Gilchrist: A Novel

by Christian Galacar

  He cupped his hands around his cigarette, raking his thumb down the flint wheel of his Zippo as he rounded the corner by Dale’s Tavern. The moment the spark flashed, he was blindsided. The lighter fell to the ground. He had walked smack into a person, their shoulders connecting solidly.

  “Watch it, asshole,” Ricky said automatically, and looked up. He didn’t recognize the man or the woman with him.

  “I uh… Sorry,” the man said, picking up the Zippo and handing it to Ricky.

  “Yeah, you are.” Ricky snatched the lighter from the man. “Don’t you look where you’re going? What’s the matter with you?”

  The man stared at him, his eyes wide and black. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Ricky looked up and down at the redhead on the man’s arm. “Just watch it, okay? Jesus.” He walked past the couple and continued up the sidewalk.

  “You all right?” he heard the woman say as he walked out of range.

  Any other time, Ricky might’ve gotten into it with the guy, especially since he seemed like he could be a tourist, and Ricky hated tourists. But he didn’t have time for that. He had irons in the fire. Hot ones.

  9

  Peter stood in front of Dale’s and watched the freckle-faced kid with the green eyes strut up the street, working to get his cigarette lit. His body was still ringing. Not from the impact, but from something else. The moment he’d run into that kid, a tiny explosion had fired off in the core of his mind and scattered fragments of something he didn’t quite understand. Something about the boy sent a chill up Peter’s spine. It had been like touching a live electrical wire and getting zapped.

  “You all right?” Sylvia asked him.

  He snapped out of it and looked at her. “Yeah. I’m fine. This is it,” he said, painting on a smile and gesturing to the entrance of the bar. Laughter and muddied country music filtered out from inside. Something with twang. It sounded like a good time.

  “You sure about this?” she said.

  “Why not?” he said. “Who likes cold beer, anyway?”

  Inside, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and pool chalk still ruled the atmosphere of Dale’s Tavern. In a strange way, that was part of its charm. George Bateman was working the taps and pouring beers for a midweek evening crowd. He greeted Peter with a kind, familiar smile and said hello. Sylvia and Peter found two spots at the bar and ordered Dale’s Delights. When George offered them two cold ones on the house, Peter declined for the both of them. Instead, they ordered two Cokes, and George asked no questions about it, because that was the kind of guy he was. Later, when the crowd was thinning out, Peter dropped a dime in the jukebox and selected The Righteous Brothers’ recording of “Unchained Melody.” He and Sylvia danced slowly in the smoky bar, stomachs full, and both happy in each other’s arms. Two couples got up and joined them. As the song came to a close, George applauded.

  When they returned to Shady Cove, they took a blanket down to the dock. And under the stars, while the loons spoke to the moon, they made love.

  10

  Grace had left for the library at around noon. She had told her mom she would be back in a couple of hours, but that was over seven hours ago.

  Meryl Delancey had started getting nervous at around five o’clock. By six o’clock, she had started pacing through the house and glancing out the front widows every few seconds, expecting to see her daughter walking up the driveway. When that hadn’t produced results, she had taken an unnecessary shower to pass the slow-playing time, hoping to find her daughter home when she got out. But the shower was rushed, and when she stepped out onto the cold tiled floor, she could feel the mean emptiness of the house mocking her. By seven, she had called all of Grace’s friends to see if they had heard from her. All said they hadn’t. Then nervousness quickly became panic. This wasn’t like her daughter. Something was wrong.

  She had one call left to make, and it was the one she dreaded the most. Once she called her husband, it became real. She would have to say out loud the thing she feared the most. And that would crystalize it. But the phone was already ringing in her ear. At some point she had picked it up and dialed the police station.

  11

  It had taken him a half hour to calm Meryl down. He said all the things he was supposed to say—that everything would be okay, that she shouldn’t worry because Grace was probably just out with a friend, that she’s got a good head on her shoulders.

  Somewhere along the way, he had realized he didn’t actually believe any of what he was saying. Then fear hit him, and his mind started to race. Maybe she wasn’t okay. What did he know? He hoped she was. That was all. He had managed to hide his own panic from his wife—he thought so, anyway, although a part of him suspected Meryl knew he was peddling his hope as something more substantial—but alone in his car, he couldn’t pretend anymore.

  Meryl had kept saying one thing over and over again: She wouldn’t do something like this, Corbin. She wouldn’t just tell me she was coming back and not show up. And he couldn’t deny that his wife was right about that. He wished she wasn’t—dear God, he almost wished Grace was a bit of a rebel so that the possibility of her just being an inconsiderate teenager could be true. But no, Meryl had it right. Grace wasn’t like that.

  He had seen five deaths in his sleepy little town since Saturday. Now this? Gertie’s words from her hospital bed were starting to grow heavier and take on a more defined meaning. He could admit that Gilchrist did have its odd moments, and maybe he had grown accustomed to it by being so close to it for so long, but so much darkness in such a short span was too much, even for Gilchrist. Something was changing. He just didn’t know what the hell it was. But a deep feeling told him it was too big to just point a finger at and say, There, that’s it! That’s the thing responsible!

  He had been driving around town, looking for Grace for the last two hours. Meryl had wanted to come, but he had convinced her to stay home in case their daughter showed up. So far, the only thing that had set off a buzzer in his head were the fresh skid marks on Town Farm Road. He hadn’t recalled seeing them earlier in the week, and they were on the route his daughter would’ve taken to get to the library from their house. There was, however, a flattened piece of roadkill near the marks, so it could just as easily have been someone trying to avoid a squirrel. There were two sets, though.

  One was a set of brake marks, and the other was a set of burnout marks. The latter had brought a specific person to mind immediately. But who was he kidding? He realized he had been thinking it the whole time. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t allowed himself to fully consider it sooner was because that meant admitting fault.

  If I hadn’t lost my temper earlier, then maybe…

  It was dark by the time Corbin turned down the Ostermans’ driveway. Nate’s tow truck was parked in front of the house. He didn’t see Ricky’s car. He got out and went to the front door. Moths beat around the porch light. The place was dimly lit. Inside, Nate was laughing deep, sloppy laughs. Corbin had heard that laugh dozens of times down at Dale’s. Tonight it sounded more lurid.

  Corbin knocked on the door, hand resting on his pistol. The laughs cut off.

  “Get that, Barb,” Nate said. “I’m watching this. Why I even gotta ask?”

  A soft woman’s voice said something in a complaisant tone. Barbara Osterman hadn’t been right since her fall down the stairs. Corbin knew Nate had likely been the cause of that fall, but there had been no way to prove it.

  “How the hell should I know?” Nate said. “Maybe you should go find out.”

  The thin scrape of slippers shuffling across linoleum issued from inside the Ostermans’ house. The door opened with a rattle. Barbara Osterman stood there in her dirty bathrobe, that hollow expression on her face. It was a sad thing to see. She’d once been a beautiful woman, but all that remained was a husk with ratty dark hair and unblinking, curious eyes.

  “Hello, Corbin,” she said in her slow, steady voice. There was an innocent, childlike quality to it.
“Can I get you some water? It’s hot out tonight.”

  “Hi, Barbara. No, but thanks for offering.” He folded his arms. “Look, I’m sorry to call on you so late, but I need to talk to Nate.”

  “Nate? Of course. He’s here. Want me to tell him you’re here?”

  “Could you, please?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you. I’ll go get him.” She started to turn away, then stopped. “I got my hair cut today.” She ran her hands through it, fanning it out. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s lovely.”

  She smiled at him. “Really? You like it?”

  Corbin clenched his jaw, understanding it wasn’t her fault. “Yes.”

  “I’ll go get Nate.” She gave him a clumsy, flirtatious look.

  “Appreciate it, Barbara.”

  She disappeared into house. With the door left open, Corbin could hear both sides of their conversation:

  “Chief Delancey said he likes my haircut. I knew he would.”

  “It’s Corbin? What the hell does he want?”

  “I don’t know. But he isn’t thirsty. I offered him water.”

  “Go sit down. You’re makin me nervous.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  The television volume lowered. Then heavy footsteps were coming to the front of the house. Nate appeared in the doorway in a T-shirt and underwear. He sipped his beer.

  “Corb? Usually I get a call if you got tow work. What’s up?”

  Corbin stepped back from the screen door. “I need to talk to you. Why don’t you step out here and shut the door.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I just want to ask you a couple questions, that’s all.”

  Nate came out onto the porch and shut the main door behind him. He swiped at the moths on the screen, then blew the wing dust off his palm. “Little fuckers are everywhere. What’s going on?”

  “You know where Ricky is, Nate? I don’t see his car here.”

  “Aw, Christ.” Nate hawked a wad of spit off his porch. “What he do?”

  “I didn’t say he did anything. I just want to talk to him.”

  “About what?” Nate narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms.

  “That’s not important,” Corbin said. “Have you seen him or not?”

  “Not since this morning. Must be real serious if you drive all the way out here without calling first. Way I remember it, if the police want to talk to you, you done something wrong.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going?”

  “Going? How the hell should I know? He’s a horny teenager. Probably out chasing wool. That’s what I’d be doing.” Nate laughed, and smacked a mosquito on his shoulder. A little streak of blood appeared on his thick shoulder.

  “So you have no idea, then?”

  “Shit, I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his head. “He and Chris were here earlier, workin on his car. That’s the last I saw him. The two of em been headin up to the drag track in New Hampshire a lot. Could be there. I don’t keep tabs on him, if that’s what you think.”

  “Was it just the two of them you saw?”

  “That’s right. What the hell’s this about, Corb? Ricky might be a dipshit, but he’s still my boy. If he’s got himself in some sorta trouble, I oughta know about it.”

  “He ain’t in trouble, Nate. Like I said, I just need to talk to him.”

  “Well, if you can’t tell me what the problem is, then maybe when I see him, I ain’t actually seen him, if you know what I mean.” Nate cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head.

  Corbin looked coldly at him. “Don’t fuck with me, Nate. Not right now.” He turned and went down the steps, heading for his car. “You call me first when you see him. I want to know. You hear me?”

  “Damn it, Corb, it ain’t right comin to another man’s house and talkin to him like that. Ain’t no cause for it.” He walked halfway down his front steps, railing in one hand and his beer in the other.

  “Since when did you start caring about what’s right?” Corbin got into his car. From the window, he said, “And careful on those steps, Nate. Don’t want to have yourself an accident. That’d be a damn shame.”

  He started the car and backed onto the balding patch of grass that was the Ostermans’ front yard. He headed out to continue looking for his daughter.

  12

  Nate stood on the steps and watched as Corbin’s cruiser dipped and yawed through the potholes in his driveway. When he reached the end, he turned right and drove out of sight. What the fuck had that all been about? Whatever trouble Ricky had gotten himself into, this was the end of it. He was going to have to show that little prick who was boss.

  He shook his Pabst to see how much was left. About a quarter. He tipped it back and finished it off. He crumpled the can in his hand and tossed it at the trash can beside his front steps. He missed.

  “Shit.” He stepped down onto the gravel landing with his bare feet, hobbling carefully over the sharp rocks. He bent down, grabbed the can, and dropped it in the trash. He turned to head inside but stopped when he saw someone coming out from behind the shed and moving toward him. “Hey, this is private property.” He squinted to see better, but it did little to help.

  “It’s me, Pop.”

  “Ricky? What the hell’re you doing back there? And what do the police want with you?”

  “It’s nothin. He’s just got a hard-on for me,” Ricky said. “Hey, check this out.”

  A shadow moved quickly toward him out of the dark. As Ricky’s scowling face broke the boundary of the dim yellow porch light, Nate had time enough to see his son’s arms raised overhead. Then the rusty head of the splitting maul cut an arc through the air.

  Nate’s eyes crossed as he looked up. “What the fu—”

  13

  The town of Gilchrist was fast asleep when Jim Krantz broke the pane of glass on the door. His elbow started to bleed. He looked down at it curiously, as if he didn’t understand what it was. Something inside him temporarily lost its icy hold on him. For a moment his mind broke free, and a dose of clarity returned to him. He looked around, confused.

  When he was younger, he and his friends used to do something they called “thumbing.” They would crouch down, hyperventilate, stand up really quickly, then stick their thumb in their mouth and blow as hard as they could until they passed out. When done correctly, it would lead to intense visions and a not-so-unpleasant feeling of dissociative euphoria where the rules of time seemed to change. During these episodes, what felt like minutes usually only ended up being seconds. Standing there, Jim felt shades of that familiar misconception of time.

  The last thing he remembered was the girl in his truck out by Big Bath. Sandy. There had been a car accident, too. How much time had passed since then? An hour? A day? Oh God, more? And what was he doing here? His body ached terribly, as if he had been worked too hard without rest. Strange day-dreamy recollections of long journeys through the woods flashed in his mind’s eye, followed by a rush of free-floating anxiety. He had done something terrible… He was doing something terrible. But what?

  “Where did you go, Pickle?” his mother’s voice whispered to him from down a long corridor in his head. And whatever sinister thing had its hold on him returned. The clarity evaporated, and the compulsion to drive forward toward some unknown goal resumed its parasitic influence.

  Jim’s face glazed over cold again, and he let himself into the school. The white painted brick inside was festooned with children’s arts and crafts. Taped up in the main hall, a banner of strung-together construction paper cutouts read MRS. PENNY’S PRESCHOOL. Below that: HAVE A NICE SUMMER! The cement-brick walls kept the place cool.

  He drifted down the hallway, a phantasm carrying its stolen wooden crate. His boots clicked against the tiled floor as he moved slowly through the dark. He stopped when he found the innermost room—a small windowless space with a low wooden stage, drab carpeting, and chairs lining the perimeter. It was the heart of the preschool, where the chil
dren put on plays and the parents could come and watch. Afterward, there were always coffee and pastries spread out on banquet tables. For the kids, punch.

  “Here?” he asked the empty room.

  “Yes. In the ceiling, Pickle. That’ll work nicely.”

  He put the crate on the floor, then grabbed one of the chairs. He dragged it back to the center and stepped up on it. He pushed in one of the drop ceiling tiles and slid it to the side, exposing pipes and other guts above. The main artery was a steel I-beam that ran the length of the room. Its lower flange would make a perfect shelf for the dynamite.

  With his bare hands, Jim pried the nailed-down lid off the crate and set to work wiring the explosives. Somewhere behind a locked door in the basement of his mind, another voice, his own voice, raged against him: Stop it! What’s the matter with you? Don’t do this? Don’t listen to it! But there was little he could do to stop it.

  Outside, a car drove through a vacant downtown Gilchrist past midnight. It was a new day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SEARCH PARTY

  1

  Peter had specifically bought an extra bottle of mint Rolaids before they had left, and he could’ve sworn he’d packed them, but they were nowhere to be found. He remembered putting them in the medicine cabinet on Sunday when they arrived, and yet this morning they weren’t there.

  The evening of sodas and greasy food at Dale’s had been fun, and it had certainly been nice to feel a part of a small community where no one knew of their tragedy and didn’t treat them as though they were somehow broken, but this morning they were paying the price for their dietary indiscretions. Both had awoken just before eight o’clock with searing cases of heartburn. Peter had volunteered to run downtown to get antacids after he couldn’t find the ones he thought should be there, and Sylvia had offered to have a healthy, albeit bland, breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, and tea waiting when he returned.