The Turning (Book 2): Whisper Lake

by Micky Neilson

  Jack had been talking to him several times a day, sometimes about family, sometimes about his Native American heritage, and sometimes he still talked that crazy shit about Jason being a "weyekin." After the Amazing Shaking Bowl Trick, however, CJ didn't argue. Sure it had been a hallucination, but not the kind he cared to repeat. Besides, if he played his cards right, the old man promised to let him out of the room. Over the past few days he had walked CJ to an actual toilet, just outside the room and down the hall, but the rest of the time he was still being quarantined. It was for his own good, Jack said. CJ suspected that the old man figured a junky was prone to rob his own mother blind to pay for dope. Couldn't really blame him for being cautious.

  So, he had spent a fair bit of time staring out the window. It slid up, but there were bars on the outside of it. Beyond those there wasn't much to see: the shed he'd first been kept in (he assumed), an old tire, a field, a truck on concrete blocks, and beyond it a dingy house that he had yet to see anyone entering into or leaving from. When CJ got tired of looking outside he would close the window, pull the curtain, rest, and wait for Jack to show up for another talk.

  Where was the old Injun anyway? The sun had been sneaking through the curtain for a while now. Jack had been stopping by right around first light for the past couple of days. So far this morning CJ had been busying himself by staring at the ceiling, thinking of what a book about his life might be like. He had been writing it, line by line in his head.

  He had just gotten to the part where a girl named Jenny Newmeyer had punched him in the face for lifting up her skirt in second grade when a tapping came at the window.

  What the hell? Did the old timer get locked out?

  The window was high, the bottom of it coming to just below his shoulders. When he pulled the curtains aside the first thing he saw was two sets of fingers on the sill, between the bars, and beyond them a face. It was a female face with brown eyes that curved downward at the corners beneath thin brows, the left brow pierced. Small feathers hung from her pierced ears. Black hair that pulled back into a high ponytail shined in the sun. Her face was broken out in zits that she had tried to hide with some makeup, and her eyes were bloodshot. Even so, CJ immediately thought that this woman was fucking beautiful.

  He slid the window up. "Hey," the girl said. "What are you in for?"

  CJ just stared at her for a minute. "Huh? Oh…" he said, realizing what she meant. "Uh, rehab, I guess." The fingers disappeared. The girl popped a cigarette in her mouth, lit it, and stuffed the lighter somewhere in her shirt. The fingers then returned to the windowsill. "Yeah. Sucks ass, huh? I saw Jack bring you in. Been waitin for him to leave so I could say hello."

  "He's gone?"

  "Yeah. Tribal Council meeting." The girl sucked on the cig, removed it, and blew smoke.

  "Could I…?" CJ indicated the cigarette. "Sure," she said and handed it through. CJ took a drag and closed his eyes, savoring every last bit of it. Reluctantly, he handed it back. The girl re-deposited it in her mouth then stuck her fingers through the bars. "Name's Alice."

  CJ shook the fingers. "CJ."

  "Cool," Alice said around the cigarette. "Jack talked about you sometimes to my Granny. She takes care of me." Alice plucked the cigarette out. "Been off dope for eight months now— just booze and cancer sticks for me," Alice continued. "And pot, occasionally. Prozac, if I can get it. Valium. What kind of music you like?"

  "Um… heavy stuff. Alice in Chains, Metallica, Iron Maiden…"

  "Yeah, right on. I saw Metallica in California. Lived there with my cousin for a few years after my parents died. Ended up in Portland after that. Ran around with some gangbangers, got hooked on all kinds of shit…" Alice took another drag from her cigarette. "We should hang out some time," she continued. "Listen to some music and stuff. When you get out, I mean."

  She's into me. This hot piece of ass is into me.

  CJ nodded. "Yeah, sounds good. You know where to find me."

  "Sure do," Alice said. "Well, I better get back before Granny knows I'm missing." She turned and began walking away. Kind of thick, but that was no big deal. Then she turned: "Oh and don't tell Jack I stopped by. He probably thinks I'm a bad influence," she said, and CJ noticed her belly.

  Shit, she's pregnant.

  Not just pregnant, but ready to pop. "Secret's safe with me," CJ answered. Alice smiled and continued slowly toward the house beyond the field.

  CJ closed the window, still watching her go.

  Well... at least you know she puts out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Celine eased the Jeep into a parking spot at the station. She took a deep breath, her mind racing. The last hour at Jason's house had been a whirlwind. He had shared his theory that the minerals or chemicals in the soil around the mill might be responsible for his ability to disobey the goddess. If that were true, Ghost might really be their best hope.

  But, they had to find him first.

  She had admitted that Ghost could be anywhere; Boil might have even removed him from Whisper Lake altogether. But Jason remembered that when he overheard Boil and Ghost at the Haversaw house talking about the delivery, Boil had said the kid had "ten days left." The kid hadn't sounded too confident that he could make that deadline. Jason didn't think they would have transported Ghost, as well as all of his equipment, very far when working toward a tight deadline. That meant they had a little less than a week to search for Ghost. After that, he might be gone for good.

  Jason and Celine agreed that Boil wouldn't be stupid enough to house Ghost in the trucking terminal, but they both felt like the business was a good place to start from. Out of Celine's glove box they had taken the same map she had drawn on when she looked for the shovel used to bury Jason. They had set it on the dining room table and drawn a line East to West through the center of the terminal. Jason would take everything to the North, Celine would take everything to the South. They had been standing close, hip to hip, and Celine had felt the heat rising in her; she had pressed against him, but Jason pulled away. They had talked for quite a while and Jason said he was worried that Bethany and Trish would come home. Celine knew better. He was still pissed at her. She would give him more time. She returned the conversation to looking for Ghost.

  "I would think he'd choose someplace fairly isolated," Jason had said. "Also, there had been smoke. White smoke from the chimney. Oh, and the smell… whatever the kid's cooking up has a very distinct smell." He had then described the odor as best he could.

  They had decided to search in shifts. Whenever Jason wasn't watching Trish and his mom from inside the house, Celine promised to watch from outside. Jason thought that if Boil planned to hurt his mom or Trish, he would have done it by now. Still, they weren't taking any chances.

  What would happen when they found Ghost? If they took him, used him to do what they wanted him to do, Boil would come after Jason's family for sure. Jason said he was working on a plan for that. There was a part of Celine that wanted to just kill Boil and solve a whole host of problems. But was that the goddess' influence? Maybe not entirely. She had gone to get the rifle… how much more difficult would it have been to get ammunition?

  These thoughts were swirling in Celine's head as she entered the sheriff's station. She greeted Lieutenant Embury, and just as she walked into the bullpen, Ty's office door opened. For a split second Celine imagined Ty stepping out, her running to him and throwing her arms around him…

  But the woman who emerged from the office was most definitely not her dad.

  She was thin, shorter than Celine, with slick black hair tied back. A birthmark ran from the left corner of her mouth—which was drawn up in a smirk—across her cheek, to just under her left eye. The eyes were wide and brown; the suit she wore was blue and looked as though it had just come off a dry cleaner's rack. The woman said a few parting words to Deputy Sheriff Trumbull, then quickly approached Celine, standing just inches away with her right hand cocked just above waist height.

  "You must
be Celine," she said, smiling.

  Celine frowned but shook the woman's hand. Her grip was firm, and Celine resisted the urge to squeeze back hard enough to break bone. "That's me," Celine answered.

  "I'm agent Bagby, FBI. I'll be investigating Sheriff Barclay's disappearance." When Celine didn't answer, Bagby said "We'll be talking soon," And that half smile never left her mouth.

  ***

  Carter had woken up early, eaten breakfast, and shot himself in the shoulder with a snub nose 38.

  With his right hand he pressed the barrel against his left deltoid. With his left he held a pillow over the gun. The bullet passed through and lodged itself in his bedroom wall. It tore one hell of a hole in the meat of his shoulder, and left a much bigger hole when it came out.

  After washing and bandaging it he sat in Boil's office, answering the occasional phone call, settling the occasional dispute (usually by threatening to crack heads in half), and taking possession of paperwork that would be relayed for the boss's signature. By lunchtime he could no longer feel any pain in his shoulder. He had gone to the bathroom to remove the bandage, and had been gratified to see that no trace of the grisly gunshot wound remained.

  Afterword, as he sat reclining in the boss's chair, feet propped on the desk. Carter carefully considered a great many things: if the genius kid would meet his deadline, the ever-shifting battleground of the Dominguez Cartel, the clearly insane Baggerz. Yet these considerations were little more than debris swirling more prominent subjects closer to the eye of the storm: such as the weapons cache—compensation provided during the boss's days as a gunrunner—stored underground out in the woods north of the Careless Whisper. Or the bulletproof vest hanging in the closet. He thought of Jason, bleeding out just a few yards from his father's grave, and then knocking on the door of CJ's apartment a month later. His mind turned to his little brother Ralph, and the day Carter packed his bags and ran like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

  He picked up the phone and dialed. After two rings Boil's raspy voice answered. "Yeah?"

  "It's me," Carter said. "How long for the silver bullets?"

  "Still workin' on it. Why?"

  "I've got some paperwork to drop off. After that I need to take care of some personal business."

  There was silence. Carter was well aware that the boss was debating whether he would return, if allowed to leave. Carter was also quite sure that both men understood Boil could not stop him. Finally, Boil asked: "How long do you need?"

  "Couple days," Carter answered. "And…"

  "I need to borrow the guns."

  ***

  Jason sat at the kitchen table helping Trish eat. Or at least he was trying to.

  She sat hunched in her wheelchair, eyes vacant. Her right hand clutched a fork with a small chunk of Mom's roast on it. Usually Trish had no problem chewing and swallowing the soft roast, but just as she had started tonight, she… zoned out.

  Using his hand to guide hers to her mouth, Jason said "Come on sweetie, eat. You gotta eat."

  Trish's eyes drifted slowly about, then found Jason's. Her mouth moved with the barest hint of a whisper. Jason lowered her hand back to the plate. It almost sounded like she was… speaking. But Trish didn't speak. Not conventionally. Jason leaned in: "What did you say?"

  Trish's eyes locked on Jason, but there was something off about them. It wasn't Trish looking at him through those eyes. Her mouth moved again…

  And then Mom entered the room, saying "Why's she not eating?"

  Jason turned to look at her, and when he looked back Trish was "there" again. She smiled, huffed, and raised the fork to her mouth.

  Scooting his chair back, Jason continued staring at Trish. "Everything okay?" Mom asked.

  "Yeah, yeah it's fine," Jason said, getting up as Mom took his place in the chair.

  Jason went and sat on his bed, back against the wall, and let out a deep breath.

  For the past several nights he had bunked in the living room, venturing out after Trish and Mom had gone to sleep, and returning to his own room before sunrise in an attempt to not freak his mom out. On those nights, he slept very little as he lay with the .22 across his lap and kept his body in the same state of alert he had grown used to in Saudi Arabia and Iraq. If Boil came for him or his family, he would be ready.

  Jason's first "shift," looking for that kid Ghost would start in a few hours, after Trish and Mom went to bed. Celine would park out by the main road, come tap on his window, then wait and watch the house with the .22 while Jason searched. Doing this not only provided some security, but it allowed Celine to feel better, and Celine feeling better made Jason feel better. A little bit, at least.

  There was still a great deal to be stressed about. When he had called Celine at her trailer a few hours ago, while Mom and Trish watched TV in the other room, she told him about the FBI agent. Jason's mind immediately shot back to Agent Clay's warning:

  "If any of your actions from here on draw any kind of attention… it won't be me who returns to hunt you down."

  Sheriff Barclay's disappearance certainly qualified as "drawing attention," even though it hadn't been Jason's doing.

  If there was any kind of a silver lining it was that an attack on Jason's family by Boil or Carter would be insane with the FBI snooping around. Of course old "Hard Boiled" wasn't exactly known for making logical decisions.

  With a deep sigh, Jason hung his head. There was just no way to know if the agent was shady, or if Boil would try anything. What Jason did believe, deep in his gut, was that Trish was in danger. Whatever he had to do to help her, was worth it. So he would be careful, hide his face (the fact that his hair had grown out a fair bit helped), and try to convince Mom to lie for him if the FBI agent came calling.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Carter wasn't a tactician.

  His strategy for enemy engagement almost always consisted of overwhelming force. Period. Nevertheless, he had come up with something he considered a reasonably well thought out plan.

  On several occasions he had imagined storming Don Mastroni's Seattle compound, but he knew that no matter how carefully he schemed, he would never achieve his goal without taking more than a few bullets—enough to permanently evict him from the Land of the Living. Now, things were different. As his little experiment with the .38 had proven, he was not as susceptible to bullets as your average mortal. Of course that didn't mean he could afford to be reckless. Thinking back to shooting Jason at the cemetery, he remembered that when the soldier had gotten plugged in the heart, he had been temporarily incapacitated. He hoped that by wearing the vest he could avoid a direct hit center-mass. He assumed that if he suffered a headshot he would be taken out of commission, but the head was a more difficult target to hit.

  Mastroni's property fronted Lake Washington from the west side of Mercer Island. Ingress by boat was a possibility, but the lakeside of the mansion was even more heavily guarded than the landside. Carter hadn't felt like bothering with a boat rental anyway. Far easier to purchase a piece of crap used car, park a couple blocks away, and make his approach from the south.

  The gear was fairly simple: bulletproof vest over black T-shirt, mini Uzi in a shoulder rig, and a suppressed Remington 700 which he held with his right hand, through a hole in the pocket of his full-length trench coat.

  He remembered the guards' patrol schedules from the time he had spent with Mastroni. He knew the exact point at which he could (hopefully) safely scale the south wall. If he was off, or if the guards switched up their routines, he might easily be spotted and his plan would be thwarted before it had begun.

  The day was heavily overcast with thick, black clouds that thus far had held back their contents. Out beyond the lake, a darkly obscured sun was descending. He picked a particular spot along the wall, placed the Remington up top and hauled himself up next. He was relieved to see that his calculations had proven correct. The roving guard had already passed and was walking the inner perimeter several yards away. Cart
er dropped unheard onto the grass, lifted the rifle, sighted the back of the guard's head and with a hushed thmmp! buried a .308 bullet in it.

  There was no turning back. Timing from then on would be everything. Racing diagonally across the lawn, he gained the south side of the guesthouse. He swung the Remington around the corner, scoped a guard on the second floor balcony of the mansion's south wing, and dropped him. Another full-blown sprint brought him up a flight of stairs beneath that same balcony to the door of the south office. He kicked out, splintering wood and shattering glass, then immediately spun and bolted east along the wall, rounding the southeast face and wedging himself behind a thick juniper.

  His smashing of the office door had triggered a silent alarm. Several guards ran past. Once they had rounded the corner he was off again, pounding his way to the main steps where he snatched up a marble cherub and heaved it through the front windowed doors. Without slowing he ran into the mansion proper and up the right side of the imperial staircase. At the second floor he sped down the hall and barreled through the master bedroom doors. The room was empty.

  Good.

  He backed once more into the hall, put his back to the wall, raised the Remington, and waited. For several agonizing seconds the only sound was his rapid, shallow breathing. Then: footfalls on the staircase; two guards appeared, flanking the Don himself, who wore a purple robe and swim trunks, his rotund belly bobbing, his face flushed, eyes wide and wet. Behind Mastroni, one hand on his shoulder, was the boss's chief of security.

  They were leading Mastroni to his boudoir, wherein lay the supposed safety of his panic room. Carter had acquired the location from the proud don himself after one glass of merlot too many.

  Thmp! The guard to Mastroni's right fell. A muzzle flash, and a swat to the chest rocked Carter into the wall. He steadied, aimed, and laid down the second guard. A gnat-like sound at his left ear and a poof of dust, bits of plaster. The security chief was behind the big man, working his way around. Carter took aim at the boss's left shin and blasted it. Mastroni crumpled as the chief fired again. Carter dropped to one knee as the bullet that would have struck the center of his forehead drove home next to its predecessor.