by R.M. Haig
September 14th, 2016. 8:30AM
Burlwood, Indiana
When the world of forgotten dreams and fantasies faded away to the yellow gradient of sunlight pouring through Chucky's drapes, all that Jake could see was black. His eyes opened on their own, under the influence of no alarm or external feminine intervention, and they saw only the darkness of the vacant space around him. There was a coffee table, an entertainment center, a very old boxy television and a floor lamp in the corner capable of filling the place with a halogen glow, but the room was no more than the inner surface of a black hole to him as rolled over onto his aching back atop Chucky's 1980's vintage floral patterned sofa.
Christ, what was he doing here?
How had things gone so wrong?
Why was he waking up in this musty place, surrounded by decay and age instead of in the lavish comfort of the king sized bed he'd shared for so many years with the woman that he loved?
Christ, he had nothing left...
There had been a wife; a woman he cherished with all of his heart and would've died for gladly, had the need arisen. A tender soul who cared for him as much as he cared for her. A woman who treasured him and treated him like he was the king of the world, even when he did nothing to earn it -- or worse, when he did things that should've made her hate him.
He'd thrown her away, because he didn't deserve her.
There had been a son; he wasn't perfect, not nearly so. He didn't understand everything about the world and how it worked. He couldn't relate to reality in what is generally considered a functional manner, but he was still alive and full of sweetness. He loved his father, viewed him as a god on a pedestal and admired everything he did. His eyes would light up when they caught sight of his daddy, and he would reach out his arms for a hug and to be picked up. He would want to be held close, not realizing that he was thirteen years old now and a bit heavy on his old man's back in that act of closeness.
He'd cast him aside, because he wasn't capable of returning the pure and unconditional love the boy offered.
There had been a business; not a multi-million dollar conglomerate, but a fully self-sufficient and profitable venture that had built up a college fund for a child who would never be in a condition to make use of it. It wasn't a cash machine, but it paid the bills -- and then some. It allowed them to live comfortably, without worry for many, many years.
He'd shit all over it, not giving it the time of day because he had better things to do. Things like getting stupid drunk and pissing all of that college fund away since it wasn't worth a damned thing in the universe he was condemned to live in anyway.
There had been a life, but he'd taken it for granted. He'd let it slip through his fingers, because he just couldn't figure out how to hold on to anything in his time on this swirling planet.
Swirling, swirling... swirling remembrances, swirling regrets... swirling memories, swirling crossroads and always choosing the wrong path... swirling hatred, swirling denial... swirling hopelessness, swirling resignation... swirling, swirling... swirling and fuck, I just want it all to stop... swirling and please, God... swirling and just let it end, please... just let my heart stop beating, Lord, if you're out there somewhere, swirling... just let me be done, Jesus, because I've taken all that I can bare... swirling, swirling and longing for death... begging for the void... begging for the oblivion... I'm swirling, God, I'm broken and I just want it to be done... I just want my thoughts to grind to a halt, because all they do is cause me to hurt as they're swirling, swirling...
The ceiling was old and stained, probably from Chucky's momma smoking. Underneath the filth, though, it was smooth and firm. Under the cobwebs was perfection. Under the tar was white, under the brown was purity.
That didn't make any sense, and he knew it. Still, it floated through his mind in puffs of fog and smoke. Dancing, dancing in the slowly rolling chaos of madness. Singing, singing in the discordant choir of insanity.
Was this madness?
Was this insanity?
Was this the preamble to death, natural or coerced?
There was music in the expanse, too, at least the vocals of lyrics that moved him in strange ways...
Music that swam with him in the murky waters, churning out sour notes as viscous bubbles of disease rose to the surface and burst like overinflated balloons stretching out in a vacuum. With each pop came words from songs he'd liked in the days when he was still human, when he was still alive. When he was still a member of society. When he was still Jacob Garrett Gigu?re.
For all your kisses turned to spit in my face. For all the reminds me which is my place. For all of the times when you made me disappear. This time, I'm sure, you will know that I'm here.
What the fuck did that mean?
It meant everything and it meant nothing.
The drapes were filthy, too. They were covered with enough dust that they would require a heavy beating with a broomstick to be made anything that resembled salvageable. The rays of the sun breaking through them illuminated the microscopic bits of debris that danced around them as they were blown by drafts throughout the place and the swirled, swirled.
Feelin' like a hand in rusted shame, so do you laugh at those who cry? Reply...
Of course you do, for those are the ones who don't understand the simple pleasures of life, right? Those are the ones that just don't get it. Those are the ones that are broken, right?
Once upon a time I could control myself.
Once upon a time I could lose myself.
Once...
But not anymore.
Not ever again.
Not before he'd meet his death.
Rainy afternoon I gotta blow a typhoon and I'm playing on my slide trombone.
Anymore, anymore, cannot take it anymore, gotta get away from this stone cold floor.
Crazy... Stone cold crazy, you know?
He did know... he knew very well.
Several more bubbles rose to the top, and this latest set sang that old standard Pachelbel's Canon in D Major.
Fuck, that was his phone.
"Hello?" He answered after swiping the screen, seeing the name Donnell out of the corner of his eye before he pressed the phone to his face.
Launchpad was angry, very angry, and it was clear in his barely muted holler. "Are you out of your motherfucking mind?" He asked, as if he didn't know that Jake really was.
"What?" He asked plainly in reply, not into the conversation at all as he studied the gloom and rot of living that he saw and felt all around him.
"You told Clyde Rambo about me and Ron Boudreaux? What the fuck were you thinking?" Donnell asked in anything but a subtle tone.
"So?" Jake asked, sticking to the comfort of his single-word answers that meant very little.
"Do you have any idea what this could do to me?" The angry man growled.
"Limitations," Jake said in deferral to his preferred method of communication in the moment.
"Yeah, the statute of limitation on charges is five years," Donnell said, confident in his knowledge of the law, "but there's more than going to prison involved in this, Jake!"
"Like what?" Jake asked, finally forcing himself to sit up and wipe the cobwebs from his eyes and spew more than a single adjective.
"Like what?" Donnell flatly shouted, apparently losing his ability to control himself just as Pearl Jam described. "Like my fucking career, man! Half of my career is built on my fucking reputation, do you have any idea what's gonna happen to my reputation if I have to testify against Ron Boudreaux about slingin' dope?"
Shaking off the last remnants of his night's sleep, Jake considered this. He imagined Donnell was right, if Boudreaux were to come to trial it would be an ugly affair for a number of people from Burlwood circa 1997. Not in the least concerned with those people in his state of mind -- primarily because none of them were him -- he didn't bother to try to pretend that he was worried for Launchpad's sake.
"I'm sure you'll be f
ine," he said a bit condescendingly. "Based on what you told me, you don't exactly represent the upper echelon of society in your practice generally anyhow."
His presumption seriously pissing Donnell off, the attorney replied with unbridled anger that mirrored what he felt for Jake Gigu?re when they'd last seen each other in their adolescence. "You fucked me, Jake! After everything I've tried to do to make things right, you just went ahead and fucked me like some back alley whore!"
"Look, Donnell," Jake began, yawning with indifference, "I really don't understand why you're making such a big --"
"Fuck you, Jake!" Donnell interrupted. "I regret the day I called you about this, as God as my witness, I do!"
"Look, Rambo promised me that --"
"You think Clyde Rambo gives a fuck about me, man?" He asked with ire. "Don't you try to put this off on Rambo, this is YOUR fault! Had I never called you about Chucky, had I just let him fucking rot, NONE of this would've ever seen the light of day!"
"I'm sorry if I made you angry, Don --"
"SHUT UP!" Launchpad belted, and Jake obeyed. "Just shut the fuck up, Jake, the sound of your voice is making me sick!"
Jake paused for a second to think about what was happening, realizing that Chucky's defense was in jeopardy with Donnell in this condition. He didn't want that, even if the man was pissed at him personally, he didn't want to see it affect Chucky. "Now look, Donnell, Chucky still needs --"
"What Chucky needs is to take the fucking deal," Donnell shocked him in saying. "Clearly you ain't doing him no good, you're probably tightening the noose around his neck just like you did to me!"
"Oh, Don, you know Chucky could never --"
"I said SHUT UP!" Came the reply before his sentence was finished. "Just stay the fuck out of my way, Jake, do you understand me? You stay out of my way, and I'll take care of Chucky! He don't need you, and I sure as fuck don't need you! You do you, and I'll do me -- and never the twain shall meet again, you understand?"
Realizing that this was better than nothing, that Chucky would need a lawyer whether or not he personally ever found the answer he was looking for, Jake realized he would have to abide by these rules. "Yeah, Don, I understand," he said.
"And if YOU get picked up out there on charges for dicking around where you don't belong, I don't wanna hear a goddamned thing about it, you understand me?"
"Yes," he answered softly. "Yes, I do. It's just like last time then, eh?"
"No, Jake!" Donnell answered. "Because after LAST time, I called you THIS time! Believe me when I tell you, I'll NEVER make that mistake again!"
Before he could say another word, he heard the tone of the call ending.
The conversation was over. The farce of a new friendship was over.
Just like everything else was over...
All the pictures had all been washed in black, tattooed everything.
Still, life went on... against his better judgement, the struggle would go on... the Beretta would soon be strapped to his ribs, not pressed against his temple, despite all the blackness he was swimming through... still, he would walk on.
But what would he do?
What was left to do that still held any promise? Everything he thought had promise had blown up in his face within the past several days. Every angle he thought looked solid led him to a dead-end, or worse. Every move he made seemed to be the wrong one, and he was running out of time... running out of money... running out of excuses to continue living, because he was starting to believe he couldn't help Chucky anyway, and that had been the sole excuse for pressing forward.
He was going to call Clyde Rambo to find out who had been tailing Rusty the night Timmy was killed, that still looked like a viable path. If it really was Rambo himself, that all but solidified Parker's alibi for that incident. Perhaps they would talk about Donnell and what was said to him, too. Maybe Rambo could comfort him in regard to that incident with insight on what was in store for his on-again off-again buddy. If Jake had really doomed him to the issues he seemed so passionately worried about, that would be another strike. Christ, could he handle wearing another strike?
Then, after getting answers from Clyde, he was going to make the drive to Safe & Secure Self Storage in Waycroft to have a look at the unit Rusty was paying on. Perhaps he would do a drive by of Ron Boudreaux's place later, seeing as he was apparently the Voodoo Prince of Burlwood. If there were no further clues at that point, if he'd made no more forward progress, maybe he would go see Nikki for a little soul soothing.
Oh, Nikki...
The last glimmer of goodness in his life... the last flash of brighter emotion... the last thing he needed to get involved with in the days leading up to his death. Maybe he would visit her, at fourteen-forty Applewood, right next door to the trailer in which he fell in love with Tracy Swete and her family. Maybe he would fall in love with her, and Jesus how that could fuck everything up.
Somehow, it seemed worth it, though, so he filed the idea away at the back of his mind. Brushing it aside, he scrolled through the contacts in his phone for Rambo Senior. Dialing the number, he waited for the voice of a true friend to answer. A friend that had been on his side all along, one that stuck with him through black and white alike. A friend that had been estranged, but never through the discord of sour emotion. A friend that he could still trust, regardless of what was happening around him in the swirling, swirling of life.
"Hello?" Rambo answered, lacking the basic technology of caller ID to tell him who was disturbing his morning routine.
"Clyde, it's Jake," the soul-tired man advised. "I just got a lovely call from Donnell, seems I made him a bit upset."
"Oh, I'm pretty sure it was me that did that," Rambo replied. "He seized up like a two dollar watch, when I called," he continued. "Didn't have a damn thing to say for himself. I think if we were in court, he would've effectively plead the fifth."
"Yeah, he didn't seem to keen on talking about the subject to me at all either," Jake said.
"He didn't give me a damn thing to go on, which is silly because he's well clear of the criminal end just because of the time that's passed. As far as we know that is, I suppose."
"Hadn't thought of that," Jake realized. "I'm pretty sure he is clear, at least based on how our latest meeting with good old Ron went. There didn't seem to be any love lost, if you know what I mean."
"I tend to agree, but he could've made the whole thing easier on himself and everyone else had he just opened up a bit. I've got a few other irons in the fire on it, it's gonna come out anyway." Clyde answered.
"Well, that's not really why I called anyhow," Jake began. "What I'm really after is some info on your surveillance of Rusty back in the old days. You said you had somebody on him the night that Timmy disappeared... who was that?"
"You're talking to him," Rambo replied, smashing the illusion that Parker somehow slipped his cover. "I was parked about fifty yards from his place until the call about Timmy going missing came over the radio. Then I had to leave, obviously, but I was on him all the way up until that point, so he didn't kidnap the boy."
Suddenly, possibilities opened up in Jake's mind. Until the call about Timmy rang in his head, echoing and reverberating with promise and fortuity.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said, remembering talking with Ron Boudreaux and Sheriff Rambo in the rectory at Our Mother Of Sorrows about what had happened. "When the call came through, you came to the church! Right? Who was watching Rusty then?"
"I called Gomez and put a Fed on him," Rambo explained.
"Did you wait for your replacement to arrive before you left his house?"
"Well, no," Clyde hesitated, "I needed to get out to the church as soon as I could to see if we could locate or collect evidence on Timmy. Time was of the essence."
"So there was a period during which Rusty wasn't being surveilled?"
"Perhaps a short period," Rambo admitted begrudgingly. "I really don't know where t
he guy who took over was coming from, but I can't imagine it was more then ten or twenty minutes."
"Christ, that's all it would've taken!" Jake exclaimed.
"For what?" Clyde wondered. "There's no way he could've taken Timmy in the Brougham, he was in his home the whole time. Are you insinuating that someone brought Timmy to him?"
"Why not?"
"Because it's a bit irrational," Rambo suggested. "Even if somebody did, I was back on shift watching him by the following morning. I relieved the Fed who took over for me, and he said there was nothing suspicious to report. Rusty was a creature of habit, and not very social. He went to work and he went home until the next morning. Day after day, it was the same thing, and he was watched every minute. Are you suggesting that someone brought Timmy to him, he killed him, then had the body in his house for almost two months until he found a way to sneak it out and it started turning up?"
"He could've," Jake speculated. "He could've had it frozen until he was clear to get rid of it. There had to have been a time he could've snuck it out to dispose of it."
"He was never clear to get rid of it, that's what I'm saying!" The former sheriff insisted. "Plus, you're bringing a second person into the situation, which we talked about. We were never able to substantiate the idea that there was more than one person involved, you're asking a lot in this scenario of yours."
Jake thought about all that they had said, both in this conversation and the one they had at Rambo's house at the beginning of the week. Clicking these pieces into the overall puzzle of the case, his mind ran on tangents about the way things may or may not have gone. Perhaps they were, after all, on the trail of the Butchers Of Burlwood. Rusty Parker, and an unknown individual.
Perhaps it was only one half of that team that had partaken in the murder of little Billy Marsh. If that were the case, was it possible that Rusty Parker was not the one to claim the latest victim. Did that explain the differences? Did that mean there was still an able-bodied and minded killer on the loose?
Maybe... but who was the second killer? It clearly wasn't Evander Hughes or Jack Morris, two of the suspects in the original investigation. Neither of them was in any condition to commit murder at this point, so they didn't hold water as the returning champion of foul deeds. Eliminating those two left only Daryl Lane as the sole potential partner in crime for Rusty, if the information dug up back in the 90's was of any value. Jake wasn't buying that, he'd followed that lead to an emotional climax, and he just couldn't believe that it had all been an act.
Perhaps there was a killer out there who hadn't been considered until this point? One that had never fallen under the light of suspicion? One that had never been fully vetted or subjected to interrogation and the confirmation of his alibis for the murders of old? One that was so good at hiding that no sign of him had ever been seen or detected? If that was the case, the possibilities were suddenly endless.
His head spinning with everything and the silence in their conversation growing longer and more awkward, he decided to move the discussion forward just a bit with a question he hadn't exactly planned to ask.
"Do you know anything about a company called FGSI Services out of Blackmoor?" He inquired.
"What did you say?" Rambo asked, seemingly surprised.
"FGSI Services," Jake repeated. "It's a company, obviously. Are you aware of them at all?"
"Where exactly did you encounter FGSI Services?" Clyde returned in almost an interrogative tone.
"A couple of places," Jake replied vaguely.
"Places like where?" Rambo continued his questioning.
Deciding that there was nothing in his knowledge worth keeping secret, he chose to divulge the information he'd obtained through his investigation. "I saw it on a modified Brougham at The Downs, and I found a statement from them in Rusty Parker's home."
"What kind of statement?" Rambo continued.
Again, not concerned that he was sharing anything that didn't deserve to see the light of day, he answered. "It was a financial document of some type," he said. "Claimed that Rusty owned a portion of the company, spelled out their income, which was pretty serious. Then there was a stub for a deposit to Rusty's bank account, seemed he's on their dole."
"Do you have this statement?" The old sheriff keenly pried.
"I might," Jake dodged. "Why? What's it all about?"
"Can't tell you that," Clyde said plainly. "But I want it."
"I'll see what I can do," Jake countered, not at all intending to turn over the evidence he'd uncovered. Not until Rambo showed his hand, that is.
"Bring it by, and we'll talk." Rambo lied, and Jake knew it. There would be no great divulgence of information in this case. There would be no revelation of what lie under the redactions in this conversation, he was playing this one to his chest.
"Give me a day or two," Jake similarly lied. "I've gotta get back at it, though, so I'm gonna let you go."
"Bring me those papers!" Clyde insisted.
"Thanks Clyde, see you soon."
Without further pretense, Jake hung up and tried to process what was going on. It was a lot to consider, and boy was it all swirling together. Swirling and swirling, and even flow. Thoughts arrive like butterflies. Oh, he don't know. So he chases them away. Whispering hands, carry him away.
FORTY-FOUR
