Page 19 of These Truths

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. Stil
l, 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 threate
ning 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, alo
ne. 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 Gigu?re. "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 th
at 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 Gigu?re 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, som
ething 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 Gigu?re 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.

&n
bsp; Before long, he had arrived at twenty-three fifty-seven Ashwood... The Gigu?re 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 Gigu?re'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 Gigu?re 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 th
e 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