Shallow Veins

  “I don’t consider myself a Christian, either.”

  “Ahh, I see what this is about.” He leans back, settling into a position he’s been in thousands of times before. “In my experience, men know what they know until they don’t. You don’t have the belief, and that’s alright, that’s your choice and choices change. Whether or not you follow the faith, though, you still have a soul. Around these parts, that makes you my responsibility.”

  "That's a nice sentiment and all, but I don't see the point in all this."

  "Then I don't see the point in talking about a case that isn't a case with an officer of the law."

  "Fair enough.” Butcher clears his throat. “The truth is I don't even know how to do this."

  "It usually starts with something like, 'Forgive me father for I have sinned...'"

  "It's been never since my last confession," Butcher finishes.

  "Not bad, but try to take it seriously. You just might get something out of the experience."

  “Taking things seriously isn't my strong suit.” Butcher sighs, rubbing his face again. "You could say I'm not the most involved father.”

  "How is your son taking the divorce?"

  "He ran away the other day, came to see me at the station. I know I should have been mad or worried, but to be honest it was just good to see him.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “I cuss. I carry a gun.”

  “You use your gun to protect others, that's not a sin. Though the cussing you should probably work on. There's nothing else you wish to confess, my son?”

  “Other than an unhealthy love for beef jerky, nothing really comes to mind.”

  Father Curtis takes a deep breath through his nose. Lets it out. “Believe it or not, I find confessional to be quite relaxing. The smell of the wood, the way the world disappears, opening people up to the possibility of healing. When I was young, before I knew what my path would be, I spent a great deal of time looking for trouble. I stole. I fought. I sought out anger and lust and greed, and at the time I thought it was because I wanted those demons in my life. Looking back now, I realize the true meaning behind my adolescence. Why I spent so many years wallowing in sin.”

  “Why's that?”

  “To recognize it in the fight to come. Officer Butcher, until our destiny is made clear, we often struggle with the feelings and instincts inside of us. Some find an outlet, a healthy way to expend the energy in good ways, noble ways. They paint, they sing, they dance, they give of themselves to those who need it. While others of us find ways to fill the hole inside us in ways which help no one, least of all ourselves.”

  Butcher’s face hardens. All at once he sees what the priest is doing, and he’s never been a man to appreciate being manipulated- good intentions or otherwise.

  “It’s getting late,” he says, “I didn’t expect this to take so long.”

  “What better use of your time is there than seeking answers?”

  Butcher stands. “Seeking a paycheck. Thanks for your time, Father.” He grabs his hat and exits the small booth, halfway across the small church before the priest manages to get to his feet and open his own door.

  “Watch your step, Butcher,” he calls out. “There are dark days ahead.”

  Butcher stops walking. He turns and advances on the priest until he’s right in the man’s startled face. “Look, maybe in your line of work you can get away with a bunch of bullshit hyperbole, but in mine we take things a little more literal. So I strongly recommend you don’t go threatening police officers.”

  The old man holds his ground. “What’s wrong with Officer Banks?”

  “Who said something's wrong with him?”

  “Oh, certainly not you. You’ve been careful to say anything but, and yet you have the look of a man who’s trying to hide something.”

  "Enlighten me, Father, what am I hiding?"

  "That your gut is telling you there's something very wrong with this town. That there are forces at play here you don't understand, but you can feel them working in the shadows. Watching, planning, whispering."

  Butcher shakes his head. "I was warned about you.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That you're a crazy, old man who lost touch with reality. The fool I am, I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. I see now that it was a waste of time."

  He walks away, leaving behind a hurt-looking priest in an empty church.

  **

  Kevin doesn't know what to do with himself when Mary is at work. He sits at his computer hoping to get lost in a world of ones and zeroes, even more than normal now that the physical world, the tangible plane has shown itself to be a place of uncertainty and horror. More than anything he pines for the cold, calculated state a keyboard and screen have to offer.

  He checks his email, where he finds he's been fired off all but one project for either not delivering code or responding on time, and that job is one he never wanted in the first place. He types up a brief email to the young woman heading the project, in which he tells her it's been nice working with her but he has to focus on personal matters and won't be able to complete the work as required, but he hopes to work with her on future ventures and wishes her all the best. He deletes everything he's written, replaces it with the word "Quit" and sends that instead.

  Life is too short for niceties, he realizes. All the tact in the world won't stop the train from crushing you, or the monster from tearing your arms from their wet sockets.

  He codes on a project of his own until he drifts into that other place, where everything falls away and nothing matters. So he's unaware when the rib cage crawls through the door.

  Its feelers of sunflower stems and fingertips rub the walls like young lovers, touching their way across the floor until they find Kevin's chair. Bubbles form at the top of the rib cage which grow and pop and form eyes, eyes that rise up on stilts of bone to look over Kevin's shoulders.

  Kevin is oblivious to their presence on both sides of him, only inches from his face, and The Self is oblivious to the meaning of the strange language it sees on the screen. Wanting to know the actions of its hostage, wanting to know everything about humans in case the knowledge can be used against them, or against The Self, it snakes its feelers up Kevin's pant leg and attaches to him.

  They connect.

  Like before their minds become one, except now Kevin is in a different state, a different place, and the connection sneaks up on him, pulled from one cold place into another. The place of ones and zeroes is pulled with him, filling the black, vast space of The Self's interior; two worlds, both false, joining at the atoms, joining by their nothings.

  “Joining,” Kevin whispers.

  Chapter Five: As the Skeletons March

  At work, Mary feels like a caricature of a human being. A puppet, one of those stick figures made of cloth and sticks to dance across a cardboard stage and entertain children. She moves the way people are supposed to, eats when she should be hungry and talks when talked to. She mirrors facial expressions in order to not seem cold or suspicious. But behind the mask of smiling skin, she’s numb, feeling nothing except a distant, muted terror.

  As she walks past the break-room, she hears two of her co-workers, Jose’ and Amy, talking over their lunches in hushed tones.

  Amy says, “You heard about Officer Banks?”

  Mary stops. She stays out of sight, her stomach clenched tight.

  “What did he do now?”

  “This time it might be what someone did to him. He’s been missing since Friday.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Some new cop has been asking around about him. Real hush-hush, though, like the department’s trying to cover it up.”

  Jose’ clucks his tongue. “That’s dumb. They wouldn’t cover up something like that.”

  “They would if it kept the town from panicking.”

  “About what?”

  “A serial killer.” Amy’s voice drops. “Do
n’t tell anyone this, but Ronnie pulled a pickup out of the creek this morning, and when he got it towed up onto the grass, it was Peter Johnson’s.”

  “He was just here yesterday!”

  “Was he?”

  “So how did his truck end up in the creek?”

  “I don't know, it's like someone's going around murdering assholes.”

  “Well he came to the right town.”

  They both laugh, covering up the sound of Mary's retreat. Above their heads, on the cork-board where minimum wage postings and photos from work dinners are posted, a small, typewritten note colored in with orange and yellow markers has been hung.

  It reads: Halloween Costume Party! Drinks and Scares! This Saturday, October 30th at the Robins House. RSVP with Mary.

  **

  Officer Monton waits tens full rings before he hangs up the phone and shakes his head at Sheriff Green.

  To the station-house the Sheriff says, “Alright, listen up.” The room quiets down and heads turn his way. “You may have noticed it's been quiet around here, and smells a bit less like cheap cologne. That's because our own Officer Banks just had his third no call, no show in as many days. Now before you go celebrating that he's gone and quit, you should know that Butcher has done some informal questioning around town.” He shoots Butcher a knowing glare. “As it turns out, no one's seen him in the last few days.”

  A low murmur moves through the officers.

  “That's it, get it out of your systems. Gossip all you want in here, but out there if the subject comes up, and only if it comes up, the official story is Banks took some time off to visit family.”

  “That sounds like horse-shit,” Officer Stroud says.

  “It is horse-shit, but between this and that plumber disappearing, we don't need the whole town up in arms about some secret mass-murderer conspiracy. You know how the big city newspapers love to invent stories about us Podunk towns, painting us as backwater savages. The idea here is to buy us some time until either Banks crawls out of the hole-in-the-wall he likely found his way into, or Butcher proves he's the super-cop he thinks he is and finds our man.”

  Butcher looks around the room, feeling like the ugliest girl at the dance. “Listen, I didn't-”

  “I'll have a word with you after,” Sheriff Green says. “For the rest of you, help Butcher with whatever he needs when he asks for it, but otherwise it's business as usual. Got it?”

  A dozen heads grumble and nod. The Sheriff turns to Butcher, already at his side.

  “Don't think for a second I don't know everything that goes on in this town. If a squirrel farts, I hear it.”

  “Gross. But with all due respect, sir, you made it clear that Banks was my responsibility.”

  “While that's true, I still expect to be kept in the loop. If you'd come to me first I could have told you where to look, or which bartender's daughters can't keep secrets.”

  Butcher nods, planning to have a word with Katie. “I'll start with the neighbors,” he says, “pretend I'm reaching out, introducing myself to the town.”

  “That's fine, but the Robins' are off-limits.”

  “What? Why?” Butcher looks sideways at the Sheriff. As the site of a previous disappearance, the Robins house is practically a requirement.

  “Maybe you missed the part where I didn't want this turning into gossip fuel. If you haven't found anything in a few days we'll revisit the idea, but in the meantime I need your word that you won't make any visits to the Robins couple, scheduled or unscheduled.”

  “Alright, fine,” Butcher says, “you have my word.”

  **

  Butcher pulls up to the Robins house, noticing one of their two cars is parked up the driveway. He stops all the way at the end of the driveway, close to where it meets the road, because he's found it makes people uneasy when a cop keeps his distance. Where some officers prefer to ask their questions in ways which don't raise suspicions, Butcher knows that, with some steaks, the only way to cook them is to burn them.

  A sudden and violent thirst hits Butcher. His mouth feels packed with cotton, and when he tries to swallow he can barely manage to, his throat like the desert, dry as death and twice as hot. He takes three, long swallows from his flask without so much as a breath between.

  Without Banks’ endless talking in the way, it becomes apparent just how quiet the Robins property is. Butcher hears, like Kevin before him, how the insects don’t buzz at his feet, the birds don’t chirp or warble or flap overhead, noises so ever-present in Shallow Creek they become like a soundtrack for everyday life; the undercurrent of every conversation and moment from morning to night. But here, other than the low whistle of wind, there’s nothing. No hunger. No mating calls. No signs of life.

  “Seems I’m not the only one keeping their distance.”

  A distant barking pierces the silent afternoon. It takes Butcher a moment to find its owner- twenty yards out, in the longer grasses leading out to the tree-line, Felix’s hairy face pokes out. His fur is dirty and matted. He has the look of a dog who’s spent some time outdoors in the leaves and the rain, his stare focused on Butcher.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Felix lets out a chain of staccato barks. There’s a nervous edge to his voice that concerns Butcher, the way a hunting dog sounds when it becomes cornered by its prey. The second he takes a step toward the dog, though, it bolts, disappearing into the thick grass.

  Butcher watches the field, waiting for the dog to return. He can’t shake the feeling that it was in trouble or found something out in the field that doesn’t belong there.

  The dog doesn’t come back. He leaves it be, returning to the issue at hand.

  **

  A thin stream of spit runs from the side of Kevin’s open mouth and down his chin. His eyes rolled back in his skull, the twitching whites look not at the computer screen but through it, into the spaces beyond, the distances between, a computer world in which he's played and worked for years but never like this, never so deeply. His bare feet soak in a fleshy pool of floating teeth from which splotched vein-wires lead beneath the floorboards, carrying the information passed to them from Kevin’s mind and through his skin, bits of data turned into DNA and chemical impulses for The Self to swallow.

  Endlessly, The Self searches. It absorbs and devours information the way it does people, a newly discovered food. The longer it stays connected to Kevin, the more it enjoys the flavor.

  Kevin is so deep in his digital coma he doesn't hear the doorbell ring. After a moment, The Clot appears at the doorway, all oozing scabs and ingrown hair.

  “Tthere is someonnne at the door.”

  The plug is pulled. Kevin's eyes swim back into place. “Ignore it,” he answers, his voice like a heroin haze.

  “Tthat would not be wise. It is a mman with a baddge. Whenn they go away they come back with mmore.”

  Annoyed, but knowing The Clot is right, Kevin takes his feet from the teeth and finds his shoes. He puts them on and stomps toward the front door while his slick-skinned guest slips into the kitchen.

  **

  Butcher raises his hand to ring the bell a second time, but his finger never makes it. He winces, a small cry leaving him.

  An abrupt and brutal pain grips his temples, like a migraine but with sharper intent. The afternoon sun is an intolerable spotlight that bakes his eyeballs in their bowls. Any light smell in the air- wet grass, his own cologne, the unmistakable traces of leaves burning in a barrel somewhere nearby- become odors so obnoxious that his stomach tightens and his intestines curl like snakes, ready to be sick.

  He shuts his eyes. All his energy focuses on his nose and mouth, rhythmically drawing in and letting out breath. He tastes bile in the back of his throat but wills it away with the control of a man experienced in hangovers of all strengths, from the barely-there to the holy-shit, except this is different. This is no hangover. It feels like an attack, the way a man might feel if he were allergic to the air.

  He gathers his strength
and pushes against the pain until it budges under his force, and he doesn't stop pushing until it buckles under his will. The ache in his temples recedes to a dull screech. The overbearing lights and sounds and smells dial back to a tolerable level, and as he sucks in a great lungful of air, it's only then he realizes he hasn't drawn a breath in some time.

  He takes a few more breaths, savoring them, each one easier than the last.

  “What the hell,” he asks himself. He has the feeling of being watched, and he turns to find Kevin looking at him from the open door.

  “Good afternoon, officer.” His expression is still, unnerving. Butcher wonders how long the man has been standing there. How much he saw.

  “Yes. Afternoon.” Butcher tips his hat and composes himself. He considers asking to come in so they can sit and talk, but just the thought makes the pain and the nausea bubble up again. He trusts the feeling and drops the idea.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing at all, I'm just making courtesy calls today. You know, introducing myself around town, making sure everyone knows my face.”

  Kevin squints at him. “We've already met, if you recall.”

  “I do recall.” Butcher notices a change in Kevin's behavior since the last time they spoke, a kind of cold self-confidence he’s not fond of. “I don’t see your wife’s car in the driveway, she at work today?”

  “Why?”

  Butcher smiles. “You can go ahead and relax, Mister Robins, I’m not here for anything more than a bit of friendly conversation.”

  “I see.” Kevin looks over Butcher’s shoulder at the police cruiser. “She’s working at the moment, the same as me.”

  “You’re a computer guy if I remember. That’s a good gig you’ve got there, real good. Get to stay home all day, have the house to yourself, do whatever you feel like without the missus under foot.”

  Kevin nods, offering nothing in response.

  “Anyway, sorry to disturb you like this. You know how it is- the boss says jump and I say, into which pile of shit?” He gives Kevin a second to laugh, without effect. “You might have gotten a visit from my partner, he’s out here doing the same thing.”