Authors: Marc Buhmann
“You keep saying that, but it
was
a big deal. At least to me.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“In all honesty?” Emily shook her head. “No. I don’t.”
“Emily—”
“Just… stop.” With that Emily stood and walked to the door. “Now get some rest.” She gave a small smile and shut the door.
* * *
It had taken some time, but Patrick ultimately caved. They always did. DeMarcus knew what would break a person, a combination of physical and mental abuse. Sometimes only a few hours were needed, other times it was days or weeks or months, but in the end the person would spill what they knew.
Turns out another doorway was found that opened here in the shadow realm near a building in the woods. He didn’t know its name but it looked like a communal place where people socialized. When he was a little stronger he was going to go and investigate this place.
What are you doing here?
he’d asked.
To find Lilly. To bring her back.
And did you find her?
No. Just an old man.
How did you know where to look?
Sensed her.
On and on he asked his questions, and Patrick answered them until he began to sob, begging for the torture to stop. DeMarcus just shook his head.
No… you had your chance.
And the torture continued until Patrick was no more.
He didn’t gain a whole lot of insight, yet knowing there was at least another doorway bothered him. Who knew how many more of Shaw’s supporters would come through? And why was the essence of Lilly coming off some old man? That didn’t make any sense. DeMarcus was going to have to pay him a visit.
He wasn’t thrilled about traversing in the shadow realm but it was a necessity. While he trusted Paul with most of the tasks given him, there were some he needed to handle himself.
“Dispose of him,” DeMarcus instructed Paul. “I need time to think.”
Paul nodded and started to untie the limp body of Patrick Zappala.
* * *
Stavic cut a line of coke and snorted it with a straw. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the bitterness drip in the back of his throat. His tongue numbed as he waited, letting the drug envelop him.
There was only one drug dealer in town. Stavic kept him out of trouble and in return he was offered a hell of a discount. He also knew the underbelly of River Bend. If a John Doe was murdered here then there was a good chance Charles Went knew something about it.
He really should get to bed. He’d been up for thirty-five hours and was beat. The insomnia had him on edge, and he’d taken the coke to try and curb the nerves. Bad idea.
Stavic ran his hands through his hair then brushed the coke residue off the manila folder onto the coffee table. He picked the folder up and flipped through the pages.
Nothing. Not a god damned thing.
He tossed the folder back and looked around his small cliché apartment. Dark, dingy, papers scattered about, liquor bottles piled on the tables… the epitome of every fucking pulp book ever written. The only thing he didn’t do was smoke. That may have been because his mother was a chain-smoker, and he had always hated how their house smelled. Not to mention the walls had taken on a shade of piss over the years. Say what you wanted about his place now, at least it was only cluttered.
Stavic never known his father; the man died before he was born. All he knew was that his name was Frank and was the result of an accident at the mill. His mother Abigail had done what she could to raise him right—gave him space to make mistakes and learn from them—and never hovered. He’d gotten into his fair share of trouble, but what teenage boy didn’t?
In its heyday RIver Bend was a logging town, and to this day still produced a large amount of paper products that shipped nationally. Farmlands bordered it with not much north of them besides small tourist towns for outdoor enthusiasts. It was all fine by Stavic though: he’d take this any day over a big city. Too much noise, too much crime, too many assholes. He’d done his time in Chicago and it had nearly cost him his life.
Stavic went to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice then splashed in some whiskey. He had the glass to his lips when an image of Jennifer popped into his head. Her accusatory eyes glazing over as he tried to stem the bleeding from the hole in her abdomen.
Hold on baby! Hold on!
Stavic willed the image away. Poor sweet Jennifer. If not for her he’d be rotting in a coffin. He regarded his glass, poured in a bit more whiskey. He had a feeling it was going to be one of those nights.
three
Willem’s eyes fluttered open.
Another restless night, another bad dream.
Two nights in a row. He was lying in his recliner and it was still dark out, the sound of crickets coming through the open window. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep.
It never came. The cricket chirps dissolved to cooing mourning doves. When the sky began to brighten Willem figured he might as well get up.
He showered and had breakfast then went out and filled the bird feeder. He swept up the mess of seed the birds had left on his patio. While he may not take care of his yard like he should he’d be damned if he’d let these poor little fellows starve.
The morning was sunny with small wisps of clouds drifting through the sky. It was days like this that Willem enjoyed, days that conjured memories of running through fields with his brothers, fishing in Willow Creek, and biking in the woods. Where had it all gone wrong?
Whenever he thought of Elliott he got angry, but now that had given way to regret. Maybe he should reach out to him, but what would he say? Those sorts of calls were always the worst, the uncertainty of where the conversation would go.
Maybe some fresh air would clear his head. What with the day being as beautiful as it was, and the nostalgia of childhood pulling at him, he decided a walk was just what he needed. He could follow the path he and his brothers used to take, detouring where needed to compensate for current development.
Three boys on the opposite shoulder were walking towards him. Each looked to be about twelve, and they were having a heated conversation about something called
Battlefield.
Willem had no idea what
Battlefield
was, but he guessed it was some sort of game. That conjured memories of him and his brothers playing cops and robbers.
As he walked he wondered how Elliott was doing. His wife and children were always pleasant to him, and he found himself missing their smiles and energy.
Maybe I’ll give him a call when I get home
.
Sometime later he saw Willow Creek Bridge and more memories of his youth came back. This had been a magical place for him and his brothers to escape. One day it was medieval lands, a local hideout for robbers the next. It was their go-to spot for their ever expanding imaginations.
He stopped in the center of the bridge and gazed south. The creek meandered past a willow tree some distance down before disappearing into a wood. A memory came to him, one of the willow tree and his brothers.
It’s our buried treasure,
he remembered Elliott telling him.
You can’t tell anyone about it.
God! He had forgotten all about the tin box with their buried treasure. Couldn’t be there anymore, not now, not after all these years. Some other kids must have discovered it by now surely. But maybe… And what had they buried? He couldn’t recollect.
He heard the casting of a fishing line and looked down. A kid around ten-years-old stood at the edge of the creek, fishing pole in hand. “Any luck?” he called down.
The boy looked up, eyed him nonchalantly. “A few bites.”
Willem watched as the boy reeled in the line and cast again. He wasn’t very good at it. “How long you been fishing?”
“I dunno. Hour maybe?”
“No,” Willem said with a laugh. “Not just today.”
The boy looked up. “An hour.”
The amusement dissipated, and Willem felt bad for laughing.
He watched the kid try again, the lure not getting very far.
“You ever fish?” the kid asked without looking up.
“Not in a long time, but yeah. I used to go with my brothers. Used to fish right about where you’re standing as a matter of fact.”
The boy looked up. “Think you, uh, could give me some pointers?”
He was in no hurry; what was the harm in helping this kid out? “Give me a second.”
Willem worked his way down the embankment. It was steep, and the worn rut they used to use was hidden beneath long uncut grass. Several times he slipped on his way down. This had been easy when he was a kid, but at sixty-four not so much. The ground leveled off and Willem approached the boy who was reeling in again. “What’s your name?”
“William.”
Willem couldn’t help but smile. “When I was your age I had a good friend named William. I’m Willem. You can imagine the confusion the two of us caused in a group.” The boy smiled politely. “So let me see you cast.”
The boy readied himself, pressed the release with his thumb, and flicked the pole hard over his shoulder. The lure only went half a dozen feet before smashing into the water. He looked at him expectantly.
“You’re being too forceful.” He extended his hand. “Let me show you.”
The boy handed over the pole and watched and Willem reeled it in. “The trick is to be gentle. Start by casting sideways. Once you’re comfortable with that you can go overhead. Like this.”
Willem extended the pole, pressed the release, and flicked it. The lure glided through the air gracefully landing with a gentle
plop.
The boy beamed. “Let me try!”
Willem reeled it up and handed the pole back over. The glint of the lure caught his eye and an image appeared from the depths of his memory. A green lure, much like this one. Maybe he had one like it when he was a boy? He shook it off. Didn’t matter.
The boy readied the cast. “Like this?”
“Yep. Just like that.”
The boy cast smoothly, the lure landing nicely in the creek. The smile on the boy’s face radiated pure joy. “I did it! Thanks!”
“You’re welcome. That’s a nice rod you got there by the way. Who gave it to you?”
The smile dropped a bit. “My dad. Got it for me for my birthday.”
“It’s your birthday today?”
A nod.
Willem felt bad for the boy. He should be learning to fish with his father, not some stranger who just happened to pass by.
“Well happy birthday, William.”
“Thanks.”
Willem watched in silence as William practiced, each cast improving. “You’re a natural.”
“It’s not really that hard once you get used to it.”
“Very true.”
Memories flooded back of his father taking him and Elliott fishing, then Sammy when he was older. Laughing, eating a picnic lunch their mother had made them. They mostly caught pan fish, but once he’d caught a bass. He remembered how excited and proud his father had been. That was before his father…
He shook it off. Why did he keep thinking about his family after spending so many years pushing those memories aside? Maybe he should just swallow his pride and call Elliott. It had been ten years since they’d last spoke. Perhaps it was time to let bygones be bygones?
“Keep practicing,” Willem said, “and soon you’ll be a master fisherman. Pleasure to meet you, William.”
Willem turned and made his way back up the overgrown path. By the time he’d reached the top he’d decided he would go home and make the call. It was time.
* * *
As Stavic pulled into the parking lot of the boat launch, he noted that Harold already had the boat in the water and tied to the dock. He was at the end staring out at the river, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The launch was empty except for them. Harold’s truck and trailer were parked at the edge of the lot next to a row of trees. Stavic looked at his watch: 9:57. Apparently Harold wasn’t the fashionably late type.
Stavic snorted a dash of coke. If he was getting in an aluminum boat that had the stability and grace of a cicada he needed something to calm his nerves. Grabbing the two cups of coffee he’d brought with him he stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The day was sunny, but a bit on the cool side.
Harold turned as Stavic approached. “Morning deputy,” and proffered a cup.
“Thanks. And just call me Nicolas. Or Nick. Deputy is too formal for my taste.”
“Fair enough.” Harold pulled the cigarette from his lips and graciously took the cup, sipping it. He flinched, almost dropping the cup. “Hot!” he said.
“Good to know,” Stavic replied. He looked at the cigarette between Harold’s fingers.
“Nasty habit, I know, but old habits die hard. Everyone is allowed one vice anyway, don’t you agree?”
“Implicitly.” The twelve foot boat was three feet lower than the dock and bumped against it with a metallic thump. Stavic noted the small Evinrude outboard motor on the back of the boat. It looked ancient. “How old is this thing?”