by
Mary E. Overstreet
"What a cold, fuckin' dump this town is," Jack told his companion, Mace, as they sauntered into the Blue Whale. "Sure this is it?"
"This is Collinsport all right. Every sign I saw said Collins-something on it." Mace, a stocky, muscular young man, went up to the bar. "Two beers," he told the bartender who had just replaced the barmaid. The older man served them, his eyes unfriendly to the strangers, especially to two who looked like street types, troublemakers. They wore tailored shirts, jeans, heavy work boots, and lightweight jackets, and each had a distinctive belt buckle. The taller, thinner blonde, Jack, had a large snake design on his buckle, while Mace's was a less ornate bear emblem.
The two looked around the busy, smoky place. "Hey, look over there," Jack drew his friend's attention to a lone figure sitting in a corner table, his head drooping over his glass. "What luck. We don't have to look for him."
"You sure that that's Willie?" Mace squinted through the smoke. "I can't see his face."
"That's him. Come on." They walked over to the table where Willie sat and took up chairs on either side of him.
Willie was well past being interested in the small crowd occupying the bar. But the immediate feeling of being closed in on forced his head up, though it took a second for his eyes to catch up and focus on the man at his left. He stared, recognition sinking in slowly. "Mace?"
"Hiya, Willie." Mace clapped him on the arm.
He looked to his right. "Jack?"
"Yeah!"
"Wh-what. . . Well, what're ya doin' here?" He felt muddled and confused.
"Came to see you," he grinned. "Hear you're not doin' too bad for yourself."
"How—how'd you know that?" Willie's tongue felt thick and uncooperative. He wasn't even sure if he was glad to see his old friends. Part of him was, but he sensed danger, and all he could make out of the way he felt was confusion.
"You know. Word gets around," Mace said, giving his arm another swat.
"Oh." Willie looked back down at his glass. "How'd you find me?"
"Ain't ya forgettin' somethin'?" Jack said.
He started to agree because he didn't know what he was talking about.
"Come ahn, Willie," Mace cut in, "it's been, what? Six years, maybe seven? How couldja forget Jack's, uh, detective talents?"
"W— Well, I didn' think about it."
"You are pretty smashed. I'll give ya that."
Willie just nodded and the two looked at each other, unspoken curiosity at their friend's change of manner.
"So what happened to Jason?" Mace asked.
Willie looked at him, momentary distress on his face. "Jason?"
"Hey, what's wrong witcha, man? Somethin' bad happen to Jason?"
He shook his head. "Nothin'. He just left."
"Well, what's up with you then, unh?" Jack asked, forgetting Jason.
"Nothin'." He shrugged.
"That ain't what we heard."
"Well, there isn't nothin' happenin' with me." He stared back down at his drink.
"Word on the street has it you're doin' some big business," Jack said in a lowered voice. "You been seen all dressed up and goin' into places they'd've kicked you out of six years ago. What's the deal, Willie?"
"You came all the way up here because of that?" Willie laughed half-heartedly. "You sure wasted your time."
"I don't think so," Jack told him quietly. "Now we're all old friends, right?" A shrug was the only response Willie would give. "We believe in sharin' our good fortune."
Now Willie knew exactly what they wanted. He didn't respond.
"Yeah," Mace put in. "Our fortune ain't been that good lately. We want a little of yours."
"I don't have nothin' to share." He started to stand, but they each grabbed a wrist.
"Stay in your chair, Willie. Now listen, we know you work for the family that owns this town. Why don't you take advantage of that and then come with us?"
Willie wouldn't look at either of them. "No. There's no way to do that."
"Sure there is. You were always good at findin' ways to make something pay off. Your set-up here is ideal."
"You don' know what you're talkin' about. I wouldn't do it if I could. Now leave me alone." He managed to jerk his arm away from Jack, knocking the other's half-empty beer over.
Mace did not let go and leaned closer, crushing his wrist. "Don't force us, man."
"Shit. Look what ya did," Jack said, throwing the only napkin on the table over the spilled beer.
Willie pulled at the arm Mace held, standing up. Rather than be involved in a scene, he let go, and Willie staggered back then started for the door. He was dizzy and stiff from sitting so long despite a couple of trips to the men's room. He knew everyone was looking at him as he stumbled for the door. A leg from the table by the railing proved too much for his dulled coordination, and he went sprawling at the foot of the step that led to the raised entryway.
He had pushed himself up part of the way when a word spoken by a certain voice went like a knife through him. He saw the shiny, black shoes on the step and looked up.
"Willie!" Barnabas said sharply. He and Carolyn had stepped inside just in time to see him knock over the beer and stagger drunkenly across the room. All Barnabas could think of was what a fool he was making of him. He stared down with utter contempt at the stunned, uncomprehending look on Willie's face. "Get up."
Willie obeyed, too drunk to even try to hide the fear he felt. He swayed unsteadily, trying to get a clear look up at Barnabas' face to see if he was really angry. "Oh, shit," he said under his breath.
The rage had set in. All that Barnabas had done today—the financial success he felt he was finally achieving in full after carefully going over his records, the quiet contemplation, and getting Carolyn to agree to talk with him—seemed to fade into the background. The dazed, childish look of terror on Willie's face infuriated him. He slapped him, not taking time to notice that doing so had made him turn away and start crying, one arm up to shield his face.
Carolyn who was disturbed by the sight of Willie so pitifully drunk and afraid, grabbed at Barnabas' arm angrily when he slapped the younger man. "Barnabas, no!"
Willie could not control the tears running down his face. He was as low as he had ever been, and knowing Carolyn and others saw him brought him down even further.
Barnabas grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the doors. Willie's legs hardly seemed to work, and he thought he was going to lose his mind.
"No, Barnabas!" Carolyn held him back. "I won't let you hurt him again," she said in as low a voice as possible.
"Go out there and wait for me," he told Willie, giving him another jerk in that direction before letting go. He turned to the young woman. "I am not going to hurt him."
"I don't believe you," she said emotionally. "You've already hit him once."
He looked at her, his eyes still burning with rage. "Here. Hold this." He handed her his cane. "Now you know I can't hurt him." He turned from her quickly and went out, leaving her baffled and upset.
Mace and Jack had viewed the scene with intense curiosity. This was definitely a switch from the Willie they had known. "I don't believe it. I gotta see what happens outside," Jack said, and got up. He slipped through the people who were all discussing the unusual scene and by Carolyn who stood, unable to make up her mind whether or not to follow Barnabas.
Outside Willie had nearly fallen in his shaky attempt to run away. It was cold in the dark evening, but he didn't notice. Barnabas was suddenly there, dragging him into the alley on the land side of the building. Neither heard or saw the quiet figure steal up close within earshot.
Jack heard the sound of Willie being pushed up against the side of the building and slapped in the face a couple more times.
"How dare you," Barnabas said. "Don't you realize how this makes me look?"
"I'm sorry," Willie sobbed, indescribable pain inside, eating him up. "Please, I'm sorry." He wanted to die rather than have this go on.
Willie's abject fear and his pathetic response to being slapped satisfied Barnabas' rage as well as a more severe form of violence would have. "Haven't I told you that everything you do reflects upon me?"
"Yes," he said raggedly. "I'm sorry."
"Look at me." He was no longer touching him. "Do you want me to cut you off?"
Willie could barely see him in the dim street light and through his tears and intoxication. "No. Please." Drunk or not, Willie was aware that Barnabas was threatening to take away the only thing he had going for himself. "Don't do that, Barnabas. Please. I didn't mean to do it." He was not expecting another stinging blow to his face and turned with his head, putting his arms up to protect himself from further assaults. "Stop, please," he said, sobbing again. "I'm sorry." It was all he could do to keep from babbling incoherently and letting his own raging emotions erupt. He was so close to that already, he did not even know why he was still sane. It was boiling inside his head and chest, but fear—the same fear that was making him shake and cry—kept him from blowing apart.
"If this kind of behavior is repeated, not only will I cut you off, I'll send you back to Wyndecliffe and let them deal with your drinking problem."
Willie was too consumed by his terror to let the idea of protesting Barnabas' unfair statement ever be more than an idea.
"Who were those two hoodlums you were with?"
"Jus—jus' a coupla guys." He still cringed away, arms up and leaning against the wall.
Barnabas yanked one of his arms down, forcing him to turn forward. "I want a more complete answer than that. You were in a hurry to get away from them. Why? Who are they?"
"Jus' some guys I knew before I-I came here." He shook all over, not just with cold. He kept his head down, turned away.
"What did they want?" He could see Willie struggling with his answer. "Willie answer me!" He shook him.
"No!" Willie sobbed. "They—they jus' wanted me to leave with them."
"Oh." Barnabas wondered if this was true, but the cold made him decide to drop it for now. "Very well. We will discuss this later. Now go home and go to bed." He gave him a push to get started and watched him weave his way out of the alley, following as far as the graveled road.
Inside the tavern, Mace had watched Jack leave, hoping he would not miss anything. He didn't even notice the large, tall man whose face was adorned with a wavy black, neatly-trimmed beard. He looked over, leaning back warily as the man moved to take the chair that had been Jack's. Two blue eyes looked at him from beneath a wide-brimmed hat and somewhat overhanging brow.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Probably not the same things as you and your friend, but I think we might be able to work together and get what we both want," he said calmly in a deep voice. He watched as the young man narrowed his brown eyes and leaned forward.
"What does that mean?"
"Well, I'd be willing to make it more worth your while for you to get what you want."
"Yeah? Why don't you explain that?"
They both leaned forward. "I've been watching and listening." He spoke softly. "I know what you want Willie to do, and for reasons of my own, I'd like to see you get him to do it. I can make it worth it to you to not give up, and I wouldn't care what you have to do to succeed."
"Why are you so interested?" Mace thought he knew.
"That isn't your concern. But I will tell you that it has something to do with settling some old scores. You've just afforded me the opportunity to do so without getting my hands dirty. I'd like to reward you if you help me."
Mace just stared. "I'll think about it."
"Why don't you discuss it with your friend when he comes back? Tell him I'll be quite generous." He went back to his table, sat down and smiled to himself. This would be a fine revenge, Keith thought. His involvement would never be known, Willie and Barnabas would both be hurt by it, though from the look of things they didn't need much help. Professor Stokes would not approve of what he was doing, but he would never know. Keith wished there were some way to involve Julia Hoffman in it, but perhaps it would be enough for her to see the other two suffer. Willie was in terrible shape already, and Barnabas was just the same if not a bit more cruel. He had never treated Willie quite that insensitively when he had been around before. In fact, Barnabas had seemed to be in a foul temper every time he had seen him, albeit from a distance, in the past few months. He had debated with himself whether or not to confront him face to face. The professor had told him it would be unwise and even went on to suggest that somehow his nearness was causing the former vampire to have these terrible moods. Stokes had noticed he heard about them from Julia or one of the Collins family only when Keith was in town visiting. Keith didn't particularly want to confront Barnabas and have to hear him call him Adam.
He glanced over to the other table. The two young men were both there, talking too softly for him to hear. After a few minutes they looked over at him, got up, and joined him.
Barnabas returned, still feeling a pounding anger in his head. Carolyn was standing near the door. She was looking closely at the silver head of the cane and wondering what Barnabas had meant. She looked up at him and thrust the cane back into his hands. "I've changed my mind, Barnabas. I don't want to talk to you. I'd appreciate it if you'd drive me home."
He looked at her, knowing he had spoiled his chance to explain about his temper. What he didn't know was that everyone at Collinwood was aware that he was having troubled moods, including Carolyn. But she did not think them a sufficient excuse for violence. "All right, Carolyn. I no longer feel like talking either."
They went outside, walking to the car. Carolyn stopped before they got there. "You didn't hurt him, did you?"
"No," he lied. But he would have to have done nothing to not hurt him in the state he was in.
"Barnabas, don't you remember what Julia said!?" she burst out.
"Yes, but Carolyn—" He put a hand to his head. "None of that matters when I feel like this. I can't help it." He looked at her imploringly. "I've stayed away from him and everyone all day because I did not want to lose control." It would not be hard to turn his rage to her.
She shivered in the cold. "Have you asked Julia about it?"
"We discussed it last night, but she doesn't have any answers."
She stared at him a moment. "Why don't we go back inside and talk," she suggested, now curious and even a little concerned.
Some of the tension he felt slid away. "Thank you, Carolyn."
Willie's face was so chilled by the time he was halfway home his tears had started freezing on his skin. But by then he seemed to have run out of them and trudged miserably through the crusted snow with his jacket zipped up as far as it would go and his hands thrust deeply into his pockets. He did not know how he kept going; it took a great deal of concentration just to keep from tripping. But with his mind on moving, he didn't think so much about the bad things.
The hurt didn't leave him, however, and as he grew increasingly numb physically, it started to surface again. The only thing that kept him from collapsing into a sobbing heap in the snow was the fact he was so intoxicated that the sharp edges of the pain inside were dulled and disjointed. He felt almost out-of-control and numbed to panic at the same time.
When he at last reached the Old House, he could barely get the unlocked front doors open. After several attempts with frozen fingers, he managed it, hurrying inside and slamming the doors shut. He staggered over to the fireplace, holding his hands over the glowing coals, panting heavily from exertion. He chest felt tight, and his back was aching from too much frigid air.
He knelt down, lowering his head to his hands. I can't take it anymore, he thought, I've gotta get out. He rubbed his cold face with his cold hands aware that he was a little bruised. He shivered, thrusting his hands back over the coals. "Gotta get out," he panted to himself over and over.
Warmth came slowly and with it despair. He realized how exhausted he was as he got up and threw a small log on the grate. Sparks sprayed outward, and he remembered that Barnabas didn't like him throwing wood into the fire. He grabbed up another stick and flung it as hard as he could into the fireplace, sending out more sparks and ashes. Energy expended, he slumped down into a chair, put his head between his arms, and wept brokenly.
Willie didn't hear his two "old friends" come into the house. "What's the matter, Willie?" Mace said, stepping forward with Jack.
"Hunh?" Willie looked up and tried to stand quickly. "What're you doin' here?"
"We, ah, had to come finish our business witcha," Jack said, looking around, admiring the obvious value of their surroundings.
"I got no business with you." He ran his sleeve across his face to remove any visible trace of tears.
"Come on, Willie, don't be so goddamn straight. We could make a killin' at this."
"I toldja no, now beat it!" He pointed to the door.
"What's the matter? You in a hurry to get back to what you were doin'?" Jack laughed. "You changed a lot, Willie. You let that guy run right over you. Why is that?"
Ashamed, Willie looked down. "Just get out."
"You're pretty scared of him, ain't ya?"
"Shut up, and get the hell out."
Mace came up to him, taking the front of his jacket in one fist. "You're not bein' nice, Willie. We're your friends, we don't wanna haveta force ya. We could all get out together."
"No." Willie ground his teeth and tried to dislodge Mace's hand. "Just leave me alone and get out."
Mace pushed him back into the chair and let go. "You know we're not gonna do that. We're not leavin' till we get what we want."
"You're not gettin' nothin'!" Willie rose angrily. "You'd better just get outta here before he comes back."
"I'm not scared of him, Willie."
"What's the matter? You afraid he's gonna slap you again?" Jack said, reaching forward as if to slap him.
Willie flinched and stepped away from them, deeply mortified by his own behavior.
"Yeah, I heard. 'Stop, please!'," he taunted. "Now come on, Willie. I mean, you gotta hate this guy, don'tcha? It'd be great revenge on him."
"Beat it," Willie said in a voice low and close to cracking.
"I'm gettin' sick of hearin' you say that," Mace said, trying to intimidate him by standing only inches away. "Now, Willie—"
"Just get the hell outta here," Willie cut him off, unimpressed by Mace's attempt. He tried to push past him, but the other dropped him with a punch to his stomach. Willie saw bright flashes of light as pain exploded in his unprepared gut. He fell to his knees, arms across his stomach.
"That's nothin', Willie, an' you know it."
"Man, you just folded right up like a chick," Jack observed vocally, amazed. "I don' believe it. You useta be so tough."
"Get out," said Willie when he'd caught his breath.
Mace bent down and hauled him up. "I'm gettin' tired of this. Now Jack said he heard the guy threaten to cut you off. That means you're gettin' money from him."
"Not much," Willie ground out, and tried to break loose. Jack stepped in, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind him. His reactions were slow and dulled by liquor, his clumsy attempts to get away were useless. Being so helpless jolted him more than their threats. "Lea'me alone."
"Look, Willie, you're bound to have access to a nice little sum. We know you do big investment deals for him. You're gonna have to find a way to take advantage of that."
He struggled to get away, finally resorting to the violence he abhorred. With his free hand he struck Mace on the side of his head, forcing him to let go. Jack held onto Willie's arm, pushing him to the floor and falling on top of him. Before Willie could twist away, Mace had his other arm, and they held him down, one side of his face pressed to the rug.
"No more of this, Willie," Mace panted.
"Maybe we oughta break some things and get him in trouble with Collins," Jack suggested to his friend.
"I'm not givin' you anything," Willie said, though the idea was frightening. He never realized that the violence to which he was being subjected now was really far worse than Barnabas' treatment of him earlier. The two did not compare. True, having two guys who used to be intimidated by his own strength and street savvy best him so completely, was a blow to his pride, but that pride was almost nonexistent after what Barnabas had done to him. And he was so drunk he didn't care that much about these two. They were nothing compared with Barnabas.
"Yes, you are," Mace said, and they let him up without letting him go. "Now, here's what you're gonna do. If you won't up—"
"Go to hell," Willie told him, trying to wrench away.
Mace hit him again, and Willie's legs gave way. All strength seemed to vanish, leaving him gasping with pain, trying to breathe. "Now listen to me." Jack held Willie's arms behind him, Mace forced his head up with a hand in his hair. "If you won't take this guy an' quit, you're gonna get some off him every chance you get and give it to us."
"No," he shook his head, weakening in his resolve not to give in. "I can't. It doesn' work like that."
"Goddamn it, Willie. What's the matter with you? Don't make me really hurt you." He let go of his hair, and Willie's head bent forward.
"I can't. There's no way."
Jack looked at Mace, raising an eyebrow. He was thinking about the extra money they could get if they could find a way to force Willie to cooperate. He certainly seemed to be weakening. Jack gave one arm a vicious push up his back. "I know you can manage it, Willie," he said, letting him fall forward onto his face.
Willie's back hurt more than his arm or shoulder. He had never been as strong since being shot, he thought mistily. He felt them pull him up again, but a haze was descending upon his consciousness, and he didn't even think to answer them. He just crumbled when they hit him in the chest and stomach, other blows, sharp jabs meant to give more pain than injury, pushed him further into the haze.
"All right, Willie, we didn't want to do this, but you're forcin' us," Mace said, holding him up against the chair, his face close to Willie's. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Willie's mouth and another from the swelling cut over one cheekbone. "The chick in the bar, she's a Collins, ain't she? An' you like her. I could see the way you looked at each other."
The thought of Carolyn being involved in this cut through the clouds in his mind. "What?" The pain sharpened with his awareness.
"The girl, Willie. You don't want anything to happen to her, do you?" Mace let go of him, and he fell out of the chair to the floor.
"No," he said faintly. "I'll call the cops. You won't—"
Jack kicked him in the crotch. "Stupid shit. We wouldn't go after her ourselves."
"No, no. . ." Willie felt tears come to his eyes from the pain. His face was white and hot, and he gasped for breath.
"You remember Rex?" Mace said, pulling him up yet again a moment later.
"Rex?" he husked.
"Yeah, Rex."
He forced the name through the thickness in his brain. "No. . . You wouldn't." He coughed finally after fighting it and felt a horrible tearing in his lungs.
"That's right, we wouldn't, unless you don't cooperate. The girl's a goner, and it won't be pleasant for her."
"No. . .no. . ." Rex, he thought dully, Rex was a killer. Word on the street had been that he enjoyed it, and took any opportunity. He was clever and hadn't been caught during all the time Willie had known of him. But in six more years—surely he wasn't still around. Maybe they were bluffing.
"We'll do it, Willie. All we have to do is put the word out. You know that."
"No." He tried to put his arms up protectively when they laid into him again. "He's notssstill aroun'," Willie slurred, tasting blood as it filled his mouth then started to spill from between his lips as he thought he was falling in slow motion to the floor.
"Oh, yes he is, Willie. You remember Straker?"
Willie did remember him—a man who was guarded better than the president—as he lay coughing blood from his lungs onto the rug. He thought he nodded.
"Rex got him. Know one knows how, but it was him," Jack said. "Now are you gonna cooperate?"
Carolyn killed because of him, thought Willie. His mind seemed almost separate from his body; he could think quite clearly. He would have to give in. He could give them his money. Barnabas was less likely to notice that he was not investing. It would be tricky, but her life was worth more than his, he thought. He tried to tell them he would do it, but getting his mouth working seemed impossible.
"What'd he say?" Jack asked Mace. "Come on, Willie."
"Think of the girl, Willie," Mace said, a little concerned by the amount of blood Willie was losing.
"I. . . I'll do it," he whispered, blood bubbling out of his mouth.
"Good," Mace patted him on the shoulder, a ludicrous gesture considering what he and his companion had just done to him. "You be all right? Or you want us to call a doctor?" They stood, towering over his prone figure.
"No. No doctor." Willie couldn't seem to make himself move, but he wanted to get up. "How. . .how will. . .?"
"We'll be in touch next time you're in the city. How long'll it be?"
"Don' know." He pushed himself up to a sitting position, holding in his cough with all his strength, leaning against the chair.
"Well, when do you think?"
"A—a month." He watched them walk away from him, sick inside at what he was going to have to do.
"You look like hell, Willie. Sure you don't want the doc?" Mace said, stopping by one of the columns at the threshold.
He shook his head. "I'll be all right," he said faintly.
"Okay, see ya in a month." They left him, and he slid back to the floor, coughing that tearing, bleeding cough until he passed out.
*