Authors: Tim Waggoner
He told himself that he’d turned down Joanne’s offer of a ride because he hadn’t wanted to inconvenience her, not because he feared that whatever had followed him from Lake Hush might decide to forget about him and start stalking her instead.
He glanced at his watch. 8:47. He had a little less than an hour before he needed to leave for Sanctity. He should put the time to good use, maybe go back through his files to see if he’d missed anything, get on the Internet to see what he could turn up. But he didn’t step away from the window. He remained standing there, staring through the glass into the night, keeping watch on the shadows below.
Route 70 was a straight shot all the way to Columbus. Two hours of the most boring drive imaginable. Nothing to look at except trees and farmers’ fields, with only the occasional roadside cross memorial to an accident victim to break the monotony. It was even more boring at night, when all you could see was only what your headlights revealed. As far as Ronnie was concerned, though, it was perfect. Boring meant predictable, predictable meant controllable, and controllable meant safe. And Ronnie was all about safety. It was why he’d become a peace officer in the first place.
A metal case rested on the passenger seat next to him. Inside wrapped in plastic was Ray Porter’s wallet, the fingerprints he’d lifted at the Caffeine Café and the Deveraux Farm, and copies of the crime scene photos. He was determined to deliver the evidence to the state crime lab on time and without incident, and not only because that was how Ronnie liked to roll. He didn’t want to let Joanne-Sheriff-Talon down. Not again.
At first Ronnie had been worried about how he would conceal his broken hand from the sheriff and his fellow deputies. He couldn’t go to the hospital, for word was likely get back to the sheriff. He’d had to set the bones himself.
After taking double the recommended dose of over-the-counter painkillers, he got a fresh pair of gloves and a container of talcum powder from the supply drawer in his desk. He removed a roll of surgical tape from a first aid kit and then, only because he needed privacy, he went to the men’s room and hid in a stall. Fortunately, the restrooms in the County building were regularly cleaned, if not up to Ronnie’s exacting standards. He bit down on his wallet to give him something to focus his attention away from the pain to come and hopefully prevent him from screaming in agony as he worked on straightening his twisted fingers. The pain was so exquisitely intense that he’d almost blacked out a couple times. Not any easy task to accomplish working with only one good hand, but he managed. But that led to another problem. His co-workers would undoubtedly notice his taped fingers and ask questions he didn’t want to answer. But that’s what the gloves were for. He normally didn’t wear rubber gloves at his workstation, but he did whenever he had to leave it and go to another section of the department. So his fellow officers were used to seeing him with gloves on, and if they even noticed that he didn’t remove them while at his desk, it wouldn’t matter. He knew they considered him eccentric at best and a full-blown nut job at worst. So what if Ronnie Doyle started wearing his gloves all the time? What did you expect from a nutjob like him?
Getting the rubber gloves on was far easier contemplated than accomplished, however. He first sprinkled talcum inside the gloves so they’d slide on better, but even then he had a hell of a time getting the left one on since his broken right hand wasn’t much help. But he did it, and then he began slipping on the left glove. In the end he managed to get the fingers where they belonged and the hand appeared normal enough.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter with his left hand — his right was in no condition to steer — and without thinking, he pressed down on the cruiser’s accelerator. But as soon as he noticed the speedometer edge toward 70 mph, he eased back on the gas. He was a law-enforcement officer, and it was his duty to obey the speed limit unless there was a good reason for exceeding it. The fact that he’d gone over 60, even if only for a few seconds, spoke volumes about his mental state. He felt guilty as hell for allowing Marshall Cross to have access to the Porter boy’s body. He’d tried to turn Marshall away, to tell him that he’d done more than enough to help him and couldn’t in good conscience cooperate any further.
But he hadn’t said anything. The pain throbbing through his broken hand had flared into a blaze of agony, and he began to feel the crawling sensation of tiny creatures writhing all over his flesh. He’d escorted Marshall to the coroner’s office without a word of protest and stood guard outside while Marshall did whatever he’d come to do. It took five minutes at most, and then Marshall came out and departed without a word or backward glance.
Ronnie tried to put Marshall’s visit out of his thoughts and concentrate on driving, but the constant fiery pain of his broken hand made it difficult. He’d taken a prescription-strength dose of ibruprofen, but it had done little to dull the pain. He supposed he’d just have to tough it out. After all, he was a cop. He could take it.
Ronnie’s cell phone rang, and even with his broken fingers he had it out of his belt carrier and up to his ear before it could ring a second time.
“Deputy Doyle.” He winced whenever he answered a call that way. The alliteration sounded comical, and more than a few of his fellow officers had made Deputy Dawg jokes over the years. At least Sheriff Talon had never made fun of him. If she was even aware of the unintentionally amusing alliteration, she’d never let on.
But it wasn’t Sheriff Jo-Jo calling.
“This is the third time I’ve called tonight, Ronnie. I would’ve thought a deputy of your rank would check his voicemail more regularly.” Marshall’s voice had a disapproving tone, like that of a teacher sorely disappointed in a promising student.
At the sound of Marshall’s voice, Ronnie felt a lance of pain between his eyes, accompanied by a sick twist of nausea in his gut.
“I-I had my phone turned off earlier. I was at dinner.” Which was true, but the main reason Ronnie hadn’t checked his messages — though normally he was obsessive about doing so — was because he was afraid Marshall Cross might’ve called. If he hadn’t been so goddamned conscientious he would’ve been able to leave his phone off for the entire trip to Columbus. After all, Sheriff Talon could always get hold of him on the cruiser’s radio if she wanted. Still, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave his phone off, and now he wished to hell that he had.
“It’s important that I’m able to contact you when I need to, Ronnie. Make certain you’re always available to me, day or night. Do you understand?”
A pinprick of pain stabbed Ronnie between the eyes, and he clenched his teeth as he tried to ride it out. “Yes, Mr. Cross.” As soon as he spoke the words, the pain lessened, though it didn’t entirely go away.
“Good. Now listen closely. I want you to do me a favor. From the background noise I assumed that you’re driving somewhere. Where are you going and for what purpose?”
Lie to the bastard!
Ronnie told himself. But the thought brought a new burst of pain in his head, and he knew he had to tell Marshall the truth, whether he wanted to or not. So he did.
“How fortuitous. Here’s what I want you to do, Ronnie. I want you to pull off onto the side of the highway and dispose of the evidence that you’re carrying. I don’t care how you do it, just as long as it’s never found again. Will you do that for me?”
“I’ve done a lot for you already, Mr. Cross.
A lot
. But I can’t do this. Destroying evidence … it wouldn’t just be a betrayal of the trust that Jo-sheriff-anne has placed in me. I’d be committing a crime! I’ve never purposely done anything wrong in my life! I’ve never exceeded the speed limit except in the line of duty, I’ve never gotten a parking ticket, I’ve never even jaywalked!” Tears welled in his eyes and began running down his cheeks.
Marshall didn’t answer right away, and though Ronnie knew it was foolish, he began to hope that Marshall would understand and relent. But when Marshall spoke next, his voice was cold and quiet, like a winter’s frozen midnight.
“I’ve told you want to do, Ronnie. Now do it.”
Marshall disconnected.
Ronnie continued holding his phone to his ear for several minutes afterward, doing his best to drive with tear-blurred vision. Finally he dropped the cell onto the seat next to him and wiped his eyes with swollen fingers.
Just because the high and mighty Marshall Cross wanted him to do something didn’t mean he had to. He was his own man, a deputy sheriff yet, with over twenty years of service in. Hell, he could retire if he really wanted to. Maybe Marshall Cross really did have some kind of power, just as the rumors said. How else could Ronnie explain the bizarre hallucinations he’d experienced? But he was miles away from Marshall now and traveling farther away with every passing second. How far could his power extend before it began to weaken and lost its hold entirely? All Ronnie had to do was keep driving and he’d be okay. He wouldn’t be forced to obey Marshall Cross’s latest order and he could deliver the evidence intact to the state crime lab. He’d no doubt pay a price for his defiance — likely a steep one — but that was all right. All in the line of duty, right?
Relieved and with growing confidence that he’d overcome Marshall Cross’s influence, he took deep breaths and forced himself to relax. Slowly the pain between his eyes began to fade, his nausea to subside.
Ronnie drove for the next few miles in relative peace, with only the pain in his throbbing hand for company. A dot of moisture appeared on his windshield. It was soon followed by another, then another, and more after that. Given all the pollution in the air — pollution that the rainwater surely absorbed — it meant he’d have to wash his cruiser as soon as he got back. It irked him because he kept his vehicle spotless inside and out. It was so clean he never wore his surgical mask or gloves when he drove.
Normally
didn’t where gloves, that is. But until he’d delivered the evidence, he’d just have to deal with a bit of dirt.
That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Ronnie old boy
.
The rain started coming down more heavily then, and he reached out with his broken hand and slowly, gently activated the windshield wipers. The blades moved across the outer surface of the glass, but instead of clearing the view, they created a brownish-gray smear.
Ronnie frowned. Ignoring the pain in his hand, he turned the wipers to a higher setting. They obediently swished back and forth more swiftly, but it didn’t help. The windshield became smeared even worse than before, and now Ronnie couldn’t see the highway in front of him. He wanted to tromp on the brake, yank the steering wheel to the right, and pull the cruiser onto the shoulder before he wrecked, but he resisted the impulse. He knew he’d end up crashing for sure that way. Instead he removed his foot from the gas pedal and began to gently apply pressure to the brake. He hit the washer fluid control and kept it pressed down, hosing the windshield with cleaning fluid. The muck cleared long enough for him to see the red glow of brake lights directly in front of him, and he knew he was only seconds away from slamming into another vehicle. The panic he’d been working so hard to restrain broke loose then, and he jammed the brake down and turned the steering wheel hard to the right.
The brake lights vanished then, and Ronnie wondered if he’d really seen them at all, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.
He’d stopped shooting cleaning fluid at the windshield, and the glass was quickly covered by muck-rain again. Ronnie couldn’t see as his cruiser left the highway, but he felt his vehicle judder as its tires rolled over gravel, then the car bucked and jerked as it slid onto grass. He felt the cruiser swerve around in a half-circle, and he gritted his teeth in anticipation of the crushing impact as the car slammed into a tree or fence post. But the collision never happened and the vehicle came to a rest.
Ronnie sat there for several long moments, left hand gripping the steering wheel, right hand in his lap, hurting like a son-of-a-bitch. The pain in his head and the nausea in his stomach hadn’t let up, but he barely registered their discomfort. He was too busy struggling to accept the fact that he was still alive.
The muck-rain continued to fall, striking the cruiser’s roof with loud smacking sounds, as if thousands of fat wet frogs were plummeting from the heavens. The cruiser had stalled out when it came to a stop, but the wipers were still going. They weren’t doing any better at clearing away the muck than they had when the cruiser was moving, so Ronnie switched them off. He checked the driver’s side windows, the passenger side, turned to look out the back, but all he saw more muck, thick and viscous, sliding down the glass in brown-gray lumps like half-solid, half-liquid shit.
“This isn’t real,” Ronnie whispered. The brake lights, the muck … they were just like the maggots he’d seen at the Caffeine Café and the oversized germs that had prompted him to break his hand to get rid of them. Marshall Cross had done something to his mind, and whatever it was had messed him up, making him see things that weren’t there. He could prove it, too. All he had to do was step out of the cruiser and into the rain. It would turn out to be water, not much — that is, if there really was any rain at all and the whole thing wasn’t a delusion.
Just … step … out
.
Ronnie unlocked the door and took hold of the handle with his left hand. He started to push open the cruiser’s door, but he couldn’t move it very far. It was like there was something else on the other side, pushing back. An instant later he realized what it was as brown muck began to ooze through the partially open door. The muck splattered onto his hand, slid down his leg, and began collecting on the cruiser’s floor in a pile of foul-smelling brown-gray shit.
He realized the cruiser must have come to a stop in a ditch or low-lying area in the field next to the highway and the shitstorm — for what else could it be called — had become so strong, the shitfall so heavy, that it was rising around the cruiser, threatening to bury it.