Chapter 27

1

She’d found some plastic kicking around in the garage from the move and had attempted to cut a square bigger than the shattered driver side window, duct taping it around the door’s frame. She’d already swept up the glass and taken a few photos for insurance purposes, trying her damndest to heave that branch off the Jeep’s hood but only succeeding in watching it tumble with a swift crack on the driveway where it would lodge against the tire.

            “Shit,” she muttered. The wind was already flapping the seal and flicking the plastic in and out until the sound of its clap reverberated inside the car; she wasn’t sure for how long she could put up with this. The broker on the phone was terse. “Ma’am, there was a lot of damage last night, and right now we’re determining which policies and reports to investigate based on their severity. And right now, a broken car window doesn’t quite register. A few trees were blown over into houses. And lightning struck a few others.”

            She’d hung up and stared at the phone as Cory called out bye after grabbing his bag. She didn’t want him to see her like this.

            Just ahead, off Havenmount Court which rested like a crescent in the greater Deermont arc, she saw flashing lights as cruisers had pulled up on the curb next to the asphalt path that led into the greenbelt. What now?

            People had already started coming out of their houses to have a look. It was the same wherever you went. She wasn’t sure why the police were so insistent on calling the rubberneckers toward them with their sirens and lights. It was as if they fancied the attention. There were police already trudging around with the yellow tape, the same stuff she saw cordoned off around the General where the pharmacist was offed.

            And she saw Angela Nelson walking down the path, her backpack slung over her shoulder, going in to have a look with the others who hadn’t been batted away by the cops.

            Avery pulled over; her tires squealed and a cop, she thought his name might have been Stuart, casually glanced up at her indifferently, his face stark white. She went out with him, didn’t she? You did. He brought shitty flowers. Randy tossed them in the backyard and lit them on fire. Because he hates what you do to yourself. He hates what the Asshole reduced you to. The Human Rolodex. Oh yes, you know what Randy calls you behind your back. You’ve chuckled a few times. But it is rather sad, isn’t it? Don’t you think?

            “I’m trying to settle down. Finally.” She’d tell herself that. She would. But then that would make her no better than the bitch who stole the Asshole from her. Because the man she thought might finally whisk her and her family away was married.

            She locked her Jeep and ran after Angela; she’d been meaning to talk to her again, but thought the approach would have been weird. Plus, guilt usually stayed her. Guilt was always so much stronger. She ran by the man named Stuart, the man who so casually leaned over to kiss her after taking her to the restaurant in the strip mall that overcooked her beef and sold watered down beer, and who mentioned a blow job would give her immunity from traffic violations. She sneered at him then, but now, now he didn’t really even look at her. He’d seen something that took the color right out of his face.

            The path between the houses on Deermont’s wider street, right next to Havenmount Court where a few Tudor and Craftsman estate homes were built on the park, was bordered by a cobblestone retaining wall and hedgerows that had been neatly clipped, but were blown awry this morning after the storm ravaged through like a bowling ball. The chute into the manicured greenbelt was clotted with people, most in clusters talking, others shading their eyes as they looked down the pathway toward the long copse of trees where she figured Cory and his friends played all summer. Some of the wet grass had been chewed up by tires; a few cruisers had driven down the alley and into the clearing where overgrowth swayed in the morning breeze. They were parked now, on the path, but near enough to the treeline she thought the forest might swallow them. The lights were flashing, and officers were gathered near the wild brush; she saw Sheriff Andy, standing with his arms folded. The guy was what Randy would call a pipsqueak, and even now, as she tried to see over the throng of people drawn to the lights like social moths, he looked as useless as she figured he was as a symbol of authority. She’d heard murmurs through the grapevine that the guy was hired by the feds as a cross experimentation between civic efforts and sociological study to the benefit of long-term cooperation between academia and the law. She thought the idea sounded long-winded and ridiculous, but if it was government mandated than the two complaints worked perfectly together.

            “Someone else was killed.”

            Avery turned. Angela was standing next to her, breathing into her hands to warm them. It was a chilly morning. Autumn was coming.

            “Jesus,” Avery whispered. She wanted to apologize, because she knew Angela was Mormon, that she might not appreciate her taking the Lord’s name in vain, but she figured the apology might be telling. “And so soon after the news at the General. How do you know?”

            “People haven’t stopped talking about it. A few said they heard a woman screaming. Saw her out their windows standing by the trees. Said it’s a body of a guy down there. Maybe died during the storm. But all of this…detailed attention, I bet it’s criminal.”

            Avery thought she saw her. Standing to the side, a blanket around her shoulders, speaking to an officer and paramedic. She looked like she might have been running around the greenbelt.

            “Somebody heard her and called the cops. This place is going to the dogs, Ms Hopson.”

            “Avery.”

            “The stuff that went down at the General. I read about it in the Post. Even the reporter didn’t want to spell it out. I think that’s him. Cole Moore. Big city writer trying his hand at small town press. Looks like he brought the crime here with him.” Angela smiled. Avery thought she was very pretty. She thought Ange and Randy were perfect for each other. That their brief time together was important for her own sanity, because moving here wasn’t just about the work. It never was. It was about the escape. But sometimes even removing one from history didn’t erase its results. And she was stupid to believe it would. She saw whom Angela was gesturing to, the reporter, wearing glasses and speaking to an officer who didn’t quite like what he was hearing. The cop grabbed who she thought must have been Cole by the wrist, wrenching it behind his back and leading him to the cruiser parked farthest away. She watched as the cop opened the back door and pushed the reporter inside, speaking over the cruiser at the inept sheriff, who only looked up and nodded, said a few words. Whatever.

            “Tensions are high down there.”

            “These are cops who’ve only ever dealt with drunkards. And now, what, two homicides yesterday and a third today. Maybe. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Reedy Creek was hell.” Angela brushed her hair out of her eyes and stuck her hands in her pockets. “I don’t like what this place is doing to Randy, Ms Hopson. Avery.”

            Avery stood watching for a moment, hoping to God everything was okay with her son. The cop was sitting in the front seat now, speaking to the reporter, turned around like a corkscrew, his hand draped across the passenger headrest. “What do you mean?”

            “People here are assholes. I’m sorry about my…my language, but it’s true. I’m sure you see it. People are jealous. Vindictive. If you’re different than them, they lash out. Look at what this place did to Randy already.”

            “Who did it, Angela?”

            Ange only closed her eyes. “Doesn’t matter who, Avery, the ball’s already rolling. Guys are stupid. Guys are, well, they’re insecure. Territorial.”

            Was Ange’s ex-boyfriend the piece of shit who did this to Randy? To your son? She thought it was likely true. Because Angela was still protective, even if she didn’t agree with it. And this all happened after the date. After Randy cut his hair, made an attempt to fit in.

            “But…Randy’s reacted in his own way.”

            “I’ve noticed.”

            “For the worse, Avery. I like your son. Really like him. Because he is different. I’m used to those uptight jocks who make me sit down and watch the games with them, who…who always bring around the guys and require some sort of assurances about their own masculinity at every turn.”

            “Idiots. You’re used to idiots,” Avery said. “I married one, once upon a time.”

            “Well, Randy was never like them. He is funny. And shy. And complimentary. And cheesy. Some of the stuff he said when we first, well, that first night. It was like out of a bad movie. But…I loved it.”

            It warmed her heart to hear these things, even despite what was going on down there by the trees, where there might have been another dead body if the rumors were correct. They had been yesterday about the double homicide; even though the news was grim, it still spread around the plant with the sort of vivid curiosity and excitement of those who delighted in subduing the boredom.

            “I’m worried about him because of who he’s turned to.”

            “Turned to?”

            “Lazarus. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

            Avery had. She’d never called him. She’d never been big into drugs. But she knew a few people at the plant who had the guy on retainer. She wasn’t sure where he came from, or why he chose Reedy Creek to service; she only knew about his face. About the scars. The people at work, they called him Lazarus and Scarface, the kind of epithets juveniles would come up with, or sometimes just Ugly, or Drugly if they were especially witty that day.

            “I followed Randy. After he wouldn’t talk to me. Because I’m worried about him. Sometimes self-pity, it can be punishing. He’s convinced he’s not good enough. For me maybe. I don’t even know.” She wiped her eye. Avery noticed the girl had begun crying. “He meets with Lazarus. The two are…so natural together. Lazarus can be good with people, but his intentions, they’re false. I should know. I’ve met him a few times.” Her cheeks flushed. She just admitted to purchasing contraband to an adult. To her one-time boyfriend’s mother at that. “But the two of them, Avery, they’re friends. I can tell.”

            Avery didn’t know what to say. She knew Ange expected her to say something. She only exhaled. Just as the cruiser holding the reporter in the back slowly drove past them, its lights flashing. She looked into the window and saw the cop, a man whose face was stern and afraid, who watched the crowd separate with a sort of apathetic numbness, the journalist in the back only looking out at the curious faces with the same sort of questions. But more answers. Yes. Avery thought she saw answers in his eyes.

            “He needs somebody to tell him to stop. Somebody other than me. He won’t listen to me. He doesn’t trust me. And a part of me…a part doesn’t blame him. I don’t know what he’s on, don’t really care. If he finds peace through what Lazarus is selling, we won’t ever get him back. Ever. Lazarus is trouble. He scares me. Scares me more than what the…the idiots at school might do to Randy for being a little bit different. I’m going to talk to the principal today, if that’s okay with you. About setting up some sort of, I don’t know, intervention on his behalf. Get people involved who aren’t so directly involved, because it’s those people I fear he won’t listen to. Do you agree?” Ange looked up at Avery. She never expected this. Not when she pulled over her car to follow the girl into this mess.

            The worst part: she didn’t know. That was it. Avery was so goddamn busy with her own life, with her own challenges, she never once thought to consider her son might find succor elsewhere. Being a single mother was difficult but it couldn’t exist as an excuse. Are you really trying to find your boys a new father? Is that what this is all about? Or are you replacing the Asshole for you? Because you’ve felt incomplete when you learned you weren’t enough anymore?

            “You’re a good friend, Angela. To Randy. And I’d like to say to me as well. Thank you for looking out for my boy.”

            Ange only smiled, digging her toes into the grass. “I only want to make the best of this place.” She nodded toward the crime scene. “Before it drags us all into the darkness.”

2

He understood it wouldn’t stop. And he felt like it was his fault. Because he sent Ned on Norris’s trail believing they’d one-upped the council.

            Cole stood with his Nikon in what the locals had started calling the greenbelt, where he himself often went for walks when the Saudi was being pushed around in his wheelchair, his headphones covering his ears as he listened to whatever music it was the man desired when he was taking in a nature that wasn’t endless deserts and oil pumps.

            The killer had a signature now. It wasn’t something he would actually report in the Post, because for most, these were Creekers, these were familiars, and beyond the rumors that circulated with flash speed, the paper here was the de facto obituary and memorial for those lives lost. It wasn’t just a passive voice debilitating on the affairs of the world, but a mirror for the community. There was a body beyond in the overgrowth. A man. His legs distended beyond the wet grass, his scuffed sneakers both pointing toward the clear sky, mostly out of the shade of the trees in the grove, where Cole knew there were ponds and a river weaving among the reeds; had the killer intended to hide the body, he or she could have simply dragged it further into the moss where the marsh would have taken care of the disposal with ease. But somebody wanted this body found. It was simply a calling card.

            RAPIST.

            The word was written on the man’s forehead in blood. Cole saw it before the cops could prepare a shroud to cover the scene, or to busy themselves before the State Troopers showed up and took over from the yokels, who were all rather pallid, a few having dry heaved already when they saw the color of the corpse’s face, the bulge around his mouth, the swelling around his throat where his trachea likely snapped. Cole didn’t know if this man was a rapist; it was a damning accusation, but he supposed the word itself carried very little meaning beyond re-naming the victim, of appropriating some just cause for his fate. The act of a Moral Compass serial killer. And maybe that was the modus operandi here. He snapped a couple of photos of the grove, of the path, even one candid shot of the poor woman who’d come across the body during her run; she was bent over, having cried her tears. A deputy was rubbing her back now. She was draped with a warming blanket. He wouldn’t bother her. Most journos would have rushed over to her for an expressed recount of what happened before and when she found the body. He didn’t quite care. He saw a few cameras mounted around here. He wasn’t sure if any of them had a great vantage point of this spot, and figured it didn’t matter. Because the people who controlled them, who controlled the feeds, were the ones in charge of what was happening. He watched Sheriff Andy pace, talking to Neidermayer momentarily, and then rubbing his chin as he looked into the grove, likely ignoring the body.

            “What do you expect to write about this?”

            It was Allen Webster. He’d been canvassing some of the neighbors whose backyards faced the belt. To look for any witness testimonies beyond the woman who’d discovered the body. But the storm was long and persistent last night. And when the power did go out, between the lightning flashes not much could be seen in the clearing toward the trees.

            “Adulterer. Whore. Now Rapist,” Cole said. “It’s a theme.”

            “You think?” The sarcasm in his tone was thick.

            “Do you know him?”

            “Knew him. Of him. He was a Creeker. Heading off to university, last I heard. Seemed like a good kid.”

            “A rapist?”

            “Fucked if I know, Moore. Seems like a scandalous accusation. Like at the General. Halliburton didn’t come across as the philanderer.”

            “But somebody thought so.”

            “Yeah, Ned Stevenson.” Allen wiped his nose.

            “Do you really believe that?”

            The officer was silent for a moment. “Two bullets. Leaves his gun on the scene. Could have easily discarded of it. Anywhere. In a thresher at a farm. And now he leaves a body just off the path, where anybody could stumble across it. And there’s a goddamn swamp in there. Could’ve weighed him down with some rocks and left him in the creek. But he wants us to find the bodies. Marks ‘em all with their alleged sins.”

            “Is this you talking, or Andy?”

            “Fuck you, Moore.” Allen turned toward him. His face was white too. Webster was a Creeker. Cole understood that. And so he wasn’t used to this sort of work. Not used to seeing this sort of stuff.

            “Come on, Allen. You knew Ned. Do you really think he’s capable of this?”

            “I didn’t know shit. I knew a guy in uniform who was pretty quiet. Laughed at the right jokes. But he didn’t come out much. He’s been here just a few years. But that’s long enough to fit in. Isn’t it?”

            “I was wrong about Halliburton’s wife. Sending out a hit on her husband because of Sarah. And I knew it the moment I said it. You’re a Creeker, aren’t you?”

            Allen only nodded.

            “Then you know there’s something wrong with this town. Don’t you? And it’s new. Trouble came in with the subsidies. And I don’t think you believe Ned Stevenson did any of this. Not at the General, and not here. But I suspect it doesn’t matter what you think, because you’re getting top down orders from brass and the council here to recite their narrative.” Cole only gestured toward Andy, who was talking to a cop and gesticulating his arms. His body language wasn’t one of a sheriff, but a professor. Somebody standing in front of a class and motioning toward points on the chalkboard.

            “Shut up, Moore.” Allen shoved Cole backwards. He stumbled over his feet. Surprised. But he saw something in Allen’s eyes. Didn’t he? Something like playfulness. Just go with it. “You’re always stirring the fucking pot looking for a story. This is Reedy Creek. This isn’t Detroit or LA or whatever cesspool you come from. Around here we respect each other and if the shit hits the fan we wait for all of the facts.” He grabbed Cole’s wrist, digging his thumb into the bone, and pulled it around to his back. There was a sharp pain and Cole could only wince. Whatever was happening felt real. Felt authentic.

            “I have a right to be here.”

            “You have the right to remain silent.” Allen led him toward the cruiser parked just off the asphalt path, its lights flashing and cascading reds and blues into the forested grove like strobes. He wasn’t cuffed. Allen only opened the back door and escorted him into the rear seat, shoving him in. Allen slammed the door and walked around to the driver side. Cole watched the lights reflect off his uniform, lighting the badge on his chest as he stood outside the car, his fingers tapping the roof.

            “Sheriff,” Allen called out. Cole could hear his voice clearly. “I’m hauling off this piece of shit before he can misinform the Creek with his big city puff trash.”

            Andy looked over, his eyes grim, his mustache twitching above his lip. He looked at Cole in the backseat and a slight smile perched his lips. His hand gestured to the butt of his pistol as he flexed his fingers. “Make sure the drive is rather uncomfortable for him.”

Allen got inside the cruiser and shut his door. He sat this way for a moment, staring out the windshield at the growing looky-loos who would no doubt be late for school and work. But oh the stories they’d have to share.

            “I have to placate Napolitano and his loyalists or some crony might have his fucking way with me in a dark alley.”

            “This is illegal.”

            “These fucking Corners, Moore. I don’t want to stack you in with the likes of ‘em, but you see conspiracies around every bend. To be honest, the shit is just beginning to hit the fan here. Used to be quiet, ya know. Just a bunch of farmers and the local businesses meant to keep them happy long enough to pass on the trade. Then Uncle Sam pokes his nose in. Just to combat Arab interests, as if most of those bureaucrats don’t have ties to the desert. But wherever the government sticks his sweaty mitt, shit tends to follow. Ya dig? I mean, who gives a shit about corn anyway? There’s electricity in the air here. Tension. Something building up, like a pressure cooker. Tell me you feel it too.”

            “You haven’t arrested me. And you don’t have just cause to hold me.”

            “Shut up, Moore.” Allen swivelled around in his seat and looked at him. “I saved your ass. Want to know the truth. Somebody’s always watching in this town. Always. Whatever you do. And they’re keeping tabs. If you step out of line, if you so much as break a rule, they’re there to let you know. And they use the unlikeliest fucking messengers.”

            Cole hadn’t a clue what Webster was talking about. Nor did he see the box with the brown paper on the passenger seat next to him, the scotch tape slit and the flaps open.

3

They were pedalling up Main to get to school. Pug felt the box hitting his back as he powered his BMX, shifting his straps. He clamped the brakes on his handlebar and heard his wheels squeal on the pavement. Croak and Danny turned around, pivoting in a wide arc to come back around where Pug stalled up by the Pizza Parlor, the place quiet this early in the morning, its front windows black and non-descript.

            “You cool?” Croak asked.

            Pug was. In spite of everything, of hearing about grampa, of understanding he would never see the old guy again, the old guy who was one of them and proved you didn’t have to be boring when you were an adult, he was excited to fulfill his role. He sat on his bike seat, one leg propped to the side to balance, his chest heaving as he panted. Unaware a woman was jogging at the moment, trying to find her tempo, one she would not discover before stumbling upon the Creek’s newest body. “Yeah…I just, I’ll catch up with you guys. Cover me if I’m late for homeroom again.”

            “You sure?”

            “Just, all of this. Everything. Chels. Adam. Grampa. It’s weighing on me. Dumb as it sounds. I feel like I have to check on Chels. For the…for the bugs…”

            “You want us to come?” Croak was genuinely concerned. Danny kept riding circles in the parking lot, watching them.

            “Nah, I think I need to be alone.” And that was mostly true. Because he was on a secret mission. And he’d never escape the burden of holding onto that secret if he held onto the box in his bag. He thought about that Edgar Allan Poe story, The Telltale Heart.

            Pug rode his bike up Main. Past BB’s and the Hobby Shop. Past Mr Sub. Past the General and its police tape. Those places that represented an older, different version of Reedy Creek. The surface. Beneath he knew there were cracks. That everything was broken.

            You shouldn’t feel bad about what you’re doing. Not when Adam just confessed that he’s going to see Grimwood. How is it right for him, and not for you? He supposed he was looking at the dilemma through the lens of maturity. And that scared him. Because those sort of rationalizations, that sort of cognitive dissonance, was indicative that practicality sometimes overpowered magic. He rode up to the police station. The lot was full of cruisers. For now.

            Pug parked his bike by the front steps and walked into the station. He’d convinced himself that if he appeared confident, then whomever he spoke to had to at least take him seriously. But he wasn’t sure that was how it worked. He could hear his heart racing and thought he might have been sweating. The front of the place was like a waiting room. Pug had never been inside here, and vowed he’d never return. He hated these stations the way some people hated hospitals. Here the conduct displayed was meant to combat a different kind of sickness, but a sickness all the same. And he figured the illness within these walls was far more detrimental to the health of Reedy Creek. If its seams were coming loose, which he did believe rather adamantly, it was behavioral. There was nobody inside the front room, and for that he was thankful.

            “Hey hun, can I give you a hand with something?”

            The lady sitting at the front desk was chewing gum and it snapped in her mouth as she spoke. But she was pleasant looking. Even this early in the morning; her eye shadow looked fresh and her lips were plump with cherry lipstick. Something his sisters might wear.

            Pug took off his backpack and walked toward the front reception. He noticed the girl’s feet were hoisted on the table. She’d been sitting back in her chair reading a trashy novel. Something his mom often scoffed at when they were at the grocery store and they came across the magazine aisle; there were always those pulp novels with shirtless men on the covers. Pug always wondered who bought and read those books. Now he knew.

            “Hi ma’am…”

            “I ain’t no ma’am,” she smiled. “Call me Becky or babe, but not ma’am. I don’t think I’m fat enough for that.” She casually laughed. It sounded flirtatious. Pug only stared up at her, and she down, her red lips pronounced and glistening. She’d set down the novel.

            “Sorry…Becky…”

            “What can I do for you? You got something to report?”

            He wondered if she thought he was coming in about a bully. He saw the way she was looking at him. The way she said she wasn’t fat, as if implying he was. She’s just being nice. Probably bored. “Is Allen Webster in? Deputy Webster, I guess?”

            She cocked her eye. He was taking a stab at it. He wasn’t sure if the guy would even be on shift; there was the slightest possibility he’d have to hold onto the box a little longer. The burden. “You know Allen?”

            “I…I have something for him.” He wouldn’t say more. He thought of patting his backpack but didn’t think it wise.

            She looked at him for another moment, snapped her gum, then stood and walked over to the back area, what Pug had heard was called the bullpen. As if cops wanted to relegate their unsightly working conditions to something far more fashionable, like a ball park. He didn’t think it worked. He watched the girl named Becky, wearing uncomfortably tight jeans and cowboy boots, stop at a desk in front of a guy with mussed hair. He ran his hand through it when she spoke, and he glanced over at Pug. The guy shrugged but stood regardless, adjusting his pants. His shirt wasn’t tucked in the back and hung out like tattered linens; he seemed rather unkempt. Pug assumed that had to do with the hours logged following the double homicide he’d seen in the Post. Most of the guys inside looked worn. The guy who was Allen carried a cup of coffee and accompanied Becky to the front, looking down at Pug uncertainly.

            “You wanted to see me?”

            “Hello…sir,” Pug stammered and stopped to control himself. He slowly unzipped his backpack and looked down at the box. You’re a spy. He exhaled. “Some guy asked me to give this to you. Not sure what it is. Isn’t heavy or anything. But he gave me five bucks.” He pulled out the box.

            “It ain’t my birthday, kid.”

            Becky watched from the front desk with curiosity.

            “Not mine either, but five bucks is five bucks.” Pug smiled. He thought he was doing a fine job.

            Allen took the box. There was nothing written on it. Pug had inspected it enough to know that. He wanted more than anything now to know what was inside. To know what Grimwood had given him. “Who gave it to you?”

            “I don’t know names, sir.”

            “I’m not expecting anything.”

            “Well, my mom always says if you get anything from a stranger to make sure an adult opens it. Not really relevant here, I guess.” He flashed his smile again. It was uneasy but oddly authentic.

            Allen Webster only returned the favor. “Well, thanks kid.” He patted the underside of the box with his fist. The sound was hollow. “Spend that five bucks wisely.”

            Are you going to open it? Please open it. I want to see!

            Allen pried open the top flap, tearing the papering and breaking the tape; it folded away and he peered inside. His face blanched. His smile turned into a distorted, puckered line. So tight Pug thought he could almost see the striations of the guy’s teeth.

            “Who gave this to you?”

            Gave what to me? Show me. Please. Show me!

            That was when the call came to dispatch. Pug only watched the color fade from Becky’s face just as it had from Allen’s. “Sir, okay sir. Is she still on the scene?” The girl had gone from gum-snapping indifference to appear quasi-professional, both cowboy boots planted on the floor. The look in her eyes had gone from playful insouciance to what Pug thought could only be called dread; she looked at Allen, who stared at her and back into the box. Back and forth. “We’re sending responders right away, sir.” She hung up the phone. “Jesus. This place.”

            “What is it?” He still looked into the box. His mouth sounded parched.

            Pug watched these two adults. They’d forgotten about him. He didn’t exist to them anymore. Not now that the adult world had come back to the forefront.

            “Possible one eighty-seven.” He heard her say this just as he left. Neither of them even noticed the door opening.

            He didn’t like what he saw inside. Not at all. He seemed almost…scared. That much was true, Pug thought, as he rode his bike to school. The rush was still there, and that counted most. The rush of lying to that cop. He wanted to feel that rush again. Had to.

4

“They like to hold shit over your head. That’s what I think.” Allen had already pulled the cruiser out of the greenbelt. The rubberneckers gawked at him, at Moore in the back, as if it was some sort of lead or person of interest he was hauling away. Right now he didn’t give a shit if they walked away with their assumptions. He only thought about the box sitting beside him.

            “What happened, Allen?” Cole asked. He seemed intrigued now. Because he knew things were fucked up too. Or Allen wouldn’t have escorted him away. He needed to talk.

            “You ever notice the cameras, Moore?”

            Moore was silent in the backseat, only staring at the rear-view mirror.

            “Shit, I know you have. And for a long time, well, I didn’t. Not until it mattered. Because you just go on with your day. Small towns are about routine and habit. That’s why I think it worked. Because once the Corners came, once they put up that plant and the fucking city folk moved in with their big city values, those cameras popped up like weeds. And I did see them. Had to. Because how do you miss them, right? Right? I didn’t. But I did at the same time. I just thought they were a part of the system and let them be. And once you take for granted something you see, something you automatically make official, then you can go on living as if you’d never seen them. And that’s easier than making a stink about privacy. About whatever shit you hear those blowhards on TV screaming about. About the Commies.” He’d pulled out of Deermont and was heading toward Main. Traffic had already started coming toward the crime scene. Once word spread, the looky-loos turned into bloodhounds.

            “It’s not normal, is it?”

            “No, it’s not,” Cole said. “What happened, Allen? We can both agree you weren’t this chivalrous yesterday when I poked my nose in at the General.”

            Allen smiled. “This isn’t some common courtesy on my part, Moore. I still think you’re a piece of shit. If you’re not dragging good people through the mud, you’re not living.”

            “You’re making mighty assumptions about me.”

            “I’m telling it like I see it. I don’t agree much with what Napolitano’s on about here, but on that we’re aces.”

            “So where are you taking me?”

            He wasn’t sure. At first. But then he realized a drive would be a good thing. To clear his head and to clear the air. After thinking things through, he figured he might even make a quick stop off. He’d already checked the records for the address, so he knew where he was going. Right now he was taking a sort of informative detour and considered a drive around the Creek would open up avenues of discussion.

            “I’m not under arrest.”

            “No. I need your help. Figures how low I’ve fallen to come crawling to you, right?” He only glanced up at the reporter, his camera dangling from his neck like some rich tourist and his glasses sort of askew on his nose.

            “My help?”

            “I don’t trust you, Moore, but I trust this might be right up your alley. You’re always looking for a story.” He patted the box.

            “What?”

            Allen watched Main blossom before him; the General was up ahead, and beyond that the strip mall, the gas stations, the restaurants and Liquor Depot, the grand fucking proliferation of 80s consumer culture that was turning this generation into cattle at the trough. “This morning, before the call came into dispatch about the body. I was gathering my bearings from yesterday. We were all checking out your story. I was surprised you’d found some element of kindness to restrain yourself. I figured Halliburton’s widow would be waking up to find out her dead hubbie was a cheat. You spared her that. For now. The gossip mill will take care of the truth. But a kid stopped by. Little fat shit. He asked for me by name. Had a box for me.”

            “So?”

            “So,” Allen said, snidely, “this package was taped shut and it wasn’t labelled. Somebody used the kid as a messenger for five bucks. When I opened it I…” He closed his eyes. He remembered what he saw. It was a picture. A frozen frame from one of the surveillance cameras. One he never knew existed. Until he saw it in lock up. Until he went to specifically find it before the station emptied to check out the crime scene. “Look, I’m heading to a friend’s place right now. For a word. Because it’s all connected. But what I found inside, Moore, was an image of me taking a gun from the lockers. Evidence lock-up. When the county clerk was on lunch. Thing didn’t have a permit and I was using it as a lender. For my friend. Who the fuck would have access to that camera feed if it wasn’t another cop, or somebody working for the mayor, somebody on the town council. I don’t know. Somebody is blackmailing me.”

            “Blackmailing you? It was just a picture. Maybe it’s a prank. I mean, a kid, Allen? A kid?”

            Allen thought about the picture he’d seen when he first opened the box; his ugly profile as he reached into the seizure locker. The pistol was in his hand. But stored beneath the photo there was something else. And the coincidence was like a punch to the fucking gut. “There was a typed letter addressed to me. With orders. It wasn’t signed. It said there were more pics like the one in the box. Plenty more. That if I looked around, I’d notice there was every opportunity to snap one of me with my finger in my nose or my hand around my cock.” He cleared his throat. He’d driven nearly as far north as Main went before the Creek was bookended by the new plant and its ever-chugging smokestacks. “It said I had to take a drive up to Davenport. To bring my badge and gun should shit get sticky.”

            “Davenport?”

            “And this is where it gets weird.” He pulled a wide U and followed Main south again, toward the suburbs and past the retail district, which he figured would take over soon what with the big city tastes of those constantly moving in, driving up real estate and proving he’d never own one of those houses he’d always wanted built on the belt with a great view of the stretching forest. “My only task is to head to the clinic there. Even gives me the address. A radiology place. I’m supposed to pick up the medical records for Barbara Kramer. Said if I can illegally seize evidence, I shouldn’t have a problem abstaining with a few pieces of paper.” Allen smiled, remembering how innocent it had been when he’d taken that gun. Never once considering this could happen. Never once assuming somebody was pulling the puppet strings in his own miserable life.

            “Barbara Kramer. Trevor Kramer’s wife? Guy on the council, the writer?”

            “That’s the fucking weirdest part of all, Moore.” He approached the turn-off toward the Deermont arc, where roads webbed this way and that in an interlocked circuit that was continuing to expand northwestward where new unpaved roads careened off the main avenue and truckers sometimes sat idling where new construction was keeping the blue collars busy during the day, and Up the Creek busy at night. He looked at Cole in the rear-view, understanding the world worked in the same sort of web as these suburban roads: things connected, like tissue. And tissue could scar. “Turns out I took that fucking gun for Barbara Kramer’s father.”

            He pulled up in front of a house with a red roof and brick climbing its elevation on either side of the garage. Allen exhaled and killed the engine. “I think I need to clear up a few things before I make the long drive to Davenport.”

5

Ange was just happy she got to clear her head. Because she did feel guilty. And she knew Avery Hopson understood a part of her was being protective of the guys who hurt Randy, because her past was ineluctably intertwined with them, and boys could leave a mark. That’s the way women sometimes behaved, and according to Randy, his mom was one who’d been deeply damaged by a relationship, and she’d only protected the guy by uprooting the family to come to Reedy Creek. Memories had thorns, and if she was taking her sons out of the house the guy abandoned, she was only defending his memory in the long-term, hoping her boys might just forget about what he’d done. Ange didn’t think Randy would ever forget. When they spoke, there was an element of candor the more comfortable he felt looking into her eyes and answering questions about his life. He hated his father for what the man had done to his mom by leaving. He’d made her a floozy. Those were his words, but she’d heard the rumors. Reedy Creek was small enough to make one’s business everybody’s business if the news was especially boring. That may not have been true anymore, what with the double homicide at the General and now the potential murder in the park, where she figured she saw a body down in the overgrowth.

            She thought she’d finally cleared the air with Avery. Yes, Avery. The woman did tell her she could use her first name, and something about that informality made her feel more adult.

            “Why is this so important to you?” Wendy asked as they walked down the hall. Kids were just getting ready to jet for the day, and the usual bustle had them ducking around aloof freshman who were still getting a hold of the new school.

            “Because we connected.”

            “It was one date.”

            “It doesn’t matter. What happened to him, that was because of me.”

            “So you’re guilting yourself into this?”

            “That’s not what I meant.” Ange was heading toward the admin pool in the school’s lobby. The talk around her was about the new body found in the belt. She didn’t let anyone know she’d stopped by when she noticed the flashing lights and the cops canvassing the block. Because she didn’t want to be inundated by countless questions by those who had a grim compulsion for the grotesque details.

            “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. He’s not as cute anymore. I saw him at lunch. He was sitting alone on the steps. He’s messed up his hair. Like he’s not trying anymore.”

            “The guys beat the shit out of him, Wendy. Those assholes you had lunch with.”

            “Calm down, Ange. Geez. What the hell happened? One day you’re getting high with them, the next they might as well be poison.”

            “Seriously. Get it through your skull. Brad and his lemmings are…they’re fucking sociopaths.”

            “But they’re popular here, Ange. And you said so yourself. When we moved, we’d have to be popular if we were gonna shuck corn.” She smiled but noticed Angela wasn’t in the mood. Her cheeks only flushed and she looked down at the binder she was holding pressed against her chest.

            “You do what you want.”

            “Chill.”

            “Wendy. We’re frigid. Guys say it all the time. That’s the word around here at least. Cause we’re Mormon. If you chill with Brad and Oliver and Dave and…and Mason…and that whole lot of shits who think because they can throw a football they’ve somehow earned your…your chastity, just think what might happen if you say no to them. Think about that. It won’t be a simple conversation with them. No, assholes like that will force themselves on you and then lie about it later.”

            “Jesus, Ange. I’ll see you at home. Maybe you’ll have calmed down by then.”

            Angela watched Wendy take off, looking back only once with a certain concern and contempt. Yes, she noticed that. Ange only stood in the lobby for a moment to collect herself; the secretary pool was busy with their chatter. She suspected they were talking about the greenbelt murder now. It was a veritable henhouse in there, and she wasn’t in the mood to cluck. She casually opened the door and walked toward the front desk. There was only one guy sitting on the chairs against the plate glass. A sophomore, from the looks of it, wearing a black T with The Clash on it; his hair was long and he wore tinted glasses, sitting with his legs splayed out and his arms folded. Like Randy before his transformation. She gave him a brief glance. The lady at the front, Mrs Lemkin, pushed her own reading glasses up the bridge of her nose and swivelled around to meet her, leaving the rest of the ladies in the lurch as they continued their palaver in a hushed tone.

            “Hi ma’am. Just curious if I could chat with Mr Perez briefly?”

            “You have a scheduled appointment?”

            “No ma’am. Just a walk-in.”

            Lemkin exhaled and pushed up her glasses again; the frames kept slipping down her rather petite nose like a skier who’d found a patch of ice. “It’s the first week of the year, darling. Mr Perez only takes appointments.”

            Ange leaned forward so that she was nearly hunkered on the top of the counter. “Look, ma’am, I understand the news going around Reedy Creek today. I do. But I’d like to file a formal complaint with the principal about drug use at the school. One student in particular.”

            “Drug use?”

            “Yes ma’am.” She noticed the guy in The Clash shirt was listening intently. She figured he looked like he might have had Scarface’s pager number in his pocket as well. She wondered if the guy might spread the word to the school that she was some kind of NARC. At the moment she didn’t care.

            “Look—”

            “Angela. Angela Hopson.”

            “Look, Angela, Mr Perez isn’t in right now. With word of what’s been happening in Reedy Creek, he’s been forced to participate in council activities for the time being. Nipping these issues in the bud, you understand. I can pencil you in here,” she pointed to a large bulletin, “and you can file your complaint, but with cases of drug use and abuse, we usually have the students speak to the police. We can have a deputy here within the hour. It might take longer considering the circumstances.” A curiosity flashed in the woman’s eyes.

            “No, ma’am. That’s fine. Thanks. Yes. Please schedule me in.” She smiled, nodded, and turned to leave. The guy in The Clash shirt watched her open the door to leave. And he mouthed something: Be careful.

            She only arched her brow. The door clasped shut.

            “Hey girl.”

            It was Brad. He took her hand and led her away from the windows into the pool and toward the entrance next to the corn planter.

            “Didn’t see you all day. Hate not seeing you.”

            “Let go.”

            Brad only smiled and gestured back toward the admin office. “You in trouble?”

            “None of your business.”

            “You didn’t murder anybody, did ya? You hear about the body they found?” He licked his lips. “I heard there was something written on the dude, his head, with red lipstick. And shit, Ange, you wear red lipstick. Never did get a red belt on my dick, but ya know, there’s still time.”

            She hated his shit-eating grin. She hated his confidence. She hated how this smug prick had the girls so convinced he was some sort of Casanova; and she hated most of all that she’d fallen for it. “You’re disgusting.”

            “You used to laugh.”

            “You used to be funny. Now you’re just an asshole.”

            “Not nice, Ange. Not nice.” He brushed some hair out of her eyes with the back of his hand. She only shrugged him away, hating his touch. Hating even more the memory that his tongue had been inside her mouth, and that that same hand at reached for her, down there, and when she slapped him away, he’d only pushed her harder into the couch and clasped his fingers around her throat, staring down at her intently. She could see the madness in him then. Could see of what he was capable. But you wanted popularity. For you and Wendy. “I was wondering if you wanted to take a walk with me down to the greenbelt. Check and see if the retards wearing badges in this town left any evidence on the scene. Find a keepsake. Something to tell the kids about.”

            “I have to go home.”

            “Shit, Ange, you went to the apartment slums to check out that OD case with Randy. What gives? You still into Quasimodo? Even after his facial re-construction?” She watched him casually clench his fist, understanding it was an unconscious tic on his part, just to prove that facial re-construction was his doing.

            “Shut up, Brad. I need to go home.”

            “You need to quit this shit. We were good. Are good.”

            “You were a prick. Are a prick.” It sounded good coming out of her mouth. It sounded resolute and strong. And catchy.

            “You fucking bitch.” He took her wrist. She could feel how strong his hands were. Could feel his fingers digging into her bones. She thought she might bruise. “We were so damn good together. You frigid little cunt.”

            “You…you scare me,” she whispered.

            “I’ll scare your sister. Maybe she’ll let me fuck her. Maybe she won’t scream and scratch me like an animal. My arms are still scarred, Ange. Would you like to see? Would you like to see what your little claws did to me?”

            She could feel her heart tattooing a worried beat against her ribcage; she could feel his fingers like pincers, closing deeper and deeper into the channels between those fine bones of the wrist, making her fingers spasm. She remembered him as he lay on top of her. Could feel his pecker as it pressed into her through his jeans. Could feel his hands pulling at the hem of her shirt, ripping it at her shoulder. And she remembered her scream then, as they lay on the couch in his basement, the house above quiet, the only sounds coming from the television as Donahue prattled on about some nonsense, and then she reached up for his face and he batted her away, forcing her to grab his forearm, to grab it and pinch and then drag her nails across his flesh until she could feel it chittering against her fingertips.

            “Leave my sister alone.”
            “Did you fuck him? Is that why Randy’s like an orphan dog around you? Cause he’s got your scent?”

            Her vision bleared behind the tears. Guys like this carried the power to form one’s reputation. She always understood that, and for some time allowed the dynamic to persist, to cede that control, because it meant she was cool. She was popular. But Randy was different. He didn’t care about that. He got a haircut cause he thought it was what you wanted. He knew going out with him was some sort of punishment. And he tried to fix it. For you.

            “It’s okay, Ange. I get it. I don’t mind second best. Wendy looks at me like my dick’s got a diamond tip. Maybe I will pierce her tongue with it. Would you like that?”

            “Everything okay?”

            It was the guy with The Clash shirt. He was standing in the lobby and he’d caught Brad wrenching her arm. He saw how forceful the guy was being.

            “Fuck off, faggot.”

            “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble with you, but you’ve gotta know you’re being watched right now. There. And there.” The stranger pointed out the cameras above them. One near the entrance, the other by the admin pool. Watching everything that went on in this place. Cataloguing every indiscretion. Ange had seen them, hadn’t she? She thought so, but she never clued in to what they were. She never once considered they were anything beyond ornamentation.

            “You’re lucky I don’t shove those glasses into your dick hole.”

            Brad let go of Ange’s arm and fixed his shirt; it had ruffled up on him, and if anything, a guy like Brad had to appear presentable.

            “And lose your spot on the football team. Come on, man. I’m helping you out. You take this further with her, and Mr Perez may send the tape to the Sheriff and press formal charges. Save that aggression for the gridiron.” The punk rocker only grinned.

            Brad returned the favor. His smile was worth a million bucks. And maybe one day Ange would find his pretty mug on the cover of Sports Illustrated, and she’d think, wow, maybe I should have looked past what he did to me, because maybe then I’d be on the cover of a magazine too. She wiped her eyes and stepped back, trying to stay as far away from Brad as she could.

            “Okay. Faggot. Whore. It’s been a slice.” He offered a bow. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

            The punk rocker watched Brad take off toward the front doors and disappear in the light on Main Street. “You okay?”

            She looked down at her arm. There were deep red imprints. They would soon swell. “Yes…thuh—thank you.”

            “I saw you in there.” He hitched his thumb back to the office. “Name’s Byron.” He came closer to Angela, looking up at the camera above the entrance doors and turning to the side, as if to mask his profile. “Look, I know you’re not in the mood to talk right now. And I may have been rude to eavesdrop, but there’s not much else I can do when I get sent in there for telling a teach he’s a prick.” He smiled again. “Just a word of caution: they’re all in on it. This place, it’s one big fucking conspiracy. The principal, the cops, they all run the drug game in this town. So if you go complaining to Perez, he’ll only nod but put you on some sort of watch list. That’s when accidents happen. I mean, think about the murders. Two days in a row. I’d keep mum. But that’s just me. I’ve been here for eleven years. I’ve noticed things happening in Reedy Creek. I’m still kicking cause I haven’t spread the word. You learn to speak when spoken to.”

            “I don’t—”

            “It’s okay,” Byron said. “Assholes like that, they do well in this town cause it’s sadists from the top down. You do your thing. I just thought I’d put in my two cents. I’d say, look for cameras. Wherever you go. And count them. All of them. If you still want to meet with Perez, that’s cool. If not, even better. And when you do decide, come and find me. We could always use another.”

            “Another what?” She wasn’t sure what she was hearing. But she felt like this guy, Byron, saved her skin. Her arm was throbbing. She’d have to swallow a fistful of Advil. Maybe even hide a towel of ice under the sleeve of a sweater when she sat to dinner with her family. She didn’t want to arouse any suspicions that something was amiss. Didn’t want the conversation with her father to arise about what had almost happened, because she figured the act itself leading to what Brad could have done was the result of her falling to temptation. And she didn’t need his goddamn lectures. Not tonight.

            “Another Minister.” He offered one last smile and sauntered down the hallway, toward the cafeteria and lockers.

            She wasn’t sure what he was on about. She gave the cameras in the lobby one last look. She would always see them now. They were ingrained. She went to the entrance doors and scoped out Main. Just to make sure Brad hadn’t stuck around. His eyes. Did you see them? They liked seeing your pain. Enjoyed watching you suffer. Though she wouldn’t know to say it, his eyes were not unlike a man named Norris’s, who as part of his own particular cache of evil was holding a poor police officer hostage in his basement.

6

“Good morning, ma’am.”

            The lady who opened the door was pretty. He might have even called her mousey, if that was the right word. She was the type of woman who had so much potential but squandered it to look like, as Allen was wont to believe, your typical housewife. He supposed that was just the American way, and he’d gotten used to it in small town life. Her face was stark white and washed out, like one with a cold who is constantly wiping her nose.

            “Officer. Is there a problem?”

            “I don’t suppose Lew is home?” He smiled. He always hated his smile. Hated it even more considering how false it was. He wasn’t sure if this lady was sick, and wasn’t sure he wanted to pry. What he did know was that her medical records were currently filed at a radiologist’s clinic in Davenport and he’d been given the fun little adventure of trying to retrieve them. Or it might mean his career.

            He did notice the turn in her eyes. Did notice not quite hurt but a somber acceptance.

            “Oh. I’m…I’m so sorry. I’m, well, I’m his daughter. Barb. I just…” She was stammering like one who knew the right words but couldn’t find them for the life of her. He pitied her. “Officer, Lew passed away last night. He…we think it was a massive coronary.” Her eyes were misting and Allen felt the air leave the room. He suddenly felt light.

            “My God,” he whispered, hating that he’d come, not even sure why he decided it was a good idea. That maybe grabbing the gun back and returning it to evidence lock-up would somehow erase his bad behavior. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

            Did he know? Did Lew have an idea?

            “Oh, don’t be. How could you?” Barb smiled. “I’d ask you in for coffee, but I’m honestly…well, I am still processing things right now. Even at this age, when you lose your parents, you…” She wiped her eyes and stood silent for a moment. “You feel like an orphan.”

            Allen wanted to reach up and caress her shoulder but restrained himself. Because you’re outside the bounds of what that letter’s asking you to do. And somebody might even be watching right now, wondering just what in the fuck you’re up to.

            “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. And I truly apologize about my timing.”

            “Did you…did you know him?”

            Allen nodded. “Briefly. Far too briefly, if I’m to be honest. I’d like to think we were friends. He was a cop in the olden days. So we had a lot to talk about.”

            Barb smiled. “That’s nice. So nice. Look, officer—”

            “Allen. Allen Webster.”

            “Well, officer Webster, we’re holding a service for him. Tomorrow. I’d love it if you came. And I know Lew would too. He didn’t have many…friends here.”

            “I’d be honored. Again, ma’am, I truly apologize for your loss.” She gave him the details. Still in the planning stages, of course, so soon to the man’s passing, but at times like this the bereaved had so much to do in addition to grieving. He offered a slight bow and watched her close the door, still with that smile plastered on her face to prove a modicum of strength.

            He walked down the path and back to the cruiser. Cole watched him. He felt hollow. What is happening here, ol’ boy? What in the fuck are you into? He opened the door and sat inside, clutching the steering wheel.

            “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

            Allen briefly looked at himself in the rear-view; his skin was sallow and his eyes distant.

            “Was he home? Did he have the gun?”

            “He died.”

            “What?” Cole leaned forward, his Nikon shifting across his chest. “How?”

            “That was his daughter. Girl from the letter. Barbara. But she introduced herself as Barb. She didn’t look sick.” His heart was hammering his chest; he thought he might get sick, that he might have to swing his legs out of the cruiser to retch into the street. “Cole, I’ve got to head to Davenport. I have to do this. I don’t know if this is my fault…if giving Lew the gun, if that put a mark on him, I…”

            “Calm down, Allen,” Cole said. “We can work through this. Okay?”

            “They’re having a service for him. A funeral. I fucking came here to get back the gun. To…erase what I did. Do you think that would have even worked?” Allen turned to look at Cole. “Shit, Moore, do you think he died because of…because of me?”

            “We can’t know that and you can’t think that. Allen, listen to me: you’re a part of this now. Look at me. We can work through this together, and I have to hear you say it: can I trust you?”

            Allen was breathing deeply, feeling that hollow pit in his gut blossom with all the toxic intentions of a gangrenous wound.

            “Can I?”

            “You’ll have to,” Allen muttered.

            “I’m not a reporter, Allen. I’m not here for the news in Reedy Creek, I’m here to research. To investigate.”

            “Like a detective?”

            Cole smiled. “Yes. Like a detective. There are some bad people in Reedy Creek, Allen. I followed them here. Ned Stevenson worked for me. On the side. I know he felt guilty about that. But he’s not doing what you think he’s doing. He’s not murdering these people.”

            “Then who is?”

            “The same people who are blackmailing you.”

            “Will you help me find them, Moore? Will you?”

            “It seems to me that we need each other, Allen. And the trick to try and stay ahead of these pricks is to play their game. We both require favors.”

            “And yours would be?”

            “You need to help me find Ned. If they’ve turned him into a killer, it means they’re holding him as leverage. Who were you supposed to give Barb’s medical records to?”

            “Dr Norris Serkis,” Allen said. “A transfer from Davenport to Reedy Creek. Doesn’t seem particularly illegal, there are actual channels for—”

            “She is sick,” Cole said to himself, suddenly understanding, suddenly seeing something, perhaps for the first time. “Trevor is protecting his wife from the council.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “Drive me home, Allen. I will tell you everything on the way.

7

Pug was already late for homeroom by the time he got to school. And he was far too excited to head into class. He locked his bike in the rack and headed toward the lobby. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d just done. How he’d lied to that cop. And how much he enjoyed lying to him. How much he enjoyed playing this little game. And a part of him didn’t want it to end. Not at all. A big part of this game was in the inventive story-telling that was so on the spot, so instinctive, it was like sitting down at his desk with a pencil and thesaurus. But real. The characters here were real. Flesh and blood. And that level of control, it was thrilling. More exciting than watching those candid moments on camera with Grimwood, seeing that cute assistant bare her body behind the white frocks of her coat, unknowingly so exposed, understanding he was privy to some secret world he shouldn’t be allowed to see. Like a writer watching his story unfold. Invisible, but always there. Always over everything.

            The lobby was empty. The students were in class now. The admin pool was otherwise busy. As usual. And if they did ask him what he was doing, he felt like he could concoct another kind of yarn to trick them. Tell them your dog is dying. That your dog is dying of the Bug Cancer, and that you cannot stop thinking about it, that you need to be with her, that you need to go with your mom to the vet. Because then the secretaries in there, the authority, they will pity you for what you’re going through. And pity goes a long way in the world.

            Pug went to the same payphone he’d used before. He pulled out the picture of Clayton Miller from the Post. The phone number was on the man’s forehead; the man didn’t wink at him. Not this time. Pug felt like he was past that. The fear that had stayed him then had turned into something more useable. Something like anticipation.

            Pug dialled.

            “Good morning, Pug. Crisp. Autumn is in the air, isn’t it? I suspect you have good news for me.”

            “Hi Mr Grimwood. I gave the officer the box. Like you asked.”

            “Good boy, Pug. You are a good friend.”

            “He seemed…” Pug didn’t quite know the word he wanted to use. The man seemed oddly confused when he looked down into the open box at the mystery inside. “Perturbed.” He decided on a thesaurus word. A smart word. What his dad called a college word. And why not? He was a writer.

            “Yes, the unexpected often involves a little discomfort.”

            “Mr Grimwood? What was in the box?”

            “An incentive, Pug. Something to move things along.”

            Pug sighed. Maybe he wasn’t privy to everything.

            “You’ve done what was asked of you. For as the parlance says, we’re square, my boy.”

            “We’re friends, right, Mr Grimwood?”

            “We’re aces,” the man laughed, though it was more like a chitter.

            Pug liked the sound of it regardless. What once made him uncomfortable was now rather inviting. He supposed opening up his worldview could do that. “Then we can be honest?”

            “I’d expect nothing less.”

            “Adam…he said he was coming to see you today. Did he? Did you tell him I’ve been meeting with you too?”

            “Pug, the moment during your counsel when the four of you decided to deny my original terms was the moment you became not four but one. An individual. So what you do is for you only. What Adam does is for him. I will not discuss this matter further.” His voice was cross.

            Pug swallowed. Thinking only of the feeling he’d had in the police station. The elation he’d felt when he spoke to Allen Webster. Lied to him. “I’m sorry, Mr Grimwood.”

            “There’s no need to apologize, Pug. You’ve done what was asked of you. Like a good friend should.”

            “Good friends do more than what’s asked of them.”

            “That’s true, Pug. But where does that leave us?”

            Pug smiled, staring down at that picture of Miller, caring not how goddamn creepy Bernard was when he handed over that clipping from the Post, wearing a Mr Sub uniform that proved how gaunt he was. That memory was so distant now Pug thought he’d grown as a result. Matured. “I’d like another task, if you’ll give me one.” He felt his blood rushing. Felt his body warming. Excitement was like that, he figured. Are you looking for reasons to avoid Chels? It was a strange thought. Pug closed his eyes to the idea of the bugs. To what he’d seen or imagined.

            “Well, my boy, I do happen to have one. The council seems interested in a woman. And we both know what happens when the council is interested in someone.”

            Pug listened as Grimwood gave him instructions.