI... Blackmoor was easy, it was the next town over to the east, Services was superfluous, it didn't matter. What mattered, what he needed to remember was FGSI, FGSI, FGSI, FGSI.

The race continued back into the far turn, the Cadillac and the horses disappearing behind the infield board for a few moments before they resurfaced in the backstretch. These Truths was still at the pole, but he was being challenged aggressively by a contender on the outside. The gate car continued to lead them, the driver driving and the commentator doing his thing. The crowd surged in their cheering as the pack tightened up, every horse on the dirt fighting for position and striving for the crown.

Then, as they entered the final turn, Jake's attention was drawn to a disturbance among the people gathered near the rail where the homestretch began. He saw a horde of men who seemed particularly enthused about something, but none of them was watching the action on the track. Several were bent at the waist, hovering over something. Some of them seemed pleased at what they were watching while others looked angry and disturbed. The commotion doubled when a fist flew up into the air, the arm to which it was attached almost reaching a state of hyperextension. It was a fight, this one the more literal type than that taking place beyond the fence, where These Truths was being overtaken and falling back.

Jake watched the action, not inclined to step in and restore order until -- until \-- he heard a definitively feminine cry come from the center of the mass. Christ, some thug was taking his aggression out on a woman!

That he could not let stand, that he could not be complicit in by simply standing by and watching, that seemed totally unacceptable to him, despite the fact that he himself had raised his hand to Tracy Swete Giguére not more than forty-eight hours ago.

His calves fired immediately, sending him tearing through the crowd before he knew what was happening. Pushing and shoving people out of his way with abandon, he was engulfed in the pile of humanity within mere seconds of having set off. The gawkers pulled away quickly in the presence of an enforcer, revealing to him a middle-aged cretin who needed a shave and shower worse than any other man Jake had ever met. He had his victim mounted, her petite frame trapped to the pavement by his crotch, which was crushing her sternum with his weight. Her arms were out turned and covering her face, which was the target of his assault.

Never one to take a cheap shot, the would-be hero peeled the villain off of the woman with handfuls of his denim jacket. Applying every bit of force he could muster with his triceps, he flung the man backwards and sent him crashing to the ground, just as Tracy had crashed to the mattress during the contention of his last bout. There was a look of shock upon the stranger's face, likely at the fury of Jake's applied strength, but he leapt to his feet and took a charge at Sir Galahad for his insolence.

More than happy to oblige, Jake met his challenge and drew back his right fist. The attacker opted to take the body, wrapping his arms around Jake and dragging him down to the rough concrete in an effort to mount him, as he had the woman. Little did the fool know, Jacob Giguére was an experienced practicioner in the fistic arts both on the feet and on the ground alike.

He was in a compromising position on the bottom only briefly, until another set of spastic flections brought about a reversal, and it was the brave knight on top of the hill. Pinning the man to the the ground, he had a chance to impose his will from above. He felt his jeans being ripped at and torn by the pavement as he braced himself to strike, springing forward into the punch by pushing off with his knees and pronated feet.

The impact of his tightly locked fist with the spongy flesh of the man's cheek was glorious. It made a beautiful thwack that made his blood pump to unexpected places with haste. Reveling in it, he pulled his right hand back again as he held tight to the denim jacket with the left. The second thwack was accompanied by a crunch, he'd caught a piece of nose with it, which made it all the more pleasurable. There was a spraying of blood, but from the man's nose instead of Jacob's throbbing penis, which felt as though it would burst. Bordering on orgasmic in his rage and thorough enjoyment, he let loose a third blow that certainly separated his opponent from consciousness for at least a few moments. The fourth hook was unnecessary and in excess, but he just couldn't resist.

His hand was throbbing, in concert with his heart and cock, so he straightened his back and tried to steady his breathing. The onlookers seemed in awe of him as he sat upon his throne of conquered flesh, the ballyhoo having quieted when the incident crossed the line and moved from freak show curiosity to mad-dog attack territory. His gratification unstifled by their distaste of what he had done, he flicked his hand to shake off the lingering pain.

Standing erect, as his dick was, he moved toward the crumpled frame of the woman on the ground, only to discover that it wasn't a woman at all. The person holding her bloodied lip and watching him approach was no more than just a girl, and a familiar one at that... it was Nikki... the waitress from the diner.

"Are you okay?" he asked, reaching out his left hand to help her up since his right was still screaming.

Stunned at what had transpired and grateful for his assistance, she nodded slightly as a tear fell from one of her smoke colored eyes. In her shock, she didn't take Jake's hand immediately. Moving it closer to her, he prodded with a glance for her to grab it. When she did, he felt the fire within her like a bolt of electricity passing through him. It was another osmotic symbiosis, intense and incredible beyond any verbalization. He felt one with her, like he was inside of her, as he pulled her to her feet.

"Asshole!" a gurgling voice called from behind. "You broke my fucking nose!"

It could've only been one person, but could he possibly have the balls? Turning to look, he saw that it was, indeed, the felled reject -- daring to address him. He cast daggers at the fool with his glare, assuring him there was more where the ass beating came from, if he desired to have another taste of it.

"The whore took my wallet!" he accused in a blood congested slur. "It wasn't any of your fucking business!"

Pausing to think, Jake turned his eyes back to Nikki standing beside him. She locked those gray pupils on his with fortitude and shook her head, denying the charge.

Before he could probe any further, another man approached them where they stood. He stopped mid-stride and raised his hands, as if he were under arrest, when Jake's head snapped around to warn him to keep back. "Relax, guy," he said, "I'm not looking for trouble... I was just gonna tell y'all that y'all should get out of here, quickly, if you want to avoid explaining this to the police!"

It was wise advice, especially considering the fact that Jake had his Beretta strapped to his side in violation of the track's policy. That amounted to a crime, as did pounding in the face of some drunken bum. Eager to get out, he returned his attention to Nikki and asked a simple question that would have lasting ramifications.

"Did you drive yourself?"

"No," she answered, physical and emotional pain obvious in her voice as she bent over to pick up perhaps the smallest purse that Jake had ever seen.

"Then come on, I'll have to give you a ride."

TWENTY-SIX

September 10th, 2016. 10:00PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"So, are you gonna tell me your name?" Nikki asked as she fastened her safety belt in the passenger seat of Jake's Malibu.

He started the vehicle and backed out of his parking spot quickly, determined not to face the Elsmere PD officers that were surely on their way... officers who were likely briefed on the unwelcome nature of his presence in the township. Slamming the transmission into drive, he spun the tires on the gravel lot and tore away.

"Where am I taking you?" he asked, ignoring her request for a formal introduction and lighting a Newport with a heavy draw.

"I live in The Meadows," she replied. "Fourteen Forty Applewood. Do you know where that is?"

Swirling, swirling and his blood ran cold. He felt a paleness overtake him, one that was sure to be visible, even in the darkness of the passenger compartment.. Of course he knew where fourteen forty Applewood was. It was right fucking next door to fourteen thirty Applewood, a place he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Christ, he would be right there. Unless he decided to dump her on Woodstock Boulevard and make her walk the quarter mile to her trailer, that is. As rude as doing so would be, it was certainly an option being weighed in his mind. He'd done nastier things to nicer people, he didn't owe this woman anything.

His hand was shaking with the fallout of adrenaline, and the anxiety about what awaited him on Applewood wasn't helping to calm his nerves. He took a long drag at his cigarette, trying to suck down as much smoke as was possible, hoping to achieve a comfortable high. A nice nicotine buzz, like the one he'd gotten from that first cigarette after leaving Rambo's house, might make it easier to take the girl all the way to her destination, but that remained to be seen. Holding the noxious chemicals in his lungs, he didn't answer her question.

"Should I take that as a yes?" she snapped, apparently taking affront at his silence as she dabbed her fingers to her bleeding lip.

"I know The Meadows," he replied plainly, letting the smoke flow slowly and lazily from his mouth and nose.

Nikki nodded, shivering in his coldness to her. She'd never experienced anything quite like it from a man. Guys were normally open books to her, even those that held back at first generally caved once they'd taken the time to survey the curves of her breasts and waist. If they held out through that, it was usually over once they'd had an opportunity to gaze at her ass. It was obvious from the jump that this guy was different, though. That he wasn't of the same breed, wasn't cut from the same cloth as the others she had known so many of before.

She wondered, for a moment, if his disregarding of her was due to the fact that he was married and trying to stay true to his matrimonial vows. A wedding ring had never been an obstacle in her past interactions with the testosterone fueled opposite sex, so even that wall would crumble away with time. Looking at his hands upon the steering wheel, though, she noticed that the band he'd worn the night before was absent now. That was curious, because it meant that something had changed.

Either it hadn't belonged there in the first place, or he had suddenly decided that he was in the market for some strange with anonymity and no strings attached. As she sat, she longed for it to be as simple as the latter... longed to be that strange piece of ass for him. She'd hoped to end up underneath him from the moment she first laid eyes on him, when he strolled into her life as just another customer of Uncle Jim's Pancake House. If that was his desire, he had a very odd way of showing it -- right from the beginning.

She'd recognized him as the man from the diner straight away when he threw her date to the ground, his was a face that she wouldn't forget easily. The exchange they'd shared with their eyes at Uncle Jim's was among the most erotic moments she'd ever experienced in her life. She was very familiar with salacity, so there were plenty of similar experiences to compare it to and measure it against. It took the cake, hands down, and it would be etched indelibly on the walls of her memory forever.

When their psyches were intertwined in that moment, when their spirits were making passionate love, she saw a fire and lust in his stare that was deep and intense. He wanted her, and she wanted him, that much was obvious on the surface. There was more to their connection than lollipops and blowjobs, though, there was also a sense of profound sorrow and detachment in the depths of his emerald eyes. Beneath the surface of the fleshly intimacy they fantasized of in tandem, there was a strong current of despair that she recognized just as well as she did the lust.

Without a word from him, without the learning of a single fact about him, before she even knew his name, she knew everything about him. She knew who he was at his core, where he was coming from in his life, what he was facing on the horizon and the battles he was fighting within the mysteriously curved enclosure of his mind.

He was a denizen of a dark realm, a place that she too had once called home. They were born of the same universe, had their roots in the same Cimmerian land of heartache and suffering. The only difference between them was that he was trying to navigate that place alone, without the proper guidance or tools to succeed.

While his physical body -- which was stunning and ravishing to her eyes -- was alive and extant in this, the reality of the droids, his inner self was far removed from this facade. The true man inside of him was hidden away from this land of foolish hope and blind faith. Within himself, where his spirit lie, he walked the mile in a cold and lonely expanse where only a cursed few are condemned to tread. A desolate, lonely and silent place overseen by the tyrant Mars. The realm of war and inner conflict, of battle with oneself and with the clowns of the real world. With the masses of unenlightened who drone away as slaves to sanity, the buffoons who believe that their reality is the only one that truly exists.

This man, this tall dark and absolutely fucking gorgeous man, was aware, and he knew the truth that was hidden from the world at large. He knew of that other reality. The realm of suffering, of agony and of torment. The realm of depression, a place where Nikki was no stranger, in any sense of the word.

She knew the alleys of that place well, she had dwelled in those screaming streets for most of her young life. It pained her to think that he was walking that plane alone, that he didn't have anyone to show him how to live in the misery, in the darkness.

She wanted to help him, but she knew that a person held in the bondage of the heavy chains he bore is beyond the reach of anyone who would act to interfere with the suffering. A person like that, a person like him, is a prisoner. Until they, themselves recognize the shackles. Until they, themselves wipe away the tears. Until they, themselves decide to exalt what can be salvaged of their lives and take the step to reach out a hand for help. Until then, they are lost. Until then, they are hopeless. Until then, they are the living dead. There was nothing she could do to help him, until he decided to help himself. She could give him physical release, she could ease his mind, but she could not rescue him.

What troubled her the most was the evident fact that he was actively struggling against the sea of black water that surrounded him. In her experience, struggling for air was the worst thing that someone caught up in the rushing tides could do. When it becomes too much to keep your head above water calmly, when it's simply beyond you to continue struggling in peace, a floatation device is required. A life preserver is necessary, a chemical intervention is indicated.

This man obviously didn't have access to any of those things. That meant that either he hadn't felt the water filling his lungs severely enough to force a cry for help, or that he was the stubborn type and was too proud to suck it up and seek proper care. Whichever was the case, he was obviously on his own at present. That couldn't end well, she figured. It never does... it nearly hadn't for her.

Summing him up as she did, she felt like the two of them were brethren. In that light, she examined the fact that his ring was gone and tried to calculate exactly what its absence meant. Possibly, it meant that he was open. That he was receptive, in his broken condition. That he might accept the limited help she could provide. That he desired that physical and mental release, the most primal of all releases.

Had he shut himself off entirely, had he flipped all of his emotional switches to their off positions, he wouldn't have bothered to remove the silver band from his finger. Even if it didn't stand for anything anymore, if his marriage was in ruins or long over, the act of keeping it on erected a barrier between him and the fairer sex. Even the ones without scruples would take pause in seeing it, because it indicated that he would have to be won instead of simply being had.

Its disappearance was a sign, it was a dropping of the guard he shielded himself behind. She was determined to figure out exactly what it was a sign of, and she intended to see if she might slip in through that tattered guard and reach him. If he was open to being helped, she wanted to try and help him. If he just wasn't getting any from his wife and was suddenly feeling horny, she wanted to satisfy his appetite in that regard.

Whatever it was, whatever taking off his ring meant, she wanted to know... and she wanted to be close to him. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically. She wanted to be inside of him... she wanted to have him inside of her... in every way that was possible.

"My name is Nikki," she said, trying to coax even the slightest lowering of his shield. "Nikki Spencer. We met last night, at Uncle Jim's."

Jake nodded in the light of the dashboard's gauges, refusing to let her in... refusing to reach out to her.

"Thanks for what you did back there," she continued. "I don't know what the fuck got into that guy, he's a whack job, I guess. I should've known when he started drinking, when he kept drinking. He had way too many, I should've known he was some kind of nut."

"He said you took his wallet," Jake declared in a firm tone, "did you consider for a moment that that was his problem? I imagine I'd be pretty pissed if you took my wallet, too."

Nikki looked over to him as they sped down Route 4, both surprised that he managed to speak more than a single sentence to her and angered at what the words insinuated. His voice was deep and manly, the bass of it sending chills through her body. The sonic vibration radiated from her ears, where it entered her, to a space between her legs, where it resonated and reverberated.

Any degree of pleasure she took in the breakthrough of his engaging her died a hard death when she looked at him. He was looking back at her, between glances at the road, and his eyes were filled with accusation and contempt.

"So you believe him?" she asked, irritated. "You just accept the word of a drunken bum who likes to use his fists on his date?"

The cold stare he returned indicated to her that he did, which pissed her off beyond belief.

"It figures," she chirped, wiping at her busted lip. "Bros over hoes, right?"

Shaking her head, she realized there was quite a bit of blood on her hand. Apparently, her date had gotten in a pretty good shot at her before she was so valiantly rescued. She must've bitten her lip when he did, because it hurt like hell and she could taste the injury.

"Do you have napkins?" she asked, scanning the darkened floor of the vehicle for anything of use.

"In the glovebox," he replied.

Without asking permission, assuming it was implied, she opened it. Several things spilled out when she did, including a bottle of eye drops and the vehicle's registration. Left inside were several Burger King napkins, a handful of which she snapped up before stuffing the other junk back in and slamming the door shut. Ever the opportunist, she took a peek at the name on the registration before returning it... Giguére Investigative Services LLC, it said. Boy, was that a lot for her to consider.

The napkins themselves still stank of Whoppers and fries, which made her hungry as she tended to the blood. It was more than a simple meal she wanted as she smelled the musk of sweat, adrenaline and Acqua Di Gio in concert with mayo, mustard and onions, and it was more than her mouth that longed to be fed.

If he only knew how his stubborn and adamant dismissal of her made her want him. Maybe he would've hated it, maybe it would've inspired him to handle this encounter differntly. Alternatively, perhaps he was working her methodically, pulling her strings in just the manner he wanted to. Maybe that was just his style.

Hard to get is sexy, no matter which gender is playing the role.

"I didn't take his wallet," she insisted, dabbing the brown napkin to her lip.

"Well it certainly wasn't on him," Jake proclaimed, his tone still firm and hard. "I felt every inch of the man's clothes while we were wrestling, it wasn't in his back pocket!"

Nikki made a dirty face and turned up her palms, taking an attitude to match -- and likely dwarf -- his own. "How the fuck should I know?" she snapped. "I told you, he was drunk! He probably left the fucking thing at the bet window, or at the concession stand when he bought his seventh beer!"

Based upon the look he wore when she spoke the words, it was clear to Nikki that this Giguére guy wasn't buying it. Maybe he wasn't playing hard to get after all, maybe he was just a straight-up dick. Even that idea made her want to mount him, in her twisted sensabilities.

Approaching the park, they turned onto Woodstock and then onto Oakwood. From there, he took a strange route that made her wonder if he knew the place as well as he claimed he did. Eventually, after traveling far out of their way and winding around from the backside, they pulled up in front of her trailer.

Jake had consciously taken this route, which allowed him to avoid driving directly passed fourteen-thirty Applewood. It was right in front of them, though, as he pulled over to the curb and parked. Looking down to his lap, where things were still stirring, he tried not to dwell upon the horrific thing he now knew was still there. It wasn't pink anymore, at least it didn't look it in the dark, but the shadow of the home situated where Tracy's trailer used to be looked very familiar to him nonetheless. It was the same trailer at fourteen-thirty Applewood that had been there in the nineties, and that royally sucked.

"Well, thanks," Nikki said with a snark. Realizing that this moment may be the last time she ever saw the man, that it may be the only chance she'd ever have to reach out to him, she tried to tame her wild sarcasm. If this was to be the end, she wanted to leave his life on a positive note. She liked this guy, even if it was unrequited. Offering an olive branch, she took a softer tone and offered up the praise that he had, after all, earned with his chivalrous actions. "Look," she began, as warm as she could possibly be. "Whoever you are, what you did was very noble. I appreciate it, and I thank you."

As hollow as he figured her words might be, she delivered them with a sincerity that worked to soften his heart. She was young -- though certainly not innocent -- and regardless of what may or may not have happened between her and her date, she was vulnerable as they sat, at this moment. He was actively trying to hide his inner self from her, just as he had back at the diner. This wasn't the result of anything she had done, but was instead because the intensity of the connection he felt in locking eyes with her had jarred him. She was not to blame for his retreat from her, he was.

This wasn't something unique to her, either, he never let anyone inside with him. Tracy and his son were the only exceptions, and the backdraft he exposed them to in being open with them had ruined everything they held dear. He kept people out to protect them, because he was embarrassed of what lived beneath the hard exterior he projected to the public at large. He was rancid beneath his skin, beneath the suit of armor he wore through life. Even Hephaestus would stand at attention in admiration of his expertly forged chainmaille, it was just that solid and impenetrable.

Initially, Nikki's attempts to pierce the veil had irritated him. Deep inside, he knew that his reluctance to let her do it was just a reflexive response he'd developed to stave off all intruders. She was exposing her inner self to him as they sat in front of her home, a place that was only ten or twelve trailers away from the one he would live in for at least a week or two. He would likely run into her again, and she would likely continue to try to break his defenses.

With that on his mind, he started to wonder whether it was his hiding from the world that led him to this cold and lonely place of darkness, this fog that he was lost in. For the first time in his life, he felt a strange compulsion to open the door and let her in. Maybe there was comfort in her light? Maybe she could bring him a degree of peace in the days to come? He'd never know if he pissed all hope of that away by remaining stoic in this moment.

The uncertainty was uncomfortable, he couldn't decide whether to chase her away with a pitchfork or to snatch her up in a tight and passionate kiss. On the surface, he was inclined to run her off... but there was a little voice inside of him that longed for company, that begged for anyone to be by his side for the trials that were to come. That person couldn't be Chucky, because he was indisposed. It couldn't be Donnell, because he had a life to live. It couldn't be Clyde Rambo, because he was an old man without the energy to climb the mountains that lie ahead. It certainly couldn't be Tracy, because she had written him off.

Could it be Nikki? Could she be his Sherpa?

He didn't know... wasn't sure if dragging her along was a good idea or an awful one... couldn't say if he wanted her as a confidant, as a partner in crime or perhaps even something so intimate as a fuck buddy in these, the last days of his life. If she could be any of those things, though... if she could fill any of those shoes for him, that would be more than he had at present. Certainly, it would be more than he would have otherwise for the remainder of forever, as it applied to him.

Many seconds of uncomfortable silence having passed, the girl resigned herself to not receiving a response and opened her door sharply. Hurt and pissed, she slammed it shut once she was clear of it and started storming toward her front door.

Still uncertain, still hesitant, Jake made a snap decision that he couldn't just let her walk away... he couldn't shut her out of his life, the way he shut everyone else out... he couldn't walk the road ahead totally alone. Wherever it may lead him, whatever he might find waiting for him at its end, he wanted someone to be beside him when he got there.

"Wait!" he called after her desperately, hopefully and cautiously.

She stopped and turned, locking eyes with him again in mutual consent... locking eyes with the same intensity and depth of emotion they had shared the night before.

"It's Jake," he declared.

Nikki stood frozen in the darkness, staring back at him with her hunger, staring back at him with her desire. The answer not enough, not sufficiently complete in her mind, she begged the rest. "Jake what?" she asked, wanting the exchange to be in full disclosure, even though she suspected she already knew the rest.

"Ob," he replied, still guarding the rampart just a bit.

"Huh?" she furled her brow in reply. "Ob? What the hell kind of name is that? Jake Ob?"

Their ocular coupling was broken when she rolled her eyes, deciphering what he meant and shaking her head at his sarcasm. He smiled in return, and the smile melted her where she stood. As the Malibu pulled away, she felt a moisture that was no stranger to her, no stranger to her at all.

God, she wanted that man... shattered, mending or put all together, it didn't matter. She'd take him as he came.

Jake locked his stare on the surface of Oakwood, refusing to pay any mind to the former Swete home as his car rolled right by it. He didn't intend to go directly back to Chucky's, so he headed back to Woodstock to make his way out of The Meadows. The decision was based equally on the influence of two factors, two distinct issues that he decided he could not ignore.

His first objection was to Nikki knowing that he was living so close to her, but that concern was a distant second in his reasoning. More urgent and more pressing, so far as he was concerned, was a tingling sensation he felt... a phenomena that was independent from and unrelated to the things that were stirring in his pants. It was something he hadn't felt in quite some time, but that made it no less disconcerting this evening. As he turned back onto Route 4, he had that old overriding sense that he was being followed.

Someone was on his tail, someone who wasn't a friend of his and didn't wish him well... someone he intended to shake and to identify, lest things go sour and spoil his night.

TWENTY-SEVEN

September 10th, 2016. 11:10PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake had driven forty miles around in circles, weaving down back roads and taking shortcuts that only the initiated of Burlwood would know. Unable to shake his feeling, he traveled halfway to Garthby before pulling a highly illegal U-turn, right in the middle of Route 7. That should've exposed whomever was after him, he should've been able to see them as he spun around and headed back into his home town.

Checking his mirrors all the while, scanning his surroundings like a bobblehead, he tried to figure out exactly who was tailing him and why. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, convincing himself that no one could possibly have followed him without being busted by his trickery, he started to wonder if this whole affair had been a false alarm.

If it was, it would've been the first time he was wrong. His sixth-sense was pretty accurate, and he trusted it implicitly. Despite his efforts, though, he couldn't zero in on any pursuer, couldn't catch his predator in the act. That didn't negate the feeling, it was still strong, and he was sure that someone was tracking him through the cloak of night.

Maybe it was a friend of the guy he'd stomped at the track... maybe it was some jealous ex or current boyfriend of Nikki's... maybe it was a cop looking for an account of what happened at The Downs... maybe it was Sheriff Ron Boudreaux himself, out to babysit and make sure the thorn in his side wasn't stirring the pot.

Whoever it was, Jake couldn't finger him... he hadn't been able to catch him red handed. Still, he knew there must be someone. To concede that there wasn't was to turn his back on an instinct that never steered him wrong in the past.

Conceding the fact that whomever was tracking him must be better at staying hidden in the shadows than he was at exposing them to the headlights of his Malibu was a tough pill to swallow. Having no other choice than to choke it down, he pulled off the road and into a parking lot he hadn't seen for many, many years.

Looking upon Butcher's Lane Provisions, he was shocked to find the lights of the storefront burning. Daryl Lane was apparently working awfully late on a Saturday night. That seemed suspicious, right out of the gate. Reading the Business Hours sign that hung on the building's door, he noted that the old man should've locked up and gone home over four hours ago.

Slamming the gearshift into park, he decided he was going in. Puffing another cigarette, he thought over what he would say and considered how he would broach the subject of suspicions. Plotting out how he would engage in the interrogation of a man he once saw as a victim instead of as a suspect, he wondered how he would manage to keep control.

Mister Lane had always seemed so kind, his son had been so sweet and full of love. The idea that Drake could've met his death at the gentle, familiar hands of his own father was as incomprehensible to him now as it was when Rambo first suggested it. His personal feelings aside, he owed it to Chucky to thoroughly investigate the allegation. If Mister Lane had been The Butcher, if he had killed Duncan, Banks, Dawson, Wade, Marshall, if he had murdered his own son... if he had killed Billy Marsh, he must be held to account for his deeds. As unlikely as it all seemed, it was possible... so he had to address it.

He knew this task wasn't going to be easy, but he was going to have to feel the butcher out. He was going to have to jam a probe way up his ass, just as he initially planned to do. That was going to suck, but it was a necessary evil.

Trying to dance the dance of conversation and deception in his mind, he worked to anticipate and scout out every avenue the discussion might go down. Knowledge is power, and planning is essential. Savoring his menthol, he calculated how he would control the flow of information. If he followed the tune, if he kept up with the rhythm and the beat, he could juice the man of every word he was worth. With his answers, he could determine Daryl's innocence or his guilt through careful observation.

When he felt as prepared for the exchange as he thought was possible, he discovered he had smoked another Newport all the way to the butt. Flicking it out the window briskly, he prepared to do verbal battle with an old friend.

Confidently, he stepped out of the car and approached the door. Absorbing everything he saw, he realized the entryway looked much the same as the one he'd walked through so many years ago, when he sought to pick up his friend for a day of raising hell on the haunted streets of Burlwood.

Reaching out his hand, he tried to turn the doorknob but found it rigid and locked in place. There were horizontal blinds over the window at the top of the door, so he tried to peer inside. Perhaps Daryl had simply forgotten to turn the lights off when he closed up shop for the evening. Unable to see anything, he was prepared to accept that this was the case when the sound of a power tool spinning up to speed startled him.

Clearly, someone was inside.

Trying the knob again convinced him that the door was truly and completely locked. Deciding to try knocking, he rapped softly on the wood several times in an effort to avoid spooking the old man. When there came no response, he pounded a bit harder. His hand didn't much appreciate it, as it hadn't recovered from putting the smackdown on Nikki's date. Nothing happened even then, so he switched over to his left and pounded with all he was worth. The racket he made finally won over the noise of a motor whining inside and the shop fell silent for a moment.

"We're closed!" an aged voice eventually called, muffled a bit by the door between them. "Come back in the morning!"

"Mister Lane," Jake shouted back, "it's me! It's Jacob Giguére!"

"Who?" the voice asked with a hint of recognition and disbelief.

"It's Darkwing!" he elaborated. "Please, I need to talk to you!"

The old building rattled as the man inside moved to the door. Suddenly, a set of chubby fingers split the blinds and the face of Daryl Lane appeared in the opening.

"Jacob?" he said, surprise and pleasure evident in his voice and upon his face.

There were several loud clicks and clacks as he worked the locks, the door swinging open thereafter with enthusiasm as the old man stepped out with a glowing smile.

"Jacob!" he repeated. "My God, boy, is it really you?"

Jake nodded and smiled, though no further convincing was needed. In his youth, Jacob had born a strong resemblance to Timmy Lane. The hair, the brow, the cheeks, the lips. They were all as they were before, all just the same as Timmy's. They were a bit more pronounced with age, a bit more mature with the passage of time, but they were still very familiar to Daryl.

In laying eyes upon the adult form of Darkwing, Lane imagined he was looking at what might have been. He was seeing what Timmy might have grown to be, had his candle not been snuffed out prematurely. It was gut wrenching to behold, but it was joyous... it was terrible, but it was divine.

"Oh, Jacob!" the man bellowed as he wrapped his arms around the visitor and squeezed him as tightly as his old body could. "Merciful Lord, I can't believe you're here!"

Jake struggled for a breath in the bear-hug, which was difficult because Mister Lane had become quite a burly man and had some power in his muscles. Wearing bloodied whites, the butcher seemed shorter than he had been before, but there was definitely more to his mass than in the days of old. It seemed he drowned his sorrows in buckets of ice cream and top sirloin, apparently seeking comfort in the stuffing of his belly, which took a toll on his figure. Behind the softness of his flesh, though, were muscles accustomed to physical work. Jake could feel their conditioning in the squeeze, and he could tell that the added weight provided additional leverage instead of being an incumbrance to him.

Daryl Lane in 2016 was a large and powerful man... one who was of sound mind and body. He was a man who could easily subdue a nine year old child, if that was his desire. That put his name above Evander Hughes on the suspect list. That left him in the game and in contention for the title The Butcher Of Burlwood, past and present.

"It's been a long time," Jake managed to squeak somehow with his ribs constricted, shuddering at the thought of the transfer that must be taking place between his relatively clean clothes and the raw meat covered apron of the old man. "It's good to see you again, Mister Lane!"

"It's Daryl," the man said kindly, finally releasing his deathly squeeze. "You know full well it's Daryl, Jacob! My father's name was Mister Lane!"

Stepping back to take him in, Daryl looked Jake over as intently as Nikki had done back at Uncle Jim's. His smile was wide, still glowing and full of warmth.

Feeling a bit awkward at being examined so closely by a grown man, Jake let his lungs fill back to capacity and looked down to confirm what he feared. He was, in fact, sporting hunks of animal flesh on his shirt after the hug. Trying to ignore them, trying to resist the urge to brush them off, he put a friendly hand on Mister Lane's shoulder. "Can I come in?" he asked.

Daryl invited him openly, letting him step inside before setting about locking the door again.

"It's a shame, ya' know," the man said as he flicked bolts and fastened a safety chain. "Back when you were a boy, back when Timmy was alive, I barely ever locked this door! The people were different, then... different than the way the people are today. I swear, they'd cart my whole shop away in the night if I didn't have it as secure as Fort Knox!"

"Has it changed that much?" Jake asked curiously.

"Oh, it has!" Lane replied. "I can barely recognize this town anymore, I have no idea what's become of the place!"

Ron Boudreaux has become of the place, Jake thought but didn't say aloud. That was Rambo's problem, now. "I was surprised to see that you're here this late," he remarked instead. "Seems awful late for a small town butcher to be working on a Saturday night."

"Well, the carnival is on," Daryl explained, his inflection showing a note of displeasure. "I guess I'm lucky to get the business. They could've brought in their own fixings for the burgers, barbecue and their steak and cheese sandwiches. I'm grateful for the money and the work, I just wish it didn't bring back so many memories... Merciful Lord, the memories!"

Jake could sympathize, memories are a bitch. It was surprising that he hadn't noticed the carnival, he'd driven by Our Mother at least twice since he'd been in town. Apparently, his tunnel-vision had blocked out the rides and concession stands, had blocked out the church in its entirety as one of the things he wasn't ready to face yet. Knowing now that it was in town, he would have to check it out... he would be remiss in not checking it out, shaking it down and looking for anything out of place. Hell, maybe the new-age Butcher would try to snatch another child from it... the way The Butcher of old had snatched Timmy.

"Is it still just the one weekend?" he inquired, trying to work it into his agenda for Sunday.

"Yep," Lane confirmed. "Yesterday, today, tomorrow. I guess they're doing good business out there this year, I thought I had enough meat delivered to them last night to carry them all the way through -- with leftovers to spare. They called this morning and ordered a good deal more, though, so here I stand -- fixing it up."

"I hate to trouble you," Jake offered, "maybe I should just come back some other time."

"What?" Daryl asked. "No! You've been away all these years, you're not just gonna turn around and walk back out my door! No, you're gonna stay right here and chat a while!"

"But you've got work to do," the visitor continued, not really intending to leave at all, but doing a damn good job at putting up a front. "I don't want to be in your way!"

"You could never be in my way, Jacob!" the butcher insisted. "I can work and talk! I can chew bubblegum and walk at the same time, too! In fact," he continued, putting on a pair of safety goggles and retrieving a set of nitrile gloves from a carton, "you can help!"

Jake was mortified as the man held his box of gloves out, urging him to take a pair of his own. Not thrilled at the idea, he took two and snapped them onto his hands. Daryl then produced an apron, which would've been nice to have earlier, and a second pair of safety glasses.

Once he was all dressed up, he held out his hands as though to ask what he was expected to do. Lane stepped over to his bandsaw and pressed an illuminated green button, setting the blade in motion. Jake was mesmerized by it for a moment as it spun, quickly whizzing up to speed and humming softly with vicious power.

"Hand me one of those quarters," the craftsman said, pointing to large slabs of meat on a stainless steel table between the two of them.

Jake did as directed, finding the chunk of cow -- or whatever it was -- much heavier than he expected it to be. He felt bones inside of it, beneath thick pads of cooled flesh and fat. When he'd passed it to Mister Lane, the man slapped it on his cutting table and adjusted several metal guards around the saw's blade.

With only the softest push, he slid the meat into the blade and it went to work slicing through it. It was amazing how cleanly and easily the saw chewed through the flesh, chewed through the fat, chewed through the bone. It was like a hot knife through soft butter, just as Rambo had described it.

Daryl quickly had the slab cut into manageable pieces, flipping and slapping them against the steel to feed them to the mechanical beast at different angles, ripping and tearing it down with precision and finesse.

Before a minute's time had elapsed, he was asking for another quarter to break down. Jake watched in awe, and he couldn't help imagine something entirely different being devoured by that glistening blade. He tried to resist, but he couldn't help seeing Drake -- seeing little Timmy Lane -- his body cut in pieces, his arm being slid along those guides and so gracefully ripped asunder. His left hand passed through the teeth in Jake's mind, his thumb dropping to the table and being pocketed as a souvenir, as a trophy, as a prize...

If anyone had the stomach to do it, if anyone had the knowledge to do it, if anyone had the equipment to do it... surely it was Daryl Lane, surely it was Timmy's father, surely it was The Butcher, the man who just happened to be the butcher of Burlwood quite literally.

Christ, it could've happened right here.

It could've happened just like this.

It could've happened over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and Billy Marsh equals number seven, so one more over again.

"Tell me, Jacob," Daryl said, speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of the saw. "What brings you back here, after all this time? I thought you had pulled up stakes, I never expected to see you here again!"

"Well," Jake began, struggling to take his eyes off of the spectacle as he fed the butcher another quarter to cut and shape. "I'm looking into something," he said, intentionally vague in his strategy and in avoidance of breaking the rules as laid out by Ron Boudreaux. "I guess you could say I'm taking a bit of a survey."

"What?" Lane chuckled. "So you want to know what FM stations I listen to on the weekends or something? You're interested in what brand of pasta I prefer when I cook spaghetti? Come on, Jacob! I know what you do for a living, I've heard the whispers about why you've come back home!"

This surprised Jake, caught him off guard. What kind of whispers was he referring to? Who was whispering? Still trying to maintain a degree of decorum, he danced the dance. "What's the word on the street?"

"They say you're out here looking into the old murders," the butcher replied. "That you're trying to tie them to what happened to little Billy Marsh!"

Stunned, Jake paused and thought. How the hell would word of that get around? There was only one answer, the answer he feared most.

"Don't look so shocked," Lane added, asking with a gesture for the final quarter. "It's a small town, Jacob! Word gets around!"

Immediately on the defensive \-- which was not where he expected to be -- he recalculated and back pedaled with haste. "Actually, I'm just here to visit with some old friends. I heard Chucky was in trouble, and it made me think about how long it'd been since I was last out here. I guess I got to feeling nostalgic, I wanted to check out what had become of my old neighborhood."

"Right," Daryl smiled again. "Don't worry, Jake, I'm on your side!"

"My side in what?" he probed. "Who have you been talking to?"

"Ron Boudreaux was here, I'm sure you've figured that out by now."

"Yeah, I suppose I have," Jake groaned.

"He said he wanted me to call him if I saw you, wanted me to tell him if you came around asking questions that you didn't need to be asking."

With the last of his quarters cut down, Lane set to work on carving out slabs of ribs from the scraps he'd set aside. Jake digested the revelation as he watched, considering how best to counter.

"And how did you respond to that directive?" he wondered, watching the master do his thing.

"I nodded and smiled," Lane replied, "then when he was clear of the door, I told him to blow it out his ass! You know me better than that, Jacob, you know I don't just fall in line and jump when the man says to jump! Especially when the man is Deputy Ron Boudreaux!"

"Thank you," Jake said, relieved.

"Besides," Daryl continued, still at work with the saw. "I'm all for somebody looking into what happened to my boy... to my sweet little boy, merciful Lord! Timmy is still owed justice. He deserves justice! If Boudreaux can't find the answer, why wouldn't I want someone else to dig in and try for themselves?"

"Excellent," the visitor replied, his wheels starting to turn and spin up to speed. His mind whizzing and whining, as the saw blade had, and preparing to breach raw flesh. "Then you won't mind answering a couple of questions for me?"

Lane was wrapping up his work, setting aside perfectly cut half-slabs of ribs, blocks that appeared to be brisket, three shanks and many strips of chuck. He piled everything onto sheets of wax paper atop a stainless table to his right, surveying the quantities and calculating in his mind.

"I'd be happy to," he said. "But I'm gonna need a few more quarters, first. I have two halves hanging in the cooler, that should cover it. Since I'll be doing you a favor in answering your questions, one I was told not to do, maybe you could give my old bones a break by pulling one of the halves out here for me?"

"Yeah, no problem!" Jake answered. "Is the cooler still through the far door?"

Daryl nodded and chuckled. "Right where Chucky found it, back in the old days!"

Moving to a heavy insulated wall panel, Jake figured out that he needed to slide it in order to gain access to the cold room. Grabbing hold of a handle at its right side, he gave a mighty tug and was greeted by a blast of chilled air. Riding upon the surge was a pungent smell that was unmistakable to him. It wasn't foul, it wasn't spoiled, it wasn't putrid, but it was still the odor of death... a sweet and sour aroma of passing, chilled and preserved.

Upon seeing what was inside, his heart fell to his ankles. It was a remarkable physical sensation, like a cone of coldness that rolled from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, and it left him reeling. In the cooler were two quite literal halves of a cow.... and they were hanging from the ceiling, suspended by chains wrapped around what would be their ankles. They spun lazily in their postmortem repose, stripped of their innards and their flesh, twirling and swirling slowly, swirling, swirling in the forced breeze of glycol chilled air.

Clink, clank, twirl...

Click, clack, sway...

Following the chains up to the ceiling with his eyes, he saw large metal hooks that intercepted each of them. The hooks were in turn bolted to some sort of metal collar that was rectangular and held a captive steel caster at its top. The casters were locked into a track that ran along the ceiling. It was a trolley system of sorts, which ran in a zig-zag pattern throughout the cooler. Near the door, the maze of rails came together and fed into a single beam that led out into the work area of the shop.

Having scanned the works above, Jake looked down towards the ground, where drops of chilled blood were falling to the concrete sporadically. There was moisture all over the floor, a mixture of condensed water and the fluids of death. Occasionally, a horde of tiny drops would join forces and form a glob. When such an uprising occurred, a shallow and barely visible grade would pull the liquid to the very center of the room, where the glob would be swallowed by an old and filthy looking drain cover.

To keep the mess, if you will, contained, the voice of Clyde Rambo spoke in his head.

Yes, this would be the perfect place for a ritual slaughter... the perfect place to hang a child from his ankles, to lay open his throat with a swift and definitive swipe of the blade... to let all of his blood, all of his life, all of his essence spill from his wounded body. The mess would ride the slope down into the drain, where it would presumably find a path to the sewer or a grease trap of some sort. A quick pass with a floor squeegee would erase all signs of anything suspicious, a rinse of bleach water would restore a semblance of cleanliness and normalcy... no one would be the wiser.

Is this where the boys met their deaths?

Is this the land of Bismilah, and it's over?

Is this the place where The Shechita, where The Dhabihah was carried out on the six fallen children?

On the seventh fallen child, little Billy Marsh?

"Hey!" Daryl Lane's call startled him, snapping him back to reality. "You okay in there?"

Jake took a breath, trying to erase an image of naked children dangling on the trolley from his mind. It was like a nightmare, like a horror movie produced in the confines of his mind and distributed in limited release, for his eyes only.

He could see all of them in there, all together, like some macabre extended family. Seven dead children crammed into the confined space, their necks sliced wide open, their faces cold and lifeless, their arms dangling down and swinging in the frigid air, swirling, swirling. Seven innocent children dangling, seven victims of a monster in repose, seven bodies waiting for their turn, waiting for their number to be called, waiting for their final disposition. Waiting for their time to be butchered by The Butcher. As their hands swung lazily on the breeze, their fingers nearly brushed the floor where there was so much blood... gallons and gallons of blood. A pass with the squeegee, a splash with the bleach, a thousand revolutions of a razor sharp saw blade, and bring in the halves because this place is clean...

As he stepped inside and laid hands on the nearest half cow, he saw the children's faces. Locked in terror, locked in horror and in pain, their jaws were agape, their eyes were rolled back and hanging open, their blood was dripping in rivers of bright crimson that rolled down and colored the pallid white flesh of their brows. It drenched their hair, changing it from blonde and brown and black to burgundy, painting them with the Masque of the Red Death, painting them with their necrosis and their end.

Pulling the mass of bovine forward, the trolley track rumbled with friction and the strain of moving weight. There was a clack as the caster transitioned from the system in the cooler to the lone rail that led into the workspace of the shop. He could still see the children in there as he started to slide the door closed behind him, and just before it thundered into place he saw a flash of movement.

He gasped as the arms of one particular corpse fired up in a wild seizure of cracking rigor and reached out for him... reached out in begging, in longing for the peace that only answers would bring, in desperation for that final rest that they could only achieve through justice being served. It was Timmy, of course, who snapped to life. Both of his hands were extended to Jacob in a cry for help, his left thumb nothing but a bloody stump, and oh God, I can see the bone in there!

Christ, his heart was pounding and his blood pressure soaring as he turned to Daryl Lane. Feeling feint, he wondered if his flesh had turned as white as the dead bodies drained of their blood. In the heat of the moment, he felt he might break down and accuse the butcher of being The Butcher plainly, blowing any chance at gleaning tangible information to help him build a case. He couldn't do that, he had to resist the temptation to do that...

"Thanks!" Lane praised him as the half rolled along the track, moving towards the bandsaw and the workspace.

Jake said nothing, just tried to steady himself and the tremors he felt throughout his body, his muscles weak and throbbing under the strain of horrors. Daryl picked up a different type of saw, a corded one, which was made of heavy metal and had a long blade like the electric knifes that were all the craze in the nineties... the ones that people carved their turkeys with at their holiday tables.

Positioning the cow over one of his tables, he pulled the trigger on the tool and a loud vibration spoke out with the violent reciprocation of the blade. As though the carcass was made of Jello, the blade chewed through the flesh. Before long, the half itself was cut in half. Lane left the upper portion hanging from the ceiling and slid the lower, which crashed to his table with a clap, over to his bandsaw to continue the process.

"What kind of questions have you got?" he asked simply, preparing to work over the fresh quarter.

Jake gathered his thoughts and prepared to get the conversation back on the rails he had envisioned. Working from a mental checklist, he began his questioning. "Tell me what you know about Billy Marsh," he said. "I really don't have a lot of information on him, it's hard to proceed without understanding who the victim was."

"You probably know more than I do about him," Daryl said, pushing the meat through his spinning blade. "I wasn't very well acquainted with The Marshes. I know they have money, they live out in Bumfuck Burlwood. I only saw them in here once, they bought a few pounds of top sirloin and filet."

"Did you ever run into them at Our Mother?"

Lane chuckled. "I haven't been to church in fourteen years, Jacob," he explained. "When Timmy was taken from me, I thought I might find some answers in that ever mysterious God of ours. It didn't go that way... in fact, you could say it went the opposite way."

Jake nodded, understanding. "Yeah, for such a benevolent creature, he sure does like to turn that cold shoulder, doesn't he?"

"At least to me, he does." Lane acknowledged. "I suppose you must've had the same experience, you must know how badly it can hurt."

"Tell me about Chucky, then," Jake countered. "What's his life been like since we all left town?"

"Chucky?" Daryl said, cutting out another brisket. "He's much the same as he always was, still a sweet and innocent boy. It's been hard on him, since his mother died. Getting along, I mean, without her. He's always tight on money, always rubbing nickels together to pay the bills. He doesn't get very much between Social Security and his work at the church. He straddles that poverty line, but he could make it work, if he really tried. I think it's asking too much of him, though, he's just not cut out for life on his own. He can't really process the whole rationing thing... money burns a hole in his pocket when he's got it, and it's gone in short order. I can't tell you how many times I've had to give him meat, because he's run out of money and doesn't have a scrap to eat."

"Yeah," Jake replied, "that reminds me of something I wanted to ask you. Did he bring you a deer in his trunk a while back? A deer he found on the side of the road?"

Lane nodded, working a slab of ribs. "Yeah, he did. The thing was nasty, I don't know what the hell he was thinking!"

"But he had it in his trunk, right?"

"Yep."

"Was it bleeding? Could you tell if it left any blood behind in his car?"

"Oh, I dunno," he answered, moving the guides on his table to adjust his cut and mulling the question over. "It had blood around its mouth, but it seemed pretty dried out to me. I suppose it could've leaked some gut fluids or something in there, but I can't say for sure. I take it there must be some question about it?"

"Yeah, Boudreaux found blood in his trunk and surmised that it was Billy Marsh's. Chucky couldn't explain it, shy of saying it could've been from the deer."

"I would believe it was from the deer before I believed it was from Billy," Daryl suggested. "I feel like I know Chucky pretty well, and he doesn't seem the type to do something so awful. I can't imagine him doing anything like what was done to that poor little boy. I certainly know he didn't do anything to my Timmy, why should I believe he did it to this Marsh boy?"

This made the hair stand on the back of Jake's neck, and he was immediately uncomfortable. What did Daryl know of what had been done to Billy Marsh?

The report Louie Rambo furnished wasn't publicly disclosed, how the hell could Daryl Lane know of any similarities between the boy's death and those who came before him? How could he know that Billy was treated much the same as Timmy? How could he know that there was a common pattern that linked them?

"What was done to Billy Marsh?" he asked, trying not to show his suspicion.

"He was killed!" Lane answered plainly. "Killed and cut up, just like before!"

"On what do you base that assumption?" Jake countered, his tone carrying notes of accusation that escaped against his will.

"What assumption?" the butcher asked, setting the shank of his quarter aside. "The assumption that he's dead? Hell, it was all over the news! The assumption that they found him cut up in the woods right across the street? I work here, Jacob, I saw them bringing his little body parts out!"

Finished with his cutting, Lane turned off the bandsaw and moved his strips of chuck over to an industrial sized grinder that was fixed to the counter. When he flipped its switch, a loud hum overtook the shop. His black gloves were bloodied, so the first hunk of meat he tried to lift into the hopper nearly slipped from his grasp. Catching it before it could fall to the floor, he fed it into the mouth of the machine and forced it down. Immediately, the solid chuck started coiling out of the grinder in finely marbled strands.

"So you just assumed that his death was similar to that of the other boys?" Jake asked. "You just figured that this was the return of The Butcher, just like that?"

"Is that a stretch?" Lane wondered, using a weighted tool to force every bit of the first strip through the grinder before feeding in a second. "I didn't think it was, it only makes sense! What are you insinuating, Jacob?"

"Oh, nothing," Jake lied. "I'm just trying to get a full picture, that's all. It seems to me that most people around here are hesitant to speak of The Butcher. They certainly were back in the day, you know that as well as I do. With that said, I guess it just struck me as odd that you would fall back to it and believe this was some kind of rebirth."

"I don't know that it is a rebirth," he offered, "I guess I just figured the song remains the same, ya' know? We had six murders happen out here, the only six that've ever occurred in our little town. When a seventh comes along and the victim fits the profile of the first six... it's simple math, to me. "

Jake nodded.

"Maybe I was too presumptuous, but if anyone has the right to be... wouldn't it be me? Or the parents of the other boys? We've been through it, we've been haunted by it. Maybe, as a result, we're not so apt to hide from it as the others are, because the demons of this town have already hurt us as badly as they possibly could! Why try to take cover from a monster once it's already disembowled you? What more can it do to you? What sense is there in being afraid of it? When you've lost everything, what is left to lose in facing the facts?"

"I guess I hadn't thought of it that way," Jake replied. "It makes perfect sense, I suppose."

Daryl shrugged and fed a third piece of chuck into his machine, sliding a loaded sheet of wax paper out of the way and placing another to catch the next deluge of meat. "Maybe it's wishful thinking," he continued. "Maybe I hope it was the same guy, and that they get him this time! Nothing would bring me more pleasure, Jacob, than having an officer of the law march in here and tell me that this Marsh boy's death was linked to my Timmy's, and that they finally caught the motherfucker!"

When the curse left his lips, he blushed dramatically. Jake had never heard such intense language spewing from his mouth, he was always a well controlled and reserved man.

"Sorry, Jacob," he said, burying his head in his hands and wiping his brow. "You'll have to pardon my language! I'm still a little sensitive about that whole thing, sometimes my emotions get the better of me!"

"No need to apologize," Jake said.

In the moment, he felt instinctively that this was the window, that this was the time for making the first cut. The man's guard was down, his emotions were getting the better of him. If ever there was an opportunity to look inside of him for answers, it was now. The idea pained him, and he knew it would pain Daryl even more, but it had to be done... there was no room to protect anyone's feelings.

"Nothing would make me happier than being the one to catch him," he explained. "That's what I intend to do, that's why I came back home. I'm going to do it, Daryl, whether Ron Boudreaux likes it or not."

"Good for you, son!" Lane applauded as more beautiful hamburger poured from the mouth of his grinder. "And believe me, I'll do whatever I can to help! Just say the word, and I'll jump!"

"Great!" Jake replied, planting his feet and preparing for the dive. "But I don't know if right now is the best time for us to discuss it. I'd like for us to sit down somewhere, with no distractions, and have a nice long conversation about everything."

"Fine by me," Lane said, "so long as we can find a time that doesn't interfere with my business. I still run a one man shop! These cows won't break themselves down!"

"I'll give you a call to set it up once I've got my schedule worked out. I'm staying at Chucky's place, so I'm near by... I can work with you, it won't be a problem."

Jake paused on that note, letting the grinder do its work for a few seconds, letting the hook find a comfortable spot before he would tug the line and set it in. Lane seemed oblivious to what was coming, he didn't seem to see through the front that Jake was putting up... he didn't seem to see him coiling like the ground beef, like a rattlesnake, preparing to strike.

"I wonder if I might ask a favor of you, in the meantime," Jake continued, maintaining a calm in his tone.

"Sure, what do you need?"

"Well," he hesitated. "I don't know whether you can help me or not. You see, Chucky's house is empty when it comes to food. I guess I must've caught him at one of his low points with money, because the cupboards are bare and the fridge is totally empty."

"Ah!" Daryl smiled, feeding another strip into the machine. "Of course I can help you with that! You're in need of a care package! Just like the old days!"

"You could say that," Jake answered. "But I'll pay you for it, I'm not after a handout."

"I wouldn't think of taking your money, Jacob!" Lane declared. "You brought a lot of joy to my son when he was alive. I'll be forever in your debt for that, and giving you some good food is the least that I can do in return!"

"I insist on paying," Jake replied. "Especially since I'm after a specialty product."

"And I insist on giving, even if you're after ten pounds of prime rib!"

"Well, actually, it's a bit more specific than that," he said, letting it simmer. "It's a bit more specialized than that, which is why I'm not sure that you can help. You see, I've altered my diet a bit since I left town. A few years back, I bought some tainted meat and got very sick. Ended up in the hospital, actually. Since then, I'm very picky about what I eat. I'm on a very strict regiment that consists of only thoroughly inspected and carefully handled foods. To that end, I only consume kosher products..."

Lane froze, solidly and instantly. His eyes darted up from the grinder and stabbed at Jacob, stabbed him over and over again with daggers of anger and resentment. Without shifting his gaze, he reached out and yanked the plug of the grinder from the wall. There was a thud as he carelessly dropped the cord, the humming of the machine dying slowly and leaving them surrounded by the sounds of silence.

"What?" Jake asked carefully, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead stinging his ears in the hush. "You do have kosher products... don't you?"

Daryl's chest rose and fell sharply, the man breathing the thickened atmosphere in through his nose and exhaling it with ire, as invisible flames of rage, from his mouth. He didn't speak, but the silence shouted out his fury... shouted out his anguish, his torment.

"Did I touch a nerve?" Jake inquired coldly, fixing his stare on the butcher as intently as the butcher's was on him.

The crickets were deafening as they stood for what seemed a long, long time. Neither of them saying a word, they were engaged in a contentious sabre dance for control and for dominance. The old sage and the young fool, they clashed violently over a breach of familiarities. It was a staring contest for all of the marbles, a game of chicken in which the first to flinch was damned for all time.

Eventually, Daryl spoke. His voice was no longer raised with his trademarks of happiness and warmth, it was deep and frigid... icy and cruel. Jake had pierced him to his soul, all of the veils were torn and cast aside. For the first time in many years, the man that lived deep inside of Daryl Lane was exposed to the world at large. His front was down, his forced kindness was slaughtered and left to rot in a heap.

"Look at me, Jacob!" he said in his true voice, a voice that was deep, primordial and full of Hell. "Look long and hard, young man! Take me in with those intense eyes of yours!"

"I am," Jake countered.

"Then tell me what you see!" Lane demanded. "Do you see a monster, boy? Do you see a savage? Do you see a butcher? A man who could murder his own son?"

"I'm not exactly sure what I see," he replied sedately.

"Well, I'm looking at you and I see a lot!" the butcher barked. "I see that you've been talking to Clyde Rambo! Or maybe it was Alberto Gomez? Whichever it was, did they tell you that those bastards followed me everywhere I went from 1993 to 1997! They were like my goddamned shadow! I couldn't fart without them noting the time in a fucking log!"

"I'm aware of that," Jake advised. "I'm also aware that there was only one murder during that time, the murder of your son! I also know that Timmy wasn't the sort to climb into a car with a stranger! That's the one thing I never understood," he bluffed. "How the hell did someone get him into that car to take him away?"

"I don't know either, Jacob!" Lane snapped. "Maybe you can tell me! You were the one watching him that night! You were the one responsible for him at that time!" Angered and hurt, he pulled in a deep breath and let it loose in the form of a shout. "You told me you would watch out for him!" he cried in a booming howl, a concussive blast that made Jake's ears ring immediately.

"What did you do with the fucking car?" Jake shouted back accusingly.

"What car?" Daryl retaliated.

"The fucking Cadillac you bought from Evander Hughes!"

"What?"

"The Brougham, Daryl, The goddamned blue Brougham you took the children in!"

Jake studied the butcher's face for any signs, for any clues of understanding. Watching it carefully, he focused in an effort to detect any attempt at deception he might make in the face of facts. There were no such signs, though, he couldn't see any indication that he was lying. All he could read behind the animosity and the agony was pure confusion... Daryl Lane had no idea what he was talking about.

He hadn't been behind the wheel of any Fleetwood Brougham, his eyes would've betrayed him if he had. The eyes always tell their secrets, but there were none in Daryl's that he was after. He held no secrets of sodomy, no secrets of slaughter, no secrets of butchery in his heart. Those things didn't live inside of his eyes, it was only heartache and pain that took up residence there.

Regret and dismay, sorrow and suffering... those were the tenants, each on a long-term lease. This man was the butcher, but he was not The Butcher. That was obvious to Jake as he looked upon his defeat, upon his surrender under the crushing weights of loss and suspicion.

It was Jake doing the stabbing with his eyes now, the tables had turned. It was Jake doing the cutting, doing the dirty work, doing the damage. He was beating a dead horse, pounding on a busted drum and adding insult to an existing layer of insult, further irritating an old and mortal injury.

Daryl Lane was tired, he was worn down, he was broken. Tears rained down his face in a deluge, as though a faucet behind his eyes had been thrown wide open and left to spew forever.

"You really think that I could do that?" he asked incredulously through the tears, his voice cracking with sadness. "You really think that I could take my boy, my sweet little boy, and hang him upside down? You think that I could damn near cut his head off with a sharp blade? That I could stand there and watch him bleed out? You believe that I could cut him up? That I could run him through this saw? Is that really how you feel about me, Jacob? You've known me for a long time, son, do you really think I've got that much evil inside of me?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore, Mister Lane," Jake retorted. "But if it looks like a duck..."

"NO!" the butcher shouted, throwing his hands in the air like a child and bending his neck to gaze up to the ceiling. "Jesus Christ, HELP ME! I can't TAKE IT anymore!" he sobbed.

Jake watched in awe as the man buckled at the knees and collapsed. A terrible crunch sounded out as one patella met the tile, and an awful smack when the second hit the ground. Daryl Lane, a fifty-something year old man, was reduced to an infant before him. He was forced quite literally to his knees by the weight of everything he'd carried through the twenty-two years since his son was murdered, and he was considered a prime suspect.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God! PLEASE, why do you do this to me, you BASTARD!" he wailed, spittle firing from his mouth and rolling back down his upturned face. "DAMN YOU!" he cried, holding clenched fists up at whomever he believed was looking down at him. "DAMN YOU GOD! You fucking LIAR! You took him from me, you fuck! You took him and you left me with THIS! This cross I cannot carry ANYMORE!" Purged of rage, he fell back to sorrow and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. Like an inmate in an asylum, bound in a self imposed straight jacket, he rocked violently back and forth. "I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" he declared tearfully. "Jacob, I SWEAR TO YOU that I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I didn't do it! I didn't do it!"

"Daryl," Jake called out, moving to him and scooping him into a tight hug. A hug tighter than he'd ever given Chucky, tighter than he'd ever given his mother, tighter than he'd ever given his wife or to his son.

He felt the stinging in his eyes, but he knew there would be no more. He would shed no tears, he was no longer capable. If he had been, he would've let loose in this moment. He would've shared a complete loss of emotional control with a man who he believed to be a victim once again. He would've cried in comforting an innocent man, a poor soul who'd worn the black spot of guilt for so long.

"Jesus, I tried to tell them!" Lane sobbed. "The truth is supposed to set you free, but they wouldn't believe me! MERCIFUL LORD, they wouldn't believe me! I LOVED my son! God, my son! I would never hurt anybody, God, I would never hurt MY BOY! My boy, my sweet little boy, they TOOK HIM from me! GOD took him from me, he took my boy and he cut him up! Jesus, Jacob, they murdered my little boy! Oh God, my son! My INNOCENT son! Then, they came for ME! As if I wasn't already in Hell, they came to DRAG ME DOWN deeper! FUCK! Do you know HOW HARD it is, Jacob? How hard it is for me to continue living while my poor son is dead? GOD, I wish it could've been me! I would've died for him, Jacob, I would've died A THOUSAND TIMES for him! God, I miss my son!"

"It's okay, Daryl!" Jake tried to comfort him in vain.

"It's NOT okay!" he bleated. "Because they don't believe me, Jake! They NEVER believed me! NOBODY believes me!"

"I do..." he offered, and he was being fully honest. "I believe you, Daryl... I believe you..."

Daryl Lane's suffering was heavy, the toll everything had taken was immense. As he cradled the man, he felt tremendous guilt at what he'd done... tremendous regret at having torn the bandages off so harshly.

Christ, how did he manage to fuck it up so badly? He'd gone in like a three-hundred pound gorilla -- just like he always did -- and he'd fucked it up, just like he always did... just like he'd fucked up everything else in his life. He'd brought pain to another, which seemed to be all that he was proficient at doing. If there was a trophy for breaking people down, he would have it. If there was a champion, it would be him. If there was a medal, its pin would be dug deeply into the flesh of his chest.

Racked with contrition, he sat with Daryl until he'd cried more tears than most men shed from birth to death. There were certainly more than Timmy Lane had been allowed to shed, certainly more than Billy Marsh and all of the others. It took a long, long time, to finally get him settled. When he was back on his feet again, determined to finish his work like a working man does, Jake apologized to him for what he'd done. Lane waived it off, but he refreshed it with a new one. In parting, he promised to see this thing through... promised to find out who had murdered Timmy, promised to finally let the dead rest in peace.

Now, he was on two hooks... the hook of Chucky, and of Daryl Lane as well.

Hoping he could do right by them, hoping he could ease their pain, he climbed into his Malibu and set off for Chucky's trailer. Distracted in the emotional fallout, he drove right by Nikki's place and the one that sat beside it... fourteen-thirty Applewood, the former home of Tracy Swete and her blessed family.

Once inside his temporary abode, he flung himself on the couch with malice. Stretching out, he sighed and felt a throbbing he'd neglected while at Butcher's Lane. It was a powerful pulsating that hadn't ceased since he beat his fists against the face of some drunken fool and felt blood spattering onto his clothes.

His thoughts were not of Nikki, the temptress, the succubus... they were not of Tracy, neither young nor old. In fact, he didn't fantasize about any female at all as he pulled his erect penis from his pants, and none passed before his eyes as he set about his task with it. He thought only of the adrenaline, only of the rush, only of the fury, only of the anger. And the pleasure in that, God, it had been so long since he felt such pleasure.

It was incredible, it was transcendent, and it held out until he climaxed with an intensity he hadn't known for many years. When it was done, he simply closed his eyes... closed his eyes, and rested. It would be a deep rest, a deep and refreshing rest free of the ghosts that hounded him... free of the night terrors, free of the nagging feelings of inadequacy, free of the influence of liquor. It would be a rest in which he was free of everything... free of himself.

It would be a preview of the final rest that awaited him, when the puzzle was solved. When order was restored, at least as it related to Burlwood. When it was time for double indemnity, in the not too distant future...

TWENTY-EIGHT

Acetone

January 21st, 1995. 7:30PM

Garthby, Indiana

"Beeeeeeeeeeeees GOAL!" an overly enthusiastic voice declared over the public address system of The Garthby Icehouse. "Scored by number sixteen, Ja-Ja-Ja-Jacob Giguére! His tenth of the season, assisted by Jarrod Ambrose and Martin Scholl, at nine-minutes and thirty-two seconds of the third period! Give it up, for your Bu-Bu-Bu-Bu-Burlwood Bees!"

The two or three hundred people gathered at the Icehouse applauded, but their limited zeal was odd in juxtaposition with the uninhibited excitability of the PA announcer. Among the crowd were four people who were as thrilled with his goal as the commentator, and their cheers were almost embarrassing to Jacob in their fervor.

Looking up to them in the stands as he skated the bench and slapped gloves with his teammates, he begged them with his eyes to quiet down. They were on their feet and clapping like brain damaged seals on display at Sea World, all four of them. Chucky, Tracy, Nick and Nancy Swete. He was glad to have them there, pleased to be supported, but they didn't have to act like idiots... that was too much.

In the days since that fateful Thanksgiving, The Swetes had become his adoptive family. With his mother, Janet, being involuntarily committed to the psychiatric hospital for ninety days after her nearly fatal overdose, Tracy's family had stepped up to the plate and welcomed young Jacob into their home. He was deeply grateful for that, because they were under no obligation to take him in. They could've let him be placed into what Sheriff Rambo called the system, which he didn't speak very highly of when he laid out the options.

At thirteen, Jacob was not old enough to care for himself in the eyes of society. Of course, society wasn't aware that he had been required to be self-sufficient from the moment his father left this world. Society didn't appreciate the fact that he was the one who kept the Giguére household together, that he was carrying his mother's weight, as well as his own, all along. All that Janet Giguére had been good for in their existence was the cashing of her survivor benefits checks and the redemption of their food stamps. Shy of those things, Jacob was well versed in getting by and getting on with life. Even when Deputy Ron came around, his mother was checked out of day to day life. He would've been fine on his own while she was away, but that wasn't an option.

Bound by the principles of law, The Sheriff had a problem to deal with in young Jacob. When it became obvious that Janet would survive the incident, it was time to deal with the consequences. Rambo told Jacob he figured the penalty would amount to a minimum of ninety days in the hole, if not more if she was found to be so deficient in mind that she needed further help.

Had he known about the frosted glass, had he known the real truth, it probably would've been a good deal more than just the ninety. He didn't, though, because Jacob told him bald-faced lies when he asked what happened. Just as Deputy Ron instructed him to.

Presented with a case like this -- handed a juvenile who would be left without a parental figure or guardian for at least three months -- the average officer would've simply filed papers to have the boy declared a ward of The State and walked away. If Ron Boudreaux had been the sheriff, that's almost certainly what would've happened.

Rambo, however, was a special sort of person. Being a good man, a good police officer, he treated Jacob like an adult -- which he appreciated -- when he spelled out what entering the system would entail. He shared a handful of horror stories about foster situations gone wrong, and generally explained that he didn't want to resort to that option, if it was at all avoidable. Expressing his regret that he couldn't take Jacob into his house, because there was no room with Louie and he didn't have the time to supervise, he asked if there were any aunts or uncles that he might be able to stay with. There weren't, because both of his parents were only children, and all four of his grandparents were dead.

Not one to give up, The Sheriff asked if there was anyone he could think of that might be willing to assume responsibility for him in the short term. Grasping for straws, he mentioned The Swetes.

With an I'm going to make this work attitude, Rambo called them to the hospital and presented his case like an expert in the art of coercion.

After a preamble describing the basics, telling the tale of the overdose and what was to follow, Rambo started his pitch. "We're in a bit of a pinch, here, folks," he began. "Jacob's mother is going to be unable to care for him for just a little bit while she sorts herself out."

Before he even had a chance to ask the question, Nick Swete spoke up and declared "he can stay with us".

Pleased and a bit flabbergasted at the man's decisiveness, Clyde smiled and thanked his benefactors with hugs. Jacob had never seen a police officer give a hug, but it seemed right as he did it... it seemed fitting, seemed heartfelt and genuine.

As of one-thirty in the morning the day after Thanksgiving, The Swetes had a son on loan. They treated him just as they would their own, just as they did Tracy, and they brought him comfort beyond anything they could possibly imagine.

Nick took a special interest in Jacob, taking him under his wing and showing him what it meant to be the man of the house. His example was something entirely new, something Jacob had never encountered... and it was wonderful. If there was ever a time in his life that he felt was perfect, it was the period he spent as the honorary Jacob Swete. If only it could've been that way from the beginning, how different his life could've turned out.

The whole family got behind Darkwing to prop him up in his time of need, and he loved every second of it. They were always the loudest people in the audience at his junior league hockey games, which was nice -- but just a bit much for his humility, sometimes.

As he skated back out to center ice to take the face off at the direction of his coach, they finally sat back down and stopped cheering. His goal had tied the game against the Burlwood Bee's bitter rivals, The Blackmoor Wizards, and he knew there would be lots of chirping when he squared off with the opposing center.

"Nice shot, Darkwing!" a bigger, more burly boy than he was teased while they waited for the linesman to arrive and drop the puck. "Looks like it really got your big retarded friend Chu-Chu-Chucky excited!"

Jacob didn't say anything, he was wearing his game-face and wasn't about to have it broken by some fool of a goon. Had the damned referee hurried and restarted the game, it would've ended there. Unfortunately, there seemed to be some issue with the time clock, so all three ice officials were conferring in the ref's crease... there would be more time for trash talk.

A defenseman from The Wizards skated into the circle laughing, presumably at his teammate's jab, and started up himself. "I bet he can't wait to get home and celebrate by rubbing dicks with his big dumb faggot butt buddy!"

That made the center laugh too, and it pissed Jacob off just a bit. Still, he would've kept his cool... had it ended there.

"Did you hear about his mother?" the goon preparing for the face off added. "Bitch is in the nut house, stupid whore snorted too much coke off Deputy Ron's cock!"

"Must've been a loooong line!" the defenseman said. "I hear Boudreaux's got a baby's arm, bet his momma loves when he gives her a deep cavity search!"

His anger building, Jacob clenched his teeth around his mouthpiece and considered pouncing. The officials were still jerking off. What the hell was taking them so long?

"Hey, back off!" the center joshed. "We don't want the little pussy to go home and hang himself, like his loser da--"

Pushed to the limit, young Jacob Giguére just couldn't stand to hear anymore. Before the goon finished his sentence, there was a hand locked around his throat. It was Jake's left, of course, leaving his right free to smash at the bastard's face. Shaking off his glove, he started swinging wildly at the exposed portion of his chin.

All three officials on the ice started blowing their whistles like they were Chuck Mangione, but it was far too late for that. The goon proved to have a glass jaw, and he collapsed to the ice after the very first blow Jacob landed cleanly. Seeing nothing but red and fire, Darkwing fell upon him like a blanket of napalm and repeatedly blasted him in the face, taking out years of bridled fury on the unconscious teenager.

Every player on the ice joined the linesman and referees in trying to peel him off of the boy, but he wasn't finished yet. Pulling back with all the anger in his heart, he drove punch after punch after punch into the asshole's crumbling skull. In his rage, he sought to kill the kid... sought to see him dead, to see him mangled, to see him FUBAR, as it were. In the moment, his awareness was suddenly pulled away from his body again, as it had been when he stood in his mother's kitchen trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. From a place high above, from an angle just below the scoreboard, he watched himself assaulting the Wizard center. It was bizarre and it was frightening, and he was no longer in control.

Only when he was gassed, only when his fist felt broken, only when he was finished with his task were the people able to pull him off of the boy. Feeling powerful arms tugging at him, he was reintroduced to his body and back at the helm of control. As they towed him toward the locker room and he saw through his own eyes again, the world was still painted in dark hues of red. Wrestling an arm free, he wiped at his visor and realized that this red wasn't anger at all. It was blood, and it was a lot of it. Looking back toward center ice, toward the fallen tyrant, the bully who now lay on the ice in a mangled heap, he saw that there was more red beneath him than there was the white of the ice.

Christ, what if he had killed the kid?

As the fit started to subside, as his nerves started to cool, he wondered what he'd done. He wondered what the fallout of this would be, for him and for The Swetes, whom he didn't want to let down or hurt in any way. Looking to the stands before he was pulled off of the rink altogether, he saw the family standing again.

This time, it wasn't in celebration. This time, it wasn't in praise. This time, it was in shock and in horror and in disappointment. Nick looked particularly disturbed, his face contorted in disbelief. Nancy was covering her mouth with her hands. Chucky looked confused, and Tracy... Tracy looked to be crying.

Before he was able to process the image and absorb the shame, he found himself being planted on a wooden bench in the smelly locker room of The Bees.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" one of the referees shouted in his face. "Are you some kind of fucking psycho or something?"

He didn't answer. How could he answer?

The next voice he heard was that of Fred Boyett, his coach, and he sounded just as angry as the officials were.

"Move, let me by! Let me in there!" he shouted in the corridor.

Jacob looked down at his skates when Fred entered the room. A tear fell from his eye in self loathing, a single drop of salty excrement that blended in with the sweat dripping from his body, hopefully going undetected. The coach had a spirited exchange with the officials, denouncing what he'd seen happen on the ice and blaming the refs for the delay that caused it all to simmer over. Assuring them that he would redress his player, he dismissed the zebras and directed that the game could resume in his absence.

Waiting until he was sure they were gone, until he heard the sounds of the puck dropping and the game restarting, he lowered himself to Jacob's level and tried to force eye contact.

"Look at me," he said firmly, but calmly. "Look at me, Giguére!"

Jacob didn't want to, he wanted to avoid facing up to what he'd done in shame. Fred wasn't afraid to put his hulking hands on him, though. The callouses raked at Jake's face as the man pulled his sweat and tear drenched chin up until he had no choice but to concede and meet his gaze.

"What happened out there, Jake?" he asked, staring deep into the soul of his charge. "Tell me, son, what happened?"

Unable to hold back any longer, unable to keep the cork in the bottle, the young man burst at his seams and started sobbing. Tears rained down unchecked, unfettered and with haste.

"Let it out!" Fred ordered. "Just let it out, son! You can't keep it all inside, NOBODY can!"

The coach took Jacob's hands and squeezed them, lowering his shoulder to receive the boy's face. He planted it there, knocking his bloodied helmet from his head as all the sorrow of his days spilled from his eyes. This certainly wasn't the first time he'd cried, but these tears weren't the same as any he'd shed before. They came from deep within him. They were primal, and they were stale. They were old, and they were overdue.

"Look," Fred advised after several minutes, while the bout was still raging, "You're gonna have to pull it together, son! I want you to get out of here before the game is over, I don't want you running into any of those Wizards out in the lot! I want you to get changed and go out the back, I'll tell The Swetes that you'll be waiting by their car, okay?"

Jacob nodded, gasping back what remained of his fit and assuming control of his faculties as well as he could. He felt different in the passing of the episode than he had when it began. He felt altered, he felt changed. Uncertain as to the nature of this transformation, he felt confused.

Fred left just as the five-minute buzzer sounded, he wouldn't have much time to change clothes. Hurriedly, he stripped off his uniform and gear, stuffing it into his bag recklessly. There was no time to take a shower, he would have to pull his clean clothes over his stinking, sweaty body. It was uncomfortable to feel his filth trapped under fresh garments, just as it was uncomfortable to feel the blackness of his soul screaming and begging for escape through the melting facade of his decent and innocent flesh.

There was a stain on him, now, he thought. His body wasn't as innocent as it had been this morning, his skin wasn't as inexperienced as it once was. He'd crossed a line on this night. He'd let his dark half take the helm, had let it come out to play in the public square among people who weren't prepared to look upon it. People who didn't know that blackness was living and festering inside of him at all.

There was no hiding it anymore, the cat was out of the bag. Everyone in the building knew of the ugliness and the monster that bubbled just underneath his cloak of human skin. Everyone in town would eventually hear that Jacob Giguére had totally lost his shit. There was now a clear point of demarcation, everything before this incident would be the past, and everything moving forward would be different, because he was different, now. He was blackened, he was stained, he was forever altered, in reality and in the perception of those around him.

How could he live with them, now that they knew what he really looked like?

Slamming his locker shut, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror on its door. It was an ugly face, one he didn't like at all. It was a face of hate, a face of disgust, a face of loathing, A face he would have to look at for the remainder of his life, from this moment forth.

It was the face of a man, now. He was no longer a boy, that time had passed. The man that he was going to become, whether he liked it or not, was depicted in the reflection of that mirror. The die were cast, the runes were twirling on the cloth and would settle into a picture that was none too flattering to behold. This was him... this ugliness was him.

Turning his back to the reflection he didn't want to accept, he stormed out the back door with his bag over his shoulder. It was frigid outside, and he felt the sweat and tears all over his body starting to freeze upon his flesh. The cold felt good in his lungs, though, so he drew a deep breath and tried to press his internal reset button.

It was with this breath that he smelled the smell... the odor of nail polish remover, pungent and strong. Looking to his right, he saw what he assumed was the condensation of someone's breath in the chilly evening spilling around the brick corner of the Icehouse. As he walked towards it, in the direction of The Swete family station wagon, he realized that it was, in fact, smoke billowing about. The smoke wasn't like a cigarette, it wasn't even like a joint... it was different, and it was the source of the nail polish smell.

Rounding the corner, he saw the Burlwood Highschool Varsity team gathered there. They had a game tonight as well, they were scheduled to hit the ice at eight-thirty. It looked like all of them were present, each standing by their own bag of gear as they talked and laughed amongst themselves.

They seemed surprised to see Jacob. Seemed frightened to see him, actually. When he appeared, one of the guys closed his fist around something, as though he were trying to hide it.

"Oh," another of them said, sounding relieved. "It's just Jake!"

"Shit," a third exclaimed. "We thought you were fucking Rambo!"

Jake smiled and shook his head. He liked the guys from the varsity team, he wanted to engraciate himself, if possible. He aspired to play for them one day, to represent his town with pride, when he was of adequate age to do so. Apparently satisfied that he wasn't a cop, the one that had closed his hand opened it and shook it wildly.

"Fuck!" he cried. "Damn thing burnt the shit out of me!"

One of the other players reached out for what he was holding, taking what appeared to be a glass pipe from him and pressing it to his lips. "Who's got the lighter?" he asked, and another boy handed him a red cylinder.

Jacob watched, dumbfounded, as the boy flicked the Bic and held the flame under the pipe. As he drew a deep breath, the fire danced around the glass and something glowed inside of it. It was something that looked familiar, something he had seen before. In its molten incandescence, it resembled the frosted glass he'd seen spread all over his mother's coffee table. It was a piece of what he'd seen caked and powdered all over her face as she frothed and foamed. This piece was solid and turning molten in the heat, but it was clearly the same stuff.

Letting the flame flicker out, the player drew a bit more breath and seemed to strain to hold it in.

"Yeah Jonezy!" a teammate encouraged. "Take it to the head, baby!"

When he finally exhaled, the air around them was flooded with the chemical smell of the smoke. It wasn't a pleasant odor at all. To Jacob, it didn't seem like something that anyone would ever want to have inside of their body. The coughing recipient of the last drag seemed thrilled at it, though. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, which was beyond Jacob's understanding and comprehension.

"God, it stinks!" another player commented.

"Yeah," the one who took the drag coughed, "but lemme tell ya', the shit is right on time!"

Studying the team, he realized that all of them seemed just a bit off. Every one of them was high, like his mother when she was popping her pills. In observing their pleasure, Jake wondered exactly what this frosted glass was and what it was all about.

"What is that?" he asked his potential role models naively.

The team looked at him in unison, as though they weren't sure that they should say. After an uncomfortable moment, one of them finally opened up and spilled the beans.

"It's called ice," he explained. "Do you wanna try it?"

Jacob shook his head, he didn't want to. He couldn't imagine wanting to.

One of the biggest players among them stepped forward and reached for the pipe, taking the lighter and preparing to have his turn. Just before he hit it himself, he spoke a warning that Jacob had heard before. It sounded more threatening in this instance than the last time it was uttered, but it was the same warning with the same connotations nonetheless.

"You'll keep your mouth shut about it, though... if you know what's good for you!"

TWENTY-NINE

September 11th, 2016. 8:30AM

Burlwood, Indiana

The tension and drama of the back alley dreamscape was suddenly colored by peaceful and comforting notes of music. As the big man took his hit, the sound of a piano softly singing overwhelmed the varsity team. Bahm-da-da-dum-ba-da-ba-ba-ba-da-dum-bada-dum, it rang sweetly. The players stopped what they were doing, a cloud of acetone scented fog swirling, swirling around them as they calmly looked around to find the source of the sound.

Da-da-ba-ba-ba-buh-dum-ba-ba-da-da-baba-dum... so sweet, so serene... baba-daba-dum-daba-dada-baba-dash

Young Jacob knew the piece... it was Pachelbel's Canon in D Major, adapted from its original form into a peaceful single-instrument movement. In the smoke, in the fog of dreamland, the sounds spoke from the ethos in the electronic voice of a synthesized and soulless pianist.

Why was it here, though, why was it echoing through the haze of crystal meth and memories?

His eyes opened with effort, because they were glued shut with sleep, and he slowly started to gather that he wasn't at The Garthby Icehouse at all. He was on a couch, in a vaguely familiar room that he couldn't quite place. Balled up and stiff, he uncoiled his limbs and stretched out in the most pleasurable stretch he'd ever experienced. Prying the lids of his eyes apart, feeling the crystallized mess left behind by the sandman peeling and cracking, he started to piece everything together.

He was at Chucky's place...

He was working on a case...

He was barely awake, but he could still hear the music from his dream...

The music wasn't from his dream, it was real...

It was close, it was vibrating...

It was his fucking phone ringing, and it had been ringing for a long time!

Shit!

Reaching for it, he swiped the screen to answer without looking to see who it was, lest he miss the call.

"Hello?" he asked, hoping he wasn't too late.

"Jake, it's Donnell," Launchpad replied. "I've got a few things for you."

"Oh," Jake answered, stretching more to bask in the sensation as he held the phone to his ear. "Sorry, Don, I was still asleep."

"You sound like it," Donnell said. "Did you decide to paint the town on your first night back or something?"

"You might say that," Jake concurred, letting his muscles relax and feeling sore at the effort. "I didn't expect to hear back from you so soon, what've you got?"

"Not much," Donnell lamented, "and that's kind of why I was able to get it together so quickly. I ran into brick walls on just about everything you asked for. All I came away with was a phone number for that cop you were after, and a tidbit about one of your suspects."

"Which suspect?"

"Doctor Jack Morris," Launchpad began. "Born January fifth, 1931, died March nineteenth, 1998."

"Well I guess that rules him out on this Marsh thing," Jake sighed.

And then there were three, he thought.

Of course, three still implied that he was willing to consider that Daryl Lane had totally duped him with his meltdown the night before. In his heart, he was pretty well convinced that Lane was not The Butcher Of Burlwood. Emotions and gut-feelings can be deceptive, and he knew that, so his head still held Timmy's father as a suspect. It would take some incredible evidence to convince him that his heart was wrong, but he was leaving the door open to anything he might find.

Three also implied that he hadn't dismissed the possibility that Evander Hughes had killed Billy Marsh. Based on Donnell's description of his condition, his being guilty would mean that he somehow escaped his bondage and collected his scattered faculties enough to do away with the boy, perhaps in a half-witted homage to his deeds of old. That would explain the differences, the fact that many of the hallmarks attributed to the acts of The Butcher in the nineties were absent in this new case. Jake wouldn't be able to convict or recuse Evander until he determined whether or not that series of events was feasible and attainable to him in any way. To make that judgement, he would have to gauge the man's condition for himself, in person and in the flesh.

Either way, Donnell's work narrowed the field by one. It was evident, now, that Jack Morris -- whether he had been The Butcher of old or not -- was in no way involved with the death of Billy Marsh. That was a step in the right direction, so he closed the file on the town veterinarian and pushed it aside in his mind.

"Yeah, I'd say he's a dead end... literally." Donnell added.

"What's Blake's info?" Jake asked, scrambling to the kitchen for a pen and paper.

Donnell explained that the man's name was Joseph Blake and rattled off a phone number. Apparently, he'd gotten it from LinkedIn and couldn't swear that it was still good. It was the extent of what he'd uncovered, so it would have to do.

"So far as the criminal records go," Launchpad continued, "I wasn't able to find anything in the public record for Rusty or Daryl. That doesn't mean that they're squeaky clean, criminal charges are often expunged or sealed. All we can say for sure is that neither of them have anything terribly egregious to hide. Nothing that ever made the news or anything like that."

"How about your old man?"

"Well, as you know, that's a different story. I've got an old copy of his rap sheet that I pulled when I defended him in a possession case ten years or so ago. I'll scan it and send it over. I've already given you my opinion on that, so take it as you will."

"And the Brougham situation? Can we get that list of what was registered and when?"

"No, that's gonna have to come from Louie. I mean, I might be able to track down some papers about my old man's ride, but they're gonna be buried and won't tell us shit besides a VIN number and the old plate."

"That would still be useful, see what you can do."

"I'll get LeTonya on that," Donnell nearly whispered, as though it was a secret to be kept until the weekend expired.

"Oh! That reminds me!" Jake said spiritedly, remembering the Cadillac he'd spotted at The Downs the night before. "I saw a Brougham at the track last night! I don't know that it's related, but there weren't many of them around this neck of the woods as I remember. I figured due diligence requires us to check it out."

"What do you know about it?"

Thinking hard, Jake tried to recall what he committed to memory through repetition. G... S... F... I... S... F... I... G... something. It was a company name -- something Services, Blackmoor, Indiana... but what was it? Struggling, begging his brain to pull a rabbit out of the hat, he tried to see the letters on the view screen of his mind. He watched the gate car approaching in a grainy projection, tried to focus on the beige characters on the quarter panels. G... S... F... G... F... G... S...

"FGSI Services," he finally announced, the puzzle falling into place in his mind. "It belongs to a company called FGSI Services, out of Blackmoor. See what you can find out about the company, I imagine they have something to do with The Downs."

"Got it," Donnell replied. "Anything else I should work on?"

Referencing the latest version of his mental checklist, Jake decided there wasn't. The ball was largely in his court, he needed to get out and beat the streets. Thanking Donnell for his help, he hung up and set about preparing for his day.

He was going to need a shower, because a certain region of his body was quite sticky. That meant the spare linens he used as bedding would likely need a wash as well, but that was an issue he could deal with later.

Marching into the bathroom, he took a long look at himself in the mirror. The man looking back at him in a stained pair of black boxer-briefs seemed more lively than the one he'd seen in the days of recent past. There was a sparkle in his eye that he hadn't noticed there in quite some time. Hell, there was even a hint of a smile on his face. Pleased at what he saw, he wondered what had caused such a dramatic shift in the paradigm.

Perhaps it was as simple as sexual release, which he hadn't enjoyed in many moons. It was a solo session, of course, but it could've done the job just the same and brought about the change. Perhaps he just needed to release his nuts to lift the weight off of his shoulders.

Maybe it was his interaction with Nikki, an attractive young woman. Wait... an attractive girl. He couldn't let himself forget that she was a girl to him. Either way, she seemed to hang on his every word and expressed an interest in getting to know him. At the core of it all, what she really wanted was to fuck him, that much was obvious. Maybe it was the ego boost that caused his slight emergence from the shadows.

Perhaps it was the fight he'd been in, though it was more a beat down than it was a fight. The guy didn't stand a chance from the beginning, there was no challenge in it or anything. A surge of adrenaline is like an infusion of intravenous amphetamine, though, it does wonders for the body and the spirit. Perhaps it was the natural high that painted his face with this brighter hue.

Maybe it was the interaction with Daryl Lane. The verbal snare he'd set and watched the man fall haplessly into was expertly crafted, and it was fun -- until it turned sad. It takes a sharp mind to paint an intelligent person into a corner and force him to show his hand, and he got off on feeling superior. Maybe it was that sense of superiority that brought the fire back to his body.

Whatever it was, he liked it. He liked the sly grin his reflection in the mirror cast back at him, in living color.

There would be rain in the forecast for this parade, however, because when he felt the tingle of happiness breaking through the wall of depression and darkness, his first inclination was to call his wife and share the joy with her, the love of his life. If he made that call, the storm cloud would burst. He would be drenched, and not with anything that would please him to be dripping with.

It would be spite, it would be malice, it would be scorn, it would be bad blood that soaked his body after she had her way with him. She was still feeling the sting of the things he'd done, still suffering the slings and the arrows of his missteps and his trespasses. She still bore the scars of his fouls, still felt the pain of the mistakes that he made when he let his feculent inner self spill from his mouth, from his eyes, from his hands, from his body, in every way that it could. She was still crying in the bleachers above center ice at the sight of his true self.

It was incumbent upon him to keep his true self caged, to keep his it in its pit. It was his burden to keep watch, to keep it where it should've stayed forever locked away and held prisoner, held harmless, held in limbo, held in its crypt and wrapped in chains from which it could never escape. His charge was to never allow it to see the light of day, to never allow it to reek its havoc, to never allow it to cast a shadow over his wife or his son, and he had failed to meet his obligations in that matter.

Feeling the fog of depression rolling back in, feeling its damp and murky essence stirring around him, feeling it trying to swallow him, he shook it off and forced himself back into the stoic state of numbness that was his home. It was hard, but he was experienced at doing it. Physically flicking his hands and shoulders in an effort to fling the influence of dark sentiments from his body, he sucked up the neutral air of the world around him. When he did, he smelled for the first time since his arrival that awful stench that greeted him when he initially pulled into Burlwood Meadows. It suited his mood, suited what he figured he deserved. He'd pulled his family down into the shit, it was only fitting that he should have to live in it.

After taking it all in for a moment, he decided that he needed to shave. His dark facial hair caused a shadow to form across his face with haste, and he hadn't used a razor in two days at this point. When that was done, he would take a nice, hot shower and rinse the drama of the previous night from every crevice of his body.

Once he dried himself off, he would have to dig out his very best threads from his duffle bag and potentially use Chucky's clothes iron. It was important that he look his Sunday best, because he had an appointment to keep in town.

For the first time in many, many years, Jacob Giguére was going to church.

THIRTY

September 11th, 2016. 10:15AM

Our Mother Of Sorrows

Burlwood, Indiana

"For a just man falleth seven times," Carl Lovett thought aloud as he stood, preparing for Mass in the vestry.

When he pulled his alb down over his head, the white polyester vestment unfurled around his shoulders and plunged down to his ankles in a free fall that mirrored the spiritual belly-flop his embattled town had endured in recent weeks. Another child had been destroyed, another lamb sent off to slaughter, and now -- now \-- one of his own stood accused and was being held to account.

Chucky was one of his circle, one whose confession he had taken many times throughout the years. Never had those confessions been of deeds so heinous, never had the young man shown any sign that such evil intentions or inclinations stirred within him. Upon taking his confessions, as innocent and immature as they were, he had done his duty in absolving his friend of his tortious sins with a clean conscience. He had no qualms about the issuance of forgiveness, because the boy's soul seemed so innocent and pure. If Chucky was guilty of the murder of Billy Marsh, if he was capable of such evil, how could he not have seen it?

As Father over the parish, he regularly stood beside the man and brought him closer to God through the offering of The Eucharist. As his employer, he spent many hours and many days in his presence and sensed no ill intent. He'd presided over the funeral of his mother, Charlotte Murphy, and had visited the trailer in which the man lived countless times as a friend and as a spiritual guide. In all of his encounters with Charles Edward Murphy, in all of his intimate knowledge of the man and his life, he could not conceive the possibility that he was guilty of the crimes attributed to him.

Did that mean that he must be innocent?

Or, apparently more likely, did it instead mean that Carl Lovett had been fooled?

And no marvel, he thought silently, for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.

That was Corinthians 11:14, and Corinthians 11:14 was certainly not on the common lectionary for the liturgy that he was dreading as he dressed for it. Neither was Proverbs 24 on the agenda, but it was those two books and chapters that were racing through his mind as he prepared himself to face the congregation.

It was September 11th, the seventeenth Sunday after The Pentecost, and he was supposed to lead his people through an entirely different mass than the one that was playing in his mind this morning. Jeremiah 4:11-12 and 22-28, Psalm 14, 1 Tim 1:12-17, Luke 15:1-10, that was supposed to be the liturgy, and he was supposed to wear the green chasuble, but none of those things would be carried through to fruition on this day. He was going to wear the white chasuble, accented with the purple stole, because those colors were comforting. Those colors were calming, those colors were holy.

The township of Burlwood needed comfort, it needed calm, and -- above all else -- it needed holy on this particular Sunday. This may've been the seventeenth Sunday since The Pentecost, but it was just the seventh since little Billy Marsh went missing from the Sunday School class, and it was the first since a member of the congregation had been arrested and arraigned on charges that were stunning and staggering to the righteous and Godly.

The people didn't want to hear I beheld the mountains and, lo, they trembled. They weren't in the proper spiritual state for the whole land shall be desolate, and all the cities thereof shall be broken down at the presence of The Lord. This wasn't the time for the fool hath said in his heart, there is no God.

Maybe they could handle and the grace of our Lord was exceeding abundant with faith and love which is in Christ Jesus, but that didn't mean that he was going to work it into his sermon as the diocese requested. What did the diocese know of the struggles in Burlwood? If there was a place in which it would slide comfortably, he would invoke it, but that would be the only verse spoken of 1 Timothy during this mass.

The only certain inclusion from the liturgical lectionary was Luke 15: Then he drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners to hear him. And he spake this parable, saying, what man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he loses one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness and go after that which is lost? Either, what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she loses one piece, doth not light a candle and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And when they hath found that which they lost, they calleth together their friends and say unto them rejoice with me, for I have found that which I had lost. Likewise, I say unto you, that joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance. If Chucky had done this damnable thing, it was because he was lost, like the sheep and the piece of silver. This was not the time to shun him, it was the time to call him back to God. He must pay his penance, of course, but it was not for them to castigate him as a child of a lesser God, for there is only one God and his grace cures all ills.

They could not damn him, because they were of God, and the word of James 4 instructed them in this matter, saying:

Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother and judge his brother speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law, but if thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law but a judge. There is one lawgiver, one judge who is able to save and to destroy. Who art thou that judgest one another? If the Lord will, we shall live and do this or that by His judgement. Therefore to him that knoweth to do good and not to judge, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.

He hoped his parishioners knew to do good and not to judge, but he feared that it wouldn't be the case when he took the pulpit. He feared that the people gathered would take up stones against Chucky. He feared they would forget the deliverance of the adulterous woman, that they would block the mount of Olives from their minds. If that were to happen, Father Lovett would stoop and with his finger write upon the ground, as though he heard them not. When they continued asking him, would he have to remind them that it should be he who is without sin to cast the first stone. Given that warning, would they hold their fire?

He would preach James 4, he would cite John 8 if necessary, and along with that, intertwined in that, he would cover Proverbs 24. For a just man falleth seven times, just as Burlwood had fallen with its seven children, its seven little angels. Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth, as Chucky had stumbled if these terrible things were true. Lest the Lord see it, and it displease him, and he turn away his wrath from him. Fret not thyself because of evil men, fear thou the Lord and the King, and meddle not with them that are given to change. For their calamity shall rise suddenly, and who knoweth the ruin of them both?

Hopefully, the people would hear him.

Hopefully, the people would understand his message.

Hopefully, he would get through the mass without stumbling himself. Without shedding the tears that swelled within him. Without breaking down in his dismay at what had once again befallen his congregation. Without announcing aloud that he just couldn't believe that Chucky had done this, that he just wouldn't accept that it was true.

As snow in summer, and as rain in harvest, so honor is not seemly for a fool.

Was Father Carl Lovett a fool?

Draping his chasuble over his shoulders, he took up his stole and kissed the crucifixes upon its ends. With the mass drawing near, he recited his list to ensure he'd made all of the necessary preparations for the Holy Sacrament and the baptism of young Thad Mencer.

Lord, may that young boy not face the specter of The Butcher when he comes of age. May he not go the way of those many others whose infantile heads he'd submerged in the holy basin of Our Mother, those who felt the sting of Burlwood's cursed water upon their brows so profoundly.

Leaving it to the deacons to seat the congregation, he whiled away the time until he would take the pulpit in reflection. This business with Billy Marsh brought back so much darkness, and he was lingering in it like a leaf upon the vastness of the ocean. He was on the cusp of becoming lost within it, on the verge of succumbing to it.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul, he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of The Butcher. Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of The Lord forever.

All the days of my life... all the days of my life... all the days of my life... coughing, and all the days of my life... sputum, and all the days of my life... blood in the tissue, and all the days of my life... yearly physical, and all the days of my life... strange congestion, and all the days of my life... radiology, and all the days of my life... asbestosis, and all the days of my life... mesothelioma, and all the days of my life... stage four, and all the days of my life... terminal, and all the days of my life... a matter of months, all the days of my life... thou anointest my head with the blood of children, and all the days of my life... all the days of my life... my cup runneth over, but my soul runneth empty, and all the days of my life... all the days of my life... all the days of my life...

The organ crying, and all the days of my life... out of the sacristy, and all the days of my life... behind the altar, and all the days of my life... kneeling at the feet of Christ, and God, help me, all the days of my life... standing in the chancel, and all the days of my life... approaching the pulpit, and all the days of my life... a packed house, and all the days of my life... numb and detached, and all the days of my life... mouth opening, words floating on the air, and all the days of my life... a familiar face, at the back, and all the days of my life... it's young Jacob, and all the days of my life... Jacob Giguére is all grown up and home, and all the days of my life...

Seated in the pew nearest the narthex, at the very back of the church, and squeezed between strangers, Jake looked upon an old and frail man who seemed to have conceded the fight long ago. He was definitely Father Lovett, but he was in as poor a state as his temple appeared to be upon close examination. The changes in the man and his cathedral were shocking to behold, given the air of divinity and devout stewardship that had prevailed within these four walls in the distant days of old.

Without Rusty, the maintenance foreman, the place had become a portrait of disrepair instead of an exquisite jewel nestled amongst the decay of the town. It seemed to fit into the landscape, now, instead of standing out as a shrine of reverent faith and the perseverant power of the collective poor. Without Chucky, the custodian, the place looked dirty and unkempt. The pews were dusty and faded instead of brilliantly shining and polished, and there were cobwebs dangling from nails that were backing themselves out of loose boards and tattered fixtures.

Father Lovett looked just as decrepit as this aging house of the Lord as he stood at the ambo and spake in a trembling voice. It was disconcerting to see him in this condition, as he lived in Jake's memory as a strong and proud shepherd over a brood of lost plebeians. He was the backbone of the subjugated masses, the figurehead of courage and fortitude that a people oppressed by poverty turned to for inspiration and the promise of salvation. Under the intractable assault of father time, the man who was the spine of Burlwood had developed stenosis and scoliosis. A crippling tag team of maladies that barred him from the mountaintop, instead of inspiring his parishioners that -- if they followed -- he could lead them there.

The former champion of faith and certitude stood before his people as nothing more than a haggard shell of a man, now. He spoke the same words of inspiration and integrity that he'd recited from his lectern when he was a beacon of hope in the gloomy shadows of blight, but they rang hollow through the nave and lacked the efficacy to move the masses. They listened, but they didn't hear what the man was saying, because years of struggle and misadventure had made the sounds of the verses grow stale to their ears.

In his youth, in his prime, Father Lovett had the charisma and tenacity to imbue the word of God with fire. His sermons would scorch the souls and ignite the spirits of his charges, refreshing and envigorating them to face the challenges of their lives. In his age, in his submission, he had no more strength to give. It seemed to take every bit of his resolve to simply stand and orate, there were no reserves within him to cast power upon the crowd.

His sermon was disjointed and rambling, things they had never been before. Jake wondered, at first, if the lack of resonance he felt in the service was due to the fact that he'd decided there was no greater power long ago. He quickly realized that this couldn't be the case, however, because the words of Father Lovett had moved him in the past.

Even in the darkest of days -- after Timmy's death, during his mother's hospitalization and the horrors that followed -- his spirit had been lifted by wise and insightful words spoken by the man who now seemed to be faltering in the pulpit. He used to be able to stir the spirits of all men with his sincerity, even those that staunchly denounced the fables and refused to accept a concept so obtuse as that of some all-knowing God standing watch. With a wink and a smile, the resident priest of Burlwood used to have the power to melt through even the thickest shields of atheism and could warm the coldest of hearts in all the land.

That power was absent now, that man was no more.

Disregarding the direction to kneel when the father called for prayer, Jake sat and surveyed the crowd as he had surveyed the patrons of Burlwood Downs last night. There were no surprises here, just as there had been none at the track. Many of the faces were familiar, but none belonged to anyone that struck him as suspicious or led him to believe that further vetting of their character was required.

Scanning the room perpetually, he was not only engaged in watching the people, he was also hard at work trying to figure out who was watching him. Once again, that sense was tingling. The sense that someone was surveiling him, which he felt immediately when he stepped out of Chucky's trailer and climbed into his car. It stuck with him for the short ride to Our Mother, which he made longer than it should've been by trying to sniff out his tail with more cunning tricks and maneuvers. Despite his best effort, he still couldn't smoke out his pursuer.

It was starting to frustrate him, because he had no idea how anyone could move so stealthily as to avoid his detection. Even inside the church, he had the sense that someone was keeping him under careful observation as he half-heartedly listened to the service.

Whoever it was, they were good... they were better at this game of cat and mouse than he was, which is a hell of a feat to accomplish. When he eventually found them out, in admiration of their skill, he would shake their hand and congratulate them before he commenced to beating their ass for their efforts.

After what seemed like an eternity and an epidemic of yawns moving through the hall with contagion, the offertories were passed around as Father Lovett gave communion and baptized some screaming infant. With a final prayer and some less than stellar organ music, the mass finally came to an end.

Jake expected Father Lovett would promptly report to the narthex, where he would personally greet and bless each parishioner as they left. That had been as compulsory as The Lord's Prayer and was his custom in the past, but the old man ducked out and disappeared entirely instead. That was a problem, because Jake needed to talk to him.

Wondering how the hell he was going to find the man, he sat and waited until everyone else had filed out. He figured sitting still was a two-pronged attack, because not only did it ensure that he would be able to chat with the father in solitude, it meant that whomever was stalking him would have to leave the building to avoid being made. That wouldn't hold true if his tormentor was one of the deacons, who were running around snuffing out candles and would not be leaving the church, but he figured that was unlikely and gave it no further consideration.

After a few minutes, he was quite literally alone in the great hall. When he was satisfied that any peeping tom must've left, he stood and walked toward the sacristy, where several of the volunteer deacons had congregated. Kindly and respectfully, he asked where he could find Father Lovett.

It was an older man among them that met his question, and he took a second to look Jake over carefully. The man was familiar, but Jake couldn't put a name to his face. Either stricken with a similar lapse of memory or just not inclined to shoot the breeze, the deacon simply said follow me and started weaving his way toward the rectory. They arrived at a closed door, so the escort knocked gently.

"Yes?" Father Lovett asked feebly from inside.

"There is a young man who wishes to speak with you," the deacon declared.

There was an audible sigh of reluctance, followed by a long and echoing silence. The moment was totally surreal, the robed senior citizen at his side just staring at the door blankly and unblinkingly. Time seemed to stand still, as though the two of them had been swallowed up in some kind of temporal rift, as they waited for a response.

"Come in, Jacob," the priest finally capitulated.

Jake was taken aback, shocked at the holy man's apparent ESP and the dreary tone in his voice as he extended the invitation. The deacon looked up to him and nodded, then turned and waddled away, his vestments dragging the floor behind him. Hesitant himself now, because of the frigidity he sensed from the father, he held his ground for a brief period before turning the doorknob and peering cautiously inside.

The air of the small apartment was as musty as the verses spoken in the chantry, and it stank of age and decay with notes of mold and mildew. It was physically uncomfortable to step inside, a strange sensation due in part to the want of a respirator. The atmosphere seemed toxic, both in deleterious airborne particles and in a less tangible charge of negativity that permeated the ether. The place was like a void of sadness, something he wasn't prepared to find tucked away within a building that stood for decades as a haven of hope and optimism. Already walking dark roads within himself, he was swiftly and instantaneously sucked into the whirling nihility of a chasm left behind when those tenets took flight.

The door opened to a short and narrow hallway with a dated and dilapidated bathroom to the left just inside. Jake stepped passed it gingerly, as the floor felt spongy and uneven underfoot. The aged floorboards shifted and creaked when challenged with the strain of his weight, and he started to wonder where he would end up should the structure give way. Not disposed to finding out, he stopped where he stood and called for the priest to avoid walking anywhere that he didn't need to tread.

"Father Lovett?" he asked firmly but quietly.

"In here, young Jacob," Lovett replied from the end of the hallway, where the apartment opened up into a small living area.

Jake moved carefully by a kitchenette on his right and stopped at the precipice of the living area. The room was just as small as the rest of the place, and he found himself surrounded by walls covered with shelves crammed full of books on all sides. The racks were built crudely with particleboard and two-by-fours and stood from floor to ceiling. The articles upon them varied from large leather bound volumes to small paperback digests, and they were only interrupted where windows covered by moth-eaten curtains required a break in the shelving. Outside, the silhouette of a Ferris wheel was turning as the carnies tested their rides in preparation for the final day of the annual event. Jake disregarded the hypnotic quality of the machine's swirling, swirling. There would be time to visit the fair later, when business picked up in the evening. For now, he focused on the room around him.

It was amazing, really, to see so many books shoehorned into such a small space. The fact that there was no television in the room led Jake to believe that the old man spent all of his time submerged in the words and the pages of his books. He'd probably read each and every one of them from cover to cover, some of them likely multiple times. As he stepped inside a bit, he realized that much of the mustiness in the air emanated from this space, which smelled a lot like the used book store that used to stand on Main Street.

At the center of the room was a small rectangular coffee table, which was covered with even more books. These were presumably the ones on deck for the father to consume next as he sat before it on a worn down and crooked La-Z-Boy, which was propped up against the back wall of the room. The layout was enough to make the visitor uneasy, as the priest sat with his back to the door and hallway. That was something he could never endure himself, given his compulsion to keep an eye on his surroundings. It didn't seem to phase the priest, however, and he appeared totally uninterested in his guest as he sat thumbing through what appeared to be a bible.

"Good afternoon, Father," Jake greeted him.

Lovett furled his brow and removed a set of bifocals to rub his eyes, as though he was exhausted and prepared for a midday nap. "If you insist," he mumbled, his voice hoarse and tired as he replaced his glasses and yawned.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Father," Jake apologized, since it was evident that he was. "I was just hoping we might talk for a few minutes, if it's not too much trouble."

"If you wish to talk, we'll talk," the priest replied. "I don't know that I have any of the answers that you're after, but if you feel it necessary to ask the questions anyway, go ahead and have a seat."

Looking around the room again, Jake wondered where he was expected to sit. There was no furniture, save for the chair and book covered coffee table. Lovett apparently picked up on his confusion and groaned as he leaned forward and started shifting the volumes. He made stacks of a few, opening just enough space for Jake to plant his ass on the faux oak before settling himself back into his seat. His joints popped and creaked like the floor as he did, and he vocalized his discomfort with dignity.

"Thank you, Father," Jake said, more appreciative of his willingness to talk than the preparation of what would prove to be an uncomfortable seat.

The old man grunted, lifting one leg atop the other with the aid of both hands. Turning his attention back to his bible, he put off a dismissive air as he spoke. "We both know you don't subscribe to this faith, Jacob," he said, "so you may refrain from the formality of calling me Father. Carl will do just fine, if you please."

Not sure whether there was malice in the directive or simply knowing resignation, Jake nodded and accepted it. Rewinding the conversation in his mind, he asked a question that needed to be asked. "You said you probably don't have any of the answers I'm looking for. Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but how do you know what answers I'm after?"

Lovett turned the pages of the bible indifferently, not lifting his gaze from the book as he replied in a riddle. "Young Jacob, if you encountered a feral dog in the alleys of your big cities... if you found yourself standing in the place where it slept, would it come as a surprise to you if it should bark in defense of its territory?"

Trying to decipher what he was getting at, Jake thought it over before he answered. "No, I guess it wouldn't."

Pulling his attention from his bible momentarily, Lovett made eye contact with Jake for the first time. His stare was profoundly intense, his clouded pupils piercing. "Then why should you not expect that Ron Boudreaux preceded you in this affair?"

Of course he did, Jake thought. Why wouldn't he? Obviously he'd already prepared Daryl Lane for his visit, he'd probably prepared everybody. "I did suspect that he may have," he replied. "I guess I just wanted to hear you say it."

"No." Lovett insisted. "You wanted to gauge how I felt about his warning, that's the truth of the matter." he surmised keenly, returning his attention to the book. "Let us be upfront with one another, my son. We'll make much better progress under that pretense."

Accepting the condition, Jake nodded again and left a moment of silence for the two of them to synchronize under its banner. "Then you're still willing to talk to me?" he asked. "Despite his telling you not to?"

"You're sitting before me, are you not?" Lovett replied plainly. "But I reiterate, I don't know that I can be of much help. I haven't any answers, and I'm too tired to seek them out. I've given it all to God, because it is beyond my comprehension. He knows the truth, and He will pass appropriate judgement. Some things are not for us to understand."

"You speak as though you believe that Chucky did this. Is that where you're at?"

"Believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God," the man said enigmatically. "That's John 4:1, and they're words to live by."

"And do you not believe that Chucky is of God? You know the man so well, do you suspect that he could do something so -- so --"

"So evil," Lovett completed the thought, then fell back on another verse from memory. "If any of you lack in wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed. I've asked in faith every day since Billy Marsh went missing whether or not I truly know Chucky. In my heart, I believe that I do... or at least I believed that I did. The man I thought I knew is not capable of such an act. But mark them which cause divisions and offenses contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned, for they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ, but their own belly. By good words and fair speeches, they deceive the hearts of the simple. All men who appear good on the surface have a touch of evil within them, and all who appear evil have a similar touch of good. Sometimes, when the circumstances and God are so inclined, it is the lesser voice inside that wins the day and shouts aloud. No good deed is beyond the wicked, and no sin is beyond the righteous."

Jake shook his head and grimaced, looking upon the priest still thumbing through his bible with antipathy. The father's willingness to accept Boudreaux's damnation of Chucky left a hollow in his heart. It hurt him, physically and spiritually, to think that a man as close to his old friend as Carl Lovett was could apparently be so easily turned against him.

"I'm surprised to hear such words from you," Jake admonished, "when you've stood by Chucky's side as a friend and a trusted mentor for so long."

Lovett threw up his hands, the bible flopping around in one of them, as he made a gesture of uncertainty. "Therefore shall evil come upon thee, thou shalt not know from whence it riseth. And mischief shall fall upon thee, thou shalt not be able to put it off. And desolation shall come upon thee suddenly, which thou shalt not know. I'm neither convinced of Chucky's guilt nor his innocence. I haven't the answers, as I've told you. My heart steers me one way, my greater intellect another, my spiritual sensibilities in yet another direction. I don't know, young Jacob! By God, I don't know! Every time I convince myself that he must be innocent, God says to me take ye heed, every one, of his neighbor, and trust ye not in any brother. For every brother will utterly supplant, and every neighbor will walk with slanders. They have taught their tongue to speak lies, and weary themselves to commit iniquity!"

Frustrated beyond his ability to manage it, Jake spoke his next words with bite. "Well, I'm sorry Carl, but I think that's a bunch of bullshit! Doesn't your book of fairy tales also say things about standing by a friend in need? Doesn't it also say that you should never turn your back on the ones you love? Didn't I hear you preach just this morning about missing sheep and silver coins? About recovering them and making things whole? About seeking the truth before passing judgement?"

The old man smirked a bit and removed his glasses again, setting his bible in his lap and tucking his bifocals into a pocket of his sweater. "I'm impressed, young Jacob, that you listened so closely to my sermon," he said with pleasure. "But what would you have me do? I'm an old man, my son... a dying old man, and a relic in this time. I was in the trenches of the troubles that plagued this town twenty years ago, when I was fit to wade the waters. That was my fight, that was my time. I cannot help Chucky, my son, whether he's innocent or guilty of these deeds. I will tell you anything that you want to know, I will arm you with any knowledge that I have, but I cannot take up a gun and march into the breach with you! So, as I've said, I've given it to God. I don't know whether Chucky has done these things or not. Only God, Chucky and poor Billy Marsh know the answer to that question. If he is innocent and it is God's will that you should save our mutual friend from this scourge, then it is incumbent on you to walk the road. If he is guilty and it is His will that Chucky should fall upon the cross, then it is just as much beyond me to help him as it is beyond you. I'm very tired, Jacob. Let us stop bickering between ourselves and get to the questions you believe I can answer for you. If I can help you, I will. I've already given you that as my word. But do not ask me to fight beside you, for I cannot. I will not."

"But you'll be an open book? Can I make that assumption?" Jake asked. "You do not stand under threat from Ron Boudreaux? You will not aide him in hindering me and my investigation?"

"Provide for honest things, not only in the sight of the Lord, but also in the sight of men. That is my Godly commandment, and that is the oath I swear to you. You're an intelligent man, Jacob, I'm sure you can read between those lines. If I am mistaken, if that is a riddle to you, then let me spell it out. To Hell with Ron Boudreaux, my son. I serve only the truth, even if that truth is inconvenient to the ears of our overlords."

"Okay," Jake smiled in acceptance. "Then let's start the conversation by talking about your old pal Rusty Parker."

THIRTY-ONE

September 11th, 2016. 1:45PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Dirt flew around the Malibu in a cyclone as Jake once again sped down Route 4, destination: Bumfuck Burlwood. A long and less than spirited conversation with Father Lovett had yielded three clues that would be of use. The first was a copy of the registration for missing church van, a 1978 Dodge Ram 15-passenger model. The second was the key to said van, which the police had apparently shown no interest in taking. To the priest's knowledge, it was one of only two surviving sets. The other, of course, was the one found on the kitchen table in Chucky's trailer during the execution of the search warrant.

The third, and perhaps most important clue, was the last known address of Russell "Rusty" Parker, which was twenty-four Confederate Way. Since Jake was largely unfamiliar with the wealthier end of town, he was forced to defer to his GPS for directions. When he punched the address in, he was surprised at the satellite images that appeared at its coordinates. The houses on Confederate Way were all quite large, and many had what appeared to be pools in the yards behind them.

Father Lovett explained that Rusty was just fifty-one years old when medical concerns forced him to retire in 2001, and he also made it clear that the man hadn't earned a fantastic salary for his work at the church. It was likely that he was living on some combination of disability and retirement benefits earned during his time in the service, and it seemed hard to believe that those measly stipends would afford him the luxury of owning such a lavish property.

Following the voice commands, Jake turned onto Route 9 as he scrolled through his call log to dial Louie Rambo again. He still wanted the Brougham listing, as well as in depth background checks on Rusty, Daryl and Evander. Knowing Louie held the keys to the kingdom in the form of official access, he was eager to get the wheels turning toward securing that information. As a result, every ring that sounded out through the car speakers without an answer only served to frustrate him. As had happened before, he was dumped unceremoniously into the deputy's unpersonalized voicemail. Suspecting that Ron Boudreaux -- who was, after all, the man's boss -- may've ordered young Rambo not to talk, he didn't bother leaving another message this time. If Louie was willing to play ball, he would reach out himself in one manner or another.

With a few more miles to ride, Jake decided this would be a good time to give Joseph Blake a call. According to Rambo senior, Blake was the sheriff in Indy when good ol' Rusty allegedly had a run-in with a school boy that sounded a lot like attempted murder on the surface. With Jack Morris being dead, Evander Hughes being in the nut-house and Daryl Lane passing the pressure test of his interrogation, Rusty was starting to look like the most viable suspect of the group when it came to involvement with the murder of Billy Marsh.

Information about an incident that was more than a little suspicious could help him pin the old title The Butcher Of Burlwood firmly on one Rusty Parker, and that would be huge. Since the killer of little Billy Marsh was obviously familiar with the heinous acts of the nineties in a way that only a perpetrator could be, nailing him on those old cases would lead to thumbing him in the new one.

The Malibu weaved around the two lane road a bit as Jake dialed the number for Blake that he'd received from Donnell, but there was no traffic nor police so far as his eye could see, so he wasn't worried about drawing any attention. When he pressed the call button, more ringing came through the audio system and sang that familiar song of waiting. This series seemed to drag on just as long as the one that came when he tried Louie, and he was eventually directed to what sounded more like an old fashioned answering machine than a new age voicemail system. This one, at least, was personalized and provided more than a digitized recital of the number he'd called. Somewhat to his surprise, though, it was a young woman's voice that proclaimed you have reached The Carrothers residence, but we are unable to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone, and we'll get back with you as soon as possible.

"Um, hi," Jake responded to a mechanical sounding chime. "This message is for Joseph Blake. If I've got the wrong number, I'm sorry. My name is Jake Giguére, and I have a few questions I'd like to ask Mister Blake about something that happened quite some time ago. If he could return my call, I'd very much appreciate it."

After leaving his cell number, he ended the call and hoped that he wasn't chasing a ghost that had taken the secrets of past misdeeds to the oblivion of the grave. With nothing else to go on, he simply drove the final few miles to Rusty's home in silence. Anxiety began to build in him just a bit as he considered the idea that he might find someone else living at the address, just as he found someone else at Joseph Blake's phone number. If Rusty's health had been so bad fifteen years ago, what was to say that he wasn't dead himself? If that were the case, the chances of identifying The Butcher of old with new information would begin to look pretty bleak.

Approaching Confederate Way, Jake slowed and turned left onto it without signaling. The houses on the small court were just as grand as they appeared on his phone, each of them sporting finely landscaped front yards and late model vehicles in their driveways. Scanning the address placards affixed to them, he found number twenty-four tucked back in the corner of the cul-de-sac at the end of the street.

Inclined to surveil the place discreetly for a moment before diving in, he parked in front of a house a few doors down and retrieved his binoculars from the backseat. Rusty's place wasn't the largest home among the small neighborhood, but it was still a very nice piece of real estate that would likely fetch more on the open market than even the nearly quarter-million dollar Giguére family colonial ranch. It was a well kept tri-level, complete with expensive looking masonry and iron work that gave it the air of a prized and regal medieval castle.

There was no car in the driveway, but a large attached garage was present and may have kept a respectable vehicle hidden from his view. Perhaps, he thought, it would be a 2016 Land Rover, like the one parked next door, that lived in Rusty's garage. Or, instead, perhaps it was a more classic automobile that was protected from the elements just beyond one of the two roll-up doors... maybe it was a 1986 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, blue in color... or a 1978 Dodge Ram Van with Our Mother Of Sorrows decals on the side. Since the two bays were closed and there were no view-ports in them, Jake couldn't determine which was the case, or if it was empty altogether. All of the possibilities stirred in his mind's eye, and each set him off on a path of speculation that led him around and around like a carousel of unanswered questions.

Turning his attention to the house itself, he saw that just about all of the windows were covered with either vertical blinds, which were tightly closed, or draperies that were completely opaque and allowed him no clues as to what, if anything, was going on inside. Watching for any signs of movement, he tried to determine if anyone was home. There were none, so he was faced with a question as to how he should proceed.

Staking the place out for a few hours seemed like a reasonable thing to do, but he still intended to make a visit to the Our Mother carnival. If he were to watch the house for any significant period of time, he wouldn't be able to actually visit with and question the man inside before he would be forced to return to the church. Plus, it was entirely possible that he wouldn't see anything if he just sat there staring at the place, and that would amount to an enormous waste of precious time.

If he were to approach the place and simply knock on the door, he would have his answer as to whether or not the resident was still Russell Parker immediately. Once that was clear, he would have ample time to feel him out and take a look around, assuming the man was willing to let him in the house and open to talking about what would certainly be a sore subject. Based on the reaction Daryl Lane expressed when old suspicions were brought to light, the mere mention of the murders might be enough to see Rusty kick him out of the house with extreme prejudice.

Deciding that time was of the essence, he opted for the more direct route and began formulating his plan of attack. Since he was wearing his church garb, complete with suit coat and purple tie, he realized that he might be able to pull an okey-doke to gain access to Rusty and his house. With an unorthodox strategy falling into place in his mind, he reached for his wallet and opened it to the private investigator's badge, which was tucked neatly behind a leather partition with his driver's license. Adjusting the elastic bands that held it in place, he tried to cover as much of the recessed lettering as he could. With a few zigs and zags, he was able to largely cover the text that read private investigator and make the minor-league badge look much like an official police shield.

Grinning slyly at his trickery, he pulled up into Rusty's driveway and adjusted his hair in the vanity mirror -- for vanity's sake. Clearing his throat and trying to take an official air, he stepped out of the car and marched intently to the front door. Along the way, he adjusted his shoulder holster to be sure he could snatch his Beretta and be ready to fire at a moment's notice. If Rusty was The Butcher, he might not be too pleased to have a visitor of this nature.

When he stepped onto the porch he saw that there was a doorbell, but ringing it seemed too benign and benevolent for the powerful man of the law he was pretending to be. To increase the intimidation factor, he chose to pound heavily on the ornate wood instead, with his wallet and badge in hand, ready for presentation.

Initially there was no response, so he beat out another set of knocks and waited a bit longer. Just as he was about to fire a third salvo, the door opened slowly without the sounds of any locks being disengaged beforehand. Apparently, Mister Parker didn't share Daryl Lane's paranoia. When it was eventually opened wide enough to reveal the aged man inside, Jake's heart once again dropped to a place below his knees.

It was Rusty, but he looked like death warmed over. His hair was virtually absent and fully white where there was enough to make it visible, and his face was gaunt and haggard, like that of a creature from some haunted crypt. He was hunched over as he stood, leaning on a tubular aluminum walker for support and stability. Lifting his head enough to look up at his visitor seemed an incredible chore, and the effort was obvious in his wheezy and heavy breathing. With the presentation of his face came the discovery of a thin plastic tube draped over either of his ears. The two ends of it came together in a nasal cannula that was seemingly irritating the flesh of his upper lip, painting it red and chaffed in a hue of discomfort. There was condensate and a haze of gas in the line, and the bassy rumble of an oxygen machine operating somewhere nearby within the house confirmed what was plainly obvious even without it... this man was gravely ill.

"Yes?" he said with liquid congestion bubbling in his chest.

Again the cone of cold feeling swept through Jake's body, just as it had when he stepped into Daryl Lane's cooler. It wasn't inspired by any actual change in temperature, just as it hadn't been before. It was a symptom of stunning revelation, a physical manifestation of devastating realization. Just as the cold room of Butcher's Lane was well suited to host slaughter, the Rusty Parker of 2016 was more feeble and fragile than even Father Lovett had proven to be.

"Uh," Jake stammered, trying to quell the storm of doubt raging in his mind. "Good afternoon, Mister Parker."

Rusty lifted his eyes a bit further to take a better look at him with the mention of his name, likely wondering who this stranger was and why he was pounding at his door on a Sunday afternoon. Falling back to his plan, Jake opened his wallet and exposed his badge. Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady himself before speaking.

"I'm a detective with The Elsmere County Sheriff's Department, would you mind if I came inside and asked you a few questions?"

"Questions?" Rusty gurgled, coughing to clear his lungs. "What for?"

"I'm investigating a stolen vehicle," Jake replied, not showing his hand and quickly closing his wallet to dissuade further inspection of his badge. "The van from Our Mother Of Sorrows has gone missing. Father Lovett tells me that you used to drive it a lot, I was hoping you could tell me a bit about it so I know exactly what I'm looking for."

Coughing again, Rusty looked disturbed. "Is this about that dead kid?" he asked accusingly. "Because if it is, I don't know nothin' about it!"

"No," Jake lied again, his heart pumping at the idea that Ron Boudreaux may well have primed him too. "I'm just looking for the van."

"Who are you?" the old man inquired, agitated and growing visibly fatigued by holding himself up on the walker.

"As I said, I'm a detective with the --"

"Detective who?" Rusty interrupted.

Frozen by the question, Jake feared this was an indication that the sheriff had, indeed, paid a visit to Confederate Way. Considering himself lucky that Rusty apparently didn't recognize him if he had been warned, he hurriedly tried to cook up a pseudonym to further conceal his identity. Pressured and on the spot, nothing came easily to his churning mind. Afraid that his hesitation would give him away, he promptly spit out the first combination that broke through the chaos.

"Enrico Palazzo," he answered, instantly mortified when the words left his lips.

Rusty didn't seem phased, the reference outwardly lost on him. Seemingly too weak or simply unwilling to say anything else, he opened the door a little wider and turned his walker to head inside. Taking it as an invitation, Jake followed him through the entryway and into a sparsely decorated living area.

The floor appeared to be genuine hardwood, the furnishings were leather and the television mounted on the wall looked to be a sixty inch or better brand name LED model. Just off the living space was an equally rich looking kitchen, complete with granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances. Somehow, through some mysterious means, Rusty Parker had evidently landed quite comfortably on his feet.

The old man slid his walker across the floor until he was in range of a love seat, which he then lowered himself into gently. Stepping fully into the room, Jake saw the compressor that was the source of the humming in a far corner with an oxygen tank standing at its side. Hooked to the front of the machine was a tube that coiled its way along the floor until it eventually lifted up to meet Rusty where he sat. Estimating roughly, he guessed that the total length of the hose was no more than a hundred feet or so. Next to the device was a small table with all sorts of medical supplies. There was gauze, tubes of lotions, inhalers, what appeared to be IV supplies as well as wrapped syringes and vials of injectable medications.

His curiosity peaked, Jake walked over to the table and spun the vials to read their labels. How convenient would it be, he thought, if one of them declared that the contents were Xylazine or Halozine, the preferred elixirs of The Butcher. To his disappointment, the labels on each and every bottle said either Aminophylline, Methylprednisolone or Morphine. The latter was pretty obvious, but the first two were mystery to him. Looking over the slew of inhalers, he saw familiar words like Advair, Symbicort and Proair, so he paid them little mind.

Given the combination of these medications and the oxygen machine, it didn't take much sleuthing to determine that Rusty had some pretty serious breathing issues. The fact that several of the labels read Home Hospice meant that his condition was more than simply severe. Whatever it was that ailed the man in his old age, it was expected to be terminal.

"The van isn't over there," Rusty coughed, looking at him damningly.

Picking up on his irritation, Jake lingered longer than was necessary to establish the fact that he was in control and didn't give a fuck how Rusty felt. Standing near the kitchen, he surveyed that space as well. Everything was immaculately clean, every surface shining with no signs of rubbish or clutter lying about. There was, however, a small grouping of papers and envelopes on the dining room table in the distance. Intending to check them out before he left, he made a mental note as he slowly strolled toward the couch and planted himself in it authoritatively. Locking his eyes on the old man intensely, he prepared to thrust his rectal probe in.

"Looks like you're pretty sick, Mister Parker," he remarked coldly.

"Gee, you think so?" the man fired back.

"May I ask what troubles you?"

"Death troubles me!" he answered, hacking out a few additional hunks of lung.

Jake raised an eyebrow, amused at the indignation. "Fair enough," he replied, showing no remorse. "Well, Mister Parker, as I said, I'm looking in to the disappearance of the church van. It was last seen in the lot of Our Mother on the morning of Sunday, July 24th. Just for my own information, do you recall where you were and what you were doing on that date?"

Rusty cackled painfully, putting his hand to his chest as mucous rattled and bubbled. There was a hint of a devious grin on his face as he composed himself and replied. "If I remember right, I was within eighty feet of that thing," he said, pointing to the compressor. "And as for what I was doing, I was probably sitting here dying!"

Realizing there was no effable rebuttal, Jake nodded in reply. His mouth fell open to continue the questioning, but his brain fed it no words to speak aloud. He was at a loss, as it was pretty clear that the old man was in no condition to be snatching feisty little children from the Our Mother Sunday School. Given his frailty, there was little chance that he'd been the one to hang Billy Marsh upside down by his ankles. He probably didn't have the lung capacity to have cried out bismillah or the strength and dexterity to pull a blade across an innocent neck. He hadn't likely run a small body through a bandsaw, hadn't hauled the remains to Booger Woods and disposed of them, hadn't driven the van off into oblivion and hoofed it back home. If he was the original Butcher Of Burlwood, the six victims he claimed in the nineties were the only ones he could take full credit for, as he was in no condition to subdue and murder an ant -- let alone a fully capable child.

Closing his mouth without saying a thing, Jake stood up and turned his back to the man, running his hands through his hair to frazzle it the way that he was frazzled. He couldn't afford for this to be happening, he needed Rusty to fit the mold and wear the crown of thorns reserved for the killer of the Marsh boy. If he were to concede that the slipper didn't fit, he was left with only Evander Hughes, Daryl Lane or some random copycat that would likely never be found and fingered. There weren't any clues to lead him to some unidentified assailant, there was no trail to follow to identify a new player in the game.

Frustrated and pissed, he intertwined his fingers and locked his hands behind his neck as a heavy sigh spilled through his clenched lips. Subconsciously, he started pacing back and forth between the threshold of the kitchen and the backside of the couch. Rusty was watching him with a look of disinterest on his face, his chest rising and falling sharply with his labored breathing speaking in crackles. The shell of a man was winning this exchange without speaking a single word to clear his name, and that was unacceptable. Totally confused about how to proceed, Jake decided to call a timeout to allow him time to gather his thoughts.

"Do you mind if I take a look around?" he asked, hoping his desperation wasn't as detectable as he feared it was.

Rusty shrugged dismissively, which was permission enough in the moment. He stayed put on the love seat as Jake walked through the kitchen to a corridor that he figured should have an entrance to the garage, which could've concealed dark secrets. If the Cadillac or the van were in there, he wouldn't need to struggle in verbally digging out any further proof of Rusty's involvement in the Marsh case. There would be some seriously tough questions to answer about how he'd managed to pull it off, but he could be locked in as, at very least, an accomplice with knowledge to be beaten out of him. With the evidence in hand, that could be done either literally or figuratively, depending on his preference and how charitable either Jake or Ron Boudreaux were feeling.

Checking the first of three doors along the hallway, he found a large and beautiful bathroom complete with whirlpool tub and seperate stand-up shower. Seeing nothing of interest inside, he moved to the second door and found a walk-in closet. There was little inside, just a few jackets and old pairs of shoes. The thought of checking the shoes for foreign soil or blood occurred to him, but he was more interested in finding the vehicles, so he waived it off for the time being.

Behind the third and final door was, in fact, the garage. It was dark, as all of the interior lights were off and he couldn't immediately find a switch to flip them on. Longing to find something, to find anything that even resembled suspicious, he stepped down two stairs blindly and his shoes clicked onto the painted floor of the space. The noise echoed in what seemed to be vast emptiness, as did each step he took further inside. Feeling along the wall for a switch, his hand fell upon a plastic button, which he promptly pressed. In response, the nearer of the two bay doors opened up to Confederate way, letting all of the natural light spill in and break the darkness partially. While he couldn't see every nook and cranny of the darkened far side, the sudden illumination revealed beyond a doubt that there were no vehicles inside the place at all. What was more, there was no odor of oil or motor fluids, nor any stains on the ground or any other tangible indication that an automobile had been stored there recently.

Looking around where the ambience of the sun made it possible to see, he noted that there were several large upright toolboxes, each looking brand new and hardly used. Turning every stone, he opened every drawer and saw a variety of Craftsman hand tools that also seemed new and barely used. Nothing about the place was suspect, nothing out of the ordinary. Refusing to give up, he walked every inch and inspected every recess. Much of the far side was still dimly lit, as the second door was still down and preventing any further sunlight from painting the perimeter.

Tracing the wall with his hand where the gradient of light morphed from white to black, he ended up in the back corner of the room where he nearly walked directly into the perpendicular wall. Feeling a sense that something was hanging above his head, he raised his arms and ended up with a handful of rubberized and coiled wire. It was of a thick gauge and stretched when he pulled down on it, an action that caused something heavy to strike him on the top of the head enough to wake him up a bit.

Reaching for the object, he found it to be a rectangular control box of some sort. There were several large buttons, so he pressed one at random. A loud mechanical whine and grinding sounded out when he did, and suddenly the coiled cord was being pulled toward the center of the room and stretching. Not wanting to let it be ripped from his hands, he walked along in pace with the movement until he was in a spot where the machinery was exposed to light. Releasing the button stopped the motion, and he was able to examine the contraption.

Looking up to it hanging from the ceiling, Jake realized that it was a fairly hefty and likely expensive engine hoist. Moving it had brought an I-beam into view that seemed to stretch from one end of the garage to the other. Traveling along it, connected to the control pad and coil of cable, was the hoist itself. It was comprised of a red metal box with a motor inside from which a heavy metal hook was swinging. It was too high for him to reach, so he experimented with the control pad until he eventually found a button that caused the hook to descend. A thick chain to which it was attached came with it, as did another dramatic realization.

Hoping for further support of a hypothesis developing in his mind, he looked down to the floor and scanned it throughly. At first, he didn't find exactly what he was looking for. If it were there, it would likely be in the center of the room, an area where the light didn't color the ground to allow visual inspection. Examining the walls that were visible, he tried to locate a light switch with to no avail. Releasing the control box and taking a step into the darkness with a mind to seek it out blindly, he felt his cellphone shifting in his pants pocket as though it were being brought to his attention by divine intervention.

Feeling a bit like an ass for not having thought of it sooner, he retrieved it and flipped through the apps until he found the flashlight. When it sprang to life with blinding brightness, he turned it to the ground and panned from side to side until he saw what he was looking for. It was there, just as he suspected it would be. His mind demanding confirmation, he refused to acknowledge the possibility that it could be used as he imagined until he put it to the acid test.

Walking back into the light, he grabbed the control box of the hoist and played with it until he figured out exactly how to move it around the garage as he desired. After a few seconds of trial and error, he mastered its operation and had the device positioned exactly where he needed it to be... directly above and perfectly aligned with the drain that he'd discovered in the floor.

Yes, the scenario playing in his head was possible. This device, this hoist, was capable of holding in suspension something as heavy as a vehicle's engine as it was drained of oil and fluids over the receptacle in the floor. Or, more relevantly, it could've hung something as comparatively light as the body of a child. Yes, they could've been chained to \-- and dangling from -- that hook, held high over the concrete as blood spilled from their necks like a cascade of organic water in the throes and undulations of some twisted tranquility fountain. Their essence could've flowed into the city sewer from this place, this den of murder and destruction.

But then what?

How would they have been handled from there?

There would need to be a saw, something to take them apart with so that they were in manageable and inconspicuous segments. Turning his phone back up to eye level, he scanned the darkness with its ray of white in search of any such implement. Not far from where the hoist had been parked was waist-high square table with wheels at its bottom, which he determined required closer examination.

Stepping to it, Jake realized that it was no ordinary table, nor was it another toolbox facing the wrong direction. It was a table saw, and much of it was missing. The top surface was simply a flat sheet of metal, void of any guards, void of any safety shields, void of a blade or any cutting mechanism. Where those things should've been, there were only grooves and channels in the steel. Inspecting them, it became obvious that the blade this tool was intended to host was of the circular variety.

They wouldn't rule out a circular saw with a very fine toothed blade, the voice of Clyde Rambo spoke to him again, and the words were deafening in his ears. This place could've been the lair of The Butcher Of Burlwood just as well as Daryl Lane's place of business could have, but that still didn't explain how such a fragile old man could've had anything to do with the murder of little Billy Marsh.

The revelations of this room presented more questions than they provided answers, but the questions gave him fresh hope where the old was decomposing. The fact that the blade was missing was very suspicious, but he was going to have to build something on that suspicion. He was going to have to build a prison cell for Rusty Parker, and that was going to take effort. It was going to take cunning, it was going to take tireless investigation, and it was going to take indeterminate discovery of mysterious facts. It was going to take time, and that was difficult to digest with double indemnity still a factor.

Tempted to hurry inside and shine the bright light of interrogation in Rusty's face, he fought back his desire to go in like the three hundred pound gorilla as he had with Daryl Lane. Showing his cards to this man would likely go much differently than things had the night before, and he might quickly find himself unwelcome in this particular house when the chips were down. If Boudreaux had prepped Rusty, he might even find himself locked in shackles should the old man call in the cavalry to reveal his chicanery. He was going to have to handle this one with kid gloves, no matter how powerful the desire to confront the potential killer was.

Taking several deep breaths, he calmed himself before stepping back into the hallway of the house. Instead of reporting directly to the living area, he resolved to double back and have a look at those papers on the table in the kitchen. When he got there, he looked up and saw that Rusty had fallen asleep where he sat on the love seat. He would've passed for dead if not for his continued heavy wheezing, and boy would that have royally screwed the pooch.

His unconsciousness was a window of opportunity that Jake intended to fully exploit, as it allowed him to thoroughly examine the loose pages strewn about the table. Most of them were benefits statements from social security and the department of veterans affairs, one of which identified his condition as stage four chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Nothing else among them was of interest, so after scanning them he simply returned them to the pile and tried to mask the fact that he'd been snooping.

His strategy changed quickly, however, when he saw a familiar string of characters on one of three unopened envelopes set off to the side of the table. Hardly believing it was possible, Jake lifted the letter to confirm for his own peace of mind that he wasn't wishfully seeing things. His eyes assured him that he was not as he examined the blue logo on the envelope over, and over, and over again. This letter, addressed to Rusty Parker at twenty-four Confederate Way, was from FGSI Services, PO Box 65, Blackmoor, Indiana.

Not bothering to check who the other two unopened letters were from, Jake stuffed them all hastily into a pocket inside of his suit coat. This action sealed the deal on any further questioning, as he couldn't afford to wake Rusty up and risk having him discover what he'd done. Moving quietly, he crept to the front door and prepared to make his exit with stealth.

Just as he was about to leave, though, something hanging on the wall beside the door caught his attention. It was a wooden rectangle stained a dark and rich mahogany hue, and several small hooks we're screwed into it along its center. Hanging from them were several keys, one of which looked terribly familiar. At the top of the shaft was a pentagon that any red blooded American could easily identify. This key belonged to a Dodge vehicle, and the lack of a rubber coating meant that it was one of vintage... perhaps even of 1978, a particularly good year, in this context and situation. Snatching it from its resting place, he stuffed it into his pants pocket and silently left the home with a good deal more to work with than he had upon his entry.

THIRTY-TWO

September 11th, 2016. 7:50PM

Burlwood, Indiana

The midway was alive and bustling with action, as though someone had forgotten to tell the residents of modern-day Burlwoood that their town was once again under siege. Carnival barkers working a host of crooked games challenged them to test their luck with the promise of taking home oversized stuffed animals should they find a way to accomplish tasks that were barely possible to achieve. If they could put a basketball through a hoop that wasn't quite wide enough to accept it, or land a softball inside of a wicker tub that was spring loaded to eject it upon impact, or hit a bullseye with a pellet rifle equipped with intentionally misaligned sights, or some other ridiculous thing, they would reign victorious and go home as champions with trophies that weren't worth the price of playing to win them

Jake could feel their plight, because he was engaged in a lopsided affair of his own and felt he was facing similar odds. Solving a murder with only a skeletal outline of the facts seemed much like trying to knock three jugs off of a table when one of them is firmly bolted in place, and victory for him didn't even offer the prize of a giant purple octopus to show for his efforts. Perhaps in recognition of this principle, he felt entirely disconnected and detached as he strolled along the path of dirt and gravel between the games and concession stands while diesel powered generators screamed in tandem with people riding shoddily constructed and brightly illuminated rides in the distance. If it wasn't the daunting task ahead of him that was causing this familiar sensation, it was likely the memories that the sensory assault of the fair brought to the surface in swirling, swirling... swirling faces, swirling voices, swirling rides, swirling lights and oh God, that's Timmy in that fucking car!

The episode of depersonalization, which a head shrinker had once explained was the word to describe the feeling that a person has left his or her body, had taken hold of him before he started this round of reconnaissance, though. Therefore, it was probably unrelated to the flashbacks triggered by the smell of funnel cakes, grilled onions and polish sausage. The return of this uncanny phenomenon, of seeming to be watching himself interact with the world from a vantage point outside of his body, set in when he parked the Malibu along Violet Street at around four PM, having made his way back to the church from Bumfuck Burlwood in a haze of confusion.

Actually, he could almost pinpoint the exact moment at which what he considered to be his astral self had separated from his eyes and moved to a place about ten feet diagonally from -- and a greater distance vertically above \-- his physical body. From that position he watched himself, as though his spirit had activated the ejection seat and was now working him with a controller as a character in a third person adventure game. In top-down fashion, he could see his car, could see himself seated behind the wheel, could see the world happening all around him as he tried to piece together the meaning of a new fact that he'd uncovered. It happened quickly and abruptly, like a flash of lightning, when he placed the key he took from Rusty's house atop the one Father Lovett had given him earlier in the day.

Of course, the two were identical... the trouble was he just couldn't figure out exactly what that meant and how it changed the playing field. The firing of neurons that brought a thousand potential explanations to mind also set off this strange disjointed sensation, and the derealization didn't resolve itself at all while he sat mulling over the possibilities for nearly an hour.

There were many logical answers to explain the key -- and more than a few illogical ones -- that he considered as he held the pair together, running his fingers along every peak and valley in the steel repeatedly to convince himself beyond a doubt that they were, in fact, just the same. Rusty had been employed by Our Mother for a very long time, he'd driven the now missing Dodge Ram many times, and was therefore just as likely to have a spare key as Chucky was. Acknowledging that fact didn't mean there was no chance it had been used in the commission of a revivalist murder, but there were many hurdles to jump in explaining exactly how the old man could've managed to pull that off.

He'd made no solid conclusions or judgments about it when he tucked the keys into his center console, setting them aside for the moment and moving on to exploring Rusty's link with the mysterious company called FGSI Services. When the Cadillac at The Downs sped by him the night before, Jake had assumed the enterprise was a small outfit that served as an event management organization or had something to do with the track itself. His curiosity was initially limited to whether or not the Fleetwood Brougham leading the pack of horses was somehow the modified vehicle of Evander Hughes. It was a shot in the dark, a totally random and likely ridiculous notion that didn't seem to merit the exertion of much effort in investigating it. Finding a letter from them at Rusty's turned the dial of intrigue up just a bit, but there was still no concrete foundation to build suspicions upon... until he actually opened the letter.

Inside the envelope he'd stolen from Rusty's table was a statement which led him to believe that the concern was a much more prominent and prolific conglomerate than the modest old gate car that introduced him to the company would otherwise imply. What's more, there were shady details on the papers that were inexplicable, at least on the surface, and begged a thousand additional questions and most certainly did merit further investigation. That fact, coupled with the level of Rusty's involvement with the business as it was described, put FGSI Services in a very near circle on his radar.

Not intending to sneak the letter back into the old man's house in an effort to conceal his theft, he ripped the envelope open briskly and crudely instead of taking a more discreet approach like steaming the adhesive. There were two sheets of paper inside, each of them titled Statement of Stockholders' Equity, and each of them detailing the benefits due to Russell Parker.

The first page declared that the report was for the quarter ending July 31st, and the numbers associated with the operation were far too grandiose for the entity to be classified as some mom-and-pop style cottage industry. Whatever their business was, it was big and it was thriving. Top line income for the quarter was over a half a million dollars, and the year to date figure showed as nearly one-point-three million. There were many deductions from those numbers for things like cost of goods produced and legacy expenses, but the bottom line still showed a hefty profit of better than eight-hundred-thousand for the first six months of 2016. Numbers to the side explained that their profit margin was sixty-two percent and change, which would be considered incredible by any business standard.

The second page was related to Rusty's particular share of the windfall, showing that he owned twenty-four percent of the LLC and listing the cash value of his equity at a staggering five million bucks. The bottom third of the page was a check stub for a direct deposit made to his bank in the amount of nine-thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine dollars, which was an odd figure to Jake's mind.

Surprisingly, there didn't seem to be any taxes deducted from either the operating figures or Rusty's individual payout. That was obviously cause to be suspicious, and was also plenty of reason for him to promptly Google this mysterious company for any further insight that the deep abyss of information known as the World Wide Web might offer.

Not surprisingly, given the fact that FGSI apparently didn't pay any taxes, there was no official website or any other indication that they had a digital footprint to speak of whatsoever. Querying the Internet with the phrase identify owners of LLC in Indiana took him to the Secretary of State website, which allowed him to search a database containing the records of companies registered with the Department of Revenue and Workforce Development. As he somewhat expected, there was no listing under the name FGSI to be found. That was a profound fact to consider, because it meant that so far as the State of Indiana was concerned, the multi-million dollar corporation that was apparently supporting Russell Parker in his convalescence simply did not exist.

Faced with that information, Jake's astral self moved further yet from his physical body in recognition of the revelation that things were getting deep, and that he was in it up to his knees. He was so far removed from himself that it was difficult to continue controlling his disconnected chassis, which was a totally surreal and largely terrifying experience. He'd felt this way before, of course, but never had it been so intense, never had he wandered such a distance from himself.

Checking the other two letters he'd taken, he realized that one of them was junk mail advising Rusty that he could save up to fifteen percent by changing his insurance company. The second, however, was from Safe & Secure Self Storage. Inside the envelope was a bill, which explained that the man was renting a ten-by-twenty unit for eighty-four dollars a month. Calculating in his head, he tried to figure out whether a particular Cadillac or Dodge vehicle could possibly fit into a room of that size. He was pretty confident that both could fit in there, but it was something he was going to have to check out. Either being there opened up more questions about how Rusty would've gotten them to their hiding spot, but it didn't mean it wasn't possible.

Uncomfortable and disturbed by the degree of separation he was feeling at that discovery, he sat in his car doing absolutely nothing for an additional hour as the carnival started to fill in with people and the sun retreated from the sky to its resting place in the west. It was almost six-thirty before he felt he'd regained enough control to step out of the Malibu and join the crowd, and doing so was still awkward because he wasn't squarely back between his eyes.

Just as at The Downs, though, there were no tremendous surprises to be found among the customers of the carnival. There were no suspicious faces, no mustache twirling villains, no sign of any Cadillac Brougham nor of any Dodge Ram van. All in all, the time he spent wandering the lot was a complete and total bust, which meant he was wasting his efforts and would be better off sleeping until his essence returned to his body. Still, he diligently walked the mile and scanned the mass of humanity for anything that seemed even remotely out of sorts. There was nothing, and that only added to the frustration he was already feeling deeply and intrusively.

Stepping over a threshold of metal plating that covered temporary electrical cords, he crossed from the midway area to the space in which the rides were constructed. There was rock music in the air, but it was the modern whiny pussy rock that he couldn't identify with, so he paid it no mind. As he took in all the sights and sounds and strolled passed a ticket booth, a familiar voice sounded out and stopped him dead in his tracks.

"So, what?" it asked softly, femininely. "Are you following me or something?"

Swiveling around, he saw little Miss Nikki clutching that obscenely small purse and a handful of ride tickets, staring at him seductively once again. He met her eyes, locking into their customary osmotic symbiosis with less turbulence at the coupling than they'd experienced in encounters past. Still a bit detached, he had no words to volley back at her, but she didn't seem to mind. Smiling bewitchingly, she took a few steps toward him with her hips swiveling captivatingly.

"Has anybody ever told you," she said as she sauntered, "that you fight like a hockey player?"

This unexpected and seeming clairvoyant insight jostled him, and it somehow managed to pull his escapist astral self back entirely into his own head and skin. A smile escaped outside of his control, his lips spreading to reveal more of his teeth than he generally liked to show. Nikki seemed to appreciate it, as it turned her own grin up to eleven and cocked her head to the side at a curious angle.

"Oh, that's not fair!" he objected to her statement. "What did you do? Google me?"

"Maybe," she replied craftily.

"How the hell did you do that?" he chuckled subconsciously. "I never told you my last name!"

"Well I knew it wasn't Ob," she countered. "But I figured it was the name I saw on your car's registration, so I punched it up and checked it out!"

"And?" he wondered as she stopped just in front of him, close enough to be in violation of what would typically be considered his personal space.

She shrugged, staring up at him in her shortness. "And you should smile more often," she said, "because you have perfect teeth! Are they real?"

"What?" he asked in a full on laugh. "Of course they're real! What kind of question is that?"

"I dunno," she giggled in response. "I guess I figured that somebody who played hockey for The Burlwood High Varsity Team wasn't likely to have all of his own teeth left to show!"

"I actually didn't fight much," he explained. "The league frowned on that sort of thing. It could lead to lots of trouble, so I avoided it."

Nikki lifted her eyes as though she was searching her memory for a list she'd committed to it, then proceeded to recite every fight of his career while butchering his last name phonetically. "Jacob Gig-whera versus Kevin Largent, Jacob Gig-whera versus Mason Swigert, Jacob Gig-whera versus Alvin Kimbler, Jacob Gig-whera versus Junior Kendricks, Jacob --"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he interrupted with a smile and out turned palms before she could finish. "First of all, you're murdering my name! It's pronounced Zhig-gair! Zhi, kind of like you're saying shit but with a z. Jacob Zhig-gair, but I prefer just Jake. Secondly, I didn't start all of those fights, so they don't all count!"

"Yes they do, dork!" she snickered as she gently pushed him with her petit little hands.

Her touch made his smile widen even further, exposing nearly all of his bleached white choppers and starting things to stirring. There was an energy about her that was palpable, and it was working his desire like an expert spider works its web. She had a warmth that was contagious, and he was immediately afflicted with her disease. He felt the butterflies dancing in his heart, a fluttering he'd forgotten could occur in the days since Tracy's touch stopped inspiring it in him. It was wonderful and it was terrible, a bittersweet combination he'd similarly lost to time and the repetitive nature of life experience.

"If you say so," he grinned, staring deeply into her smoky eyes.

Grateful to her in the moment for reigniting a spark he hadn't felt in years, he wanted to take her on the spot. The encounter played out in explicit detail in his mind, featuring him ripping her skinny jeans from her body and clutching her ass cheeks with his comparatively massive hands. He lifted her clean off the ground in his fantasy, pulling himself out of his fly and filling her body promptly and savagely. Engaged, he carried her to the ticket booth and pressed her hard against the flimsy aluminum wall. His hands squeezing and pulling her tightly to him, he thrusted with unbridled passion while she squealed in pleasure and pain at taking in his swollen sex, the side of the ticket booth bending and warping until it took on the rough shape of her form under pressure. He pumped and pulled and swiveled and ravaged until he couldn't take it any longer, until a part of him that wasn't his astral self came spurting out of his body in transcendent pulses of pleasure.

He couldn't do that, though... he wouldn't do that.

Tracy Swete was the sole heir to that throne. She was the reigning, defending, and undisputed queen of being fucked by Jacob Garrett Giguére. His penis belonged to her, whether she was receptive to it or not, and it was not his to do with what he would... to do with what he desired. That's the way it'd been for nearly nineteen years, and that's the way it would likely remain forever, as it applied to him.

As he looked upon Nikki in the shadow of his fantasy, he realized that she couldn't be a fuck buddy, and that he was a fool for having thought for a moment that he could subject her to something like that. He was ashamed of having thought she could be when he dropped her off from the track last night, and he was disgusted with himself for thinking about unleashing himself sexually on her as they stood.

He didn't know exactly how old she was, but he could tell she was way too young for him. She was practically a child compared to him in terms of life experience and self awareness. In his mind, she had no idea what she was doing in being so flirtatious toward him. She had no idea that she was playing with fire. She was unaware that she was dancing with a pyromancer, who was himself covered in the scars of burns and blisters suffered when he lost hold of the flame. He was toxic, and she was a nymphoid minx with some masochistic radar that pulled her to dark people with the desire to have them use her up.

Involving herself with him would only serve to harm her, and involving himself with her would only poison him further. To fuck her would be to cross a line that he had no desire to cross. Under the best case scenario, it would make him feel like a creep and a traitorous piece of shit. Under the worst case, it could hamper his chances should he find that there really is a place called Heaven, where some overzealous God is waiting to judge him once double indemnity came to pass. If the fairy tales were real, adultery is a sin. If the good book was truly filled with lies, he would feel the sting of the scarlet letter on his soul because it would be yet another example of how he failed to live up to the promises he made before saying I do to the woman that was the love of his life.

Perhaps seeing these things playing out in his eyes, Nikki keyed in to his wavelength somehow and seemed to be reading the story playing out in his head. As though she could see his manhandling of her and wanted to share in the experience, she asked a question that he could never answer in decent company.

"What are you thinking about?" she said, nearly in a whisper.

At that, Jake flipped an internal switch to turn off his lust and fantasy. If she was picking up on it, if she was seeing it within him, that was unacceptable. This desire to have her was too personal, too explicit and too inappropriate for sharing. Similarly, the revulsion he felt at his own mind for conjuring such imagery was a matter of shame for him. She didn't need to know what he was doing to her in his head, and she wasn't entitled to know why it could never come to be a reality.

"Nothing," he lied poorly, unable to formulate a more articulate response.

"Right," she giggled, seeing plainly through his rampart.

He tried to keep his thoughts in check as she surveyed the carnival around them, looking at the variety of rides and attractions for something that suited her fancy. Apparently finding what she was looking for, she grabbed his left hand and pulled him along behind her toward it. Completely confused and still trying to control his thoughts, Jake didn't have any idea what was happening until they were half way to a ride.

"Um," he began as they approached a machine called The Scrambler which was just finishing up a cycle. "What the hell are we doing?"

She looked back at him and smiled, still moving along at her lively pace and tugging him in the direction of the queue. "We're going on a ride!" she explained with an enthusiasm that bordered on glee.

"Wait, what?" he asked, flummoxed. "I'm not here for --"

"Don't tell me you're scared!" she joshed, interrupting him and still smiling. "Especially not of The Scrambler!"

"Well, no," he stammered as people started to get off of the ride. "But I was --"

"You were wandering around like a lost puppy!" she broke in again. "You're at a carnival Jake Ob, you're supposed to be having fun!"

Before he could say anything else, the last of the departing Scrambler riders spilled out of the exit gate on the far side of the fence built around it. With every car empty, a shady looking carny opened up the entrance and started collecting tickets from those who wished to ride next. Nikki was still dragging Jake along, pulling him by the arm excitedly until it was her turn to hand over ten tickets to pay their fare. Within mere moments, she was opening the swing arm of a red gondola and climbing inside. Unable to protest given the haste with which she moved, he shook the entirety of the ride arm with his weight as he boarded the car.

Nikki pulled the swing arm closed, causing a metal bar and ripped pleather pad to sink into Jake's stomach with a bit more impact than he would've liked as the restraint clicked into place. The greasy roving carny made spot checks of everyone's safety locks as Nikki glowed and her largely unwitting partner wondered how the hell he'd ended up on this contraption. He was still confused as a loud buzz sounded out and the ride began to move, with theirs and three other cars starting to twirl around an overhead axis that made up one arm of the machine. There were two other similar arms to the ride, each of which was mounted to a giant pylon at the center. All three arms were carrying four gondolas each and were at work spinning them when the entirety of the interconnected web of steel started spinning and swirling around the swiveling mast at the center.

When the amusement was at full speed, Jake felt like slave to inertia and centrifugal force as he was whisked around like a bug stuck to a tri-headed egg beater being cranked along mechanically by a mad chef with reckless abandon. It was dizzying at his age, a sensation not at all like what he remembered feeling when he'd ridden similar rides in his childhood. He felt compelled to puke and pass out, but not necessarily in that order. Every time their car would be flung out towards the metal gate that surrounded the ride, his brain physically stopped there to take a breather before being yanked out in the opposite direction. That was a wholly unpleasant experience that he didn't expect or appreciate whatsoever.

In antithesis, Nikki seemed to be loving it, which was something he couldn't quite relate to in the moment. She laughed, smiled and screamed with each forceful change in direction they made, giggling like a school girl peeping through a hole in the boy's restroom wall each time she was yanked askew. Physics caused her petit body to repeatedly shift and slide around in the seat, sending her toward the center of the axis for a moment before slamming her hips into Jacob's on the rebound.

At first, he was indifferent to this in his vertigo and lingering confusion at how he'd ended up in this position. All of that changed, though, once his body started becoming accustomed to the stimulation, and he eventually started to enjoy feeling her soft flesh and dainty bones grinding into his thigh. Occasionally her entire torso would collide with his, jamming his gun into his ribs in a manner that wasn't entirely pleasurable, but even that started to seem okay as they continued to twirl and twirl.

As though powered by the frenetic rotation of the machine, his blood started to pump and pulse yet again to places that should've made him feel self conscious. Enamoured and enraptured with her contagious joy, he felt no shame in the fact that his dick was standing nearly perpendicular to the padded seat of the gondola as they spun. On the contrary, he was almost pleased at what was happening as they swirled and swirled and swirled. Swirled like memories of incredible sex with Tracy Swete, swirled like memories of the first time and how incredible it was to feel her small, warm hand touching him in places that no one had ever touched him before. Swirled like her hips as she mounted him and took him in, swirled like overwhelming feelings of love and intimacy that were to last forevermore. Swirled like the death of affection and the departure of physical love, swirled like double indemnity and let's get this over with.

By the time the ride had started to slow, he realized that -- at some point, without any willful action on his part -- he'd put his right arm around the girl riding next to him and rested his hand on her shoulder. The diminishing force of artificially amplified gravity made it apparent that his arm wasn't just resting on her, it was actively pulling her closer to his body, which is where his inner self apparently desired her to be. With the discovery of this came a question; was he pulling at an imaginary Tracy in the swirling, or was he conciously aware that this was a new young woman at his side? Was he acting out on memories and a desire to hold his wife, or was he knowingly violating the oaths he'd taken to have no other besides her for all the days of his life?

She seemed to realize that he was pulling her closer at the exact moment he did, and she looked to him with her sparkling smokey eyes. Finding him looking back to her, she could almost see in his eyes the moment at which he finally started feeling that self consciousness that had eluded him before. The smile she gave him in recognition of what he was doing only doubled his self awareness, so he promptly retracted his arm and looked away toward the other rides and flashing lights working nearby.

His withdrawal was disheartening to Nikki, as she had truly enjoyed making even the most superficial of connections with him. It was probably the ring, she figured, that caused him to pull back so arubptly. He still wasn't wearing it, but it was obviously a factor nonetheless. She wanted to ask him why, she wanted to hear from his lips what was going on in his life, with his wife, and why he'd come home to Burlwood after so many years away.

Her Googling of him had exposed just about the entirety of his life, from his time as a star of The Burlwood Bees Varsity team to his seemingly troubled private investigation business based in Michigan, the website of which was mysteriously inactive and the domain for sale. She'd even seen a Facebook page created for the Giguére family, presumably by his wife, featuring pictures of this man Jacob with a beautiful woman named Tracy draped around him. They looked happy in most of the pictures, even the ones in which he wasn't smiling and seemed to be hiding tremendous pain behind his eyes. There was also an album composed entirely of shots of a somewhat off looking boy named Garrett, who was the product of their union.

She knew a lot about what his life had been until just recently, but she had no idea why it seemed to be in such disarray now as the toothless carny came by to unlock their restraints. The Facebook page showed recent pictures of him hugging and holding his wife, and it featured sweet comments from one to the other that would otherwise indicate that all was well in their wedded bliss. If that were the case, why was he so far away and wearing no wedding band, looking like a dejected and demoralized shell of a once proud man? Why was he wandering a shitty little town like Burlwood, and why was he so hesitant to let her in as a friend?

She wanted to fuck him, sure... because he was gorgeous, charming, mysterious and beguiling. If that was out of the question, though, she was still willing to hold his hand and help guide him through the darkness that she had already figured out he was lost in. She would be a paramour, a girlfriend, an affectionate plutonic friend, or a private therapist -- anything and everything that he wanted or needed her to be. Perhaps she could even help him find a way to reconnect with his wife, but for any of that to happen, he needed to drop the shields and let her near him, which he was obviously very reluctant to do.

Jake was still refusing to look at her, and the arm he'd taken from around her shoulder was now positioned over his lap to serve as a modesty guard. That was pointless, because she knew very well what was under it. She'd already seen it and noted that it was impressive, so she wondered why it seemed to shame him so badly. Shit, if anything he should've been proud based on what she could make out.

Given the fact that he was here, that he was no longer wearing his wedding band, and that he had a massive errection for her meant that something had obviously gone terribly wrong since the last update on the Giguére family Facebook page. She wanted to know what it was, she wanted to know why it happened, and she wanted to know how she could help. It was clear, however, that the man was too proud and stubborn to explain any of it to her as he stepped out of the gondola and the arm of the ride rose with the departure of his weight. It was more than just his physical body, the man was carrying around a lot of baggage with him and refusing a very clear offer of assistance, which she couldn't understand for the life of her. To make it even more obvious that she wanted in, she would have to probe deeper, she would have to stimulate him harder... and that's exactly what she intended to do before the night was over.

Grabbing hold of his wrist like a parent would grab an insolent child in a toy store, she pulled him through the exit gate of The Scrambler and led him directly to the next ride over, which happened to be The Witches' Wheel. Their timing was impeccable, because that ride was finishing up a sequence and the operator was taking tickets for the next round. There would be no time for him to object.

Jake was silent and like Jello being towed behind her as she handed over another stack of tickets and approached gondola number thirteen. That had always been a lucky number for her, so she was pleased to find it empty. The gate that would make the car a cage was up, so she directed her escort to sit first so that he would be riding behind her. With a look of numbness and disconnection on his face, he climbed into the car. Seated on his behind, he pressed his back against a pad at the rear and spread his outstretched legs to allow her room to join him. Getting in meant squeezing her small behind into the area directly between his crotch, with his legs engulfing the entirety of her lower half. Resting her elbows gently on the tops of his thighs, she could feel what he wanted to hide from her digging into her buttocks as she pushed back into him. Enjoying being close to him, she relaxed the upper half of her body against his firm stomach and chest, feeling his energy pulsating through her with the heat of his flesh and pumping of his heart.

After everyone else was settled in their cars, the side gate of their cage lowered mechanically and locked them in their intimate posture. There was another buzzing sound, and the Witches' Wheel began to spin.

The design of this particular ride consisted of a large wheel which started out parallel to the ground, hanging around the circumference of which were free-swinging cars. As the giant circle started to turn, the forces at work on the gondolas caused them to lift so that they too became parallel to the ground. When full speed was achieved, the giant wheel itself started to rise on one side until, at the peak of its operation, it was standing at a ninety-degree angle to the ground. As a result, the riders were moving at incredible speed in a circuit that saw them right-side-up as they swung just above the gravel lot, then promptly had their backs facing the ground as climbed vertically like an F-16 fighter jet. They moved with haste around the turning center of the wheel, and at its apex they were fully upside down for a moment before starting a harrowing dive towards the Earth. Near the bottom of their swoop, they leveled out again and started the ascent once more, the car shaking and swaying from side to side with their speed and frenetic motion.

The g-forces required to keep them from flopping about the gondola while upside down also forced her rear end to slide deep into his crotch, and she could plainly feel the head of his erection digging into the very top of her ass crack. Occasionally, a slight change in their speed would force it lower down towards her anus, which tightened with desire each time. It felt as though it wanted to reach out and pull him into her, which would've been just fine by her should it happen magically through their clothes. The slight undulations were incredibly erotic, and she noticed a change in her breathing as she tried to absorb as much of the feeling as she possibly could.

Smelling his cologne, smelling whatever he put in his hair, smelling his shaving balm and deodorant mixed together with the natural musk of a powerful man made the experience a pseudo-sexual encounter, and she was loving it. As they spun and spun, their feet racing toward heaven on the upswing and toward the bowels of hell after the crest, she started to feel guilty for using him to unwillingly bring her pleasure. She was treating him like a dildo or full sized sex doll, manipulating herself around him for her own enjoyment despite what he might think of such action. Before her regret could turn to shame, though, she realized that he had his powerful hands wrapped around her tiny waist. Pausing, she felt for a sign of where he was at with this escapade.

Jake was feeling everything happening just as well as she was, and to his surprise he found himself getting into it. His cock throbbed harder than it had in a long time as he squeezed her hips and felt it digging into the crevice of her backside. Fully involved, he began to share the experience actively with no reservations about what it meant, with no concern for the repercussions it could have for him or for her.

In the meantime, Nikki surrendered herself to feel what he was doing instead of what she wanted to do. When she did so, she quickly realized that he was slowly alternating between pulling her bottom closer to his crotch and subsequently pushing her away. Whether he was doing it conciously or not, he was thrusting the head of his dick into her ass crack, which was amazing.

Stunned and overcome with lust, she rolled her waist in time with his movements and squealed every time he pulled her to him. He answered her vocalizations with primal grunts and a tighter squeeze until they were fully engaged in an unfettered and wanton session of passionate dry sex as the blaring notes of Sex Type Thing by STP set the mood perfectly. They were each in heaven as the world spun around them in high speed swirling, swirling. Swirling desires and fantasies, swirling pheromones and hormones on the loose and flowing freely, swirling pleasure and intimate connection. Swirling and I know you want what's on my mind. I know you like what's on my mind. I know it eats you up inside, I know you know, you know, you know, and she did know... both of them did.

On the upstroke of the ride, he pulled in time with the gravity to drive himself further down between her buttocks, his sheathed sword nearly slipping into her through their clothing. When fully inverted the beginning of the drop pulled her off of him slightly, and he pushed her away in concert as they plunged down toward the ground. When they swung parallel with the Earth he thrusted again, and the power with which his penis dug into her hurt so good that she almost wanted to come. This cycle repeated over, and over, and over until she was approaching a full orgasm with the action. Just before it came, which would've been incredible given the fact that she'd never had one without direct clitoral stimulation, The Witches' Wheel started to slow and lower, decreasing the gravitationally assisted bump and grind until he suddenly released his grasp on her with no warning or explanation.

Planting his sweaty hands on his own thighs, he subjected her to an incredible wave of feelings comprised mostly of rejection and shame that she could feel as a hollow in her chest. Apparently, he was all-in if he could simu-fuck her while no one could see it happening, but he wasn't down for letting the world at large behold what he was doing when the darkness of the gondola was exposed to the lights of the midway.

That pissed her off, but it did little to change how incredible it had been while it lasted. Similarly, it did little to change the fact that she wanted to try it wet. She wanted to feel every inch of him, not just the tip through underwear, panties and two sets of pants. She wanted to envelop every ridge and every curve of him inside of her, and she wanted him to claim his prize with as much neanderthalic carnality as he could possibly muster. She wanted him to channel his inner beast, the one that he evidently did have hidden somewhere inside of him, the one that broke through his shield of decency when he grunted and growled with the pleasure of their sanitary fucking as the Witches' Wheel spun.

As the cars came to a stop, Jake was feeling his own wave of unpleasant emotions. He was disgusted with himself for having let his darker half overwhelm him, for letting his lust overpower his greater reason and allowing it to use Nikki for the sake of getting off. The sensation was nothing new, in fact it was becoming all too familiar as of late. Ashamed of what he'd done, embarrassed at having done it, he urged Nikki quickly out of the gondola quickly when the safety gate opened up. Jumping out behind her, he felt he needed a long, hot shower to wash the indiscretion from his body. Rolling his eyes behind their lids and swallowing hard, he tried to wipe the incident from his mind and memory. Never had he done such a thing with a woman other than his wife, and never had he considered doing it with a girl that had to be at least thirteen years his junior. Christ, how could he have objectified her like that? How could he have given in to his shameful desires? How could he have betrayed Tracy with such a lewd and adulterous act?

Nikki wasn't fully in tune with what he was thinking, but she could sense some of the emotions he was feeling based upon the deep shade of red his face had turned. She wanted to tell him that it was okay, she wanted to let him know that she liked it, but it looked as though he was in no mood to discuss what had transpired between the two of them. Deciding to let it lie, to act as though it hadn't happened, she spoke her next desire instead of simply grabbing him and dragging him along as she had done before.

"I'd like to have a beer," she said cautiously. "Will you come with me?"

Satisfied that her presentation left him an adequate out, that she had left the ball fully in his court as related to what would happen next, she waited eagerly for his reply.

Considering his loathing for beer and his desire to never drink a drop of liquor again, his initial reaction was to say no and simply walk away. Besides, she didn't look old enough to buy a beer for herself, and he certainly wasn't looking to get into that kind of trouble. What he'd done to her was wrong, though, and to just leave her on that note would've been cold and heartless. Choking back his anger with himself, he tried to put on a kind face and speak in a civilized manner that was more befitting of what he had always believed was his greater character.

"I don't drink," he said, "but I am a bit hungry."

"Fair enough," she replied with a half-hearted smile. "Follow me, then?"

Without laying a hand on him, she made her way through the ride's exit and moved towards the concession area. She was tempted to look behind her at times to see if he had split in secrecy, but that was his decision to make and she would have no recourse if he decided to go that route anyway. She did peek when she approached the stand marked Ice Cold Beer, and she was pleased to see that he was still behind her.

Watching the transaction with curiosity, Jake waited to see if the booth attendant would ask her for her identification or simply sell to her blindly. He had seen that happen many times in bars, usually when a horny minimum wage creep was faced with the possibility of landing a hot piece of ass by looking the other way. As it happened, the man in the poorly lit trailer did ask to see her license, and she provided it to him. He looked awfully hard at it, which made Jake wonder, but he eventually handed it back and accepted cash from her before producing a massive paper cup of Budweiser. Thanking him and turning away from the booth, Nikki sipped at the brew as though it were a fine glass of wine, which reminded him of Tracy and her nightly dose of Franzia. Impressed that she was indeed old enough to drink and amused at her Emily Post approved mannerisms, he smiled at her when she looked up to him.

She froze for a moment at the gesture, seeing a sparkle in his eye that he'd never shown to her before. It was sweet, and it was endearing. Standing there with a beer pressed to her lips in a gleeful stupor, she realized that she was falling in love with this mysterious stranger named Jacob Giguére. That was nothing new, she was always quick on the draw when it came to love... and love was generally even faster than her when it came to firing the first shot. She'd been left to die in pools of sorrow many times in her past, having taken that master marksman Cupid's arrow straight through the heart. Occasionally, the death blow came with a firm slap across the face for her efforts. She was an expert in picking assholes, but this one seemed different. Only time would tell... time and vulnerability.

Jake took the lead once Nikki was back on Earth, marching off towards a booth marked Polish Sausage. She followed, still sipping at her beer, and waited as he ordered a sausage, a Coke and a side of fries. Two-hundred and thirty-nine dollars, that's all he had left after dropping fifteen bucks on overpriced food yet again.

Once he had the goods in hand, the two of them walked over to a picnic table not far from the concessions area and took a seat. Nikki parked across from him instead of next to him, which he appreciated, if only for familiarity's sake. They were silent briefly as Jake started to eat his food, but his date for the evening felt this was a good time to continue to her probing, so she broke the quiet with her naturally sultry and seductive tone.

"So," she began, "what brings you back to Burlwood?"

Washing down a hunk of sausage with his Coke, Jake replied succinctly before shoveling a bunch of fries in his mouth. "Business." he said plainly.

"Ah," Nikki replied with a nod. "You're working a case?"

He took pause at that, wondering for a moment how she knew what kind of work he did before remembering that she had Googled him. "You could say that," he replied, not bothering to clear his mouth of fry debris.

Nikki nodded again and waited for him to swallow before asking anything else. Half-eaten French fries weren't at all attractive. "Does it have anything to do with that Marsh kid?" she asked intuitively.

That brought more surprise, brought an even longer pause and more wondering. Taking a sip of his drink, he turned his attention away from eating to determine what she knew and how she knew it. "If it did, what would you know about it?" he asked.

"Absolutely nothing," she replied.

"So what would make you jump to that conclusion? Why would you go right to that?"

"Simple math," she said with a shrug.

"Show your work," he requested sharply.

"Well," she started snidely, "Burlwood on its own equals quiet and boring. Burlwood minus Billy Marsh equals major crime, like what happened here in the nineties."

"You weren't here in the nineties, what do you know about what happened here?" he countered.

"No, I wasn't" she snarked, "but that doesn't mean I'm an idiot! I know what happened! Believe it or not, I can read! I can even use a computer, if I really put my backwoods mind to it!"

Sensing her insult, Jake put up his hands to calm her. "I didn't mean it like that!"

"You said it like that!" she smiled. "But chill, I was just playing with you. I also know that you were friends with that Charles guy, the one they arrested. I saw him in the background of one of your old hockey pictures online. Private eye plus friend in trouble equals you come home, right?"

"Very deductive of you," he said, taking another bite of sausage. "Maybe you should be doing this instead of me, because I'm not getting very far at all myself."

Nikki nodded again, sensing his frustration and an air of vanquished pride. Deciding that this condition was ideal for further piercing his defenses, she was preparing to ask about his wife when his head suddenly spun as violently as Linda Blair's toward the sound of a new song coming from one of the nearby rides.

"Holy shit," he said heavily, as though it pained him. He sighed after, and it seemed that more air came spilling out of him than his body should've been able to hold to begin with.

Listening for what he was hearing, Nikki could barely make out the music over the sounds of the people all around them. Eventually, she picked up on a few lyrics, but they were foreign to her. She'd never heard this song before, and she didn't know why it seemed to disturb Jake so badly.

Baby, here I am, I'm the man on your scene. I can give you what you want, but you've got to come home with me.

What the fuck did that mean, besides the obvious?

Why did it seem so devastating to her date?

Watching him, she noticed that his chest was rising and falling rapidly. The color had run out of his face, and a bead of sweat appeared on his brow. He was having a panic attack... she was sure of it.

"What's going on?" she asked, legitimately concerned for him.

"This song," he said through shallow breaths. "The Gravitron!"

Craning her neck and looking over his shoulder, she saw that there was, indeed, a Gravitron spinning about a hundred yards behind him.

"What about this song?" she wondered. "What about The Gravitron?"

"He puked," Jake replied, his heart pounding and booming in his ears. "He puked on himself, and he threw his shirt away!"

Confused, Nikki put a hand on his arm in a futile effort to calm him.

"Who puked, hun?" she asked.

"T-T-Timmy," he stuttered in reply. "H-he didn't want to walk around with no shirt, so I gave him MINE... my M-M-Maple Leafs shirt..."

Seeing the panic doubling and tripling in him, she rubbed his arm firmly and considered reaching into her purse for one of her Xanax. Not knowing how he would feel about blatantly violating every federal drug law on the books, she set aside that notion and just continued petting him.

"It's okay!" she said. "Just breathe, baby, it's okay!"

"He went to the bathroom to clean himself up and to put on my shirt, and... and..."

"Shhhhh," she continued her efforts to soothe him. "Relax, sweetie, you're okay!"

Not calmed in the slightest by her words or tactile prompts, his heart beat faster and harder. A flush of warmth consumed him, and his breathing became even more labored than it had already been.

Pretty little thing let me light your candle 'cause mama I'm so hard to handle now, yes I am.

"I've gotta get the fuck out of here!" he declared in a nearly tearful whinny.

Without another word he leapt from the picnic table, spilling his drink all over what was left of his meal and leaving it all behind in the process.

"Wait!" Nikki called after him, getting up herself to follow and help in any way she could.

There was no use in trying, though, because the man broke immediately into a full sprint towards the parking area. He was much taller than she was, he had much longer legs and there was simply no way she could hope to catch him.

All she could do was watch him go, so that's what she did. Worried for him, she cursed and shed a tear of empathy. As he ran, she wondered if this would be the last time she would ever see him. She knew from her evaluation of him that he was in a deep depression, that he was walking blackened roads alone as it was. This episode would push him further into the pit... it would make his world that much darker.

Was he going to run away from Burlwood?

Was he going to run away from everything?

Not knowing which he chose would be terrible... and she wouldn't know, until they either happened upon each other again... or she read his obituary. To her mind, both scenarios were very real, and they were equally possible.

Fuck, if he killed himself...

THIRTY-THREE

September 12th, 2016. 10:00AM

Burlwood, Indiana

Clyde Rambo watched his fax machine as several more feet printed from the scroll of paper inside. There was a lot more to the transmission from Linda Buell, an old friend at the Elsmere Circuit Court, than he expected. What's more, many of the words he saw as he skimmed the incoming documents were inflammatory and suspicious. He was transfixed by one page in particular, which had been the first to print in the deluge of legal documents. Mystified, he read it in its entirety many times over. It was heavily redacted, but there was still much to be gleaned from it -- and plenty to worry about. Checking it again, he read:

Grand Jury Deposition of Father Carl Lovett a CI. Witness sworn in by Judge Eldon Casella on this 5th day of September, 2016. It is the testimony of Father Carl Lovett, offered freely and willingly with no promise of immunity or compensation that on July 24th, 2016 one Charles Edward Murphy confessed to him that he had participated in the murder of one Billy Marsh. According to his confession, he kidnapped the boy at the urging of one Russell Davis Parker and took him to 24 Confederate Way where the two of them killed, mutilated, destroyed and planned to dispose of the body of Billy Marsh. The remains were placed in the back of Murphy's Buick Lesabre, and he himself disposed of them in the patch of woods behind Burlwood Meadows. It is Mister Lovett's testimony that Russell Parker allegedly aided in the dismemberment of the corpse and disposed of the remains behind Burlwood Meadows and has had no further contact with Murphy since that date. The body was dismembered in Parker's garage, with the use of his table saw, the blade of which Parker has turned over to the custody of the Elsemere County PD. Mister Parker and Mister Lovett, with the prior's urging, have made themselves available for further questioning at the discretion of this court and Sheriff Ron Boudreaux. This document shall remained sealed, as will the identity of Mister Lovett and Mister Parker until such time as disclosure is required by law.

Shaking his head, Clyde tried to discern what could possibly be hidden under those foreboding blocks of blackness. Whatever it was, it was likely damning for Chucky because he saw no other solid evidence in the pages coiling out of his fax machine that would logically lead to his indictment in the murder of little Billy Marsh. Whatever the words under the redactions were, they were hidden maliciously to hamper the investigation of this case by anyone who wasn't named Ron Boudreaux. In Clyde's mind, that was so typical of the man who had usurped power from him so many years ago. He was cunning, he was devious, and he was a snake.

The second half of the papers rolling from his thermal machine related to that side of the man specifically. They were outlines of shady deals and covert maneuvers to manipulate the letter of the law to his whim, and when coupled with the testimony of Jake Giguére, well... they were incriminating as hell.

Dropping back to the pages related to the case of Billy Marsh, Rambo checked his memory for any instance in which he'd heard of a grand jury affadivit with features like the sorts of things he saw at the top of his paper roll. After much thought, he realized that in the entirety of his long career, he had never seen or heard of the letters CI being invoked in any criminal case ever tried in Elsmere County, let alone emblazoned on an official report or deposition. That title was generally reserved for cases involving organized crime, when revealing the name of a confidential informant would almost certainly result in the death or disappearance of said informant. Its use in this case was odd, and it was more than a bit suspicious.

The incoming fax records together with the copies of reports he'd received from Jake made it flagrantly obvious that something was rotten in Burlwood, and Ron Boudreaux was operating the strings of a sinister marionette with his masterful zeal. In his unconstitutional puppet show, the first act featured his own behind the scenes chicanery. The second told the tale of a crime that very closely mirrored the murders of the past, and the third act would involve the execution of Charles Edward Murphy. The crooked son of a bitch was determined to see the show all the way through to that end, and he would have a clear path to doing so if not for Jake's intervention.

His program could be further interrupted by the dropping of a thick and heavy blue curtain that would overwhelm even the King of Elsmere County himself. The papers continuing to print as he spooled the coil painted an outline of what that would look like, but Clyde was going to have to invest a lot of personal time to make it a reality. To ensure that the blindfold of justice was finally lifted just enough for the world to see exactly what was happening on the King's watch, an old tag team would have to make its way to the ring to do battle. If he could put it all together, though, if he could make the information he was receiving tie in with what Jake had told him, he could reveal the entire truth. He could prove that the emperor had no clothes, and that he was hideous in his nudity. Finally setting that right would bring him great pleasure, and it could shed new light on the case against Chucky, because it was the emperor who was keeping everything related to that so tightly shaded.

Two birds dead with one phone call, that was the goal. It was going to be a tough call to make, because he'd never reached out to the man he once considered a close friend since he left Burlwood in 1997. That was a violation of his word, because he'd promised to keep in touch with the man he worked so closely with through such a storm of hard times. Now that he was finally going to make good on his oath, he was doing so only to ask for more help. That was selfish, it was rude and it was unfair. If he knew Alberto Gomez as well as he thought he did, however, it wouldn't be a big problem at all.

Before reaching out to him, Clyde wanted a bit more information from Jacob, the point man in the investigation into the Billy Marsh case. It seemed pretty clear that Jake had no idea Chucky had been arrested on the testimony of a confidential informant, because he would've likely asked a litany of questions about that program in an effort to figure out who the informant was if he did. With that in mind, Rambo was curious what the word on the street was about what led to Chucky being charged.

Referencing the scrap piece of paper he'd written Jake's number on, he spun out the digits on his ancient rotary phone. It rang for quite some time, which was a surprise because it was late enough in the morning that Clyde figured that Burlwood's answer to ace detective Bulldog Drummond would already be knee deep in the trenches trying to sniff out clues. When the call was eventually handed over to voicemail, Rambo identified himself and posed a simple question; What evidence were you told that Chucky was arrested on?

Unable to reach Jake, he thought about calling Louie to get the information from him, since he had probably been the one who fed whatever lie Ron Boudreaux dished out to the defense. Realizing that doing so would put his son in an uncomfortable spot, he decided against trying him and returned his attention to the now massive roll of documents from Linda Buell.

Skimming over it again briskly, he flipped through his rolodex until he found the card for his own personal connection to the Federal Bureau of Investigations. The number he had was in the 407 area code, so he hoped it was still good because the 407 is Florida. A man who lived in Florida during his working years was probably likely to either remain or return there for the days of his retirement, which he was certainly enjoying by now.

Spinning his dial again, he listened to the ringing and hoped to hear a familiar voice answer. This round didn't last nearly as long as the one for the call to Jake had, and the voice that spoke when it ended was indeed familiar.

"Gomez here," his old pal said sharply.

Smiling, Rambo replied. "How far over par are you, old man?"

"Clyde?" Gomez chuckled in response. "Jesus, it's good to hear from you! What the hell have you been up to?"

"Oh, sitting around waiting to die and plotting the murder of an intrusive tree!" he answered with a laugh of his own. "But you didn't answer my question."

There was a pause as Gomez pretended to calculate, but Rambo knew he was keenly aware and only putting on a charade in his calling out of low numbers. "I'm four under!" he declared, and it was obviously bullshit.

"Probably more like four over!" Clyde suggested. "And what hole are you on, seven?"

"Five!" Gomez conceded with a hearty belly laugh, knowing full well he was busted. "Now what's going on, you old dog?"

"Well," Rambo returned, "how would you like to hunt a real life Boudreaux with me?"

THIRTY-FOUR

September 12th, 2016. 1:15PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Nikki tried to peer into the windows of eighteen seventy Maplewood, hoping that her knock was ignored simply because Jake was still asleep inside. She'd known he was living just a few hundred yards from her trailer since the night of the race track incident, because his car made a very unique clicking when it drove and she plainly heard him returning from wherever he went after dropping her off.

Having last seen him in the midst of a pretty severe panic attack, she was worried that there'd been no sign of his stirring since she made the long walk home the night before. There had been lights on in the living area, and they'd stayed on for most of the night -- at least until she herself went to bed just after two in the morning.

To her dismay, the lights were still on. In her mind, that meant that either he had not gone to bed or that he was, instead, sleeping a more eternal sleep. The type that's not disturbed by the annoyance of a burning lamp or a knocking at the door.

She walked around the whole trailer trying to see through windows, but none offered her a glimpse of what was happening inside. Returning to the front, she approached the Malibu and checked it out to be sure there was no mistake that it was his. As she cupped her hands on the windshield and looked in, she saw a familiar bottle of eye drops on the floor. They had apparently fallen out again when the glovebox was opened, and it was still in that condition. Satisfied that this was definitely Jake's ride, her worrying only increased at that fact that he wouldn't answer her knocks at the door.

Stepping back from the car, she looked down Oakwood and was spooked for a second when she saw a strange glimmer in the periphery of her vision. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she looked down the road and saw a large, dark sedan parked about a block down in the distance. Its windshield was tinted limo-black, and she figured it was possible that it had caught a ray of sun through the rolling clouds, causing the odd flash. She waited a moment to see if it would happen again, because in her mind the flare more closely resembled the flash of a camera than a random reflection off of the glass. There was no repeat performance in the few seconds of attention she gave it, but her patience for the minor mystery had passed, so she turned away.

Determined to be sure Jake was okay, she moved back to the front door and knocked a little harder than she had before. When even that was ignored, she began knocking constantly, hoping for anything but what she was thinking. She knew he was suffering, she knew he was struggling, and she was all too familiar with the urge to make the pain stop when things just get to be too much to bear any longer. He may have reached that point in his panic attack, and he seemed a prime candidate for suicide. Mortified, she prayed as she waited for a response that working on the case of his old friend was enough motivation to keep the man alive, even through an episode as bad as the night before had been.

When there was still no answer, she felt her heart beginning to pump heavily and her breathing becoming strained. In no mood for a panic attack of her own, she promptly fetched a Xanax from her purse and let it dissolve under her tongue. Feeling instant relief, she decided she would try to find a way to get into the trailer to be sure that all was well. To her surprise, she found the doorknob of the front entrance turned freely and the door started to open when spun it.

"Jacob?" She called softly as she stuck her face into the living area, relieved that she wouldn't have to physically break in.

She recoiled and gagged when the smell inside hit her nose, the pungent aromas of old garbage and vomit making her eyes water immediately. After pulling back for a moment, she plugged her nostrils with her fingers and opened the door wide enough for her to step in.

The first thing she saw inside was Jake, naked and sprawled out on his stomach atop a raggedy looking couch with his left arm hanging loosely over the edge. Looking closer, she saw that he had a nearly empty fifth of Jack Daniels dangling from his loosened fingers.

"So much for not drinking," she said quietly to herself.

Not far from his hand was a pool of puke, which was the source of one of the foul odors that was still somehow finding a way to creep into her sinuses. Just outside of the mess was a rather large looking handgun, which turned her on as much as it terrified her. Her heart dropped at seeing it, but the lack of spattered blood gave her hope that he hadn't used it... not on himself, at least.

Taking a few cautious steps toward him, she watched his chest and lower back for any sign that he was breathing. When she saw his ribs expanding, she sighed in great relief. With that worry for his life out of the way, she took a moment to examine his ravishing physique before going to wake him up. His back was sculpted, as though he spent many hours working to make it so, and his arms were wide and powerful looking. His ass was firm and round, and the thighs that extended from it were thick and toned. His tree-trunk looking upper legs led into calves that were equally defined and muscular, and his feet were large and manly, if a bit hairy.

Her first instinct in seeing him this way was to tickle him and make him roll over, in order to expose his chest, his abs and -- well -- the rest of him. Concerned about his humility and still a bit worried about his wellbeing, she moved to the head of the couch and put a hand on his shoulders instead. His flesh was cool and clammy, his body covered in beads of sweat from his head to his toes. Rubbing gently at his back, she spread his perspiration around as she leaned close to his ear to try and rouse him.

"Jake, sweetie," she whispered, changing tactics and running her fingers through his dripping wet hair. This seemed awfully personal, but also very natural. Hoping she wasn't encroaching, she continued to whisper. "Jake, are you okay baby?"

Her second effort made him stir a bit, leading him to lift his head which revealed a trail of vomit and drool running out of his mouth, which was not attractive in the least. He mumbled something in response to her prodding, but it was totally unintelligible and meant he was still sleeping deeply.

"Jacob, honey," she continued. "It's after one, I need you to wake up so that I know you're okay."

Again he grumbled and stirred, but showed no interest in waking. Frustrated with her lack of progress and deciding that a change in technique was indicated, she took her hand off of him and stepped back a bit.

"JAKE!" She shouted this time, and immediately his head snapped up.

His eyes were glassy and bloodshot as they looked upon her in shock, his mouth agape and still dripping with slobber. He planted his hands on the couch in surprise and lifted his upper body a bit, exposing a flash of his dangling penis that made Nikki's eyebrows raise instinctively. It only took him a moment to gather what was happening, but in that moment she thoroughly surveyed his dark and curly pubic region and what hung freely below.

"Jesus!" He slurred in shock, dropping his frame back into the couch with authority and shame. "What the fuck is going on?"

"I was hoping that you would tell me!" She answered with a subconscious grin. "You scared the shit out of me last night, I thought I was gonna find you dead in here!"

Full awareness coming to him slowly, he thrust his hand underneath him to cover his manhood, even though it was presently wedged between two cushions and felt a bit twisted around by the force he'd planted it with.

"How the hell did you get in here?" He asked. "How the hell did you know I was here at all?"

"First off," she began as she casually walked into the kitchen with her teeny purse to find paper towels or something similar to address the puke, "you left the door unlocked. That's not very wise in this neck of the woods, not anymore at least. Second, you've got the newest yet junkiest sounding car in all of the park! It didn't take rocket science to figure out that you were staying here, everybody on the block can hear you come and go!"

With her out of sight, he scanned the floor around the couch for his underwear. Only then did he see the vomit and the empty bottle of Jack. He had little recollection of what had happened the night before, but there was a vague hint of a memory that involved stopping at a local liquor store and pounding the stuff he bought down hard. Pissed at himself but more concerned about getting dressed, he found his pair of boxer briefs near the foot of the couch. Checking the entrance to the kitchen to be sure she wasn't watching, he leapt to his feet and dove into them with both legs at once.

"Good God!" He heard Nikki exclaim just after the sound of the trash can opening. "Don't you ever take this shit out?"

He didn't answer, looking for the rest of his clothes instead. They were nowhere to be found, which sucked because he hardly knew this girl in Chucky's trailer. She'd already seen more of him than he would've liked, and he was eager to be sure it was limited that momentary glance alone. He needed to take a piss, which was making things stand up and stand out, even through his black underwear. That was certainly not something he wanted her to see.

To his relief, he heard the sounds of the full bag being pulled from the trash can. That meant he had a few moments to address his growing issue, because she was involved with cleaning. He stumbled to the bathroom, as hungover as he could possibly be, as Nikki tossed the garbage out the back door and put a new liner in the bin. Finding that the toilet was full of yak as well was a surprise to him, as was the fact his clothes seemed to be soaking wet in the bathtub for some reason that he couldn't readily explain. Clearly, he would have to get to the hallway closet, where he stashed his bag, and find something different to put on. He pissed into the vomit and flushed it all first, then set off to finding something to wear.

Leaning around the door frame like a police officer engaged in a tense gun battle, he spotted Nikki on the floor scrubbing his polish sausage and fries out of the carpet with a brush. She was pretty focused on her task, so he darted out of the bathroom with his rear intentionally pointed towards her, so as not to reveal what she would probably like to see revealed. With a few quick steps, he reached and tore open the closet, yanking his bag out and retreating back to the lavatory. The clothes at the top happened to be a button down black shirt with epaulets and a pair of distressed denim jeans, an outfit Tracy always said he looked sexy in. He didn't intend for them to have that effect on Nikki, but it seemed to him that he could wear My Little Pony pajamas and she would still want to fondle him. Leaping into the clothes, he buttoned the shirt before washing his face and straightening our his disheveled hair in the mirror.

His head ringing, he opened Chucky's medicine cabinet and found a bottle of Tylenol right where he had put it, next to the box of Trojans. The graphic on the front of the condom package made his mind wander, and that started things back to stirring. Thankfully, those things were well compressed beneath the jeans and wouldn't likely be an issue.

Seizing control of his thoughts, he took three capsules from the bottle of pain relievers and swallowed them with a handful of water from the sink. Noticing his eyes were fucked, he wished he'd brought his Rohto drops in instead of leaving them in the glovebox of the Malibu. That brought another hazy recollection of trying to use them the night before after drinking a good deal of liquor sitting in the car in Chucky's driveway. Hitting himself with a blast of his Acqua Di Gio, he sighed at his condition and shyly made his way to the living room.

Nikki had finished scrubbing the carpet with Resolve, which she must've found under Chucky's sink. There was now a cleaner looking section of rug as compared to the rest where his stomach contents used to be, and it appeared the carpet used to be a much lighter shade of beige than it was at present. Rising from her knees, she took the dirtied brush and a wad of soiled paper towel into the kitchen. She gagged a bit as she dumped everything into the fresh garbage bag she had installed, she wasn't much a fan of puke, but dirty times bring dirty responsibilities. Jake watched her appreciatively as she rinsed her hands afterwards, still feeling anger at himself for resorting to the bottle in concert with shame at having been discovered in such a state by a girl he rather liked.

"Thank you," he said humbly to her as she walked back into the room.

"Don't mention it," she replied, "if I had a dollar for every time someone cleaned up after me..."

"Still," he said, "you didn't have to do that."

"No, I didn't," she acknowledged.

"And I'm sorry about --" he paused, searching for words as he felt his face starting to blush. "The whole --"

"About the fact that I saw your ass and cock?" She declared plainly.

Jake nodded, feeling the blush all over his body now.

"It's okay," she continued. "Believe it or not, I've seen men naked before, you look much the same as most of them." Looking down to the floor, where his eyes were also trained, she indicated the gun with her foot. "You might want to clean that, it looks like it got a bit of the puke in it."

"Shit!" He exclaimed, realizing the Beretta was there for the first time. He quickly snatched it up, hoping not to scare her with the fact that he carried it, and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Only then did he feel the liquid leaking out of the barrel and running down his leg. That sucked, and it was even more reason that he was going to need a shower before he went about the rest of his day.

"Now, I said cleaning up wasn't a problem," she said, "but I didn't say I did it for free."

Puzzled, he cocked his head and looked at her. "Okay?" He asked curiously. "What do I owe you, then?"

"Skating lessons," she replied quickly, as though she already had her payment plan in mind.

"What?" He wondered, confused.

"I've always wanted to learn to ice skate," she explained, "and you were some hot-shot hockey player back in the day. I figure that makes you a good guy to teach me, so that's what I want in return for cleaning up after you."

"Look, Nikki," he shook his head, "I've got a lot of work --"

"Sorry," she interrupted with a smile. "It's not negotiable!"

Rolling his eyes, he thought about how she'd made him feel at the carnival the night before. It had been awkward for him, but it had also been pleasurable. He loved it as much as he hated it, as much as it seemed wrong to him. Weighing those feelings against the bleak and black emotions he'd been engulfed in for the entirety of this investigation, he decided that there was room in his schedule for a diversion. Even if he maintained his determination to keep Nikki as no more than a friend, surely he could make time for something a bit more positive than death and dismemberment.

"I can bring the puke back out and spread it around again, if you want," she insinuated.

"No no," he replied. Summing it all up in his mind, he nodded slowly and locked in on her gray eyes once again. "When and where?" He asked.

"Garthby Ice House," she replied with no hesitation again. "Tomorrow morning, free skate from twelve to two. I assume you know where the place is?"

"Oh yeah," Jake confirmed. "I'm quite familiar with it."

"Good," she replied. "I have to get to work for the evening at the moment, but I expect to meet you there at eleven forty-five sharp tomorrow! Don't make me come find you again, because that'll make the price go up!"

"I'll be there," he smiled, reading pleasure and desire in her face.

"Well, until then, I guess," she said, simply walking off toward the front door.

Watching her go, he noted the swaying of her hips as she moved. It seemed exaggerated as compared to her normal stride, and it seemed very obviously intentional. She didn't look back at him, which was a good thing because he was wearing a crooked grin at what he saw. A grin of charm, a grin of infatuation and a grin of raging libido. He never had much of a poker face, and this instance was no exception.

Ashamed, he wiped the trespass from his face immediately and reported to the kitchen to take care of his gun, which was still dripping stomach acid down his leg. Grabbing his phone along the way, he realized he had several missed calls and voicemails. He also saw the time, which he didn't like at all. His indiscretion the night before had cost him hours of potential work, and that was a disservice to Chucky that he couldn't forgive. He lit a cigarette to get the morning started and to smoke the taste of liquor and vomit from his mouth, then set about forming a plan for the day.

Placing his gun on the counter, he checked his email before doing anything else. There was nothing exciting, save for a message from Donnell via LeTonya. It was short and sweet, reading I've got LeTonya working on FGSI, and I found the registration for my old man's Brougham. Attached was an image of the card, which gave the old plate number and VIN. He saved it to his phone for future reference and comparison to the gate car at the downs, then dialed his voicemail and switched on the speaker so that he could listen while he disassembled his Beretta.

The first message was from Clyde Rambo, who was seeking information related to Chucky's case. Making a mental note to call him back later, Jake deleted the message and listened to the next. The second was from an Indianapolis phone number, and the voice that spoke was old and feeble.

"Hello?" It said in a crackle. "This is Joseph Blake, I'm returning a phone call I got from you yesterday. I have no plans for the afternoon, so please call back if I can be of any assistance."

Making another mental note, he saved that particular message and waited for the third to play. As he popped the slide off of his Beretta, the computerized female voice that moderated his messages gave an introduction that he never would've expected.

"Next message," she said. "Received today at eleven thirty-eight AM, from,"

There was a pause, then a hauntingly familiar man spoke his name. "Nick Swete."

Freezing solid, Jake listened intently to the pleading voice of a man that had done so much for him over the course of his life. A man that had taken responsibilities that weren't his to assume through the kindness of his heart and the caring of his soul. A man that had shaped Jacob Giguére in ways that he probably didn't even realize. A man who cared for him, a man who loved him.

"Jake, it's me... Nick," he said, and Jake's heart sank. "Listen, Jake, I know that you've got a lot going on right now. I know that you and Tracy are having \-- problems. I'm not going to pretend that I know what you're going through, because I don't... but I want you to know that we're all very worried about you. We love you, Jake, all of us... Tracy included. She told me you were going back to Burlwood, and I can't imagine what that must be like for you." There was a pause, then a heavy sigh. "Look, Jacob, will you just call me please? We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about, I just need to hear from you to know that you're okay. I'm on your side, buddy, just like always, and I want to help you in any way that I can. Just call me, Jake... please, just call me."

By the time the message ended, every inch of Jake's body and every neuron in his mind was numb and cold. Feeling too weak to stand, he reported immediately to one of the chairs around Chucky's dining table. His heart palpitated, his breathing intensified and he felt a physical flush of warmth move through him. Sighing himself, he buried his face in his trembling hands.

He would finish cleaning his gun later, he needed to get into the shower now. He needed to wash all the sweat, the vomit, the shame and the humiliation off of him. It was fortunate, really, that the gun was dirty. It was a spell of good luck that it wouldn't likely fire in its condition, because hearing the distress in his adoptive father's voice made him want to put it to use promptly.

Nick Swete was a saint of a man, and he had done nothing but wonderful things for Jacob Garrett Giguére.

And what did he get in return for his efforts over the years?

How did Jake repay him for all the tangible and intangible things he had done?

By scaring him.

By making him worry.

By mistreating his daughter.

By growing up to be a no good, worthless and lousy son of a bitch.

What a fucking legacy...

What a fucking waste...

What a fucking shame.

THIRTY-FIVE

Care Package

October 15th, 1995. 12:00AM

Burlwood, Indiana

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, Jacob," Nick Swete advised in his caring tone as Jacob tied his shoes. "I talked to Sheriff Rambo, and he assured me that we could have your mother declared unfit. You could stay with us, if you wanted."

"Thanks, sir," Jacob replied, "but she's my mom. I need to be with her."

Nick bit his lower lip, trying to stay his tongue. After caring for the boy for nearly a year, he had his own ideas about what was best for him. He'd watched Jacob make incredible progress in the time he spent in the Swete household, and the idea of it rolling back pained him. Having arrived as a broken thirteen year old with no real concept of what family life was supposed to be, he moved through several phases of emotions and understandings until he finally became what amounted to a fine and well adjusted young man. There had been many moments of anger, many nights of tears and many breakthroughs of acceptance and serenity that turned him into the quite normal fourteen year old sitting before him now. In looking at him and conversing with him, there were no outward signs of the warping he'd endured in his first thirteen years.

His transformation was impressive, but it was not complete. There were still broken pieces rattling around inside of him, and returning him to the mother who shattered him in the first place seemed like an awful idea on the surface. Even Clyde Rambo expressed his concern about returning Jacob to Janet Giguére's care. After the fight at the hockey game, the one that nearly led the troubled teen to juvenile hall, it was the Sheriff who spoke to the victim's parents and convinced them not to press charges because of Jacob's situation. Meeting with The Swetes to discuss the results of that effort, he confided in them his hope that Janet would simply relinquish her rights to her son once she was released from care. He said he was working on it with her, that he was actively engaged in trying to convince her that it was in his best interests.

Based on her behavior, her initial ninety day mental hospital sentence was extended, initially to six months. An attempt at escape led her to be transferred from the asylum to the Elsmere County Jail, where she remained for nearly eight months. Finally released from custody, she showed no interest in writing off her boy, which was a disappointment to everyone involved. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, she felt that she deserved to get him back, despite the damage she'd done in the past and was likely to do in the future. With that said, the only hope of saving him from her home would be through his cry for help, which he was apparently not willing to make as he finished packing the new clothes that The Swetes had purchased for him. The ones he came with were old and filthy, probably third or fourth hand and barely fit to be worn by children in third-world countries.

While Jake was grateful for everything The Swetes had done for him, for some mysterious reason he felt obliged to go home. So long as that was what he wanted, so long as he didn't make an appeal for help, there was nothing they could do until such time as Janet dropped the ball again. No one doubted that she would, it was just a matter of when and how hard. It was the further damage that she would cause, both before that happened and in the process of it happening, that had everyone worried. In the end, worrying was all they could do. There was simply nothing else in the realm of the law that could be done, unless she flatly neglected him, which they would be watching for like hawks.

"I really appreciate your letting me stay so long, sir," Jacob said as he stood and took a quick inventory of what he had packed, "but she's my mother, and she needs me."

Resigned to letting him go, Nick took a deep breath and nodded before placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "If anything changes, son," he said, "if you decide that you need to come back, I promise you that our door is always open."

"Thank you," Jacob replied, resolute in his intention to go home.

With nothing left to say, Nick pulled his car keys from his pocket and led his son pro-temp to the front door of the trailer. Nancy and Tracy were waiting there, and each gave him tight hugs as tears spilled from their eyes. The hug with Tracy was especially tight and long, and it filled him with the same butterflies that it had the first time the two of them were locked in embrace. If anything pained him in leaving, it was the fact that he wouldn't be able to see her everyday. They would meet in passing at school, and perhaps he could find an excuse to hang out with her from time to time, but he would no longer wake up to her smiling face each morning. That stung, but he felt there was no choice but to endure the hardship for the better good of his mother.

"Will you visit?" Tracy asked in a sob, as though she were reading his thoughts.

"Of course!" Jacob replied, that sting starting in his eyes again. "I'll visit all the time, I don't even live all that far away!"

Accepting his promise, his young love let him go. He wiped his eyes on the way out, though there were only the slightest hints of tears in them. Nick led the way to the family station wagon, even though Jacob had told him he would be happy to walk home. The Swete Patriarch wouldn't hear of that, he insisted on being there when mother locked eyes on son for the first time in eleven months. If anything should go bad, he was fully prepared to kidnap the young boy, if that seemed appropriate in the moment.

As they set off, Chucky came rumbling down the road in the Our Mother van, apparently making a Meals On Wheels delivery or picking up some sort of donation for the church thrift shop. He waived wildly at them, almost driving up on the curb in the process. Once he was passed, Nick pulled out onto Oakwood and traveled it all the way back to Ashwood.

They passed Lauchpad's trailer on the way, and Donnell was again seated on the porch talking with his old man. That seemed to be his favorite pastime anymore, he even skipped school quite frequently to do it. Jake waived at him, remembering the good times, and Launchpad returned it without hesitation. Things weren't strained, they were just different. As people, they were different.

Once they turned onto Ashwood, twenty-three fifty-seven rose like monster on the horizon, its sight making Jacob shudder with a deluge of memories. He'd intentionally avoided this end of the park for the duration of her time away, and the feelings that rushed through him when he saw the things associated with this part of his life again were chilling and disheartening.

He'd thought he'd grown, he'd thought he'd recovered, he'd thought that he'd moved beyond the darkness and cold that ruled over him in the past through the counsel of wise and positive people. He'd thought he'd changed in the days he'd spent with The Swetes, but it now seemed that wasn't so. As he looked upon his home, he felt the rushing whitewater foaming and splashing around his mouth at merely laying eyes on the place. Then and there, he realized that nothing about him had changed at all. It was only his situation that had been different for this period of his life, and the situation in which he'd lived was the reality of someone else. Returned to his natural habitat, restored to the life he'd known before his extended vacation, he was right back in the shit, and he was immediately afraid of the things in store for him.

When Nick pulled into his driveway, Jacob saw his mother's haggard face appear in the front door. She looked as though she'd aged ten years in her eleven months away, and she looked even more tired than she'd seemed before her institutionalization. As Jake stepped out of the car, he heard her sobbing straight away.

"My baby boy," she bleated through the torn screen of their storm door. "Oh my sweet baby boy!"

She walked out of the trailer, moving toward Jacob as he approached with his bag in hand. Tears were raining down her face as she wrapped him up in a giant hug and cried like a child. As soon as she touched him, Jacob felt her weight on his shoulders again, felt that he was responsible for her once again.

Nick stepped out of the car and stood by his opened driver's door, watching the events unfold with a hole in his heart. He noted that Jake didn't raise either of his arms to return the overbearing hug of his mother, the boy just stood there and let her do it with indifference.

"Jake," he called after what amounted to more than adequate time for the reintroduction. "You've got our number, you know where we are."

Jacob nodded, still engulfed in his mother's embrace. Unable to watch anymore, Mister Swete climbed back in his station wagon and drove off at a good pace. He didn't have to the stomach to see his work undone, he didn't have the constitution to watch the woman swallow up an innocent young man in her misery.

After a few more moments of the hug, Janet pulled back from her son and wiped her tears off of his face, where transference had put them. She looked upon him with apologetic eyes, but Jacob wasn't buying that bill of goods for a minute. These weren't tears of regret, they were tears of perceived injustice. She hadn't grown while she was gone either, she still took no responsibility for what had happened, and she likely never would. As they walked into the trailer they'd shared for the duration of his life, the trailer they'd once shared with is father, Jake felt the walls closing in around him. This was a dungeon, this was a brig, this was a prison of ill repute, and he was back in custody to serve a minimum sentence of four years to life.

The next several hours drug on like an eternity, featuring the Acamedy Award rejected Janet Giguére putting on what amounted to a poor performance of her paying penance through the tale of her passion. She spoke of how terrible the asylum had been, and how devious the doctors were for withholding her Xanax from her. She told tales of things that happened to her in the County Jail, including having to barter with fellow inmates to get the psychotropic medications she insisted she needed. All of her efforts to endear herself to her son were in vain, though, because he was quickly remembering how much he loathed her for what she had done... both on and before the previous Thanksgiving.

Just as he was ready to burst, as he was preparing to tell her to shut the fuck up already and get over herself, the sound of another vehicle pulling into the driveway changed her spirits. She looked outside eagerly and, seeing that it was a Burlwood PD vehicle, knowing that it meant Ron Boudreaux was coming to pay a visit to his darlin', she quickly moved from sadness to elation in what was surely record time.

Suddenly, she was giddy and bubbly. Suddenly, she was all smiles and bright eyes. Jacob remained seated on the couch -- which either his mother or someone else had apparently cleaned up since he found her hanging off of it \-- while Deputy Ron approached the door and got a big hug of his own.

"Well howdy there, darlin'!" He laughed as his fat frame wrapped arms around her tightly, his chubby right hand clenching a large and heaving wicker basket. "I brought ya' some things I figured you might be needin', sweetheart!"

"Oh, you shouldn't have!" She praised him, letting him loose and taking the basket from him.

She set the gift on the coffee table, the same one that had recently featured several different drugs beaten into powder and a green bendy straw, and started unwrapping the cellophane it was all amateurishly sealed in.

"Oh, this is wonderful!" She beamed as she pulled fruit, crackers and blocks of cheese out of it.

"Careful at the bottom, 'ere," Boudreaux directed. "There's some meat from Butcher's Lane, you'll wanna get that in the deep freeze if you're not gonna cook it up right away!"

Curious, Jake leaned over and examined the items wrapped in butcher paper resting in the basket. There were packs marked Sirloin, Strip, Ribeye and Chuck. There was a fifth sleeve as well, but this one had no writing on it at all. There was definitely something wrapped tightly inside, but it showed no sign of blood or red shading like the others had. It also looked more solid than squishy, having no markings or impressions on it after baring the weight of the fruit and cheeses on top of it. That was strange, and it led him to believe that there wasn't meat inside of that bundle at all.

Boudreaux took a seat on the couch and engaged Janet in conversation, and the sound of his voice started grating on Jake's nerves instantly. Longing to get away, he retreated to his bedroom and climbed onto his mattress. He wasn't tired, but all he wanted to do was to close his eyes and fall asleep.

Listening to his mother and Deputy Ron taking one of their naps wasn't an appealing idea at all, so he settled in and tried to force himself to pass out. When that didn't work, he felt the walkie-talkie that was still under his pillow and wished that he could find a way to make time roll backwards. Nostalgic and longing for brighter days, he turned the device on and set it to channel thirteen, the channel he and Chucky always communicated on. Keying it up, he hoped he might be heard... he hoped he might be transported to a better place.

"Chucky?" He called into the device. "Chucky, are you there buddy?"

Chucky wasn't, of course. He knew that he wouldn't be, but it hurt just the same when there was no response. The days of their innocence, the days of their childhood, were only a distant and cloudy memory, now. As he laid there, his feet hanging over the edge of a bed that he had long since outgrown, he felt the stinging and the liquid of real tears this time.

Burying his face in his pillow, he cried nearly as hard as he had when Coach Boyett confronted him in the locker room of The Garthby Icehouse. His tears were pulled into his pillow, an object not nearly as strong as Boyett's shoulder had been, not nearly as comforting as Nick and Nancy Swete had been, not nearly as understanding as his beloved Tracy had been in the moments that he lost control of himself in their care.

He was on his own again, just as he had been for the majority of his life. He was alone, an army of one to stand against all of the darkest demons that called twenty-three fifty-seven Ashwood home. His father's corpse swinging in the shed, the police lights flickering while men were salvaging what was left of young Joshua Banks, his mother's nearly dead body melted to the coffee table, a grown woman grabbing at his crotch, crystal meth, alcohol and Xanax, all of them were present, and all of them were rearing their ugly little heads and singing a song of torture and torment to the young man's ears.

As he cried, he realized that the ghosts of the past wouldn't be all that he would have to face in his homecoming. There was a new demon, and he felt pretty sure that it's name was Ron Boudreaux, because he still heard the man's voice in the living room while the trailer was slowly filling with billowing smoke. As the cloud rolled Jake's room under his door, he became aware of an all too familiar odor. It was the stench of nail polish remover, and he was willing to bet his life that it was coming from the burning of the ice that was in that fifth sleeve of butcher paper.
THIRTY-SIX

September 12th, 2016. 6:40PM

Balmoral, Indiana

After many hours wallowing in misery and a hangover and many Newports to pull him out of it, Jake had finally left Chucky's trailer and resolved to make something of the day. GPS prompts instructed him to exit the interstate and pickup a county road on his path to The Westwinds Nursing Home, so he did as instructed while scanning though his call log to find Joseph Blake's number. In the half-hour that he'd ridden since leaving Burlwood Meadows, he'd spoken to Clyde Rambo and relayed what was apparently a bullshit story about a private eye having spotted areas of discoloration in Chucky's trunk. According to the former sheriff, it was not the discovery of what appeared to be blood in the back of the Buick that led to Chucky being arrested, contrary to what Louie had told Donnell. That opened a world of questions, but Rambo would give no hint as to the answers or what he had found.

"It will all come out in due time," had been his enigmatic response. "Don't sweat it, just keep doing what you're doing and I'll be operating in the background until I've got what I need to close it out."

As mysterious as it was, it sounded like great news for the case of who killed Billy Marsh. Apparently, there was something that wasn't on the level with Boudreaux's persecution of Chucky, and a brilliant old detective was preparing to ford the river of injustice alongside him. That could only be a good thing, he figured, even if Clyde wasn't prepared to divulge all of the information he was working with on his end.

With his hopes up in that regard, he dialed Joseph Blake to see if he could provide more insight into what had happened with Rusty Parker and the boy who could've been his first victim back in the late eighties. There were quite a few rings again, which Jake feared might mean another turn at the answering machine, but shortly thereafter came the middle-aged feminine voice he'd heard on the machine's recording the first time he'd called.

"Carrothers residence," she said in greeting.

"Good afternoon, m'am, my name is Jake Giguére, I'm trying to reach Joseph Blake." Jake replied.

"One moment, please," she answered as the sounds of her moving around her house came through his car speakers. "It's for you, dad," her muffled voice eventually said, "are you up to talking?"

There were many rustling sounds and a quiet yes before an old man finally spoke. "Hello?" He said in his trembling voice.

"Hi, Sheriff Blake?" Jake replied.

"Speaking," the old man answered.

"Good day, my name is Jacob Giguére, I'm a private investigator working on a case, and I was referred to you by Clyde Rambo for details about something that happened a long time ago."

"By who?" Blake replied, sounding confused.

"Clyde Rambo," Jake said in a louder and clearer tone. It was obvious that Blake was very old, which made him very nervous about getting any useful information out of him.

"Oh!" The old man exclaimed. "Rambo, I knew him! He worked in Burlwood, I think!"

"Yes sir," Jake applauded, "yes sir, he did. He was the lead for a long time on The Butcher Of Burlwood case, do you remember that?"

"My, my! Yes!" The raspy voice continued. "I do remember that, he always thought it was Rusty Parker if I'm not mistaken!"

Hopeful now, Jake smiled. "That's absolutely right, Sheriff Blake, and it's Rusty that I'm calling about."

"A weird one, that guy!" Blake noted. "Gave all the kids at the High School the creeps!"

"Right!" Jake cheered again, hoping for the next link. "Now, Rambo tells me there were some allegations about something Rusty may've done in your jurisdiction, before he came to Burlwood. Do you remember anything about that?"

The immediate response was grumbling and the sound of mental effort vocalized in ahhh's and ooo's. That certainly didn't inspire confidence, so Jake tried to steer him in the right direction just enough without causing him to conjure some false memory.

"It was a student at the school where Rusty worked," he prompted gently. "A student that Rusty had a romantic interest in, I think?"

"Ohhh!" The old man cackled. "Oh yes! I do remember that!" There were several chuckles and a golly gee that followed, but Jake was after the meat and had no patience for the appetizer.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened?" He probed.

"Well, as I remember," Blake began, "the boy said Rusty invited him into the boiler room for a little hanky panky!" This revelation came with another round of laughter.

"Can you tell me what happened next?"

"If memory serves, he said they went into the boiler room and he was spooked because there were all kinds of candles lit and strange symbols all around. They were just about to start doing naughty things when somebody came at him with a wet rag!"

"Wait, wait," Jake replied, his wheels turning. "I've got several questions about that. First, you said somebody came at him with a wet rag... does that mean it wasn't Rusty? That there was someone else there?"

Again there was a pause of grumbling and thinking noises. Jake let them continue until the man had his answer formulated. "You know, I don't rightly recall!" He offered. "I just remember there was something about a wet rag, and that he had to fight his way out because the smell of what was on the rag was making him feel funny!"

"Okay," he said slowly, irritated at the man's forgetfulness. "What about the candles and symbols? What was that all about?"

"Oh, I dunno," Blake replied with a yawn. "I think the kid said it looked like some kind of Voodoo thing, but you have to remember that the boy was a little off! I mean, first of all he was trying to have sex with a man twice his age!"

Stunned, Jake gave no reply for a few seconds. He wondered the Voodoo part of the story had ever been related to Rambo, or whether it was a faulty memory conjured in Blake's convalescence that should be discounted. If it was accurate, the idols found at the scenes of the dead children suddenly had a great deal of significance. Of course, there hadn't been one with Billy Marsh's body, so that cast more doubt that his murder was linked with those committed by The Butcher in the days of old. That was no help at all, because it would mean that the killer could've been any random copycat. With no clues to his or her identity, that person would likely go forever unidentified while Chucky served his time.

On top of that, Blake's words hinted that there was the possibility that Rusty had an accomplice. Perhaps it really should've been The Butchers Of Burlwood right from the beginning. That would certainly shed some light on how Rusty could've been involved with the Billy Marsh case, despite his ill health at present. If he had a partner in crime, if he had a confidant... hell, that could even explain how he got away with killing Timmy Lane while under the watchful eye of The Fed!

Either way, Jake was eager to get the full and accurate tale from the victim himself. It was reasonable to assume that the man was alive, he would be just a few years older than Jacob and Donnell based on his age and when the incident occurred. He would be in his prime, so his memory of what seemed to have been a very traumatic event would likely be fairly detailed and intact. Knowing he couldn't get much more from the aged Blake, he hoped against hope that the man remembered the name of the boy who brought this charge and was subsequently dismissed as a liar.

"Sheriff Blake, I really need to speak with the boy who was involved in this. Can you tell me his name?"

For a third time there was that awful hesitation, that signal of hard thought through cobwebbed memories that would likely result in the discovery of nothing at all. "Well," he said, his body still vocalizing its overclocked efforts at thinking. "The last name was something like Peaky or Patreekey or Reeky, because I remember the other kids all called him Freaky something, and the something was his last name. I dunno, it was like Freaky Tiki or Freaky Reechi or Freaky Meechi or --"

"No first name?" Jake interrupted. "You don't remember his first name?"

That brought more awkward vocalizations, more struggled thought. "No, no I'm afraid not. I just remember Freaky Cheeky or Freaky Beaky or Freaky \--"

"And what school did this happen at?" he cut the man off again, frustrated, disheartened and feeling like he had nothing at all to go on in finding the man.

"Oh, it was Indy Central. That much I remember for sure."

"Do you remember when or how old the boy was?"

"I do believe it was in 1988... yes, that sounds about right. The Freaky kid was a junior, I think, if I'm not mistaken."

"Thanks for your time, Sheriff," he said, only half bullshitting. "If I have any other questions, may I call you back at a later date?"

"Well, of course!" Blake replied.

"Great," Jake said sharply, "you have a nice day, sir."

Without waiting for a reply, Jake hit the red button on his steering wheel and cursed. There was so much potential in the call and so little information to show for it, and that pissed him off. Angry, he almost missed the direction of that Google whore's voice telling him to hang a left. He made it just in time, and showed another fifteen minutes to go until he would be face to face with Evander Hughes.

How perfect, he thought, that he would be talking with two men who'd lost the plot on the same day. He deserved it, he guessed, since he'd lost the plot himself the night before and fallen back into the arms of that demon liquor. This was his punishment, he figured... frustration coupled with a pounding headache and grumbling gut.

Fuck, what the hell was he thinking when he bought that bottle? Apparently, four days was one too many for him to control his emotions enough to maintain his sobriety. That hurt, because he allowed himself to believe that he really had the fortitude within him to just walk away cold turkey and never look back. He thought that he'd hit bottom, that he'd scraped it and traveled along it for a good distance, and that the scars he came away with were reason enough to just turn his back on the shit. If only it were that easy...

Still feeling the after effects of a red letter evening of intoxication, it was plainly obvious that he wasn't as strong as he would've liked to believe he was. As he thought about it, though, he realized that it really didn't matter anyway. Double indemnity was still the anthem to which he marched, so who gave a fuck if he couldn't hold on to the wagon long enough to get himself there without another drink. So long as he was clean when the time came, so long as his drunkenness was not a factor when the chips were down, so long as there was no recourse for the insurance company other than to pay the full benefit, the rest was no more than water (or whiskey) under the bridge.

So he couldn't take pride in keeping himself dry, so what? Pride is an illusion, he figured, and it isn't worth shit in the scheme of things anyway. Pride had never paid any of his bills, pride had never put food in his wife or his son's mouth, pride had never helped them meet the car note or to keep the utilities on. In the end, pride wasn't worth shit. Why should he mourn its passage when it had been dead to him for so long anyway?

Warranted or not, he was still giving himself lashings within his mind as he finally pulled into the West Winds Nursing Home complex. It was a sprawling property with several buildings, each looking new and sterile in true medical facility fashion. Reading the signs posted throughout the parking lot, he followed the wooden arrows that pointed towards the Alzheimer's Ward, which he figured was where he would find Evander Hughes based on Donnell's account of him and his ailment.

Parking near the front door, he checked his reflection to be sure he didn't look as raggedy as he felt and stepped out of the car. Before approaching the building, he took a moment to survey his surroundings. That old tingling was back, but he realized he wasn't likely to see whomever was tracking him this time considering the person had evaded him so successfully up until this point, even when he was fully sober and wearing no morning after haze. Still, he looked for anything out of the ordinary, just in case he might get lucky. There was nothing, of course... as usual.

When he approached, he found the door to the Alzheimer's building was locked. There was a button on a panel to the side of it that had a camera and speaker built in, so he pressed it and stepped back. There was a chime, which repeated itself several times very annoyingly until a woman's voice finally answered.

"May I help you?" She asked firmly.

"Um," Jake replied "yes, I'd like to visit with one of your residents."

"Which resident?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

"Evander Hughes," he offered,

There was a pause as she presumably checked a register for his name, and when she came back she seemed even more irritated than she had the last time she spoke. "What's your name, sir?" She chirped.

Thinking again of Boudreaux's warning, his initial thought was to use a false identity as he had with Rusty. In his hangover, he was likely to say something as ignorant as Enrico Pallazzo on this attempt as well, so he deferred in his exhaustion to giving his real name. "Jacob Giguére," he said.

"That name is not on Mister Hughes' visitor list, sir!" The woman scolded him.

Of course it wasn't, why would it be? That would make things to easy, he figured. As would the old man ending up in a place with shitty security, a place that didn't have a locked door with a crotchety old bitch keeping watch like a sentry at Fort Knox.

"Look," he said, frustrated himself now. "I'm a friend of his son, Donnell Hughes, whom I'm sure is on the list considering he pays your fucking bill! I just need to talk to him for a minute, I promise I'm not going to kidnap him or anything, and I would really appreciate it if I could just come in for a little bit to see him."

There was a long pause this time, much longer than when the woman had checked the register for the old man. He had no idea what was happening and simply stood there, surely looking like a fool, while she was probably calling the police to come and arrest him or something equally as ridiculous. With his mind frame as it was, he didn't really care if that was exactly what she was doing. If she'd been tipped off by the Elsmere County Sheriff the way everyone else had and was putting in a call to Deputy Ron himself, that was just fine by him.

If he was to be booked in tampering with evidence or obstructing justice, then that's just what was going to happen because he was getting tired of this whole goose chase. On day four of the investigation, he was no closer to an answer than he'd been when he'd flicked his cigarette butt onto his neighbors lawn back in Michigan, so who gave a fuck if he ended up in a cell right next to Chucky's by the time the evening was up? At the moment, certainly not him. He'd had enough of chasing his tail, he'd had enough of the dark memories bubbling up from the darkest depths of his mind, he'd had enough of everything and he just didn't give a fuck. If a jail cell was where this was going to end for him, then so be it... he simply didn't care anymore.

After what seemed like at least five or six minutes, the woman's voice came back through the speaker with no less animosity than it had featured before as she delivered a surprising reply. "Come in, sir," she said as a loud click sounded out from the door.

Pulling at it again, he realized that the lock had been released, much to his surprise. He was met just inside by what appeared to be an orderly, an old woman who looked just as grumpy as the voice on the speaker had sounded.

"Follow me, please," she said snidely, so he did as instructed.

After marching around a maze for a few moments, they arrived at a room marked 104 and she unlocked its door by swiping a keycard over an electronic pad. She opened it just a bit, sticking her face in the crack, and spoke to the man inside.

"You have a visitor, Mister Hughes," she explained, then pushed the door all the way open and waived Jake in.

Evander was looking rough in his age, and was much smaller in frame than he had been in his younger days. He was seated in a hospital bed with the back at a forty-five degree angle, propping him up in the direction of a television on which an old episode of Sanford And Son was showing. His hair was fully white and thin, and he still wore a goatee as he did in the days of old. His flesh looked dry and cracked, its blackness looking darker than Jake remembered when viewed in contrast with the bleached white hospital gown he was wearing. The man didn't look over as Jake stepped in, the orderly staying in the hallway and giving a last instruction.

"You'll be locked in," she said. "When you're ready to leave, dial one-hundred on the phone and we will come get you." With that, she disappeared and closed the door, leaving him alone with Donnell's father.

When Jake was sealed in the room, things became strange and surreal to him for no good reason at all. He stood his ground for a moment, watching the old man staring at the television blankly and paying no mind to the stranger in his room. At first, Jake wasn't sure how exactly he should proceed. He didn't want to scare the man, but he did need some answers from him. If those answers were still in his possession, that is.

Taking a few steps closer to him, Jake spoke loudly in case Evander's hearing was failing him. "Good evening, Mister Hughes," he said kindly.

Evander didn't move a muscle, nor did he reply to the greeting. His eyes were still transfixed on the television, staring unblinkingly at Red Foxx as he mixed another glass of Champipple for his buddy Grady. The laugh track prompted him to giggle, but the man showed no amusement at what was happening.

Moving slowly closer, Jake tried again. "Mister Hughes?" He nearly shouted, but still there was no response, still the man just stared at the television.

Wondering what he needed to do to get his attention, he started to realize that any fantastic notion involving Evander Hughes making an escape from this facility and carrying out the murder of Billy Marsh was just as ridiculous as the idea that the moon is made of cheese. Clearly, there was no fresh blood on this man's hands. Had he been The Butcher of old, he probably didn't remember his deeds. Had he experienced some nostalgic relapse and decided he wanted to reoffend, he obviously had no way of escaping this convalescent prison, so that made him just about as clear as clear can be.

In the scheme of Jake's investigation, this meant that his list of viable suspects was reduced now from four to two. Jack Morris was dead, so he had a pretty solid alibi for the murder in question. He'd largely convinced himself that Daryl was innocent, and he'd seen for himself that Rusty was in no condition to subdue and destroy a healthy nine year old boy. With all of those things in mind, he realized that, at the moment, he had no fucking idea who killed Billy Marsh. He didn't even have a guess to offer, didn't so much as have a clue to follow up on.

What the fuck was he gonna do now?

Still intending to have an answer about who Evander traded the Brougham to, he placed himself directly between the old man and the television. This did nothing to change the expression on Mister Hughes' face, nor did it alter his vacant stare, which seemed to pass right through Jake's body..

"Evander!" he barked at him. "Evander, snap out of it, dammit!"

Hughes didn't comply, so Jake brought his hands up directly in the man's face and clapped them so hard that it hurt. The concussion made Evander blink and jump, and only then did his eyes dart up to meet those of his visitor.

"Is it time for my meds?" He asked, his breath sour and foul while his eyes were still largely vacant.

"Mister Hughes, it's me -- Jacob Giguére." He said. "It's Darkwing!"

"Where is Elle?" Evander replied, his countenance turning angry and spiteful. "Where's my wife, that stupid bitch! She was supposed to bring me a beer an hour ago!"

"I need to talk to you about your old car," Jake said, ignoring the old man's delusion.

"I'm gonna slap that bitch up when she get here!" Hughes continued, looking and sounding pissed now. "Stupid hoe, she knows I need my fuckin' beer! Do you know where she at, son?"

"She's coming," Jake replied, changing tactics and trying to play along. "She should be here any minute, don't worry."

"Poo-putt bitch is slow as fuck! You got any idea how long it takes the heifer to fix her hair up in that scraggly weave?"

"I think she said she had to run to the store to get more beer for you, I think you were out."

"Well why the cunt let me run out?" Evander snapped. "Ain't like she work or anything! All she gotta do is keep me in my beer and my dope! Slow as she walk, it'll be tomorrow before I get my fuckin' drink!"

"She didn't walk," Jake said confidently. "She took the Brougham."

"The Brougham?" Hughes asked defiantly. "How the fuck she gonna take the Brougham, she know I done flipped it for a fix! She can't take what we ain't got no more!"

"You did?" He asked, trying to seem surprised. "Who'd you flip it too?"

"Yeah, I flipped the shit!" Evander announced with furious certainty. "Motherfucker only gave me a dollar of ice, a dollar of blow and a dollar of weed for it! Jive soul bro robbed me blind, baby, but I had to get me my fix, and I didn't have a penny to my name! Tried to get my shit back, and this nigga wanted five stacks for it! Didn't give me no five stacks worth for it, why I should have to pay five stacks to get the motherfucker back?"

"Oh, what a cheap fuck!" Jake exclaimed, playing it up. "Tell ya' what, Mister Hughes, you tell me who it was that did that to you and I'll go set him right! Who was it? What was his name?"

The man's face changed at that, but not in a good way at all. It went from angry and distraught right back to absent and vacant, and Jake understood that meant that it was all over before he spoke another word.

"Is it time for my meds?" He asked again, as though someone had hit his reset button and set him back five minutes in time.

For a moment, Jake was tempted to try again. To build the exchange back to where they had been in the hopes of pushing further through this time. The sentiment didn't last, though, because he expected another round would lead him right back to where they were now, which was nowhere. He didn't have the patience for that, so it was out of the question.

"I'll find out for you," he said instead of re-engaging, then he reached for the telephone and dialed one-zero-zero.

The wraith of an orderly returned fairly quickly, and Jake followed her unceremoniously back to and out of the front door. Climbing into the Malibu, he shook his head and pounded out his frustration on the steering wheel just one time. One slam was acceptable, but two would mean he had an anger issue -- that's how he figured it. Of course, he did have an anger issue, but why give in to it if he could avoid it?

When he started the car, the headlights painted the building in white light since the sun had gone down during the time he spent inside the facility. He backed out of his spot and made his way out of the lot, towards the small road that would lead him back to the interstate. Once he had made the turn, something happened that caught his attention immediately. It was faint, it was distant, and it was barely discernible, but it was definitely another set of headlights coming on in the parking lot of The West Winds Nursing Home... the chase, as it were, was back on.

THIRTY-SEVEN

September 13th, 7:00am

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake woke up a few minutes before his alarm went off, probably because he'd slept so long and hard on account of his hangover from the previous day. It was nearly nine PM when he got back from visiting Evander Hughes, and it wasn't much later than that when he hit the couch like a brick and passed out for the night. Apparently, his small vacation from drinking had stripped him of his ability to hold his liquor, because he'd never had problems like this in the days when a fifth an evening was light duty.

Still feeling a bit sluggish, he climbed off of the couch and took a hot shower to rinse away any lingering influence of the alcohol. Thanks to his old friend Jack Daniels, the twelfth had been a largely wasted day. All he'd managed to accomplish was committing to a date he really didn't want to go on with Nikki and learning that Evander Hughes was completely and totally fried. Neither of those things helped advance his investigation, and neither would help to set Chucky free, which was the goal he needed to accomplish before he could take care of other pending business.

Hoping for a more productive day out of this one, he tossed around tasks and objectives in his head as nearly scalding hard water ran down his body to the rust stained tub below his feet. He wanted to talk to Father Lovett about Voodoo, since his conversation with Joseph Blake appeared to suggest that some dark religious connotation applied to the incident between Rusty Parker and Freaky X. In conjunction with that, he wanted to cast a few lines to figure out exactly who Freaky X was. That wasn't going to be easy with so little information to go on, but he had a few ideas of how he might start the process.

Then there was FGSI, the mysterious company that was such a generous benefactor of Rusty in his retirement. The first step in digging into that, he figured, was to simply check out that Cadillac gate car at the downs and compare its VIN to the one formerly owned by Evander Hughes. If it was the same car, that would speak a lot to Rusty's potential connection to the vehicle, and therefore to the murders of the past.

He wanted to spy on old Rusty himself a bit as well, if only to qualify the fact that he truly was as sick as he let on. If he were putting up a front with the illness, if he was more able-bodied than he let on, he would quickly become the prime suspect given his experience with Freaky X in the past. Then there was that storage unit to check out, the one he'd stolen a bill for from Rusty's kitchen table. A ten-by-twenty unit at Safe & Secure Self Storage, unit thirty-three-L to be exact. He wanted to get out to see what surprises lay behind the door of that unit, but the facility was way out in Waycroft. That was a half-hour drive under the best of circumstances, and he wasn't sure it was in the cards for this day in particular.

Also, as much as it made him feel like a heel to think about it, he was going to have to pickup where the feds left off and spend some time surveilling Daryl Lane. The way the cards laid at the moment, assuming Rusty really was sick, Timmy's father was the sole surviving original suspect who was still physically capable of killing Billy Marsh on his own. Jake's heart told him Daryl didn't do it, but his better reasoning was nagging him with the crux of Occam's Razor. When faced with multiple possible explanations, the one that requires the fewest assumptions is most likely to be true. Under that umbrella, the killer of the Marsh boy was most likely Daryl Lane. He had the equipment, he had the knowledge and he had the physical capability. That was a bitch to admit, but as a neutral party -- as a detective -- it was necessary to admit it.

The last thing he had to consider, and the last thing on his mind at this point in time, was his date with Nikki at The Garthby Icehouse. While he appreciated her efforts to endear herself to him, he simply had bigger fish to fry. That sentiment was hard to reconcile with how it made him feel when she was anywhere near him, however. Against his will and better judgement, his dick seemed to like being close to her, and his libido didn't mind her presence either.

Of course, there were the feelings she sometimes inspired in him -- those unrelated to sex -- that also warranted consideration. More often than not, she brought his spirits up and made him feel like a young man again... a man not planning for an end to suit the means of double indemnity, which was otherwise constantly on his mind. Being free of its shadow was fantastic, but it was also self-defeating since that end seemed to be the only workable option for him that satisfied his obligations to Tracy and Garrett.

The warmth in his heart when Nikki touched him, the tingling of his skin when it was in contact with hers, the rebirth of his sex drive and his desire to, well... his desire to have her. These were things that he didn't deserve, things that he hadn't earned and things that flew in the face of being a decent man once he'd turned his back on his family to spare them his poisoning. They were forbidden fruit to him, now, given the choices he'd made and the things he'd done. His head understood all of that, but his body... his body was apt to betray him. He couldn't let that happen, so he figured he would be doing no ice skating on this day. Their meeting wasn't scheduled until eleven forty-five, though, so he would have time to see where the day took him before he had to make the decision about whether or not he would stand her up.

As he stepped out of the shower and dried, applied his deodorant, fixed his hair with the Brylcream and sprayed himself with cologne, he resolved to go see Father Lovett as the first order of business. Voodoo could be the domino that set the rest of the case in motion if it was really involved, so that was as good a place to start as any.

As he dressed and prepared to leave Chucky's, his cellphone rang in the living room, Racing to it, he saw that it was Donnell calling.

"Hey Donnell, what's up?" He answered, lighting a smoke.

"Not much, man, not much," Donnell replied. "How'd it go with the old man?"

Confused, Jake tried to calculate how Donnell knew he'd been to see Evander the previous night. Remembering the pause before he buzzed in, he figured that the wench working the gate had probably called him for permission to let an unauthorized visitor in when she realized he wasn't on the list. "Not so well," he said, "I'm sorry Don, the guy's really far gone."

Donnell chuckled lightly, this certainly wasn't news to him. "Yeah, life's a bitch, eh?"

"I won't argue with you there."

"Look, man," Donnell continued, "I've got a light day today. I've got LeTonya and I both free for a couple of hours. She dug into that FGSI shit hard, and she came back with absolutely nothing. Whatever or whoever they are, they're a ghost. There ain't a damn thing more we can do with that one. Is there anything else we might be able to help with?"

Thinking quickly, Jake ran down the list of things he wanted to do again to determine which might be done without boots on the ground. "Actually, there is," he countered. "I got a bit of information out of old Sheriff Blake, but it's led me into another hunt."

"How so?"

"He couldn't tell me who the victim was, only that his last name rhymes with Freaky and that the other kids used the pair as his nickname. He went to Indy Central, either the class of '88, '89 or '90, so far as he could remember -- which wasn't very far at all."

"So, what? You want me to try to find the guy?"

"It's on my agenda, so if you can take it off, that frees me up to spend a little more attention on a few of the other leads I've got working."

Donnell grumbled, as though he wasn't sure exactly how to proceed with his information limited to Freaky and a three year timespan. "I'll see what I can do," he said, sounding not at all optimistic. "If anything else comes up, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Donnell," Jake offered. "Let me know if you have any luck."

Jake ended the call just as he was stepping out of eighteen-seventy Maplewood, and he froze at the threshold once the door had swung open to reveal something that seemed terribly suspicious. It was a beautiful morning with the sun shining brightly in the east, a ball of fire sparkling in the sky dead center over a very dark looking vehicle that was parked along Oakwood. It was facing directly towards him and Chucky's trailer, its wide grille shining and its blackened windshield catching the rays of sunlight. He stood perfectly still when he saw it, his eyes locked on the ominous looking car that seemed, from his perspective, to have limo-tint all around. The car similarly sat still, not reacting to him or his appearance outside in the least.

Determined to have a closer look at this menace, Jake strolled casually to his Malibu as though he was oblivious to the vehicle's presence altogether. In as fluid a motion as he could manage, he nonchalantly opened his rear door and reached inside for his binoculars, which were resting on the back seat. Changing pace once they were in hand, he snatched them up and slammed them to his eyes as quickly as he possibly could. He hoped to out-reflex the driver of the vehicle with his speed, trying to catch him off guard and get a good look at his ride before he could speed off, which is what he imagined would happen when the hunter realized he'd become the prey. As soon as the binoculars were in place, however, he immediately heard the peeling of rubber in the distance. Spinning the focus wheel as the vehicle tore backwards and away from him at warp speed, he managed to catch the slightest glimpse of it in profile as it spun ninety degrees at the hands of an expert tactical driver. Once rotated, the vehicle roared into drive and it sped down Arkwood, out of view and out of reach.

Given the masterful maneuvering of whomever was at the wheel, Jake didn't get a close enough look to determine much about vehicle. He knew now, however, that his sense had been right from the beginning. Someone was watching him, someone was following him. Just as he suspected, someone had been tracking his movements in and around the Township of Burlwood, possibly since the moment he arrived. It was someone who was good at going undetected, and it was someone who was presently driving a blacked out and larger than average sedan... blue in color. He couldn't say for sure whether or not it happened to be a Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, but it was certainly in the realm of possibility. Whomever it was, they were not too keen on being identified, and that likely meant that they weren't looking after his best interests as he conducted his investigation.

As much as he wanted to speed down to Arkwood and give chase, he knew the doing so would be reckless and likely fruitless to boot. There were still children living in The Meadows, and it was about time for the school busses to be picking them up. To stomp the gas the way the driver of the blue sedan had would put many young lives at risk, and the target probably doubled back to Oakwood and sped all the way out of the park by now. Vowing to catch him another day, Jake backed out of his spot calmly and set course for Our Mother Of Sorrows.

The drive wasn't long, and he found the place to be just about abandoned. The mayhem of the carnival had been packed up and hauled away, and there was no mass scheduled for this morning. The parking lot was completely empty, a sight that gave Jake the chills for reasons he didn't immediately understand. As he thought about it, he realized he'd never seen it this way, as the old Our Mother van was almost always parked by the side door of the building. It wasn't missing on this day because it was out delivering food to the needy, it wasn't absent because it was collecting used clothing to resell, it wasn't away transporting elderly citizens to medical appointments, it was gone because it had been used in the commission of a kidnapping that resulted in yet another child murder.

The shock of that idea setting in left him evaluating his suspects again, primarily Daryl Lane and Evander Hughes. Not only was Evander down for the count mentally and Daryl not at all what one would expect in a murderer, neither one of them had keys for the old Dodge Ram van. Neither one of them could've easily gotten into it, gotten it started and drove it away on that fateful morning.

That added a complication, it added an assumption to the Occam's Razor test he'd held the evidence against earlier. Before throwing the van into the mix, it seemed Mister Lane would be the most likely suspect when judged by how many assumptions were necessary to tag him as guilty. Now, with the van figured in, he would have to assume that Daryl somehow got his hands on a set of keys to the vehicle, and that he used it either with the intention of deceiving investigators, or because it was somehow the most convenient option available when the time came. That didn't make much sense, he had a vehicle of his own that he could've used with far less trouble, unless he was afraid of being spotted. He supposed the butcher could've hot-wired the van, but that was an assumption just as grandiose as the one about him somehow acquiring the key, and it totally erased any notion of him trying to be inconspicuous, because hot-wiring a vehicle is mighty fucking suspicious if someone should see you doing it.

All of those clauses applied evenly to Evander, except for the fact that with him as the killer there would have to be the even greater assumption. One would have to entertain the suggestion that he could somehow escape his nursing prison and then manage to drive a large vehicle down public roadways in his whacked out condition. Then, he would've had to find a way to conceal the van well enough that it couldn't be found, which seemed pretty well beyond him in the state that Jake saw him in.

Suddenly, his Occam equation was way out of whack. Suddenly, he had no obvious prime suspect.

Putting that aside for a moment, he parked where the van would usually be and stepped out of his car. He approached the side door of the church and knocked, but got no reply. Knowing that the place was always open to parishioners who felt the need to be there, he turned the knob and simply walked right into the storage area of the building. There were old and broken pews stacked and covered with sheets, what appeared to be an old baptismal tipped over and dented, a busted looking old organ and several other odds and ends scattered about as if they were of no value and would rot where they say forever.

Moving through the space toward a corridor in the distance, he was drawn to a large piece of equipment along the way that was also partially covered by a sheet. Recognizing the form and the color of the metal that was visible, he pulled the cover off and realized that he was looking at an old bandsaw. The table of the machine was rusted, and there was no blade held in its housing -- just as Rusty's circular saw had been. Curious to know whether the tool was even functional anymore, he looked around the foot of the industrial sized saw until he found the electrical cord. As it happened, he was near enough to an outlet to plug it in, so he did. Stepping to the operating side, he found the main power switch and flipped it to the on position. The motor did start, but it made a terrible whining noise as juice flowed through it, as though age and rust had locked its rotary action in place. Within seconds there was a strong smell of burning electrical components, as though the motor wanted desperately to catch fire and end its suffering for all time. Switching it off and unplugging it, he moved on to the corridor that would lead him to the chantry.

Along the way, he passed the area that he knew to be the kitchen and its walk-in cooler and freezer just beyond it. This place was almost constantly buzzing with activity in the past, as the church also served as a soup kitchen to the more impoverished families of Burlwood. Jacob had eaten there on a few occasions in his childhood, when his mother would fall behind on bills or sell her food stamps for things she had no business buying. There was no one to be found in this place today, and when he pulled the doors for the cooler and freezer opened he realized that there likely wasn't ever anyone working in this area anymore. Both storerooms were completely bare, and neither had their cooling units running. There hadn't been food in either one of them in a long time, and there were clearly no plans for them to receive any in the near future.

More shocking to him than the fact that the church had peeled back this charitable service was the presence of something he instantly considered sinister in the freezer. Scanning the room for any indication that there was an explanation for what he was seeing, he quickly realized that there was not. The walls and ceiling were made of the same strangely textured metal that made up Daryl Lane's walk-in, but in the center of the room -- for no apparent reason whatsoever -- was a thick and heavy chain dangling from above. It was attached to an eye-bolt in the ceiling and hung nearly to the ground, showing no indication that it had even been attached to anything or used for any purpose whatsoever. The chain itself was rusty and old looking, as though it had been swinging there for a very long time and had been oxidized by the condensation caused by the doors being opened and closed repeatedly throughout the years.

Just as he had at Butcher's Lane, Jake visualized each of the six little boys taken from Burlwood before their time dangling from that rusted old chain, which wrapped around their ankles and bit into their tender young flesh. With frigid air blowing at their bodies, they swung side to side and front to back like some horrific and demented wind chime, their arms dangling lazily as they danced with awkward rhythm of the ammonia fueled breeze.

Shuddering, he slammed the door shut and continued making his way into the church. Trying not to distract himself further, he pressed forward without looking around much until he reached the door to the rectory, where the Deacon had delivered him previously to meet with the good father. He knocked gently, hoping not to startle the old man, and spoke his identity softly.

"Father Lovett?" He said. "It's me, Jake Giguére again."

"Come in, Jacob," the priest replied quickly, yet sedately.

Jake stepped in, making note of the musty old book smell again as he approached the living area slowly, the floorboards still creaking under his feet. He found Father Lovett in his La-Z-Boy again, another large volume in hand and his reading glasses on his face as he digested some new and esoteric information.

"Have a seat," the priest said, motioning towards the coffee table where there still existed a cleared out area with books stacked high around it. "But not too close, you stink of tobacco!".

"I'm surprised you didn't cover this spot over again, given how much you seem to read," Jake commented.

"Meh, I knew you'd be back," Lovett replied.

Jake nodded with a smile, appreciating the old man's intuition even if his attitude seemed a bit on the dismissive side. "Thanks, I guess," he chuckled.

"Tell me," the priest continued, still focused on his book. "What answers do you think I have for you today, my son?"

"A few, actually," Jake returned. "First, what's the deal with the kitchen and storage areas? You aren't doing the soup kitchen stuff anymore?"

"Oh, no," Lovett sighed. "Sadly -- or thankfully, perhaps -- the demand for that died down about fifteen years ago. I know it wasn't economic recovery that shut out kitchen down, so I guess I'm at a loss as to what happened. It would seem that we've just become more of a welfare state out here, I don't know. In your time, most were too proud to be on the dole, so they ate here because it wasn't as hard a blow to their pride as accepting money from the government. With time, that's changed. That sentiment is gone, now, I suppose. Whatever the reason, people slowly stopped coming, so we slowly stopped cooking."

"I looked in the freezer," Jake said, " and there's a chain hanging from the ceiling. Do you have any idea what the chain was for?"

"Nope," Lovett said plainly. "That was all the territory of the cook and Rusty."

Experiencing a flush with the mention of Rusty, Jake followed up on the other individual Lovett mentioned first. "Who was the cook?"

"His name was Jeremy Mosian, until he died in 2004. I guess you could say he doesn't have a name anymore," the father said, turning the page of his book gently and indifferently.

"How did it have anything to do with Rusty?" Jake wondered.

Lovett pulled his eyes from his book for a moment, just long enough for them to give Jake a look that asked if he ever thought before he spoke. "Rusty was the maintenance man," he said, "part of his job was to keep the freezer operating, therefore it was also his territory."

"Did he spend a lot of time in there?"

"No," the father offered, "just enough to maintain the units and make sure everything was working."

Leaving that topic with an unresolved question mark in his mind, Jake moved on to more information he was after. "I found a bandsaw back there also," he said. "The blade was missing, what's the deal with that?"

"That was Rusty's domain, too," he replied. "So far as the blade goes, your friend Ron Boudreaux took it a few weeks back. I guess he thought it was possible that the saw was used to dismember poor little Billy Marsh or something, that's the gist I got. I told him I didn't think the damned thing even worked anymore, and that I'd never seen Chucky use it in all the time he's been here. I think he was afraid of it, actually, but Boudreaux wanted the blade anyway."

"Well, you were right -- it doesn't work." Jake explained. "I think the motor is seized up."

"Surprise, surprise," the priest said in an uninspired tone. "No one's been maintaining it since Rusty retired, machines require maintenance. I imagine, however, that these questions you're asking are just a preface, as they seem to be about things you discovered on your way to my door. Tell me, will we be getting to the real questions any time soon?"

"Very shrewd," Jake smiled. "You should be doing my kind of work."

"Not shrewd, just impatient. " Lovett replied. "I'm a dying man, Jacob, I haven't time for petty issues or petty questions. I'm sorry if that strikes you the wrong way, my son, but it's the plain truth."

"Dying, eh?" Jake responded. "Well aren't we all?"

"Perhaps, if that's your philosophy. But you likely aren't dying as actively as I am," the priest said. "I have stage four lung cancer, Jake. From aspirating asbestos within the four walls of this glorious building... just like poor Rusty Parker. Of course, he got it in the form of COPD, but it's the same difference."

"I don't know that I could ever use the phrase poor in describing Rusty, regardless of his condition" Jake replied, trying not to let on that he was dying just as actively as Lovett was. His death wasn't going to come at the hands of illness, though, but it was as real and as imminent as the disease that threatened the priest.

"I don't know what you've heard or seen of Rusty, but he was always a decent man," Lovett answered. "He had his demons, he had his wounds, if you will, from the war, but he dealt with them. Now, all of these years later, we find that we've both been killed by the years we spent here, in the house of the Lord. If that's not ironic, son, then I guess I don't know what is."

"Looks like your precious little tabernacle is gonna kill Chucky too," Jake snapped back. "Guilt by association, I guess, because he had the same keys that Rusty Parker had and happened to work with The Butcher Of Burlwood without his knowledge for all of those years you spoke of."

Lovett didn't acknowledge this slight, simply continuing to read his book before he spoke again. "If you're here to ask me to slander Rusty or to point you in his direction as the man who killed those six children back in the nineties, then I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. I worked with the man day and night during those times, you shall never convince me that he was The Butcher. The door is back that way, as you know, and if it's dirt on a mentally ill man who actually worked through his troubles instead of relying on the dole the way that people do now, then you might as well head through it."

Jake itched his nose, partially because he was pissed and partially because he had an itch that needed scratching. He was impressed at Lovett's loyalty to Rusty, despite the fact that he believed the man was mistaken in his assessment.

"So I guess Chucky doesn't count as a mentally ill man who actually worked through his troubles then, is that what you're saying?" Jake fired back.

The priest still showed no sign of emotion, and he was still not compelled to stop reading his book. "Of course he does, Jacob, but if you don't mind my asking -- when was the last time you actually saw or spoke to Chucky?"

"I saw him on Friday," he answered.

"Before that!" Lovett barked, though his eyes remained locked on the pages of his volume. He waited an ample period of time for calculation, but he spoke before Jake offered any answer. "I figure it must be twenty years or more," he said, "because I know it's been about that long since I saw you, and I keep a pretty good finger on the pulse of this town. The boy you knew as Chucky was vastly different than the man who exists today."

"How so?" Jake wondered.

"When you left town, he became an outcast. Without his treasured Darkwing, he had no friends to speak of. Then his mother died, and things changed further yet. He became a recluse, barely leaving his trailer when he wasn't coming to work, which was still only twenty hours or so a week. When he was here, he was very awkward. Shy, quiet, and most of the congregation would say strange. I thought he still had a good heart, I thought he was still an innocent soul... but I just don't know anymore. The more I reflect on it, the more I wonder."

"Has Boudreaux been back?" Jake chirped in reply. "Has he been feeding you all of this bullshit?"

Lovett shook his head, still focused on his book, still only half involved in the conversation.

Jake was irritated and frustrated, but there was still information to be had. Sucking up his desire to tear into the man, he put on a friendly face and continued his inquest. "You'll be happy to know that I'm not looking for anything on Rusty," he said.

"Then what is it, son? You want to talk more about those six children who were cut down before their time? You want to know what they looked like all chopped into pieces? I was called to every scene, as you probably know. You want to talk the latest child, Billy Marsh? I got to see him, too."

"In a way," Jake returned. "The murders are, after all, what I'm here for."

"Let the children rest, Jacob," Lovett begged of him. "I baptized many of those boys. I presided over the funeral services of every one of them on top of seeing their poor little bodies torn to bits. I also aided in Clyde Rambo's investigation, and I know that the suspects he believed were guilty simply could not have been. What happened to those boys was terrible, and whomever was responsible for their deaths will be judged harshly by God, but that is all the judgement they shall receive, because the identity of the killer is lost to time. Whomever it was, they will pay their penance just the same. Of that I can assure you, son."

"That's all well and good," Jake replied, "but our friend Ron Boudreaux wants to see Chucky pay for Billy Marsh now. As you likely know, he wants to do it in a way that will send him up for that final judgement you speak of in short order."

Lovett sighed and finally closed his book, setting it down on the table beside Jacob. "Certainly, my son, you've heard the old adage if the shoe fits, wear it?"

Jake was stunned at this, and he pulled back physically in response. "Father Lovett," he said after a long pause, "are you telling me that you believe Chucky did this? Are you telling me you really think that he killed little Billy Marsh?"

The priest shrugged, sighing and removing his glasses to fold up and nest in his pocket. "I'm saying it certainly looks that way, Jacob."

Shocked, Jake pulled back further and let his surprise show on his face. They sat silently for a moment, staring each other down intensely, before Jake finally addressed the comment. "What makes you say that?" He asked.

"A preponderance of the evidence," the preacher said after a momentary pause. "And if you were thinking clearly, you would see it just the same."

"Well I'm sorry, Father," Jake retorted, "but I believe I see more clearly than anyone when it comes to Chucky and what he's capable of."

The priest laughed as soon as the words were spoken. It was light at first, but it ramped up into a hearty fit quickly that continued until his ill lungs objected and caused him to choke a bit. Clearing his throat, his voice trembled as he replied. "My son, you see things as clearly as if you were looking through a brick wall! I've told you how that is the case when it relates to Chucky, and I can tell you that it's no different in any matter you consider! Look at you, Jacob! You're a disaster!"

This came as yet another surprise to Jake, as he felt like he was looking pretty good. Checking over his clothing, which was sharp and clean, and thinking back to his shower earlier in the day, he wondered what the man could possibly be seeing that led him to deliver such an insult.

"Not your clothes, you fool!" Lovett cackled again. "Try looking in a mirror, Jacob, that is where you'll see it! It's in your eyes, it's on your face, it's in your heart! You're toxic, Jacob, I could see it on you the moment I first laid eyes on you from the pulpit! Your heart is full of so much hate and negativity that it's all you can see anymore! What's worse, it's all anyone else can see when they look at you, son! The man that visits me every time you come to this place is not the kindhearted boy I knew before! This man is not the proud warrior I saw take to the ice when you played hockey! This man I see before me now is not Jacob Giguére, and I believe you know that just as well as I do! Do you want credit for having a tough life? I'll give it to you, you did! Did you make the best of what you had, though? Hell no! You're a shell, my son! A shell that's filled with everything vile and dark! I'm ashamed to see what you've done with yourself, if we're being frank!"

"Thanks, Carl," Jake said with heavy sarcasm.

"Are you prepared to tell me that I'm wrong?" Lovett asked. "If so, color me surprised because I've been counseling people longer than you've been alive! I've been summing people up by the look in their eyes and the lines on their face for nearly fifty years, Jacob, and I know hate and emptiness when I see it!"

Taking the words to heart, taking them personally and feeling hurt by them, Jake sat silent and looking like a guilty child. He was keenly aware that he wasn't the Jacob Giguére of old, and that was okay when he thought that only he and perhaps Tracy knew it. Someone else seeing it, though, someone else calling him out on it -- that wasn't okay. He was injured by the words of the old priest, and he felt that the wounds of the stigmata should develop on his wrists and his feet at any moment. He'd been crucified by Father Lovett. He'd been condemned, he'd been damned and issued a crown of thorns, all punishments that he very well deserved for the things he'd done to himself.

"You see?" The priest said. "You know it's true! Your silence speaks volumes, young Jacob! I'm not the only one ashamed at your condition, clearly you are too! Now you come back to your hometown, after leaving under incredibly awful circumstances, and you think you're looking through clear eyes at what's happening here? Are you even for real about this? It sounds like a fool's errand to me, Mister Giguére!"

"What would you suggest I do, father?" He asked, not entirely sure he really wanted to hear the answer he would receive. "You suggest I just let them fry Chucky on a case that is almost entirely circumstantial? You suggest I just walk away because, in your opinion, I'm not in the appropriate state of mind to do what needs to be done? That's crazy, Carl!"

Instead of speaking, the priest started laughing yet again. This laugh wasn't so malicious as the previous had been, though, it came across as more laughing with than laughing at. When it finally passed, he placed his glasses on the table next to Jake and spoke kindly.

"That is the question, isn't it young Jacob?" He said assertively. "That is what you should be trying to find out, what are you supposed to do here? Chucky brought you back, but taking care of Chucky is not what you should be focused on right now, more are things like why is there a chain hanging in the freezer!"

"I'm trying to save Chucky!" Jake barked in retort. "I'm not here asking about this shit for my health!"

"How can you save Chucky, my friend?" Lovett replied astutely. "How can you hope to save anyone if you can't even figure out a way to save yourself?"

There was no denying the wisdom in the words, so Jake couldn't respond for a moment. He felt the question reverberating in his heart, in his mind, in his soul. "Save myself from what?" He finally asked.

"From you!" The priest answered plainly. "You desperately need to save yourself from yourself, Jacob!"

"Right," Jake said with bite. "And I suppose I have to do twenty Hail Mary's and read some passages from your little bullshit book, right?"

"You don't have to fall to your knees before Christ, Jacob," Lovett said. "It would be a shortcut, but you don't have to do it, if it's not what suits you! You don't have to beg God for forgiveness. In fact, you can continue to not believe in God, just as I know you always haven't, if that's what you wish, and still find your answers. That is not outside the realm of possibilities, many good men have done it. Sure, this is how most people do it," he said, extending his arms to indicate the breadth of the church. "But this is all just window dressing, Jacob, this is all just for show when it's all boiled down. God is a figurehead, he's the one the fortunate thank and the unfortunate blame, the one that the condemned curse and the desperate beg for help. He isn't the only answer."

"I'm surprised to hear you say something like that, father," Jake replied.

"Why? Because I wear a frock and a clerical collar, that means I must pitch God to everyone I come into contact with? Yes, I help lead people to God -- but that's only my duty when they come seeking Him! Do you blame God for the bad things that have happened to you in your life? Do you thank him for the things you've had that were good?"

"You said it yourself, father, I don't believe in God. How can I blame him, then? How can I thank him, if I'm convinced he's not around?"

"There you are, you've summed it up! So why would I try to sell God to you, if you're so stubbornly set against Him? The wiser move, the move I would make if I were trying to help you would be to ask who do you blame if not God?"

Jake didn't have an answer, so he sat with confusion and bewilderment on his face in reply. His first thought was that he blamed himself, but that was a jagged pill too hard for him to swallow in the moment. Even if that were the correct answer, he wasn't interested in confiding that in the priest at this point in time, in this place of his life. Besides, it wasn't as though he had caused all of the terrible things that had happened in his life. Many challenges he'd faced were simply in the cards he was dealt, the hand he forced to play. If he reacted inappropriately to some of those cards, how could that be labeled as entirely his fault?

"You blame the lack of God, you see?" Lovett intuited with a crooked grin. "So in the end, it all comes back to God, whether you acknowledge Him or not! His is a house of many mansions, and he's a being that wears many masks. You can find Him wherever you happen to be in life, an old and broken down building like this one is not necessary! It's up to you how you find Him and what role he plays in your life, and you may well find Him without realizing what you've done! You may find Him and never know that you've done so, and believe it or not, He's okay with that!"

"So if not this, then... if not the church, if not The Bible, then what?" Jake asked, confused at what the preacher was pushing.

"Well," Lovett proposed, "a good place to start is in begging forgiveness... but begging it of yourself, son, not of some mysterious God. Once you're clear of that, once you can clear your own judgement, then you can start worrying about the universe at large. When you're okay with yourself, you're free to beg forgiveness of everything and everyone else. In your case, you would likely start with those that you've hurt, because I can see in your face that you've dealt some damage to the people close to you. It shows, Jacob, it pulls at your face and at your soul. Some will give it, because they love you. Others will not, because they haven't forgiven themselves either, and you can't give something that you don't have to spare. Those will be few and far between, though, and there's nothing you can do to change them anyway. When you've made peace with yourself, when you make peace with the people you love, that's when you've found the essence of God, Jacob. You may never see his face, you may never invoke his name, but you will have found Him in all his glory. No matter how you choose to go about it, though, it has to start with you!"

Jake ran his hand across his brow, pulling it down over his face until he was able to sigh heavily into it. "I understand what you're saying, sir," he said, "and I'll consider working on it with you, but I have to do this thing for Chucky first."

"I never did hear anyone call you selfish, Jacob," he smiled. "Likewise, also the chief priests mocking said among themselves with the scribes, he saves others, but himself he cannot save," Lovett quoted, shaking his head. "What did you come here to ask me? Let's get down to business so that we can go about what's left of our lives."

Focusing back on the task at hand, Jake prepared his response. "I have reason to believe that Voodoo was somehow involved in the old cases, maybe in the Billy Marsh case too."

The priest nodded, as though he knew of the old evidence. "So you're here to find out what I know about Voodoo?"

Jake nodded, not wanting to offer anything extra if the man was aware of the idols found in the past.

"I know a little," Lovett confessed, "but not a lot. I know it's big in Haiti and certain parts of Africa. I know it has an incarnation in New Orleans, but that's more for the tourists than anything else in modern times. True followers believe in a distant and unknowable supreme creator called Bondye, which is a French term for good God. That's probably a surprise to you, because I'm sure that when you think of Voodoo you think of evil spells and Voodoo dolls designed to cause people harm, right?"

"Yeah, you could say that," Jake replied.

"I'm sorry to burst your bubble, son, but you can thank Hollywood for all of the dark things you believe about Voodoo. True Voodoo is about love and support within the family, and generosity in giving to the poor and the community. The religion has no ties to Satanism, witchcraft or zombies. In fact, many sects have adopted Christian figureheads like Mary and Jesus. If you want to consider some of their practices magic, then it is a white magic. There is nothing about Voodoo that should lead someone to murder little children, you can take my word for that. If you want to know more about it, though, if you want to really get in deep with what the religion is all about, then I'm not the right man for you to talk to in these parts."

"You're not?" Jake asked, surprised. "Then there's someone around here who's involved with Voodoo? Like, actively?"

"Indeed there is," Lovett said, folding his hands.

"And who might that be?"

"A gentlemen from New Orleans, whom you may already know." He paused. "His name, of course, is Sheriff Ron Boudreaux."

THIRTY-EIGHT

September 13th, 2016. 12:00PM

Garthby, Indiana

Jake arrived at the Garthby Icehouse at eleven-thirty, after having spent several hours soul-searching and spying on Daryl Lane. He parked just about a hundred yards from Butcher's Lane Provisions, not entirely concerned with being inconspicuous, and sat staring through his binoculars while thoughts and memories were swirling, swirling with the smoke of many, many Newports. He needed to find another way to cope with everything going on in his mind, his throat wasn't pleased with how much tar and smoke he was subjecting it to.

Daryl didn't do anything suspicious, he simply opened his shop and went about his business. Several customers came and went, and at one point the man pulled another half of a cow out of his cooler and set to work cutting it down. There was absolutely nothing to see, which was fine because Jake was in no condition to see anything of consequence anyway.

The talk with Father Lovett had his head swimming, both the part about forgiving himself and the revelation that Ron Boudreaux was either a practitioner or student of the New Orleans incarnation of the religion known as Voodoo. Despite what the priest said about it being a white magic religion, Jake couldn't help trying to piece together the murders of old with Deputy Ron standing in as The Butcher Of Burlwood.

What a bitch that would be, he thought, if the man stalking the children of Burlwood was, in fact, one of the men sworn to protect them. As he watched Daryl Lane wrapping up orders of ribs and lamb shanks, his mind replayed the memory of little Timmy with his foot propped up over the backseat of a blue Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. Frantically, almost desperately, his head tried to shape the stature of the squat and portly Deputy Ron to fit the larger than life silhouette of the dark figure he watched driving the vehicle away during the Our Mother carnival, taking Drake off to meet his untimely death at the edge of a sharp and sacred blade. Try as he might, he couldn't quite make Boudreaux tall enough to fit the bill.

Still, he wondered. Part of what had saved Rusty Parker's backside in the past was an alibi for Timmy's murder that existed only because he was allegedly under surveillance at the time the boy disappeared. What if it was Ron Boudreaux who was assigned to surveil him that night? What if Deputy Ron knew very well who The Butcher was, and he was -- for one reason or another -- in bed with him? That would explain a lot, and it would tighten a noose around each of their necks. How apropos it would be if Boudreaux found himself on the executioner's table, receiving the needle he had reserved for Chucky in the death of Billy Marsh.

With that alternative possibility in mind, he tried to make the form of Rusty circa 1994 fit the image of the man behind the wheel of Evander Hughes' Brougham. That didn't seem like any more of a match than Boudreaux had, however, because Rusty was just as short as the Deputy. Making either of them the driver of that insidious sedan on that fateful night was like trying to force a large square peg into a small round hole, it just wasn't working for him.

He would be questioning Clyde Rambo either way, of course, regardless of his doubts about either of those people driving that vehicle. If Ron Boudreaux was the man responsible for watching Rusty Parker on the night of Timmy Lane's disappearance, the alibi that had protected Rusty for so many years was no longer viable and must be immediately declared null and void. If that was how it went, further investigation would probably find other connections between Parker and Boudreaux, which could blow the case wide open. Boudreaux was certainly of sound mind and body, he could've snatched little Billy Marsh and fed him to Rusty and his bladeless table saw. Then presto-change-o, cook up a scheme to make the town idiot take the fall and celebrate as a hero with a Hulk Hogan style pose-down while the pyrotechnics glitter behind the Elsmere County PD.

Of course, that would leave an open question regarding why there was no Voodoo trinket found with the Marsh boy... unless the now Sheriff Boudreaux removed it before the rest of the investigators arrived. But, then again, if he did that this time why wouldn't he have done it in the past as well? Why would any victim have been found with an idol if a member of the police department was involved with the murder? One who apparently didn't seek to hide his ties to Voodoo from the general public, no less. Certainly Father Lovett wasn't the only person in town aware that Boudreaux dabbled in it. With that said, why wasn't there suspicion around him in the past investigation when these idols appeared?

Jake had no answers to those questions, it was going to take further effort to find those answers. Watching Daryl Lane for two hours certainly didn't give him any insight, and his head was totally twisted and spinning as his date with Nikki was approaching. Feeling like a diversion would be nice before he got to working these new angles, he set a course for Garthby at eleven AM.

The swirling when he laid eyes on the Icehouse was worthy of an F-5 tornado, but for once it was largely pleasant memories that laid siege to his mind, so it didn't bother him at all. There was that one dark incident where he fucked up Kevin Largent, but that was the total sum of all the negativity he ever experienced in this place. The rest was glorious, and he felt a gladiator within himself waking from a long and lonely coma as he stepped out of his car and approached the front door.

Just inside was the hall of victory, exactly as it had always been. The walls on either side of him were lined with plaques, some brand new and some older than he was himself. The ones on the left listed sequentially by year the victors of the Varsity level Elsmere Cup, and just above each year's memorial was another slab complete with a picture of the league MVP for that season. Scanning as he walked, he pressed on until he found the plaques posted for the seasons of 1996/97 and 1997/98. Both years showed the proud and powerful Burlwood Bees as the champions, and both featured one Jacob Garrett Giguére as the league MVP above each year. Looking at 98/99 and 99/00, he wondered if he might've won the same distinction had he stayed in town long enough to play out the balance of his high school career. Instead, it was the Blackmoor Wizards winning his junior year and the Ashland Aces taking the crown in what would've been his senior season.

Stopping to look over the pictures of himself that were there so many years removed, he had mixed emotions about what he saw. Both pictures were of a proud and strong warrior, one of them just over fifteen and the second just over sixteen. Both boys were confident, both were striking, but both also looked absolutely exhausted. This wasn't the fatigue of a hard fought game or season he was wearing, though, this was the toll that living the life he was dealt had taken on his young and innocent soul. It was sad to see a look of such strife, an expression of such misery on the otherwise fresh and vibrant face of the young man holding up the Commissioner's Trophy.

In celebration of the memories, he pressed his hands against the four placards and tried to convince the boy in the pictures that everything would be okay. Even as he did it, he realized he was full of shit and lying to the kid. Everything was not going to be okay for the champion on the wall, everything was going to be completely fucked up, because -- surprise \-- the kid on the wall was going to grow up to be him.

How was everything okay for him?

Nothing was okay for him, and it didn't seem that it ever would be... not until double indemnity, and that was still a little ways off on the horizon.

Wrestling himself away from the past, he marched into the lobby of the Icehouse and took a seat. It was around eleven-forty when he did, so he expected to see Nikki march her little self in at any minute for her promised skating lesson. As noon approached and there was no sign of her, he considered walking right back out and calling Clyde Rambo about his suspicions regarding Ron Boudreaux and pressing on with his probe into FGSI.

The whole skating thing was a bad idea anyway, he never was much good at teaching anyone anything. In terms of it being a date, it was obvious that he was too old for her, and that she was too fast and loose for him. Despite that, it stung a bit to think that she was the one that was going to stand him up. Hell, he'd never been stood up on a date by anyone. Of course, the only dates he'd ever been on had been with Tracy, so perhaps that wasn't a wide enough data pool. Regardless, it certainly wasn't the way this thing was supposed to go, and it didn't do a whole lot for his ego to think that she would rope him into driving all the way out here just to leave him sitting on a bench by himself like a fool.

Why would she do that?

Because he was too cold toward her?

Because he didn't simply rip her clothes off and give her what it was very obvious that she wanted?

Because she thought he was a nut for his little anxiety episode and the night of hard liquor that followed? That one seemed unlikely, but he didn't have much else to assume as noon passed with no sign of her whatsoever.

At five after, he stood and prepared to make his exit. Feeling the cold blowing around him and seeing his breath on the air held him in place, though, and the sounds of people cutting the ice on the main rink just behind where he was standing sealed the deal. He was going to skate, whether Nikki ever showed up or not.

Stepping to the counter, he requested a size twelve rental skate. When the clerk produced them, he remembered why he never rented a pair of skates in his life. They looked more like bowling shoes with dull strips of steel at the bottom than they did a decent pair of skates, but they were all he had to work with, so he would just have to figure it out. Forking over his ten bucks for the skates and ice time, he walked into the main rink for the first time since he was sixteen years old.

It was amazing, with every detail just as he remembered it. Everything still looked new and perfect, nineteen years had done nothing to the place that its maintenance workers couldn't keep up with. Sitting on one of the spectator benches, he laced up his skates until they were tight enough to cut off his circulation; just the way he liked them. Standing on them for the first time took him even further back into his nostalgia, and it felt like the whole process was going to be as familiar as riding a bike once he stepped on the ice. There were two groups of people circling the rink, one composed of two teenagers who looked very much in love, and the other a father and his young son who was struggling to stay on his feet. Both pairs brought a smile to his face, which was incredibly refreshing given the fact that this one wasn't at all forced or artificial.

Once the teenage lovebirds passed him by, he took his first step onto the surface of the rink and felt immediately at home. Taking his first stride started his adrenaline pumping as the wind whipped through his hair and the world started to move quickly and smoothly passed him. With a few more strides, he was up to full speed and tearing into what used to be the visitor's zone for two of the three periods each game. Stutter-stepping, he cut through the face off circle and zipped in front of the crease, as he had done so many times on his way to putting the biscuit passed the opposing goalie and starting his patented goal celebration.

Suddenly the inside of his mouth felt a cool breeze as he cut back towards the blue line. Watching the penalty boxes whiz by, he realized that this was due to the fact that his mouth had fallen almost completely open with his growing smile. Zipping into what was most often his defensive zone, Jake spun to face a phantom forecheck and prepared to drop to the ice should some fool try to shoot one passed him. Backing nearly all the way to the goal line, he spun out of reverse and started his storm toward center ice.

Envisioning an odd-man rush, he skated hard and drug his toe to ensure he remained onside as his imaginary line-mate chipped the puck in deep. Reporting to the area behind the net to fetch it, he spun and prepared to tee it up for someone at the point. In his mind, he fed the puck perfectly back to his defenseman who let loose with a one-time clapper and put through the five-hole of a make-believe goal-tender.

Raising his arms to celebrate, he looked to the spectator area where The Swete family had watched every game that he ever played. For a moment, he could see them and hear their cheering as he put up another assist. They were all there: Nick, Nancy, Tracy and Chucky. They were young, they were proud, and they loved him -- and he loved them just the same. His mind at peace, he closed his eyes and reveled in the moment as he skated in the train toward his bench to exchange high-fives with his team.

Opening his eyes to the world again, the overhead lights reflected off the glass shifted the shadows until The Swete family was all gone. There was someone there though, some outline of a person who cheering him on as The Swetes had done in the past. As he approached the figure became clear. Standing in their place, where they had always sat, was the petit frame of a young girl he knew as Nikki Spencer.

"Alright! Woo-hoo!" She cheered gleefully as she clapped her mittened hands.

Jake's smile widened even further when he saw her, because he was having such an incredible time that he wanted to share it with someone. Tracy or any of the Swetes would've been ideal, but they were indisposed. Thrilled just to have someone, to have anyone to be with him while he was enjoying himself again, he skated to her. When he was just in front of the glass behind which she stood, he stopped with an aggressive power slide to up the wow factor, showering the glass in a hail of freshly shaved ice.

"You made it!" He said, legitimately pleased. "What took you so long?"

"The walk took a little longer than I expected," she replied. "Sorry about that, hun!"

"Wait, wait," Jacob replied, stunned. "You walked here? It's like, twelve miles to the park!"

Nikki nodded, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah, it was kind of a bitch."

"Why didn't you say something?" He asked. "I would've brought you!"

"I didn't think you were going to come at all," she chuckled. "Didn't think you were gonna take the bait."

Jake returned her chuckle and shook his head. "Well, you're here now!" He replied. "Still want to learn?"

"Oh, I dunno," she replied. "You look pretty -- advanced. I don't know if I can keep up with you!"

"Oh bullshit," Jake returned. "I'll slow it down for you, come on!"

Nikki approached the door and opened it, allowing Jake to look down at her skates. They seemed to be barely holding on to her feet, the left already bending her ankle and the right just plain jacked up. This made him laugh fully, so he covered his mouth to spare her any embarrassment.

"First of all," he said once he'd regained his composure, "you've got the wrong size. You're gonna want to ask for at least a size smaller than you generally wear in shoes. Second of all, when you get the right ones, you're gonna have to tie them a lot tighter than that! Come on, I'll take you back to the counter."

He did as he promised, and eventually they had her laced up as well as she could expect to be. He stepped onto the ice first and held his hands out for her, but she still fell instantly when she first tried to stand on it. He patiently helped her up and worked on getting her to maintain her balance by having her hold his hand as he led her around the rink. She stumbled and staggered several times, but she was smiling just as widely as he was with the sensation of gliding along sans friction.

After several laps this way, he insisted that she start taking small strides instead of simply moving solely at the expense of his effort. Each time she tried to push off she drug her skate across the top of the ice, nearly causing her to bite the dust. He steadied her in these instances, then offered his sage advice on what she needed to do differently. She took instruction well, adapting her technique until she was able to push off cleanly and help them along in their circumnavigation of the rink.

Still holding her hand to spare her further falls, he encouraged her to really put some effort behind her strides. He matched her output, moving only as quickly as she would be traveling without him. After a few more trips around, she really put her mind to making a speed pass. He shoved off hard to keep up with her, still clutching her hand as she built up a good head of steam. They passed the penalty boxes and entered the home zone, moving at a good clip through the face off circle and closing on the boards beyond.

They were moving quickly enough now that they would be required to lean to make the turn behind the goal line. Realizing this only at the last minute, he tried to shout out instructions to her to keep them from smashing into the glass at top speed. As they passed the goal line she did lean, but when it came to holding it she failed epically. Losing an edge, she dropped to the ice like a cannonball fired down from the rafters. In trying to spare her the full impact of the fall he pulled up with his arm, which caused him to wipeout right along with her, and he hit the deck hard.

There was pain and laughter in the moments that followed, not to mention relief that Jake's Beretta hadn't accidentally discharged. Only when he hit the ice did he realize how terrible an idea it was to be wearing it. Once they were down they shared another instance of deep and intense eye contact. It was in that moment, in the second that their pupils locked and her cinereal eyes pulled him under, that he realized he was knee-deep in big trouble. As the ice chilled his aching behind and they held their scraped up hands clenched tightly together in mutual agony and humor, he came to the harrowing conclusion that he was actively and irrevocably falling in love with her.

THIRTY-NINE

September 13th, 2016. 4:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake and Nikki skated until their ankles, thighs and calves just couldn't take it anymore. It was nearing two o'clock at the point at which their endurance was fading, and the open skating session was soon to wrap up anyway. Each of them were tending to bumps and bruises as they took off their skates because they'd fallen together several more times, each of them her fault as was the first. The brutality of the impact lessened as she got better, but only slightly. Skating simply didn't come naturally to the young girl who had never donned a pair of blades in her life, and they were both paying the price as they peeled the sweaty boots from their feet.

Towards the end of the session, she could shimmy along at very low speed on her own, but that was about the extent of what her sage master was able to teach her before it was clearly time for them to strip off the skates and call it a day. Neither was disappointed to get it over with, despite the fact that they had enjoyed themselves to a degree.

He offered to give her a ride, of course, so she didn't have to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to get home on her aching feet and legs. She accepted, and when they drove by a small diner similar to Uncle Jim's Pancake House, he asked if she was hungry. In reality, she wasn't -- but she wasn't going to let that stand in the way of spending more time with the stunning piece of manhood for whom she'd already developed quite the crush. Telling him that she could stand to eat, he obliged her by pulling into the place and they took up seats at a small table near the back. She initially tried to take the seat facing the door, but he quickly and instinctively asked her to allow him that spot, per his tradition. She didn't think twice about the request or why he made it, assuming he just found the bench at the back more spacious to accommodate his large frame.

Being on the ice apparently sparked a deluge of memories for him, the details of which were the subject of conversation for the entire duration of their lunch together. Nikki didn't understand a lot of what he was saying -- she had never been a big fan of hockey -- but seeing him laugh and smile was refreshing enough that it didn't matter whether or not she could make sense of his stories. His glee only faded when she asked a question that, in retrospect, she probably had no business asking... but it seemed appropriate in the moment.

"It seems like you were pretty good," she said in response to his tales, "why did you stop playing after your sophomore year?"

His face fell immediately when the words left her mouth, dissolving from his gorgeous glowing smile into something more troubled, something more disappointed. It was a sour look, something bordering on tormented, and it was full of regret.

"A lot of reasons," he said in barely a mumble. "A lot happened over summer vacation after my sophomore year, and when it was over I ended up leaving town. Things were never quite the same after that, so I wanted to leave everything about this place behind. As it happened, that included playing hockey. It was really all I had here, in the end, and the thought of continuing only reminded me about all of the trouble. That wasn't good, that wasn't what I wanted to be thinking about, so I just let it go."

Nikki was desperate to hear more about it, because she felt the details might hold clues as to what he was doing back here after so long, but she knew that to ask would be to probe too deeply. As much as she wanted to pretend that she had something with this man, she knew that all there really was at this point amounted to a warm and blooming friendship. There would hopefully come a time at which she could scrape the underbelly of his troubles, a time at which they would have no secrets... but this was most certainly not it. With that in mind, she changed the subject and they made small talk for nearly an hour. Even that was thrilling to her, because she was enthralled with this Jacob Giguére. She had held crushes and fantasy romances in the past, but none had ever been with as powerful and consuming as this affair in all of her young life.

Eventually, even the small talk ran out and they were largely just staring at each other across the table in silence. She was happy with that and would've been pleased to continue for the rest of the afternoon, but apparently his patience for it had worn out when the check finally came. Jake very kindly paid the bill and announced that he had work to do, so he would have to drop her off at her place and call it a day so far as their date was concerned. That was devastating to her, because she wanted nothing more than to take him home and express her gratitude for his kindness and the time they'd spent together. With no choice in the matter, however, she simply smiled and thanked him for everything.

He drove her to her trailer, which she still had no idea was right next to the former home of his estranged wife, and pulled over just in front of the place. Shifting into park caused her door to automatically unlock, and she looked over to him when the click sounded out. He was looking at her with a smile, the wonder of which melted her into her seat as she sat and commanded her to try for a parting maneuver, there simply was no choice in her mind.

Without thinking twice about it, she leaned in towards him and pursed her lips to give him a kiss. Expecting him to pull back or turn his face, she closed her eyes and simply let her mouth fall slightly open to catch whichever part of himself he offered to her. His cheek, his neck, his jaw; whatever she found, she would kiss. To her surprise, her mouth was soon full of his lower lip with his upper wrapping over top of hers and gently forming around the curves of it.

Overcome with her lust again at the contact, she gently bit on the lip he allowed her to have as she pulled back softly and sweetly. They disengaged with that delicious smack that comes with a perfectly timed, perfectly innocent and perfectly executed kiss. Her eyes still closed, she reveled in the pleasure and didn't risk making the moment anything but what it was by going in for another. She fantasized about what a second would be, what a third and fourth might lead to. Perhaps he would open his mouth for her entirely. Perhaps he would slip his tongue into her and allow her to suck on it, which she longed to do with a passion.

It was equally possible, however, that he would shun any attempt at further intimacy. To try again might be a step to far, and she didn't want to cross any lines with him. When she finally exhaled her desire and let her eyes open slowly, she saw him staring longingly back at her with appreciation and acceptance of what she'd done. With the look he broadcast, she had no doubt that he would've obliged if she tried for another, but this wasn't the time for that, it was too perfect as it was. If she wanted to build a lasting fire, she needed to let an ember glow for awhile before she blew on it and coaxed it into a flame. Pulling her door handle, she opened it and stepped out of the vehicle. He was still staring at her when she gently closed it between them, still giving her an eye of longing and desire. She let it sizzle, leaning in again to kiss the closed window just as sweetly and softly as she had done to him.

For Jake, things were stirring \-- as they had been all day -- as he watched her walk away towards her home. The moment they'd shared in front of her trailer was perfect, just as their time at The Garthby Icehouse and the lunch thereafter had been. He wondered as she walked to her trailer and disappeared from view whether he was still falling in love with her or if he had, instead, already completely fallen with no prospect of recovery. Whichever it was, it felt good, and that was quite simply a no-go. The closer to Nikki he got, the more his feelings for her developed, the harder it would be to see double indemnity through to fruition, and that wasn't fair to his family. That was selfish, and it was unacceptable. Those things added together didn't even amount to the blasphemy of it being adulterous, something he had absolutely no inclination to participate in.

For that reason and that reason alone, he needed to try to ward her off. He needed to fight to keep her at a more comfortable distance than she was currently at, because she was way too fucking close. What he'd done with her on this day was a sin, but not just the type that Father Lovett would despise and sanction him for. This was the type that was against the greater good, the type that flew in the face of divine plans and threatened to derail what the fates had written in stone. Those universal plans could not go unfulfilled, so he was going to have to reel himself back in when it came to dealing with his darling Nikki.

He was bound for double indemnity, his wife and son commanded him to double indemnity, and his first duty was to them. Not to Nikki, not to the desires of his dick, not to anything that might bring him pleasure, not to anything that might make him feel good because he was no longer entitled to pleasure or related sensations and emotions.

Rewinding his libido and filing it far at the back of his mind, he decided that his next stop would be Burlwood Downs. He was going to find a way to inspect that gate car to see if the VIN matched the one of Evander Hughes' missing Brougham. If it was, that meant FGSI was somehow involved in the murders of old, perhaps in the murder of the present as well. Not paying any mind to fourteen-thirty Applewood as he turned around, he drove his way back to Route 4 and headed for the track.

Lighting a Newport, he was reminded of all of those cigarettes he'd smoked after a night in bed with Tracy. Those were always the best cigarettes, as they followed some of the most intense moments of his life. The times at which he felt the most alive. Tracy was incredible at appreciating his body, and making him do the same through her efforts. Surely, a rose by any other name could not possibly smell so sweet. Surely, sex with another could never hold a candle to making love to his wife. Somehow, though, the cigarette he smoked after simply sharing a kiss with Nikki seemed as good as any of those post coital smokes next to Tracy had been. That scared him, and he didn't like it one bit.

It was just a matter of minutes before he was at the track, finding the parking lot almost as empty as that of Our Mother Of Sorrows had been, as this was not a live-racing day. Parking near the main entrance, he walked into the place to find perhaps a few dozen die-hard gamblers in the concourse making bets on simulcast races showing on television sets as they happened around the country. Every one of the players looked completely miserable, each of them with dried up flesh that was ripe with the atrophy of departed hope on their brows. It was as though they knew they would going to lose their money each time they approached an automated teller or visited the counter, but they continued betting anyway. If any of them actually won, they certainly didn't show it with excitement of any sort. Watching them was actually rather depressing, so Jake turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

Walking to the glass doors that led out to the grandstands and the track itself, he pulled at the first on the right and found that it was locked up tight. Undeterred, he moved a door to his left and tried that one only to find that it was sealed just as well. Hoping to find at least one open so that he could casually sneak out onto the dirt and find the vehicle parked over by the stables, he tried every door only to find that they were all locked.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" A kind and familiar voice called from a ways behind him.

Looking back, Jake saw that it was Sarge who was gazing at him with a smile from behind the bet counter. "Oh," Jake smiled back, "hey there, Sarge!"

The man laughed and showed his aged teeth, the scar that bisected his face tightening with his grin. "Please, young man!" He chuckled. "I'm too old to go by Sarge anymore! Grover suits me much better at this point in my life, my friend!"

"Grover it is, then!" Jake said as he approached the counter, knowing full well that he would never be able to stop thinking of the man as Sarge. "It's nice to see you again, sir," he said to break the ice.

"Ah, it's you!" Grover replied when Jake was near enough. "You bet on These Truths a few nights ago! I must say I'm shocked that you didn't end up back here cashing that one in! If I could bet, I would've picked him too!"

"You win some, you lose some," Jake replied casually, not really concerned with the horse's failure to perform..

"Are you looking to make a wager on a simulcast race this afternoon?" Grover asked with his gentle accent. "It's nearing post time at Sagebrush for race three, you've got five minutes to pick your winner!"

"No," Jake said, "I'm after something much different than that, sir."

Sarge looked a bit confused, furling his brow around his characteristic scar and squinting his eyes in thought. "I'm afraid I'm confused, then, what it is you would like for me to do for you?"

"Look, Grover," he began, trying to ingratiate himself through his tone of voice, "I need to get outside." He paused after that, letting it sink it and register with the man. "Is there a way I can do that?"

"There's the exit," Grover explained kindly, "but that won't get you out onto the apron. Is that where you're trying to get? Did you leave something out there after your last visit?"

"Um," Jake stammered, trying to figure the easiest way that he could gain access to the track. "I believe I dropped my phone out there," he said, "I was in a small scuffle, I don't know if you heard about it or not. I was hoping to get out there and see if I could find it."

"No worries!" Grover replied pleasantly. "Our maintenance crew makes a sweep every night and gathers all of the loose items!" With that, he reached for a large cardboard box behind the counter marked lost and found. "See if it's in here," he grinned.

Jake looked over the contents, seeing several wallets, sets of keys and cell phones. Obviously, none of them belonged to him and this technique was not going to get him to the gate car as he intended. He didn't bother sifting through the miscellaneous junk, knowing there was nothing he was after. Recalculating, he decided to be honest with the old man and see if that would get him any further.

"Actually, Grover," he replied as kindly and respectfully as he could, "I didn't really lose anything, I'm afraid you've caught me in a bit of a fib."

"Really?" Grover answered, seeming like he was trying to feign surprise. "Tell me, then," he continued, a hint of intrigue in his voice. "What exactly are you after out there?"

Still computing the odds of getting thrown out versus being escorted to the gate car as the conversation unfolded, Jake answered as carefully and honestly as he could, since Grover seemed a reasonable man. "Well, the truth is," he said, "I'm in town looking into something. A crime, actually, and I have reason to believe that the red Cadillac out there might be -- involved in it."

Sarge looked at him a bit more critically than he had been before, similar to the way he'd looked at him over the weekend when Jake invoked his nick-name in their first encounter and the old man tried to place his face. "You're a detective, then?" He asked, still scrutinizing every inch of the man before him. "Are you with the Elsmere PD?"

"Not exactly," Jake chuckled, nervous in the situation. "I'm a private eye, really."

"Ohhhhhhh," Grover nodded. "May I ask, then, what you're investigating, my friend?"

Wondering why it mattered, wondering why he would care, Jake decided that his best course of action would be complete honesty with the man. Grover seemed the type that appreciated honesty and would be more likely to cooperate if he didn't feel like he was being duped, so that was the card he would play. Plus, he might have some inside information on this FGSI Services given the fact that he worked at the track, so open and honest dialogue with might reveal more than he expected to leave with when he came.

"I'm working on the Billy Marsh case," he explained plainly.

"Oh my! That was the young boy they found in town recently, was it not?" Grover replied with a cringe. "Such a terrible thing, after so many good years here in town! The idea that old ghosts should rear their ugly heads! A terrible thing! I remember when all of the other boys died, it was such a strain on Burlwood!"

"Yeah, it was awful," Jake concurred.

"And you think our gate car could have something to do with that?" The man asked, disbelief on his face.

"Well, it's a long story," Jake admitted. "But I'd like to have a look at it, if that's at all possible."

Grover scanned the concourse as if he were looking for someone in particular, someone who wouldn't approve of a behind the scenes tour. Not finding whomever it was, he bent down and looked for something under the counter. After a moment, he reappeared with a ring of keys in hand and scanned the room once again.

"The owners don't like anybody out on the apron when there's no live racing," he explained, "but I don't see any of them around here, so follow me!" he said, moving to the far end of the counter where there was a swinging door he could exit through.

Jake did as instructed, strolling casually behind the man as he continued to look around for those pesky owners whose identities only the teller knew. Fortunately, the men who might put a stop to this escapade didn't appear before Grover had the key in the lock of one of the glass doors that separated the concourse from the apron of the track. He opened it without consequence, letting the chilled breeze in as they stepped through and closed the door behind them.

Once outside, they walked to their left until they were at the point where the guardrail met with a brick wall that kept the race fans confined to this area. There was a fence in the rail, which Grover opened by disengaging a hidden latch. Pushing the gate opened, he led Jake onto the dirt of the track and on a long walk deep into turn three where there was a garage door hidden in the wall. Looking closely at it, Jake realized that there was a heavy padlock that kept it sealed closed when there was no racing taking place.

"Oh shit," Jake complained. "I don't suppose you have a key for that one?"

Calmly flipping through his ring, Grover found a key marked Masterlock and slid it into the receptacle.

"Oh, but I do!" He smiled.

With a flick of his wrist, the shackle was open and he popped the lock off of the plate that sealed the door. Apparently no longer worried about being seen by the ownership, he raised the garage door roughly and loudly. Inside, of course, was a modified Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, red in color.

"Here it is," Grover said, looking at it discerningly. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"The VIN," Jake said as he scrolled through his phone for the e-mail from Donnell that contained his father's old registration. When he found it, he opened the image attached and zoomed in on the seventeen digit alpha-numeric code that would tell the tale.

"That's easy enough," Grover replied as he leaned in towards the windshield on the driver's side. "It should be right here, if we can find a way to see it."

It was dark in the garage, so Grover scanned the blackened recesses of the place with his widened eyes and outstretched hands until he felt a flashlight on a table at the back. Turning it on and holding it out to illuminate the front drivers side dashboard behind the glass, he searched for the VIN plate that should've been there.

"Hm," the man grunted, leaning in closer. "That's quite strange," he said enigmatically.

"What? What is it?" Jake asked, leaning in to try and see for himself.

"The VIN plate," Grover answered, "it seems to be missing!"

"What?" Jake snapped, immediately suspicious. "Why would they take it off?"

Grover grunted again, putting his finger to his lip in thought. "I don't know!" He replied. "I've only heard of it being done in chop-shops or in the street when a car is hot! To conceal the identity of the car, that's why they usually do it!"

"But this FGSI owns this car, right? Why would they seek to cover its identity?"

"I don't know that they would," Grover answered. "There are other places we can check, though. Maybe this one just fell out riding over this rough track or something."

This came as a surprise to Jake, he'd never been too keen on the study of automobiles. The fact that the VIN was indicated in more than one place was something he wasn't aware of, but he we certainly happy that Grover knew better.

Opening the driver side door, Sarge shone his light in several areas and scanned both the inner and outer end of the door jamb for any sign of a secondary VIN plate. "Nothing here either," he said, then he reached into the car and pulled a lever that popped the hood. Stepping around to the front of the vehicle, he opened it wide and propped it up with the bar inside. "There should be one on the front of the engine block," he said, shining his light at it. "Either that or the front of the frame." He looked for several seconds, sweeping the flashlight from side to side, before he eventually settled on a particular area which he seemed to study for longer than was reasonable. "Look there!" He said, pointing to a spot on the front of the engine block.

Jake moved in and looked where Grover was pointing, and to his dismay he saw an area of metal about three inches long that had been scratched and ground at until whatever was there had been completely obliterated.

"They scratched it off?" He asked, surprised.

"It looks that way!" Grover agreed. "And there's no plate on the front of the frame either! It should be here, right by the windshield washer fluid jug!"

With all of the evidence, Jake was thoroughly convinced at this point that the vehicle was the same as the one that poor little Timmy had been taken away from his life in. With that conclusion, he was convinced that FGSI Services was the key to his investigation. Revealing who this company was and who it belonged to would lead him to The Butcher of old. He was ready to storm out of the place and start digging in to it and its relationship to Rusty, but Grover wasn't finished with his investigation yet, so he paused and held formation.

"There's one more place," Grover said, moving to the driver's side of the vehicle and stepping deeper into the garage. "On these old cars, a lot of times they put it in the rear wheel-well. Most folks don't know that, so we can hope that whoever modified the rest of this thing didn't know that either!"

Grover dropped to his knees and then his back on the ground without hesitation, dirtying his work clothes like it was nothing and he had no care in doing it. Holding the flashlight up into the wheel-well, he brushed at dirt and caked on debris until finally he saw what he was after.

"Here it is!" He declared. "I've got it!"

"Read it out!" Jake cried, looking to his phone for the numbers that would make this car a criminal.

"Are you ready" Grover asked.

"Yeah, shoot," Jake replied.

Reading small digits in a dirty spot, Grover struggled through the numbers and letters slowly. "Okay, I've got 1-G-6-D-W"

"Check!" Jake exclaimed, his numbers matching exactly.

"6-9-Y-3-G-9-7-4" Sarge continued, still matching what was on Jake's phone to perfection.

"Yes!" He celebrated.

Jake's heart started to pound as he realized that the VIN was an exact match so far with only four numbers to go. He was almost home, needing to hear only 7X61 to confirm that this was Evander Hughes' car. 7X61 would confirm that this vehicle had once belonged to The Butcher Of Burlwood, that it was missing evidence in six cold cases of murder. A four digit combination would make this the cornerstone of his investigation. Holding his breath, he waited and heard \--

"7-X-2-2... that's all of it!"

At that, time froze... the investigation froze... everything froze... this was not Evander Hughes' Brougham... this was not the vehicle that the children had been kidnapped in... this was not The Butcher's Brougham, this was not the final piece to complete the outline of the puzzle.

Fuck, this was nothing!

Now he had nothing!

Sure, it was suspicious that the VIN had been concealed in all but the most unlikely spot, but there was still a VIN, and it did not match the vehicle he needed it to match.

Suddenly, he was right back where he started -- suddenly he was nowhere.

"Is that it?" Grover asked excitedly from his place on the ground. "Does it match?"

"No," Jake answered, his heart broken in two or twenty. "No, that's not the right number."

"Well shit!" Grover exclaimed, crawling out from under the car and brushing himself off as he stood up. "Even I was gettin' excited, and I don't have the slightest idea why it's important!"

Totally demoralized, totally confused and totally unsure of what to do next, Jake put his hand to his brow and thought as hard as he could possibly manage to think in the fallout of hope. Even if this wasn't the car, clearly FGSI Services had something to do with Rusty. That alone made them suspicious, that alone made them worthy of further investigation, but making it a tag-team with the vehicle would've been a home-run instead of a pop out.

"I'm sorry," Grover tried to comfort him, as he was visibly upset and shaken. "I hate that it went that way, my friend, but if there's anything else that I can do..."

"Tell me about this company," Jake replied, thinking on the fly. "Tell me about FGSI Services. Who the hell are they, what do they do, and what the fuck do they have to do with this place?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you a whole lot when it comes to those things," Grover replied. "I know they run the gate car, they have something to do with maintenance of the track, and I know they took over the shoeing and what not of the horses when I moved over to the counter. Management didn't have anybody else could do it on the roles, so they hired it our when I got too old!"

"Can you name any of their employees?"

"No, I can't say as though I can," Sarge admitted. "I keep my nose out of all that, my job is just to sell bet slips now, so that's about all I do. I used to take this place home with me everyday when I was working the stables, now I just do my thing and go home!"

Realizing this was the extent of the man's knowledge, Jake asked one final question of Grover. "Have you ever met a man named Rusty Parker?"

"Rusty who?" Grover asked visibly confused.

"Rusty Parker. He used to be the maintenance man at Our Mother Of Sorrows."

"Oh!" Grover replied with a hint of recognition. "That's the red-headed guy that used to work down at the church, right? Yeah, I suppose I did meet him back then. Don't really know the man, though. Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing," Jake said in monotone, turning to make the walk to the concourse. "Thanks for your help, Sarge, I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome," the man said to Jake's back as he was moving away, "but like I said before; it's Grover!"

Utterly defeated, the wanna-be detective made his way back through the concourse of the track to the exit, then out to the Malibu. He fired up another Newport, sucking at it so hard and so deep that his fingers were shaking when he finally blew the smoke out. The ups and downs of the day left him feeling shell shocked. The victories and the defeats were almost too extreme to reconcile with each other and balance in any form or fashion. The collision of his psyche with the greasy, dirty bottom after such a dramatic plunge from the height of the fluffy white clouds was painful and traumatic to say the least. He'd felt so down on himself after talking with Father Lovett, then so full of life after his time with Nikki, and now he was splattered on the concrete of the reality that he still had no fucking idea how he was going to save Chucky from Ron Boudreaux.

The Newport burnt all the way to the butt again before he decided what he would do for the rest of the evening, having struggled to remember and prioritize what was left to do. He still needed to figure out who FGSI was somehow, and what exactly they did to earn so much money. Even if they weren't directly involved with the crimes of the present or past, details of their identity could well reveal something about Rusty that tied him to the murders. The company was a ghost, as Donnell had said, so his only clue related to them was that they used PO Box 65 in Blackmoor to receive mail. To figure out anything else about them, he was going to have to stake out the Blackmoor post office and wait for someone to come get the fucking mail out of that box. That could be a once a month practice, so far as he knew. Watching for someone to appear could be a long and drawn out process, eating up more time than he really had to spare given his remaining budget of just one-hundred and ninety-eight dollars. The post office would be technically closing for the day soon, so starting that end of the investigation wasn't likely for this evening.

He'd surveilled Daryl Lane, and he was convinced that doing so further would be a dead-end. He could devote more time to that, but it hardly seemed worth it, so that was out.

He wanted to call Clyde Rambo to ask who was responsible for watching Rusty during the time that Timmy Lane was kidnapped, but he was in no mood to hear any more bad news. If it was Ron Boudreaux, that opened a wealth of questions. If it was not, though, it would mean he'd run head-long into another brick wall and had nothing new to work with. Done with brick walls for the day, he voted that option out as well.

He wanted to look in to old Deputy Ron himself and figure out exactly what the nature of his ties to Voodoo were. Whether or not he could've been responsible for the idols found with the previous six victims would be determined with the call to Rambo too, so there wasn't much promise in starting to watch him tonight either.

He wanted to find Freaky X and get his account of what happened so many years ago with Rusty at Central High, but Donnell was working that. He wasn't likely to find anything different than old Launchpad would if he tried, so he would leave that in his friends' capable hands. Hopefully, he would come up with something useful -- and soon.

In the meantime, he decided, the best thing for him to do would be to go see how his prime suspect Rusty Parker spent his evening. If he was any less crippled than he seemed, well... that would change everything.

FORTY

September 13th, 2016. 7:45PM

Indianapolis, Indiana

"Lashey, Chelsea, Metheny, Teddy, Garzy," Donnell rattled off in rapid succession as he scrolled through the last names of people who identified themselves as having graduated from Indy Central High in 1988, 1989 and 1990 on Facebook. "How the fuck am I supposed to know which one of these is Freaky? I mean, shit, it could be any of them!"

LeTonya approached him from behind the white leather couch on which he sat, watching him swipe through hundreds of names on his tablet. He threw his scrolling hand up in disgust and sighed as she touched his shoulder, leaning in to look at some of the listings.

"Trying to do it like that, you don't figure out which it is!" She said with a hint of attitude in her reply. "You ain't doing nothin' but chasing your tail scrolling through all those names!"

"Well what do you suggest?" He snapped, giving her the attitude back in spades.

"I suggest you let me do it!" She replied, moving around to the front end of the living room and dropping into the seat next to him. She snatched his tablet out of his hands with no pomp or circumstance, barely giving him an opportunity to let go of it before she had it firmly in her hands. "I can help, but I still don't understand why you're putting all this time on this case!" she said in objection. "I ain't seen a dime come in from this Jake character or this Chucky!"

"I told you, it's pro-bono!" he answered. "These are my old friends, it's not Jake's responsibility to pay for Chucky, and Chucky doesn't have any money to pay with! If I don't do it, he gets a public defender. PD stands for death penalty, just backwards, and that ain't right! Friends don't let friends end up on the lethal injection table!"

"Mm hm," she snorted, "you didn't make them sound like friends when you told me about everything that went down back in that trailer park before all of this came up!"

"Just because they're a little estranged and we had some trouble back in the day doesn't mean they're not my friends," Donnell replied. "A lot of shit went down, some of it was my fault. I can't hold everything that happened against them, and I'm not just gonna leave them swinging in the breeze!"

"You seem to be forgetting that I'm your wife and that you've told me quite a bit about what went down back then!" LeTonya exclaimed. "After hearing what you let me hear, I don't see you as in any arrears to these people at all! If anything, this Jake owes you an apology!"

"Well you haven't heard it all, especially not about what happened with Jake, so just leave it at that and show me how the hell I'm supposed to do this!"

"Look," she snapped, "I missed the dinner party of the century for these indigent fools! That's enough to cover whatever else happened that you've failed to mention so far!"

Donnell rolled his eyes, throwing his head back in frustration and snorting in disgust. "You ain't never gonna get over that, are you? You could've gone by yourself, you know!"

Before she could answer, Donnell's cellphone rang and cut him a break. He knew this equated to being saved by the bell, as pure verbal evisceration was sure to follow his suggestion that his wife attend a massive dinner party unescorted. He'd barely survived when he told her he couldn't go on account of Chucky's arraignment, throwing out a line like he just had was essentially the same as throwing salt on a wound that was going to be festering for quite some time.

"Well speak of the devil," he said, looking at the call screen, "there's Jake now!"

LeTonya gave him a look that could almost certainly kill as he answered and heard his friend's dejected voice resonating through his speaker.

"Sorry to bother you again, Donnell," Jake said in his depressed monotone muttering. "I just struck out on the FGSI Brougham and I've been sitting here outside of Rusty's place watching a whole lot of nothing happen for almost two hours."

"We couldn't have been lucky enough for that to be the car," Donnell replied, "and you say the old bum isn't doing much either? Shit, we just can't catch a break, can we?"

"Doesn't look that way," Jake agreed. "I was kind of hoping you had more luck with this Freaky character, a break would really cheer me up about now."

"Well, Jake, that's in the works right now," Donnell answered vaguely in an attempt to mask the fact that he hadn't gotten anywhere. "But I did get some information after we spoke this morning that I wanted to share with you."

"Good news, I hope?"

"Well, fifty-fifty," Donnell admitted. "First off, Chucky is cleared to have a visitor the day after tomorrow, and he's requested to see you."

"Oh wow," Jake said in response, not having considered that there would be an opportunity to see his old pal again. "Where and when?"

"At the Elsmere County clink," Donnell informed him, "noon on the fifteenth. Don't take your piece, they won't appreciate that much."

"Thanks, Sherlock," Jake jabbed. "What's the other end of the fifty-fifty?"

"You won't like this one nearly as much," the lawyer prepped him, "but Richard Hagan sent his plea deal through."

"Let me guess," Jake began, "life without parole."

"Congratulations, here's your cigar." Donnell confirmed.

"Fuck, man," Jake objected. "We've gotta get this shit figured out, there's no way Chucky did this, he shouldn't have to pay for it with his life either way you slice it."

"We're still ten days removed from the discovery packet, that will tell us a lot more about what we're up against. Maybe we'll be able to figure something out once we see their cards."

"Now that you mention their cards," Jake replied, "I got a strange call from Clyde Rambo a few days ago."

"Strange? How so?"

"He asked what we thought led to Chucky's arrest."

"Really? That is strange," Donnell said, thinking about what he knew based on young Louie Rambo's dissertation. "As a matter of fact, I remember thinking it was a bit odd that they picked him up on the word of some private eye. I mean, no offense man, but PI's don't usually provide the big break, they're usually more like background players than the main cast."

"You think they've got something serious?"

"I dunno," Donnell answered honestly. "They could have anything, we won't know until that discovery packet shows up."

There was a brief grunt from Jake, followed by a few seconds of silence before he continued. "Well, I guess we'll deal with it when it comes. Until then, let me know if you get anything on that Freaky character."

"Okay, man, will do," Donnell concluded. "What are you gonna do in the meantime?"

"At the moment, I'm thinking about beating on Rusty's door and giving him the third degree," Jake admitted. "As a matter of fact, I think that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"Well be careful," Donnell advised. "Just keep in mind what old Boudreaux said about working in his playground."

With that warning, he told his old friend to take care before hanging up the call. He was worried about what might come of Jake's efforts. As he'd joked before, he could very easily end up back in Burlwood representing him in a case of obstruction of justice or tampering with evidence. LeTonya certainly wouldn't appreciate another pro-bono case, and he did have a load of paying cases to worry about after all.

LeTonya was clearly perturbed by the fact that he'd spoken with one of his two clients for so long without the meter running to add the time to their bill. She stared at him for a moment, the irritation obvious in her eyes, before finally picking up where they left off.

"Here's how we do it," she said, not responding to his comment about the party because she also knew that further discussion wouldn't end well.

Clicking around Facebook on the tablet, she backed out of the individual class page that he was searching and dropped back to the general Indy Central High group. Once there, she saw several pictures of the football team practicing and various check-ins that made her worry her post would be lost in the shuffle rather quickly, as it was obviously a heavily frequented page. Figuring it to be the only shot she had anyway, she logged in as herself and deferred to the what's on your mind box. Tapping Check In, she searched for the school and selected it. Once it was applied, she typed the most casual and convincing message she could conjure up.

Hey, y'all! She began, trying to seem like a proud alumni of a public school, something she figured was an oxymoron. Check it out, I'm looking for a guy from Central back in '88 that really helped me out. I didn't know him too well, and I actually don't even know his real name! Everybody always called him Freaky, though, so I'm hoping somebody will remember him. Anybody out there still in touch with him? #IndyCentralClassOf1988 #FindFreaky2016

"There!" She declared definitively.

"What, that's all you're gonna do?" Donnell wondered aloud.

"That's all you need to do!" She insisted.

"Now what? We just sit?"

"Yes! Now we wait for somebody to respond! I'm sure there's somebody out there who knows who the boy was, and if there is they'll comment on my post!"

"We wait?" He asked. "That's crazy! How is that proactive? How is that trying to find him?"

"Oh, it's proactive!" She replied. "I just reached out to everybody who looks at that God forsaken school's page! We're gonna let him find us. Either that or let somebody else point us to him! We're a lot closer to finding him now than we were when you were just scrollin' through all the nonsense! For all we know, this kid isn't even on Facebook! You could look at names all day and still not find him! Hell, for all we know the kid is dead! We need somebody who knows to tell us which is the case! If they're out there, they'll come out of the woodwork!"

Donnell snorted again, rocking back and forth in the couch to work himself to a standing position. "If you say so, massa!" He quipped.

"Massa?" She snapped. "Don't you start with that massa shit again! More than that, where the hell are you off to?" She asked as he moved toward the kitchen. "We just ate dinner!"

"I want a sandwich!" He replied, craving more of the delicious pastrami she'd bought from the deli the previous night.

"You'll be dead by fifty, you pig!" She declared. "Then who the hell is gonna be my slave man?"

Just as she finished her rebuttal, a shrill ringing sounded out through the house. It was their landline, which didn't receive calls very often at all since the number wasn't published and was never given out to clients. A bit surprised to hear it singing, LeTonya reached over to the end table where one of the extensions sat and picked up the cordless phone next to the couch.

"Hello?" Donnell heard her answer curiously. "Yes, this is the Hughes residence. Who's calling?" There was a pause, then the sound of her footfalls approaching the kitchen. They sounded hurried and uncertain, which he didn't like at all. As he was untwisting the tie on the bread bag, she appeared in the archway with a very concerned look on her face as the handset dangled from her right hand. "It's for you," she told him, looking many shades lighter than her typical cocoa complexion.

Donnell took the phone from her, not at all sure what to expect when he pressed the receiver to his ear. "This is Donnell," he said cautiously.

"Hey there, Don," a gravely voice replied. "This is Clyde Rambo, I've got a couple of questions I was hoping you could answer for me," he said.

"Clyde?" Donnell asked, more confused now than he was when he took the handset. "Questions? What kind of questions?"

"Well," Rambo began, "We've known each other for a long time, I'm not gonna beat around the bush with you. We might as well get right down to the meat of it, Don, because it's not gonna be pleasant.

"Okay?" A very nervous man replied as a statement and question all in one.

The pause seemed like eternity before the former sheriff finally broke the skin, and the needle ran deep at high speed as the words scrawled an unwelcome tattoo across his otherwise unblemished forehead. "I need you to tell me exactly when and how you started peddling meth for Ron Boudreaux."

Surprise, shock, anger, rage, betrayal, regret, remorse, sorrow, shame, fear... a decagon of torment enveloped Donnell, and his heart missed many beats when his ears translated the words he heard into reality. The tattoo was finished, his very first ink bleeding freshly across his brow.

Dealer, it read... and it was right...

FORTY-ONE

Debt Collector

April 5th, 1996. 3:50PM

Burlwood, Indiana

The Hughes family trailer at eight zero seven Arkwood was full of the scent of country ribs, a bounty purchased from Butcher's Lane, as they slow cooked in the crockpot of Elle Hughes, the family matriarch. She stood in the kitchen fixing biscuits and greens for sides, sweat dripping from her brow as she slaved away with dinner time quickly approaching.

"About twenty minutes, y'all!" She shouted to her son and husband, who were seated just outside the window on the front porch. "You don't wanna be late, 'cuz I'm hungry enough I might just eat all this up by myself!"

Evander and Donnell heard her well enough as they lounged in the rickety wicker patio furniture of their porch, which had barely survived the last winter, but they were engaged in a profound conversation of their own, so they paid her little mind. The smell of the barbecue sauce and the made from scratch biscuits had their mouths watering, so being late was never a concern for either of them. They would find a way to wrap the talk up before the dinner bell rang.

"What I'm tryin' to instill in you, son," Evander said in his raspy fatherly tone as he imagined how tender the ribs would be, "is that a man always pays his debts! Now, it don't matter if it's a debt of money, a favor to a friend, or a debt of pure sweat off his back! When a man gets somethin' from someone on credit, no matter what it is, it's on his shoulders to repay it by any means that happen to be necessary! Until he repays that debt, in whatever manner is required, he is a slave to the person he owes that debt to! It's like a chain around his neck, even if nobody is pullin' on it in the moment! He wears it all the while, and he's subject to be called upon to meet his obligation at any time! Does that make sense to you, son?"

"Yeah," Donnell replied, a bit perplexed, "but I don't understand why we're talkin' about it, I don't owe nobody nothing!"

"Oh, now there is where you're mistaken!" Evander insisted in reply. "All this that you've got, all this your mother and I have given you, that is your debt! The roof that's over your head, the clothes that's on your back, the food you smell your momma cookin' up as we speak, these are things that we have provided for you are not free of charge! You owe us a debt, you've got a chain around your neck that somebody can pull on at any time, just like I said!"

Donnell thought this over for a moment and wondered how it could possibly be. All of his friends had homes, they all had clothes, and they all had food to eat. He'd never heard any of their parents presenting their childhood care as something that was expected to be paid back, at least not in the short term. When it came to his food, so far as he knew the meal his mother was cooking had been paid for with food stamps given to them by the government because neither of his parents were working. Based on that fact, it seemed more reasonable to him that his debt would actually be to whomever it was that provided the food stamps. Either way, he didn't understand why his father was having this talk with him, and he wasn't sure how he was expected to respond.

"But nobody is pullin' on that chain, pops!" he answered. "Even if they did, how could I repay those debts? I don't have no job, I don't have no money!"

"Well when you don't have any money, how do you go about payin' a debt?"

"I don't know," Donell said, shrugging his shoulders, "I mean, I guess you have to get a job to get some money. I don't know any way other than that."

"That's one way, but sometimes you can substitute sweat in the place of money! So even if you don't really get a job, you can pay debts off through just simply workin'!"

Frustrated with the conversation, Donnell sighed and longed for it to be dinner time so it would just be over. "Why are we talking about this, pops?" He asked in his annoyance. "What's it got to do with anything?"

Evander sighed as well, apparently just as weary of this talk as his son was. "You see, son," he began, "right now I owe a debt. This isn't any kind of little silly debt I'm talkin' about either, this is a true life larger than large debt! As it happens, the man I owe this debt to is pullin' on my chain, and he's pullin' real hard, ya' hear?"

"What does that have to do with me?" Donnell wondered.

"We're a family, boy," Evander said, "when someone starts to pull on my chain for a debt I owe, I can turn and pull on your chain for the debt you owe me to help cover my own! So, in a way, you payin' the debt you owe me is applied to the debt I owe this other man! In the end, we're both relieved of our debts, and we're both free of those chains!"

Again Donnell thought this over, but he still couldn't figure exactly what his father was getting at. The concepts he was describing were too abstract, he didn't understand how they applied to life as he knew it at all. He was already in charge of mowing the lawn, taking out the trash and helping his mother with the shopping, what more could he do that would pay off his debt to his father and therefore his father's debt to another man? What was his pops brewing, and what was it going to mean for him?

"Aw shit!" Evander exclaimed as he popped himself out of his wicker chair. "He's coming now!"

Donnell looked down Arkwood towards Oakwood and saw a familiar vehicle approaching. It was a Burlwood PD cruiser, and it belonged to Deputy Ron Boudreaux. As it rocked on its soft suspension down the road, Evander took several deep breaths and seemed to be in a state of panic. He was pacing back and forth in a circle on their small porch before long, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he ran his fingers through his tangled black tufts of hair.

"What's goin' on, pops?" Donnell asked him, having never seen his father in this condition. "Did you do something wrong?"

"Just stay calm, son! Okay?" Evander said between his quick and heavy breaths. "Just stay cool! I need you to be cool for me, okay boy?"

Donnell nodded, still watching Deputy Ron's car as it pulled up in front of their trailer and stopped with two wheels on their front lawn. Boudreaux looked to them through dark aviator glasses, staring them down for a moment before eventually opening his door and stepping into their yard. He paused to reach across to the passenger seat to retrieve his hat, the khaki color of which nearly mirrored his olive complexion. Placing it on his bald head completed his uniform, and in full police gear, gloves and all, he strolled slowly across their lawn until he stood and the bottom of the three stairs that led up to the Hughes' porch.

He paused there to look over Evander and his son, calculating or considering something in his mind without sharing his thoughts by speaking them aloud. The process was unsettling as he would stare at Evander for a few seconds, then slowly rotate his head and look Donnell over. After several seconds studying Donnell, he would look back to the father... then the son... the father... the son... Evander... Donnell... Evander... Donnell...

Finally, after what seemed like forever, he opened his mouth and spoke to the elder Hughes. "Are we all set with this?" He asked simply and mysteriously.

Evander took a few more deep breaths, then steadied himself enough to offer a reply. "If it works for you, it works for me," he said.

The progression of back and forth examination started again as though it was never done at all, the deputy still stone-faced and silent. Eventually, his stare settled on Donnell this time and he spoke again. "Are you sure he's ready for it?"

Donnell's father drew another incredibly deep breath, nearly coughing when his lungs reached capacity. "I think he is," he said.

Boudreaux squinted one eye and cocked his head to the side, as though he was dissatisfied with what he'd heard. "You think he is?" He asked Evander, his mouth settling in a frown once he'd said the words. "You THINK he is?" Turning his glare back to Donnell, he likely saw the confusion that was on his face. This seemed to enrage him, and he raised his voice to shout in response. "Sweet Santa Muerta, man! Have you even told him about it?"

"I was workin' on it, sir, I swear I was!" Evander explained in what sounded like a plea for forgiveness. "When you pulled up, I was tellin' him about when a man owes a debt he --"

Boudreaux broke the retort with a snicker and the shaking of his head, he was clearly moving beyond the level of being pissed at what he was hearing. "A debt?" He chuckled, pulling down his glasses to show the anger in his eyes. "You were telling him about when a man owes a debt? Is that what you think this is about? A debt?" The deputy's anger seemed to double again, and his voice was almost booming when he launched his next verbal response. "You owe me a goddamned FORTUNE, boy!"

"Please, Mister Boudreaux," Evander begged with his hands out, "please, we can make this okay!"

Likely summoned by the shout, Elle Hughes came storming out the front door still wearing her soiled cooking apron and sweat all over her brow. Her dark face was pulled down in a terrible scowl, the type that would've sent Donnell running for his life in the past had it been directed at him. As it happened, it was pointed in the direction of the deputy on this afternoon as she wiped sweat and prepared to blow. Even Ron Boudreaux seemed to stand at attention at her presence, and his countenance morphed from one of disgust to simply his typical resting prick face.

Setting him ablaze where he stood with her eyes, she opened her mouth and spoke her mind without hesitation or apprehension. "Now you listen here!" She began, pointing her bony finger at the man. "You got a lot of nerve showing up here talkin' about my husband owing you a fortune! He wouldn't owe you a fuckin' dime if you didn't keep feedin' him that shit like it was momma's milk flowin' from your tit!"

Boudreaux lifted his gaze to the sky at her words, as though half of him appreciated and had no defense for what she said while the other half wanted to tear into her but lacked the nerve to pull the trigger.

"Now I personally think somebody needs to talk to the feds about you," she continued, "but my spineless, junkyard husband doesn't have the balls to blow the whistle on your mud-colored ass!"

"Oh, that would be a very bad idea!" Boudreaux broke his silence to warn her. "And when I say all three of y'all would regret it, I mean that all three of y'all would really regret it!"

"Yeah, that's what you got this junkie here convinced of!" Elle admonished with a dismissive waive at Evander. "So now you think you're gonna have my boy out pushin' your poison to pay you off?"

"That is the deal we've come to," the deputy replied. "He sells for me until I've recouped all that I'm owed, then we part ways. That's the deal, and it's the whole deal. Probably take a couple of months, then we're all square and everything is forgotten."

Elle looked at Evander with ire, then at Donnell with something that resembled regret, though he'd never seen that emotion on her face so he couldn't place it exactly. Finally, she turned her hot brown eyes back to the officer and issued a warning of her own. "If there was any way out of this, if there was any way to see your punk ass up on a cross with no repercussions on us, that's the way it would go! I want you to know that and understand that, you low-life punk! But believe you me, when you say that the three of us would regret hangin' you up, our regret would be nothing compared to what your ass will feel if anything happens to my boy! As God as my witness, I will peel that filthy skin off your body if any of this comes back on my boy!"

Boudreaux nodded once, and just once, to acknowledge what she'd said. She never broke eye contact with him, and her eyes were bubbling with scorn. When she was confident that her message had been communicated, she spoke again with the same ire.

"When do you expect he's supposed to start?" She asked.

"Right -- now," Boudreaux said slowly, but certainly.

Donnell was confused, so he looked to his father and found him with his head down in shame and fear. Turning to his mother, he found her looking at him with strength and support in her eyes.

"Honey," she said, "I need you to go with Officer Boudreaux. He's gonna show you what he expects of you, and then he's gonna bring you back home. He knows better than to let you come to any harm. I'll save a plate for you, okay sweetheart?"

At a loss and still not quite sure what was happening, he simply nodded silently at her.

"That's my boy!" She praised him. "Everything is gonna be just fine, I promise," she said before looking back to Boudreaux. "And I promise you too, Mister Boudreaux. I promise you just what I said!"

FORTY-TWO

September 13th, 2016. 9:00PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Nearly four hours in front of twenty-four Confederate Way had yielded little in the way of useful information for Jake and his investigation of Rusty Parker, the man he was leaning towards dubbing the original Butcher Of Burlwood. A van marked Indiana Home Hospice had stopped in around seven o'clock, a woman dressed in scrubs stepping out of it and going in to spend about thirty minutes with him before she finally came back out and drove off. There hadn't been so much as a sighting of the old man strolling around inside the place before or since, and there had been no action to speak of besides her visit whatsoever.

If Rusty was putting up a front and acting more incapacitated than he truly was, he was going all in on the endeavor. More likely, Jake figured, was the fact that the man really was terminally ill and had a hard time moving about. That didn't scratch him out as the killer of Duncan, Banks, Dawson, Wade, Marshall or Timmy Lane, but it certainly put a damper on the idea that he'd been involved with the murder of Billy Marsh, which did nothing to free Chucky.

Tired of watching nothing happen and frustrated with his overall progress in the investigation, Jake decided that he was going to pay Mister Parker another visit and try to drill him a bit harder about those past cases than he had last time he scoped out the old man's residence, when they hadn't come up at all. Flinging another cigarette out the window and feeling his throat's objection to his chain smoking, he fired up the Malibu and moved from his surveilling position just up the road and pulled right into Rusty's driveway.

Stepping out of the car, he slammed his door with authority to announce his arrival and broadcast a bit of intimidation into the home. Marching to the front door, he readied his wallet with the Private Investigator portion of his badge carefully obscured and ready for flashing again when Rusty eventually answered. To illicit that response, he pounded on the wooden door as hard as he could with his left hand as his right prepared to present his less than official credentials.

It took time for Rusty to answer, and the man looked even more frail when he eventually opened the door than he had just a few days prior.

"Good evening, Mister Parker," Jake said authoritatively.

"Oh, it's you," Rusty replied in his congested wheezing as plumes of oxygen vapor poured from his nasal cannula. "Detective Palazzo!"

"Yes sir," he responded, still irritated with himself for having given such an ignorant false name during his last visit. "I've got a few more questions for you, may I come in?"

As before, Rusty simply stepped slowly out of the way and let Jake follow him as he pushed his walker into the front room, where the machines that helped him breathe were rumbling at full bore. The man collapsed onto the love seat, and Jake took a more aggressive approach than last time by sitting on his coffee table, face to face with him.

"Still looking for that van?" Rusty grumbled and gurgled, "because I still have no idea where it's at!"

"No, it's more than that this time, Mister Parker" Jake replied, trying to sound official and in confident control. "If you don't mind, Mister Parker, I'd like to get right down to what this is about without wasting any time on the minutia surrounding it. With that in mind, are you comfortable or is there something I can get you before we begin?"

"Comfortable?" Rusty laughed and coughed. "How the hell should I be comfortable, I'm dying you stupid asshole!" The old man apparently found this statement, and the rebuttal of authority it represented, quite funny, and his continued attempts at laughing between hacks and spasms were as irritating as hell to his guest.

"I'll take that as a yes," Jake returned with the annoyance on his face. "The first topic I'd like to discuss with you are the events of September twenty-fourth, 1994."

"September twenty-four, 1994?" Rusty repeated like a parrot. "Christ, that was almost twenty-three years ago! What do you figure I should know about September twenty-fourth of 1994?"

"I figure you should know plenty," Jake advised with certitude. "First of all, I figure you should know who was driving Evander Hughes' Brougham that night. You should know who picked up Timothy Lane from the Our Mother carnival!"

"Timothy Lane?" Parker repeated again. "Isn't that the kid that got killed? Daryl Lane's boy?"

"Yes, it is," Jake assured him.

"What the hell should I know about Timothy Lane?" he asked defiantly.

"You should know quite a bit, Mister Parker," Jake returned the volley. "I understand you were in contact with the boy a few hours before he disappeared."

"I was?" Rusty asked.

"Yes, you were," Jake reminded him from his memory of the meeting in the nave. "And I believe you were in contact with him not long after he disappeared as well."

"You are trying to figure out who killed that kid last month! That Marsh boy!" Rusty cackled. "I told you, I got no idea what happened to him! I got no idea what happened to the van! Look at me, does it look like I could pose any threat to that little boy??"

"We're not talking about Billy Marsh right now, Mister Parker," Jake replied, "we're talking about Timothy Lane!"

Parker looked surprised and confused, like he had no idea where this line of questioning was coming from or where it was expected to go. The bubbling and gurgling in his chest intensified as he tried to raise his voice in retort. "You say I saw this Lane kid after he disappeared?" He asked. "Didn't you bother to look at the files on that boy back at your precinct? I'm sure they tell all about what I was doing when he went missing, because I had feds with their hands up my ass like I was a puppet that whole time!"

"I've seen the files," Jake lied, "the feds lost you, they have no idea where you were for that entire evening after you left work."

"Bullshit!" Rusty choked furiously. "They know exactly what I did! I came home from work, I sat here watching the television until I fell asleep on the couch! In fact, I'm pretty sure it was Clyde Rambo himself I saw parked out in front of my place that night! I'm pretty sure it was the King Shit of the department babysitting me, and he was out there! I remember seeing that raggedy old Crown Vic of his just up the road!"

"Wow, it seems like your memory is coming back to you pretty sharply," Jake jabbed, "so you should be able to tell me who it was in that car that brought Timmy back here for you to slaughter!"

"What?" Rusty hawked. "You're a crazy man! You don't know shit about that night!" He accused. "Who the hell are you anyway? Does Ron Boudreaux know you're here?"

"Of course he does!" Jake pressed his luck in the gambit, his suddenly heavy chest not pleased with the move. "He's the one who sent me!"

"In regards to what?" Rusty asked.

"In regards to many things," he replied, "the first of which is your alibi for the deaths of the six children murdered in this town between the years of 1990 and 1994!"

"You want my alibis for those killings?" Parker snorted. "Go talk to Clyde Rambo and Alberto Gomez! Something tells me they'll know exactly where I was when each of those kids died! Something tells me they've got it all written down on paper somewhere, and I bet they themselves signed the reports!"

"Actually," Jake countered, "they have very little information on you before the case of Timothy Lane! Even then, the information they do have about the Lane case is highly questionable, and that's why I'm here!"

"What about it do they question?" The man replied. "What could they possibly question?"

"As I've already mentioned, they want to know who it was that brought Timothy Lane to your house in Evander Hughes' Brougham!"

"Who the fuck is Evander Hughes?" Rusty asked. "And what the fuck is a Brougham?"

"Come on, Mister Parker!" Jake shouted. "That's enough playing dumb, I can see right through this charade of yours! The blue Brougham, the Cadillac that your accomplice brought Timmy Lane to you in! The one that he also kidnapped Nathan Dawson and Ricky Marshall in! The one the two of you probably used to snatch all of the children!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Parker explained in snorts. "And I think it's about time you left my house!"

"I'm here on the authority of The State Of Indiana!" Jake barked back. "And I'm not going anywhere until you start answering some questions!"

"I've answered all these questions!" Rusty insisted. "These and a thousand more! I was cleared of these charges two decades ago, you have no right to come into my home and rub my nose in it all over again! You come here, to the home of a dying man, and you bring up ghosts that have long since faded to nothing!"

"There's no statute of limitation on murder," Jake informed him, "and we'll ask you these questions either until the day you die or the moment at which we determine you've told us the truth! What happened to your saw blade, Mister Parker? Why do you have a perfectly good table saw in the garage with no blade to speak of?"

"Does it look like I could use a table saw?" The man chuckled.

"I believe you could!" Jake countered. "And I believe you could operate that engine hoist in there as well!"

Rusty laughed harder, almost gagging again at the strain on his vascular system. "Right, and rip the engine right out of your missing van? I bet you think I stripped it down to nuts and bolts all on my own, don't you?"

"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't. But, I believe that if I was to spray some Luminol on that saw, the hoist chain and around the drain in the floor, it would light your garage up like a fucking Christmas tree!"

"Then spray them!" Parker gurgled adamantly. "Spray them and show me, you fucking bastard!"

"Oh, I will," Jake promised. "I was just hoping I might get some real answers for you before I have to call the cavalry in!"

"The cavalry?" Another parrot-like mocking. "And you say Ron Boudreaux sent you?" Parker asked.

"Yes, he did!" Jake cried. " He wants answers, and he also wants to know how you're connected to FGSI Services!"

Rusty seemed to be thinking for a minute, his eyes closing slightly and making him look like he'd passed out again as he put pieces together in his mind. "It was you!" He accused, raising an unsteady and bony finger. "You stole my mail from the table!"

"Seized would be more appropriate!" Jake continued, morphing his strategy to suit Rusty's realizations. "We've determined that FGSI is a criminal entity, and if you thought the feds were up your ass back in the day, just wait until the racketeer influenced corrupt organization case comes crashing down on your interest!"

Again, the old man laughed -- but this was a taunting laugh, the kind that made Jake immediately uncomfortable. He felt as though the rug had been yanked out from under him when he heard it, and he knew instinctively that he'd pressed a button he would grow to wish he hadn't mashed. He felt his face dropping in response, knowing he'd made a terrible miscalculation and misstep that would lead him somewhere far from where he wanted to be.

"A RICO case?" Rusty snorted. "You're trying to tell me that Ron Boudreaux has initiated a RICO case against FGSI? Oh, that's a laugh! That's a really good laugh, Detective Pallazzo!"

Seeing his window closing, seeing any further information he might glean speeding away from his grasp, he raised his voice and tried to verbally beat his answers out of the feeble old man who was in danger of entering respiratory arrest with his laughter.

"What the fuck IS FGSI?" He barked.

"It's an ice cream company!" Rusty gasped, choking on his words.

"What do you keep at Safe & Secure Self Storage?"

"Christmas decorations!" Parker nearly whispered in his struggle to breathe with his snickering.

"You listen to me, goddamn it!" Jake shouted. "I KNOW you killed those boys, and I KNOW you had something to do with Billy Marsh, you raggedy old fuck!"

"Prove it!" Rusty coughed. "But do it fast, because I'm calling the Sheriff!"

Jake watched as the haggard shell of a man reached for a phone on a table next to him, lifting the receiver and struggling to dial with his shaking hands as he laughed and gagged. Knowing he needed to be long gone before the call was made, he stood up quickly and darted for the front door. He'd set this bridge alight, and he needed to get to the other side of it before it melted away entirely and left him stranded in a pair of shiny handcuffs with Ron Boudreaux's fat hands holding them by the chain. Smashing his way out the front door, he raced to his Malibu and jumped inside.

Once it was started, he squealed the tires in backing out and racing away from twenty-four Confederate Way for what would likely be the last time until he had the evidence to pin all of this on the man who lived at that address. As he turned onto the main route, he swore a pair of headlights that hadn't been there before flashed to life behind him. Again, he felt he was being followed -- but this was not the time to worry about it, unless the cherries-and-berries fired up and Ron Boudreaux appeared with the shackles he intended to bind him in. Praying, begging that this wouldn't happen, he turned his attention to the road ahead and sped towards The Meadows hoping to out-run the law that Rusty Parker was surely calling.

Back inside, Rusty calmed his fit of laughter once he was sure his visitor was gone. He hung the phone up, trying to steady his hands, then lifted it again to dial a number he had committed to memory long ago. Listening to the rings, he took breaths as deep as he possibly could to help the oxygen regulate his system. By the time the answer came, he was back in control enough to speak his words of warning.

"Hey, it's me -- Rusty," he said. "We've got a bigger problem with this guy than I thought."

FORTY-THREE

September 14th, 2016. 8:30AM

Burlwood, Indiana

When the world of forgotten dreams and fantasies faded away to the yellow gradient of sunlight pouring through Chucky's drapes, all that Jake could see was black. His eyes opened on their own, under the influence of no alarm or external feminine intervention, and they saw only the darkness of the vacant space around him. There was a coffee table, an entertainment center, a very old boxy television and a floor lamp in the corner capable of filling the place with a halogen glow, but the room was no more than the inner surface of a black hole to him as rolled over onto his aching back atop Chucky's 1980's vintage floral patterned sofa.

Christ, what was he doing here?

How had things gone so wrong?

Why was he waking up in this musty place, surrounded by decay and age instead of in the lavish comfort of the king sized bed he'd shared for so many years with the woman that he loved?

Christ, he had nothing left...

There had been a wife; a woman he cherished with all of his heart and would've died for gladly, had the need arisen. A tender soul who cared for him as much as he cared for her. A woman who treasured him and treated him like he was the king of the world, even when he did nothing to earn it -- or worse, when he did things that should've made her hate him.

He'd thrown her away, because he didn't deserve her.

There had been a son; he wasn't perfect, not nearly so. He didn't understand everything about the world and how it worked. He couldn't relate to reality in what is generally considered a functional manner, but he was still alive and full of sweetness. He loved his father, viewed him as a god on a pedestal and admired everything he did. His eyes would light up when they caught sight of his daddy, and he would reach out his arms for a hug and to be picked up. He would want to be held close, not realizing that he was thirteen years old now and a bit heavy on his old man's back in that act of closeness.

He'd cast him aside, because he wasn't capable of returning the pure and unconditional love the boy offered.

There had been a business; not a multi-million dollar conglomerate, but a fully self-sufficient and profitable venture that had built up a college fund for a child who would never be in a condition to make use of it. It wasn't a cash machine, but it paid the bills -- and then some. It allowed them to live comfortably, without worry for many, many years.

He'd shit all over it, not giving it the time of day because he had better things to do. Things like getting stupid drunk and pissing all of that college fund away since it wasn't worth a damned thing in the universe he was condemned to live in anyway.

There had been a life, but he'd taken it for granted. He'd let it slip through his fingers, because he just couldn't figure out how to hold on to anything in his time on this swirling planet.

Swirling, swirling... swirling remembrances, swirling regrets... swirling memories, swirling crossroads and always choosing the wrong path... swirling hatred, swirling denial... swirling hopelessness, swirling resignation... swirling, swirling... swirling and fuck, I just want it all to stop... swirling and please, God... swirling and just let it end, please... just let my heart stop beating, Lord, if you're out there somewhere, swirling... just let me be done, Jesus, because I've taken all that I can bare... swirling, swirling and longing for death... begging for the void... begging for the oblivion... I'm swirling, God, I'm broken and I just want it to be done... I just want my thoughts to grind to a halt, because all they do is cause me to hurt as they're swirling, swirling...

The ceiling was old and stained, probably from Chucky's momma smoking. Underneath the filth, though, it was smooth and firm. Under the cobwebs was perfection. Under the tar was white, under the brown was purity.

That didn't make any sense, and he knew it. Still, it floated through his mind in puffs of fog and smoke. Dancing, dancing in the slowly rolling chaos of madness. Singing, singing in the discordant choir of insanity.

Was this madness?

Was this insanity?

Was this the preamble to death, natural or coerced?

There was music in the expanse, too, at least the vocals of lyrics that moved him in strange ways...

Music that swam with him in the murky waters, churning out sour notes as viscous bubbles of disease rose to the surface and burst like overinflated balloons stretching out in a vacuum. With each pop came words from songs he'd liked in the days when he was still human, when he was still alive. When he was still a member of society. When he was still Jacob Garrett Giguére.

For all your kisses turned to spit in my face. For all the reminds me which is my place. For all of the times when you made me disappear. This time, I'm sure, you will know that I'm here.

What the fuck did that mean?

It meant everything and it meant nothing.

The drapes were filthy, too. They were covered with enough dust that they would require a heavy beating with a broomstick to be made anything that resembled salvageable. The rays of the sun breaking through them illuminated the microscopic bits of debris that danced around them as they were blown by drafts throughout the place and the swirled, swirled.

Feelin' like a hand in rusted shame, so do you laugh at those who cry? Reply...

Of course you do, for those are the ones who don't understand the simple pleasures of life, right? Those are the ones that just don't get it. Those are the ones that are broken, right?

Once upon a time I could control myself.

Once upon a time I could lose myself.

Once...

But not anymore.

Not ever again.

Not before he'd meet his death.

Rainy afternoon I gotta blow a typhoon and I'm playing on my slide trombone.

Anymore, anymore, cannot take it anymore, gotta get away from this stone cold floor.

Crazy... Stone cold crazy, you know?

He did know... he knew very well.

Several more bubbles rose to the top, and this latest set sang that old standard Pachelbel's Canon in D Major.

Fuck, that was his phone.

"Hello?" He answered after swiping the screen, seeing the name Donnell out of the corner of his eye before he pressed the phone to his face.

Launchpad was angry, very angry, and it was clear in his barely muted holler. "Are you out of your motherfucking mind?" He asked, as if he didn't know that Jake really was.

"What?" He asked plainly in reply, not into the conversation at all as he studied the gloom and rot of living that he saw and felt all around him.

"You told Clyde Rambo about me and Ron Boudreaux? What the fuck were you thinking?" Donnell asked in anything but a subtle tone.

"So?" Jake asked, sticking to the comfort of his single-word answers that meant very little.

"Do you have any idea what this could do to me?" The angry man growled.

"Limitations," Jake said in deferral to his preferred method of communication in the moment.

"Yeah, the statute of limitation on charges is five years," Donnell said, confident in his knowledge of the law, "but there's more than going to prison involved in this, Jake!"

"Like what?" Jake asked, finally forcing himself to sit up and wipe the cobwebs from his eyes and spew more than a single adjective.

"Like what?" Donnell flatly shouted, apparently losing his ability to control himself just as Pearl Jam described. "Like my fucking career, man! Half of my career is built on my fucking reputation, do you have any idea what's gonna happen to my reputation if I have to testify against Ron Boudreaux about slingin' dope?"

Shaking off the last remnants of his night's sleep, Jake considered this. He imagined Donnell was right, if Boudreaux were to come to trial it would be an ugly affair for a number of people from Burlwood circa 1997. Not in the least concerned with those people in his state of mind -- primarily because none of them were him -- he didn't bother to try to pretend that he was worried for Launchpad's sake.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said a bit condescendingly. "Based on what you told me, you don't exactly represent the upper echelon of society in your practice generally anyhow."

His presumption seriously pissing Donnell off, the attorney replied with unbridled anger that mirrored what he felt for Jake Giguére when they'd last seen each other in their adolescence. "You fucked me, Jake! After everything I've tried to do to make things right, you just went ahead and fucked me like some back alley whore!"

"Look, Donnell," Jake began, yawning with indifference, "I really don't understand why you're making such a big --"

"Fuck you, Jake!" Donnell interrupted. "I regret the day I called you about this, as God as my witness, I do!"

"Look, Rambo promised me that --"

"You think Clyde Rambo gives a fuck about me, man?" He asked with ire. "Don't you try to put this off on Rambo, this is YOUR fault! Had I never called you about Chucky, had I just let him fucking rot, NONE of this would've ever seen the light of day!"

"I'm sorry if I made you angry, Don --"

"SHUT UP!" Launchpad belted, and Jake obeyed. "Just shut the fuck up, Jake, the sound of your voice is making me sick!"

Jake paused for a second to think about what was happening, realizing that Chucky's defense was in jeopardy with Donnell in this condition. He didn't want that, even if the man was pissed at him personally, he didn't want to see it affect Chucky. "Now look, Donnell, Chucky still needs \--"

"What Chucky needs is to take the fucking deal," Donnell shocked him in saying. "Clearly you ain't doing him no good, you're probably tightening the noose around his neck just like you did to me!"

"Oh, Don, you know Chucky could never \--"

"I said SHUT UP!" Came the reply before his sentence was finished. "Just stay the fuck out of my way, Jake, do you understand me? You stay out of my way, and I'll take care of Chucky! He don't need you, and I sure as fuck don't need you! You do you, and I'll do me -- and never the twain shall meet again, you understand?"

Realizing that this was better than nothing, that Chucky would need a lawyer whether or not he personally ever found the answer he was looking for, Jake realized he would have to abide by these rules. "Yeah, Don, I understand," he said.

"And if YOU get picked up out there on charges for dicking around where you don't belong, I don't wanna hear a goddamned thing about it, you understand me?"

"Yes," he answered softly. "Yes, I do. It's just like last time then, eh?"

"No, Jake!" Donnell answered. "Because after LAST time, I called you THIS time! Believe me when I tell you, I'll NEVER make that mistake again!"

Before he could say another word, he heard the tone of the call ending.

The conversation was over. The farce of a new friendship was over.

Just like everything else was over...

All the pictures had all been washed in black, tattooed everything.

Still, life went on... against his better judgement, the struggle would go on... the Beretta would soon be strapped to his ribs, not pressed against his temple, despite all the blackness he was swimming through... still, he would walk on.

But what would he do?

What was left to do that still held any promise? Everything he thought had promise had blown up in his face within the past several days. Every angle he thought looked solid led him to a dead-end, or worse. Every move he made seemed to be the wrong one, and he was running out of time... running out of money... running out of excuses to continue living, because he was starting to believe he couldn't help Chucky anyway, and that had been the sole excuse for pressing forward.

He was going to call Clyde Rambo to find out who had been tailing Rusty the night Timmy was killed, that still looked like a viable path. If it really was Rambo himself, that all but solidified Parker's alibi for that incident. Perhaps they would talk about Donnell and what was said to him, too. Maybe Rambo could comfort him in regard to that incident with insight on what was in store for his on-again off-again buddy. If Jake had really doomed him to the issues he seemed so passionately worried about, that would be another strike. Christ, could he handle wearing another strike?

Then, after getting answers from Clyde, he was going to make the drive to Safe & Secure Self Storage in Waycroft to have a look at the unit Rusty was paying on. Perhaps he would do a drive by of Ron Boudreaux's place later, seeing as he was apparently the Voodoo Prince of Burlwood. If there were no further clues at that point, if he'd made no more forward progress, maybe he would go see Nikki for a little soul soothing.

Oh, Nikki...

The last glimmer of goodness in his life... the last flash of brighter emotion... the last thing he needed to get involved with in the days leading up to his death. Maybe he would visit her, at fourteen-forty Applewood, right next door to the trailer in which he fell in love with Tracy Swete and her family. Maybe he would fall in love with her, and Jesus how that could fuck everything up.

Somehow, it seemed worth it, though, so he filed the idea away at the back of his mind. Brushing it aside, he scrolled through the contacts in his phone for Rambo Senior. Dialing the number, he waited for the voice of a true friend to answer. A friend that had been on his side all along, one that stuck with him through black and white alike. A friend that had been estranged, but never through the discord of sour emotion. A friend that he could still trust, regardless of what was happening around him in the swirling, swirling of life.

"Hello?" Rambo answered, lacking the basic technology of caller ID to tell him who was disturbing his morning routine.

"Clyde, it's Jake," the soul-tired man advised. "I just got a lovely call from Donnell, seems I made him a bit upset."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it was me that did that," Rambo replied. "He seized up like a two dollar watch, when I called," he continued. "Didn't have a damn thing to say for himself. I think if we were in court, he would've effectively plead the fifth."

"Yeah, he didn't seem to keen on talking about the subject to me at all either," Jake said.

"He didn't give me a damn thing to go on, which is silly because he's well clear of the criminal end just because of the time that's passed. As far as we know that is, I suppose."

"Hadn't thought of that," Jake realized. "I'm pretty sure he is clear, at least based on how our latest meeting with good old Ron went. There didn't seem to be any love lost, if you know what I mean."

"I tend to agree, but he could've made the whole thing easier on himself and everyone else had he just opened up a bit. I've got a few other irons in the fire on it, it's gonna come out anyway." Clyde answered.

"Well, that's not really why I called anyhow," Jake began. "What I'm really after is some info on your surveillance of Rusty back in the old days. You said you had somebody on him the night that Timmy disappeared... who was that?"

"You're talking to him," Rambo replied, smashing the illusion that Parker somehow slipped his cover. "I was parked about fifty yards from his place until the call about Timmy going missing came over the radio. Then I had to leave, obviously, but I was on him all the way up until that point, so he didn't kidnap the boy."

Suddenly, possibilities opened up in Jake's mind. Until the call about Timmy rang in his head, echoing and reverberating with promise and fortuity.

"Wait, wait, wait," he said, remembering talking with Ron Boudreaux and Sheriff Rambo in the rectory at Our Mother Of Sorrows about what had happened. "When the call came through, you came to the church! Right? Who was watching Rusty then?"

"I called Gomez and put a Fed on him," Rambo explained.

"Did you wait for your replacement to arrive before you left his house?"

"Well, no," Clyde hesitated, "I needed to get out to the church as soon as I could to see if we could locate or collect evidence on Timmy. Time was of the essence."

"So there was a period during which Rusty wasn't being surveilled?"

"Perhaps a short period," Rambo admitted begrudgingly. "I really don't know where the guy who took over was coming from, but I can't imagine it was more then ten or twenty minutes."

"Christ, that's all it would've taken!" Jake exclaimed.

"For what?" Clyde wondered. "There's no way he could've taken Timmy in the Brougham, he was in his home the whole time. Are you insinuating that someone brought Timmy to him?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's a bit irrational," Rambo suggested. "Even if somebody did, I was back on shift watching him by the following morning. I relieved the Fed who took over for me, and he said there was nothing suspicious to report. Rusty was a creature of habit, and not very social. He went to work and he went home until the next morning. Day after day, it was the same thing, and he was watched every minute. Are you suggesting that someone brought Timmy to him, he killed him, then had the body in his house for almost two months until he found a way to sneak it out and it started turning up?"

"He could've," Jake speculated. "He could've had it frozen until he was clear to get rid of it. There had to have been a time he could've snuck it out to dispose of it."

"He was never clear to get rid of it, that's what I'm saying!" The former sheriff insisted. "Plus, you're bringing a second person into the situation, which we talked about. We were never able to substantiate the idea that there was more than one person involved, you're asking a lot in this scenario of yours."

Jake thought about all that they had said, both in this conversation and the one they had at Rambo's house at the beginning of the week. Clicking these pieces into the overall puzzle of the case, his mind ran on tangents about the way things may or may not have gone. Perhaps they were, after all, on the trail of the Butchers Of Burlwood. Rusty Parker, and an unknown individual.

Perhaps it was only one half of that team that had partaken in the murder of little Billy Marsh. If that were the case, was it possible that Rusty Parker was not the one to claim the latest victim. Did that explain the differences? Did that mean there was still an able-bodied and minded killer on the loose?

Maybe... but who was the second killer? It clearly wasn't Evander Hughes or Jack Morris, two of the suspects in the original investigation. Neither of them was in any condition to commit murder at this point, so they didn't hold water as the returning champion of foul deeds. Eliminating those two left only Daryl Lane as the sole potential partner in crime for Rusty, if the information dug up back in the 90's was of any value. Jake wasn't buying that, he'd followed that lead to an emotional climax, and he just couldn't believe that it had all been an act.

Perhaps there was a killer out there who hadn't been considered until this point? One that had never fallen under the light of suspicion? One that had never been fully vetted or subjected to interrogation and the confirmation of his alibis for the murders of old? One that was so good at hiding that no sign of him had ever been seen or detected? If that was the case, the possibilities were suddenly endless.

His head spinning with everything and the silence in their conversation growing longer and more awkward, he decided to move the discussion forward just a bit with a question he hadn't exactly planned to ask.

"Do you know anything about a company called FGSI Services out of Blackmoor?" He inquired.

"What did you say?" Rambo asked, seemingly surprised.

"FGSI Services," Jake repeated. "It's a company, obviously. Are you aware of them at all?"

"Where exactly did you encounter FGSI Services?" Clyde returned in almost an interrogative tone.

"A couple of places," Jake replied vaguely.

"Places like where?" Rambo continued his questioning.

Deciding that there was nothing in his knowledge worth keeping secret, he chose to divulge the information he'd obtained through his investigation. "I saw it on a modified Brougham at The Downs, and I found a statement from them in Rusty Parker's home."

"What kind of statement?" Rambo continued.

Again, not concerned that he was sharing anything that didn't deserve to see the light of day, he answered. "It was a financial document of some type," he said. "Claimed that Rusty owned a portion of the company, spelled out their income, which was pretty serious. Then there was a stub for a deposit to Rusty's bank account, seemed he's on their dole."

"Do you have this statement?" The old sheriff keenly pried.

"I might," Jake dodged. "Why? What's it all about?"

"Can't tell you that," Clyde said plainly. "But I want it."

"I'll see what I can do," Jake countered, not at all intending to turn over the evidence he'd uncovered. Not until Rambo showed his hand, that is.

"Bring it by, and we'll talk." Rambo lied, and Jake knew it. There would be no great divulgence of information in this case. There would be no revelation of what lie under the redactions in this conversation, he was playing this one to his chest.

"Give me a day or two," Jake similarly lied. "I've gotta get back at it, though, so I'm gonna let you go."

"Bring me those papers!" Clyde insisted.

"Thanks Clyde, see you soon."

Without further pretense, Jake hung up and tried to process what was going on. It was a lot to consider, and boy was it all swirling together. Swirling and swirling, and even flow. Thoughts arrive like butterflies. Oh, he don't know. So he chases them away. Whispering hands, carry him away.

FORTY-FOUR

September 14th, 2016. 12:00PM

Waycroft, Indiana

The drive to Waycroft, where Safe & Secure Self Storage held unit 33-L reserved for one Russell Parker, took closer to forty-five minutes than it did the half-hour that Jake was expecting. There was heavier than usual traffic, which didn't make much sense for the late morning of a Wednesday, but it existed nonetheless. The unit wasn't going anywhere, at least there was that much to be thankful for. It would be there when he eventually arrived.

Spotting the large spinning sign that read Storage in a less than savory looking part of town, he turned the Malibu into the small driveway that was surrounded by broken pieces of concrete curb just beside it. Apparently, the entrance and exit combination wasn't quite wide enough to accept the thousands of U-Hauls and tractor trailers that made regular visits to this seedy operation. As he drove the perimeter of the buildings, he wondered what dark secrets lie within the enclosed boxes behind rusted roll-up doors secured with heavy chains and padlocks.

Perhaps the contents consisted only of the well used and likely worthless household goods of lower middle-class families that were down on their luck. Or instead, perhaps each of the hundreds of bays were filled to the brim with illegal weapons or illicit street drugs freshly produced or smuggled into town in bulk. If luck was with him, perhaps number 33-L was filled up with a vehicle or vehicles that were paramount in his case to free Chucky from his bondage. Perhaps the ten-by-twenty unit contained a Dodge Ram Van and a Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham that Rusty Parker was paying eighty-four dollars a month to keep concealed from the eyes of the law.

He drove along the road which the map showed as a massive square around the entire property until he reached a sign that read J-M and turned right into the narrow alley between a long strips of units. As he passed the J's and the K's, Jake realized that he was moving particularly deep into this shady oasis of vice. Surrounded by brick buildings on either side along the narrow concrete path he drove, he started to feel a bit claustrophobic in understanding that there was no turning around to be done. His only escape from this compound was to drive straight through to the other side, and anyone or anything that might approach him from that direction would effectively seal him in. Hoping that such a someone or something would never come, he pressed on until he reached the L block.

Thinking about other details of the case, he almost drove right by unit thirty-three when it came along. Coming to a stop right in front of it, he scanned the door that would keep him out and spotted a much fresher, cleaner looking chain on it than those that were on many of the other units. Where most of the locks and trammels around him were weather-worn and rusted, the Masterlock and heavy steel links that sealed the latch of the unit that brought him to this place seemed to be brand new. That roused his suspicions, of course, and it led him to put the Malibu in park and step out of the car.

Looking around once outside of the relative safety of his passenger compartment, he scanned for anyone approaching him from either side. There were none, of course, nor was there any sign of a camera system in operation throughout the storage park. Feeling pleased at that given what he intended to do and insecure about it because of what it might mean if he were attacked all at once, he took the few steps towards the garage door that were necessary, given the narrow nature of the roadway he had been traveling.

Taking the shining heavy chain of unit 33-L in his hands, he realized that it was, indeed, practically new. What was more, it was particularly thick and serious. Whomever purchased it and set it in place didn't intend for it to be easily cut. The padlock that linked it in a loop around the latch that kept the door down was equally heavy-duty. Rusty or an accomplice who took care of this unit was very concerned about its security. Tugging at it and yanking it around futilely, Jake realized there was no way in hell he was going to get the unit unlocked without the aid of a pretty serious pair of bolt cutters or an acetylene torch.

Feeling like an ass for not thinking ahead and bringing some form of tool, he dropped the bundle of steel from his hands with malice. Examining the door for any area of weakness he might exploit by peeking or kicking in, he found no area of the barrier that he could exploit in any way. Pissed, he punched the door and found that doing so only served to hurt his hand again, which was still sore from smashing the man's face at the race track. The aluminum door didn't mind his hammer-fist in the least, and that only made him more angry. The building itself was clearly divided in two, so there was another unit that backed up to Rusty's from the other side. He could most likely gather nothing about 33-L by checking out the backside, but he was going to give it a shot anyway. Perhaps he could break into that unit more easily, then find a hole in the wall between the two spaces and get some idea what was kept inside Rusty's unit.

With that in mind, he looked up at the roof of the building and noted a bent ventilation pipe rising up towards the sky before faltering and leaning sharply to his left. That would be visible from the other side, and it would help him find the exact locker that adjoined this one. Committing the image to memory, he climbed back into the Malibu and drove forward, the only direction he could drive, until he finally came to the road that ran around the perimeter of the place. He hung a left and set out looking for the next drive, which wasn't far away at all.

Taking another left at the narrow stretch of pavement, Jake cruised by the Q units at a relatively slow rate of speed. This was in part due to the deteriorating condition of the concrete that made up what was practically an alley between even and odd units, and in part to his searching for the leaning ventilation pipe. He slowed further when he got to P, knowing that these units should back up to the L units on the other side. Looking up to the roof, he found his pipe swaying in the breeze just above unit thirty two. To his delight, there was no lock or chain at all on this particular unit. Apparently, Safe & Secure Self Storage had a vacancy to fill, and it was just the one he needed to be empty.

Capitalizing on this break, Jake jumped out of the car and threw the garage door open loudly and roughly. Empty space greeted him, of course, in the shape of a twenty foot long and ten foot wide area with corrugated steel or aluminum sides. The concrete pad wasn't entirely intact and there was a puddle inside from the last rain, perhaps part of the reason that this particular unit was empty, but that didn't stop Jake from marching over all of the collapsed potholes on his way back to the dark recesses of the space. Firing up the flashlight on his phone again, he was eventually greeted by a brick wall at the rear of the place that seemed quite solid and intact.

"Shit!" He cursed the facility, surprised that such a low-rent joint actually spent the money to separate the front units from the rear with brick instead of more corrugated metal or a similar inexpensive and fragile material.

Checking every inch of the wall, every crevice that he could see in the mortar, he realized that the place was essentially hermetically sealed off from unit 33-L on the other side. Unfortunately, he hadn't thought to bring a sledgehammer any more than he had a set of bolt cutters, so he wouldn't be getting a look at the contents of Rusty's storage unit on this particular afternoon.

Already making plans to return with one or both implements in the near future, Jake walked clear of the space and pulled down the door with even more spite than he had opened it with. Collapsing back into his car, he shifted to drive and sped a bit faster than he had gone earlier towards the perimeter road that would take him away from this place. Over two hours he'd wasted on coming out to this infernal place, and that was enough to have him fuming.

Thinking only of his frustration, he reached the perimeter road and prepared to turn left toward the exit. Looking both ways with caution, he saw a familiar vehicle positioned just beyond the bisecting road that lead to the J-M units. It was a large car, definitely of some older vintage, was dark blue in color and had blacked out windows all around. This was the vehicle that had been watching him from down Oakwood when he was holed up in Chucky's trailer for the night not so long ago. This was a vehicle he'd felt was following him today, and the driver likely expected that he was still down that J-M aisle. He was presumably waiting for him to come back down from that direction, at which point he could assume a more clandestine position and continue his surveillance. This was the vehicle that had been following him since the very moment he got back to Burlwood in the first place, and he'd finally busted him! The fool probably never imagined he would check out the unit behind 33-L, and he was paying for his ignorance with his revelation.

When the driver spotted his Malibu, he immediately roared off in reverse with his tires screaming and his engine whining at the top of its exhaust all the way. It was too late, though, Jake had seen him and would be turning the tables from this moment on. Stomping the gas pedal himself and cutting the left with a bit of a fishtail, he was in hot pursuit as the former chase vehicle weaved side to side in trying to control its direction as it sped in reverse.

Studying the lines of the hood, looking for any ornamentation, Jake wondered if this was a Brougham that had been staking him out. The color was certainly the same as the vehicle Evander Hughes had traded away for a fix, and who would be more interested in any progress being made on the case than The Butcher Of Burlwood himself? He wondered if the driver, hidden from sight by the blackness of the window tint, was The Butcher himself. Perhaps the former partner of Rusty Parker, or perhaps a stand-alone act never suspected by the police in the investigations of the past. Perhaps this was the man who killed Billy Marsh, live and in the flesh, and trying to stick close to the tail of the man who sought to bring him down.

There was no indication of the vehicles make or model on the front, nor was he able to spot any on the passenger side when the car made a very professional ninety-degree turn in reverse, spinning to face the open road when they approached the exit of the facility. The mysterious driver stomped the gas again after shifting very efficiently into drive, and he tore out onto Route 14 in an easterly direction. Jake looked for traffic before following, something this guy had clearly not bothered to do, and was still reasonably close to his target when he made the turn to follow him.

Whatever the vehicle was, it was fast and powerful. Initially, it pulled away from the Malibu as Jake put all four cylinders of his engine to work with his foot to the floor. If it was the Brougham, it was an Oldsmobile V8 with a hundred-and-forty horses that made it go, that much he'd learned through research. Unfortunately for whomever was at the wheel, though, the Malibu could put that to shame on the top-end, so he kept his pedal to the firewall.

He caught up in short order and was on the back end of the vehicle, seeing for the first time that it was actually a Buick that he trailing. Pulling very, very tight to its rear, he saw that this was an old LeSabre, not a Cadillac Brougham at all. Upon catching up to it, he had to let off the gas the slightest bit to keep from striking it. It swayed from lane to lane recklessly, perhaps hoping he would drop out of the chase the way police do sometimes when continuing poses too great a danger to the public at large. That would not be the case in this pursuit, however, as there was virtually no traffic and Jake didn't really give a fuck about anything beyond finding out who this asshole was.

When the Buick would assume the left lane, Jake would cross to the right in an attempt to overtake it. Apparently not interested in letting that happen, the driver would swerve to the right to block his path. Of course, Jake would immediately try to pull up on the left side, and the driver would swerve back to stop the much newer, tighter vehicle from getting up alongside of it.

Tired of this game, Jake pulled further left and crossed the double yellow lines into the territory that any oncoming traffic would travel in. To his surprise, the LeSabre did the same with no regard as they approached a blind curve around which a whole field of cars may've been coming right at them. Hoping not to find out the hard way, Jake veered back to the right and into lanes they were clear to travel in without the risk of a head-on collision. The back and forth continued for several miles, both vehicles traveling at better than eighty down a road on which the limit was posted as thirty-five. The LeSabre was spitting clouds of black exhaust, the old engine not accustomed to being pushed as hard as it was as they barely held to the road in turns and did their dance of switching lanes when the path was straight and clear.

Jake put just about everything his car had in an attempt to fluidly shift to the right lane and pass one last time only to have the Buick somehow find more power and hop in front of him again, leading him to change tactics and try something a little different. Mashing the pedal again, he let the engine open up and closed on the blue vehicle until his front end struck it fairly hard on its rear. When he let off the gas to see how the car would respond, he watched as it seemed the driver had to struggle to straighten the vehicle back out. That particular collision had tried to spin it clockwise, recovering from which seemed to be a bit of feat for the villain at the wheel as it nearly continued its rotation until it met a guardrail along the right side.

Satisfied that the driver had now lost his nerve with the move and would allow a passing on the left, Jake jumped over to the inside lane and tried to pull alongside it again. To his surprise, the vehicle mirrored his movement and came over to the left to block him again. Undeterred, Jake put a little more on the gas and rammed the rear end of the LeSabre hard enough for the collision to be considered a traffic accident in most circles. This tried to turn the Buick counterclockwise and into traffic, which was now coming, but the driver somehow managed an incredible recovery and straightened out yet again. Whoever this guy was, he knew how to drive.

Not giving him a chance to play the blocking game again, Jake immediately moved over to the right as the car was still swaying in recovery and held the gas until he was right next to the phantom that he had felt trailing him for so many days. Staring into the window tint, Jake tried to make out any silhouette inside the vehicle that he could recognize. It was of little use, because the black of the tint was so deep that nothing inside the car was visible at all.

This configuration was apparently unacceptable to the driver of the Buick, as it suddenly swerved to the right and side-swiped the Malibu at high speed. This action cost Jake his driver's side mirror and almost caused him to lose control altogether, as the greater weight of the older vehicle shoving him towards the guardrail very nearly caused him to eat it. He didn't, though, and was now so pissed at the driver's insolence that he wound up and swerved left, smashing into the Buick with a metallic crunch. This smash-up damaged both vehicles, and it meant that Jake would surely have to face the five-hundred dollar deductible of his car insurance if he didn't make it to double indemnity in adequate time. The LeSabre's control was remarkably unaffected by the impact, even though its passenger side mirror was torn clean off and sent bouncing down the roadway. The heavy American steel barely registered the collision, with the driver making only a slight adjustment to compensate.

Looking forward for the first time in several seconds, Jake saw that the two of them were speeding towards a red light at the intersection of Route 14 and Hacker road. There was sparse traffic passing through perpendicular to them, and to disobey the light would be a hell of gamble that seemed a little rich for Jake's blood at the moment. Looking back to the blue LeSabre, he wondered if the driver had the balls to make a go at it. As they approached the light, still speeding along, the Buick pulled hard to the left as though it were preparing for what would be an apocalyptic collision for the Malibu. The first hip-check had been less than half as intense as this one would be, and it had almost put Jake directly into the rail. If the driver was allowed to smash into him from the distance he was at while traveling at the speed they were traveling, the results would've been -- well, not pretty.

For a moment, he was ready for it. Perhaps this was how double indemnity was to play out; perhaps he was to meet his death in a car chase with someone who sought to do him ill. Maybe he was meant to be sandwiched to the steel of the rail blowing by him on the right, or perhaps he was pre-destined to be T-boned by a vehicle cruising down Hacker road as they blew the light and sped through the intersection. Perhaps he was meant to go in a blaze of glory as his car exploded on impact under the weight of what amounted to a tank as compared to his Malibu.

Ready to see it through, determined to take it to the end, he took a deep breath and gripped tight to the wheel. At the moment he was committed to it, the moment he decided he would lay it all on the pass line, he caught a glimpse of the passengers in one of the cars traveling Hacker. Completely unaware of this potentially deadly game of chicken unfolding just a few hundred yards from them was a woman at the wheel, and a less than one year old child in a carseat riding along behind her.

That he couldn't do...

That he wouldn't do...

No, this was the end of the chase.

Letting out the breath he held in reserve, he moved his foot to the brake and pressed it hard. As he slowed, his anti-lock brakes kicking in, the Buick swerved violently to the right. Had he been there, cruising next to it, his vehicle would've been fully and completely entangled in the guardrail just before the intersection.

Somehow, as though it were guided by the gods, the LeSabre pulled away from the rail and sped through the intersection without colliding with any innocents. There was the honking of horns, and several people were required to brake in the same way that Jake had, but it did make it through. Once beyond the far side, it disappeared down the road and would not be found again on this day. The driver, whoever it was, had no desire to be identified on this afternoon, and that desire drove him to take an incredible risk. Based on that level of determination, this person was desperate to avoid being made.

Jake had a chance to figure out who it was, to figure out what they were after, but he'd let it go by the boards. He'd also had a chance to dirty his conscience, to soil his name further than it was soiled already by causing injury to someone who had nothing to do with any of this, and he'd forced that one to go by the boards.

That was a small victory... but it was a victory he could live with. His day would come, and he would figure out who was hiding behind those blacked out windows... he would just have to be patient.

FORTY-FIVE

September 14th, 2016. 5:23PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Most of the disappointment and depression about having let his chase car get away had passed by the time Jake was cruising through Bumfuck Burlwood in search of ten-seventy-four Hideaway Pines, a former address for Ron Boudreaux as provided by a free background check site he had found on the internet. It wasn't free, of course, if you wanted to see any real details about a person and his history. With his budget down as low as it was and with no available credit card to use, the extraordinarily limited information that was truly free of charge was all he would have to go on. There were two addresses in Garthby proper that seemed much more reasonable options as a current residence of the county sheriff, but it seemed sensible to follow the progression of the man's life, if nothing else than to see how things changed for him over time.

According to a similar freemium real estate site, Boudreaux had sold the house on Hideaway Pines in 1996 after owning it for more than twelve years. Whomever had purchased it from him took a terrible bath during the housing crash and subsequently sold the place for less than half of the hundred-and-fifty dollars they'd put out for it, and it looked as though the home was currently owned by some development company that was trying to build condos in the neighborhood. One look at the place told Jake they weren't having much luck, as the house stood in ruin right next to two other vacant properties in similar states of disrepair. There was a for sale sign in front of the place that had belonged to Deputy Ron, but the entire cul-de-sac was rife desolation and blight and not likely to attract any upscale buyers.

Parking in the driveway of the place and walking across tall, unkempt grass to the front door, he discovered a realtors lockbox hanging from the doorknob that presumably held the keys. Looking around for a moment confirmed that there was nobody in the immediate area that would see him, he tried several three-digit combinations at random until one happened to unlock the miniature safe. Chuckling at the complete farce that these boxes were, Jake took the key and opened the front door.

Inside, he found the place had been stripped from top to bottom. There were massive holes in the ceiling and walls where someone had obviously sought out and then removed any traces of copper pipes and wiring. Every bit of the place was as much a write-off as the neighborhood on the whole, which was somewhat surprising to him given the fact that this end of Burlwood had always been considered the wealthy part of town.

Quickly determining that there was nothing to see here, Jake sealed the keys back in the sham of a safe and climbed back into his Malibu. There was a crack in the front bumper now that hadn't been there before, and a nice dent in the front left quarter panel that created a crease which followed the natural lines of the car almost all the way to the back. He was going to need to remount his mirror and get a paint job to take care of the scuffs, scrapes and scratches that resulted from his contact with the LeSabre, but those were problems for the future -- and therefore not issues for him to be concerned with whatsoever.

Punching eighty forty-one Iris Lane in Gartby into his GPS, he prepared to guide his damaged ride to the next address Deputy Ron had called home according to his background check website. This one he'd apparently purchased in '96 and divested in 2002, and public record claimed the people who'd purchased it were still the owners and presumably the tenants today.

The drive took around fifteen minutes, and this address stood in stark contrast to the one Boudreaux had apparently called home before. Eighty forty-one Iris Lane looked well maintained and was much, much larger than his previous abode, and it was complete with a horse barn standing on the two-acre plot that went with it. If there was a rural edition of Better Homes & Gardens, this place would certainly be a feature in a prominent issue.

Checking himself out in the vanity mirror, he realized he looked half-way presentable and decided that he would approach the place to make contact with the people inside. Pulling out his wallet, he worked to cover the Private Investigator endorsement again as he was intent on extracting as much information as possible from whomever lived in this particular home. Parking in the circular driveway, he climbed out and casually approached the front door. There was a doorbell button, which he pushed, that triggered a luxurious sounding chorus of chimes that far exceeded the sound he'd heard from any such device in the past. While they rang came the sound of approaching footsteps along with the tune, so he cleared his throat and prepared to present himself as officially as he possibly could.

A well taken-care of elderly box-blonde woman answered, wearing an expensive looking sweater and pair of form fitting jeans with her hair in a heavily teased pompadour. The do reminded him of his mother and the nineties, but this woman looked a number of years older than he was despite her obvious cosmetic work, so he couldn't hold her nostalgia against her.

"Good evening, m'am," he greeted her, having spent a bit more effort in developing his alias on this occasion than he had when he invoked the name Enrico Palazzo to Rusty. "My name is Detective Harris," he said, holding out his badge.

"Detective Harris?" She asked, calling him by his mother's maiden name. "I've never met you before." She paused. "Is everything okay? Has something happened to Ron?"

Shocked that she went right to Boudreaux and wondering if he'd stepped on his own tail again, he recoiled for a moment before reclaiming his composure to formulate a reply.

"No m'am, it's nothing like that," he assured her, slipping his wallet back into his pants to avoid exposing the words that made him much less authoritative.

"Oh, thank God!" The woman gasped, putting her hand to her chest. "It's been so long since he's sent someone else on the force instead of coming himself! I heard there was an officer shot downtown tonight, I was so worried it was him, and then you appear at my door!"

"Uhh, no, no," he improvised, trying to play along with the scenario she had laid out. "He's fine, believe me," he said, preparing to press his luck. "He did, however, ask that I come in his place tonight, as he's obviously got his hands full this evening."

"I was surprised he didn't come earlier in the week," the woman continued, "usually he's here by the second Monday of the month! I expected him on Monday, and here it is Wednesday evening already!"

"Well, he is a busy man Miss --" he paused, waiting for her to fill in the the blank.

"Miss Ferguson, of course!" She advised, seeming a bit suspicious that he didn't know without being told. "You did say that Ron sent you, didn't you?" She wondered.

"Yes, Miss Ferguson," he replied, trying to project confidence. "I'm sorry, I've had a lot on my mind with everything that's been going on, I've had my hands full myself. My apologies, I just let your name slip my mind in the chaos."

The woman looked terribly concerned at this, and Jake felt the proverbial fish pulling away on the line. She looked so uncertain about him that he thought for sure his line had snapped, and that was before she opened her mouth with the next sentence. "Maybe I should call Ron. Just to confirm, you know?"

"Oh, m'am, I'm sure that's not necessary!" He cranked his reel cautiously. "Like I said, he's pretty busy at the moment. I truly am sorry, it's just been so crazy lately."

Returning slowly to her cordial self, she painted a smile back over the doubt she had worn before. "It has been rather chaotic, hasn't it?" She said. "What, with the murder of that boy in Burlwood and all of the robberies taking place in Ashland. The local law enforcement has been stretched very thin! To send you instead of Rambo or Bailey, they must be even more overtaxed than I imagined!"

"Yeah," Jake chuckled, trying to figure out what he'd walked into, "it's been a month for the books!"

"Well it's all open back there," she said with a smile, motioning toward the barn behind the house, "I unlocked it on Monday in anticipation of his arrival and just never got around to locking it back up." Suddenly the concern was back on her face. "You won't tell him I left it open, will you?"

"Certainly not, Miss Ferguson," he assured her.

Still shaken, she continued. "I just figured he would have someone turn up sooner than later, so I just didn't think to lock it back up."

"It's no problem, m'am, trust me," he said.

"Either way, it's clear for you to just go ahead and do what you have to do," she sighed. "I'll be in living area having some evening tea if you need anything from me. It's Earl Gray, would you like a cup?"

"Oh, no thank you, most certainly not!" Jake replied, remembering the bitter disgust when he'd tried Earl Gray with Clyde Rambo. "And I don't imagine I should need to bother you, Ron gave me pretty explicit instructions so I should be able to just do what I need to do and get on down the road."

"Fabulous!" She smiled. Just as she was preparing to close the door, though, her surgically modified face fell as far as it could possibly fall, given the work she'd had. "Did he say anything about my, um," she paused, "my rent?"

"Your rent?" Jake asked, as confused as she was trying to look despite the influence of the botox and God knows what else.

"He normally brings it by on his visit. You don't have it, do you?"

"Oh, the rent!" He started in another fib. "He actually said he wanted to bring it by personally, so he didn't send it with me. Said he still needs to talk with you anyway, so you can probably expect to see him in the next several days with the check in hand!"

"Oh," she replied, still looking irritated. "A check? I guess things must be pretty rough lately, if he's bringing me a check. I suppose that will just have to do, if it's what he said. So long as he brings it soon, everything will be just fine!"

"Like I said, any day now!" Jake answered with the most manufactured smile he'd ever worn.

"Very well," she sighed, stepping back into the house a bit. "If you need anything, just buzz!"

As she closed the door, Jake finally let out the breath he'd been holding since the sheriff's name came up. He had no idea what she was talking about, and he similarly didn't know what he was supposed to be going to do in the barn. To top it off, he was convinced that Boudreaux himself would show up any minute to do his thing for real and shut down the charade Jake was running. That wouldn't be good at all, and he was horrified that he'd certainly be under arrest for something in the next few minutes, despite the fact that he hadn't really done anything illegal... yet.

Once he was convinced that Miss Ferguson was well within her house, he started the long trek along the side of the miniature mansion toward the barn behind it. For a few moments, he wondered if Boudreaux might be storing horses in it, as was obviously intended by the construction of the facility. That idea quickly faded, though, when he realized that once monthly maintenance wasn't nearly enough to keep any sort of equine healthy and alive. Besides, what interest did Boudreaux have in horses?

Whatever it was that was in there, it required little attention in the scheme of things. What's more, it was something that Boudreaux was willing to pay to store. In cold hard cash, no less. If ordinary storage what he was looking for, he could probably find a better deal with a group like Safe & Secure in the ghetto than he was receiving from this poodle-woman who seemed rather high maintenance and high rent to Jake. Hell, he could have the unit right behind Rusty's, probably at a deeply discounted rate given the condition of the pavement inside of it.

With that said, Boudreaux forking over cash -- which he valued as much as the blood in his veins in the past -- likely meant that whatever was back there was something that the man wanted to keep off the grid and completely secure. That could only spell evidence, and Jake figured that was a good thing, no matter how he sliced it.

Maybe there was a Dodge Ram Van with Our Mother Of Sorrows hidden inside of there at present. Or maybe it was a blue Cadillac Brougham, purchased at a close-out price from a drug addict desperate for his fix.

It could be anything, and Jake was eager to find out what anything was. As he approached the old wooden building, which seemed as well maintained as the woman living in the house, he saw that the main large door was locked with a chain and padlock as aged and rusty as some of those he'd seen at the storage facility earlier in the day. That made it clear that there was no livestock hanging out inside, as the only egress that would accommodate their size had obviously been secured for quite a long while.

To the right of the larger door was a man-door, which was equipped with a deadbolt and locking doorknob that seemed a bit too new for the structure as a whole. Stepping up to it, Jake paused for a moment to examine it and wonder if he wanted to open himself up to any questions by getting his fingerprints on the knob itself. Deciding it could only lead to trouble, he untucked his shirt and wrapped the knob with it before grabbing hold and turning it in hopes that it was, in fact, the one that Miss Ferguson had left open for Ron Boudreaux.

To his relief, it turned freely and the door swung in for him to enter and examine that which the sheriff apparently sought to keep hidden away. What he saw when he stepped inside was as peculiar as the woman who kept watch over it all, as peculiar as Rusty and as peculiar as this company called FGSI services.

Around the perimeter of the building was warehouse racking that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, which was at least twenty feet high. Each rack had three shelves; one directly above the floor, as though it were there to keep the contents of that which was stored on it dry in the event of a flood, a second about six feet above the first, and a third another four feet above that. A double-sided rack in the same configuration ran directly down the center of the space, creating enough room to store well better than a hundred pallets of whatever Boudreaux sought to hide.

In the corner was a stand-up forklift, which was obviously used to fetch pallets stored on the second and third shelves. That particular device would not be used on this night, as Jake had never driven a hi-lo in his life and figured trying to do so could only result in the collapse of the entire racking system and serious bodily injury.

This place had been converted into a warehouse of sorts, and the racks were nearly full of pallets containing cardboard boxes of different sizes and shapes. Each box was labeled with handwritten details in black marker, the labels declaring several different things that made no sense on the surface. Among the mysterious titles scrawled on the craft paper box sides were Leo's Transport, Pest-X, Thompson Construction, Avanti Holdings, Mega-Sure, Wilson Travel and perhaps most strangely, simply X. Studying the cartons closer, Jake saw that all of them had been marked with an X at one point or another, and that it had been crossed out with an amorphous blob when what seemed to be the names of companies were added at a later time.

Walking down the first aisle of racks, studying the words as he passed, he eventually came to a series of cartons labeled with something he was very familiar with. Seeing the letters there, spelled out in black Sharpie, sent a chill through his body as new pieces were added to the puzzle he'd been trying to assemble in his mind for several days. So far as he could tell, these new pieces were very important to the overall picture, and discovering them allowed him to fill in several blanks that had troubled him throughout his investigation. There before him, on a pallet stowed on the lowest rack, near the back of the place, were large boxes marked FGSI Services.

Feeling his heart race at the discovery, feeling his hands shaking with the adrenaline, he reached out for one of the cartons and lifted it from the pallet on which it sat. The weight of the box was incredible, and his lower back objected immediately to the action of lifting it and setting it down on the concrete floor of the barn. It landed with a thud and the tape holding the bottom closed shifted and buckled a bit, meaning the entire thing might fall out when and if he tried to lift it back into its place. Not concerned with that in the moment, Jake pulled out his car keys to slice the tape on the top of the carton open so that he might see what was stored inside.

As soon as the acrylic split and the lips of the box spread, the contents were plainly obvious. The first thing he saw was that distinct shade of green, that universal color unique to the United States Treasury and the product they churn out en masse at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Inside the large rectangular box was lots and lots of cash money. There were twenties gathered in two-thousand dollar bundles, fifties in five-thousand bundles and hundreds in ten-thousand dollar wraps of cash. Reaching inside to touch them, Jake knew immediately that the money was real based on the feel and texture of the paper. Trying to add up the total of the box mentally, he started to wonder if this was the entirety of FGSI's six-month profit as declared on the operating papers he'd stolen from Rusty. If it were, that would mean he was looking at over eight-hundred-thousand dollars in a box stored in a musty old barn. Even if it wasn't that sum, it was more money than Jake had ever seen in one place in his life, and it was shocking to look at.

Scanning the place, trying to sort out his thoughts, he realized he was looking at a giant cash laundromat. This was where Boudreaux brought his dirty money, his drug and probably gun money, and cleaned it by funneling it through various companies, one of which happened to be the illustrious and mysterious FGSI Services of Blackmoor, Indiana.

Amazed, he grabbed a second box marked FGSI from the pallet and pulled it down. This one was obviously a box that had originally stored reams of paper, and it had a lid taped over top of it which he quickly cut off with his keys again. This box was not filled with cash, but was instead brimming with paperwork that featured accounting way above Jake's head, and likely cooked twice over. Leafing through the sheets, he saw income and expenditures along with interest rates and other terms that he didn't understand in the least. It was enough to make an accountant's head spin, and it was all right there in front of him in black and white.

What he was able to comprehend in amongst the papers, however, was a particular sheet that featured a copy of a canceled check which sent another chill through his body. It was a standard generic check, nothing fancy, and in the pay to the order of field was written Safe & Secure Self Storage. In the memo field was the familiar phrase Unit 33-L, and in the amount area was eighty-four dollars and 00/100. None of that was shocking, as he'd seen the invoice for the unit before. He'd stolen it from Rusty's house, like the FGSI financials. The stunner in this case was contained in the signature line, and the identity of the man who'd written the check as printed in the upper left corner. It wasn't Rusty Parker paying the storage company for the unit registered in his name... it was Ronald L Boudreaux.

Christ, Boudreaux and Rusty had a very clear connection now -- both personally and professionally, as it seemed.

What did that mean?

What bearing did it have on the past?

What bearing did it have on the present?

Feeling the rush of fear that the sheriff would roll up at any minute again, Jake quickly returned the boxes to their pallet, nearly losing all of the cash out of the first carton as the bottom tried to fall out when he lifted it. Hurriedly, he sliced open the corner of several boxes on the way out to see if they contained anything different than the ones marked FGSI. Two of the boxes marked Leo's Construction matched FGSI's exactly, featuring cash in one and accounting in another. One of the boxes he could reach that was marked X contained money that had presumably still dirty and hadn't been assigned to one of the companies yet. It must take time to make such large sums clean through deceit and guile, and the X boxes were in a holding pattern..

Though he was eager to get the hell out of this place before he ended up in handcuffs, he paused for a second to wonder what was in the boxes on the unreachable top shelf of this make-shift warehouse. The boxes up there were all of one size, and they weren't marked with anything at all. Trying desperately to find a way to determine what was in them, he looked around for a rock or something he might throw at one in the hopes of breaking it open. There was no such object to be found, so he considered climbing the rack stanchion like a monkey and peeling at the sides. That would leave him terribly vulnerable should the sheriff appear, and he was fully likely to fall straight down on his ass, so that option was clearly out. The forklift would surely spell disaster as well, so it was no option at all in reality.

Finding no appropriate alternative but desperate to have an answer, Jake decided that there was only one thing to do to satisfy this question quickly enough to be feasible. Taking a deep breath, he unbuttoned the fourth button down on his shirt and reached for his Beretta. Standing by the exit but making sure to keep it closed tightly, he took a deep breath and lined up his sights with the box nearest to him. Knowing this would mean that Miss Ferguson would probably call Boudreaux, if she hadn't already, he released the safety and pulled back the slide. Shaking his head in disbelief at what he was doing, he smoothly pulled his trigger and squeezed off a shot.

There was an incredible pop in the confined space of this less-than-legal warehouse as his shot sounded out, and the slug went just where he wanted and intended for it to. It tore through the cardboard of a top-shelf box, leaving a small hole through which a cloudy crystalline snow came billowing out like the blood out of a stone.

Ron Boudreaux was still in the ice business, and by all indications it seemed that business was good...

Ready to be far away from this place, he opened and stormed out, strolling quickly but casually back to his car. He jumped in like the police were chasing and took off towards Burlwood like a bat out of Hell, lest his nemesis appear and he suffer two pursuits in one twenty-four hour period.

Miss Ferguson was watching from her living room window as he left, and she knew that something was wrong for sure now. It wasn't the shot that caught her attention, she assumed it was a backfiring car and paid it little mind. The trouble was obvious in the fact that this Detective Harris had neither brought cartons to the barn nor taken cartons from that barn. A combined deposit and withdrawal was generally the entire point of a visit from a member of the Garthby PD, and this man had done neither. Besides that, there was the matter of her rent, which was always delivered.

Watching the Malibu pull away, she reached for her cellphone.

Ron Boudreaux would hear of this...

FORTY-SIX

September 14th, 2016. 7:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Nikki quickly stripped off her work clothes, she couldn't stand the smell of grease and cheap food that followed her home from Uncle Jim's Pancake House every day that she worked. It was severe enough a problem that she had a hamper with a lid into which she immediately pitched everything she was wearing after each shift that she pulled. When the hamper built up, she carried the sealed vessel to Kay's Laundry on Route 4 and plugged her nose as she dumped the contents into an available washing machine to rinse away the stench of less than minimum wage and sausage links.

Once nude, she would hop into the claustrophobic shower of her rented home and washed the stink from her hair and flesh with strong exfoliating cleansers and conditioners. Refreshed and clean, she would pull on a pair of fresh leggings and slip into an oversized t-shirt to lounge for the remainder of the evening.

A typical night lately involved the microwaving of a TV dinner, usually purchased from the discount grocery store since tips had been light in the weak economy, and then parking in front of the nearly microscopic television she owned for an evening of whatever happened to be on the broadcast channels she received over the air.

It was as she was examining what remained in the freezer on this particular night, which wasn't much, that a heavy yet gentle knock sounded out on her door. Possibilities raced through her mind when she heard it, and she cycled through many scenarios nervously for a moment before closing the fridge. It couldn't be the landlord, as she had paid him a few days ago. It couldn't be a repo man coming to ask for the keys to her car, because he had come last month and simply towed her vehicle away in the dark of the night. It couldn't be the sheriff's department, because she didn't have any issues outstanding that would bring them to her home. It couldn't be DCS, because Sammy had been living with her mother for nearly two years now, she couldn't endanger him if she tried.

It could be her friend Genie from work who gave her rides to and from the restaurant asking for her payment, but why would she wait until an hour after she dropped her off to come back and insist on collecting her debt? Wondering all the way, she walked nervously to the door and looked out through the peep-hole to see who was bothering her.

To her surprise, or more accurately to her delight, she saw that it was Jacob standing on her doorstep looking both apprehensive and disturbed. She looked down at her clothing for a moment, making sure what she was wearing wasn't too ratty to expose to him. Finding that her black leggings were clean and in one piece and that the Indianapolis Colts T-shirt one of her ex-boyfriends had left her was presentable, she quickly unlocked her door as she'd decided that her outfit was as good as it could get.

"Hey!" She greeted him excitedly.

He didn't hold her enthusiasm against her, as she couldn't have known the depths of the depression that he was in. This was due in part to his being careful to keep its hands from pulling at his face in the way it generally did. This episode had started as he drove back from Garthby, having learned that he was fighting City Hall even more directly than he realized in his quest to clear Chucky of the charges leveled against him. That set of facts coupled with the memories of his mother that were stirred, the memories of crystal meth and Ron Boudreaux, combined to forge a dejection that was mighty and tyrannical. The memories of lies, the memories of death, the fear of what was to come -- it all gelled and ran together like the innards of an ice pack to take him on a journey to a cold and lonely void.

In the throes of this episode, he longed for someone to reach out to and realized just how incredibly alone he was. His marriage was over, he would never see his wife again. With her went his son, who he would similarly never hug or tuck in for the evening forevermore. His ally in this affair, Donnell, was so angry at him that they were likely as estranged as he was from Tracy. Chucky was in jail, and it looked as though he'd be staying there for a good period of time. There was no one for him to turn to, no one to soothe his soul or offer comfort in his time of need.

It was strange to him that losing touch with Launchpad mattered as much as it did, since he hadn't talked to the man in nearly twenty years and had never meant to speak with him again anyway. Still, in the suffocating embrace of this loneliness, losing Donnell seemed like a big deal. There would be a visit with Chuck the next morning, and that would be his only contact with anyone he'd ever held close before double indemnity, which seemed eminent now in the face of the mounting evidence that -- innocent or guilty -- his friend was likely bound for prison, if not for the execution chamber.

All in all, for everything that Jacob Garrett Giguére had or had not managed to be, in the sunset of his life, he found that had no one.

Except, of course, for this girl. This child compared to him, who seemed to give half a damn whether or not he was still breathing at the present, which was more than he could say for all of the others. Stricken with that knowledge, understanding what it meant, he felt an uncontrollable urge to be with her as the black waters rolled and frothed in his mind. He could feel the sadness in his chest, an emptiness and vacancy that was almost painful as he cruised his busted vehicle towards Chucky's trailer. It was this hole in his heart that led him to stop at fourteen-forty Applewood, with no clear conception of what he expected to gain in stopping. He knew he couldn't be alone right now, because if he was it would be the end, so perhaps this was a last ditch effort to stave off that final solution.

If he would've continued to Chucky's, if he were to find himself surrounded by the dank and darkened walls of a condemned friend's home this evening, a place where there had been so much positive energy in the past but was now no more than a void of any such emotions, he would surely fire his Beretta a second time on this day. That scared him, because it wasn't really what he wanted deep inside, even though he craved the rest so severely. When he thought about the taste of the steel, the flavor of the gun oil, the smell of the cordite, his heart would start to pounding with anxiety again and he would feel that terrible screaming in his mind; the screaming that wanted both. The schizophrenic angel and devil on his shoulders that both wanted life and death and were confused between themselves, and their screaming -- fuck \-- that horrific discordant screaming from the two of them.

When he imagined the blackness that would follow when he granted and denied their wishes together and all at once, when he considered the complete and total absence of being that was kin to the oblivion of the days before his birth, his chest felt heavier yet and his breathing became strangely labored as his heart played a back-beat with abnormal syncopations. He wanted to die, but not on this particular night, so he needed to reach for Nikki... the only thing he had left.

"Hi," he said in a tone that was considerably muted as compared to hers. "How are you?"

When he spoke, she heard what she couldn't see as a result of his deception. She knew where he was, she understood the darkness of his world. "I'm doing fine," she said softly, holding out her hands in front of her for him to take if he so desired.

Like lightning to a rod atop a building that scrapes the clouds, his hands were drawn to hers. He took them both immediately, feeling their softness and warmth, and he wished to never let them go. His grasp was tender at first, as gentle as her offering, but it quickly grew to a powerful squeeze as though he was holding on to life itself in her palms. Closing his eyes and losing himself in the feeling, he said nothing and did nothing.

"It's okay," she said, and her voice was angelic to his ears. On its wings he drifted further away, his essence lifting from his body yet again until it was swirling, swirling over his head and he was looking down on the two of them in their connection.

The vision disturbed him, because he could see his weakness, he could see his frailty. Never before had he beheld such things in himself, and never before did he imagine such a depth of the bottom was possible. His psyche cried out in objection, beating a gavel of imagined strength and artificial bravado, both of which had fled from him with his desire to exist so long ago. The cries were pathetic, and their call to order would go unanswered as his legs shook with a level of anxiety and fear that he had never known.

"Come in," she said, pulling with her arms at the manly hands that had fully engulfed and overcome her own to the point that they were beginning to go numb.

When she'd dragged him across the threshold, his sight returned to the level of his own eyes and he forced his lids to open upon the place. At first, he saw only her. Gentle and serene, she appeared as an angel to him with her kind smile and loving eyes. Looking down, he realized her wrists were turning red with the squeeze he'd applied to her hands, so he struggled against his urges to let them go. Once they were free, she tried to be casual in her shaking of them to restore blood flow, but he saw it and felt guilty at once.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say through the distortion of his reality, through his temporary loss of control.

"For what?" She asked kindly, as though he'd done nothing to hurt her while her hands were cherry red.

"I didn't know where else to go," he added honestly, his voice as shaky as his legs upon her brown shag carpet.

"You're always welcome here," she replied. "I'm glad you came."

Wondering if this was true or just a front, wondering if it was even real to begin with, he simply nodded. Everything was a blur to him, all of the feelings and emotions had congealed and left him in an altered state. A state of darkness and despair, a state of misery and desperation, a state of uncertainty and confusion. Even as he stood, he wondered what he was doing in this place.

Or was he at this place at all?

Had he already pulled the trigger?

Had he already eaten a bullet?

Had he run the light at Hacker road and been killed in a collision while chasing the blue LeSabre?

He wasn't sure, everything was so disjointed, so disconnected. Everything was so surreal. In the haze, he wondered what exactly he sought from Nikki Spencer. She was just a young girl with whom he really had no business being at such a vulnerable time in his life.

But was he really with her?

Or was this just where he wanted to be?

Why did he want to be there?

"Are you hungry?" She asked, and he realized that he was. He hadn't eaten all day, hadn't given it a second thought until she posed the question.

"A bit," he replied, trying to downplay even his most primal urges to avoid being swallowed by the more arcane.

"That could be a problem," she chuckled, turning to the refrigerator. "I haven't been shopping in a few days, I don't really have a lot!"

"Do you like pizza?" He asked numbly, not intending to impose anyway.

"Who doesn't?" She smiled, but the smile quickly fell when she went for her miniature purse and continued. "I'll go in for half with you."

Seeing right through her, knowing she was broke, he refused her offer. He would pay the bill. For all he knew, it didn't much matter anyway because he was in Heaven... or, more likely, in Hell.

She found a menu she'd received in the mail from a local parlor and they quickly realized they both enjoyed the same toppings. Before five minutes had passed, they'd decided on a large deep dish with pepperoni, sausage, green pepper and mushrooms. This only furthered his perception that this was all an illusion. There had been no disagreement, no back and forth debate. Nothing ever went that way. Why should this?

The back and forth banter and the agreement they made so easily pulled him up just a bit. If this was death, it wasn't so terrible. If it was life, there were signs of promise. Trying to focus on whatever this was, he started looking around her place as she called in the order. The trailer itself was in pretty rough shape, worse even than he'd found Chucky's to be in on close inspection. Her furniture seemed a perfect fit for it, though; all of it old and worn down, the wooden items clearly being constructed of cheap particle board that was struggling to hang on in the face of passing time and the weight of junk and cheap decorations upon them. Her small and practically antique television was fitted with a digital converter box, and she was still using a landline to communicate via telephone. It was obvious in the blight that the girl lived on a shoe-string budge, that much required no expert analysis.

Among the faux-wood pieces of furniture was an oblong table against the wall next to the television stand. On it were several framed photos, which drew his attention. One picture seemed old and featured people likely in their thirties with a little girl, presumably her parents with her as a child. Another was one of her senior pictures, marked Class of 2013 which immediately made him feel old and like a creep on the whole. He'd graduated thirteen years before her, which meant she was probably a toddler when he was marrying his estranged wife. Hell, he had an eight year old son struggling to learn how to live when she was still in school.

There were two more pictures on the table that drew his interest much more than the ones that were easily deciphered. The first was clearly a hospital photo of an infant, and there was a card near the baby that read Samuel Spencer, December 7th, 2012. This was a conundrum, as he was forced to either assume that her parents had conceived a child very late in life or concede that Nikki had given birth during her junior year of high school. Neither option was entirely unheard of, but there had been no mention of a son on Nikki's part since they met. Did that mean she'd given the child up for adoption? If that were the case, why did she have the kid's picture on her table? Wouldn't that be terribly painful? Were her parents were raising him? If that were the case, why hadn't she mentioned him? Was she ashamed?

In thinking about it, though, he realized she really hadn't mentioned a whole lot of anything to him. She had been like a sponge, absorbing what he put out and offering little of herself in response. Their relationship had been pretty one-sided when it came to the exchange of information. When it was all boiled down, he barely knew anything about her at all. This revelation troubled him, because it meant he'd been the same man to her that he'd been to everyone else in his life. Always dishing out, never reciprocating, never thinking about anything beyond himself.

Christ, he was an asshole.

The fourth and final picture looked very recent, and it featured Nikki holding a terrified looking boy of about four years old on her lap as it cried and reached for the camera. That didn't bode well for a fantastic motherly relationship with the child, if it was her child, and it seemed like an odd choice for its own frame and place amongst her treasured memories.

"He's mine," Nikki said just after thanking the pizza parlor on the phone, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. Hanging up the phone in the kitchen, she strolled to his side and looked over the photos with him. "I tried to raise him once I got out of school, but I couldn't afford day care. My mother has him in Saint Louis, where I'm from, for now. As soon as I can get on my feet, he's gonna come back and live with me again," she explained.

Jake was at a loss for words, as he was still half engulfed in his crisis and half unsure what was appropriate to say in such a situation.

"He's cute," he offered half-heartedly, even though it was true. He wondered who and where the father was and why he wasn't involved, but decided that those things were neither his business nor pleasant topics to touch on in light conversation.

"Eighteen dollars for the pizza," she explained. "I can get the tip, if you want."

"No," Jake said as he reached for his wallet. "I've got it. Based on the size of your purse, you can't have more than a few dollars to your name or you'd have a blowout on your hands."

"Hey!" She chuckled sweetly. "I paid a lot of money for that purse! It's a Michael Kors!"

"Right," he returned her smile, "and you probably couldn't stuff the receipt in it to save your life!"

Digging out twenty-one bucks, he didn't even process the fact that this meant he was down to one-hundred and seventy-seven dollars for the balance of his investigation. Knowing wouldn't have mattered anyway, he could feel that things were winding down to an end... and not a good one, either.

Wiping such deeper thought from his mind, he deferred to the comfort of being with Nikki and tried to keep it all as superficial as possible. He would keep it light, and he would be unselfish; those were the goals.

She asked if he wanted to try to find something to watch on television while they waited for food, and he agreed to do so. Initially, he sat on the right end of the sofa while she took up a position on the left with an empty cushion between them. She clicked through her limited channels and found little that caught either of their interests, so they settled on some totally unfunny sitcom and watched in silence as the laugh-track went insane with the hilarity.

When the pizza arrived, they ate at the kitchen table and made small talk about Burlwood and The Meadows. She didn't dig into his past in the town, and he didn't offer any details because those were not things he was keen to share at this point in his life, and this wasn't all about him. He didn't ask anything probing about her either, figuring her story was her own business and she would offer up whatever she felt comfortable offering, which amounted to practically nothing.

There was no deep conversation, there was no discussion about the circumstances of one-another's lives, there were no soul-to-soul moments... and that was perfect, at least for Jake. Once he got over his feelings of disconnection and uncertainty, he actually started to feel good. For the first time in quite awhile, his mind was clear and he was concerned with nothing. That was glorious, and he reveled in it as they spoke about the weather and the terrible smell of sewage that permeated the trailer park.

They talked, they chuckled, they laughed and they just were. It was as if they'd constructed a giant bubble around fourteen-forty Applewood and had locked everything and everyone besides the two of them out. They were stranded alone on a desert island, they were stuck together in a comfortable but broken down elevator, they were the last two people on Earth, and it was phenomenal... for the both of them.

Once dinner was over, both of them were feeling rather tired from all of the talking about nothing and the fullness of their bellies, so they reported back to the lumpy couch and television. Nikki turned off the lights, so that the darkness was broken only by the images on the TV. There was a romantic comedy movie on, which would never have been Jake's first choice, but they settled in to watch it for a few minutes in the same positions they had sat in previously. After about a half an hour it was passed nine, and Nikki announced that he should take his shoes off and stay awhile. With a slight chuckle and smile, he did just that by simply kicking them off.

Not long after he'd shed his first piece of clothing, Nikki decided it was time for her to get a bit more comfortable for the remainder of the movie. With no hesitation or pretense, she shifted right in her seat and threw her legs up on the couch, resting her head directly on Jake's upper left thigh. At first, he was afraid that she would feel it tense and lock up, but it did no such thing in response to receiving her. Apparently, he was very much relaxed. Reaching for the back of her head, she removed her hair tie and let her long onyx locks spill over his leg and crotch, which was remarkably stimulating to him.

As he sat there, almost enjoying having her there with his arms still locked at his sides, he felt that stirring that she had inspired in him so frequently over the course of the past several days. As near as she was to him, she likely felt the stirring too -- there was nothing he could do to avoid it. The denim of his pants tightened, things shifted and changed, it had to be obvious. Within seconds of it starting, just as it was reaching totality, she rolled onto her back so that her face was looking directly up at his, which he turned down to meet eyes with her once again.

Just like she had at the carnival, she lowered her voice to something just above a whisper as she started into his eyes and asked "what are you thinking about?"

There was no lying in this situation. There was no ducking or dodging that he could do, she was right there. She certainly knew full well what was on his mind, though this instance required less intuition than the first time she'd called him out on it.

Still, he couldn't look into her gray eyes and say exactly what he was thinking about. He couldn't possibly tell her what he was imagining her doing. He couldn't spell it out in so many words, he couldn't verbalize something so obscene as what he was fantasizing while the weight of her head pressed against a place where only Tracy Swete's had pressed before. He couldn't say I'm thinking about you blowing me, because that just wasn't the kind of man he was.

Seeing her waiting for her response, seeing her want him to spell it out in so many words, he simply pulled his left hand from beside his body and gently ran his fingers through her hair. She smiled slyly, intuiting exactly what he was thinking and being fully open to it, being fully receptive to the idea.

There was a hesitation in his eyes, though, which she could see just as well. There was a hard-stop, there was an objection that he couldn't overcome. He wanted it, but he wouldn't have it -- he wouldn't allow it... not yet, at least.

Respecting that, respecting him and his boundaries, she sat up and pulled at his legs until he swung them up onto the couch. Being a thick man, he took up much of the space. Being a petit girl, however, she still had room to shimmy up from his waist until her face was buried in his chest and the rest of her body was pressed against his. Turning her head up to him, she offered and was taken up on another single, solitary and sweet kiss. Taking a deep breath, she laid her right arm over top of him and closed her eyes. Running her hands up and down his torso, she felt his gun strapped to his side in its shoulder holster. That turned her on more than he could ever know, more than even what she felt below, but she left it alone and moved on, running her palm from his thigh to his shoulder and back. She felt him take a similar deep breath and release it slowly, then felt his big left hand on her hip.

In time, they fell asleep. And they slept peacefully.

FORTY-SEVEN

September 14th, 2016. 11:40PM

Gartby, Indiana

"I knew it wasn't right, Ron, I just knew it!" Miss Ferguson congratulated herself as Deputy Bailey parked his cruiser in her driveway.

Sheriff Boudreaux had arrived five minutes before his backup and was already approaching the barn when he turned at the sight of Bailey's headlights. He'd been in a foul mood before Miss Ferguson placed her call to him, and what she had to say was certainly nothing to help lift his spirits. As it stood, he had a deputy in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest, and a perpetrator in custody who looked like he fell a lot harder than most of the people his officers arrested. He would have to explain the man's condition to a judge in the morning, and he was likely going to have to explain the department's survivor benefits to a woman he knew quite well once her husband succumbed to the wounds he suffered in the evening's shootout. Those things together spelled bad day, but adding the invasion of his warehouse by unwelcome and prying eyes changed the verbiage to something more sinister, perhaps nightmare or disaster.

"You say you left the door unlocked?" he asked her in a state of shock and anger after nodding to Bailey as he stepped out of his patrol car. "So he didn't break in, he just opened the door? Why in the name of sweet Santa Muerta would you have done that?"

Miss Ferguson cleared her throat anxiously, knowing that what she'd done was wrong and hoping this wouldn't impact her monthly rent payment. "Yes, Ron, I opened it on Monday because I expected that someone would be coming."

"And when no one did, you just left it that way?" He asked in his surly irritability.

Miss Ferguson chose to remain silent, figuring it the best defense, and let the man stew in his anger for the time being. She knew that Detective Harris, whom the sheriff had informed her did not exist, had explored the barn, but it wasn't as though he had taken anything away with him. Therefore, in her mind, everything was okay on the whole because everything was still right where it belonged. No harm, no foul, she figured. It was clear in Boudreaux's attitude, however, that this simply wasn't the case.

"You're sure he said Detective Harris, right?" He continued in his interrogation. "And he was a tall, thick and in shape looking man with black hair?" he specified to confirm.

"Yes, and he had a bit of a widow's peak," she added.

"That's him, Lord Jesus," the sheriff complained. "That little prick, sticking his nose where it doesn't belong! I should've known he'd do something like this! Did Louie come by afterward?"

"Louie Rambo?" She asked. "No, I haven't seen or heard from him since you sent him in your place back in March."

"Where in blazes was he?" Boudreaux snapped beneath his breath. "Should've been right here!"

They reached the entrance to the barn and stopped to wait as officer Bailey approached, and the man squeezed himself between the sheriff and the woman to effectively separate them. He knew of the sheriff's anger, which he was only allowing shades of to show through to the old woman, so he felt he was doing her a favor in creating space between them.

Boudreaux took a deep and nervous breath as he reached for the doorknob, wondering exactly what he was going to see once the door swung open. He thought for a moment about dusting the knob for prints, but figured there would be more to find inside anyway. The place could be a total wreck, Jake could've torn it apart and made off with documents that would be very hard to explain. That would certainly make the day equal a disaster, if it was the case. On the other hand, he could've just taken a brief look around and learned nothing from the experience. That option was highly unlikely, and Boudreaux knew it.

There was a brief sigh of relief when the door opened and he saw that things seemed to be in the same shape they'd been the last time someone had made the monthly exchange, but then he stepped inside and noticed some issues. There didn't seem to be many on the surface, but the fact that there were any meant that the place had been given at least a cursory once over. That spelled trouble -- perhaps big trouble, and everything inside would have to be thoroughly examined to gauge the damage.

"Shit," he cursed, approaching the pallet with the FGSI Services boxes and seeing that the tape on them had been cut.

"Got some over here too, Ron," Bailey reported as he examined boxes on the Leo's Construction end of the warehouse.

"This is trouble," the Sheriff complained verbally. "This is big fuckin' trouble!"

"Oh Ron," Miss Ferguson cooed from the doorway, "I'm so terribly --"

"Just get out!" He ordered loudly, spittle flying from his mouth.

She took his advice, her heart heavy with his disappointment in her. Trying to hold back the tears, she turned and walked off toward the house, where she would wait and hope that he might forgive her and continue with their arrangement, which had been very lucrative to her for a very long time.

In her absence, the sheriff looked around more. He saw little in the way of further issues, but even the two or three they'd found could spell jail for the lot of them.

"Okay, Jeff," he said in a pained exhalation to Bailey, trying to throttle his rage. He noted the collapse of the box containing FGSI's money and the displacement of the lid on the one containing paperwork. "The first thing we need to do is figure out exactly what he saw, exactly what he looked at. I don't care if we have to dust every box for prints, I want to know about everything that he saw."

"Yes sir," Bailey replied, surveying the place visually.

"Then, we're gonna have to clean it all up. Call in all the boys if you need to, just get it taken care of by morning."

"Of course, sir," Bailey acknowledged, setting to work immediately.

Waddling toward the exit, Bourdreaux shook his head in disbelief and dismay. He never would've thought it would come to something like this, it was almost an exact replay of 1996. It was as though they'd come full circle. When it happened then, he'd sworn that nothing of that nature would ever occur again -- and here it was, almost exactly the same, nearly twenty years later.

As he took his heavy and awkward steps toward the exit, he felt something crumble and crunch under foot in the middle of a step. Stopping, he lifted his right shoe and saw a small pile of crushed powder underneath. Knowing that it only could've come from one place, he looked up and to his right. Once he did, it only took a second to lay eyes on a box of product that had a very distinct and out of place hole right in the center of it. It appeared to have been made by a nine millimeter round, and he imagined it was through-and-through. Perhaps even into the box behind it, which really pissed him off.

"I don't believe it," he mumbled as he studied the defect. "That sum-bitch shot my meth!"

FORTY-EIGHT

Secrets Kept

July 4th, 1996. 7:30AM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jacob strolled up to Our Mother Of Sorrows where Chucky had his mother's Buick parked near a maintenance shed in the out-lot. It had been seven months since Janet Giguére was released from psychiatric care and the stint in jail that it led to after her overdose. In that time, Jake had seen Deputy Ron practically every day, as he was once again essentially living in the Giguére household.

Among the many trademarks of his residence were the loud naps he took with Janet, which seemed to grow more obscene each time, and the now familiar smell of nail polish remover and ammonia that generally preceded or followed each session. Jake knew from his encounter with the Burlwood Bees varsity team that those smells were the product of smoking crystal meth, or ice as it was more commonly known on the streets of Burlwood increasingly as of late. He also knew, from what he heard Boudreaux speaking to his mother about, that Deputy Ron was knee deep in supplying the drug to the small town he was charged with serving and protecting. It sounded as though he'd started reaching out too, spreading his influence into the surrounding communities and building an empire that was fit for a king.

The fool had loose lips, and his thunderous voice carried the tale of his sins through the paper-thin walls of the trailer he sought to usurp, likely informing the neighbors of his practices just as well as Jacob. Of course, the neighbors were probably customers of his as well, so there was no harm in his broadcasting the details of his deeds.

It was this knowledge he'd learned that got Jacob out of bed so early on this, an otherwise precious day of summer vacation. Recently, he'd heard the deputy speaking of a familiar address in his bragging that had his curiosity and interest peaked. Boudreaux had spoken of eight twenty-six Route 4, the address of the old Super Socket Fasteners building. Jake was aware of the now abandoned facility because his father had worked there before his suicide, and because of all the media coverage that occurred when the factory moved its operations to China and left so many residents of Burlwood Meadows unemployed and set them up to get on the dole.

According to the things Jacob heard through the walls of his trailer, Boudreaux had some sort of operation running in the building, and Jake suspected it had everything to do with his seemingly never-ending supply of ice. The information was important and actionable, because he desired nothing more than to get that creep Deputy Ron far, far away from his mother and to sever the arteries of supply that she and so many residents of the town had grown to appreciate with their latest addiction. Janet had been in a steady decline since the bastard started spending so much time with her, and the townsfolk were succumbing to the struggles that come with expensive and harmful habits just the same. People were losing teeth, losing cars, sometimes losing their homes and ending up living in the streets. It was like a plague of poverty, and the first symptom was the smell of acetone spewing from a patient's mouth.

All anyone seemed to care about was getting their next pipe full of meth no matter what the cost, and Jake's mother was no different. Many people seemed to be snorting it too, except for Janet whom Ron had strictly limited to smoking the dope since her accident the prior year. Misses Giguére had reached a level of addiction at which she often got very agitated when she had to wait for her fix, and she seemed only a few steps away from the theft and robbery that had captivated the rest of the addicts in The Meadows. When she had no ice, Janet was crazy. Far more so than she had been when she ate Xanax like Pez and tried to do things that still haunted her son's memory. During these new fits, she didn't try to unzip his pants or reach for his crotch like the fits of old. Instead, she screamed like a lunatic and beat on things in the trailer, punching holes in the walls and breaking formerly treasured knick-knacks in her desperation. This would eventually lead her to defer to the Xanax and other medications if she didn't get her hookup, downing more than she was supposed to of them and probably a good deal more than was safe. There had been many moments in which Jake thought she was knocking on Heaven's door again, and sometimes he wished she would just kick it in and march on through to put an end to all of the mayhem.

Even her pharmaceutical zombification of the past was preferable to the woman she'd become since the drugs came into the picture, and Jacob felt it was incumbent upon him to restore the balance. If he could bust Ron Boudreaux in the process of building his crime syndicate, if he could eliminate him from the equation, then that was exactly what he wanted to. This was for his mother's sake primarily, but he'd grown to hate the man just as well, so it would be a win-win in his eyes. Boudreaux was cocky, he was self-righteous and he treated Jacob like shit on the bottom of his shoes. As a result of these things, Jake had made it his mission to see the man exposed to the community and all of the world for what he was. He imagined all of the flashing police lights, like the ones on the night they found Joshua Banks, and he pictured fat ol' Ron all cuffed up and headed for the back of a police cruiser, which was where he more deserved to be than in the driver's seat.

Jake couldn't be positive that anything untoward was happening at the old SSF building until he saw it for himself, but that was certainly what all of the talk he'd overheard led him to believe. Armed with that information, he intended to check the place out. Since Chucky could drive, he'd arranged to meet with him at the church this morning. He would provide the ride,.

Keeping in mind that Louie Rambo and Launchpad were still equal members in what remained of The Burlwood Boys, he'd asked them to come too. They would meet at Our Mother and Jacob would brief them on their mission, then they would set off to change the layout of their neighborhood by bringing down the house of ill-repute.

In the best case, they would find a full-fledged meth operation headed by Ron Boudreaux and turn him in to Sheriff Rambo and Agent Gomez, who was still hanging around town. In the worst case, they would gather more information that would eventually lead them to that goal. Either way, this was a key mission. It was important to get it done and out of the way whether with precision or with brute force.

As Jacob approached Chucky, he heard strange noises coming from inside the shed which his friend had just closed. There was no sign of the others yet, and there seemed no good reason that Chucky was fiddling with the maintenance shed at all. He wasn't working today, there was no need for him to be taking things from or putting things in to the structure.

"What's going on, Chucky?" Jacob asked, wondering what the noises had been.

Immediately Chucky's face changed, and it almost looked like he wanted to cry at the question.

"Nothing," he replied, very unconvincingly. It was clear in his voice as well as his countenance that something was troubling him, but he seemed hesitant to reveal exactly what it was.

Curious, Jacob stepped between the Buick and the shed quietly to see if he heard any further sounds. At first there was nothing noticeable, but as he drew nearer, there was a barely audible and irregular panting that captured his attention.

"What's that?" He asked, pressing his ear to the aluminum door for a better handle of it.

"What's what?" Chucky asked, feigning ignorance.

"It sounds like --" he listened a moment longer, "it sounds like a dog!"

"There's no dog in there," Chucky insisted. "Why would there be a dog in the shed?"

Sure of what he was hearing, Jake pulled at the door and wondered the same thing. Once it was open and he saw the wiry white and brown fur down at ground level, he knew his friend was hiding an animal of some sort. Slamming it shut in shock, he recoiled and looked up to Chucky.

"If it's not a dog," he began, horrified, "then what the hell is it?"

Chucky's head dropped, as it often did when he was caught doing something he thought was wrong, and he nearly broke into tears. "It's a dog," he finally admitted.

"Chucky, why are you hiding a dog in the shed?"

"He's sick," Chucky volunteered. "I'm trying to make him better."

Examining the shed, which was putting off a strong heat under the July sun, Jacob wondered how locking it in what amounted to an oven was supposed to help the animal.

"You have to let him out of there!" He insisted in the kindest tone he could manage. "Chucky, it's way too hot inside there for him! He'll die in there!"

Reluctantly, Chucky approached the door and opened it just a bit. "Come out, Ruger," he said half-heartedly.

Reacting to the cooler air as opposed to being called by a name that had likely just been bestowed upon it, the miserable looking thing slowly marched its haggard body out of the shed. Jacob's initial impression was that it was some type of mutt with a heavy influence of Jack Russell Terrier, but it was barely recognizable as any breed in its condition. It was anorexically skinny, and there was some strange discharge oozing from around its eyes and its nose. It was salivating all over the gravel lot and seemed to be chewing something, though there was no indication that it had anything at all in its mouth. Chucky didn't have anything that resembled food, and Jake hadn't seen him feeding it.

"Oh my God, Chucky!" Jacob said, in shock at the image of its horrific state. "Where did this thing come from? It looks like it is dying!"

The scolding hurt Chucky's feelings, and his head dropped further yet as he did finally shed a tear. "I found him walking down the road yesterday," he explained. "I could tell he was sick, so I put him in here and tried to feed and give him water, but he won't eat or drink! I even tried giving him steak from the church kitchen, but he won't take it!"

"Do Rusty or Father Lovett know he's in here?" Jacob asked, concerned for the animal's welfare.

"No," Chucky replied plainly. "Nobody knows but me, they would take him away if they knew. When he's better, I'm going to take him home to live with me and momma."

"Chucky, this dog needs a vet if he's gonna get any better!" Jacob insisted. "Look at him, he's really sick! We've got to get him to Doctor Morris!"

"Oh no!" Chucky whined. "Doctor Morris kills dogs, I don't want him to kill Ruger too!"

Watching the animal struggle to stand, Jake knew exactly what was in store for the poor creature when he finally did see the doc. Most likely, Chucky's prognosis was right on -- unless someone had the money to pay for lots and lots of care and medicine. The creature wouldn't survive his visit, but the looks of him he was probably too far gone even for the expensive treatment route..

"Chucky, we don't have a choice!" Jake insisted, thinking about his other plans for the day and how this jeopardized them. Something was going to have to wait; either the inspection of the SSF building or the medical treatment of the dog.

As he thought about the conundrum, he heard the crunching steps of Launchpad and Louie approaching from opposite directions on Route 4 in nearly identical time. The dog just stood there as they drew closer, drooling and trembling like he had been, not interested in the strangers in the least. Before long, both of their old friends were standing with Jacob and Chucky with their eyes locked on the poor pooch.

"Jesus Christ!" Louie exclaimed at the sight.

"What the fuck is wrong with it?" Donnell asked.

"There's nothing wrong with him Launchpad!" Chucky insisted. "He's just a little sick!"

"Nuh-uh, fuck that!" Donnell barked, "I told you not to fucking call me Launchpad, and you're gonna start right up with it? Do it again and see what happens, bitch!"

Jake heard Donnell's retort as a threat, something he'd never known to come from his friend's mouth so long as he'd known him. It shook him, rattled his spirit and preconceived notions he held about his gang of buddies. It had been a long time since they'd all been together, but he never considered the fact that they might have grown apart in the time that stood between them. Based on the intro to their meeting, it seemed they had.

September 24th, 1994... nearly two years ago. That was the date that changed everything, and that was the last time they'd all been together. Jacob had tried mending fences with Louie and Launchpad since then, and he'd always maintained some level of a friendship with Chucky, but the loss of Timmy Lane had forever changed the dynamic between this group as a whole. It was only now that Jacob realized this, just when he'd called them into unison once more, for one more mission.

"That's enough!" He defended Chucky more than he scolded Donnell. The twenty-two months between them meeting in conflict when they locked eyes with each other.

"It's not enough!" Donnell chirped back. "I've been telling this fuck for ten years not to call me that shit! It's the name of a retarded fucking cartoon duck, man! That's what Launchpad is, and that's not me! That's far from me, and I'm tired of that shit! After all this time, he's still stuck on that shit, man! Like we're still the years old!"

"Everybody relax," Louie tried to calm them in his diplomatic manner. "It's been a long time, and this isn't what we've come back together to do... is it?" Upon the conclusion of his question, he looked at Jake for reassurance.

"That's right," Jacob seconded, breaking the adversarial staring contest he'd been maintaining with Donnell. Neither gave looks or words of apology, and neither backed away from their positions.

"Then what the fuck are we doing here?" Donnell asked. "I've got shit I gotta do, man, I ain't got time for this bullshit! I don't even know why I came! Ain't none of you fucks said shit to me since Timmy, why you calling me out here now?"

"Look," Jacob said, nobody paying an ounce of attention to the sickly dog between them anymore. "I need you guys to help me, that's what we're doing here! I'm sure you guys have seen this ice that's been all over town, and I hope you all see it as the serious problem that it is!"

"Yeah," Rambo commented after a moment of silence. A moment in which each of them reflected on their experiences with substance. It had touched all of their lives, in one way or another, and they considered the various ways internally before Louie broke the quiet. "My dad's been talking a lot about it, it's everywhere."

"Is that the stuff that smells like nail polish remover?" Chucky asked, still just as far behind the curve as he'd always been. "The stuff that people smoke?"

"Smoke it, snort it, shoot it," Donnell added, "yeah, that's what it is."

"I think I know where it's coming from," Jake explained, "and I want to go out there and shut it all down. That's what I've called you all for, I want you to help me step on this bug before it's bigger than all of us."

Donnell seemed perturbed by this, his eyes locking with Jacob's again with notes of concern and angst in them. "And how do you suppose we do that?" He asked.

"We kill it at the source," Jacob said, "where it's all coming from. We cut off the head, and the beast dies."

"Where's that?" Louie wondered, surprised that Jake would know when his father, the sheriff, didn't seem to.

"The Super Socket Fasteners factory," Jake offered. "That is where it's coming from."

This snapped Donnell's head and raised his eyebrows. He was quick to recall the expression, though, and he'd done it before anyone else had noticed. "What makes you think that?" he asked, his eyes unblinking.

"It's all Boudreaux talks about," Jake continued, " and I have reason to believe that he's involved with its production and distribution."

"Wait, that's crazy!" Louie exclaimed with a chuckle. "You think my dad's deputy is responsible for all of this? Do you have any idea how hard it would be for him to do that right under my father's nose?"

"I do," Jake concluded, "and he's doing it! I don't know what the rest of you believe about that man, but I see him every day and he's a monster! The worst kind of monster, and I want to shut him down!"

"You've lost your mind!" Donnell suggested, scanning the group with slightly cloudier eyes than he had at first. "That shit ain't got nothing to do with Boudreaux, and -- what's more -- it ain't got nothing to do with us! We're not ten years old anymore, Jake, like I already said! We're not ten years old and running around playing detectives, thinking we've really got a clue what the fuck we're doing! And this ain't no game, either! This is big shit, and we've got no business sticking our noses in it! This shit is way over our heads!"

"The murders weren't big shit?" Jake asked defiantly.

"Of course they were," Donnell conceded, "but we never really had a shot at cracking them! We were fucking around, like kids do! It's not like we were really close to anything! We might as well have been playing tag, it was bullshit! If we had been a threat to The Butcher, we would've been up shit's creek! If we get close to this... if we get a hand on this... believe me, man... we'll be far up shit's creek!"

"So what?" Jake asked. "We just let it go? We just let this shit take over the town and don't do a damned thing about it?"

"We be teenagers, man," Donnell said, "and we leave the grown-up shit for the cops!"

"I have to agree with Donnell," Louie added. "If you have proof of something, give it to my dad. He'll take care of it."

Jacob was amazed at what he was hearing, as it was so different than anything the group had ever said to each other in the past. It was as though growing older, and presumably stronger, had totally pussified his pals. They had been brave and fearless in the past, and now they were acting like nothing but a band of terrified children.

As a result, they would not be going to the Super Socket Fasteners factory today. Not as the reunited Burlwood Boys. They wouldn't be doing anything as the Burlwood Boys ever again, because time had pulled them apart and made them incompatible with each other. What once was could no longer be, and it would never be again. The times in which they were a unified force of friends was over, and there was no recovery from what their individual experiences had done to them.

"Alright, well I see this isn't going anywhere," Jake finally admitted. "Just forget I called, just go home and do your own things."

"You ain't gotta tell me twice!" Donnell answered, storming away immediately.

Louie Rambo hesitated for a moment, looking over his old pals and the sick dog with remorse in his face. He wasn't up for what Jake was suggesting either, but he hated to see their friendship end on such a sour note. Hoping to spare some piece of what had been, hoping to hold on to some aspect of what they used to have, he spoke kindly and with caring before walking away. "You guys should take that dog to the vet."

Their trip to SSF cancelled, Jake and Chucky climbed into the Buick with the afflicted animal. Within an hour, Doctor Morris would tell them that Ruger had distemper. Within two, the dog would be dead at the behest of a loaded syringe. Within three, Chucky would be a crying mess and Jake would be planning to topple Ron Boudreaux all alone.

Regardless of how it happened, he was going to bring the man down....

FORTY-NINE

September 15th, 2016. 9:35AM

Burlwood, Indiana

Another morning, another dream, another piano and more Canon. Canon swirling, swirling in that familiar fog of waking, but tired eyes struggling to focus in on an unfamiliar place. A strange sofa, a strange living room, the feeling of hot breath every few seconds as a strange body exhaled on his bare sternum.

Bare?

He had awakened feeling hot, like he was lounging in a sauna, that much he remembered vaguely. Waking between dreams, he'd stripped off his shirt, and now he felt the cotton of a t-shirt pressing against his flesh. He didn't wear t-shirts, so this was odd and confusing. He hated t-shirts, hated the feeling of cheap fabric on his skin, so this article of clothing he felt so close was not something that belonged to him. Looking down in the haze, still seeing doubled blurry images of life, Jake noted that Nikki was pressed snugly against him with her face buried in his chest. Her right hand was holding his gun -- his Berretta, that is -- which he still wore in his shoulder holster. This was the source of the fabric, and the this was the progenitor of the heat that ruffled his dark and curly chest hair.

Less than half awake, he reached for the notes of Canon and swiped at the screen of his phone blindly, pressing it to his ear haphazardly and crookedly before mumbling hello in a raspy morning smoker's voice.

"Jake," a very familiar man living in the speaker began, "Jake, it's me -- Nick."

"Nick?" He repeated, the wheels turning and turning while thoughts were stirring in chasm of sleepiness and the swirling memories and shit!

Shit!

He'd answered the call of Nick Swete, father of Tracy Swete and mentor of a teenaged Jacob Giguére. A man to be avoided in the days since he left home, a man to be avoided in the days leading in to double indemnity, a man to be avoided until the curtain fell because he was a man who could make the curtain ripple and blow like the wind through naked tree limbs at the apex of autumn and fuck, he was on the phone.

Shocked at hearing the voice, afraid of what it would say, Jake shot straight up on Nikki's couch and flung his legs around until he was seated naturally in the position nearest the table where his phone had sat. Poor Nikki, still sleeping, was flung to the floor with force by his sudden movement. A loud thump sounded with her landing, followed briskly by her ouch and her waking most rudely.

"How are you doing, Champ?" Nick asked in his eternally kind tone, uttering the nickname he'd given a teenaged hockey prodigy. A nickname that belonged to a young man long passed, a boy who died many times over in the years that interceded, a boy who was a stranger to this time and place and breathed no longer while the air moved through the lungs of a body snatcher fit for Donald Sutherland.

"Um," Jake stammered, rubbing his eyes and panicking as his mind raced about what to and not to say in response. "Good," he offered generally, lying through his teeth.

"Look, Champ," Nick continued, forgiveness and loving spilling through the speaker with his words. "Tracy is really worried about you," he advised in a language Jake didn't understand, speaking with no interpreter to ghosts that didn't dwell here any longer..

"Tracy?" Jake muttered, things still swirling as Nikki struggled herself up onto her backside upon the floor.

"She didn't tell me the whole story," Nick said, "I don't need to know the whole story. But I know she loves you, that's all I've ever needed to know."

Jake paused, wondering if this could be true. How could Tracy love him? How could she still love him, after all he'd put her through? How could she still care? Why did she give a fuck any more, why did she dispatch her father in this futile quest to reach out for a person who was a corpse with high blood pressure? This man who once was, this ex-husband several days into his grave.

"She said you were going back to Burlwood," Nick recounted, concern and disapproval as evident as any emotion in his voice.

"Yeah," Jake replied half-wittedly, still processing things in sleep mode and hovering on the cusp of nightmarish memories.

"I think we all know there's nothing for you in Burlwood, Champ," his surrogate father advised, certain and succinct. "Not in the condition you're in."

"Condition?" Was Jake's next one word response, spoken in surprise and confusion with notes of anger and condemnation.

"It's okay, Jake," the man said. "Everything is okay, we just want to help you."

For a moment, this angered Jake. What did anyone know of his condition? Who were they to offer help? Who were they to assume he needed help? He was fine. He was in control, and he knew very well what he was doing. How dare the Swetes take the position that he was some sort of lost soul, some sort of invalid who was in need of some kind of assistance? How dare they assume that any of them understood where he was in his mind, how he felt or what he was going through?

Then, he thought about it... he thought about his mother, he thought about the demons she fought with weapons as potent as Xanax and then ice. He thought about her struggle, he thought about her collapse. She had no Swete family to reach out a hand, she had only Deputy Ron and his brand of therapy. Would the story have ended differently if she had been thrown a life-preserver? A proper life-preserver with someone so loving and caring holding the rope at its other end? Was he in need of a life-preserver? Was he drowning in a state of grace with no idea that his head was slipping below the water, that turbulent ocean of depression and anxiety?

No...

He was the master of his destiny...

He was at the helm, and he knew precisely where he was going...

He was okay with were he was going...

He had chartered the course, and he knew the waterway...

"I'm okay," he said, a bit more alertly than before as his mind was catching up with his body.

"You're okay?" Nick asked incredulously. "Jake, how can you say you're okay?"

"Look," he replied with bite, "I don't want to talk about it, Nick."

"I think you need to talk about it, Champ," Nick suggested. "I think you're in trouble, and I want to help."

"Do you know how you could help?" Jake asked sharply. "By not calling me anymore!"

Without another word, without an ounce of due respect, Jake ended the call. At first he felt a strong pride, a sense of victory at standing tall and refusing to be helped. When that passed, however, he felt empty and ashamed. This man had done so much for him in his years, and his repayment came in a tongue of fire and dismissal. Nick deserved so much more than to be snapped at and hung up on, but that's exactly what he'd given him. In his hubris, he'd fired the weapon strapped to his ribs in the direction of a friend. Verbally and through his action, he'd shot the man dead and left him bleeding the streets of that dark realm in which he'd dared to step with the intention of turning on the lights.

Conflicting sentiments tearing his heart in two, he reached for the shirt he'd cast off last night and retrieved a Newport from the breast pocket. Without asking permission, without being sure that Nikki was okay with smoking in her home, he flicked his lighter and fired one up to feed his craving. Nikki was just about fully awake as he did, and she watched him inhale deeply after he'd pressed the button and slammed his phone down on the end table.

"What was that?" She asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"It was nothing," Jake replied, in no mood to talk about it.

She nodded slowly, considering the mood he seemed to assume and how such negativity generally didn't arise from nothing. This had been no telemarketer on the phone, it had been no bill collector who rang him just now this morning. Still, it was his to talk about or to suppress, and suppression seemed to be the direction he intended to go in. That was his affair, she had no say in the matter whatsoever.

Without another word he stood and marched off in search of the bathroom, which wasn't difficult to find given the less than expansive nature of her trailer. She heard him urinate aggressively, wondering if this was normal or due to the anger that he took with him to the toilet. After the flush and crash of the seat crashing down, he returned to the living room and yanked his shirt around both arms before buttoning it quickly and recklessly with his cigarette dangling from his lips.

Just watching quietly, she saw an entirely new emotion working over him. This wasn't the simple anger that he exhibited when she was under attack at the race track, and it wasn't just frustration either. Letting him be, letting him do his thing, she tempered her urge to use the restroom so that she could watch him and be there in the event he decided he needed her for anything.

As he undid his belt to tuck the shirt in and then refastened it, it quickly became clear that he wouldn't come to that conclusion. He would fight this battle alone, whatever the battle was. Not even bothering to look at her, he ran his fingers through his hair to throw it back into something that resembled his style. Searching frantically for his shoes, he found them near the couch and sat down to put them on and tie them up.

Curious at his behavior, she spoke gently to avoid catching his rage. "Are you leaving?" She asked.

"Yes," he replied sharply.

She nodded, realizing that he wasn't in a talking mood. Knowing that, sometimes, not wanting to talk means that a person needs to talk the most, she pressed him a bit. "Want to tell me where you're going?"

"Jail," he said simply.

Figuring this meant he was off to visit his friend, and figuring correctly, she nodded again as he stood and looked down at himself to be sure he was presentable. He was, of course. A man as attractive as him doesn't require much to be presentable, and he'd covered all of the necessary bases as smoke billowed around her trailer. Standing up herself, she moved closer to him slowly and gently. Not asking permission, verbally or otherwise, she opened her arms and took him in a hug as she pursed her lips and gave him another kiss.

He accepted her mouth again, returning the favor and planting his hands on her hips as she squeezed him afterwards. The chemical change in his brain at the embrace was almost tangible, and he felt the effect of new and counteractive neurotransmitters surging to balance his mood. It was an incredible feeling, and an incredible relief that worked instantly and effectively. Like a hot load injected into his veins, the affection changed everything immediately and reset his psyche. He rose from the depths of darkness into something that resembled daylight with the exchange, and he was grateful to her for the gesture. Whether she knew it or not, she'd made all the difference for his day. He would walk out of her place feeling neutral, which was better than he'd felt since -- well -- since the last time she'd kissed him.

Pulling back from her, as she would've held him tightly forever if he so desired, he looked into her eyes again and saw a depth of caring that was almost foreign to him given the time since he'd witnessed it anywhere else last. He smiled at her, and the smile was only half forced. Patting her on the waist signaled that it was time to let go, though he wasn't sure that was what he truly desired. She squeezed him once more, as an indication that she was letting go only of her will, and then disengaged so that he could go about his business knowing that she would be there after.

Walking out of her trailer, he looked over to the neighboring unit where he'd spent so much time of his youth. Strangely unafraid of seeing it anymore, he studied every bit of it from top to bottom and accepted the feelings that it brought back. Seeing it plainly in the daylight brought back sweet memories, but he paid it attention only for a moment before turning his back, as he had done in the reality of his normal life. Fourteen-thirty Applewood was a place that meant something in his past. Not in his present, and certainly not in his future. Despite Nick's words, Tracy had made very well sure of that... she'd played her card, and she'd won the trick.

FIFTY

September 15th, 2016. 10:45AM

Indianapolis, Indiana

LeTonya rolled her eyes as Donnell ducked into his office, carrying a well stuffed bag from the downtown deli that certainly contained a more than adequate lunch for him this morning. He didn't say a word to her, and he'd asked her to clear the entirety of his afternoon schedule for the second day in a row. He would likely spend the next few hours in his office, pacing back and forth in silence, just as he had the day before, with no explanation for his behavior.

Having overheard bits and pieces of his yelling at Jake, she knew that his old friend had done something that angered him bitterly, but she wasn't exactly sure just what that thing was. He refused to talk about it, no matter how she tried to ask, and she'd since given up on caring because of his sour attitude about the whole thing. Whatever it was, it was starting to cost them even more money than representing this Chucky was because Donnell seemed to be set on refusing to do anything besides appear in court for cases that simply couldn't be rescheduled. If a task was within his wife's power to push off, he insisted that it be pushed off. Even when it was a meeting with a client who actually had the means to pay for his services or some other task that was sure to generate income.

Frustrated beyond belief with him, she simply did as he asked and let him stew in whatever it was he was stewing in without another word of caring or concern from her. In the meantime, though, she'd continued on her internet quest to find the identity of this strange and elusive character known only as Freaky. It was a challenge, something more than she got from her everyday routine of phone calls and e-mails, so she'd developed a bit of a bent to crack the case and find the guy. Her initial Facebook queries had gone unanswered, so she dug deeper into the Indy Central High School collective online with further probes and prodding on websites dedicated to finding long lost classmates and arranging class reunions.

Having finished adjusting Donnell's schedule for the day and with nothing else to do beyond playing Solitaire or reading about her favorite celebrities, she decided to check all of the traps she'd set in search of this man she wasn't even sure she was still supposed to be finding. The first several sites she checked showed nothing in the way of a bite, but then her eyes opened wide when a message box on a particular lost and found persons page threatened to shed a bit of light on her quest.

Hi there, it read. If you're talking about Freaky Magahey, his name was Zack. I have no idea what happened to him after school. Hope that helps.

A rush of adrenaline swept through her at finding even that much, so she quickly Googled Zack Magahey and scrolled through a number of results. As it happened, there was someone operating a blog under that name, and postings to it were responsible for many of the search engine hits. Clicking one to check it out, she found that the blog was titled Brickyard Breakdown and assumed the name was related to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which served to prove that the author could be the person she was searching for because he apparently lived in the vicinity of the city.

Clicking around the page, she tried to read several of the entries but found that they were just too rambling and nonsensical to hold her attention. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the posts, nor any general topic that stitched them all together in any way at all. They were paranoid and angry, and several of the articles made references to our brothers in the sky and secret signals from underground. These things in unison made her wonder if the Zack Magahey was in his right mind, which she figured couldn't be a good thing when it came to furthering whatever investigation this Jake was conducting.

Continuing to browse, she eventually came to an entry that included a photo of an urban landscape that was very familiar to her. It featured a low-income apartment complex downtown that she recognized because she had accompanied Donnell to it early in their relationship when he went to meet with a client. She was convinced she had roaches and lice crawling all over her when they left, and she swore from that moment on that she would never swim the depths of the ghetto with him ever again. The caption on the photo led her to believe that this was a view from Zack's home, so she immediately sent it to the printer and jumped up to snatch it as soon as the paper spit out.

Excited, she burst into Donnell's office prepared to share the news with him. When she opened the door, however, she froze upon seeing her husband sitting perfectly still with his eyes transfixed on an unwrapped Reuben on his desk. This locked her in place for a moment, because the sight was so surreal and the atmosphere in the office was thick and uncertain. Her flinging the door open didn't change his demeanor or position, which initially led her to wonder if he'd had a heart attack and dropped dead where he sat.

He eventually blinked, still not looking up at her, giving the only confirmation that he was still alive on offer at the moment. She stared at him for a few seconds, expecting that he would ask what she wanted or have something to say for himself and his strange behavior, but no words spilled from his mouth as he just sat, staring at that damned sandwich.

"Are you okay?" She asked after a prolonged silence, raising her eyebrows in concern.

"Um hm," he replied nonverbally, still in his trance and unwavering.

"I've got good news," she added, taking in the tension that was spewing from his pores. He said nothing, so she held up the paper where she stood in the hopes that he would look. "I think I found Freaky! His name is Zack Magahey, and he lives by that nasty project you took me to on Second Street!"

"Thanks," he said quietly, his eyes eating the crust of the rye bread before him.

She stared at him for some time, waiting for some further adulation or evidence that this piece of news moved him in any way. There was no response, and that cocked her head a bit in confusion and irritation.

"Is that all?" She asked. "Just thanks? You're not even gonna look at what I've got? You're not gonna go down there and see what he has to say for himself? You're suddenly not interested in this case that cost me a chance to meet Dianna Ross? Are you serious right now?"

Picking up on her anger, he spoke a response even though his attention was still on the lunch he didn't care to eat. "I'll get to it," he said.

"You'll get to it?" She parroted back. "You'll get to it? All this work I put in, and I finally get a bite! I finally finish up, doing your work, and all I get back is I'll get to it?"

"I don't want to talk about it, LeTonya!" He snapped, finally pulling his eyes up to meet her with rage spilling out of them. "Now I said I'll get to it, and I'll get to it!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She barked back. "Ever since you got that call from this Rambo guy you've been acting like a damned fool! You chewed Jake out, you stopped doing your job, and now you think you're gonna give me attitude?"

"You have no idea what's going on here!" Her husband belted in retort. "You have no idea what I'm facing, what that son of a bitch did to me! I try to help the bastard out, and he gets me caught up in a trap!"

"What kind of trap?" she wondered.

"A tight one!" He advised.

"Well," she opened her response, "do you belong in that trap?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked with attitude to match her own.

"Did you stick your foot in that trap? Did you walk into that trap? Is it your own damn fault that you ended up in that trap?"

Thinking it over, Donnell realized he kind of did. He wasn't facing anything that he hadn't earned, there was nothing to own up to that he hadn't done of his own free will with full knowledge of what it meant. He'd stuck his neck out many years ago, and it hadn't been lopped off. It was comfortably retracted now, and even though the blade was finally falling there was no chance he would be facing charges or anything of the sort. His reputation might be tarnished, but that would be the extent of the damage no matter what happened. He'd known that from the beginning, but it hadn't really resonated until his wife -- channeling his mother, as she often did -- had made him consider why he might have to suffer that injustice.

"So what if I did?" He answered, hoping for more motherly wisdom as opposed to trying to dodge the question.

"Then you should quit acting like a child and deal with the trap!" She said, speaking with the voice of Elle Hughes. "When you're caught up in a trap, you don't struggle against it! That just sinks it in further! You calm down, then you figure out how to get up out of the trap with as little damage as possible! It's one thing to cry like a baby if somebody puts you in a trap, but if you stepped into it with your eyes open? Well then it's yours to wear, and it's yours to handle!"

Hearing it put in words, hearing it spelled out for him, he agreed with what she was saying. He'd fought it for two days, he'd struggled against the idea since it became real, but suddenly he was at peace with it. Mysterious and nostalgic as the cessation of worrying was, he was glad that it all cleared up. All the anger, all the worry, all the uncertainty; it started to fade. This was a twenty year old issue, yet he was wallowing around in it like it really still had teeth. In reality, the only teeth it could possibly have were dull and false. There was no bite behind the bark, there never had been. He had been foolish in struggling against the trap. He had been foolish in giving it a second thought.

His mind clear, he looked back at his sandwich and realized it looked delicious. Without further delay, he lifted it and took a giant bite. He wiped the thousand island that ran down his mouth with one hand and motioned LeTonya closer with the other. He would look into this Freaky Zack McCleary, and he would communicate what he found to Jake... because Jake hadn't done anything to him that he hadn't asked for, and there was little to be done about it now anyway.

There was a tomorrow, and there were plenty of days beyond that in store for him. Some of the drilling that was to come might prove painful, but his smile would be better for the work and removal of teeth that were rotting in his mouth. In the end, he owned all of the proverbial teeth in his head... the pearly white and the brown and decayed alike. Surgical removal of some was overdue, and cooperation would be the equivalent of being a good patient.

FIFTY-ONE

September 15th, 2016. 12:00PM

Garthby, Indiana

Jake had several hours to waste after he left Nikki's before he was due to visit Chucky at the Elsmere County PD and jailhouse. He used a portion of that time checking up on Rusty Parker again with a quick drive-by and a few minutes worth of surveillance. As before, he found nothing out of the ordinary. The hospice organization came for one of their visits, and then left without incident shortly after their arrival. The mail also came and was delivered to Rusty's curbside box, which was of some interest to Jake given his past discoveries.

Ever the opportunist, he waited for the postal vehicle to be well out of sight before he pulled up to the box and opened it to check the contents. There was a clothing catalog and three letters, each of which was sent standard post and looked to be an advertisement for local services. None of them was of interest, so he deposited them back in the box as though nothing had ever happened and simply drove away.

His route took him passed Butcher's Lane, so he slowed and parked on the shoulder for a few moments to see if Daryl was up to anything strange or mysterious just for good measure. He wasn't, so a brief period of watching quickly gave way to more driving towards Garthby, towards his final scheduled destination for the day.

Along the way he passed the ruins of Super Socket Fasteners again, not slowing his travel in the least because the place was clearly useless in its broken down and abandoned condition. There were no answers for him there this time, so he drove on without a second thought.

As he traveled, that familiar sensation that he was being followed popped up from time to time, but he just didn't care anymore. If there was a wrecked out Buick LeSabre on his tail, so what? If that vehicle was operated by The Butcher Of Burlwood, so be it. It was clear the driver wasn't going to give himself up easily. If Jake started getting too close to the answer, the man would take further steps to intervene. When that happened, Jake would pounce... when that happened, he would have his answers right in the palm of his hand. Checking the mirrors like a good detective, he didn't see the vehicle if it was there. That meant he was heading away from what mattered to the driver, and that was fine because his mission was something entirely different on this afternoon.

After a half-hour on the road, he was in Garthby. He passed the Ice House and it brought a smile to his face, leaving him to wonder within himself whether it was the memories of old that drew his grin or those conjured more recently on what could perhaps be called his first date with young Miss Spencer. Whichever it was, his grin was full and complete... something he hadn't experienced much as of late given the circumstances of his life.

Pulling into the jailhouse lot brought no such expression of joy or happiness. If anything, the spartan look of the building soured his mood and brought him back down to the low state of being that had become his norm. The place looked ragged and run down, not at all what he would've expected from the crown jewel of Ron Boudreaux's legal empire. It was institutional and it was cold, and the thought of Chucky's being held captive there tugged at his heart. His old friend was the antithesis of this place in his soul, and now he was a prisoner to the negativity and the depravity of the rest of the world at large.

Parking in one of the spots marked visitors only, he withdrew his Beretta and placed it in the glovebox for safekeeping. Stepping out of the Malibu and locking it up tight, he sighed at what he would see when he walked through the main entrance of the place. In all his days, he'd never visited a prisoner of the state and been subjected to the sort of screening that he knew was in store for him. He imagined it would be something on the level of a TSA pat-down kicked up to eleven, and he wasn't looking forward to enduring it in the least.

In the end, it wasn't nearly as terrible as he imagined it would be. A quick pass through a metal detector followed by a scan with the wand after his belt-buckle set the large machine off, and then he was good to go. The officers on duty directed him to the visiting area, and he expected he would run into the big bad Sheriff in charge at every turn the corridors leading up to it took. Surely, King Ron didn't intend to let him visit his friend without some further intereference... without some nasty words of warning or promise of ill things to come if he continued with his investigation.

Apparently, harassment was not on the man's agenda, as he didn't appear -- even for a moment -- before Jake was seated in his chair in the visiting area. The place looked much as Jake expected it to, much as places like it are depicted in movies and on television as being. There was a chair before a small counter, which was interrupted by a pane of safety glass beyond which the counter continued before falling off and giving way to a chair on the opposite side. There was a corded phone mounted to a rise in the counter on either side, presumably the means by which he would communicate with Chucky. The only difference between this particular area and those in the movies was that there was only one space for communication, and he had generally seen several booths in a line represented in fiction. He chalked this up to Elsmere being a small county and settled into the chair, waiting for his captive friend to be brought in.

The gravity of the entire situation struck him as he waited, something that he thought he'd experienced in full back at the courthouse but realized now he'd barely scratched the surface of. In mere moments, his innocent and naive friend of old would be brought into the room in chains and shackles, a man marked for death in a case where the cards were heavily stacked against him. Try as he might, he hadn't found any cracks in that case that might set him free and clear his name. The suspects of old were old and seemed unlikely to be the culprits in this latest crime, leaving few directions in which to point an accusatory finger that would hold an ounce of water in a court of law.

FGSI was clearly a criminal organization, but there was absolutely nothing linking it to the death of poor little Billy Marsh. Rusty Parker looked good as the Butcher of old, but he was in no condition to carry out such a heinous act today given his physical frailty. Evander Hughes was half way to moon mentally, he certainly couldn't have played a part in the boy's death because he barely knew what planet he was on. Daryl Lane was an emotional wreck with no real motive or opportunity to carry out the acts that were evidently perpetrated on a young boy who suspiciously befriended and then rejected one Charles Edward Murphy on account of his parent's objection. All of those things pointed the hand of justice away from the suspects of old -- and directly at a man who was by all account incapable of doing something so terrible.

His head swimming with what if's and maybe's, he tried to shake all of the issues he was encountering in his investigation off and to clear his mind so that he could be what Chucky needed him to be; an optimistic and supportive friend.

What would he tell the man, though?

That he had nothing?

That, so far as any jury would be concerned, he hadn't discovered anything that might cast doubt on Chucky's guilt?

How could he express that in a way that his simple-minded friend would fully understand? How could he sugar-coat it enough to keep it from tearing his sweet heart right out of his chest? How could he be both honest and supportive all at once when there was nothing to build hope on?

Before he had a chance to fully vet potential answers to these questions, a door opened in the room beyond the safety glass and Chucky appeared. He wasn't handcuffed, he wasn't shackled, and he looked very much like a normal person. Beyond the bright orange jumpsuit that he wore to show his status and standing within normal civilization, that is. His hair was as disheveled as it had been in court, and it looked as though his face hadn't seen a razor at least since then. Jake could almost smell him through the glass, and it wasn't a pleasant odor to behold even when it was simply in his mind. It was that familiar body odor topped with countless missed showers, and it seemed likely to be nauseating if not for the fact that they were technically in two different and separate rooms.

Chucky's shaggy face broke into a wide smile when its eyes saw Jake beyond the glass, and the mustached mouth mimed the words Hi Darkwing in what was probably a shout that was muffled by the soundproofed nature of their surroundings. Jake returned the smile, though his was far less genuine, and he picked up the phone on his side of the chamber to speak with his old buddy.

Chucky took his seat, looking at Jake with confusion in his eyes as he searched his side for the phone that was plainly obvious to his right. Jake pointed it out to him, pressing his finger on the glass, and Chucky mouthed oh before finally picking it up to begin the conversation.

"Hi Darkwing!" He repeated, the words audible to Jake this time through his receiver.

"Hey there, Chucky," he returned as excitedly as he could manage to muster in his funk.

"How's it going, pal?"

Jake balked at the question, sitting back in his chair and shifting his weight on his behind. "It's going okay," he fibbed.

"Did you figure out who The Butcher is yet?" Chucky wondered with wide eyes.

"Well," he began, hesitating, "I think I'm close."

"It's Rusty, right?" The man suggested, blasting Jake into a confusion regarding how he would possibly have come to such a conclusion.

"It might be," Jake returned after a pause of consideration, "but why would you think that?"

"I dunno," Chucky claimed, looking as though he felt he'd done something wrong in suggesting him as a suspect. "He's just the only other one with keys to the van."

"Tell me about that," Jake said in reply. "Tell me about Rusty and the van. I know he has keys, but has he used it lately?"

Chucky's face dropped further, until he was looking at the surface of the counter he was seated at, and he looked guilty now in what he'd said. "Not lately," he admitted, "but he used to use it all the time!"

"I know that, Chuck," Jake returned the volley, "but you know that the van is a big part of this thing with Billy, right?"

"Yes," Chucky said, nodding his still lowered head.

"So why would you mention Rusty and the van if he hasn't driven it lately? Have you talked to Rusty lately? Have you seen him? Do you have reason to believe that he had anything to do with what happened to Billy Marsh?"

"No," Chucky replied to several questions with one answer, shaking his head this time while still staring straight down.

Jake was unwilling to let this branch of the conversation die, it was too strange that Chucky went straight to Rusty with his accusation for it to be just a simple slip of the tongue. "Chuck, if I'm gonna help you here, you need to be completely up front with me!"

"I am!" The prisoner responded to the scolding.

"Then tell me why you went straight to Rusty! I didn't say a word, and you asked if I'd looked at him! There has to be a reason you would point a finger at him!"

Chucky paused, taking a few deep breaths and sighing each one out before he answered. "I just think he used to be The Butcher, that's all."

"Why?" Jake pressed. "Why him, of everybody?"

"Just because!" Chucky answered, slowly raising his eyes.

"That's not good enough!" Jake admonished, harshening his tone a but. "Do you have reason to believe that he was The Butcher? Do you have any clue about it that you can share with me? Chucky, if you have evidence that Rusty killed any of the kids from before, then I need --"

"I don't wanna talk about it!" Chuck shouted in return, his voice overloading the handset speaker and making it crackle. This was a stunning change of tone, and it set Jake reeling for a moment. There seemed no reason on the surface for the suspect in the murder of Billy Marsh to get so excited over the mention of another potential target of the investigation.

Why should be be so agitated?

What was he hiding?

"You don't want to talk about it?" Jake asked incredulously. "Well Great!" he yelled, cranking up the tension. "Then this just got really easy! I can wrap up my investigation! All you have to do is sit in here and wait a few years, then they'll kill you and you'll never have to talk about it again! Is that what you want?"

"No!" Chucky cried, obviously conflicted somehow.

"Then talk to me, Chuck!" Jake begged. "I hate to tell you this, pal, but so far I've come up with a whole lot of nothing that says you didn't kill Billy Marsh! I have no idea what Boudreaux has that says you did, but apparently it's enough that he thinks he can get a jury to put you to death! If that's not what you want, then I need to know everything that you know, and it's pretty obvious you're holding back! Now, let's think about what's happened so far; we walked in, we sat down, and the very first thing you said is it's Rusty! That's a mouth-full, man! Especially since I didn't say a word to you about it even possibly being Rusty! I know Rambo didn't tell you it was Rusty, and I'm positive that Boudreaux didn't tell you that it could be! So that means you must know something -- and if you do, then you need to tell me!"

"I don't know anything," Chuck answered, congested and tearful after being yelled at by a man he once knew as his friend. A man who, as a boy, would've jumped all over anyone who dared raise his or her voice at his best and treasured friend. Jake's face looked much the same as it had, but Chucky started to realize that he didn't recognize the person sitting in the opposite room at all. He may as well have been a complete stranger visiting with him, there was no trace of Darkwing to be seen in his words or actions. Darkwing would never have pressed him this way if he didn't want to do something.

"You must, Chucky, you defaulted to a prime suspect in the original investigation!" Jake snapped again, making a revelation to the man. "There's no way you just jumped to that conclusion without any information!"

There was a long and emotional pause before the man promptly blurted out "he killed Timmy!" The message was delivered directly through his sobbing, bringing the conversation to a sudden and grinding halt.

Jake's mouth fell agape, his shock coming complete with a thousand questions that swirled through his mind.

Was this for real?

Was this another dream?

Would Canon start playing in the ether again?

Could he possibly have heard what he thought he heard from his old friend's lips?

Could his friend possibly have information to back up his claim?

Did Chucky know something, something specific, that brought this revelation to the surface? Or was this no more than a simple mind grasping for straws and delivering what it felt would bring an end to the torment of harsh questioning?

Was there evidence that this was true?

"Chucky..." Jake started slowly, maintaining the gravity of the moment as it pulled at every inch of his flesh. "That's a very serious accusation. Do you have proof of that? How can you know th--"

"Do you remember that Thanksgiving?" Chucky interrupted, snorting snot back up his nose. "Right after Timmy went missing?"

Thinking back, Jake did remember it. It was the year that his mother nearly overdosed on ice, the year that changed the rest of his life when he went to live with The Swetes for her extended absence.

"Yes, I do," he assured with absolute certainty.

"Do you remember I was outside crying? When you were going to Tracy's house?"

Swirling, swirling and "yes. Yes, I remember that you didn't want to go deliver the food because Rusty was being mean to you."

"We didn't just deliver food!" Chucky stated matter-of-factly. "That's when Rusty got rid of Timmy's parts! I saw them in the cooler the day before, and I didn't want to deliver the food because I knew he was going to get rid of Timmy's parts too!"

Again, Jake froze. If this was true, if this was real, then Chucky had been sitting on incriminating information for nearly twenty years. He'd held the key to the case of The Butcher Of Burlwood and done nothing with the knowledge he had. He'd been living with the images of little Timmy Lane all dismembered and piled up in the Our Mother Of Sorrows cooler for two decades. He'd been protecting a murderer for the better part of his life.

"Chucky, if you're serious," Jake said one syllable at a time.

"I AM serious!" Chucky shouted again, sobbing uncontrollably now in a fit of tears.

"Why didn't you say something?" Jake asked, still in shock. "Why did you wait all this time?"

"I was scared, Darkwing!" Was the sobbing answer. "I wasn't supposed to see it, and when I did he told me he'd hurt me if I said anything!"

Not sure what to say in return, Jake considered everything related to Timmy's death. He thought about Rambo and his insistence that he had eyes on Rusty during the time when Timmy was kidnapped. He thought about the cooler at Our Mother, and the cook, Jeremy Mosian, that Father Lovett mentioned worked there alone with Rusty and Chucky.

How could Rusty kill Timmy if he was being watched when the boy disappeared? How could the remains of a little boy go unnoticed by a man working full time in the kitchen and all of the surrounding areas of the church? How could any of what Chucky was saying be possible?

"Chuck, what you're saying is going to require a lot of explanation." He began.

"See?" Chucky whined. "That's why I never told anybody! Because they wouldn't believe me, and then Rusty would kill me too because nobody would do anything!"

As the prisoner melted to the counter in a fit, like a small child, Jake continued processing what Chucky had proposed. Further thought led him down new paths, opened new doors and concepts that could make it all fit together. He didn't have enough control of his thoughts to know if he was stretching and twisting pieces to fit or whether they really snapped together cleanly, so it was an abstract puzzle to his mind.

If Jeremy Mosian had been behind the wheel of a particular blue Cadillac Brougham on September 24th, 1992, would that crack the case? If he had taken Timmy to Rusty after Rambo was called away and before the federal agent arrived, could that be the answer? If the two of them had killed and dismembered the boy, if they'd plotted to store him at the church until some of the heat was off... could that be the answer to the riddle?

Well, that could just be what happened...

That could just be how it went...

But Jeremy Mosian was dead now, Father Lovett had said so when his name came up. There would be no further investigation of him as relates to Billy Marsh, he was as out of the picture as Jack Morris was when it came to the death of the latest victim.

"Do you know how Rusty was able to kill Timmy?" Jake asked plainly, simply. "Rambo was watching him, how did he manage to take him and then kill him?"

"Somebody helped him," Chucky whinnied.

"Who helped him?" Jake asked desperately, deferring to the obvious. "Was it Jeremy Mosian?"

"I don't know!" Chucky answered, frustrating his friend.

"But Mosian must've at least known, right?" Jake insisted. "I mean, if the body was in the cooler, he must've seen it!"

"I don't know! I don't think so! Mister M was nice!" Chucky claimed.

"Was it Boudreaux?" Jake hoped, waiting on the edge of his seat for an affirmative so he could sink his teeth into the bastard.

"I don't know!" Chucky repeated, tears falling from his eyes like rain.

"I don't know doesn't do shit for us, Chucky!" Jake shouted. "I don't know puts you on death row! You have to know, you have to remember! Whoever helped him then could've helped him now, and that's the only way that I can even suggest that Rusty killed Billy Marsh! There's no way in hell the man did it by himself with the condition he's in, that much is quite obvious! I need to know who his partner was, and I need it to be someone still alive, do you understand that Chuck?"

After the yelling, Jake took a breath of his own and tried to steady himself. Hearing the words he'd just spoken aloud, he admonished himself internally for essentially leading the witness. He'd given Chucky a set of guidelines, a cookie-cutter that he needed to squeeze his answer into. Knowing the limitations of the man, he realized that he'd made a terrible mistake in setting things up the way he had.

Thankfully, Chucky was also taking a moment to pull himself together, so perhaps the details he'd been fed would fade from his mind. He cleared the tears from his eyes and the snot from his nose, blowing it on his sleeve and staining his jumpsuit with unpleasantness. He looked up to see a perplexed, dismayed and irrritated Darkwing, which wasn't something he had ever liked to see. As much as his friend emphasized his needs, as clear as he made them, Chucky had no answers to give him regarding who Rusty's accomplice was. He truly didn't know, and therefore he couldn't tell. It was this realization that calmed him, this understanding that restored his self control and lifted him out of his blubbering. He only knew what he knew, so there was no sense in crying about what he couldn't control.

"I don't know, Darkwing," he said calmly. "I just don't know."

Jake sighed, feeling somewhat guilty for having grilled his less than fully functional friend so harshly. Surely, he would've spilled the information by now if it was in his possession. Surely he wasn't protecting anyone at this point, when his own life was on the line against a more direct threat than Rusty could've ever made towards him.

"Okay," he said to comfort the man. "Okay, Chucky, I guess I just have to dig into it."

Even as he said it, he wasn't sure what it meant. Who could he possibly look into at this point that he hadn't already had eyes on? Who associated with Rusty Parker at this stage of his life? No one that he had seen, save for the hospice workers. He was a man out of time. His friends were dead, his potential cohorts were dead, and soon enough he would be dead himself. Nature would take from him what the law never managed to snag, if Chucky's allegations were true.

Still, there was the FGSI connection. Jake wasn't sure what or who FGSI was, but he knew that Rusty and Boudreaux were both involved, so that meant the old man wasn't entirely isolated in his old age. He would have to continue looking in that direction. He would have to shove a probe way up FGSI's ass and see who came tumbling out of the woodwork in response to the intrusion.

It wasn't much, but it was something to go on. If Chucky was telling the truth, which he believed he was, then Russell Parker was the original Butcher Of Burlwood. Based on the similarities of Billy Marsh's murder to those of the past, the original Butcher had to be the prime suspect no matter how long the odds. If that was Rusty, Jake just had to find a way to make him wear it.

"But you believe me?" Chucky asked, looking desperate for an answer in the affirmative.

"Yes," Jake replied, "I believe you."

Chucky nodded, sniffling back a few new tears and wiping his eyes to the point that they were a deeper red than they started as.

"Can we talk about something else?" He asked. "Before you have to go, can we talk about different things?"

"What kind of things?" Jake wondered, his mind still racing about everything that Chucky's revelation meant.

"Normal things," Chucky replied.

"Like what?" Jake asked, trying to focus on the moment.

"Is anybody taking care of my trailer?" Chucky said.

"Yeah, Chuck, I am." Jake replied. "I'm living there while I investigate, I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind!" Chucky said excitedly through a smile. "Sorry about the mess."

"Oh, you have no idea," Jake Chuckled, remembering the wreckage caused by officers serving the search warrant.

"Is it just like old times? You living back in Burlwood?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far," Jake returned. "I didn't exactly leave Burlwood on good terms, I'm still not too sure how I feel about being back."

"Do you still know Tracy?" Chucky asked, likely remembering the close relationship the two maintained when their love was new.

This took Jake's eyes down to the table, though tears were not in store for him. "Yeah, I still know her." He explained less than enthusiastically.

"Is she staying at my place too?"

"No, Chuck," Jake said. "It's not really like that anymore."

"But it was like that," Chucky pointed out. "You did live with her, right?"

"Yeah, I did," Jake recalled.

"Like friends living together?"

"No, we were married not long after we left Burlwood, so she was my wife."

"Married?" Chucky marveled. "Does that mean that you --" he hesitated with a look of childlike wonder, "did it with her?"

"Did what?" Jake asked as naively as his friend might've at a similar question.

"You know," Chucky said, a laugh on the tip of his tounge, "it!"

"Are you asking if we had sex?" Jake inquired, shaking his head in uncertainty.

Chucky's outburst of manic laughter answered his question, that's exactly what he was asking.

"Well, yeah," Jake chuckled in response. "We were married for a long time, Chucky, we've got a kid together."

"Wow!" Chucky exclaimed. "So you're a daddy?"

"Yeah, I'm a daddy," Jake realized for the first time in quite a while. "I'm a daddy to a boy named Garrett."

"Like your dad! And like your middle name!"

"You got it, Chuck," Jake replied.

"That's so cool!"

"Yeah," Jake looked to the floor now, further down than the counter as his mood fell in concert. "It's pretty cool."

"So, what's it like?" Chucky asked, his eyes wide and curious.

"What?" Jake asked. "Being a father?"

Chucky shook his head.

"Then what?" Jake wondered. "Sex?"

Again, the look of marvel on his friend's face as he nodded answered in the affirmative.

"Well, I dunno Chucky," Jake chuckled, turning his hands up to illustrate the point. "I mean, how am I supposed to explain that? It's -- it's -- it's wonderful," he finally managed to say. "It's the most wonderful thing you can imagine. Being so close to a person that you love, it's incredible. I don't know how else to explain it, man, it is what it is."

Chucky looked sheepish as he listened to the explanation, then like a sad old dog when Jake's description came to an end.

"I've never done it," he explained, looking sad. "I tried it once, but I was too nervous. It didn't work."

"Oh, that happens!" Jake laughed. "Shit, it happened to me the first time Tracy and I tried! Embarrassing, isn't it?"

Chucky nodded, not laughing in concert with his friend this time. "I'll probably never have a chance to try it again," he said, perhaps realizing the pinch that he was in and the odds that he was facing, or perhaps just realizing his limitations and social ability.

The idea of that tugged at Jake's heart again, and he wanted to scoop his sidekick up in a comforting hug to tell him everything was going to be okay. Of course, the glass between them prevented any physical contact. That broke his heart, but there was nothing to be done about it. There was no string he could pull to save his pal this time, there was no magic button that would make all of this go away. Chucky was in for the long haul, perhaps for the rest of his life -- or as long as the State saw fit for him to live. It was going to take something big to free him of that fate. It was going to take a miracle.

"Look, Chucky," Jake said resolutely, "I'm gonna find out who did this."

Chucky nodded his head again, the tears threatening to return as Darkwing spoke words of hope, words that could ring hollow if he didn't catch a break. Determined to do what he could, Jake repeated the sentence -- perhaps to convince himself that such a thing was possible.

"When I find him, we'll get you out of here. I just need you to stay strong for a little longer, okay Chuck?" He asked.

This time there were more tears. Then more slobber and snot that any grown man should ever produce. In an effort to lend his strength, what little there was of it anymore, Jake pressed his palm against the safety glass and waited for Chucky to do the same. They couldn't feel anything of each other through the barrier, but the sentiment was exactly what Chucky needed in the moment.

"Are we still blood brothers?" Chucky asked in sobs.

"Of course we are!" Jake answered. "We'll always be!"

While they sat making as much contact as was possible, the door behind Chucky opened wide to reveal a corrections officer in full uniform.

"That's time," he said kindly, something Jake didn't expect from an employee of Sheriff Ron Boudreaux. "Come on, sir. Back to your cell block."

Jake kept his hand pressed against the window, projecting his manufactured confidence as long as he possibly could as Chucky stood up without breaking their contact. When he turned to face the officer, he finally had to withdraw his hand and return to whatever hell awaited him through that door alone.

Jake had learned a lot during this visit, he just wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with the new information. Clearly, Rusty had a partner in crime back when The Butcher ruled over the streets of Burlwood. The problem was, most of the likely suspects were either dead or close enough to it that they couldn't possibly have participated in the murder of Billy Marsh.

Finding the person who did was going to take a whole new level of effort... a level he wasn't sure he had within him to spare.

FIFTY-TWO

September 15th, 2016. 3:40PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"As much as I want to believe it," the voice of Clyde Rambo said through the speakers of the Malibu, "I think that's just a little far-fetched to be reality."

Jake nodded in response, a reply that the former sheriff couldn't hear, which was largely intentional. He'd dialed Rambo as soon as he pulled away from the Elsmere County clink, already not sure whether or not he believed the story of Timothy Lane being stored in the Our Mother Of Sorrows cooler for nearly two months. He wanted Clyde's unbiased opinion of the tale, though, which he wouldn't get thoroughly if he suggested that he was unconvinced of the details himself.

"We know that he had been frozen for a time, then defrosted just before he was -- discarded," Rambo continued. "So it fits a little, but as I understand it, there was a ton of people in and out of Father Lovett's walk-in on a daily or weekly basis. I'm talking the cook, volunteers, Lovett himself, a lot of folks. The idea that Timmy was in there all that time and nobody saw him... I just don't think it's possible, Jake."

"On the same hand," Jake replied, "I don't know that Chucky knew or understood that Timmy's remains had been frozen. That's what's got me wondering, I guess, because I'm not sure he's sharp enough to put two and two together with the delay between his abduction and the discovery of his remains."

"So you think that lends credence to it being true?" Rambo wondered.

"I guess I'm not terribly sure," Jake admitted. "Is it possible that Rusty stored him in a freezer -- either at the church or otherwise -- then smuggled him into the cooler at the last minute, just before it was time to do the deed?"

"He definitely didn't sneak him in there at any point after maybe the day Timmy went missing," Rambo offered. "I was on that man like stink on a monkey at all times save for a few minutes after Timmy disappeared until sometime late the next morning. I watched him go to work everyday, his hands empty every time, and I watched him go home in the same condition."

"And you're sure nothing happened off of your watch? You had to sleep sometime, you had to deal with other business at some point during the day! Can you be sure the feds were watching as well as you were?"

"Look, Jake," Rambo objected with a change in tone, "I've already explained to you that there was a formal changing of the guard between myself and federal agents watching that man every time I left him except for the moments after Timmy was taken. I reported to the church before my relief arrived, and maybe that was a fatal mistake so far as Timmy was concerned, I don't know. Beyond that, though, there is no chance in hell that the man was able to sneak anything into that church from the moment the feds got back on him until several years after the crime. I'm positive of that."

"He managed to sneak Timmy out of the somewhere, that much seems obvious!" Jake jabbed. "And he managed to spread him around The Meadows pretty easily too!"

"I'm still not convinced that's what happened," Clyde countered. "If you want to believe that he somehow got Timmy in the church van and then pitched him out the window a bit at a time or something while they were delivering charity meals, you go on ahead and believe that. I, for one, find the whole thing hard to swallow."

"Were you watching when they delivered the food?"

There was a grunt on the other end of the line that answered the question, but Rambo was man enough to verbalize a response afterwards. "No, it was Thanksgiving. I was home with Louie, it would've been the feds at that point."

"So it is possible?" Jake asked. "Rusty could've dumped Timmy's remains while they made their rounds."

A pause and a sigh came before the answer to this question, and it was very evident that the words the former sheriff did speak were difficult and almost painful for him to mutter. "I suppose it's possible, but I don't believe it for a minute. I also don't understand how this changes anything now, you've seen the condition that Parker is in today. I don't know that he's fit to be subduing small children."

"Do you know of anyone he associated with back in the old days? Anyone that may've helped him? Is it possible that Ron Boudreaux helped him?"

"Oh no," Rambo objected, "no, no no. Anything you're thinking, know this much; Ron Boudreaux had nothing to do with those murders, there's no way in hell. Trust me, we knew about his Voodoo curiosity, we took a look. It would've been impossible for him to have been involved and been in all the places he was with us during the times that things went down. Throw that one out right away, because that one is a loser."

"You sound pretty convinced," Jake replied.

"I'm positive! Of all the things Ron Boudreaux might be, an accomplice of The Butcher he was not, I promise you. So far as Rusty goes, so far as I saw, he didn't associate with anyone. He went to work, he went home -- everyday -- without change, without fail. Once every week or so, he went shopping. He never went to the bar, he never met with a woman, he never solicited a prostitute, he did nothing beyond the very basic activities that any normal person would call basic living."

"Bottom line, though, is it your opinion that there's no way Rusty had Timmy Lane's remains in that cooler as Chucky said he did?"

"I want to pin it on Rusty as badly as you do, Jake, but I just don't see how something like that would be possible given the circumstances."

"Okay, fair enough," Jake said, realizing he largely agreed with the former sheriff. The story was a stretch, but why would Chucky make something like that up? At best, it meant someone was helping Rusty who needed to be located and questioned. At worst, the whole thing was bullshit and a deflection of some sort... but was Chucky intelligent enough to devise such a deflection? Did he have it in him to make something like that up?

"What's your next step?" Rambo asked, trying to peek inside of Jake's investigation.

"I've got a couple of ideas," Jake replied, "there are a few things I want to check out."

"Feel free to call if you have anymore questions," Rambo volunteered. "And if you run into Louie anywhere, tell him to give me a call. I've been trying to reach him for something I'm working on, and he won't answer his phone or return my messages."

"I will, but he doesn't answer for me either," Jake advised.

"Strange. That's not like him." Rambo said. "Let me know if you come up with anything."

"Yes sir," Jake said, pressing the red button on his steering wheel to end the call.

Shaking his head at everything that had transpired so far on this day, he made a turn and took the car in the direction of what he told Rambo he wanted to check out. It wasn't a new lead, it wasn't a fresh piece of evidence, it wasn't anything related to Billy Marsh at all. It was fourteen-forty Applewood... the home of Nikki Spencer.

Given everything that he'd seen, heard, thought and considered over the past several days, he had no appetite to continue in his investigation. What's more, he had no idea where to go with his investigation from this point. Everything he'd looked into had proven to be a dead end or less than viable possibility, every dark corner he'd exposed to the light had shown little of promise when it came to solving the case of who killed Burlwood's last fallen child.

What was he to do next? Knock on everyone in town's door and ask the people he found whether or not they actively aided Rusty Parker in the murder of six children in the nineties? Ask them if they perpetrated a new crime in the present tense as some twisted nostalgic throwback?

Frankly, that's about where he was...

That was about all he had...

He couldn't go back to Rusty and confront him with Chucky's charges, because Rusty had run him out his home on Confederate Way after he lost his cool during their last visit. The man had threatened to call the cops, which meant Ron Boudreaux, which meant arrest on multiple charges per the warning he'd given when this entire odyssey began.

He had no idea or clue as to who any accomplice might've been, no hint as to where he should look to find him. So it was knocking on doors he was left with to that end, either that or digging into the business dealings of FGSI Services -- a wholly owned subsidiary of one Sheriff Ron Boudreaux \-- to find out who Rusty had dealings with on a business angle. Based on what he'd seen at Miss Fergusons' place, it seemed that organization was a front for the new sheriff's continued meth operation. For one reason or another, Rusty was on the dole of that group based on the paperwork he'd taken from the man's kitchen table. Maybe he'd seen something he shouldn't have and had to be cut in on the action, maybe he'd been involved somehow, but he was on the payroll. And so what? What did that have to do with the proverbial price of tea? Sure, a business acquaintance could just as well have been a partner in crime, but being linked to such a person under the umbrella of FGSI meant that Sheriff Boudreaux likely knew the person just as well. Was it possible that Deputy Ron would let the slaying of children pass right by under his nose without taking some kind of action? He was a criminal, but was he capable of something so foul as that?

Maybe... and maybe he put some of his alleged Voodoo tactics to work in the commission of old crimes. Sure, that was plausible... but there was no feasible way to investigate such possibilities and remain a free and breathing man in the county on Elsmere.

Giving each option he had full and complete consideration, he decided on none of the above.

Feeling like shit, feeling the arms of depression wrapping around him like a constricting boa, feeling his control slipping through his fingers, he decided he was going to see Nikki... final answer. It was only a matter of minutes after he hung up with Rambo that he pulled up in front of her place, his mind churning and heaving with doubts and uncertainties, both related to his case and his life in general. As he walked up to the door, he heard Nick Swete's voice booming in his ears.

I know she loves you, Champ... he said.

But she didn't. Not anymore.

Neither did he. He hadn't in a long time.

Nor did he love his breath, nor did he love the beating of his heart, nor did he love the sensation of the wind blowing through his hair as he knocked and the resident promptly opened her door to him, opened her home to him, opened her heart to him. There was no love for her in him either, only some subconscious longing for things that could never be, things that would never be. There was love for an illusion, for an idea with no substance in the reality that surrounded him, for a farce that offered some form of respite from the slings and arrows that assaulted him each time his lungs filled with air.

"You're back!" She said with a smile, reaching for him and swallowing him in a hug as powerful as the vicelike grip of that boa coiling around his throat. It wasn't forceful really, in fact it was quite gentle and serene, but it was powerful to him nonetheless.

He said nothing, just stepped into the trailer behind her once she'd let go and fell back into her home, urging him in with her eyes. The air was artificially warm inside, and it felt like a slice of Heaven. Like a limited release trailer for a film he would never be allowed to see. Like a glimpse of what could be if he was anyone other than himself. Like a peek into a realm in which he was never destined to tread.

Floating on a cloud of false affections, he hovered to her couch and willed himself to sit. She watched him from a short distance, wondering why he didn't speak but knowing all the while as he silently sat. She had the intuition to know what he wanted, but to give it without asking was a violation of his condition. A concession to the lies of a tormented mind.

Seeing her just waiting, he also knew what kept her still. She wanted to make him work it out, to force his hand in reaching out for things beyond his grasp. She wanted him to walk in the world of the living. To exist when that was the last thing he wished to do. She would make him ask for what he wanted, force him to express what stirred within him.

"Will you sit with me?" He said finally, longingly and in submission, looking up at her with puppy eyes.

Having heard the cue, having been asked for help, she reached out and wrapped her hands around the underside of his thighs. His cooperation was necessary in scooping his legs off of the floor and swiveling him where he sat, laying him down and placing his feet up on the far end of the couch. She gently took his shoes off to make him more comfortable, then set them down just as softly on the floor beside the end table.

His legs spread in a v, she carefully placed her knee between them and lowered her body down until her stomach was in contact with his crotch. Placing the second leg and then stretching both out, she was resting with the side of her face to his chest and just a bit of her weight pressing down on him. With her ear near his heart and lungs, she heard him take a deep and relaxing breath. Soon, the rhythm of his life slowed to a steady beat of tranquility that pumped in perfect time. Realizing that she was helping him, she closed her eyes and smiled. The flow of peace overcame her in giving just as it did to him in receiving, and together they rode an ebb of calm tides.

They sat that way for several minutes, each of them silent in their serenity, each of them calmed and reassured. They could've stayed that way forever if not for the needs of the human body, and neither would've objected to the loss of everything else that encompasses life and living. The moment was perfection, the moment was pure, the moment was sweet. But, like all good things, this zen was fated to end for them eventually. Hoping to make it more, hoping to take it deeper, Nikki finally killed their silence in a hushed and intimate voice.

"Is everything okay?" She asked.

Jake's heart pumped harder in her ears as he was pulled briefly from the moment, and the bass of his voice rattled through her body as he replied "it is right now."

"What's happening in your life?" She inquired sweetly, though the words were violent probes that exploded in his mind.

His soul retreating behind the tall and formidable walls he'd built to protect it in his past, he drew another deep breath and tried to shut her out. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said plainly.

This answer lifted her head from his chest and turned it to look into his eyes, hoping for another round of symbiotic osmosis like the ones that they'd enjoyed so many of since they'd first met only several days ago.

"Why won't you let me in?" She whispered, seeing his defenses rise in the constricting of his pupils.

"In where?" He asked with a note of muted hostility.

"In here," she said, caressing his forehead. "Or here," she seconded, placing her palm on his heart.

"Because," he began slowly, introspectively, "you don't want to be in. There's nothing good to see in, there's nothing you want to be associated with in. It's just better that you stay out."

"Better for who?" She wondered. "For me? Or for you?"

"For both," he answered.

His reply irritated her, but she squashed her negative response to his repellence and tried to maintain the peace in the atmosphere. Placing her head back on his chest, she dug it in to let him feel her there.

He did feel her, even before she made an effort of it. The warmth of her body soothed him, a fire spreading from just below his neck, where she started, to that place between his legs, where it grew to an inferno of desire that he had to fight to keep control of.

She felt him as well, just as she had several times before. From top to bottom, from beginning to end, she felt him. There was nothing inside of him that would scare her away, she knew that full well. She'd seen more than he knew, her age and general sense of innocence, if that's what he saw, was a farce that didn't mean anything at all. Letting her in would not chase her away... letting her in would sink the hook.

So far as what was happening between his legs, he wouldn't let her in there either, and she saw no point in petitioning for entrance to another place that he did and didn't want her to be all at once. He'd shut all the doors, at least for the moment, most certainly including the sexual one. She could bring him temporary respite through affection, she could provide him shelter in the storm... but he would let her do no more, he would let her be no more to him. Not now... not yet.

Lifting her head slightly once more, she placed a set of kisses on either side of his neck. After the second, she moved her mouth close to his ear and spoke in notes that shook his soul in a shiver that moved down his spine. "I'll be here when you need me, baby."

When the words were spoken, he wanted to thank her. He wanted to let her in, be that in his mind, his heart, or his pants. For the time being, though, he just couldn't... because he was afraid to go to any of those places himself. Each locale carried a load of baggage that he wasn't sure either one of them alone or the two of them united could bare. Each was condemned, in its own way, and forbidden to outsiders seeking entrance. The chambers were sealed, the water-tight bulkheads were secure. The wave would only come through upon his death, when all the barriers were shattered.

Then, he would be free...

Then, he would be whole.

Then, he would be open...

FIFTY-THREE

September 15th, 2016. 6:45PM

Burlwood, Indiana

A torrent of September rain beat down on the windshield of the Malibu like thousands of tiny hammers as Jake found himself charging along the interstate, nearly blind between sweeps of his wipers. The sky was dark with storm clouds, save for the moments when brilliant flashes of lightning cracked the evening air and sent loud reports of thunder chasing behind them. Traffic was light, probably due to the storm, so he was able to maintain a minimum of seventy miles per hour despite the inclement weather.

Other cars, their drivers lacking his lead foot, fell behind him with whooshes on his right side as he cruised at speeds beyond what was safe and reasonable for the conditions. His mind was running as fast as the vehicle, spewing plumes of whitewater up in trails like the breath of dragons howling in his wake. His heart was as heavy as an anvil in his chest as he felt the moment creeping closer by the second. That space in time when the fine arm of the watch would, for him, stop spinning forever. That immortal moment when his life would end, insignificant to most but of capital importance to him and all he was.

He'd known it would be soon, he'd known it would come without warning, but he hadn't a clue that everything would be just right on this particular evening, at this moment, in this place. Feeling it coming, sensing it so close to him, it was more difficult to bare than he ever could've imagined. It was more terrifying than he'd ever considered it could be.

Double indemnity, by God, it was time for the die to be cast. It was time for the plans to come to fruition, it was time for it all to fall down like the house of cards his life had become. If ever there was an opportunity, if ever there was a chance to make it look good, the time to make his move was now. There was nothing for him to hold on to at this moment anyway, why shouldn't it be now?

One million dollars, that would be the payout to Tracy and Garrett when all was said and done. The redemption of his five-hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy times two, thanks to double indemnity in the event of accidental death, which is what it would appear to be. That gift he would give them... that opportunity to better themselves he would bestow upon them.

That or nothing, if he didn't work it just right... if it was obvious that he committed suicide instead of meeting death by misadventure, there would be no payout to the surviving members of the Giguére family household. If he executed his plan as designed, if he managed to not fuck it up like he had so many other things in his life, those he left behind would get along comfortably for the rest of their natural lives with nary a worry about how they would keep the lights on or buy food to stock the refrigerator. If he did it all right, he would give them something that he and his mother had been denied when his father tightened that noose around his neck on that frigid Christmas morning. He would give them a fighting chance, an opportunity to lift themselves up from the rut he'd put them in and carve out something that resembled a decent life, despite all of the influence he weighed them down with in the days that he drew breath.

Speeding along in the rain, feeling the rear end of the car wanting to come around as the tires hydroplaned on particularly wet patches of freeway, he knew this was a prime opportunity to wreck and make it look real. To make it look like an accident, which is what he needed to do in order to succeed. He would race towards an overpass support and tap the brakes to get the car squirrely, then he would steer the front end towards a protruding concrete divider in such a manner that he would hit it with just the left half of his front end.

A small overlap crash... that's what they call it when a vehicle strikes an object with only a portion of the front end, and there isn't a car on the market that fares well when tested in such a manner. Crumple zones fail because they're designed for full frontal collisions, and there's almost always an unsurvivable intrusion of the obstacle and the wreckage into the passenger compartment.

That's what he needed... that was the only way to be sure that he didn't survive and end up as some sort of paralyzed disgrace or vegetative waste of space. He needed this crash to be bad, he needed this crash to be terrible, he needed this wreck to be fatal, and anything less was failure. He also needed it to be an accident, so he had to remember to brake so that he would skid into the wreck. Witnesses or forensic reconstruction would rat him out if it looked like he did it all on purpose. The insurance company would balk, and everything would've been for nothing. His death would be a waste, just like his life, and it would be just as empty as his father's had been. It would mean absolutely nothing to anyone. Maybe a long night for a cop or forensic examiner, nothing more.

His chest was pounding as he closed in on the bridge at Cambridge Parkway, where he saw a perfect target on the left as the base of the overpass protruded onto the shoulder. There were yellow and black arrows mounted to it, their reflective nature catching burning headlights upon them and sending a warning to signify a hazard to those who didn't wish to die in a terrible crack-up. To him they were a beacon, though, a magnet that drew him in and dared him to finally see it through. He'd never refused a dare in his life, and this wasn't going to be the first.

Preparing himself as he sped towards it, he tapped the break and let the rear end of the car swing out to the right just a bit. For show, he tried to correct by turning the wheel in that direction. This action made the back end swing wildly to the left, which was his cue to act and finalize the deal. Cutting the wheel hard toward the black and yellow signs, he stomped the wide pedal and wrenched the steering so that there could be no recovery. The nose of the car seemed drawn to the hazard signs, and Jake smiled when he realized that it was going to work.

Time slowed to a crawl as he watched the barrier approach, knowing that he was set up perfectly to catch the concrete with the space from his left headlight all the way over to the Chevrolet logo, a perfect offset wreck. It seemed that an eternity passed before him as he slid along the roadway, feeling a complete loss of control over the Malibu in its collision course despite the fact that he had finally taken command of his life and his destiny. He waited for his life to flash before his eyes like the old cliche, waited for the horror that would play out, waited to suffer all of the injuries for a second time before he met his end.

To his relief, the projection never came to be. Instead, he just watched the barrier slowly approaching, watched the hazard signs growing larger as the anti-lock brakes clicked and clacked in a futile effort to stop his careening vehicle. Eventually, he was on top of it. As he heard the crunch of first impact, he wondered for a moment if there would be time for it to hurt. Would he be conscious long enough to feel the concrete and steel closing in on him? Would he be aware of being pressed into his seat like an orange in a juicer? Would he know it when he was bent or wrenched in a way that the human body is not designed to twist? Would he feel the flesh tearing and the bones breaking as he became hopelessly intertwined with the folding structure of the Malibu? Would his departure from this life be painful, or would it be over in a flash as timeless as the bolts of lightning popping overhead.

With the cracking and smashing and shattering that followed, his essence was ejected from the vehicle and he was once again looking down upon himself... upon the folded wreckage of his car, upon bits of concrete raining down from the impact as plumes of fire erupted from the undercarriage of the Malibu. Time returned to a normal pace as the car started to burn, black smoke rising from the mangled heap like steam from the spout of Clyde Rambo's teapot.

Just as he had imagined in his planning, the left half of the car was smashed in all the way to the backseat. What had been the driver's seat, where his body had been, was destroyed and made one with the pillar that helped hold Cambridge Parkway in suspension over the interstate.

As the car exploded, he knew he'd done it. He'd made it right.

The time for double indemnity to be set in motion had come, and he had seized upon the opportunity. He'd made it a reality.

He was dead...

He was gone...

He was over...

As the noxious cloud of melting flesh, scorching aluminum, boiling rubber and vaporized fabric engulfed him in his perch overhead, all the world went black. He heard the sounds of the rain and the laughing of the fire with the slipping tires of other traffic coming to a hurried stop for a short time, but then it all fell silent and he was surrounded by the very definition of nothingness. In the nothingness was quiet, in the nothingness was dark, in the nothingness was cold.

Christ, he had never been so cold in all of his life. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, wanted to squeeze himself tightly in a fit of shivering, but he was without mass... he was without form. There he waited, alone in the void, wondering if this was to be forever.

Was this oblivion? Was this how it all came down, what it all amounted to after?

Consciousness in a vacuum?

Awareness in an abyss?

Hell...

He waited for a time alone, resigning himself to whatever would become of him. Resigned to believing that he'd done it and that all would be well no matter what he was forced to suffer in the aftermath. Things changed in a flash, however, and suddenly he was surrounded by white instead of black.

The black was still present, though, but in the form of a shining casket directly beneath him and consuming his entire field of vision outside of the white glowing at the edges. Reflected in its finish was the face of Tracy and the face of Garrett, his former wife and his son. They were looking upon what was left on their husband and father, a closed oblong box that was as dark as his spirit had been. A closed story that ended as black as it had begun. Neither of them looked sad, neither of them appeared to be crying... nor did either appear to be pleased. They both simply looked at the box that would be his final resting vessel, indifferent to what they were looking upon. Countless dollar bills blew by in front of their faces, obscuring his view of them for a moment until finally all of the money had passed and all that was left were their blank stares.

Then, after due time, they faded away and it was the face of Nick and of Nancy Swete that came into focus in reflection. The patriarch seemed to be shedding tears, feeling pain at what was lost. The more restrained half of the marriage was giving him comfort by rubbing his arm and holding his hand, and she looked angry more than anything else. These people had been his parents, not the two clowns by which he had been predeceased. They showed a bit of emotion, but it was a combination that he hadn't expected to see from them.

Once they paid their respects and were gone, it was Donnell and a black woman he'd never met sparkling on the wooden lid of his coffin. They didn't look upset at all, and in fact it almost looked as though Donnell had expected this to be how it went all along. There was a hint of regret in his eyes, but nothing more that was discernible in his wide eyed stare. The woman beside him was entirely unmoved one way or another, and her husband shook his head in as much dismissal as she showed before they too faded.

After that, the parade was over. There was nothing, there was no one else there to see him. There were no other friends, there was no other family, there was nothing left in his trail besides these few indifferent people.

Just the box.

Just what he amounted to be in the end for all of his days, for all of his efforts and for all of his dreams and wishes. An oblong black box, the lid closed because what lie inside was mangled. As mangled as his mind had become, his body now was. Closed because that's how he'd lived his life for thirty-five odd years.

Closed now, as before.

Closed now, forevermore.

A reflection appeared on the other side of the box now, and it was that of Father Lovett. His face looked frail, his eyes tired and wary of the journey he had chosen to see through to its natural end. An end that was closing in on him, an end which he fought with strength that was waning now in his twilight and the setting of his sun. Still, he fought the war to live... he struggled in the battle that Jake had conceded with a burning white flag. The man's mouth moved, but Jake heard no sounds. He spoke words, but made no noise. He was silent in void, like the void was silent in itself.

Then, the blackness overcame him again and again he was alone. Alone and still so cold. Chilled to the bone, though he seemed to have no bones left about him. He had bones no more than he had a body, had a body no more than he had a hope, had a hope no more than he had a soul left about him in the darkness.

He was alone until a voice called out, familiar to his ears though the memory of it was dusty with all the time that had passed since he'd heard it last. "Why, son?" It asked in a deep and manly baritone. "Why did you do it?"

"Dad?" Jake called into the void, seeing nothing, seeing no one. "Dad, is that you?"

Then, from the darkness came a shape. It was no more than a lighter shade of black in human form at first, but the color ran into it suddenly as it moved, as though it had passed through a cascade of light in the hues of life until he saw his father there before him, translucent and hollow in a mist.

"It's me, Jacob," the melancholy man replied. "And why? What have you done?"

Ashamed, Jake lowered his head and refused to look upon the man he hadn't seen in thirty years. He didn't need to look to know him, the man's appearance was almost identical to the one he saw every time he looked at himself in a mirror. The shade was younger than he was now, younger than he had been at the time of his death because his father hadn't held out so long, but it was still him... just with a different name, just with a different set of dates to mark their births and their deaths. The man was his father, and the man was him.

"I didn't have a choice, dad," Jake said somberly through the echoes, his voice distant and disconnected. "Everything good that I ever had was gone. Why should I have kept on living if the living was in misery?"

"Why?" The spirit replied like a broken record in discord. "Why did you do it? Why did you follow me into an early grave?"

"I just got tired, dad!" The prodigal son explained, returning home to no cold embrace. "I just couldn't do it anymore!"

"Why?" The empty mass said one last time before again the cascade of color spilled over it with a dreamlike quality that made everything even more surreal than it had been before.

The color turned the form black again for the brevity of a moment, but then it took on an overwhelmingly white hue as it painted an unblemished linen robe over a figure with whom Jake was not so familiar. It was the visage of Christ, it was Jesus of Nazareth standing before him, in spirit form. He was a spray of being with folded arms and a countenance of shame and disgust at what he was seeing in Jacob Garrett Giguére.

The form shook its head, and that enraged Jake beyond anything he'd ever known. He felt his formless fists clenching, felt his teeth locking together, felt spittle flying as he growled defiantly in pained tones. "You dealt these cards, you fuck!" He snarled. "And now you shake your head at me?"

The vision took no further malice at the accusation, but instead cocked its head in pity as it calmly spoke in thunder. "I was but the croupier, my son. You placed the wagers, you played the hand. Now, you reap what you sowed in life. You reap nothing, you impenitent fool."

Jake was preparing another verbal salvo of damnation in response as he felt the floor fall out from underneath him. Then he was falling, dropping like riders on a drop tower a mile high plummeting back to Earth at terminal velocity, and in the terror of the fall he started to scream. The scream carried over into his waking, which was violent and sudden.

With a start his back popped off of Nikki's couch a few inches, his voice shaking the walls as he cried out in mortal terror. He would've likely come all the way up to his feet if not for her body weighing him down, her head rested on his bare chest once again.

She woke with his scream, again wiping sleep from her eyes as she rubbed her jaw where his sternum had struck it. He was wearing only his boxer-briefs this time, and she was in bra and panties. As the dream faded, he had full recollection of how they'd ended up this way.

It had started with her kisses on his neck, then him kissing her on the top of her head and running his fingers through her hair. Before long, they were in the rapture of a full make-out session with hands rubbing and petting atop clothes until the clothes themselves slowly started to come off. They stopped shy of anything that could be considered sex, but only because he brushed her off when she tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He did so because there was still a guilt within him that wouldn't allow for such a transgression, despite the pleasure he felt in the moment.

Even the deeds they did commit felt like some atheist form of carnal sin, and that poisoned the pleasure until it was cold and dead. It felt wrong and treasonous to him, like a betrayal of everything he'd held dear in days past. Part of him wanted to wiggle out from under her and dash out of the trailer, but the other -- and perhaps more vociferous half of him \-- wanted to drive himself into her, if only to say that he'd acted in flagrant violation of those reservations that held him back. This was the duplicity of his psyche, this was the war waging in his head and in his spirit. It was brutal to endure, but there were benefits that were undeniable to his flesh and ego.

In the end, the most he would allow was her straddling of him, with her legs over top of his thighs and her crotch resting not far below his hips, all while both wore nothing but undergarments. He felt a love/hate for her caressing and undulating, and some twisted sense of pride and disgust when it seemed that she'd had an orgasm in her grinding. After that, while he was still as hard as a rock and longing for release despite the objections ever present, they'd calmed and shared one last kiss before settling in where they lay and falling asleep. A sleep that apparently lent itself to a terrible nightmare, perhaps as a preview of what was to come.

"What's going on?" Nikki asked as she shimmied a little further up on him to get a bit more comfortable, as though she would return to sleep once she had her answer.

"Just a dream," he replied. "A nightmare, I guess."

"Based on how high you jumped, baby, I'd say nightmare is a tame word," she said. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "Just a really, really bad dream."

"I got that much, sweetie," she said softly, caressing his face. "I mean what happened in the dream?"

Thinking about it, reliving it, he realized there was no good reason that he needed to hide it from her. She had no vested interest in his continued existence, outside of the possibility that she could get off by riding him a few more times if he chose to stay alive.

"I finally did something that I've been thinking about for a long, long time," he admitted.

"You killed yourself?" She followed up as if it were common knowledge that he was on that path, that he had that intention.

"Yeah," he answered nonchalantly. "I guess you could say that."

"How'd you do it?" She asked, seeming almost cold in her morbid curiosity.

This talk of suicide, which he figured was pretty serious talk in most circles, didn't seem to phase or shock her in the least. That felt odd, but no more so than the other circumstances of his life at the time, so he elaborated.

"I drove my car into an overpass," he explained. "To make it look like an accident."

"Ah, an insurance job," she returned. "You're even more selfless than I gave you credit for."

"Selfless?" He chirped. "Don't you mean selfish? I mean, isn't the whole suicide thing a selfish act? Shouldn't you be telling me how I'm a coward or that I'm putting myself before my family? That I'm dreaming of taking the easy way out?"

"If I was a psychiatrist I might," she said with unchanged inflection through a yawn. "If I'd never been there myself I might. But I'm not the one for that kind of talk, sweetie. I've been to the edge, I've looked over it several times and seen what lies beneath. Shit, sometimes staying alive is selfish when it all comes down."

"But selfless? That's a hell of a leap."

"Like I said, it sounds like you're talking about an insurance job. I imagine that would leave your family with a nice little cushion. If they care little enough about you to have you out here with me, not wearing your ring, and not being out here looking for you, well... then taking yourself out in a manner that gets them paid, that's selfless."

"What if they are looking for me?" Jake asked, truly wondering what the answer would be in that situation.

"You mean that phone call?" Nikki recalled, which was exactly what Jake was thinking about. "I heard the guy talking, they know you're in Burlwood. If they were really worried, they'd be out here."

"It's not that easy," Jake offered as an excuse for his former family. "Tracy -- my wife \-- has to take care of our son, Garrett. He's severely autistic, there's no way she could get him on a plane or in a car for long enough to get them out here. I treated her like shit anyway," he conceded, "there's no reason she should make any effort on my behalf."

"If she gave a shit about you she would," she returned.

"Why should she?" Jake asked. "I'm toxic. She's better off without me."

"And you're in the process of divorce?" She intuited, based on the vanishing wedding ring.

"Yeah," he said somberly.

"Who filed?"

"She did... and I don't blame her."

"You sure?" She asked with a hint of suspicion.

"I -- " he hesitated, "I don't think so."

"You obviously still love her," Nikki added, words that were like salt on his festering wounds.

"Why do you say that?" He asked, legitimately interested in her thoughts on the matter.

"Let's start with the obvious," she said, sliding down him several inches and then pressing her flesh to his as she moved back up, maximizing the friction between their bodies. "First of all, any man who wasn't in love with someone else would've fucked the hell out of me by now. It's not like I haven't been trying."

"Point taken," he said, trying to still the natural urge to become aroused.

"Then there's the fact that, until now, you've never even mentioned the woman, let alone spoke her name aloud."

"How does that mean I still love her?" He asked, confused.

"In my experience," she began, "a jilted lover usually can't shut up about how terrible the person who shunned them is. You haven't said an ill word about her, and that's just not typical of a man who is angry or feels cheated out of something he wanted. I run into plenty of those types, trust me. Should I continue?"

"No," he replied, feeling the weight of hurt on his heart. "No, I guess you're right."

"So, if that's the case -- if you still love her \-- then what the hell are you doing out here? If you think you've wounded her so much that she won't come to you, why don't you try going back to her?"

"I'm trying to help Chucky, that much I've told you."

"And the Chucky thing is more important to you?" She wondered. "You put that above your marriage, above being involved in the life of your son?"

This required a moment of thought, and Jake took it with full diligence. "It's not more important, it just that there used to be more hope in fixing this than there was in fixing my marriage."

"But there was hope in fixing your marriage? You said there was more hope here, but you didn't say there was no hope there. Isn't any hope better than no hope? Doesn't any hope make what you're clearly planning on doing an empty exercise? I mean, if you can make it all right, isn't that better than making it all gone?"

"I thought you were a waitress," he said with sarcasm, feeling the sting of harsh truths. "I had no idea you were a therapist."

She gave him the evil eye in return for a second, but abandoned it quickly and rested her head on his chest very shortly thereafter. "I'm not a therapist," she answered with as much bite as he attacked with, "but I've spent enough time with them that I might as well be. If you want me to shut up, I'll shut up. If you want me to get up and get dressed, I'll get up and get dressed. If you want to strike out on your own again, go ahead and strike out on your own. Your life is in your hands right now... just as it was before."

Jake said nothing to this, because he knew full well he didn't want any of those things, and that she was probably right. At the same time, he didn't want to be talking about his condition, he didn't want to be looking in the mirror while he was bleeding all over himself.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I just don't like to talk about it."

"Because it hurts?" She offered.

"Yeah," he replied.

"That's how you know there's still hope," she advised. "Now whether you choose to drive into an overpass or home to her is your option."

"I wish it were that easy," he said, "but I'm afraid she won't listen to what I have to say anymore."

"Then that's too bad for her," Nikki suggested as she settled in atop him again, melting fully to his body and the couch underneath, "and it's perfect for me."

Within minutes she was snoring, but there would be no sleep for him. He would be awake for hours, mulling over facts and assumptions about many things in the landscape of his life. He would think of Chucky and of Rusty, he would think of Rambo and Ron Boudreaux. He would think of murder and of dismemberment, he would think of love and of hate. He would think of alcohol and of gambling, he would think of sobriety and of longing. For the first time in many days, he would think seriously of Tracy and of Garrett.

He would lay there until Nikki awoke, and then together they would go out for dinner at a modest restaurant where they would speak of the many things he'd been thinking about. In the hours they spent there, they would discuss the train wreck that had become of his life in detail. He would speak of his depression, his alcoholism, his gambling away of everything that he and his family had, his faults and his failures as a man, a father and a husband. She would offer little in this conversation, she would largely just listen and prod him when he tried to omit portions of the story or failed to expound upon details that weren't comfortable to speak about. He would spill his guts to her, and she would take it all in like a sponge.

When it was over, he would feel empty... and the emptiness would be fabulous, as he would be free of all of his burdens. The two of them would return to her trailer again, but this time they would lay together under the sheets of her bed. They would end up fully nude, but he would still not allow anything beyond heavy petting to occur between them. She would accept this with understanding, but she would also bring him as much pleasure as he would allow.

They would fall asleep, and he would dream of nothing... and nothingness was perfection.
FIFTY-FOUR

September 16th, 2016. 8:50AM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake woke just after eight in the arms of a naked Nikki. She had him wrapped up tightly, squeezing him with a leg draped over his hip and a hand tucked around his neck. He had to wake her a bit to escape her grasp, but then he left her to sleep as long as she wanted. Wishing her well, he planted a gentle kiss on her forehead to send her off to brighter pastures of the dreamosphere than the plain on which he had walked earlier the prior day. He took a shower, despite the fact that all of her soaps smelled feminine to him, dressed and gathered himself for the day ahead. Soon after waking, he was leaving her warm trailer for the cold familiarity of his Malibu, where he recovered his Beretta from the glovebox and put it back in its holster near his ribs, where it belonged.

He felt light as a feather despite the incumbrance of the cold steel as he moved, and despite the fact that he was still in the bondage of a case he'd grown largely convinced that he would be unable to solve. The divulgence of everything going on in his life to another person -- to Nikki, as it happened -- had relieved him of the incredible burden he'd been carrying since he spun his tires out in front of his old colonial ranch home, leaving Tracy and Garrett and everything he'd ever valued behind in his violent wake. He did no such thing as squeal his rubber as he pulled away down Applewood this morning, and he had no particular destination in mind as he set off for another day of investigating things that were seemingly indiscernible.

The case looked bleak, but still, he felt free somehow.

Still, he felt fresh and ready to start anew.

As he rode, his conversation with Chucky was at the front of his mind, the words swirling, swirling round and round like a forty-five rpm record spinning under an old needle. Spinning and churning static through the speakers of his ears. Spinning and skipping, stuck in a rut repeating the same lyrics over, and over, and over again.

Because Rusty killed Timmy... because Rusty killed Timmy... because Rusty killed Timmy...

Because I saw his parts in the cooler... because I saw his parts in the cooler... because I saw his parts in the cooler...

Because somebody helped him... because somebody helped him... because somebody helped him...

But who helped him?

Who could've possibly helped him?

Jake didn't have a solid answer to that question, in fact he didn't even have a clue as to what the answer was. There was a limited field of people from which to choose, and most of the likely suspects were either dead or so feeble that they couldn't hope to do it all again to a little innocent boy known -- when he was extant on this planet -- by the name of Billy Marsh.

Of all the words spoken in the Elsmere County Jail during their visit, there was a single phrase that fought to drown out the others in the chorus of mayhem that was Jake's scattered mind. Killed Timmy was the phrase, and it echoed through his tangled thoughts like thunder in the otherwise silent night. Everything that Timmy had been danced in the discord like a fluttering flame that called to Jake as though he were a moth bent on finding respite in the comforting glow of an inferno.

In his mind, it took him back to the carnival on that fateful day. He was on The Gravitron, and he was being sprayed with vomit as Timmy Lane lost his funnel cake to the forces of physics. He was outside in the night, watching Timmy throw away his shirt because he felt disgusting wearing it with all of the chunks all over it. He was trying to comfort his friend, because his friend was embarrassed and on the verge of tears while Launchpad and Louie taunted, while Chucky faded into the background in shy and hesitant sympathy. He was taking off his Toronto Maple Leafs shirt because Timmy refused to walk around the fair bare chested. He was waiting not far from the outhouses for him to change, and wait -- what's that in the back of that Cadillac? Wait, where'd Timmy go, and why is that car speeding away so fast down the gravel?

With all of it swirling, swirling like an F5 twister in his head, he found himself subconsciously pulling over and parking in front of Butcher's Lane Provisions. Daryl was inside. Timmy's father was inside and preparing to open. He was doing what he'd done for so many years, for so many decades just the same way. He was pressing on in the face of tragedy, because it was all he knew how to do. He wasn't smiling, as it had been a long time since he'd been able to smile unless he was face to face with a customer and had to pull on his mask of good customer service. He was putting on his butcher's whites, he was preparing to squeak out a living, and then he was spinning his plastic sign in the window from sorry, we're closed to come in, we're open.

When he did and unlocked his door, Jake got out of his car and walked to the entrance in another fit of memory and flashbacks. He would be delivering difficult news on this visit, and he would be seeking the advice of an elder in matters of murder and mystery. Perhaps Mister Lane would know something about who could've helped Rusty in days of old and new alike. Perhaps Mister Lane had heard Burlwood whispering in his years of service to the community. Perhaps Mister Lane could right his investigation and set him on a track that led to a real solution.

There was a ding when Jake walked in, and Daryl acknowledged him right away with a nod and that fake smile he'd learned to wear so well that it was barely detectable as a fraud anymore. There would be no giant hug this time, there would be no glee of reacquaintance as there had been when he approached a closed Butcher's Lane after hours so many nights ago. During that visit, they'd shared some of the darkness that lingered in the shadows of each of their souls. During that visit, they'd established a different kind of relationship than they had held before. During that visit, they'd burnt a very old bridge and swept the ashes under the rug for all time.

"Good morning, Jacob," Daryl said in his best impression of a man with a full range of emotions.

"Good morning, Mister Lane," Jake returned.

"Now you know I told you to call me Daryl," the butcher snickered, "and I meant it, my friend. What brings you here today? Do you need more meat?"

"No," Jake answered, "no, it's nothing like that."

Daryl pulled back from the counter with an apprehension, with a fear that there would be a repeat performance of their last encounter. That there would be a probe placed deep in a vein, a knife held close to the throat with words of accusation and suspicion.

"You aren't here to ask me more questions, are you?" He asked.

Jake shook his head, and the man took a deep breath of relief and calm. He wasn't sure he could handle another round of what Jake had fed him last time, and he had little appetite for reliving the past again. He had no idea just how vividly the past would be rekindled as his visitor said what he came to say, though, and the moments before he heard it would be the last in which he didn't have to live with a horrific image in the corner of his mind.

"I talked to Chucky yesterday," Jake began, "down at the county jail."

Daryl shook his head this time, barely able to fathom what such an environment must be like to a person as gentle and fragile as he knew Chucky to be.

"He kind of dropped a bomb on me," the visitor continued. "I'm not sure what to make of it, and Clyde seems reluctant to believe any of it, so I'm not sure it even means anything."

"What did he have to say?" Daryl asked, subconsciously frightened of what would come next. Had he known consciously what was to come, he would never have asked the question.

"He told me that Rusty killed Timmy," Jake delivered bluntly and suddenly, without warning or pretense.

Daryl recoiled at the words, wounded at having heard them. The idea wasn't new to him, he knew enough about the investigation of his son's death to be aware that Rusty was being looked at just as he was. He knew Rusty well enough to know that the man was troubled, too. That he was as good a suspect to be The Butcher Of Burlwood as anyone else. What was new, though, was hearing that such an accusation had been spoken by someone who may well have known all along. Chucky worked with Rusty on a daily basis for many, many years. The idea that he may've witnessed something, that he may've heard something, may've known something was entirely logical and feasible. Hearing that he hurled such an accusation made what used to be a notion into what could potentially be a fact.

Regaining his composure as best he could by planting two hands on his deli case to hold him up, Daryl engaged Jake in the conversation.

"What did he say?" He asked, hoping he was ready for what would come in reply.

"He said he saw Timmy's --" he hesitated, "that he saw Timmy in the cooler at Our Mother a few days before Thanksgiving of ninety-four."

Again, Daryl shuddered physically at the statement. Jake registered his discomfort, seeing him clenching his eyes shut in pain and his mouth contort in sorrow. He would have to continue, though, if he was to gain any insight this morning.

"He said that Rusty threatened to kill him if he told anybody, and that they --" another hesitation, "disposed of Timmy while they were making the charity food run."

Daryl nodded in his suffering slowly, taking the information like a bullet to the heart and trying to bare the pain in a manner that left him eligible to call himself a proud and strong man. As the initial sting started to fade, he spoke through clenched teeth while still staring at the floor.

"So why are you telling me this, Jacob? I should hope it's not just to do it."

"No, it's not," Jake offered, watching Timmy's father die a thousand deaths in sequence. "Part of Clyde's disbelief was related to the fact that Rusty was under surveillance, like you, and that there's no way he could've kidnapped Timmy from the carnival. When I mentioned that to Chucky, he said that Rusty had someone helping him. I need to know who that was, and I need to know now if I'm supposed to crack this thing."

Daryl looked up, his eyes swollen and red, full of condemnation until he could clear an idea from his mind. "You don't mean to imply that it was me, do you Jacob?"

"No!" Jake replied hurriedly, hoping to avoid a repeat performance of his melting down just as much as Daryl was. "No, it's not like that at all!" He continued.

Daryl looked back to the floor for a moment, steadying himself and preparing to rejoin the moment. He wiped his face with one of his thick hands, then pushed off the counter to stand erect with eyes wide open.

"Do you have any ideas?" The butcher asked hopefully.

Again, Jake shook his head. "I have no fucking idea, I was hoping you might. That's why I'm here, actually, to ask if you have any clue who may've been his accomplice, because he had to have one."

Daryl thought about it for a moment, but his mind was full of nightmarish imagery that blinded him entirely. All he could see was his poor boy, cut neatly into pieces and stashed among the turkeys and the packaged mashed potatoes. His arms next to boxes of corn on the cob and his head leaning on a box of pumpkin pies destined for the homes of the less fortunate. His son deserved better than that, and it pained him beyond comprehension to imagine that it could very well have ended up that way. Shaking his own head and pressing a hand against his mouth to preempt the vomit that wanted to flow out, Daryl spoke the only reply he could possibly provide.

"No, I have no idea either," he said cautiously, fighting the nausea. "You've been working this all week, Jacob, and you're a sharp guy -- you can't possibly be standing here telling me that you don't have any leads!"

Throwing his hands up, Jake answered without saying a word.

"You have nothing?" Daryl recounted based on the gesture.

Jake thought his whole case over, deciding that full disclosure was his best option, deciding that he might as well show all the cards on the table with the hope that someone would be able to make something of them.

"There's a company," he began. "All I know about it is that both Rusty and Ron Boudreaux have vested interests in it."

"What company?"

"It's called FGSI Services. I know it has something to do with the race track, and it has something to do with the meth. Have you ever heard of it?"

"Never," Lane answered. "What else?"

Thinking it through, Jake answered the demand with the only other information he had available to him. "Rusty has a storage unit in Waycroft that Ron Boudreaux is paying for. That's all I've got, after all of this effort, all I've got is Rusty, FGSI and a fucking storage unit in Waycroft. I can't find the fucking van, I can't find Evander Hughes' Brougham, I can't find anyone who is physically or mentally fit to have assisted Rusty if he killed Billy Marsh, and I can't link anybody to him tightly enough to say that he was The Butcher as aided by this other person!"

"Well, what's in the storage unit?" Daryl asked, his curiosity peaked.

"I dunno," Jake replied.

Daryl jumped at this, surprised. "Well why not?" He asked, flabbergasted.

Jake thought about this for a minute, remembering the fresh looking lock on the door and trying to peek in through aluminum wall of the unit behind it. He remembered the dark blue Buick LeSabre, making itself far more obvious than it ever had before, getting much closer to him than it had ever been, perhaps as though it were protecting something. He remembered wanting to go back with a set of bolt cutters or a sledge hammer, he remembered wanting to see if there was a Dodge Ram van or Cadillac Brougham in that ten-by-twenty unit that would confirm complicity in an unspeakable crime.

Shit, why hadn't he gone back?

Because he got distracted...

Because he fucked up and let it go by the boards...

Christ, how could he have been so stupid?

Fuck, how could he have been so negligent?

"Do you have a set of bolt cutters?" He asked, his heart skipping beats in waking to what he'd allowed himself to miss.

Daryl turned and walked away, moving to the back room of his store for a few moments before returning with a long and heavy-duty tool grasped in one hand. He did have bolt cutters, and he was giving them to Jake to do what needed to be done, what should've been done already. He was sending his son's friend off on a mission, a task that was overdue and in his hands alone to complete.

It was time to go back to Waycroft... it was time to shed some light on Rusty's secrets... it was time to find some answers.

FIFTY-FIVE

September 16th, 2016. 10:20AM

Waycroft, Indiana

The drive to Safe & Secure Self Storage was brimming with suspicion and and anxiety, both feelings justified and appropriate for what he was about to do. The root of the suspicion was obvious; it was the anxiety that was harder to explain and understand. It was likely due, in part, to the fact that this was about all he had left. If he found something as innocuous as Christmas decorations, as Rusty had suggested, inside of unit 33-L, he and his case would be essentially dead in the water. He would have nothing, and nothing was unlikely to sway a jury in the face of whatever evidence Ron Boudreaux and his department had dreamt up to present against Chucky and his interests in the death of Billy Marsh.

Outside of that, the anxiety was probably due to that familiar and now wearisome sense that he was being followed. He was positive about it this time, just as he'd felt positive about it every time before. It would be different this time, though, because if there was, in fact, a Buick LeSabre on his tail again this morning, whomever it was behind the wheel would likely take umbrage at the fact that he was fixing to cut the lock off of Rusty and FGSI's storage unit to expose its contents to the world at large.

Perhaps that would lead to a confrontation...

Perhaps that would lead to the revelation of a second suspect, the man who aided and abetted Rusty Parker in his crimes against the small town of Burlwood, Indiana. Perhaps the driver would be the man who snatched Timmy Lane right out of the night so many years ago. Perhaps it would also be the man who lured Billy Marsh to his death. The man who helped Rusty stay out of prison, even when the bright lights of the Federal Bureau Of Investigations were beating down on his forehead in the heat of the original investigation.

Perhaps in the storage unit there would be solid evidence that Russell Davis Parker had been The Butcher Of Burlwood all along. Perhaps there would be a missing Cadillac, a missing Dodge van, old implements of murder and dismemberment, old clues that were never discovered by the authorities and brought to bare against one of their prime suspects. Perhaps there would be a collection of thumbs and decomposing remnants of mummified children's penises taken from them while they hung upside down in some deranged ritual slaughter so long ago.

Or, alternately, perhaps there would be nothing, which was exactly what he was afraid and anxious of. Either way, it was just a matter of time until he would know as he saw the sign of Safe & Secure rising from the horizon. His heart pounding, he guided the Malibu into the drive that led to the familiar perimeter path that encircled the compound. Once again he took the narrow alley that was signed J-M and cruised along between a multitude of storage lockers, two buildings of them sandwiched tightly around the pothole infested and poorly maintained service way. Before long, he was in front of 33-L and was shifting the Malibu into park.

Patting at his side to be sure the Beretta was firmly in place, that it was ready to pull at a moment's notice, he turned his vehicle off and removed the keys from the ignition. There would be no vehicle chase this time, he intended to stand his ground in the face of anything that may come. Taking one last breath before a period in which he would likely be breathless, he reached into the backseat for the bolt cutters that Daryl Lane had given him and opened the driver's door to step out. Looking in both directions, looking up in his extreme paranoia, he approached the garage door of the unit and examined that sparkling chain that stood in contrast to those rusted relics that hung on all of the units around him.

As he prepared himself for whatever he was about to see, he was momentarily tempted to bow his head and pray for a result that favored his case. This was an incredible shock to his system, as the thought of praying to anyone or anything hadn't crossed his mind in more years than he could count or remember. The very notion was ridiculous, and in recognition of this he paused and wondered what in the hell was becoming of him. Perhaps he'd lost more of his mind than he knew in this endeavor, perhaps he was too far gone to return at this point, even if he wanted to.

After his moment of sheer disbelief at himself and his decaying psyche, he shook his head ferociously to eject such futile thoughts and ideas from his mind. When they were gone and absent, as they should've been from the beginning, he set the business end of the bolt cutters down on the broken pavement so that he could get his hands on both of the operating handles firmly. His fingers settling into the grooves along the back of the red rubber grips, he squeezed them tightly together in what may've been a far too tardy test of the tool's functionality. If they'd been broken all along, this would be a little late to figure that out.

Luckily enough, when he moved the handles together he saw the small mouth of the cutting blades close in overtop of each other, just as they were designed to do. Looking around once more and taking another preemptive breath, he pulled the handles wide apart and watched the device open up. Lifting it up was awkward, as much of the weight was in the actual scissored end, and putting the blades around the shackle of the Masterlock padlock was just as challenging. In time, he had the tool in place and was ready to make the cut... ready to expose the secrets of this unit, ready to find the final nail that would seal Rusty into his coffin, just as he deserved.

Flexing his pecks and shoulders, he muscled the device through the steel of the lock and watched it split in two with only the quietest of clicks. The strength of the drop-forged steel meant nothing in the face of the cutting blades, just as anything but a guilty verdict for Rusty meant nothing to Jake. The intentions of whomever placed the lock meant nothing in the face of a challenge issued by Jacob Giguére to prove that Rusty's hands were clean and clear of bloodstains both long dried and freshly wet. Pulling the cutters away, he surveyed his work and found it satisfactory, for a change. He could now turn the body of the lock and slip the shackle out of the chains it had once held captive. With that done, he could pull one end of the chain through the clamps of the door and it would be unlocked. Its secrets would be protected no more, the contents of the unit would be open to all who wished to see them.

Pulling the chain through a link at a time, his heartbeat jumped tempo and maintained a hurried pace until the mechanism was free and open. Bordering on hyperventilation, he grabbed hold of a handle near the bottom of the door and prepared to make entrance to the unit.

Ready to see anything, ready to see everything, he lifted and pressed with a Herculean thrust and the corrugated aluminum wall flew up in loud protest into the interior of the building, objecting angrily with a trail of dirt and dust raining down beneath it. Some of the dirt blew into Jake's eyes, and more than a reasonable amount ended up in his open mouth as he was mid-grunt in the effort. Spitting and trying to rub his vision back into being, he wished he hadn't been so cavalier in the big moment. Surely, opening the door slowly would've done just as well.

When he had wiped enough that he could finally see again, he peered eagerly into the space that might serve to answer so many questions. A space that could potentially hold evidence that would exonerate Chucky of all the charges brought against him. A room that could take a man off of death row and put another on an execution table in his place.

It was dark inside, save for the first few feet of the unit, and he could see nothing. Where the sunlight fell on the concrete pad inside, this unit was empty. That meant little, considering it was twenty feet deep and could house anything in the dark recesses beyond where the sun agreed to enter.

Bent on finding the things he was after, Jake took a few steps inside as he retrieved his phone and turned on the flashlight. Still pressing forward, he directed the glowing LED to the right side of the ten-by-twenty -- where he still saw nothing. Sure that the answers must be on the left side of the unit, he took a few more steps and swept the light slowly from one end of the space to the other -- where he also saw nothing.

In disbelief, he continued his march and pressed on with his mission, moving forward and sweeping the light side to side in search of anything besides vacancy; anything besides what he was seeing. Moving slowly, scanning side to side and up and down, he found that the entirety of the space was filled with nothing. There was no Dodge Ram van, there was no Cadillac Brougham, there was no bloody bandsaw, there were no bony remnants of thumbs stolen from small children, there were no boxes of false financial statements or methamphetamine, there were no Christmas decorations -- there was absolutely fucking nothing.

Forcing himself to start breathing again, Jake noted immediately the smell of oil and gasoline inside the small space. As he walked deeper and deeper in, he nearly lost his footing as his shoe slipped on a particularly slick patch of concrete beneath him towards the back of the space. Turning his phone to the ground, he saw a spot of black in the center of the unit that could only be the stain of old motor oil left behind by a leaky block. There had been a vehicle here at some point recently, and it wasn't a sparkling new Lexus or BMW that called this place home. It was something old, something of vintage. Something that was gone now, and for a reason.

They knew he would be here...

They knew he would break in, that he wouldn't be satisfied with not knowing.

But who were they?

They were FGSI, whatever the fuck that was...

They were Rusty and Ron Boudreaux... and possibly someone else, possibly an accomplice, possibly several accomplices, there was no way for him to know.

They were afraid of him knocking on the door of 33-L again, so they moved whatever was in here, and they had followed him...

Fuck, they were probably watching!

No sooner than he thought the thought, he heard the squealing of tires down the alley of a road that led him to this place.

"Fuck!" He exclaimed to himself, unbuttoning his third button and reaching into his shirt for his Beretta.

Snatching it from its holster, he clicked off the safety and racked the slide before pointing it down in front of him, preparing himself for action. He raced to the mouth of the unit and flattened himself with his back to the wall, right next to the wide open door, the Beretta aimed up at the ceiling in a state of readiness to fire. He peered down the road and saw just what he expected... a fucked up blue Buick LeSabre, hauling balls in his direction with loose rocks and a trail of dirt firing up behind it as the nose bounced like a boat over all of the potholes in its path.

Checking his safety again, he prepared himself mentally to step out and face his tormentor. He would demand to see who it was, demand that they step out of the car slowly. If they didn't, he would fire, lest they have a chance to fire first.

When the vehicle came to a sliding stop just behind the Malibu, almost colliding with it again, he spun out from his hiding place and leveled the Beretta off with his sights locked on the blacked out windshield where the driver would be seated.

"Get out of the fucking car!" He shouted, his finger twitching on the trigger and ready to blast this bastard to kingdom come if necessary, whoever he was.

The vehicle still rocking on its loose suspension, the driver's door flew open and an all too familiar face appeared in the space between the frame of the door and the side of the windshield. The face was older than when he'd last seen it, it was more pronounced and manly than he ever expected it would become, but it was still undeniable who the strong features belonged to. It was Louie Rambo, and he too held a pistol in his hand... his was a police issue Glock, and he held it professionally in a two handed grasp, pointed directly at Jake's head.

"Put the weapon down, Jake!" Louie ordered, and \-- in shock -- Jake partially obeyed. He lowered it to side, but still held it there while his face showed his surprise. He didn't drop it in his shock, which is what the officer was likely commanding him to do. He was too stunned to drop it.

Why was Louie Rambo in the blue LeSabre?

Had it been him behind the wheel the whole time? Following him? All along? From the beginning?

Had it been Louie Rambo that he played chicken with speeding down the roads of Waycroft just a few days ago? Had it been Louie Rambo watching him drop Nikki off after the incident at the track? Had it been Louie Rambo watching him leave her trailer a few mornings later? Had it been Deputy Louie Rambo watching him pay a visit to Chucky?

If so, why? Why had he been following him since he got back to town?

Why was he speeding down this busted up road in defense of a storage unit belonging to Rusty Parker and FGSI Services?

"Louie?" He asked, surprised at the masculinity of the fully grown version of the final member admitted to The Burlwood Boys. He was in full Elsmere County police garb, and he was speaking with the authority of that department as he started unblinkingly down the sights of his service weapon.

"Now drop it, Jake!" he ordered.

Still shocked, still shaken, Jake just stood there in disbelief. He heard the command, it registered in his mind, but he was unable to act on it because he still just couldn't figure out why.

Then, without warning, he got his answer... he knew why... on all counts...

"Yes, Jake," another familiar voice called out. The passenger door of the LeSabre was opening too, and from behind it was where the voice came. Stepping out, obscured for a moment by the door itself and the black window, was the chubby frame of none other than Sheriff Ronald Fucking Boudreaux, the self-professed and publicly elected King of Elsmere County. He stood on the pavement, glaring through his trademark amber sunglasses, and closed the door to stand beside the car. He was taking no cover from Jacob Giguére, he had no fear that the man might shoot. As he adjusted his pants up around his oversized gut, he looked directly at Jake and issued his lawfully sanctioned order. "Drop the weapon, son..."

FIFTY-SIX

Revelations

October 10th, 1996. 5:15PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jacob was strolling down Oakwood towards Maplewood when he caught a glimpse of Tracy Swete out on her porch. Even from a distance, he could tell that she was upset about something. Her head was down, and every few seconds she was wiping at her face and her eyes, which broke his heart as he moved.

Tracy still held the keys to his heart, even though he hadn't seen as much of her lately as he would've liked. Having recently turned fifteen, his life should've been built around things like learning to drive or hanging with friends and chasing after crushes, but there was little time for such things in his day to day existence anymore.

His mother, Janet, had descended to even deeper depths than she'd existed in during the days after his father's suicide. She was head over heels in love with Deputy Ron, who was like a leach feeding off of her on the increasingly rare occasions when he decided to give her the time of day. Perfection to her would've been making a home for the man, catering to his every whim and sucking up his poison meth in between duties to suit his fancy. He seemed to have no such desire for that scenario anymore, though, so she was left to smoke his drugs alone and wallow in her depressive misery. Sure, he would stop by most nights... but only for what suited him, only for sex and an exchange of her welfare and social security cash for his wares, which he provided at not so much as a fuck buddy discount, nonetheless.

She was lucid less often now than she had ever been, and that was a weight on her maturing son's chest. When he wasn't at school, he was babysitting her to be sure she didn't OD again or try to take his father's way out until the gallant Ron Boudreaux showed up for his nightly deposit. As a result, he hadn't seen much of anyone that wasn't his mother. Not Tracy, not Chucky, and certainly not Launchpad and Louie, who had bailed on him when he last hoped to tighten the noose around Boudreaux's neck by breaking down the doors of his illicit operation at the Super Socket Fasteners facility.

It was that mission that had him walking to Chucky's this evening, as there was finally an opportunity for the two of them to take up the operation on their own. An opportunity to free his mother from the shadow of this horror seemed an ample excuse to leave her on her own for awhile, so he left her sleeping off another night of smoking with a dose of Xanax to keep her under.

Chucky was frightened of taking on this mission, and he refused to commit to going into the old SSF building. He was open to driving the two of them there so that Darkwing could do it himself, so that would have to do. That wasn't ideal; it would certainly have been better to have at least one of his friends with him to make entry, but he was full of testosterone fueled bravery and ready to see this task through, even if it meant doing it by himself.

Seeing Tracy apparently in tears in the distance, though, wounded him just as badly as seeing his mother in her suffering, so he altered his path and decided to pay her a visit before he met with Chucky for the trip down Route 4. A few steps more was all he needed to see that his dream lover was, in fact, crying, and that was a terrible pill to swallow. Unsure of why she seemed so upset, he picked up his pace to a near jog until he was standing beside her on her porch.

"Tracy!" he said, placing a hand on her shoulder and feeling her warmth spreading through his body again, as was usual when he touched her. "Tracy, what's going on?"

His girl sniffled and coughed, her sobbing so severe that she was nearly powerless to quell it even long enough to speak to him. Trying to calm her, he wrapped her up in a full-on hug and rocked her back and forth, channeling the man inside of him to bring her peace. Eventually, she settled enough to talk, though her words were still choppy with sobs and sniffles.

"It's happening again, Jacob!" She whined.

"What is?" He wondered, rubbing on her shoulder in their embrace. "What's happening again?"

"My dad's job!" She explained. "They're making us move again!"

The words hit him like an uppercut from a champion prize fighter, because he knew that it was Nick Swete's job that had brought them to Burlwood from someplace in Ohio. Moving likely didn't mean to Blackmoor or Garthby, a place to which Jake could drive to visit when he finally did get his license. Moving probably meant another county, more likely another state, perhaps half way across the country. This was a blow that would threaten everything that he dreamed of. This was a shot that could kill what he hoped would be his destiny.

"To where?" Jake asked cautiously, still hoping to hear something like Waycroft and not really sure he was prepared to hear the real answer she would give.

"Somewhere by Detroit," she said, and now it was a TKO. It wasn't California, but it might as well be. She would be out of range, they would be out of touch.

Staggered, destroyed, he felt the wind leave his lungs and his heart fall to his feet. Still, he maintained his hug. Still, his first priority was to bring her comfort. He tried to pretend that everything was okay for her, he tried to put up a front that might lead her to believe this wasn't the end for them, despite the fact that he knew it probably was.

He couldn't go to Michigan, there was no way. Not with his mother in her condition, not with Chucky needing him to lean on, not at all under any circumstances. When The Swete family set off for their new home, it would be the end of everything he had ever dreamt of.

"When?" He asked, again hoping for an answer that would suit his ability to court her. He hoped for years, but there would be barely months.

"At the end of December," she replied.

"It's not so bad," he lied, feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes, "we've got some time before then! And even after, we can still visit each other!"

"How?" She sobbed without restraint.

Of course, he had no answer for her... there was no answer he could give that would carry the ring of truth, because there was no feasible way for them to visit each other once she was gone. In the absence of anything to say, he just held her tighter. Together they rocked back and forth, together they cried, together they felt the death of what could be.

Nick Swete, knowing the damage his message had done to his daughter, was watching her receive comfort from her young would-be suitor through the living room window. Feeling her pain, feeling Jacob's pain in more than just this affair, he moved to his front door and opened it slowly to the two of them.

"Tracy, honey," he said softly, "come on in the house, it's a little chilly out here."

A dutiful daughter, Tracy pulled away from Jake and moved toward her father. Jake didn't let her get away without planting a kiss on her moistened cheek, and she appreciated the gesture. Her father ruffled her hair when she passed him, entering their trailer and leaving the two of them behind.

Seeing Jake's tears, Nick jumped at an opportunity he'd hoped to have. The circumstances weren't ideal, but it was a chance for what he wanted nonetheless.

"You know, Champ," he began, sorting the information in his mind, "there are ways that you could come with us."

This peaked Jake's interest, and he looked up to the man with curiosity.

"What?" He asked, confused. "How?"

Nick sighed, already knowing how the boy would feel about his suggestion. "We have time, Champ, in which we could still have your mother declared unfit. I've talked to Sheriff Rambo about it, he says it would work. We could adopt you, and you could come live with us as a family."

Another set of tears falling, Jake shook his head. He couldn't do that... he couldn't leave his mother to fend for herself, she would never survive.

"Come on, Champ!" Nick urged him. "You know this place isn't good for you... you know that your mother is not good for you. You could start over, Jacob," he said. "With us."

"No," Jake replied unconditionally. "I can't."

"You can!" Nick insisted.

"No," Jake repeated, standing up. "Stop trying to save me from her, Nick, it's too late."

"But Champ!" Nick called after him as he hopped off of the porch and hurried toward Chucky's place. "Even Rambo says it's the best thing that could happen to you!"

Not listening any longer, Jake let the man who had been more of a father to him than his father had fall behind him in the distance. Eventually, the man stopped calling after him and retreated into his trailer to deal with his daughter.

While it had been him who leapt from the porch and walked away, it hurt Jake somehow to know that Nick gave up on him so easily. He didn't give chase, he didn't snatch him up, he just retreated into his trailer. The pain was sharp and biting, and it doubled the hurt of knowing that he and Tracy would likely be forever parted by this move.

Trying to silence that pain, trying to shut it up and swallow it as he did so often, he approached Chucky's trailer and knocked faintly on the door. This incident had taken all of the of the fight out of him, it had silenced the screaming in his head that said get that motherfucker Boudreaux and make him pay! He would have to rally that strength, that boldness back up if he was to accomplish his task this evening. Fighting to get his courage back and getting no answer to his taps, he sucked up his weakness and pounded on the door with everything he could muster. This time, Chucky would answer.

"Hey DW!" He said in greeting.

"Hi, Chucky," Jake returned in a muted tone. "Are you still ready to do this?"

Chucky nodded as tentatively as Jake had spoken, uncertainty and apprehension in his eyes. The nod was all that Jake needed, so he accepted it eagerly and spun to face his Momma's Buick. Before he fully registered what was happening, he was in the passenger seat and they were rolling towards the exit of the park.

It wasn't a long drive to the old SSF building, where Jake was certain that shady things were happening on a daily basis according to the words he'd heard Deputy Ron speak through his thin trailer walls. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to find, but he knew that it was something that Boudreaux did not want anyone operating on the proper side of the law to see. It was what kept him away from Janet Giguére until the late hours of the night. It was his second career.

With that in mind, Jake was ready to see it... he was ready to show it to the world, to cry it out from the mountain tops, to declare it to anybody who would listen -- most certainly including Sheriff Rambo and Special Agent Gomez. If everything went as he planned, before the night was over he was going to shut Burlwood's meth supply off, once and for all.

It was getting dark when they arrived at the target, Chucky pulling in to the main entrance and vocalizing his objection to what was about to happen when he saw that there were other cars parked by the building. By all account, this place should've been a ghost-town. There had been no legitimate business carried out there in many years, these vehicles should not have been there.

"Right there, Chucky!" Jake directed with a finger pointed at the main entrance to the factory. "Park right there!"

"I don't know about this Darkwing!" Chucky doubled down. "I think we're gonna get it big big trouble!"

"Just stop there, then, and let me out! You can go wherever you want after, just let me out there!"

Chucky did as ordered, and the car had barely stopped rolling when Jake jumped out and prepared to witness whatever it was he was going to witness. He'd pressed record in his mind so that he could absorb everything he would see, so he could repeat every detail to the proper authorities to have this place shut down.

Strolling confidently to the entrance, he yanked on the door in the event that it was locked. Had he found that to be the case, he would've broken the damned thing down like he'd been forced to on the evening that his mother tried to snort Deputy Ron's magic potion and nearly lost her life in the process. As it happened, he would need to make no such effort. There was no lock in place, there was no deadbolt, bar or electric key-card system keeping this place buttoned up. There was nothing, and the door of the former Super Socket Fasteners Company swung freely open for him to enter.

The first thing to hit him was the smell, which was ripe with chemical odors and a general industrial funk that stung his nose while some vapor in the air did the same to his eyes. Immediately and reflexively he coughed and put the crook of his elbow over the lower half of his face. Breathing through the fabric of his shirt shielded him from the fumes, but there was nothing in place to hide what was happening from his video-camera eyes.

Just inside the building was a series of tables on which were beakers, flasks and other chemistry related implements that Jake recognized from Science class in school. In them, things were bubbling, vaporizing and evaporating as several large kettle looking machines rumbled and steamed in the background. Around the tables were a total of eight men, each clad from head to toe in hazmat gear. Wearing gas masks or respirators or something along those lines to protect themselves from the noxious fumes, they were anonymous in their disguises..

As soon as Jake stepped inside, every one of the men froze where he stood and looked up to see the surprise guest. It was as though time stood still for them in their surprise and shock at seeing a young man they didn't recognize, standing uninvited in the doorway.

Suddenly, one of the men reached underneath a table and came away with a pistol that he pointed directly at the intruder. He pulled his hammer back and Jake prepared himself to be shot. Prepared himself to be killed. Prepared himself to finally die. What irony, he thought, that the man might do something to protect his turf that gave such an incredible gift to the victim he sought to injure.

"NO!" another one of the masked figures shouted, throwing one hand in the air to signal stop while he ripped his protective hood off with the other. It was Deputy Ron Boudreaux who called off the gunman, and the only surprise to Jake in his revelation was that it was some other man holding the gun.. "You can't shoot him! Do you have any idea how much attention that would draw?"

"None!" The mystery man with the gun shouted in a muffled reply. "Kids die around here all the time, they'll just chalk it up to The Butcher!"

Though his greater being almost desired to be shot and killed, a small voice inside of Jacob spoke out at the repugnance of the idea. There were people who needed him... there was his mother, there was Chucky, there was Tracy. His mysterious disappearance and death would cause them great harm, perhaps irreparable harm that would shape the rest of their lives. With that in mind, Jake acted to see that he would leave this place alive.

"Oh, but there's more than just me!" he barked assuredly. "There are other people with me, so go ahead and shoot! They'll just tell the police what you did, what you're doing here! Then you'll go down for murder as well as the drugs!"

"Shut up, Jacob!" Boudreaux ordered, a vague hint of fear on his face. He looked as though he wasn't sure he could control his minion, as though he was worried about Jake being killed. This could've been due more to the protection of his interests than actual concern for Jake, but it was surprising to see nonetheless.

The man with the gun flinched at hearing Boudreaux address the intruder by name, turning his head to the deputy with evident surprise. "Wait, you know this kid?" He asked,

"Yes, I know him!" Boudreaux answered. "He's Janet's boy!"

"Well that's just too bad," the armed one said after a pause to think, "because this little fuck knows way too much for us to just let him walk out of here!"

"Yeah, he does know too much," the deputy replied, formulating a case to spare the boy. "But he's not gonna say a goddamned thing to anybody! Are you, Jake?" He asked, looking at the boy for the thousandth time but seeing him for perhaps the first.

"What, we're just supposed to take his word for it?" The potential shooter asked incredulously. "Have you lost your fucking mind? We kill him, we get rid of him, we carry on! Otherwise we all go up the river for life!"

"No!" Boudreaux barked again, looking terrified now. "No, we don't just take his word for it!" Now, the officer looked back at Jake and offered advice that wasn't requested or desired. "It would be in your best interest to shut up about this, Jake! Do you know what will happen if you tell anybody about this?" He asked.

"Yeah," Jake replied, pointing to the gunman. "Like that fucker said, you all go up the river for life!"

"Oh, but that's not all!" Boudreaux warned. "Other people go away as well, Jake, people that you care about! People like your mother! She's knee-deep in this too, Jake, you know that! Do you want to see her back in prison? Do you want to see her back at the looney bin?"

"She might as well be," Jake responded defiantly. "Either one would be better than what you've got her tied up in!"

"See?" the armed enforcer declared. "There's no way we can trust him! He has to die!"

"I didn't say there was just a person you cared about who would go away, Jake, I said there were people!" Boudreaux continued as he walked to another of the masked and outfitted men. "People like this!"

Without warning, the deputy reached up and snatched the hood off of the figure as he had ripped his own hood off earlier. Beneath the white plastic of the suit was the black flesh of an old friend. The flesh of Launchpad, the flesh of Donnell. There was shame in his eyes as he looked upon Jacob, and an equal part of fear for what might come of this situation. If things went one way, he might see an old pal shot dead and discarded before his eyes. If they went the other, he might end up in prison for a period longer than that which he'd been alive to date. Either scenario was terrible to consider, and either meant incredible personal suffering for him.

"Do you want him to go to prison, Jacob?" Boudreaux asked. "Do you want your friend to spend his life behind bars because of you?"

Rocked with this revelation, Jake was at a loss for words. He'd never imagined that Donnell had pulled away from him because of something like this. He'd never imagined that a person who had been so close to him in the past could end up in a place so far from everything they'd ever hoped for. Donnell Hughes, Launchpad, was a criminal.

Boudreaux saw Jake's face when it dropped, and he knew immediately that no one would be dying on this night. That was a relief to him, because murder had never been a part of his operation; had never been a part of his plan for the empire he was building. He knew that Jake's shock would seal the deal, would seal his lips, would seal his need for secrecy.

"Is that enough to keep you quiet, Jake?" He asked.

Jake turned his eyes to the ground and nodded, unable to look upon what had become of a founding member of The Burlwood Boys. He was ashamed for Donnell, and he knew that Donnell was ashamed for himself.

"Good enough?" Boudreaux asked the man with the gun, and eventually the man apprehensively returned the gun to its holster under the table.

"If it's not good enough," he said, locking it in place, "then it's on your ass, sir!"

Pulling back his courage, pulling back his strength, Jake looked back to the deputy and spoke once more with forced insistence.

"There's a condition!" He shouted, regaining the attention of everyone gathered.

"What is it?" Boudreaux asked, willing to make any compromise that was necessary to keep everyone involved whole. Willing to do anything to avoid bloodshed or the threat of prison.

"You stay the fuck away from my mother!" Jake said.

Without hesitation, without a second passing between the demand and the response, the deputy answered, telling everything about his priorities, spelling out in detail the importance of Janet Giguére and his relationship with her to him.

"Deal."

FIFTY-SEVEN

September 16th, 2016. 11:00AM

Waycroft, Indiana

"Drop it, Jake!" Louie Rambo repeated, staring down his sights as a smirking Ron Boudreaux looked on, standing nonchalantly beside the busted up LeSabre.

Jake still stood frozen, breathless and distraught in the swirling, swirling memories and disbelief.

"Do it now, Jake!" The deputy continued. "Don't make me do something we're both gonna regret!"

Resigning to defeat by dark psychology in the moment, his mind screaming et tu, brute?, he did as ordered and let the Beretta drop finger by finger until gravity was pulling it down to the concrete. It landed with a metallic thud and it was over. The investigation was over, his romance with Nikki was over, his plans for double indemnity were over, his life as a free man was over, it was all over.

"Now turn around and put your hands behind your head!" Rambo shouted.

When Jake complied very, very slowly, Rambo followed with a command to interlock his fingers and move backwards towards the sound of his voice. Ten or eleven shaky, adrenaline and horror laced steps later, he felt a firm hand lock around tied up fingers.

"That's a boy, Jake!" Boudreaux praised sarcastically as Deputy Rambo used his free hand to pat down the suspect, getting as personal as Nikki as he squeezed and rubbed along his body. "I knew you would do the right thing when the time came!"

"Go to hell you fat fuck!" Jake fired back, looking to the sheriff through the corner of his eyes as Rambo pulled his hands apart and swiveled them behind his back. He felt the fine steel rails of handcuffs around the bottoms of his wrists and heard the series of clicks as they locked in place over the top, cutting off his circulation with their tightness. "What are you covering up now, you bastard?"

Boudreaux laughed at this accusation, then signaled Rambo with a hand gesture. In response, Louie slammed Jake forward onto the hood of the LeSabre a bit less than softly. Grunting at the impact, Jake lifted his head to face the man that'd ruined his childhood, that was actively ruining his adulthood further than it had been already at his own hands. He looked every bit the scumbag now, in this situation, as he had when when it all came down in early 1997... when the walls fell and everything changed.

"Who'd you kill this time, Ron?" Jake snarled as Louie dug through his pockets, removing his wallet, keys, cellphone and everything else he was carrying. "Was it Billy Marsh, by chance? Is that what you're hiding this time around?"

Again Boudreaux snickered, stepping forward so that he stood directly across the hood from Jake and unceremoniously taking his fat, greasy hand and slamming the man in custody's head down on the dark blue aluminum.

"No, it's not like that, Jake!" He proclaimed, holding his head to the metal. "Murder isn't compatible with my business plan, you should know that better than anybody!"

"Right!" Jake said, spitting blood after injury at the hands of the law. "That's why you're in business with Rusty Parker, so he can do the killing for you!"

Rambo finished with his search of every nook of Jake's body and clothing, so Boudreaux let loose his hold and Louie pulled him to a standing position that allowed him to look Deputy Ron in the eyes. It was clear in them that Boudreaux wasn't worried. That, for all Jake had done, he and his investigation posed no threat to the continued existence of FGSI or Leo's Transport, Pest-X, Thompson Construction, Avanti Holdings, Mega-Sure, Wilson Travel or whatever other names he gave to his criminal endeavors. He knew Jake didn't have the answers. He knew that his secrets were still safe.

"Before you say anything else," Boudreaux said as crimson fluid ran down from Jake's busted lip, "I think perhaps you should listen to your rights in this situation!"

Jake rolled his eyes, stumbling a bit in Rambo's grasp as his head was spinning after its collision with the LeSabre's hood. Louie held him up, giving him the only support that he was apparently willing to extend to an old friend and confidant in this situation.

"First," Boudreaux continued, "and perhaps most importantly, you have a right to remain silent! Second, anything you say can and -- trust me -- most definitely will be used against you in a court of law! You have the right to an attorney, and I recommend that you don't retain Donnell Hughes in this capacity, as it may be too severe a test of his loyalties for him to bare! If you can't afford a real attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning is conducted, if you wish. Keep in mind, though, that the attorney we appoint will be one on my payroll, so it's kind of superfluous if you ask me! Do you understand these rights as I've presented them to you, boy?"

"Yeah," Jake said, "and I still say go fuck yourself!"

"I didn't expect anything less from you, Jake," the Sheriff smiled as he retrieved a fat cigar from his breast pocket and lit it up. It stank of cheap tobacco and shit, an unflattering combination that all too closely resembled what Jake would smell after Boudreaux had one of his naps with his mother in the old days.

"Come on, Jake," Louie Rambo said a little more gingerly than he had behaved during the arrest. "Let's get you in the car so we can take you downtown."

"On what charges?" Jake asked, not taking his eyes off of Boudreaux while Louie pulled him towards the backseat.

"Oh, lots of good ones!" The creep began, enjoying each word more than the last as he spoke between drags on his smoke. "Let's see, we've got obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence, which I warned you about last week. Then we've got impersonating a police officer for the times when you were harassing a poor, old and dying man! Along with that went tampering with and theft of mail, which are definitely biggies! There's assault and battery for what you did to that fool at Burlwood Downs, and fleeing the scene of a crime for not hanging out until we got there! Add to that some reckless driving for what you did chasing Louie just a few days ago, as well as destruction of police property for the damage you did to this fine automobile! Trespassing will be there for what you did back at my barn, then burglary, possession of burglary tools and breaking and entering for what you just did here today, those are all certainly good ones as well. Then, as if that weren't enough, depending on what our old friend Nikki Spencer has to tell us, we might even add soliciting a prostitute to the hit parade!"

"Nikki?" Jake asked, his mind jarred and shaken. "I highly doubt that she's any friend of yours, Ron!"

"Oh, but she is!" Boudreaux replied, and immediately Jake felt sick.

Was she one of his operatives too? Was she Louie's tag-team partner in surveilling him? The answer he would get was like a sharp jab to the stomach... something perhaps worse than even that would've been.

"Miss Spencer knows us very well," Boudreaux grinned, "and I'm surprised she didn't tell you! In fact, she lived with us not so very long ago! She did what they call a bullet on the street, which you would understand better spelled out as three-hundred and sixty-five days behind bars at the county jail!"

"For what?" Jake asked, his legs noticeably weaker than they had been moments before in anticipation of hard truths.

"Oh, it slips my mind!" Boudreaux smiled, taking a puff of his shit smelling cigar. "Why do you tell him, Louie!"

Ever the dutiful officer, Louie obliged him. "Prostitution, third offense, driving under the influence, second offense, and possession of crack cocaine, second offense," he said coldly, shaking Jake to his core.

"What's wrong, boy?" Boudreaux smiled in recognition of the change in Jake's expression. "You didn't know that your little honey is a crack whore?"

Enraged and blinded by his fury, Jake lunged at the Sheriff shouting expletives. He was quickly and violently snapped back by the deputy, by Louie, his childhood friend. Boudreaux laughed the hardest yet at this, choking on his carcinogenic smoke and chuckling all the while.

"I bet she told you she gave that kid of hers to her mother, right? That she was just watching him until she could make a better home for him?" Boudreaux said in perfect harmony with the tale she told. "The reality is that CPS took that boy from her, Jake, and awarded her mother custody because she'd too much of a fuck up to care for him herself! Reality is a bitch, isn't boy?" The goon poked him as Rambo pulled the suddenly uncooperative prisoner towards the back seat of the LeSabre.

Kicking and fighting, Jake was dying to get his hands on the big fat master of Elsmere County. If he had, he would've torn the chubby bastard limb from limb with his bare hands, making the atrocities of The Butcher look like child's play in his rage. His anger in the moment was two-fold; both directed at the son-of-a-bitch behind the badge and at Nikki for having withheld information so key to her life, so telling of who she was at her core.

Boudreaux was still laughing and Jake still fighting, Louie nearly having pulled him all the way to the back door of the LeSabre with his regularly trained muscle when suddenly there came the chirp and buzz of a police siren tapped by its operator from somewhere behind them, down the alley. All three of them froze at the brief noise, turning in the direction from which it came to see an Indiana State Police cruiser rolling towards them slowly with the light bar painting the doors of the storage units around them with blue and red. It was clear that there was at least one occupant in the car besides the driver, seated in the passenger's seat, and Jake almost thought he could make out the face in the distance.

It stopped just behind the LeSabre, lights still flashing, and now Jake was sure who was riding shotgun on this expedition. It was Clyde Rambo, his white hair and beard catching the color of the cherries and berries as he stepped out of the vehicle along with the unmistakable driver, former Elsmere County Sheriff and current Indiana State Police Commissioner Pat Dickinson. The two of them were shocking enough to see joining the fray at Safe & Secure Self Storage, but a door opened from the backseat of the cruiser to expose another man that no one expected to see on this day. It was Special Agent Alberto Gomez, his hair full of a bit more salt than pepper in his advancing age.

Boudreaux, Louie and Jake all left speechless, it was Commissioner Dickinson to speak the next words and break the stunned silence that engulfed the alley.

"Sheriff Ron Boudreaux," he said commandingly as he marched toward the man, "I'm here to inform you that you have been placed on administrative leave effective immediately on suspicion of racketeering, production and distribution of a schedule two narcotic and misconduct in office. You will relinquish your badge, identification and service weapon to me pending the result of a formal inquiry."

With his boss standing mere inches from him, his upturned hand extended, Deputy Ron looked like a deer in the headlights, and the look was unflattering on him.

"What?" He asked, trying to absorb the words and looking over Dickinson's shoulder to see former Burlwood Sheriff Clyde Rambo staring at him with his hands linked together behind his back casually. "You!" He said, his eyes accusing his former boss and partner. "You did this, you bitter old son-of-a-bitch!"

"No sir!" Agent Gomez piped up from behind Rambo, walking towards where Louie held Jake in bondage. "You did this, Ron," he said, turning his gaze up to Boudreaux's deputy. "And I'm afraid you got caught up in it!"

"What's going on?" Louie said now as Gomez pulled his hands away from their position around Jake's cuffs.

"Deputy Louie Rambo," Dickinson started up again, "you too have been placed on administrative leave pending the outcome of this investigation. You will turn over your badge, identification and service weapon to Agent Gomez."

Both of their jaws agape, the representatives of the Elsmere County PD did as they were instructed because they had no other choice in the shadow of superior officers. Stripped of their authority, the two of them looked more now like the criminals they sought to apprehend on a daily basis than they did men of the law. Jake could only watch, speechless and smiling ear to ear on the inside, as Gomez collected Louie's paraphernalia and Dickinson did the same to Boudreaux.

Tucking everything into his pockets, Agent Gomez looked to the junior Rambo and requested one more piece of his equipment. "I'll need your handcuff key as well," he said, extending his hand once more.

When he got it, he proceeded step closer to Jake and turn him gently so that he could have access to his cuffs. Jake gave it readily, his wrists screaming at the tightness of the restraints, and he was relieved when the man opened the locks and removed them.

"You're free to go, Jake," he said in music to the former prisoner's ears.

Boudreaux looked twice as shocked at that than he had been, and he looked between the three men robbing him of his office with contempt and disdain. "Wait a minute! Now wait just a minute!" He shouted, none of those gathered looking too impressed by the outburst, but waiting for what he would say irregardless. "That man is under arrest!" He cried, pointing to the liberated Jake.

"On what charge?" Dickinson asked flatly.

"Breaking and entering!" Boudreaux yelled. "He just cut the lock off that storage unit and broke in! I don't care what you do to me, but that man is going to jail!"

Gomez cocked his head and looked to the dethroned Sheriff. "Is there any evidence of this crime?" He asked.

"You bet your ass there is!" He replied curtly. "Just look on the ground, there! There's the lock he cut off, there are the bolt cutters, there's your evidence, now put those goddamned cuffs back on him!"

Turning to see the proof, right there in front of him as promised, Gomez examined things for a moment before he looked to Commissioner Dickinson.

"Take a look, Pat," he said. "Does that look like evidence of a burglary to you?"

The Commissioner walked casually to where the chain and the remnants of the lock were and looked down at them, studying them carefully for a few moments.

"Well holy shit!" He declared, bending at the waist to the damaged items better. "In all my life, I have never seen a piece of Masterlock merchandise just split at the shackle like that! I tell you what, if I had paid for that lock, I'd be writing a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer and demanding a refund! What's become of American steel quality, boys, this is just a goddamned shame!"

Gomez nodded. "Just as I thought," he said. "Jake, you're free to go."

Boudreaux snorted, growled and protested vehemently as Jake turned his back to him and walked to Clyde Rambo, who was still standing by the ISP cruiser, observing the action. He found the man with a barely contained smile, seeing his work come to fruition exactly as he figured it would.

"Howdy there, bud!" Rambo said, letting his grin break free a bit. "How's Burlwood been treating you?"

"Not so hot," Jake advised, "I've been out here all week, and I'm no closer now to setting Chucky free than I was when I started."

"Oh, somehow I doubt that," Clyde responded. "But it doesn't help that the deck is stacked, and \-- believe me \-- it is stacked against you. What were you looking into here?"

"This unit belongs to Rusty and that company I mentioned, FGSI." Jake said.

Rambo nodded as though he understood why that was suspicious.

"I was hoping to find the Church Van or Evander's Brougham in there."

"And they're not in there?"

"No," Jake said tentatively, "but there was definitely a vehicle in there recently."

"I'd bet ten to one that it was that van," Rambo suggested, "and that if you find out who's at the helm of that company, you'll probably find that van and have your answers. I came across that company in my investigation, and it's very suspicious to put it kindly."

"I found paperwork that suggests old Ron here has something to do with that operation. Based on what I've seen, I think it could be just he and Rusty."

"No," Rambo replied, "there's someone else. According to what I found, it used to be a real company with revenues far less than what it says on the stuff that you came across. They filed real taxes and did real business until 2002. They fell off the radar and went underground then, and they've been that way ever since."

"If you uncovered stuff like taxes," Jake said, "then you must've found out who the registered owner was."

Again, Rambo nodded, with a smile this time. "You'll like this one, Jake, it was registered to a Frank Staten. That was the name of a New Orleans Voodoo king who was better known as Papa Midnight. The papers were filed under a false identity, of course, but if that doesn't tie the company to what happened here back when you were a boy, then I don't know what does. But there's more that you're not aware of, Jake, more that I shouldn't be telling you."

"What?" Jake wondered, imagining that there was nothing that would surprise him in this twisted and strange case.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask for a trade for this information, Jake," Rambo replied. "I can't just give this one away free."

Confused, Jake paused for a moment. "What could I possibly have that you need?" He asked.

"You said you found paperwork linking FGSI to Boudreaux... where was it? Do you have it?"

"Eighty forty-one Iris Lane," Jake recalled from memory, thinking about Miss Ferguson and her treasure trove of secrets. That would be key to the investigation of Ron Boudreaux and his misdeeds. His barn full of cooked books, his warehouse piled high with meth and things unlawful. "That's where I saw it, in the barn. He's got all kinds of shit in there that you can throw the book at him for."

"His old house!" Rambo smiled. "Of course! That'll be our next stop!"

"Great," Jake said, "now a deal is a deal, what have you got for me?"

"Well," Clyde began, "There's a lot more to this Billy Marsh case than meets the eye, Jake. For starters, there was no private eye who saw blood in Chucky's trunk like you thought there was. The case against Chucky was built almost entirely on the testimony of two people, both of whom that slippery Boudreaux managed to have classified as CI's."

"Confidential informants?" Jake asked. "Can he even do that?"

"Not over the long-term, no," Rambo advised. "They'll have to reveal themselves in court when the time comes, but it sure as hell makes it difficult to do anything about it until then. I'd bet my left nut that one of those two men is Rusty Parker," he suggested, "and I doubt I'd lose that bet. The second is probably his partner in crime, and they probably cooked up some bullshit story up to pin this all on Chuck and sold it to Ron. I mean, he's an easy target, especially if they knew his link to the boy."

"Any idea who that second CI might be?"

Rambo shook his head and looked down, aggravated that he couldn't crack the shell himself. "No, I don't," he verbalized his disappointment. "But I'd bet it's whoever brought Rusty into FGSI, and that could only be the son-of-a-bitch that owned it to begin with. There's no reason that Boudreaux would associate with Rusty otherwise, that much I know. Find out who that is, and I'd bet you've got your killers."

"So that's my accomplice, the original owner of FGSI?" Jake asked. "I find him, and I have the key?"

"Well," Rambo shrugged, "if I were you, that's what I would do.

FIFTY-EIGHT

September 17th, 2016. 3:45AM

Blackmoor, Indiana

Once Jake was clear of Safe & Secure Self Storage, where a collection of high-ranking police brass had just finished stripping the Sheriff of Elsmere County and his trusted deputy of their privileges, he drove directly across the county to the Blackmoor post office. According to the letter he'd stolen from Rusty's house, which he still had with him in the Malibu to support Ron Boudreaux's case of mail theft against him, FGSI Services claimed PO Box 65 within this facility as their mailing address.

Having arrived when the building was open to the general public, Jake walked in as though he sought to send a letter or package and casually wandered over into the PO box area like he had business to do over there. This being a relatively small post office, there was only one wall of three by eight inch boxes, each of which consisted of a metal door with an engraved number on it and a slot where a key would have to be inserted to gain access to the contents.

Finding number sixty-five, Jake noted that there was a window directly behind him that gave a view of the parking lot and several empty parking spaces. If here were to park there, he'd be able to see the entirety of the wall as clear as day. With surveillance in mind, he looked around for anything that would allow him to physically alter the box in which he was interested so that it would be obvious from a position outside of the building. Scanning the countertops containing pens, shipping labels and applications for passports, his eyes happened upon a fine-tipped Sharpie that a previous customer must've unintentionally left behind. Taking the marker in hand, Jake moved back to the boxes and drew an innocuous looking line on the door that would allow him to distinguish the box from the others while hopefully not drawing any suspicion from whomever might come to retrieve the mail.

Satisfied that he would be able to see the mark, he left the building and moved the Malibu into one of the parking spaces he'd seen from inside. The mark of the Sharpie was difficult to detect from a distance, but it was detectable. Knowing that it could be a long, long time before anyone showed up to make a withdrawal from the box, he settled into his seat and leaned it back just enough for him to reflect on everything that had happened.

Like a shard of broken hope driven deep into his heart, every moment of that reflection stung and tore at his soul. He'd told himself all of this time that he didn't really care about Nikki. He'd allowed himself to believe that he had no real attachment to her, that they were no more than strangers drawn together by the forces of pheromones and attraction. That what they had was nothing, that they were just enjoying each other's company in the hours that they spent together, often half or completely undressed.

That illusion was shattered when he heard what he presumed to be the truth from former Elsmere County Sheriff Ron Boudreaux. The idea that she was an addict, that she was a prostitute, that sweet little thing... that hurt him, and the pain was persistent. Feeling all of it and fighting through it, he wondered if the root cause of his torment was the death of an affection that he felt for her as result of her deception, or if it was a sympathy for the suffering she must constantly endure as a symptom of having done such terrible things that she probably felt forced to do by circumstance.

Whichever it was, the knowledge of her deeds changed everything he thought about her, altered everything he now realized he felt for her. In the place of warmth and that deceased affection was loathing and empathy all at once. Try as he might, he couldn't figure out how she could walk with her head high knowing what she'd done before, what she possibly still did when he wasn't around. How could she pretend to be something different, something greater than a series of charges like those he'd heard uttered by his old friend Louie Rambo in the cold confines of an alley at Safe & Secure Self Storage?

In the shadow of the disappointment he felt in her, in the wake of such opinion changing prejudice, he thought of his wife, Tracy. With no more than an accusation thrown at Nikki, he felt disgusting for having done the things he'd done with her. He felt damaged by his interactions with her, poisoned by tainted merchandise that he handled unknowingly.

Is that how Tracy felt about him in the face of the things that he'd done? The long nights out, the mysterious voyages into the city that sent him home smelling of liquor and cheap perfume. Were those things as traumatic to Tracy as what Nikki had done were to him in this moment?

As a result of his physical appearance, he'd been presented with hundreds of opportunities to stray from his wife, been hit on by dozens of fast and loose women that would've given him anything and everything if it was what he desired in the moment. Of course, he'd turned them all away -- but how was Tracy to know that? How was she able to lay down with him when she had no idea where he might've been or what he might've done while he was away?

She'd been so patient with him and his descent into ruin, and he realized now that he just couldn't understand why. Here he was, having given up on Nikki in light of the things she'd done, and Tracy had stood by him for so long while he dragged her and his son down to the depths of his potential miscreance and deviance. She never batted an eye, never asked a single question about what terrible things he could've done while he was away. Without knowing, seemingly without wondering, she still took him into her arms when he came home and treated him as a wife treats a husband... until he really lost control, and then what choice did she have?

In learning of the way Nikki Spencer lived her life and feeling the destructive power of secrets and lies, Jake longed to take Tracy in his arms and cry for all of the injustices he'd done to her in his alcohol and ignorance fueled rampages. He'd placed Tracy under duress with his behavior as of late, but she'd handled herself with class and full composure for so long. She'd ridden the horse all the way up until it was simply unbearable to continue, until the steed bucked so hard that there was simply no holding on to be managed. Until the horse had gone lame and fell to its side, when she no option but to dismount as the stallion writhed and struggled to stand once more.

To him, not having such class or such composure within himself, her actions seemed heroic now instead of villainous and vile, as they had before. He'd done such rotten things to her, he'd pushed her against the wall of losing everything and even went so far as to raise his hand to her, and she took the high road. She made moves and took actions to do what was right by her and her son.

Only when hope seemed lost did she choose to distance herself from him... to remove his negative influence from her life, to become something greater by freeing herself of the cross that he represented on her back. To move on and move away from the darkness that became of him.

That was tremendous... That was respectable... fuck, that was noble.

And yet, he felt so badly towards her for doing it...

And yet, he felt she was so foul in ejecting him from her life... as he intended to eject Nikki from his after learning of a string of slip-ups no worse in the scheme of things than those he'd suffered himself in days gone by.

How could he have been such a fool?

How could he have been so blind to what he was doing, where he was going?

Nikki slips, and he casts her aside...

He slips, and Tracy holds on... she holds on.

Oh, Tracy... our love... holds on... holds on... you should've been gone, and it holds on... holds on... you are gone, and still it holds on... holds on.

While he sat and lingered on the edge of a breakdown, the business inside the post office wound down and eventually the facility closed. Of course, there was twenty-four hour access to the PO boxes, so Jake wouldn't be going anywhere soon. He would sit there in the Malibu and stay up all night long, and then into the next day if need be. If no one came in the night to empty box sixty-five, he would watch for them by the light of day. If no one came still, he would watch into the next night... and the next day... and the next night... and the next day... he didn't care how long he would sit there, he would sit there until he had his answers... he would sit there until someone came with a key to the narrow metal box marked with the black line and revealed the identity of FGSI Services to him. If no one came until the very end of time, Jake would be waiting there with his long white beard and shaggy white hair. As no more than a well dressed skeleton, he would wait and watch for the action he needed to see. With no eyes in his decaying boney sockets, he would observe. With no beating in his heart, he would stake this place out.

When it was almost midnight and he was in the throes of his churning mind, his cellphone rang through the speakers of the Malibu. Looking up to his radio display to identify the caller before he answered, he saw the name of Clyde Rambo and decided to pause his suffering to see what his friend and liberator had to say. It turned out that he, along with Dickinson and Gomez, had gone to eighty forty-one Iris Lane and found someone other than Miss Ferguson living in the property. It was a middle-aged man who answered for them, and he readily gave them permission to search the house and the barn behind it. In the barn, of course, were horses. Any sign that there had ever been a warehouse, that there had ever been false paperwork, that there had ever been any meth was long, long gone. There was, though, a nine millimeter slug in one of the rafters that the young man couldn't explain, but there was nothing else that proved anything beyond the fact that Garthby was a good place to raise race horses.

This was no surprise to anyone involved, Jake included. Of course Boudreaux would've cleaned up after himself once prying eyes saw his ass, just as he had cleaned up the SSF factory so long ago. The call ended not long after it had begun, and Jake was left with himself and the silence of the night to keep him company.

The silence was loud, and it was brutal to him in telling its story of love and hate and no forgiveness for those who perpetrate deeds in the name of dark necessities. Hearing it clearly, wishing that it would shut up and stop with its accusations, he waited and waited for any sign of action in the building or the surrounding lot and road. For what seemed like eternity, there was nothing. Then, like a blessing out of the night, came the lights of a vehicle with a smashed up and poorly repaired front end. It barely looked legal for driving on public roadways, but there was no sheriff on duty to stop the driver even if he was in violation of every law regarding vehicle condition on the books.

Watching it struggle to maintain a straight trajectory down the road, Jake eventually realized that it was, in fact, going to pull into the parking lot of the post office with him. Sinking into his seat, doing everything he could possibly do to make his vehicle seem abandoned for the evening, Jake waited while the car parked and a middle aged hispanic man stepped out.

He marched with purpose and intent into the post office, his movement triggering a motion sensor that turned on a light in the otherwise blackened PO box area. With the light, Jake was able to clearly make out the box with the black line he'd drawn on it, and he watched in high suspense to see whether or not this man would open that particular box. The sudden illumination also allowed him to get a good look at the man inside, finding him to be a chubby character wearing no more than a dirty and stained white tank top and age-distressed denim jeans that barely seemed to be holding on in their fight to stay in one piece around his rotund waist. Whomever this man was, he was not the heir to fortunes like those Jake had seen spelled out on the profit and loss statement of FGSI Services.

No, this was a grunt, if he was the FGSI man at all...

Watching him move to the wall, watching him readying his key to open the box he came for, Jake locked his eyes on the small black line the Sharpie he found had made. There, before his eyes, the man slid his key into what Jake was positive was box sixty-five and withdrew a small stack of letters in envelopes. Once he'd retrieved them, he closed and locked the box again while Jake's heart was pounding like a snare in his ears.

With just as much purpose as he'd entered, the man exited the office and climbed back into the wreckage that was his car. Not wanting to spook him in any way, Jake watched which direction he turned out of the lot and let him build some distance before he started the Malibu and set off behind him. Maintaining a good distance, he followed as the man took a series of back roads on which Jake was sure he would realize he was being tailed. Apparently he didn't, as he simply kept driving until they crossed out of Blackmoor and into the town of West Pine.

Having never been to this side of town, Jake had no idea where they were going as they sped through the black of the night into what seemed to be a wealthy neighborhood. Just like on Confederate Way, the houses along the road were large and well landscaped, each of them with Jaguars, Cadillacs, Mercedes and BMW's resting in the driveways. This was the sort of place an owner of FGSI Services would live.

Once they were deep into the town, the raggedy car containing the fat hispanic man pulled up in the crowded driveway of a particularly large abode on the left side of a quiet side street. As Jake pulled over several houses down, he noted that the reason the junker was left hanging out into the street a bit was the fact that there was a silver Cadillac Escalade parked behind a large, older looking white van that took the majority of the available space. On the rear of the vehicle were large blue letters, not spelling out Our Mother Of Sorrows, but FGSI Services... letters that were just as damning and inflammatory as the prior.

From his vantage point, it was hard to tell whether or not the vehicle was Dodge Ram, but it wasn't out of the question. Focused so intently on trying to tell, Jake nearly missed it when the man in the wrecked out car walked casually up to porch and deposited the letters he'd taken from the Blackmoor PO box into a mail slot on the front door of the house. Once they were clearly into the home, the man walked back out to his vehicle and left the scene -- minus his tail.

Jake didn't give a shit who the courier was... he wanted to know the identity of the recipient.

He would wait until daylight. He would see whether or not someone would come out to report for work or go off on some business of this less than wholesome company. If they did, he would follow them and see where he ended up. If they didn't, he would invite himself to breakfast and ask some very pressing questions about what FGSI was and what they had to do with the death of Billy Marsh.

FIFTY-NINE

September 17th, 2016. 10:20AM

Indianapolis, Indiana

Donnell had been knocking on doors up and down Second Street since seven in the morning, a task that was not at all an ideal way to spend his Saturday. He carried with him a picture, printed by LeTonya, that showed a string of low income apartments across from what was apparently Freaky Zack Magahey's place of residence.

Of course, it was a sprawling and nasty tri-level motel called Comfort Arms across the street from the projects shown in the photo, so there was an abundance of doors on which to knock. None of them had anything good going on behind them, Donnell knew that much before he started, and that made this entire process all the more miserable... and likely dangerous to boot.

Twice he'd been greeted by strung out women who looked like they'd just walked away from Auschwitz in their emaciation, and each time there was a similarly afflicted looking man asleep on the bed with pistols on the night stands beside them. In each instance, the tables were also littered with hypodermic needles, pipes or other drug paraphernalia that would probably affect the men's judgement should they wake up and see a big fat black man they didn't know standing at the door.

Another time, he was met by a man at least a full foot taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier than he was. This man's weight was in chiseled muscle, and he had what could best be described as crazy eyes. Having apparently been awakened by Donnell's knock, he looked as though he was ready to start beating the lawyer's ass with the aluminum baseball bat he was clutching at any moment. In order to escape this fate, Donnell was very apologetic once he realized this was definitely not Freaky Magahey's room. Still staring at him with those eyes, the man thankfully let him just slither away, apologizing all the while for disturbing him.

Several rooms proved to be either empty or housing criminals who weren't willing to wake up at such an ungodly normal hour to answer the door and face him. Looking through their peepholes, they probably thought this well-dressed visitor was an officer of the law coming as the prelude to a raid or something equally as threatening. As a result, Donnell would never know if these rooms belonged to Freaky Magahey or not.

Then there was room 204, in which he found a half-dressed David Marx... one of the attorneys on staff at the DA's office. Marx was sitting up on the bed when a woman with fewer than ten teeth answered, and the man seemed entirely shocked to see Donnell, who was often his opponent in court, when he locked eyes with him. Shying away from the sight, he apologized to them just as he had the hulking man he'd met earlier and left them to do whatever it was they were doing in peace and solitude.

Realizing that this was a pay by the hour or day facility left Donnell wondering if Zack Magahey was even here to be found. Based on his blog, some of which LeTonya printed to show his bizarre state of mind, the guy was largely a transient who rarely spent a lot of time in one place. His ramblings were clearly fueled either by drugs or severe mental illness, so there didn't seem to be a great likelihood that he would've stayed in this establishment ever since he posted the picture the projects across the street a month or so ago. Still, there was a chance. That couldn't be ignored.

Determined to see the lead through, Donnell continued knocking on doors in sequence, starting on the third level and making his way around and down the seedy building. As fate would have it, he'd touched nearly every door in the complex before he ended up at room 110, where he beat his sore knuckles against the fiberboard of just another shot in the dark and waited for another revelation of disappointment and depravity. Prepared to see another landscape of vice and criminality inside, he was shocked when a middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap lined with aluminum foil that spilled like a waterfall all the way down his neck opened the door to him.

"What?" The man said, his eyes wide and full of paranoia. "I paid for another week, why are you here?"

Taking one look at him and recalling the eccentric blog entries about mind control and big brother, Donnell knew immediately that he'd found his man.

"You must be Zack Magahey," he said flatly, exhaustedly.

"Huh?" Magahey recoiled, stepping back and closing the door defensively so that only his face showed in the crack. "Who are you, man?" He said, obviously frightened to the point of terror. "Why are you people after me? What do you want?"

"Relax," Donnell offered, fanning instinctively in the style he used with LeTonya. "My name is Donnell Hughes, I just want to ask you a few questions about what happened between you and Rusty Parker back at Central."

"Are you black ops?" Zack asked in horror, as if Donnell would say yes if he were.

"Who?" Donnell wondered.

"Psi-ops, man! Are you psi-ops? If you are, you have to show me your badge! It's the law!"

"What? No!" The visitor replied. "Look, I don't have a badge! I'm just a normal guy, like you," he lied a bit, "and all I want is to ask you about Rusty. Do you remember Rusty?"

There was a pause and Magahey seemed to calm a bit. Eventually he opened the door a bit again and spoke. "Rusty from the school?" He asked. "Yeah, I remember him. How could I forget, he tried to kill me!"

"Good," Donnell said, "can we talk about it?"

With a bit more convincing that he wasn't some kind of government agent, Donnell got Freaky Magahey to let him inside of room 110. The space was tiny and musty, certainly not the kind of place that any reasonable human being would choose to live for any real length of time. There was an area with a queen bed that doubled as the living space with a television that was at least as old as Magahey himself mounted and bolted to a dresser. Just off of that was a kitchenette, which consisted of a tiny fridge that Freaky said didn't even work, a microwave and a plug-in hot plate on the counter. Just off of the kitchenette was a small and ancient looking bathroom, complete with a pull-chain hanging from a wall-mounted tank that you had to pull to flush it. There was orange carpet throughout, the pile of which was crushed and collapsed by foot traffic over the years to the point that it looked like something you would see in a sunroom instead of a living area.

The room was cluttered, but relatively clean, which was somewhat surprising. Magahey had a fairly large collection of books scattered about and organized alphabetically, but none were the sort that Donnell -- or any other reasonable person -- would ever wish to read. Most of them dealt with conspiracies or alien intervention in the affairs of mankind, and all of them looked as though they'd been thumbed through a hundred times or more in their history.

Magahey took a seat on his bed, the ancient springs inside squeaking loudly at his weight, and invited Donnell to sit on a filthy looking upholstered chair that was sitting in a corner nearby. Fearing something like bedbugs or worse, Donnell declined and found a metal folding chair near an area where the counter of the kitchenette dropped down to form a dining space. Setting it up opposite Zack, Donnell began his questioning.

"Okay, Zack," he began, "like I said, I'm here to talk about what happened with you and Rusty Parker back at Indy Central. I know it was a long time ago, but I need to tell me exactly what happened in as much detail as possible."

"Yeah, that's fine," Magahey said, "but why do you want to know? I mean, that's been almost twenty years ago, why come around asking about it now?"

Carefully crafting his response to Freaky's level of understanding and ability to interpret information without jumping to wild conclusions, Donnell replied. "I have a friend who is in some trouble, and I have reason to believe that Rusty is the one who ought to be in that trouble. I think my friend is innocent, and I think that Rusty is guilty. What happened between you and Rusty back then might be a clue, and I might be able to use that clue to get my friend out of the trouble he's in. Okay?"

"Yeah, that's cool," Zack answered. "I'll be glad to see Rusty finally get what's coming to him. I tried to tell Sheriff Blake about what he did, but he didn't believe me. He should've believed me. Rusty should've been in jail a long time ago."

"Great," Donnell said. "Now just start from the beginning, and tell me everything you remember."

"Well," Freaky said, "it was my sophomore year, I guess I was sixteen or so. Rusty started working as a maintenance man or something, and suddenly we were always seeing him around."

"Did he talk to the students a lot?" Donnell asked.

"No, no not really," Zack said. "But every time I would see him, he would smile at me... like he liked me or something. Like he wanted to get down with me."

"Okay, about that," Donnell interrupted. "Do I understand correctly that you are --" he paused, searching for the right word, "homosexual?"

"Yeah, that's right," Magahey offered freely and without restraint. "Always have been, always will be."

"And did people know that back then?"

"Well, yeah," Zack continued, "that's part of why they called me Freaky. It wasn't so fashionable back then, people didn't see it the way they do now, so I was Freaky to them. It's funny that most of the people who called me that were the ones spending time with me, but... what can I say? I guess Rusty must've found out about it or something, because he always looked at me like he was hungry or something. It didn't bother me, I kind of liked it, actually. I liked older guys, still do. Anyway, it went on all year like that, and all year I kept on waiting for him to do something about it, but he never tried anything."

"Never tried a thing?" Donnell asked. "Never talked to you, made a pass at you?"

"No, nothing. He never talked to anybody, myself included. He was always really reserved. In fact, I think the day of the incident was the first time I ever heard him talk at all."

"Tell me about the incident."

"It was in May, May 17th. I'll never forget the date." Magahey explained. "I had American Civil War as my fourth period class. I hated American Civil War, so I decided I was going to skip it again. I skipped it most of the time, it was boring as fuck and I didn't have any friends in the class with me. First lunch was going on when the class started, and a lot of my pals had first lunch. I had third lunch, but I usually would hang out in the cafeteria with my buddies when I decided I wasn't going to class. I was at a table eating some apple pieces that a friend of mine had brought, and here comes Rusty marching through the cafeteria straight at me! I saw him coming, that look in his eye the whole time, staring at me the whole time. For a minute I thought he was gonna bust me for skipping class, but hen I remembered that he was just a janitor, so why would he do that? When he got to me, he put his hand on my shoulder and leaned down to talk into my ear. He whispered come with me, and I thought I was in deep shit! I thought he knew that I was skipping class and that he was taking me to the principal, even thought it was none of his business. I followed him, because I thought I had to, and he took me to the door that led to the boiler room. When we got there, there was nobody in the hallways, so we were alone. He stopped and turned to face me, then he reached out and grabbed my -- " he hesitated "my junk, I guess. It felt really good because I was a teenager... I mean, what teenager doesn't get off on somebody grabbing his junk?"

"Right," Donnell chuckled to mirror Freaky's laughing, but his chuckle was forced and uncomfortable. He was listening to what amounted to a story of child molestation, he found nothing humorous about it.

"So he's got a hold on my junk, and he says how'd you like me to suck it?" Zack continued. "I was like hell yeah," he laughed again, "that would be great! So he opens the door to the boiler room, and we go inside. I'm kind of awestruck when we get in there, because there are all these big giant machines and stuff that I had never seen before all around. I was so busy looking at all the stuff that I didn't really pay attention to the path we took, and it was kind of a maze of catwalks and pathways. Eventually, we're deep into this boiler room, and we're in this big open area with a workbench and a big metal table in the middle of it. He tells me to lean against the table, so I do."

"Then what happened?"

"He unzips my pants and starts to do his thing, ya' know? So I'm standing there, leaning against this work table with my back to a big open space. That's when I heard it, and I'm glad I did, because I'm pretty sure it saved my life."

"Wait," Donnell said after Zack fell silent for a period. "I'm afraid you lost me, what did you hear?"

"A voice," Magahey answered, "a voice in my head. It wasn't the first time I'd heard a voice, but this one sounded serious!"

"What'd it say?" Donnell asked, disconcerted.

"Turn around!" Zack said emphatically, as though he were hearing it all over again. "It said turn around, so I did!"

"And what did you see?" Donnell prodded, the man pausing his account again for an uncomfortably long period.

"I saw a man sneaking up on me!" Freaky offered, his chest rising and falling quickly in reliving his ordeal. "A big man, with a rag in his right hand, and the rag was wet! So wet that it was dripping, and he was holding it just as low as he possibly could, just as far from his face as his arm could go! He was really close to me, and when I turned he swung the rag up and pressed it against my face -- over my mouth and nose!"

"Did you know him?"

"And he pressed hard!" Zack resumed, ignoring the question and enraptured in the memory. "It smelled sweet, almost like an orange, but it was cold like menthol or something on my throat and lungs! I tried to pull his hand away, but he was strong! I tried holding my breath, but it was hard because Rusty had grabbed hold of me, his arms wrapped around my stomach and squeezing the air out of me!"

"What did the man look like?" Donnell tried to ask for clarification again.

"I started feeling faint," Magahey continued. "Like I was going to pass out! I got scared because I knew they were gonna do something to me when I passed out, something bad! I was starting to lose it, I was starting to fade out and I remember just throwing my hands around trying to do anything I could to get away. That's when I felt it, sitting right there on the table next to me!"

"Felt what?"

"It was a box cutter, a razor in a metal handle. I didn't know whether it was opened or not, I was too goofy at that point to know, or to open it if it wasn't already. Thank God, it was open, and I had just enough sense to take it and swing it at the guy who was holding that damned rag over my face!" Breathing a sigh of relief, as he must've in that moment, he finished his tale. "I swung it at him, and I cut him!"

"Where?"

"I cut him, the bastard! I cut that nigger," he said as though Donnell weren't sitting there in all of his blackness, "from the top of his forehead down to the bottom of his chin, I cut his fucking face open!"

"Oh my God," Donnell whispered to himself in shock and a flood of memories. Memories of his youth, memories of time spent in a hazmat suit at the Super Socket Fasteners building. Memories of a colleague, memories of a founding father in the business. Memories of the race track, memories of a tour and the farrier who conducted it.

"That's when they let me go," Zack concluded. "That's when they started trying to stop his bleeding and let me jump off that table and stumble away! I cut that motherfucker, and it's the only reason I got away from him! Then the voices, they told me how to get out of that place. It's a good thing they did, because I had no idea how to get out of there!"

"This man," Donnell began, as though any further confirmation was necessary. "Was he bald and very tall?"

"Well -- yes," Magahey said, stunned. "Do you know who he is or something?"

"Yes," Donnell answered, still beneath his breath in disbelief. "Yes, I know him, I've known him for a long time. He goes by Sarge... but his name is Grover Simmonds..."

SIXTY

September 17th, 11:30AM.

West Pine, Indiana

Eight zero seven Edgewood Park, that was the address of the house that Jake had been watching like a hawk since the wee hours of the morning. There had been absolutely no activity in or around the residence since the fat hispanic man dropped FGSI Services' mail through a slot in the front door so many hours ago. No one had come, no one had gone, and Jake had seen no movement behind the tightly closed blinds of what could only be described as a mansion in stature and design.

Growing tired of just sitting there, Jake was chomping at the bit to get out and take a better look at the white van parked in front of the Escalade in the home's driveway. The more he examined it through his binoculars, the more he was convinced that the FGSI placard on the visible side was no more than a magnetic appliqué, perhaps covering something of consequence. Underneath it, he suspected, would be much different lettering, likely in the form of permanently applied decals. If he was right, there would be aged letters beneath the sign that read Our Mother Of Sorrows, Burlwood, Indiana. If he was right, he would have evidence that someone other than Chucky was involved in the disappearance and murder of little Billy Marsh.

Wondering if those decals may have been removed in an attempt to further disguise the van, Jake searched the Malibu for the copy of the vehicle's registration that Father Lovett had given him during his first visit to the church. Unable to locate it in his glovebox or the many compartments under his armrest and behind the radio panel, he realized that he must've taken the paperwork into Chucky's trailer and, therefore, wouldn't have the luxury of using it to make a positive ID of the van via the VIN had the decals been peeled or scraped off. That could all be sorted out later, though, if the vehicle truly was a Dodge Ram Van and the FGSI markings were, in fact, no more than letters printed on a magnetic sign. If those basic facts were true, the rest would be a black and white matter of matching numbers and making a determination.

Itching to have his answers, impatient just to know, one way or the other, he finally decided that the time for sitting idly by and watching was over. Pulling the Malibu forward and parking it directly in front of eight zero one Edgewood Park, he braced himself and prepared for whatever he might find in following up on this latest lead. Again checking for his Beretta, which had been returned to him by Commissioner Dickinson once his concealed carry permit was confirmed, he opened his door and stepped out onto the lush green grass of the home with a bent for finding the truth.

As he marched up the driveway without a care for the fact that he was trespassing again, he scoped out the interior of the Escalade as he walked by it. There was nothing to see inside, the vehicle was well maintained and looked as though it had either been detailed very recently or was treated with kid gloves each time it was driven. Approaching the white van in front of it, the vehicle that really held his interest, it didn't take very long at all to see that familiar Dodge logo sparkling in the sun in the form of a metallic ornament on the rear door. This was a Dodge Ram van, for whatever else it may or may not prove to be. In his mind, that simple fact doubled the chances that he'd just stumbled onto a clue that had eluded the authorities from the beginning of this affair.

Peering in through the rear window of the vehicle, Jake saw several rows of seats with aged and torn upholstery on every one of them. Doubting that FGSI was in the business of transporting large numbers of people on a regular basis, this discovery only served to confirm his suspicion that this particular van was the same that had been the subject of a BOLO issued by the Elsmere PD in the not too distant past.

Moving away from the rear end, Jake slithered over to the driver's side of the vehicle and got his confirmation that the placard reading FGSI Services in bold blue letters was, in fact, no more than a thin and magnetized sign that could've been slapped on the van in a matter of seconds. It didn't seem reasonable, to him at least, to think that a conglomerate moving the kind of money that FGSI Services claimed on paper to move would be so frugal as to simply slap a magnet on a van and call it good. This was a hack job, a cover-up done in quick and dirty fashion, and that seemed suspicious right off the bat.

With no delay or hesitation, he reached up and peeled at the top corner of the sign. Ripping it away briskly and simply dropping it to the ground, he examined the space behind where it had been for any indication that this was, indeed, the Our Mother Of Sorrows van. The paint beneath the magnetic plaque looked much the same as the paint on the rest of the vehicle, proving that the magnetic farce hadn't been on the side of the van for very long as it hadn't discolored the finish at all. Unfortunately, though, the paint underneath it was so identical to the rest of the van that it also showed no indication of ever having a more permanently applied form of branding that had since been stripped in haste. There was no brighter shade of white where decals had once been, there was no sticky residue to indicate that previously glued down letters had been removed from the metal.

Jake felt sure that this was the Our Mother van, but in the face of what he was seeing, there was no way he could prove it until he had his hands on the VIN. The thought of going to get the registration crossed his mind, but he quickly decided there was no way driving all the way back to Burlwood to get it. Not before he had a few more answers, at least.

Running his hands across the smooth surface of the vehicle's side, he thought he could feel the outline of removed decals. He believed he could detect several distinct words with spacing between them, but that could've been no more than wishful thinking or his mind playing a trick on him. If someone had removed the Our Mother tag, they had done a damned professional job of it, and he wasn't going to out them simply by feeling the cold metal panel.

As he stood there, studying the thing fruitlessly, he felt a vibrating in his pocket and heard the familiar notes of Canon sounding out. Wrestling his attention away from the van for a moment, he retrieved his phone and checked to see who was bothering him now. It was Donnell, and no sooner than he'd seen the name he swiped to the right to refuse the call. Launchpad had given him an earful the last time they spoke, and you only get to give Jake Giguére an earful one time before you're transferred over to the go fuck yourself wing of his contacts.

The ringing distracted him from the mystery of the van, and as a result of it shifting his attention briefly, he found that he'd lost interest. Knowing there was nothing he could do about it for the moment, even if it was the Our Mother van, he decided that he was ready to move on.

With the outside work done, it was time for him to take a look inside eight zero five Edgewood Park. It was time to introduce himself to whomever it was that was receiving the mail from PO Box 65, the mail belonging to FGSI Services and it's proprietor. Logic dictated that it would be owner of the fabled FGSI Services to whom the mail was given, and the wealthy nature of the neighborhood in which he stood gave credence to the idea that this was that man's home. It was also possible, if not likely, that whomever was was living within this grand estate was the partner of Rusty Parker in more than just the business affair that tied them together. He was likely the second -- the previously unheralded -- Butcher Of Burlwood. He was likely the key to the murder of Billy Marsh, the secret weapon that was able-bodied in the present and unwatched in the past to enable the other half of the dynamic duo to escape detection. Whomever was living in this palatial piece of real estate, he was likely a murderous monster of the highest degree.

As Jake walked up the cobblestone walkway and approached the ornate and rich looking front door of the place, he felt his pocket vibrating again. Reaching for his phone as he walked, he saw that it was Donnell calling a second time, and he gave him the same treatment that he had before. Straight to the voicemail, straight to leave me the fuck alone, asshole.

With that dealt with, Jake took a moment to clear his thoughts before he proceed in ringing the doorbell of this lavish estate. He tried to focus on what he wanted, on what he needed to get out of the stranger he was about to meet so that he could put this thing to bed once and for all. He tried to prepare himself for the question and answer session that was to come, he tried to ready his mind for the dance that he would soon be dancing with a likely conspirator in the arts of murder and dismemberment. He sorted and organized his thoughts, as he had before addressing Daryl Lane, and ran over the list of questions he would ask and the form of verbal traps that he would set for the fool to stumble into.

Before his mind was fully settled, before he was entirely ready, his world was rocked by the opening of that heavy wooden door at which he stood and the revelation of a man he never expected to see. Even had he been ready, even had the door opened as an answer to the ringing of its bell, he still would've been fully unprepared to face the man who apparently lived here at eight zero seven Edgewood Park. No preparation could've readied him, no warning could've eased the blow, no matter what he thought he knew, he still would've been stunned to see the scar-faced and larger than life Sarge standing there to greet him.

"Hello, young man!" Grover said in his kind and gentle tone and accent. "How are you doing this fine morning?"

"Grover?" Jake mumbled, feeling total and complete shock overtake him.

The man just stood there for a time, staring at Jake. In all likelihood, he was probably examining the complete and utter confusion on his visitors face and wondering what had him so perplexed. If that were the case, he would've been right in his assumption that Jake was totally and utterly perplexed.

"You were expecting someone else?" Grover eventually asked, raising his eyebrows.

Jake said nothing, he did nothing in the moments that followed as he tried to regather himself and recognize exactly what this all meant.

Seeing his mind laboring, seeing him wrestling to unravel it all like a badly tangled ball of twine, Grover stepped back and opened the door wide. "Come in, my friend!" He said, gesturing the way. "Please, come in!"

Jake did as he was invited, though he had no conscious control over what his body was doing. He stepped into a foyer that was as elegant and rich as the outside of the home would suggest there should be. The walls were covered in gorgeous dark wooden paneling, and the floor appeared to be one giant slab of granite that was cut specifically to fill the space.. As Sarge closed the door, a swirl of aromas filled the closed-in space that was pleasant and foreign to Jake's nose. Looking down the hallway was the entryway, he saw a distant wooden table upon which sat some form of diffuser that had smoke billowing from it in wisps and puffs.

"It's sage," Grover said, noting Jake's staring. "It purifies energy, it's quite a marvelous substance."

Jake nodded and looked around, seeing a large and open area to his left that was colored brilliantly by natural light spilling in through large windows all around the perimeter at the top of the room. Beneath the glass there was the same gorgeous wooden paneling that was in the entryway, and the light shining in brought out the beauty of the dark lines of the grain. Upon every second wooden panel was a glorious and exotic hunting trophy, each mounted on a contrasting block of wood to make them stand out and call attention to the prizes. From where he stood, he could see the heads of several large animals on display including an elephant complete with tusks, a male lion with its proud mane intact and some other animal that he didn't recognize with incredible spiral horns rising high from its brow. There was the pelt of a zebra stretched out and marvelous to behold, the striped fur of a tiger and the spotted pelt of a leopard, each displayed with the dignity and pride due such magnificent pieces.

In the center of this room was a massive U-shaped brown leather sectional couch with a table in the center that featured a pane of rounded glass suspended in the air atop four large horns, the origin of which he also could not readily identify. As he was digesting these wonders, Sarge extended an arm into the room and directed Jake to enter.

Again feeling that he was moving autonomously in his surprise, he did as directed and ended up seated on one end of the plush and comfortable couch. As he sat, he became aware of a large earthenware vase that was fat at the bottom and narrowed towards the top which was positioned on a table just behind him and over his shoulder. Looking across the table to the other side of the couch, he saw a matching piece that gave him a sense of balance in the room. As he examined the fine tribal painting of the vases, Grover moved around to the back of the room where a large bar was setup. There was a slab of granite that matched the floor over which an intricate wooden lattice rack was loaded with many intricate bottles of what was surely expensive libations and fine looking glassware to boot.

"The horns under the table are rhino," he explained as he retrieved two high-ball glasses and used a set of tongs to drop spherical balls of ice into each of them. "The animal between the lion and elephant is a kudu," he continued as though he knew every question that was swirling in Jake's mind. It was more likely that he'd explained these same things to many curious visits in the past, but still it was uncanny in the moment as he identified the objects that Jake was unable to. "Kudu are native to Africa, as are just about all of the other trophies you see in this room."

Taking a moment to look around, Jake was struck by the majesty of everything around him. These things, these dead things, were everywhere that he looked -- each of them mounted and displayed with a respect and an appreciation of their wonder. Lowering his eyes, he realized that there were several small and rustically tribal looking tables underneath many of the mounts, and the items arranged upon them were just as interesting as the trophies hanging above them.

On one there were what appeared to be monkey skulls, each of them stacked atop another in an ominous display that seemed to be constructed with purpose instead of random trial and error. Another contained several flask-looking items that were wrapped in dirty, cracking pelts of some furry animal long dead and not as well preserved as the other curiosities in this room. On a third there were dolls made of burlap and bearing what appeared to be large tufts of black human hair standing high off of their heads, like those little troll dolls that were so popular when he was growing up.

On the floor around the room were also large, almost ancient looking earthenware vases that were similar to the ones behind and across from Jake as he sat. Some stood nearly three feet high while others were much smaller but just as stunning to look at. Each of them was painted in a tribal fashion, some of them glazed and others naked and porous. Their arrangement also seemed intentional somehow. As if they were designed and created to be displayed in a very specific way that was carefully adhered to in the decoration of this space.

"I grew up in Africa," Grover continued, pouring some dark alcoholic liquid into his glasses and stirring them with glass sticks.

He performed this stirring as though he were simply trying to swirl the ice around to chill the entirety of the drink, but Jake imagined his intentions were entirely different. In his mind, Sarge was making sure that something was completely and totally dissolved in the glass he would present to his guest. Perhaps it was Halothane or Xylazine. Maybe a few Ambien or Valium or something of the like. Something that would send Jake off to the cold and distant land of sleep. Likely a sleep from which he would never awaken, like those who went before him. Either way, whatever the case, he wouldn't be drinking the beverage his host was preparing for him at the bar. He wouldn't even consider the idea.

"Benin, to be exact," Sarge continued. "I came here quite young, with my parents, but I make a habit of going back to visit at least once a year."

"Fascinating," Jake managed to say in his awe and slight disorientation as Sarge moved away from the bar. "I didn't know it was legal to have some of these things."

Sarge chuckled at that, moving towards the couch with drinks in hand.

"Everything good is illegal, my friend. That's how they keep you in check. What is a law but a piece of paper, though? What is it really worth? What power does it really have?"

Finishing his dissertation, Grover sat directly across from his visitor on the opposite end of his uniquely formed couch. Taking a coaster from a stack at the center of the glass table, he set one of the drinks down in front of Jake as he took a sip of his own. Just watching him do it, not making even the slightest move for his own, Jake saw the pleasure of the taste on Grover's face.

"Oh, my my," Sarge said with a smile. "That's wonderful! It's called Mampoer, it's a liquor made from peaches, apricots and litchi. It was traditional in my village, and I brought this bottle back from a trip I took there in 1978. I've been back since, obviously, but I've been saving this bottle for a long, long time with a special occasion in mind. This is a special occasion, wouldn't you say, young man?"

"I dunno, is it?" Jake replied.

Grover smiled widely, rolling his neck from side to side in ominous fashion as his eyes bored into Jake's mind like finely tuned drill heads. "Something tells me that it is," he replied. Taking another sip, he reveled in the flavor again and motioned at Jake's glass. "Try it, young man, I believe you'll find it remarkable. It seems only fitting that we should share a fine drink at a moment like this... on the precipice of -- well, what we're on the precipice of."

Clearing his throat and trying to clear his mind, Jake struggled to put the pieces together. He wasn't at all sure what to think, what to read in finding Grover as the owner of this particular house, apparently the owner of FGSI Services and all that it entailed. He tried to settle his tangled mind, tried to make order of the chaos so that he could continue with his job, which was to bust Rusty's accomplice.

"What would you say we're on the precipice of?" He said in reply.

Grover thought for a moment, looking reflective and nostalgic before he spoke. "Why don't you tell me?" He asked quizzically. "I mean, it was you who turned up on my doorstep, looking at my van. I imagine it took a great deal of work on your part to end up here, sharing these drinks with me. I do wish you'd try yours, young man, it's only polite in a situation such as this."

"I'm not very thirsty at the moment," Jake replied, and he couldn't have been more honest.

"Ah," Sarge smiled between sips, "you're all business and no pleasure, I see! I've always found that balance is necessary my friend, that it just makes life easier and more enjoyable!"

"As it happens, I am all business," Jake replied, "and it's seen me this far, so let's get down to it... shall we?"

Again Grover sipped his drink, then he nodded and smiled in response. "What business shall we get down to, young man?"

"Let's start with that van you mentioned," Jake said, and now it was Grover who looked confused.

"You have questions about my van?"

"Yes, I do," Jake replied. "Where did you happen to get it?"

"Oh, it's a company van," Sarge said. "Been around forever, I can't say exactly where it came from."

Jake returned the hard stare Grover had been giving him and peeled his flesh from his bones with his eyes. "You still gonna play that angle?" He asked. "You still gonna pretend that you don't own FGSI Services? You still gonna try to tell me that you don't know who they are and what they're about? Like you did back at the track?"

"I'm just a simple window teller, sir," Grover smiled, "what do I know of the greater business affairs of Burlwood Downs and their partners?"

"This doesn't look like a place you could afford on a teller's salary," Jake returned the volley, "wouldn't you agree?"

Grover balked at this, stopping mid-sip with his drink and eyeing Jake with a barely harnessed fit of laughter. When he finally calmed and swallowed, he spoke. "Oh, I definitely would. I think I picked it up for three quarters of a million, it's probably worth nearly triple that now. Speaking of the house, my friend, how exactly did you find it?"

"I followed your mail-boy," Jake said matter-of-factly. "He wasn't exactly inconspicuous."

Grover smiled again and nodded, taking the last bit of his Mampoer before setting the empty glass down on the table with a clink. "That was pretty slick of you, sir, I must say that I'm impressed. You came across as rather ignorant back at the track, I'm surprised you were sharp enough to do something like follow my mail."

"Ignorant?" Jake asked, thinking back to the night at Burlwood Downs, checking out the Brougham with Sarge as his escort. "I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

"7X61," the man said simply.

"What?" Jake asked, thoroughly confused.

"The last four of the VIN on my gate-car, it's 7X61. It's Evander's Brougham, you were right on top of it, but you were too stupid to check the numbers for yourself! I guess you've never heard the phrase don't trust anybody, because you just took my word for it and walked away. That was a big miss, and it cost you several days."

Jake felt the blow of the insult, knowing he was right, but refused to let any of that show in his face.

"It's a shame it ended up that way," Grover continued, "I really enjoyed the car as an every-day driver. Damned thing got too hot after the carnival, so I had to let it go. I thought about having it crushed, but I couldn't bare to part with it. It's such a fine automobile. Had it painted and repurposed instead. Nobody ever batted an eye at it, until you came back around."

"Ah, so you're ready to talk now? You've admitted you own the Brougham, so you must own the company, right? So tell me what it is," Jake suggested as though this were just small talk between two old friends, as though it was of no consequence.

"What what is?" Sarge asked.

"FGSI," Jake replied.

"Oh!" Grover laughed out loud this time. "It's simple, really -- I'm surprised you never figured it out. You know full well that I haven't always been just a teller at the track. I used to be a farrier, right? I was an independent contractor, operating as Farrier Grover Simmonds Incorporated. It's an acronym, my friend, that's what FGSI is! I still employ farriers. Like Ruiz, who you followed to my home this morning. I do a little bit of other business too, but I imagine you probably already know about all of that. You haven't touched your drink though, my man, why don't you try it out? It's quality liquor, and I understand you have a taste for alcohol."

With insistent eyes, Grover directed Jake to pick up the glass. Still not intending to do so, still knowing just what would happen to him if he did drink it, he engaged Sarge in a war of staring that would make the third world war look like a skirmish on an elementary school playground.

"You seem to like the stuff," Jake said, "why don't you have mine? It's a bit early for me to be drinking, and I'll have to drive after our little talk is over."

"Oh, but that one is for you," Sarge insisted. "We'll leave it be, in case you remember how much you enjoy alcohol and decide to change your mind about enjoying it."

"So," Jake continued, "let's talk about the van. How'd you get the Our Mother decals off of it so cleanly?"

"I told you, sir," Grover returned, "that's my van. It never had any decals on it, and I have no idea what you're talking about."

Jake shook his head, disappointed that Sarge was still holding back. Moving on, he pressed his questioning. "With that aside, if you do own FGSI, then I guess you sometimes go by the name of Frank Staten. AKA Papa Midnight, right?"

Again Sarge chuckled. "I guess technically that's true!" He giggled. "But that was just a bit of bullshit, which is sometimes necessary in running a business. Tax liabilities can be pretty serious, and accountants have ways of being very creative when structuring a small corporation."

"But who chose that name?" Jake asked. "You gonna tell me that it was your accountant?"

"No," Sarge admitted, "I provided the name. It was a gag, really. I found invoking the name of old Papa Midnight funny, because it was just so ridiculous."

"Well, judging by all of the \--" he hesitated "-- strange shit you've got around this place, coupled with taking the name a voodoo priest, I take it you're a practitioner of voodoo, just as he was."

"Oh no," Grover objected, "Voodoo is a bunch of bullshit too, I practice something far greater. The things you see around you are implements of JuJu. As I said, I grew up in Benin... JuJu is big back home."

"So these skins, these heads, these horns under the table," Jake said. "All of these things are related to your practice of JuJu?"

"Some are," Sarge explained, "the sage, the dolls, the libation bowls and such. Most are just trophies, though. I developed an affinity for trophies during my tours in Vietnam. Here, let me show you something."

Sarge quickly leaned to his left, towards where a wooden chest sat against the arm of the couch like a pirate's treasure box. Jake flinched at the quick movement, which froze the old man for a second.

"Relax, young man!" He smiled. "I just wanted to show you a photograph. Is that okay?"

Jake nodded hesitantly and watched intently as Grover opened the chest, digging through it for a moment before pulling a yellowed rectangle of paper from it and looking over what was on the face of it. Still smiling, he said "it's hard for me to believe I was so young once! It all seems so far behind me, now."

Reaching across the table, Sarge extended the photo to Jake who took it cautiously. Taking a look, he saw a young Sarge standing with a group of other soldiers surrounded by a tropical looking landscape. Each man was posed with a large automatic rifle in their hands and a long machete on their belts. Scanning through the platoon, Jake was rocked with recognition when he realized that the young man standing directly next to Grover in the photo was none other than Rusty Parker. That was the link, that was where the two of them first came together. That was where they likely committed the first of their crimes, as many young men in uniforms crossed the line in within the borders of that country.

"I spent a lot of time with the Australians," Sarge explained, "and they were -- if you'll pardon my language -- a fucked up bunch of guys. I'm talking head on stakes, wind chimes made out of severed arms, necklaces made of ears, bags stitched together out of women's breasts. All kinds of crazy shit! Every time they killed, they took a trophy... I guess it rubbed off, because before long I was into collecting trophies too. That's how I got started with the animals. It was no more than a hobby at first, but it did what hobbies often do and turned into an obsession. I've been collecting ever since."

Jake was still transfixed on the photo, still processing everything he'd seen and heard as Grover continued.

"I didn't go for stupid stuff like the Australians did, committing debauchery just for debauchery's sake, taking random parts with no sense whatsoever," he said. "No, I decided that I wanted my collection to be a bit more specialized. Once I got into hunting, I decided I wanted to collect the things that set a creature apart from everything else as my trophies! As an example, for an elephant, it's the tusks. For a rhino, it's the horn. For a zebra, tiger or leopard it's the hide. And so on."

"So when you killed people," Jake presented, broaching the subject of culpability for the first time but deciding to reel it back a bit at the last moment. "In the war, I mean... what did you take then?"

"Well, think about it, young man," Grover said in preface. "What single trait sets man above the rest of the animals on this planet? What makes a man special? What makes a human being human?"

Looking up from the picture, Jake locked eyes with the man once more. "Intelligence," he said. "So what, you took their brain?"

"Hell no!" Sarge chuckled. "You can't just snatch a brain out and set it on the shelf! Besides that, I wouldn't call intelligence our greatest trait, I would have to disagree with that entirely! There are many creatures out there of great intelligence, if you watch their behavior closely enough. Apes of all sorts, dolphins, dogs and birds even. We're allegedly the most intelligent of them all, sure, but that alone could never have gotten us where we are today! You give a zebra a human brain, and what can he do with it? Nothing, nothing at all," he said, leaning over and reaching into the chest. Having turned his attention back to the picture, Jake hardly noticed as Sarge continued. "In order to really make a difference in its world, that zebra would need to have something we use in tandem with our intelligence. Something a handful of other creatures have a variation of, but that only we have capitalized on! He would need to have what's really our greatest gift, what we acquired as Homo Habilis and have mastered ever since... he would require our fully opposable thumbs!"

As soon as he heard it, as soon as the words were spoken, Jake looked up in shock to see Grover pulling something grisly from his couch-side storage bin. The object was so horrific, its nature was barely conceivable to his mind and left his jaw agape. It was a long, looped length of leather tied together at the ends to make it a necklace. There was a pattern to the design that Jake's mind dissected quickly despite the fact that time seemed to slow to a crawl with its revelation. The pattern went black bead, white bead, black bead, bone... black bead, white bead, black bone -- and the bone in every instance was a short, jointed thing that could only be the form of individual juvenile sized thumbs.

"Oh God!" Jake exclaimed, realizing immediately what he was looking at and realizing he was likely in eminent and definite danger.

He immediately dropped the picture and tried to stuff his hand into his shirt for his Beretta, but before he could get to it he realized that he was looking down the barrel of a chrome Smith & Wesson 357 Magnum that Grover had apparently snatched from its hiding place while his visitor was still trying to comprehend what he was seeing on the aged strand of leather.

"Don't move!" Grover ordered, holding the ghastly necklace in one hand and the large and the most definitely deadly weapon in the other.

Seeing no recourse, seeing no other way that he could logically survive this encounter, Jake went for his weapon again and heard a deafening blast that seemed to shake the very foundation of the home in which he sat. In concert with the sound came a flash of fire from Sarge's barrel and the explosive destruction of the large earthenware vase just over Jake's left shoulder. Grover had pulled the shot just left of his visitors head, likely by design, and he almost certainly possessed the marksmanship necessary to put the next round right between his eyes if he so desire. The piece of decor he hit with the large caliber slug his weapon discharged shattered into hundreds, perhaps thousands of pieces. In the torrent of shards flying about behind him and raining down like razor sharp hail, a large piece of the debris scraped across and slashed Jake left cheek, leaving him bleeding from his face as bolt of pain fired down his neck.

"I said DON'T MOVE, Jake, didn't you catch that?" Sarge shouted.

Jake didn't, he knew he had no chance of drawing his weapon before being shot dead the head of FGSI Services. He barely had a chance to process the surprise that Grover called him by his name before the man qualified his words.

"Or should I call you Detective Palazzo, you sneaky fuck?" He said with a bite,

Jake's ears were ringing from the shot as he felt the blood running down his face in a crimson curtain. He didn't reach for the wound, and he did his best to maintain a go fuck yourself stare as he felt it trickle to his chin, the cut throbbing and his head still spinning with the concussion of the blast. With Grover invoking the name Palazzo, he knew that Rusty had made him immediately, shattering his charade. This was a bit of a surprise to him, considering how long it'd been since he and Rusty last had contact prior.

"What," Sarge continued, spelling it out "you didn't think he would recognize you? You didn't think he would know you right away? Shit, that man hasn't let me live down letting you get away for twenty years, Mister Giguére!"

"Get away?" Jake asked, confused and still disoriented from the unexpected blast.

"Thirteen years old," Grover began, "black hair, wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs shirt and hanging out at the carnival! Does that sound familiar to you, young man?"

Swirling, swirling and disbelief... swirling and Jesus, you puked all over your shit... swirling and I can't wear this... swirling and you can have mine, I'll go skins... swirling and, oh God, Timmy...

"It was SUPPOSED to be YOU, you lucky fuck!" Sarge shouted intensely. "Rusty wanted YOU, but you FUCKED IT UP and we got Timmy Lane instead!"

Swirling, swirling and why?

Swirling and it should've been me... why wasn't it me?

God, why couldn't it have been me? It was supposed to be me...

Swirling, swirling and I took his time!

This was supposed to be Timmy's time!

Swirling, swirling and everything that came after what should've been his end...

Tracy...

Garrett...

Everything that he could've missed...

Everything that Timmy might've done...

Everything Jake had done, and how Timmy would've been proud to have what Jake once had...

What he once had and what he pissed away...

Timmy would not have been proud of how he pissed it away...

Timmy would've been ashamed of what he'd done, how he'd sabotaged the good.

There was bad, sure, but there had also been good...

Jake's life had been good once, and the good could've been Timmy's...

Timmy would have appreciated it...

Timmy would have taken care of it instead of shitting all over it...

He should've been dead, was supposed to be dead, from the moment he lost sight of the Brougham on that fateful night...

Christ, that was supposed to be the end...

Christ, the good things he would've missed had that been the end. In the face of realizing he should have missed what had been his life since then, the good finally seemed to take precedent over the bad in his mind. The good seemed brighter, the good seemed more pronounced than any of the bad things that had happened to him in his days. The good seemed like blessings, because they weren't supposed to be his...

They were supposed to be Timmy's, but Timmy went in his place...

"You bastards," Jake damned the man as his blood fell from his face to his shirt. "You fucking bastards!"

"Right!" Sarge barked. "Now you know, so drink your goddamned drink, son!"

Knowing full well what was likely in the drink, knowing that ingesting it would be the equivalent of giving Timmy a refund on time that never belonged to him in the first place, Jake had a change of heart. A week ago he would've jumped at the chance to get off the bus... he would've gladly closed the book, he would've been pleased to see it end... but not now... not here... not like this..

Fuck double indemnity...

Fuck the reaper, fuck Charon and his raft, fuck the river Styx...

And -- most of all -- fuck Grover and his piece of shit partner Rusty.

This life wasn't his to throw away... not with what he knew now...

This was Timmy Lane's life, and Jake would do anything to protect Timmy Lane's life... anything at all.

"No!" He insisted. "No, if you want to kill me, you're gonna have to shoot me, you cock! You're gonna have to get a mop and clean me off of your nice fucking floor. You're going to have to take a sponge and scrub my brains off your pretty fucking panel walls. You want me dead, then you're gonna have to earn it you sick fuck!"

Grover chuckled at this, putting his macabre necklace around his neck and letting the bones settle against his chest. Looking them over, Jake counted them... one... two... three... four... five... six... all six, including Timmy's... they were all there... Christ, they were there... and one of them was supposed to be his... but his would not be the seventh, if he had anything to say about it.

Still holding the gun on Jake, Sarge used his free hand to dig into his breast pocket and retrieve a cellphone. Keeping his eyes keenly on his visitor, he glanced back and forth at the phone to scroll through his contacts. Finding the one he wanted, he pressed call and held the device to his ear.

Jake watched as Sarge waited for an answer. When it eventually came, the man spoke.

"Hey, it's me," he said. "He's here," then a pause. "Yeah, Giguére is here." This time, there was a much longer break in Grover's end of the conversation. Whatever the person on the other end said, Sarge got several laughs out of it. Eventually, he continued. "So is it gonna be plan A then?" He asked, then waited for confirmation. "Okay," he sighed, "plan A it is! Alright, Rusty... right... right... right, we'll see ya' down the line! Okay... bye!"

Ending the call, Grover set the phone beside him as he lazily held his guest at gunpoint.

"Well, I have to admit," Sarge said, "I never thought it was gonna end like this! I never would've guessed it would come down this way, after all this time. It is what it is, I suppose. Rusty and I always had a contingency in mind in case it ever came to this. Plan A, as you heard. I didn't think we were ever going to have to see it through, but who's to say what time will bring? Who would've thought that time would bring you here -- twenty years later? I guess it doesn't make any difference, the plan is the plan is the plan. Such a shame, though. I hate to have to do it, but I suppose my hands are tied."

Facing what was to be his death, seeing no way out of it, Jake started to feel an incredible anxiety that he never imagined he'd feel in such a situation. His heart raced, his breathing became hurried and shallow. He'd intended to die all week once his business was done, had thought about taking his own life for months if not longer. But now, with just one piece of new information and sitting face to face with the end... now that he knew it was going to happen, now that he knew he should've been dead a long time ago, he found that suddenly he just didn't have the stomach for it. What's more, he didn't want to die, which was new to him.

Thinking of the oblivion, thinking of the nothingness to which he was about to be relegated, he felt absolute terror pulsing through his veins. What was Tracy going to do without him? What was Garrett going to do without him? What was he going to do without himself?

Waiting for the moment, waiting to see the slug slowly spinning out of Grover's rifled barrel en route to his head, waiting to feel it start to drill its way into his flesh and then his skull, waiting for it to breach his brain and make him no more, Jake felt he would faint. Knowing it could come at any time, knowing that he was powerless to stop it, he just waited. Waited and worried.

"We had a good run," Sarge said, as though Jake were interested. "They didn't have any idea that there were two of us! The entirety of what this country could throw at us in the way of law enforcement, they couldn't figure us out! That's an accomplishment, you have to admit! Six murders, and they had no idea!"

"Don't you mean seven?" Jake asked, pushing his fear aside in order for his pride to take the front. He wouldn't go out groveling, he would go out shouting -- no matter what.

"What?" Sarge asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

"Billy Marsh," Jake replied.

"Who?" Grover answered, looking confused. "Is that the kid that went missing from Burlwood a month or two ago?"

"You know damned well it is," Jake insisted.

Grover laughed again, smiling as he spoke. "I didn't kill Billy Marsh, Jake, I'm retired! Is that what brought you here? Oh, now that's really a laugh!"

"What's with the van, then?" Jake chirped. "You gonna tell me that's not the van that Billy Marsh disappeared in?"

"Look," Sarge said, "I have no idea what you're talking about! A friend of mine dropped that van off and asked me to keep an eye on it, that's all"

"What friend would that be? Rusty, I suppose?" Jake asked.

"No, Big Bird," Grover laughed.

Jake rolled his eyes, not believing the man's claim of innocence in the least. He was obviously a cold and calculated monster, how could he be taken at his word in an affair such as this? Curiosity clawing its way through the anxiety, he wanted the answers to questions that plagued him for most of his life before he left the mortal coil.

"Why did you guys do it?" He asked the killer, the man who would be his killer. "Why would you do such things to children?"

"I would've been happy to do it to adults," Grover claimed, "it was Rusty who liked the little boys!"

"So, what?" Jake began. "It was a sexual thing?"

"For Rusty it was," Sarge explained. "He picked everybody out because he liked them for one reason or another, I dunno, he would just tell me let's do that one. Usually, I did the pick up. I had all the drugs from my work with horses, for sedating them a bit and such so I could work on their hooves. Once I had them, I took them to the church for him. He did whatever he was gonna do, and then I strung them up and set them free."

"Why?" He asked again.

"It was a spiritual thing for me," Grover said. "There's a lot of energy released in death. There's a lot of energy in the blood -- especially in children's blood, as I found out -- and I collected it for ritual use. I drank it in religious practice, you see? Made offerings of it. You'd be surprised how it rejuvenates, I tried to get Rusty to take some to help with his ailments. He'd be in much better shape had he taken me up on that, I guarantee it."

Disgusted, Jake let it die there. There was nothing more to be said, nothing that he wanted to hear, at least. Still terrified but refusing to let it show, he just waited while Sarge seemed to be reflecting over his entire murderous career. The man said nothing, just looked around his home and fingered the bones around his neck like they were made of gold and worth a fortune beyond belief.

"It's a powerful thing, Jake," he eventually said, his firearm still leveled off at his visitor's head. "Death, I mean."

Considering what death would mean for him, Jake realized that he agreed with the madman. The brutality, the finality of it. The tearing asunder of soul and spirit -- should they really exist -- from the mortal body either through violence or the failure of flesh and blood. Death was a powerful thing. What's more, as proved by the mixup with Timmy Lane, it was indiscriminate and it was unforgiving.

"I've often wondered what it must be like," Sarge continued. "I imagine it must be a bit like sleep, but in sleep your brain is still functioning. Your mind is still intact. That's not the case in death, obviously, as death is the cessation of all bodily function including brain activity. The destruction of the mind, the erasure of everything we've ever learned or experienced. That's wild to me." His gun still trained, Grover put a finger of his opposite hand to his lip and considered everything he knew of death. Apparently thinking of something interesting to him, he sat up a bit and took a professorial posture. "You know, I'm not sure if you're aware of this," he continued, "but the medical science people say that there is brain activity for seven minutes after the rest of the body is dead. Did you know that, Jake?"

Jake shook his head. "No, but I know that there are people who know I'm here," he lied, hoping in his anxiety to stave off what Grover had in store for him.

"Of course there are," he returned, sounding sarcastic. "But as I was saying, some people, many of whom are far more educated than either you or I, purport that a person might be aware for some or all of that time. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine laying there, knowing that you just died and watching, hearing everything that goes on for seven minutes? Seeing your family members all around, if they happen to be, and watching them cry. Hearing them shout out in sorrow at losing you, and there's nothing that you can do about it. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be to know that it's over, yet still be conscious to what's happening until your brain finally gives up the fight? What must that feel like? The permanent closure of your mind. The final gasps of all that remains of you. Can you imagine? Can you, Jake?"

"No, but I don't have to imagine that people will come looking for me," he bluffed again.

"I imagine it must be terrible," Sarge conceded, ignoring Jake's lies about people coming after him. "In light of that, I've often wondered what happens when it's the destruction of the brain that causes death. I mean, let's say someone is shot in the head. Let's say a bullet has destroyed some of the infrastructure of the mind... what happens then? Does the rest of the brain continue to function? Is the person still conscious and aware of what's happening if his brain has been destroyed? Or is that a get out of jail free card?"

"Look," Jake began, "if you're trying to scare me --"

"Scare you?" Grover interrupted, locking his eyes on Jake's once again and staring through to his soul with his intensity. "I'm not trying to scare you, son!" He chuckled. "I'm trying to learn you something!"

Without pulling his eyes away, without moving a muscle more than those in his right arm, Sarge suddenly and abruptly drove the muzzle of his revolver up into the roof of his own mouth.

"Wait!" Jake shouted, throwing up his hands in shock and for reasons he didn't understand as another loud bang echoed off the walls of the room.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl again as immediately the top of Grover's head was opened to the atmosphere, blood and brain matter flying up like a geyser -- no, like a volcano, angry and violent -- and splattering onto ceiling above the two of them with incredible force. A crimson shower of liquid, pebbles of skull and globs of gray matter rained down on them from above, soaking Jake and the deceased body of Sarge alike. Feeling the wetness all over him, turning up his hands to see his palms covered in red, Jake recoiled in disgust and shock. Wiping his hands on his clothes, wiping his face and hair with them, he felt as though the blood were some sort of caustic acid that he couldn't allow to rest on his flesh for any extended period lest he be wounded by its being there. In his mind, he'd been bathed in the blood. It felt as though every inch of his body was slimed with it, as though he was drenched with it from head to toe. It was as though he'd wandered into the plunge pool of mighty Niagara and stood as thousands of gallons of red fell over him per second. It was still raining down on him when he pulled his thoughts from the distressing sensation and looked down to where Sarge's body rested.

Looking at Grover, at what was left of him after the blast, Jake saw his face contorted in horror and surprise. In the moment, it looked as though he were aware... as though he was suffering in incredible misery while Jake sat wiping bits and droplets of him off of his body. Seeing this felt good, and it worked to calm Jake in the terror of all that had happened and been revealed.

Still, the experience on the whole was mortifying. In all of his life, he'd never seen someone actually die... he'd seen a few dead bodies, sure, but he'd never been present in a place when the passing actually occurred. Reflecting on the moment that it happened, Jake was sure he felt the incredible release of energy that Sarge had spoken of. It was like the shockwave of a massive explosion, spreading through the room in all directions into infinity without restraint. When it passed, the space was filled with a vacuum of desolation that was tangible... palpable. If Jake had been nervous about death before, he was petrified of it now, having seen its work. Having felt the sackcloth robe of The Reaper brush against his flesh as it claimed the soul of Grover Simmonds, Jake had no desire to ever look upon the thing again, for it was brutal and it was ruthless.

Feeling some need for revenge as the shock diffused, wanting to claim some drive for vengeance, he stood on his trembling legs and walked around the horned table to approach the remains of one of the Butchers Of Burlwood. Staring into his widened eyes, believing he saw awareness still behind them, he lowered himself and got so close that all Grover would see -- if he could see at all -- would be Jake's pupils, filled with hate.

"I'll see you in Hell, you fuck!" He snapped with the bitterness of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade, Ricky Marshall, Timmy Lane and Billy Marsh. He damned the man for all that he'd been, condemned him for all that he'd done, and cursed him for all of whatever eternity might be.

Trying to count out the time in his mind, trying to make sure that his face would be the very last thing that Sarge ever saw, he waited until he figured seven minutes from the time of the shot were up. Only then did he stand back up and consider what all of this meant for his case. He now knew who the original Butchers were, and he had the evidence of the Brougham to link Grover to the original murders. He also had Rusty linked to FGSI, a criminal organization, and he needed to nail him for the crimes of the past and present alike. He had the Dodge Ram van in the driveway, a van that would likely be linked to Our Mother Of Sorrows through a comparison of the VINs. That should be enough to have Rusty arrested. That should be enough to see him slapped in cuffs, to see him brought before a judge and condemned to die whether he lived long enough to face it or not.

Then, thinking back, he remembered the phone call that Grover had made to his former partner. A call in which he'd activated plan A \-- an action that may have resulted in Sarge's suicide. Christ, what if Rusty planned to commit suicide as well? What if this was the pact, the contingency agreed on between the two of them regarding what they would do if the case were ever broken?

What if Rusty was taking steps to kill himself right now?

What potential evidence or information would be lost?

Not wanting to find out, hoping beyond hope that the man was still near Burlwood, Jake pulled out his cellphone. When he pressed the home button, he was presented with the words of a text message that he hadn't heard or felt come through. It was from Donnell, and it read simply it's Sarge! Understanding the phrase day late and dollar short more acutely than ever before in his life, he cleared the message and thumbed through his phone until he found Clyde Rambo. Pressing call, he waited as several eternities passed with the ringing and his pounding heart.

"What's up Jake?" Rambo asked.

"I just found one of your killers," he replied, his voice shaking in the let-down of adrenaline.

"One of them?"

"Yeah... Grover Simmonds... as in farrier Grover Simmonds..."

"Oh shit!" Rambo returned, adding it all up. "You have him in custody?"

"Negative," Jake responded. "He's dead, he shot himself. I'm afraid Rusty is gonna be right behind him, it's why I called. Are you in Burlwood?"

"Shit, no!" Rambo said. "I'm in Indy, and I've got both the boys with me! it looks like you're on your own with this one, Jake!"

SIXTY-ONE

September 17th, 2016. 1:15PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake broke every speed limit \-- and very nearly the sound barrier -- in his race to twenty-four Confederate Way from Sarge's place in West Pine. The tiny specks and large drops of blood had long since dried on his jeans when he finally crossed into Bumfuck Burlwood and found himself within striking distance of Rusty. Though his dark shirt didn't show the stains as well as his pants did, he felt certain that his upper body had been soaked in the explosion of Grover's head far worse than his lower. Before setting off, he'd used his vanity mirror along with spit and his hands to wipe all evidence of the incident from the exposed flesh of his face, disgusted all the while. That act did little to relieve the surreal feeling that accompanied wearing another human being's blood and tissue all over him. He almost wanted a shower more than he wanted to bust Rusty, but he knew that desire was transient and far less pressing than the job he needed to do -- for Chucky's sake.

When he finally reached his destination, he squealed to a sliding stop just in front of Rusty's house and slammed the Malibu into park haphazardly. Leaping from the vehicle, he hoped that this half of the original Butchers Of Burlwood tag-team was taking a different and much less sudden approach to plan A than Grover had. He hoped there was still a chance to save him, if only so that he could be held to account for the murder of Billy Marsh and, in doing so, relieve Chucky of his unjust and undeserved suffering. When it was all boiled down, he would've been just as happy to find the man dead -- a just and overdue sentence for his crimes -- if not for the fact that Chucky needed saving. Sparing that fact, he was fully prepared and agreeable to seeing Rusty as a corpse... an end that he did deserve, in the face of his misdeeds.

Reaching the murderer's front door, Jake made no bother of knocking. Trying the doorknob, he found it to be securely locked and immediately started to assess the strength of the door and its frame in preparation for a more violent form of entry. Pulling back, he had more than a hundred additional pounds behind him in this attempt than he did when he last smashed his way into a home to determine the condition of someone he knew to be in peril. The weight served him well, as it took just two blasts of his lowered shoulder to see this particular door cave under his assault.

Barreling into the living area, he saw the frail body of Rusty Parker spread out on the couch before him. He was laying in a peaceful repose, positioned just as a fully embalmed corpse would be when placed in the tight confines of the casket that would be its eternal home. There was no sign of the nasal cannula he'd worn on Jake's previous visits, and the oxygen pump wasn't rumbling obnoxiously in the corner any more either. On the coffee table, just next to where the man seemed to be comfortably resting, was a pile of empty blue-raspberry flavored oral morphine vials.

There was no need to race to his side to check his pulse, no point in holding a mirror beneath his nose to see if he was breathing or in calling an ambulance to have paramedics attempt to resuscitate him with a defibrillator. It was obvious in his lazily hanging jaw, rigid posture and half-closed eyes that this man was long dead. He would give no testimony, he would offer no insight into how or why he killed little Billy Marsh. He would do nothing to help Chucky's case or to free him of the shackles he was wearing at the present.

Pounding his fist against the living room wall, Jake destroyed a portion of it in his anger and frustration. Scanning the scene visually, he noticed that there was something else on the table... something besides emptied and consumed bottles of narcotics, something besides the childproof caps strewn about, something besides the dosage regulating tops to the bottles that Rusty had ripped off in his haste to leave this world. On the far side, just beyond the gathered containers, was an envelope that had been carefully placed there. It was well clear of the mess and positioned to be found. It was very on purpose, as was the man's passing. Moving toward it, moving toward the body, Jake confirmed for good measure that Rusty's eyes were clouded and vacant. Looking to the table, in which he was far more interested, he saw a ballpoint pen placed as carefully as the letter, it's cap having been pushed snugly into place once the killer's final words were written.

Those final words, Jake assumed, were to whomever it may concern, which was written on the front of the envelope. Figuring that he was whomever it may concern in this instance, he quickly snatched the letter and recklessly tore it open. The note inside was a single hand-written page, scrawled out in an ill and trembling penmanship that struggled to maintain justification on a lined sheet of paper torn from a notebook.

To whomever it may concern, it began. Between the years of 1990 and 1995, I was actively involved in the murders of six children here in the town of Burlwood. Operating in concert with Grover Simmonds, I took part in the killings of Gary Duncan, Josh Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade, Ricky Marshall and Timothy Lane. In all instances, I was responsible for the sodomizing the children as my eye has always been partial to young boys, despite my efforts to redirect it. I participated in the process that lead to each of their deaths, which was handled exclusively by Grover in a manner that pertained to his spiritual beliefs. I personally dismembered and disposed of each victim, something that haunts my mind and my dreams every time that I close my eyes or sleep. Last month I was involved in the murder Billy Marsh, which took place here at my home, in my garage. As I prepare to take my own life, I stand penitent in the eyes of God. I beg His forgiveness for all that I've done in this, my final confession. May He take mercy on my soul, as I am a haunted man in the gloomy shadows of my crimes. I never meant to hurt anybody, but my mind is a tormented playhouse for the devil. May death wash my clean of these things that I've done. Amen, Russell Davis Parker.

Finishing the letter, Jake was furious at the old man. First, of course, as a result of Rusty's gall in reaching out to God after all of the ungodly things he'd carried out. Second, because he'd admitted culpability in the death of Billy Marsh -- but then left it open with a question mark. He seemed to absolve Grover of that crime, but did much less than claim full responsibility for the act. Clearly he'd had help, but -- even in his final breaths -- he refused to reveal the identity of his coconspirator. Third, of course, because the man had taken such a cowardly way out. There had likely been no pain, no suffering, no agony in his end. He likely just fell asleep, the taste of blue raspberry fresh on his tongue, and slipped away into eternity in peace and quiet. He deserved much more, he deserved much worse, and Jake would've liked to deliver that final justice -- in Timmy and Chucky's names.

As he stood sickened, the death letter dangling from his hands, he heard the quick and clumsy shuffling of feet in the direction of the front door. Looking back, he saw none other than Sheriff Ron Boudreaux standing in the busted doorway dressed in his ridiculous street clothes. In his white outfit, he more closely resembled Boss Hogg than any impersonator could ever hope to. He stumbled to a halt in the doorway, apparently having ran for probably the first time in many years, and beheld the scene with shock evident on his face.

"Why you son-of-a-bitch!" He croaked at Jake. "You found out he was one of my informants, so you came here and killed him! To save your bloated buddy Chucky from the death house, you killed this poor old man!"

Jake promptly snapped the letter in his hands, turning it towards the suspended Sheriff as though he had a chance of reading it from his distance.

"I didn't do shit to your boy, Ron, the lousy fuck killed himself!" He snapped.

Boudreaux, dumbfounded, stepped closer to try and examine the letter. Jake promptly dropped it, forcing the fat man to bend over and pick it up to get a look. He looked genuinely surprised as he mouthed the words written on its face, but still he maintained an air of accusation about him. As though the letter meant nothing, despite the facts being spelled out so clearly in the old man's own handwriting.

"Right," he quipped. "Now I suppose you'll be going for my second witness, you murderous punk!"

"Just look at my pants, Ron!" Jake said, matching the attitude note for note. "Your second witness spread himself all over me!"

Now the former sheriff looked totally stunned, eyeing Jake up and down and examining the amount of dried blood on his clothing in horror.

"Sweet Santa Muerte!" He barked. "You just freeze right there, you crazy little shit! I'm calling the police, and I'll see that you have a room right next to Chucky's on death row! You killed him, you punk! To save your little butt-buddy, you killed the man! You probably want me to believe he killed himself too, right? You probably think I'll buy that he broke such a covenant! Well you're wrong, Jake, you just freeze right there!"

"You believe what you want," Jake fired back, not heeding the former officer's orders as he moved towards the door, "but the gun is still in his hand, Ron, just drive your ass out to West Pine and you'll see it!"

"West Pine?" Boudreaux returned, surprised again. "West Pine? Are you talking about Grover? Are you tellin' me that Grover shot himself?"

Jake stopped mid-stride, processing the information implied in Deputy Ron's surprise. When he was speaking of his second confidential informant, when he thought Jake was responsible for that person's death, he was not thinking about Grover Simmonds. That much was clear. That meant Sarge wasn't the second CI on deck for The State's case against Chucky.

But if not him, who?

Who else could it possibly be?

Working the problem over, he walked to Boudreaux's side and snatched the letter from his filthy fat hands. "I'll be turning this over to the police!" He said with a bite. With the bastard still looking stunned, still confused, Jake moved to the busted door and issued a parting taunt. "The walls are closing in, Ron," he said, "you might want to consider ways that you can avoid prison. Maybe you should take a note from your two pals!"

Without a further word or look behind, he left twenty-four Confederate Way and reported to the Malibu. When he sat surrounded with the familiar air inside the cabin, everything started to sink in with incredible weight behind it. The things he'd heard, the things he'd seen, the things he'd read on this day -- they were a lot to digest. As he tried to force it all through his system, the thoughts that rose to the top were about the way that Rusty looked after his overdose. It stood in unbelievable juxtaposition to the look of the last overdose victim he'd been forced to look upon. That image came swirling back, an image he'd managed to forget in the years gone by, and it tormented him.

The image was awful, and he was angry that his mind had conjured it up. He didn't have to wonder why it did so, though, as he heard his phone ringing he realized that it was all perfectly obvious. There were too many reminders, too many common threads for it not to. The equation was simple...

Overdose plus Ron Boudreaux, plus Donnell's name on his radio display as his cellphone rang equals...

Equals...

SIXTY-TWO

Uninvited Guests

January 15th, 1997. 4:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake's boots were heavy with ice and melting snow as he plodded his way home from school for the afternoon, but their weight was negligible as compared to the steady and constant pressure he felt squeezing and pushing on his overburdened heart. Tracy and her family had left Burlwood behind three weeks ago, and he'd felt the sting of their departure from the moment he watched them turn on to Route 4 and speed away into the rest of their lives.

Nick had offered to take him along once more since the day he found his young crush crying out on her porch, but he had given the same answer in kind. He couldn't leave his mother, she needed him in some sick and twisted way. Now, she was all he had... and she wasn't enough.

Chucky was working nearly full time, Louie had been out of touch since the incident with Timmy, and Donnell was busy, well... doing the deeds of Ron Boudreaux. If there was anything to be grateful for in general, it was the fact that good ol' Deputy Ron had listened when Jake ordered that he keep his distance from Janet Giguére forever. He'd been conspicuously absent, taking their loud naps and meth smoking with him. Jake's mother never said anything about him, as though she knew that Jake had banished him, but she still seemed high most of the time somehow.

Jake didn't understand how that was possible, as he never saw or smelled her smoking and she never left the house to score any drugs. She had no visible means of getting her hands on the dope without her boyfriend, so it was all a great mystery to him that he couldn't decipher as easily as he would've liked. A mystery that he took little time to think over, as he really didn't give a shit about her anymore because she'd been effectively out of his life for several years. He had no mother, just a woman with his name that he had to babysit most nights to be sure she didn't kill herself like his father had, intentionally or otherwise. No more and no less was expected or offered by either of them.

In the absence of a mother/son relationship, the absence of time with Tracy, the absence of any friendly relationship whatsoever with anyone, Jake felt the January chill in places deeper than his bones as he made his way home this day. He didn't intend to be in his trailer for long this afternoon, as the pond behind the trailer park office was frozen and a natural ice rink that was open and operating. It was hockey season, and he took every opportunity he could to build his skills so that he could contribute to The Burlwood Bees Varsity squad, which he had been a shining star of for the past two years. He would go home, say hello to his stoned out mother, fetch his skates and be on his way. That was the plan for the day... that was the plan nearly every day.

As he walked through the park towards their street at the back on this afternoon, though, he found himself deep in reminiscence. For one reason or another, he seemed to be seeing and hearing ghosts of what his life had been up to this point everywhere he looked about the landscape. He saw The Burlwood Boys searching the streets for a dark blue vehicle on the trail of Nathan Dawson. He heard Chucky crying on his porch about Rusty. He saw Donnell out on his porch, hiding from his parent's arguments. He saw little Timmy Lane building snowmen and carving out their faces. He smelled the shit in the close quarters of the shed behind his trailer when he found his father swinging at the end of a rope.

All of the things he'd seen, done and taken part in during his time in this community churned and bubbled in his mind, and most of it was uncomfortable to relive. By the time he was passing Applewood, his experiences with Tracy and The Swetes were trying to lift his dark and tortured spirit. Even the warmth of the memories that lived at that intersection couldn't bring him solace, as those days and those times were over. They were what they were, and now they were gone. Those days and those feelings would never come again.

Reeling in the turbulent waves of sorrow and sadness, he continued his walk until he was approaching that patch of trees the boys once called Booger Woods. They seemed much smaller now than they had before, much more insignificant than they'd been on that sunny day when the gang found the remains of Joshua Banks hidden in their leafy arms. They seemed far less scary than they had been when he watched the police carrying small bags filled with Joshua's parts out of them from his bedroom window.

Just off of the woods, of course, was the trailer that Jake called home -- which seemed much smaller than it had in his youth just as well. He climbed the steps of the porch, remembering the day he'd been forced to smash his way in at the expense of his shoulder. This time, he dug through his pockets for the key that would unlock the door and carry him into the dank and musty world that was his day to day life.

To his surprise, though, as he extended his key towards the doorknob and attempted to insert it into the lock, the door swung wide open on its own. It hadn't been locked at all, it hadn't even been entirely closed. That was completely unusual, as his mother was an agoraphobe who feared everything and trusted nothing. She would never leave the door unlocked, let alone see it not completely latched. Immediately Jake knew something was wrong, and it didn't take more than a look into the living area to know that there was trouble afoot.

There, standing with his back to the front door, a cellphone pressed to his ear as he jumped around like a frog in an oven to pull his shorts up, was Launchpad. Donnell was terrified, that much was obvious before he even turned around at the sound of the door to see Jake standing there. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he did see his old friend, and he dropped his phone in the shock as his eyes grew impossibly wide and his mouth fell incredibly agape.

"Jake!" He cried out in surprise, looking back and forth between the bedroom that had held his attention before and the young man he had known as Darkwing in a previous life frantically.

Seeing his terror, feeling his fear, Jake was immediately horrified at what must be waiting for him beyond the bedroom door. Dropping his backpack with haste, he looked into the bulging brown eyes of his old friend and begged for information nonverbally.

"Donnell," he began slowly, fearfully. "What's going on, man?"

Donnell gave no answer, trying to gather his faculties instead and bending down to pick up his phone in terror.

"Hello?" He whined more than spoke into it. "Are you coming?"

Not having to ask or wonder who he was speaking to, Jake pressed passed his old friend toward the bedroom and tried to prepare himself for what he might see. He knew what business Donnell was in, and he now knew where his mother was getting her goods since Ron Boudreaux was ousted. Donnell was now her pusher, and the fact that he was there in this condition, mortified and on the phone, meant that something was terribly wrong. And that something could only be bad for his mother.

"No, Jake!" Donnell cried as he put his arm that wasn't holding the phone around him and squeezed.

Jake didn't have time for that, his mother possibly didn't have time for that, so he quickly and violently threw the arm off of him and marched defiantly into Janet Giguére's bedroom. There, he saw a sight that all of the mental and emotional preparation in the world never could've readied him for. His mother was naked and laying half off of her disheveled bed. Her legs, which were spread wide, were pointed at the window on the opposite side of the room.

Her face, which was upside down and staring at him, was the image of vacancy. Her eyes were as wide as Donnell's, and it was clear that she was utterly and entirely absent of them. Her hair, dirty and sweaty, hung lazily down to the filthy carpet on the floor where her hands were also resting. Her arms were spread as wide as her legs, her breasts sagging down toward her chin in a desperate attempt to be a part of what Jacob knew was her death mask. Studying her arms as they hung loosely, he saw a syringe stuck in the crook of her elbow that was dangling in place, buried in one of her veins. On the nightstand next to her was an overturned spoon, the bottom of it burnt black, presumably by a lighter that was sitting just beside it.

Peeling his eyes away from the horror, wrestling to shut off his mind to what he was seeing, he looked back to Donnell -- and he saw, where his old friend had been standing, an African American incarnation of what he knew to be the devil.

"You!" He growled, spittle flying from between clenched teeth. "You did this!"

"It wasn't my idea, Jake!" The creature sobbed, "She wanted to try it!"

"You fucked her, and then you killed her!" Jake condemned him, hatred boiling in his veins as meth had boiled within his mother's. "You son-of-a-bitch!" He shouted. "I should fucking kill you!"

"Please, Jake!" Launchpad begged. "I thought I knew how to do it! I guess I gave her too much, I didn't think \--"

Whatever Donnell didn't think, whatever he thought he could possibly say in his defense would never be heard on the planet Earth. Before the words could ever be spoken, Jake was on top of him the way he had recently been on top of Jake's mother. The difference, in this case, was that it was violence raining down on him instead of sex, it was tightly clenched fists instead of what was on offer earlier this afternoon. Jake pummeled him with all the hate in his heart, beating him with as much fervor and anger as he had beaten the center of the Blackmoor Wizards while The Swetes watched on from the stands long ago, beating him with enough savagery to kill him, which was exactly what he intended to do. There would be no zebra to come to Donnell's rescue, no referee or linesman to protect him from Jake's rage, no hope that Donnell Hughes would survive the assault that he'd earned with his actions.

It was as these thoughts raced through his mind, his fists starting to sting with the pain of dealing damage, that an official did come to scoop him off of his helpless and hapless prey. This was not a man on ice skates wearing the black and white stripes, though, it was a ghoul wearing combat boots and police khaki with a gun belt around his waist. It was Deputy Ron, of course, and he was acting to protect his assets.

"Get off 'im, boy!" He shouted as Jake swung wildly at the air, desperate to finish the job he'd started in putting an end to Launchpad once and for all. "Sweet Santa Muerta, you fuckin' lunatic!"

"I'll kill you!" Jake shouted. "I'll fucking kill both of you!"

"Calm down!" Boudreaux ordered, though his orders meant nothing to Jake. "Calm down, the ambulance is coming!"

"What the fuck is an ambulance gonna do, Ron?" Jake fired back. "She's fucking dead!"

As the officer struggled to restrain his quarry, Donnell found a way to get back to his feet. As he stumbled and staggered, the deputy quietly instructed him to get outta here, and his employee took his advice.

"Now you listen to me, boy, you listen good!" Boudreaux advised the still furious new orphan. "If you tell about this, son, if you run that little mouth of yours, you're gonna hurt a lot of people! In light of that, I'm gonna suggest to you that you hush up, just like last time. Do you understand me?"

"Hurt who?" Jake shrieked back, still fighting to get free of the Deputy's grasp so he could unleash his anger on him. "Who do you figure I've got left, you piece of shit?"

"You've got you, Jake!" Boudreaux replied, his threat more than plain. "And they'll never believe you anyway! Did you stop to think about that? You think you can accuse the town Deputy of being involved in something like this and have people believe you? Why, that's just crazy, son!"

"I'll tell them about SSF," Jake countered. "I'll tell them everything!"

"Oh, please, boy!" Boudreaux chuckled. "You think I'm that stupid? You think I left any sign of our presence in that building? You can send them there if you want, but you are the one that's gonna look like the fool! You've got nothing to work with, Jake! Your mother, a known addict, has OD'd. She did it all by herself, while you were at school, and that's just all there is to it! That's all there ever will be to it, son! So when Sheriff Rambo gets here, I want you to tell him that you just found her here. There was nobody else here, until I drove by and you flagged me down. That he'll believe. You tell him anything else, and I'll make your life a living hell. I'll see you in jail, boy, but you won't see your friend Donnell or I there! It'll never stick, Jake, and I think you know that!"

Nothing else was said between them in the minutes before the sound of a distant siren signaled the approach of an ambulance and the Sheriff. Jake was prepared to tell him everything about the way things had unfolded on this particular afternoon, he was prepared to tell him about SSF and all the criminality of Ron Boudreaux... but what would've been the point?

He knew the deputy was right...

He knew no one would ever believe him, and even if they did that there would be no way to prove what had been done...

So, he told Clyde Rambo exactly what Boudreaux had told him to... he felt he had no other choice.

Clyde seemed to know, he seemed to intuit that there was more, but Jake kept his mouth shut. There was no need for more turmoil. There was no need for more suffering. It was over, and it was bound to end this way from the beginning. This was just the natural conclusion to an old and tattered script, there was nothing else to be done.

Once the body had been removed by the coroner, Clyde sat Jake down for a second discussion. This one had nothing to do with what had transpired in his trailer that day, it was more forward looking than back. It was about what would become of young Jacob Giguére, it was about Nick Swete and how he was already half-way back to Burlwood to pick him up. It was about foster care and the welcoming invitation of a family that wanted him more than they wanted methanphetamines.

It was about the rest of his life and what he would do with it...

It was about leaving this place behind in the search for greener pastures.

SIXTY-THREE

September 17th, 2016. 1:25PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake decided to press the green answer button on his steering wheel instead of the one that was red for reject because he realized that nineteen years were more than enough. He hadn't come to that conclusion in the intervening period between the death of his mother and the phone call that brought him out to Burlwood to begin with, but he was comfortable in accepting it now. He'd taken that first call from Launchpad blind, with no idea who was calling him as he sat hungover in the parking lot of Bottoms Up back home.

Donnell had probably been forced to choke down his pride to make that initial contact, and he was doing the same in reaching out now, after Jake had told the details of his crimes to a Clyde Rambo who was out to see Ron Boudreaux chopped down to size. Rambo didn't really care about Donnell's involvement, and none of what was happening now was at all related to what happened to Janet Giguére on that cold and snowy afternoon in what seemed like another life.

Finally deciding that it was time to forgive, finally understanding that the decades had a power to heal, Jake made a conscious effort to put the past behind him as he accepted Donnell's call this time.

"Hey Donnell," he said flatly, "I found out about Sarge the hard way, but thanks for trying to warn me. I've got the confession of Rusty Parker on my passenger seat, and Sarge spelled out all the details to me verbally before he -- well, before he set off."

"So you're okay?" Donnell asked, the worry obvious in his voice. "Jesus Christ, all I've been thinking about for the past four hours is you laying dead in that man's living room!"

"Yeah, it went a little differently than that," Jake advised, "but you weren't far off. Sarge is dead, and Rusty's gone right behind him."

"Holy shit," Donnell sighed, "I bet Boudreaux is losing his mind!"

Realizing that his friend knew nothing about what happened at Safe & Secure Self Storage, Jake decided he didn't have the energy to explain and would simply leave it all where it lie. He wanted to focus his energy, instead, on what would become of Chucky as a result of all the action.

"Look," he began, "Rusty owned up in his own hand-writing to all of the original murders, and he confessed that Billy Marsh was killed in his garage. He stopped short of saying he did it, though, so where does that leave us?"

"Did you come across the van in all of this?" Donnell asked curiously. "That's kind of key."

"I think so, back at Sarge's place," Jake said. "He wouldn't cop to it, but I'm about positive that I was looking right at it."

"If you can prove that," the lawyer replied, "and we couple it with Rusty's confession, we're in the clear. I'll make a motion for a summary dismissal of the charges against Chucky based on that evidence, and I'd bet we'll get it on the back of what you've dug up!"

"Perfect," Jake praised the words. "I'm headed back to Chucky's place to pack my shit and grab the registration for the van. I've about had my fill of this town again, I'm ready to leave as quickly as I can. I'll swing back by Sarge's place with the papers on my way out and compare the VIN's. Once I've got that in place, I'll pass it and the confession note along to --" he paused, remembering that Donnell didn't know Alberto Gomez was back on the case, "someone besides Boudreaux."

"That'll cinch it," Donnell explained. "Let me know when it's done, and I'll file the motion."

"You got it, man," Jake answered. "I'll call the moment it's wrapped up."

Thinking it over, considering how it would all play out, he realized there was one more thing he wanted to do before he left town all together. In his mind, he'd decided that he would be leaving Burlwood behind for good this time, perhaps as he should've with the first go around. He couldn't leave this time without explaining himself to Chucky like he had last time, though. He couldn't leave his pal hanging, like he'd done before. The man deserved a proper goodbye, and he intended to give it.

"I'd like to see Chucky again," he said in closing, "before I leave, because I don't think I'll ever be back. Can you arrange another visit for me? This evening, maybe?"

Donnell drew a deep breath, thinking through the procedure required to arrange such a thing. "It's possible," he said, "but I can't make any promises. I'll put the call in to the jail and let you know what I come up with, that's all I can do."

"Alright, let me know," Jake concluded. "I'll talk to you in a bit."

With a simple bye, they ended the call. Neither said a word about the past; neither the distant nor the more recent. They wrapped up peacefully this time, which was more than could be said about either other instance before. Considering the book finally closed with the gesture, closed and sealed once and for all, Jake turned onto Route 4 and cruised along towards Burlwood Meadows.

When he finally made the turn onto Woodstock Boulevard, when he was finally entering the park for this final time, he again smelled that terrible malodor that had greeted him when he first made his return to his old stomping grounds. Shit and sewage, poverty and desperation, vice and criminality just below the radar of King Ron Boudreaux, the town pusher turned hero and one-eye-blind enforcer of the law. Again it was nauseating, again it was vile and all-encompassing. With the sweet stench rolling around in his nose, he knew this would be the final time he should smell it. But, for once, it wasn't because he was en route to double indemnity, it wasn't because his cold nostrils wouldn't be drawing further breath once he left this place behind and set off down the road of the rest of his life. It was because he needed to move on, whatever that meant. He needed to press forward with his life, not bring it all to a stop. Whatever that was, whatever it looked like, it did not involve Burlwood or Burlwood Meadows. This was to be the final goodbye to the chapter of his time that involved the things he saw as he cruised down Oakwood.

Reaching Chucky's trailer, he did not park in the driveway because this was not his home. Like the visitor that he was, he parked out front on the side of the road before marching over the lawn to the front door to make his entrance. Once inside, he hurriedly found and started to pack his travel bag with the belongings that he'd strewn about the place during his residence there. Stuffing the thing as full as it was when he first came to this place, he tried to stop the train of feelings and emotions that he'd endured during the past week from distracting him and hijacking his concentration. It was hard, as he'd ridden an incredible roller coaster since he arrived and it flatly refused to be ignored entirely. He'd been higher than he thought possible in his condition, and he'd been lower than he knew the bottom went. He'd been in command, and he'd been helpless. He'd been ready to die, and he'd been eager to live.

Before he was able to pick up all the pieces, before he was ready to test the limits of his bag's zipper one more time, he heard her voice in the doorway. He was in the kitchen when it rang out, and immediately there was a spear impaled through his chest. Nikki and what she represented to him were the last things he'd hoped to encounter before he left this place for good, and there she was.

"Jake?" She called into the place, not seeing him immediately. "Jake, are you here?"

Exhaling all of his anger, all of his resentment, and then sucking the blackness back in like the toxic fumes of Ron Boudreaux's meth, he moved into her sight. She was standing in the open doorway, clutching her tiny purse as her eyes brightened at seeing him. As he planted himself in the arch to the hallway, she saw the slash across his face that Grover's vase had given him.

"What happened to your face, sweetie?" She asked, concerned.

"Don't sweetie me, you fucking whore!" He growled lightly, barely audibly.

As quiet as he'd been, Nikki managed to hear every word. It was evident in her face that each of them struck her like the pike of a grimace that Jake was wearing, mortally wounding her as she wondered why he would speak such icy words.

"What?" She asked, bleeding from her soul with a look of agony to match overcoming her pretty face.

"You heard me," he doubled down. "Do you make house-calls to all of your customers, or do you expect that I'll pay extra?"

Stunned, her shoulders dropped and her heart seemed to break in two before his eyes. Wounded, she replied in dismay. "What are you talking about, Jake?"

"You know goddamn well what I'm talking about, Nikki!" He shouted before recovering his control and delivering the rest as words of scorn spoken through his teeth. "I know all about you, Nikki, a lot more than you ever figured that you ought to tell me!"

Staggered, she stood still and braced herself. A tear running down her face, knowing exactly how he would reply, she asked "like what, Jake?"

"Like everything," he replied harshly. "Your habit, your profession, your time as a guest of the county!"

"So, what?" She asked, wiping the waterfall of tears pouring from her eyes. "That makes me a piece of shit or something? That makes everything we had turn to nothing?"

"What we had?" He snapped, choking back his fury and disgust as best he could. "What exactly did you think that we had, Nikki? Just what do you think we built? Whatever it is, did you really believe that it could stand on a foundation of lies? Did you really think we had something that meant anything at all?"

"I thought so," she sobbed, "I thought it was something, which is obviously more than you think!"

"No," he chuckled with disdain. "No, Nikki, we didn't have shit! How long was it gonna be before you gave me the bill, Nikki? How long before you expected me to pay for your affection? Huh?"

Losing her handle on the bout, Nikki was overcome by a fit of violent crying that bent her at the waist, her hand over her pained stomach. "That's not fair!" She bellowed. "How can you say that after \--"

"After WHAT?" He fired again. "After what?"

Unable to respond, she continued in her fit of tears as he looked upon her with disgust in his eyes. Seeing her in such misery, watching as she suffered at his words, he felt a tinge of regret at having attacked her so roughly. It didn't last long, though, because -- so far as he was concerned -- she had deceived him. While he was tempted to move to comfort her, to scoop her up in a forgiving hug, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd hurt her, sure. But no worse than she'd hurt him by pretending that they did have something. By pretending that she had an interest in him outside of the tab she would eventually present to him.

Recovering herself in his silence, she eventually regained the ability to speak and addressed him with shouting of her own, though she was still doubled over in pain. "It's true," she cried. "Everything you heard about me, it's true! I was an addict! I was a prostitute! I did lose custody of Sammy to my mother! But you know something, Jake? People can change! People can better themselves! I've changed! All of that shit, that was before! I don't do any of it anymore, because I wanted to be better than I was! I wanted to do better than I was! So, here I am! What you see, that's what you get, Jake! I'm not perfect, but neither are you, I'm sure! I've done things I'm not proud of, but I dare you to tell me that you haven't! Can you? Can you say that honestly? Because if you can, then I'll let you go ahead and call me a whore! I'll let you go ahead and call me a fuck-up, Jake, if you can look me in the eye and say that you've always done right!"

The response, of course, was silence and staring from the target she'd made of him. He couldn't say any of those things, because those things certainly weren't true. All he did in response was continue to stare at her, but the disgust and hatred in his beautiful eyes seemed to be fading away with each tick of the clock.

"I didn't think so," she eventually declared as his front continued to soften.

"So why?" Jake asked, his tone gentle and tender now in a strange juxtaposition to what it had been just moment ago. "Why did you come after me? Why did you chase me?"

Nikki continued to calm herself, standing erect to face him with her smokey wet eyes as she delivered her hopes. "Because I wanted to have a second chance!" She said. "People do get second chances in your world, don't they? I wanted to have a chance with a good guy, Jake. Everybody else, everybody I've been with, they always turned out to be pieces of shit! I just wanted to try to do it all right for once! With you, because you seemed different."

"And so you thought I was better than the others?" He asked, a crooked and dismissive grin on his face. "You thought I was a good guy? If so, you were wrong, babe. I'm not a good guy, I'm not a good man. You say you've made mistakes, well trust me... I'm the king of mistakes! If you're after a good guy, Nikki, then you're most definitely looking in the wrong place!"

Seeing him still softening, seeing him calling her with his eyes, she moved to him and the two of them wrapped their arms around each other tightly. Turning her head up to his, she opened her mouth and met his waiting kiss with passion. As they made out, she slid her hands down to his belt and unfastened it, working to undo the button of his jeans as well, and he let her do it. Before long, she had the button undone and rolled his zipper down to its cradle in the denim. Breaking their amorous exchange, she dropped to her knees before him and pulled at his underwear until he fell out of them, erect and ready for what might come next. As she prepared to take them further than they had ever been, and she readied to open a new horizon for their relationship, he lovingly put a hand on her shoulder and pushed as he pulled himself away from her.

"No," he said in a whisper as he gently held her clear of him. "No, baby, I can't do that."

Looking up at him, tears seeming to well in his eyes as they kept raining from hers, she stared intently into his soul as she spoke.

"Of course you can't, sweetie," she said. "What kind of guy would you be if you could?"

Without another word, she pulled her eyes from his and turned them to the tiny purse in her clutches. Unzipping it as she had his done to his pants, she dug around inside for something that he couldn't see from above her. Having found it, she grabbed hold of his left hand and slid a cold titanium ring around his third finger. Spreading his hand, he looked and saw that it was his wedding band... the one he'd thrown away when he arrived at Chucky's trailer... the one that had sat in a pool of congealing TV dinner gravy until she came over and emptied his trash... the one that she'd taken out, taken home and cleaned... the one that she'd saved for him, because she knew that he would eventually want it back.

Pulling at her face, trying to force her to look into his eyes as she resisted, he called her name. When she gave up the fight and met his pupils, he saw the sorrow in her heart at giving him back. There was wonder and appreciation in his stare, now, which was what he wanted her to see. His eyes told her that they did have something... they had built something, and -- if the circumstances were different -- there would be more to build in the days ahead.

That wasn't the case, though, it couldn't be. He had wrongs to right, he had bridges to repair, he had obligations to be met. Seeing his regret at that as it related to them, she stood and gave him a gentle and plutonic kiss on the cheek before whispering into his ear.

"People get second chances, sweetie," she said softly. "Go back home... it's waiting for you."

He had no words for her, no means to convey what he was feeling. Giving him another kiss, she turned away quickly as though any further eye contact would harm her. As though she couldn't bare to make such intimate contact with him anymore, because to do so would break something inside of her... most likely her heart.

Knowing he was seeing the last of her, knowing that he would never look upon her again, his tongue wished to shout I love you at her back, but he knew those to be the wrong words for this moment.

Instead, he said nothing.

And then she was gone.

His heart feeling the weight of his wedding band and the pull of Nikki's departure, he was slow to continue his packing. Moving at a snail's pace, he gathered more of his belongings and thought about everything that had happened to him in one long week -- a week that seemed like a year in ramifications and backdraft for his life... for Chucky's life.

As he moved, his cellphone vibrated in his pocket and brought his slow pace to a virtual stop. Checking it, he saw that he'd received a text from Donnell that said he'd spoken with Commissioner Dickinson at the Elsmere PD, followed by several question marks. Their presence meant that Dickinson hadn't explained what happened with Boudreaux to him. The remainder of the text said that he authorized a visit with Chucky at six this evening, which was perfect.

Grateful that he would have a chance to say goodbye to his old friend, Jake started thinking less about the things that had happened to his personal life during his period back in Burlwood and started going over the case he'd built for Chucky's freedom. That reminded him that he needed to fetch the registration for the church van so that he could make a final confirmation that one of the key pieces of evidence was sitting in the driveway of Sarge Grover Simmonds. The search for the document, which Jake knew he'd left somewhere in the trailer, led him to the bathroom where he found the small slip of paper settled on the counter near the shower. Finding it there reminded him that he'd pulled it from his pocket as he got undressed several days ago and just abandoned it there. Putting it back in his pocket again, he figured he was about ready to set off for West Pine to make the connection before his scheduled visit at the county jail.

Feeling something tightening in his head, though, feeling like he was about to be overcome by an incredible headache as result of the rapid ups and downs he'd experienced on this day, he decided that he would take some Tylenol from the medicine cabinet before he set about meeting his final obligations in the state of Indiana. He leaned close to check himself out in the mirrored doors of the vanity and found the cut to be no more than a superficial scrape. It was a surprise to him that he'd bled as much as he had from it, given how shallow the wound actually was.

Nonetheless, he figured he should clean the wound out, so he would need some peroxide and perhaps ointment to go with the pain reliever. Checking the left panel of mirror glass first, he found the Tylenol and promptly swallowed two dry. There was no sign of first-aid implements there, so he opened the middle and found that there were none there either. That left only the right panel, of course, which he opened with no drama or theatrics to recover the small brown bottle of antiseptic that he knew must be in there.

It was once the door was open that the drama and theatrics came, and they came as a brutal storm of shock and disbelief. The peroxide was there, of course, and it was right next to the box of Trojan Condoms that he'd seen on his very first day in this trailer but had apparently failed to register and process properly. Standing in his shoes now, though, after everything he'd been through... after everything he'd learned... now he could process what their presence meant.

Why did Charles Edward Murphy have a box of condoms in his trailer?

What purpose did they serve?

Thinking back, he remembered he conversation with the man the last time he'd visited him in jail. He remembered him saying I've never had sex, Darkwing... he remembered him saying I tried once, but I was too nervous...

Checking the box, Jake found that there was, indeed, one condom missing... one and only one...

Jesus Christ...

Jesus...

It had been there all along, hidden in plain sight...

Billy Marsh was not sodomized, Rambo had inferred from the police report...

Jesus Christ...

Jesus...

I didn't kill Billy Marsh, I'm Retired, Sarge had said...

Jesus Christ...

Jesus...

You probably think I'll buy that he broke such a covenant, Boudreaux had said about the second confidential informant...

Jesus Christ...

Jesus...

I've asked in faith every day since Billy Marsh went missing whether or not I truly know Chucky. Those were the words of Father Carl Lovett...

He didn't...

He KNEW he didn't...

It all made sense...

God, it all fit...

Jesus...

Jesus...

SIXTY-FOUR

September 17th, 2016. 3:45PM

Burlwood, Indiana

Jake marched into Our Mother Of Sorrows with a heart as heavy as stone, a feeling he'd never taken into a place of worship before under any circumstances. He was met with an empty nave, which he expected given the late hour of the afternoon. His intent was to speak frankly with Father Lovett, a task he figured he would carry out in the man's small and musty rectory as before. No sooner had he taken more than a handful of steps into the holy house, however, he heard the squeaky hinges of a door swinging open in front of him and to the left.

Watching a penitent looking parishioner step out from behind the large and richly stained wooden door that was the source of the sound, Jake realized that the priest was in the confessional. He was hearing the sins of his sheep, and that was a perfect backdrop for the conversation that Jake had in mind.

Seeing that there were no others seeking absolution in line or in sight, he walked slowly towards a booth the likes of which he had never entered in all the days of his life. Touching the handle on the door sent a chill and bolt of electricity through his body, a sensation he would've called supernatural if not for the fact that he knew better. This was the work of his imagination coupled with the state of his emotion, not a fantastic demonstration of power issued by some transcendent and omnipotent force. Wiping notions of the ridiculous from his mind, he stepped into the cramped space and took a seat on a wooden stool inside before closing the door and sealing himself in.

Once he was seated, his legs cramped in the booth apparently designed for shorter men, a wooden panel in front of him slid open to reveal the shadowed image of a figure on the other side. It all seemed ridiculous to him, really, but something inside of him was bent to play along. Some piece of him that was as penitent as Rusty Parker had been, some guilty side of his psyche that longed to have its voice heard in a sacred manner, even if the sacred and the silly were one in the same at the time.

"Um," he said when the prolonged silence that met him became uncomfortable. "I've never done this before, Carl. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say."

"First, you relax," Father Lovett replied calmly in a hushed and welcoming tone. "Then, you typically say something like bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Jake thought about this for a second with reluctance, because to speak those words required him to conscribe to something in which he didn't really believe. Trying to separate the words from the rhetoric, he spoke in plain language without the connotations that the confessional's previous customers likely applied to the process.

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned," he said, nearly choking on the words.

There was another moment of silence as he waited for further instruction, waiting for Lovett to realize that he needed further instruction.

"How long has it been since your last confession?" The priest finally asked.

This was confusing to Jake, as he'd just said moment ago that he'd never done this before. Brushing it aside, he answered.

"I guess it's been about thirty-five years, because I've never made a confession at all."

The shadow of the old man nodded, as though he realized his error, and he spoke once more.

"What do you wish to confess, my son?"

"Well," Jake began, lost in a sea of regret, "there are lots of things, really."

Again there was quiet, then one more piece of advice from the father.

"Why don't you just start from the beginning, Jacob."

Hearing his name, knowing that his identity was supposed to be confidential in this environment, Jake realized that Lovett was playing this process as plainly as he was. This was not some holy practice to free his soul of imaginary trespasses, this was a counseling session. He'd never had one of those either, but it felt more comfortable and natural than the prior, so he was relieved. With the veil of mysticism dropped, his mouth opened and his sorrows spilled out like wine.

"I've been a poor husband, Father," he began. "I've been absent from my marriage in the times that my presence was most necessary. I've checked out on my wife, and I've left her to fend for herself. I've also been a poor father, as I've done the same in matters related to my boy. I've been a poor man, because I've put myself -- my own desires, my own priorities -- ahead of everyone else in my life at their expense. I've been selfish in all of my affairs, and I've failed to realize all of this until now... now that I've lost everything that I had. I didn't deserve what I had, at least I didn't act as though I did. My wife and my son, they offered me their love with no strings attached... and I turned my back on them for their effort."

"You speak as though there is no hope for recovery, Jacob," the priest replied. "As though what's lost is gone forever, as though what was can never be again. Is that how you feel?"

Thinking about it, Jake realized that it was. He felt he'd played his hand, and that he'd played it wrong. The chips were being dealt, and none were coming to him because he'd made a tragic mistake from which there simply was no recovery. Choked up at that thought, convinced that what he had was gone forever, he simply nodded in response to the question of the father.

"Part of this process, Jacob," Lovett continued, "when it's done in the context of religion, is the offering of forgiveness. People come into this booth and they tell me incredible things, things that would make the deeds that you speak of now look like petty crimes in the face of God! When they finish spilling their guts, when they tell me of the terrible things they've done, I offer them the absolution of Jesus Christ, our savior, for all that they've brought to bare. If Christ can forgive them of the things they do, certainly there can be forgiveness for you from your family. Tracy loves you, Jacob. She has loved you for a very long time. Love that powerful cannot be destroyed, young man. It can be tarnished, it can be soiled, but it can never be completely washed away!"

"That's easy for you to say," Jake replied, "you don't know what I've put her through over the years."

"Jacob," the priest said with a new level of sincerity in his voice, "The Swete family attended this church every week during the time that they lived in town. As their conduit to their faith, I developed strong relationships with Nick and Nancy, and with Tracy as well. I knew them well, and I know that they're not the type to offer love and then retract it under duress."

"That was then, father," Jake answered. "Things are different now. I've made them different."

"Things are different than they were last week?" The old man asked, peaking Jake's attention. "Because when Tracy called me after you told her you were coming back to Burlwood, she sounded much the same as she did before! Her concern for you seemed just as legitimate now as it was back then, and her desire to have you back came across as very real to me! She didn't want the Jacob that sped off into the night after raising a hand to her, of course, but she wanted her Jacob back. As sure as I live and breathe, she is capable of forgiveness, my son."

"Wait, wait," Jake broke in, considering what he was hearing. "Are you telling me that Tracy called you? When I left, when I came here? Are you saying that she called you and spoke with you?"

"She did," Lovett said definitively. "And so did Nick. They told me that you were in trouble, that you were lost. They asked that I try to help you, but I told them both very honestly that you must be the one to help yourself. Neither of them had closed the book on you, Jacob, they wouldn't have called me if they had! Based on the things that you've just said to me, given the nature of the feelings that you're expressing, it seems to me that you've found the help that they asked me to give to you! It seems to me that you've figured it out, and that's all that was really necessary! If the content of your heart matches the color of your words, then you've found the path back home! They'll be waiting for you there, Jacob, because they are your home! There may be damages that will be difficult to forget, wounds that will take time to heal, but they are willing to forgive. The rest will come with time, that's just how it works."

Absorbing the words, Jake felt that familiar sting in his eyes... that one that comes before he finds that he just can't cry anymore. He didn't fight it the way he generally would, but the tears would still not come. His heart didn't seem heavy anymore, though, despite the fact that he knew what the second half of this conversation would likely reveal. Satisfied with the results of this first half, he prepared himself for a transition that would be rough and jarring for each of them. Sincere in his words, he first gave thanks for what the old man had said.

"Thank you, father," he offered with much less difficulty in using that particular F word than he had ever before. "Thank you for telling me, thank you for the help."

"Eh," the priest sighed. "It's what I do, Jacob. I help people. Some deserve it, some don't. Which category you fall into will depend on what you do with the second chance that so many others never get."

"I don't intend to let you down," Jake replied, preparing for the pivot. "And now, father, I'm ready to take your confession."

There was a new silence after this, one that was tangible and sent waves of tension through the entirety of the booth. Father Lovett cocked his head and froze where he sat, staggered. Jake let the silence sizzle for a few moments before breaking it, letting the drama of revelation set in on the priest before the discussion of sacraments that would follow.

"I know what you did, father," he said simply. "I know that you spoke to Ron Boudreaux about Chucky. I know that you're his confidential informant. It took awhile, but I figured it all out."

"If you know," Lovett sighed after a long pause of consideration, "then why do you want to hear about it? It won't change anything to hear me spell it out."

"No, I suppose it won't," Jake responded, furling his brow. "I guess I just want to know the details because some of them are missing. I guess I also want to know why you broke your own rule. God's rule. This whole confession thing, I thought it was supposed to be confidential. But the only way I can figure it and have it still make sense is that you failed to keep one particular confession a secret between the penitent, yourself and your God."

In silhouette Jake saw Lovett put his face in his hands, shaking his head in some combination of regret and shame.

"It is supposed to be confidential, Jacob," he explained. "And I tried to keep what Chucky told me bottled up inside of me with all of the other petty sins of this little town. But I'm an old and fading man. I haven't much time left on this Earth, and I couldn't bare to face the idea of crossing over with something so awful on my conscience. Confused, conflicted, I conferred with God, I begged for his guidance. I prayed for days about what I should do, and in the end... in the end... I did what I felt I was compelled by God and my conscience to do. Yes, I broke the rules. Yes, I revealed what was meant to remain hidden."

"What did he tell you?" Jake wondered.

"Everything," the priest said, pained. "Keep in mind, Jake, that I've taken Chucky's confession every week or two for years and years. He usually came in with something as silly as shame about masturbating or not putting in his tithes for a given week or something so ridiculous. He was so sweet, so innocent... the sessions with him were almost humorous from this side of the booth. Then came July thirtieth. He came into this confessional in tears and he told me... he told me all about what happened to little Billy Marsh. He told me what he and Rusty had done to him. I'd known for some time that he'd been hanging out with Rusty a lot, but that seemed like a normal thing to me because, after all, they worked together so closely for so many years. He rarely said anything about their interactions, until that fateful day. Apparently, he'd known for some time that Rusty was The Butcher Of Burlwood. Why he didn't reveal that to anyone in all of these years I'll never know, but he told me for the first time after he sat where you're sitting now just barely a week after Billy Marsh had gone missing from this building. I asked him if he knew something about Rusty and little Billy, I asked him if he had evidence that Rusty had killed the boy, but I was in no way prepared for what he said next! He told me that Rusty had been pressuring him to pick up a young boy for months, that he was saying he felt near death and wanted to kill one more before he died. After the trouble Chucky got into with the Marsh boy, apparently something broke in his mind and he decided that he was going to do what Rusty wanted him to do! He told me he walked here on July twenty-fourth, like the roving goat-headed beast himself, the day that Billy went missing. He told me that he lured that boy out of the classroom, knocked him out with some sort of chemical that Rusty had given him, and he kidnapped him in the church's own van!"

The old man paused his narrative, the sound of sobbing and shallow breathing spilling through the screen, leading Jake to spur him on.

"Then what happened?" He asked.

"He said he took Billy to Rusty and the two of them --" he stopped again, struggling to vomit the words, "the two of them killed that little boy!"

"The two of them, you say?" Jake probed. "As in Chucky participated? How do you know that Chucky participated?"

"He told me!" Lovett expectorated with disgust. "He told me they hung him upside down and slit his throat, the way Rusty had with the first round of murders! This town barely survived that period, Jacob, I couldn't let it all begin again! I couldn't just keep my mouth shut and let this go unpunished, let Billy Marsh go unavenged! He was a sweet little boy, Jake, just like Timmy and the others had been! It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, Jacob, but I called Ron Boudreaux and I told him everything. I expected that both Chucky and Rusty would be arrested, I expected that they would find some evidence on which they could build a case, since a religious confession is confidential and inadmissible in court. Boudreaux said he would take care of things and leave me out of it. Instead, they only arrested Chucky... I don't know why they're waiting to get Rusty, unless Chucky won't talk!"

"Oh, they aren't waiting," Jake advised him. "Boudreaux made him a confidential informant, just like you. They had no intention of arresting him... and now he's dead, free from all prosecution."

"Dead?" Lovett asked. "Rusty's dead?"

"Yep," Jake said. "Took a little too much morphine."

"If this is true," the priest continued, "then Rusty is far from free of all prosecution, Jacob! Rusty Parker is being prosecuted as we speak... in the eternal fire and damnation of Hell!"

"That doesn't help Chucky much, does it? Now he rides the sea alone, with your and Rusty's testimony to send him up the river."

"My testimony will do no such thing," the father said, shaking his head. "I told you, it's inadmissible. If Rusty was to testify against him and is dead, all that remains is the van."

"The van?" Jake asked. "What about the van?"

"They left it in Rusty's storage unit. Boudreaux tells me the interior was covered with blood, and the steering wheel with only Chucky's fingerprints."

"So -- they have it? The police have the van?" Jake wondered.

"They do," Lovett confessed. "And it appears that it will be the only evidence to bring justice for poor Billy Marsh."

"I suppose that's true," Jake replied, "but is justice for him the proper justice for Chucky?"

SIXTY-FIVE

September 17th, 2016. 5:40PM

Garthby, Indiana

Jake's throat was cooled and irritated simultaneously by more mentholated Newport smoke as another pile of butts was building up outside the window of his Malibu. He sat staring at the Elsmere County Jail, a hellacious week of chaos and mayhem painting the building in an entirely different light than he'd seen it in last. He'd arrived very early for his six o'clock appointment, because fate had intervened and he hadn't been required to drive out to West Pine as he previously thought he would be.

With Father Lovett's revelation that the church van was already in the possession of the police, there was no need to visit Sarge's house to check the VIN of his van against that of Our Mother's Dodge Ram. Apparently, FGSI Services really did own a vehicle that just so happened to be remarkably similar to the one in which Billy Marsh was kidnapped. Beyond that simple fact, Grover Simmonds apparently had absolutely nothing to do with Burlwood's latest child murder, that of little Billy Marsh. That was difficult to accept, especially since Rusty's chosen replacement for him had apparently been one Charles Edward Murphy. Why the old man made that decision -- why he called for a pinch hitter -- was the last lingering question to plague Jake's mind as he smoked and waited for the hour of his visit and Chucky's judgement to arrive.

Immediately after he left Our Mother, he'd called Donnell to confer with him one last time about the details Lovett had provided. As Launchpad sorted the details verbally, he was optimistic as he told Jake that the testimony of Boudreaux's CI's would add up to nothing, now. Rusty was dead and the words of Father Lovett could easily be stricken down by the fact that the confession given him was made in unbreakable confidence. The bloody van could be easily disqualified, as they could place Chucky's fingerprints in it through natural means; his use of it in the capacity as an employee of the church. Anyone could've used it in the commission of the murder, so long as they had the sense to wear gloves to cover their tracks. The fact that it was found in Rusty's storage unit was just further damnation of Rusty himself. It represented evidence to be used in tandem with his confessional suicide note, which clearly spelled out his penchant for murdering children. Sure, it seemed obvious that someone had to help the old man to pull this all off again, but -- on the surface -- there was nothing to prove that Chucky had been that someone.

"We might just see him clear of all this," Donnell had said, as though it was okay to set him free. He seemed unfazed at the notion of helping him escape punishment, even if he were truly guilty, which was a shocking concept for Jake to digest.

Something about it made him sick. Something about it was repugnant, even if his heart was full of empathy and caring for Chucky as he once was. Apparently, the man wasn't that way anymore... at least, not according to what Father Lovett revealed about him. Helping him walk away from all of this, as though nothing had happened, was something that Darkwing would have to give some deep thought and consideration before signing off on. In his current emotional condition, he was not at all fit to make such judgements at the present. He would talk to the man, he would get the truth as he saw it, and he would decide how he felt later... when his mind was clear... if it ever was again.

As he sat flicking ashes out of his window, as he prepared to see his old friend for what would potentially be the last time, he was determined to boil it all down to the truth and let the truth play the hand. This sentiment ran deeper in him than just in regard to this matter with Chucky, however, as he was rapidly cycling through the emotions of the events of his life since he first left Burlwood as a teenager. Like a trial by fire, he was reliving the dark years and wrestling with the ghosts of things he'd done through them. Some of those ghosts wore ugly masks, and some of those masks were reflections of the truth in all of its unpleasant forms. Truth as it applied to Chucky, as it applied to Donnell, as it applied to Tracy and to Garrett and as it ultimately applied to himself. Most of those masks were hard to look at, but it was time for him to see the faces of those truths, in all of their hideous forms and figures.

There were many truths that were hard to stare down as the cool plumes of smoke leaked from his sinuses and lips. These truths were the ones that required him to take a good long look in the mirror and decide just what he saw looking back at him. These truths were the ones in which he saw ugliness, the ones in which he saw a terrible man staring back at him through his own emerald eyes. The ones in which he saw a man he didn't know and didn't like in any sense of the term underneath a mask of his own flesh, his features twisted in contorted in the reality of how he looked inside.

Like the roving goat-headed beast, that's the phrase Father Lovett had used describe Chucky when he allegedly operated under the influence of some uncharacteristic evil. That, too, was what Jake saw reflected back at him in the looking glass when he faced his most truthful truths. He was the destroyer, the blasphemer, the incinerator of all that was good in his life. He was the alcoholic, the gambler, the thief of love, affection and of money. He was the source of every problem that haunted him. He was the black that snuffed out the light. He was the flame and the heat of Hell. He was the monster under his own bed, and he was the shadow that loomed over the darkest moments of his life.

Not knowing how to slay this terrible dragon before him, unsure of how to proceed when nothing but understanding had changed, he'd gassed up his car and purchased two packs of cigarettes with no clear plan about what he was going to do when he left the Elsmere Jail. With those purchases, a number of drinks and snacks for the ride and the basic living expenses he'd incurred over the past several days, he was now left with just eighty-five dollars of the two-thousand that he'd pilfered from his business account.

That certainly wasn't enough to start a new life somewhere else, even though that option seemed most favorable to him of those he could cook up. He'd heard that Tracy was worried about him, that she might be open to his coming home, but he felt that idea was perhaps the worst of all possibilities. That would require a direct confrontation with that goat-headed man in the mirror. That would require an admission of guilt, like the one he expected from Chucky. That would require him to reveal himself as the despicable man he had been and beg his estranged wife fore her forgiveness. Either he would have to do that or he would have to slither in, like the snake that he'd been, and end up shitting all over everything again because he hadn't changed sufficiently in this escapade. This time, that idea was unacceptable. History tends to repeat, but he couldn't allow that in this instance. That would be even more painful than simply calling it a day and moving on.

Suicide, of course, was free of cost -- both financially and emotionally.

To him, at least.

That option was no option at all, though, he'd learned that much in this journey. It served no one, least of all himself, and it was the easy path to take in this situation. No one ever has anything kind to say about someone who takes the easy path. That was evidenced by the legacy his father, Garrett Giguére, had left behind when he played that card. A legacy of turmoil and ruin.

No, double indemnity was no longer on the table.

But what, then?

Taking the last drag and feeling that heat on his fingers again, Jake flicked his butt as far as he possibly could this time. Watching the hot ember tear through the evening like a tracer round in a perfect parabolic arc, he was fascinated by the light show it put on as it excited the air around it and lit the evening so gloriously for but the fleeting of a second in its wake. It bounced when it landed on the grass in the distance, as he figured he was probably destined to bounce wherever he himself landed when all was said and done.

It was five minutes to six, time to go inside and sign in for his visitation.

In a state of numb hysteria he checked in with the officers on duty at the front desk, and the officers promptly directed him to the visitation room without delay. Apparently, the orders of Commissioner Dickinson were taken quite seriously within the walls of this criminal management establishment. Within seconds, he was sitting in the chair he'd sat in not so very long ago with safety glass before him and a phone to the right of him. His state of mind was so different now than it had been last time he'd been here, and it had to be obvious in his face when Chucky stepped through the prisoner door on the opposite side of the barrier and laid eyes on him once again.

Still, there was that smile of reacquaintance from his old friend that was wide and undeterred. It was as though this was the first time they'd seen each other in years all over again, but Jake couldn't return the smile in kind on this occasion. Assuming his seat and finding his telephone straight away this time, Chucky snatched the handset from the receiver and offered his excited greeting once again.

"Hi Darkwing!" He shouted as though the phone did nothing and he was required to project himself through the thick pane of glass.

"Hi, Chucky," Jake returned flatly.

Catching the lack of inflection and examining his friend's face, Chucky seemed to realize that something was wrong. His own smile fell, ever the empath, and he assumed a deflated posture where he sat.

"It's bad news, isn't it?" He asked somberly.

"You could say that, Chuck," Jake sighed in response.

"You didn't find any clues against Rusty?"

Lowering his head, Jake started to feel some of the pain that he should've been suffering since he realized what Chucky's box of condoms had to mean. He'd suppressed the soul-ache with disbelief and distance, distracting himself with other worries and concerns until this very moment. Until he was face to face with a friend turned evil, a compadre turned child-killer. Until there was nothing else to do but to ask why. Until there was no hiding anymore, from himself or from those awful truths that had to be faced.

"Actually," Jake began, choking back the agony, "I did find things that tied Rusty to what happened."

A smile sneaking up on him, Chucky looked relieved at this.

"That's great!" He exclaimed. "Did they arrest him, like they did to me?"

Guilty at offering hope, Jake was quick to dial it back.

"No, Chucky," he blurted. "No, they didn't arrest him. In fact, Rusty's dead."

This hit the man like a brick, and Jake could almost see the impact it made on his large and meaty chest, knocking the breath from him.

"Dead?" He asked, likely reliving every bit of his friendship with the man at speaking the word. "What happened?"

"He killed himself, Chuck," Jake revealed coldly. "And he left a note confessing to killing all the kids when we were young... confessing to killing Timmy, just like you said."

Chucky melted further into his seat, likely thinking back to that cold Thanksgiving evening when he and Rusty Parker delivered more than just meals to the meek so many years ago. When they delivered the remains of Timmy Lane to various parts of Burlwood, when they delivered arms and legs that were supposed to be those of Jake himself if not for the intervention of fate. He seemed to have nothing to say in response to this information, so Jake sat in the silence for a moment before continuing.

"He also said that Billy Marsh was killed in his garage," he offered.

Further yet Chucky settled into his seat, until it seemed he was barely erect in the chair at all. He became a lump of defeated mass, a shell of a man stripped of his bones and left to wiggle as jelly in his grief.

"And then I found your condoms, Chucky," Jake delivered sharply, pausing for effect between that and his next statement. "And then I spoke with Father Lovett."

Immediately, Chucky broke down and started shuddering with tears. Within seconds he was blubbering just as badly as he had when he'd fallen down and broken his wrist in Booger Woods before they found the scattered parts of Joshua Banks. He was sobbing just as hard as he had been that November morning, when Darkwing was supposed to be dead but the reaper had claimed Drake instead. When he didn't want to go deliver the food with his partner in crime at all because he knew and understood the wrong of what the man had done. Immediately, he was a child all over again and he was overcome with irrepressible emotion.

"Tell me what happened, Chuck!" Jake ordered, offering no sympathy in his tone for the tears of his old friend. "Tell me what you did!"

The fit worsened at Jake's harsh treatment, the wails and moans echoing through the entirety of the facility as Chucky tried to hide from his truths. Truths that were uglier and more menacing than anything Jake's twisted psyche could ever bring to pass. Truths that were despicable and criminal. Truths that were homicidal and malevolent.

"Tell me, Chucky!" Jake shouted over the whining and wailing. "Stop acting like a bitch and tell me, goddam it!"

As though he'd been struck by a bolt of lightening, Chucky stopped sobbing and froze. He'd never been spoken to in such a manner by Darkwing, his best and treasured friend. It was a shock to his system, and it ended his fit cold. He still didn't speak, he still didn't sit upright, but he instantly recovered as though he'd been slapped across the face and commanded to stand at attention.

Jake took note, realizing that his loud tone likely scared Chucky into his new condition. Not wanting to bully anything false from his easily molded friend, he calmed himself as best he could and brought his speech back down into the realm of what could be considered that of a friend.

"Look, Chucky," he began, "I'm not here to hurt you, I'm not here to scare you, I'm not here to get you in trouble. I just --" he paused, having to further throttle his emotion, "I just want to know what happened!"

There was silence at first, for what seemed an eternity, but Chucky eventually summoned the resolve to sit back up and speak.

"What do you want me to say?" He asked.

"I want you to say the truth, Chucky! I just want you to tell me the truth, no matter how bad it is!"

Again, there was a silence while Chucky snorted up snot before he spoke.

"It's bad," he replied. "It's really bad."

"Is it everything that Father Lovett told me? That you and Rusty killed Billy?"

Ashamed to say it, Chucky simply nodded sheepishly.

"Why, Chuck?" Jake asked, flabbergasted. "Why would you do it? Why would you help him do it?"

"I just wanted him to shut up," Chucky replied. "For weeks and weeks, it was all he talked about! That he was dying and that he needed blood to make him better! That Sarge told him he needed to drink a kid's blood!"

"Jesus, are you serious?" Jake asked, and again Chucky nodded. "Why didn't he get Sarge to help him, then?" he wondered.

"Sarge told him he was too old. That he couldn't take wrestling with young boy again, that his heart couldn't take it, so he had to find someone else to help him."

"So what did you do, Chuck? I mean, what exactly did you personally do?"

"Well, I drove to the church that Sunday and I got Billy Marsh to come out to the van for me. He was the only little boy I was friends with, the only one that would come with me. I told him we were going to play with my other friend, and I drove him to Rusty's. I didn't think Rusty was really gonna do something to him! I mean, he's an old and weak guy. I thought Billy and I would play along with him for a minute, then I'd take Billy back to church!"

"What happened instead?"

"Well," Chucky hesitated, looking mortified. "Rusty pulled put some kind of rag and soaked it with this stuff that smelled like oranges. Than he put it over Billy's mouth, and Billy went to sleep."

Again he stopped, as though he didn't want to say anymore. As though it was uncomfortable to say anymore. Jake urged him on with his eyes, and he eventually continued despite the fact that he was obviously pained.

"Once he was asleep, Rusty took off his clothes and looked at him for a minute. That's when he brought out the condoms, but I didn't know what they were inside the box. He asked if I wanted to have some fun because he was too old to do it. I didn't know exactly what he meant, until he took out one of the condoms -- and then I knew what he meant, and I didn't want to do that! Not at all! He gave me the box, said to keep it in case I ever needed them because they were no good to him, that's why they were at my house."

"Just tell me what happened, Chuck!"

"After he looked at him for a while without his clothes, he put some kind of wire around his feet. He had some kind of control box in his hand, and he pressed a button on it that made a machine turn on and make a loud noise. The wire started to pull and it eventually lifted Billy up by his feet, and then he was just swinging in the air, upside-down in the middle of his garage!"

"Go on, Chuck," Jake prodded.

"Then," he said slowly, "he pulled out this big knife and he tried to hand it to me."

Another revelation, another pause in the discussion, another melting on the far side of the glass. Chucky seemed to wilt entirely at this point, and Jake was pretty sure he knew exactly why. He wanted to hear it, though, he wanted to know for sure -- for his own mind's sake.

"Did you take it, Chuck?" He asked as kindly and as lovingly as he could, choking back the disgust and the dismay at what was likely to come.

Chucky, for his part, refused to answer.

His refusal was answer enough for Jake.

It would likely be answer enough for a jury as well, if the matter ever made it that far.

"And then what?" Jake pushed.

"Then Rusty cut him up," Chucky said in horror. "I didn't stay for the whole time, because I had to go to work. That's when Deputy Ron asked me all of those questions, and I just said I didn't know what he was talking about, because I didn't want to get in any trouble. By the time I got back to Rusty's, the van was gone -- and so were Billy's parts. I don't know how he got them to Booger Woods, or what he did with the van. I guess he must've had somebody else helping, I don't know."

A period to digest was required, and it played out in a deafening silence.

"Ya' know, Chucky," Jake resumed after he'd processed things as well as he could. "Donnell seems to think that he can get you out of this. He doesn't think they have enough presentable evidence to find you guilty, unless they've got something we don't know about. What do you think of that? What do you think about you just walking away from this?"

Chucky looked confused and unsure of how to answer properly. He expressed this uncertainty with his eyes, and with his words when eventually he spoke again.

"What do you think of it, Jake?" He asked, speaking his friend's proper name aloud for perhaps the first time in either of their memories.

Soaking it in, feeling the gravity of it, Jake asked himself the same question.

"I dunno, Chuck," he said.

"Well, if I don't walk away from this," Chucky began, "will they put me to sleep? Will they do to me what Doctor Morris did to Ruger?"

"They could," Jake replied honestly.

"No," Chucky retorted, "I mean will they? Like, if we asked them to?"

Dumbfounded and confused, Jake wasn't sure his friend was expressing himself properly. Certainly, he couldn't mean it the way it sounded. Certainly he wasn't on the wavelength of double indemnity.

"What do you mean, Chuck?" He asked, seeking a believable answer to an incredible question.

"I'm so tired, Jake," Chucky replied. "I'm just tired of everything being the same, over and over, every day, every week, every year. I don't have anything, Darkwing, I don't have anybody. Not since you all left town and Momma died. I get up, I go to work, I go home, I struggle to get by because I don't have any money, and then I go to sleep and start it all over again. I'm just tired of being alive, Jake! If they'll put me to sleep, if they'll send me to be with Momma and with Ruger, then that's what I want."

Stunned, shocked, Jake was speechless.

Christ, he didn't know it had gotten so bad for his friend...

Christ, he didn't realize his friend was capable of such thought with his limitations.

How did he answer that statement?

How did he advise a man in the same condition he had been in himself so recently?

How did he walk away from this problem, as he'd walked away and played a part in creating it so many years ago?

"I don't know if that would be best, Chucky," he answered, choking back that damned emotion and the wearisome stinging in his eyes. "I think we're going to get you someone to talk to in here, someone that can help you sort out your thinking. Then, I think we're gonna work with Donnell to see how we can make this right without resorting to... to what you're talking about."

Crying again, Chucky inexplicably pressed his right hand against the glass so hard that it flattened out on the surface. At first, Jake didn't understand what he was doing. Staring at the palm blankly for a moment, he took note of a particular defect in the flesh of his old friend's palm. It was a scar, acquired long ago, and Jake had one very similar to it on his right hand as well.

These were the scars that were used, when the cuts were open, to make the two of them blood brothers. That vow, made in childhood, was something that was meant to be infinite. Realizing that it was infinite, that it was valid for better or worse, Jake pressed his right hand against the glass in a show of solidarity and support.

In the days to come, the both of them would be required to stand and face the things that they had done. They would both suffer the penalties of their wrongs, but they would do so with their own dignity and with honor. They would both be honest and upfront, they would both speak difficult words in the face of prosecution and accept what verdicts would be handed down. They would both throw themselves at the mercy of their own respective courts, and they would both pay the piper for their wrongs and trespasses.

That was the oath they took as the sat staring into each other's eyes, their hands transcending the glass between them and making contact despite the obstacle. That was the promise they made to each other verbally before hanging up their phones and turning their backs on each other once again. As each of them walked towards their exits from the room, they marched head-on into facing the music that they were individually due. The sounds would be quite different for each of them, the process would vary widely between them, but in essence they were doing the exact same thing as one another.

They would march with their heads held high, but they would freely bow in observance of their crimes with a personal sense of shame. They would emerge from their respective tunnels in very different places, but they would share many of the same wounds upon their flesh for the journey. They would be marked, each of them, with black spots for what they'd done... but they would march on, despite the smudge of Cain.

Stopping at the cashier on his way out, Jake made a humanitarian and symbolic deposit. Walking away from the desk, he held a receipt that showed eighty-five dollars recorded on the books for Charles Edward Murphy's commissary account.

Beyond that, he had nothing.

And nothing was exactly what he wanted with him as he made his next big move.

As he climbed into his Malibu, he felt that mark upon brow and the emptiness of having nothing to his name. In his case, in his situation, the mark upon his brow would bare the thumb print of Tracy Swete Giguére, for she was his debtor. It was her that he had wronged, it was her that he had failed, it was her that he must make whole. That would require effort given the fact that he would return to her, like the prodigal son, with absolutely nothing but himself and his better intentions. Intentions and desires to be more than he had been. Desires and commitments that he would make to her, his juror and confessor.

He drove late into a stormy night, no longer hearing sirens sing upon the shores of overpasses as he sped by in the dark. He crossed state lines by the glow of headlights and cruised back toward Atlas Avenue East, where this crazy adventure had started out -- and where it should most logically end. Eventually, he was there... staring down a familiar colonial ranch that was dark in the wee hours of the night.

A stranger here, now, he knocked on the front door instead of using his key. When the porch light came on and lit him, it was a shamed and penitent man that met the beam. He heard the locks being worked as he stood, alone in the night with rain beating down upon his back. When Tracy opened the door, her face painted with surprise, the sting in Jacob's eyes finally gave way and rusted tears rolled down his cheeks. Tasting the salt and iron of them upon his lips, hearing the angry thunder of the gods rolling for him in the distance, he opened his mouth and spoke to his wife.

"Baby," he said, his voice cracking and shaking like a leaf caught up in the torrent, "do you think we could talk?"

