“Thanks.” She released him and tucked her cast behind her. “Make sure you get some practice in.”
“Sure, but on one condition.” There was a glint in his green eyes. “Promise me, is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Aside from my neighbor, yeah.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
21
After Cheeto drove off, Ash knocked on doors to lukewarm responses. But what had she expected? She was soliciting organs, not selling Thin Mints. To make matters worse, some of the residents on Dad’s marked-up napkin weren’t the least bit familiar with Snare. When she hinted at details, she got funny looks and slammed doors. One guy told her to lay off the drugs. Another barked with laughter. Others threatened to call the cops.
Without a vehicle, she wandered the town on foot. There was no escaping the pre-blizzard cold. It swallowed her like Snare had swallowed her hand. As chills slithered beneath her jacket and jeans, she worried about getting sick. That would be her luck—getting her hand back only to catch a nasty virus before the big show.
Next on her list was Father McKagan, the priest from St. Raphael’s Church on Main Street. She didn’t like her chances of swaying him. Not if he remembered the time she’d vandalized the place.
Wiping her nose, she jogged toward the church’s brick steeple. Three stories high, it was impossible to miss among the ranch houses scattered nearby. She tried the front entrance, but it denied her. The rectory next door seemed like her best bet until she heard hammering from behind the church. There she found Father McKagan hunched over a folding table beating nails through plywood. On the ground next to him appeared to be the base for a tiny wooden house. Probably the beginnings of a manger display for Christmas.
He paused, sensing her behind him. When he turned around, she saw he’d gone gray in odd, unattractive patches. His head reminded her of a globe: dark continents scattered across pale oceans. His eyebrows scrunched together when he recognized her.
“What,” he said, sneering, “no spray-paint this time?”
Back in high school she’d spray-painted a trio of inverted crosses on the side of the church that faced I-81. At the time she’d been going through a satanic phase both musically and emotionally. When Father McKagan, a grouchy Vietnam vet, caught her in the act, he’d pinned her to the ground and roared till the neighbors across the street ran out to restrain him. Dad showed up shortly after and forced her to scrub the building till dawn. The priest supervised her, glaring the whole time like he wanted to drown her in holy water.
“Bygones, bygones,” Ash said. “Thought you priests were supposed to be the forgiving type.”
“We are. But you always struck me as the repeat-offender type.” He finished hammering a nail and wiped his brow. “Any reason why you’re interrupting me?”
“Shits and giggles mostly.” She plucked a nail from a nearby bucket and offered it to him. “That, plus I’m wondering if you’d like to be saved.”
Father snorted. “I believe that’s my line.”
“Not today. Heard you’re having kidney trouble.”
“Trouble’s an understatement.” He took the nail and pounded it through a board. “Dialysis five days a week, a diet full of lentils… It’s a real picnic.”
“Interested in a replacement?”
He perked up. “What’re you, type O?”
“No, but I know a certain someone who is.”
“A certain someone. Hmph. Would this certain someone swim through the woods?”
Ash raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“I hear confessions.”
“Great, then you’re up to speed. You interested?”
“Absolutely not.” He continued hammering. “I don’t deal with creek demons.”
“Demon? Snare’s been healing your neighbors for decades.”
“From what I understand, they’ve been held hostage for decades.”
“That’s about to change. Once Snare gets five more parts, everyone’s free to go.”
“Hmph. Sounds awfully convenient.” He hammered twice. “Though, to be fair, John’s Gospel mentions the Pool of Bethesda, which had similar healing powers.”
“How similar?”
“Not similar enough for my taste,” he said. “Besides, I can’t risk being tethered to Hollow Hills. The bishop can have me reassigned to a different church at the drop of his staff. Plus, I have an old friend, a combat buddy from Nam, who I visit when I’m not hooked up to a dialysis machine. He lives north of Clarks Summit, outside the demon’s range. I’m the only person he has at this point. If I don’t visit him, he’s alone with his nightmares.”
“Imagine being able to visit him seven days a week.”
“You’re awfully pushy.” He glared over his shoulder at her. “What do you get out of this?”
“My old man’s been stuck here forever,” she said, her empty wrist tucked away in her pocket. “He’s due for a vacation.”
“Can’t argue there.” He set down his hammer. “If anyone needs an escape from this life, it’s Karl Hudson.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I hear his confessions, remember?”
“Ah.” Ash could only imagine. “If you want to help him escape, sunset tomorrow is the deadline.”
The old priest nodded. “I’ll pray for him and the others.”
“Pray for yourself,” she said. “That you wise up by tomorrow.”
22
Never had Karl been happier to be on patrol duty. Usually the noon-to-eight shift dogged him, but after an eventful morning, he welcomed his usual routines: sipping coffee, writing speeding tickets, and settling petty disputes over property limits—that much he could handle. In fact, he felt like a man who’d just received CPR. A man who could breathe again.
Around one o’clock he checked the parking meters near the restaurants on Main. The spaces were occupied with cars he didn’t recognize, which meant the outta-towners were in for the holiday. He wrote up three tickets before he spotted Donnie Adler leaving the burrito shop.
And just like that, Karl struggled to breathe again.
But now was no time to be choking on his own air. If anyone in town needed new skin, it was Donnie Adler. Though the man wasn’t a Trader, he was the first name Karl jotted on his list of candidates. A man like him was hard to forget. One look at his face stuck with you forever.
“Mr. Adler!” Karl waved him down. “How was your meal?”
“Had the five-alarm burrito,” Adler said, rubbing his gut. “Hottest thing to hit me since, heh, you know.”
Karl did know. Two summers ago Adler, who drank like a rain gutter, got himself sloshed one night while listening to the Phillies game near his backyard firepit. The Phils blew a ninth-inning lead and Adler threw a drunken tantrum that landed him in the fire. By the time he untangled himself, the left side of his face and neck had been cooked to leather. Without insurance, he couldn’t afford any cosmetic surgery, and ever since he’d been walking around town scaring kids and adults alike.
“Funny you mention that,” Karl said, gesturing at his own cheek. “Still thinking about surgery?”
“Nah.” Adler tugged his scarf up around his burnt cheek. “Not unless I can convince Bridget to sell the house. Hell, she barely lets me live in the house these days.”
Karl knew the feeling. His own marriage hadn’t been much cozier. “Listen, Mr. Alder. You got a minute? I know a doctor who can help you for cheap.”
Adler waved him off. “Gotta be heading home. They have me on graveyard shift these days. If I hit the pillow now, I can wake up for Wheel of Fortune.”
“You don’t want your skin fixed for free?”
“Free?” Alder wiped his lips. “What’s the catch?”
Karl hesitated. Partly because that was a tough question to answer, but also because he didn’t want to convince Adler. Not entirely. When Karl traded his knees, he’d received new internal parts, but the flesh around th
e site remained scarred to this day. Nothing as ugly as Alder’s damage, but Karl wanted the scars gone. One final dip in the creek could solve his problems.
Still, Alder needed it more. The way his cheek looked, someone might’ve thought he regularly used a lit grill for a pillow.
“One catch,” Karl said. “You won’t be able to leave town till after sunset tomorrow.”
“Huh.” Adler wiped his lips again. “This isn’t one of those shady black-market operations, is it? Like when they give you a donkey’s liver or something?”
“No, nothing like that.” A bell jingled, and Karl checked over his shoulder. Someone exited the diner. He lowered his voice. “This doctor’s a pro. Been practicing thirty-two years.”
“Huh. What’s the doc’s name?”
“Doctor…Snare.”
“Snare, huh? Anybody around here get treated by him?”
“Her, actually. And she treated my knees years back.”
“Same lady does knees and skin?” Adler squinted. His thinning hair danced in the breeze. “Aren’t docs supposed to specialize?”
“Not when they’re this good.”
“Yeah? Can anybody else vouch for her?”
Here was the tricky part. Karl could drop names, including the man’s next-door neighbor, but it was risky. These people might notify Candace. Until further notice, he needed to gather trade candidates in secret.
“I can’t name names. It’s a privacy thing.”
The door to How’ve Ya Bean swung open. Bill Werner stormed out, scowling. “What you doing in front of my shop, Karl?”
Karl cleared his throat. “My job, Bill.”
“You’re killing business. People see cops and get scared away. They think of tickets and arrests when they should be thinking about our $8.99 lunch special.” Werner marched over, fists on hips. Karl wondered if either of those fists had struck John MacReady’s face the other night. “How about you scram? Let Donnie Boy head home. He just ate. It won’t settle right in his stomach with you harassing him.”
“It’s okay,” Adler said, yawning. “Karl was telling me about this—”
“Parking ticket,” Karl interrupted, meeting Werner’s eyes. With a click of his pen he drew an X on the top sheet of his ticket pad. “We were discussing a parking ticket, and Mr. Adler talked himself out of it.”
“Right. Thanks, Karl.” Adler headed toward a Ford Bronco that looked as rough as he did. Before climbing in, he added, “We should grab a beer later. Tonight after Wheel of Fortune.”
“Sure,” Karl said. “But make it a club soda.”
Werner grunted. His eyes, two narrow slits, were fixed on Karl. In the years since Ashlee set fire to the restaurant’s kitchen, Karl had received many angry looks from Bill Werner.
This time, however, there was no anger in his eyes.
Only suspicion.
23
By two o’clock, Ash had nothing to show for her efforts other than a runny nose and a crumpled list of trade candidates. With nobody left to bother, she headed down the Main Road toward Narducci’s Pizza, the only place in walking distance that sold booze. Though she was freezing, she wanted nothing more than an ice cold beer. She couldn’t wait to head home, share a drink with Trent, and talk him into trading his leg.
The lunch crowd stuffed the pizzeria. Ash waited in line, her mouth watering from the smell of melted cheese and signature sauce. At the podium a perky Asian girl with cheek-length hair asked if Ash wanted the buffet or a sit-down meal.
“Just a six-pack to go.”
“Oh, okay!” The girl hurried behind the counter. “What kind?”
“Blue Moon. Make it two six-packs.”
The girl slid open the fridge and grabbed a pair. She set them on the counter. Rather than ringing up the register, she tilted her head and stared at Ash as if transfixed.
“Got a problem with me?”
“What? No. I—I like your hair. It looks cool. Real edgy.”
“Oh.” Ash brushed her dreads. “Thanks.”
The girl rang her up and took her cash.
“Is your boss here?” Ash asked, recalling that Gina Narducci was a Trader. Given that the woman had kids, she might be interested in Snare’s offer—especially if those kids planned on moving out someday. Narducci might even be compelled to name some prospective Traders. “Mind grabbing her?”
The girl disappeared into the kitchen. Ash looked at the pair of six-packs and wondered how she’d carry them home. She could only grab one by the handle. The other she’d have to hug to her side. Realizing this made her stomach turn hollow. She’d be in serious trouble if Snare didn’t deliver that new hand.
Gina Narducci exited the kitchen with grace despite her sauce-spattered apron. For a woman in her fifties, she looked like a walking miracle. Ash might’ve guessed that Narducci had traded her whole body, given how slim and fit she was. As she approached the counter, her wiry hair glimmered beneath a neon-green Rolling Rock sign. Her fiery black eyes met Ash’s.
“Yes?” She sounded irritated.
“Need to talk to you,” Ash said.
“We’re not hiring.”
“Hell no, not that.” Ash winced at the thought of waiting tables. She’d worked at an Italian joint outside Philly for three years. The free food rocked, but the tips were shit, and her boss pressured her into wearing turtlenecks to hide her tattoos, even on summer days. “Would you like to leave town?”
Narducci’s eyes narrowed. “Is this a joke?”
“It’s regarding, you know, the Traders.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Relax, I’m Ash Hudson. Karl’s daughter.”
Narducci’s mouth rounded into an O of understanding. “I see. Well, Ash, I was under the impression that Candace forbade you from making those trades.”
Ash flinched. “Candace told you?”
“We just wrapped up an emergency meeting. She said we weren’t taking that thing’s offer. And for good reason. If Snare were to double-cross us, my two bambinos would grow up without their mother.”
“Wait, I talked to Snare. That’s not—”
Narducci held up a hand. “Save your breath. I’m not interested.”
“You’d rather be stuck here? How old are your kids?”
“Thirteen and twelve.”
“How do you plan on visiting them in college?”
“I don’t. Trust me, I knew what I was getting into when I traded. And I have zero regrets.” The bell jingled above the door. Narducci flashed a bright smile. “Hello! Table or booth?”
Ash saw no point in sticking around. With a sigh she gathered her six-packs and headed outside. Behind her the door slapped shut, then jingled open again.
Someone chirped behind her.
“Wait up!” It was the hostess. She joined Ash outside and looked around before saying, “I’m Berke. Berke Toyama. I’m a Trader. Can we really leave? Like for real?”
Ash gave her the cliff notes. When she finished, Berke’s face lit up.
“Holy craps!” Berke jittered in place as if trying to stomp out an ant colony. “If Snare lets us leave, I can drive my dad’s Mustang on the highway. And I can visit Alex at Penn State. And I’ll finally be free.”
“Sounds like you’re on board.”
Berke nodded enthusiastically. “Listen, I get off work at four. Meet me back here then.”
“Why?”
“So we can take down the cameras.”
24
“Quit your bitching and hurry up,” Candace said, smacking her shovel off the bark of a dead pine. “If this doesn’t get done, you three’ll be shoveling here during your Thanksgiving dinners. Now move it.”
That shut them up. Briefly. Karl, who’d sacrificed his lunch break to be here, hadn’t been complaining, but Bill and Rosita Werner kept running their mouths. Since entering the woods, their tongues outpaced their legs. Normally Karl would tune them out, but right now every word mattered. Sooner or later, i
f the Werners had indeed abducted Mac, they would slip up and reveal themselves.
Hopefully.
“I don’t see why I have to be out here,” Rosita said, trudging between the pines. She hunched, carrying her shovel like it weighed five hundred pounds. “Karl’s supposed to do the digging. If he can’t finish, how is it my fault?”
“That lazy bum probably slacked off this morning,” Werner said, talking as if Karl wasn’t there. That warmed Karl’s blood to a slow boil. “Next thing you know he’ll have us running patrol duty. Doing all his jobs for him.”
“Ground’s rock solid, Bill.” Much as Karl wanted to tell him off, he needed to keep his tone civil. More than that, he needed to catch them off guard. “Plus, it’s hard digging with a heavy heart. You’ll see. You and Mac were close, right?”
“Not really,” Werner said, twigs snapping underfoot. “Been a long while since we drove trucks together.”
“How can you act so callous?” Candace said, double-teaming Werner. “For Christ’s sake, you invited Mac into the group.”
“So what? Doesn’t mean I wanna be out here freezing my handsome face off. Especially when it’s your job, Karl. What good are you?”
“More good than you,” Karl muttered.
“What’d you say?” Werner said, veering toward him. “Say it again!”
“Keep moving,” Candace said, marching between them. “Both of you.”
They trekked further into the woods. Karl studied the Werners’ faces. All these years he’d known them to be a bitter, grumbling pair. For the moment they stayed in character. No telltale signs of guilt. He wondered if that would change once they reached the grave site.
As the terrain steepened, Werner grew short of breath. He paused to gulp air and grumble about overexerting himself. That was Karl’s fault, of course. Further along, Rosita tripped over a tree root. She hit the ground and dirtied her white peacoat. That was Karl’s fault, too. Everything was.
Bad Parts Page 9
