Authors: Marc Buhmann
They pulled up to the Underhill’s house. Lilly carried Claire to the front door, David bringing up the rear. Claire touched the young girl’s face and whispered something. Frank threw open the door and ran to them, sweeping Claire into his arms. Jeanine ran out crying, hugging both her husband and daughter.
The police took a statement and David gave them DeMarcus’ description.
Let them chase a ghost,
he thought. With Claire safely back at home, the police through with their questions, David and Lilly returned to their house.
“So it’s all over?” he asked, brewing a cup of tea. “DeMarcus is really gone?”
“Yes.” Lilly leaned up, touched his face, kissed him, and whispered in his ear.
interlude
Lilly pulled back and let the connection tendrils slip away. She’d shared what needed to be shared and now it was up to them. Hopefully they understood and they could bring it all full circle.
She was powerless to do anything more. All she could do was wait and hope.
note from author
Have you figured out where its going yet? Hopefully not.
So again, here is my shameless encouragement.
If you would like to support my work please purchase a copy for $1.99 at Smashwords.com using coupon code
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That’s $2 less than the retail price! This code expires on December 31, 2015.
Okay… onto Part 3.
III
present
eleven
Stavic swam toward blurred light. He blinked away the clouded darkness, the world coming back into focus. His mind was foggy, trying to remember where he was, what had happened.
He sat up and groaned as stabbing pain shot through his side, looked around. He was in a hospital room, tubes and wires connected to him. He felt like throwing up.
The previous night came back to him. He’d confronted DeMarcus, and when he was ready to take him in DeMarcus’ goon had come up from behind. They never spoke, not until they were deep in the woods. Stavic was sure he was going to die.
When The Thirsty Whale was but a pinprick of light through the trees, Stavic’s face was smashed into a tree trunk. He dropped to the ground and was kicked in the gut, punched in the face. He was ready to black out and then the attack stopped. He heard the teens cry out somewhere; he couldn’t see them.
DeMarcus crouched into Stavic’s vision, cocked his head. “Now you will talk.” Stavic coughed blood, could feel his eye swelling. “If you don’t my friend here will be happy to… encourage you.”
“I’m investigating… murders. Thought you might know something.”
“As I’d gathered by your poor interrogation at the Underground. The question is why me?”
“Description,” he slurred.
“Do you know who I am?”
“DeMarcus.”
DeMarcus’ eyes ran over him as if searching, brow furrowed. “No. I was mistaken.” He rose, said, “It’s a terrible thing, living in fear.”
For the first time in his life Stavic was afraid. Even in Chicago, when he’d almost been killed during the drug bust, he hadn’t been afraid. He’d been exhilarated. But now? He was fucking terrified, and he suddenly knew that all those years of not caring if he lived or died were false. He wanted to live. For the first time in his life he cared about what happened to him.
He nodded.
“I’m not a murderer, Mr. Detective. I’m a savior. Your death serves no purpose. You will not seek me out again.”
A fist connected with his brow. As consciousness faded he watched DeMarcus turn to the two girls.
As the world faded he heard DeMarcus say, “Bring her.”
“The others?” The words becoming hollow echoes.
“Leave them.”
“They won’t talk?”
A long pause. “No.”
Then there was the dream with Willem and Claire and the old man. David. In it he was his father, but that couldn’t be true. His mother had told him he’d died from a work injury before he was born. That was the truth, had to be. Whatever he thought he’d seen was a delusion, a fabrication in his brain rattled head.
No.
His real father was alive. He’d even talked to him by Willow Creek.
Just a dream.
Not a dream.
He shook it off. What was important is that he’d found the killer.
Stavic gingerly stood, grasping his side. The pain was excruciating; his entire body ached. One step and he realized he wasn’t going after the DeMarcus in his current state. He was more determined now to catch the son of a bitch, if not for the murder then for making him feel weak and fearful.
Payback was going to be a bitch.
* * *
Willem opened his eyes to blinding white. A hospital room.
How did he get here? Was he still dreaming?
The past few hours swam back to him. He had been in the Underground, taken something, and in that some memories of Elliott and Sam had come back. He’d remembered past events as if they were yesterday, and the box.
The box! He’d had it!
He sat up too quickly. His head pounded.
In whatever lethargic ethos the drugs had caused, the memory of the letter and key came back. He had thrown the letter out, yes, but he’d put the key in the most logical place imaginable: the kitchen junk drawer. Why hadn’t he thought to look there?
He’d left the Underground in a hurry. Justin was focused on the dancers on stage, didn’t seem to care he left. Willem didn’t care either. He’d somehow managed to get home, find the key, then head for the bridge. He’d parked on the shoulder and gone to the long forgotten buried treasure of his youth. He half expected the box would be gone—by now surely someone would have found it—so when he reached into the hole and touched the protective cloth he’d cried out. It took him two tries to unlock the box his hands were shaking so much. He opened it and found their treasure as they’d left it. Saw the green toy soldier Sammy had put in it to protect it. He smiled and kissed it. “Thank you.”
He sorted through the contents, memories of the objects hidden away for years. One of the contents pulled at him, demanding his attention. He touched the smooth metallic ring.
The cabin.
This was paramount, but for what he didn’t know.
Willem put the contents back into the box and closed it.
He’d been making his way up the embankment when he’d lost his footing and slipped. He remembered rolling down the side—that was it—until waking up just now.
All he wanted was to go home, take some aspirin or ibuprofen or whatever the hell you took for a headache the size of North Dakota, and crawl into his warm bed.
Willem touched his forehead, felt gauze.
The other visions—dreams—crept back. A woman and her daughter, a cop, an old man, DeMarcus and… his father? Whatever drugs Justin had given him had truly fucked with his mind if he was seeing him.
He closed his eyes longing for his comforter at home. Then he was thinking about his childhood quilt, a brown one with teddy bears on it. It was extra soft, and one he shared with Sam many times on cold winter nights. Their mother would stoke the fire, and the two of them would lay side-by-side under it reading comic books by firelight. It was warm, it was soothing, it was safe.
Willem began to cry.
* * *
Claire awoke in a brightly lit room. Sunlight streamed through a small part in the tan drapes directly into her eyes.
What a nightmare,
she thought, the dream being beaten away by a pulse pounding headache. Something about people and places, a hospital room and Emily…
It was gone, the dream beaten back. She snuggled deeper into the bed hoping the headache would ease enough so she could go back to sleep. Only one way to get rid of a headache like this and that was rest.
She was on the precipice of sleep when the dream returned to her. A car accident… she swerved off the road. No. That wasn’t right. She was driven from the road, a red car pushing her into the ditch. She’d barely been aware of the crunching gravel as the other driver approached when a phone rang. She struggled for consciousness, heard a debate about leaving her.
Emily.
What was it about her daughter? Something teetered on the edge of remembrance. Something…
Emily’s in danger!
Claire’s eyes shot open. She was in a small hospital room connected to several monitors. It was quiet and warm.
She tried to stand but pain rocked her back. She looked down, saw the bruises on her arms, gingerly touched her chest, felt the one left courtesy of her seatbelt. The accident had been real? And if that had been, then the hospital too…
She struggled for the phone, dialed Emily’s number. Her heart sank as she heard Emily’s sweet voice. Voice mail.
Shit!
Was she too late? No. Couldn’t be. Probably sleeping, or had it on silent, or just wasn’t picking up. Not unlike her.
Claire heard the tone. “Emily, honey? It’s mom. Stay home. If you’re not home go there now. I’ll explain when I get back.” She was about to hang up, reconsidered and said, “I love you, Emily.” She hung up.
How was she going to get out of here? There’s no way they’d discharge her, not without a doctor consulting her first.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Hospital policies be damned. She yanked the wires from her body and stood, the pain dulled by determination. Looking around she realized her clothes were missing, though her purse sat on a chair. She dug in it, searching for her keys but they were missing. Car was either at the junkyard or impounded anyway. She had her wallet though—could call a cab. But with nothing but a hospital gown what driver would take her home? Might be a liability. The hospital was across town from her house, maybe a forty-five minute walk. But it was fall, too cold to be out in the thin fabric she was wearing, and if someone spotted her they’d most likely call the police.
Did she have anyone she could call? She didn’t really have any friends. Maybe her boss would be sympathetic enough to cart her back home.
She grabbed her purse and peeked out the door. The hallway empty, she crept out.
* * *
“What happened to you, Nick?” the doctor asked as he entered the room.
Doctor Johnson was one of two people who ever called him by his first name. The other had been his mother. He was trim with silver hair and black rimmed glasses. Unlike a lot of family men in their fifties he’d never let himself go. His only vice was a drug he couldn’t get legally. For that he needed Stavic. He’d always made sure the doc was a happy customer because you never knew when you might need to call in favor.
Stavic looked as Doctor Johnson said, “What happened to you?”
“Would you believe me if I said I fell down the stairs?”
“Not in the least.”
The doctor pulled out a pen light and shined it into Stavic’s good eye, the light blinding it. Satisfied he moved onto the next, working to open the swollen lids. Stavic could suddenly see out of it albeit blurry. Again the light, again a satisfied nod. “Shirt off and arm up please.”
Stavic did as instructed, lifting his right arm as far as he could before the pain in his side prevented him. “You got some nice bruising, that’s for sure.” Stavic felt fingers gently prod the area, each caused a stabbing sensation, each making him wince. “How bad?”
“It doesn’t feel good.”
Doctor Johnson wiggled the stethoscope into his ears and placed the opposite end to Stavic’s chest. “Deep breath.”
Stavic obeyed, only moderate pain with the inhale. He felt the stethoscope move.
“Again.”
Stavic let the doctor do his thing without complaint.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” Doctor Johnson said as he pulled the stethoscope from his ears. “I assume this needs to be kept off the record?”
“You’d assume right.”
“Well,” the doctor sighed, “in that case I can give you a prescription for some painkillers. It should help a little.”
“All I needed to know was if something was broken.”
“I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty, but no, I don’t think so.”
“That’s all I need then.”
“Fine,” the doctor said. He stood, walked to the door. “You know the way out.”
As Stavic put on his shirt he thought of David. “You got an unconscious old man here? Maybe in a coma?”
“This is a hospital, Detective.” His title. Doc must be annoyed if he was going the professional route.
“He would have been brought in the last day or two.”
“I can’t give you that information.”
“I understand of course.”
Doctor Johnson was almost out the door when Stavic continued. “By the way, I’m not sure I’ll be able to fill your next order.” That stopped him. “Supply is getting harder and harder to come by. Government crackdown from what I hear.”
Doctor Johnson was back in the room, door closed. “Y—you can’t. You wouldn’t. It’s for my wife for gods sake!”