Tales From the Gas Station 2

by Jack Townsend

  Akyak let out a wild screech as Gunther rolled over onto his back and proceeded to eviscerate him with his hind claws. Through bloody screams, he managed to get out a few final words, “Aka.. Aaaak… ayaaak YAAAK!” (Roughly translated, “Avenge Me! OUCH! SHIIIT!”)

  Akayak the Wise fell to his knees and screamed, “Akyak! Noooooooo!!! My brother!!!”

  I moved quickly to see if I could grab a hold of the creature and pull it free from Gunther’s maw, but the cat saw me coming, panicked, and darted away with the tiny alien corpse dangling from his mouth.

  I bit my lip and averted my eyes from the tearful creature sobbing nearby. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Akayak the Wise screamed, “I hate you!” Then, he jumped to his feet, took a long running start, darted past me, and leapt into the air. As soon as his body passed through the hovering circle, the vortex blinked silently out of existence.

  Before I could pull myself back up, I noticed a book on the bottom row with a clearance sticker. I pulled it out, gave it a once over, and decided it was worth the two-dollar price tag.

  By the time I got to the front counter, I’d mostly forgotten all about the interdimensional bounty hunters, save for a tiny, nagging thought in the back of my mind: I really hope this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass one day.

  ***

  “Find what you were looking for?” the old man asked, taking off his headphones. He picked up the book—a suspense thriller about a serial killer who only targets clowns—and said with a soft chuckle, “Oh yeah, I read this one a few years back.”

  “Any good?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t tell ya. The old noggin ain’t what it used to be.”

  “Yeah, I can relate.” I considered mentioning my strange episode of lost time to see what he thought. If there was anyone in this town who could commiserate, it was probably the old guy who spends all day with books and other mind-altering substances. But I didn’t want to make things weird.

  “Hey, where’d your friend go?”

  “She got called to another crime scene.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “No, O’Brien.”

  Brother Reilly looked puzzled. When the joke landed a moment later, he guffawed out loud and punched the price into his ancient register, then he gave me my total and a curveball. “She’s really pretty, huh?”

  “Who?”

  “Your cop friend.”

  I looked around to see who he was referring to. In time, my brain caught up and I realized we were still talking about O’Brien. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  He put my book into a paper bag and slid it over to me. “You should think about paying more attention to the things around you, Jack.”

  “Yeah, so I hear.”

  I returned to the beanbag chair, book in hand, and took my seat. The journal was still sitting next to it, opened to a new page where I had started writing about my latest symptoms before the portal distracted me. I took a second to finish this most recent entry with a quick note: “Hallucinations, Ak Yaks.”

  Next to it, I drew a small doodle of Akyak the Brave being eaten by a giant cat and pointed an arrow at him. That ought to be good enough. When I was done, I put the journal into my bag, cracked open my new book, and started reading. It was slow and somewhat predictable, but it held my attention until—

  “Hey kid, I almost forgot.” I looked up from the pages to see Brother Riley standing next to me with a mug in one hand and a framed photo in the other. He handed the picture to me. “I found this while cleaning up the back room earlier. Do you remember that day?”

  It was a picture of New Pages, specifically of the modest crowd gathered inside during the store’s grand opening. Brother Riley smiled for the camera from behind his counter. At the bottom of the frame, unaware that they were being photographed, stood a happy couple holding hands. I almost didn’t recognize myself.

  I held the picture in front of me and felt a weird, unfamiliar emotion somewhere between happy and sad. I didn’t like it. I wanted it to go away, but at the same time I couldn’t take my eyes off of the photo. There was something strange about seeing myself, standing in the same place on the other edge of this chasm of time. I tried to remember the moment, to recreate whatever thoughts had painted that dopey smile on my face. Past and present Jack both stared at the same person. From present-me’s point of view, she was frozen in place, laughing so hard her eyes were closed. No doubt something past-me said or did (and almost certainly not intentional), but whatever it was that brought us such fleeting amusement, it was long gone.

  “Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to look away. “I vaguely remember that day.”

  I handed him the picture and he took another look at it before laughing. “Man, hard to believe that was four years ago. Wow, I look exactly the same, don’t I? Look at you! You looked so much...” He took a second to stare at the picture, clearly struggling to come up with something to say that wouldn’t come across as an insult. Eventually, he gave up and lied, “...also, exactly the same.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks.”

  “What ever happened to that girl, anyway? You used to bring her in here all the time.”

  It seemed crazy to me that Brother Riley wouldn’t already know the story, but ever since the church labeled him “foot soldier for Satan,” he lost his direct connection to the gossip mill. I couldn’t blame him for asking what he thought was an innocent question.

  “She moved away,” I said.

  “Well, I’m not surprised. She seemed smart. Like you.” I thought that was going to be the end of it, but then, “Do y’all still keep in touch?”

  I was determined not to make this a big deal. “Not really. Last I heard, she’s up in Maine somewhere. Every now and then, I’ll see her at the gas station.”

  “Well, you’re a young man. You’ve still got time. Why don’t you go and visit her?”

  “I think it’s best if I just stay here.”

  “Ahhh,” he said knowingly. “I understand.”

  “You do?” (He didn’t.)

  “I do. You two had a falling out. It happens. Take it from me, she’ll get over it. Time heals all wounds.”

  When my phone started ringing, I was grateful for the excuse to get away from this moment. I checked the caller ID to see that it was O’Brien and answered immediately.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you still at the bookstore?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Are you alone right now?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Ask Brother John Denver to lock the front doors. Don’t go anywhere until I get there. And don’t talk to anyone you don’t know.” I could hear the moment she switched on her siren.

  “I’ll do what I can, but you’re starting to freak me out.”

  “Do you know somebody by the name of Karl Thomas?”

  “Yeah, he’s—” I took a second to decide how to describe my relationship with Karl. The best I could come up with was, “—a regular at the gas station.” I fully expected her to ignore my question again, but I tried anyway. “Why?”

  “Were you close?”

  Oh.

  “I’m assuming from the past tense of that question that he is no longer a regular, huh?”

  “I’ll be at the bookstore in five.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She had already hung up before I finished my question.

  As I put my phone back into my pocket, Brother Riley took a sip of his coffee and asked, “Was that your cop friend?”

  “Yeah, I think she thinks I’m about to get murdered. Do you mind—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll go lock up and grab the shotgun.” He took a loud slurp from his mug, then asked, “By the way, have you seen Gunther anywhere?”

  Chapter Five

  The trip home was quiet and awkward, just like I was used to, but her face told me that this wasn’t a normal ride. Something at that crime scene had left
her rattled, and she wasn’t the sort to rattle easily. She was gripping the steering wheel like she wanted to strangle the life from it.

  This time, I didn’t even think first before breaking the silence.

  “Was it Spencer?”

  She kept her eyes on the road and shook her head. “I don’t think anyone in their right mind could have done this.”

  “To be fair, I doubt Spencer is in his right mind.”

  “What the hell is wrong with this town?!” She spat the words out like they were poison.

  “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  I felt a strange wave of déjà vu wash over me.

  “I’m going to let you know something, Crutches, and maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m all out of fucks to give. The coroner was already there when I showed up. Sheriff must have called him first, before any of us had the chance to inspect the scene. They’ve already declared the whole thing a suicide. No reason to waste our precious resources looking any further. But between you, me, and the seat cushions, this wasn’t like any kind of ‘suicide’ I’ve ever heard of before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The official story is that poor Karl slit his wrists at the dinner table. That’s what the obit’s gonna say, anyway. Sounds a lot better than ‘removed his fucking hands with an electric jigsaw.’”

  She left me with that graphic mental picture.

  Wait a second… that doesn’t make any sense.

  He cut off his hands with a jigsaw? How does that even happen? One hand, sure. But both hands? Even with an iron will and pure dedication, the mechanics don’t add up. I didn’t want to come off sounding macabre, but my curiosity was boiling over. Finally, I gave in and asked, “How did he saw off the second hand?”

  “He didn’t. Once he’d hacked his way through the left wrist, he started chewing off his right hand. Everything, meat and skin, all the way down to the bone. He was a big guy, too, so he made it pretty far before the blood loss finally got to him.”

  I regretted asking. It was a nasty way for anyone to go. But as horrific as it sounds, that sort of thing wasn’t exactly uncommon in our town. Karl was a messed up guy, and drugs are drugs, after all. I couldn’t help but feel like there was more to the story than she was letting on.

  “That’s R-rated awful, but what’s any of this got to do with me? Not that I don’t appreciate the concern, but from your phone call, I thought it would be something more time sensitive.”

  She delivered her answer like she was reading from a police report—all facts, no emotion. “We secured the crime scene until the body had been removed, then we searched his trailer. We found a compartment hidden behind a false wall in the closet of the back room where he’d been stashing pictures and stolen items. It looked like he’d built some sort of shrine in there.”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “Do I have to spell it out? It was a shrine to you, Jack.”

  “What?”

  “There were hundreds of photographs in there, at least. Each one with the date and location of where they were taken written on the back. He must have been watching you for years. There was a chest in there, too. Filled with pictures and drawings, newspaper articles, a few guns and a lot of knives, plus some socks and hair clippings.”

  “Oh my God is that where my socks keep disappearing off to?”

  Her tone grew annoyed. “Jack, this is your first and only warning. Stop joking around. This isn’t funny.”

  “I mean, I’m flattered. But if Karl’s dead, then what’s the big deal? I hate that the guy had to die, but it sounds like this problem took care of itself, so to speak.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand... I found his personal journal in his underwear drawer. I took a minute and skimmed it before the sheriff came back inside and kicked everybody out. He said there was nothing left to learn, and ordered us to drop it and move on.”

  “What was in the journal?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, but that’s not what bothers me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The handwriting in his journal didn’t match the writing from the shrine.”

  “Oh.” The ramifications of that detail hit me like a Mack Truck falling out of the sky. “So, you’re saying whoever took all those photos in Karl’s closet—”

  She picked up the loose thread, “—is still out there, and probably still obsessed.”

  “Don’t you guys have some kind of handwriting database or something you can run it against?”

  “Yeah, we keep it in the drawer next to the Magic Eight Ball and divining rods.”

  Okay. I see that the ‘no joking’ policy only goes one way. Got it.

  “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Nothing. Even if we did have the resources to track down the photographer, I wouldn’t be allowed to use them. Officially, Karl committed suicide. Case closed. The sheriff has spoken.”

  “But you just told me that somebody was taking pictures of me for years without my permission.”

  “Not a crime.”

  “It’s really creepy, though.”

  Her silence was a tacit agreement. She could see that I was growing uneasy. I could see that she was calming down. We met in the middle; the new mood in the car could best be described as disturbed, but respectful of the known unknowns (probably the same way the Native Americans felt when they first saw European ships on the horizon).

  We pulled up in front of my house a moment later. O’Brien took something out of her front shirt pocket, then put it onto the center console without saying a word. I looked down at the wallet-sized photograph. She kept her eyes forward as I picked it up and looked at an image of myself, standing right outside the gas station with a broom in my hand. The look in my eyes was unmistakable. The Jack here wasn’t the same Jack from Brother Riley’s photo. The Jack in this picture hadn’t slept in months.

  “What’s this for?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not like I was able to take anything away from the scene. That would have been illegal. But if someone were to recognize the handwriting on the back of one of the photos from Karl’s place, maybe an anonymous tip could send the right people in the right direction.”

  I flipped the photo over to look at the flowery handwriting on the back. I didn’t recognize it, but I made a mental note to stay on the lookout, and pocketed the photo. “If I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Have you ever thought about carrying a gun?”

  “Not really. I’m clumsy and prone to dropping things and I don’t want to accidentally kill someone. Same reasons I don’t like holding babies.”

  She took a second before responding, “Fair enough.”

  As I reached for the door handle, my cell phone began to ring.

  I looked back at O’Brien, who was halfway through an involuntary eye-roll. She already knew what was about to happen. “You don’t have to answer that,” she said. “You don’t owe them anything.”

  I slowly pulled the phone from my pocket, hoping that it wasn’t who we both expected. Maybe I was going to get lucky and this was a wrong number, or telemarketer, or Spencer calling to ask where he could turn himself in. The caller ID quickly dashed those hopes. It was, in fact, the owners, which could only mean one thing.

  I was about to have to go back to work.

  I answered with a quick, “Hello?”

  “Oi, Jack!” It was Mammaw. “I hope you’re having a good day. Okay, enough small talk! We need you to get to the gas station, posthaste! I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s a small emergency and you’re the only human I trust.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there in—” I looked at the phone and sighed. She’d already hung up. My next words were to the deputy, “Hey, do you mind if—”

  She put the car in gear and peeled out of th
ere like we were under attack. Ten minutes later, I was back at the gas station.

  Chapter Six

  The “small emergency” she was referring to wasn’t clear right away. When I walked in, Calvin Ambrose was standing behind the counter with his back to me, restocking the cigarettes. I looked around the store, but there weren’t any fires or monsters readily apparent. I chose not to announce my presence, and left Calvin to his task as I gave the store a closer inspection.

  I headed towards the back wall, where a couple of garbage bags were taped over the cracked door of the cold drinks case. As soon as I turned the aisle, I spotted Jerry sitting cross-legged on the floor, sealing the bottom of the frame with a line of duct tape. He looked up at me and said, “Sup, bro? I didn’t know you were coming in.”

  Mammaw must have called Jerry as well, I thought. Whatever was going on, it must have been a truly desperate emergency.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Did the owners call you out here, too?”

  “The owners? Nah, they don’t talk to me anymore. Calvin called me in to help fix the drink case because he’s afraid of glass. Hey, isn’t it ironic that the bullet hole in the window is letting all the cold air in, while the bullet hole in the glass case is letting all the cold air out?”

  “What happened to Devon?”

  “Calvin fired him.”

  “He fired Devon? Can he even do that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just the guy who fixes the drink case. By the way, I’m glad you’re here right now. I wanted to show you something. Listen to this.” He opened the plastic-covered door, then slowly closed it. “You hear that?”

  “What am I supposed to be hearing?”

  He stood up and gestured for me to come closer, then he opened the case again. I leaned in and let the cold air hit me. “Listen,” he instructed. “You hear it, right?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That voice?”

  I shook my head.

  He gave me a desperate look. “Come closer.”

  “Jerry, I think we should talk about—”

  “Please.”

  He was being unusually serious, and I couldn’t forget that I still owed him for taking a bullet for me, so I complied.