Dark Inspiration Read online

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Across town an hour later, Vern pulled into the gravel parking lot of Slim’s Place, a windowless concrete box of a bar along an empty stretch of Highway 41. Vern’s headlights lit the peeling white paint. A silhouette of a thin cowboy leaning against a fence post passed as the only business identification since Carl Clemons wiped out the front signage during his third DUI. The lot was packed with pickup trucks sporting gun racks and the occasional rebel flag.

  Vern knew Bobbie Grissom would be here. Bobbie wasn’t a reliable employee. He wasn’t a reliable husband. But he was a reliable alcoholic. And there wasn’t a place that catered to drunks better than Slim’s. Vern headed inside.

  The joint reeked. The air in the bar stank of stale cigarettes. The rancid stench of spoiled beer rose from the sticky concrete floor. Each flap of the swinging men’s room door delivered a fresh scented injection of vomit and piss. The dim lighting was a godsend, sparing any customer from seeing things they’d rather ignore.

  A mournful ode to unappreciative women warbled from the jukebox over the rolling din of dozens of voices. The place was packed, every table filled with a knot of shaggy-haired men in baseball caps. Alone at the end of the bar sat Bobby Grissom, two upturned shot glasses in front of him and a longneck beer in his hand. He sat hunched over the bar with smoldering anger in his eyes. Vern knew his timing was perfect.

  “Two Jacks,” Vern shouted to the bartender as he sat on the stool next to Bobby. Bobby looked up with a slow look of recognition, followed by a derisive sneer.

  “Nubs Pugh,” Bobby said. “Ol’ P.U. Pugh himself. What the fuck.”

  Vern gritted his teeth at the sound of his two most hated nicknames. The raw, open nerves in his molars sent a spike of pain into his jaw. He’d just as soon slit the throat of the worthless sack of shit in front of him, but there was a mission to accomplish. The bartender dropped two shots of Jack Daniel’s whiskey in front of Vern. Vern slid one over to Bobby.

  “Hey, Bobby,” he said, fake grin framing his decimated teeth. “Have one on me.”

  Bobby stared him down through bleary eyes. “What’s the occasion for you deciding to drink with me?”

  “Word is the shit’s been rolling down hill and you been catching all of it.”

  Nine times out of ten Bobby would have threatened to shove the drink so far up Vern’s ass he could taste it. But being three sheets to the wind and depressed made this that lucky ten percent Vern planned on exploiting.

  “Damn right,” Bobby said. He threw back the Jack with one swallow. “Lumber mill cut my hours way back. Landlord won’t fix the busted window in my shithole apartment. And some lawyer says I owe my ex-wife money.”

  “It’s just a world full of assholes,” Vern said. He slid the second shot in front of Bobby. Bobby eyed it and smiled. He gave Vern a punch in the shoulder.

  “Fucking right,” he said. He hammered back the second shot.

  “Ain’t right how Theresa done you,” Vern said. “Especially who she’s taken up with.”

  Bobby slammed the empty shot glass on the bar so loudly that the two closest tables went silent and stared. “Who’s that?”

  “She’s doing that new guy, Locke, that moved into my house,” Vern said. “Seen her truck there myself. Everyone knows.”

  Bobby’s face turned beet red and his fingers balled into fists. “That bitch.”

  “Kind of makes you look the fool, her with an outsider, and a married one.”

  “That’s what my child support pays for,” Bobby said. “Whore needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “Ain’t no one gonna fault you for doing it,” Vern said. “People seen how she’s been.”

  “Damn straight,” Bobby said.

  “And if Sheriff Dickhead Mears wants to know where you were tonight,” Vern whispered, “I’ll sure tell him you and me left here for a few drinks at my place until dawn.”

  Bobby smiled. “Then there ain’t no time like the present.” He slid his stool back from the bar and stood with a wobble. He put a hand on Vern’s shoulder. “You’re all right, Nubs.”

  Vern suppressed his revulsion at Bobby’s offensive compliment and gave a satisfied smile. Bobby headed out into the parking lot.

  The plan was in motion. Bobby was about to stir up enough shit that one way or another Theresa wouldn’t have time to mess around at Galaxy Farm. That would be one less person to worry about when Vern made his next trip back home.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Bobby’s first inclination was to drive straight to her house, correction, straight to his house since he’d made years of payments until the judge tossed him out. He rolled up and saw a second car in the driveway, a Honda. Visions of Theresa screwing some guy in his former bedroom made him want to rush the front door. But even with his alcohol-stewed brain he remembered how ready the cops were to enforce that fucking restraining order the bitch had laid on him. So instead he wheeled his primer-black Dodge Ram into downtown Moultrie. He couldn’t hit here where she lived, so he’d hit her where she worked.

  Ever since the divorce, Theresa’s life had been smooth sailing. She had more friends, joined the Chamber of Commerce, hell, even her stupid Explorer, which Bobby had slaved over every weekend to keep running, suddenly became reliable as sunrise. But the success of her store was the worst of it. The whole idea of reselling shit even the owners didn’t want was stupid. But she was making more money than Bobby was now. He knew because his lawyer found out during his unsuccessful attempt to reduce his child support payments.

  All that luck had to come from somewhere, and Bobby knew he was the donor. Since the divorce, all his news was bad. Lost jobs, broken U-joints, and an apartment with plumbing that backed up every time he took a dump. If all the miserable parts of his life were erased, he’d have no life at all. Well, the time had come to spread some of that misery around.

  He killed the truck’s lights as he rolled to a stop in the dim alley behind Treasured Things. The streetlight at the far end left the area in shadows. He kicked open his door and whirled to the rusting cargo box in the truck’s bed. Inside he found just what he needed; a four-foot breaker bar and a can of the orange spray paint they used to mark trees targeted for cutting.

  The back door to the place had Treasured Things stenciled on it in new white letters. He rammed the sharp edge of the breaker bar against the first T and gouged a valley through the letters. Then he slammed the bar into the crack between the door jamb and the door, just above the lock. The old spongy wood yielded easily. He heaved himself against the breaker bar and the door snapped open with a loud crack as the frame splintered.

  The bar slipped out of his hands and hit the concrete landing with a clatter. Bobby ducked down and held his breath. Sweat beaded on his brow. It stank of beer and adrenaline. He waited for any indication someone heard the noise. Nothing. He picked up the bar and pushed the door open with it.

  A shrill repeating beep sounded and a light on the wall alarm panel flashed red.

  Fuck me, thought Bobby.

  He ran to the panel and shoved the breaker bar between it and the wall. An idea made him pause. He tapped his son’s birthday into the keypad and hit Enter. The alarm died and the light turned green.

  “Can read her like a book,” Bobby muttered.

  He surveyed the store in the dim filtered light. Aisles of useless garbage. Vases and pictures and old broken toys. Nothing here anyone needed. But some sucker was going to hand his ex-wife money for it, just to make Bobby look more like a loser to everyone in town. Anger flushed hot in him again. No more of that was going to happen.

  He gripped the breaker bar like a baseball bat, wound up and swung. A set of porcelain china exploded into a blizzard of white chips. The tinkling sound of the flying fragments gave Bobby a charge. Revenge was so sweet. He strode down the aisle, swinging and smashing. Each swing shattered hundreds of years of antiques. With each pass, he imagined the look of horror on Theresa’s face as she opened the door
later this morning, and then the anger as she learned of his airtight Nubs alibi.

  Bobby took a swipe at a standing full-length mirror in a rich walnut frame. The ancient glass splintered on impact. But the booze had his equilibrium on the run and all this wheeling around hadn’t helped. He lurched right during his follow though and stumbled into the mirror. Shards of glass tore his right arm. Blood oozed and then ran in a stream. Bobby cursed and grabbed his arm. The blood felt hot on his fingers. The cut wasn’t deep, but his night of homers in the shop was over.

  He tossed the breaker bar out the back door and pulled the spray can from his back pocket with his injured arm. The laceration’s pain made its first appearance through his alcohol-induced daze. He winced and cursed Theresa again since his decision to do all this damage was, after all, her fault. He steadied his arm as best he could and sprayed wobbly block letters onto the wall. Even in the dim light, the fluorescent paint glowed the word Whore.

  He shoved the can back in his pocket and headed for the door. Then the growing pressure on his bladder gave him another brilliant idea. He turned, dropped his pants and sprayed a steady stream of hops-scented urine around the shop. He made an extra effort to soak the seat behind the cash register. As the last few drops dribbled onto his shoes, he surveyed the payback present he’d left his ex-wife.

  “A job well done,” he said with a laugh.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Laura made it home before dawn broke. The house was dark and Doug’s car was parked by the porch. He was asleep in bed by five thirty a.m.. Right on his schedule.

  Laura crept through the house to keep from awakening him, but the act wasn’t altruistic. She didn’t want to talk to him now. She had a full day at school today and didn’t want to start it off furious.

  She pushed open the bedroom door. A sliver of light lit Doug’s face. He looked peaceful, quiet. Normal.

  Normal. None of that strange wisp of something that seemed to have imbedded itself in him recently. None of that feeling that Doug was a clock that was set just a few minutes off.

  Listen to yourself, Laura thought. Theresa certainly stirred up your imagination.

  Doug shifted underneath the covers. He pulled the blanket up over his eyes. Laura snapped off the hall light and plunged the room back into darkness.

  No, there wasn’t anything supernatural going on here. She just had a self-indulgent, self-centered husband. A husband so clueless he let her leave for the night and never checked up on her.

  The idea of waking him up with a cold bucket of water crossed her mind, but she discarded it. Better he sleep and spend today as unaware of her frustration as he had been. She had a date tonight with Constance and Elizabeth and she could put off fixing her marriage until after that. She was certain that he could as well.

  Hours later, Doug awakened like a bolt of lightning struck him. The bedroom was ablaze in sunlight. He was primed to finish the fox.

  Doug had worked on her all night last night. He slipped into bed about four a.m., but Laura wasn’t there. This concerned him, but something in him rationalized that she was probably just downstairs on the couch, or sleeping in one of the other bedrooms. As soon as he awakened, he returned to the turret room to finish his prize. He’d moved her out of the attic for more working room. In the light of day, the fox looked a bit cockeyed. The glass eyes were a bit askew, the seams a bit crooked around the hind legs. The excelsior stuffing did not do justice to the formerly well-muscled hindquarters. Doug had rushed the job and it showed.

  But he hadn’t hurried the tasks outlined in the Book of the Dead. The animal’s organs were separated and seasoned exactly as demanded. The earthen jars were sealed with wax. Now they surrounded the mounted fox on the floor of the turret room, each at the tip of a precisely measured five-pointed star Doug had inscribed on the floor.

  The windows were wide open to allow the unfiltered light of the sun god Ra onto the jars. Doug opened the Book of the Dead to the center, to the marked page where the phonetic translation for the Taming of the Beasts chapter began. He started to read aloud.

  “Haruch notak conig Osiris. Salut geriz cho vowatum.”

  A first he stumbled over the words, parsing each syllable. But a paragraph into the ritual, they became oddly familiar. His pace increased and a crooked little smile crossed his lips as he settled into a rhythmic chant.

  “Perko hasasam fidert gytutus.”

  Nonsense that made sense. He could comprehend the translation, though he could not translate it. He called on Osiris to tether the life force of this fox to its body, to capture its soul as the jars captured its organs.

  The room got warmer. Beats of sweat broke out on Doug’s brow. As he continued to read, the room grew brighter, as if somehow more powerful rays of the sun beamed through the windows. The jars took on a yellow, pulsing glow. They throbbed in unison, in cadence with the melodic chant Doug’s reading had acquired.

  Doug read the final page, a plea for Osiris to show favor on those who worshipped him, to grant this great request. The jars glowed white, pulsed twice and launched beams of brilliant energy at the fox. Doug squinted against the dazzling display.

  The light disappeared and Doug was temporarily flash blind. As the room came back into focus, Doug checked the fox.

  It looked magnificent. Every muscle in its body was perfect, every hair in place. The face fit the skull with precision and the flat black clay Doug had molded into gums had a luster it hadn’t had before. Most telling were the eyes. The irises had depth, as if something lived beyond those glass windows. They had a rich, deep sparkle. Like the red-tailed hawk on his desk, or the bobcat in the corner.

  The power that transformed the fox coursed through Doug’s body. Every nerve ending tingled, every muscle bulged with strength. His mind raced at the speed of light. Killing the fox had been invigorating, but this…

  Doug picked up the fox. The fur was warm, and Doug half expected to feel a heartbeat. He set the fox upright on all four paws. It could not have looked more alive. This was the tribute to life Doug had wanted to create. What better way to celebrate the essence of the animal than to give it eternal life on Earth? Doug scooted back and rested, exhausted and elated, against the wall.

  He slid the Book of the Dead over and picked it up. Mabron, you sly dog. Such black magic going on at Galaxy Farm. Did people marvel at your taxidermied collection back then? Did you laugh when they asked how you made them look so real?

  Doug thumbed through the next few chapters. The next to last one had only the title translated—Preparing Spirits to Cross Over. He recognized the glyph for Osiris throughout the text. He paged to the last chapter. The translated title read—Binding Spirits on Earth.

  The translation explained that this offering was not to the god Osiris, but to his brother Set. Set had killed his brother to usurp the kingdom of Egypt and claim his brother’s wife, Isis. But for that, and other evil acts, Set was banished to pull the boat that moves the sun across the sky for all eternity. Prayers to Osiris moved the human dead from their body to the final reward. Prayers to Set thwarted that journey and bound the soul to the mummified corpse.

  Specific steps followed. As in the Taming of the Beasts section, internal organs were separated and preserved in earthen jars. The mummification process was outlined and Doug realized how similar it was to his taxidermy. All the same skills were in play. Then there were pages of special incantations with the burning of incense sprinkled throughout. It was about twice as long as the procedure he used on the fox.

  How would this bound spirit manifest itself? All Doug could think of was a ghost, unable to pass on to the next life.

  Mabron, Doug thought, what temptations passed through your mind with this power? Did you want to get even with some of those hateful townspeople? Did you ever get the chance to try it?

  Doug could see the incantation’s allure. He felt power snuffing the life from an animal. Controlling the animal’s spirit was even more of a rush. But controlling human
s beyond the grave? That had to be the ultimate. He closed the book, closed his eyes and imagined.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The mess at Treasured Things was more than Sheriff Mears was used to seeing. There was some vandalism now and then in town, but usually it was a few high school boys smashing mailboxes or a rock though a window at one of the car dealerships. This looked like a tornado went through the store last night.

  Theresa sat in an overstuffed chair near the front of the store. Her eyes were red from crying and the low morning sun through the front blinds cast shadows like prison bars across her face. She was a lot calmer now than when Sheriff Mears had talked to her an hour ago, but he knew how her emotions would progress. Shock and despair would soon upshift into rage.

  “Any guess on the damages?” the sheriff asked.

  “Hundreds,” Theresa said. “Maybe thousands. I’ll do an inventory.”

  Sheriff Mears nudged a few shards of blood-stained mirror with his foot. He pulled a plastic bag from his back pocket, bent over and dropped the pieces inside.

  “Anyone you think might have done this?”

  Theresa looked up at the sheriff with dull fury for asking such a moronic question.

  “Sorry,” Sheriff Mears said. “I had to ask. Didn’t want to jump to conclusions. I’ll head over to Bobby’s.”

  As Sheriff Mears left, Theresa swept the floor in an aimless pattern. The shock of the destruction weighed on her, kept her mind from processing things at full speed. So much was destroyed, so much work undone. The spray paint, the pee. Bobby was a jackass, but what would set him off like this?

  She flashed back to the morning at her house. She had sent him packing with his tail between his legs. In front of his son. He was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget that little incident. That’s what made him do this. She pushed and he had to push back.

  Despair filled her heart like a black ooze. She was never going to be rid of him. She avoided him and he didn’t go away. She stood up to him and he came out swinging. He’d bond out of jail, if he even got arrested, and he’d be back at her again. There was no light at the end of this tunnel.