Warlock Wolf / Bring The Night / Chapter 7

The Bureau booked him a spot to live in a rooming house near the beach for two months until he could find something more permanent. Two months in the winter, of course, when the beach was unusable.

Four in the morning and now he was following along on the Tahoe’s GPS, turning onto Briar Beach Road, looking for the house number 78. 

It was a three-story manor mostly hidden from the road by tall cedar hedges, and sheltered by towering maple trees, the leaves gone, its jagged snow covered arms scrabbling for the black sky. The house was a seaside weathered grey; scooping fish-scale cedar shingles and a slate roof with white trim; one corner of the manse was a cylindrical turret with a pointed peak roof and a small cross mounted on top. Hydro and phone lines draped from the road to the house, laden with a tall layer of snow. Someone had been thoughtful enough to leave a porch light on for him, and he parked the nose of the 4x4 by the stairs that led to the brick porch. The only other car parked in the shoveled square patch that could accommodate a half dozen vehicles was an old wood-paneled station wagon with snow tires on black wheels.

On the way back to town from the Cartwright Mansion he’d stopped at the office and grabbed his luggage and threw it in the cargo of the Tahoe. He had it now, a bag in each hand, mounting the steps and setting them down at the front door. A key had been left for him at the F.B.I. office in town and he fished it out, set it in the old brass lock and opened the heavy oak door.

It led to a small vestibule with tile floors, a rug and a sitting chair. There was a pitcher of water with cut lemons, and a few glasses on a high table next to a vase of flowers. Five brass mailboxes lined the wall on the right; on the left was a door to the first floor apartments and a set of stairs with a metal hand railing.

He climbed the steps to the second floor, being careful not to make noise, and on the second floor there were only two apartments; one looking out the back of the house, the other out front over the driveway, and he supposed, if it were daylight, the ocean beyond. His apartment was on the left, the one looking out front.

Door open, he moved his hand around the wall until he found the light switch, then closed himself inside his home for the next few months. It was warm and dry, cozy even. The place came fully furnished, but everything looked dated, like he’d be sleeping over at his grandparent’s house. On his right was a table with four chairs, a space where he could eat. A tiffany lamp hung over the center of the table. Next to the table was a small kitchenette; a sink, a bar fridge, a single gas burner. The wallpaper was paisley, the fixtures a buttery yellow. Ahead was a sitting room with Victorian couch and low table and two high-back chairs. On his left was the room inside the turret, and from the dim light he could see the foot of a double bed in the circular space.

He brought his bags and dumped them next to the coffee table, went to the couch and flopped on it. What a fucking night.

His back ached, the edges of his vision were fuzzy. It was going to take some getting used to, a huge adjustment—O-Branch was real. That fucking devil doll was real.

Now he shifted uncomfortably, pried his shoes off without untying them and put his feet up. Without thinking about it, his hand moved down his stomach, slipped under his belt, moved below his underwear. Yeah, and there was that crazy complication to deal with, too. First day on the job and he was looking to get kicked out of the bureau for sexual impropriety. Just great, Black. Way to go.

When he brought his hand up to his face, he could smell her. Lizzy. It put an ache in his heart and quickened his pulse. How was he going to be able to work with her now? There was a steady pulsing knowledge like a telltale heartbeat drawing his attention to Lizzy’s panties balled and stuffed in his suit pocket. Everything in him wanted to withdraw the pink puff, bury his face in the cotton, indulge the lust in his heart. That was sex-maniac behavior, and even though the knowledge of the panties location and existence throbbed in him like a toothache, he did his best to ignore them. Before sleeping he should get up and shower, get that sex funk off him, remove that incriminating but delightful smell, but he couldn’t be assed. It wasn’t laziness; it had been a long day and though he was tired, he didn’t feel sleepy yet.

In fact, he might just hook up his game system and try to find his online buddies before he knocked off. Maybe he also didn’t like the idea of parting with Lizzy’s fine redolence.

Now he was up, zipping open one of his bags, withdrawing his game system and controller. But when he came to the TV, he knew it was futile. The thing was an old tube type; a square box with fake wood veneer and a grey-green glass front. No way it had the connections he would need.

“Fuck,” he sighed, and set the system down on the table, walked to the large white-framed window with its wide sill. Light was picking up gray with the approaching dawn. Across the roofs of the houses on the other side of the street he could see the gunmetal color of sky painted overtop the black wash of the ocean, white arrows of waves dashing on its surface now. Adrenalin must still be in his system because while sleep was the most obvious thing on his schedule, he didn’t feel sleepy. In fact he felt almost electric; excitement worked through him in a steady static pulse. White Chapel was filled with possibilities, and as light brought dim life to the world out his window he felt something else dawning but he couldn’t just yet discern its shape.

In the kitchen he twisted knobs, looked in cupboards, ran the faucet. When he checked in the fridge, he found it empty except for two lone items: a large stoneware pie dish wrapped in plastic, the golden pastry crust showing through the film, and a glass bottle of milk with a wax paper top. His first thought was revile; how long had that been in there? But there was a square yellow Post-it on top that read:

Glad to have you in my home, Mr. Black! Looking forward to meeting you. I baked you a housewarming pie this afternoon. I sure hope you like cherry and apple!

Eleanor

The handwriting was elegant and looping, written in a fine blue ball point. It was strangely heartwarming, and he found himself smiling. He could picture Eleanor with her good penmanship and her inviting kitchen; a kindly old woman who loved the excitement of new guests in her home, a Miss Manners who gardened and baked, and wore reading glasses she kept around her neck on a beaded chain.

Smile still on his face he brought the pie and the milk out to the table and sat down. One piece became two, then he served himself a third. The pie was un-fucking-real. Like, the pastry was buttery and flaky. It made him think of lard. Did people still bake with lard anymore? Could you even buy lard? Probably. It’s not like he ever went shopping for it. God, the sugary cherries and the apple . . . ? Fuck, four pieces down, and he was still hungry. The cupboards had plates, cutlery, and glasses, but he never even poured the milk, instead just drinking it right from the bottle. It dribbled his chin, and he wiped it clear with the back of his hand. Then he ate piece number five.

Three pieces left, he decided to force himself to stop. He could keep going, easy. The pie was about the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Shit, imagine if it had just come out of the oven?

Across the room, he fished through his bag again and found his personal phone, brought it back to the table to check his voicemail. Right off the top was a call from his mother. Hey, you get in okay, baby? Call me when you get the chance. I’m so proud of you, honey, Mr. Special Agent in Charge. You go get ‘em, tiger! “Thanks, Mom,” he said to the room, rolling his eyes and grinning, putting a fork back in the pie. The next two calls were from Steve and Mike back in Tennessee, guys he’d grown up with. They left ball-busting messages that were a sharp contrast from the encouraging tone from his mother. Shit like: Don’t accidentally shoot yourself; it’s going to be terrible when they find out what a fraud you are; I have no faith in my country if they make you a Special Agent; you almost drank yourself to death on Spring Break, should I report that, I feel like I should, national security and all, can you get me a number . . . ? Mean messages that made him feel good despite the tone. He rolled his head around on his neck, flexing his shoulders, ear pressing his phone to his shoulder. He felt good. He felt strong. He felt like he’d been going to the gym again though he hadn’t been in a long time. He’d eaten the whole pie.

“Holy shit,” he said, looking at the empty dish. He let the fork down, smiling. He could eat another one. He opened and closed his hand, looking at the lines on his palm and feeling fantastic. His fingernails had grown. When was the last time he trimmed them? He clicked his thumbnail over the index one and it made a sharp, tough clicking.

Another voicemail began in his ear: Hii-eee . . . baby, I’m so proud of you I can’t even say it. I hope you got in okay. I heard it was snowing in New Hampshire—do you need boots? Let me know . . . Let me know because I have incredible news . . . Daddy assigned me to New Hampshire, too. If you need boots I can bring them to you! Isn’t that amazing? I might have bugged him a little to make it happen, you know me, but I missed you so much already and it’s only been like a day. You miss me? . . . Now, I’m going to be in Concord, but that’s close, baby. We’ll be an hour apart according to Google. Aw, I can’t wait to see you, I’m so, so excited . . . I’ll be there in a few days, call me when you get this!

Phone shut off, the room was deadly quiet. Amy. His girlfriend. Coming here.

Out the window the sky had lightened to charcoal. He rested his chin in his palm, rubbed his mouth with a finger. Smelled pie. Smelled Lizzy.

Amy was a Special Agent. Amy was the E.A.D.’s daughter.

That delicious pie rolled over in his stomach.