Shallow Veins (The Obscured Book 1) Page 2

  As he's sucking the last bit of whiskey out of an ice-cube, Officer Banks walks through the door.

  Drew Banks is big, easily a head taller than Butcher, and the kind of guy who won't let Butcher forget it. His leathery mug, handsome from one angle and off-putting from another, is carpeted with a day's growth, a beard which over the years has moved from deep black to a gray that matches the top of his head. He takes a minute to bullshit with Ned and Patrick before he bothers to head over to Butcher.

  Pointing to the glass in Butcher's hand, he says, "Sucking them back, I see."

  "You said nine. It's ten."

  "It's nine forty-five, don't go exaggerating." He removes his leather jacket and throws it over the next stool. "Anyway I said nine-thirty."

  "Whatever you say, Banks."

  The large man snaps his fingers to get Katie's attention. She rolls her eyes and comes over, making sure not to lean in too close in case he gets any ideas. "Well hello, girl," he baritones, "I must say, you're looking more of-age every day."

  "Doesn't make a difference to you, right Officer Banks?" She puts extra stress on the officer bit.

  "Well sure it does. I'm concerned for your safety, and it makes me happy to see how big and strong you're getting, especially in the legs. You look like you could run all night on those things."

  She laughs. "You really are a creep, Banks."

  "I know it. Get me a beer, will you."

  "Don't have much choice, do I?"

  "That's a good girl." He ignores Butcher until he has the beer in his hand, chewing on his tongue like a bothered cow. The moment he takes a swig on the wet bottle he turns as if suddenly remembering the other man. "So, Franklin," he says in a mocking tone, "how do you like Shallow Creek so far?"

  "Knock it off.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “You didn't ask me here to make small talk."

  "Can't an officer engage a brother officer in a bit of healthy conversation?"

  "Some guys can. Not you."

  Banks takes another chug from his beer. A drop spills, running down his gray stubble and onto on his jeans. "If you're so smart, you probably know what I'm about to say.”

  "My best guess is the Sheriff wants you to babysit me, and you wanted to tell me before my weekend off."

  "Why's that?"

  "You think I'll sleep on it, that way come Monday I won't fight so much when he tells me. But if you have half the smarts I give you credit for, by now you've figured out I don't work that way."

  "Yeah, I'm starting to see you're a stubborn mule." He finishes his beer and orders a second from Katie, minus the attitude. "See her?" He nods to the booth in the corner. A well-dressed blonde in her late thirties sits with her back to the wall chatting up the pair of men across from her. Her green blouse is just a bit too tight to be considered purely professional- the same as her smile. “That,” Banks says, “is Meredith Maycomb. She's very well known in these parts, if you know what I mean.”

  “What does she do?”

  “I don't know, real estate or something. The point I'm trying to make is she gets around, and I plan to be there when she comes around.”

  Butcher rubs his face. “Do I have to remind you you're a cop?”

  “That depends, do I have to remind you you're an asshole?”

  “I haven't forgotten.” He makes eye contact with Meredith Maycomb across the bar, noting the hungry expression in her eyes, the knowing nod, the confident smile. He nods back, climbs off his stool and throws a few bills on the bar. “It's been fun, Banks.”

  “Sure, sure.” Without taking his eyes off Meredith.

  Butcher says, “Come Monday I'll be fighting this. I don't need a partner to do my job, and I sure as shit don't need a sitter.”

  Banks glances his way. “Then maybe you should stop suckin' on that bottle all day.”

  Butcher nods and leaves, looking one last time at Meredith Maycomb and the men with her, buzzing like two flies who haven't figured out yet they're caught.

  **

  After unpacking a few boxes, Kevin changes into the oldest pair of jeans he owns and heads outside to assess the state of the garden. He puts his fingers in the dirt and turns over leaves, looking for anything from dry soil to infestation. At first he doesn't pick up on what’s wrong, but soon he realizes there are no aphids or slugs chewing on the leaves, no red bugs nesting in the roots. Despite the perfect conditions, the plant-life here is devoid of their crawling and egg-laying.

  For the briefest moment, Kevin's brain allows him to feel lucky. While most homeowners waste their time and money on such day-to-day suburban tragedies, he and Mary will be spared from its touch.

  The moment doesn't last.

  Over a dinner of chicken and noodles, Kevin brings up the strange business of the garden to Mary. “Do you think it’s strange that I couldn't find a single insect?”

  “A bit, but considering how much I don't like bugs, I’m perfectly happy living with the mystery if you are.” The way their legs move gives her spinal shivers, their lack of veins or compassion.

  They get back to their noodles.

  The next day, though, after looking for him in the bedroom, and the basement, and the driveway, she finds him in the backyard staring into the trees. His body is so still she wonders if it's possible to die standing up. She calls his name but he doesn't hear it. She calls it again and he jumps, startled, and when she asks him what he's doing, he tells her he's looking.

  “Looking for birds.”

  “First the bugs, then the birds.”

  “This is serious,” he says.

  “Of course it is.”

  “Something is wrong with this house.”

  “Of course there is.”

  **

  The ground moves. It’s almost imperceptible, just a slight shift of dry dirt. The grasshopper, green as a new leaf, stops to check the air. With its translucent head perked and its antennae working, it looks for danger in the flat rocks, in the dead tree branch, in the small puddle of water ahead. It sees and hears nothing. Yet it knows something is wrong.

  The grasshopper takes a few hesitant steps forward, but this time there’s no mistaking it- the ground swells up only inches away, and up from the dirt something rises. With impossible speed, long, dark legs covered in tan hair reach up and grab the grasshopper, trapping it in bristles.

  Before it has a chance to fight for its life, the grasshopper is pulled into the waiting fangs beneath the ground, down into the dark, webbed nest below.

  “That’s my Mexican girl. Eat up, Blondie.”

  Sheriff Green replaces the terrarium's lid and clicks the plastic locks into place. He sits behind his desk, annoyed to hear not just the shift of the chair’s leather but the click in his left knee that comes with every bend these days. Aside from his weathered skin, wrinkled brown from the sun as well as the native blood in his veins, it's the most obvious reminder of his years.

  Which is why he doesn't bend down in front of his men.

  There's a knock on the door. He tells whoever it is to come in.

  “Do you have a minute,” Butcher asks.

  “I have three.” The Sheriff motions to the chair facing him, but Butcher prefers to stand.

  “I won't be long. I wanted to talk about Banks.”

  The Sheriff sighs. “Why I thought he'd keep his big mouth shut I'll never know.”

  “That's just the problem- in my old station I didn't have the best track record with loudmouths. I came here to make a fresh start, not to get slapped around by the babysitter.”

  “If Banks slaps you, you have my permission to slap him back.”

  “Thanks, but that's not what-”

  “I don't come to decisions lightly,” the Sheriff cuts him off, “and I don't give bullshit assignments. So is he watching you? Yes. You're an unproven officer in my book, regardless of what your file says, and I like to keep tabs on what I'm not sure about.”

  “I can appreciate that.�
�

  “Good, because I take my job very seriously. I hope by now you can see we're not some backwater town. Shallow Creek has won awards for our compost recycling program, and we happen to boast the second most diverse police department in the entire county.” He points across the station-house to Officer Clark, a young, handsome black man holding a cup of coffee. The officer nods at Butcher.

  “Impressive,” Butcher says.

  Sheriff Green settles into his chair. He lowers his voice. “What Officer Banks out there doesn't know is I'm not making you two partners just so he can keep an eye on you. You have a pair of eyes of your own, don't you?”

  “From what I understand.”

  “Use them. Banks isn't exactly the shining light of the force, and that bronze is only getting duller. He's your responsibility as much as you're his.”

  Butcher nods, says he understands, and turns to leave.

  “Hey, Butcher,” the Sheriff says. “I never asked you- what brought you here?”

  “The wife and I were having troubles. She got the house and I got the boot.”

  Sheriff Green shakes his head. “That's not what I meant. Why here?”

  Butcher considers this. “I thought I could be comfortable here. Seems like a quiet enough town.”

  “You mean you could coast by until retirement.”

  Butcher shrugs.

  “That’s fine, it really is. I don’t need showboats coming to my town, making a lot of noise and burning the place down. You don’t need to go above and beyond here. Shit, I’m overjoyed every time an officer shows up. But when they do show up, what they need to do is follow orders. Get it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Those are my two favorite words, Butcher. The more you say ‘em, the more I smile.”

  Chapter Two: The Day of the Face

  There's a smell in the basement.

  It's hard to identify, like roadkill mixed with motor oil. To make things worse the source is impossible to pinpoint- just when they narrow down the strongest of it to a particular corner or vent it becomes lost, only to be rediscovered across the room later.

  When they've had enough of this odd game, they call a plumber.

  The man who shows up at their door is friendly enough, hauling ancient tools from his ancient van, but he's the sort of emotionally exhausting talker that Kevin isn't equipped to deal with. Within thirty minutes he's already explained how his gay son hasn't talked to him in eight months, not because he's gay but because he has a bit of a drug problem, nothing that can't be treated, it just makes him a little edgy. Meanwhile they haven't even made their way downstairs yet, into the disembodied stink of the basement.

  He says, “What's the deal with this place, anyways?”

  “In reference to?”

  “You know, how no one lives here for very long. Maybe it's me but it seems people these days got ants in their pants. Can't even stay married let alone keep one house for more than a year.”

  “They told us the last owner lived here six years.”

  The plumber shows his dirty palms. “Hey, it's none of my business. Which way to the basement?”

  Kevin lets the subject change, mostly because he wants to get on with it and get this loudmouth out of his house. When the job is done, though, he intends to ask the man a few more questions.

  He takes the plumber to the basement, where of course the smell has disappeared, as problems do when help arrives. After pretending to listen to the plumber explain the serious issue of excessive pressure from municipal water suppliers, as well as the struggles with septic tanks and seasonably high water tables, Kevin excuses himself and runs back up the creaking stairs, hiding in his office to wait for the man to finish.

  **

  The reason Kevin works freelance, according to what he tells people at parties, is it gives him more freedom to work the hours he wants to work. The truth however is that workplaces don't really work out for Kevin because he scares people. He's nice enough, they all agree, and excellent at his job. The problem starts when he becomes focused.

  At some point he stops being aware of the room around him. According to people who have witnessed it, he stares not just at the screen but almost through it, while in his throat strange sounds begin to utter. It starts as a mumble, a growl even, and as he works it continues to grow into full, whispered words no one has heard before. His concentration has its own phantom language. Kevin was surprised the first time someone asked him about the phenomenon, as he wasn't aware of it; so lost he is in the work he loses all sense of himself.

  People find it funny, until they don't.

  Mary tolerates Kevin's behavior when no one else will, in part because his work pays well and they need the money, but also because she loves him, and it's easier to put up with the quirks of a loved one than those of a co-worker.

  Right now, Kevin is lost; his eyes swim through lines of code as his fingers move across the keyboard in fluid patterns. His pupils are dilated. His pulse, racing. Ancient, futuristic words fill his mouth.

  "Did he find it?"

  The sudden question, asked just behind him, jolts Kevin in his seat. He's ripped screaming from that other place and left flailing in this one.

  Mary yelps, caught off guard by his reaction. "Jesus, I'm sorry," she pleads.

  "Don't do that," he sighs.

  "I have to disturb you eventually or you'll sit there all day."

  He swallows and takes a breath. "Find what?"

  "The smell."

  "Who," he asks, then, "oh, right." He looks at the time thinking it's only been half an hour at most. "His van's still here?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Because he's been here almost four hours." He stands from the chair, feeling the line of sweat up and down his back.

  Kevin leaves his office and heads to the basement door. Standing on the precipice, no sound comes from below except the low, sad drone of the boiler. He calls out but gets no answer, so he descends the stairs, intent on arguing with the man trying to gut him for four hours of labor.

  To his confusion, he finds himself alone in the basement.

  "Hello?" He rounds the corner to the boiler room, expecting to see the man crouched in the corner, his head buried in an open pipe, ass-crack proudly displayed.

  All he finds are the man's tools.

  He calls up the stairs to Mary. She appears at the top of the stairs. "Is his van still here," he asks.

  "I parked next to it. He's not there?"

  "He's not there." By the haunted look on his face Mary knows to come down the stairs without asking another question. She finds the same thing he did- tools, nothing more. The smell isn't gone and is, if anything, stronger.

  "Maybe he's smoking a cigarette?"

  "I'll check outside." Kevin walks back upstairs and out the front door. He notes the van still parked out front before walking around to the side of the house, then to the back, then around to the other side. In every place he finds only grass and trees, no plumber sneaking a smoke, and as usual no chirping birds or scampering squirrels. He returns to the house, but not before peeking into the plumber's van in hopes of catching the man napping in the back. Other than an old magazine and an empty Styrofoam cup, the van is empty.

  Back inside, Mary is in the kitchen dialing the plumber's number. "The reception sucks here," she reminds him. He sits at the table a bit winded from so much running around so soon after waking from his code sleep. After letting the line ring ten, eleven, twelve times, she hangs up. "Where could he have gone?"

  "Maybe he had the sudden urge to strip off his clothes and run into the woods."

  "Like a werewolf?"

  "Except the full sun transforms him. A daywolf."

  "It's always a full sun."

  "The daywolves lead an inconvenient life."

  Mary allows herself a small smile. "Seriously, though, you don't find this weird?"

  "Absolutely I do, I just don't know what to do about it except wait."

  She puts h
er phone down, half-expecting it to ring the moment it touches the table. When it doesn't she says, "Alright, then. We wait."

  **

  One hour passes.

  Then two.

  They try to go about their day as normal, with the occasional call to the plumber's phone, but it's impossible to ignore the elephant in the room- the fact that, at any moment, a sweaty plumber might resurface. Kevin doesn't bother going back to the computer on the chance he might be jerked back to reality again, and twice in one day is too much for that kind of shock.

  Mary would like to run to the store to pick up a few things she needs, but she can't risk leaving Kevin alone on the possibility that he may return to his keyboard, which he's prone to do when she's not around. It's a security blanket, a coping mechanism, not an unhealthy one but at the moment not the best distraction when vigilance is needed.

  The couple is left to dangle in limbo. They watch television with disinterested eyes that dart from the screen to the doorway and back again, always expecting to see a face come around the corner apologizing, giving a wild excuse before returning to the work at hand or simply leaving, which at this point they would prefer.

  They shrug and prepare dinner, eating in silence broken up with the occasional nervous joke. When they're finished eating they clear the table, load the dishwasher and call the police.

  "Would you say he was acting despondent," Officer Butcher asks, handsome, rough edges, a little worn out behind the eyes.

  "I don't think so," Kevin answers.

  "It's not always obvious. Sometimes it's just a slight break from their normal behavior."

  "I wouldn't know what his normal behavior was, I'd never met him before."

  Officer Butcher raises his eyes from the notepad. "Was?"

  "Is. Was. Before this. What I mean is I don't know him from a hole in the floor. We had one conversation before he turned into a puff of dust."

  "Was the conversation hostile or aggressive?"