Boneyard (The Thaumaturge Series Book 2) (26 page)

 In the dark, I strode through piles of my own laundry. I cracked the spine of a new book when I stepped on it.

I snatched the book off the ground and flung it across the room. It struck the wall with a feathery thud and flopped to the floor. Behind me, Johnny started whimpering.

“Go lie down,” I snapped at him and then when he slunk away, I felt like an enormous asshole. I followed him, crouching down to stroke his ears. He tentatively thumped his tail.

“Sorry, buddy,” I told him. “Just kinda freaking out here. You haven’t see Leo by any chance, have you?”

Johnny licked my arm. I petted him for a while, scratching the silky fur on his ears. Around me, the room settled. The open blinds let in the moonlight and it cast a rectangle of ghostly light across the living room floor. A forgotten dinner plate sat on the coffee table, licked clean now of any scraps. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed. Slowly, my heart rate returned to normal. My frustration broke like waves crashing against rock. My nerves receded back into the sea.

“Good boy,” I murmured and stood up.

I checked my phone again. No missed calls, no messages. Not even from my mom. So much for family, huh?

My thoughts felt fragile, like my calm was a dam holding back a bout of madness. I could glimpse the roiling, raw emotion beneath my detached clarity and with effort I took a seat on the couch. I took a deep breath. I needed to get
over
myself.

“I’m going to sit here and wait for Leo,” I announced. 

Next thing I knew, my alarm woke me with a violent start. I blinked blearily, morning sunlight spilling over my face. Sitting up on the rumbled couch, I turned off my usual Monday morning alert. I rolled my sore neck and frowned when I saw that I had no new messages.

The day stretched out before me, daunting and heavy. My jaw creaked with a huge yawn and my legs felt too hot. But despite my grogginess, my fingers drummed restlessly against the rumpled couch pillow and with a sigh, I rose to shower and to face the day.

Snow dusted the ground and I stood shivering in the backdoor as I waited for Johnny to pee. A sense of déjà vu rolled over me and I glanced uneasily towards my truck, half expecting to see Marcus peering out at me from inside the cab.  With the thought of Marcus came the reflexive flare of guilt and annoyance. My brain felt like a tangled mess of panicked, confused thoughts.

I thought about going to work, tried to imagine myself dressing and driving through the slushy streets. At least it would be an excuse to get out and hear some gossip, to learn how much the town was talking about the car crash. Maybe do some damage control. But Brittany—my go-to informant—didn’t work on Mondays. I thought of going to the Dinner Bell or Hot Shots, just to count the stares directed at me.  There was always the hope, I supposed, that the emergency crews had agreed to keep quiet, but with that many people around? It felt like a fool’s hope.

And, if I were to go to work, there was the possibility, however slim, that Misty—Corvin’s mother and my least favorite customer—would come in to my store. The thought of her pale, unpleasant face made hot waves of annoyance and guilt wash over me. How much did she know? How much had Corvin told her?

I hadn’t heard from Dahlia. My fingers twitched towards my phone; I didn’t know if I should call her. Instead, I stood in my kitchen, holding a pot of fresh coffee, feeling lonely and sick and full of self-disgust. Leo was going to absolutely kill me.

I decided not to go to work.

Instead, I decided the day would be better spent in my pajamas. My Netflix queue wasn’t going to watch itself. So I went back to bed until 11 and awoke to blue skies and sunlight filling my bedroom. I puttered around the trailer half-heartedly tidying up. No one called.

Around noon, I toasted half a box of Cherry Pop Tarts and then finally settled into my couch with Johnny curled around my feet. It was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed after the last few exhausting days. Fuck.
Weeks.

Twenty minutes into my episode, as I gingerly chewed through molten cherry filling, I heard steps on the porch stairs.

I bolted upright, jerking Johnny out of his doze and almost knocking over the bottle of Pepsi on the coffee table. A heavy knock pounded on the door and Johnny gave a warning bark.

About five thousand things went through my head at the sound, everything from overachieving Girls Scouts or ambitious Mormons to alien invaders but my mind ping-ponged back to that fucking psycho Weber. Occam’s razor, right? The most likely scenario? Nerves burst into my stomach with such intensity that I almost puked up my Pop-Tarts. So it was a bit of relief when I cracked opened the door and Father McLean, junior member of the Morality Police, stood smiling there on my porch.

I didn’t recognize him right away because he wasn’t wearing his priest’s collar. Instead, he was dressed down in jeans that looked way too hip to belong to a priest and a smart looking ski coat. When I’d met him at the diner, his hair had been neatly combed to one side, like a 1950’s businessman. Today, though, his reddish hair spiked upwards with just enough sloppiness to be trendily scruffy. He looked to be my age, at the very oldest, and in no way resembled the demur man of God who sat beside Father Laski and damned my soul.

I glared suspiciously at him for a few seconds until he stuck out his hand and I reflexively shook it.

“Ebron,” he said warmly, covering both of our joined hands with his other warm palm. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Uh,” I stammered. At my knee, Johnny shoved his snout out the door and, seeing a human who had extremities that promised potential belly scratches, went into crazy mode. He tried to shove his way past me and I groped for his collar.

“Oh, look at this guy!” Father McLean squatted down and took Johnny’s head between his hands, fondling his ears. “Hey, buddy! How’s the big guy?”

Johnny practically seized with delight, his tail thwacking into the door jamb.

 “Uh,” I tried again. He looked up at me and winced, hastily getting to his feet and dusting off his knees.

“I’m sorry for how Father Laski spoke to you,” he said quickly. “And please, call me Devon.”

“Devon?” I said incredulously, because it sounded like some acoustic guitarist’s name, not a Catholic priest.

He must have heard that a lot, because he flashed me a quick grin.

“Please,” he said. “I’m still getting used to the whole ‘Father’ thing. And no one has called me McLean since my college soccer team. May I come in?”

“Um,” I stammered some more and then Johnny leapt up and kissed the guy square on the lips and McLean just laughed.

So he couldn’t be all bad. Dogs could sense serial killers, right? But then, Johnny liked Leo just fine, so obviously his psycho detection skills were faulty.

“Sure,” I conceded and propped the door open for him. He gave me another bright smile and brushed past me into the living room. The cop drama I was watching on TV played on uninterrupted and at the first ‘fuck’ I hurried over and fumbled for the remote.

“Sorry,” I said, smoothing down the front of my rumpled tee shirt. At least I was wearing a shirt. At least I wasn’t watching porn.
See, always look on the bright side, right?

“Don’t be,” he said and sat in the recliner without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve interrupted you at home.”

“Can I get you something?” I asked. Johnny shoved his head into McLean’s lap, giving him a doggy smile while his tail whirled like a propeller.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” He rubbed Johnny’s ears and smiled up at me. I wished he would give some hint as to what he wanted. Was this a social visit? A further attempt to make me renounce my unnatural ways? Was he going to throw holy water in my face?

“Okay,” I said when no further reply was forthcoming, and awkwardly sank down onto the couch. “What can I do for you, Father?”

“Devon,” he corrected immediately. “And there’s nothing you can do for me, I just—look, I’m really uncomfortable with what was said to you yesterday, and I wanted to apologize.”

I shrugged, shifting my weight on the couch and wishing I hadn’t turned the heat quite so high. “You don’t have to apologize.”

He looked pained. “No, I feel I do. That’s not the way someone like you should be counseled.”

“Counseled?” I snapped, instantly on the alert. “I’m not... No. Sorry, Fath—
Devon
, but I think you have the wrong idea. I don’t want to be counseled. I don’t
need
any counseling.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m not saying this right.”

“I’m gay,” I stated, looking him dead in the eye. “I have gay sex. I’m not ashamed of it and nothing you can say will change it.”

“No, no, no,” he stammered. “I’m not! I’m not trying to change you! I don’t think you need to be changed! That’s not what I am about.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Then I’m not quite sure what you’re doing here.”

He huffed a breath and squared his shoulders. “Look, let me explain,” he said. “I’m new to this parish. I’m new to Heckerson. I’m from Portland, Oregon. I don’t know anyone here. It’s turning out to be a beautiful day and I was wondering if you wanted to join me for a hike.”

I blinked at him, uncomprehending. McLean’s eyes searched my face, his expression hopeful. His Northface jacket looked new. The trekking shoes he wore looked well used.

“What?” I said finally. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said, a flush coming to his cheeks. “If you’re not busy.”

His eyes flickered to my Pepsi bottle, to the TV and then back to my ratty sweatpants. Honestly, a day of couch potatoing sounded a hell of a lot better than playing tour guide to a newbie priest. His gaze slid back up to mine and I saw that he expected my refusal and was braced for it.
Goddamnit.

“All right,” I said. “Let me get dressed.”

“Really?” The doubt in his expression faded and he leaned forward eagerly. “Great!”

“Uh, I’ll be right back,” I said, and left him alone in my living room while I tromped off to get dressed.

He offered to drive, which I refused just on principle, and then
he
refused back, arguing that his little hatchback had already blocked me in. I weakly tried to insist on taking my own truck, but he wouldn’t hear of it, and then somehow I compacted myself into the passenger’s seat with Johnny in the hatch behind me. Driving him in my truck was probably a bad idea anyhow, I decided. Heckerson and its damn rumor mill.

My knees rested against the glove box and I carefully arranged my feet around the daypack in the foot well.

“Sorry,” McLean said, settling himself into the driver’s seat. “I never have passengers. Here.”

He reached between my knees to snag the bag, and I jumped back violently, whacking my elbow on the door.

His face flushed red all the way up to his ears. “Sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t...”

“It’s fine,” I said stiffly and handed him the pack.

He accepted it and turned to set it in the hatch behind me. Johnny tried to steal a kiss, and McLean gave him a distracted pat. 

“I’m sorry,” McLean said again and I scowled.

“Don’t worry about it; you just surprised me.”

He nodded and turned the key in the ignition. He didn’t put the car in gear though, just sat there staring thoughtfully at the steering wheel.

“I wasn’t coming onto you,” he said finally.

I blanched but he continued before I could interrupt him, or die, or escape the car like a fleeing rat.

“I’m not gay,” he said. “I just want you to know that. That’s not what this is.”

“Fuck,” I said under my breath and he frowned.

“I just want it out in the open,” he explained and reached over to lay his hand on my arm. I almost jerked my arm away but forced down the instinct. For whatever reason, he was trying to make nice.

“I’m not, like, secretly gay,” he continued. “I didn’t become a priest to hide my sexuality or whatever. For the record, I’m attracted to women, but I’m celibate. Obviously.”

“Okay,” I said helplessly. My fingers inched towards the door handle. My whole body leaned away from him.

“So,” he squeezed my arm and let go. “We’re good?”

“Uh, yep.” I forced a smile. “Let’s, uh, get going. Let’s hit the trail.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling and put the car in reverse. I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally rolled out of the trailer park and onto the main road. His car smelled faintly of vanilla. A Dodge Brothers Coffee cup sat in the cup holder.

I directed him towards Spring Creek, on the opposite side of the valley from my family’s ranch. I didn’t want to risk running into Cody, or, God forbid, my Aunt Sharon. The thought of running into her made me want to puke. Plus, Spring Creek had a pretty waterfall.

I told him where to turn, but other than that we didn’t talk. After a few minutes of tense silence, McLean switched on his iPod. Classic rock came blaring out of the speakers, and he hastily turned down the volume to a tolerable level. I didn’t miss the shy glance he shot towards me, like I was going to judge him for rocking out to Supertramp.

His little hatchback jerked and rocked, but made it up the narrow dirt road to the trailhead. As soon as he smelled the heavy scent of pine, Johnny went nuts in the back. He lunged from window to window, shoving his snout against the glass and slobbering all over the place until McLean laughed and relented, cracking the windows.

“I miss having a dog,” he told me, his voice wistful. “When I was growing up, we had English Pointers. My dad was crazy about them.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.
They’re cool dogs? Your dad
was
crazy about them? Is he not now? Why can’t you have a dog?
I settled on, “Oh,” and then because that sounded rude and dismissive, I added, “I’ve always had a dog or three.”

He chuckled, apparently not noticing my discomfort. “Right? They’re like potato chips; you can’t have just one.”

I cracked a small smile. When the next song came on—something from the Kinks—he sang along under his breath and bobbed his head to the beat. A small Saint Christopher’s medal hung from the rear view mirror, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.