Adermoor Cove: Sanctuary - 4. Chapter 3

Carlos was exhausted. It had been a long day - a long couple of days and there were no signs that things were going to calm down. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with Lane, cuddle up, and sleep through the rest of the day.

He could still sense the deafening silence within the police station. He didn't want to hear it, be a part of it. The demonstration with the rats had been a terrible risk on his part. He shuddered just thinking about what might have happened if Lane hadn't been there.

He was getting ready to let himself into his car, keys jingling merrily in his hand, when Lane's black Mustang careened dangerously into the parking lot. The screech of the tires made Carlos cringe instinctively. His eyes widened when he saw the number of cracks and bullet holes that riddled Lane's car.

Carlos gathered his wits about him and ran towards the car as Lane staggered out. What the hell had happened? Lane had gone home to take a bath not an hour ago. Lane's hair was wet. His face was an unhealthy ashen color. He was.visibly shaking.

Before Carlos could begin to ask questions Lane was already talking. His words were jerky, almost unintelligible with distress. He didn't just looked distressed but scared, and seeing Lane scared always frightened Carlos. Because Lane being scared was a bad sign.

"I was taking a bath," Lane stammered, "and there was this man at the lighthouse. He knew everything, Carlos. He knew about Charlie, he knew about what happened in Denver...He-he shot at me."

They were walking.back towards the police station. Carlos's main focus was getting Lane somewhere quiet, calm him down. The young man was shaking so bad Carlos feared he would go into a seizure from stress. Melvin glanced in Lane's direction, face set in obvious concern. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Carlos shook his head. Melvin's mouth snapped shut. There was power in being Sheriff.

Lane sank into one of the chairs in Carlos's office. Carlos grabbed Lane a cup of coffee with cream and sugar - just the way he knew Lane liked it. He scooted his chair close to Lane, rubbed his shoulder. Lane sipped his coffee with shaking hands. Hot liquid splashed on his pallid flesh but he seemed not to feel it.

When Carlos was sure he had calmed down enough, he said as gently as he could, "Tell me again."

Lane recounted his story about the man who had broken into the lighthouse and tried to kill him. His voice still quivered but he spoke much more steadily, pausing every once in a while to take a breath.

"Do you know who he is?" Carlos asked.

Lane shook his head. "Never seen him before in my life. But he knew me somehow. He said he had to kill me in order to save his daughter but I couldn't make sense of what he was saying."

Carlos could feel himself already beginning to slide into cop mode. He asked Lane what the man looked like. He wrote Lane's description down on a yellow notepad. He called Nichols into his office.

"I need you to put out an APB on a man in town," Carlos said to Nichols. "He's about 5'10, medium length brown hair, brown eyes, somewhere between his early to mid forties. Expect him to be armed and dangerous."

Nichols nodded. "I'll get some people out and have them patrol the town."

"No, don't." Lane had risen to his feet. His hands were clenched into fists. He looked small in his black leather jacket, like a kid standing up to a bully three times his size, trying to look braver than they feel. He glanced between Nichols and Carlos. "This is my problem. Let me handle it. I don't want anyone else getting hurt because of me." He looked down at his feet. "I've done enough damage as it is."

"No," Nichols said. Carlos and Lane glanced at him in open-mouthed surprise. "You're one of us now. Adermoor Cove takes care of its own. We'll find him."

Lane nodded but said nothing. It was clear from his expression he wasn't used to acceptance speeches.

"I'm going to drive you home and then go join the search," said Carlos.

Lane shook his head. "No, you know me better than that. You know I'm not the kind of guy to just sit around and do nothing."

"Maybe you should for once. My people have been trained, they can take care of themselves."

Lane kissed him on the lips. "Save the speech, Carlos. It's not going to do you a damned bit of good."

Before Carlos could object, Jack Nichols came back into the room. He was panting. Judging from the way his eyebrows were knit together and the sheen of sweat on his forehead the news wasn't good. "I think we got a hit on your guy. Mickey Newton just called from Guns and Gold, said a stranger he'd never seen before bought a bunch of guns and went across the street to the park. Mickey's not the only caller too. Several people called in said the man’s just sitting on the bench, just as pretty as you please. Who the fuck is he, the Terminator? It’s like he’s just waiting for a fight.”

“If it’s a fight he wants we’ll give him one,” said Carlos.

                                    ...

Bill sat on the bench in the middle of the park. There had been people but they had run off in all directions when they saw him coming. Good, let them run.

The park was quiet, peaceful. Beautiful, with the cold wind sifting through the trees, making their dry husks rub together. But it wouldn't stay like this for long. Things were changing inside him and around him. Forces, both external and internal, were converging. He himself was changing. He kept examining the blemish on his finger, where he had touched the stain.

They're coming, a voice said inside him. It was not the voice of Savannah but something else. A small voice but one with power, one that demanded to be listened to. The voice of the darkness. Can you feel it? They're going to defend him but you must stop them.

I won't let them. I won't fail. For Savannah. Everything I do is for Savannah.

He had another gun. A Desert Eagle. He slammed a fully loaded mag into place and racked it. Flicked the safety on. He had plenty of ammo. He was prepared to do what he must. Even if it meant going down in a hail of bullets.

Just then the wail of sirens shattered the silence.

                                                  ...

Carlos sped down Main Street. People stopped to gawk in a mixture of surprise and excitement, as if nothing exciting or frightening went down in this town. Carlos wondered when had been the last time Adermoor Cove saw a gunfight. Lane sat in the seat beside him, expression intent but unreadable.

Carlos's own blood boiled with the need to strike back at something in retribution. For the past month the island had thrown one threat at him after another, most of it of a supernatural nature. But from what Lane had told him so far, this threat while certainly dangerous, was also very human. Carlos could deal with humans.

He wore a thick bullet proof vest of Kevlar. Nichols and the others had done the same.

Three cop cars parked in front of the park. Nichols, Cynthia, and Devin were already outside of their vehicles, waving their hands for onlookers to get back. Mmm, Carlos thought. All his years as a cop had taught him human beings were stupid as well as mean; it didn't matter if you were in a city or a small town. Everyone loves a good bloodbath.

"I want you to get away from the park and stay down," he said to Lane.

"Okay," said Lane. It was still impossible to read his face. In the time Carlos had known Lane he'd learned the young man was very expressive; you could read what he was thinking and feeling as if it were all written in neon spray paint. But he could also hide his expression when he wanted to, when he didn't want anyone to see what he was thinking.

Lane was already climbing out of the car. Carlos grabbed his hand and squeezed hard enough to grab Lane's attention.

"Don't do anything stupid. Don't try to save the day. Let Nichols and I handle this, understand?"

Lane nodded and walked across the street to join the crowd of onlookers.

Carlos pulled his twelve-gauge and megaphone from the back seat of the cruiser. He had a feeling this was going to go one way - and that way meant bullets - but there was always the hope the situation could be de-escalated without violence or casualties. There were people around. I want them to see I'm not my father - I want them to see I'm capable of being a better sheriff, a better man.

Despite his initial drive to be moral, someone was threatening the life of someone he cared about - the number one way to piss him off.

Nichols came over to Carlos; the corner of his lips sagged, forming a grim frown. He looked almost comical with his hat on and his bullet proof vest underneath his jacket. He no longer looked like the jock all the high school cheerleaders used to be so over the moon for, but a tired middle-aged man who just wanted to go home, watch The Price is Right, and drink a couple beers before he went to bed.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"First, I want to see if we can come to a negotiation."

"And if not?"

"Put a bullet in him."

Nichols sighed. "What a fucking mess. Want me to come with you, cover your ass?"

"That would be nice. Cynthia and Devin, I need you to stay here, maintain the perimeter."

Cynthia and Devin nodded. Carlos hated not knowing the level of danger they were in, the danger he was putting them in. He also took comfort in knowing Devin and Cynthia would do whatever it took to protect the people of Adermoor Cove.

Nichols had a pair of binoculars. "He's just sitting there on the bench. He's got a rifle, a Winchester. I can't tell if he's got anything else." Behind him people were muttering, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the action. Nichols handed the binoculars to Carlos.

Sure enough the man was just sitting there. His face was flushed from the cold. The wind ruffled his hair but he seemed to notice none of it. He was glancing off to the right as if there was something else that had his attention. However the tenseness of his shoulders, the way he sat with his backside halfway off the bench, and his index finger on the edge of the trigger guard told Carlos he knew they were there and he was ready.

"We can't stand here all day," said Carlos. He pulled out his firearm and began walking across the grass.

They stuck close to the trees, which provided scant protection. The stranger stayed where he was, shifting occasionally but still showing no obvious signs he knew Carlos and Nichols was there. Playing games.

Carlos maintained a good distance away. He felt like a wrangler testing the temperament of a wild boar.

When the stranger did move it was faster than Carlos could have ever expected. The crack of the rifle split the air. Splinters of wood exploded from the trunk of the douglas fir just inches away from where Carlos stood.

Carlos froze. Nichols yelped.

The stranger was standing on his feet, facing their direction. Smoke rose from the muzzle of the rifle. The stranger's dark eyes were narrowed down to bloodshot slits, but the rest of his face was expressionless.

"Close enough," said the stranger.

"We don't want any trouble," said Carlos as calmly as he could. "We just want to talk."

"Put down your guns, both of you."

"No can do, bud," said Carlos.

The rifle went off again. Carlos heard the whush of air. Nichol's hat flew off his head and flipped over in the air three times before hitting the ground.

"I'm not going to tell you again," the stranger said more sharply. "Put-your-guns-the-fuck-down. Or the next bullet goes through your friend's skull."

Nichols gave Carlos a wide-eyed look. He was more boyish looking than ever with his hair sticking up at the top of his head. Carlos looked down and wished he hadn’t: A puddle of urine was spreading across the front of Nichol’s pants.

Carlos raised his eyes back to Nichols’ and stooped slowly to set his gun down on the ground. He knew better than to try and feint a sleight and take the man out. The man was clearly good at killing people. Ever so slowly Nichols did the same. It crossed Carlos’s mind the man might just kill them anyway, but all Carlos could think about was how badly he wanted to live at the moment.

Just as he was standing up he saw a dark shape flit from behind a tree and dart to the next. He did his best to keep the reaction of surprise and hope from showing on his face and hoped Nichols and the man wouldn’t notice.

“Where's Lane Hardy?” the man asked. "He's all I want. Give me him and I'm gone."

"I'm right here, asshole."

The man whirled around. Lane was standing behind him. Before the man could turn around completely, Lane pistol whipped him across the face with the gun he held in his hand. The stranger fell back on his ass with an, “Oomph!” He was clutching at his nose with his hands; blood seeped through his fingers.

Lane moved with the graceful movement and speed of a feline. He pounced on the stranger and kicked his rifle away. He leveled the muzzle of his revolver at the stranger’s head. The man glared hatefully at Lane with reddened eyes. The lower half of his face was covered in blood. “You don’t understand!” he shouted at Carlos and Nichols. “I’m trying to save you! I’m trying to save you from him!”

“You’re fucking insane,” Lane grunted. He clobbered the man again. The man sprawled flat on his back, unconscious.

Carlos kicked the man over onto his stomach and reached for his handcuffs. “I thought I told you to stay away from him.”

“I didn’t listen,” Lane said in a voice that told Carlos he wasn’t in the mood to be chastised.

“You never do.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t.”