"Here?" Celine spat. She looked around. "You're building a fucking cage, Jason. Why chain the beast when you can use it?"
"Because you won't have any control," Jason responded.
"You did," Celine fired back. "The night you bit me, you could have kept going but you didn't."
"Yeah and I still don't know why. We have no idea what's gonna happen with you. All you have to do is kill somebody and the CID or whatever fucked-up government agency is going to come here and haul us both away."
Celine advanced until her nose was practically touching his. "Maybe you can just keep hiding out here but I can't. You know I can't." Celine's eyes watered. "Fuck, Jason, when I found out Ty was my dad I started to think about being part of a family again… a real family. I won't let Boil take that from me."
Jason frowned. "Look I get it but you don't even have a plan. You can't do this, you can't just rush out there without thinking this through. Give it a few days and we'll—"
Celine gritted her teeth. "I'm not fucking waiting! I'll get to the truth one way or another, and I'll do it without you if that's what it takes."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Her dream started off like the last one; running, chasing. Their prey was soft, pale… and too slow. This time, however, it wasn't a group of humans, it was just one. A man, old and weak. She jumped, bit deep and savored the divine essence that flooded her maw. The man-thing fell and she straddled it on all fours. When she had looked down at the face, it was the face of Boil.
After waking up she had taken the quickest shower of her life, ignoring the dull ache that had settled in her bones and gums; ignoring the pain—like twisting razor blades—in her stomach. Later, while getting ready she had tried like hell to ignore the sounds that bombarded her: Mom snoring, the Stewarts conversing, the Coopers' television set, the Andersons' yappy-ass dog, the sound of old man Bradley jacking off. Celine had shut her eyes trying to filter out the noise as best she could, and then driven straight to the sheriff's station. She hoped that maybe, just maybe, Ty had broken down somewhere or gotten caught up helping someone, or that something, anything could account for his absence. When she got in Trumbull confirmed that the sheriff had not come in or called. Lieutenant Embury had driven by his house for the second time, knocked, and received no answer. Next they were going to talk to the handyman, Ernie. It was then that Celine had dug the keys out of her pocket, and notified Trumbull that Ernie had stopped by to drop them off before she left two nights ago. She looked at the wall clock and headed for the exit, ignoring Trumbull's questions as to why she was just telling him this now. She headed out to her Jeep and fired up the engine with only one thought on her mind: confronting the son of a bitch who was just then announcing the grand re-opening of Doc Keen's clinic.
Boil. Boil, whose dream-world neck she had held in her teeth just a few hours ago.
Five minutes later she brought the Jeep to a screeching halt behind a large crowd of spectators. Many of them turned as she stalked out and pressed her way through the gathering. "Let this medical clinic stand as a testament to the fact that together there is no—" Celine bolted up to where Boil was standing, next to Doc Keen, and stood toe-to-toe with the old man. Her fury reflected in the bastard's ridiculous sunglasses. "Where the fuck is he?" she snarled.
The bushy mustache bristled as the old man said "I don't know what you're—"
"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO WITH SHERIFF BARCLAY?" she shouted in his face. The old man put on his best "what, me?" look and shook his head.
Celine spun, yelling out to the crowd. "Our sheriff is missing, and this fucker is behind it! Don't buy into his bullshit!" She wheeled back around on Boil and practically pressed her nose to his. "I can smell him on you, you rat fuck. Tell me where he is or I swear to God I will fucking end you."
"Celine, please," Doc Keen said, his eyes wide, pleading. Other voices raised from the townspeople as well:
"You leave him alone!"
"Ain't no call for that!"
"Out of her damn mind!"
Boil held up a hand to silence the spectators. "This young lady is obviously distraught," he called out, "and it's no wonder, with what she's been through." He then said more quietly, directly to her "Your boyfriend, he is still missing, isn't he?"
Celine cocked a fist. Keen stepped in and put his hands between the two of them. "That's enough!" he said.
"You better pray to God the sheriff turns up by tomorrow," Celine said. She turned and pushed her way through the spectators, trying to shut out their whispers—
"Looks like she's lost it."
"Always was a pain in the ass."
"She needs to be locked up!"
Celine quickly got in her Jeep and tore ass out of the parking lot. She made it two miles before she pulled over at the Fastop Gas Station. A wave of emotion rushed over her. She wailed her frustration and beat at the steering wheel. The noises all around her became even more amplified and the pain— aching gums and body— returned with a vengeance and was quickly joined by her stomach. No, it was lower. It suddenly felt like steak knives twisting in her womb.
She ran out from the Jeep, into the bathroom, and had barely pulled her pants down and dropped her ass onto the toilet seat when everything let loose: it wasn't just stool, and it wasn't just coming out of her ass. She looked down into the bowl between her legs and saw a flood of crimson. She rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands.
Family. She had dared to think about family. Not just when she found out that Ty was her dad, but she had allowed herself to believe that she could have gotten pregnant. But no, a real family and a real life were not for her. Not in this shithole town. She sat and cried until there were no more tears left, and then she cried some more. Eventually, her mind returned to Boil.
As much as she hated to admit it—God, she hated to admit it— but maybe Jason was right. She really didn't have a plan. She wanted to beat the shit out of Boil, in front of the entire town preferably, but how would that help her find Ty? It wouldn't. The whole situation seemed hopeless.
Then she remembered the rifle.
***
As much as Jason hated to admit it, Celine had been right. But not for the reasons she believed. Yes she had been right that he needed to get off his ass, stop hiding, and do something to find the sheriff. The reason why was something that had bothered him all night. It was the same reason he had joined the Army in the first place: to stand up for something, or to die for nothing.
He had meant what he said to Celine about not having a plan. She was the kind of person to act without thinking things through. He had spent several hours considering the best course of action.
It was close to noon when he found himself, gums and bones slightly aching, standing outside CJ's apartment. The way he figured it, he could easily scare his ex-best friend into spilling the beans on Ty, if CJ knew anything. Hell, he would probably shit himself upon seeing Jason seemingly back from the dead. If someone from the government came looking for Jason, would CJ talk? Maybe, but once Jason helped Celine find out about Ty he was pretty sure he could convince her to join him in getting as far away from Whisper Lake as possible. After all, Mom thought he was dead; Trish probably did too, in her own way… Celine was really the only thing keeping him here. Together maybe the two of them could find a way to manage the curse.
It was quiet inside CJ's apartment, but someone was there. Jason could smell someone. Hear them breathing. The smell was familiar. It immediately brought back memories of the day he got shot at the cemetery.
Jason reached out and knocked.
The person inside got up, walked over, and opened the door. It took a split second for Jason to register that he was seeing the meathead who worked for Boil; the one who shot him. It took the meathead a second to process the fact that he was looking at the man he had shot, the man who was supposed to be a corpse. Those eyes got very wide, fearful, but there was an instant recovery. The raised eyebrows furrowed in angry determ
ination. The large right fist came shooting at Jason's face much faster than the man's bulk would suggest possible. There was no conscious thought on Jason's part; his head darted to the side on its own, with equal speed and smooth precision.
Then it was Jason's turn to let fly. His right hand flicked out, knuckle bones met nose bone and the beefcake—what had Celine said his name was? Carter, that was it—stumbled back into the apartment, hands held out to steady himself, an almost comical look of surprise on his face. Once again, the bigger man snapped back. As Jason stepped into the room, Carter came barreling at him full speed, those meaty hands thrust out for Jason's neck. He came with such speed and determined force that Jason was caught off guard and before he knew it those iron fingers were closed around his neck. Carter first pushed him up against the door, shutting it, then slid him from the frame over to the kitchen counter, forcing his head down onto the cold tile.
Blood gushed from the big man's nose onto Jason's chest and stomach. Fireworks exploded at the edges of Jason's vision, followed by dark spots that increased in size. Gagging noises accompanied by spit escaped his mouth.
This is not how I'm going to die.
Jason's left leg dangled between those of his attacker. He tucked his right knee up and worked his foot in and against the other man's solar plexus. He then kicked out with a strength that surprised both of them.
Carter flew backward, glanced off the couch and spun all the way into the far wall, crashing into a three-shelf unit full of VHS tapes. Jason charged. Carter snatched up what remained of the shelving unit and swung it, fanning Jean-Claude Van Damme and Steven Segal action movies across the living room. Jason blocked with both arms and splintered the unit apart. He then ducked and drove forward, smashing Mr. Mac Truck back into the wall and snapping the stand-up lamp that stood next to the shelving unit in half. Both men went down.
But Carter still wasn't done. He kicked out with both legs, launching Jason back and into the 20 inch television behind him, shattering the tube. Jason spun and yanked the TV off the makeshift stand—milk crates with a 2x6 laid across—popping out the power cord. Carter had gotten to one knee, but before he could rise Jason drove the television down onto his head, base first.
'Roid Boy crumpled. Blood poured from a wound on his head, but Jason could see blood bubbles popping from his nose, so he was still breathing. Jason's own breathing was rapid; he felt like he had just gone eight rounds with Tyson.
But there was no time to rest.
***
I'm so fucked up right now.
The old Indian must have slipped him some heavy duty shit, cause this was a serious trip.
CJ was weightless, floating through some crazy-ass white fog. It was like being outside his body, flying through clouds. There was something, a speck that grew bigger and bigger. He drifted to the thing, trying to make out what it was; finally he got close enough to see that it was… a frog. A green frog, with black spots. He hovered close to it, wafting like a fart in the wind. The frog croaked, and then some furry critter appeared out of the fog and ate it.
The varmint was a fat, mean looking thing with black and white stripes on its face, almost like a coon, but not quite. It stared directly at him, and he was suddenly struck with the weirdest sensation of being outside himself, looking at himself.
Fuuuuuck.
There was a noise then, a growl. He looked to the mist and at first saw two glowing eyes. This new thing turned and walked through the fog, eventually disappearing.
But, he had seen it clearly enough before it vanished to identify what it was:
A wolf.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The blood-caked musclehead had still been out cold when Jason had gagged him, cinched his hands behind his back with torn, twisted sheets, and carried him quickly out to CJ's box truck. He had found CJ's keyring on the kitchen counter. The son of a bitch had to be heavy—280 at least—but Jason was able to carry him out to the parking spot, open the back doors, and toss him in without much difficulty. It was only sheer dumb luck that no one was outside at that particular moment to see him do it. Jason had wrapped another rag under the man's jaw and over his head in an effort to stop the bleeding head wound.
He had driven out into a wooded area just off the highway, opened the back, and caught the man trying with limited success to undo the knotted sheet strips. Jason removed the gag and the rag. Though it had bled profusely at first, the head wound wasn't as deep as it appeared. Jason asked many questions, the most important among them being the fate and/or location of Sheriff Barclay. The steroid freak had locked those blank eyes on Jason and said "What do you think you're gonna do, kill me?" Jason had explained that coming to terms with ending a human life was something he had done when he learned that he would be deployed to fight in the Gulf War. "This is different," Carter had said. "I don't tell you what you want to know, and you kill me, that's murder. It's different." And he had been right, though Jason hadn't wanted to admit it.
In the end, it had been Celine who provided the necessary motivation, though she hadn't even been there. Jason remembered her telling him of the crime family Carter had been mixed up with, the Mastronis, and he remembered Celine's theory that his relationship with that mob boss must have ended badly. Jason had threatened to drop Carter off on their doorstep—it wouldn't be murder, not really. At first Jason had thought Mister Muscles would call this bluff too… but after a few moments of silent staring he had finally agreed to show Jason where the sheriff was.
Carter, with bits of rag stuffed in his nose, directed Jason onto the interstate, then had him turn onto a remote wooded road. The house that eventually greeted them was an old beat-up wooden Frankenstein of a structure. Jason eased the box truck onto the far edge of the clearing out front. A battered old pickup with wooden boards above the bed walls sat not far away, and looking completely out of place next to it was a near-pristine BMW. Its engine was still ticking as it began to cool.
There was a strong, distinct odor of chemicals in the air, some of which Jason recognized; others he didn't. These weren't all separate smells, however. Many of them were combined. A concoction. There were other smells beneath: cigarettes, wood smoke, dogs and dog feces, oil, grease… and somewhere inside the house Jason could both smell and hear beans boiling inside a pot. There was barking too, muffled, coming from another structure somewhere behind the ramshackle house. As Jason could detect and separate odors of different strengths, so too could he isolate sounds, pinpointing weaker among stronger: aside from the barking (five distinct sets of barks, his brain told him) were voices. Though he was aware of them, it was difficult to make out the words. However, he could detect that they were coming from the back of the house.
Jason opened Carter's door and waited while the big man climbed out. "Where?' Jason asked. 'Roid Rage nodded in the direction of the freakish building: "Behind the house." The pieces of rag in his nose made him sound like someone with a bad cold.
They walked around the side of the property. Jason could see just enough through a filthy side window to make out a kitchen with an old wood-burning stove. The smell of beans was stronger. The barking grew louder, but the voices became more distinct as the two men progressed around the home's periphery.
"You made a commitment— ten days left."
"Yeah but the amount, I don't think I can—"
Two beat-up structures came into view, one a small tool shack which housed the dogs, the other a larger work shed, doors closed, white smoke drifting from a metal-pipe chimney.
"You're a fucking genius, figure it out."
The voices from the back of the house continued as Jason looked questioningly again at Carter. The bigger man nodded out past the edge of the property.
"He's out there," the big man said. "'Bout half a mile. That's where we buried him."
Over the course of a few seconds this sunk in, even though Jason sensed this wasn't the whole truth. Nevertheless his left hand flashed outward, connecting with Carter's
nose once more. This time the Brick Shit House went straight down onto his ass.
A door at the rear of the main house opened, and an old man with a walrus mustache and Terminator sunglasses stepped out.
Boil.
In an eyeblink Jason was in front of the startled old man, grasping the lapels of his sport coat. The kid, eyes wide, stumbled out of the way as Jason threw the old man to the ground.
Boil groaned, sat up, and stared mouth hanging open. Jason was filled with so much testosterone his clenched fists were shaking. "Well I'll be damned," the old man said. "Thought you were dead."
First came the smell of a dog, followed by human smells. Two of them with foul body odor from lack of bathing. Something else too… a smaller animal. "Is it true?" Jason asked through tight lips, ignoring these new smells and the sounds of footsteps coming out of the woods, drawing closer. "You killed Barclay?"
Carter was standing just outside the shack, working loose his sheets as Boil slowly regained his feet. Jason heard the newcomers step within a few feet of his back. There was a rustling of cloth and the sound of a bolt being engaged.
Turning his head, Jason was greeted by the sight of two men, the oldest holding a leashed hunting dog in one hand and dangling a dead raccoon by one leg in the other. The youngest pointed a scoped hunting rifle directly at Jason's head. Jason was pretty sure he could survive a bullet to the skull as long as it wasn't silver… but he wasn't crazy about finding out.
Just then a pain hit him. To say it was a cramp was much too kind; this was like someone twisting a scalding-hot poker in his guts. Jason doubled over just long enough for the younger man to bring the rifle stock down on the back of his neck. Jason ended in a fetal position, still conscious, as the old man stood over him.
"Whaddaya wanna do?" The older man asked.
"Well," Boil replied, "Let's see if we can't kill him… and this time make it stick."
***
Whisper Lake (The Turning Book 2) Page 19
