These Truths

By R.M. Haig

Some skeletons are better left buried... but when fresh remains reignite old fears of a notorious child killer in the small town of Burlwood, Indiana, a private investigator whose life is in ruin must return to his hometown to face his past and try to clear an old friend of heinous charges. What he finds when he examines his life through the looking glass of time will change him and those around him forever, if only he can stand to face the wraiths and goblins that masquerade behind the hideous masks of -- These Truths

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.M. Haig
• Release date: Mar 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370337309

Book preview

ONE

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September 8th, 2016. 1:00PM

Indianapolis, Indiana

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LeTonya Hughes sighed and shook her head as the short arm of the Jaeger-Lecoultre Atmos clock on her desk swung into the territory beyond the "I".  Her husband was running late, and that meant more work for her... as per usual.

When he eventually sauntered his portly frame through the door and into the lobby of his office, he would claim that his case was called last—or that the judge was long-winded, or that there was bad traffic, or some other damned thing.  She wouldn't believe anything he said, but she would have to accept whichever he claimed as his excuse this time, because it really didn't matter anyway. 

All of the extra work it would mean (for her) would have to be done regardless of what had detained him.  Whether the excuse he invoked was valid (and it generally wasn't) or whether he had just decided that life should operate on his time, at his whim, she would just have to smile and do the work... as per usual. 

Miraculously, though, somehow—in the face of what he would claim were the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—he would have found the time to waltz his big black-ass into the deli on 5th and Main to pick up a couple of Reubens, which he would be carrying with him in a greasy paper sack.  She would remind him that he's supposed to be on a diet, per his doctor's orders, and he would smile and admit that he did need to be on one, but it would have to start tomorrow, as he had already purchased the sandwiches.  Waste not, want not, he would say.  Then, in an attempt to deflect her attention, he would stop to admire the seven-thousand-dollar clock on her desk (which she thought was garish, by the way) and marvel at the fact that it required no winding or electricity to operate.

Thinking only about himself and how much time he could devote to those sandwiches, he would ask her what his afternoon looked like.  As she rattled off all of his appointments—appointments that he himself had scheduled—he would act like she must be crazy for having so terribly overbooked his day. 

At his request, she would push back all of the appointments scheduled before two-thirty—cancelling those that couldn't be adjusted—and the day that had been slated to end at five o'clock would stretch on until at least seven or eight... as per usual.

On most days, that was fine... this was, after all, his practice; his business.  It put good food on the table, nice clothes on the children's backs and that god-awful looking Atmos paperweight on the rich mahogany desk at which she sat.

On those days, though, they didn't have an invitation to what promised to be the most incredible, sensational, absolutely fabulous dinner party that Indiana had ever seen at eight o'clock.  On those days, there was no plan to visit the exclusive estate of Forrest and Chantel Woodard—a grown-up's Neverland. 

LeTonya had met Chantel at the nail salon (where she went every week, despite her husband's never ending chagrin at the mere suggestion that she might spend a whole fifty-bucks on something so trivial), where the two commiserated for the better part of an afternoon on the inherent suffering of the working lawyer's wife.  They proved to be soul-sisters; kindred spirits who were completing each-other's sentences within minutes of meeting and swapping stories that were all too familiar to both of them.  Now, they met regularly just to talk—and talk they did. 

The stories Chantel told were much more interesting than those that LeTonya had, however, because Forrest Woodard worked in entertainment law.  As a result, Chantel could drop the names of NFL, NBA and R&B music personalities into her anecdotes with an ease that left LeTonya seeing stars. 

The party this evening was to celebrate something big—maybe it was the couple's anniversary, or Forrest's birthday, or some holiday that only the super-rich know about—she couldn't remember, she had been so excited about it that the occasion had slipped her mind.  Whatever it was, the date had something to do with it because it was a Thursday, and who the hell has a massive dinner shindig on a Thursday?  Whatever it was, it was gonna be big.  So big, in fact, that a whole roster of the who's who in the entertainment industry was going to be there—including Diana F'ing Ross who was in town to perform a show this weekend!

Well Touch Me in the Morning, It's My Turn Love Child, and Ain't No Mountain High Enough 'cuz I'm Coming Out my Endless Love!  The Hughes' weren't going to miss this party, no sir!  They were going to roll up on that big house at eight o'clock sharp, no matter what excuse Donnell tried to cook up to get out of it.  Come Hell or high water, LeTonya Hughes was gonna meet Miss Ross and sip Cristal from diamond-studded Calleija flutes before the sun went down this night! 

She was gonna do the Electric Slide side-by-side with Paul George and Kobe Bryant, rub elbows with that gorgeous corn-fed white boy Eli Manning and sing Take Me To The River with R Kelly.  She was gonna eat crab, fresh fruit, prime rib and the finest collard greens that money can by until she felt like she might burst at the seams.  It would be her reward for all the hard work she put in... dragging Donnell through law school, slaving over a hot stove to build up his rotund physique, and for making all of those goddamned phone calls to adjust his schedule so that he could coast through life on his own timetable—as per usual. 

...and anything he would try to do, or to say, that might make them arrive even a single, solitary second after the hands of his hideous, useless, self-indulgent clock clicked into place over the hour of eight PM?  Well... like her coffee mug says, ain't nobody got time for that!

The office phone rang as she took a sip from the aforementioned mug, the display flashing restricted caller with no number underneath.  Little did whomever it was know, today, restricted caller was French for go take a hike, because she wasn't trying to hear anything but grab your purse, honey, and let's get on down the road.  Restricted Caller would just have to call back later, because LeTonya was already at the party munching on Club crackers piled high with Petrossian Imerial Special Reserve Persicus Caviar and chasing them with pork rinds. 

It was probably just another dead-beat criminal calling, anyway.  He would say he still couldn't send a payment towards his overdue balance, which was probably already in collections.  If not that, it would be a prospective client... one with bad credit, no collateral and no hope in Hell of ever paying a red cent for the services he sought from her husband.  She hated those people... hated that Donnell always took them on, knowing full well that they couldn't afford a court-appointed public defender who was free, let alone a well-respected homicide lawyer whose wife had aspirations of some day hosting such hedonistic parties as the one they were going to attend this evening. 

How would they ever get the keys to that ten-million dollar mansion on the lake if he kept taking cases that cost hundreds of hours of work and paid in no more than a modest stipend of twenty or forty dollars a month?  Shit, cases like that were gonna buy them a one-way ticket back to the trailer park her husband had grown up in... and ain't nobody got time for that for sure.  She was doing the two of them a favor by not answering that phone, Donnell just didn't know it.

It was almost one-thirty according to that shitty clock (which she swore was slow, sometimes) before the door to the hallway finally swung open and all five feet, nine inches of her husband's three-hundred pounds marched in.  His bald head was glistening with sweat, which he promptly wiped away with a handkerchief retrieved from a pocket inside his suit coat.  If he had an inhaler in there, he would've taken a puff at that, too, because the walk in had obviously been an effort based on his labored breathing.  He seemed to be making a show of putting the hanky back where it came from, as though to seek her approval of the fact that the hand not carrying his attaché case was otherwise empty.

Mmmm hm, she declared matter-of-factly.  "That's all well and good, but there's a trail of Thousand Island running down each side of your jacket—so I know you already ate at least two of those sandwiches!"

The man stopped where he stood, setting down his briefcase and smiling an I'm busted smile.  Wow, he said, pointing to her desk. "Isn't that an Atmos clock?  The kind that runs on atmoshperic pressure—no batteries, no plug?  Gee, that clock is out of sight, where'd you get it?"

"You're running behind... again," she admonished. 

Yeah, he sighed.  The judge spent all morning meeting with somebody in chambers, so my case didn't even get called until it was almost lunch.

Did your client take the plea they offered?

What's that, sweetie? Donnell asked, moving to the water cooler in the corner. 

The plea-bargain you worked out for him, did he take it?

Oh, no, he explained, filling a paper cup.  He wants to try for an insanity defense.

She shrugged.  He seemed pretty sane to me when he was in here whining about how he would still be loose if his buddy hadn't sold him out!

Yeah, you know these guys, he said, taking a sip.  Facing life without parole, any opportunity for a break seems like a good one.

Did his mother give you a check for the retainer?

"Oh, he chirped feigning ignorance, the way he always did.  We didn't get the retainer from them at consultation?"

"Noooo, I told you that this morning, before you left.  They claimed they didn't have it just then, but they were supposed to have it today!"

Well, I'll just get it from them at the jury selection—which is set for November 1st, by the way.

Nine AM?

You know it, sugar! he smiled, winking at her as he pitched his cup and retrieved his attaché. 

She swirled the mouse around on her desk to wake up her computer, then opened his calendar to make an entry—and to get a look at which appointments she would have to adjust due to his having spent so much time wolfing down seven-dollar sandwiches that his blood-pressure couldn't afford.

What's the rest of my day look like? he asked, right on cue.

Well, she replied, scrolling through the listings.  "You've got a consultation at—now, but apparently they're not coming since I don't see them around here anywhere... a teleconference with Wilmer Laporta at two, a consultation at two-thirty and another at three, then depositions in the Omar Timlin case down at county at four, four-thirty and five."

"Timlin, Timlin," he muttered in a feeble attempt to jog his memory.

He's the one that beat his mother to death with a garden spade.

Donnell winced, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head to the side.  "Allegedly beat his mother to death with a garden spade," he corrected her.

"Right, she conceded, rolling her eyes.  Could be he used a full-size shovel."

Donnell frowned, both at her response and at the schedule she had laid out for him. See if you can reschedule those consultations, Wilmer and I need to talk about the witnesses he wants to call, and I don't know how long it's going to take.  Maybe we can push those depositions back to start at four-thirty, just in case.

"Nuh-uh, she exclaimed, knowing just what this would lead to.  No, no, no —not today, no sir!. Her husband's face was overcome with surprise at her outburst, which only angered her further.  You know we need to be across town by eight, and we need time to get dressed!  With traffic the way it's been, that means we need to be leaving here by six o'clock, no later!"

Across town by eight?  What's at eight?

LeTonya threw up her palm (talk to the hand) in frustration.  Donnell, she began, trying to keep cool.  "You know we've got that dinner party tonight—"

"Whoa," he tried to calm her, raising his own hand as though to signal her to stop and waiving it towards the ground in a futile effort to get her to step it down.  It was too late, he had already started her going.

"...and we're gonna get there right—on—time!"

"Okay," he tried again.

"Now I don't wanna hear no guff, no bull, no but honeys, no—" she continued, counting her charges out on her fingers.

"Okay!" "—

"...excuses, no nonsense, no flak out of your mouth!  You know how important this is to me, and I'm not gonna be late on account of your foolery!"

"Okay, honey," he continued once she'd stopped, still waiving like he was trying to cool her jets with his fanning.  "Just calm right down, forget I said anything, and e-mail me the information for the telecon and I promise we'll get there right on time—okay?"

She said nothing; just glared at him.  He took the cue, lowering his hand one last time and inching his way towards his office carefully, cautiously... never breaking eye-contact with her in case this was the time she decided to jump him.  Once he crossed the threshold, he closed the door behind him and collapsed against it.  Relieved at having escaped, he drew the handkerchief again and dabbed it on his brow.

"Who the hell has a dinner party on a Thursday?" he wondered, reasonably.

Taking no chances, he flipped the lock on the doorknob up and jiggled the handle to be sure it was secure.  Convinced he was safe, for the moment, he set his briefcase on his desk and melted into his plush leather computer chair. 

Tapping the space bar lit his monitor, revealing his crowded and unorganized desktop.  He scanned the icons for the beige one marked Outlook and double-clicked to open his mail-box.  There were many bold entries that indicated new messages he needed to sift through before he had to dial into the telecon. 

Spinning the wheel of his mouse, he tried to triage those that needed his immediate attention and those that he could try to read while Wilmer was rambling about why he felt it was important to put his former supervisor on the stand as a character witness for him.  It wouldn't matter much anyway, Wilmer was guilty as sin, but the detectives working his case had botched it.  A t not crossed here, an i not dotted there, leading a witness and an unlawful search and seizure—nothing too terribly out of the ordinary, but enough.  Their mistakes would prove fatal to the prosecution, it was a shoe-in.  Wilmer would walk even if they didn't call anyone to the stand, it was all just window-dressing in the grand scheme of things.

A win on a technicality wasn't necessarily ideal in Donnell's eyes, but he would take it... had taken it on several occasions before.  To him, such things were simply the inevitable hallmarks of the justice system as it is designed.  All else being equal, the burden of proving guilt was supposed to rest squarely on the shoulders of the district attorney and the state—and there was a clearly defined set of rules under which they were expected to carry out that duty. 

Perhaps there would be greater justice in a society that shoots first and asks questions later; a world that would do away with the pseudo-wins he had enjoyed so many of throughout his career.  In a society such as that, though, sans due process, the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike would be on the hands of every citizen—and they would have to be comfortable with the blood's existence.  In the out, damned spot world that men have built, however, the gloves of those charged with prosecuting the accused must be squeaky clean and beyond reproach. 

As it happened, in the case of Wilmer Laporta, that simply wasn't how it had gone.  As a result, a killer would go free... but perhaps, thanks to the diligence of Donnell and attorneys like him in making sure the process was followed just as it was designed, the next guy—who was truly innocent—would be free of the shackles that a persecutory justice system would otherwise place him in.  Clinging to that notion allowed him to sleep at night... he hoped it wasn't contrived.

When it came to the e-mail, he could tell right away that there wasn't much of substance to see in his box.  There was one message, though, buried deep among the clutter, that caught his attention; sitting wedged between spam that warned it was the last day for him to save up to eighty-percent on Viagra and a message from his mother.  The subject line read URGENT: Donnell please call, and an L in a blue circle appeared next to text that said the message was from Louis.

"Louie Rambo?" he wondered aloud, clicking to open the message.  When a window expanded to show the entirety of the text, he saw that his feeling had been correct.  At the bottom, the message had been signed Deputy Louis Rambo, Elsmere CPD, and  it was not the sort of wordy legal mumbo-jumbo communique he typically found in his inbox.

DONNELL, it read in all caps.  I THOUGHT YOU SHOULD SEE THIS.  I TRIED TO CALL JAKE BUT HIS BUSINESS NUMBER IS DISCONNECTED.  MAYBE YOU HAVE HIS PERSONAL CELL?  PLEASE CALL ASAP.

Below the text was a blue hyper-link, referencing the Elsmere Monitor—a newspaper that served the county of his hometown.  He clicked it, Firefox opening in response and splashing an article across his screen.  At the top was a headline in bold, dramatic type declaring Police make arrest in murder of local boy; claim correlation with Butcher Of Burlwood killings unlikely.

Ho-ly shit, he mumbled to himself, a flood of memories rushing through his mind at the sight of a phrase he hadn't considered in nearly twenty years.  Shaking off his momentary distraction, he began to read the article, which had been posted the day before.

Elsmere County Sheriff Ronald Boudreaux announced yesterday that his office had served a warrant for the arrest of a suspect in the murder of William Marsh, 9, of Burlwood.  Marsh was last seen on July 24th, and his dismembered remains were discovered floating in a pond behind the Burlwood Meadows trailer park on the 26th.

The suspect, Charles Murphy, 38, also of Burlwood—

Chucky? Donnell gasped, continuing.

—was arrested at his home in Burlwood Meadows yesterday morning in the culmination of an investigation that Boudreaux says has been his department's number one priority since the remains were discovered.

The murder touched a raw nerve in the small town of Burlwood, rekindling the fear that gripped residents in the period between 1990 & 1994, when a string of grisly murders were committed by a killer dubbed The Butcher Of Burlwood.  All of The Butcher's victims were between the ages of 8 & 12, and their remains similarly dismembered. 

In a special address, Boudreaux acted to assuage fears that The Butcher has resurfaced to continue his bloody reign by stressing his belief that this was a one-off crime not connected in any way to those of the past.  Murphy is being held at the Elsmere County jail and is expected to be arraigned on charges of 1st degree murder, kidnapping, torture and mutilation of a corpse within the next several days.

Sheriff Boudreaux also renewed his call for anyone with information pertaining to the case to report it to either his office or to crime-stoppers, no matter how insignificant the details of that information may seem. 

Barely believing what he read, Donnell went through it all again... trying to absorb and process the words that seemed so entirely surreal and abstract to him.  Reaching for his phone with his eyes still glued to the screen, he knocked the handset from its cradle.  Yanking at it blindly to untangle the cord, he minimized Firefox and scanned the original e-mail for Louie's number. 

Before he could dial it, though, he pressed the Intercom - Lobby button and made a pre-requisite declaration.  "LeTonya—clear my schedule."

TWO

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September 8th, 2016.  2:30PM

Detroit, Michigan

Three hundred miles away, Jacob Giguére took a long drag on his cigarette.  The glowing ember was perilously close to his finger, which could feel its heat as his lungs felt the Newport cool that they craved.  It's the menthol, he thought, not the nicotine, to which he was addicted.  This was probably a ridiculous notion, and he knew it... but it seemed more plausible than anything else in his life at that moment, so he clung to it.

The furious orange of the smoldering tobacco caught his attention, so he gazed into it after he drew the filter away from his mouth.  The lambency fascinated him.  In it, he saw chaos, rage, insanity and animosity... all were very familiar to him.  He felt the fervor and bridled torment of the flame desperately seeking birth, bound in chains and irons from which it could not possibly hope to escape without some foreign intervention.  He understood its longing for birth, its begging for some loosely wadded paper on which to feed or for a sip of some invigorating accelerant to set it off... anything to quiet its insatiable thirst; to set it free and further it along in its epic quest for ruin and for destruction. 

There would be no relief for the fire this day, though, and none for him, either.  It would die a slow and lonely death, fading out with no pomp and no circumstance atop a pile of recently deceased comrades on a filthy slab of concrete just outside of his car.  Perhaps it would shine its brightest in the moment before it disappeared forever; or perhaps that honor is reserved solely, in antithesis, for the cold and damning power of the dark before the dawn.  Would he fade so uneventfully, too?

Fearing the loss of himself to its depths and feeling the sting of searing flesh upon his fingers, he dropped it lazily out the slightly lowered window of his Chevrolet sedan.  It fell with little inspiration, and was thus cast out of his life forever... cast out, as he had been from the world at large.

With nothing on which to dwell, now, his mind resumed its frenzied churning... dark thoughts pulsing in fits and starts that were jarring and disconcerting.  Feelings and emotions cycled without pattern or definition... swirling, swirling, swirling, in confusion and discord.  Over clouds of black and shades of gray he teetered, his psyche breaking down in cascading faults and failures like tepid plumes of water spilling over the thunderous crest of mighty Niagara.  Hopes that had long since turned to ash stirred and coalesced, cremains of dreams and broken promises bequeathed to none and promised to all. 

Through the cold and musty void spun those words; those spears of pride and honor that refused to settle with the dust.  Those two words that twirled, sparkled and pierced the veil.  Sinister and cruel, they stalked him in the dusk of all he was like demons out for blood... stalked and caught him now, when life had forced him to his knees, and preached to him a dark parable of rest and resignation.  They called to him from the abyss, from the tomb of what could be and what had been, in tongues of fire billowing smoke.  Silent and vociferous in thunder and quiescence... immortal and surcease in triumph and in tragedy...

Double indemnity, they cried... the aphasic scream of sorrow... the sullied virgin of virtue... the rusted glitter on the gold... double indemnity...

The rain sounds nice on the windshield and double indemnity... strangers wandering by and double indemnity... the reels of a slot machine spinning on his phone and double indemnity... seven, seven, seven and double indemnity... arbeit macht frei and double indemnity... the power of Christ compels you and double indemnity... the goddamned bitch and the papers and double indemnity in the darkness and fire burns double indemnity the fucking whore and what an excellent day for double indemnity I can't believe it's real in double never wanted this to happen indemnity smell gin and piss with double indemnity watch for the sounds moving through double an albatross, by God indemnity hate slow moving in motion double crutch like wasted away indemnity filing island in the woods double indemnity in the trunk with—fuck. 

Have to stop... have to focus.

He ran his fingers through his greasy hair, feeling the filth in it—smelling the smoke in it.  Smoke, menthol and he wanted another smoke.  He took one from his pack, which was running low, and lit it before the last one had a chance to burn out.  Looking at his phone, above the spinning reels, he noted the time... two-thirty PM... a half hour, he'd been awake, now, double indemnity... a half hour spent treading water on the cusp of madness.

Where the fuck was he?  Looking around, he saw nothing that he recognized.  He had woken up sprawled out in his fully reclined driver's seat—at least it was his car, double indemnity—his head pounding, his eyes burning. 

In a momentary lapse of judgement, he made the mistake of looking at himself in the vanity mirror.  The man he saw in it looked pathetic; pale, slimy and unshaven.  Inflamed and irritated blood vessels in his eyes confirmed his suspicions that he had been drinking last night.  Based on how he felt, he had drank a lot... he was dizzy and nauseous still, and there was an odor wafting through the window that he was quite certain must be coming from a pile of vomit on the concrete where his cigarette butts were stacking.

Apparently, he had passed out with his keys in the ingnition and the car running.  Perhaps he had the intention of driving away in a drunken stupor... thank the gods, he hadn't done that... at least he hadn't done that.

Upon waking, he had quickly turned the vehicle off and pulled the back seat forward, stashing the keys and other items that would spell trouble if a police officer happened by in the trunk.  Then, he moved into the passenger seat and double indemnity.  Still, he was worried that a cop would happen by... was surprised that one hadn't already while he was sleeping. 

While he wasn't sure exactly where he was, it was quite obvious that he was in the parking lot of a seedy-looking dive bar, probably the one in which he had spent the prior night.  Vaguely, he could recall loud country music and rock... could taste the pungent flavors of Jaegerbombs and Martinis... could smell gin, in fact, though this was a mystery because he hated gin with a passion.  Slowly, though, double indemnity, details started coming back to him. 

There had been a woman... a chubby woman, no less.  She was drinking gin and—shit, had he been sucking face with her?  He wiped his mouth and came back with rouge on the back of his hand... that's why he tasted gin, shit.  That's why his shirt was all disheveled and half-unbuttoned, too, the skank had run her hands all over him. 

Suddenly, he wanted a shower.  How long had it been since he'd had one, he wondered?  Two days?  Three?  Four?

That's right, he thought—she jammed her hand up my shirt and felt my gun in the shoulder holster.  Did she jam it down my pants as well?  She thought I was a cop... a very drunk and sloppy cop, I guess, and she bailed out and ran.  Maybe because the baggie belonged to her?  Christ, he hoped the baggie had belonged to her.  It was on his dash when he came to, empty, save for the powdery white residue that stuck to its sides.  Certainly, it was hers... he hadn't fallen so far—had he? 

Either way, the damned thing was in the trunk, now, with his keys and his Beretta 92.  He had a permit to carry, of course, and the gun was legal—but better not to have to explain all of that if a cop came asking why he was loitering around some seedy country-western bar with a firearm while probably still drunk in all the ways that count.  If he had the keys on him or in the ignition, that amounted to physical control, and physical control amounts to driving while intoxicated—even when there's no driving involved.  Even with them in the trunk, there could still be questions. 

There wouldn't be any questions about the baggie, though, just the popping of a test capsule and a sudden rush of blue before a nice long stay as a guest of the county—or the city, depending on where exactly he was.  All in all, everything added up to gotta get the fuck out of here as soon as possible. 

That wasn't advisable in his condition, though, he would have to wait it out just a bit longer, double indemnity.  He was a prisoner to his thoughts until such time as he felt comfortable to drive, and his thoughts were wholly unkind to him, now, as usual. 

In an effort to quiet the screaming in his head, he tried to reconstruct the past several days, which were all a blur to him in the hazy afterglow of liquor and God knows what else.  He remembered the padlock on his office door... remembered getting the papers... remembered punching a hole in a particularly fragile wall... remembered going to the bank and draining his account, the account of his business not his wife's... remembered making it rain on some whore with no top on... remembered slamming shots like they were water... remembered wishing it would stop, remembered putting the Beretta in his mouth, remembered pulling back the slide, remembered clicking off the safety, remembered his racing heart and sweat running down his face, remembered... remembered wanting to run away.

The sound of a slamming door jarred him, his heart falling at the thought that it was his imaginary cop finally happening by.  It wasn't, but that made the moment no less sobering.  It turned surreal when he realized the face of the man getting out of the car a few spots away was very familiar to him, indeed.

"Shit, he chuckled quietly, It's Dan Tripp!".

He lowered himself in his seat a bit, an attempt to make himself inconspicuous born of habit and of instinct.  In another time, he had invoiced Misses Tripp for six hours of surveillance—many of which were spent melted into his seat with a pair of binoculars to his eyes, waiting for Dan to leave work and travel to a place just like the one at which he sat now.  She was sure he was having an affair... coming home late, smelling of cigarettes and booze, spending inordinate amounts of money and generally acting out of character. 

Jake had staked out his office, followed him from there to a bar—where he was going—but not to meet with any secret concubine of the female predilection.  It had been a male colleague, and the conversations he had listened-in on, posing as a fellow patron, were about financial troubles and not illicit sexual desires.  They were about the hell that would be paid when Misses Tripp learned of the money they had lost in the market, about divorce born of disappointment instead of infidelity.  He had told her about this, as it was what he had been hired to do, and she had gone ghost-white pale with embarrassment and shame before cutting a check against an account with insufficient funds, perhaps to her surprise. 

That was long ago, though, and it was obvious that this visit to the local honky-tonk wasn't related to the vicissitudes of Wall Street.  Dan Tripp was nervous, fumbling his keys as he tried to lock his car and looking over his shoulder constantly as he hurried his way into Bottoms Up, a name as rich in double-entendre as the establishment was in vice. 

If he had his camera, he would've taken a picture of the man serruptitiously sliding the golden band off his left ring-finger as he marched—a courtesy to a former client of Giguére Investigative LLC, no charge for this coincidental service.  As it happened, though, he didn't have it with him... and Giguére Investigative was as good as defunct, anyway, so fuck it.

He supposed he could've taken a picture with his phone, but the man was inside before this occurred to him.  Plus, that would've meant exiting out of his slots game, and he was winning for a change.  If only he had such luck with the ones that took real money... 

The momentary thrill of catching a philanderer in the moments before his pants would be down, literally and figuratively, having passed, Jake realized he wasn't feeling very much better with the passage of time.  How long until he would eventually feel up to driving?  Even when he did, where the hell was he gonna go? 

What the hell was he gonna do? 

What becomes of the broken-hearted?

Where do broken hearts go? 

To double indemnity, he imagined... it seemed the last viable option.  A sad realization, but one achieved through a logical process of thought and reasoning (depraved though it may be) that satisfied all of the prerequisite conditions and wrapped everything up in a convenient,  bite-sized morsel with a pretty little bow and glittery ribbon on top. 

Selfless, noble, honorable, charitable, merciful—necessary...

Now there was only to decide where, and to flesh out the background a little bit.  Shit, he had that covered pretty well as it was with the apparently wild night that had delivered him to this place... maybe he shouldn't wait, maybe he should go now—before his blood-alcohol content dropped any further.

Did his BAC negate double indemnity, though?  Fuck, he didn't know... did anything other than .00 make it gross negligence?  That would sure screw the pooch... would change everything... make it selfish instead of selfless.

As he considered this, he felt the strange sensation he realized was that of his lap vibrating.  It took longer than it should've for his clouded mind to piece together the fact that it was his slot machine ringing—his phone, rather, ringing.  Looking down, he saw a number he didn't recognize... an Indianapolis number.

Puzzled, he thought for a moment—or tried to think, it was tough against a backdrop of double indemnity.  The reality of the happening seemed to thrust him back further into the haze... back into confusion. 

Unable to reason anything out, he simply swiped the screen to answer.  Should he answer Giguére Investigative?  No... this was his personal phone... the business phone was shut off, probably because he hadn't paid the bill in, well—a while.

"Hello?" he offered quizzically.  There was silence for a moment, then—

"Jake," a familiar voice... deep and full. 

Speaking...

"Jake, it's Donnell... Donnell Hughes."

"Launchpad?" he replied, memories circling... swirling together with the shadows of drunkeness with double indemnity, forming an abstract like the inept doodling of an autistic child on a perpetually moving canvas made of fluids mounted in nothing. 

"Chucky's in trouble, Jake, the disconnected voice replied sternly.  They found another body in Booger Woods."

"Booger Woods," more memories... memories of the sun, of the heat, of the running... running... memories of the cold, dead and clammy flesh... memories of the slipping skin, the smell of rot, the dried blood... the thumb—oh God, it's missing its thumb and I can see the bone in there...

"They arrested Chucky, Jake, they think he did it."

"Chucky?" more memories...

"He's being arraigned tomorrow morning in Garthby, I'm going up there to represent him... can you come?"

Jake didn't answer immediately, still lost in the afterimage... lost in the fog of liquor and depression, the fog of desperation and resignation.  The world seemed to be flying by him, now, in contrast to the slow motion in which he had lived just moments before his slot machine rang... moments of double indemnity, and what am I gonna do about the baggie, and Dan Tripp and why the fuck do I still taste martinis?

Then, the answer came to him—plain as day, obvious... obligatory...  Of course, he said.  Yeah, of course, Donnell.

"Good... at the courthouse, ten o'clock... I plan to get there at eight, you should come early too.  I'll meet you there, Louie will be there as well."

"Louie..." more, swirling...

"We'll talk more then, I've got some loose-ends to tie up and then I'll be on my way."

Loose ends, he thought... loose ends and double indemnity... it would have to wait... have to wait until after...

"Jake?" Launchpad asked... Donnell asked... "Are you okay, buddy?"

Yes, he answered, snapping himself back into reality by sheer force of will.  Yeah, Donnell, I'm good... I'll see you in the morning.

"Great..."

Donnell? he said, more swirling. 

"Yeah?"

Look, I know the last time we—

"Don't mention it, Jake," he interrupted, it was a long time ago... we were just kids...

Swirling, swirling and relief... "Thanks, Donnell... Chucky will appreciate it, too..."

This time, the pause was on the other end of the line, then, "Yeah, no problem."

Then, the tone... call ended... the slots were back... the cobwebs were back... The Butcher was back...

...and double indemnity?  It would have to wait... have to wait until it was over... he needed to go home for a few things...

Fuck, that would mean having to face her again... he hadn't wanted to do that

THREE

Joshua Banks

––––––––

August 12th, 1991. 10:30PM

Burlwood, Indiana

"Darkwing? Chucky's lightly slurred speech called through the speaker.  Then there was static... a pause... the voice again.  Darkwing, are you there?"

Jacob hurried into his room, blue and red lights painting his walls as he kicked his die-cast DeLorean and sent it tumbling into the corner along the way.  Diving into his Batmobile car bed, he grabbed for the blue walkie talkie near its foot.

Yeah, Chucky, he replied, depressing the button on its side.  I'm here.

"Are they still out there?"

Looking out his bedroom window, the one that faced Booger Woods, Jacob could see that they were.  Floodlights lit the forest brightly, now, erasing all traces of the darkness that had frightened Chucky; erasing the darkness of the night itself, painting the world with the whitewash of high-pressure sodium lamps.  Yellow tape cordoned off the entirety of what had been their playground, men and women—some in uniforms, some in suits—ducking underneath it from time to time.

Some of the men Jacob knew.  Clyde Rambo, the town sheriff, had gone in early in the day and had yet to come back out.  Ron Boudreaux, the deputy, had come and gone a few times.  Father Lovett went in, too, but only for a minute.  It was quiet when he did; no one moving, no one rustling, no flash-bulbs flashing.  When he left, it all resumed—and it continued, now, in the wee hours of the night.

There were many others throughout the evening, people Jacob didn't know but had seen around town at some point or another.  Most everyone was carrying something with them into the woods.  Pads of paper, cameras, briefcases, shovels and digging tools, mostly.  One group had pulled up in an ambulance and tried to push a rolling stretcher in, but there was no use with the tangled brush.  Instead, they took a board off of it and turned it on its side, weaving it through that way. 

There was a television news crew with a camera set up facing the scene as well, a sharply dressed woman speaking loudly into a microphone and pointing into the trees.  She said the same things over, and over and over again, saying them in different ways and different tones of voice each time.  Sometimes she would stress one word—like child, then the next time it would be murdered or dismembered.  Then, she started saying things like molested, sodomized and predator... things Jacob didn't understand.  The only predator he had ever heard of had been an alien in an action movie, and he knew that couldn't be what she was talking about. At one point, not long after that, he heard her say the word butcher with a great deal of emphasis.  Thus, a nickname was born... entered his lexicon, and began its haunting of his childhood.

He had watched for hours, fascinated and curious, but had grown tired of the activity as the evening stretched on.  Rambo and Boudreaux had come by earlier and asked him questions.  Questions about what they were doing in the woods, what they had seen and what they had done once they found Joshua Banks' arm. 

Joshua Banks, that's whose they said it was.  He had been nine years old and gone to school in Garthby, where he lived; had been missing for two weeks, since his mom and dad had a big fight and he ran outside to get away. 

They asked if Jacob had seen any grownups in the woods through his bedroom window... asked if he had heard any noises out there in the recent days or weeks.  He hadn't, and he told them so as his mother cried and hugged him tight.  They asked him lots of things, and the whole time he just wished that they would stop... stop, so his mother would stop with the crying.

She was always crying, always upset about something—and Jacob hated it.  She had barely stopped since that Christmas, two years ago, when they found his dad out hanging in the shed, wearing a sign on which he'd written I'm Sorry.  Sheriff Clyde and Deputy Ron had come out then, so had Father Lovett.  Having the policemen in the house probably reminded his mother of that day; that cold and wrenching Christmas, which had started off like any other Christmas and ended up in such life-changing despair.  All she had done was cry since then... cry and take her pills. 

Now, she was crying for Joshua Banks; crying for her son and what he'd seen.  "So much death, she sobbed... Why should my little boy be exposed to so much death?"

He told her it was okay... told her it hadn't bothered him, that he could deal with it like he had before.  It was true, mostly—he could cope.  It had scared him just a bit... holding a dead arm, an arm that was cold and stiff and just a little bigger than his own.  Seeing the missing thumb had turned his stomach, and the print his own fingers left in the gooey flesh had almost made him puke... but he could cope.  He had experience... he knew how to do it.

Telling her these things only made her more upset, though, and he couldn't understand why, no matter how he tried.  He just wanted her to stop... to take her pills and stop.

The police gave her their cards when they left, told her to call if he remembered anything else that could be important.  Once they were gone, he got her medicine from the cabinet and sat with her until it made her fall asleep. When she was sleeping, she wasn't sad... so Jacob liked it when she slept. 

"What are they doing now?" Chucky asked through the static.

He watched for a moment and saw people coming back out of Booger Woods, carrying small yellow bags at arm's length.  He wondered why they hadn't used the board they took in earlier, but figured it was probably too much of a maze to get through with it flat.  The woman with the microphone tried to stop some of them, but they just kept on walking... as though she wasn't there.  Eventually, a police officer shooed her away—like you would a dog.  She was from the city, that was probably why... one of the city people who only come to Burlwood to make fun of the backwoods rejects, that's what his mother said about them. 

I think they're bringing him out, he explained. They're carrying bags... lots of them.

"Do you think they found more of him?  More than his arm?"

"I guess so, Chucky, there are lots of bags," he replied. 

Looking closer, he thought he could see the vague outlines of what were probably Joshua's body parts, pulling at the bottom of each bag.  One had a sharp ridge hanging down, like the point of a knee or an elbow, with the plastic tracing a form at forty-five degree angles around it.  Another was bigger and had a person carrying it at each end... probably his torso.  Yet another was almost perfectly round... that must be his head, he thought. 

"Doctor Loomis said my wrist is broken, Chucky recounted.  It's all big and swollen, and it hurts really bad.  I have to wear a cast for six weeks, then I can have it off. a pause.  I guess we can't play any more sports this summer."

I'm sorry, Chucky, Jacob said.  Sorry that we made you go in there... sorry that you got hurt... sorry that you had to see— his speech trailed off into silence, so he released the talk button and let the silence say the rest.  Silence was the answer he got, too, for a reasonably protracted period, before Chucky finally spoke.

"Do you think it was Pennywise that did it?" he asked.  "Do you think he's here, and out to get us?"

"No, Chucky, he said assertively, Pennywise is just pretend!"

More silence, then "I'm afraid, Darkwing..."

"Don't be, Chucky! Jacob ordered, trying to send his strength over the air to comfort his frightened friend... the way he comforted his mother when she was feeling low.  You know I won't let anything hurt you... I'll never let anything hurt you, Chucky, because we're blood brothers —remember?"

Chucky thought about it for a moment... remembered the day last summer, when he cut his hand on broken glass buried in the sand around the swing set at Memorial Park.  He was crying, squeezing his bleeding palm like he squeezed his flashlight when it was dark at bed time.  There was so much blood... he thought losing so much meant that he was going to die.  Jacob told him he was okay and hugged him, then picked up the piece of glass and cut himself... on purpose.  Then, taking his dripping hand, he told him that he was giving Chucky his blood... that he wouldn't die, because his blood would make up for that which he had lost. 

Looking at the scar on his left palm, Chucky remembered that Darkwing had been right... he didn't die... Darkwing had rescued him and kept him alive.  Afterwards, Darkwing said that sharing each other's blood meant they were brothers now... blood brothers... inseperable, together and with each other forever.  Plus, he had strong blood in his veins, now... blood that would help him be less afraid of scary things. 

He called on the power of that blood as he lay wrapped up tight in his sleeping bag—a new, blue, flashlight clenched tightly in his sweat-lined right hand.  He wondered if he would have nightmares... nightmares about Pennywise, or about Joshua Banks' parts.  Joshua Banks, who had been all put together before but was all taken apart now... taken apart and dead, dead like Gary Duncan, and spread all over Booger Woods... Booger Woods, just two streets down and around the corner from his house.

"I promise, Chucky, Darkwing said through the crackling walkie talkie.  I won't let anything hurt you... ever."

These were words spoken to comfort, but also spoken as a pact... words he would have to live up to, time and time again.

FOUR

––––––––

September 8th, 2016. 9:30PM

Sterling Heights, Michigan

Tracy took a sip of Chardonnay, emptying her glass.  Her nerves were still raw, so she reported promptly to the fridge and drew another from the box.  It was running low itself, but in the garage were plenty more—a Rhine, a Pinot Grigio, the Blush and Chillable Red—should it become necessary to restock.  She wasn't a lush, nor a wine connoissuer by any means; but she thoroughly enjoyed drinking a nightly glass, just to take the edge off.

Having gotten through another day with Garrett—another day with autism—was cause for celebration and justification for decompression in the arms of the very-slightest wine buzz, and she needed it.  It was a full-time job keeping up with him; ensuring he ate when he was hungry and drank when he was thirsty, that he made it to the bathroom when he needed to go, that he didn't hurt himself.  Therefore, the period from nine o'clock until bed was Tracy Time... time to be spent with a nice glass of vino and the quiet. 

One glass would suffice on a normal day, but it was bound to take more—perhaps several more—on days like this one had been, but it was the exception to the rule, so she had no qualms with drawing another.  As much as she wanted—as she needed—to unwind, she checked her cell phone constantly, nervously, for an e-mail or a text.  She hadn't heard from Jacob in three days and two nights, and that wasn't like him at all. 

She had long since begun to worry, and worrying seemed to be all that she could do, outside of tempering the nerves with ever increasing amounts of Franzia's finests.  Jake had no friends that she could call to track him down, no family still alive that he would be likely to reach out to, and nowhere he would likely go for such an extended time if he had simply decided he needed to get away for awhile. 

She had considered phoning the police, but that wouldn't go over well at all... her husband was a big boy; a big, independent boy who could handle himself and wouldn't look kindly on being hunted down like a fugitive.

She thought about calling the hospitals, but Jacob hated doctors with a passion and would've stormed out at the first opportunity.  Besides, he keeps a card in his wallet, with his private investigator's badge, that lists her as his emergency contact—and she would've heard something by now if he had been hurt.

There was the morgue as well, of course, but she didn't even want to consider that possibility... surely, they would have called her, too—unless he had lost his wallet.  Perish the thought... 

He would have told her if a case had called him away... if he needed to comb the underbelly of the city or to stake out some seedy motel in search of a runaway addict.  He always had before, even when things were at their worst.  No heated argument or screaming fight, no matter how severe, had kept him from at least telling her where he was going. 

Besides, there had been no screaming fight, no ugly spat to drive him off as of late.  In fact, they had barely spoken at all the last time he was home.  He had gotten out of bed at two AM, again, and said he was going to work on something for a client.  When he came back home at noon, she knew that he had, in fact, spent the morning at the casino instead.  He stank of cigarettes and Red Bull, hallmarks of his nights at Greektown Of Detroit.  He looked deflated and depressed, which meant he had a losing night—again.  Really, though, he always looked deflated and depressed anymore... it was just his thing.

He spent a few hours home, with Garrett, barely acknowledging her existence, and left again just after two, saying he was going to catch up on paperwork at the office.  That was the last she'd seen of him... the last she'd heard from him, as well.  That was most unusual, and the revelation that he'd emptied the business' bank account was most alarming. 

"What the hell could've happened?" she wondered aloud, taking another sip.  She didn't swish the wine around as she would when trying simply to relax.  Instead, she gulped it down, and chased it with more.

Two-thousand dollars is what he'd taken from the bank... two thousand and change, almost the entire payment he'd received from State Farm for investigating a case of suspected insurance fraud.  That was a rare case; one that he actually completed, which had become unusual.  He worked very sparingly anymore, even though he wanted her to believe that he was at it all the time.  He was always going to work, but the nearly complete lack of checks and deposits to the account of Giguére Investigative told another tale.

Two-thousand dollars... just enough to pay the arrears owed to the landlord for his office.  She had logged into the account with the intent of setting up the transfer when she discovered he had emptied it, and that's when the worry really started.  It wasn't enough money to fuel his habit for more than half a day at Caesars, though, so he should've been home by now—all else being equal.

Unless he'd finally won a bit, she thought, but even his winnings were usually gone fairly quickly.  A couple of extra hours at a slot machine, or one big hand at the blackjack table—potentially over in a flash.  No, even if he'd won a little, he should've been home by now.  He never stayed out overnight without telling her where he'd be—if nothing else, in case something happened with Garrett.  He never ignored his phone when she called, either, but she was unable to reach him now.

It didn't make any sense... was not at all normal. 

Of course, she thought, if he got the papers... another swig of wine, a voluminous one at that.

What did he expect?  He must have seen it coming... 

He had laid the foundation for what was happening between them... gradually, over five or six years.  He had pulled away from her almost entirely, in body, mind and spirit.  He had become so distant lately, in fact, she often wondered if he had found someone else... another woman to soothe his mind. 

Plus, he was in some kind of tailspin—gambling away money like he could print it; could swim in it, like Scrooge McDuck.  First it was the money from his business—then the money set aside for bills, the mortgage payment, the money on the credit cards... now, the money from the state meant for Garrett's care.  As a result of his recklessness, they were teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, the debts piling up while the money was leaking out.

And the drinking, God, the drinking... he was drinking like a fish.  Not a glass of wine here and there like her, he was hitting it hard—and often.  His eyes were constantly bloodshot, his speech constantly slurred.  He never drank in front of her, though, and went to great lengths to hide the fact that he was doing it at all.  Chewing Altoids, spraying himself with Old Spice, drinking more coffee than is probably healthy and using red-eye-relief eye drops that never quite seemed to do the trick.  Still, it was plainly obvious, she could smell the liquor oozing from his pores.

Then there was the sex... the lack of sex, that is, which was completely out of character for him.  He was a man of raging libido; completely insatiable and always eager.  That had waned slowly, over the past two years or so, but was completely absent, now.  Six months it had been since he touched her... hadn't even asked for a blowjob, which had been his bread and butter from the beginning.  That, above all, led her to believe that there could be someone else...

Suspecting infidelity, she sniffed his clothes constantly for hints of perfume... checked his cell phone while he slept for secret messages or calls, checked his underwear for signs of come.  No matter how she tried, she had never found anything to suggest his guilt.  He was clever, but she doubted he could cover all the bases as well as they were covered if it was really going on.  Her heart told her he would never cheat anyway... he just wasn't the type.  He was surrounded by cheaters in his work, and he looked upon them with disdain and contempt.  It's the ultimate betrayal, he often said.  The ultimate dishonor, to everyone involved.  The territory of the dregs.

If it wasn't that, though, what was it?

Depression was a suspect; had always been a suspect... he was a very depressive person.  His mother had been a poster child for it, and his father—well... that went without saying.  Fearing it was coming for him, like a curse bestowed upon him in his blood, Tracy had scheduled a series of appointments with a counselor and psychiatrist several years ago for him.  He went, but only because she made him... and when they prescribed him Zoloft, he had taken it—but not for very long.  Makes me feel like a zombie was his primary objection... then there was the bit with the orgasms, that had struck the death blow.  He assured her he was fine without it... and she accepted that on his word.

Regardless of what it was that came between them, he couldn't expect that she would ride along with him on the kamikaze trail that he was blazing.  She had Garrett to think about, and that was a lot in-and-of itself.  The collection calls, the bounced checks, the forclosure notices—the food from Hospitality House lately... how could he think that she would stay the course with him while he pulled them all down into the gutter? 

She had consulted an attorney in the spring, and thought it over all summer long... deciding only recently it was the final recourse.  Talking about their troubles clearly wasn't on the table, she had tried and tried for months.  When she did, he always went to work... though there would be no invoice to draw up for his time.

At best, the shock of such a drastic step would serve as a scare-tactic to make him open up... to tell her what was happening, so that they could work together to fix it.  At worst, she would have to see it through... to cut the cord, as it were, so that they could all move on with their lives, if that's the way he wanted it. 

Whichever way it went, she supposed she would be okay... beaten, battered and bruised—but okay, whatever the outcome.

Resigned to not knowing where he was for another restless night, she let herself sink into the supple arms of their Natuzzi leather couch and exhaled as much of the tension as she could.  She clicked on the television and took another sip of wine, then set everything down on the end table and removed the scrunchie from her hair. 

When the dirty-blonde locks tumbled down in front of her face, she saw more gray in them than she wanted to believe was real.  Just thirty-four years, she thought, not even half-way through, and I feel like the tank is running empty.  She saw every one of those years in the fine and thinning strands, felt the weight of them on her shoulders despite the alcohol's