Whisper Lake (The Turning Book 2)

by Micky Neilson

  Footsteps signaled someone approaching. Celine turned to see Agent Bagby, smiling a crooked smile that only seemed to highlight the birthmark.

  "I know this is a difficult time," she said. "I can only hope that laying your father to rest will provide some closure, some degree of peace."

  Celine didn't answer. Bagby continued: "Even though I couldn't find a link between Boil and the Haversaws I assure you that my investigation will continue, and that I'll review the case from every angle."

  "Thanks," Celine managed.

  "Ty was investigating your boyfriend's disappearance as well. I went to Jason's house the other night to talk to his mother. To be thorough."

  Keep cool. Just keep cool.

  "I saw your Jeep there," Bagby said, "Nobody answered the door though."

  "Yeah, I came by to visit. We all took the van and grabbed some dinner."

  Bagby nodded, still smiling. "It's good that the two of you have stayed close," she said. Silence followed. Then: "Well, I'll be leaving town tomorrow. I'll follow up with Jason's Mother over the phone… and make sure to keep you updated."

  The light drizzle faded. Sunlight broke through the cloud cover as Bagby extended her hand. "Things are getting brighter already," she said. Celine took the hand, which fastened to her own like a steel trap. "If we see each other again," Bagby continued, "I hope it's under much different circumstances."

  Celine returned the squeeze, careful not to break any bones. "Yeah," she replied. Bagby broke the grip, turned and walked away.

  ***

  Jack still locked CJ in the bedroom at night, but the window was unbarred. He said that CJ had made progress—so he could stay as long as he needed to, but he would earn his keep. The rez's longhouse was badly in need of rebuilding, a project that the confederated tribes would take on together. If, however, CJ wanted to leave, he could.

  So CJ did. But he hadn't gone very far at all… and leaving the room hadn't even been his idea. It had been Alice's. She had rapped on his window just after midnight. CJ had thrown on a shirt and jeans. He laid on the bed in her room now, sucking on a doobie. The pot was pretty weak, but it had been so long since he had done anything that it was successfully getting him high.

  Alice's room was small, with a twin bed on a white iron frame, a creaky nightstand with a boombox, a CD case, and a chest of drawers. The walls were covered in posters that reflected the CDs in the case: Metallica, Iron Maiden, Queensryche, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest. When CJ had crawled through her window he thought maybe he'd died and gone to heaven. This chick was seriously cool. She was lying on her back next to him, knees up, wearing her blue pajama pants and a Guns N Roses tour t-shirt. The mound of her stomach distracted him from staring at her tits—which spilled to either side of her chest—only barely. Iron Maiden's Run to the Hills had just started at a low volume on the boombox.

  CJ handed the joint over to Alice and said "The old man… when he was helping you, you ever see him do any weird shit?"

  Alice took a long drag, then handed the joint back. "Yeah, I always thought I was hallucinating though. One time I went into a room I'd seen him go into but there was nobody there. Another time I swear to god he was on one side of the room and then he wasn't, I turn around and there he is on the other side. Total fucking trip. I had heard stories you know; always sounded like bullshit but I don't know. I think maybe he does have power. I don't think it was all just me."

  The pot smoke filled his lungs. CJ removed the cig and fixed his eyes on Alice's right nipple.

  "I see you lookin'," she said.

  "Can't help it," CJ replied.

  Alice tucked her chin to her chest, looking down. "Yeah I've got some big ol' preggo titties." She rolled to her side, then maneuvered to a kneeling position, and slipped her shirt up and over her head.

  Holy shit. She had amazing tits—bloated, blue-veined, with big round areolas, and thick nipples. CJ's dick was instantly pushing against his jeans.

  She had more tattoos as well, on her ribs, upper arms… but the one that held CJ's attention was just above the areola on her left tit: it was the head of a fox, surrounded by a feathered headdress. CJ thought of a dream from just a few nights ago: there had been a fox, badger, snake, and wolf… the fox had given up its belly to the snake.

  Alice leaned forward, swinging her tits in CJ's direction, and all thoughts of the dream instantly vanished. He managed to cop a feel while Alice slipped her pajama pants off her ass, before she maneuvered back onto her butt, pulling the pants the rest of the way off. CJ unbuckled his belt and started working his way out of his jeans and boxers. He was pulling his shirt up when Alice grabbed hold of his dick and started pumping it. Then she swung her left leg over both of his, straddling him just below his balls. She was ready to fuck.

  "Do we have to worry about, uh, you know…?" CJ pointed at Alice's belly.

  "Doc says I can fuck right up 'til labor," Alice answered. Then she raised up onto her knees, shuffled upward, positioned his dick and sat down on top of it.

  Jesus Christ it feels good to be inside a warm pussy.

  CJ reached up, squeezed that left tit with his right hand, and ran his fingers over the fox tattoo. Then he ran his left hand along her right thigh. There was tattooed lettering on the front of her thigh that he hadn't read before. It was cruder than the other ink, like it had been done in someone's garage.

  The words read: "Property of Mamba."

  ***

  "Where the fuck have you been?" Boil barked.

  Carter was standing at a corner payphone. The van was parked nearby on the street. "Ran into cartel trouble," Carter answered. "You should have the car reported stolen."

  "Well I got plenty fuckin troubles of my own right here. Jason and his bitch snatched up the kid. They had masks on but I'd bet my balls it was them. For all I know they may have handed Ghost over to that fed broad already. Get your ass back to Whisper Lake."

  "I have a location for the Dominguez cell in Portland. Mamba's getting skittish. Cartel chopped up one of his men."

  "What I get for throwin in with a goddamn porch monkey," Boil said. A long silence followed. Then:

  "Could be that the cartel grabbed Ghost. I wanna know for sure. You take down that cell, maybe you put the coon's mind at ease too." There was the sound of a bottle tipping and liquid sloshing down the boss man's throat. A smack of lips and then: "Okay, do it. I'm stayin' underground 'til we know more. Meantime, don't get yourself killed; more important, don't get caught. And hurry the fuck back."

  ***

  CJ had been unable to concentrate during sex. Between the weed and that tattoo, he was barely able to cum. The fact that it took a while seemed a-okay to Alice. It was only because Granny was damn near deaf that Alice's wailing didn't wake the old broad up. Of course the great thing about boning a pregnant woman, he got to cum inside her.

  She had dismounted and cleaned herself up. He did the same and the two of them lay once more on the bed, CJ lying so close to the edge he felt as if he might fall off at any second. Finally, he asked her about the tattoo.

  "It's a gang thing," she said. "Baggerz. Mamba's their leader. I ran with them for a while when I was using. He provided protection; I got lots of sex…"

  "With him?"

  How am I supposed to compete with that dick?

  "Sometimes."

  "Some… wait, were you a hooker?"

  "I worked," Alice said. "But I was careful. You didn't catch nothin', I swear."

  CJ considered whether or not he should tell her that he knew about Mamba. How many questions would that open up? How many skeletons would rattle their way out of his closet? And if he was worried about his own shit, could he really fault her for anything?

  "It's just… dangerous, is all. I know a little about that gang, they're no joke."

  "Awww," Alice said. "Do you care about me?"

  She turned onto her side and laid a hand on his chest. CJ shrugged. Normally, throughout his life, CJ would have offered a sto
ck answer to such questions, a quick "Yeah, of course." A lie, the kind that always came easily. So why did he hesitate to tell the lie this time?

  Maybe because it wouldn't have been a lie at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Celine was running across a moonlit field.

  Through the glowing orb in the star-filled sky, the goddess provided light. Light to see by; light to kill by. Her prey was running fast, but she was faster. Soon she was just behind it and closing in, her blood racing as she leapt and took down the thin, pale creature. It mewled and turned beneath her so she might see its face. Distantly, she recognized this human-thing. It was a youngling, fire-haired. A name drifted to her as if through a fog:

  Ghost.

  A faint impulse stirred within; a sensation of… wrongness. The pathetic animal continued to whimper and thrash beneath her. From somewhere above and within, the goddess urged her on.

  Feed.

  Celine's jaws opened wide and closed on the soft, pale throat.

  Voices carried from just outside the doorway as Celine awoke. Jason and Ghost were talking. She threw off the blankets, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and joined them.

  They had spent most of the previous day setting up in the large machine shop, which sat just to the southeast of the log pond. A power strip plugged into a gas generator provided the power for several pieces of equipment, including one very expensive machine Ghost called a "mass spec" which somehow worked with a computer. The biggest pain in the ass was the chemical hood, which was a closed working space set against the wall, with a window in the front. The inside sucked air up and out through a duct.

  Celine didn't understand what half of the shit did, but it wouldn't matter, if it worked.

  Ghost was leaning against the wall of the boiler house next to the connecting doorway between it and the new mill. "So you think the chemical in the soil, or its equivalent, can stop some voice in your sister's head from making her go all Crazy Axe Chick on people…"

  "Close enough," Jason said, sitting on an old oil drum on the open mill floor.

  As Celine stepped through the doorway, Ghost's eyes drifted down her body as he continued: "This shit is so far outside my zone… I don't know where to start. I mean, how do we even do a proof of mechanism?"

  Jason stared at the kid blankly.

  "There's a bunch of chemicals. How do we test to know which one works?" Ghost said, exasperated.

  Celine thought of the dream.

  "I've got an idea how to test it," Celine said, standing in the doorway. She turned to Jason "the dreams," she said. "I think if it works I'll be able to resist her in my dreams, just like you said you did."

  Jason frowned. "Yeah but that would mean injecting whatever he comes up with into you," he said. "No way."

  "None of the chemicals in the dirt killed you, did they? Trish is the way she is because of me," Celine said. "This isn't a debate. You start working on a cure, and you test it on me."

  ***

  Carter was standing once more in front of Mamba. In his right hand, he held a bundle wrapped in a shirt. Corolla Driver's blood was starting to leak through.

  Mamba sat at a table in the smoke-clogged room, cleaning an AK-47. He stopped and peered through the haze as Carter unwrapped the head and dropped it on the table.

  "A Dominguez man," Carter said. "The rest of him, and two of his associates are in a van parked down in front."

  "Well look at you, white boy," Mamba said with a smile.

  "I'm Italian," Carter said.

  "Look at you, guinea wop. Come up in here swingin' yo' dick all over the place."

  "I know where their safe house is," Carter said. "Once I finish the job, your problem goes away."

  The gang leader set down the weapon and leaned over the table. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe them Dominguez boys roll in here with about 50 of their homies next week." Mamba laughed. "Shit, either way I like your style. Whatchoo want from me?"

  Carter wiped blood on his pants and said "I'd like to borrow a car… a pair of gloves and one of those AKs."

  ***

  CJ sat in the medicine wheel's center circle, waiting for Jack to cook dinner.

  He was hungry as hell—it had been a long day, which was appropriate because he had spent it working on the long house. The work was hard, and CJ had never been much for manual labor, but he had to admit that it had also been… rewarding? Was that the word? It felt good to help build something that had meaning for the people. And the people… the people had accepted him; treated him as one of their own, without judgment and without any bullshit.

  The craving for dope was still there, but over the past hour he had tried a trick… instead of thinking about the H, he thought about Alice. As he thought about Alice, he remembered what she had said about finally quitting because she had stopped hating herself.

  For the first time in a very long time CJ felt calm, at peace.

  Huh. Is this what not hating yourself feels like? If so… I could get used to it.

  ***

  The last safe house occupant was bleeding out on the floor.

  Adrenaline still coursed through Carter's system. The AK's barrel was smoking. He stepped over two of the bodies on his way out the back door. Before reaching the side gate, he dropped the AK and the gloves he had worn.

  The safe house had been unremarkable—nothing much to set it apart from all the others on the street, except for the cameras out front, which he had blasted before breaking down the door.

  Though his undertaking had produced a riotous cacophony, Carter suspected that the authorities responded more slowly to reports of gunfire in this particular neighborhood; not nearly rich or white enough to warrant expedience.

  As he traveled the sidewalk— not too fast, not too slow, he became aware of sounds. He could hear voices from neighboring houses, motors from vehicles on nearby streets, but more distant ones as well; dogs barking… he stopped. Gradually, these sounds began to amplify. Soon he could distinguish different conversations from the homes and differentiate resident voices from those on televisions. He could pinpoint the relative locations of at least twenty different dogs, and he could tell which ones were outside and which ones were barking behind closed doors. He could hear insects, the scurrying of rodents, and a zephyr ranging through the trees and brush.

  Looking up, he stared at the radiant three quarter moon, mesmerized by its beauty. Why had he never taken the time to admire its perfection before?

  He was still transfixed by that glorious celestial body when he detected the distant sounds of sirens, and decided it was time to move on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Father Dreiling looked haggard when he answered the door.

  "Everything okay?" Jason asked.

  "They're both fine," the pastor said. "Come in."

  The two of them stood just inside the closed front door as Dreiling spoke in a whisper. "Your mother's asleep. Last night was a long one. We had to restrain Trish…" the pastor stopped then, biting down on his lower lip. "She, uh, exposed herself to your mother and I. When I moved to cover her, she lunged for my neck."

  "Jesus," Jason said. Then, realizing: "Sorry, I mean—"

  Dreiling held up a hand. "It's okay. Look, despite my faith I never put much stock in possession, exorcism, that kind of thing, but… I have to admit your sister's behavior has me questioning those reservations."

  Jason shook his head. "What's wrong with her… it ain't the devil. I'm working on getting some medicine to make her better. I just need you to trust me for a little bit longer."

  Father Dreiling nodded. Snapping his fingers, Jason said "Speaking of meds, her prescriptions." Dreiling put a hand on Jason's shoulder. "I already spoke with Bethany about that and called the pharmacy. I'll pick them up tomorrow." The preacher then indicated the hallway. "Would you like to see Trish?"

  "Yeah."

  Jason entered the bedroom, where Trish was seated with her back to him, facing the window. Her arms were st
rapped to the arms of the wheelchair, head lolled to her left side. Jason walked up next to the chair. Her eyes drifted over and found him. Her lips moved, though no sound came out. Even if she had been whispering, Jason would have been able to hear. He had heard multiple noises, layered one on top of one another, as he had walked to Dreiling's house. It was a sign that the turning was coming soon.

  Trish's lips continued to mouth some unknown words. As he drew closer, the whispers became audible. "Blood is the life, blood is the gift," she said. Jason jerked backward as Trish bit down on her shoulder, breaking skin, and drawing blood. "No!" Jason blurted as he pulled her head back up. "Blood is life, blood is the gift," she repeated. She moved her shoulder forward an inch. "This is for you," she said.

  They were words from his dreams. Jason held her head, put his face close to hers and stared into her eyes… eyes that didn't hold the same manic look as when Trish had pulled herself with the knife to Mom's bedside. He thought back to his library studies… two goddesses. Two. The Far-Reaching One. The Lady of Sorrow. Hecate and Ishtar. What if both goddesses were… coming through at different times? His dream visitors had repeatedly said, "The Far-Reaching One is bound by the Lady of Sorrow…" Was the "bound" goddess trying to get a message to him?

  Leaning down, Jason whispered "Hecate?"

  It was subtle… almost too subtle to notice, but there was a glint in the eyes; the slightest upturn of the lips. "Blood is the life, blood is the gift," she whispered, pushing her shoulder forward again.

  The gift. She wants me to take her blood.

  But why?

  If Trish's body is resisting the change, and if this goddess is good, if she wants to help us…

  "Father," Jason called. Dreiling appeared in the doorway a second later. "I need to take some of Trish's blood." The pastor hesitated only briefly before he said: "Becky's diabetic. I have syringes, though blood drawing's not what they're—"