As I Lift Up My Hands 5/8

[keire_ke]

January 2007

The phone call takes them by surprise on a cold January evening. Deborah is the one who picks up and Jacob can see her struggle to remain civil and not just slam the receiver onto the set. When she finally does the movement is slow.

“What did he say?” Jacob asks. He only got Deborah’s side, which consisted of noncommittal grunts and a couple of okays. He knows it was Steve Wandell she’s just talked to. Very few people managed to put that pinched look on Deborah’s face.

Deborah purses her lips. “He said he has to talk to us. Immediately and in person.”

“What do we do?”

Deborah is silent for a long while. “We are going to drive to Texas, again,” she says, though it is plainly the last thing she wants at the moment, or ever.

“Are you sure?” Jacob asks, and is rewarded with a glare.

“I’m sure I don’t want to see him, ever again. But we are going to go, because I need to extinguish your interest in this whole supernatural mumbo-jumbo.”

“And you think that’s going to help?”

“I am counting on the intelligence and the ability to reason you supposedly possess.”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“Honey, I love you, and I acknowledge you’ve been through a lot, so I’m indulging you. Please accept the fact that you are not the first case of grief I had to deal with.”

“As if you aren’t grieving.”

“I am. But I like to think I’m more sane about it.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“That’s what a wife is for.” Deborah grins and kisses him, long and deep, and Jacob is almost ready to forgive her for the insinuations regarding his mental health. “I’m going to arrange for some babysitting and we can go tomorrow.”

“Won’t your parents mind?”

“I don’t think so. They love having Rachel over.”

The drive is boring. Even the occasional insult Deborah whips up for the occasion falls flat. “Look, I try, okay?” Jacob says eventually. “I wish the guy was waiting there with a straight jacket and psychiatric help, or proof that there were hallucinogens in the wine.”

“Except?”

“Except I tend to be able to tell apart dreams and reality,” Jacob says. He doesn’t say anything more and Deborah refrains from commenting. The rest of the drive they argue about the state of TV these days.

They cross the final state line around four p.m. on Saturday. From there it’s a couple more hours until they reach the house Mr Wandell lives in. As they pull in front of the house, they are confronted with a police car and an ambulance. A police officer directs them to a parking spot a little way from the house and bends next to Jacob’s window.

“Sir, ma’am. Are you friends of Mr Wandell?”

“Acquaintances,” Jacob says, staring wide-eyed at the gurney wheeled out of the house. The shape of the sheet covering it leaves little to the imagination. “We had an appointment,” he adds, his voice oddly high.

“I’m sorry to inform you Mr Wandell passed away,” the officer says. “If you would be so kind as to step out of the car and into the house? This won’t take long.”

Jacob casts a glance at Deborah and obediently opens the door. They follow the officer into the building. The door is crisscrossed with police tape and Jacob feels his breath catch. What has happened here?

“Into the kitchen, please,” the officer says. “Artie, put the kettle on, will you?” Another police officer nods. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” Jacob and Deborah say simultaneously.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s not many people around here who claim they know Mr Wandell. He was something of a loner. You aren’t from around here?”

“No, we live in Illinois.”

“Your names?”

“Deborah and Jacob Lake.”

“From Illinois? That’s a hell of a distance,” the officer observes. Jacob swallows nervously. There’s a smell in the house that makes him feel like throwing up and his hand is throbbing again.

“He’s a friend of our parish priest,” he says.

“How long have you known Steve Wandell?”

“Two months,” Deborah answers. She accepts a steaming cup from Artie with a nod.

“Would you say you knew him well?”

“No. We only met once.”

“Obviously you knew him well enough to drive all the way from Illinois.”

“I’m a psychologist,” Deborah says. “Father Matthews has asked that I speak with Mr Wandell, as a personal favor.” She is looking the police officer in the eye with a calm, indifferent expression. “Since it is quite a drive, I asked my husband to accompany me.”

“And for that you came down here?”

“Father Matthews was a good friend of Mr Wandell. He felt talking to someone trustworthy would help.”

“Forgive the questions, but you understand it seems excessive, traveling over a thousand miles…”

“Mr Wandell didn’t have many friends.”

“True, apparently.” The officer takes his hat off and runs a hand through his thick hair. “Would you peg him as suicidal?” he asks Deborah.

“No. He was paranoid, but not suicidal.” Deborah’s brows furrow. “I’m actually amazed he killed himself, he seemed very far from it when I saw him.”

The officer gives her a long look. “Perhaps it might help your professional pride when I say he definitely didn’t kill himself,” he says. Deborah blinks and Jacob just feels his stomach twist. “There is evidence of a struggle in the house, knife marks on the furniture… Mr Wandell was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Deborah opens her eyes wide. “He was murdered?”

“I’m afraid so.” He gives the two of them another long look, taking in the green hue of Jacob’s face and the disbelief evident on Deborah’s. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Where were you around one p.m. on Wednesday?”

“At work,” Jacob replies. He is clutching the counter with his good hand. “I was at the office in Pontiac, Deborah was in the clinic.”

“There’s any number of people who’d confirm it,” Deborah adds.

The officer nods and shoots a look at his partner. Jacob only needs to half-turn to confirm Artie was jotting down the details. “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

Jacob feels numb when they walk down the steps and get back into the car. “How is it possible?” he asks. “Murdered?” Then another thought arrives in his head. “And what on earth were you telling him?”

Deborah gives him a long look. “What did you expect me to say, out my husband as a nutjob, seeking the professional help of other nutjobs?”

“But you lied to them!”

“I didn’t say one thing that wasn’t true,” she says, and Jacob is forced to admit that it is the truth. Not that it helps, any. The notion that Deb can lay down the truth in such a way that completely bypasses the actual real truth is, to him, unconceivable and very disturbing.

“I just…” Jacob starts but Deborah doesn’t let him finish. She’s driven sedately through the town, but now they’ve reached the main road she steps on it – in no time at all West is a meager dot in the rear view mirror.

“You were right,” she says.

“What?”

“Something weird is going on here, and I want to know what.”

Jacob watches her dumbly. Two months and she chooses now of all times to arrive at this conclusion? Now, when he’d be much happier forgetting he ever suggested it? “Why?”

“He was murdered in his own house. You saw the security he has there, there’re cameras all around the place, I doubt a squirrel could wander in without him knowing about it. Then there is his paranoia. Then there is the fact that he is- was a strong man, who knew his guns. And the officer said he was killed with a knife.”

Jacob tries to recall a mention of that, but he was busy trying not to puke, so any number of details might have escaped his attention. “You think he was killed by one of the… things?” Jacob asks cautiously.

“No. I just know it’s very, very unlikely that we get an urgent call from him and he ends up murdered the next day. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who’d call to say he’s got nothing.”

“Yeah, but Deb, he might have just found this was a case of arson.” From the look Deborah throws him Jacob ascertains he’s being a moron again.

“I know your mental acuity is not at its best right now, but seriously, you’re the one who’s been hammering the supernatural into my head the past few months and suddenly you’re the skeptic?”

“So suddenly you are the believer?”

“Not by choice,” Deborah says, “But let’s be rational for a moment. There was a formal investigation of the fire, and aside from the minor oddities everything seemed normal. No one saw anything. There was no motive. We have no enemies, no one who wishes us ill. We have no money and no greedy relatives, at least that I know of. Fact is, whatever happened to us was one hundred percent random. Which- which I hate, but I can accept that it was an accident. But now a guy we asked to look into the whole thing ends up murdered, and in my experience that kind of random just doesn’t happen.”

“There are coincidences.”

“I’ll grant you that. Arson, however, and murder is very rarely incidental.” Deborah pauses and opens her mouth, as if something just occurred to her. “He didn’t go to Pontiac,” she says. “He wouldn’t have bothered calling then. He was working here.”

“There’s only so much he could find out from here,” Jacob realizes and Deborah nods. “Which means he must have been mainly searching through cases that might have been similar, first.”

“I wish we could get his notes. At least to know how broad his search was and how many serial killers we have on our hands now.”

“So what now?”

“Now we get home.”

They are halfway through Oklahoma when Jacob tells Deborah, forcibly, to pull over at the nearest motel. They didn’t sleep the previous night and she’s been driving all the way, which, now that he looks back at it, was a stupid idea right there. He checks them in and Deborah, despite her hurry to return to their baby girl, falls into bed the minute the door closes behind them. Jacob calls Deborah’s parents first, to tell Rachel goodnight and that they miss her.

Then he tells Danielle to make sure she locks the door properly and could Rachel please sleep in their room, just in case? If she is puzzled by the request, she doesn’t let it know. She nods, verbally, and Jacob goes to sleep with a measure of comfort. He wraps himself around Deborah and falls asleep before the clock strikes nine p.m.

They wake early on Sunday and then have to wake the clerk to check out. The long drive goes by fast. They collect Rachel and drive straight to the church. They are only minutes late for the Sunday evening mass. Rachel is gurgling happily as they carry her into the church and she keeps gurgling throughout the mass.

Monday morning they are both at work, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Jacob approves three minor claims and rejects the fourth, which is an obvious ploy to get the money from crashing a car that was so badly damaged already it probably required pushing to end up against the tree. Why do people bother, he can’t help but wonder, when the ruse is so obvious a child could smell it. He goes down to the crash site, because he is a nice man and he gives people the benefit of the doubt, but the minute he spots the youth whose car was smashed he just knows the claim won’t ever see the light of day again. The boy looks like he has trouble telling apart his left and his right, and the fumes raising from his clothes further obscure his judgment. Jacob files all four cases and calls it a day.

By unspoken agreement he meets Deborah by St. Mary’s. Father Matthews shouldn’t be too busy at this time of the day and Mrs Mone is warned they will be a little late picking up Rachel.

“Shall we?” he asks.

“I’m afraid of what he’ll tell us,” Deborah admits.

“So am I.” Considering that what he potentially could tell them ranged from “you failed to achieve an environment safe enough for your child” to “it was happenstance, there’s no predicting those things”, they had a right to be worried. They walk into the quiet church, shoulder to shoulder, searching for Father Matthews.

The vestibule is cold and Jacob cannot help but shudder. He reaches out to dip his fingers in the urn containing the holy water and crosses himself. The figure of Christ is watching him from the stone cross, though if it’s with compassion or curiosity Jacob can’t quite tell.

“Jacob, Deborah. What a surprise to see you here,” the priest says, coming towards them with his arms open in greeting. “Alone, I mean. Aside from the Holy Mass.”

“Father, did you hear about Steve Wandell?” Deborah asks.

The old man just looks puzzled.

“He’s dead. The police say he’s been murdered.”

Father Matthews stares at them for a second than sits down, heavily, on the worn wooden pew, when it’s obvious they are not joking. “May the Lord have mercy on his soul,” he whispers. “Steve was a good man,” he says. “A good man.”

“He was paranoid, Father,” Deborah says and the priest shoots her a scathing look.

“Child, the things Steve has seen, the things he’s battled, he has every right in the world to be paranoid.”

Deborah nods, chastised. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I have trouble dealing with this.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Father Matthews says. “I can imagine how you must feel. I have been where you are now: confronted with things I was certain didn’t exist. It can be hard to accept.”

“We think he found something,” Jacob interjects. “He called us right before he died, he said he needed to talk to us, as soon as possible.”

The priest stands up. “Let me just close up here, we can discuss this over tea.”

The tea is hot and fragrant and, once more in Jacob’s twenty-eight years, the most real thing he experiences over a stretch of time. Father Matthews brings out several books, a few of them so old they are written on parchment instead of paper. They are books on ghosts and spirits, werewolves, Adjules, chupacabras (“Chupacabra?” Jacob can’t help but ask. “Apparently aside from the goat-sucking they are quite benign,” Father Matthews replies), Igopogos, and more, most of which he’s never heard of. Some, he can swear he knows from cartoons he watched with his son, back when Tim was taming the TV.

And now apparently they are all real.

“Is Bigfoot real?” he asks, turning a page to a gruesome depiction of a… Wendigo, which is feasting on a strung-up man. He can’t turn this one fast enough, and even so the details haunt him ten pages later.

“Not to my knowledge,” Father Matthews says.

“Can’t see why, everything else apparently is,” Deborah mutters. She is buried in a text regarding vengeful spirits, their characteristics and reasons for their attacks. “According to this a spirit can be dormant for any length of time, can be woken up by any insignificant event and then kill anyone, on a whim.” She puts the book down and stares intently. “So how do we know why it would attack us?”

“I am no hunter, child,” Father Matthews says with a small smile. “I know a little because I tried to assist Steve with Mrs Worthing, and then took to reading.”

“Hunter?” Jacob asks curiously.

“Hunters deal with researching and neutralizing supernatural threats. It’s a very apt term, considering the line of work.”

“Is there some way to stop these things?”

“From what I understand they cannot cross salt lines.”

“Salt lines?” Deborah blinks. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. A line formed with rock salt.”

“Right. Condiments. What’s next?”

“Silver, there’s any number of herbs the dead find repulsive. Religious symbols.”

“We have crucifixes in the house,” Jacob says, not looking up. “In Rachel’s bedroom, too.”

Father Matthews looks at him and reaches out to pat his hand. “Son, it is not that simple.” He picks up one of the books and opens it halfway through. There’s a pentacle on the right-hand side, surrounded by an array of symbols and letterings in, from what Jacob can see, Latin, Aramaic and Greek. “This is a devil’s trap,” the priest says. “It is said a demon cannot exit, or enter, one.”

“A pentagram? Isn’t that a sign of devil worship?” Deborah asks, picking the book up.

“No, it’s not. Pentacles have had many meanings, many of those connected to Christianity. Religious symbols are fluid in their meaning and often forgotten, as are legends,” Father Matthews says. “Many of the monsters you will find in these books are descended from old tales and legends.”

“How do we find out what happened to us?” Deborah asks.

Father Matthews is silent and for the first time Jacob can see the worry lines on his wizened face. “I’m not a hunter, child. I have done my reading, but these things are so difficult to accept. I’m a Catholic priest; I’m supposed to believe that the grace of God and prayer can protect us all from evil, when obviously it cannot. And now you tell me Steve’s dead, because of one of these things.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Jacob says. His throat is constricting painfully. If Mr Wandell is indeed dead because of these things, then they have brought him to their attention.

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Father Matthews says, as if reading his mind. “Steve was a hunter, and as much good as he did, the truth is it is a thankless job that shortens the lives of good people.”

The look on Deborah’s face is scary, to Jacob. “You won’t turn into a crusader, will you?” he asks when they are alone and walking to pick up Rachel from Mrs Mone. He is carrying a number of books Father Matthews lend to them. He wishes he could drop them somewhere, because they are making him uncomfortable. It’s like they suck the body heat right out, filling him with an unpleasant buzz from the inside.

“I’m seriously considering it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“If these things are real, then don’t you think something should be done about it?”

“But you don’t have to be the one to do it.”

“Perhaps not.” But Deborah’s face is thoughtful and scheming, even as she rings the doorbell to the Mones’ house. “Good evening, Mrs Mone,” she tells the old lady, though she is staring at her hairdo. Jacob can’t help but do the same. “How was Rachel today?”

“She’s a sweetheart, dear, as usual. And she grows so fast.”

“Thanks for looking after her,” Deborah says and follows Mrs Mone into the house. “Will you wait?” she asks Jacob. “I won’t be long.”

“Sure,” he says and leans against the curb. Five minutes later Deborah is back with Rachel safely wrapped in layers and layers of coats and a blanket. She looks like a large pillow, with nothing but her blue eyes and the tip of her nose indicating there is a living creature inside. Jacob smiled and touches the tip of her nose. “Hi Rachel. Did you have a good day?”

She gurgles and giggles and Jacob can’t help but smile wider. He dumps the books into Deborah’s arms and lifts Rachel high in the air. His hand protests, but it’s no worse than a twinge, which he can easily ignore. The girl grins and looks down at him with a sudden bout of seriousness. “Da!” she says, grinning brightly as soon as the syllable leaves her mouth.

Jacob stops in his tracks. “Did she just--” he turns to Deborah, who is watching Rachel with equal amazement on her face.

“Ma!” Rachel says, her left hand waving as wildly as the coat would allow.

“It is high time she started talking,” Deborah says. “I wonder why Mrs Mone never said anything.”

“Maybe Rachel doesn’t talk to her,” Jacob says. Rachel giggles against his shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve heard her speak.”

“Me too. It’s kind of late, though.”

“She’s only one year old.”

“She’s had her birthday a while ago.”

“Two weeks, Deb. And before that she’s had months of hearing nothing but Anne reading to her about how metacarpal bones are covered with cartilage.”

“They aren’t.”

“What?”

“Metacarpal bones are not covered with cartilage.”

“Whatever. It might have been the parathyroid gland. It doesn’t matter. The point it, Rachel had months of nothing but medicinal readings, thanks to your sister.”

“So now it’s all Anne’s fault?” Deborah asks and though her tone is haughty the smirk betrays her good humor.

No, it isn’t. “Yes it is,” Jacob says using whatever extra height he has to stare down at Deborah. It isn’t much. Deborah is a tall woman.

“If your hand wasn’t broken, I would be forced to take offence on behalf of my sister,” Deborah says.

They laugh the rest of the way home.



March 2007

Early in March Rachel masters “mama” and “dada”. Jacob is insanely proud, even though as Deborah said it was a little late. Other than that Rachel is developing beautifully and the pediatrician can find no fault in her growth. Jacob is proud to announce this fact to Deborah as he closes the door to the house. He spends some time undoing the clasps and flies Rachel’s winter clothing requires to preserve warmth properly. March is cold this year and he wouldn’t want to hamper the tentative happiness with Rachel catching a cold. Finally the last layer, one of Deborah’s woolen creations, is off and Rachel slides off the couch to stand on her chubby legs. She looks around and shudders, then lifts her arms into the air and Jacob grins down at her.

“What, up again? Aren’t you a spoilt little brat,” he says but picks her up nonetheless. “Deb,” he calls out loudly. He’s hungry and he knows Rachel is too. Then it occurs to him there is too much silence in the house. Deborah has gotten into the habit of leaving a radio on when she worked. Nothing is playing now. “Deb?” he asks, uncertain, holding Rachel tighter against his chest.

He walks into the kitchen, because if Deborah had to leave suddenly, that’s where the message would be. Which is silly, because why would she leave a message, if she was only gone a minute? And why wouldn’t she call him if she were gone for a longer period of time?

But Deborah is in the kitchen, sitting in a chair against the wall. Her wrists are bound and there’s tape on her mouth and Jacob takes an involuntary step back. The scream dies in his throat when his back encounters a sharp object whose tip travels from the initial point of contact to the middle of his spine, while a hand wraps itself around his mouth. He can feel the tip of the knife as if it were red hot. His breathing speeds up and he is certain he will start hyperventilating in no time and all.

“Now, I don’t want to kill you unless I really must,” said a voice into the back of Jacob’s neck, “But I’m not feeling charitable. So don’t scream. Nod.”

Jacob nods, frantically. The hand is removed and he is across the kitchen in a flash, putting himself between Deborah and the stranger. He is hoping he won’t faint, if it comes down to fighting. “What do you want?” he asks, putting Rachel on the ground and pushing her to hold on to Deborah.

“Untie your wife,” the man says. He exchanges the knife for a gun and motions with it. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ma’am,” he says to Deborah.

“You call this an inconvenience?” Deborah spits when Jacob tears the tape from her mouth, gently as he can.

“For me, yes. Please refrain from screaming,” he adds when Deborah takes a deeper breath.

Jacob fights with the knots on Deborah’s wrists and ankles, running his fingers down her body to make sure she’s okay. Nothing obvious is wrong and he allows himself a quiet “Thank God,” as he unravels the last of the bindings.

“What do you want?” Deborah asks as soon as she’s free.

“I want to know what you did to Steve Wandell,” the man says, and his voice is no longer filled with quiet amusement. It’s hard and angry and for the first time Jacob understands why they are called hunters.

“We didn’t do anything,” Jacob says, cradling Rachel to his chest.

“You were the last people to talk to him.”

“It doesn’t mean anything!”

“No? So what does this mean?” he pushes a piece of paper across the table and sits down, gun still at the ready. Jacob unfolds the note and is surprised to find his own name, written in Mr Wandell’s scruffy handwriting. Name and address. He can feel Deborah against his back so he knows she’s reading alongside him and he knows she is angry.

“Shit,” she swears, “I knew it was a mistake.”

“What was?” the stranger asks.

“None of your damn business,” Deborah says and shushes Rachel who has started to cry softly.

“Ma’am, I am the one holding the gun. Whether or not it’s my business, it’s my call.”

“If you so much think about firing that in here, with my daughter present, so help me I will kill you.”

The man smiles, unexpectedly. “Usually people are a little more afraid of a man with a gun. Just answer me this – did you or did you not kill Steve.”

“Of course not! Do we look like murderers?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” he bends and pulls up a flask from somewhere underneath the table. He pushes the flask in their direction. “Take a good swing,” he tells them. “So that I see.”

“Pervert,” Deborah mutters, but reaches for the flask. “What’s in it?”

“Holy water,” the man replies, and though Deborah gives him a look that manages to include disbelief, fear and fury, he doesn’t blink, but motions for her to get on with it.

Jacob, however, starts at the mention of holy water. “Are you a hunter?” he asks, which earns him an incredulous look from both Deborah and the stranger.

“Do I look like a police officer to you? I would have thought it obvious.”

“Thanks.” Deborah passes the flask to Jacob, who takes a sip. It tastes like water.

“Give some to the child, too.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, you don’t think she’ll try and claw your eyes out, do you? She’s one year old!”

“I hold the gun, ma’am,” the hunter replies. “Give the holy water to the child, too.”

Jacob does so, unwilling to anger the man who broke into his house and attacked his family. Rachel looks at him tearfully but obediently swallows a sip from the flask. Some of the water dribbles down her chin and Jacob wipes it off with his sleeve. He corks the flask and throws it across the table. “That all?”

“We’re just getting started,” the hunter grins, and Jacob feels trapped. There is a trace of panic, lacing itself through his emotions, coloring every thought. How could he not think about this before? What on earth had he allowed to happen to his family, by drawing their attention? “Now, I need to know who you are.”

“Jacob and Deborah Lake,” Deborah tells him. She too is scared, perhaps even more than Jacob, but she is also angry and the anger is seeping through every pore of her body. She is like an angry cat, hackles raised, ready to pounce on the predator threatening him and their baby. Or perhaps he should be thinking their baby and him, he’s not sure where Deborah’s priorities lie at the moment.

“I know that. I mean what are you. Not demons, apparently, so what. Witches? Necromancers? Wiccans? Pagan worshippers?”

“We’re Catholic,” Jacob says. He would have imagined the crucifix above the door would have given the man a clue. “Roman Catholic. Do we look like witches?”

“How did you meet Steve?”

“We got his address from our parish priest.”

“That so? What for?”

“That’s none of your business,” Deborah says and the hunter immediately leans forward, the amusement and polite interest gone, supplanted by something much more sinister.

“Why did you contact Steve?” he asks again, tapping his finger against the gun’s trigger.

“Our house burned down,” Jacob says, before he can think about it. “We thought it might be something … odd.”

“Your house burns down and you think it’s odd? What are you, some kind of a philosopher?”

“Whatever it is you want, get it and get out,” Deborah snaps.

“I’d like a word with this Father Matthews,” the hunter says, his face unreadable.

“Go ahead, he’s at the parish, most likely.”

“Please call him now,” he says and smiles, and there is so little actual please in the sentence, the word jars and breaks and downright hurts. Jacob feels the dissonance in his newly healed hand and for a second he is sure the fractures will re-break from the strain. Deborah glares and fumes, but walks to the phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, picks up the phone book. Her fingers don’t shake when she punches the number in, with a lot more force than necessary, and Jacob doesn’t know whether to admire her for the bravado or be wary. His own hands are shaking so bad he can hardly hold Rachel steady, but Deborah is collected and in control.

“Father Matthews? Good evening. I’ve got someone who needs to speak with you,” she says into the receiver and then steps back, offering the phone to the hunter.

“Hello. Ah, that’s unimportant at the moment. What I’d like to know is how you, Father, know Steve Wandell.” A moment of silence. “Is that so? Ah, very well. Sorry to bother you at this hour. Goodnight.” He puts the receiver down and, very pointedly, tucks the gun into the back of his pants. “Father Matthews confirms your version of events,” he says.

“Brilliant. Now what?” Deborah asks and the guy raises a brow in a silent question. He’s in his fifties, perhaps, and he is powerfully built. Jacob is willing to bet the man could snap him like a twig. He could have been handsome at some point, but now his face is weathered and marred by a long scar, running from his right brow down the cheek and to the chin.

“Now? We still need to talk. My name is William Thackery,” he says extending his hand. “Call me Will.”

There is a long moment during which Deborah just looks at him, then at Jacob, than cautiously takes the man’s hand. “I will hurt you,” she says, glaring, rending the gesture null.

“I’m trying to be polite here.”

“You were threatening my child, and my husband. And you tied me up in my own goddamn kitchen.”

“Deborah,” Jacob manages.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Deborah challenges and Jacob thinks he might well duck under the table, except he cannot move. It’s as if all his muscles suddenly stopped working, as if he has no longer the capacity for movement. All he can do is stare between the hunter and Deborah, praying that this is all some cosmic misunderstanding and nothing wrong comes out of it.

“I’m not. Not yet.”

“Go to Hell,” Deborah suggests.

“My friend was murdered, Mrs Lake, and you were the last people he contacted. You can’t fault me for being cautious.”

“There is such a thing as police.”

“Ah, no offence, but they wouldn’t factor in the line of work Steve was in.”

“You mean the ghosts,” Deborah says, and the layers of sarcasm in her voice are so thick it’s a wonder they don’t peel as she forms the words.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” William says. “How about you make us some tea and we talk some more?”

“How about you leave the house?”

“Mrs Lake, Steve contacted you, he left behind a message with your name on it. Which means that either he was hunting you, or he was trying to help you. Since I doubt he would bother making contact if a hunt was on his mind, I have to assume you are in danger.”

“And you act on this by pointing the gun at us?”

“You seems like a nice enough woman, Mrs Lake, so I won’t burden you with the whys. Suffice to say, one time I didn’t and I walked away with this pretty scar on my face.”

Jacob holds up his hand. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Why are you still here?” Deborah asked. “We didn’t kill Mr Wandell.”

“I thought I said already, his research suggests there is something after you.”

“That’s not a concern of yours.”

“Funny fact about the hunting business – we take fighting evil personally. So like it or not, I am gonna find out what Steve found.”

“That still doesn’t tell us what you’re doing here, with a gun.”

“Ma’am, I get your disbelief. But we try and help people, at great personal risk. We are entitled, I feel, to a little paranoia.”

Deborah is not convinced and Jacob, though he gets what the man is saying, cannot forget the gun that was trained on them both, cannot forget Deborah tied up and helpless in their own home. Then again, why didn’t he expect this? Their home has never been the safe place he wanted it to be. The wallpapered walls didn’t stop harm from coming to Timmy, and now to Deborah, though of course Deborah escaped without harm.

“Get out of my house,” Deborah says again and the man raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Sure, if that makes you feel better. I have to ask that you don’t call the police.”

“Because we have no reason to call the police.”

“I’m just asking, ma’am. I can deal with it, but it won’t help.” He pats his belt to make sure he has his gun and turns to leave. “I have no intention of bringing harm to you, not unless it turns out you deserve it,” he says. “I’m staying at the motel downtown.”

“Get out!”

When the door closes, Deborah leans against the table, spent. “This is too much,” she says shaking her head. Jacob isn’t sure what he can say to make it better. He settles for placing his hand on Deborah’s back and standing upright.

They don’t call the police in the end, though whether this is his choice or Deborah’s, Jacob doesn’t know.

William Thackery comes by the next afternoon, Father Matthews in tow. Nevertheless, Deborah shuts the door in their faces. They are not deterred. They keep knocking until she storms back and throws it open with more force than necessary. “What the hell do you want?” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Deborah, please. William can help you,” Father Matthews says.

“How the hell do you know,” she challenges. “You don’t know him.”

“That’s true. I don’t. I knew Steve, however.”

“And we’re back to mythical Steve. You realize of course that man was paranoid and plain crazy?”

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” William remarks kindly and Deborah bristles. “Mrs Lake, Steve had reasons to be cautious.”

“Sure, with friends like you who needs enemies?” Deborah asks and reluctantly steps away from the door, admitting both men in. “What do you want?”

Jacob watches all of this from the corridor, standing between Rachel and their guests. William politely nods in his direction and Jacob suppresses the twinge of nervousness. He doesn’t see the gun, but it doesn’t mean it’s not there and there is something in the way William caries himself that suggests weapons anyway. It makes Jacob nervous, but of course the fact that Deborah has a gun within her reach as well makes him nervous too. When was it that home stopped being safe and started making him unsettled?

“We need information,” William says curtly. “Anything you can tell me.”

“What kind of anything?” Deborah asks and she is too weary to protest, Jacob can tell from her tone.

“Can we sit?” Father Matthews asks. “I’m an old man, child.”

“Yeah. Come in.” She shoots Jacob a glance and he somehow understands – he picks up Rachel and carries her to the playpen.

Deborah makes tea and serves it with some cookies on the side. Jacob is done with half of them before they even start talking properly.

“So what is it you want?” Deborah asks once more. She is glaring at William through half-lidded eyes, but he seems immune, as he is looking at her quite calmly.

“Steve kept his notes on his hard drive, and his computer was destroyed when he was murdered,” William says. “So I don’t have anything to go on.”

“What do you want to know?”

“It started with the fire, I take it,” he says and Jacob starts.

“You know about that?”

“I found a single sheet of notes. That’s all. It mentioned your name, a fire and that’s all.”

Jacob hides his face in hands and forces his heart to settle. “Shit,” he says to himself. Then, word-by-word, he recalls the night of June 29th. He is beginning to regret ever having told that story to Father Matthews. Denial would have been healthier than this, right?

“… and then I heard Deborah and we just left the house,” he finishes. He doesn’t much care he’s been talking to his knees the whole time. At least they won’t mock him, in the end.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” William says, and he sounds sorry, though the words are trite. Better yet, there is not an ounce of disbelief or scorn in his voice, and that alone helps Jacob raise his head. “Was there anything else going on around that time?”

“What do you mean?”

“Strange noises, not on that night but earlier. Maybe Tim was scared of something?”

“No,” Deborah replies. “He had the occasional bad dream, but it was the usual kind. Clowns chasing him, being alone. That sort of thing.”

“I see. What about the house, any noises, anything moving in the middle of the night?”

“No. Why would anything be moving in the middle of the night?” Deborah says.

“The lights flickered in the bathroom,” Jacob says. “That’s all.”

“And the flickering, that happened often?”

“No. It only happened once, right before I went to the nursery.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, the hell what?” Deborah asks. Jacob usually likes the peeved tone, because she uses it so rarely. She usually has all the perfectly logical answers at hand.

“Electrical equipment often reacts to the paranormal,” William explains.

“Oh, so suddenly this is cold hard proof we’re dealing with the paranormal.”

“No, but it suggests it might be.”

“As opposed to the bottle of wine and being half asleep, suggesting Jacob was sleep walking?”

“He said he heard you yelling, Mrs Lake. What did you see?” William asks, helping himself to more tea.

Deborah furrows her brows for a moment and falters. Jacob realizes with a start he has never asked her this. “I woke up,” she says, her brow furrowed. “I heard Jacob screaming. The bedroom door was open so I walked into the corridor and I saw- I saw fire.” She shakes her head and Jacob reaches out to put his arm around her shoulders. “There was fire and Jacob was standing, in front of the crib, staring at the ceiling and screaming.”

“You didn’t go into the room?”

“It was on fire,” Deborah looks up to glare. How she can do it through her hair, Jacob has no idea. “The room was on fire and he was just standing in the middle of it, staring at the ceiling and screaming.”

“I see,” William just said. “Do you know the history of the house?”

“So far as I know, no one ever died in it. I don’t think anyone so much as got seriously ill in there. We got it from an elderly couple who were moving down to Miami, or thereabouts. They were in their fifties and seemed to be in perfect health.”

“What about you two?” William asks.

“Do we look like axe-murders to you? I might have beat up a nerd in high school, but that nerd was him, so it’s okay,” Deborah says and for the first time that story doesn’t bring a flush to Jacob’s cheeks.

“You didn’t beat me up,” he says, just as William and Father Matthews look at the two of them curiously. “You hit him?” they ask simultaneously, and Jacob flushes red.

“I opened a locker in his face. It was an accident. He got a bloody nose, but he was fine.” He was better than fine, Jacob thinks but doesn’t say, because he got a date out of it. So what if it was in the nurse’s office. They got their act together, eventually.

“That’s certainly unorthodox,” Father Matthews says, but he is smiling as he says it.

“Yeah. I didn’t know then he was going to grow up into a lunatic.”

“I’m not a lunatic,” Jacob protests.

“Yeah, I know.” Deborah is silent for a moment then she looks up again. “What else?” she asks looking at William.

“I honestly have no idea,” he admits, but Jacob can tell he’s lying by the way Deborah’s eyes narrow and she calls him on it. “I don’t,” he repeats. “I’m going to have to do more research on my own.”

“So what, now we’re lying?”

“No, but you might not be looking in the right places.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“No offence to you, Mrs Lake, but humans have a tendency to block out memories they find too difficult to comprehend. And anyway, whatever might be important here, might not have been important to you.”

“That made very little sense.”

“It might start making more, in time.” He places the cup on the coffee table and gets up. “Thank you for your time. I will let you know when I find anything.”

“Please do,” Deborah mutters under her breath.

“Should anything happen, Father Matthews has my cell number. Good day,” he says, nodding to Jacob, Deborah and the priest.

There is a moment of silence, during which Deborah bites her lip and tries very hard to count down from an obscenely high number. “He’s batshit insane,” she explodes once the front door closes behind the hunter’s back.

“He might be, yes. But he won’t hurt you, child. Hunters are a peculiar bunch, but they are good people, Deborah.”

“They are crazy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Father Matthews grunts as he gets to his feet. “God be with you,” he says on his way out.

“And with you too,” Jacob manages to the priest’s back.

“As if one lunatic wasn’t bad enough,” Deborah sighs once they are alone again.

“Lunatic?”

“Please. That man is far from sane.”

“He seems decent enough,” Jacob says.

“Why is it so important to you?” Deborah asks. “I get the need not to be crazy, but please draw a line somewhere.”

“Where do you want me to draw the line?” Jacob asks, a little more anger than he intends seeping into the words. “I’m just as scared as you are.”

“Look, I just… worry.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

What can he say? He wants to understand this, whatever this is, and if trusting this hunter is the way to do it, then… You are putting your family at risk, the rational part of his mind points out. There must be a risk, considering one of them was already dead, another part suggests, and Jacob realizes, to his own horror, that his curiosity is not going to let him rest easy, not with this kind of mystery hanging over his head. “We’ll be careful,” he adds lamely and he knows he deserves the snort of indignation.

“Careful like perhaps not letting him into the house?” Deborah asks, her voice full of irony. Jacob finds no words to make her feel better. He shares some of her reservations, sure. This is a stranger, one who’s already broken into their home, and frankly that alone should be scaring him off. Not that it doesn’t scare him; he’d be stupid if it didn’t. There is something more than the fright, however, there is the hint of answers this man might have, something Jacob was looking forward to for a while now. So yes, he is crazy, and in all likelihood he will be hearing “Didn’t I tell you so?” from Deborah in the near future. He tries not to let the thought get to him right now.

Luckily for Deborah and his mental state they don’t see William again for nearly two months and even then it’s only a few minutes of their time on a warm May afternoon.

William is pacing in their living room when Jacob gets home that day. He stops when Jacob enters and nods at him, then resumes pacing.

“Something has happened,” Deborah says. “I’m not sure what. There was something about Hell’s gates; I didn’t quite get it. He mentioned an apocalypse too, but since it isn’t raining brimstone, I’m not too worried.”

“Apocalypse?” Jacob hisses and William gestures at them.

“The Winchesters opened the gates to Hell,” he says without preamble.

“Okay,” Jacob tries to make sense of this. “Who did what, again?”

“The Winchesters. A couple of hunters, doesn’t matter. They opened the doorway to Hell, and an army of demons got out.”

“Demons?” Jacob takes a moment to just stare at the man, because while he understands the concept of ghosts and is reasonably happy to believe in their existence, demons walking the world are not something he is content with. Which is altogether bizarre, considering what a good Catholic boy he is, believing in Heaven and Hell, angels and demons.

“This is very bad news,” William says and Jacob resists the urge to roll his eyes. Well obviously, or else he wouldn’t be pacing like he does. “Demons can wreck havoc like you couldn’t even imagine. And there’s word that hundreds of them are loose in the world.”

“What does that mean?” Deborah asks.

“I need to go,” William says.

“Go where?”

“There’re a couple places I need to check up on, see if there’s anything that needs doing immediately.”

“It could be a false alarm,” Deborah says staring into her cup. “No offence, but this whole hunting ghosts thing might make a person the tiny bit paranoid. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone declared an apocalypse every other year,” she adds under her breath.

“We don’t scare easily,” William says and his face is grim. “I’ll be back,” he promises.



Part Four :: Master Post :: Part Six