by Ben Follows
The Compound
Ben Follows
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Thank you for Reading!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
Jake Lavelle blinked, his eyelids feeling like they were attached to cinderblocks as he tried to get his bearings. He almost retched at the smell that greeted him and was relieved to find his stomach was empty.
A moment later, he realized that the reason his stomach was empty was because the previous day’s meals were filling a small silver toilet a few feet away.
He pushed himself into a seated position, trying his best to ignore the headache and stiffness from sleeping on what he now discovered was a metal bench.
He looked up. There was a cop standing on the other side of some cell bars, grinning at him. He was older, with a body built from many nights in the bars. His full head of hair had gone almost completely white. His badge identified him as Chief Gordon Williams.
Jake found it interesting that the chief of police had time to check on a drunk kid.
He couldn’t ask why the chief of Crescent Point would care about him, not because he might offend the chief—Jake didn’t care about that—but because he wasn’t supposed to know where he was.
“Sleep well, Mr. Lavelle?” the chief asked.
“How do you know my name?” said Jake, still rubbing his eyes.
Chief Williams held up Jake’s wallet before throwing it inside the cell. Jake watched it hit the ground but made no move toward it.
“I suppose you’d like these,” said the chief, holding up and shaking a bottle of Advil.
Jake said nothing, but he knew that he must have looked like an addict, staring at the bottle. The chief laughed and tossed it to him. Jake missed the bottle and had to pick it up off the floor. He swallowed two pills. He leaned over and held out the bottle to Chief Williams.
“Keep that,” he said. “You need it more than I do.”
Jake placed it on the bench beside him, still squinting as his eyes adjusted.
“You know,” said the chief, “I figured you were a lot younger when Officer Obrasey brought you in last night. You looked like just another drunk high school kid who hadn’t learned his own limits yet. Wouldn't have guessed twenty-five. You must get carded all the time. I bet that’s frustrating with the ladies.”
“Fuck you too,” muttered Jake under his breath. He was younger than twenty-five but did look younger than he was. Although he didn’t think he looked as young as twenty, he also hadn’t yet celebrated his twenty-fourth. At least he was pretty sure; he might have lost count at some point.
The chief laughed, leaning forward until both his arms were hanging through the bars. It only occurred then to Jake that he was the only person he could hear in the small jail. He could see two cells on the opposite wall, one in front of him and one to the right. To the left was the door that Jake assumed led to the main police station. He was reminded of how small a town Crescent Point was, a population just over 2,000 by the last statistics he had looked up.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Crescent Point,” said the chief. “It says right here.” He held up the badge he wore, which declared him the chief of the Crescent Point Police Department.
“Where the hell is Crescent Point?” said Jake, massaging his forehead and his temples, willing the Advil to speed up.
The chief laughed. “Where were you last night? Officer Obrasey found you in a wrecked car in a ditch. You have any memory of what you were doing? She said it was lucky that you didn’t drown in the ditch because of the mud down there. You should thank her on your way out if you get a chance.”
“I was—” He paused, rubbing his forehead, trying to remember the fabricated truth. “I was in Boston at my friend’s bachelor party. The last thing I remember—something about being thrown out of a bar.”
When he looked up, the chief was grinning, barely suppressing a torrent of laughter. Then it broke through his defenses and he gave a deep, hearty guffaw that Jake would have thought was fake if not for his genuine look of amusement.
“You were in Boston last night? Dear God, that is lucky. Do you have any idea how far you are from Boston?” Jake was about to say something, but the chief continued speaking. “No, of course you don’t. You’re in Central Maine, almost a two-hour drive from Boston in the best of scenarios. You’re almost closer to Canada than you are to Boston. That is some pure luck getting as far as you did. You might want to check if you have a guardian angel looking out for you.”
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that,” said Jake, rubbing his eyes. “Can I get out of here?”
The chief grinned, and Jake realized then that this man was not like the big-city police chiefs he'd learned about. This was a man who had never been forced to make a decision with lives in the balance, had never run into gunfire to save someone, and had never been given the opportunity to take over a post in a big city. And that was exactly how he liked it. He liked being the chief of a town where nothing happened except high-schoolers occasionally selling some drugs to their classmates.
He said, “If you have someone who can post bail, it’s two thousand dollars. The alternative is to spend a few nights here with us, no big deal, but you've got to follow the rules. Your car is obviously impounded, and you’re facing charges for reckless driving, but beyond that you’re looking spiff and dandy. You shouldn’t have any problems with any of the other officers.”
“Tell Officer Obrasey I’m very thankful," said Jake. "I would also like my phone call.”
“You got someone close enough to post bail? Or are you calling a girl to tell her that bachelor party got a little out of hand and that you won’t be able to make it to dinner tonight?”
Jake ignored his comment and the cheeky grin that accompanied it. “I know someone. I have an uncle who lives in Maine, maybe he'll be able to come by and bail me out.”
Chief Williams shrugged. “Have it your way. Sure you aren’t going to puke anymore?”
Jake took a few moments to check, then nodded.
“Sure?” said the chief.
“Y
es. I’m sure.”
The chief unlatched a keychain from his waist and unlocked the cell door. Jake was too woozy and disoriented from his hangover to watch the latch open and the door slide open. As he pushed himself to his feet, he felt a wave of nausea hit him. He stumbled for a moment.
“All right?” asked the chief.
Jake waited a moment, putting out a hand, then nodded. “Let’s go.”
The chief led him deeper into the cell block. On the far wall was a pay phone. The chief passed him two quarters and stepped back. Jake steadied himself against the wall beside the phone and dialed a number, scrunching his face as though struggling to recall it. He could have recited the number in his sleep by now, but appearance was important in the early stages of the operation. The phone rang, and it was just about to go to voicemail when a grizzled voice answered.
“Hello?” said the voice. The voice was clear and precise, as though the man on the other end of the phone line had a limited number of words to use until he died and wanted to use them sparingly. Jake had heard that he spoke that way even as a young boy.
“Uncle Harold, is that you? Did I get the right number?”
If Jake had used the word “correct” instead of “right,” then he would be saying he wasn’t being monitored. As it was, he didn’t know if the line was tapped or if the chief was listening. In the reflection of the phone, Jake could see the chief leaning against the wall, prepared to jump forward and catch Jake if it was needed.
“Oh, Jake. Your mother called me,” said Harold, adopting the words of the script. “Said you were up this way, might need help. Where are you?”
“Crescent Point Jail. I made a mistake, Uncle Harold. I got really drunk at a friend’s bachelor party in Boston and ended up here. I don’t remember how. ”
There was a soft, throaty chuckle that sounded like a frog croaking on the other side of the line. “Bail?” he said.
“Two thousand.”
“Two thousand? Wow. You’ll owe me, Jake.”
“I’ll owe you big-time. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Few hours. I’ll be there.”
The line went dead, and Jake stared at the phone for a few seconds before returning it to its cradle. He still wasn’t used to Harold’s curt mannerisms, although he had heard enough about them.
The chief led him back to his cell, where Jake fell onto the metal bench and immediately fell back to sleep, wondering where Harold had received the call. The story was that Harold had a small home on a large expanse of land that had once been a farm. He lived there year-round and had enough guns and supplies to survive even the harshest of winters. How much truth there was to that story, Jake didn’t know. His guess was almost none.
He was awoken by a tapping at the bars of his cell. He felt more rested and was beginning to sober up. He still had a headache, but the Advil seemed to be working. He opened his eyes and looked up at the officer standing outside his cell.
It wasn’t Chief Williams, although she was a cop. Beyond the uniform, however, she looked as different from the chief as possible. She was black, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was tall for a woman but not gigantic, maybe an inch or so taller than Jake himself.
“You look a bit better than you did last night,” she said, grinning.
Jake blinked and looked to his side into the mirror over the sink. He was a mess, and there was still vomit on his shirt. His hair was plastered to his forehead and sticking up at the back. His eyes were drawn and haggard. All things considered, he looked better than he had expected.
“You’re Obrasey?” asked Jake as he stood. He held out a hand, and she pulled back.
“Officer Amanda Obrasey, at your service. I’m not shaking that. I saw what you were doing last night. Here, your uncle brought these and paid your bail. “ She held out a change of clothes. ”Might want to tell him to be a bit more kind to the receptionist if he’s ever here again. We almost had him arrested.”
Jake didn’t respond, trying to work out what game Harold was playing.
He took the clothes and glanced over his shoulder before taking his shirt off and throwing it to one side. The fresh shirt felt good against his skin. He turned around to see that Obrasey still standing behind him, leaning against the bars of the opposite cell.
“I’m comfortable changing with you there,” said Jake, “but the polite thing is that you let me change in private.”
Obrasey nodded. “I’ll get out of your hair in just a few seconds, but right now I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Like what?”
“Ever heard the name Frank Frederickson?”
He didn’t react, although he was trying to piece together why she would mention it.
“No,” he said, “who is he?”
Obrasey didn’t reply. She stared at him, as though sizing him up, trying to figure out whether or not he was being deceitful.
She said, “He’s the owner of a repair shop downtown. He disappeared about a week ago. It’s become a pretty popular news story in the region. Small business owner from Crescent Point, a town where nothing like this has ever happened before. Might have been something you’d heard of.”
“Okay,” said Jake. “Why are you telling me this?”
“One of the reasons the story has gotten so much news coverage, and you can find this on any news site online, is that crime has been rising in Crescent Point recently, and we have no idea why. The media pounced on it, and some of their hounds are here interviewing the locals, trying to make a story out of nothing. All the evidence says that Frederickson fled to Las Vegas with a mistress, and the rise in crime is a cyclical thing that happens every decade or so.”
“Again,” said Jake, “why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” said Obrasey, eyeing him, “if you’re here to write a story or try to mess with us, you should leave now. There’s no story.”
Jake stepped up to the bars. “Come on, I’m just some asshole who got too drunk and wound up here. You think I faked that to steal some shitty news story about some guy running off with a mistress? That’s ridiculous.”
Obrasey eyed him for a moment. “You’re right," she said. "Your uncle’s outside, waiting for you. I’ll give you a moment to change then come back for you.”
She left, and Jake let out a silent sigh of relief. She suspected something. He didn’t know how, but she did. He’d have to watch out for her.
Ten minutes later, he exited the jail. Harold was waiting for him, standing ramrod straight in a way that seemed impossible for someone his age. He was older, although his hair was still holding on to a few strands of brown. Jake knew he'd had a long and illustrious career with The Compound.
He met Jake at the exit of the police station, nodded to him without saying anything, and walked out. Jake followed him, and as he walked to the car he looked back over his shoulder. Officer Amanda Obrasey was watching him. When they met eyes, she didn’t look away, as if to say, “I know something’s up, and I’m going to find out what it is.”
Jake looked away, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong, what mistake he'd made that had led Obrasey to believe he was anything other than what he said. He had heard about this issue; it was something that came up often in his line of work. Even when nothing was done wrong, minuscule details tugged at the edges of the subconscious and made people suspicious. It was like an actor being unconvincing in a role for no reason the viewer can explain—they just knew.
There was nothing he could do to prevent this except spend a large amount of time in the field, naturally gaining the experience.
And Jake was as far as possible from being experienced in the field.
Chapter 2
Jake assumed Harold was taking him somewhere for a briefing.
This assignment was a stepping stone that would lead him to bigger and better things. Once he dealt with the small assignment here and proved his worth, he might earn the trust of the higher-ups.
&nb
sp; He followed Harold to a small Volkswagen that looked like it had been recently refurbished.
Harold looked at him as he started the car and the engine roared to life. They drove out of the police station parking lot, barely avoiding a collision with another vehicle. Harold braked within inches of another car and spun the wheel, weaving through the parking lot with dexterity and agility that surprised Jake.
During the drive Harold didn’t say a word, and Jake decided that if Harold didn’t want to talk, neither would he. He stuck with this decision. Indecisiveness was considered one of the cardinal sins of The Compound. Jake was smart enough not to make a rookie mistake on his first day in the field. The radio was off, and Jake made no move to turn it on, even though the silence irritated him.
After twenty minutes of driving through Crescent Point and toward the beach, they pulled up to a seventies-style joint called Dianna’s Diner.
Harold stopped the car, turned off the engine, pulled out the keys, and exited the car without a word. Since their conversation on the phone, the older man hadn’t said a thing. Jake got out and followed Harold into the restaurant. He found Harold just inside, leaning on the hostess counter. His eyes shifted back and forth. The restaurant was not spacious, but it fit a good number of tables, and there was enough aisle space to walk.
