“Lie to her?”
Lockman reached out and took her hand. “For her own good.”
“Like you lied to me all those years.”
The sting in his gut had nothing to do with his wound. “For her own good.”
Kate pulled her hand out of his. “Okay.”
They agreed that, at least for the time being, they should stick together. They rented a cabin in Northern Illinois on twenty-eight acres of woodlands. Jessie would start back at the local school again in the fall, under a new name. Kate took a job at a local grocery, also under a new name. Lockman was still recovering from his injury, but would seek employment when he was fully healed.
Lockman stood out back, listening to Jessie shouting at Kate over something. Every little thing seemed to set her off lately. He knew it was because of Ryan. She complained often that they had taken her away from Ryan before she had a chance to help him. Kate and Lockman stood by their initial agreement and told her there was nothing she could have done for him.
He stood by the woodpile he had cut for their fireplace. He held his axe and stared at the bronze cube he had placed on the stump where he normally chopped the wood. The artifact held his other life, his very soul. He had every right to hang onto it. He might find a way to access the memories. Gabriel Dolan had held a great deal of power and resources. Who knew what else he might have access to? A means to fight back against the darkness that bled into their world? A way to undo some of the damage Dolan, and others like him, had done by bringing beings from other planes here where they did not belong?
But did the risks of that knowledge outweigh the benefits? Jessie was a good kid who managed to make mojo work for her. She had saved Kate from madness. He had seen it with his own eyes. Maybe they could use that power for good, despite what he had always believed.
He lined up the axe blade with the artifact.
Destroying it doesn’t just benefit the greater good. It keeps Jessie and Kate safe.
He lifted the axe over his head.
Keeping it could do the same. More, even.
He squeezed the axe handle. A line of sweat rolled down his forehead. His abs ached where his wound continued to heal. The wood chopping had been as much about mending as making logs for the fire.
A mosquito buzzed at his ear.
Do it.
But there was no Agency left. For all he knew, Lockman was the only man standing between Armageddon and the world’s future. Who would carry on the mission? Who would continue to fight for the greater good?
Him?
With what? A pair of silver-loaded Glocks and a crucifix only went so far.
He lowered the axe and leaned it against the stump. He picked up the bronze cube and walked further into the woods behind the cabin. He looked for something that would stand out only to him and found a round-topped rock about the size of a loaf of bread. He lifted the rock and dug a pocket in the mossy earth big enough to hold the artifact. He set the artifact in the hole and replaced the rock.
When Lockman returned to the cabin, he found Kate at the kitchen table, wearing the green smock she wore when she worked at the grocery. She stared at an untouched sandwich on a plate in front of her.
“Everything okay?” Lockman asked.
Kate pushed her plate away. “Apparently, I washed her IPod. Of course, she’s the one who left it in her jeans pocket. But Mom’s to blame for everything.”
“She’ll come around.”
“I have to get to work.” She stood. “Did you…take care of it?”
Lockman looked her in the eyes. She needed to believe him. “It’s done.”
“Now what?”
“We piece our lives back together.”
“Whatever that means.”
He cupped her face in one hand. “Hopefully it means we stay close.”
She smiled, placed her hand over his.
Looking in her eyes, Lockman let himself forget about the supernatural and mojo, about the darker things, about who he used to be. He let himself have this moment and let the moment have him. He leaned forward, kissed Kate long and hard.
When she responded in kind, Lockman knew he had a second chance.
He would defend it against anything. Everything.
At any cost.
###
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MOTH
A Max Hollingsworth
Paranormal Mystery
Sean T. Poindexter
www.ellysianpress.com
Moth
Sean T. Poindexter
Copyright © 2013 Sean T. Poindexter. All rights reserved.
Published by Ellysian Press at Smashwords
Print ISBN: 978-1-941637-00-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-941637-02-9
Second Edition, 2014
Editor: Jen Ryan,
Cover Art: Jeremy Lovett
Formatted by: Rik Hall
Ellysian Press
P.O. Box 2466
Pahrump, NV 89041
Ebooks/Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as this is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
For Dad
Continuum
The events in this book are concurrent with the events in the second book in The Dragon’s Blood Chronicles: The Will of the Darkest One.
If some day we are compelled to leave the scene of history, we will slam the door so hard that the universe will shake and mankind will stand back in stupefaction.
--Joseph Goebbels
Chapter One
“Don’t you usually come in pairs?”
Officer Unruh smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Max grinned. “You just get out?”
“Yes, sir. US Marines.”
“Ah…yeah, I recognize the haircut.” It wasn’t just that. Max stood a foot over him at six feet, but the patrolman made up for it with broad arms and a big chest. He didn’t look like he needed a partner. And then there was this “sir” business…
“Have you been doing this long?”
“I’ve been with the Joplin PD for five months. And you?”
Max drummed his fingers on the bag hanging from his shoulder. “I’ve been a social worker long enough to know which house on this street we’re going to, even without looking at the numbers.” It was the one without siding, just bare insulation boards nailed to the outer wall.
“Yes, sir.”
Max didn’t resent Unruh’s presence; he just didn’t think it was necessary. He’d taken cops with him lots of times, and on a few of those instances, it turned out he’d needed them. But Brian insisted the workers take cops with them anytime an allegation of drugs was involved in a hotline. It irritated him for a number of reasons, not the least of which happened to be that Brian’s job used to be his.
That was another story…
The lawn was overgrown and the wooden porch sagged, but they arrived at the door without incident. Max knew the drill. The burly young policeman stepped to the side of the locked screen door and knocked. A few seconds later, an interior door opened and a man’s face appeared behind the filthy fly screen. Max had been expecting a woman.
“Is Donna here?” The man looked at Max with bulging, bloodshot eyes that darted back to the cop as though expecting a friendlier face. Whateve
r look Unruh gave, it wasn’t what he’d hoped. He returned to Max, who repeated the question.
“She’s not here.”
It was eight thirty in the morning, so if she worked she might have been there. Max didn’t have employer information for the mother. Also, he kind of doubted she had a job.
Unruh rattled the latch a bit, but it didn’t budge. “Sir, could you unlock the door please?”
“What’s this about?”
Max stepped to the screen and held up his plastic ID badge. It said Max Hollingsworth in big letters under a rather unflattering picture of him. The bulging-eyed man looked at the ID then back up at Max. He looked surprised. He shouldn’t have been.
“Sir,” repeated Unruh, “Could you unlock the door please?”
He looked back to Unruh and nodded. After a click, the door swung open. Max and the patrolman entered the home.
The look on Unruh’s face implied disgust. Max grinned, he really hadn’t been doing this long. The home was a mess, but Max had seen worse—far worse. In a very short time, so would Unruh. Places like this would become normal for him. Max remembered when this kind of mess would have bothered him, too.
The term “shithole” was tossed around so much, but it wasn’t that bad. The awkwardly rectangular living room smelled like dog and had a few plastic microwave food boats piled on an old coffee table. Despite the smell, there was no dog in sight. The most expensive piece of furniture in the room, probably the house, was a flat screen television. It was paused on an image of a video console football game. The wireless controller rested on a ratty couch covered by a slightly less ratty blanket.
“Donna’s sleeping—”
“You said Donna wasn’t here.” Max glanced over his shoulder. The man wore dirty grey boxer shorts and a plaid robe. He’d forgone the courtesy of a shirt, so his guests were treated to ribs poking through the mole-speckled, pasty skin of a man who rarely left the house.
“Yeah,” he replied with a dirty chuckle. “I saw the cop and said that.” He looked at Unruh like he thought the cop would be amused. The cop was not, so he looked away.
Max produced a small notebook and pen from the bag hanging at his side. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jim…I live with Donna.”
“You sleep on the couch?” He gestured to it. Jim shook his head.
“Only in the day.”
Must be nice, Max thought, sleeping in the day. “You work nights, then?” Max had perfected the art of over-tact, being a complete dick without getting punched. The people he dealt with didn’t tend to get subtlety. Unruh’s grin showed he got it—the cops usually did. They both knew the answer already.
“Naw, I’m what you’d call unemployed.”
He thought about asking him to elaborate: What exactly do you mean by, unemployed, sir? But that might be overdoing it. White trash will only tolerate so much subtle condescension.
“Would you call Donna unemployed?” Max asked, after collecting pedigree information; Jim’s last name, date of birth, social security number. Max was always surprised when people gave all that to him, especially the social security number.
“No, she works at Macey’s.” That was not to be confused with Macy’s, the retail giant. Macey’s was a chain of convenience stores/gas stations. Joplin had ninety of them or something.
“Is Madolla in her room?”
“No, she sleeps downstairs.”
Max crooked an eye. “Donna or Madolla?”
“Madolla. She’s around the corner, in the kitchen.”
Max stopped writing. “The baby sleeps in the kitchen?” He looked at the entrance to the dining room. Presumably the kitchen was beyond that, behind the stairs.
“The baby keeps us up if she’s in the room.”
“Yeah, they’ll do that.”
Max walked around the corner. The stairs were wooden and covered with peeling brown paint. A few of them were cracked. They ended in a carpeted second floor. The dining room lacked a table, and the kitchen beyond was full of dirty dishes and flies. A few feet from a neglected refrigerator sat a playpen, apparently doing double-duty as a baby bed.
“Let me get Donna’s ass out of bed…”
Unruh stepped in from of Jim as he tried to leave.
“Not just yet.” Max approached the pen. Jim followed, but Unruh stopped him at the dining room entrance.
“I think Donna should be here, I can’t just let anyone see her kid you know—”
“I’m not ‘just anyone’...I work for the State.”
“She’s sleeping.” He seemed to be gauging his chances of darting past Unruh without being tackled…or perhaps his odds of survival if it occurred. He chose the prudent path. “If you wake her up, Donna’ll be pissed. She cries a lot.”
“They’ll do that, too.”
“She was crying for like, hours last night.”
Aside from the slight dirty-diaper smell, Madolla and her pen were clean and well taken care of. The report said she was six months old, but she looked like a newborn. She was lying on her belly, still and peaceful. Max started to smile…
“She was bawling all night, until about four this morning.”
“When was the last time you or Donna checked her?” Max lowered his hand into the pen and pressed his fingers to her little scalp.
“Checked her?”
“To see why she was crying.”
“I turned up the TV and she cried herself out.”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did she stop crying?”
Jim scratched his scalp through greasy brown hair. “Like three or something. It usually takes longer.”
Max withdrew his hand from the pen and wrote all that down. The tap of pen on paper competed evenly with the soft hum of the refrigerator condenser.
“Officer Unruh, can you call an ambulance please?”
Jim’s eyes widened. “Ambulance?”
Unruh didn’t ask any questions. The distraught look on his face showed he didn’t need to. Unruh stepped away from Jim to the living room and pressed the button on his shoulder communicator.
“Oh, shit… Should I wake Donna?” Jim stepped closer to Max so he didn’t interrupt the stream of ambulance-summoning cop jargon.
“That would be a good idea,” Max kept his voice as flat as possible, but under the circumstances his bile filter was a little taxed.
“Shit! What do I tell her? Is Madolla okay?”
Max turned his eyes to the pen.
“She’s dead.”
Chapter Two
Finding a dead baby got Max the rest of the day off. Since it was Friday, that made it a three-day weekend. Normally he’d have returned home and gone straight to bed. Instead, he sat on his porch, read a book, and drank iced tea.
By five, the book was replaced with a cigar and the iced tea with beer. It was an unseasonably warm day for November, so Max was able to get by with little more than a black windbreaker. After enough beer, he wouldn’t even need that.
Sadie pulled up on her moped just after it started to get dark. She worked until six most nights. Max didn’t bother looking at his watch to see if she was early or late.
“Been waiting for me long?” She pointed at the window when she came to the porch. The lights were off. “What’s up?”
He took a short drag off his cigar before mashing it out in a glass tray. She said his cigars smelled like dried dog shit wrapped in more dried dog shit. They were actually vanilla flavored, but he didn’t see the point in arguing. She didn’t come onto the porch until the smoke dissipated.
“Touched a dead baby today.”
Sadie looked at him like he was on fire.
“Oh…fuck!” She plopped down on the seat next to him. He’d been using it as a footrest.
“Yeah. Dead baby equals day off. It’s like a rule now.”
“Oh…honey!” She touched his leg. Sadie’s fingernails were black with little red spirals painted along the edges. They mat
ched her makeup, black lipstick with spirals drawn around her eyes and cheeks with eyeliner. The lacey red corset and poufy black skirt counted as work attire at her job. Max had no complaints.
He patted her hand. It made her little silver bracelets jingle.
“What did Brian say?” she asked, lowering her eyes. She was trying to cheer him up—bitching about his mancunt of a boss always made him feel better.
“I don’t remember.” Max took a drink of beer. “I just remember the look on his face.” He inflated his cheeks and looked at Sadie with his eyes wide in mock bewilderment. Brian was often fat and confused. Actually, he was always fat…and usually confused. Sadie giggled.
“I do remember he asked if I was sure it was dead.”
“What?”
Max waved his hand. “I think he just didn’t know what else to ask.”
“What happened?”
Max told her about finding the baby, telling Donna her daughter was dead, and almost getting slapped by the mother for saying something out of line. Max couldn’t remember specifically, he said a lot of slap-worthy things. Officer Unruh—who Max called George now that they were apparently friends—prevented further assault by handcuffing the hysterical mother to the couch.
Jim was little help. He just sat on the coffee table and waited for the EMTs. He never said he was sorry, if he even was. It probably wasn’t his fault, but if Max had been in his position he would have apologized. That was how Max tried to empathize with people, imagining what he’d do in their position. It didn’t work very well, since most of the people he met did the exact opposite of the right thing in almost every situation.
Donna was a dramatically underweight woman with thin brown hair. Max described imagining her pregnant, something resembling an orange in a sock propped up by a stick. Sadie apologized for giggling at that. Max used humor the way most people used liquor or anti-depressants. Of course, Max also drank liquor and took anti-depressants…so that wasn’t really an excuse.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 28
