by Shawn Ryan
Hell, if he called me and told me he was splitting for a couple of days, I'd feel as if I were being left all alone and lonely, too. He smiled.
"I know, pal," he said. "Believe me, I'm feeling the stress, too. I'm sorry about this. I know you must be feeling kind of abandoned, left out in the cold. But you know I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't completely necessary. And it is. Really. There's nothing going on with the investigations right now. All the trails are ice cold. And what I'm going to do with my father is no picnic. This isn't a fishing trip, or a chance to kick back. I've got some … some serious family problems to hash out. Really serious shit."
"Anything I can do?" Badger asked. The sincere tone of concern in his friend's voice gave Jason a twinge.
Badger deserved to know the truth. God knows he had been there plenty of times in the past when things got rough. But Jason knew this was rougher than anyone could imagine, and anyone associated with him stood a good chance of getting killed. Leaving Badger out of the picture was unfair and ungrateful, but it might also save his life.
Until I'm better acclimated to the truth myself, I don't think I should drag Badger into it, Jason decided.
"Naw, man, there's nothing you can do," he said into the phone. "I'll tell you all about it when I get back. And listen, if anything breaks on the Mercy Killings, you call me immediately, okay? How about transferring me to Silverman?"
After a few questions, Silverman gave his permission, saying he understood family problems, having come from a crew of five brothers and three sisters. "Besides, you're getting pretty crispy around the edges from this investigation," he said. "A few days off might loosen you up."
Knowing what he was heading into, Jason didn't think he'd come back any less crispy.
Jason packed quickly and in fifteen minutes he and his father were climbing into the car. After his father settled into the car, Jason hugged Alex tightly and kissed her deeply.
"I love you," he whispered in her ear.
"Love you, top," she said.
He hugged and kissed her again and got into the car, waving to her in his rearview mirror as they pulled away.
"She's a fine girl," Stephen said.
"I know."
Jason and Stephen drove in silence for a few minutes, both lost in the enormity of their thoughts. Jason thought about all that had happened to him in the past two years, how his life had turned one hundred eighty degrees away from where he was just before Sarah and Claire died. It was a new life and a new world and he wasn't sure just how much he liked it.
And these powers of his, these awful, fascinating powers. They were so foreign, so frightening, and yet… they excited him. All these years he was capable of so much, yet was totally unaware of it. It opened a door he hadn't even known was there. Trouble was, a lot of what lay on the other side he'd rather not know existed.
What about the power itself? Where did it come from? Was it evil? He'd never thought much about God or the devil, but if they existed, which one was in charge of people like him and his dad?
Damn, you could go crazy tossing those questions back and forth in a game of spiritual badminton, he thought. Think philosophy later. It was better to just accept the fact that he had the power and learn to use it. If he lived, there was more than enough time to figure out whether he was good or bad. If he died, it didn't mean shit anyway.
Jason took the U.S. 41 exit off I-285 and headed north, away from Atlanta, toward Marietta and beyond that to Acworth and Lake Altoona. After a few miles, they passed the Big Chicken on 41 North. His father got a big kick out of the thirty-foot-tall white-and-red chicken that used to advertise Kentucky Fried and now, with the Kentucky Fried gone, just sat there because it had become an institution.
"If I were a hen, I'd hate to see that big boy coming at me with romance in his eyes," Stephen said.
As the laughter subsided, Jason became serious when a question suddenly occurred to him.
"Dad," he said, "could I use the power to find the killer of these children?"
Stephen sat silently for a moment, pondering the question. He finally shook his head.
"I don't know," he said. "I guess it's possible. But probably not in a concrete, no-doubt-about-it fashion. The power allows you to feel deep emotions of people closest to you, and sometimes that ability spills over into those around you. I suppose if the killer was in the same vicinity, you might pick up something. But I think it's a long shot and I certainly wouldn't depend on it to solve the murders."
They stopped at the Big Star in Acworth and picked up a few supplies, then left civilization behind. The drive to Badger's cabin led through heavily wooded areas where the asphalt road seemed to squeeze between the trees rather than carve a path through them. Eventually, the pavement turned to dirt. They drove by a few cabins and trailers sitting here and there by the edge of the lake, but these quickly petered out and nothing was left but woods. Silent, heavy, and lonely.
"This is plenty secluded," Stephen said.
A black mailbox marked the entrance to Badger's cabin, and Jason pulled the car into a long, rambling dirt driveway that was hardly more than a goat path. Branches slapped against the car windows as Jason eased down the driveway. The path suddenly ended in a wide, open area, the middle of which was filled by the cabin, a concrete block rectangle painted gray.
After Jason found the key in the oak tree knothole—being scared nearly shitless when a chipmunk darted out of the hole just as he was putting his hand into it—he and Stephen unloaded the suitcases and went inside.
The interior consisted of one great room. Against the far, short wall were two single beds with a nightstand between them. Jason threw his bags on the dining room table, which sat a few feet from the foot of the beds. Stephen wandered over to the living room area, tucked into a corner to the right of the beds. He dropped his suitcases on one of two well-worn couches, early American in design. In between the sofas was a chipped wooden coffee table marred by dozens of water rings.
"Nice and cozy," Stephen said. "All the conveniences of home."
"It's good and quiet, too," Jason said. "I've yet to meet any of the neighbors and I've probably been up here twenty-five times."
They put their clothes into the two pine chests of drawers, got themselves a couple of Cokes and went onto the sun deck. Bracing their hands on the rail, they leaned forward and breathed the lake-sweetened air. The cabin was nestled into a small, secluded cove, and speedboats rarely plowed through, dirtying the water and the air with exhaust fumes. Jason explained that about the only boats that ever came in belonged to early morning fishermen who chugged in and out with barely a sound.
"I could learn to live like this," Stephen said. "This is just as beautiful as the Massachusetts shoreline or the Green Mountains."
"Glad you approve," Jason said, patting his father on the back.
Stephen took a long swig of Coke, and cleared his throat. "Son, I have a couple of things I need to tell you about Moloch. About some of the things it's done, things it's capable of doing."
"Like what?"
"It was Moloch that killed your mother," Stephen said.
Jason sat unspeaking while he absorbed this new information. Everywhere he turned, Moloch was there. Every part of his life seemed affected in some way by the creature.
"How?" he finally said. "You always told me she died in a fall off Backbone Ridge. You said she slipped in the dark while walking up there."
"That part's true," Stephen said. "But I never told you why she was up there in the first place."
Stephen paused, drawing in a long, shuddering breath.
"It attacked one night when I was the only one home," he said. "Your mother was in Boston shopping and all you kids were away at summer camp. Moloch and I went round and round for almost two hours. Almost destroyed the house."
Stephen paused and smiled grimly. "I guess I lied to you about never using my powers for my own behalf," he said. "I used them later to repair the house."
> "What about Mom?" Jason pressed.
"Well, Moloch was beaten and it knew it. I was just about to send it back to its world when Maureen came through the front door. It grabbed her and ran into the woods. I followed, just as it wanted."
"It ran into the woods and up to Backbone Ridge and was waiting for me up there—with her. It was pitch-black. All I could see was the green glow Moloch puts out when it's fighting. It was standing there with one of its fingernails pressed to her throat.
"I managed to knock it back enough for Maureen to wriggle out of its arms, but being unfamiliar with the terrain, she ran off Backbone Ridge."
"What happened between you and Moloch?" Jason asked.
"I really don't know," Stephen said, taking another sip of Coke. "When I saw her fall off the cliff, I remember hatred of unimaginable magnitude building within me. I wanted to see Moloch shatter into a million pieces. I remember thinking that very thought, then everything flashed blue and I went blank. I woke up the next morning, lying on the edge of Backbone Ridge. It must have been a helluva battle. Trees were snapped in two, the earth was scorched. Even a few of the big granite rocks that have been on that mountain for millions of years were just gravel. But Moloch was gone."
Stephen took another mouthful of Coke and Jason did the same. They stared out at the lake, neither speaking, until Stephen cleared his throat again.
"Jason, there's something else you should know. Something I wasn't even sure of until just recently."
He put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Moloch killed Sarah and Claire," he said. "It told me when it came to my room a few weeks ago."
Jason felt his body stiffen. Emotions poured through him like quicksilver—pain mixed with hatred, fury combined with sadness. He wanted to reach in and tear his heart out, anything to stop the pain. As the maelstrom of emotions subsided, one remained. Hate. Jason felt an electric tingling coursing through his cells; power of unbelievable strength and unquenchable thirst welled up inside him.
Stephen's eyes widened as a golden aura enveloped his son. Golden. My God, I've never seen golden, never even heard of it, he thought. It meant something, something important.
Stephen knew his aura was blue. He'd always assumed—somewhat conceitedly—that blue meant purity of spirit. Moloch's aura was a diseased shade of green. The inborn evil of the creature left no doubt about the meaning of that color. But gold. Iridescent, near-blinding gold. The possibilities boggled the mind.
And also were a little frightening.
"Jason, Jason," Stephen said. "Relax. Calm down. Save that energy for later. You're going to need it."
Jason turned his head toward his father. Stephen took a step back in momentary surprise. His son's eyes were gone, replaced by a shimmering incandescence, the flash of ultimate power mixed with intense anger. Jason's face was granite, a stony look of fury carved into his skin. Instinctively, Stephen reached out for his son, but the golden halo prevented him from touching him.
"Jason," he said in a loud voice. "It's me. It's Dad. Jason, come out of it. Let it go."
Jason blinked and the light began to fade. The burning glow left his eyes and the aura dissipated. Jason leaned heavily on the deck rail. He was breathing hard and sweat dripped down his temples. He turned his head and looked at his father.
"Dad, can I be taught to use that, to direct it?" he asked. "Or is it too late?"
"It's never too late, Son," Stephen said. "Even though I knew more than you, I didn't realize what I was capable of until Moloch killed Maureen."
"Does that mean somebody I love has to die before I'll know what I'm capable of?" Jason asked.
"No, I'm going to try to make sure you know enough to prevent that from happening," Stephen said. "And I'll be here every step. If he goes for you, he'll have to go through me first."
Jason tried to smile, but couldn't. He didn't like the connotations of that last statement. If Moloch got through his dad, what chance did he have?
Chapter 26
« ^ »
Frog Webster took a deep drag on the cigarette then stubbed it out against a tree. He blew the smoke in twin columns from his nose. The slight breeze picked it up and carried it away.
Fuck, this is borin', he said to himself.
He peered between the branches of the dogwood trees he was hiding among. The lights to the cabin still were on. He looked at his watch, pressing the button that illuminated the liquid crystal face. Six-thirty. A-fuckin'-M. The gray light of the coming day was beginning to brighten the eastern sky. This was the third night in a row they'd stayed up all night. What the hell could Medlocke and his old man be talkin' about for that long? Didn't they fuckin' sleep? He sure wanted to.
Webster reached into his shirt pocket for the tenth time that night and drew out a packet of white powder. Dipping his little finger into the bag, he scraped his long fingernail through the cocaine and held it under his right nostril. With a quick sniff, it was gone. A few seconds later, Webster felt the buzz start to rise.
Good shit, man.
He'd followed Medlocke and his father all the way from Atlanta, keeping what he considered a discreet distance behind them. When the pair had stopped at the Big Star, he'd tailed them inside. It never occurred to him that the facial resemblance between Medlocke and the old man meant anything until he heard Medlocke call the old guy Dad.
Since this was such a pissant job, Webster rushed outside to call Quintard, hoping to be told to go home, that it wasn't worth any more effort.
Wrong.
"I want you to follow them wherever they're going, find out why they're going there, what they're up to, what's taking Medlocke away from this investigation," Quintard said.
"But it's just him and his dad," Webster whined. "Maybe they're just comin' up here to fish and shoot the shit."
"Well find out!" Quintard shouted. "I want to know for certain."
Fuckin' bastard Quintard, Webster thought as he pressed his back to one of the dogwoods and sat down. Well, they hadn't done jack shit since he'd been here. 'Course, he'd leave for a few minutes every now and then to get somethin' to eat, but mostly that was at night and he'd try to stock up enough Little Debbie cakes, Ding-Dongs, fried pork rinds, and beer to last during the day.
The only time he'd gone to get food during the day was when Medlocke and his father first arrived at the cabin and came out on the deck. But hell, all they were doin' was
drinkin' Cokes and talkin'. Nothin' goin' on but a guy and his pop catchin' up. Nothin' to hear or see.
Webster looked again at his watch and then at the cabin. Several times the first night he thought he saw flashes of blue light through the windows. By the second night, the blue flashes were joined by bright, yellowish flashes. Webster had snuck up to the windows to peek in and see what was causing the flashes, but each time all he saw was Medlocke and his father talking intently. Finally he decided the lights were just his eyes rucking with him because of the lack of sleep and the amount of coke he was snorting.
And now he'd spent his last night sittin' on his butt in the damp leaves and freezin' his ass off. By God, he was goin' to blow this popstand and go home. He stood up to leave, brushing the dead leaves off his pants. He'd tell Quintard that nothin' happened. It'd be the truth even if he didn't see it for himself.
The slap of a screen door against the jamb spun him around. Medlocke and the old man were back out on the deck.
Damn! Well, maybe he'd watch them for a few minutes, try and sneak close enough to hear some of what they said. Then, if it seemed as innocent as it looked, he'd take off.
Winding his way quietly through the trees, Webster snuck closer to the cabin. He was behind the left shoulders of Medlocke and his father, so they'd have to turn around and stare directly at him to know he was there. When he reached the edge of the woods, about fifteen feet from the cabin, he stopped. If he really wanted to hear, he needed to get under the sun deck, which stood about ten feet off the ground that sloped away downhill to the lake. The co
ke making him aggressive and cocksure, he waited for a moment, then sprinted to the corner of the cabin. After a couple of quick, panted breaths, he tiptoed under the deck.
Home free, motherfuckers!
He sat stone still and listened intently. But what he heard didn't make much sense.
"I don't know, Dad," Medlocke said. "Am I ready to do this? All that stuff we've been practicing seems kind of small-fry compared to this. I'm still not sure I know what I'm doing."
"Well, the power should be instinctual to an extent," his father answered. "If you have to think too much about it, you may take too much time, especially if you're facing Moloch. You've done very well so far. You've learned quickly."
Moloch? Who the hell is Moloch?
"What should I try?" Medlocke asked.
"See that stone over there, the big one sticking about halfway out of the ground?"
Webster looked up between the cracks of the deck's planking and saw the old man pointing off to his right. His eyes followed the finger to a large block of granite about the size of a kid's wading pool. Like an iceberg, the main part of the rock was under the ground, only a small portion of it stuck out above.
"Yeah," Medlocke said, "I see it."
"Move it."
With what? A fuckin' bulldozer?
"Dad, that's a pretty big order," Medlocke said.
"Just try it."
Webster expected to hear Medlocke's feet walking back across the deck, getting ready to come down the stairs. A moment of terror gripped him. I can't be seen, he thought frantically. Where do I run?
He started to sprint back to the edge of the woods and to hell with who saw him when he realized he wasn't hearing the footsteps. Silence. A puzzled expression on his face, he looked back through the cracks in the planking.
Medlocke was just standing there, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. Beads of seat were rolling down his temples.
What the fuck is he doin'? Meditatin'?
Then Webster saw.
