***
Jason stood in the room that had once been his.
Mom hadn't said more than a few sentences to him on the way home. Mostly he had caught up with Celine. When they arrived, after Jason made plans with Celine for later in the night, Mom had told him that his stuff was "boxed up in the garage," stored away along with the covered Dodge Duster he had crashed and revived twice before joining the Army.
While he was away his room had been let to a teenage girl who had fled an abusive father. Jason couldn't begrudge Mom that, but he knew there was more to it than mere humanitarianism. This was just another brick in the wall that Mom had constructed after Dad was gone.
Though empty, the room was largely the same: same nightstand, same bed against the wall, same window, same woods, same dresser (the second drawer of which had contained all his VHS tapes)… and Mom had left the TV and VCR for the girl to use.
The rest he saw in the rear view mirror of his mind: the cardboard standup of Elvira Mistress of the Dark in the corner, his posters taped to the walls: Bloodsport, Cyborg, Death Warrant, No Retreat No Surrender, American Ninja, Big Trouble in Little China, and of course… Road House. He couldn't wait to dig all those old posters out again.
He walked over and opened the closet… the very same closet that had scared the shit out of him as a kid, when Mom would lock him in, chair-back against the knob.
Don't lock me in with the monsters!
In the back of the closet was a dinner plate-sized hole; a hole he had made—or made bigger, there had already been a sizable crack in the wall—when he was old enough to try and punch his way out of Mom's time-out prison. He heard Trish from the other room. Soon her skinny arm poked through and began waving back and forth. Jason smiled, it was a game they used to play when Jason had gotten older—Trish joined the family when he turned thirteen. Mom would wheel Trish in front of her TV. Trish would stick her arm through the hole and call out, Jason would open the closet doors and push the clothes aside, pretending to be a zombie munching on her arm. She would squeal in delight. Jason began making zombie noises now. Trish yipped. Jason grabbed her am with both hands, opened his mouth…
And stopped. He thought of the last few weeks and of the full moon drawing near. He thought of what he might become. He thought of the plane. Saliva had begun to drip from his mouth.
You don't believe you'll actually…
Something was off, there was no denying that, he felt different. His emotions were heightened. On one hand he felt more alive than ever before; on the other hand, his muscles had begun to ache...
Jason let go of Trish's arm, eliciting a disappointed groan from the other room.
"Time for lunch soon, sweetie. We can play later," he said as he backed out and shut the closet door. The plane… what the fuck was that about? He had heard everything… and the hard-on? He had gone through his horny teenage years, the years of jerking off three times a day to worn-out porn tapes that he had memorized the soundtracks to. The feeling he had on the plane made those days seem like church study.
It had been like something else was working through him, something outside of himself. And that scared the shit out of him.
Beautiful, isn't she?
That was what Serrano had said of the moon. She.
Jason shook his head. Enough of this shit. He had a lunch to eat, bags to unpack, and a beautiful woman to hang out with all night. His dick stiffened at the thought. Jason pictured her gorgeous body, her eyes and face… and the bruise, the scar at the outer edge of her left eyebrow. Yes he had a beautiful woman to spend the night with…
But first he would pay a visit to an old friend.
CHAPTER NINE
Directly after lunch he had set out. For some time now Jason had imagined the confrontation with CJ—what he would say, what he would do. He ran through the scenario in his mind; threatening, yelling, escalating…. By the time he had uncovered the location of Boil Trucking and pulled into the lot, his visualizing had progressed to gruesome imagery of tearing CJ limb from limb, ripping him to pieces, and drinking his blood.
Jason sat in his Duster (which had taken a while to bring back from the dead) and took deep breaths. What scared him wasn't the thoughts of tearing his one-time-friend to pieces, but the growing certainty that he was capable of actually doing it. Though his muscles were sore, like the day after a particularly strenuous workout, he felt stronger than he had ever felt in his life. He was lightning ready to strike.
By the time he had made his way to the dispatch office he was covered in sweat. He didn't realize his hands were balled into fists until he thumped them down on the counter demanding to know where CJ was.
The dispatcher—a nervous, pudgy potato of a man with the thickest glasses Jason had ever seen—repeated multiple times that CJ was out, he didn't know when he would return, and he couldn't say where he went.
Jason was in the process of telling Mr. Potato Head that he was prepared to camp out in the office until CJ returned, when a tank of a man with slicked-back, black hair came walking out of a back office. He wore jeans and a tight-fitting black shirt. This guy was big, like fucking Schwarzenegger big. He strode past the desk and straight up to Jason, then leaned over him like one of his drill sergeants from basic training.
"The man said we can't help you."
Jason looked up past the other man's chin and said "You tell that worthless fuck that he can't hide behind you, I don't give a fuck how big you are."
"You're on private property," Slick said.
Jason felt the urge once again to rend and maim, to take this big rig of a man apart piece by piece. His entire body quivered like a cable ready to snap, and an emotional detachment engulfed him.
Something flickered behind the giant's eyes then, an emotion Jason sensed the other man was unaccustomed to, something very close to fear. It was brief, and the other man recovered quickly, but the awareness of it was enough to reach Jason through the emotional dead zone.
Come on, come back to reality. This isn't like you.
Jason took a deep breath, relaxed, and smiled. "Yeah, of course," he replied. "Important to keep all that drug smuggling private." He laughed. Slick clenched his teeth. Jason spun around and could feel the big man's eyes burning holes in his back as he walked out the door.
***
CJ had gotten off to a late start. He had shot up before the chat with Boil—am I supposed to turn left here? Or right? I think it's right—but that hadn't prevented the whole incident from scaring the shit out of him. Boil's talk about Honcho wasn't just casual conversation. There was a rumor that followed the old man from Washington State, a legend that said Boil had Honcho killed, sliced up and that that he kept a finger as a trophy. A finger bearing the same tattoo the old man had just happened to describe, the infinity symbol.
Though he had shot up again before picking up his load ("load" was generous, it was a pile of furniture) his hands had still been shaking on the steering wheel all the way to Salem.
He had dropped off his cargo and was now pulling into the Salem bus station. He found a parking spot, waited, and kept thinking about just how well and truly fucked he was.
Sheriff Barclay had asked what he could say about his boss. CJ knew some things—like that the old man's trucks picked up product from down South, usually San Francisco, and ran it further North. From there it ran up into Washington where it changed hands before crossing into Canada. When Boil was in Washington, before the investigation, some people said he was the one sneaking the drugs across the border. Now it was as if he had just moved a few links down the chain.
CJ also knew that Boil laundered money and ran it back down South. What CJ didn't know was details. He had only made low-level runs, small amounts of cash and product that were mostly local. The long-haul drivers were the ones pulling the real payloads. Of course, CJ hadn't told the sheriff any of this. What he had told the sheriff was that he would consider the proposition. And he was in fact doing just that. Problem was CJ
loved heroin too much to blow a good thing ("blow," ha!). Plus, he preferred not to end up dead. Of course, he probably wouldn't be getting heroin in jail either, and if he pissed off the wrong people there he would wind up just as dead.
Now that Jason was coming home also… Christ. The timing couldn't have been worse. He would have to play it cool and feel out the situation. If his old buddy went aggro then CJ would have to handle shit.
You might have to go to a dark place. You can do that, right?
Cause if he didn't… he thought about that infinity symbol tattoo.
One minute he was sitting there having these deep thoughts, and the next there was some kid in a hoodie opening the door. He couldn't get a good look at his face.
"What up, dog? Help me with my stuff?"
The kid had five cases that they loaded into the back of the truck. A minute later and they were back in the cab.
"Let's hit a drive through." the kid said.
Who was this fuckstick? CJ pulled back onto the street. He looked over at the kid, who was slumped down in his seat, hood pulled forward. He pulled out a Rubik's cube and started fiddling with it.
"So, Hard Boiled, what's he like?" the kid asked.
"What do you wanna eat?" CJ replied.
The kid was spinning the pieces faster than CJ's eyes could follow. "Don't matter, he-ro. I eat whatever you put in front of me."
As if my life wasn't fucked enough.
"Boss man changin' shit up, huh?" The kid continued. "All about the formula, man. Formula for success, right?"
What the fuck was this shitmonkey babbling about?
"Maybe it's best you don't talk so much, he-ro," CJ fired back. There you go, suck on that.
There was a laugh from the passenger seat. "I ain't no hero, dog, no…" The kid finished the puzzle, rotating it to ensure the colored squares matched up on every side.
"But you can call me Ghost."
***
The thermos was just about empty. Ty poured out the last bit of coffee and replaced the lid. As he had grown older, he had maintained less vices; caffeine was one of the very few he had left.
He laid his head back in the seat and checked his watch. Two in the morning. He could have asked either of his deputies to take the shift, if he had included them in the case he meant to build against Boil. Which he didn't, because he refused to put their lives in danger. Not at this stage. Of course, he could have involved the Feds, if he felt like watching a bunch of monkeys fuck a football for the foreseeable future. Their latest eighteen-month investigation in Salem had netted them an ounce and a half of meth. Alert the media.
No, he would build this case himself. The old fashioned way. He would do it alone for now, and continue working on that dipshit CJ as a potential informant. He would maintain surveillance, and if that meant burning the candle at both ends for a while, so be it. Anything to lance this "boil" that was festering on Whisper Lake's ass. Guys like him were a disease, and Ty would not allow it to spread in his own backyard. Besides, it wasn't like he had that much else to do, aside from investigating a couple bomb threats to doctor Keen's office (he still wasn't quite sure what that was about, except that the caller had accused Keen of being a murderer.) The rest of Whisper Lake had been fairly quiet over the last few days.
Celine, however, had not been quiet. He couldn't blame her. She was still convinced that CJ had beaten her, especially after he told her the kid admitted to slashing her tires. The sheriff half expected her to go after CJ on her own. It had been all he could to convince her that he would find who did it, and make them pay.
He sipped his coffee and stared across the terminal. No change. The lights in the dispatch office were still on. Boil's car—a Beamer, of course—was still in the parking lot. Maybe he should have followed Boil's muscle, Carter, when he left, but policeman's intuition had told him to stay put and keep eyes on the boss.
Just as Ty was beginning to second guess his instincts, a Boil Trucking box truck pulled onto the road off of Jameson. The sheriff ducked down as the headlights swept over him, then sat back up and watched the vehicle pull into the lot.
Once the headlights were off, someone hopped out of the passenger side—Ty cursed his old eyes but the moonlight was bright enough to reveal a figure, about 5' 6", 5' 7", in a dark hoodie and white sneakers. He didn't look like part of Boil's crew, and the sheriff bet dollars to donuts that Mr. Sneakers didn't leave with CJ, who had walked up to the dispatch office door now.
If the new arrival was just another recruit, a potential driver, why bring him to the office in the wee hours of the morning? Something about this didn't sit right—that whole "instinct" thing again.
Ty wrote down a physical description and resolved to find out more about the stranger.
***
Celine was doing what she considered to be a damn fine job of keeping her emotions in check.
"So this is where it happened," Jason said. He was looking down at the area where Celine had lain bleeding, a small space in the parking lot next to Celine's Jeep.
"Yeah," she said.
The moon was rising over the treetops out toward the Careless Whisper. Celine stared at Jason, whose face was an unreadable mask. Until he had started to tremble. She drew near but it was almost as if she wasn't even there. Jason was lost in his rage. She grabbed his arm.
"Hey!"
His eyes found hers. There you are. Glad to have you back. "Let's get out of the cold," she said, taking him by the hand, leading him to the back door, and removing her key.
Seconds later they were in the deserted diner proper, where chairs were stacked on the tables and the tiled floor was cast in the moon's ghostly light. Jason started to talk but Celine lifted a finger to his lips. "Take off my boots," she whispered. Jason knelt and did as she asked. Celine removed a quarter from her jeans, set it on the counter, then unfastened her belt and button, unzipped, and dropped her pants to the floor.
He collected her clothes and slipped off Celine's socks as she removed both her sweatshirt and the t-shirt underneath. She unfastened her bra and tossed it as Jason pulled her panties down to the floor. He backed up two steps, eyes coursing with desire. He removed his brace and tossed it on the floor.
His boots, pants and jacket were off within seconds. Next went the shirt and socks. Goddamn, you look good. He had way more definition in his body than when he'd left. The tattooed word HELLBOUND rippled across his stomach. His dick was pushing so hard against his underwear she thought it might rip the cotton, and when he finally pulled the fabric out and down, a long, glistening strand of pre-cum followed.
Her pussy was wet as well. She picked up the quarter and when she walked she could feel her own lubrication. She stepped right up to… and past him. He put his hand out, smiled as she walked past.
She inserted the quarter in the juke box, giving him a nice long look at her bare ass. She selected a song that seemed right for the moment, and when she turned around he was inches from her, the moist tip of his dick pressing against her belly.
Jason bent down, ran his tongue over the swell of each breast, avoiding the areolae at first, exploring, teasing. Before she couldn't take it anymore, he made his way to her hard nipples and took her left tit fully in his mouth, rubbing her right nipple between thumb and forefinger while he sucked gently. Celine bit her lip and ran her hand over his back, giving herself fully to the moment. Right now, this was all that mattered. She and he were the only two people in the world.
After sucking the other tit, Jason knelt and lifted her left leg, draping it over his right shoulder. He then nestled his mouth against her pussy, working his tongue over her clit in short, slow circles. Liquid fire shot through Celine's veins. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants.
Celine grabbed Jason's hair and shoved his face deeper as her eyes rolled up, every bit of pain from the beating forgotten, at least for now.
Her body trembled and shuddered. Her knees grew weak. Jason rose, lifting her by the waist, turning, an
d carrying her to a table near the window. He laid her down and rubbed his dick up and down the outside of her lips.
He lifted her legs until her calves lay against his shoulders and guided himself fully into her. Celine's breath caught. He pulled out slowly, almost completely, then drove in again. Celine lay back, reached to each side of the table and gripped so hard her knuckles turned white.
Jason was grunting now, thrusting harder. Cords stood out on Celine's neck and her tits were bouncing so hard it felt like they might fly right off her chest. She tightened like a spring, leaned back her head and came, the orgasm liquefying her muscles.
Jason continued. Harder and harder. It was good for a while, but he kept going and going. The pleasure quickly turned to pain; moans turned to grunts behind clenched teeth.
"Slow down. Jason. Slow down!"
There was no change. He had never fucked her this hard before. Her sore rib burned.
"Jason. Jason!"
She lifted her head, saw the three quarter moon reflected in Jason's eyes. His lips bared in a snarl, and Celine swore to God she thought he was going to sink his teeth into her. She whipped a hand across his cheek.
Jason pulled out, a pained look of realization on his face. He grabbed his dick just as a long wad of cum shot over Celine's head and onto the window. She turned her face to the side and felt thick gobs coat her left cheek. Yet more spattered her left tit, and the last of it formed a line down her belly.
Whisper Lake (The Turning Book 2) Page 6
