These Truths

by R.M. Haig

September 16th, 2016. 8:50AM

  Burlwood, Indiana

  Jake woke just after eight in the arms of a naked Nikki. She had him wrapped up tightly, squeezing him with a leg draped over his hip and a hand tucked around his neck. He had to wake her a bit to escape her grasp, but then he left her to sleep as long as she wanted. Wishing her well, he planted a gentle kiss on her forehead to send her off to brighter pastures of the dreamosphere than the plain on which he had walked earlier the prior day. He took a shower, despite the fact that all of her soaps smelled feminine to him, dressed and gathered himself for the day ahead. Soon after waking, he was leaving her warm trailer for the cold familiarity of his Malibu, where he recovered his Beretta from the glovebox and put it back in its holster near his ribs, where it belonged.

  He felt light as a feather despite the incumbrance of the cold steel as he moved, and despite the fact that he was still in the bondage of a case he'd grown largely convinced that he would be unable to solve. The divulgence of everything going on in his life to another person -- to Nikki, as it happened -- had relieved him of the incredible burden he'd been carrying since he spun his tires out in front of his old colonial ranch home, leaving Tracy and Garrett and everything he'd ever valued behind in his violent wake. He did no such thing as squeal his rubber as he pulled away down Applewood this morning, and he had no particular destination in mind as he set off for another day of investigating things that were seemingly indiscernible.

  The case looked bleak, but still, he felt free somehow.

  Still, he felt fresh and ready to start anew.

  As he rode, his conversation with Chucky was at the front of his mind, the words swirling, swirling round and round like a forty-five rpm record spinning under an old needle. Spinning and churning static through the speakers of his ears. Spinning and skipping, stuck in a rut repeating the same lyrics over, and over, and over again.

  Because Rusty killed Timmy... because Rusty killed Timmy... because Rusty killed Timmy...

  Because I saw his parts in the cooler... because I saw his parts in the cooler... because I saw his parts in the cooler...

  Because somebody helped him... because somebody helped him... because somebody helped him...

  But who helped him?

  Who could've possibly helped him?

  Jake didn't have a solid answer to that question, in fact he didn't even have a clue as to what the answer was. There was a limited field of people from which to choose, and most of the likely suspects were either dead or so feeble that they couldn't hope to do it all again to a little innocent boy known -- when he was extant on this planet -- by the name of Billy Marsh.

  Of all the words spoken in the Elsmere County Jail during their visit, there was a single phrase that fought to drown out the others in the chorus of mayhem that was Jake's scattered mind. Killed Timmy was the phrase, and it echoed through his tangled thoughts like thunder in the otherwise silent night. Everything that Timmy had been danced in the discord like a fluttering flame that called to Jake as though he were a moth bent on finding respite in the comforting glow of an inferno.

  In his mind, it took him back to the carnival on that fateful day. He was on The Gravitron, and he was being sprayed with vomit as Timmy Lane lost his funnel cake to the forces of physics. He was outside in the night, watching Timmy throw away his shirt because he felt disgusting wearing it with all of the chunks all over it. He was trying to comfort his friend, because his friend was embarrassed and on the verge of tears while Launchpad and Louie taunted, while Chucky faded into the background in shy and hesitant sympathy. He was taking off his Toronto Maple Leafs shirt because Timmy refused to walk around the fair bare chested. He was waiting not far from the outhouses for him to change, and wait -- what's that in the back of that Cadillac? Wait, where'd Timmy go, and why is that car speeding away so fast down the gravel?

  With all of it swirling, swirling like an F5 twister in his head, he found himself subconsciously pulling over and parking in front of Butcher's Lane Provisions. Daryl was inside. Timmy's father was inside and preparing to open. He was doing what he'd done for so many years, for so many decades just the same way. He was pressing on in the face of tragedy, because it was all he knew how to do. He wasn't smiling, as it had been a long time since he'd been able to smile unless he was face to face with a customer and had to pull on his mask of good customer service. He was putting on his butcher's whites, he was preparing to squeak out a living, and then he was spinning his plastic sign in the window from sorry, we're closed to come in, we're open.

  When he did and unlocked his door, Jake got out of his car and walked to the entrance in another fit of memory and flashbacks. He would be delivering difficult news on this visit, and he would be seeking the advice of an elder in matters of murder and mystery. Perhaps Mister Lane would know something about who could've helped Rusty in days of old and new alike. Perhaps Mister Lane had heard Burlwood whispering in his years of service to the community. Perhaps Mister Lane could right his investigation and set him on a track that led to a real solution.

  There was a ding when Jake walked in, and Daryl acknowledged him right away with a nod and that fake smile he'd learned to wear so well that it was barely detectable as a fraud anymore. There would be no giant hug this time, there would be no glee of reacquaintance as there had been when he approached a closed Butcher's Lane after hours so many nights ago. During that visit, they'd shared some of the darkness that lingered in the shadows of each of their souls. During that visit, they'd established a different kind of relationship than they had held before. During that visit, they'd burnt a very old bridge and swept the ashes under the rug for all time.

  "Good morning, Jacob," Daryl said in his best impression of a man with a full range of emotions.

  "Good morning, Mister Lane," Jake returned.

  "Now you know I told you to call me Daryl," the butcher snickered, "and I meant it, my friend. What brings you here today? Do you need more meat?"

  "No," Jake answered, "no, it's nothing like that."

  Daryl pulled back from the counter with an apprehension, with a fear that there would be a repeat performance of their last encounter. That there would be a probe placed deep in a vein, a knife held close to the throat with words of accusation and suspicion.

  "You aren't here to ask me more questions, are you?" He asked.

  Jake shook his head, and the man took a deep breath of relief and calm. He wasn't sure he could handle another round of what Jake had fed him last time, and he had little appetite for reliving the past again. He had no idea just how vividly the past would be rekindled as his visitor said what he came to say, though, and the moments before he heard it would be the last in which he didn't have to live with a horrific image in the corner of his mind.

  "I talked to Chucky yesterday," Jake began, "down at the county jail."

  Daryl shook his head this time, barely able to fathom what such an environment must be like to a person as gentle and fragile as he knew Chucky to be.

  "He kind of dropped a bomb on me," the visitor continued. "I'm not sure what to make of it, and Clyde seems reluctant to believe any of it, so I'm not sure it even means anything."

  "What did he have to say?" Daryl asked, subconsciously frightened of what would come next. Had he known consciously what was to come, he would never have asked the question.

  "He told me that Rusty killed Timmy," Jake delivered bluntly and suddenly, without warning or pretense.

  Daryl recoiled at the words, wounded at having heard them. The idea wasn't new to him, he knew enough about the investigation of his son's death to be aware that Rusty was being looked at just as he was. He knew Rusty well enough to know that the man was troubled, too. That he was as good a suspect to be The Butcher Of Burlwood as anyone else. What was new, though, was hearing that such an accusation had been spoken by someone who may well have known all along. Chucky worked with Rusty on a daily basis for many, many years. The i
dea that he may've witnessed something, that he may've heard something, may've known something was entirely logical and feasible. Hearing that he hurled such an accusation made what used to be a notion into what could potentially be a fact.

  Regaining his composure as best he could by planting two hands on his deli case to hold him up, Daryl engaged Jake in the conversation.

  "What did he say?" He asked, hoping he was ready for what would come in reply.

  "He said he saw Timmy's --" he hesitated, "that he saw Timmy in the cooler at Our Mother a few days before Thanksgiving of ninety-four."

  Again, Daryl shuddered physically at the statement. Jake registered his discomfort, seeing him clenching his eyes shut in pain and his mouth contort in sorrow. He would have to continue, though, if he was to gain any insight this morning.

  "He said that Rusty threatened to kill him if he told anybody, and that they --" another hesitation, "disposed of Timmy while they were making the charity food run."

  Daryl nodded in his suffering slowly, taking the information like a bullet to the heart and trying to bare the pain in a manner that left him eligible to call himself a proud and strong man. As the initial sting started to fade, he spoke through clenched teeth while still staring at the floor.

  "So why are you telling me this, Jacob? I should hope it's not just to do it."

  "No, it's not," Jake offered, watching Timmy's father die a thousand deaths in sequence. "Part of Clyde's disbelief was related to the fact that Rusty was under surveillance, like you, and that there's no way he could've kidnapped Timmy from the carnival. When I mentioned that to Chucky, he said that Rusty had someone helping him. I need to know who that was, and I need to know now if I'm supposed to crack this thing."

  Daryl looked up, his eyes swollen and red, full of condemnation until he could clear an idea from his mind. "You don't mean to imply that it was me, do you Jacob?"

  "No!" Jake replied hurriedly, hoping to avoid a repeat performance of his melting down just as much as Daryl was. "No, it's not like that at all!" He continued.

  Daryl looked back to the floor for a moment, steadying himself and preparing to rejoin the moment. He wiped his face with one of his thick hands, then pushed off the counter to stand erect with eyes wide open.

  "Do you have any ideas?" The butcher asked hopefully.

  Again, Jake shook his head. "I have no fucking idea, I was hoping you might. That's why I'm here, actually, to ask if you have any clue who may've been his accomplice, because he had to have one."

  Daryl thought about it for a moment, but his mind was full of nightmarish imagery that blinded him entirely. All he could see was his poor boy, cut neatly into pieces and stashed among the turkeys and the packaged mashed potatoes. His arms next to boxes of corn on the cob and his head leaning on a box of pumpkin pies destined for the homes of the less fortunate. His son deserved better than that, and it pained him beyond comprehension to imagine that it could very well have ended up that way. Shaking his own head and pressing a hand against his mouth to preempt the vomit that wanted to flow out, Daryl spoke the only reply he could possibly provide.

  "No, I have no idea either," he said cautiously, fighting the nausea. "You've been working this all week, Jacob, and you're a sharp guy -- you can't possibly be standing here telling me that you don't have any leads!"

  Throwing his hands up, Jake answered without saying a word.

  "You have nothing?" Daryl recounted based on the gesture.

  Jake thought his whole case over, deciding that full disclosure was his best option, deciding that he might as well show all the cards on the table with the hope that someone would be able to make something of them.

  "There's a company," he began. "All I know about it is that both Rusty and Ron Boudreaux have vested interests in it."

  "What company?"

  "It's called FGSI Services. I know it has something to do with the race track, and it has something to do with the meth. Have you ever heard of it?"

  "Never," Lane answered. "What else?"

  Thinking it through, Jake answered the demand with the only other information he had available to him. "Rusty has a storage unit in Waycroft that Ron Boudreaux is paying for. That's all I've got, after all of this effort, all I've got is Rusty, FGSI and a fucking storage unit in Waycroft. I can't find the fucking van, I can't find Evander Hughes' Brougham, I can't find anyone who is physically or mentally fit to have assisted Rusty if he killed Billy Marsh, and I can't link anybody to him tightly enough to say that he was The Butcher as aided by this other person!"

  "Well, what's in the storage unit?" Daryl asked, his curiosity peaked.

  "I dunno," Jake replied.

  Daryl jumped at this, surprised. "Well why not?" He asked, flabbergasted.

  Jake thought about this for a minute, remembering the fresh looking lock on the door and trying to peek in through aluminum wall of the unit behind it. He remembered the dark blue Buick LeSabre, making itself far more obvious than it ever had before, getting much closer to him than it had ever been, perhaps as though it were protecting something. He remembered wanting to go back with a set of bolt cutters or a sledge hammer, he remembered wanting to see if there was a Dodge Ram van or Cadillac Brougham in that ten-by-twenty unit that would confirm complicity in an unspeakable crime.

  Shit, why hadn't he gone back?

  Because he got distracted...

  Because he fucked up and let it go by the boards...

  Christ, how could he have been so stupid?

  Fuck, how could he have been so negligent?

  "Do you have a set of bolt cutters?" He asked, his heart skipping beats in waking to what he'd allowed himself to miss.

  Daryl turned and walked away, moving to the back room of his store for a few moments before returning with a long and heavy-duty tool grasped in one hand. He did have bolt cutters, and he was giving them to Jake to do what needed to be done, what should've been done already. He was sending his son's friend off on a mission, a task that was overdue and in his hands alone to complete.

  It was time to go back to Waycroft... it was time to shed some light on Rusty's secrets... it was time to find some answers.

  FIFTY-FIVE