by Hunt, James
“It’s a trick,” Deputy Hurt said, baring his teeth.
“No trick,” Owen replied, still speaking to the sheriff. If he was going to get out of this alive, if he was going to try and clear his name, then this was his only hope. “If I’m wrong, then you can put a bullet in me and leave me in the swamp. But just let me try. Please, Sheriff.”
“All right, Owen,” Bellingham said. “You show me where Jake Martin’s body is and we’ll go from there.” Bellingham walked over and then extended a hand to help Owen off the ground.
The old sheriff pulled Owen up with ease, but the moment he was upright, the sheriff tightened his grip on Owen’s arm and pulled him close. “You put my men in danger again and I will put a bullet in your head. Whether you’re right about Jake Martin or not. Understand?”
Owen nodded. But as he was loaded into the back of the van with new restraints placed over his wrists, he wasn’t sure if a bullet to the head would be enough to stop Bacalou.
* * *
Whispers echoed through Roger’s mind, fragments of a past that he couldn’t remember. His mind was a blank canvas where memories were suddenly splashed with no context, and before he could understand the distorted images, they were wiped away.
Roger tried getting up, but the restraints on the bed kept him down. It was his tenth attempt, though he thought it was his first. He stared at the straps over his wrists and the long pieces of leather that crossed his chest and stomach. Who had put them there? Why couldn’t he move? “Mary? Mary, come help me.”
Roger frowned at his voice. It couldn’t have been his. It was old and weak. He’d just turned thirty-five a few months ago. He looked down and saw the liver-spotted, weathered hand attached to his body, and he panicked.
“No,” he said, his voice as quiet as those whispers in his head. “No!” He thrashed in violent spasms. “Help! Someone help!” But the more he moved, the more constricted he felt, and it didn’t take long before two men dressed in white hurried into his room. “Who are you? What are you doing?”
“Just calm down, Mr. Templeton.” The man who spoke had a bald head and a wide jaw. He was skinny and held down one of Roger’s arms. “You’re all right. You’re just in the hospital. We’re going to give you something to make you feel better.”
Roger squinted at the man. “No, please. I just want to go home, I just—Gah!” He looked to his right and saw another man who jabbed a needle into his arm, pressing down on a syringe. “What are you doing? What is… that?” His eyelids grew heavy, and his muscles relaxed.
“Naptime, Grandpa.” The orderly with the syringe had a thin, unearthly smile. Long, straight black hair dangled at his shoulders. It was wet and greasy.
The man’s face grew fuzzy as Roger blinked, fighting to stay awake, but instead sank back into his pillow. “Please… Just… Go…” He tilted his head to the side and drifted off into a sleep with dreams as broken as his memories.
For Roger, sleep was a coin toss. Fifty-fifty odds for either clarity and rest or confusion and terror. Those few moments before he drifted from consciousness were always riddled with anxiety.
But hope rose in the distance, like a sunrise after a long night of cold darkness. Roger remembered his home in Baltimore, his wife, his daughter. His memories poured over him like a cleansing rain.
But amidst the warm joyful moments, he also had a front row seat of his actions when that beast Alzheimer’s took control. So much anger, hate, a violence he didn’t even know existed within him. He cringed as he relived them. And tonight, in the deep state of restless unconsciousness that the sedation provided, he saw a new memory shrouded in darkness.
He tried to look away, but the nightmare beckoned him closer. He was in a room, lying on a table. There were strange things around him, colored liquids in glass bottles, jewelry made of tiny bones, rocks, and leather. It was dark in the room, and he was angry, angry because he was confused, because of the disease.
Claire was there, trying to calm him, trying to get him to stay down. But it only worsened the anger. He lashed out, striking Claire on her cheek. A vicious crack sounded from the contact and Claire burst into tears as she looked at him, covering the mark on her face.
Roger’s heart shattered. That wasn’t him. He wouldn’t do that. He tried to speak, tried to apologize, but Alzheimer’s bit his tongue.
“Stop!” Roger pleaded in his sleep, a sinking feeling of hopelessness overtaking him. “Please, stop.” He collapsed to his knees, crying, wanting to pull himself from this prison of hell.
But amidst the broken dreams and discarded memories, a singular voice broke through the madness. It whispered in a language that Roger could not speak, yet he understood perfectly. And as Roger wandered in darkness, groping blindly to find the voice’s source, he saw it. He saw both of them.
Owen and the creature. They were together somehow, fighting for control. Because of what Madame Crepaux had done to him, Roger still shared a connection with the beast.
For Roger, his journey into the creature’s mind was like being at an exhibit at an art museum, free to wander around looking at the inside, but unable to touch anything. So Roger went deeper into Bacalou’s mind.
It was a cold place, dark and violent. Roger’s own thoughts grew twisted, but he persevered. Bacalou wanted something. He’d wanted it for a very long time. It just needed one final push, one last surge to end its pain.
Roger searched the creature’s mind for its desire with a heightened sense of urgency. He saw the faces and souls that it had taken over the years. Most were from the same family, a few were not. He opened doors into hallways that frightened him. And then Roger saw it. Felt it, actually. It stank of death and froze him. The creature wanted to kill someone. A man.
Charles Toussaint. The name was whispered softly. And at this end, this great finality where Bacalou killed this man, Roger saw Owen’s soul consumed among the calamity as collateral damage.
That thought lingered in Roger’s sedated mind. It clung to him like the very disease that wanted to kill him. He couldn’t let Owen be taken like that. His daughter would be devastated. He needed to do something about it.
If that thing wanted a vessel, then let it take him. He just needed to find a way to get the creature’s attention.
3
Claire kept hold of both Matt and Chloe in the back seat of the deputy’s SUV. His only interaction with her were the two glances in the rearview mirror, but she was grateful for the silence.
Chloe had fallen asleep, as she did on most car rides, but Matt stayed awake. He leaned his head against her arm as he looked out the window. She had so many questions for him, but she’d kept them to herself. There wasn’t any need to overwhelm the boy with more worries.
The car slowed, and Claire saw the glow of a neon sign. The dirty yellow color spelled out “Bart’s Motel.” And like the sign it represented, the two-story structure had lost much of its luster. Paint peeled from the walls, the iron banister along the second story flaked with rust, missing shingles dotted the roof. It was a dump, but it was the closest place to stay outside of Ocoee. And it was on the sheriff’s dime.
Claire kissed the top of Chloe’s head as she reached for the door. “All right, bug. Time to wake up.” She groaned as Claire picked her up and brought her into the warm afternoon air. Matt followed, and the deputy walked toward the front office.
“I’ll get your room keys, and then I’ll help you with the bags,” he said.
“Thank you.” Claire adjusted Chloe in her arms and then placed her hand on top of Matt’s head. “You all right, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay,” Matt answered.
The answer lacked conviction, but Claire let it go.
The deputy returned holding the keys. “Let’s get you settled in.”
Their room sat on the second floor. It was small and simple, only the bare bones of necessities. A single nightstand sat between two twin beds, bare of any comforters, with only yellow-cream sheets that matche
d some of the discolored stains that made them look dirty even when they were clean.
A TV from 1995 sat on a dresser, and a sink on the back wall was attached to a small bathroom where the door scraped against the edge of the toilet when opened. There was another door on the left wall of the room that connected into the room next door, which had its own door just on the other side, but both were locked so neighbors couldn’t get in unless they were invited. Claire hadn’t seen a room set up like this since she went on vacation with her family as a little girl.
“It’s not the best accommodations,” the deputy said, “but it’s the best we could do on such short notice.”
“It’s fine,” Claire said, trying to sound grateful. “Thank you.”
The deputy offered a nervous smile and handed over the keys. “I have to get back to the station, but we’ll keep a squad car nearby if you need anything.” The deputy swallowed and glanced at his shoes to gather his nerve. “I… also need to talk to you about your husband.”
Claire nodded, her stomach tightening into knots. She turned back to Chloe and Matt. “You two stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.” She followed the deputy out the door and down the second-floor balcony, away from the room so the kids couldn’t eavesdrop. They stopped at the stairs and Claire crossed her arms. “How bad is it?”
“The sheriff is taking Owen to the courthouse today to set bail,” the deputy answered. “Because it’s a murder charge, the bail will likely be set at one million. If you want to get him out, you’ll have to put up ten percent.”
Claire gripped the rusted rail for support. “Christ.” She squeezed the iron, the muscles along her forearm wiry and thick. She took a breath and then pushed off. “Has he been assigned an attorney yet?”
“There’s someone from the state office coming this afternoon,” the deputy answered.
“I’d like to meet them when they arrive.”
The deputy reached into his pocket and handed her a card. “It’s the station number. The desk is always manned, so you can call anytime.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck, Mrs. Cooley.”
Claire lingered on the balcony as the deputy walked downstairs and drove away. She glanced down to the parking lot, which was empty save for two cars. She thumped the rail then trudged back to the room, trying to figure out how to explain to the kids what was happening to their father. She was sure Matt had an idea, but that didn’t make it any easier.
She opened the door, catching Chloe in mid-jump on the bed, who upon the sight of her mother immediately stopped, her eyes big and preparing tears in case she was in trouble. Matt stepped out of the bathroom and washed his hands.
“Guys, I need to talk to you for a second.” Claire sat on the end of the bed closest to the door. Chloe was the first to join her, and Matt took a seat in a nearby chair. “I know you probably have questions about what’s going on.”
“Why can’t we go home?” Chloe asked. “Is it not safe there anymore?”
Claire put her arm around her daughter and gently squeezed. “We’re not sure yet, but we’ll know soon.”
“Is Dad okay?” Matt asked.
“Your dad is fine. There’s just—” She closed her eyes and drew in a breath as she rubbed her forehead. “There are some people who think your dad did something bad.” She looked to Chloe, then to Matt. “But he didn’t. And that’s important for you two to understand. There will be a lot of people that will say otherwise, but any time you hear them say something, I want you to come to me, okay? I promise I’ll tell you the truth.” She watched Chloe and Matt nod in response.
“What do people think Daddy did?” Chloe asked.
“They think he hurt people.” Claire watched both of their reactions carefully. Chloe pinched her eyebrows together, while Matt stared at his shoes, his cheeks oddly pale.
Chloe kicked at air a couple of times, twisting her mouth and tilting her head to the side. “If Daddy didn’t do that stuff, then why are people saying he did?”
“Because of me,” Matt said, his head still down.
“No,” Claire replied quickly, reaching out and grabbing hold of Matt’s hand. “It is not because of you.”
Matt jerked his hand away. “It is. It’s because I was in that place, and then he had to get me out.” He slid off the chair and beelined it for the door.
“Matt, no!” Claire jumped to follow, but then looked back to Chloe, who remained on the bed. “You stay right there, young lady, understand?” She kept her voice stern and after Chloe’s quick nod, she ran after Matt, shutting the door behind her. “Matt, stop!” Her son was already at the staircase by the time she left the room, and despite her shouting, he hurried down the steps.
Claire sprinted after him, chasing him through the parking lot and behind the building until Matt stopped by the trees before the swamp. He leaned against the bark of a cypress tree and caught his breath, allowing Claire to catch up.
“Hey.” Claire gripped his shoulder and knelt in front of him, still panting from the run. “This isn’t your fault, Matt.”
“Then whose is it?” Matt lifted his head, tears in his eyes. “If it weren’t for me, then Dad wouldn’t be in trouble. Right?”
“No. No, sweetheart.” Claire wiped her thumb underneath his eyes, catching the tears before they fell. “None of this is your fault. Absolutely nothing. Not the move here, not what happened to you, and not your dad coming to get you.” She grabbed hold of his shoulders. “And I know that if your dad was here, he would say the same thing.”
Matt sniffled and then nodded.
“Say it,” Claire said. “It’s not your fault.”
Matt’s lip quivered. “It’s not my fault.”
Claire pulled him close and rocked him in a hug. “I love you. Your dad loves you. That’s never going to change.”
Matt had always been so strong for his age, taking on more than his years should have allowed. But outside that motel on the outskirts of Ocoee, he was a ten-year-old boy, sobbing his heart out to his mother, who rocked him until the tears ran dry.
* * *
The sun had sunk low in the sky as Chuck peeked from the blinds of Nate’s front living room. Despite the closed door, Nate’s frantic pacing could still be heard from the bedroom. The steps had grown sporadic as Nate drained the whiskey bottle in the kitchen. He’d been at it for almost three hours now.
Chuck left his perch at the window and adjusted the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Nate kept looking at it. Money made people stupid. And a lot of money made people violent. But Chuck still had his pistol.
Like Nate with his liquor, the pistol had become Chuck’s crutch. Before this started, he could count the number of times he went to the range on one hand. And yet in the span of twenty-four hours, he’d killed two men. And if Owen Cooley hadn’t gotten away, that number would have jumped to three.
“All right,” Nate said, sliding out of his room and slurring his words. “We need to talk, Chuck.” He pointed an unsteady finger at Chuck and shut one eye. “I don’t feel comfortable with you staying here anymore.” He held up his hands in a passive defense, flinging some of the whiskey out of the bottle. “I understand the pressure you’re under right now, but for me, the risk has become too high.” He fixed a pair of bloodshot eyes on Chuck. “I’m sorry.” Then he held out his hand, expecting the payment that Chuck had promised.
At least ten feet separated the two, and Chuck let the silence linger before he answered. “No.” He stepped forward, and Nate stepped back. “And if I ever find out that you spoke to the police and ratted me out, I’ll come back for you, Nate.”
“C-c’mon, Chuck,” Nate said, retreating deeper into his own house. “You know I was just kidding around. I wouldn’t do that to you. No way. I-I just thought—” His leg bumped into a coffee table, and he jumped from the contact. “I-I didn’t mean it, Chuck. Swear to God.”
An unexplainable urge to reach for the pistol pushed Chuck’s hand to
the weapon, and just before his fingers grazed the handle, the lights shut off in Nate’s house.
Chuck looked around while Nate beelined it for the front door, knocking into Chuck on his frantic scurry past. Nate yanked on the doorknob, heaving his weight behind it, but the door wouldn’t budge. He spun around, the bottle of whiskey still gripped in his hand. “Is it here?”
And before Chuck answered, a sudden chill filled the air. He ripped the pistol from his waistband, spinning in a circle, aiming at nothing but darkness. His heart rate skyrocketed, his pupils dilated, and his body trembled.
“Come on out!” Chuck’s voice shrieked as he pivoted in jerky movements. “You’ve wanted to do this for a long time, so come on!” Darkness descended over the windows outside.
“I have waited a long time.” Madame Crepaux’s voice traveled like a cold breeze. “And now you have nothing to protect you except for the sorry piece of metal in your hands. But that cannot stop me.”
The gun was yanked from Chuck’s hand, and it skidded across the carpet and under the couch.
“Your ancestors murdered a great Queen,” Madame Crepaux said. “Fire melted her skin from bone. It was a painful death. Torture.”
Flames appeared on Chuck’s hand, and he screamed. He shook his hand violently, trying to rid himself of the fire, but it danced up along his arm and over his body, then his face. Every square inch of his body brightened with pain until it became so unbearable that his scream was replaced with gasping silence.
Chuck collapsed to the carpet, rolling on the ground, batting at the flames, the pain so overwhelming that he was blinded to anything but its blaring absolution.
And then as quickly as they appeared, the flames were gone. Chuck spasmed on the floor, flopping like a dying fish on a dock. After a moment, he rose to his hands and knees, checking his arms and legs, feeling his face. There were no burns, no scars, no disfigured flesh. The only sign of the heat was the sweat that had drenched his body. He looked to Nate, who had wet himself.
