September 17th, 11:30AM.
West Pine, Indiana
Eight zero seven Edgewood Park, that was the address of the house that Jake had been watching like a hawk since the wee hours of the morning. There had been absolutely no activity in or around the residence since the fat hispanic man dropped FGSI Services' mail through a slot in the front door so many hours ago. No one had come, no one had gone, and Jake had seen no movement behind the tightly closed blinds of what could only be described as a mansion in stature and design.
Growing tired of just sitting there, Jake was chomping at the bit to get out and take a better look at the white van parked in front of the Escalade in the home's driveway. The more he examined it through his binoculars, the more he was convinced that the FGSI placard on the visible side was no more than a magnetic appliqu?, perhaps covering something of consequence. Underneath it, he suspected, would be much different lettering, likely in the form of permanently applied decals. If he was right, there would be aged letters beneath the sign that read Our Mother Of Sorrows, Burlwood, Indiana. If he was right, he would have evidence that someone other than Chucky was involved in the disappearance and murder of little Billy Marsh.
Wondering if those decals may have been removed in an attempt to further disguise the van, Jake searched the Malibu for the copy of the vehicle's registration that Father Lovett had given him during his first visit to the church. Unable to locate it in his glovebox or the many compartments under his armrest and behind the radio panel, he realized that he must've taken the paperwork into Chucky's trailer and, therefore, wouldn't have the luxury of using it to make a positive ID of the van via the VIN had the decals been peeled or scraped off. That could all be sorted out later, though, if the vehicle truly was a Dodge Ram Van and the FGSI markings were, in fact, no more than letters printed on a magnetic sign. If those basic facts were true, the rest would be a black and white matter of matching numbers and making a determination.
Itching to have his answers, impatient just to know, one way or the other, he finally decided that the time for sitting idly by and watching was over. Pulling the Malibu forward and parking it directly in front of eight zero one Edgewood Park, he braced himself and prepared for whatever he might find in following up on this latest lead. Again checking for his Beretta, which had been returned to him by Commissioner Dickinson once his concealed carry permit was confirmed, he opened his door and stepped out onto the lush green grass of the home with a bent for finding the truth.
As he marched up the driveway without a care for the fact that he was trespassing again, he scoped out the interior of the Escalade as he walked by it. There was nothing to see inside, the vehicle was well maintained and looked as though it had either been detailed very recently or was treated with kid gloves each time it was driven. Approaching the white van in front of it, the vehicle that really held his interest, it didn't take very long at all to see that familiar Dodge logo sparkling in the sun in the form of a metallic ornament on the rear door. This was a Dodge Ram van, for whatever else it may or may not prove to be. In his mind, that simple fact doubled the chances that he'd just stumbled onto a clue that had eluded the authorities from the beginning of this affair.
Peering in through the rear window of the vehicle, Jake saw several rows of seats with aged and torn upholstery on every one of them. Doubting that FGSI was in the business of transporting large numbers of people on a regular basis, this discovery only served to confirm his suspicion that this particular van was the same that had been the subject of a BOLO issued by the Elsmere PD in the not too distant past.
Moving away from the rear end, Jake slithered over to the driver's side of the vehicle and got his confirmation that the placard reading FGSI Services in bold blue letters was, in fact, no more than a thin and magnetized sign that could've been slapped on the van in a matter of seconds. It didn't seem reasonable, to him at least, to think that a conglomerate moving the kind of money that FGSI Services claimed on paper to move would be so frugal as to simply slap a magnet on a van and call it good. This was a hack job, a cover-up done in quick and dirty fashion, and that seemed suspicious right off the bat.
With no delay or hesitation, he reached up and peeled at the top corner of the sign. Ripping it away briskly and simply dropping it to the ground, he examined the space behind where it had been for any indication that this was, indeed, the Our Mother Of Sorrows van. The paint beneath the magnetic plaque looked much the same as the paint on the rest of the vehicle, proving that the magnetic farce hadn't been on the side of the van for very long as it hadn't discolored the finish at all. Unfortunately, though, the paint underneath it was so identical to the rest of the van that it also showed no indication of ever having a more permanently applied form of branding that had since been stripped in haste. There was no brighter shade of white where decals had once been, there was no sticky residue to indicate that previously glued down letters had been removed from the metal.
Jake felt sure that this was the Our Mother van, but in the face of what he was seeing, there was no way he could prove it until he had his hands on the VIN. The thought of going to get the registration crossed his mind, but he quickly decided there was no way driving all the way back to Burlwood to get it. Not before he had a few more answers, at least.
Running his hands across the smooth surface of the vehicle's side, he thought he could feel the outline of removed decals. He believed he could detect several distinct words with spacing between them, but that could've been no more than wishful thinking or his mind playing a trick on him. If someone had removed the Our Mother tag, they had done a damned professional job of it, and he wasn't going to out them simply by feeling the cold metal panel.
As he stood there, studying the thing fruitlessly, he felt a vibrating in his pocket and heard the familiar notes of Canon sounding out. Wrestling his attention away from the van for a moment, he retrieved his phone and checked to see who was bothering him now. It was Donnell, and no sooner than he'd seen the name he swiped to the right to refuse the call. Launchpad had given him an earful the last time they spoke, and you only get to give Jake Gigu?re an earful one time before you're transferred over to the go fuck yourself wing of his contacts.
The ringing distracted him from the mystery of the van, and as a result of it shifting his attention briefly, he found that he'd lost interest. Knowing there was nothing he could do about it for the moment, even if it was the Our Mother van, he decided that he was ready to move on.
With the outside work done, it was time for him to take a look inside eight zero five Edgewood Park. It was time to introduce himself to whomever it was that was receiving the mail from PO Box 65, the mail belonging to FGSI Services and it's proprietor. Logic dictated that it would be owner of the fabled FGSI Services to whom the mail was given, and the wealthy nature of the neighborhood in which he stood gave credence to the idea that this was that man's home. It was also possible, if not likely, that whomever was was living within this grand estate was the partner of Rusty Parker in more than just the business affair that tied them together. He was likely the second -- the previously unheralded -- Butcher Of Burlwood. He was likely the key to the murder of Billy Marsh, the secret weapon that was able-bodied in the present and unwatched in the past to enable the other half of the dynamic duo to escape detection. Whomever was living in this palatial piece of real estate, he was likely a murderous monster of the highest degree.
As Jake walked up the cobblestone walkway and approached the ornate and rich looking front door of the place, he felt his pocket vibrating again. Reaching for his phone as he walked, he saw that it was Donnell calling a second time, and he gave him the same treatment that he had before. Straight to the voicemail, straight to leave me the fuck alone, asshole.
With that dealt with, Jake took a moment to clear his thoughts before he proceed in ringing the doorbell of this lavish estate. He tried to focus on what he wanted, on what he needed to get out of the stranger he was abo
ut to meet so that he could put this thing to bed once and for all. He tried to prepare himself for the question and answer session that was to come, he tried to ready his mind for the dance that he would soon be dancing with a likely conspirator in the arts of murder and dismemberment. He sorted and organized his thoughts, as he had before addressing Daryl Lane, and ran over the list of questions he would ask and the form of verbal traps that he would set for the fool to stumble into.
Before his mind was fully settled, before he was entirely ready, his world was rocked by the opening of that heavy wooden door at which he stood and the revelation of a man he never expected to see. Even had he been ready, even had the door opened as an answer to the ringing of its bell, he still would've been fully unprepared to face the man who apparently lived here at eight zero seven Edgewood Park. No preparation could've readied him, no warning could've eased the blow, no matter what he thought he knew, he still would've been stunned to see the scar-faced and larger than life Sarge standing there to greet him.
"Hello, young man!" Grover said in his kind and gentle tone and accent. "How are you doing this fine morning?"
"Grover?" Jake mumbled, feeling total and complete shock overtake him.
The man just stood there for a time, staring at Jake. In all likelihood, he was probably examining the complete and utter confusion on his visitors face and wondering what had him so perplexed. If that were the case, he would've been right in his assumption that Jake was totally and utterly perplexed.
"You were expecting someone else?" Grover eventually asked, raising his eyebrows.
Jake said nothing, he did nothing in the moments that followed as he tried to regather himself and recognize exactly what this all meant.
Seeing his mind laboring, seeing him wrestling to unravel it all like a badly tangled ball of twine, Grover stepped back and opened the door wide. "Come in, my friend!" He said, gesturing the way. "Please, come in!"
Jake did as he was invited, though he had no conscious control over what his body was doing. He stepped into a foyer that was as elegant and rich as the outside of the home would suggest there should be. The walls were covered in gorgeous dark wooden paneling, and the floor appeared to be one giant slab of granite that was cut specifically to fill the space.. As Sarge closed the door, a swirl of aromas filled the closed-in space that was pleasant and foreign to Jake's nose. Looking down the hallway was the entryway, he saw a distant wooden table upon which sat some form of diffuser that had smoke billowing from it in wisps and puffs.
"It's sage," Grover said, noting Jake's staring. "It purifies energy, it's quite a marvelous substance."
Jake nodded and looked around, seeing a large and open area to his left that was colored brilliantly by natural light spilling in through large windows all around the perimeter at the top of the room. Beneath the glass there was the same gorgeous wooden paneling that was in the entryway, and the light shining in brought out the beauty of the dark lines of the grain. Upon every second wooden panel was a glorious and exotic hunting trophy, each mounted on a contrasting block of wood to make them stand out and call attention to the prizes. From where he stood, he could see the heads of several large animals on display including an elephant complete with tusks, a male lion with its proud mane intact and some other animal that he didn't recognize with incredible spiral horns rising high from its brow. There was the pelt of a zebra stretched out and marvelous to behold, the striped fur of a tiger and the spotted pelt of a leopard, each displayed with the dignity and pride due such magnificent pieces.
In the center of this room was a massive U-shaped brown leather sectional couch with a table in the center that featured a pane of rounded glass suspended in the air atop four large horns, the origin of which he also could not readily identify. As he was digesting these wonders, Sarge extended an arm into the room and directed Jake to enter.
Again feeling that he was moving autonomously in his surprise, he did as directed and ended up seated on one end of the plush and comfortable couch. As he sat, he became aware of a large earthenware vase that was fat at the bottom and narrowed towards the top which was positioned on a table just behind him and over his shoulder. Looking across the table to the other side of the couch, he saw a matching piece that gave him a sense of balance in the room. As he examined the fine tribal painting of the vases, Grover moved around to the back of the room where a large bar was setup. There was a slab of granite that matched the floor over which an intricate wooden lattice rack was loaded with many intricate bottles of what was surely expensive libations and fine looking glassware to boot.
"The horns under the table are rhino," he explained as he retrieved two high-ball glasses and used a set of tongs to drop spherical balls of ice into each of them. "The animal between the lion and elephant is a kudu," he continued as though he knew every question that was swirling in Jake's mind. It was more likely that he'd explained these same things to many curious visits in the past, but still it was uncanny in the moment as he identified the objects that Jake was unable to. "Kudu are native to Africa, as are just about all of the other trophies you see in this room."
Taking a moment to look around, Jake was struck by the majesty of everything around him. These things, these dead things, were everywhere that he looked -- each of them mounted and displayed with a respect and an appreciation of their wonder. Lowering his eyes, he realized that there were several small and rustically tribal looking tables underneath many of the mounts, and the items arranged upon them were just as interesting as the trophies hanging above them.
On one there were what appeared to be monkey skulls, each of them stacked atop another in an ominous display that seemed to be constructed with purpose instead of random trial and error. Another contained several flask-looking items that were wrapped in dirty, cracking pelts of some furry animal long dead and not as well preserved as the other curiosities in this room. On a third there were dolls made of burlap and bearing what appeared to be large tufts of black human hair standing high off of their heads, like those little troll dolls that were so popular when he was growing up.
On the floor around the room were also large, almost ancient looking earthenware vases that were similar to the ones behind and across from Jake as he sat. Some stood nearly three feet high while others were much smaller but just as stunning to look at. Each of them was painted in a tribal fashion, some of them glazed and others naked and porous. Their arrangement also seemed intentional somehow. As if they were designed and created to be displayed in a very specific way that was carefully adhered to in the decoration of this space.
"I grew up in Africa," Grover continued, pouring some dark alcoholic liquid into his glasses and stirring them with glass sticks.
He performed this stirring as though he were simply trying to swirl the ice around to chill the entirety of the drink, but Jake imagined his intentions were entirely different. In his mind, Sarge was making sure that something was completely and totally dissolved in the glass he would present to his guest. Perhaps it was Halothane or Xylazine. Maybe a few Ambien or Valium or something of the like. Something that would send Jake off to the cold and distant land of sleep. Likely a sleep from which he would never awaken, like those who went before him. Either way, whatever the case, he wouldn't be drinking the beverage his host was preparing for him at the bar. He wouldn't even consider the idea.
"Benin, to be exact," Sarge continued. "I came here quite young, with my parents, but I make a habit of going back to visit at least once a year."
"Fascinating," Jake managed to say in his awe and slight disorientation as Sarge moved away from the bar. "I didn't know it was legal to have some of these things."
Sarge chuckled at that, moving towards the couch with drinks in hand.
"Everything good is illegal, my friend. That's how they keep you in check. What is a law but a piece of paper, though? What is it really worth? What power does it really have?"
Finishi
ng his dissertation, Grover sat directly across from his visitor on the opposite end of his uniquely formed couch. Taking a coaster from a stack at the center of the glass table, he set one of the drinks down in front of Jake as he took a sip of his own. Just watching him do it, not making even the slightest move for his own, Jake saw the pleasure of the taste on Grover's face.
"Oh, my my," Sarge said with a smile. "That's wonderful! It's called Mampoer, it's a liquor made from peaches, apricots and litchi. It was traditional in my village, and I brought this bottle back from a trip I took there in 1978. I've been back since, obviously, but I've been saving this bottle for a long, long time with a special occasion in mind. This is a special occasion, wouldn't you say, young man?"
"I dunno, is it?" Jake replied.
Grover smiled widely, rolling his neck from side to side in ominous fashion as his eyes bored into Jake's mind like finely tuned drill heads. "Something tells me that it is," he replied. Taking another sip, he reveled in the flavor again and motioned at Jake's glass. "Try it, young man, I believe you'll find it remarkable. It seems only fitting that we should share a fine drink at a moment like this... on the precipice of -- well, what we're on the precipice of."
Clearing his throat and trying to clear his mind, Jake struggled to put the pieces together. He wasn't at all sure what to think, what to read in finding Grover as the owner of this particular house, apparently the owner of FGSI Services and all that it entailed. He tried to settle his tangled mind, tried to make order of the chaos so that he could continue with his job, which was to bust Rusty's accomplice.
"What would you say we're on the precipice of?" He said in reply.
Grover thought for a moment, looking reflective and nostalgic before he spoke. "Why don't you tell me?" He asked quizzically. "I mean, it was you who turned up on my doorstep, looking at my van. I imagine it took a great deal of work on your part to end up here, sharing these drinks with me. I do wish you'd try yours, young man, it's only polite in a situation such as this."
"I'm not very thirsty at the moment," Jake replied, and he couldn't have been more honest.
"Ah," Sarge smiled between sips, "you're all business and no pleasure, I see! I've always found that balance is necessary my friend, that it just makes life easier and more enjoyable!"
"As it happens, I am all business," Jake replied, "and it's seen me this far, so let's get down to it... shall we?"
Again Grover sipped his drink, then he nodded and smiled in response. "What business shall we get down to, young man?"
"Let's start with that van you mentioned," Jake said, and now it was Grover who looked confused.
"You have questions about my van?"
"Yes, I do," Jake replied. "Where did you happen to get it?"
"Oh, it's a company van," Sarge said. "Been around forever, I can't say exactly where it came from."
Jake returned the hard stare Grover had been giving him and peeled his flesh from his bones with his eyes. "You still gonna play that angle?" He asked. "You still gonna pretend that you don't own FGSI Services? You still gonna try to tell me that you don't know who they are and what they're about? Like you did back at the track?"
"I'm just a simple window teller, sir," Grover smiled, "what do I know of the greater business affairs of Burlwood Downs and their partners?"
"This doesn't look like a place you could afford on a teller's salary," Jake returned the volley, "wouldn't you agree?"
Grover balked at this, stopping mid-sip with his drink and eyeing Jake with a barely harnessed fit of laughter. When he finally calmed and swallowed, he spoke. "Oh, I definitely would. I think I picked it up for three quarters of a million, it's probably worth nearly triple that now. Speaking of the house, my friend, how exactly did you find it?"
"I followed your mail-boy," Jake said matter-of-factly. "He wasn't exactly inconspicuous."
Grover smiled again and nodded, taking the last bit of his Mampoer before setting the empty glass down on the table with a clink. "That was pretty slick of you, sir, I must say that I'm impressed. You came across as rather ignorant back at the track, I'm surprised you were sharp enough to do something like follow my mail."
"Ignorant?" Jake asked, thinking back to the night at Burlwood Downs, checking out the Brougham with Sarge as his escort. "I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean," he said.
"7X61," the man said simply.
"What?" Jake asked, thoroughly confused.
"The last four of the VIN on my gate-car, it's 7X61. It's Evander's Brougham, you were right on top of it, but you were too stupid to check the numbers for yourself! I guess you've never heard the phrase don't trust anybody, because you just took my word for it and walked away. That was a big miss, and it cost you several days."
Jake felt the blow of the insult, knowing he was right, but refused to let any of that show in his face.
"It's a shame it ended up that way," Grover continued, "I really enjoyed the car as an every-day driver. Damned thing got too hot after the carnival, so I had to let it go. I thought about having it crushed, but I couldn't bare to part with it. It's such a fine automobile. Had it painted and repurposed instead. Nobody ever batted an eye at it, until you came back around."
"Ah, so you're ready to talk now? You've admitted you own the Brougham, so you must own the company, right? So tell me what it is," Jake suggested as though this were just small talk between two old friends, as though it was of no consequence.
"What what is?" Sarge asked.
"FGSI," Jake replied.
"Oh!" Grover laughed out loud this time. "It's simple, really -- I'm surprised you never figured it out. You know full well that I haven't always been just a teller at the track. I used to be a farrier, right? I was an independent contractor, operating as Farrier Grover Simmonds Incorporated. It's an acronym, my friend, that's what FGSI is! I still employ farriers. Like Ruiz, who you followed to my home this morning. I do a little bit of other business too, but I imagine you probably already know about all of that. You haven't touched your drink though, my man, why don't you try it out? It's quality liquor, and I understand you have a taste for alcohol."
With insistent eyes, Grover directed Jake to pick up the glass. Still not intending to do so, still knowing just what would happen to him if he did drink it, he engaged Sarge in a war of staring that would make the third world war look like a skirmish on an elementary school playground.
"You seem to like the stuff," Jake said, "why don't you have mine? It's a bit early for me to be drinking, and I'll have to drive after our little talk is over."
"Oh, but that one is for you," Sarge insisted. "We'll leave it be, in case you remember how much you enjoy alcohol and decide to change your mind about enjoying it."
"So," Jake continued, "let's talk about the van. How'd you get the Our Mother decals off of it so cleanly?"
"I told you, sir," Grover returned, "that's my van. It never had any decals on it, and I have no idea what you're talking about."
Jake shook his head, disappointed that Sarge was still holding back. Moving on, he pressed his questioning. "With that aside, if you do own FGSI, then I guess you sometimes go by the name of Frank Staten. AKA Papa Midnight, right?"
Again Sarge chuckled. "I guess technically that's true!" He giggled. "But that was just a bit of bullshit, which is sometimes necessary in running a business. Tax liabilities can be pretty serious, and accountants have ways of being very creative when structuring a small corporation."
"But who chose that name?" Jake asked. "You gonna tell me that it was your accountant?"
"No," Sarge admitted, "I provided the name. It was a gag, really. I found invoking the name of old Papa Midnight funny, because it was just so ridiculous."
"Well, judging by all of the --" he hesitated "-- strange shit you've got around this place, coupled with taking the name a voodoo priest, I take it you're a practitioner of voodoo, just as he was."
"Oh no," Gr
over objected, "Voodoo is a bunch of bullshit too, I practice something far greater. The things you see around you are implements of JuJu. As I said, I grew up in Benin... JuJu is big back home."
"So these skins, these heads, these horns under the table," Jake said. "All of these things are related to your practice of JuJu?"
"Some are," Sarge explained, "the sage, the dolls, the libation bowls and such. Most are just trophies, though. I developed an affinity for trophies during my tours in Vietnam. Here, let me show you something."
Sarge quickly leaned to his left, towards where a wooden chest sat against the arm of the couch like a pirate's treasure box. Jake flinched at the quick movement, which froze the old man for a second.
"Relax, young man!" He smiled. "I just wanted to show you a photograph. Is that okay?"
Jake nodded hesitantly and watched intently as Grover opened the chest, digging through it for a moment before pulling a yellowed rectangle of paper from it and looking over what was on the face of it. Still smiling, he said "it's hard for me to believe I was so young once! It all seems so far behind me, now."
Reaching across the table, Sarge extended the photo to Jake who took it cautiously. Taking a look, he saw a young Sarge standing with a group of other soldiers surrounded by a tropical looking landscape. Each man was posed with a large automatic rifle in their hands and a long machete on their belts. Scanning through the platoon, Jake was rocked with recognition when he realized that the young man standing directly next to Grover in the photo was none other than Rusty Parker. That was the link, that was where the two of them first came together. That was where they likely committed the first of their crimes, as many young men in uniforms crossed the line in within the borders of that country.
"I spent a lot of time with the Australians," Sarge explained, "and they were -- if you'll pardon my language -- a fucked up bunch of guys. I'm talking head on stakes, wind chimes made out of severed arms, necklaces made of ears, bags stitched together out of women's breasts. All kinds of crazy shit! Every time they killed, they took a trophy... I guess it rubbed off, because before long I was into collecting trophies too. That's how I got started with the animals. It was no more than a hobby at first, but it did what hobbies often do and turned into an obsession. I've been collecting ever since."
Jake was still transfixed on the photo, still processing everything he'd seen and heard as Grover continued.
"I didn't go for stupid stuff like the Australians did, committing debauchery just for debauchery's sake, taking random parts with no sense whatsoever," he said. "No, I decided that I wanted my collection to be a bit more specialized. Once I got into hunting, I decided I wanted to collect the things that set a creature apart from everything else as my trophies! As an example, for an elephant, it's the tusks. For a rhino, it's the horn. For a zebra, tiger or leopard it's the hide. And so on."
"So when you killed people," Jake presented, broaching the subject of culpability for the first time but deciding to reel it back a bit at the last moment. "In the war, I mean... what did you take then?"
"Well, think about it, young man," Grover said in preface. "What single trait sets man above the rest of the animals on this planet? What makes a man special? What makes a human being human?"
Looking up from the picture, Jake locked eyes with the man once more. "Intelligence," he said. "So what, you took their brain?"
"Hell no!" Sarge chuckled. "You can't just snatch a brain out and set it on the shelf! Besides that, I wouldn't call intelligence our greatest trait, I would have to disagree with that entirely! There are many creatures out there of great intelligence, if you watch their behavior closely enough. Apes of all sorts, dolphins, dogs and birds even. We're allegedly the most intelligent of them all, sure, but that alone could never have gotten us where we are today! You give a zebra a human brain, and what can he do with it? Nothing, nothing at all," he said, leaning over and reaching into the chest. Having turned his attention back to the picture, Jake hardly noticed as Sarge continued. "In order to really make a difference in its world, that zebra would need to have something we use in tandem with our intelligence. Something a handful of other creatures have a variation of, but that only we have capitalized on! He would need to have what's really our greatest gift, what we acquired as Homo Habilis and have mastered ever since... he would require our fully opposable thumbs!"
As soon as he heard it, as soon as the words were spoken, Jake looked up in shock to see Grover pulling something grisly from his couch-side storage bin. The object was so horrific, its nature was barely conceivable to his mind and left his jaw agape. It was a long, looped length of leather tied together at the ends to make it a necklace. There was a pattern to the design that Jake's mind dissected quickly despite the fact that time seemed to slow to a crawl with its revelation. The pattern went black bead, white bead, black bead, bone... black bead, white bead, black bone -- and the bone in every instance was a short, jointed thing that could only be the form of individual juvenile sized thumbs.
"Oh God!" Jake exclaimed, realizing immediately what he was looking at and realizing he was likely in eminent and definite danger.
He immediately dropped the picture and tried to stuff his hand into his shirt for his Beretta, but before he could get to it he realized that he was looking down the barrel of a chrome Smith & Wesson 357 Magnum that Grover had apparently snatched from its hiding place while his visitor was still trying to comprehend what he was seeing on the aged strand of leather.
"Don't move!" Grover ordered, holding the ghastly necklace in one hand and the large and the most definitely deadly weapon in the other.
Seeing no recourse, seeing no other way that he could logically survive this encounter, Jake went for his weapon again and heard a deafening blast that seemed to shake the very foundation of the home in which he sat. In concert with the sound came a flash of fire from Sarge's barrel and the explosive destruction of the large earthenware vase just over Jake's left shoulder. Grover had pulled the shot just left of his visitors head, likely by design, and he almost certainly possessed the marksmanship necessary to put the next round right between his eyes if he so desire. The piece of decor he hit with the large caliber slug his weapon discharged shattered into hundreds, perhaps thousands of pieces. In the torrent of shards flying about behind him and raining down like razor sharp hail, a large piece of the debris scraped across and slashed Jake left cheek, leaving him bleeding from his face as bolt of pain fired down his neck.
"I said DON'T MOVE, Jake, didn't you catch that?" Sarge shouted.
Jake didn't, he knew he had no chance of drawing his weapon before being shot dead the head of FGSI Services. He barely had a chance to process the surprise that Grover called him by his name before the man qualified his words.
"Or should I call you Detective Palazzo, you sneaky fuck?" He said with a bite,
Jake's ears were ringing from the shot as he felt the blood running down his face in a crimson curtain. He didn't reach for the wound, and he did his best to maintain a go fuck yourself stare as he felt it trickle to his chin, the cut throbbing and his head still spinning with the concussion of the blast. With Grover invoking the name Palazzo, he knew that Rusty had made him immediately, shattering his charade. This was a bit of a surprise to him, considering how long it'd been since he and Rusty last had contact prior.
"What," Sarge continued, spelling it out "you didn't think he would recognize you? You didn't think he would know you right away? Shit, that man hasn't let me live down letting you get away for twenty years, Mister Gigu?re!"
"Get away?" Jake asked, confused and still disoriented from the unexpected blast.
"Thirteen years old," Grover began, "black hair, wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs shirt and hanging out at the carnival! Does that sound familiar to you, young man?"
Swirling, swirling and disbelief... swirling and Jesus, you puked all over your shit... swirling and I can't wear this... swirlin
g and you can have mine, I'll go skins... swirling and, oh God, Timmy...
"It was SUPPOSED to be YOU, you lucky fuck!" Sarge shouted intensely. "Rusty wanted YOU, but you FUCKED IT UP and we got Timmy Lane instead!"
Swirling, swirling and why?
Swirling and it should've been me... why wasn't it me?
God, why couldn't it have been me? It was supposed to be me...
Swirling, swirling and I took his time!
This was supposed to be Timmy's time!
Swirling, swirling and everything that came after what should've been his end...
Tracy...
Garrett...
Everything that he could've missed...
Everything that Timmy might've done...
Everything Jake had done, and how Timmy would've been proud to have what Jake once had...
What he once had and what he pissed away...
Timmy would not have been proud of how he pissed it away...
Timmy would've been ashamed of what he'd done, how he'd sabotaged the good.
There was bad, sure, but there had also been good...
Jake's life had been good once, and the good could've been Timmy's...
Timmy would have appreciated it...
Timmy would have taken care of it instead of shitting all over it...
He should've been dead, was supposed to be dead, from the moment he lost sight of the Brougham on that fateful night...
Christ, that was supposed to be the end...
Christ, the good things he would've missed had that been the end. In the face of realizing he should have missed what had been his life since then, the good finally seemed to take precedent over the bad in his mind. The good seemed brighter, the good seemed more pronounced than any of the bad things that had happened to him in his days. The good seemed like blessings, because they weren't supposed to be his...
They were supposed to be Timmy's, but Timmy went in his place...
"You bastards," Jake damned the man as his blood fell from his face to his shirt. "You fucking bastards!"
"Right!" Sarge barked. "Now you know, so drink your goddamned drink, son!"
Knowing full well what was likely in the drink, knowing that ingesting it would be the equivalent of giving Timmy a refund on time that never belonged to him in the first place, Jake had a change of heart. A week ago he would've jumped at the chance to get off the bus... he would've gladly closed the book, he would've been pleased to see it end... but not now... not here... not like this..
Fuck double indemnity...
Fuck the reaper, fuck Charon and his raft, fuck the river Styx...
And -- most of all -- fuck Grover and his piece of shit partner Rusty.
This life wasn't his to throw away... not with what he knew now...
This was Timmy Lane's life, and Jake would do anything to protect Timmy Lane's life... anything at all.
"No!" He insisted. "No, if you want to kill me, you're gonna have to shoot me, you cock! You're gonna have to get a mop and clean me off of your nice fucking floor. You're going to have to take a sponge and scrub my brains off your pretty fucking panel walls. You want me dead, then you're gonna have to earn it you sick fuck!"
Grover chuckled at this, putting his macabre necklace around his neck and letting the bones settle against his chest. Looking them over, Jake counted them... one... two... three... four... five... six... all six, including Timmy's... they were all there... Christ, they were there... and one of them was supposed to be his... but his would not be the seventh, if he had anything to say about it.
Still holding the gun on Jake, Sarge used his free hand to dig into his breast pocket and retrieve a cellphone. Keeping his eyes keenly on his visitor, he glanced back and forth at the phone to scroll through his contacts. Finding the one he wanted, he pressed call and held the device to his ear.
Jake watched as Sarge waited for an answer. When it eventually came, the man spoke.
"Hey, it's me," he said. "He's here," then a pause. "Yeah, Gigu?re is here." This time, there was a much longer break in Grover's end of the conversation. Whatever the person on the other end said, Sarge got several laughs out of it. Eventually, he continued. "So is it gonna be plan A then?" He asked, then waited for confirmation. "Okay," he sighed, "plan A it is! Alright, Rusty... right... right... right, we'll see ya' down the line! Okay... bye!"
Ending the call, Grover set the phone beside him as he lazily held his guest at gunpoint.
"Well, I have to admit," Sarge said, "I never thought it was gonna end like this! I never would've guessed it would come down this way, after all this time. It is what it is, I suppose. Rusty and I always had a contingency in mind in case it ever came to this. Plan A, as you heard. I didn't think we were ever going to have to see it through, but who's to say what time will bring? Who would've thought that time would bring you here -- twenty years later? I guess it doesn't make any difference, the plan is the plan is the plan. Such a shame, though. I hate to have to do it, but I suppose my hands are tied."
Facing what was to be his death, seeing no way out of it, Jake started to feel an incredible anxiety that he never imagined he'd feel in such a situation. His heart raced, his breathing became hurried and shallow. He'd intended to die all week once his business was done, had thought about taking his own life for months if not longer. But now, with just one piece of new information and sitting face to face with the end... now that he knew it was going to happen, now that he knew he should've been dead a long time ago, he found that suddenly he just didn't have the stomach for it. What's more, he didn't want to die, which was new to him.
Thinking of the oblivion, thinking of the nothingness to which he was about to be relegated, he felt absolute terror pulsing through his veins. What was Tracy going to do without him? What was Garrett going to do without him? What was he going to do without himself?
Waiting for the moment, waiting to see the slug slowly spinning out of Grover's rifled barrel en route to his head, waiting to feel it start to drill its way into his flesh and then his skull, waiting for it to breach his brain and make him no more, Jake felt he would faint. Knowing it could come at any time, knowing that he was powerless to stop it, he just waited. Waited and worried.
"We had a good run," Sarge said, as though Jake were interested. "They didn't have any idea that there were two of us! The entirety of what this country could throw at us in the way of law enforcement, they couldn't figure us out! That's an accomplishment, you have to admit! Six murders, and they had no idea!"
"Don't you mean seven?" Jake asked, pushing his fear aside in order for his pride to take the front. He wouldn't go out groveling, he would go out shouting -- no matter what.
"What?" Sarge asked, seeming genuinely surprised.
"Billy Marsh," Jake replied.
"Who?" Grover answered, looking confused. "Is that the kid that went missing from Burlwood a month or two ago?"
"You know damned well it is," Jake insisted.
Grover laughed again, smiling as he spoke. "I didn't kill Billy Marsh, Jake, I'm retired! Is that what brought you here? Oh, now that's really a laugh!"
"What's with the van, then?" Jake chirped. "You gonna tell me that's not the van that Billy Marsh disappeared in?"
"Look," Sarge said, "I have no idea what you're talking about! A friend of mine dropped that van off and asked me to keep an eye on it, that's all"
"What friend would that be? Rusty, I suppose?" Jake asked.
"No, Big Bird," Grover laughed.
Jake rolled his eyes, not believing the man's claim of innocence in the least. He was obviously a cold and calculated monster, how could he be taken at his word in an affair such as this? Curiosity clawing its way through the anxiety, he wanted the answers to questions that plagued him for most of his life before he left the mortal coil.
"Why did you guys do it?" He asked the killer, the man who would be his killer. "Why would you do such things to
children?"
"I would've been happy to do it to adults," Grover claimed, "it was Rusty who liked the little boys!"
"So, what?" Jake began. "It was a sexual thing?"
"For Rusty it was," Sarge explained. "He picked everybody out because he liked them for one reason or another, I dunno, he would just tell me let's do that one. Usually, I did the pick up. I had all the drugs from my work with horses, for sedating them a bit and such so I could work on their hooves. Once I had them, I took them to the church for him. He did whatever he was gonna do, and then I strung them up and set them free."
"Why?" He asked again.
"It was a spiritual thing for me," Grover said. "There's a lot of energy released in death. There's a lot of energy in the blood -- especially in children's blood, as I found out -- and I collected it for ritual use. I drank it in religious practice, you see? Made offerings of it. You'd be surprised how it rejuvenates, I tried to get Rusty to take some to help with his ailments. He'd be in much better shape had he taken me up on that, I guarantee it."
Disgusted, Jake let it die there. There was nothing more to be said, nothing that he wanted to hear, at least. Still terrified but refusing to let it show, he just waited while Sarge seemed to be reflecting over his entire murderous career. The man said nothing, just looked around his home and fingered the bones around his neck like they were made of gold and worth a fortune beyond belief.
"It's a powerful thing, Jake," he eventually said, his firearm still leveled off at his visitor's head. "Death, I mean."
Considering what death would mean for him, Jake realized that he agreed with the madman. The brutality, the finality of it. The tearing asunder of soul and spirit -- should they really exist -- from the mortal body either through violence or the failure of flesh and blood. Death was a powerful thing. What's more, as proved by the mixup with Timmy Lane, it was indiscriminate and it was unforgiving.
"I've often wondered what it must be like," Sarge continued. "I imagine it must be a bit like sleep, but in sleep your brain is still functioning. Your mind is still intact. That's not the case in death, obviously, as death is the cessation of all bodily function including brain activity. The destruction of the mind, the erasure of everything we've ever learned or experienced. That's wild to me." His gun still trained, Grover put a finger of his opposite hand to his lip and considered everything he knew of death. Apparently thinking of something interesting to him, he sat up a bit and took a professorial posture. "You know, I'm not sure if you're aware of this," he continued, "but the medical science people say that there is brain activity for seven minutes after the rest of the body is dead. Did you know that, Jake?"
Jake shook his head. "No, but I know that there are people who know I'm here," he lied, hoping in his anxiety to stave off what Grover had in store for him.
"Of course there are," he returned, sounding sarcastic. "But as I was saying, some people, many of whom are far more educated than either you or I, purport that a person might be aware for some or all of that time. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine laying there, knowing that you just died and watching, hearing everything that goes on for seven minutes? Seeing your family members all around, if they happen to be, and watching them cry. Hearing them shout out in sorrow at losing you, and there's nothing that you can do about it. Can you imagine how terrifying it must be to know that it's over, yet still be conscious to what's happening until your brain finally gives up the fight? What must that feel like? The permanent closure of your mind. The final gasps of all that remains of you. Can you imagine? Can you, Jake?"
"No, but I don't have to imagine that people will come looking for me," he bluffed again.
"I imagine it must be terrible," Sarge conceded, ignoring Jake's lies about people coming after him. "In light of that, I've often wondered what happens when it's the destruction of the brain that causes death. I mean, let's say someone is shot in the head. Let's say a bullet has destroyed some of the infrastructure of the mind... what happens then? Does the rest of the brain continue to function? Is the person still conscious and aware of what's happening if his brain has been destroyed? Or is that a get out of jail free card?"
"Look," Jake began, "if you're trying to scare me --"
"Scare you?" Grover interrupted, locking his eyes on Jake's once again and staring through to his soul with his intensity. "I'm not trying to scare you, son!" He chuckled. "I'm trying to learn you something!"
Without pulling his eyes away, without moving a muscle more than those in his right arm, Sarge suddenly and abruptly drove the muzzle of his revolver up into the roof of his own mouth.
"Wait!" Jake shouted, throwing up his hands in shock and for reasons he didn't understand as another loud bang echoed off the walls of the room.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl again as immediately the top of Grover's head was opened to the atmosphere, blood and brain matter flying up like a geyser -- no, like a volcano, angry and violent -- and splattering onto ceiling above the two of them with incredible force. A crimson shower of liquid, pebbles of skull and globs of gray matter rained down on them from above, soaking Jake and the deceased body of Sarge alike. Feeling the wetness all over him, turning up his hands to see his palms covered in red, Jake recoiled in disgust and shock. Wiping his hands on his clothes, wiping his face and hair with them, he felt as though the blood were some sort of caustic acid that he couldn't allow to rest on his flesh for any extended period lest he be wounded by its being there. In his mind, he'd been bathed in the blood. It felt as though every inch of his body was slimed with it, as though he was drenched with it from head to toe. It was as though he'd wandered into the plunge pool of mighty Niagara and stood as thousands of gallons of red fell over him per second. It was still raining down on him when he pulled his thoughts from the distressing sensation and looked down to where Sarge's body rested.
Looking at Grover, at what was left of him after the blast, Jake saw his face contorted in horror and surprise. In the moment, it looked as though he were aware... as though he was suffering in incredible misery while Jake sat wiping bits and droplets of him off of his body. Seeing this felt good, and it worked to calm Jake in the terror of all that had happened and been revealed.
Still, the experience on the whole was mortifying. In all of his life, he'd never seen someone actually die... he'd seen a few dead bodies, sure, but he'd never been present in a place when the passing actually occurred. Reflecting on the moment that it happened, Jake was sure he felt the incredible release of energy that Sarge had spoken of. It was like the shockwave of a massive explosion, spreading through the room in all directions into infinity without restraint. When it passed, the space was filled with a vacuum of desolation that was tangible... palpable. If Jake had been nervous about death before, he was petrified of it now, having seen its work. Having felt the sackcloth robe of The Reaper brush against his flesh as it claimed the soul of Grover Simmonds, Jake had no desire to ever look upon the thing again, for it was brutal and it was ruthless.
Feeling some need for revenge as the shock diffused, wanting to claim some drive for vengeance, he stood on his trembling legs and walked around the horned table to approach the remains of one of the Butchers Of Burlwood. Staring into his widened eyes, believing he saw awareness still behind them, he lowered himself and got so close that all Grover would see -- if he could see at all -- would be Jake's pupils, filled with hate.
"I'll see you in Hell, you fuck!" He snapped with the bitterness of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade, Ricky Marshall, Timmy Lane and Billy Marsh. He damned the man for all that he'd been, condemned him for all that he'd done, and cursed him for all of whatever eternity might be.
Trying to count out the time in his mind, trying to make sure that his face would be the very last thing that Sarge ever saw, he waited until he figured seven minutes from the time of the shot were up. Only then did he stand back up and consider what all of this me
ant for his case. He now knew who the original Butchers were, and he had the evidence of the Brougham to link Grover to the original murders. He also had Rusty linked to FGSI, a criminal organization, and he needed to nail him for the crimes of the past and present alike. He had the Dodge Ram van in the driveway, a van that would likely be linked to Our Mother Of Sorrows through a comparison of the VINs. That should be enough to have Rusty arrested. That should be enough to see him slapped in cuffs, to see him brought before a judge and condemned to die whether he lived long enough to face it or not.
Then, thinking back, he remembered the phone call that Grover had made to his former partner. A call in which he'd activated plan A -- an action that may have resulted in Sarge's suicide. Christ, what if Rusty planned to commit suicide as well? What if this was the pact, the contingency agreed on between the two of them regarding what they would do if the case were ever broken?
What if Rusty was taking steps to kill himself right now?
What potential evidence or information would be lost?
Not wanting to find out, hoping beyond hope that the man was still near Burlwood, Jake pulled out his cellphone. When he pressed the home button, he was presented with the words of a text message that he hadn't heard or felt come through. It was from Donnell, and it read simply it's Sarge! Understanding the phrase day late and dollar short more acutely than ever before in his life, he cleared the message and thumbed through his phone until he found Clyde Rambo. Pressing call, he waited as several eternities passed with the ringing and his pounding heart.
"What's up Jake?" Rambo asked.
"I just found one of your killers," he replied, his voice shaking in the let-down of adrenaline.
"One of them?"
"Yeah... Grover Simmonds... as in farrier Grover Simmonds..."
"Oh shit!" Rambo returned, adding it all up. "You have him in custody?"
"Negative," Jake responded. "He's dead, he shot himself. I'm afraid Rusty is gonna be right behind him, it's why I called. Are you in Burlwood?"
"Shit, no!" Rambo said. "I'm in Indy, and I've got both the boys with me! it looks like you're on your own with this one, Jake!"
SIXTY-ONE