“Mr. Gillespe! Get back inside and roll, you old fart!”
Her eyes met the old man’s then—this Mr. Gillespe—and for a brief moment, she saw her father in those eyes, even though Cody hadn’t been particularly athletic or even interested in sports; there was something in those eyes, a kindness that was difficult to describe.
“What’s up, kiddo? Got a bummed knee?”
It probably would—should—have been considered creepy, a mid-sixty-year-old shirtless man calling out to a fourteen-year-old girl passing by, and it probably looked that way; only it wasn’t, not at all.
Corina had looked down at her jeans then, wondering what the man was talking about.
Bummed knee?
A second later, she realized that she must have been walking with a limp; the actuators in the knee probably had gotten cold and weren’t working as fluidly as they should have been.
Corina blushed and pulled up the ankle of her jeans, revealing the metal rods that connected the plastic leg to the artificial foot buried in a running shoe.
“Bummed leg,” she informed the man.
Corina wasn’t sure why she had even bothered to answer the man, let alone why she had chosen that answer. She supposed that she’d been looking to evoke a reaction, something on either end of the spectrum—pity or fear, or maybe something else.
Her confidence wasn’t at an all-time high, what with finishing her grade nine exams while in the hospital bed recovering from the amputation, while her mind was busy trying to piece itself back together, to form walls and barriers that were necessary for her to continue on. And then shortly after she had been fitted for the leg and released from the hospital, they had been forced to move to Pekinish County to a small apartment in order to conserve money. Couple that with being homeschooled from grade ten onward, and you had the ideal recipe for a loner.
But now there was this man, this old man, who reacted to ‘Bummed leg’ not with surprise, fear, or disgust, but with something else. Something she hadn’t experienced before.
“So what?” Mr. Gillespe replied.
Indifference.
For the first time in countless months since the blizzard and the death of her father, uncle, and grandmother, someone hadn’t handled her like a precious vase—like something so fragile that it would break simply by breathing on it.
Apathetic.
“You ever trained before?” Mr. Gillespe asked, his breath coming out in thick clouds in the cold air.
The man was blocking the open doorway to the building behind him, and despite her efforts, Corina couldn’t see around him to figure out what the hell he was talking about.
Trained?
“Rolled? Jiu jitsu? Muai Thay?”
Corina must have made a face then, as the old man laughed.
Someone hollered from the open door behind him again, but he just waved them away.
“MMA,” he clarified.
When Corina still failed to react, the man threw up his hands.
“You know? Mixed Martial Arts?”
Still no response.
What is this crazy old man talking about?
The man rolled his eyes.
“Where have you been living?”
“Now? Pekinish.”
Mr. Gillespe shook his head.
“Not what I meant. Anyways, why don’t you step inside the gym and take a look.”
And against all logic and ‘stranger danger’ doctrines impressed on her since even before she could form rational memories, she had gone inside.
And that was six years ago.
Memories of smashing Teddy’s nose with her elbow flashed in her mind.
Fuck.
No, she wasn’t fragile anymore—although she wasn’t sure she had ever been fragile. Fragile was typically reserved for something that was easily broken, and once broken was thereafter unusable. Corina had been broken, but she had rebuilt herself into something stronger, something better.
Corina rubbed the sore spot on the underside of her right forearm where it had made contact with her sparring partner’s face.
She wasn’t fragile; she was strong—solid as a rock.
The TV suddenly stopped airing whatever sitcom she wasn’t paying attention to, and a news reporter with cropped blonde hair and a serious face filled the screen.
“Breaking news,” she started in a dry tone. “We have gotten word that a fifteen-year-old boy by the name of Tyler Wandy has been missing since Saturday—more than two days ago. He was last seen at Askergan KOA Campsite.”
Corina’s blood ran cold at the name of the place.
Askergan.
A photograph appeared in the upper right-hand corner of the screen of a boy with a shaved head, small dark eyes, and a prominent scar that ran from the outside of his right eye down to just below where his lips met.
“Tyler Wandy,” the woman continued, her hand instinctively dropping to the bottom of her short yellow dress as it billowed from a gust of wind that struck her from behind. This seemed strange to Corina, as she had thought that the dirt road and the embankment leading down to the lake in the background were computer generated; she simply assumed that all newscasts were done in front of a green screen—even news from rural Askergan County.
“If you have any information, please contact the number on the screen now.”
Even though the segment was over, the cameraman kept the feed rolling for just a second too long and the image on the TV suddenly turned sideways, presumably as the camera was removed from the tripod. The image twisted and then froze, and Corina, who had been holding her breath ever since the blonde reporter had uttered the word ‘Askergan’, experienced a sudden intake of air that was so violent that she immediately started to cough.
“You okay, Cor?” Henrietta asked from the family room.
Corina didn’t hear her sister.
She had never been to the house that had been onscreen, which had been mostly out of focus and tilted at an odd angle, but that didn’t matter; she had never been, but her father and uncles had. Even though the sitcom had come back on now, the image of that house remained in her mind, as if it had been permanently etched onto her retinas.
It was the place that she had spent six years trying to destroy with MMA training. It was the place responsible for why she and her nine-year-old sister shared a bedroom, and why her mom was always at her throat for not helping out with the bills. It was the place that had robbed her of part of her ear, her left leg, and all of her teenage years. The image onscreen had been the Wharfburn Estate.
* * *
The bus took a long time to show up outside the Lawrence apartment, too long for Corina’s liking. It was as if the universe were slowing things down for her, giving her a chance to reconsider her actions, doing anything and everything to keep her from going back to Askergan.
No. No I’m not turning around.
Immediately after seeing the house on the news report about the missing boy, she had made up her mind. And when Corina’s mind was made up, it was made up. After a night of fitful sleep, she had kissed her mother and her sister and had headed straight for the bus stop.
It was barely seven, and the sun was taking its time rising into the sky, a subtle indication that the oppressing heat of summer would come to an end before long. But it was already warm out and Corina was sweltering in her Gillespe MMA sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. Slung over her shoulder was a dark green canvas backpack in which she had stuffed a change of clothes.
As she waited for the bus to arrive, she reached into the bag and rooted around in the inside pocket until her fingers found the small, folded piece of paper. She pulled it out and unfolded it, slowly, carefully, trying not to make the small tears along where it had been folded any larger. When it was flat, Corina stared at her uncle’s handwriting for a moment, reading those three words over and over again in her head.
Corina wasn’t sure why her uncle had given this piece of paper to her at the hospital six years ago, a
s it hadn’t made much sense to her then. In fact, several times since, she had debated throwing it in the garbage, if nothing else but to signify a complete letting go of the past. But for some reason, she had never been able to let go. And now she was glad.
Deputy Bradley Coggins, the three handwritten words read.
‘Deputy Bradley Coggins is a man that you can trust; is someone that you can talk to,’ her uncle had said when he had handed it over. And that was it; no further, drawn-out explanation, and Corina had been too doped up to think to ask any questions.
Deputy Bradley Coggins is someone I can talk to? What, is he a shrink?
But after seeing the Wharfburn Estate on the news, she had made up her mind that that was exactly what she was going to do.
Corina folded the yellowed piece of notepaper and put it in her pocket.
She was going to find Deputy Bradley Coggins and ask him the questions that she should have inquired about years ago.
She just had to make one stop first.
9.
The police cruiser plugged along Highway 2 at a moderate clip, the interior silent. Sheriff White was behind the wheel, his thick hands clutching the black leather steering wheel at ten and two with such precision that Coggins wondered not once but twice if there was a driving instructor in the backseat taking notes.
Coggins himself was in the passenger seat, shifting uncomfortably in his new—old—police uniform, trying to get used to the way it restricted his movements. And the heat…
Why do they make the damn things out of thick cotton? he wondered, repeatedly pulling the beige short-sleeved button-down shirt away from his chest in an attempt to fan himself.
Coggins had been staring out the window of the cruiser for almost a half hour, the deluge of thoughts rushing through his head all at once making it feel like a dam—one he had taken years to carefully erect, brick by brick, whiskey by whiskey, toothless prostitute by toothless prostitute—had suddenly given way. In a way, the heat and his completely suffocating ACPD shirt were a blessed distraction.
Sheriff White cleared his throat.
“So, you ever gonna tell me what happened up there?”
Coggins rested his forehead on the passenger window. Then he scratched at his beard. His fingers came back wet with sweat.
“I told you already,” he replied flatly.
The sheriff shook his head.
“I mean what really happened.”
Coggins shrugged. Truth was, what had really happened six years ago at the Wharfburn Estate was buried away, tucked not only behind the dam that was suddenly springing multiple leaks, but in a safe that was embedded in the bottom of the concrete basin. A safe with one of those old-fashioned dials. A safe to which he had forgotten the combination. But when he had heard the words that had come out of young Kent Griddle’s mouth, the fantastical story about a crab-like parasite clinging to his friend’s skin, clawing its way beneath, he thought he remembered the first number to the safe’s combination: it was a six.
I need a drink.
“Coggins? You alright?”
Coggins turned to look at his old friend, and was surprised that the man was no longer staring straight ahead, but had turned to face him, concern plastered on his features.
Fail—you fail your driving test, Mr. Paul White.
“Fine.”
The words came out dry and hoarse and he cleared his throat.
“Fine,” he repeated, attempting and failing to inject life into the singular word.
“Don’t look fine, Coggins.”
The sheriff took a deep breath, his eyes flicking back to the road for a brief moment before returning to Coggins’.
“Look, Coggins, am I going to be able to count on you? Are you gonna be able to keep it together?”
Coggins thought of the sour expression that Deputy Williams had made when Paul had informed them that Coggins was to come with him to the Estate, while Williams was to stay back with Mrs. Drew and hold the fort. At the time, Coggins had felt proud—an almost completely foreign feeling over the past six years—but now he almost wished that Whitey had told him to stay back at the station.
They hit a bump, and Paul’s head brushed the ceiling of the cabin.
Come to think of it, he wished that Sheriff White had never shown up at the bar on Monday.
The good boys—Askergan needs the good boys.
Coggins took a brief look down at his trembling palms, their movements a reflection of his need to imbibe, and the idea of him being one of the good boys seemed almost comical. He balled his hands into fists and tried to force the shakes away.
Dana Drew had picked him as a deputy, and Dana Drew knew the good boys.
“I’ll be fine,” he said at long last, bringing his gaze to meet the sheriff’s eyes and holding the stare.
“Good,” Paul replied, a hint of a smile crossing his thick lips.
Then his hands went back to ten and two, and his eyes returned to focusing on the road ahead.
“So,” he continued after a few more minutes of silence, “you gonna tell me what happened up here?”
Coggins ignored him and stared out the window, desperately trying to find enough gum in his mind to keep the memory dam from exploding.
* * *
“God damn it,” the sheriff grumbled when he first spied the small AC News van blocking more than half of the small dirt road roughly a quarter mile from the Wharfburn Estate.
“How do they get here so fast?”
Coggins shrugged.
“Dunno. But you know what they say: the only things that can survive a nuclear explosion are cockroaches and news reporters. It has something to do with their DNA.”
The sheriff chuckled and slammed the cruiser into park.
Coggins laughed as well, despite himself.
“Did you miss me, big fella?” he asked as they exited the vehicle.
“No,” White replied bluntly, but the smile that remained etched on his face said differently.
“Really?” Coggins teased. “Then how come you hired my twin to replace me?”
The sheriff turned to face him as they walked the short distance from their cruiser to the news van. As they approached, the chubby cameraman looked over at them, jammed the final corner of a sandwich into his fat face, and nudged a woman with blonde hair and a yellow dress that sat beside him on the van’s bumper. Together they stood, and after the woman shifted her hips and pulled down her dress, they hurried over to them.
“Twin?” the sheriff asked.
“Deputy Williams.”
When the sheriff’s brow furrowed in confusion, Coggins started to tick off items on one hand.
“Tall, thin…”
Coggins paused as the attractive blond reporter approached. Her cameraman, still a few paces behind her, desperately trying to keep up, fumbled to switch on the old-fashioned over-the-shoulder camera mid-stride.
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” the woman squealed, smoothing her short blond hair with the hand not holding the mic.
The sheriff and deputy ignored her and kept striding forward.
“…dark hair? Slicked, dark hair? And white, my God, Paul, can’t get any more clichéd than that; Tonto and the Lone Ranger.”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Tonto was a native and the Lone Ranger was white,” he offered.
Coggins shrugged.
“Close enough.”
“Sheriff? Just a few words for me and the people of Askergan… for AC News,” the woman interjected.
The sheriff pushed by her, and now she was following them instead of running toward them, which Coggins preferred. The cameraman huffed and did an about-face, now struggling to run back the other way. The red light on the oversized camera resting on the man’s broad shoulder was on, and Coggins made a note to watch what he said. It was, after all, his first day on the job.
“But you forgot one thing,” Coggins informed the big man beside him, holding out one final finger.
Paul tur
ned to him, stopping for a brief moment, his eyes still squinted, his expression dubious.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
“Funny—that man is dry as a nun’s cunt, my friend; no humor in that skinny face.”
Well, it wasn’t really Coggins’ first day on the job, and he thought he could get away with that one.
A small smile passed over the sheriff’s face, and Coggins was reassured that the big man hadn’t lost all of his sense of humor.
The sheriff stopped abruptly and did a slow turn, his smile fading. The blond woman managed to stop in time, but the cameraman, trying to pull up his mom jeans without dropping the camera, bumped into the reporter and she, in turn, bumped into Sheriff White’s broad chest. The reported turned and glared daggers at her cameraman.
Sheriff White placed his hands on his hips, a subconscious peacock ritual, making him seem nearly twice his already impressive size. Coggins made a face; even though he had been gone for a number of years, this seemed out of place for the big man—for most people, aside from a professional wrestler. It was just weird.
“Nancy, why did you bother coming up here? You know every single question you’re gonna ask will be met with the same answer.”
Nancy? They were on first-name basis?
The reporter turned to face the cameraman, indicating that he should point the camera at the sheriff. She swiveled her hips and then smoothed the front of her short dress that barely made it to mid-thigh. After a deep breath, she cleared her throat and held the mic out in front of her.
Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3) Page 41
