Unearthed (42 page)

“But you can’t?” Arch asked.

“Nope,” Duncan said and looked away with a little rueful laugh. “Not I.”

“You must go to him,” Starling said, and Arch realized she was speaking directly to him.

“Why me?” Arch asked. “Why not anyone else?”

“Because you believe,” Starling said into the quiet that follows.

“Because the idea of tempting you, Christian,” Duncan said, “is like ice cream to freaks like Spellman. He wants you—your soul, everything he can get from you. Like leaving your spiritual car in a bad neighborhood, you come back and it’s up on blocks, nothing but the chassis—and that’s if you’re lucky.”

Arch gave it a moment’s thought. “And if I’m not lucky?”

Duncan looked right at him, but it almost seemed like he was looking through him. “Then there won’t going to be enough left of you to even deliver the serum to Hendricks.”

Reeve had a surprising moment of relief when County Administrator Pike stepped into his office. That was a first. Every other time before the last that the man had stopped in, Reeve had expected and received nothing but grief. Pike’s hesitancy was a change that bordered on the surreal, and Reeve found he didn’t mind at all.

“Have a seat,” Reeve said, waving toward one of the chairs. “Want some coffee?”

“You’re in early,” Pike said, dropping his thin frame into one of the visitor chairs across the desk from Reeve. “And don’t mind if I do.”

“Donna,” Reeve called and saw his wife already in motion. “No rest for the wicked, as I’m sure you know.”

“You’ve been a very bad boy, then,” Pike said. “Sorry to just drop in on you like this, unannounced. I figured I’d be waiting in the parking lot until you dragged in, maybe head out to Surrey’s to fill the time.”

“No, you caught me at my desk,” Reeve said, “and it’s been a hell of a night, but luckily one that was absent fatalities.”

“Fortune smiles,” Pike said, delivering a half-hearted smile of his own as Donna stepped in to hand him a cup as brown as the coffee within. Steam curled up out of the top. “And you—why, you almost seem happy to see me.”

“I admit we’ve had our differences,” Reeve said, trying to keep to the polite side of the line. The business with Arch was dragging him down, but he didn’t want to leave that stink all over his office by bringing it up. “But your statement of support meant a lot. Reminded me that we’re all in this together, that no one wants to see Midian go down in flames.”

“Indeed,” Pike said, taking a sip and cringing, like it burned his mouth. “Whew. Hot.”

“Take her easy, there,” Reeve said, leaning back in his chair. His own cup had cooled a long time ago. “So … what can I do for you?”

“I’m here to talk to you about our latest opportunity,” Pike said.

Reeve stared at him, not quite sure what to say. “Excuse me?” he finally got out.

“JFK had this thing he said in a speech—inauguration speech, maybe?” Pike paused, looking upward for recall. “Anyhow, the gist—in Chinese script, the word ‘crisis’ is only a pen stroke away from the word for ‘opportunity.’”

“I think you might want to hold off on using that in a speech to the public,” Reeve said, tasting the bitter swirl of cold coffee between his lips as he took a sip. “Not a whole lot of people in Midian are going to be too jazzed about the ‘opportunities’ that have come our way lately. Well, no one outside the funerary services industry, in any case. I suppose they’re awash in ‘opportunity’ at the moment.”

“Everyone sees crises,” Pike said, “when what we should be looking for is the innate opportunity to turn things around.”

Reeve just stared at him, and withheld the thought that floated to mind:
Is he fucking serious?

“I can tell you’re struggling with this,” Pike said, “and that’s fine. Almost everyone would. These are dire times, the news is not improving—”

“Well it’s been a few days since we’ve had a mass slaughter,” Reeve said, trying to think on his feet. “That’s … something, I guess.”

“It’s something,” Pike agreed. “So … here’s our opportunity. We need to unite the community.”

“Mm, well,” Reeve said, sipping his coffee to prevent a hasty reply, “they’re all pretty united in their desire to not die.”

“That is a nearly-universal human trait,” Pike agreed. “But I think we can do more than that.”

“I’m all for volunteerism,” Reeve said, taking his feet off his desk, “but I’m not sure what you’re looking for here. Donations? Charity?”

Pike paused, looking a little reticent. “Raising the mill rate.”

Reeve had just taken another sip and felt an urge to spit it like a comedy character. “You want to raise peoples’ property taxes now? While we’re in the middle of a cri—”

“Opportunity,” Pike said. “Think about it. Your ticket revenue, which helps keeps this county afloat? It’s in the tank.”

“Because I’m low on deputies and it’s hard to issue a citation for murder,” Reeve said, thumping his mug down on the surface of the desk. “Assuming we could even find the perpetrator.”

“No one’s blaming you for that,” Pike said smoothly. “Yet.”

“I can’t imagine their spirits are going to improve if you get this done,” Reeve said. “Come live in Calhoun County, where the taxes and the murder rate are sky-high compared to our neighboring communities!” He leveled his gaze on Pike. “You know this will drive people away. Like they need another compelling reason.”

“People are already leaving,” Pike said. “People have been leaving for a hundred years. The death of the rural community is not exactly a recent trend. Industrialization and urban growth, the flight of manufacturing overseas—I mean, if the paper mill shut down, Midian’s a ghost town in a year. The only thing keeping us going outside of that are the new warehouses out by the freeway. I know this is tough for you to understand—”

“It’s almost impossible,” Reeve said, shaking his head, “and not really my purview, either. Don’t you have to pass this to the voters?”

“We’d need a special election, yes,” Pike said, “for either this or a bond issuance, which is the other route we could go.”

“Hmm,” Reeve said. “It’s not the only ways you could go.”

Pike gave him a canny look. “I said I’d support you. These are the options—”

“Except for cutting the budget,” Reeve said.

“We’ve been cutting your budget for years, Nick,” Pike said. “This never-ending recession is producing lean times. If you think there’s still some fat to remove, go for it.”

“There’s not much, if any,” Reeve said, putting his head back on his seat rest. “Though I do suddenly have two deputies’ salaries that no longer need to be paid, at least in the short term.”

“But you’re going to staff those up again, aren’t you?” Pike asked. “Or do you really want to try and handle this shorthanded?”

“I don’t know if there are enough hands for—hell, isn’t there a mythological creature with multiple arms?”

“Goro?” Pike asked.

“Never heard of him, but—okay, I don’t even know if this Goro fella would have enough hands to make do with what we’re dealing with,” Reeve said. “It’s … a lot. I’m starting to get to the level of hopeless where I’m hesitant to hire more people in fear they’re gonna get killed. Because whatever happened to our citizens … the people of Tennessee aren’t no wilting violets. They fight. I mean, we’re right there with Texas when it comes to ‘most likely to defend our homes with a hail of bullets.’ But maybe that’s just my pessimism talking. I did just lose a deputy, after all.”

“I can tell it’s weighing on you,” Pike said, running a hand to smooth his pants leg between knee and ankle. “And this is part of what I’m talking about in turning a crisis into an opportunity and uniting people. That feeling of hopelessness? It’s not unique to you. And if a person sitting in your seat—a leadership position—is feeling overwhelmed and desperate, that trickles down and becomes an even bigger problem.”

“Well, I’ll try to keep it from being diarrhea and trickling down,” Reeve said.

“Maybe you should consider some counseling,” Pike said.

“Yeah,” Reeve said, “I’m sure I could take time off to expose my tender underbelly and nagging doubts to some soft-ass city slicker who wants to talk about feelings all day.” He stared back at Pike. “Or I could just keep bottling it up inside, as men do. Or should. I suppose they don’t as much anymore.”

“Denial is a powerful instrument,” Pike said, “try not to lose yourself in it, though. By my reckoning, no one else has quite been through what you’re going through now.”

Reeve started to answer that and paused when he realized it had a ring of truth to it. “Huh. Hadn’t thought about that.”

“Think about it some more,” Pike said, drawing to his feet. “And think about what we talked about. I know it’s not technically your job to worry about our budget gaps, but this is going to affect you if we can’t bring in more revenue somehow. And I don’t expect you have the manpower to go write ten thousand tickets to make up the difference, but maybe you could lend a little support when the time comes?” He started for the door. “Make things easier on us at the county level?”

“Yeah,” Reeve said and could practically feel the boom lowering in front of him. He figured he should have known that Pike’s declaration of support was sure to be wrapped in a few strings. And every one of them was bound to that giant puppetmaster called budgetary politics, which had been the bane of his existence before now. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“That’s all I ask,” Pike said, forcing a smile. “We’ll talk again, soon.” He rapped on the wooden frame and then he was gone, disappearing through the bullpen toward the front desk. Reeve’s eyes settled down to the desk, where Pike had left his coffee mug. It was still full, and still steaming.

Kitty rounded the house to find Detmar Lawrence standing on a front porch that was classic Southern Gothic: peeling and old, uncared for and shitty. He was speaking in a quiet voice to someone standing in a doorway, and she didn’t get a look at the person—demon—until she came up onto the porch and looked straight into the crack provided by the slightly open door.

It was a meth’a’guros.

She bottled up the disgusted noise she wanted to make, exiling it to the farthest corner of her essence that she could. Meth’a’guros were not high on her list—nor anyone’s list, really. In their native form, their shells oozed and lengthened until they looked almost like slugs with some human features. A less flattering combination of features she could scarcely imagine, and her desire to pour salt on one just to see what happened to it had proven unfortunately fruitless the one time she’d tried it.

“If money is what you seek,” Lawrence was saying as she reached the porch, “we can accommodate.”

“It’s not just about money,” the meth’a’guros said, the lying slug.

“Of course it is,” Kitty said, stepping up behind Lawrence. “You put it up for sale on an auction site; what could you possibly get from that but money? Esteem? You’re anonymous. The warm, comforting thought that the box is going to a good home? It’s a demon head.” She looked flatly at him. “I’m assuming you’ve opened it.”

The meth’a’guros had large, rosy red cheeks and a flat head with greasy hair. His paunch overflowed his belt, but she knew if he reverted to form, all that excess mass would flatten him into a nine-foot long extension. “I’ve opened it,” the meth’a’guros admitted shyly. “And that’s part of the problem.”

Kitty blinked at him. How best to say what was on her mind without simply ripping his flesh in a quick, slicing motion? Lawrence was right here, and he’d provide an excellent witness of her transgressions. Sure, she could probably kill him as well, but all it would take would be him running off into the woods, forcing her to give chase … that would be an unpleasant waste. Kitty did not enjoy running and did not understand why anyone could or would enjoy such a graceless practice.

So she stifled her urge to go in the most immediately expedient direction in hopes that a few minutes of listening would produce a better result with fewer complications. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” she asked, wishing she were saying almost anything else.

“Well,” the meth’a’guros said, “don’t get me wrong, when I first found the box, I really was just interested in the money. But when I opened it—”
You shouldn’t have done that, you slime-oozing creature
, Kitty thought, “it …” the meth’a’guros hesitated. “Well … it …” The demon’s already red cheeks deepened.

“It attacked you?” Kitty asked. “Assaulted you?”

“Verbally,” the meth’a’guros said, visibly flustered. “It called me names. Said hurtful things. That I smell.” The meth’a’guros sniffed. “Can you believe that?”

Kitty stared straight ahead and counted to five in her head, then ten, before taking a light sniff of the air. It was like tacos thrown in a dumpster for a week and then dusted with cumin. “No. No, it’s … unbelievable.”

“I know,” the meth’a’guros said, nodding. “So insulting. And it talks … all night long. It won’t shut up, even when you close the box—”

“I feel for your pain,” Kitty said, almost biting her own lip. “I truly do. And I want to make it right for you. I will buy that hateful thing right now, take it far, far away from you, and you can sleep in peace knowing that you’ll never again have to listen to it berate you in the night.” She pressed her lips together and forced a smile. “You just need to tell me how much it’s going to take to make you feel truly comfortable—to have your anguish … assuaged.” She dug into the bullshit with a front-end loader and just shoveled it on. “So that you can put this trauma behind you.”

The meth’a’guros gave that a moment’s thought. “I think … ten million would make me sleep better at night.”

Kitty nodded. “Mmmhmm.” Then she drew her knife and plunged it right into the meth’a’guros, watching him dissolve into black fire.

“You seemed to be exhibiting actual mercy there for a moment,” Lawrence said from her side. The man had not stepped back when she moved, and now he was staring at the empty space where the meth’a’guros had been standing only a moment earlier. “I was … impressed.”

She turned her head to look at him, and the dagger felt heavy in her hand. “Is that so?”