Gilchrist: A Novel

by Christian Galacar

The voice again: “Get it out, fella.”

  What was happening?

  You know what’s happening, he thought. This wasn’t a permanent trip. Don’t kid yourself—you can’t stay. You shouldn’t even be here.

  The basement dimension was fading. No. Not fading. He was leaving it. He was fading. But he didn’t want to go yet. He wanted to see more. There was so much more to see…

  3

  Peter tasted tuna fish and hot breath. A mouth was over his mouth. Teeth against teeth. Someone pinched his nose shut. Another blast of foul air was injected into him. Then something was coming up.

  “C’mon now, you’re okay,” a familiar voice said. “Get it out, fella.”

  Somebody rolled him over onto his side and gave his back a hard whack, and that brought out the stuff that was coming up. He spat a huge lungful of warm lake water into the grass on which he found himself lying.

  A screen door slammed somewhere.

  “Oh my God! What happened?” He recognized Sylvia’s voice. Soft footsteps were running toward him across grass.

  Peter blinked, his mind coming back to him. The first thing he saw was a set of wet, veiny legs wearing wool socks and work boots. Thick black stubble covered the pasty skin.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Martell. I got him in time. He’ll be okay,” Sue Grady said.

  Peter tried to push himself up. “What—”

  “Easy now, fella. You almost drowned.” Sue laughed, and helped him sit up. When she put her hands on him, he saw a bright flash and felt a hot wave flush over his skin. He could’ve sworn he’d heard the faint sound of screams, too. It conjured up a memory of the flash he’d seen in the car on Sunday as they drove into town. “Ain’t no one ever teach you to swim? I came here to mow the lawn. It’s Tuesday. Looks like I showed up just in time to see you go under.”

  Sylvia came and knelt beside him. “Peter, are you okay? I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”

  “I’ll be all right,” he said, and looked around dizzily. “I lost my…” He held up his hand to show his finger, but his wedding ring was right where it should be. “I… I thought I lost my ring. That’s what happened. I went after it, and I guess I went too deep and got turned around.”

  He was selling it as a stupid mistake, but he knew something more had just happened while he was underwater. He had gone somewhere. It had been like his dream, only clearer, more coherent. He also understood something else: he had been lured toward his own death. But by whom? By what?

  My eyes are opening, he thought, remembering what Kevin had said to him. And this town is responsible. There’s something about it.

  Sue laughed again. “Too deep? It can’t be more than ten feet where you were. It’s okay. This happens to city folks all the time. Haven’t been swimming in a while, then they come out here and forget they’re not in as gooda shape as they thought they were. We lose at least one a year. You’re just lucky you weren’t it. Yessir, you are.”

  “Ten feet? Really?” Peter said.

  “That’s right. Deepest part is thirty feet or so, and that’s all the way out in the middle, nowhere near where you were. You’ll be okay. Course, now I’m gonna have to go home and change my clothes. Things could be worse, I suppose. You could be a floater.”

  Peter looked her up and down. She was soaking wet, the slow curves of her stout body accentuated by the suction of her clothes. “Thank you. I don’t know what happened. I think you probably just saved my life.”

  “Thank God you showed up when you did,” Sylvia added, rubbing Peter’s back with one hand. “I was inside, reading a magazine and…” She glanced back toward the house, looking completely horrified with herself.

  Peter put his hand on her knee and got that same flash he had seen when Sue touched him. He shook his head, clearing away the feeling. “It’s okay, Syl. This wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own.”

  She smiled wanly.

  “Glad to help. I did what any person would do.” Sue got to her feet, using Peter’s shoulder to push herself up. She scanned the yard while wiping her hand across her nose. “Told you those storms’re bad. Few good clobberers came down last night. Wouldn’t want to catch one of those on the head. I’ll get this cleaned up when I come back.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I think you’ve done enough for us today,” Peter said.

  A perplexed look settled over her face. “No, I’ll be back. That’s my job. Leo would’ve chewed my hide if I let this place look so rearranged. Besides, I can’t mow with all this in the way.”

  Peter looked up. “I heard about what happened to him. I was sorry to hear that. You two were friends, weren’t you?”

  Wrinkling her nose, Sue put her hands on her hips and nodded. “Yeah. I always told him he was gonna hurt himself fiddle-fartin around with his tools. He spends all his time behind a desk. He had no business playin out in his garage the way he did. Those things’re dangerous. My father lost three fingers on a table saw when I was a kid. Pens.” She shook her head and scoffed. “Strange hobby. I hope I still have a job come next week. I don’t think his wife ever liked me much.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all work out,” Peter said.

  “That’s nice of you to say. I appreciate that,” Sue said.

  Sylvia helped Peter to his feet, and they all headed back toward Shady Cove. Sue picked up a few small sticks as they went and tossed them into the woods at the top of the hill. Then she got in her truck and left. But not before telling them she would be back to tidy up the yard and make it look how Leo would’ve wanted it.

  Peter went inside and lay down on the couch while Sylvia made him breakfast, a look of guilt and disquiet haunting her face. But slowly that faded. Negative feelings never seemed to last long in Gilchrist.

  Despite the fact that he’d almost drowned, his entire body and mind buzzed with euphoria. It was as if a dose of his old, happy life had been injected right into the mainline of his consciousness. He thought about how it had felt like he was drinking in the energy of his memories as he had watched them play out in that cold, basement dimension where things were stored. And that thought led to another, darker one: if he had been able to drink in that energy while he was over there, what else could? And what effect might it have?

  Maybe there was a reason Gilchrist had such a knack for melting away stress and sadness. Maybe something was feeding on it in the same way he had. All of a sudden, Jackson Hill didn’t seem so much like drugstore fiction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MISSING

  1

  On his way to the station, Corbin spotted Ricky Osterman’s car parked in front of the Gilchrist General Store. Something inside him boiled over at the sight of it. He pulled up alongside the black Biscayne, parked, got out, and waited.

  When Ricky and Hooch exited the General Store a few minutes later, each carrying a Coke in one hand and a MoonPie in the other, Corbin was leaning against the hood of Ricky’s car, hands turned inward and resting above his knees. He straightened slowly when he saw the boys.

  “Ricky Osterman, just the person I’m looking for.”

  “Uh-oh, I must be in trouble.” Ricky laughed. “What I do now?”

  “You and I need to have a little talk, Ricky.”

  “Gilchrist’s finest wants to talk with me? I’m flattered,” Ricky said, and gave a condescending salute with his Coke bottle. “Thanks for keepin an eye on my car for me, Chief. I know she’s a beaut, but she ain’t for sale, if that’s what you wanna talk about.” He laughed as he stepped off the sidewalk. Then he walked by Corbin and went to the driver-side door.

  Hooch didn’t laugh. Instead he sipped his soda and took a bite of his MoonPie, his eyes looking anywhere but into Corbin’s. He might’ve palled around with Ricky, but he wasn’t cut from the same soiled cloth. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, and when a joke wasn’t a joke at all.

  Corbin followed Ricky, until he stood face-to-face with him. “That’s cute, Ricky.”

  “Well, I’m a cute guy
, Chief. What can I say? But I don’t date cops. Sorry.” Ricky grinned. He tried to open the door to get in, but Corbin caught the top of the trim and slammed it shut. “Hey! What the fuck, man? What’s your problem?”

  “First of all, watch your mouth. You talk to me like that again, and you and your pal here can spend the rest of the day looking for your teeth on the ground,” Corbin said calmly. “Now, I said you and I need to have a talk, and we’re going to do just that. We can do it here, or I can bring you to the station and we can chat there. If you prefer that, I can call your dad and have him tow your car home. I’m sure he’d love that. Might give you two something to talk about over dinner.”

  Ricky rolled his eyes and tossed his unopened MoonPie onto the roof of his car. “What the hell, man? I didn’t do nothin. What’re you hassling me for? I’m just tryin to have some breakfast.”

  Corbin eyed the MoonPie, but didn’t allow himself to make any wild connections. Just about every kid in town ate them. It didn’t mean a thing. His own daughter had them from time to time.

  “I hear you like driving recklessly and scaring people off the road. That’s going to stop. Today. You hear me?” Corbin said, his tone hardening. “No more speeding around here like it’s the goddamn Daytona Five Hundred. You’re going to kill someone.”

  Ricky laughed.

  “That funny to you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “And why’s that?” Corbin started to feel his temper rising.

  Later he would think that maybe he had blown his top so easily because Ricky seemed like the one problem in his life he could control at that point in time. All around him, the world he thought he knew was slipping away from him by odd, slow degrees. Or maybe he just wanted to impose his will on something, prove to himself he wasn’t completely powerless.

  “Because what’re you talkin about? I ain’t never scared anybody.” Ricky shook his head. “I drive this thing like an old lady. You’re makin all this up.”

  “You think people don’t complain to me about your speeding? I hear about it all the time. I was just stupid enough to think you’d smarten up on your own. That’s on me.” Corbin took a half step toward Ricky and dropped his hand down on the roof of the car. The metal was hot. “I know you ran the Mayers off the road out on Waldingfield the other day. That sort of thing isn’t going to happen again.”

  “That’s crazy,” Ricky said dismissively. “Who told you that?”

  “Don’t you worry about who told me. I know, and that’s all that matters,” Corbin said. “You’re going to start following the rules, you hear me? If I find out you even so much as forgot to signal a turn, you and Mr. Collins here will be double riding around town on a bike. I bet the girls would love that.”

  Ricky’s eyes narrowed to two dark slits. “Was it that daughter of yours? What’s her name… Gracie, isn’t it? Or is it Grace? I always forget.” He smiled slyly at Corbin, took a sip of his Coke, then licked his lips slowly, ending with a little kissing gesture. “I bet it was her who told, wasn’t it?”

  “What’d you say, you little pissant?”

  “What? Gracie never told you her and I was good friends? We went for a swim up at the lake just the other day. It was real hot out. Needed to cool off, if you know what I mean,” Ricky said, and winked.

  Corbin felt the adrenaline dump into his bloodstream—a double shot. It was too late to tamp the flames. His chest tightened. His heart rate increased. His vision blurred. He didn’t know when it had happened, but the hand he’d had on the roof was now around Ricky’s throat, pinning him up against the car.

  “I don’t care how badly you had it growing up, kid. You stay away from my daughter. You hear me? She’s too goddamn good for you.” Corbin could feel his face throbbing in sync with his heart.

  “Whoa, whoa. Take it easy, man,” Ricky said in a choked voice. He was still grinning. “I was only kidding. Can’t you take a joke?”

  Corbin looked around. The street was mostly empty. “You want to see a joke? I think you’ll like this one.” He reached down and grabbed the bottle of Coke from Ricky.

  “Hey, I’m still drinking that,” Ricky said. He reached for it, but Corbin shoved him back against the car.

  He pushed the mouth of the bottle against Ricky’s cheekbone hard, then slowly ran it downward until it caught on the lip of Ricky’s pants. He turned the bottle upside down, tucked it snuggly into Ricky’s waistline, and let the Coke drain into his jeans.

  Ricky tried to take it out, but Corbin smacked his hand away. “Let it.”

  “You just made a big mistake.” Ricky sneered. “I thought we were pals, Chief. But not anymore.”

  Corbin noticed his yellow teeth, and for a fleeting moment, he felt something like pity for the kid. But the moment was just that—fleeting.

  “A mistake? No, Ricky, I just made a joke. What’s the matter? You don’t find it funny?” Over Ricky’s shoulder, to Hooch standing on the other side of the car, he said, “Chris, your friend here’s had himself an accident. Poor kid made sissy in his pants. Make sure you help him get cleaned up, okay? Can’t have him walking around town like a big baby who wet himself. That’d be embarrassing.” Corbin heard his own words; they didn’t feel like they belonged to him. He felt like a bully and didn’t much care for the taste it left in his mouth. He had intended to be civil, but the kid had taken it in the opposite direction.

  Hooch only nodded dimly. He was terrified, frozen with his soda in one hand, his MoonPie in the other.

  Something dark and putrid clawed its way up from the depths of Ricky Osterman and surfaced on his face like a mask. The grin never broke. If anything, it spread and grew mean. Corbin suddenly thought Ricky had the dirtiest-looking face of any person he had ever known. It might’ve been the fine spray of freckles over pale skin, but it seemed like more than that. There was something grimy—oily—about him. Not surface filth, but inner filth. Something about it was familiar.

  “Don’t you have more important things to worry about than me speeding?” Ricky said snidely. “I heard two of your best guys killed each other over a piece of pussy yesterday, and you just stood there and watched. That true, Chief? You couldn’t even stop two of your own from killing each other? How’d you get to be chief, anyway? You sure you’re qualified? It doesn’t sound like it to me.”

  Corbin’s free hand balled into a fist, and he had a vision of bringing it down squarely in the center of Ricky’s face. Perhaps two or three times. But then his mind turned to his wife and daughter. The kid wasn’t worth all the trouble that would follow if he gave in to his immediate urge. It would be a temporary fix, anyway. Ricky’s old man had probably been slapping him around his whole life. The few extra blows Corbin wanted to dole out wouldn’t be the thing that finally set the boy straight. It was pointless. Tomorrow Ricky Osterman would still be a no-good punk, but Corbin would have changed for the worse. And he understood all of this in the time it took for his hand to become a fist and then open again.

  “Go on and get the hell out of here, Ricky. I’ve already wasted enough of my time on you.” He let go of him. Ricky’s neck was bright red, with white marks where Corbin’s fingers had been. It probably wouldn’t bruise. But if it did, that was okay.

  Ricky snatched the MoonPie off the roof of his car. Then his eyes snapped to Hooch. “Get in. Let’s get outta here,” he said, opening his door and slinking into the car. The Coke bottle remained in his waistband.

  Hooch stalled a moment, then obeyed, fumbling with the door handle.

  “Come on, hurry up!”

  “All right, okay, I’m comin,” Hooch said sheepishly. He got in and shut the door.

  Ricky started the car. The engine rumbled.

  “I’ll be seein ya, Chief.” Ricky feathered the gas pedal twice—two small growls.

  “Go,” Corbin said. “Now.”

  Ricky backed out of the parking space, then paused in the street as he brought a pack of Lucky Strikes up to his mouth and pulled a ciga
rette out with his teeth. He lit it with a Zippo and turned to Corbin, grinning one last time. He winked, then ran a hand through his greasy copper hair.

  The two of them stared at each other. Ten minutes ago Corbin had thought Ricky was only a troublemaker with a bad attitude, someone who was, for the most part, harmless. But now he wasn’t so sure anymore. He found himself wondering whether or not the kid was capable of killing. Was he capable of running a chain across the road and then sitting back to watch it all go down? And it wasn’t seeing the Lucky Strikes or seeing the MoonPie or seeing those two things together in the same place. It had been Ricky’s eyes—the way they swam in his grimy face like two unpredictable bullets. If he had discovered anything in the last few days, it was that people were capable of great, terrible things.

  Ricky dropped the car into drive and crawled up the street to the intersection of Main and Derby. He turned right and was gone. Corbin stayed there and listened for a long time. When the sound of Ricky’s car had completely faded away, he got in his cruiser and left. The Benzedrine inhaler would’ve been nice right about now, he thought. But he put the idea out of his head.

  2

  “Mommy, I had a bad one. A real baddy,” Kevin said, trailing his blanket as he came into the kitchen.

  Laura looked up from mixing the potato salad she was preparing for lunch. “A bad dream, sweetie?”

  He nodded and knuckled his eye. “Yeah.”

  “Was it one of your come-true dreams?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, come here.” Kevin came to her, and she picked him up. “What was it about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you try.”

  “It was very loud and very bright.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all, Mommy. I don’t know what it was, but I felt really sad.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just a regular bad dream?”

  “I don’t know.” Kevin dropped his head to his mother’s shoulder and started to cry.

  She held him.

  3