Carlyle's Crossing

By Chris Quinton

Jubal, the last Carlyle, lives the full width of the continent away from his Abenaki ancestors. Then a letter from a lawyer draws him and best friend Sal to the suffering town of Whitewater, Vermont - where dark forces, unleashed by one man's obsession, bring depression and
hopelessness to the people.

 

Jubal's father was unable to drive back the incursion, but Jubal knows he must try. Without knowledge or training, he has only instinct to rely on - and Sal, who is rapidly becoming far more than a friend with benefits. The dangers they face are insidious. Both their lives and sanity are at risk - and so much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kouros Books
• Release date: Nov 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9798224734634

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

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Carlyle’s Crossing

Copyright © Chris Quinton First Edition: 2013

Copyright © Chris Quinton Second Edition: 2016

Copyright © Chris Quinton Third Edition 2020

Cover Photo:  Dan Skinner [DWS Photography/Dan Skinner Photography]

Editor: G.C.

Attention Readers:

This book uses US English.

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the Author, Chris Quinton.

Piracy is Theft

The royalties from the sale of my books helps to support my family and pay essential bills. If you like this story, please spread the word and tell others about it, but please don't share it.

If you see this e-book offered for free or on sale on pirate sites, please send me the link at [e-mail]

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

DEDICATION

To the Usual Suspects—you all make the writing process even more enjoyable.

Table of Content

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Author

Bibliography

Chapter One

Was wondering when you were going to wake up, said the voice. Since his head currently felt as if an axe was embedded in it and coherent thinking wasn't an option, Jubal managed a slurred, Shut up, and tried to open his eyes. It didn't happen. His lids seemed to be glued shut. Not that it fully registered with him. The mere effort had been enough to send the pain soaring to a new level.

You don't want to think about moving just yet. The deep timbred voice sounded wryly amused. Jubal decided he hated the guy, whoever he was. You got a minute or so.

Wha...? he groaned. At the same time he became aware of bruising pressure across his chest and legs A hard and jagged cage-like something enclosed his body. He heard the pings of cooling metal, the steady drip-drip of leaking gasoline. Smelled it as well. Not good. Memory surged back in a nauseating rush.

He'd been returning home after his shift at the Forest Ranger station ended, looking forward to getting out of the deluge that hadn't let up all day, and into a hot shower. Friday night with the rain lashing down, he'd had the back roads leading from Seattle's Capitol State Forest to himself. Until a deer had come out of nowhere, dashed in front of him in a flash of glistening wet hide and black eyes. He'd slammed on his brakes and—nothing at all after that.

You don't want to hurl either, the man said. Trust me.

Help me, for fuck's sake! Jubal snarled. He tried to raise his right arm so he could scrub at his eyes, but the pain struck again and he nearly passed out.

Can't. The man didn't sound regretful, just matter-of-fact. You gotta do it yourself. And if I was you, I'd start right about now. Bastard's struck a match.

Mother-fuck— A faint crackling sound started up and another smell assaulted his nostrils. Something was burning.

Panic exploded through Jubal in a scorching tide. He tried to simultaneously shove off whatever was pinning him, roll over, get to his feet. He failed at all three. The agony seemed oddly distant, but the whoosh of flames and their heat were not. His fear became a savage beast that clawed at his brain, at any vestige of self-control that remained. There was only the all-consuming need to be somewhere else—

Something tore deep inside him and Jubal howled. He must have blacked out for a while, because the next thing he knew the biting weight had gone from his body and his arms were free. Rain pattered on his upturned face, slid its chill fingers across his skin. He had just enough time to register the texture of the earth and grass beneath him before the gas tank exploded. A wave of heat and pressure scooped him up and dropped him into a puddle.

The rain did Jubal a favor. It softened and rinsed away the whatever it was gluing his eyes shut. He still couldn't move his limbs, but he managed to force his eyes open.

Flames painted the night in flickering red light and shifting black shadows. The silhouette standing over him could have been a statue carved from jet and there were no other colors in Jubal's world.

Better late than never, I guess, it said disparagingly. Why is it always hard work with you, Jubal?

What the hell happened? His voice came out in a wheezing croak but he put every ounce of command into it that he could. Call 911, for God's sake!

No need. You're outside the Butler place. He's already called it in and he's on his way over. See you around.

Jubal lost track of things then. When he managed to blink his eyes open once more and focus, Pat Butler crouched beside him, swearing in a monotone.

Jesus Christ, Jubal, hold still, don't move! Don't try to talk, just breathe. You're gonna be fine, I swear.

Oh, my sweet Lord! Ellen Butler bent over him, shielding him from the rain with her body. Her tears fell like glittering rubies. Their touch on his face scalded and froze at the same time. Jubal, honey, you got to hold on... She covered him with a quilt, careful not to move him. It did nothing to dispel the ice that invaded him.

Heard the crash, saw the explosion, Pat was saying. It sounded as if he was a long way off, in an echoing place. You're a lucky sonofabitch, Jubal. You got thrown clear before the tank blew. Hold on, son... But the red and the black were swirling, merging into a foggy haze, and Jubal was swamped.

* * * *

Had to happen, sooner or later.

Jubal had no difficulty in recognizing this voice. It wasn't a surprise. In between wondering how the hell he was still alive, he'd spent the last half hour mourning the loss of his Toyota and trying to recall exactly what had happened in anticipation of an official visit. It hadn't been easy. He hurt all over, and the pain in his head made thinking difficult. The ongoing noise and bustle of the Emergency Room didn't help either. The gap in his memory had narrowed though, even if it still didn't make any sense. But that wasn't new in his life. He opened his eyes and squinted up at the bearded man looming over his bed, not needing the blue uniform and the Washington State Patrol badge to tell him why he was there. His cubicle suddenly seemed even more cramped. Hi, Chet.

How many times have I told you about speeding on that road? the officer demanded, his normally good-natured features set in a scowl. How many tickets have we given you since you got your license?

I wasn't speeding, Jubal said indignantly. Not this time. A deer crossed the road in front of me just before the bend. I couldn't have been doing more than thirty, thirty-five.

Yeah? Or maybe you slammed on your brakes and lost it because you were pulling your usual hell-for-leather stunt.

Shit, no! Give me a break, man. I'd slowed right down before I went into the bend.

Chet pulled up a chair and sat down, produced a notebook and pen with a flourish. I'd love to believe you, Jubal, but I've seen you take those forest roads like you're on a race circuit.

Not this time. Word of honor, Chet.

So tell me what happened.

Jubal described the sequence of events as best he could, but didn't mention waking up in the middle of a jagged tangle of metal. The whole scenario seemed unreal. It didn't help that some of the stranger's words slid away from him and only the stark facts remained. Then I was on the bend, just coming up to the Butlers' driveway, and—it felt like the right front tire blew. That's the last thing I remember. When I woke up Pat and Ellen were there.

Chet shook his head, more in wonder than disbelief. You are one lucky sonofabitch, he said. The doc says all you've got are cuts, bruises and a mild concussion, and I can't see how the hell you managed to get away with just that. You weren't wearing your seatbelt, though if you had, you'd probably be in as many pieces as that damn Toyota of yours. Did the airbags deploy?

I—don't remember. But he did recall fastening his seatbelt. And that terrible ripping agony as he struggled to be free. Jubal shivered, suddenly cold and sick. What the hell had happened?

Okay, I got all that. The deputy closed his notebook, tucked it and the pen away in his pocket. The specialists are out at the scene now, photographing and measuring. So if you want to rethink anything, you know where I am. Just remember we know what to look for at accidents.

I'm not lying, Chet! Jubal snapped.

Not saying you are, but you took a hell of a crack on the head, could be you're remembering it wrong.

Yeah. Right.

One last thing for now, Chet continued. I'm going to need your consent for blood analysis. You okay with that?

Sure. Jubal would have shrugged if he didn't hurt so much. The last alcohol I had was Wednesday night—a shot and two beers at Krakow's. Today is still Friday, yeah?

Technically, it's Saturday. By an hour or so. I'm going to be talking to you again, Jubal.

No problem. I should be out of here some time soon and you know where I live.

Chet snorted and stood up. The doc is talking about keeping you in for observation.

Won't happen. I'll be out of here AMA as soon as I can make it.

That figures. You take care, now.

As soon as Chet left, an intern came in and extracted the required blood, but would not tell Jubal when he'd be able to leave. There were further tests scheduled, apparently, and as soon as they had a bed free, he would be admitted to a ward. But Jubal had other plans.

Apart from the fact that he did not like hospitals, he'd sooner be suffering at home in front of his TV than under the eyes of harassed and over-worked nurses. But Jubal knew he had to be realistic. Okay, he didn't have any broken bones or torn ligaments, but severe bruising was pretty good at hampering mobility. So he needed a trial run, and his bladder gave him a good enough excuse.

Jubal waited a few minutes, but no one came to his cubicle. Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he pushed himself up from the pillows. It hurt like hell, but he'd expected that. On the good side, his head didn't spin. He tugged the sheet carefully off his legs and winced. Not at the pain so much as the sight of the sutures across his thighs below the short hospital gown. They looked like railroad tracks against the copper-brown of his skin. By the feel of it, there were more along his ribs. He'd have some interesting scars to show for the crash.

His teeth gritted against the pain, Jubal swung his legs sideways and stood up. This time the cubicle did lurch. Just one sickening swing before it settled.

No sense at all, said the voice and Jubal froze. There was a shimmer of movement in the corner of his right eye and he had the impression of a familiar silhouette shrugging wide shoulders. You want to take a leak, call a nurse for a bedpan.

Who the hell are you? he demanded. What do you want? But the shadow had faded out before he'd finished speaking. This is crazy! Jubal wished he could put it down to a concussion, but he knew better than that. He'd been seeing ghosts, talking with them, since he was a kid.

Too angry and too sore to care that the hospital gown with its back opening was a little small on his six-two frame, Jubal shuffle-hobbled down the corridor. Luckily the men's toilets were just a few yards away, and he got himself inside, leaned against the wall and took a much-needed piss. To his intense relief, his urine was not stained with blood.

Jubal lurched over to the basins and washed his hands, then propped himself on the porcelain and stared into the mirror.

He was a mess. There were traces of dried blood caked in his black hair and eyebrows, a deep gash across his forehead and reddened swellings on his left temple, cheekbone and jaw. In a few days time, half his face and both eyes would be a spectacular display of color. It was lucky he didn't care much about his looks, though he was relieved his nose wasn't broken. It was aquiline enough without added assistance. He offered his reflection a wry smile, then for a split second his pale gray eyes became blue, and white streaks appeared in his hair. Another face was imposed over his own in the mirror: a man who looked to be a lot older than Jubal's twenty-eight years. Then it was gone. Or rather, had moved.

What the fuck? Jubal straightened, his gaze still on the mirror but focused over his reflection's right shoulder. Blue eyes in a strong-boned, handsome face gazed back at him from beneath graying dark hair that fell over the man's forehead in heavy, untidy swathes. High, wide cheekbones and a narrow eagle's beak of a nose suggested there was Native American blood in the stranger's heritage, though his skin was lighter than Jubal's copper-tan. For a moment Jubal thought he could see a family likeness. Who—? The image dissipated.

Go home, ordered the Voice, and it seemed right to assign it a capital letter in his head. It sounded fainter now, as if from a long way off.

Tell me who you are or get the fuck out of my face, Jubal snarled. He might as well saved his breath. And strictly speaking, the bastard wasn't in his face anymore. The only one glaring at him was his own reflection in the mirror.

Carlyle's Crossing.

What?

Just saying. These long distance calls are too damn hard, and you've goofed off long enough. It's about time the Carlyles came home.

I am home! Jubal's shout echoed in the empty restroom. Okay, he wasn't home, home, but given the chance to be that mile away from the hospital right now, he'd take it. And I'm the only Carlyle around!

My point exactly.

Jubal swore and lurched his way back to the cubicle. It wasn't as if he was a stranger to voices in his head, and for a long time he'd been good at keeping most of them out. But none of them was as persistent or annoying as this newcomer. Or as coherent. Then again, they were shadowy shapes in the corner of his eye. He could usually see them with only a sideways glance. This creep was a lot more visible. Go home. Yeah.

For some reason it reminded Jubal of his childhood, before his father had died. He'd complained to his mom about the big man shouting at him, and she had been all ready to kick some ass until she realized he was talking about an image he alone could see. Then she'd hugged him, told him it was okay, and he shouldn't pay any attention to the big man. But on no account was he to let his dad know about the voices. That was fine by him.

Some, like the janitor in the basement of their apartment block, just wanted to hang around their old stamping ground, some wanted to talk. Others got a little angry, or sad, so he'd simply pretended he was deaf and couldn't hear the ones he didn't want to listen to. Later on, as he grew older, he'd discovered other ways of dealing with his visitors. Without knowing how or why, he managed to soothe their pain, dispel their anger. They rarely hung around after that. Only the old janitor stayed, content to be where he was.

Four hours later, Jubal signed the AMA forms. Bruises were beginning to mantle most of his body, his sutures burned like fury and every muscle seemed to have its own separate agony. If the doctor had any say in it, Jubal would be in the ward under observation. But with that form signed, they were prepared to let him go with a load of advice and a supply of painkillers.

His belongings were returned to him, such as they were. His clothes had been cut off when he'd been brought in, and all he'd gotten back were his wallet, cell phone—which had somehow survived the crash intact and working, the loose change and other odds that had been in his pockets, his watch and his bloodstained boots. His keys had gone up with his SUV. So he called the one person who not only had a key to his apartment, but would come to his rescue with the least amount of fuss.

It was a long time before a sleepy baritone voice answered his call.

Jay? he slurred. Are you tired of life?

Sal, I know it's early, but—

Early? It's ass-o'clock in the morning, douchebag. It's a weekend and my alarm doesn't go off for hours yet. I swear to God, Jubal Carlyle, if you're drunk-calling me—

I'm in the hospital, he cut in. I need a favor, Sal.

Are you hurt? Now Sal sounded wide awake and concerned. What happened?

Jubal updated him, and he listened without interrupting. So I need you to bring me some clothes from my place, and ferry me back there, he finished. I'll owe you one, Sal.

I'm on my way, he said. Sit tight and I'll get there as soon as I can.

Jubal sat tight, and thanked whatever gods might be listening for Salvatore Mancini. They had known each other from childhood, gone to school together, discovered their sexuality together. and over the years they had drifted into a comfortable, easy-going relationship. It was a little bit more than friendship, not quite friends with benefits, and it suited them