Starling (Southern Watch Book 6)

by Robert J. Crane

  A long pause.

  Silence.

  And the room erupted in a chorus of “I am!” and “We’re with you!” and everything else imaginable that indicated a yes. She could barely hear it all, it was so loud.

  But they were in, she thought, staring dumbly at the crowd in front of her. They were going to do this—for real, this time, no half-assed efforts.

  And she was going to lead them.

  *

  Hendricks sat alone in his motel room, staring at the walls.

  He’d got the text telling him about the meeting, but fuuuuuuck that. He’d already had enough meetings for today.

  So instead he’d settled in, shirt off, back against the cold wood headboard, watching TV. That Key and Peele movie about the cat was on again, and he was half-watching it, mostly lost in his own damned head.

  “I don’t belong here,” he muttered, thinking out loud. It had been rattling around since he’d gotten out of his meeting with Arch and Erin earlier.

  He really didn’t need this shit. How many hotspots were there right now? Less than when he came to the town, but still … there were surely some out there, firing. Always demons somewhere in the world, getting up to no good.

  The phone rang, the one that belonged to the motel, and he leaned over to answer it. “Hello?” he muttered, surly as he could get.

  “It’s me,” the melodic voice came.

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while,” Hendricks said coolly. “How’s things?”

  “Things are … proceeding.” She didn’t sound particularly pleased one way or another.

  He looked around the messy room. “Yeah? Well, things are ‘proceeding’ around here too. In a southerly direction up the ass of a south-facing muskox.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “Is that so?”

  “Not literally so, no,” Hendricks said. He always had to explain this shit to her. In that way, she was kinda worse than Starling. But she had paid his bills for a long time, so he dealt with her occasional bullshit and gaps in learning. “But it’s pretty bad.”

  She didn’t seem to answer that, at least not right away. “That seems reason enough for you to stay, doesn’t it?”

  He didn’t bother to ask her how she knew he was debating leaving. “They’ve got it under control. Or at least as under control as a spiraling hotspot can be,” he amended, not really keen on the taste of his own bullshit when it was that flagrant.

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “What I know is true is that I’ve had enough of this fucking town,” Hendricks said flatly.

  “Language.”

  Hendricks started to light into a long string of curses, but held back at the last second. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” he said instead.

  “You have a role in this yet.”

  “So did Archibald Stan, remember?” Hendricks tossed back at her. “He was supposed to bring about the end of the world?”

  “And still will.”

  “Yeah, I’m kinda doubting that,” Hendricks said, not exactly rolling his eyes—because you didn’t really roll your eyes at this lady—but came close. “They’re putting together an army. They’re fighting back. They don’t need me, and they don’t want me.”

  “I want you there.”

  “Well,” Hendricks said, his jaw getting tight, “I know I’ve worked for you for a while, but … you don’t own me. Find me a different hotspot, and I’ll go there. This one? It’s played out for me.”

  “That’s not—”

  He hung up, because it was pointless to argue. The phone rang again, and he ignored it. It rang again after that, he ignored it again. It went on like that for a while, but he just turned the movie up and then, finally, unplugged the damned phone from the wall.

  “Starling,” he called out to the empty room.

  No answer.

  “Starling! Show your ass up.” He looked around, toward the darkened door to the bathroom. “We need to talk.”

  Nothing.

  “Fuck,” Hendricks muttered, leaning back on the bed. He closed his eyes, wondering if Lucia was just busy being fucked like a—well, like a hooker on retainer or something.

  That thought settled a little less easily on his mind, and he kept his eyes closed, hoping he could just fall asleep. The movie ended after a while, and he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

  He didn’t get to sleep for a long time.

  And she never did show up.

  *

  Brian was almost done packing when he heard his mom’s car pull into the driveway. He’d loaded up the back of his old beater, sticking the last few things in the trunk when she stepped down from the big SUV she drove, silver hair catching the dim moonlight barely shining through the clouds, and the house lights that were glowing orange behind him.

  Brian’s breath stuck in his lungs. She looked weathered as hell, tired as hell, making her way toward him one step at a time. She caught him around the chest with a hug, pulled him tight, and he let her, laying his head down as far as he could reach—not quite to his mom’s shoulder anymore.

  “You left the hospital before I got there,” she said dully.

  “I didn’t want to stay,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “There were things that needed to be decided,” she said in a vaguely reproachful tone as she pulled back from him. There were smudges at the corners of her eyes where her mascara hadn’t survived what he was sure was a tearful onslaught. “Funeral arrangements and whatnot.”

  He just nodded. There wasn’t much he could say to that.

  Her gaze drifted to his open trunk, all the things packed inside. “What’s all this?” she asked, after she had a moment to really take it all in.

  Brian swallowed. “I’m leaving. Tonight.” She turned her head to look at him, blankly, uncomprehending. “I called a buddy of mine from college who works in New York and … he said I could crash on his couch for a while, so … I am. Going to, I mean.” He sort of nodded without looking at her.

  She blinked a few times then looked down at the ground. “You’re just going to leave me here then?”

  “You don’t have to stay here, Mom,” Brian said.

  She looked up at him again. “Midian is my home, Brian.”

  He swallowed again, thick knot in his throat. “I always said I wanted to get out of this town as a kid. Just … get the hell out, to whatever bright spot on the map I could find that was away from here. I didn’t want to end up like the other people I knew who were born in the local hospital and ended up dying there, too.” He shook his head. “I can’t do it, Mom.”

  “Oh, Brian,” she said, taking a step back and looking at him, “what would your father say?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, dully. “He’s dead, so I’ll never know what he says again.” He swallowed, hard, seeing the look on her face at that. She just crumpled. “Mom …” he said softly, “I don’t want to be next.”

  That left a stinging silence, and he decided to fill it himself. “I kept thinking … after what happened to him, what happened to Alison … I kept thinking that maybe I … I was strong. Sheriff Reeve told me so. I kept thinking … I’m wandering my way through this, and I’m holding on. Maybe I am strong.” He looked right at her. “But I’m not, Mom. I’m weak. Weak as fuck. I don’t want to live like this anymore, here where everything is falling apart. Midian was your home, it was Dad’s home, it was Alison’s … but I never belonged here.” He pursed his lips. “And I don’t want to be here for the end. Because it’s coming. And nothing we’ve done has seemed to make a damned bit of difference.”

  She stared at him a long time in the porch light, then nodded once and hugged him again. There seemed to be a thin veil of relief over his mother’s face as she looked at him. “Drive safe,” she said, and stepped back.

  “I will,” he said, feeling strangely unmoored now that she was no longer close to him. He wobbled his way to his driver’s side and got in. His mother was still standing there
, in the rearview, as he started the car. He looked at the road ahead, and not her, though, as he drove off—because he was afraid if he looked back, he might not find it in himself to leave.

  *

  Lauren breezed into the sheriff’s department, figuring it was beyond time for her to stop by and do that thing that needed to be done. She wondered who’d handled it the last couple weeks, and found herself—somewhat grimly—considering that maybe she’d find a real mess when she came to visit the prisoner, a starved man down to skin and bones.

  So she was pleasantly surprised when she found him in reasonable order. Chauncey Watson had let her into the cell without any question, like her showing up was the most regular thing for anyone to do, even at this late hour.

  She was about halfway through checking his vitals when the door squeaked open and she turned to find Erin Harris at the entry to the cell. Chauncey dutifully locked it behind her, leaving the two of them here in the cell by themselves.

  “Hey,” Lauren said, turning her focus away from the job for a little bit.

  “I’d heard you were back,” Erin said, “but we didn’t get a chance to talk yet, so …”

  Lauren smiled. “I heard you were in charge now. Congratulations. I think.” That was dicey.

  Erin smiled, taking it in the spirit in which it was intended. “Yeah. It’s a little heady, taking over the watch. Big shoes to fill, what with Reeve being a hard act to follow …”

  “Don’t try and fill Reeve’s shoes,” Lauren said, a little slyly. “They’re way too big for you, and yours are way more stylish. Be yourself. You know what needs to be done. Do it your way. Or whatever way works. Don’t get trapped into thinking you have to do it the way Reeve would have.”

  “Sage advice,” Erin said, nodding along. Her tan uniform looked like it might have gotten a little sweaty around the underarms, and Lauren concealed a smile. Leading people was pretty tough on the antiperspirant. She’d found that out the first time she’d had to deal with interns. “In that vein, I asked people for a lot bigger commitment than they’ve given thus far.”

  “Pretty good idea,” Lauren said. “You get it?”

  “Mostly,” Erin said. “A lot of hooting and hollering. We’ll see if it lasts until morning, or later tonight, when the calls start rolling in heavy. Been kinda quiet so far, except for …” Her voice trailed off.

  Lauren froze. “What?”

  Erin stuttered back to life out of a daze. “Hm? Oh. Addie Longholt called. Said Bill didn’t make it. And Brian decided to leave town, head to New York.”

  “Sorry to hear about Bill. He was a good man.” Lauren stared back at her, thinking it over. “I can see that about Brian though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Last time I talked to him, we talked about how desperation kinda … drowns you,” Lauren said. “And how you can drag others with you.” She shook her head. “That’s the soul-sucking part of this thing, isn’t it? You see things that defy description. Worse even than most cops deal with on a daily basis. And they never let up, really. It’s just bad all the time. You stay in Midian long enough as things start to get worse, and you don’t have a really clear reason why you’re doing it?” She blinked, thinking how close she’d gotten to this very edge. “I think it would eat you right up.”

  Erin’s eyes flicked around. “What would?”

  Lauren blinked back at her. “It—it’s just a metaphor. The town, desperation, that sort of—”

  “Hell.”

  The word came as a whisper, the kind that sent a chill right up Lauren’s back in an uncontrollable shiver. Jarred by the sound, she stepped away from the speaker, the man who was sitting, dull-eyed, to her left, retreating closer to Erin, who was watching the man with her eyes as wide as trash can lids.

  “What did you just say?” Erin asked, hand resting on her pistol.

  The man sat there, looking at them both dazedly. “Hell … will eat you,” he said in a low, raspy voice.

  It didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a statement of fact.

  “Hell … is going to eat us?” Erin asked. Now she had the jaded look of someone who’d heard something they didn’t come close to believing. “I hope it starts with my pussy then, because I could use someone to really go down there and work the clit for a while—”

  “Hell is here,” he said, sounding like a crazy itinerant street preacher who’d once accosted Lauren on the streets of Atlanta, raving about the end of the world. “The gates—here, in this place,” he went on, rasping, “it’s what draws them—like flies to death, the gates of hell—hell and its analog on the other side—oh yes, they’re both here, and make this the place of battle to draw in all manner of evils—”

  “Wait …” Lauren said. “Did he just say—”

  “I think so,” Erin said, eyes moving back and forth. “But … was he serious? Or is he mad as a hatter?”

  “The gates of hell await,” he said, his own eyes wide now, looking at them both. Lauren didn’t know much about hell, or heaven, or even life on Earth, lately—but she knew one thing, as he finished his thought. “And heaven as well. Here. In this place. And there will be a great battle with great destruction wrought … and it will settle the matter … for good and for always.”

  She listened, and she heard, and although she didn’t know if he was crazy or not, she did know … “He believes every word he’s saying,” she told Erin, who nodded along. “Every damned word.”

  Heaven?

  Hell?

  … Gates?

  “Oh, fuck,” Lauren said.

  Interlude, the Last

  Two Years Ago

  It was happening again. Lucia was bleeding, she was hurting, she was in pain—it was all happening again, again, like it happened every time these days …

  “Get your slutty cunt ass back in here!” Michael roared as Lucia staggered down the hall. She left bloody handprints down the hallway, staining the beige walls. That was going to cost her later.

  She made it into her room and locked the door, shoving it closed just a second before the first hammering began. It was inevitable, she knew. Mike and Karen would bust the damned thing down, him kicking it loose, her crowing and laughing in his wake. That much was certain. They wouldn’t stop, no chance.

  Lucia was bleeding from the lip, from the mouth. Her stomach ached from where he had hit her. She’d stayed on her feet this time, but only barely.

  She looked around the room. There wasn’t much left. Mike had trashed so many of her things, taken away so many more.

  The hammering came again, harder this time, the bedroom door rattling in its frame. “Open up this door or I’m going to have him take it out of your cunt ass!” That was Karen, loud as a foghorn, right outside the door.

  Lucia backed away, slowly, looking, eyes sweeping, desperately, for something, anything she could use as a weapon. “I need help,” she whispered. No phone to call for it—and she would have called for it, this time.

  Her eyes flew to the window—but no. It was too small. No way could she get it open and squeeze out.

  The door rattled again, more swearing followed. It wouldn’t have been so bad; she could have listened to it all day if not for what always followed it.

  Lucia’s eyes flew to the bookshelf again, one last time, and fell on …

  The Bible?

  She snatched it off the shelf, desperate, smooth leather cover rubbing across her palm. She didn’t even know why she did it; it was just a book. But she was desperate. Looking for help, any help, Ms. Black’s entreaties popped into her head and she snatched it up. She flipped to the marked page and found herself reading.

  Lucia stopped after a few lines. What …?

  What the hell was this?

  Mike smashed against the door outside, and Lucia’s heart sank. It was coming. And soon.

  Her eyes darted over the page one last time. It was … a prayer?

  She read the words:

  In hours of darkness summon me
;

  Call my servants or invoke my name

  Hate your enemies

  And I will see them destroyed

  In your hour of despair

  Speak the words and cry out my name

  Below it was a name, and she read it, aloud, and—

  —and something seemed to pause; the door quieted, and then—

  Everything seemed to burst loose at once, and Michael was shrieking and Karen was screaming and there was more screaming, and anger, and blood and—

  Lucia woke, and she was miles away. Sitting on a bench, in a bus depot. The walls were dull, and night had fallen outside. A janitor came by, slopping the floors with a dirty old mop. He didn’t even spare her a look.

  Lucia looked down. Her clothes were clean, she was clean—save for one little dot of red under her right index finger’s nail. Like a warning.

  She could see flashes in her head, remember—just vaguely—what had happened.

  Opening the bag at her side, Lucia stared.

  The Bible was up top, with a bus ticket just next to it. She took in the bus ticket with a glance, and picked up the Bible.

  She paged through it again, and this …

  … this wasn’t like the Bible she remembered.

  Leaning back on the bench, she shut the Bible back in the bag.

  On the overhead speaker, she could hear them calling her bus. Dazed, she stood.

  This was what was left for her. Something had happened. Something bad. And she needed to get out of Chattanooga.

  On stumbling legs, she walked to the bus and stood in the door as the hydraulics let out a powerful hiss.

  “Ticket,” the driver said as she stepped up. He looked her over once, maybe gave her a look of appreciation, and then did his thing with the ticket. “Midian, huh? That’s just down the road.”

  She didn’t answer, just shuffled off to a seat. Midian? She’d never heard of it. But there it was, printed on her ticket.