Gilchrist: A Novel

by Christian Galacar

  “Peter?” Corbin said. No answer. The room smelled sharply of alcohol mixed with an undertone of perfume. He went to the person, whom he presumed to be Peter Martell, and gave the man’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Mr. Martell.” He shook again, this time harder.

  Peter shot up like a spring, looking around frantically. He drew in a long, confused breath. “What… What is it?”

  Corbin took a startled step back. His hand reached instinctively for his gun and then dropped away. “Mr. Martell, it’s Chief Delancey. It’s okay. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Peter looked at him, blinking rapidly, coherence returning slowly to his eyes. He wiped a hand down his face, breathing ragged breaths through his fingers. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’ve been trying to track you down for the last few hours.”

  “Jesus, my head.” Peter reached up and squeezed his temples.

  Corbin looked around for a moment and found the light switch. He pointed to it. “You mind?”

  “Go ahead.” Peter looked at the bloody towel wrapped around his hand, then turned and planted his feet on the floor. The light washed the room yellow. He squinted, angled his head down, and rested his elbows forward on his knees. “What time is it?”

  “Just past eleven.”

  “Still Wednesday?”

  “Uh-huh.” Corbin took a seat in the chair beside the door. “You all right? You don’t look so good.”

  Peter glanced up, his eyes bloodshot slits. “I could say the same.”

  Corbin’s fingers went to the long line of shaved hair and blood-crusted stitches that ran from his left temple to behind his ear. “How’re you?”

  “Concussion,” Peter said.

  “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

  “It was a lot worse,” Peter said. “For both of us, I think. Your wife was in that church, wasn’t she?”

  Corbin folded his arms and looked sideways for a moment. “She was.”

  “So was mine. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Corbin said, fighting the urge to think about it. Not yet, he told himself. If I fall apart now, I don’t stand a chance of finding Grace. “But I didn’t come here to talk about that.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Peter said.

  Corbin leaned forward, forearms on his knees, mirroring Peter’s body language. “Do you remember what we were discussing before the explosion?”

  Peter nodded. “Your daughter. Grace, right?”

  “That’s right. Listen, I’m going to need… No, I’m going to insist you finish what you started. Grace is all I got left. If you saw something, you tell me. The state police are busy figuring out what the hell happened at Our Savior, and pretty much all my guys short of dispatch are gone. So it looks like I’m on my own for the time being. You’re the only lead I have. And I don’t even know what that lead is. Let’s start there.”

  Peter stared at the floor for a beat, massaging his temples with his one good hand.

  “Mr. Martell—”

  Peter’s eyes snapped up. “Stop calling me that. Peter… just call me Peter. I’m not holding out… I’m thinking. What I know—or think I know—isn’t going to be what you’re expecting.”

  “Okay,” Corbin said, leaning back and putting up his hands. “But this isn’t something I can wait on. So why don’t you just go ahead and try me, okay? We’ll start there.”

  Peter shook his head and scoffed at whatever he was working out internally. “I’ll tell you what I know. You can take it or leave it. I’ll even tell you how I know it. You won’t like that part. But it’ll be the truth.”

  A door opened and shut in the front of the house. A few seconds later, Benny appeared in the doorway. “Everything all right in here?”

  “I told you to stay put,” Corbin said over his shoulder.

  “I know, but…” Benny looked at Peter and nodded politely. “I’ll go back in the truck. Name’s Ben Feller, by the way. Not sure we’ve met,” he said to Peter.

  “We haven’t… not really. But it’s fine. Stay,” Peter said. “Look, guys, I appreciate you letting yourselves in and waking me up out of a rather pleasant blackout, but do you think we can take this into the kitchen. I need a cup of coffee or something. My head’s splitting in two.” He eyed Benny suspiciously. “You don’t have a scratch on you. How’d you manage that?”

  “Not sure. Probably the angle of the steps saved me. Blast went straight o’er me. Bent down to tie a loose lace, and next thing I know, brick’s raining down. Curled myself into a ball and prayed.”

  “You oughta play the lottery more,” Peter said tiredly, but with an air of dry humor.

  Corbin reached into his pocket and tossed a prescription bottle on the bed beside Peter. “Help yourself. That should fix your head.”

  Peter picked up the bottle, read it, and tossed it back. “Thanks, but coffee’s probably a better idea at the moment.”

  They all went into the kitchen.

  2

  Peter was on his second cup of coffee by the time he finished telling Corbin and Benny about his run-in with the freckle-faced kid outside Dale’s Tavern. Corbin had poured himself a cup at the outset, but he hadn’t taken a single sip. Benny sat at the breakfast counter, looking at his hands the whole time.

  “So that’s it,” Peter said, setting his mug down and rubbing the side of it with his finger. He liked the warmth of it. “Chief, your face looks exactly how I thought it might. You think I wasted your time, don’t you? That I’m just about the craziest person you’ve ever met? I don’t blame you. Before coming to this town, I would’ve thought the same thing.”

  “I think I don’t know what to think,” Corbin said. “But I’ve lived in Gilchrist long enough to know strange things happen, probably at a higher frequency than most places. And this week certainly hasn’t made me think otherwise.”

  “Fair enough,” Peter said. “You know, at one point I was just going to lie and make up a story that sounded more believable, say I witnessed something that could point you in the right direction with your daughter. But after what happened today, I’m having a hard time seeing the point in caring what people think anymore. I think I knew that was coming, too, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I know I’m not crazy. You don’t have to believe me about Grace, but at least I’ll know I tried.”

  “Thing is”—Corbin scratched the back of his head, his face embroiled with rightful skepticism—“the kid you’re describing is exactly who I thought might have something to do with this. His name’s Ricky Osterman. He and I had a bit of a disagreement yesterday. And I’m not going to ignore a coincidence like you landing on him, especially when that’s the best we got. It’s just…”

  “I believe you,” Benny blurted from his seat at the counter. “And I ain’t even know you, neither. But I believe you. I think maybe I got a little of what you got, too. Only it’s not the same. I just… well, I see things around here sometimes that I don’t think other folks see… or maybe they do. Things that’d make you turn tail and run, that’s for sure.”

  Corbin looked at Benny. “You do?”

  Benny nodded. “I know with my history that don’t mean a whole lot, but I ain’t lyin about it.”

  “Can’t say as I was expecting this conversation to end up here,” Corbin said.

  “We should listen to him, Corb,” Benny said, gesturing to Peter. “What choice do you have? If he says he thinks Grace is near running water, that probably narrows it down to the Gilchrist. And if it is Ricky, then I’d wager he stuck to an area he knows, which means probably in town. We ignore that, then we have hundreds of acres to cover. That’s a dead end. At least this gives us something to go on. We could head out there tonight and start at the northern part of town and make our way down. Me on one side of the river, you on the other. It’s prolly five or six miles. We could do that before sunup. You got any better ideas, let me know.”

  Peter watched them. His head was still a tumbling mess. His thoughts didn’t seem ent
irely his own at the moment. But he did feel strangely unburdened. A weight had been lifted. And that was good.

  “Do you know where?” Corbin asked Peter.

  “Like exactly where?” Peter said. “No. It’s not like that.” He paused, thinking of Sylvia’s remark in the car. “It’s more like intuition. And it doesn’t always make sense.”

  “You said a slaughterhouse. Well, there ain’t no slaughterhouses around here,” Corbin said.

  “I don’t know if it’s a slaughterhouse. I never said that. I said she was surrounded by dead animals. Could be a taxidermist for all I know.”

  Corbin looked at Benny, then back at Peter. “All right, look. You and I have a lot to hate about the world right about now, but do you want to help do something useful? Three guys can cover more ground than two can. You feel like going for a hike? If you wanted to lend a hand, now’s your chance.”

  Peter looked up. Part of him wanted to just be left alone, but a bigger part, a part that felt engrained with his wife’s will, thought he should keep pushing forward. Besides, he had originally gone to the church to help. Perhaps he had felt so compelled to do so because of what had happened to Noah. It was a chance to save one. Or maybe that’s the very thing that had been used against him. Maybe…

  He cut off that mode of thinking; it felt an awful lot like the what-ifs that had haunted him after Noah. He would help for one reason, and it was a good reason: this was his opportunity to finish the last thing he and Sylvia had started together. It didn’t seem like much, but it was enough to hold on to. And at the moment, he needed that.

  He conjured a thought, forcing himself to hear it in her voice: See it through, Peter.

  “All right,” he said. “Where do we start?”

  3

  They arrived at an empty gravel parking lot just before one o’clock in the morning. Corbin parked near a building at the back. The headlights illuminated a sign out front that read FOOTE BROTHERS CANOE RENTAL. There were a few picnic tables, a rack with oars and life vests hanging from it, and a Coke machine with a trash can beside it.

  Peter sat between Corbin and Benny, an old army bag in his lap. They had stopped at the police station on the way and picked up flashlights, walkie-talkies, and a few canteens of water.

  Corbin shut off the engine and got out. Benny did the same, and Peter slid out after him. He could hear and smell the softly burbling river, but he couldn’t see it yet. The rain had picked up again—a steady, cool drizzle. They were all wearing rain slickers and muck boots, also courtesy of the Gilchrist Police Department. There wasn’t much talking until they went around to the back of the truck and Corbin dropped the tailgate. Peter set the bag down. Corbin pulled it over to him and unzipped it.

  “All right,” Corbin said. “Each man takes a flashlight and a radio. Water, if you need it, too.”

  Peter reached in and grabbed one of the canteens. “I need it.”

  The hangover had set its hooks in, and it was worse than his usual brand. The Equanil still had a weak hold on him, too, and occasionally he felt as if his head were floating away from his body.

  “I know you do,” Corbin said. “You smell like a distillery. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Peter said, and gulped down a mouthful of cold water.

  Benny didn’t say anything on the subject. He grabbed a flashlight and tested it a couple times to see if it turned on and off. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie and tucked it inside his jacket. Peter and Corbin did the same.

  “Benny, you take the right bank of the river,” Corbin said, printing his flashlight beam on a wooden footbridge that crossed the Gilchrist. Water glistened like dull brass sparks as it passed underneath. “Peter and I will take the left, spread out a little to cover more ground. I figure it’s best to cover both sides at once. Keep the radios on, but only use them if you need to. We’ll check in every half hour or so. I have no idea what we might find, so it’s best to keep the element of surprise on our side. Speaking of which…”

  Corbin leaned into the bed of his truck and dragged a rolled-up tarp to him. He unwrapped it and flashed his light down.

  “Shit, is this a search party or a hunting party?” Benny said, lighting a cigarette. “You think we actually need those?”

  A shotgun and two revolvers sat on the tarp.

  “I don’t know. Hopefully not. But wouldn’t you rather have one and not need it than the other way around?” Corbin said.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Benny said.

  Corbin picked up the shotgun and pumped it. “Listen, let me make something clear right now—and if this doesn’t sit well with either of you, then I’ll do this myself and won’t think lesser of you for it—but I’m not going out there as law enforcement.” He removed the badge from the chest of his uniform and dropped it on the tarp. “If my daughter is in these woods, I intend to bring her back. And if it turns out Ricky has his hand in this, I’ll tell you one thing… that kid’s a wolf. Trust me, you don’t want to be the sheep that crosses his path.”

  Benny reached down and grabbed one of the revolvers, winking one eye shut and pointing it into flat darkness as his cheek glowed orange from his cigarette. His hand trembled. “Is it loaded?”

  “Wouldn’t do a lot of good if it wasn’t,” Corbin said. He put his fingers on the barrel of Benny’s gun and gently pushed it down. “You sure you know how to shoot that thing?”

  Benny tucked it into his waistband. “Does a bird fly?”

  “Depends on the bird,” Corbin said.

  “I can shoot,” Benny said. “Don’t you worry about me.”

  “How ’bout you, Peter?” Corbin said. “You feel safer with a little steel to grip?”

  “I’m okay. I’ll take my chances.”

  “You know something we don’t know?” Corbin said.

  And even though he said it with a tone of nervous incredulity, Peter could tell there was sincerity there. He could tell Corbin was scared, his poker face held together by weak thread. One light tug was all it would take.

  “I know that I’ve never shot a gun before in my life,” Peter said. “And I’d hate to have it somehow end up in the wrong hands, pointed at one of you two on my account.”

  “All right, then.” Corbin bundled his badge and the remaining pistol in the tarp, then walked around and put it in the cab of his truck and locked the door. “We oughta get a move on.”

  4

  They stuck together until the footbridge. Then Benny kept straight and went across to the other side, his flashlight sweeping left to right ahead of him in slow arcs through the rain.

  Corbin veered left, moving south along the bank of the river. “This way,” he said across his shoulder. “It’s narrow here for a few hundred yards, but it opens up. We’ll spread out then to cover a wider swath.”

  “Okay,” Peter said, fighting back a wave of nausea. His stomach continued to turn over on itself.

  He followed closely, watching Corbin’s big frame maneuver over the moss-covered remains of fallen trees and wild jags of wet roots. The week had been downright sweltering for most of its days, but tonight had the raw feel of autumn in New England. It was as if a cold, iron hand had closed around the town and was slowly tightening its grip. Everything was being brought together.

  It’s just another manipulation, Peter thought.

  And if it was, he had no idea of its purpose or where it led. Perhaps, he mused, that was the trick of it, how everything can seem completely under control, until it no longer is and it’s too late. In hindsight, it all seemed so foolish, so easily avoidable. You say: Man, I should’ve seen it coming… I should’ve known. Yet you didn’t.

  The what-ifs. They were the far-reaching teeth of tragedy that could bite at any time, from any distance. The little things, the seemingly innocuous choices of life, that could’ve been done or made differently. For as long as Peter had been familiar with the concept, he had thought of it as nothing more than a way for him to torture himself about the ran
domness of life, but now he wondered if it was just a way to retrace the path that had been deliberately drawn for him. And if that was the case, it brought him to a bigger question: where had that path begun and where would it end?

  Where it always ends, where they want it to end… in suffering and tragedy.

  He and Corbin walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Corbin stopped and pulled his radio from his pocket. He pressed the button, and it squelched. “You there, Benny?”

  Peter heard Corbin’s voice come through his own walkie in his pocket. He looked right and could see the flicker of Benny’s flashlight across the river. It stopped moving forward for a moment.

  Benny’s voice crackled on both their walkies: “Yeah. I read you loud and clear.”

  “Just testing,” Corbin said, wiping rainwater out of his eye.

  “Gotcha,” Benny said.

  Corbin tucked the radio back in his jacket and kept trudging ahead. Peter moved along, feeling like a wind-up toy that had been spun up, set down, and was now headed toward some inevitable destination.

  “What was your wife’s name?” Corbin asked, slowing his pace until he and Peter were walking beside each other.

  Peter looked sideways at him. “Was?”

  “Shit. Hey, look, I’m sor—”

  “It’s okay. It was Sylvia,” Peter said. “No one who was inside that church is walking away from it. I’m not naïve enough to think otherwise.”

  “No, you’re right. They pulled my wife’s body out a few hours ago. I had to identify her. Never thought I’d ever have to do that, I’ll tell you that much.” Corbin hesitated, then said, “You’ll have to do it, too, for yours. It won’t be easy, but you’ll do it just the same, and then it’ll be done. I’m sorry that you have to.”

  “You trying to cheer me up?” Peter said. “Because I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re not doing a very good job of it.”

  “Don’t mean to sound cold. I’m just trying to speak to you honest,” Corbin said. “It’s good to know what’s coming, don’t you think? Although I suppose you know a damn sight more about that than I do.”