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Things Slip Through 8.
8.I sit back and force myself to look away from Gavin’s handwriting. Dammit if that neat, looping script isn’t moving, and I just want to keep reading until . . .I shake my head slightly, trying to clear my thoughts. “So is Jesse lost in some other world . . . or did he just get the hell out of town? Which story is true? Which one happened?”Gavin scratches the back of his neck, offering me an apologetic look. “I don’t know. Both of those stories about Jesse and Scott came to me within several days, and while I wrote them they both felt right. All I know for sure is that no one’s seen nor heard from Jesse in months. Even you admitted that. Regardless of which story is true, I believe Jesse Kretch is gone and he’s never coming back.”“How did Scott die, then? Which version do you remember?”Gavin opens his mouth.Closes it, folds his hands and looks out the window, whispering, “I honestly don’t remember how he died. I just remember him being dead and no one wanting to talk about
Things Slip Through Bassler Road
BASSLER ROADJarred Simmons jerked awake, his heart hammering, expecting to see guardrails or trees looming in his headlights, but after several seconds of clutching the steering wheel he realized he was still traveling safely forward on Bassler Road.“Sonuvabitch.”He breathed deep and relaxed. “That was too close. Gotta stay awake or I’m dead.”But his eyes felt heavy, exhausted. Everything blurred and mixed together. He felt little distinction between him, his Dodge RAM and the road, which stretched out before him into the night.He rubbed the back of his neck. His last cup of coffee had worn off and his thoughts felt jumbled. His eyes burned, his face felt heavy and he had to force himself to focus on Bassler Road, which seemed much longer than he remembered.Granted, he rarely drove this way, so he didn’t know how long Bassler Road actually was. He usually left town the other way, southeast, out toward Woodgate and Utica, but his GPS had plotted the quickest route to the int
Things Slip Through 9.
9.“Jarred Simmons ran his truck off Bassler Road in April,” I say, eyes closed, rubbing my temples, trying to massage away the persistent ache that’s taken root there. “He drove right into a huge Adirondack pine. Airbag malfunctioned and he suffered massive head trauma. According to the tox screens, he’d also been plastered.”“His wife had committed suicide four months before,” Gavin says, “his children had disowned him and due to the revelation of the whole affair his law practice was failing. I’d say the man was suffering.”“Well, at least this story I can verify.”“How?”I open my eyes, drop my hands and drum my fingertips on the tabletop. “Because, Gavin. Jarred Simmons is still in a coma, at Clifton Heights General. Has been since he got out of surgery after the accident.”Gavin raises an eyebrow, looking pleasantly surprised. “You’ve kept tabs on him?”I wave away his quiet admiration. I’m really not that altruistic. “The case just seemed so . . . odd. Forensics guys dete
Things Slip Through A Brother’s Keeper
A BROTHER’S KEEPERCraig Hartley stood at the tiny hospital room window, sweating. It was summer and eighty degrees and here he was, stuck in a room with an ancient air conditioner that grinded and wheezed and grumbled but had very little effect. Nothing he could do about it, of course, but stand and sweat and hate hospitals in general, especially small town, backwoods hospitals like this one.He watched townspeople scuttle along the sidewalks outside and smirked. Look at them, running around in the shadow of the place that’ll kill them someday. Idiots. That’s why he’d left, of course. So he wouldn’t become one of them.His smirk faded. He’d carved out a good life for himself, dammit—but now it felt like he’d never left. He still felt nineteen: still defiant, reckless, insecure, still scared of his father’s bullshit, still haunted by . . .No. Didn’t believe then, won’t believe now.A dry spot on his scalp itched.He turned to inspect the room, avoiding the burnt thing lying in i
Things Slip Through 10.
10.“Okay . . . that’s . . . that’s just . . . ”I straighten and cover my mouth, which tastes a little like bile. Honestly, it’s touch and go. But I swallow and manage to say without stuttering, “I hope Cassie Tillman doesn’t come back, ask if I want anything more to eat or drink. She does . . . I’m puking. Definitely.”Gavin sips from his coffee (even THAT’S enough to twist my guts a little) and says, “I imagine. I didn’t have much of an appetite for several days after that one.”I force myself to breathe evenly and say, “I’m guessing that ‘Buddy Hartley’ is no longer at Clifton Heights General? That he’s . . . ”“ . . . been ‘transferred downstate to a special burn-care facility’? You’d be guessing right. At least, that’s what they told me when I called. They didn’t say WHERE, of course. ‘Doctor/Patient Confidentiality’ and all that. I found ‘Craig’ Hartley’s number using Directory Assistance, but no one ever answers. Of course, ‘Craig’ is also now mute, so maybe he just doesn’
Things Slip Through Lonely Places
LONELY PLACESMusky air from the fireplace clouded the small hunting cabin. From across a wooden table, green eyes burned into Derek Barton’s soul. He didn’t want to be here, but he’d nowhere else left to go.“What’s happening to me?”A leathery voice creaked. “Somethin powerful, boy. Old Magic powerful.”Fear slithered in his guts as he stared at this . . . man. Rumors called Clive Hartley many things—brujo, shaman, zombie, the walking dead, even—but Derek had never believed them, always figuring they were bullshit stories and nothing else.Now, however? He desperately hoped the stories were true, because if not . . . he was fucked. “People say you know about this kinda shit. Ya gotta help me.”Clive Hartley leaned into hissing lantern light, bright green eyes narrowed, deep lines creasing his thick skin. “Somethin’s growin inside ya. Ken see it in yer eyes.”“Please.”A pause. Hartley folded his hands on the wooden table. “Tell me how.”Derek shuddered as pieces of himself f
Things Slip Through 11.
11.Gavin is talking about researching Wendigoes and old Native American myths, something along those lines but I’m not listening too closely, not really. I can hear the words coming from his mouth, can recognize them as English but I can’t distinguish one word from the other as they flow along into a steady stream of babble . . .Because I’m too busy staring at this damn book open before me, at its script—Gavin’s flowing script—which still seems to quiver and tremble and even undulate across the page. I’m starting to wonder what will happen if I keep staring at these words, what will happen if I keep reading them, what will happen to them, to me? Will they slide off the page, down onto the dull and scuffed Formica tabletop, slither over to my hand, melt into my skin, ride my blood to my brain and burn themselves forever there?Okay.Hell.That’s enough of that.So I close my eyes, hold a hand up to pause Gavin’s talk as I try to sort things out in my head, too many things, stran
Things Slip Through On A Midnight Black Chessie
ON A MIDNIGHT BLACK CHESSIENowBradley again turns onto the strange road bathed in the moon’s phosphorescent glow. He understands this place now. Understands what it is, where it came from, and how it came to be.Ned sits on the passenger side, still drunk, forehead pressing the window as he gazes at the glowing scenery. “Wow. Am I awake or dreamin?”“Neither,” Bradley whispers. “Or maybe both.”Toward Ned he feels a resolved sadness. Bradley no longer hates him so much but rather pities him, for he’s caught up in something much larger than himself, much larger than Bradley or anything else, and is completely helpless in the face of it.As Bradley is.And as they drive down this softly glowing road, Ned continues to stare. “Geez. Don’ recognize this at all. You lost?”“No,” Bradley says as he slowly pulls up to the glowing church at the road’s end. “Not at all.“I’m home.”Three Days AgoFriday afternoonBradley Sanders had just pulled shut his office door at Webb County C
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