It was almost nine-thirty before a bailiff finally appeared to take Jacob and Donnell to see Chucky. He led them to a small conference room just next to courtroom 2-A, gaining entrance with a large key chained to his belt.
"Ten minutes," he advised coldly as he swung the heavy door open.
The air of the room that met them was filled with a familiar musk. The smell of old sweat and body odor seemed to emanate from Chucky's flesh, accompanying him constantly, traveling on the wind everywhere he went throughout his life. It was born of a general lack of hygiene, spurred along by the accumulation of moisture in folds of flesh from his neck down to his knees, which had always carried ample extra weight.
Jake entered first, laying eyes on the man his friend of old had become for the first time since 1997, when he was sixteen and Chucky nearing twenty. The person in the bright orange jumpsuit shackled to the table inside this conference room was a man of thirty-eight, now, but he looked much the same as the boy Jake remembered.
His shaggy brown hair was matted and filthy, but was otherwise just as it had been before. It was thick and full, cut just below his ears and even all the way around -- as though it had been clipped around the lip of a bowl placed atop his head. The head itself was small in circumference, looking almost too small for his body. Skin folds at the corners accented his similarly small eyes, a low nasal bridge, the complete lack of a philtrum and a thin upper lip completing the picture of a soul who was the innocent victim of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. He looked as though he hadn't shaved for weeks, but it seemed likely in the shag that he had worn a mustache and some semblance of a goatee when fully groomed. This may have been an effort on his part to hide some of the abnormalities of his face, but it was futile in light of the other inconcealable evidence that something just wasn't right with him.
The manacles on his wrists were heavy-duty and serious, perhaps a larger set than normal to accommodate his thick and hulking wrists. A similarly heavy chain was wrapped around their center, then passed through an eyebolt that was protruding from the stainless steel table at which he sat. The contraption forced him to lean forward in his seat, the chain not allowing enough slack for him to assume a more natural and comfortable posture.
It appeared he hadn't grown much beyond the 5'5" of his youth, and his weight was even more out of control than it had been before. He looked every bit of a soft and doughy two-hundred-fifty pounds, if not more. His weight had stood in contrast, in the days of old, to Jake's toned and defined musculature, and Donnell's thin and wiry frame.
It blew Jake's mind to consider the idea that, at least so far as overall physical condition was concerned, he had the most to show for the eighteen plus years that had separated the three of them. His six feet was still firm and toned, two hundred and twenty pounds of well maintained humanity born of only sparse and limited periods on weight machines and treadmills. It hadn't required the level of effort that many have to devote in order to maintain such a physique, he seemed predisposed to athleticism and fitness. He was a perpetual Vetruvian Man, no matter how many calories or carbohydrates he subjected his body to, no matter how haphazard his training regime became in the face of other things to tend to. If the physical were an expression of overall wellbeing, he stood head and shoulders above the others and was the healthiest of the three of them.
Sadly, of course, that was not the case... beauty is only skin deep, as is physical conditioning, and beneath his skin was a cesspool. His friends would plunge directly into fits of nausea should they catch a whiff of it, and all would point and laugh at what he had become. Their roles would be completely mirrored opposites, he thought, if the contents of their souls and psyches were on display on the surface. Chucky would stand out as the most beautiful of them all, in all likelihood.
The prisoner's childish brown eyes lit up with recognition as Jake stepped inside, his sullen face transforming to a glowing, wide and beaming smile.
"Darkwing!" he exclaimed, his crooked teeth showing through his lips.
"Hi, Chucky," Jake replied with shame. Shame in the knowledge that he hadn't met the obligations and requirements that were implicit with their friendship, shame in the fact that he hadn't kept his oath.
"Launchpad?" he said after, surprised at the mass of manhood that was now Donnell.
"Goddamn it, Chucky!" Donnell smiled. "I told you not to call me that!"
Jake's trademark grimace broke into the slightest grin as the two of them laughed, Chucky more exuberantly and enthusiastically than Donnell.
"Oh my gosh!" Chucky exclaimed, overcome with joy. "I'm so happy you guys finally came back!"
Across the small table from him were two rather spartan chairs, institutional and minimal in appearance -- and perceived comfort. Jake sat to Chucky's right, Donnell to his left as he set his attach? on the table and opened it wide.
"Chucky, Chucky, Chucky," Donnell shook his head. "You really got yourself in deep this time, didn't you?"
Chucky sheepishly lowered his head, looking ashamed and frightened. "I don't understand what happened," he said. "I've never been in trouble before, guys, not since Momma used to get mad at me for leaving the toilet seat up. She grounded me that one time, when she fell in, and I haven't been in any kind of trouble at all since then!"
"What happened, Chucky? Jacob asked. "Tell us what they did to you."
Chucky's seemed to zone out and disassociate as he recounted the tale. "I dunno, guys, I just went in to work -- there were lots of police there, like when they found Gary Duncan behind the track, and they took me to the kitchen and started asking questions about my friend Billy."
"What kind of questions?" Donnell asked.
"Lots," Chucky replied emphatically. "They asked if I'd seen him that day, if I took him away in the old Dodge van. I told them no, but they wouldn't believe me. Then, they took me to the station, and Deputy Ron got really, really mad... he yelled at me a lot, said he was gonna put me in jail and do all kinds of bad things to me."
Donnell and Jake exchanged a pained glance, knowing plenty about Ron Boudreaux's temperament and full well how he operated in his craft. They commiserated in silence, hating the idea of anyone being subjected to what must've been an intimidating interrogation.
Chucky's eyes widened as he thought, looking up to his friends with tears welling as he spoke. "He said they're gonna put me to sleep -- like Doctor Morris used to do to stray dogs he found in the park. Is that true, guys? Are they gonna put me to sleep, like Doctor Morris did to old sick dogs?"
Deep and agonized breaths were the initial response offered by Darkwing and Launchpad, each of them exhaling loudly and through pursed lips.
"We're gonna do everything we can to make sure that doesn't happen, Chuck," Launchpad offered. "But we're gonna need you to help us, okay? And to help us best, you need to be one-hundred-percent honest with everything you tell us -- no matter how bad you think something might be. The only way we can help you is if you tell us the truth about everything, okay?"
Chucky nodded, though he was visibly nervous about the idea. He had a habit of painting half-truths to lessen the impact of things he had to say when he thought something was bad or would lead to trouble. He was apologetic in every matter, even when he bore no fault or malice to justify guilt.
"The first thing I need to know, Chuck," Donnell continued, articulating the importance of the question with hand gestures as he stared intently into Chucky's eyes. "So that I can decide what route is best to take, which way we want to go," he paused, consciously slowing the dialogue to avoid losing Chucky in the words. "And remember, we're on your side, here. What you say in this room will never leave this room. I will never repeat what you say to anyone, it's for my information only," another pause, time to let it all absorb. "Chucky, I need you to tell me," he resumed, "did you kill Billy Marsh?"
Jake flinched at the question, reeling, and assaulted Donnell with a glare of disgust. "What?" he cried in objection
. "Of course he didn't, Donnell! What the hell kind of question is that?"
Donnell noted the outburst with a calm and collected nod, then a hint of his fanning, but remained focused on Chucky, who seemed perturbed at Jake's irritation. "Is that right, Chucky?" he asked.
"Mm hm," Chucky replied, his anxiety obvious.
"Okay," Donnell resumed, "then there's no sense in talking about a plea, we'll focus on fighting this."
Jake calmed himself outwardly, though he was infuriated on the inside. Donnell had never really liked Chucky, that made him angry -- had always made him angry. The implication of the question sickened him.
"Now that we've got that out of the way, we need to talk about what Sheriff Bo--" he stopped, modified for Chucky's level of understanding, "what Deputy Ron said when he talked to you."
"He talked to me a lot," Chucky said. "For hours and hours. I can't remember everything, it was too much."
"That's fine, Chuck, I don't need to know everything. I just need you to try to remember anything he said about evidence... anything he said linked you to the crime... anything he said that he knew."
Chucky considered this at length, his eyes rolling up and to the left as he was scanning his memory banks. "He said he knew I drove the van. That's true, I do sometimes drive the van. And that he knew I wanted Billy to kiss me."
"Is that true?" Donnell asked. "Did you ask Billy for a kiss?"
Chucky looked embarrassed, his head dropping in shame. "He tripped on my broom in the maintenance room," he explained. "I thought he got hurt, that he was gonna tell people I hurt him."
"You got scared?" Jake interjected. "You just wanted him to kiss you, like I used to, because you were scared?"
Chucky nodded. "That's all."
"What else, Chucky?" Donnell asked.
More long thought, then "he said there was blood in my trunk... that they found blood under the fabric."
"Is that possible?"
"Not Billy's blood!" Chucky insisted. "I did put a deer in my trunk a few moths ago. I found it by the side of the road, and it made me think of the venison sausage Mister Lane used to make when we were kids! I wanted more of that sausage, so I took the deer to Mister Lane's butcher shop. You remember Mister Lane, right? Timmy's dad?"
Memories swirling, swirling. A nod. "Yeah, Chucky, we remember." Jake said.
Donnell took a note, scribbling madly on his legal pad and changing to a new page when he'd exhausted the first.
"Mister Lane said the deer wasn't any good," Chucky noted with disappointment. "He said it had been dead too long, that it was in decay or something like that... like Joshua Banks was when we found his arm. Boy, did it stink bad! He helped me throw it out, then gave me some venison jerky he had in his shop. That was good, but not as good as the sausages we used to eat."
"That's where you think the blood came from, Chuck?" Donnell inquired. "Did you notice that it left blood in there?"
"Well, yeah -- probably... and it smelled so bad in there, even when the deer was gone, that I went to the old car wash and tried to clean it with that vacuum that uses water and soap."
Donnell nodded, more notes. "Did Deputy Ron say anything else?"
"Just that he knew I did it... knew I killed Billy and ripped him up to little pieces, then dumped his parts in Booger Woods by that pond where Momma and I used to have picnics. I told him I didn't do that, but he wouldn't listen."
There was a loud and sudden set of raps on the door to the courthouse lobby, an authoratative voice calling two minutes thereafter. Donnell scanned through his notes and asked one final time if there was anything else Chucky could remember. There wasn't, so he repacked his briefcase and snapped it shut. He told Chucky about what would happen in the courtroom, how he should behave and what he should say if the judge asked him any questions.
Jake told him he knew everything was very scary, and Chucky agreed that it was. In an attempt to comfort him, he assured him everything would be okay, just like he always had before. The words brought the tears down Chucky's face, childish sobbing following in short order. Jake hugged him as best he could, given the fact that he was chained to the table, and placed a friendly, though awkward, kiss on his forehead.
The sound of keys rattling in the door announced the arrival of an officer. When the door swung open quickly, a man they hadn't expected to see appeared on the other side. Despite the knowledge that they were law-abiding citizens, a cool chill swept through each of them when they were met with the cold and accusing stare of one Sheriff Ron Boudreaux.
ELEVEN
Kirk Wade
October 20th, 1992. 5:35PM
Burlwood, Indiana
Darkwing spun the focus adjustment of his father's binoculars to sharpen the image of a building in the distance. It was a small store, built of white concrete blocks that looked like the walls of the classrooms at his school. Protruding from its rear, visible from the sideways angle at which they surveiled it, was an even smaller metal-walled enclosure with refrigeration units on the roof.
"That's where I think he is," Darkwing declared confidently. "In that big refrigerator."
Chucky exhaled heavily, trying to steady his nerves. He didn't want to be in this place, didn't want to be watching Butcher's Lane Provisions for signs of anything speficious. This had been all Darkwing's idea, with Launchpad simply playing along so he could get away from his arguing parents. Chucky wanted to listen to the advice of Deputy Ron and stay close to home. To stay within the limits of Burlwood Meadows, so he didn't end up missing -- like Kirk Wade was missing.
"This isn't a good idea," he objected fearfully. "Kirk Wade probably isn't in there anyway, we should just go home!"
Kirk Wade was twelve years old, just a little younger than Chucky, who was fifteen now. Darkwing and Launchpad were eleven, old enough to know that you should listen when a police officer tells you not to do something... when he tells you to stay inside. That's exactly what Deputy Ron had done, too, told them not to go out looking for Kirk Wade or trying to solve the case of The Butcher Of Burlwood anymore.
Sheriff Rambo would've said the same thing, if not for the fact that he was at home recovering from a heart attack he suffered when Kirk Wade disappeared from Burlwood Downs. Kirk's parents had taken him there and hadn't been watching while they cheered for their horse during the seventh race. They were worried right away when they couldn't find him, because they knew about The Butcher... knew about what happened to Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks and Nathan Dawson.
Chucky wasn't sure why they only worried when he went missing -- Momma was worried about him all the time. She was always telling him he couldn't go out to play because The Butcher might snatch him up, like Pennywise snatches up children. Once the day was wearing on, though, and she had enough cocktails to drink, she stopped caring whether he went out or not. Darkwing and Launchpad knew he could usually play after three or four o'clock, so that's when they came to get him.
Usually, they played sports or games -- never manhunt in Booger Woods, though, not anymore -- and generally behaved like young boys. When it was cold and snowy, it was almost always hockey, which Chucky didn't care for. He couldn't skate very well, not nearly as good as Darkwing, so he had to just glide along the ice in his shoes. Launchpad couldn't afford skates, so the two of them couldn't keep up with any of the other boys in the game, and that made hockey boring.
Since Kirk Wade had gone missing last week, though, there was no hockey being played. There wasn't any snow, just crisp autumn cold, but that wasn't the only reason. Really, it was because most of the other children were confined to their trailers, their parents sick with worry and afraid to let them go outside because it seemed The Butcher was back -- seemed Pennywise was hungry again.
Darkwing and Launchpad were always out, though, because Darkwing's mom was always sleeping after taking her pills, and Launchpad's parents didn't seem concerned about him or what he was doing much at all. Of
course, all Darkwing wanted to do was to try and find Kirk Wade, since Sheriff Rambo had asked him to keep an eye out after the incident with Joshua Banks in Booger Woods. He seemed to think he was a member of the police or something, like he was supposed to be helping them solve the case.
Kirk's story had been on the television news a lot, and the news always blamed The Butcher when a kid went missing -- not Pennywise, whom Chucky suspected was really the kidnapper and killer. They showed lots of pictures of Kirk, and everybody was trying to find him before The Butcher cut him all up.
Momma said they used the nickname The Butcher because of the way the previous children had been torn apart, and hearing that name made Darkwing wonder if it was Mister Lane who was doing the killing.
Mister Lane owned Butcher's Lane Provisions, a small shop off Route 4, not far from Burlwood Meadows. Chucky had been in there before, there were lots of good kinds of jerky and sausage for sale inside, which he enjoyed eating. Mister Lane himself was a very nice and gentle man, and he sometimes let Chucky taste samples for free when he didn't have any money. One time, he brought a box of hamburger meat to Chucky's house when Momma said they were too poor to afford any food. Momma burnt the burgers, she had too many cocktails that night, but they were still juicy and tasty once you scraped off the black parts.
Knowing Mister Lane, knowing how nice he was, Chucky didn't think there was any chance he was the one who killed Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks or Nathan Dawson. Nor did he think he had taken Kirk Wade, so watching his shop seemed like a stupid idea, so far as he was concerned. He tried to tell Darkwing that Mister Lane was too nice to do such terrible things, but Darkwing insisted he was speficious anyway.
"One of us has to go in there," Darkwing decided, still looking at the big refrigerator behind Butcher's Lane. "One of us has to go see if Kirk Wade is in there, so we can be a witness!"
Chucky was looking away, staring down Route 4 towards Booger Woods to be sure that Pennywise wasn't coming after them. He could feel eyes upon him, though, as Darkwing made his suggestion... could sense that Darkwing and Launchpad both were staring at him. Feeling their gazes, he wrestled his eyes away from Booger Woods and saw them smiling at him.
"Oh, no!" he blurted out, "no, no, no no NO! I am not going in there, guys, there's no way I'm going in there!"
"Well somebody has to," Darkwing said, "and it can't be me, because I have to keep a look out with the binoculars!"
"Then it should be Launchpad!" Chucky argued.
Launchpad frowned, but not in fear or sadness. It was more of an are you kidding kind of frown. "Chucky," he said, "just look at me. I'm black! Do you have any idea what they do to little black kids who break into places where they don't belong? It's not gonna happen, it has to be you!"
"Why me?" Chucky begged of Darkwing. "Why do I have to do it?"
"Think about it, Chucky," Darkwing began. "If you get caught, we can just say you got confused... that you didn't know what you were doing, didn't mean to go in there at all! It's perfect, they'll just take you home, they'll feel sorry for you! Either one of us will get in trouble if we get caught, but they'll just tell you to be more careful!"
Chucky didn't like this idea, didn't like it at all. It was obvious they weren't going to drop it, though, so all he could do was start preparing himself.
"You just go down and find a door," Darkwing explained. "You walk in and look around, check for any signs of Kirk Wade, then come right back out. You'll be a hero if you find him, Chucky, they'll put you on the news as the boy who caught The Butcher!"
Being on the news did sound like fun -- and Momma would be proud to see her boy on TV. That wasn't much consolation, though, in the face of such a scary mission. What if he did find Kirk Wade in there? What if he was just in little parts, like Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks and Nathan Dawson? What if all he found was his arms or legs, or his ripped off cock? That wouldn't be very good at all, would be very scary, in fact... would give him more nightmares.
"You have to do it, Chucky -- it's the only way!" Darkwing ordered. "We'll be here watching, we'll see if anyone is coming, and we'll warn you if they are."
"How will you warn me?" Chucky asked.
Darkwing thought for a moment, trying to come up with a plan. Eventually, something came to him and his face lit up. "I'll hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a screech owl!" he decided. "Just like in that book I've been reading to you!"
"Just like Dildo Baggins?" Chucky asked.
Donnell shook his head, laughed.
"It's Bilbo Baggins, Chucky!" Darkwing advised. "But yes, just like Bilbo Baggins!"
This made Chucky think of something else from that book, about an ugly creature named Gollum. What has it got in its pocketses, he remembered Darkwing saying in a scary, whispery voice. What if Gollum was in the refrigerator?
That made his heart beat even faster than it was already, but he knew he didn't have any other choice. His friends would pressure him until he agreed, just like they had pressured him to play manhunt in Booger Woods, so he might as well prepare himself for whatever he might find.
"Did you bring your walkie-talkie, like I said?" Darkwing asked.
Chucky had, so he pulled it from his pocket and turned it on.
"Testing, Testing," he spoke into it.
His voice came back to him a second later, through the speaker of Darkwing's paired device.
"I'll talk you through it, the whole way!" Darkwing promised.
He was terrified and his legs were shaking, but he agreed to go because he was afraid his friends would get mad if he didn't. If Kirk Wade was in there, maybe he was still alive... if he was alive, Chucky would really be a hero for finding him -- like Chip N' Dale, The Rescue Rangers are heroes when they rescue somebody. He tried to focus on that idea as he cautiously started to crawl along the tall and frosted grass, inching toward the building slowly.
"Chucky," Launchpad's voice called through the walkie-talkie a minute later. He was so close, he could still hear Launchpad's real voice. "You can't just crawl the whole way, we'll be out here until it's dark! Get up and walk!"
That was a scary thought -- both getting up to walk, with no cover, and being there until it was dark. He didn't much like either option, but when Darkwing spoke through the speaker and agreed that he should walk, he finally had to stand up. He crouched as low as he could, though, slinking his way along until the grass turned to gravel and he was in the parking lot of the store. It took him nearly five minutes to creep all the way up to the building, his heart thudding away in his chest the whole time.
When he finally reached the concrete pad on which the refrigeration building stood, he scanned along the metal wall in search of some kind of door.
"I don't know how to get in!" he called through the walkie. "I don't see a door!"
Darkwing scanned the building with his binoculars, looking for an entrance. "It must be around the back," he said in a whisper, "or on the other side, where I can't see."
"If you can't see the door, then you won't be able to see me!" Chucky worried. "I'm coming back!"
"No!" Darkwing ordered. "We've got to know what's inside! Just go around the back, I'll still see you!"
Chucky did, but he wasn't happy about it. His heart was pounding, just as it had when he raced through Booger Woods trying to find a place to hide before the Manhunt would be on. Darkwing watched him round the corner of the metal building, then noticed action inside the store that made him nervous.
"Uh oh!" he said to Launchpad, not keying up the mic of his walkie-talkie. "Something's happening!"
The sound of tires crunching down the dirt and gravel surface of Route 4 told them that there was a car coming. It was approaching from the other side of Butcher's Lane, dust billowing up behind it. Checking with his binoculars and dialing in the focus, Darkwing saw that it was a police car... it was Deputy Ron, in his cruiser.
"Chucky!" Jacob called into his wal
kie. "You have to hurry up!"
Chucky was fully panicked when he heard that, not knowing what was happening or why Darkwing suddenly sounded frightened. Stepping lively, he walked around the back of the cooler in search of the elusive door. It wasn't there, either, so he hurried around to the other side. He disappeared from Darkwing's line of sight as Deputy Ron pulled into the lot and parked. Jacob watched through his binoculars as the officer stepped out of his car and walked casually toward the entrance of the store.
"Oh boy!" Darkwing exclaimed to Launchpad. "This could be bad!"
"It's over here! I see it!" Chucky called into his walkie as he rounded the far corner of the building, his signal breaking up in static as he approached the limits of the toy's effective range.
"Woot woo! Woot woo! Scraaaaaw!" Darkwing called, trying to warn his friend. Only static answered back, meaning Chucky wouldn't be able to hear him. He was out of range, out of touch... on his own.
His entire body trembling, Chucky crept up to the swinging door he saw on the far side of the cooler, almost all the way up to the concrete brick of the store. Trying to steady himself, he flattened out against the cold metal wall. It felt hot instead of chilled, its strange bumpy texture feeling as though it was searing his flesh as he pressed against it. There was a heavy metal handle he had to pull to release a lip that kept the door closed and sealed. He pulled it slowly, frosty air spilling out along the sides as he did.
"I'm going in!" he whispered into the walkie-talkie, having no idea that Darkwing couldn't hear him anymore -- couldn't warn him of Deputy Ron's presence.
The inside of the cooler was totally dark, even the daylight refusing to go in as a result of shadows and naked tree limbs rustling, filtering out the distant sun. He had forgotten his flashlight at home, a fact he realized only now -- realized in fear and anger at himself.
"It's really dark!" he said, fighting the reluctance of his feet to cross the threshold, the objections of the monsters in his mind. He hoped to hear Darkwing advise him to retreat, to instruct him to abort the mission, because Darkwing knew Chucky was afraid of the dark and wouldn't force him to go into it.
No such word came, so he assumed they must want him to press on -- assumed they wanted him to be brave. Summoning all of his courage, all the power of the blood that Darkwing had transfused into him through his hand, he slid his feet across the damp concrete just inside the dark cavern. He felt along the walls for a light switch, but could find none. He instinctively started humming rock-a-bye-baby, the lullaby that Momma often sang to soothe him when he was frightened. He pressed on, through the darkness, through the horror.
The place seemed massive once he was in, like a giant cave that went all the way through a big mountain. He walked slowly forward, still scanning for a light switch or anything the break the darkness. In the black, he felt something brush against his arm as he moved. Something big, with wiry hairs, like the body of a werewolf or a Bigfoot. The sensation froze him there, and whatever it was he touched seemed to move away from him. Then, with a frightening metallic clink clank, whatever it was collided with him hard, pushing him back and almost knocking him down.
Terrified, he turned to run back toward the daylight of the entrance. After only a few strides, he felt an incredible impact as he smashed into another heavy, wiry-haired mass. This one did knock him clear off his feet, sending him flying backwards and crashing into yet another furry creature. His feet trailing him in the air, he crashed down to his bottom on the hard and wet concrete floor. His wrist hurt again for a moment, like it had when he broke it in Booger Woods.
He heard another clink clink, like the sound of chains clattering around him, and felt the frigid air billowing and swirling. Sensing things swinging around him, he realized that the monsters were dangling from the ceiling! Hanging above his head, like giant spiders spinning their webs! In his mind, the webs were thick, sticky and dense -- and they were holding, in suspension, all the parts of Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks and Nathan Dawson! Gary's leg, Joshua's arm, and Nathan's missing cock!
Kirk Wade was there, too, still all put together and alive, begging to be rescued from the terrible creatures that left him there! Once the giant tarantula -- or whatever it was -- saw Chucky, a delicious thing to eat, it would swoop down and bite him! It would kill Him, like it had killed the others before!
Fearing he was about to die, he felt another terrible scream building in his lungs. Almost without his consent, without his pushing it out, the scream broke free and echoed in the dank world around him. As he cried, a sillhouette appeared in the glowing light near the door of the cooler. It looked like a giant to Chucky, even though it was, in reality, a person smaller than himself. Its black arm reached inside the room and felt along the wall, finding and flipping some recessed lever that made bright halogen lamps ignite overhead.
When the blinding rays struck his eyes, Chucky covered them by instinct. The sudden illumination made his head ache for a moment, but soon the feeling of a cold hand on his shoulder forced him to look despite his discomfort.
Expecting to see Pennywise, the master of the spiders, he screamed out again -- louder and more frightened than before.
What he saw, instead, was the disarming visage of a little boy, no older than nine or ten. His face was kind and gentle, though concerned and a bit on edge. Looking at it closer, Chucky saw a resemblance in it to Darkwing, his best and treasured friend. The boy's hair was black like DW's, and it was slicked back -- just like his friend wore it. This wasn't Darkwing, though, the boy was just a bit too small to be Darkwing.
"It's okay!" the little boy said comfortingly. "There's nothing to be afraid of!"
Chucky caught his breath as best he could, shell shocked and disoriented in the suddenly brightened room. The space seemed much smaller, now, than it had just moments before. Pulling himself together, he wrenched his eyes away from the boy and examined the ceiling, looking for the spiders that had scared him so badly. What he saw was almost worse -- was almost more frightening, even, than seeing a giant black widow would've been.
Swinging above him, all around him, were the dead and bleeding carcasses of disemboweled deer! The sight caused another scream to come, a terrible and shrill cry that spooked the little boy standing near him.
"Freeze!" Ordered a distinctly southern voice, deep and full of authority, from the direction of the door.
Chucky shut up immediately, looking toward the sound to see Deputy Ron. His legs were spread wide, his arms locked out in front of him and clutching a large caliber chromed handgun. Fear in his face, he held the gun trained on the children -- trained on Chucky.
That was the last image Chucky remembered before waking up inside the storefront of Butcher's Lane Provisions. In this new, blurry world, Mister Lane was standing above him while Darkwing and Launchpad sat on a bench across from the deli case.
"Are you okay, Chuck?" Mister Lane asked tenderly, leaning close to where he lay on some sort of cot. "You had a heck of a scare!"
"Did I die?" Chucky asked, groggily.
"No, no," Mister Lane chuckled. "You just fainted is all. Guess all the deer scared ya', either that or Deputy Ron here, with his gun out and staring down the sights at ya'!"
Deputy Ron was pacing around the shop, sweat beading all over his bald and distinctly Creole head. The rolls and loose flesh on his olive-colored neck looked like a pack of hot dogs, and his saggy face reminded Chucky of a bulldog, though the countenance it wore was much more grumpy looking than any pooch he'd ever met. It didn't help that he was visibly angry, now, and maybe even frightened -- like Chucky had been -- by all of the excitement.
"No business, they've got no business out here!" he barked with his Louisiana drawl. "What in the name of Jesus Christ did you boys think you were doing out here? Sweet Santa Muerte, shit!"
"Trying to help find Kirk Wade," Darkwing explained in a muted, depressed voice. "We didn't mean to caus
e any trouble, we just thought Mister Lane might be The Butcher."
Lane laughed, Daryl Lane, that is. He had been the literal butcher of Burlwood for nearly twenty years. His nine year old son, Timothy, was assisting today, learning his father's trade.
"I guess I am the butcher," he said, "I can't fault your logic, kids!"
"You coulda' been shot, I coulda' shot you dead, son!" Deputy Boudreaux lamented. "Coulda' shot all of y'all dead, and been justified to do it! Scarin' me like that, Jesus! Got no business out here, these punk kids, got no business whatsoever!"
"It's okay, Ron," Daryl Lane offered. "Nobody got hurt, and they didn't mean any harm."
"Are you okay, Chucky?" little Timmy Lane asked, brushing his hands over Chucky's head gently. "You looked really afraid!"
"I think so, now," Chucky replied, still breathing heavily. "Will you give me a kiss?"
Seemingly not offended at the suggestion, Timmy obliged without apprehension. Feeling the tenderness in his expression of sympathy and caring, Chucky's heartbeat slowed. A wave of calm swept through him, a physical sensation that swept from his head to his feet and worked to ease his fears.
"I should take them all downtown, all three of 'em!" Boudreaux continued, venting his frustration. "Should take 'em in and make their parents come pick 'em up, maybe that would teach 'em! The punk brats!"
Darkwing and Launchpad looked like they were scared too, looked like they were afraid of Deputy Ron and what he might do to punish them. They were both staring down at their feet as the officer continued his frenzied pacing, purging his adrenaline like a steam locomotive blowing off excess pressure.
"Punk kids," he continued, "little snot-nosed brats, sticking their snotty noses in places they don't belong! I told you boys to stay in the park, told you not to come out at all! Then I find you here, trespassing at the butcher shop! Trespassing in places where you have no business being at all! Scared the Holy Ghost out of me, mother of God! Scared me, and almost got shot dead for their efforts!"
"Look, Ron," Daryl Lane tried to calm him. "It's no big deal, really -- it's not. I think what we need to do is just to catch our breath, let this thing settle down and then take all these boys back home to their parents. Nobody will be served by dragging them down to county, not with everything else we've got going on in this town!" He turned his gentle eyes to Chucky. "Chuck, how would you like some of that venison sausage you seem to care for so much? You see I've got plenty of deer hanging in the cooler, I think I can spare a pound or two for you and your Momma to enjoy!"
"I would like that," Chucky said tentatively, his mouth watering at the suggestion. The sausages would be delicious, once he peeled away the black where Momma would surely burn them.
"Let's do that, then!" Lane concluded, moving behind his counter. "Let's all calm down, I'll put together some care packages for the boys, and we'll just take them home to their parents! Does that sound good to you, Ron?"
The deputy didn't respond, still pacing back and forth and muttering under his breath. Wiping sweat from his brow, he considered the idea between curses.
"If I catch 'em out again, I'll take 'em in!" he insisted. "If I catch 'em sticking their little bratty noses where they don't belong, I'll haul 'em all down to county and book 'em into juvie! Lock 'em up like little pups, lock 'em up and hold 'em! Christ, what if they'd stumbled into some kind of trouble? I have enough trouble to worry about, don't need these kids seeing things they shouldn't see!"
"Don't worry, boys!" Lane responded. "It's over now, all over." Rolling meat in butcher's paper, his voice lowered with concern and sadness. "Besides, you won't have to worry about them being out looking for Kirk Wade anymore, rest his soul. That ship has sailed... oh merciful Lord, that ship has sailed and gone away..."
TWELVE