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Haven AU: Q&A (or Kill Simon)
Jun. 29th, 2014 08:18 amThe first part of the drive is quiet. I stare out of the window as it continues to go dark and Nate just stares at the road, and the radio hums it's way through music that doesn't stick in my brain.
“I am sorry,” he says.
“I know,” I tell him.
“Not about—well, I mean, I am, of course, but I meant about the other day, accusing you of—of being high. That wasn't—I shouldn't have.”
“It's fine,” I mutter, especially as you were right, but we're not. Not going to say anything. Not getting into that.
“Must have been a long trip.”
“What?”
“New Orleans,” he clarifies, “I don't think about what piloting all the way back from somewhere by yourself—and everything. Must be tiring.”
“It is.”
“Right,” he nods, “So, I'm sorry. I know how I get when I'm tired, and it was supposed to just be a blow off steam evening and then I'm being an asshole.”
“Just stop it, Nate, okay?” I turn to him, taking my chin off my hand, “Just--” I wave my other hand at him, “Just—it doesn't matter. It's pointless.”
“Sorry.”
We drive a bit longer.
“Are you sure you want to go...here?” he says. He was probably going to say 'home'.
“I have to. I was supposed to go see him when I got back. Tell him about New Orleans. Surprised he didn't show up at the boat,” I shake my head; but then Simon doesn't come and see you—well, not about things like that anyway. If he comes to see you...
“Right,” Nate says, warily, “What were you doing in New Orleans?”
“Working, Nathan. Then there was a great party...that would have been fun to see you at,” I manage a smile, “I would like to see you stoned some time.”
He shakes his head, “That's not happening.”
“It would do you good at least once,” we're close now, “Relax. I'm not suggesting you take something hard. Just some weed or some peyote.”
He shakes his head, “You know who I live with, Duke. Are you insane?”
“Probably, but fine, fine.” I put up my hands, “Seriously though. If you change your mind it is not like I would send you home right after you tried. You sober up first, my God, Nate. I'm not going to send you home a lamb to the slaughter. I'm not an animal.”
As he pulls the truck up to the door it's apparent Simon isn't home at the moment—the lights not being on isn't a sign but the truck not being there is. Small favors. I grab my bag out of the back seat and slide out of the Nate's truck. Nate gets out and follows me to the door.
“I'm serious. You can come back with me. Dad wouldn't mind.”
“I know, but I have to be here,” I reach into the inside pocket for the keys, “I'm sure I'll have something else to do tomorrow anyway or the next day.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Nate says and looks like he instantly regrets it.
“Something like that.”
“Alright. Well, you know where I am,” he puts a hand on my arm and then gets back in the truck.
%%%%
I almost call out to Carolina when I open the door, expecting to see her laying there on the couch given I can't hear moans from the back room, auto-pilot to get a response, make sure she's still alive. Forgetting that she's not going to be there. They tried to call her in for questioning too, but not been able to track her down. I dump my bag on the sofa and turn on the lights. Hey, they turn on. The house smells of stale beer. TV works too, but I can't focus on anything on it so I turn it off again.
Then it's aimlessly wandering around the house trying not to think about things, which doesn't work. So, I give myself some help, and then find my way to being pissed at myself and find my way into Simon's liquor cabinet as he's still not home and my brain won't shut up despite my previous efforts, and keeps returning to the inlet almost two weeks ago. What was it they were saying at the interviews today? Should have all their lab work soon. Well, good.
The door slamming open rouses me. I knock a pile of mail off the kitchen table as I sit up.
“What the Hell is this?” Simon demands, “Leaving all the lights on? Drinking my Goose? Have you been crying too?” His hand is raised to hit me but I don't care, “Not to mention this is the first time I've seen you since you got back! Don't think I don't know when you docked, boy.”
Four questions about thirty different answers but the one my brain musters is, “Fuck you,” so then my head slams into the table and I'm hauled to my feet by my hair. The almost empty vodka bottle smashes on the floor.
“You've been crying over the Carr girl?” he demands, “You've wet your dick in how many others and that one you cry over?”
“I didn't--” I try to pry his fingers from my head. Actual effective fighting methods lost to me. Goose is stupid. I forget what I didn't want to and remember what I did want to forget. Fuck you, vodka. Why does he drink you?
He knees me in the chest then, releasing me and I tumble to the ground coughing, “You didn't?” he demands, “Didn't what? You didn't fuck her?”
“No,” I choke out.
“So--” there's a scoff laugh. I feel an iciness suddenly, creeping out from the middle of my chest into the rest of my body, “Wow. So, I got that before you did. Too late for you now then, isn't it? What was so--” and the iciness is red hot rage, and I barrel into him, knocking him over the back of the couch. That he wasn't expecting.
I'm only coordinated by rage for a little while though, and lose the upper hand quickly. He might have a black eye and busted nose, but so do I, and my chest is killing me, as I pull myself into the corner when he walks away.
“Are you going to cry again?” he asks, going to the liquor cabinet, “It's a broken rib at most. It's not like I haven't given you those before. Look at this,” he shakes his head, “I have to drink the Smirnoff now, thanks to you,” he pours some into a glass and then brings the bottle and glass to his favorite chair and flops down.
I don't say anything.
He shakes his head, “So, how was New Orleans?”
I don't say anything.
He leans forward in the chair, “I didn't do anything to your ears or mouth,” he says, a little louder, “How was New Orleans?”
“It was fine,” I answer. My voice is scratchy, “Everything went fine.”
“Why were you late?” he asks.
“I picked up another job,” I pull myself to my feet, using the wall.
“Oh?” he says, curious, “And?”
“That went fine, too,” I lie. I lean back against the wall for a moment, steadying myself. Eyes closed.
“Well, then. Good.” I hear him pouring himself more alcohol.
I walk along the wall towards the door, “Where are you going?” he demands.
“I'm going to my boat,” I tell him, grabbing hold of my bag and his car keys from the table by the door quietly.
“Fine,” he says, “I expect to see you tomorrow by 9 a.m.”
“Fine.” I go out the door and unlock his truck. I'm not going to drive anywhere, but it's somewhere not around him to be. I sit down in the passenger seat and push it back so I can lay down. In a few hours Simon should be passed out drunk and then...and then I'm not sure what I'll do.
There's Nate's voice telling me I should call the police about what he said; but when have the police done anything about Simon Crocker.
%%%%
After reading half of The Tommyknockers so that I stay awake I figure it's a good time to check on the state of the drunkard. I carefully make my way to the house, stiff, having a hard time moving. Between the bruises and my head throbbing and being dizzy I throw up halfway the front door. This won't do.
“Dad?” I call.
The only response is snoring, and he's drunk almost the entire bottle. Good.
I hobble back to the car and go through my bag for something to help the pains, then to the weapons locker which for a moment doesn't make sense. There are so many things, mostly guns and knives, and one of the knives I do pick up, but he's already gotten the drop on me and I don't—until I stumble back and almost knock a sledgehammer on my foot and I remember him talking about hobbling people.
I drag the sledgehammer behind me into the main house.
“Dad?”
He's still sprawled out in the arm chair, legs out in front of him, not a care in the world. There he is, all relaxed and asleep as though nothing is wrong, as though he was perfectly justified in doing those things to Julia, as though I should be grateful, thankful to him that she's dead.
I swing the hammer up and bring it down on his right ankle. There's a crack and a crash as it goes through his foot and into the tile below as well, and he wakes up flailing and yelling. He tries to come out of the chair after me and screams again, falling over, cursing me. I back up out of his reach.
“What did you say, Dad?” I ask him, moving around to the other side and raising the hammer again. He reaches towards me, desperately, but he's too slow to switch sides compared to my own movement and I slam the hammer down again. I miss his ankle but I hit the middle of his calf and hear something crack. The scream is satisfying and curls him up long enough I can hit him again and actually crush the foot.
“What the fuck are you playing at, you little bastard?”
“Can't let them get away, can you?” I tell him, “Am I doing it right?”
“You asshole. I don't need feet. I have knees,” he's grabbing at the chair, pulling himself up to them so he'll be able to reach me. Panic and I hit him in the chest with the hammer. He does wind up on his knees, but bent backwards, coughing, sputtering, spittle, gasping.
“What's the matter? Haven't you had broken ribs before?” I can feel my chest burning and my arms aching with the exertion but I can't stop. If I stop I'm dead and it's all for nothing.
“Duke--” he says, raising a hand towards me, “Duke,” I slam the hammer down onto that hand, missing though and hitting the floor in front of his face. He smirks at me, but looks wary when I drag the hammer back towards me, “come on. Are you really ready to be the only active Crocker? You think you can do that?”
“I don't give a fuck about that.”
“You will when the Guard comes knocking.”
I slam it on his hand and he curses me up and down again. Rolling to one side, which puts him on his back again.
“Not so funny when it's your hand, is it? You need to be stopped. Your shit,” I raise the hammer again, “Needs to stop,” I slam it down in the middle of his chest. I was hoping for groin but I'm getting wavery. He's not going anywhere any time soon though. I lean on the handle of the sledgehammer as he coughs, spittle turning red, rather than white. I remember seeing this before and Simon getting disappointed that the guy might go too soon but he was coughing up a lot more of it at the time. He doesn't say anything for a moment just wheezes, flailing with the mangled hand towards the ground and gripping at his chest with the other. I bring the hammer properly onto his crotch as hard as I can. The scream is so satisfying given I can only imagine exactly what Julia went through thanks to this asshole. I swipe the sledgehammer back up and smash it in his face because of how he's been moving around with the pain and the writhing I wind up only catching the top of his forehead, not his face full on but at this point what the fuck ever I just smash and continue smashing I mostly hit his face, then I hit the ground which throws me off and I switch to just ramming the hammer into him from above.
He's not...moving...
I realize this slowly that even the twitching has stopped.
The hammer clatters to the ground, smashing through the remains of a lamp and I fall on to the floor backwards. It hurts. I can't look. There's red and pink mush everywhere.
Oh, fuck. Oh, holy fuck. I just...I just...
%%%%
I know I can't make it to the bathroom before I puke. I wind up puking into the kitchen trash and then flopping down on the floor there because my legs don't want to support me any more. I just...can't any more.
I'm so tired.
I should move. I should...
...but the floor is cool and I don't care so much that it's sticky under my hands I have a nook here in the corner between the cabinets to keep myself propped slightly up so that I don't get my hair stuck to the floor at least.
I'm jolted awake feeling like I was falling. That things tongue wrapped around me, pulling me away from the car. The screaming...it's barely coming light and I don't feel rested. I grab the kitchen counter and hoist myself to my feet.
Everything comes back as soon as I turn around and see the mangled mess of flesh pulp, bone, hair and blood in the middle of the family room. I grab my bag quickly and go back into the kitchen away. I need to do something about the mess but not...right now. Right now I need to not be aching everywhere and to get some actual sleep, be thinking clearly, to scrub things out of my brain, and there's only one thing I have that can actually do that given I'm not doing anything with vodka again.
I have to wash a spoon, but I do find one. Take off my jacket trying not to pay attention to the blood and bits on it and roll up a sleeve and sit back down in the corner. A few minutes later everything disposed of and it's all sliding away, and sleep must come for a while anyway.
I'm woken by the sound of a car pulling up by the house, four doors opening and closing but I can't bring myself to move. I realize I left the door partly open given I can hear them talking.
“Yeah, the DNA came in,” someone says, “but it's on us. This is our matter, not theirs.”
“His kid's in town, isn't he? He was in interviews,” voice two.
“Chances are he's on his boat. I wouldn't want to live with Crocker.” A woman's voice.
“Crocker!” There's a banging on the door from voice one, “Crocker, you home?! Teagues needs you! We're here to take you to the meet!”
“If he's passed out drunk our job is easier,” third male voice.
“The door is open,” the woman points out.
I should move. I should move. Teagues. That name. I know it. Why do I know it? I hear the door creaking.
“Oh, holy shit!” the second guy says.
“What?” the first voice, and then it echoes the second guy with a slight coughing sound following it.
The door creaks again and slams shut.
“Fuck me,” the woman says.
“Well, someone did our job...” the fourth voice whistles, “I'm gonna say, with that hammer.”
“No shit,” the woman again.
I hear them moving about the front room. The sound of things being moved about a little bit.
“This was done with venom,” the second one says.
“Simon Crocker brings that out in people,” the first points out. The woman and the second guy agree with him.
“This makes it different though,” the fourth guy says, “Call Teagues. We need to know how to proceed, if he wants clean-up or what we're going to--”
“Moore,” the first voice says in an attention call type way.
“Hm?” the second voice. Must be Moore, I guess.
Footsteps are getting closer. My head doesn't want to turn. Someone crouches down in front of me.
“Hey, kid,” Moore says.
“All the blood and everything—he must have...”
“That's his kid, isn't it?” the fourth voice says, “What's his name?”
“Duke,” the woman says, “but look how beat up he is...”
I hear a clicking and then I realize there are fingers in front of my face being flicked the way you would when clicking along with music, “There we go. Are you with me?”
I manage to turn my head and look up at Moore, but my voice—my mouth doesn't want to work.
“You doing alright? You hurt?”
“No shit he's hurt,” the woman moves to touch my face and I push her away from me.
“You're safe, kid,” Moore again, “He's—he's more than dead.”
“I know,” now my mouth works, but my voice sounds all wrong, “I—I know. I...” my hands are shaking against my legs now that I've lowered them back down, “He...”
“It's okay,” the woman crouches down next to Moore.
“Where's the phone in this house?” the fourth voice says.
“Not now, Alan,” the woman says.
“We need to talk to the boss and I can't fucking find it.” Alan snaps, “Do you know where it is?” he bends down towards me.
“I don't fucking know,” I snap back, “This is the first time I've been in the house in over a month. Who knows maybe Mom pawned it for drugs better that than the precious TV.”
“Just page it from the damn base,” the woman says, turning her head around. She stands up then and goes over to the fridge. I hear her rummaging around in there, and then looking in cabinets.
“What happened exactly?” the third guy says, “How did that--?” I'm not sure what he's doing but I can imagine he's gesturing towards the mush in the other room that used to be Simon.
“I hit him with the hammer...” I gesture towards it with one hand, and then grab that hand with the other because it's shaking.
“A lot,” the woman says. She kneels down next to me again. She has something crinkly wrapped in a towel and she offers it towards me, “This is for your head. Though I don't know how much it'll help at this point. This all happened last night I'm guessing.”
“Yeah,” my voice is quiet, again. I let her put the crinkling cold, freezing cold bag, over the side of my face. It must be some sort of bag of frozen veggies or something. I wonder how long it's been in there given I bet it's one I bought.
“No, I mean...”
“Just leave it,” Moore says.
Alan reappears, in a much better mood, “Vince is on the way. He doesn't want anyone to do anything else right now. We're just to wait.”
%%%%
Tedious. Everyone standing or kneeling or sitting around in that sort of silence that stretches out the way you over pull a rubber band in the hopes you can get it that much further than someone else when launching your spit ball. Eventually another car pulls up and two people get out by the slamming doors. The front door creaks open and closes eventually when people have walked in.
“Well, damn,” a voice I recognize says. That's when I realize who Vince is. I've heard and seen him arguing with Dad quite often, outside on the back porch, in hushed angry tones by the front door, and a couple of times coming to almost blows, slamming against the wall by shoulders and collars before stalking away from each other in huffs.
“Thank God it's tile,” the other guy says, “If all this had been soaking into carpet I don't even...”
“You could have let him shower,” Vince says, “Good grief have some common sense. Come on, lad. Do you have clothes here?” he hoists me to my feet by my arm pit.
“My bag...” I wave towards it.
He grabs that in the other hand and walks me towards the downstairs bathroom which I realize I'm a bit terrified to go into. Who knows what's in there—what Mom was doing last.
“I'm sorry about that,” Vince says, “Sometimes they get tunnel vision with directives. You get yourself cleaned up and then we'll talk about things. You've had a rough go of it I'm sure,” he pats me on the shoulder, “Take as long as you need. We'll be sorting things out here. Don't worry about anything.”
“But...”
He makes sure to look me right in the eyes, “Don't worry about anything. Simon was a murderer. Haven has been done a great service that he's dead. We will take care of everything. Go and clean up. Drop your clothes outside the door right here.” He points then turns the handle on the bathroom door so that it opens but he doesn't go inside he goes back to the front room.
The bathroom is not as scary as I feared. It does smell of mildew thanks to formerly damp towels in a pile behind the door, but nothing is stopped up, and there's no client leavings anywhere. I'm actually able to find two clean towels on the linen shelf above the toilet which is good because I didn't think to pack any of those from the Ursa but I do at least have soaps and things in there. I set the shower running to warm up and stand in the corner away from the mirror to strip then dump the clothes and mildewy towels out in the hallway.
The shower feels good until I start picking bits of Dad out of my hair and having to stomp them down the drain with my feet. It hits me like the wave of the shower itself, the smashing of the hammer into the bone, the red hot rage. He deserved it, but he still—he was—and I—and I'm in the bottom of the shower with one hand partly in the drain, until I realize I'm shivering from the water going cold and drag my ass out of there and into the towels.
I pull on pants after a while and sit. I'm going to have to go out there and talk to them all about Simon and everything. More questions. Like all the hours and hours of questions about Julia from yesterday, and now...I can't face that sober. Fortunately I can cobble something together in here to mix things with, and get things sorted before finding a long-sleeve shirt to put on and stash everything away once more.
The pile of clothes is gone from the hallway and I dump the bag by the end of the corridor towards the front door and look around. The room is brighter.
Alan and the guy who came in with Vince are wearing plastic over their clothes and have garbage bags, a roll of shiny clear plastic, shovels and are working with Dad's body, having rearranged the front room some. I can smell bleach. Vince and the others are at the kitchen table, which they've cleaned off. Papers and books and things have all been dumped in a corner. Not that it makes much difference. I can smell coffee though. Good luck finding mugs. No, wait, one of them is missing. Then he comes back into the room through the front door, carrying a huge thick plastic crate which he sets down in the front room near the other two. He's also wearing plastic over his clothes.
“Over here, Duke,” Vince says, waving me towards them.
Moore at the table gets up and offers me his chair so I can sit in front of Vince. The woman is sitting on the other side of us. After a moment or two of watching her I realize she's flipping through Dad's notebook for a moment I'm angry about that and then I don't care.
“Doing okay?” Vince asks.
I give a slight laugh.
“To be expected,” he answers, “Anyway,” he continues, “We've met even if you don't remember I'm Vince Teagues. This is Toby Moore and Alicia Walker.”
There's a blurry motion that is probably Alicia waving at me with the closed journal. I nod at her. Moore moves to lean against the counter behind Vince.
“Over there is Alan Finch,” he makes some sort of motion. I turn around in my chair, but I can't make out much of their features any now especially with all the shimmery plastic, and he says other names but I lose them in the crinkling and squelching of what they're doing to the goop that was Dad. I turn back to him carefully, “-ing you?”
“What?” I ask him.
“Had Simon been teaching you? There's lots of notes in your school record before you were withdrawn about absences of a week or longer for family matters and so on...” he's got some sort of papers in front of him I realize.
“Hm.”
“That's not really an answer.”
“I don't...” I wave a hand at him, “What are you even...doing here? You and Dad used to piss each other off...not that he didn't piss off a...” where was I going with that? Dad...people... “ton of people; but...”
“You know what your father's abilities were, don't you?” the woman, Alicia, steps in, “You recognized the journal.”
Oh, my God, they're so funny. There's my Dad's body literally being scooped into bags and a bucket of some sort in the other room and they're making coffee and we're sitting around chit chatting about the family job but they're not actually naming the family job is this like the Macbeth thing? Are they afraid if they mention it by name I'll just haul off and kill them all?
“Kid?” Moore's hand on my shoulder startles me and I turn to him.
“I'm nineteen,” I point out.
“That's a kid to the rest of us here,” he retorts.
“Fine. Whatever.”
Vince clears his throat, “If you could focus. I would appreciate it.”
I turn to him, scrubbing at my head with my finger tips, like I'm trying but I don't want things to get clearer. That was the whole point. Things were too clear last night and there are still bits all over. Someone is rattling around in the kitchen. There's water running and crockery clattering off itself. I wonder if anything will smash the sink is a mountain, bound to be silverfish or even roaches.
“-ment?”
I turn to Vince, “What?”
He looks irritated, “What started the argument?” he asks, “I'm inferring, based on your injuries that there was some sort of argument, which turned into a violent altercation which resulted in,” he waves his hand towards the room behind me, “that.”
“I...drank his favorite vodka because I was upset...about...about Julia.”
Vince seems pained for a moment, “And that lead to this--?”
“Ye—yes...” My left arm is itchy, “it was him. He said...he said what he'd done to her,” I feel like they're closing in on me then, so many eyes breathing at me, deep questioning breaths demanding more. I lean forward on the table. I can hear him over and over, and the expression twisting his face and the anger burning through me.
“Duke,” the Alicia says.
“I couldn't—I couldn't. He keeps—he kept, and he did those things—those things to her, and he—he laughed, said I shouldn't be upset,” I can't look up at them, can't see what they're thinking. I keep my fists either side of my head and just stare down at the filthy table top, the dried, what is that? Ketchup? Floating in and out of my vision, “said he did me a favor, a favor...having her, torturing her, and she's not even Troubled. He wouldn't have gotten high from her even and there's been so many others, and I don't...and her hands...” I cover my face then. I just can't. Please let that be enough explanation. Please no more.
Someone is grabbing me. I push back, ready and then Moore says, “No, hey, no, it's okay,” and puts an arm round my shoulders and just holds me so my head is against his chest and shoulder, “It's okay,” he repeats, “It's okay.” I think by the way his head turns he's talking or gesturing to Vince or Alicia or both but I can't hear what's going on and I don't want to. I just want it out of me.
“Toby's going to take you to our local safe house,” Vince declares, “We'll talk more tomorrow.”
Great, “Okay.” I lie and follow Moore, who is carrying my bag, out to one of the cars.
%%%%
The house is covered in white boards, has fake blue shutters, window boxes. It looks entirely too cute to be sitting out on the road today. When Moore stops the car I'm expecting someone to burst out of the front door to a swell of music followed by birds and animals and some sort of song about shiny, happy people. Maybe with mops.
Nothing happens though.
I get out of the car and find my bag.
Moore leads me up the steps and knocks, pulling up his sleeve and holding his forearm up to the window in the door. After a moment it unlocks and we're invited in by an older couple. Moore ushers me in ahead of him, rolling down his sleeve as he closes the door behind us and locks it.
“These are the Gallaghers,” Moore says, “Matthew and Susan. You might have been in school with their son Mike.”
I shrug.
“This is Duke...Crocker,” Moore explains, “Vince wants him to stay here tonight. We're dealing with his father right now.”
“Ah,” Matthew says while Susan pulls a face.
“You can put your bag in the room on the left over there,” Susan says, “When was the last time you ate?”
“I...”
“Let's get some food in you then, and you can rest. You look exhausted.”
I just nod.
The room is...well, it is. Dresser with mirror. There are tiny little animal figurines lined up against the back of it. Pictures on the walls of Haven scenery. Lacy curtains on the windows, possibly hand made bed spread, decorative throw pillows on the bed, a chair covered in more lacy things I'm sorta nervous to put my bag on it, which was my first impulse, so I set the bag on the floor next to it instead. There are things I would more expect to be in a souvenir shop on shelves on the walls, and a small book shelf by a door that has a weird assortment of books on it, crime novels, romance novels, one sci-fi and a fantasy and some local history crap. This is not a room meant to be touched.
The knock at the door makes me whirl around.
“You okay, hon?” Susan's voice.
“Yeah.”
“I can bring you towels if you want to take a shower...we didn't know you were coming or I'd have stocked up in there.”
“No, it's fine. I—I showered this morning.”
“Alright, hon. I'll give you the towels after we eat. Matt'll have the food ready in a few minutes, okay?”
I nod, but then remember she's on the other side of the door, “Okay, thanks.”
So, there's a bathroom in here. Good. It turns out to be the door by the bookshelf. It's small, toilet, sink and shower, but that's fine.
Lunch is toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Moore has stayed for it. There's awkward banter about things in town and them trying to establish whether or not I know their kid and trying to act like they haven't heard stories from him about me given we clearly didn't run in the same social circles. By the end of lunch I'm getting a dull headache, but I insist on helping with the washing up, partly so I can palm a clean spoon and then it's not hard to excuse myself to the bedroom given they're pushing me to rest anyway. Moore says he'll be back in the evening to see how things are going and there's teasing from the Gallaghers that he just wants more food. Then he leaves and I hide myself in the room they've given me, which thankfully has a lock on the inside door.
With a small assist, between my toes, sleep finds me pretty quickly and it's blissfully dreamless. Here and there a murmuring voice, but no images, no running. I wake up with a jolt, uncertain in the half light and creepy out of place shadows where I am. Right, “safe house”.
I take advantage of the shower and get dressed again before going cautiously back out into the house. I'm not sure what time it is, but I can hear someone humming in the other room.
“Oh, Duke!” Susan says, as I come into the kitchen. She's rinsing out a coffee carafe in the sink, “Do you drink coffee?”
“Some times. What time is it?”
“Six thirty, in the morning,” she clarifies, “We thought it was best to let you sleep. Moore was pretty sure you hadn't slept properly for quite some time.”
I nod.
“I bet you're hungry too.”
I nod again, “Thank you.”
She allows me to help her make breakfast though: eggs, bacon, sausage, waffles; by the time Matthew is downstairs and Moore is knocking at the door the whole house is filled with the scent of cooking.
“Well,” Matthew remarks, “Aren't we a well-trained house guest?”
“I...had to learn how to cook or I didn't eat,” I admit, carefully, “One of Mom's lodgers taught me some things and then slipped me money if I would make sure there were meals for him to eat, wound up being lucrative for me for some reason guys like to not have to cook for themselves when they come home to crash.”
“I would never have guessed,” Susan comments, dryly, with a look at her husband and then at Moore.
“I'm just here to make sure he hasn't run off,” Moore says, putting his hands up, “It's not my fault that happened to coincide with breakfast.”
“Well, make yourself useful,” Susan tells him, “and clear up the table and set it.”
Moore obediently lays out silverware as he was told as Matthew is pouring out coffee for everyone and setting out milk and sugar and soon after that we're eating and there's chat between them about the local baseball season, and the Labor Day boat race that happened just before I got back. I have to be asked twice before I realize they were talking to me about where it was I'd been off to in August.
“I had to drop off some things in New Orleans,” I tell them, “and stayed for part of the food festival they were having,” so there's discussion of different foods for a while which is a nice, safe, distracting topic but then I'm dismissed through into the front room because I helped cook so I don't have to clean those are apparently “the rules” and Vince will be here soon anyway, Moore says.
The front room is equally full of cute and weird things dotted about on every surface, interspersed with pictures of the Gallagher family in various locations around the house and town. The couches and chairs all have those similar lacy things on the back and I feel so weird being in the room that I just perch on the edge of one of the chairs to wait.
I try to go around the room identifying everything once more so that my brain doesn't wander back into the events of the past couple of weeks and I don't wander back into the bedroom and the zippered pouch. It's probably best to not have another meeting with this Vince while high I imagine with more than twelve hours sleep behind me I don't have as much leeway to be disjointed. No matter how much it's singing to me from in there. No matter. I daren't go in there and get my book even.
It feels as though it's at least another hour though I've only gone through everything in the room three more times and am sitting on my hands by the time there is an officious rap on the door in that same rhythm Moore used. Matthew practically sprints from the kitchen to answer it. I hear him shaking hands with and greeting Vince and someone else, after a moment I recognize the voice as that of the man who showed up with him yesterday and started arranging the cleaning up of Dad's body. I'm standing up when Matthew shows them into the front room.
Vince shakes my hand which seems weird and then, “You remember Don?”
“Yes,” I shake his hand too.
Vince leads the way back into the kitchen and the Gallaghers leave. Moore stays, pouring coffee for Vince and Don. He presents me with the mug I had earlier also, and sits down himself.
“First things first,” Vince says, “Simon Crocker has packed things up on the Cape Rouge and left. You have no idea where he might have gone. The last time you saw him was the night before last when you got into an argument turned physical fight with him and left the house afterwards to clean yourself up on your own boat.”
“Right,” I tell my coffee cup.
“You can tell people that, I trust, because that is what you have to tell everyone.” Vince says.
“We put a lot of work into this,” Don remarks.
“I will tell it!” I retort, “It's in my best interests, isn't it?”
Moore nods, “Well, yeah.”
Great. I shake my head, “So, what's second thing second?”
Vince smooths his hands across the top of the table after setting his mug down, “I know you understand about the Crocker family's Trouble.”
I grip my hands more tightly around the mug, “Simon was very adamant that it was our family's divine duty to cleanse the Troubles from Troubled people...”
“Not exactly.” Don says.
“No, really?” I mutter, feeling myself going cold, “Going around the country killing people for their blood rush? That's not something that's supposed to happen?”
“That was an impressive level of sarcasm,” Moore remarks.
Vince gives him a slight glare but then returns his attention to me, “Well, then, perhaps you'll be interested in hearing what the Crocker family is traditionally supposed to do for Haven and the Troubled, rather than the way Simon...twisted things.”
“I have a feeling you'd be telling me anyway,” I say, remembering Simon's words, “I am the last active Crocker and you're...The Guard, right?”
“Active...” Don says, “Are you sure?”
I just glare at him.
Moore whistles.
“Since when?” Vince demands.
That first hunting trip he took me on he'd told me we were going to Michigan but we actually stopped in Vermont. I got to stay in a motel the first couple of days, and then he picked me up and drove me to a cabin he'd borrowed where there was a beaten and restrained guy...
“October 1989,” I drain the rest of the coffee cup and set it down before my hands start shaking, “He—he took me to Vermont and—and there was a guy...”
“He didn't just activate you with his own--”
“It doesn't work like that,” Vince tells Don, “Otherwise the Trouble would be done now. The Trouble would have been done more than a century ago when two Crocker brothers got into a fight over a woman and one killed the other. Besides I dread to think of the consequences if...” and he trails off then not voicing what it was he dreads to think of.
“He used the guy's blood,” I tell them, “It—it was...” I wrap my hands back around the coffee cup and try to stop myself from fidgeting but I wind up turning it around and around in my hands instead.
“Anyway, you're active,” Moore says.
“Yes.” It's terse, I know, but seriously we've been through this and I don't know how much longer I can sit here and go through this bullshit and my neck is itching.
“The Crocker Trouble is...a control mechanism,” Vince says, “We've only ever sought to have Crockers cleanse Troubles that are dangerous to large groups of people, the town as a whole, or when there's just no other way. Your father will have had a journal somewhere.”
“I've seen it. I had to write the man's name down and what his Trouble was.”
“Exactly,” Vince nods, “but in time's past this has been reserved for things like people who could create cyclones that were destroying, well you can imagine, and they weren't able to find a way to control themselves, or...”
“I got the drift,” I tell him, gripping the mug tightly because I'm shaking againn. Part of me finds it hilarious that if I was high on Troubled blood right now the thing would have shattered.
“Only when there's no other way.” Vince says.
“Right...” I can't. It feels like the empty mug is going to swallow me. It would be nice if it could.
“You want some more coffee, kid?” Moore asks.
“No,” I tell him, “No. I need to piss, actually, is that okay? I swear I'll come back.”
“Fine,” Vince is clearly irritated, but he dismisses me, after all who wants to risk the wayward gypsy peeing on the furniture, might not be properly house-trained. I do go to the bathroom but I also need calm. There's too much and I need the peace, aside from it calling to me all morning. I'm sure my irritability is partly to do with that. I'll be better able to handle the whole thing if I take some edge off all this. It'll be better. It will. I just...this whole thing is just stupid.
I mix everything together in the spoon, taking off shoes and things will take too long, so it has to be back to the arm. It burns a little but then there's warmth, and then as I undo the tie off things start to feel so much better, which was the whole point after all. The pit of unrest eases out of my chest and stomach and smooths it's way through my arms and legs. I allow myself some deep breaths before cleaning everything up and stashing what I don't throw away or flush, rather, before going back to the kitchen and the waiting Guard. I flop back into the chair.
“Sure you don't want more coffee?” Moore asks, waving the pot at me.
I put up my hand, “Nah, no. It's fine. So...” I turn to Vince, “What were you gonna say...before..?”
“When Don and his team were arranging things with Simon they retrieved the Crocker archive and tools that Simon had on his boat.”
“Awesome...” I tell him, still slightly sarcastic.
“We'll help you out of sticky situations here and there, pay you for certain other errands, provided you leave yourself open to fix certain...Troubles when it's needed.”
“Kill people, you mean.”
“We don't ask these things lightly,” Vince says, “The reason Simon and I kept arguing was because—anyway, that's not important. We need you to sign on with us.”
“Do I have an actual choice here?” I trace my fingers over the top of the table, don't lay your head down, don't... “I mean, really?” I have to snicker a little bit, “If I say 'no' what happens?”
There's a moment of uncomfortable silence as a look passes between Don and Moore.
Vince finishes the swig of coffee that he was taking and sets his cup down and then steeples his fingers before looking at me, “You're young. There are a lot of things about this town and the Troubles you don't understand, especially given your father's particular 'take' on things. The fact remains that we did you a huge favor by cleaning up the mess that was made the other night. I think you'll agree. What would you have done if my people hadn't shown up?”
I shrug, “Burned the house down?” something slowly reaches through the fog I injected over my memories, “You were coming to deal with him anyway, weren't you? I really don't think a four person crew was just coming to tell him off and ask him nicely not to do that shit any more—and you didn't have any cops with you. So, didn't I do you a favor?” thankfully right now I'm too blissed overall for that to make me want to puke even if Vince is grating against that.
Vince smooths the table in front of him, “What are you intending to do to live now? You need money to survive, you need jobs. Simon's not here to arrange things for you.” he inquires.
“Simon arranging things wasn't always for the best,” I counter.
“I can see that,” Moore remarks.
Vince shoots him a look, “And what if the Cape Rouge just 'happens' to show up? What then?”
“So, blackmail then?”
“I don't like it, but what the Crocker Trouble can do is that important, Duke. It can save hundreds of lives and more at the cost of just one. We can help support you. You just have to take on these odd jobs for us from time to time and you'll be saving countless people. There, thankfully, aren't that many terrible, horrible Troubles so it'll just be a matter of having a way to keep in touch and other than that you can go about your life at least until the Troubles come back here, and then you'll need to be here for the duration.”
“Lovely. When's that likely to be?”
“2008 at the earliest.” Moore says.
“We'd keep you apprised,” Vince says, “and you'd have a stipend, of course, a retainer, whatever you want to call it and if you wanted to stay in the area--”
“I don't.”
“Fair enough.”
I toy with my arm for a moment, “but the Ursa can make fairly good time being small,” I can't believe I'm saying it—but it goes back to the previous of what choice do I have? And it is what our Trouble does that's been brought home to me for the past five years and then New Orleans...
“Your father had drop box--”
“I know.”
“Of course,” Vince nods, “Moore can drop you back at the Ursa along with your inheritance and we'll see you later today to finalize things. You understand what will happen if you change your mind and leave.”
“I said I'd—alright I implied I'd do it and I will,” I stand up and the others follow suit.
Vince leans over and shakes my hand. His hand feels really cold, “Thank you,” he says.
“Right,” I answer and Moore takes me out to the car after I retrieve my bag.
The house doesn't seem so cute any more.
