The Raven Page 17

  Jesus Christ. Dez was thrashing his head, the smell of his own piss a fitting reminder of the monstrousness of his sins. He pictured the obliterated toad and thought, Monster. I was a monster that day.

  Bernadette grinned as she flayed open Dez’s secret memories, laid them bare, absorbed them like some especially engrossing movie.

  “Ah, boss,” Bernadette said delightedly, “you’re not gonna believe all the good shit I’m seeing.”

  “Take your time,” Keaton said.

  Bernadette did. When Dez did venture to open his eyes, his vision was filled with that nasty freckled face, that malignant gaze. The invisible hands plunged into his guts, mashed them and churned them until another vignette squirmed to the surface, a twelve-year-old Dez plotting to peep a friend’s sister after a lake swim, the girl Dez’s age, but still, Christ, only twelve. Dez directing her, a tremor in his voice, to change out of her swimsuit in a specific bathroom, one at ground level, one that afforded Dez a glimpse through the window, and he’d only spied her shoulder blades before she spotted Dez’s horny, slack face in the mirror, and she shrieked and Dez blundered away, knowing what trouble he was in, knowing what a bad thing he had done.

  Bernadette continued to chuckle.

  The probing stretched on. Dez had no idea how long, but it seemed interminable. Dez betraying a friend in early high school, making out with the friend’s girlfriend. Dez claiming he hadn’t touched her and getting away with it, his friend believing Dez a better person than he was.

  Dez cheating on his algebra homework then bombing a test, the teacher knowing what he’d done and not needing to say a word, just staring at Dez in silent judgment.

  Sophomore year, Dez embellishing the details of his night with Kathleen Levy, offhandedly announcing they’d done far more than they had, which was nothing, not even a kiss. Kathleen finding out, Dez sick and ashamed of himself, as he should have been. As Bernadette kneaded his guts and coaxed his sins to the surface, Dez fancied himself shrinking in the presence of these people. He’d judged Keaton, Lefebvre, and Bernadette, pronounced them monsters, and so they were. But where he’d erred was his perception of himself. Thinking himself superior when he was merely a skulking, duplicitous creature too. Maybe not a monster – that designation implied too much power – but not a human either. At least, not a worthy one.

  And now the vicious mental fingers delved deeper, and there was Joey, Dez’s little brother, wasting away because of drugs, and here was their father, their lonely, caring father, wasting away from a lack of love and attention. Abandoned by their mother and never seeming to find another who could take her place, his father had ghosted about their house after his boys had grown, a combination of television and tortured rumination his only companions.

  Dez had not visited him enough, had not done what he could to fill that emotional void. No, a son was not the same as a wife, but a son could spend time with his father, couldn’t he? Could call or text his dad to let him know he wasn’t forgotten?

  But he had been with his dad the day the world went to hell. Oh yes, he’d been with him then.

  The same way he’d been with Joey, with his little brother, at the end. Always at the end. He hadn’t been with Joey when Joey was veering off course, back when Joey was a sophomore at Shadeland High and Dez had been a senior. He’d heard his little brother was getting into drugs, but he’d been too busy or too apathetic to say anything about it. Later, when Dez was in college and Joey was a senior at Shadeland High, their father had prevailed upon Dez to intervene, to talk some sense into Joey. Dez had spoken to him all right, but there’d been no love in his tone, no real investment. As if sensing this, Joey had nodded and gone through the motions – You’re right, Dez. I’m sorry. I’ve really been making stupid choices. I’ll do better, I promise – but both of them had known it was only for show, the two of them playing their parts so they could continue on their chosen paths.

  The years flickering by. Dez seeing Joey on holidays and sometimes not even on those. Joey showing up for the baptism of Dez’s son, the purpled eye sockets and the shaky hands enough to make Dez wish Joey had stayed away. Dez praying Joey wouldn’t ask to hold baby Will. Dez relieved when Joey didn’t ask. Joey showing up at Will’s third birthday party. Joey looking like a perambulating corpse.

  And at the end, Joey in an Indianapolis hospital, the doctors telling Dez and his dad that Joey had suffered a stroke, a motherfucking stroke, and Joey only thirty-six years old. What thirty-six-year-old dies from a stroke? Dez had wondered then.

  The immediate answer: A thirty-six-year-old who’s been doing hard drugs for over two decades. A thirty-six-year-old whose big brother was always too fucking busy to help him.

  In some deep-down region of his brain, Dez knew he was sobbing and he hated himself for doing it in front of these people, but the knowledge was blotted out by a sudden sideways lurch, as though Bernadette had located a new and infinitely more tender clutch of memories, a pulsing scarlet knot of images featuring Dez’s son, the boy who’d never see his fifth birthday, the child who meant everything to Dez.

  The memories tore through him:

  The afternoon Carly, his ex-wife, entered the living room with the Wal-Mart pregnancy stick in her hand. Tears in her eyes, tears in Dez’s.

  The night her water broke, Dez half-asleep, coming awake when he realized this was it; this was what they’d planned for, a situation for which he now realized he was woefully unprepared.

  In the hospital, six in the morning, Carly resting after a grueling thirty-hour labor that ultimately resulted in a C-section. Dez holding Will in his arms, the vinyl recliner sticking to Dez’s bare back and Dez not caring. The baby books had told them to go skin-to-skin with the baby as much as possible, and of all the advice he’d absorbed, Dez decided this to be the best, the feel of his newborn son’s tiny body against his chest the most fulfilling sensation Dez had ever known.

  Months later, Will colicky, Dez and Carly short with each other because neither one was sleeping. Endless hours dancing his son around, singing to him, uttering soothing words that had no effect, the colic as unstoppable as the tides.

  But they were together.

  They were together.

  In the basement of the Four Winds Bar, Dez heard a voice wailing and knew it was his own. Bernadette had located the most painful memories now, Will’s first few years, which were Dez’s best years, and they ended because his wife cheated on him, and then Will too was gone.

  The sorrow and rage and horror and guilt gushed through him, enveloped him, and Dez was sure his mind would shatter under the onslaught. Dez screamed, screamed, and then he was released, Bernadette stumbling back. Dez slouched sideways on the dank concrete, desiring nothing more than to escape himself.

  As Bernadette recounted what she’d witnessed in Dez’s rancid soul, Keaton nodded appreciatively, his delight over the recitation almost pornographic. Chaney listened too, but seemed neither pleased nor appalled by what he heard. Dez supposed the Hound was too jaded by human behavior to be scandalized any longer. Or was it possible he was merely caged by his own thoughts and damned to repeat his little sister’s murder on an endless loop?

  Lefebvre looked neither happy nor horrified. The tall man peered at nothing in particular and waited for Bernadette to stop inventorying the sable treasures she’d uncovered in Dez’s past.

  “I like that Peeping Tom story,” Keaton said, grinning down at Dez. “Should have figured you for a perv. No wonder you want that fine piece of ass back.”

  Dez’s pulse quickened. Susan.

  “Hold on,” Bernadette said, a hand up. “I’m getting something else.”

  Don’t, he thought. Don’t unearth that.

  But she did, and he could see himself stumbling into their paltry camp, not after Susan was taken, but while Susan was being taken, and Keaton’s men told him to lay down his weapons, and he had be
cause there seemed no other choice. Susan had a gun to her head, and there were four of Keaton’s henchman and only one of Dez.

  When Dez discarded his weapons, Badler stepped forward, the biggest by far of the four henchman.

  “Tell you what,” Badler said to Dez that terrible day, “you take me in a fight, we’ll let your girl go. How’d that be?”

  Dez had done his best, but it was over in less than a minute; Badler was too huge and too experienced for Dez. The muscular man had mauled him, had sat on his chest, taunting him like a sadistic older brother, laughing in his face as they dragged Susan away.

  Badler’s knockout punch had been a blessing.

  “My God,” Bernadette was saying now. “Badler really did a number on you, didn’t he? No wonder you buried the memory that deep. A real man would’ve put up a better fight.”

  At Keaton’s questioning look, Bernadette told him what she knew of Dez’s humiliation.

  Dez had no response. He gritted his teeth and waited for them to leave.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, Bernadette,” Keaton said, nodding. “I’ll have Pastor Weeks work that into his sermon.”

  Bernadette stared up at Keaton like a child sensing an impending gift. “It gonna be one of those?” she asked. “One of the good ones?”

  “Sure enough,” Keaton answered.

  Bernadette clapped her hands and performed a little hop. “Hot damn. It’s been ages.”

  “Less than a month,” Lefebvre corrected. “There was that double-execution three weeks ago.”

  Bernadette glowered at Lefebvre, but Keaton kept on grinning at Dez. “Lefebvre’s conscience is tender,” Keaton said. “He’s got that poet’s soul you hear about. Suppose it’s from teaching all those novels. Some of it was bound to rub off.”

  Dez found himself longing for a reaction from the tall man, but Lefebvre remained impassive.

  “Bet he used to mess with his students,” Bernadette said. She whapped Lefebvre on the chest. “Bet he got on with the girls and the boys.”

  Lefebvre turned his face toward Bernadette, and in it there was a feverish new light, challenge and contempt and self-loathing all mixed together. “Why don’t you find out?” Lefebvre said.

  Bernadette’s sleazy grin disappeared, her eyes darting to Keaton.

  “I’m waiting,” Lefebvre said. “Go ahead. Show Keaton what a skilled servant you are. Show him how cunning.”

  “Be gentle,” Keaton said, eyeing Bernadette. “Bernadette’s powers are useful, but they only reach so far.”

  Bernadette glanced askance at Lefebvre. “I’ll get it from you one of these days. You wait.”

  “Get it now,” Tom Chaney said, and they all turned in his direction. Dez had forgotten about the werewolf reclining in his bundle of chains. Chaney smirked at Bernadette. “Show us what a tough woman you are, you ugly bitch.”

  Bernadette looked ready to pounce on Chaney, but Keaton only laughed. “Such coarse language, Hound!”

  “That ain’t my name.”

  “Your name is what I say it is,” Keaton said, ice water in his gaze.

  To Dez’s dismay, Chaney fell silent.

  Why do they fear him so much? Dez wondered. True, Keaton was imposing. His personality was even bigger. Yet Dez could find nothing in the figure looming over them to evoke such superstitious dread. What are you? he wondered again.

  Keaton clapped his hands so loudly Dez jumped. “I feel like shaking things up,” Keaton said. “Lefebvre, you make sure Iris is in the back when Weeks starts his show.”

  Lefebvre gave Keaton a look Dez couldn’t interpret. Something passed between the men, and Dez wondered what the command meant. Was Keaton testing Lefebvre’s loyalty?

  Bernadette frowned. “Why can’t Iris watch? After all, it’s her boyfriend gonna get executed.”

  The words raised goosebumps on Dez’s flesh. So he was to be executed. His head nailed to the wall like the others. Would they decorate the sign out front with his severed penis?

  Dez suppressed a groan.

  “It would be good for her to see,” Keaton agreed. “But I’ve already got something over her. She’ll stay in line.” He turned toward Chaney. “But the Hound here. He’s getting restless, I can tell.”

  “This is a mistake,” Lefebvre said softly.

  Keaton ignored him. “Hound, you need to be reminded of your place. That miniscule brain of yours tends to forget what happens to those who’re disloyal.”

  Though the fear was still in Chaney’s face, Dez saw challenge there too. “I ain’t never been loyal to you, Keaton. I’d shit on your grave.”

  “Only place you’re gonna shit is that there bucket,” Bernadette said.

  Chaney and Keaton continued to stare at one another.

  Lefebvre asked, “Why do you keep him alive?”

  Keaton’s voice was faraway. “You know why.”

  A dreadful smile appeared on Chaney’s face. “I’d do it again.”

  Lefebvre shot a look at Chaney. “Don’t you know when to shut up?”

  Keaton drifted toward Chaney, crouched beside him, close enough for Chaney to touch if he desired.

  Keaton nodded. “You know, Lefebvre, I believe you’ve got a point. Go up and tell Weeks it’s gonna be a double.”

  Lefebvre closed his eyes, whether in sadness or relief, Dez couldn’t tell.

  Bernadette’s face grew animated. “You mean it, boss?”

  “Uh-huh,” Keaton said, his eyes never leaving Chaney’s.

  “Hot damn!” Bernadette said. “Can I tell the others?”

  Keaton’s lips formed an indulgent smile. “Sure, Bernadette. You can tell the others.”

  Bernadette hustled toward the stairs, her enmity toward Lefebvre evidently forgotten.

  Keaton searched Chaney’s face. “You at peace with your past, Hound?”

  “You’re damn right I’m at peace.”

  Keaton’s smile was unperturbed. “Except for your sister.”

  Chaney cringed.

  “You know, I’ll miss you, Hound,” Keaton said. He reached out, mussed Chaney’s black hair. Chaney pulled away, but of course he couldn’t go far. “Whenever I get sad, coming down here always cheers me up.”

  Chaney wouldn’t look at Keaton now. Dez could see Chaney’s bottom lip quivering.

  “What’s your reading level, Hound? Second grade? Third?” Keaton glanced at Dez. “In old-time literature, they would’ve called Hound here a manchild.”

  Lefebvre started for the stairs.

  “Where’re you going?” Keaton asked.

  Lefebvre stopped, stared down at his boots. “I thought I’d return to my post.”

  “It’s after midnight,” Keaton said. “The only trade we’ll get now is vampires.”

  Cold air misted over Dez’s skin. He couldn’t imagine vampires mingling with the other patrons of the Four Winds. When their bloodlust was roused – which was often – there was no reasoning with them.

  Keaton was watching Dez. “You’ve seen vampires,” he said.

  Dez swallowed. “Yes.”

  A grin. “You’re wondering if maybe I sold your piece of ass to them.”

  Dez didn’t trust himself to answer.

  Keaton stood and moved toward the stairs.

  But he stopped with a hand on the banister. “Tell you what, McClane. I think I will tell you what I did with her. Right before the end.” He smiled, his white teeth sharkish in the dismal fluorescent glow. “I like that. It’s fitting. The last thing you’ll hear is what became of your sweet little girl.”

  With that, Keaton mounted the stairs. He flipped off the lights, leaving them in near-darkness.

  Chaney’s eyes glinted. Dez wondered if the yellowish glint stemmed from the man’s lycanthropic nature. Or maybe it was only Dez’s imagination.
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  Lefebvre stirred. Dez had forgotten all about the tall man. “I better tend to Iris,” Lefebvre muttered.

  “You could stand up to him, you know,” Dez said.

  Lefebvre grunted. “I’m sorry, Raven, but you clearly don’t get it.”

  “He’s not like you,” Dez persisted. “You could play it so he wouldn’t see it coming.”

  “Someone would,” Lefebvre said. “Someone always does.”

  Still, Lefebvre didn’t make a move for the stairs.

  Dez’s heart pounded. “Help us,” he said.

  “There’s no help for you two,” Lefebvre said. “For any of us. Goodbye, Raven.”

  Head down, he made for the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Condemned

  Badler and Hernandez came down to collect them not long after. Badler went straight for Dez, but Hernandez called out to him in the murk.

  “What?” Badler snapped.

  “The Hound first,” Hernandez explained.

  “What’s the difference?”

  Hernandez sighed, strode over and flicked on the lights. Dez blinked in the comparatively blinding glow. “I really need to explain it?”

  Badler grunted. “That hairy bastard too much for you? Put your gun to his temple, he’ll do whatever you want.”

  “We follow directions,” Hernandez said. To Dez it sounded as if Hernandez had stated this fact a thousand times.

  Badler ignored Hernandez, squatted before Dez. If Dez wanted, he could kick the muscular son of a bitch in the balls. The chains would certainly stretch far enough.

  Then again, maybe that’s exactly what Badler was inviting him to do. Maybe Badler was goading Dez to attack so he’d have a reason to retaliate. If Badler did unload on Dez, there’d be little hope of survival. The man’s muscles were ludicrously corded, and what was more, Dez was nearly certain both of these goons were cannibals. They weren’t Latents. That much was obvious. Keaton seemed to have little use for Latents. And the virile bodies and gleaming white teeth bespoke of the preternatural good health that marked eaters of human flesh.