These Truths

September 12th, 2016. 6:40PM

  Balmoral, Indiana

  After many hours wallowing in misery and a hangover and many Newports to pull him out of it, Jake had finally left Chucky's trailer and resolved to make something of the day. GPS prompts instructed him to exit the interstate and pickup a county road on his path to The Westwinds Nursing Home, so he did as instructed while scanning though his call log to find Joseph Blake's number. In the half-hour that he'd ridden since leaving Burlwood Meadows, he'd spoken to Clyde Rambo and relayed what was apparently a bullshit story about a private eye having spotted areas of discoloration in Chucky's trunk. According to the former sheriff, it was not the discovery of what appeared to be blood in the back of the Buick that led to Chucky being arrested, contrary to what Louie had told Donnell. That opened a world of questions, but Rambo would give no hint as to the answers or what he had found.

  "It will all come out in due time," had been his enigmatic response. "Don't sweat it, just keep doing what you're doing and I'll be operating in the background until I've got what I need to close it out."

  As mysterious as it was, it sounded like great news for the case of who killed Billy Marsh. Apparently, there was something that wasn't on the level with Boudreaux's persecution of Chucky, and a brilliant old detective was preparing to ford the river of injustice alongside him. That could only be a good thing, he figured, even if Clyde wasn't prepared to divulge all of the information he was working with on his end.

  With his hopes up in that regard, he dialed Joseph Blake to see if he could provide more insight into what had happened with Rusty Parker and the boy who could've been his first victim back in the late eighties. There were quite a few rings again, which Jake feared might mean another turn at the answering machine, but shortly thereafter came the middle-aged feminine voice he'd heard on the machine's recording the first time he'd called.

  "Carrothers residence," she said in greeting.

  "Good afternoon, m'am, my name is Jake Gigu?re, I'm trying to reach Joseph Blake." Jake replied.

  "One moment, please," she answered as the sounds of her moving around her house came through his car speakers. "It's for you, dad," her muffled voice eventually said, "are you up to talking?"

  There were many rustling sounds and a quiet yes before an old man finally spoke. "Hello?" He said in his trembling voice.

  "Hi, Sheriff Blake?" Jake replied.

  "Speaking," the old man answered.

  "Good day, my name is Jacob Gigu?re, I'm a private investigator working on a case, and I was referred to you by Clyde Rambo for details about something that happened a long time ago."

  "By who?" Blake replied, sounding confused.

  "Clyde Rambo," Jake said in a louder and clearer tone. It was obvious that Blake was very old, which made him very nervous about getting any useful information out of him.

  "Oh!" The old man exclaimed. "Rambo, I knew him! He worked in Burlwood, I think!"

  "Yes sir," Jake applauded, "yes sir, he did. He was the lead for a long time on The Butcher Of Burlwood case, do you remember that?"

  "My, my! Yes!" The raspy voice continued. "I do remember that, he always thought it was Rusty Parker if I'm not mistaken!"

  Hopeful now, Jake smiled. "That's absolutely right, Sheriff Blake, and it's Rusty that I'm calling about."

  "A weird one, that guy!" Blake noted. "Gave all the kids at the High School the creeps!"

  "Right!" Jake cheered again, hoping for the next link. "Now, Rambo tells me there were some allegations about something Rusty may've done in your jurisdiction, before he came to Burlwood. Do you remember anything about that?"

  The immediate response was grumbling and the sound of mental effort vocalized in ahhh's and ooo's. That certainly didn't inspire confidence, so Jake tried to steer him in the right direction just enough without causing him to conjure some false memory.

  "It was a student at the school where Rusty worked," he prompted gently. "A student that Rusty had a romantic interest in, I think?"

  "Ohhh!" The old man cackled. "Oh yes! I do remember that!" There were several chuckles and a golly gee that followed, but Jake was after the meat and had no patience for the appetizer.

  "Can you tell me exactly what happened?" He probed.

  "Well, as I remember," Blake began, "the boy said Rusty invited him into the boiler room for a little hanky panky!" This revelation came with another round of laughter.

  "Can you tell me what happened next?"

  "If memory serves, he said they went into the boiler room and he was spooked because there were all kinds of candles lit and strange symbols all around. They were just about to start doing naughty things when somebody came at him with a wet rag!"

  "Wait, wait," Jake replied, his wheels turning. "I've got several questions about that. First, you said somebody came at him with a wet rag... does that mean it wasn't Rusty? That there was someone else there?"

  Again there was a pause of grumbling and thinking noises. Jake let them continue until the man had his answer formulated. "You know, I don't rightly recall!" He offered. "I just remember there was something about a wet rag, and that he had to fight his way out because the smell of what was on the rag was making him feel funny!"

  "Okay," he said slowly, irritated at the man's forgetfulness. "What about the candles and symbols? What was that all about?"

  "Oh, I dunno," Blake replied with a yawn. "I think the kid said it looked like some kind of Voodoo thing, but you have to remember that the boy was a little off! I mean, first of all he was trying to have sex with a man twice his age!"

  Stunned, Jake gave no reply for a few seconds. He wondered the Voodoo part of the story had ever been related to Rambo, or whether it was a faulty memory conjured in Blake's convalescence that should be discounted. If it was accurate, the idols found at the scenes of the dead children suddenly had a great deal of significance. Of course, there hadn't been one with Billy Marsh's body, so that cast more doubt that his murder was linked with those committed by The Butcher in the days of old. That was no help at all, because it would mean that the killer could've been any random copycat. With no clues to his or her identity, that person would likely go forever unidentified while Chucky served his time.

  On top of that, Blake's words hinted that there was the possibility that Rusty had an accomplice. Perhaps it really should've been The Butchers Of Burlwood right from the beginning. That would certainly shed some light on how Rusty could've been involved with the Billy Marsh case, despite his ill health at present. If he had a partner in crime, if he had a confidant... hell, that could even explain how he got away with killing Timmy Lane while under the watchful eye of The Fed!

  Either way, Jake was eager to get the full and accurate tale from the victim himself. It was reasonable to assume that the man was alive, he would be just a few years older than Jacob and Donnell based on his age and when the incident occurred. He would be in his prime, so his memory of what seemed to have been a very traumatic event would likely be fairly detailed and intact. Knowing he couldn't get much more from the aged Blake, he hoped against hope that the man remembered the name of the boy who brought this charge and was subsequently dismissed as a liar.

  "Sheriff Blake, I really need to speak with the boy who was involved in this. Can you tell me his name?"

  For a third time there was that awful hesitation, that signal of hard thought through cobwebbed memories that would likely result in the discovery of nothing at all. "Well," he said, his body still vocalizing its overclocked efforts at thinking. "The last name was something like Peaky or Patreekey or Reeky, because I remember the other kids all called him Freaky something, and the something was his last name. I dunno, it was like Freaky Tiki or Freaky Reechi or Freaky Meechi or --"

  "No first name?" Jake interrupted. "You don't remember his first name?"

  That brought more awkward vocalizations, more struggled thought. "No, no I'm afraid not. I just remember Freaky Cheeky or Fre
aky Beaky or Freaky --"

  "And what school did this happen at?" he cut the man off again, frustrated, disheartened and feeling like he had nothing at all to go on in finding the man.

  "Oh, it was Indy Central. That much I remember for sure."

  "Do you remember when or how old the boy was?"

  "I do believe it was in 1988... yes, that sounds about right. The Freaky kid was a junior, I think, if I'm not mistaken."

  "Thanks for your time, Sheriff," he said, only half bullshitting. "If I have any other questions, may I call you back at a later date?"

  "Well, of course!" Blake replied.

  "Great," Jake said sharply, "you have a nice day, sir."

  Without waiting for a reply, Jake hit the red button on his steering wheel and cursed. There was so much potential in the call and so little information to show for it, and that pissed him off. Angry, he almost missed the direction of that Google whore's voice telling him to hang a left. He made it just in time, and showed another fifteen minutes to go until he would be face to face with Evander Hughes.

  How perfect, he thought, that he would be talking with two men who'd lost the plot on the same day. He deserved it, he guessed, since he'd lost the plot himself the night before and fallen back into the arms of that demon liquor. This was his punishment, he figured... frustration coupled with a pounding headache and grumbling gut.

  Fuck, what the hell was he thinking when he bought that bottle? Apparently, four days was one too many for him to control his emotions enough to maintain his sobriety. That hurt, because he allowed himself to believe that he really had the fortitude within him to just walk away cold turkey and never look back. He thought that he'd hit bottom, that he'd scraped it and traveled along it for a good distance, and that the scars he came away with were reason enough to just turn his back on the shit. If only it were that easy...

  Still feeling the after effects of a red letter evening of intoxication, it was plainly obvious that he wasn't as strong as he would've liked to believe he was. As he thought about it, though, he realized that it really didn't matter anyway. Double indemnity was still the anthem to which he marched, so who gave a fuck if he couldn't hold on to the wagon long enough to get himself there without another drink. So long as he was clean when the time came, so long as his drunkenness was not a factor when the chips were down, so long as there was no recourse for the insurance company other than to pay the full benefit, the rest was no more than water (or whiskey) under the bridge.

  So he couldn't take pride in keeping himself dry, so what? Pride is an illusion, he figured, and it isn't worth shit in the scheme of things anyway. Pride had never paid any of his bills, pride had never put food in his wife or his son's mouth, pride had never helped them meet the car note or to keep the utilities on. In the end, pride wasn't worth shit. Why should he mourn its passage when it had been dead to him for so long anyway?

  Warranted or not, he was still giving himself lashings within his mind as he finally pulled into the West Winds Nursing Home complex. It was a sprawling property with several buildings, each looking new and sterile in true medical facility fashion. Reading the signs posted throughout the parking lot, he followed the wooden arrows that pointed towards the Alzheimer's Ward, which he figured was where he would find Evander Hughes based on Donnell's account of him and his ailment.

  Parking near the front door, he checked his reflection to be sure he didn't look as raggedy as he felt and stepped out of the car. Before approaching the building, he took a moment to survey his surroundings. That old tingling was back, but he realized he wasn't likely to see whomever was tracking him this time considering the person had evaded him so successfully up until this point, even when he was fully sober and wearing no morning after haze. Still, he looked for anything out of the ordinary, just in case he might get lucky. There was nothing, of course... as usual.

  When he approached, he found the door to the Alzheimer's building was locked. There was a button on a panel to the side of it that had a camera and speaker built in, so he pressed it and stepped back. There was a chime, which repeated itself several times very annoyingly until a woman's voice finally answered.

  "May I help you?" She asked firmly.

  "Um," Jake replied "yes, I'd like to visit with one of your residents."

  "Which resident?" she asked, sounding annoyed.

  "Evander Hughes," he offered,

  There was a pause as she presumably checked a register for his name, and when she came back she seemed even more irritated than she had the last time she spoke. "What's your name, sir?" She chirped.

  Thinking again of Boudreaux's warning, his initial thought was to use a false identity as he had with Rusty. In his hangover, he was likely to say something as ignorant as Enrico Pallazzo on this attempt as well, so he deferred in his exhaustion to giving his real name. "Jacob Gigu?re," he said.

  "That name is not on Mister Hughes' visitor list, sir!" The woman scolded him.

  Of course it wasn't, why would it be? That would make things to easy, he figured. As would the old man ending up in a place with shitty security, a place that didn't have a locked door with a crotchety old bitch keeping watch like a sentry at Fort Knox.

  "Look," he said, frustrated himself now. "I'm a friend of his son, Donnell Hughes, whom I'm sure is on the list considering he pays your fucking bill! I just need to talk to him for a minute, I promise I'm not going to kidnap him or anything, and I would really appreciate it if I could just come in for a little bit to see him."

  There was a long pause this time, much longer than when the woman had checked the register for the old man. He had no idea what was happening and simply stood there, surely looking like a fool, while she was probably calling the police to come and arrest him or something equally as ridiculous. With his mind frame as it was, he didn't really care if that was exactly what she was doing. If she'd been tipped off by the Elsmere County Sheriff the way everyone else had and was putting in a call to Deputy Ron himself, that was just fine by him.

  If he was to be booked in tampering with evidence or obstructing justice, then that's just what was going to happen because he was getting tired of this whole goose chase. On day four of the investigation, he was no closer to an answer than he'd been when he'd flicked his cigarette butt onto his neighbors lawn back in Michigan, so who gave a fuck if he ended up in a cell right next to Chucky's by the time the evening was up? At the moment, certainly not him. He'd had enough of chasing his tail, he'd had enough of the dark memories bubbling up from the darkest depths of his mind, he'd had enough of everything and he just didn't give a fuck. If a jail cell was where this was going to end for him, then so be it... he simply didn't care anymore.

  After what seemed like at least five or six minutes, the woman's voice came back through the speaker with no less animosity than it had featured before as she delivered a surprising reply. "Come in, sir," she said as a loud click sounded out from the door.

  Pulling at it again, he realized that the lock had been released, much to his surprise. He was met just inside by what appeared to be an orderly, an old woman who looked just as grumpy as the voice on the speaker had sounded.

  "Follow me, please," she said snidely, so he did as instructed.

  After marching around a maze for a few moments, they arrived at a room marked 104 and she unlocked its door by swiping a keycard over an electronic pad. She opened it just a bit, sticking her face in the crack, and spoke to the man inside.

  "You have a visitor, Mister Hughes," she explained, then pushed the door all the way open and waived Jake in.

  Evander was looking rough in his age, and was much smaller in frame than he had been in his younger days. He was seated in a hospital bed with the back at a forty-five degree angle, propping him up in the direction of a television on which an old episode of Sanford And Son was showing. His hair was fully white and thin, and he still wore a goatee as he did in the days of old. His flesh look
ed dry and cracked, its blackness looking darker than Jake remembered when viewed in contrast with the bleached white hospital gown he was wearing. The man didn't look over as Jake stepped in, the orderly staying in the hallway and giving a last instruction.

  "You'll be locked in," she said. "When you're ready to leave, dial one-hundred on the phone and we will come get you." With that, she disappeared and closed the door, leaving him alone with Donnell's father.

  When Jake was sealed in the room, things became strange and surreal to him for no good reason at all. He stood his ground for a moment, watching the old man staring at the television blankly and paying no mind to the stranger in his room. At first, Jake wasn't sure how exactly he should proceed. He didn't want to scare the man, but he did need some answers from him. If those answers were still in his possession, that is.

  Taking a few steps closer to him, Jake spoke loudly in case Evander's hearing was failing him. "Good evening, Mister Hughes," he said kindly.

  Evander didn't move a muscle, nor did he reply to the greeting. His eyes were still transfixed on the television, staring unblinkingly at Red Foxx as he mixed another glass of Champipple for his buddy Grady. The laugh track prompted him to giggle, but the man showed no amusement at what was happening.

  Moving slowly closer, Jake tried again. "Mister Hughes?" He nearly shouted, but still there was no response, still the man just stared at the television.

  Wondering what he needed to do to get his attention, he started to realize that any fantastic notion involving Evander Hughes making an escape from this facility and carrying out the murder of Billy Marsh was just as ridiculous as the idea that the moon is made of cheese. Clearly, there was no fresh blood on this man's hands. Had he been The Butcher of old, he probably didn't remember his deeds. Had he experienced some nostalgic relapse and decided he wanted to reoffend, he obviously had no way of escaping this convalescent prison, so that made him just about as clear as clear can be.

  In the scheme of Jake's investigation, this meant that his list of viable suspects was reduced now from four to two. Jack Morris was dead, so he had a pretty solid alibi for the murder in question. He'd largely convinced himself that Daryl was innocent, and he'd seen for himself that Rusty was in no condition to subdue and destroy a healthy nine year old boy. With all of those things in mind, he realized that, at the moment, he had no fucking idea who killed Billy Marsh. He didn't even have a guess to offer, didn't so much as have a clue to follow up on.

  What the fuck was he gonna do now?

  Still intending to have an answer about who Evander traded the Brougham to, he placed himself directly between the old man and the television. This did nothing to change the expression on Mister Hughes' face, nor did it alter his vacant stare, which seemed to pass right through Jake's body..

  "Evander!" he barked at him. "Evander, snap out of it, dammit!"

  Hughes didn't comply, so Jake brought his hands up directly in the man's face and clapped them so hard that it hurt. The concussion made Evander blink and jump, and only then did his eyes dart up to meet those of his visitor.

  "Is it time for my meds?" He asked, his breath sour and foul while his eyes were still largely vacant.

  "Mister Hughes, it's me -- Jacob Gigu?re." He said. "It's Darkwing!"

  "Where is Elle?" Evander replied, his countenance turning angry and spiteful. "Where's my wife, that stupid bitch! She was supposed to bring me a beer an hour ago!"

  "I need to talk to you about your old car," Jake said, ignoring the old man's delusion.

  "I'm gonna slap that bitch up when she get here!" Hughes continued, looking and sounding pissed now. "Stupid hoe, she knows I need my fuckin' beer! Do you know where she at, son?"

  "She's coming," Jake replied, changing tactics and trying to play along. "She should be here any minute, don't worry."

  "Poo-putt bitch is slow as fuck! You got any idea how long it takes the heifer to fix her hair up in that scraggly weave?"

  "I think she said she had to run to the store to get more beer for you, I think you were out."

  "Well why the cunt let me run out?" Evander snapped. "Ain't like she work or anything! All she gotta do is keep me in my beer and my dope! Slow as she walk, it'll be tomorrow before I get my fuckin' drink!"

  "She didn't walk," Jake said confidently. "She took the Brougham."

  "The Brougham?" Hughes asked defiantly. "How the fuck she gonna take the Brougham, she know I done flipped it for a fix! She can't take what we ain't got no more!"

  "You did?" He asked, trying to seem surprised. "Who'd you flip it too?"

  "Yeah, I flipped the shit!" Evander announced with furious certainty. "Motherfucker only gave me a dollar of ice, a dollar of blow and a dollar of weed for it! Jive soul bro robbed me blind, baby, but I had to get me my fix, and I didn't have a penny to my name! Tried to get my shit back, and this nigga wanted five stacks for it! Didn't give me no five stacks worth for it, why I should have to pay five stacks to get the motherfucker back?"

  "Oh, what a cheap fuck!" Jake exclaimed, playing it up. "Tell ya' what, Mister Hughes, you tell me who it was that did that to you and I'll go set him right! Who was it? What was his name?"

  The man's face changed at that, but not in a good way at all. It went from angry and distraught right back to absent and vacant, and Jake understood that meant that it was all over before he spoke another word.

  "Is it time for my meds?" He asked again, as though someone had hit his reset button and set him back five minutes in time.

  For a moment, Jake was tempted to try again. To build the exchange back to where they had been in the hopes of pushing further through this time. The sentiment didn't last, though, because he expected another round would lead him right back to where they were now, which was nowhere. He didn't have the patience for that, so it was out of the question.

  "I'll find out for you," he said instead of re-engaging, then he reached for the telephone and dialed one-zero-zero.

  The wraith of an orderly returned fairly quickly, and Jake followed her unceremoniously back to and out of the front door. Climbing into the Malibu, he shook his head and pounded out his frustration on the steering wheel just one time. One slam was acceptable, but two would mean he had an anger issue -- that's how he figured it. Of course, he did have an anger issue, but why give in to it if he could avoid it?

  When he started the car, the headlights painted the building in white light since the sun had gone down during the time he spent inside the facility. He backed out of his spot and made his way out of the lot, towards the small road that would lead him back to the interstate. Once he had made the turn, something happened that caught his attention immediately. It was faint, it was distant, and it was barely discernible, but it was definitely another set of headlights coming on in the parking lot of The West Winds Nursing Home... the chase, as it were, was back on.

  THIRTY-SEVEN