Unearthed (44 page)

“By your definition, it’s not even—” Brian started.

“Lay off,” Bill said. “At some point, your constant harping loses all meaning in the same way one prolonged note makes an annoyance, not a song.” His father sounded more irritable than usual. Probably the lack of sleep.

“So where are we going?” Brian asked after a suitable interlude of time had passed.

“I’m going to church,” Bill said, the sunlight glinting off his glasses and shading the reflective lenses yellow. “I’m more than happy to drop you off at home on the way.”

“Uh huh,” Brian said, staring at him. He was holding something back—again. “What did you talk to that redhead about? You know, while no one was looking.”

“You were looking,” Bill said, all too chill. “Apparently.”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “And I saw you talking to her. Also, her eyes—”

“I expect that might be something only you could see,” Bill said. “Much in the same way you saw the truth of Duncan’s badge.”

“I saw an optical illusion, dad,” Brian said, dismissing it all. “That’s it. Maybe the same with the redhead’s eyes.” He shifted in his seat. “Who was she, by the way?”

Bill stayed still for a long pause. “I’m told that her day job is at Ms. Cherry’s.”

Brian frowned, running that through his mind. When it broke through, he almost gasped. “She’s a prostitute?”

“When she’s not wearing the disco-ball eyes, I reckon.”

“Jesus,” Brian said. “I thought most hookers looked like—”

“There you go generalizing again,” Bill said.

“Oh, come on,” Brian said, rolling his eyes. “Try and pretend you wouldn’t do some scorn-heaping of your own if she wandered into church on Sunday morning.”

“I don’t believe I would,” Bill said. “As I recall, Mary Magdalene was in her trade for a time. And it’s not my place to judge her decisions.”

“I’m sure all the congregation would feel the same,” Brian said, nodding along furiously, feeling a psychological pebble in his shoe. “They’d definitely welcome in all the whores and murderers and—”

“Well, they’re certainly supposed to,” Bill said. “But it’s not my task to harangue them if they choose not to. Nor is it yours, but I notice you can’t help yourself anyway. I realize you have a great deal of time to fill, but if perhaps you spent more time on your problems and less on the failings of people you don’t care for—”

“Why are you going to church right now?” Brian asked, cutting through the bullshit.

“To talk to a priest,” Bill said.

Brian frowned. “I realize it’s been a while since I’ve actually been to church with you, but I don’t recall us being Catholic.”

“And our conversion did not escape your notice,” Bill said, “any more than the smell of reefer smoke wafting underneath your door escapes mine.”

“Huh,” Brian said, “I figured you’d be madder.”

“I’m not happy,” Bill said, “but I’ve got bigger things to worry about at present. It’s a list, and your hobbies are down at the bottom.”

“So why the Catholic Church?” Brian asked. “You trying to line up an exorcism?”

Bill’s head moved subtly to the side, and the annoyance showed through even with the reflective glasses. “I don’t think it would help you much at this point, honestly; your problem is a bug up your ass the size of a beluga whale, not a demon. You don’t need a priest, you need a proctologist.”

“Classy,” Brian said. “Why are you talking to a priest?”

“Because confession is good for the soul,” Bill said without missing a beat. He was quick; Brian would give him that.

“You should tell that to Arch,” Brian said. “Though I suspect it’d be bad for his rectum, what with the prison time to follow.”

Bill sighed. “I want to drop you off at home so that I can conduct my business—which you clearly do not believe in—in peace. Will you please leave me be?”

“No,” Brian said, folding his arms, reminding himself of how he used to act out his stubborn refusals as a child. “I’m interested to see how this all plays out. I’m intrigued to meet one of these so-called demons face-to-face. I mean, if they’re as badass as you say they are, this should be … life-changing.”

“Life-ending would be another way to put it,” Bill said. “Which is another reason I’d prefer you stay at home.”

Brian wanted to be snide about that, but there were a few too many deaths in the area thus far for him to just dismiss any danger out of hand. Clearly something bad was happening, though the demonic explanation boggled his mind. “I’m kinda bored of being at home,” Brian said. “It’s a little bit of a drag just waiting for Mom to bring home groceries so I can help schlep them in, or hope that it’s a Tuesday so I can watch
The Flash.
I mean … I don’t have a lot going on right now.”

“Surely you have some reading to catch up on,” Bill said.

Brian yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth as he did so. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

“You’re lonely,” Bill said.

Brian felt the sting of an insult that hit its mark, though he knew a second later his father had not intended it as such. “I don’t really fit in in this town,” he said. “As you’ve already pointed out.”

“You haven’t really tried,” Bill said.

“Oh, I’ve tried,” Brian said. “I’ve tried to see the glory in small-town America. The simple joy of work, or whatever. I went to truck driving school because I thought, you know, maybe there’s something to this idea that any task that helps people could have its own intrinsic reward—”

“And that it’s a reasonable paying trade was surely not a factor,” Bill said.

“—but you know what? I don’t fit in with truckers or truckers-to-be any more than I fit in anywhere around here,” Brian said. “I’m a fish out of water. I’m gasping for breath here.”

“Quitting the smoke might help. But if being in water was that important to you,” Bill said nonchalantly—infuriatingly, to Brian’s manner of thinking—“you’d be trying harder to find some.”

“I could go to New York,” Brian said with a smug smile. “Tomorrow. I could just pack up and go. I’ve got friends. I could stay on someone’s couch—”

“Then why don’t you?” Bill asked, and this time he snapped. “Why don’t you just
go
? You’d be safer in New York City, you’d fit in better in New York City, and … you wouldn’t hate it there like you hate being here, with your mother and I.”

Brian heard the loneliness in his father’s voice, the sharp, desperate accusation mingled with fear, and it made him want to look away. When he answered, it was mumbled, because he was facing the window and couldn’t compel himself to look away from the trees that streaked by on the other side of the glass. “Because I don’t want to.”

Hendricks opened his eyes to find that dark-haired lady doctor watching him, the whites of her eyes barely visible in a narrow line bisected by a dark pupil. They opened as he stared at her, blinking some tiredness out as she sat up from her hard lean against the wall. “Hey,” she said, voice scratchy with fatigue. “You’re awake.”

Hendricks stared at her, felt a feverish chill run over his body. “I think so, yes.” His eyes moved around the room, taking it all in. He was in Arch and Alison’s bed, he could tell by the curtain pinned to the ceiling. “I’d ask what happened, but …” He felt a wave of nausea, “I think I remember most of it.”

“You’ve lost some toes,” the doctor said. “You’ve got some bruises. I think a couple ribs might be broken. Does anything else hurt?”

Hendricks felt raw nausea rip through him, and he barely kept from heaving an empty stomach. “Shoulder. My pride. My stomach.” His guts felt tied in knots, a sense of terrible unease that had settled in on him and that he wished he could banish. Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d done—what she’d done? Why did he have to feel fucking gawdawful now? It was the sick feeling that presaged a good hurl, the desire to blow chunks creeping up on him. He hadn’t had the flu in years, but remembered it feeling a little like this, an impossible sense that things were desperately wrong with his body somehow but also coupled with a small voice in his head that was shrieking in an impossibly loud voice. He was trying his best to ignore it, but it wasn’t content to go quietly away. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lauren. Lauren Darlington.”

“Uh huh,” he said, feeling ghostly white, sickly pale. “I’m—”

“Hendricks, I know,” she said, like she was just checking a box. Perfunctory. “Everyone’s been worried about you.”

“How am I even here?” Hendricks asked, looking around again. “She … she was gonna kill me.”

Lauren stared at him, unblinking. “Don’t know. Duncan seemed to think you’d never make it out alive, either, so … might want to count those blessings.”

He brought a hand up and ran it over his chin, and the nausea strangled him for a moment as he smelled—her—all over him. His stomach sank, and he barely kept it under control. “I don’t feel … blessed. Quite the opposite.”

She froze. “Can’t say I blame you for that. Listen … I’ve dealt with … victims of—”

“I’m not a—” He felt a surge of rage, wanted to just throw it back at her. “I’m—I’m not. I’m just … not.”

He could see her backpedal, watched her measure her response before she poured it out. “These sort of traumas … they sneak up on you. Leave marks that don’t tend to go away. You might want to—”

“I want to go home,” Hendricks said and swallowed hard, that desire to vomit, to throw up, to expel everything wrong with him and his body in one good gurk, welling up and blocking his ability to draw breath. He pulled up a hand and saw it was shaking, to his surprise. He remembered the weight of chains across it, the heavy burden of …
her
…sitting on his chest, the immovable object pinning him in place, and his stomach twisted again.

“Where’s home?” Lauren asked, gently.

“It’s …” Hendricks felt a curious burning in his eyes. “Long gone, that’s where it is.”

“Surely you started somewhere.”

“Amery, Wisconsin,” Hendricks said, and he could see the billboard with the town name in his mind’s eye, about ten different flags planted in front of it. A little reminder of home-that-was, and wasn’t anymore. “It’s where I came from. A lifetime ago.”

“Haven’t been there in a while?”

He shook his head, and the queasy feeling subsided. “Not since before basic. No reason to go back.”

She nodded slowly. “‘Long gone.’ Got it.”

“Sorry for … being a child,” Hendricks said, running his hands over his face again.

“You weren’t,” she said. “In times of … trouble …” he could tell she was choosing her words carefully, “we all look for familiar ground. It’s very human.”

“Well, today you’re seeing me at about my most human,” Hendricks said. “And if you’ll pardon me for saying so … I don’t much care for it.”

“I think you’re confusing humanity with vulnerability,” she said. “Or maybe injury with humanity.”

“Both pretty big traits of humans,” Hendricks said tightly. That sick feeling was rising again.

“You don’t want to be human?”

“I don’t want to be vulnerable,” Hendricks said. “I don’t want to feel … like this.” He looked over at her. “Do you have … like a wash rag or something? I just … the smell …”

She frowned. “Sure. Let me—”

“I got it,” Duncan’s voice sounded from behind the periphery of the curtain, and Hendricks heard the demon’s footsteps across the floorboards as he headed for the door. The pump they drew water from now was outside, an old one that wouldn’t have been out of place on an Amish farm. The squeals of the door as Duncan opened and closed it made Hendricks jump unintentionally. They sounded … human.

“This isn’t the sort of thing you just snap out of,” Dr. Darlington said. “Especially given the condition of your foot.”

“Where’s Arch?” Hendricks asked, sniffing. That smell still threatened to make him sick, but he couldn’t stop, like a compulsion to scratch at a scab.

Darlington hesitated before answering. “I’m not entirely sure, but it sounded like he went looking for something for you. Something from a guy named Spellman? I didn’t catch it.”

Hendricks felt himself relax into the lumps of the mattress. “Spellman. Yes. That’ll do it.”

“Do what?” she asked.

“He’s a …” Hendricks opened his eyes, looked at the ceiling, “… like a demon merchant. He’s got these potions that can heal you up lickety-split.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Instant healing?”

“Close enough,” Hendricks said. “I’ve used them a couple times. They work wonders for curing the asswhoopings that ail you.”

“Haven’t had a lot of asswhoopings ail me.”

“You’re new,” Hendricks said. “Give it time.”

Duncan re-entered right then, pushing the curtain back. His suit looked like shit, and Hendricks had a vague recollection of seeing him out in the woods like that at some point. Must have been when they came for him. That was all he could figure. He brandished a rag soaked with water and handed it to the doctor, who gave him an iron glare in return. “Do I look like a nurse?” Darlington asked, a little snootily.

“I can do it,” Hendricks said, gingerly taking the cloth from Duncan. He didn’t want to look the OOC in the eye, but did accidentally for a brief second as he reached out. He took hold of the cloth, wet and dripping, and ran the cold rag over his face, scrubbing at the hair that had grown there. The smell felt like it clung there, taking root in his beard, making him want to shave to get the scent out. He rubbed the cloth against his face, felt the water squeeze out and roll across his skin. He didn’t even care that the doctor and Duncan were watching. It was a compulsion, a cry inside to cleanse himself. He rubbed harder and harder, scrubbing, scourging—

“That’s enough,” Duncan said, placing a hand on his wrist. “You’re not going to have any skin left if you keep doing that.”

“I—” Hendricks struggled, then felt a grunt of pain work its way out from his ribs, so sharp it drew a tear from his eye, which he felt trickle down and join the wetness in his scruffy beard, now damp with moisture. Like when—

When—

She—

The nausea swelled again and that whole-body sickness took hold, and he wanted to curl up and release his guts, let it all go and hope that the feeling would leave with it.