Under the Overtree

by James A. Moore

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line and Patrick could almost see the thick eyebrows of Dave Brundvandt knitting together in thought. The breathing sounds made him uncomfortably aware that his customer was still on the line and most likely displeased with the present situation. “Look,” Patrick started, “I’ll give you a name in Denver, maybe you can pick up my slack, even turn a profit and start the business for yourself.” It was the last thing that Patrick wanted, but he thought the alternatives less than pleasant to contemplate; Dave didn’t normally cause the same amount of grief as some of the other people at Good Ol’ Westphalen High, but when he decided that it was time to lay a hurt on someone, he did a fine job of it.

  After almost a full minute of silence, Dave agreed to Patrick’s idea, the catch was that he wanted his good buddy Pat to come with him when he met the man in Denver. Patrick had lived too long to say no.

  Tony missed Patrick by less than three minutes and for the first time in almost six months gave the idea of doing extreme injury to another person serious thought.

  He knew most of the people that Patrick associated with and spent a good portion of his day trying to locate him. As the fruitless search continued, he grew more and more sullen; the day was rapidly going from just bad to really shitty.

  7

  The Folk watched in wry humor as the car carrying Chuck Hanson made another pass near Their woods. They knew the sheriff by sight and knew what he and his friend the doctor had in mind. The thought brought Them great amusement; They had not had a good battle of wits in all too long.

  Perhaps, They mused, it would do the sheriff good to see Them in person, something tangible for him to hunt. The idea sent shivers of delight and anticipation through Them. The Chosen was away, guarded as always by a few of Their number and They were rapidly growing bored with this world; it was always so painfully mundane, lacking in the colors and sights that made Their own home so lovely. There was no challenge here that was worthy of Their notice and They thrived on a good challenge.

  Without a conscious decision having been reached, They started forming bodies, coming out of the hiding places that They had established in the dim past, before Man had really even come to this land. They decided in the long run to give the man a fighting chance, a hint or two as strategically placed as any piece on a chessboard. A brief scare and then a clue, that would get the man thinking; and that was really all it would take, the man was sharp in thought and good at puzzles. Maybe, just maybe, They chittered, he will even surprise us.

  8

  Chuck was not having a good day and had not been having anything remotely like a good day in the last ten months. It ate him up inside to think about the people he had let down. The people of the town counted on him to ensure their safety and prevent the loss of lives. It sounded hokey, he was the first to admit that, but damn it, he really wanted to protect them.

  Chuck hadn’t had a serious relationship with any woman in the town or elsewhere for that matter, since he had taken the job of sheriff; he found a great deal of emotional comfort in his duties. Certainly, he had the same physical needs as anyone else in the world and now and then he would get together with Antoinette Scarrabelli and take care of those needs. The woman was a freakin’ nympho and if she could be believed, her husband was about as satisfying in bed as an overcooked spaghetti noodle. But he had no emotional needs that were left unanswered by his job as the town’s protector. He needed the position of sheriff as much as he needed the air he breathed. The thought of failing in that position was the equivalent of failing in a marriage to him. He hated failure.

  The need to put a stop to whatever the hell was going on in his town was as strong as any urge that he had ever experienced, mental or physical. The need to hurt whatever was doing his town harm, was almost as strong. He was the first to admit to himself that he was becoming obsessed.

  It was as he was rounding the bend on Third Avenue, coming towards town, with the Basilisk ahead of him as a marker, that They made Their move. Alan Fisk stood on the edge of the road, looking pale and sickly and holding his thumb out waiting for a car to stop and give him a lift. Chuck stopped. Not so much out of a need to give his dead friend a lift, as the need to gawk at him while his heart stuttered fearfully in his chest.

  Alan sauntered casually to the side of the car and before Chuck could get his brain back into a functioning gear, slid into the passenger seat, through the closed and locked door. The sheriff stared fish-eyed at his deceased deputy and the man stared back, eyes equally round and watery. “Chuck, you gotta listen to me. It’s in the woods, not far from Overtree.”

  Hanson tried to force himself out of the driver’s side door, neglecting in his panic to open the door first; despite his size and strength, the stubborn hatch remained closed. “Ahhhhhhhh.”

  “Chuck, listen to me. It’s in the woods, not far from Overtree. It’s bad Chuck, it’s really bad. I can’t say what it is, but it’ll only get worse if you don’t stop it.” The specter stared at him, trying to discern if what it had said was getting through to him. Sadly, it shook its faintly translucent head. “You ask Tony Scarrabelli, he can tell you what’s going on. He knows what’s happening. It’s all his fault, you ask him. You’ll see.”

  Chuck almost screamed when the fading hand reached out to caress his skin. The ghost mouthed words without sound as it dissolved into nothingness. The words might have been “Good bye” but he couldn’t be certain.

  He sat stock still for almost five minutes, the words of his deputy ringing in his ears and the sight of his friend’s ghost burning on his optic nerves. After that timeless five minutes he broke down in tears, partly of rage, partly of grief, mostly of confusion. When he had regained himself, he cautiously drove over to Rick’s house and when his friend opened the door, he stepped inside without a word. The thought of being alone was too much to bear. He knew before the day was through, he’d be paging Antoinette on her beeper number. He would need the emotionless comfort she offered, if he hoped to keep his sanity.

  9

  They laughed and laughed, kicking Their feet in the air and howling Their joy into the winds. They would remember the look in his eyes for a long time to come and Their brethren would be envious of Their ingenuity.

  It was the thought of Tony Scarrabelli, being watched and stalked by the lethal man They had just scared so easily, that gave Them the greatest joy. As with the One, They both liked and hated the one called Tony. Like the Chosen, They had forgiven past trespasses against Their love, but They had not forgotten them. The day was looking brighter by the minute and They could hardly wait to decide who was next on Their list. Perhaps the Author, a few false hints would do wonders when it came to sending him in the wrong direction; They had no fear of Hanson, but the Author was closer to being right than They wanted to think about.

  Yes, They decided, the Author would be next. And They knew just the way to take care of the problem; it would be a jest worthy of the last one. The very best part was that the Author would only find out about it second hand, if he ever found out about it at all.

  10

  The car hummed like a gentle breeze and he would have it no other way. If it could actually be said that he had any friends, they could have told you that John Crowley was a man who needed his world in perfect order. They would have even gone so far as to say that he was a man that would go to any length at all to ensure that his world maintained that perfect order.

  He had no friends to say such things about him; he was far too busy for friends. He looked in the rear view mirror and studied his own face for a moment. His eyes, he decided, were too close together behind his round rimless glasses. And his nose was almost hawkish. His hair was too thin and refused to stay where he wanted it to. But, it was his teeth that annoyed him the most, he thought of himself as horse-faced, with over sized incisors trying to force their way past his thin lips. Over all, he also felt that he was far too skinny.

  Had he had any friends, they woul
d have also pointed out that John Crowley was overly critical of himself. While he was not a paragon of good looks by any means, neither was he ugly. He was simply plain.

  He looked away from the mirror and tuned in another station on the Lamborghini’s radio; try though he might, he hadn’t been able to find a classic rock station since he had entered the state of Colorado. He was fairly certain that if he heard another country song he would go insane. After almost a full minute of turning the dial fruitlessly, he decided that it was hopeless and turned the noise off. That was all right, it wasn’t that much farther.

  He slowed as the almost hidden access road came into view and with a cautious look over his shoulder, took the sharp right onto the only road that led to Summitville. He grinned from his average face and whistled tunelessly from between his teeth. “Just a few more miles, Johnny me lad, and then we can fix this little problem.” The words came out cheerfully, between the tuneless little whistling noises he made, they came out as cheerfully as the smile on his face.

  Had he had any friends, they could have told anyone curious enough to ask to get the hell out of John Crowley’s way when he smiled like that. They could have pointed out that his sunny little all-is-right-with-the-world smile, normally meant that the shit was about to hit the fan.

  And those same friends would have been more than glad to let everyone know that John Crowley was possibly the meanest sonuvabitch ever to be born. And upon seeing the man, those who had been warned would have chuckled at the very thought. Right before he started breaking bones.

  Jonathan Crowley focused his attention for a second; reality warped around him and the Lamborghini shifted forms, blurring and stretching, changing color, until it looked like and drove like a second hand Ford station wagon.

  “I haven’t seen you in a lo-ong time, Philly.” Crowley smiled, reminiscing about the past. “My, my, my, won’t you be surprised.” He whistled a little longer, almost frowning. “I guess I should have killed you the first time. Some people never learn.”

  Jonathan Crowley’s laughter was a twisted maniacal thing. Had he had any friends, they could have told you to get away and pray that he never saw you again, that laughter was a sure sign of the worst kind of trouble. The words would have been wasted. Anyone hearing that laugh would long since have run away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1

  Summitville carried the same signs of civilization as any town worth its weight in earthworms; it had a McDonald’s, a Kentucky Fried Chicken and, of course, a Pizza Hut. Without those three important elements, the town would have been less than a speck on the map. It also had that other important claim to fame, a bar on the edge of the town where the working class townspeople came to relax after too many hours of manual labor.

  As has already been pointed out, Summitville didn’t take to strangers well. So, naturally, the first place that John Crowley ended up was at Dino’s Bar and Grill. With his grin firmly in place, John stepped out of the Lamborghini cum Ford LTD and shook his head sadly. He would have told anyone that wanted to know, that he had been in a hundred towns with bars that looked exactly like this one, with its neon signs and its slat board walls and the driveway made of one hundred percent pure gravel, with a seasoning of broken glass to add to the potential tire damage. The others had not all shared the dubious name of Dino’s Bar and Grill, but the names were normally just as unimaginative. Naturally, it came with the same assortment of beat up pickup trucks and trashed Mustangs with rebuilt engines. The only places for drinking that he hated more were the ever present and equally obnoxious yuppie bars in southern California. Here he stood out like a black man at a Ku Klux Klan rally. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  In his line of work the most important person to meet in any given town, was The Law. Call it a Marshall, or a Sheriff, or even a Constable, every town of this size had at least one person who was simply The Law. Look at The Law, see what shape The Law was in and you could tell how bad off the town was.

  The catch was, you couldn’t let The Law know that you were studying how it looked, so you normally ended up getting yourself in some minor trouble in order to satisfy yourself. With his looks and the looks of his clothes—the pressed blue jeans complete with creases and the Izod dress shirt and penny loafers, Crowley doubted it would be very difficult. Carefully putting his glasses away, he stepped towards the door of Dino’s, bracing himself for yet another bout of Country Western Music.

  As soon as he stepped inside he knew he’d have no trouble meeting The Law. As he walked towards the bar, he could feel the eyes of every person following him.

  Just to add to the fun, he called loudly enough for the whole bar to hear when he ordered a Perrier with a twist of lime…

  2

  As it turned out, it was not the sheriff who answered the call from Dino’s, it was one of his deputies, a relative newcomer to law enforcement, Dave Palance. Dave was only recently out of college and had heard horror stories about how ugly bar brawls could get. He’d never doubted that the tales were true, but he had never really been prepared for the actual sight, either. No sooner did he open the door to his cruiser then the sounds of violence hit his ears. The most noticeable sound was of a man screaming in pain. He called in to let Stacy Calhoun know what was going on and she chuckled throatily. “If you’re at Dino’s, you get used to it,” she replied fondly. It was then that he remembered she used to work at the bar herself, when she was working her way through college. Dino was her mother. He never had gotten up the courage to ask how the poor woman had gotten stuck with such a name: Stacy’s legendary temper preceded her and he had no desire to get on her bad side.

  The trick, he decided, was to look confident. He was a figure of authority in the county now, not just Bubba Palance’s son. Everyone in town was simply going to have to learn that. And if the lesson was a hard one to learn, well then, he’d just have to be firm in his resolve as he was busting heads. He hitched his size twenty-eight pants up to their proper position and walked towards the door of Dino’s, scolding his traitorous knees for the way they insisted on shaking. Forcing himself to look mean, he stepped past the threshold and into Dino’s.

  Mike Byrne was the first sight to meet his eyes; the man was leaning against the wall opposite him, holding his right hand in his left, cradling the swollen pulped fingers and whimpering softly. Dave was fairly certain that it had been Mike he heard screaming a moment before. Slowly, he let his eyes roam over the rest of the establishment. Just as slowly, his eyes widened in awe of the devastation. William Phillips, father of the late Andy Phillips, was unconscious on the floor, a line of blood running from his nose to leak across his ear. His nose looked more like a bulldog’s than anything else, which was saying quite a bit when Dave considered its normal hawkish profile. The rest of the usual crowd was still on their feet, surrounding a man that Dave had never seen before.

  The stranger was grinning ear to ear, ignoring the busted lip on his face. The grin on his face was decidedly nasty, promising without the need for words, to destroy every one of the men surrounding him. Looking at the lean athletic build on the man, Dave could understand why the men seemed hesitant to do anything. The looks they gave back seemed made up equally of anger and wary respect.

  Just before Dave was finally ready to announce himself, the stranger launched himself at Dwayne Reinfeldt, one of the most notorious brawlers in town. Apparently the men had already exchanged blows, if the swelling eye on Dwayne was any indication.

  Dwayne was ready for the attack, he planted a left hook across the stranger’s jaw that snapped the man’s head back and sent him stumbling after it. Dave was now convinced that the newcomer was a lunatic; he was still smiling when he came back for more. Dwayne never had a chance. The mystery man ducked under his right arm and used his own right hook to return the damage Dwayne had inflicted a second ago. The people surrounding the two men hastily backed up as Dwayne pushed between them and grabbed for a pool cue from one of the now forgotten
billiards tables. Dave was preparing for a warning shot from his pistol—the Sheriff insisted that each man carry only blanks in the first three chambers of their revolver for just such ludicrous situations—when the stranger broad-sided Dwayne. The cue was dropped before the fight could get to the level of lethal weapons or assault with intent to kill. Dave was very happy about the change of tides, he couldn’t remember if he’d been spinning the cylinder on his pistol or not and knew that he’d have been in deep shit if he’d blown a hole in Dino’s roof. He was already chastising himself for what the sheriff had chastised him for a thousand times; his service revolver was not to be played with and he swore to himself that it would never happen again.

  The sound of Dwayne’s unconscious body crashing into the pool table was enough to pull the deputy out of his guilty thoughts. As he came back to the real world he saw the burly man fall to the ground, a beefy pile of loose bones and bloodied teeth.

  Somewhere along the way, somebody had noticed the deputy, as well as the deputy’s hand, which was now resting on his pistol. The area around the victor of the battle had been cleared entirely. Dave realized that he was now the center of every single person’s attention.

  Before a word could be spoken, Dino popped up from behind the bar with a ferocious scowl scrawled across her broad face. Meaty hands placed on even meatier hips, she glared venomously around the room and finally locked eyes with Dave. In a panic, he tried to make himself invisible realizing sadly that it was far too late for that. “Well,” demanded the barrel-shaped woman on the other side of the room, her raspy voice striking fear into the deputy’s heart. “What the hell are you waiting for? Arrest ’em all!”