Chapter Text
“Dog, please, just let us in," Diane said, exasperation seeping into her voice. “We just want to help, and we can't do that unless you open the door.”
The dark eyes on the other side of the cat flap blinked, slowly.
“Dog-”
The flap shuttered as the house’s only occupant withdrew and Diane balled up a hand in the pocket of her jacket. She could feel her fingers going numb with cold, and her thighs were beginning to ache from crouching so long; a glance at her watch told her they'd been out here almost 30 minutes. She blew on her hands, peals of foggy breath coating her skin in a humid wash. Beside her, Keene, the town’s community outreach officer, was growing impatient. It was supposed to start snowing at five, and neither of them wanted to be crouched on Dog’s front step in the dark and the wet. Keene rattled the doorhandle and pounded once on the wood in the place where a knocker might have been in another house. He peered through the flap.
He said, unprofessionally, “Open the fucking door!”
Diane straightened with popping legs. “I thought you said not to shout at him. That was the first thing you said.”
Keene glanced up at her from his position on the mat. He was kneeling, water seeping into his slacks. “That was for you; you don’t get to shout at him. He doesn’t know you.” He pushed the flap open with a finger, and they heard movement inside the house. “Me and Dog go way back, right? All the way to Mariposa.”
“Shithole that was,” the first response from Dog in twenty minutes; muffled and hoarse.
“Yeah,” Keene said. “Yeah it was. But we’re not there anymore, are we? We’re in Jacobstown. And it’s 1994.”
“I know,” Dog snapped. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I know you’re not, Dog. But can you tell me the date?”
There was a pause, and Dog seemed to be considering whether to withdraw into the house and quit the charade in lieu of ...whatever he got up to in there. Despite Keene’s earlier claims that he wasn’t a patient man, Diane knew that was bullshit, and wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of camping out on Dog’s welcome mat all night. Keene and Dog went way back; all the way to Mariposa, like he’d said. They’d been a member of the same underworld in California, and although Keene said he’d never really known Dog back then, he honoured his past. There were a lot of remnants of his people around Jacobstown; a bunch of them had fled south after a prolonged gang war throughout the 70s ended in a massacre with their leader dead. Keene had served his prison sentence and moved on as best he could. He appreciated it wasn’t always easy for people like Dog to follow suit.
Diane watched him scratching a black-green tattoo on the back of his neck, and wondered whether he was getting anywhere, or if this was another one of the red herrings that Dog was fond of tossing their way. Half an hour ago Dog had been on the ‘verge’ of opening the door, only to withdraw into the kitchen after Diane did something wrong. Keene glanced at his watch again.
“This is bullshit, it’s getting on for five,” he muttered. “I don’t think he knows what date it is, he definitely hasn’t been taking his meds.”
“I got that,” Diane said, rubbing one eye. “I’m gonna have to put him down as non-compliance and get someone out here, Keene. Doctor Marcus says he’s missed two appointments as well.”
“Well, if Doctor Marcus says so that changes everything,” Keene growled. “Look, Diane. Go to town, have a coffee. When you come back, I swear to god the door’ll be open and we’ll be drinking tea and popping pills.”
“Great image, but get real, Keene. I’m not gonna do that.”
“Come on !” the aging biker unleashed a kick on the wooden door, which rattled perceptively. They heard Dog moving behind it; away from the volley caused by Keen’s foot. “Come on , come on ! Fuck-”
“Keene, stop it-”
“Dog, don’t make me do this,” Keene’s boot thudded against wood one last time for show, and Diane saw he was bracing to aim for the side where the lock was mounted. “Last chance, or you’re gonna have snow in your kitchen all winter.”
“ Keene !”
“Count of five, Dog. One, two,” a heavy-booted kick sent the door rattling in its frame; a small divot appeared in the wood.
“You need to stop right now,” Diane said firmly, hands planted on her hips. (“Three... fo-”) “If you break that door down, you know I'll have no choice but to contact your parole officer.”
That was enough to stop him. Stepping away from the door, he turned on Diane, towering over her by almost two feet. He jabbed a thick finger, “ Excuse me ? Whose side are you on?"
“I-”
“Is he eating? Does he even have food in there? It doesn’t smell clean,” Keene’s eyes were burning, lips pulled taut over his teeth. Diane noticed an orange and white shape out of the corner of her eye, and saw what must be Dog’s cat had come home to inquire about the state of his cat flap. It waited on the damp grass, swishing a tail. She felt its eyes drilling into the corner of her back. “You know how he gets when he’s off his meds, and you know what he’s like when he’s on them. All we need to sort this out is for me to get in there, then everything will be fine .”
“Keene, I can’t authorise you to force entry.”
“A man’s life isn’t grounds?”
“It is, that’s why I’m going to call medical personnel.”
“When? Tomorrow? Fuck you.”
“I’ll see if Dr Marcus is willing to come out here on emergency call, but-”
“ But ,” Keene said. “Yeah, exactly. You're all the same: bunch of pencil-pushers in cushy offices.” He spat. “I don't get to go home and forget about this at the end of the day; if Dog starves or bleeds out or hangs himself it'll be on my shoulders.”
“I’m sorry , honestly Keene, but your job only carries informal authority. You’re a support officer. You’re not actually allowed to break down anyone’s doors.”
“Fuck you.”
“And, I’d remind you, it’s courtesy that I let you come on home visits with me.” This was a bit of a tall order; Diane knew a lot of Jacobstown’s most troubled would be a whole lot less willing to open up to her without Keene’s nod that she was trying to help and it was the right thing to do. Keene seemed to think this was rich as well, since he flipped her off and stomped away across the lawn. The ginger cat meowed loudly as he passed, but he didn’t stop for it, and Diane watched the huge man’s shape recede down the lane and into the treeline. He’d parked his bike outside the cafe where they’d met for coffee to discuss Dog’s case two hours ago.
Dog’s cat ran over her feet as it dived back through the cat flap, and she heard it greet Dog with mews and a purr. Diane wondered if Keene would sneak back once she’d left to break in Dog’s door for real. Honestly, if she wasn’t around to see it and be made liable, it might be the best thing for him.
“Dog, I’m gonna get in touch with Dr Marcus. Be back in a bit, yeah?”
No reply, but she hadn’t expected one with Keene gone. This town was too close-knit to know what was good for it, and she shunted over the wet lawn to her car. Dr Marcus’ office was over on the other side of town, in the somewhat nicer neighbourhood, and after that she still had to call in on the priest before even thinking about hightailing the 157 back to Vegas area. She popped a paracetamol and leaned back in the seat, wet hair meshing against the headrest. Raindrops began to pitter-patter against the windscreen, and she checked her watch.
It had gone five.
***
The rain had changed into snow by the time Diane finished talking with Dr Marcus, and her windscreen wipers were squeaking as they scraped across the glass. Dead leaves rose to float in gutters alongside the road, and she punched at the AC as her breath fogged the windows. Keene, Dog and the rest of the Californian offshoots tended to stick to downtown Jacobstown, and Dr Marcus occupied a white building in the east by the town’s school; the drive from south to north offered a nice cross-section of the town’s decay. Jacobstown had thrived on a tourism boom in the 50s, feeding off an explosion in Las Vegas’ fortunes by offering city locals the chance for a weekend break in the mountains. Skiing, snow sleds, grotto business at Christmas; all that wintry wonderland stuff. Money got shovelled into the hospitality sector for a good decade, but by the late 70s Governor House changed policy to focus all eyes on Vegas as he found himself staring down the barrel of a financial crisis. In a bid to save the city and state he'd hacked budgets, dropped subsidies, and frozen wages; austerity in favour of crippling debt. What was left in the bank he poured into the lights of Vegas, which glowed on the horizon like a mason jar of fireflies. Jacobstown was left shut out in the cold. Its mines were closed by the beginning of the 80s and the tourism trade dried up; taking with it the inns and watering holes. The old ski resort chugged along a little longer before pootling into bankruptcy; if Diane squinted, she could just make it out in the distance, perched on the north slope. A metaphorical gravestone, or perhaps a ghost; creaking in the wind when gales blew down the mountain.
It came as no surprise that the area was a hotspot for problems. Unemployment, isolation, lack of opportunities - Jacobstown and Vegas weren’t exactly another Detroit, but they were definitely walking the same old road. Diane found herself making the drive up here about twice a week, but she’d never had cause to visit the Catholic church in the east before. She’d gotten directions from Dr Marcus and found it was about a fifteen minute drive from his clinic. The church was a little isolated, and silhouetted against the hulking backdrop of Charleston Peak.
There were yellow lights streaming through the glass to light up the cemetery. Diane passed through the graves and under the eyes of a lichened angel. She clip-clopped a knock on the door.
“Come in, come in,” she heard a man’s voice call, and she ducked gratefully out of the cold into a well-lit room. The church was more modern that it had seemed when she drove by in the past; outside it was white-washed and wooden-trimmed, but inside it had a yellow paint job and warm lighting. There was a priest by the altar who beckoned her down and then disappeared into another room. She followed.
The second room was smaller and looked like a classroom; the man was stacking chairs and gathering papers off the floor. He said he hoped she didn’t mind but he just had to finish tidying up now or it’d be gone nine o’clock before he got out. She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was getting on for eight.
“Bible class?” she asked.
“How’d you guess?” the priest was breaking up a circle of chairs and moving them in threes and twos to the back of the room. “ The people rise like a lioness. We were studying the passage in Numbers, do you know it?”
“I’m not religious, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, of course. Sorry to assume,” the priest continued to stack the chairs. “Most people around here are, but I suppose you’re from out of town. Where exactly, if I might ask?”
“I work with the Followers program in the Vegas area,” Diane said. “But I’m originally from New Jersey.”
“Quite a way from home.”
“You’d be the same if you were from there,” Diane replied, and the priest laughed politely. She returned to business; “I don’t know if you remember but we spoke on the phone-”
“I remember.” The priest had finished stacking the chairs and began to gather papers, piling them over on the desk. He was not a particularly tall man, especially not in Diane’s eyes after spending the afternoon with Keene, and if they stood shoulder to shoulder Diane thought he might only have a few inches on her. There was nothing else really to comment about his person besides that; he had brown hair, brown eyes, rosacea in his cheeks. His voice was friendly, a little hoarse by nature. “You’re Diane Williams.”
“Yes. I’m here about the Boones.”
“Yes,” the priest nodded, tapping the bottom of the papers so they would sit straight. Diane wondered whether he was taking too long with this task on purpose, and read the writing on the chalkboard in the meantime. The priest finished his work and followed her eyes.
“You know our classes welcome believers of all levels.”
Diane flushed, “Oh, no-”
He smiled, “I’m only teasing.”
“Oh,” she faked a laugh, and decided they’d finished with the smalltalk. She leant back on a desk as she began, “I’m sure you know what this is about - the incident last Sunday.”
“With little Melody Boone,” the priest nodded. “Of course.”
“We don’t have to have a conversation about it,” Diane said, deciding the best thing to do would make this go as quickly as possible. She’d had quite enough of Jacobstown today; after the church she still had to pass by the Boones’ house. Though God knew she’d try to keep that brief. “Things were said, people acted rashly; water under the bridge. I just have to give Melody the bear back now.”
“Mmhmm,” the priest rubbed his chin, and she heard the scrape of stubble against the palm of his hand. “I see your side of things perfectly, Diane.”
Diane paused. “I’m afraid I fail to see yours.”
“Yes, I know I must seem quite the ogre,” the priest began to clean the board. “I take a toy from the small child with a difficult home life, and here I am stonewalling you when you want it back.” He scrubbed away a passage about forgiveness. “Believe me, Melody was acting so… erratically on Sunday. Shouting at the other children, tearing posters off the walls. She tried to bite me. I took the bear to get her attention. I just haven’t had to chance to get it back to her yet,” he shrugged. “That’s all.”
“Mr Boone said that he came in here on Wednesday because she couldn’t sleep without it, and you sent him away.”
“Mm, well, you know Mr Boone,” the priest looked at her secretively, “How do you think that meeting went?”
Diane did know Mr Boone, and coloured somewhat that she hadn’t taken his tales of going to the priest and being turned away on the door-step without more than a teaspoon of salt. Things fell into place a little more cleanly with the understanding that the priest hadn’t turned him away because of the bear - but because of Mr Boone . She wondered how he’d behaved, and asked.
“Well, it was during morning mass because he was coming in off his shift, and perhaps… he’d had a drink or two. This is a problem we are aware of and have tried to help him with in the past, as I know you have as well. I turned him away because it was the middle of a service, I couldn’t just - stop to run an errand. He left when he became embarrassed.”
Diane understood why Mr Boone’s version had been a little different, and asked for the bear back again; this time adding an apology. The priest told her there was no need to apologise, and said he’d go through to the office to get it. He disappeared for several minutes, and Diane studied the chalkboard in his absence. The blurred remnants of a list of names and the skeleton of a passage; I see him now, I behold him, but he is not-
“Numbers is calling to you,” the priest re-appeared, and Diane tore her gaze away. She could see he was joking again, and she indulged him with the force of a smile that did not reach her eyes. In his hand he held a brown paper bag, stapled at the top and damp on the bottom. He made a face.
“The rainwater found a hole in the back office, so the little guy got a little damper than I’d like.”
“I’m sure Melody will live,” Diane cradled the bottom of the paper bag in one hand so the thing wouldn’t drop out. She felt a mat of fur pressing into the pad of her thumb. “Thanks again, Father-?”
“Lyle, Antony Lyle. Just Antony is fine.”
“Antony, thank you. I know the Boones aren’t the easiest-”
“They haven’t had the easiest time though,” Antony said. “Completely forgivable. Tell Mr Boone he’s welcome on Sunday.”
Diane twisted her mouth. “I’m not sure you’ll see him, but I’ll pass it along. Thanks again.”
She felt herself being shown the door, and shuffled along the corridor with the paper bag wedged under one arm, reaching into her breast pocket for her lighter. She’d smoke in the car with the window half-down on her way to the Boones, and then she’d be out of the town and on the road. With any luck, she’d be home before ten. If she grabbed a pizza from Sonny’s she wouldn’t have to cook.
Antony didn’t watch her weave through the gravestones out front; turning back to the classroom and hitting the lights. His office was damp from the cold but blissfully the leak had been a fabrication, and he leant against the desk as he dialed a number into the telephone. The plastic creaked as he crushed the phone against his ear, and he wound the blue spiral cord around a finger. Mindlessly, he gnawed on it as it reached his associate’s answering machine. He tried again. And again. Finally -
Click. “Hello?”
“It’s Antony here. Social came around, I had to give the bear back to the Boones.”
“Excuse me?”
Clearly; “I had to give the bear back. I’m going to keep a watch on the family, obviously, but I thought - the likelihood is so small after I did the tests - it was better not to alienate the authorities in case anything does come of it. So I gave the bear back.”
The voice on the end of the call paused, and Antony heard it thinking. “Well. I can see your line of thinking. And yes, the bear probably isn’t a problem anymore. If there is one it’ll be the child now.”
“Melody. Melody Boone.”
“Yes, sure. Melody Boone.”
“Unlikely, though.”
“Well. Yes. But my business is unlikelihood,” the voice paused, and seemed to shift. “Are they coming to Sunday service?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Keep an eye on the family as best you can then. And update me any new information.”
“Of course.”
“Is that it?”
“I think so.”
The man on the other end of the line hung up, and Antony put the phone back in its cradle.