Point Pleasant (48 page)

“It’s really not the time,” Ben replied.

Something dark and indecipherable flashed in Nicholas’ eyes. “Is that all this is to you?” he demanded. “Just a snide joke? We both know you have no intention of sticking around. You’ll go back to Boston, and this little jaunt to your quaint hometown will be just another set of pages in some book.”

“Is that really what you think?” Ben asked. “Is that what you thought when I let you fuck me and I told you I still love you?”

“I don’t know what I thought.”

The reply lingered on the air like a ghost. Ben felt the cold and all-too-familiar retreat of himself. The shrinking voice in his head withdrew further to burrow itself away from the inevitable rejection that he had left himself open to.

“I’m gonna go,” Ben said. “I’ll get my stuff. If that’s okay.”

Nicholas said nothing and avoided Ben’s gaze. Ben tried to catch his attention, but Nicholas turned his back. The image was devastating in its familiarity. The voice in Ben’s head wavered and finally flickered out like extinguished candles on a birthday cake.

Ben hurried upstairs and grabbed his suitcase and messenger bag. He scanned the room to ensure he had not left anything behind, and the sight of the messy, unmade bed stilled his movements. Something inside of him broke in two like an old tree limb snapped over a knee for kindling. He stifled a swell of treacherous tears and forced himself out of the room.

“I’m meeting Marietta at five in the square,” he said, striding down the stairs. “You don’t have to show up. I’ll find someone else.”

“I said I’ll be there. With Ford and Thomas. And Silas if I can convince him.”

Ben did not reply.

“Let’s just get this over with and be done with it,” Nicholas said and opened the front door.

Ben halted before he crossed the threshold. “Is this actually happening?”

“Maybe it never should have,” Nicholas replied, and Ben’s state of disconnect could not protect him from the sheriff’s stony, reserved expression.

“You really think that?” Ben asked, his voice finally cracking.

Nicholas remained stoic and tightened his lips. Ben wanted to punch him just to incite a reaction. Instead, he lowered his chin to the floor in bitter defeat.

“Got it,” he said. “Loud and clear.”

For a brief second, the sheriff appeared to want to say something else, but whatever resolve he might have had seemed to slip away.

“I’ll leave tonight,” Ben said.

Again, Nicholas looked like he wanted to reply, but Ben strode out of the house.

The front door slammed shut with a reverberating thud before Ben reached the end of the street. If he had the Camaro, he probably would have driven back to Boston right then.

Ben turned onto Main Street but not toward Cardinal. He slung the strap of his messenger bag across his chest, carried his suitcase in his right hand, and trekked toward River Bend Road.

The eerie stillness of the forest encroached as he left the relative safety of the town. The silence was like an old friend. Ben found it far preferable to Point Pleasant and its sheriff.

When he finally stepped onto Tucker’s porch, Ben was weary. He rang the bell and was surprised that the old farmer had not met him at the door, but he supposed that without the growl of the Camaro’s engine to herald his arrival, he had caught Tucker with his shields down.

The front door swung open on squeaky hinges, and Tucker set his shotgun to the side.

“Where the hell did you come from?” he demanded.

“It’s a long story,” Ben replied. “Can I come in?”

Tucker raised an eyebrow at the presence of Ben’s bags. “You moving in?” he asked and stepped aside to allow Ben entrance. “I’m not looking for a roommate.”

“Funny,” Ben said without humor. “We have to finish this. It happens tonight.”

“What happens tonight?” Tucker asked, leading them to the kitchen.

“Azazel happens,” Ben replied. “Unless we trap him first.”

“We’re gonna need whiskey for this conversation, aren’t we?” Tucker asked with a sigh.

“Bring the whole bottle.”

“It ain’t even ten, yet,” Tucker mused, checking the clock on the wall beside the fridge. “But I suppose that never stopped me before.”

Ben sank down at the kitchen table and dropped his bags to the floor. Tucker brought over two glasses and a label-less bottle.

“You look like warmed over cow shit, son,” Tucker said, assessing the state of Ben’s muddy clothes.

“I feel like it.”

“Give me the recap.”

Ben took a glass of the whiskey when it was offered. “I destroyed the sigil last night. They’re both free to come and go as they please, but Raziel still needs his grace. Azazel’s going to open up his side tonight. Raziel needs Marietta, the sheriff, three others, and us there so that Marietta can perform some ritual to trap Azazel. Raziel will take care of the rest, I guess.”

Tucker seemed almost amused when he uttered an indignant snort. “Is that all? And who the hell else are we gonna pull into this mess?”

“The sheriff will take care of that. We need to prepare, though. We need salt. And lots of it.”

“I’ll need to go into town to the hardware store. I can get more salt and rounds,” Tucker said. “Of course, you could have gotten that all and brought it out here yourself to save us the time.”

“My car’s up at the factory. Sheriff had to drive me back last night. The shield—” Ben trailed off to finally down his whiskey. “Apparently it exploded and threw me with it. I was out for a while.”

“Explains a lot,” Tucker said, refilling Ben’s glass.

Ben hummed in response and sipped his whiskey.

“Well, finish your drink and go get yourself cleaned up. Bathroom’s upstairs. Do us both a favor and use the shower. I’ll run us into town when you don’t look like you tussled with Swamp Thing.”

“That was a good comic,” Ben said, standing. “But he was covered in vegetation, not mud.”

“He had red eyes, though,” Tucker replied, and he raised an eyebrow at Ben’s surprised head tilt. “Hey, I was young once.”

Ben tried to smile, but his thoughts flickered to the red eyes outside the jail cell. He gulped the whiskey in one shot and slid the empty glass across the table. “Give me ten minutes.”

Ignoring the uncomfortable rush of alcohol to his head, Ben grabbed his suitcase and darted upstairs. The bathroom at the end of the hallway was small and neat, and he felt guilty when flakes of dried mud fluttered to the floor as he slid out of his filthy clothes. In the shower, murky water swirled the drain. Ben bent down to wipe at the grimy ring that had formed around the white porcelain.

When he was satisfied that he and the tub were as clean as they could be, he dressed in his spare pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt. The cotton stuck to his damp skin while he gathered as much of the dried muck on the floor as he could and flushed it down the toilet.

Outside, Ben shook out his coat over the yellowing grass. He pulled on the garment, but it made him feel dirty all over again. Tucker eyed him with concern when they climbed into the old Ford.

“You okay, son?”

Ben shook his head and said nothing. Tucker, blessedly, did not ask again. They drove in silence, and Ben stared out at the blur of trees outside the passenger window and leaned his face against the cool glass.

On Main Street, Tucker guffawed over the charred remains of the Gazette. He collected himself and sent Ben to the hardware store to procure the rock salt before he made his own way around the corner to Larkin’s gun shop for ammo.

Ben nodded to Spivey when he entered the shop, but the man behind the counter merely regarded Ben with a suspicious scowl. There were five 40-pound bags of rock salt on the rear wall of shelves. Ben hoisted one into his arms, carried it to the front of the store, and repeated the endeavor until he had retrieved every bag.

“What d’you need all that for?” Spivey asked, spitting a mouthful of tobacco into his filthy soup can.

“I’m hosting a dinner party. You can never have enough seasoning.”

“Don’t you sass me, Sonny Jim.”

“Sincerest apologies,” Ben said, wavering on his feet. “I’m a little drunk right now. Do you take cards?”

Spivey slid an electronic card reader across the counter. A swipe of Ben’s Visa later, and Ben was loading two-hundred pounds of rock salt into the bed of Tucker’s pickup truck.

Tucker returned just as Ben stacked the final bag. He tossed his own purchases into the bed, and his eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his baseball cap when he noticed the salt.

“Think that’s a bit overkill?”

Ben staggered to the passenger side of the truck and shrugged. “Better too much than not enough.”

“Fair point.” Tucker hauled himself in behind the steering wheel and cranked the engine. “I got plenty of ammo. Should take us a couple hours to refill all the shells. I probably have enough guns back at the house. I imagine the sheriff does too.”

Ben grunted in response.

Hunched over Tucker’s kitchen table, they worked for hours to empty and refill shells until they ran out of casings. They did not speak save for grumbles at the tedious task. The little balls of discarded lead clattered as Ben and Tucker dumped them into bowls and pots. Ben reflected on the streamlined precision with which they worked together; it was as if they were on the factory floor of the very place they would find themselves later that night.

“To industriousness,” Ben said when he resealed the final casing. He raised his fourth glass of whiskey to Tucker.

Tucker clinked his empty tumbler to Ben’s, though the old farmer had not had a drop of alcohol since they returned from town. “I’m gonna put on some coffee, maybe make you a sandwich.”

“You trying to sober me up?” Ben asked with a numbness that made him shift with unease. “Most folks prefer my drunken company.”

“Son, what in the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I wish I knew,” Ben answered with candor.

Tucker frowned and turned to the fridge. A few minutes later, he slid a plate with a sandwich in front of Ben. “Hope you like bologna. If not, too bad.”

“Thanks, Tucker.” Ben gave the older man a faint smile, though it was sincere enough despite the alcohol swimming through his system.

“It’s just a sandwich.”

“No, it’s not. Since I came back, you’re the only one who’s believed me and helped me figure out everything. You’re a good guy.”

“Gee, thanks, sweetheart,” Tucker droned. “Now eat your damn sandwich.”

After lunch, Tucker forced two glasses of water down Ben and put the bottle of whiskey away. They were on their second cup of coffee when Tucker leapt to his feet and grabbed his Remington just before the doorbell rang. He disappeared to the front of the house, and Ben heard him answer the door.

“Sheriff,” Tucker said from the next room.

Ben downed the rest of his coffee, coughing and sputtering as it burned his throat. He straightened his coat just as Tucker and Nicholas walked into the kitchen. Ben refused to let Nicholas see him wallowing in whiskey.
Again.

“I tried calling, but the lines are still down.”

“So you drove all the way out here to state the obvious,” Ben said.

“I drove all the way out here for your dumb ass,” Nicholas replied, his words clipped and taciturn.

“Look at that, Tucker,” Ben said, snickering. “It’s your tax dollars hard at work.”

“I’m no Dr. Phil,” Tucker said, his tone sharp, “but I’m gonna suggest you two knuckleheads work out whatever this is before we go in there tonight. I ain’t keen on having my face ripped off because one of you jacklegged fools was too busy moping to get on with the job.”

“I can assure you I am very focused, Bill,” Nicholas said, straightening his shoulders.

Tucker gave a not-so-subtle tilt of his head to Ben, who scowled in response.

“Anyway,” Nicholas said. “I need Wisehart for a while. It’s almost two o’clock. We might as well meet you back here around quarter past five and head up to the factory together.”

“I’ll be ready,” Tucker said. “We got the salt rounds finished off. He’s all yours.”

“The hell I am,” Ben muttered.

“You go on, now, son. I got shit to do,” Tucker said. “You can come back for your bags after we save the fucking world.”

Nicholas remained impassive as he peered down at Ben’s bags by the table. Ben clenched his jaw and rose from his seat.

“Fine. See you later.”

Tucker grumbled and waved them both to the front door.

Nicholas’ cruiser was parked beside Tucker’s truck. The temptation to return to town by foot, regardless of how childish the impulse seemed, swept through Ben like the previous night’s thunderstorm. He fisted his hands into his coat pockets and stalked off the porch, keeping his distance from the sheriff. The crunch of the drive’s gravel under their feet filled the heady silence of the surrounding landscape as they crossed to the car.

“Get in,” Nicholas said, opening the driver’s side door.

“
Please
,” Ben replied. 

The stone-faced glare that Nicholas settled on Ben should have been intimidating, but Ben merely dug deeper into his pockets and did not move toward the passenger door.

“
Please, Ben, get in the car
,” Ben continued, putting on a gruff tone to mimic that of the sheriff’s.

“I am
not
going to beg you to get in my car. Either you will, or you won’t.”

“I’m not asking you to beg, I’m asking you to
ask
. Not order,
ask
.”

Nicholas said nothing, and Ben stepped away from the car.

“When did you turn into such an asshole?” Ben asked, emboldened enough by his earlier whiskey intake to speak the question, but the words held no heat and were weighted down by a despair he did not bother to conceal.

Nicholas faltered and looked off across Tucker’s yard. “Please get in the car, Ben.”

Ben hesitated, but he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. Once more, he longed for the Camaro. Point Pleasant would be in his rearview mirror, but he knew there was no leaving, not until the ritual was finalized. He had no idea what shoes he was meant to don that night, but Raziel had come to Ben’s aid twice, and Ben had promised to help.