Chapter 18

 

The coffee was caffeinated mud, thick enough to filter through the teeth, but Goodwell drank it down gratefully and shivered as it hit him between the eyes. “Thank Christ. Got a croissant to go with that?”

Fitch was busy in the kitchen, reorganising the pantry with a studied, almost obsessive eye. Cans stacked neatly, jams were colour-coded, and the instant noodle packets were set on end like books on a shelf, spines facing outward, alphabetised by flavour. The pantry shelves were bowing, warped by damp. “This is Fitch’s Bolthole, Detective, not Fitch’s Family fuckin’ Patisserie.”

Across the room, Detective Chan snorted laughter. “Get your head out of your ass, Goodwell.”

“Oh, lay off.” He waved her away as he settled into a tattered armchair. Scratchy, but comfortable. The sort of furniture a man could marry. “Fitch. Time we laid our cards on the table. What do you know about Kimberly Archer.”

Fitch stopped in the middle of rearranging his pantry, a box of Captain Crunch squeezed in his fist. “What do you care about her?”

“I’m police. I have to care.”

“Not very good police, from what I hear. Why don’t you start with the stories?” Fitch turned, seating himself on the kitchen bench. “How much do you know about Rustwood?”

Goodwell forced himself to meet Fitch’s eyes. “Enough. There aren’t many who do, not besides me and Detective Chan.”

“That why they locked you up? Beast’s servants wouldn’t have kept you down there if you didn’t scare them.”

“Of course I scare them. I scrub up the mess so the rest of Rustwood can pretend everything’s okay. I know more than anyone.” Goodwell jabbed one finger at Fitch, fixing him with his best steely glare. “Even you.”

Fitch sucked his lower lip, his unkempt beard bristling in the orange kitchen light. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe you’re the one who isn’t seeing the big picture. It isn’t just Fitch against the world. There are more sides to this than you know. Checks and balances. I was the one keeping things ticking over, making sure the people out there-” He waved at the windows, the world beyond Fitch’s shack. “-got to sleep at night. And you know what? The thing out there, the beast, whatever you want to call it, it seemed happy with that arrangement.”

“Which beast?” Fitch said quietly.

“Say what?”

“Rosenfeld told me. Don’t pretend you don’t know her. She says there’s a matching pair, old and new. So which was it you were keeping the peace for?”

The coffee mug was squeezed painfully tight between Goodwell’s knees. He didn’t realise he was clenching his jaw until he felt his teeth grind and creak. “I wasn’t keeping the peace for it. I was making sure this place survived.”

“Yeah? What about that thing chasing us, the one in black? What the fuck was that?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“Sure. Say that all you like.” Fitch settled into his own chair, clutching his own chipped mug to his chest, and leaned across to where Chan was nursing her tea. “Mrs Archer never told me about you. How’d this asshole drag you into this?”

Chan glared at Goodwell across the room, and for a moment she thought he’d spill it all - the farm, the dead kids, the desperate flight from the fire. Him putting a pistol to her head. The truth of who employed him.

Instead she smirked. “New partner. Not my first choice. Still feels like I’m trying to wake up.”

“You get that feelin’ too? Like you’re lying in bed and the sheets are all sweaty but you can’t open your eyes?” Fitch drained his coffee, beads dripping from his chin. “Hell of a thing.”

An awkward silence stretched across the room. Chan studied her knees while Goodwell stared at their host. He was strange, sure. Maybe even deranged. But there was something else odd about him, something he couldn’t quite place. The way he moved, the way he sat. Like he was half a step out of tune with the rest of the world.

Talking to Fitch felt like talking to his master, the Old Queen. Like the air itself was heavy.

It was a relief when Fitch set his mug aside. “Been a long day, and you’re no good fightin’ when you can’t stay on your feet.” He forced himself out of his recliner and shuffled toward the end of the hall. “Sleep on the sofa, the floor, I don’t care. Don’t worry about anyone comin’. Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe... but not tonight.”

The bedroom door clicked closed behind him.

“Jesus,” Chan whispered. “He’s lost it.”

Goodwell held a finger to his lips as he shucked out of his flip-flops. Slowly, barefoot, he crept down the hall and pressed his ear to the cold grain of Fitch’s bedroom door.

Scrapes, grunts. Sheets rustling. They finally faded, replaced with the steady drone of snores.

Goodwell nodded to Chan and motioned for her to follow him outside.

They sat together on the rear patio of Fitch’s tumbledown house, looking out over the wild-grass wasteland of his yard. A single tree grew there, a weeping elm, bent so far over by the constant battering of rain that the tips of its wilted branches brushed the ground. Nothing else stirred in the grass, no rabbits or feral dogs nosing about for a meal. No birds rested in the tangle of the elm. Nothing flew overhead.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

“You trust him?”

“Are you serious?” Chan brushed a lock of black hair back from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear. She looked haggard, eyes bloodshot and skin pale. Maybe coming down with a cold. Maybe something altogether worse. “I barely believe I’m trusting you.”

“Not like you’re winning any loyalty awards this year.” Goodwell turned away, wishing suddenly for a cigarette. There was something about the comforting haze of the Rustwood PD, the way the stink of smoke was etched into every surface, like you could get your nicotine fix by licking the walls. He wasn’t a smoker, had never really seen the attraction, but at that moment the familiar tang of tobacco in his nostrils would’ve gone a long way towards stopping the shakes.

Chan ducked her head. “I’m sorry about... that.”

“You’re damn right. I got you an audience with the first-and-only Queen of Rustwood, and you ran away. Be a long time before she sticks her head out of her hole again.”

Chan laced her fingers together as she leaned against the clapboard wall of Fitch’s bungalow. “And?”

“And what?”

“I ruined the meeting with your... Queen. Thing. I got you arrested. But hey, never mind you shooting at me.”

Goodwell couldn’t meet her eyes. “Didn’t I already apologise for that?”

“If you did, I wasn’t listening. Say it again.”

“Karen.” He reached out to touch her shoulder, thought better of it, and pulled back. “I’m sorry. That was fucked up. Won’t happen again.”

Chan shivered in the chill wind blowing across the yard. “So you killed them.”

“They weren’t boys any more. They were like Pollock and White. Dead inside. Things in their eyes.”

“But you killed them.”

“Yeah.”

“You feel bad about that?”

Goodwell began to shake his head, then stopped. “I feel like a monster. I dream about them.”

“Is that what you meant when you said they were following you? Just... in your head?”

“Christ, I wish. If I was going crazy that’d make it so, so simple.”

A low moan from inside the house set Goodwell’s teeth on edge. He stuck his head inside the patio door, shivering as he realised what it was: Fitch, sobbing in his sleep.

Chan whispered, “Nightmares?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” Fitch’s cries were a mash of words, mumbled pleading just loud enough to be heard from the far end of the house. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Come back. Please, come back. “Nobody has nice dreams in this goddamn town.”

“So he’s crazy, you’re crazy, I’m probably crazy.” Chan scooted into the furthest corner of the patio, where the rain spattered off the edges of the wooden decking and splashed on the cuffs of her slacks. “We can’t hide here. Not with that man.”

Goodwell shook his head. “They’ll be looking for us. Doesn’t matter what wards he’s put up, they’ll blast through. No, we have to push back. Hit them before they hit us.”

“You think Fitch’ll play along? If he finds out you’re working for the-”

“We. We are, Chan.”

“I never agreed to anything.”

“You don’t have to. The pretender knows you. She’s after both of us now, and you better believe she won’t rest until we’re on the slab. That, or...” He extended his arms and rolled his eyes back. “Guh guh guh. Mind-fucked. You want to live, you’re working for the Queen.”

Chan’s shoulders hitched. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You do it or you die. There’s no debate.”

“I killed Pavel.”

“Who?”

“Christ, you didn’t even know him.” Chan wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “When you left me behind in the station-”

“You told me to run.”

“-I know, I know. I had to... Pavel would’ve shot me. I think he was one of them. All brain-dead, I mean. I think. God.”

“If he wasn’t that way already, he would’ve been soon.”

“You don’t know that.”

A gust of wind scattered dead leaves across the patio. Goodwell clutched his coat tight around his shoulders. “I’ve been in this game a long time, Chan. I know.”

“How long?”

“Enough.”

“Seriously. How long?”

“I...” Goodwell’s throat closed. He could remember the moment the voice had first come to him. He’d been on the job, hunting for Kyneton, the spree-killer with the weird eye. They’d found that room out back of the Burger King, the place all splashed with blood and ink where he’d dragged the bodies, and the voice had swelled around him. But when was that? A year ago? Two?

“I’m tired,” he whispered. “Can’t get my head straight.” He knuckled his eyes, shivering as another sudden breeze whipped rain beneath the lip of the patio. “You want the sofa or the floor tonight? Don’t think Fitch left us any blankets.”

“Goodwell.”

“Yeah?”

Chan grabbed his hand, pulled him around so they were eye to eye. “What do you remember?”

He wanted to pull away from her stare but she had him fixed. Her nails dug into the flesh of his forearm. “Hannah. My wife.”

“You don’t talk about her much.”

“We’re... drifting apart. Not proud of that.”

“Yeah? How’d you meet?”

He yanked his arm free, rubbing the little half-moon indents where her nails had pressed. “I should call her. Tell her I’m okay.” He turned away from Chan’s piercing glare. “See you in the morning. Look out for monsters.”

“Sure,” Chan growled. “Watch for dead kids.”

He retreated to Fitch’s living room and curled up on the rug, shivering as a hundred tiny drafts skittered through the gaps between the floorboards. Something whistled in the ceiling. Scratching noises like rats clawing free of the insulation.

Hannah. She was waiting on the far side of town, wondering, probably calling Snow to ask where the hell he’d gotten to. Probably scared. They didn’t talk much any more and he couldn’t recall the last time they’d kissed but she was still his and he was hers. She deserved better.

So why couldn’t he remember the day he proposed?

In the bedroom at the end of the hall, Fitch mumbled, “I’m sorry, so...”

The rest was muffled by snores.

 

* * *

 

“Ms Archer? Ms Archer, you still in there?”

She swam toward the voice, through dreams of clawed hands closing around her wrists, dreams where a great white light whispered in her ear, a light that hid inside a form that was not quite animal and not quite inhuman. It whispered orders and she obeyed, and-

She blinked. Even the dim light of the dormitory stabbed her eyes. Gull was leaning over her, the bird-mask removed, so close the tip of his hooked nose brushed hers. His eyes were narrowed to slits, grey storms dancing in his irises, as he shook her awake. “Ms Archer?”

“Get... away.” Everything came out slow, slurred. She tried to shove him back but her arms were heavy. Her mouth tasted like old socks and battery acid. When she tried to stand her legs beat uselessly on the floor. “Get away! The hell... did you do to me?”

“I had to take drastic steps, Ms Archer. You wouldn’t have gone through with it otherwise.”

“You motherfucker!” She took one deep breath, forced the strength back into her limbs and threw herself at him, trying to get a grip on his throat. Gull jerked away with Kimberly’s nails dragging red lines across his jaw. “Bastard!” She could still feel the claws curling around her lips. Fine scratches ran along the roof of her mouth - her tongue felt them as ragged valleys. Her gums were bleeding. “Get it out of me. Get it out!”

“Too late for that. It’s made a nest by now.” Gull sat back on his haunches and wiped sweat from his forehead. Something glittered in his right hand. The scalpel, still dark with the other woman’s blood. “I don’t want to hurt you. I only did this to help. Can’t you feel it already?”

Kimberly rolled over, coughed, trying to clear the thing out of her throat. It was a distant tickle, a scratching at the base of her trachea. Her hands trembled against the stained-wood floor. She’d been dragged out of the circle while unconscious: the woman with the wide, black sunglasses still lay inside, curled up, pale fists over her face, expression hidden by the tumble of her hayseed-blond hair. Her bare feet were still, toes curled so far back it looked like they’d been broken.

Something twitched in her chest.

“Get it out!” She hooked her fingers into her mouth, pressing on the back of her tongue until she retched and spat thin white saliva. Nothing came out. “Oh God. It’s gonna kill me. You son of a bitch. You better run.”

“There’s no need for this. It’ll settle soon. You’ll form a relationship. And then...” Gull clicked his fingers, and fire jumped across his palm. “Remember Canif Street? You can take that power right to the Queens’ door. Think about it, Kimberly. We’re not enemies.”

Gull’s placating smile made Kimberly want to break his knees, kick his face in, drag her nails down his cheeks and slam his head against the floor until he stopped twitching. Her pulse was hot in her temples, and worse was the fire in her chest, the fury threatening to burn through her ribs.

She forced herself to calm. It wasn’t the time. First, she needed answers. “What’s it doing to me?”

“The creature was a gift from the Queen to her lieutenant. A... conduit. It’s making that same connection in you.”

“You’re turning me into her?”

“Not at all. Something even better. You see, when the Queen distributes these gifts, she makes sure there are... limits attached. She doesn’t like direct competition. But I found out how to remove those limits. Not yet, but soon, you’ll have what the Queens have. You’ll be-”

She pressed one hand against her stomach, imagining she could feel the little monster still squirming there, a hands-length above the jag of her cesarean scar. “You’re insane.”

“It’s been said before. This town doesn’t welcome sanity.” Gull offered Kimberly his hand. “Time for us to go. There are people coming, and they won’t be pleased when they see the mess we’ve left.”

The idea of letting Gull touch her after what he’d done made her want to scream. She shoved him away, got to her feet and managed to hold her balance. The world wobbled around her, but not so much that she couldn’t walk away. No worse than her last root canal. In fact, she felt almost... electric. There was new energy in her palms, tingling in the ends of her fingers. She felt she could run a mile through heavy snow, so long as she could keep from tripping on her face. “You’re as bad as Fitch.”

“Oh no, dear. Fitch and I, we’re not even close-”

A bang echoed through the asylum. The doors below, slamming open. The crash carried through the stairwells and into the hall, sending dust sifting down from the rafters to tickle Kimberly’s nose.

“Quicker than I thought,” Gull whispered. “Can you feel it?”

How could she not? A finger of cold had slipped beneath her skin and was now tracing a path down the inside of her ribcage. It left her breathless, shaking all the way down to her toes. “They must have followed us.”

Gull pressed one long finger to his lips. “Maybe. Maybe just looking for their missing friend. Follow me.”

Another thud from the far end of the auditorium. Someone was coming up the stairs, fast. “Follow!” Mister Gull hissed. “If you want to live, follow me!”

Kimberly gritted her teeth. She’d never felt such anger, such boiling, tremulant rage. If she could’ve crushed Gull right then, slapped him to the floor, broken his skull, bled him out...

Maybe Gull felt it. A shudder in the air. Her anger manifest. He stepped back, eyes narrowing, hands rising up at his waist like he was preparing to ward off a blow.

“Fuck you,” she said. “Next time I see you, I’m putting you in the ground.”

She stalked away before he could reply.