R.S. Guthrie - Detective Bobby Mac 02 - L O S T (13 page)

“So you are a confused ghost. Perfect.”

“Like you, I am forced to question who I am. I don’t like that. Yet I am aware of things—strangely aware of a purpose for me being here. I hate not having all the answers.”

“We are too alike for you to be anything but my own inner demon.”

 “I have been brought here to tell you something. That the fight is winnable. Rule would never have you believe so, but it is.”

“How could you think you know that? Because
God
sent you?”

“I am not sure I believe in God.”

“We now have that in common, too.”

“You’ve given up your faith?”

“I’m not sure what faith I ever had. I have always at least believed there was a God. I am not sure I can any longer. What kind of father would allow
this
to happen to his children?” I said, gesturing to the killing field.

“What God would allow an eleven-year-old boy to be run over by a piece of his father’s own farm equipment?” Wayne said.

“I once accepted that God took away my leg, and my wife. I’m not one to shirk my own responsibilities in things. We all have to bear an amount of suffering, and I was more than willing to bear mine. But I cannot reconcile what happened here tonight. This is more than anyone should have to bear. God cannot explain this one to me.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

 “I do. But that doesn’t change the fact that I am here to tell you that the fight is not
over
.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I know it to be true.”

“How can you know
anything
? You don’t even know who you are.”

“I am a friend,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Disappear. You are nothing more than my subconscious wishing on a star.”

“I will go,” Wayne said. “But there is something you need to know before I do. Something I
do
remember.”

“Tell me and then be gone.”

“I want you to know my mother’s maiden name.”

~ ~ ~

Meyer West was locked away in the back corner of the basement in the
William E. Borah
Memorial Library
, nearly invisible behind the mountain of books. His eyes hurt. His back ached. His very soul begged him for a reprieve from the torrent of despicable history he’d been devouring for the past week. Terrible things. Unconscionable acts of torture. Rituals that would make the most stalwart sick.

But the answer was there. He knew it. And so he kept reading. Skipping meals. Drinking too little water. And now the toll was noticeable. He could no longer concentrate. And still, the only real clue he’d found was that of the three sisters. And that made no sense either. The missing girls were pre-adolescents, yes, but they were not sisters. According to the investigations, they were not even friends. Acquaintances did not fit the profile.

One last book, Meyer told himself. There was really only one last book he wanted to examine. Another on the language of the Coeur d’Alene tribe.

Where was it? He rooted through the books on the faux wood table, and through those that had either toppled to the floor or been resigned there.

It was there, somewhere, hiding from him, perhaps.

Then he found it.

And a sound jumped at him from the darkness.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Probably the night librarian, rummaging around and staying close so as to be at hand to remind him of closing time.

10 PM.

He knew. He did not need reminding. He’d closed the library down the past six nights. Tonight would be no different. But the gangly man who reminded Meyer of Ichabod Crane would still come, scolding, chewing on Meyer as if he were a schoolboy hiding in the depths to avoid the teacher’s gaze.

“I say,
hello
.”

Still nothing. And no more rummaging.

Meyer went back to his search and found the volume on languages. The Coeur d’Alene dialect was an extremely rare and complicated one. Translations were many times either completely contrived or varied. There was one term that seemed wrong to him now, after so much reading.

‘m’mi’msh
.

Little box.

Meyer found the reference in the story of an ancient sacrificial ritual retold—a slang reference to a pre-teen girl. But that reference now felt wrong. Out of context. The book he’d just relocated had more literal translations of many other words. Maybe…

BOOM.

A pile of books toppled to the floor in the darkness, not ten feet away.

“Who is it?” Meyer said. “I am well aware of the time, sir. Unless you are leaving early, I have at least another twenty minutes.”

No response.

Meyer went back to the book, rifling through the pages, putting his photographic memory to the test. But he was
tired
. Not only physically and mentally but also
spiritually
. Too much evil; too much darkness.

And then he found it.

Exactly what he’d been looking for.

The needle in a pile of needles.

The original book he read that referenced the sacrifice of the children had a slightly different spelling of the Coeur d’Alene word; a variation he’d not noticed before:

One extra letter; a second ‘i’.

‘m’mii’msh.

THAT was the word.

Meyer continued reading.

“Oh, dear,” he muttered as the significance of the newer definition nestled slowly into his tattered mind. “This can’t be…”

Before he could consider it further, the monster came for him out of the blackness—a creature from beyond his worst imagination.

~ ~ ~

The FBI and State Police took over the crime scene in the Coeur d’Alene forest. It was unavoidable. Melissa Grant and the other two girls were transported to the county Children’s Services. Jax was not taking the federal and state intervention well, but even if he could have opposed it, neither one of us was in a condition to argue the logic.

We were each, in a word, devastated. Jax wanted to be with his family. With his girls. He wanted to release the township back to the comfort of their own homes. He needed his
town back
.

We both needed to be as far away as possible from the carnage north of Rocky Gap. Better that other agencies with stronger forensics teams work through the near insurmountable task there.

Back at the hotel, I used Meyer’s spare key to enter his room. He’d not slept there. I remember thinking perhaps the librarian had allowed him to sleep off his exhaustion at the cubicle he’d commandeered since our arrival in Idaho. I decided to shower. I knew there was no sleep in my immediate future, so after cleaning up and downing a cup of coffee from the local barista shack, I drove over to the library.

I realized for the first time it was Sunday when I encountered the locked doors. I cannot explain the feeling that next came over me, but I was positive something had happened to my cousin. I moved around to the back of the library, to the loading dock. There was a door there with a standard knob, no deadlock. With a screwdriver from the truck I was able to jimmy the door.

I found Meyer in the lower level. When I first saw him I was convinced he was dead—that I had lost yet another loved one. My cousin was barely breathing. I called Jax and asked him to send an ambulance and to come by himself and meet me at the library.

Blood was spattered about the floor, spilled books, papers, and toppled shelves. I cannot say it looked like there had been much of a struggle. Clearly Meyer was no match for whatever had attacked him. The damage around him was caused by the assault, not by any valiant attempt by my cousin and friend to defend himself.

It was also clear that the intent was for him to die. The wounds to his body were mortal. Had I not come in to find him, he would have bled out by Monday morning when the librarian returned to open the building.

The paramedics arrived with Jax, and after they carted Meyer away, barely alive, my brother quizzed me:

“What the hell is going on? What
is
all this?”

“I’m not sure,” I told him. “This has more to do with our family, I think.”

“Like all we’ve seen is staged for our benefit.”

“Exactly.”

“Mice, running through a maze.”

“What?” I said.

“Like we’re mice. Being led exactly where they want us to go.”

“I saw Tilson Wayne again.”

“Where?”

“When we found the girls.”

“What did he have to say?”

“There is no ‘he’. I think I’m going crazy.”

“This,” he said, motioning to the destruction in the library. “
This
shit is crazy. Not you.”

“You haven’t heard what he suggested.”

“Okay…”

“I think he implied that Amanda is still alive.”

“And you think that is just wishful thinking on your part?”

“I know it is.”

“You know what they say about paranoia.”

“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get me.”

“Exactly.”

“We need to get over to the hospital.”

~ ~ ~

The surgeon saved my cousin’s life. He’d lost a lot of blood, but somehow no internal organs had been permanently damaged. Jax and I waited in his room in the intensive care unit—waited for him to wake up and tell us what kind of monster had attacked him.

And, hopefully, why?

The doctor said he should wake up after the anesthesia wore off. He would be weak, and there was no guarantee his memory would not evade him, but it was likely we could at least speak with him.

It was several hours before Meyer woke up.

“I’m alive,” he said through a dry, chafed throat.

“You’ve got a penchant for overstating the obvious,” I told him.

“Welcome back,” said Jax.

Meyer waved me closer. I put a few ice chips from a cup at his bedside into his mouth and he crunched them hungrily.

“There is a problem,” he said. “I don’t think Rule wants the girls.”

“He doesn’t,” I said. “We found them.”

Meyer shook his head.

“He doesn’t want
those
girls,” he managed.