Forever Man

by Brian Matthews

  Owens closed his eyes and drew in another deep breath. Then he opened them. His expression was as hard and unforgiving as granite, and as lonely. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “I can’t.”

  Gene leaned back into his chair and threw his hands up in the air. “You’re a piece of work, you know that. A real piece of work.”

  Owens ignored Gene. He continued to hold Izzy’s gaze.

  She stared into his hard, blue eyes. She knew he wasn’t going to look away this time. He was waiting for her to give answer to his refusal.

  She set her jaw and leaned forward, placing her hands flat against the desktop. “Fine. Keep your damn secrets. I have two kids to find and they need to come first. But don’t think for a minute I like this situation. Or that I like you. I’m going to focus on finding Natalie and Kevin. And when they’re found—and I will find them—I want you gone. Go back to your covert life, hiding behind whatever agency you work for. But Kevin Sallinen stays here. With us. Got it?”

  Owens nodded a slow assent. “I understand.”

  “You put these pieces into play,” said Izzy to the old man. “What do we do next?”

  “Webber has a temper, a bad one, if you can get under his skin. Plus, he’s got to be feeling the pressure. Failure for him is not an option.” Owens expression softened a bit. “Don’t forget, your daughter isn’t his focus. He has to get Kevin. I don’t think he’ll waste time with her until he has the boy. But if he does find Kevin first….” He left the implications hanging.

  “So we’re back to either finding Kevin first or finding Webber.” Izzy sat down with a sigh. “I think Jack was using his cell phone. Let’s see if I can locate the towers he connected to. That’ll at least narrow down the area we have to search. This is going to take a few hours.”

  Izzy reached for the phone and got back to work.

  Chapter 19

  While Webber argued with Owens on the phone, Jack Sallinen managed to pull himself into some semblance of self-control. It hadn’t been easy—in fact, it’d been damned hard—but he’d managed. The fact that it’d been so hard bothered him. It bothered him because it looked like the Be Nothings were finally getting to him.

  And that worried him. Worried him and, truthfully, frightened him.

  At that moment, Webber let out a string of expletives that would’ve made a seasoned fisherman like Chet Boardman blush three shades of red. He stood, lips pressed hard together in a thin, bloodless line, and tossed the phone on the dresser.

  “You okay there?” Jack asked Webber, ignoring his phone for now.

  Webber’s breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps; his lips moved as he formed words Jack could barely make out.

  “….Thinks he’s got me beat, does he? Thinks he can outsmart me?” Webber scowled at Jack. “I know what he’s up to, you know. He’s trying to fuck with me. Wants to see if I’ll screw up. He’d love for that to happen. He’d downright love it.” Jack was stunned to see tears in the corners of Webber’s eyes. “I won’t let it happen, Jack. I can’t. If I don’t finish this job, if I don’t come back with your son—” Webber roughly wiped at his eyes. “Owens is too confident. Too sure of himself. That’s always been his problem. This time, I’ll make sure it’s his undoing.” He gestured for Jack to get up. “Come on, we’ve got something to do.”

  “Wait, what do you mean, ‘come back with my son’? What the hell’s going on?”

  Webber shouted, “Let’s go!”

  Jack took a cautious step back. “Fine, but where are we going?”

  “I want to look at the trees,” was Webber’s response as he strode out the door.

  Jack didn’t have much choice. He followed the man outside.

  To the right of the door, Denny Cain sat in a chair he’d dragged from the room. He’d zipped his jacket up to his chin to help ward off the cold. At his feet sat a brown paper bag. His hand held a wide, green beer bottle, the kind with the wide mouth that helped you drink faster. From the wet look in his eyes, Jack thought Denny had probably gone through a third of his case already.

  “Where you off to?” Denny asked.

  Webber stormed by without answering.

  Jack shrugged. “He said he wants to see the trees.”

  The color left Denny’s face, as if what Jack had said scared him.

  Jack stopped walking and stared at the man. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Be careful,” replied Denny. “Watch yourself. And don’t go into the woods, no matter what.”

  “Jack,” Webber called out as he rounded the corner of the motel. “Move your ass.”

  Jack wanted to ask Denny what he meant, but he also didn’t want to make Webber more upset than he already was. With a dismissive shake of his head, he left Denny to his drinking and hustled after Webber.

  The ground behind the motel was thick with weeds and tall grasses. Jack moved several feet in and found a white-enameled sink that someone had been using as a fire pit, along with a handful of empty beer cans, some cigarette butts, and even what looked like two used condoms.

  The Be Nothings had set up camp here.

  They’re everywhere, son.

  Yes, Daddy, they certainly were.

  Webber had stopped near the edge of the woods. Jack knew this part of the forest stretched far to the north, maybe far enough to reach Lake Superior. The trees here were old, their massive trunks covered with gray-green mosses. They grew so close to one another that Jack couldn’t see more than a few yards into the forest. The wind hadn’t stripped the leaves from the branches, and the treetops almost glowed with the fires of autumn.

  Watch yourself, Denny had said.

  “You wanted trees,” said Jack, spreading his hands. “Well, there they are. Now can we go back? It’s getting cold.”

  “Not so fast,” Webber said. From his pocket, he withdrew a small knife that Jack hadn’t seen before. The handle looked like it had been hand carved from some kind of dusky white material, maybe ivory or horn—or bone. There may have once been ridges running along the handle’s surface, but they had been worn smooth until they resembled the veins under a dying man’s skin. The blade was also white, the same white as the handle. Jack realized the entire knife had been carved from one piece of material.

  Bone, his mind whispered to him. You know it’s bone. But is it human bone?

  Jack pointed to the knife. “What’re you going to do with that?”

  Webber began to lift his shirt. “Think for me, Jack. I want you to think. Think really hard.” Then he grinned, and Jack thought he could see a hint of lunacy in the man’s smile. “Think about Izzy Morris.”

  Jack frowned. “Why would I think…?”

  His words fell away as Webber lifted his shirt up to his breastbone. The man’s abdomen was a patchwork of puckered white scars. They weren’t thin; he hadn’t simply been cut. No, his scars were about half an inch wide and nearly two inches long, like the skin had been torn from him. There were at least a dozen of them, and all but two appeared old. Jack’s mouth dropped open when he saw that the patchwork wasn’t random. The scars roughly spelled out a word.

  Bitch.

  “Start thinking,” warned Webber.

  “At least tell me why—”

  Webber’s wrist flashed. Jack felt a hot line burning across his cheek. He raised his hand to his face, and it came away wet with blood.

  “Hey! What the shit!”

  “Think about her,” Webber said, his voice trembling with fury. “Or I’ll cut you to ribbons.”

  Jack stared at his bloody fingers for a moment, his own anger seething inside him. He didn’t want to think about Morris. Her superior attitude or her Be Nothing ways. No, thinking about her would just make him angrier—

  “That’s it,” Webber said, his face sweating despite the cold, his jaw set in a grimace of pain. “Yes, think of her. You hate her, don’t you? Hate her. And hate is hungry work. Leaves you with that empty feeling in your guts. An emptiness that hurts. We can’
t have that. Here, have a little something to hold you over.”

  Jack watched Webber lift a hand, felt the man push something small past his lips. His teeth closed reflexively. Whatever it was felt rubbery, chewy, like steak fat but with no taste. He frowned. His tongue caressed it, flipped it over. More chewing. Hints of…blood and gristle?

  “Swallow,” whispered Webber. “This is my body, which shall be given up for you. Swallow—and think of Morris.”

  Jack gagged. Webber clamped a hand over his mouth. He didn’t want to swallow, oh God he didn’t, but swallow he did. He wanted to retch, wanted to vomit up the bit of flesh that Webber had fed to him, but it slid too easily down his gullet and was gone.

  Watch yourself.

  Jack began to sense a presence, an intruder prowling at the outskirts of his mind. Somebody whispered Morris’ name. He was no longer sure if it was Webber or himself—or the intruder. He thought he could feel the bit of Webber’s flesh moving around inside him, working its way deeper and deeper.

  Morris

  He could hear something. A noise, like the static you used to get when a television station signed off for the night. Or when you’d tune into an AM radio channel that had no station broadcasting. It was getting louder by the moment, filling his ears, making his skin itch. And there were voices in the noise, wordless but human, cries of pain and suffering. He thought he had heard it earlier, when Webber had sent him to that hellish place.

  Jack started to tremble. Why do I keep hearing that noise? What’s happening to me?

  Morris

  Stop saying her name, he wanted to scream. I don’t want to think about her!

  Morris

  Images began to flash through his mind. Earlier today at the wake. Izzy Morris up in his face, so close he could feel her warm breath on his skin, smell her perfume; and days ago on his front porch, her clothes clinging to her sweaty skin, strands of her hair caressing the sides of her face, hazel eyes glaring at him, resenting the power he had over her, wishing she had the same power, wishing she had him—

  Stop it! he protested silently. Get out of my mind!

  —Izzy Morris at the summer picnic, shorts hugging the curves of her hips, her ass, and her long legs, shapely legs, legs which should be wrapped around him; legs that flexed smoothly as she walked by, her full breasts pushing at the thin cotton blouse she wore, that perfume again, dizzying, pulling at him, making him want her, desire her—

  No! Not true!

  That horrific noise—that god-forsaken screaming—surrounded him. It was loud now. Loud enough to hurt. It filled him until there wasn’t room for anything else.

  The intruder was here. Jack could sense something moving back and forth in the forest, pacing restlessly, just beyond his sight.

  Don’t go into the woods.

  “What did you do to me?” panted Jack. “What the fuck did you just do to me?”

  Webber laughed. He’d put away his knife. There was a thin red line forming on the fabric of his shirt. He caught Jack staring and zipped up his jacket.

  “Unpleasant,” the man said, “but necessary. I had to reach out and touch someone, as the saying goes. Or in this case, something.”

  Then Jack hadn’t been imagining things. The intruder was real. He began backing away from the woods. “What is it?”

  Webber studied Jack for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ve been using it to help me get the job done.”

  “You’re some kind of monster,” Jack said warily. “Some devil or demon or something.”

  “Wrong again,” replied Webber. “I’m as human as you. And just because I go to extremes doesn’t mean I’m evil. I’m simply thorough. I like the odds stacked heavily in my favor, and my pet is my ace in the hole.”

  Jack pointed a trembling hand at the forest. “That thing killed—?”

  Webber nodded. “But let’s keep that between you and me. I want Denny to keep thinking Owens killed his boy.”

  “Why is it here now?”

  Webber made a quick gesture with his hand and the presence started to retreat. The noise in his head faded until it was gone. “It has another job to do.”

  “What?”

  “It’s going to kill Izzy Morris.”

  * * *

  J.J. Sallinen stood on the front porch, knocking on the door and shivering from the icy wind that sliced through his clothes.

  “Come on, answer the damn door.” He changed from rapping smartly on the door with his knuckles to pounding loudly with his fist. “Katie! Mrs. Bethel!”

  A half-minute of hammering yielded the same result.

  He tested the handle.

  Locked.

  Another wave of shivers ran through him. He rubbed his arms to warm them. The unexpected turn in the weather had caught him by surprise. His varsity jacket didn’t provide nearly enough protection.

  He threw a quick, worried look back at his car. His dad was the reason he was standing there freezing his nuts off. All you had to do was give me a little respect, he thought. Was that too much to ask?

  Fuck ‘em. Kevin’s the only one that matters.

  Guess so.

  J.J. found a little ceramic frog nestled off to the side of the porch. He grabbed hold of its warty back and lifted. The figurine came apart. Inside he found a key and used it to unlock the front door. Then he put the key back where he found it and went inside.

  “Hello,” he called out. “Anyone home?”

  Nada.

  He gave the house a quick walk-through. Finding it empty, he hurried back out to his car and opened the passenger door.

  J.J. extended a hand to his passenger. “Come on, Kev. Let’s go inside.”

  It had taken J.J. the promise of something sweet—a candy bar he’d brought with him—to get his brother out of the car and into Katie’s house. The little booger was still upset over being hauled away while he’d been busy with his cookies and milk and cartoons. He’d actually bolted upstairs, tried to hide in his closet. There’d been a minor tussle when J.J. had to carry Kevin out of his room and downstairs—one of Kevin’s flailing legs had kicked over a chair, while his hands had raked across his desk, scattering his drawings.

  After he’d wrestled a jacket and some shoes onto his brother, J.J. had grabbed a couple chocolate chip cookies (and the candy bar, of course) and dragged Kevin by the arm out to his car. He’d pushed him into the passenger’s seat, tossed the cookies onto the kid’s lap, and then slid behind the wheel. The cookies had kept Kevin quiet during the drive to Katie’s.

  He watched as Kevin, now huddled on Mrs. Bethel’s couch with a blanket draped over his thin shoulders, munched on a Kit-Kat and watched more of his stupid cartoons. J.J. had come across the word “imbecile” while reading Of Mice and Men for English class. His brother was the poster child for the word. He also worried that Kevin was destined to play Lennie to his George.

  He shook his head. “I may be stuck taking care of you for the rest of my life. It isn’t fair.”

  Kevin showed no reaction to what J.J. had said; he remained unreachable, oblivious within his cocoon of autism.

  J.J. turned his attention to the empty house. The wake had ended hours ago. He thought he’d find Katie here. Or at the very least, Mrs. Bethel would’ve shown up by now. Katie had told him about her mother’s date last night, about how the woman hadn’t bothered to come home. Either she was sleeping off a massive hangover or she was still going at it with her date. J.J. made a face at the latter thought. Old people sex. Gross.

  He wandered into the kitchen. Fruit-shaped magnets hung on the fridge’s door. Each one held up a coupon or recipe that’d been clipped out of a magazine, but there were no notes from Katie or her mother. Yesterday’s paper and Saturday’s mail still sat on the kitchen table. It was past 8 pm and no one had brought in today’s mail? It looked like no one had been home since he and Katie had left this morning.

  His curiosity piqued, J.J. turned to head to the back of the house and Katie’s bedroom. That’s when
he saw the answering machine sitting on the countertop near the fridge. The little red display light blinked insistently. There were eight new messages.

  He’d never known Katie or her mom to have more than a message or two, most of which were from him. He walked back to the fridge and hit the PLAY button.

  The first one was from Katie’s friend, Brittany Parsons. In a breathless, tearful voice, she said how sorry she was to hear that Katie’s mom had died.

  Stunned, he thought, No way. I must not have heard her right.

  Brittany went on to tell Katie to call if she needed anything. Four more of Katie’s friends had called to offer their condolences; Brittany had called back twice.

  Mrs. B’s dead? The thought left J.J. cold.

  Where was Katie? Had Brittany ever gotten hold of her? Did she even know? He’d left the wake without talking to her. It was stupid, he knew, and rude. But after listening to his father—

  Hold on. His phone call the other day—he’d told his dad about finding those photos of Natalie. His dad knew Katie had been there, had said he wanted to do something to keep her mouth shut.

  I won’t let you hurt her, J.J. had said. That’s part of the deal. To keep my mouth shut.

  Okay, fine, his dad had responded. Something will need to be done, but I promise she won’t be hurt.

  Was his dad involved in Mrs. B’s death? Is this what he considered not hurting Katie? He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial. He got his dad’s voicemail.

  “Hey, it’s me. Some weird stuff’s going on, and I think we need to talk. Someplace private. Call me back.” Then he remembered his dad’s tendency to ignore him, so just before he hung up, he added, “Oh, by the way, I’ve got something you may want.”

  J.J. stuffed the cell phone back into his pocket. He wished he could call Katie, but she didn’t have a cell phone. She and her mom—well, now just Katie—barely made do with the proceeds from her dad’s life insurance policy. They couldn’t afford the luxury of a cell phone.

  While he waited for his dad to call back, J.J. walked into the living room and sat down next to Kevin. His brother was sitting motionless on the couch, his eyes dancing across the television screen as the cartoons played.