When Devils Sing(34)
“Go on home,” he barked. “I’m not gonna pay you extra to hang around.”
Once outside the Tavern, Sam met eyes with Jack. Across the lot, he leaned against his clay-covered Jeep, cigarette in hand. He watched her with an unblinking gaze.
Sam was meant to ride home with Bailey, her de facto solution until insurance provided a rental. But it seemed Jack had other plans. She texted her roommate not to worry about the ride, then made her slow trek toward the devil.
“Hey, Red,” Jack greeted as she approached, his mouth upturned in a sly smile. “Up for a drive?”
Sam hesitated a good yard away. “I got a choice?”
Jack shrugged, tossing his lit cigarette onto the ground, and climbed into the Jeep. He turned the car’s engine and flicked on the headlights, nearly blinding her.
Sam shielded her eyes, blinking rapidly. She gave the Tavern one last look before crossing the lot, then climbed into the Jeep’s passenger seat. Buckling her seat belt, she asked, “Where to?”
Jack backed up the car, pulling out of the parking lot with ease. “There’s somethin’ I want you to see.”
They drove in silence, while a bluegrass tune played quietly on the car’s radio. It was hazy and muddled, like it was broadcast from a faraway radio station. It took a moment before Sam recognized the song: an old Carrion folktale known as the “Three Brothers.”
Except, she hadn’t learned it from the radio but on the playground during school. Carrion kids knew the legend of the three brothers as a local folktale, passed down from older generations. They were the region’s very own boogeymen—the three devils who longed to either help you, trick you, or eat you alive.
Which one is Jack?
Jack whistled along to the tune, completely at ease. Sam looked around the Jeep, finding it surprisingly threadbare. It only reeked of cigarettes and the way her daddy used to smell when he worked at an automotive shop when she was little. Everything about it was so painfully normal that Sam almost doubted that the devil sat beside her.
Almost.
In the spare light of the Jeep, Jack gave her a once-over, his unnatural black eyes lingering on her face. “How’s your brother?”
Sam eyed Jack right back, despite her skin prickling with unease. Being in the presence of the devil was a lot like seeing a predator in the wild. The number one rule: Never let it know you’re scared. “Alive.”
Jack snorted. “Ain’t you the least bit curious how I did it?”
“No,” Sam said. “I know who you are. Sorry—what you are. That’s all I need.”
Jack looked intrigued. “Oh, really? Tell me, Red, what am I?”
Sam squirmed in the passenger seat. “You’re the devil.”
Jack only laughed. “One of three.”
Sam expected Jack to drive them straight out of Lake Clearwater, but to her surprise, he stayed inside the gated community. Within ten minutes, they arrived at a boating launch tucked behind a thick row of pine and oak trees. It was a secluded little fishing spot, unremarkable and hidden from the road.
“What’re we doin’ here?” Sam asked as Jack parked the Jeep.
Jack reached into the back seat and materialized a worn bookbag. “You ever heard of the saying ‘patience is a virtue’?”
Sam rolled her eyes by way of response, then climbed out of the Jeep, following behind Jack to the lakeshore. Gravel crunched beneath her shoes, giving way to grass and then sand.
She took in their surroundings, quickly realizing they were entirely alone.
If things went south between her and Jack, she made a mental note of a trail marker close by. She could disappear into the cover of the woods and make a run for it.
Jack knelt on the tiny strip of beach that lined this part of the lake. “Tomorrow, local news is gonna report on a missing boy’s disappearance. They’re gonna say they found evidence of the kid at this fishing spot. They’ll say he was seen out here drinkin’ some days before.” His heavy boots sank beneath him as he dipped his hand in the small, lapping waves hitting the shore. “And you’re gonna corroborate it.”
Sam’s heart sank. “Who’s the boy?”
“Judgin’ from that look on your face,” Jack said, “you already know.”
In the dim light from the Jeep’s headlights, Sam recognized the backpack over Jack’s shoulder. The worn army-green bag belonged to the boy she’d eaten lunch with nearly every day since she was five years old. The boy who not only dreamed with her, but encouraged Sam to be better than the decaying town in which they lived. “Where’s Dawson? What’d you do?”
“I never laid a hand on him.” Jack pulled a handle of vodka from the bag, as well as a six-pack of beer. He popped open the bottles, one by one, and lazily poured their contents into the shallow lake water. “But let’s get one thing straight, Red. I don’t go around fucking with the lives of innocent people, despite what you may believe.”
Sam shook her head. “Is he … dead?” The word came out quiet, barely a whisper.
Jack’s gaze lingered on the black water of the lake. “Not yet.”
Blood rushed to Sam’s head, pounding in her ears. “Why’re you doin’ this?”
“We all answer to someone,” Jack said, his usual bravado absent from his voice. He rose, bridging the distance between them. He gently placed the handle of vodka in Sam’s hands. “Pour.”