by Laura Bickle
“I wish I had,” Robin said, almost inaudibly.
“You wish you had what? Not listened to the spirit?”
Robin swallowed and nodded. “But once you hear, you know . . . you can’t get away. It’s irresistible.”
“Yeah,” Owen said, looking away. “All of that weird shit that’s out there. They get into your head. And they take over.”
“Yeah.” Robin licked his lips. “For me, it was Pigin. The Toad God.” Robin looked over at him before continuing, gauging if there was any sign of incredulity.
Owen said nothing, kept his expression neutral.
Satisfied, Robin went on. “I first met Pigin a little more than twenty years ago. Out in the woods. I thought I was stoned outta my mind, you know? I’d been fishing in a creek, hooked something heavy as hell. I hauled on that line for hours before a huge black toad hopped up out of the water. It was . . . as big as a fucking car. It yanked on my line, and I went sprawling.
“And then it was on me. It smelled terrible . . . like rotting flesh. Eyes as big as softballs, black as tires. It had all these sores over it, like something had been chewing on it. Oozing and disgusting. I knew that sonofabitch was gonna eat me. Its tongue licked me, right in the face, and I started crying like a baby, begging for my life.
“This giant toad sitting on me . . . it spoke. It said that I would fill its belly for a good long while.
“I begged it. I begged it not to eat me. I told it that I would give it anything it wanted, if it would just let me go. The toad wasn’t convinced. It said . . . it said that flesh was flesh. And flesh in the hand was worth more than any promises.
“I tried to convince him that I would taste truly awful, that I’d drunk too much whiskey and wasn’t edible. He gnawed on my scalp a bit and seemed unimpressed. I told him that I could bring him food . . . cows, horses, whatever he wanted.
“And he said . . . that meat was meat. What he wanted was a servant to bring him flesh, but the good stuff. Human. If I served him, he would give me the gift of a silver tongue, the power of deception.”
“And you believed him?” Owen asked.
“Well, yeah. I was getting gnawed on by a giant talking toad. I figured that he really could grant me the ability to lie convincingly.” Robin shrugged in his chair, as if this were the most logical thing in the world. “And I agreed to it. Right then and right there. I would have given anything to that horrible toad. It climbed off me, trailing ribbons of rotting flesh. It sucked some of it from its own foot, exposing bone. It warned me to bring him innocent flesh before the next full moon . . . or else.
“It jumped into the creek, and it was gone. I thought at first that I’d had a really, really bad trip. I went home and tried to sleep it off. But when I woke up, that awful slime was on my clothes, and my hair was half chewed off. I knew . . . I knew that this creature meant business.”
Owen kept his tone neutral. “And did you become his servant?”
“Not at first. I figured that if I stayed away from the woods, I’d be safe. I dropped all the acid I could find and drank enough rotgut to forget it. And I could forget it . . . for a time. But I swear that, that . . . monster . . . was haunting me.”
“Haunting you?”
“Yeah. It was little shit, at first. Stuff I could rationalize away. Like . . . I’d walk out to my car and all the tires would be flat. The cold-water faucet would turn on in my bathroom and I wouldn’t remember having left it on. There would be these tiny little black toads that came up in my bathtub drain. All the food in my refrigerator rotted overnight. I had shitty, shitty dreams of that creature croaking at me. Stuff that I probably could chalk up to bad drugs and shitty luck and possibly a pissed-off ex-girlfriend.
“But then shit got real. I saw slimy footprints on the kitchen linoleum. Everything I ate tasted like rotten meat. Something was croaking under my bed overnight, sounding like a bullfrog on steroids. And then my house burned down.”
“Jesus,” Owen breathed. The air conditioner ticked like a watch behind them.
“Yeah, man. I went out to go get a fucking beer, and when I came back, my house was burned to the ground. I knew it was him. Pigin. He’d cursed me. The moon was waxing, and I knew I was fucked. One way or the other, I was gonna become toad food in a few days if I didn’t bring him something.
“I wound up going to crash on a client’s couch. Dude owed me some money, so I figured I could use the favor. When I got to Paul’s house, the back door was unlocked, and he was passed out on the couch. I figure that his wife was out at her waitressing job, and their daughter was asleep in bed.”
Owen was holding his breath. Paul was Anna’s father’s name. This was so close to a confession. So close. He forced himself to breathe. “Would the mom have been cool with you staying over?”
“Never met her. It’s not like she was around much. Paul did most of the watching of the kid. But . . . not that night. Not that night.” He shook his head and closed his eyes.
“Not that night when?”
“Not that night when I took her. I took my last hit of acid and a bump from Paul’s stash to get my courage up. I could hear Pigin’s voice in my head, telling me that the moon was full and that time was running out.”
“You weren’t worried about waking up Paul?”
“Paul was no longer in this world. I mean, dude had pissed himself, and I knew he wasn’t waking up until his wife got home and started screaming at him.
“Anna was sleeping in her room. I got her dressed, bundled her up, and took her to the Toad God. She didn’t even wake up,” Robin said.
Owen forced his expression to remain soft and neutral, though his heart pounded in wrath. He wanted to wrap his hands around Robin’s neck and squeeze until his eyes exploded. “She didn’t wake up when you took her to Pigin?”
“No. She slept in the car. She slept when I carried her to the spot in the woods where I’d seen Pigin. I wandered around there for what seemed like hours. The moon was high overhead, and I was afraid I was too late.
“And then I heard him, that croaking from the water. He told me to bring Anna to him. He said her name.”
Owen’s heart hammered.
“I held her body over this old well, and she woke up. I remember . . . I remember the fear in her eyes and that she screamed for her mother. I let her go . . . imagining that she was going to die fast, painlessly.”
Owen fought down the urge to punch the sonofabitch.
“I don’t think it happened that way. It took a long time . . . for the thrashing and shrieking to stop.” Tears ran down Robin’s face. “Eventually . . . it was quiet. Pigin came out of the well. He told me that he’d give me the silver-tongue magic. But there was a catch. He said: ‘Those who hear your voice will believe your lie . . . but only just one.’
“I realized that the silver tongue wasn’t my ticket to paradise. I could lie successfully to someone . . . once. And that was it. I could lie to the first cop who came knocking at my door, make him believe my answer to his first question. And that was great as far as it went, but after that . . .” He stared up at the ceiling again. “Hell, my ex-wife still doesn’t believe that I didn’t cheat on her.”
“Are you lying to me now?” Owen asked. He swallowed down the rage in his voice, keeping his tone even.
“No. Ask me again if you want to be sure.”
“Are you lying to me about the death of that little girl?” He stuffed his rage right down into his gut, where it burned like a swallowed lit cigarette.
“No.” Robin sighed. “No.”
There was a moment of quiet. It was like the room exhaled, this secret out in the open. The air conditioner hissed, and it sounded like something croaked beneath it. Then, Robin said: “Am I going to prison?”
Owen’s mouth was dry. There wasn’t a jury in the world who’d convict a guy in a mental hospital who confessed to a crime without a lawyer present. Owen knew that. And the idea that Robin could be spinning yarns, especially about a flesh
-eating Toad God, really cast doubt on the confession. But Owen believed him. And he didn’t think it was the gift of the silver tongue.
“I don’t think so. But I would like to put this matter to rest. To let Anna rest. She deserves that much.”
Robin pursed his lips, perhaps regretting what he’d said. “I guess it doesn’t matter much whether I’m locked up here or the state pen. I’m not getting out anytime soon.”
“I really doubt you are,” Owen said genuinely.
A sharp rap came at the door. Owen glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back to see you soon.”
Robin nodded in the chair as Owen stood. The killer said quietly, “You know, I still hear him.”
“Hear who?”
“Pigin. In my head.”
“What’s he saying?” Owen’s skin crawled. He didn’t hear anything. He didn’t think he heard anything. That hum in the background was just the air conditioner, right, and not a voice?
Robin looked at him and whispered, as if he didn’t want the Toad God to hear: “That I’ll never be free of him. And he’s always, always talking to me, even when I sleep. But I think I can be free of him.”
“How?”
“I think . . . he can die. If you kill the Toad God for me . . . I’ll sign whatever statements you want before a judge, lawyer, and Jesus Christ. I’ll serve out my time wherever you want. Here, prison, doesn’t matter. Because then . . . it’ll be quiet. And I’ll be free.”
Owen was silent. He didn’t have any desire to help this piece of human trash. None at all. But he did want to solve this crime for Anna’s sake, to give her some eternal peace. And helping Robin, as disgusting as that thought was, might be the only thing that could.
The psychiatrist poked her head in the room. “Time’s up,” she announced cheerily.
The orderly slid past her to the chair, presumably to let Robin up.
Owen didn’t say anything more to Robin. He followed the psychiatrist down the hallway, trying to digest the bizarre tale.
“Did you have a good talk?” she asked.
Owen knew better than to tell her. “Yeah. I think he can tie up some loose ends for us.”
She led him out into the area with the day room. “I should warn you. That patient rarely tells the truth. Most people seem to believe him at the outset, since he’s very believable and seems coherent. But we all learn, after a while, that he’s not to be trusted. We only let the same group of staff deal with him, and we keep him away from the other residents for that reason. He’s . . . problematic.” Her brow wrinkled, and Owen wondered what lies he’d told her.
“What kinds of things does he lie about?”
The psychiatrist pursed her lips, as if she didn’t really want to say. “When he first came here, he convinced another patient that he could speak to demons. That patient committed suicide. We kept him away from other residents after that. But then, he convinced a guard that he had buried the cash from a bank robbery in a field. The guard was ready to take him to the place, to show him where the money was, but the plan was discovered. That guard no longer works here.”
Owen considered that a plausible warning. “Thank you. I’ll be very sure to corroborate anything he says independently.”
The psychiatrist nodded. “Just be careful with him, Sheriff.”
Owen’s eyes roved over the day room, looking for Anna. The ghost of the little girl was still sitting at the table. The checkers game was nearly done, and the board was covered in black markers. She grinned at the men sitting at the table and slid off her chair to join Owen. The middle-aged man she’d been playing with waved at her.
Owen walked to the entrance and signed out. He was at the parking lot by the time he felt it was safe to talk to Anna.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling brightly up at him. “They taught me to play checkers. I won.”
“I saw.”
“And it was nice to talk to people. I mean, I like talking to you. But different people.”
Other people did see her. He nodded. “If you like, I could bring you back.”
“Okay. The people there are nice.” She scooted into the passenger seat of the SUV when he opened the driver’s-side door. Her brow furrowed. “But you said you were talking to a bad man. Are all the people there bad?”
“No, not at all. Most of them just have an illness that they need to see a doctor for. That place is run by doctors who help people. Most of them get better, and they go home, just like I did last winter.”
“Okay. That makes sense.”
Owen got into the SUV and closed the door. He started the engine to get the air conditioner going. “Anna, I need to talk to you about something.”
She squinted at him. “Okay.”
“The man I went to talk to today may have had something to do with your murder.” He wanted to be honest with Anna. She deserved that, and so much more from him and everyone else.
“Who . . . who was it?” she asked quietly.
“The man I talked to today was a guy named Robin. He said he took you while your dad was asleep.”
Anna squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t remember.” Or maybe she didn’t want to. Anna always claimed that she only remembered bits and pieces from that night, none of which made any sense when assembled.
“You deserve justice, kiddo. You deserve to have this solved.”
She rubbed her nose. “I’m scared.”
“Of Robin? He can’t hurt you now. I won’t let him.”
She shook her head, and her algae-coated blond hair stuck to her cheek. “No. I’m afraid of . . . remembering. Of what comes after. Of . . . of going away.”
Owen’s gut twisted. Here he was, trying to solve the case to give her some eternal rest, and she didn’t want to go. “Anna. You don’t . . . you don’t want to go to heaven? I mean . . . I think that’s what would happen if we solve your murder.” Owen had had plenty of cause to contemplate supernatural things in the last several months. He figured that since alchemy and undead cowboys and flesh-eating mermaids existed, that heaven had to, too. That seemed reasonable, though he had no proof. It was sort of like inferring the existence of God by having tea with the Devil.
She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I don’t know anybody in heaven. Here, at least I know you.”
He felt like a right proper asshole, wanting to be free of this little girl who looked at him like some kind of dad she never really had.
“I don’t know anything about what comes after,” he said. “Not really. But if I’m not there for you, I promise that Jesus will look after you.” His voice sounded sure. If there were ghosts, then there had to be a heaven. And if there were a heaven, Anna would sure be in it. With Jesus and the rest. “You know Jesus, right?”
She sniffled a bit. “No. But I guess he’s a good guy. The TV preacher says he is.”
“And there are a whole bunch of people to talk to in heaven. And other kids who will play games like checkers with you.”
She made a face. “But you won’t be there.”
“No, not now . . .” Owen’s voice trailed off. He wouldn’t be there now, and he wouldn’t be there ever. Not after the shit he’d done over time. He’d done a lot of bad things and buried too many bodies. Owen was not getting past the Pearly Gates.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “I won’t do anything that would hurt you. You trust me?”
Anna nodded.
“All right. Let’s head home. I’ll pick up some checkers if you want at the store on the way home.”
“Okay,” she said, brightening a bit at that.
“All right.” He backed out of the parking spot, his chest aching.
Owen only sometimes did the right thing. Usually, he knew what the right thing was, though, even if he avoided it. Now he didn’t. If he didn’t solve her murder, nobody probably would. And he’d croak in a couple more decades, punch his ticket straight to hell, and Anna would be on her own. That wasn’t good, ri
ght? So he had to do this. Right the scales of justice and all that stuff that he saw on television as a kid and read about in comic books.
But it sure made him feel like some kind of spiritual deadbeat dad who was planning on skipping town, leaving behind a kid who depended on him.
Chapter 11
The Amateur Occultist’s Guide to Backyard Alchemy
“I want to come home with you. If you’ll have me.”
Petra gazed through the broken windshield at the road. “You can’t stay. Not for more than a couple of days. That’s what you said.” And the tree was his home, right? Home was where one hung one’s hat—or where you were hung in the air by roots. He could come, sure, but he wouldn’t be coming home. Not his home, at least.
“If you don’t want me, I won’t. But . . . I need to figure out what to do with the tree.” Gabe was staring out at the smoky horizon.
“You’re always welcome with us,” she said quietly. “Whether your home is the Airstream or the tree or sleeping in your truck.”
“Home is wherever you are,” he said quietly.
Petra drove the rest of the way in silence. Sig lay between them on the bench seat, with his butt on Gabe and his head on Petra’s thigh, like some kind of spiritual marriage counselor.
It was hard to tell what time it was without looking at her watch. It had been years since the clock in the truck worked. The sky had darkened, but the sun still seemed determined to try to burn through. It felt like twilight or the sky before dawn, though it was neither.
They reached the trailer and Petra got out of the Bronco. When she unlocked the door, she saw Gabe hadn’t moved, and gestured for him to come inside. Sig trotted to his bowl and crunched down his dog food as if he hadn’t been fed in weeks.
Gabe sat down at the kitchen table. Petra took off his hat to look at the wound above his eye. She got a few paper towels and wet them in the kitchen sink. Carefully, she began to wipe at the blood. It oozed slowly, having mostly clotted.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” she murmured. “Likely, it could use a couple of stitches, but . . .” She didn’t say: the Lunaria will fix it the next time you go underground.
