Currency of Souls (31 page)

"Evenin'."

"Whiskey," Brody tells him. "Make it a double."

"Right," says the barman, and goes to get the bottle. Brody glances at the mirror behind the bar, and nods his satisfaction. Normal folks; normal town.

Except maybe, for one man, who appears to be sobbing over his drink, his face wrinkled up so badly that his eyes have disappeared. No one seems to be paying him much attention though, so Brody feels no guilt in asking the barman about him when he returns with his whiskey.

"What's his story?"

"Who, Kelly?"

"That his name?"

"Yeah. Thad Kelly. He's a regular. Runs the auto shop."

The barman begins to wipe down the counter, a sure sign that there's a story here he loves to tell. Brody takes a sip of whiskey, relaxes a little, and nods his encouragement, but all the man tells him is, "He wasn't supposed to know your name," and walks away.

Brody frowns, and looks back to the mirror.

Only then does he notice the car keys on the man's table, the grief in Kelly's eyes when he finally opens them and looks at Brody's reflection.

Only then does he notice the wild-haired priest sitting in the shadows, and the sad-eyed cop watching him from the corner.

"Oh Jesus..." Heart pounding, he licks his lips. Stands.

Takes in the rest of the "regulars".

Suddenly the lights don't seem so clean, so bright.

And from a small transistor radio set atop the counter between a woman who looks like some silver screen siren whose name he can't remember, and a naked old lady with shriveled breasts and a garishly painted grin, Dean Martin starts to sing.

* * *

Iris sits on the edge of her bed, a cigarette clamped between her fingers. Through the boards over the window, she can hear Horace and Maggie arguing down on the street, but after a while their raised voices blend in with the natural ambience of the night and she no longer notices.

The Sheriff is gone. Kyle too, and despite what they might have come to realize about their roles in the town, Milestone will die without them. It has no pulse, no reason to go on breathing, to keep pretending, and right now, as she sits here alone with only the shadows for company, the temptation to empathize is strong.

She slides off the bed, the cigarette held at a safe distance from the bedclothes, and drops to her knees. Despite the candles, the darkness beneath her bed is thick. On all fours, she fumbles, fingers outstretched until they touch cold metal. With a satisfied sigh, she tugs, pausing to jam the cigarette between her lips, then, back on her feet, and with both hands clamped around the handle, hauls the heavy object into the light.

There's a fine film of dust on the box, which is roughly the size of a small refrigerator, or a child's coffin. She brushes it away, traces with gentle fingers the initials that have been branded into the lid: K.V.

A whoop of laughter from Maggie informs Iris that the argument on the street has ended. Either that, or Horace has made a remark in his defense that has proved inadequate. With a faint smile, Iris shakes her head, draws on her cigarette, and scoots back on her knees. There is only one latch on the box, and it looks ancient, but Iris knows it is still functional. Tonight will not be the first time she's opened it.

She snaps the latch, absently wiping the dust on her shirt, and eases open the heavy lid.

Inside, snug in their cotton beds, are a dozen small jars.

Each one bears a label, but they all say the same thing: TIME FLIES.

Trapped within all but one of the Mason jars are insects, miraculously still alive despite the amount of time they've been cooped up in there. Iris has kept this box beneath her bed for years, ever since she discovered it buried beneath a loose concrete slab in the ruin of what passes for the building's back yard.

At first, she'd thought it was exactly what it looked like: a small chest freezer, or a cooler, but then her imagination led her by the hand to more extravagant and exciting possibilities.
Maybe some bank robbers hid their loot in there. Maybe it's packed to the brim with jewelry.
Impatient, and at the mercy of childish excitement, she opened it, only to find it full of nothing but what she assumed were lightning bugs.

The flies press against the glass, as if they know they're in her thoughts. Their bodies begin to glow a queer violet color. Iris smiles. They never fail to cheer her up, even when the weight of her sadness seems too much of a challenge for them.

"Hello, my friends." She picks up one of the jars and holds it in front of her face, watches them take flight again inside their little glass prison.

She wonders what would become of these strange little creatures, should she dare to let them out. It is an idea that has occurred to her before, but she has always managed to convince herself to wait. Someday, she has always promised herself, she'll find out what they are, and whether or not it's safe to release them.

Someday
.

Her smile disappears.

Always someday, never now
.

And now everyone is gone.

With an uncertain smile, she walks her fingers up the glass toward the lid.

The insects follow.

# # #

About the Author

Kealan Patrick Burke is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
The Turtle Boy
,
The Hides
,
Vessels
,
Kin
,
Midlisters
,
Master of the Moors
,
Ravenous Ghosts
,
The Number 121 to Pennsylvania & Others
,
Currency of Souls
,
Seldom Seen in August
,
Jack & Jill,
and
Theater Macabre
.

Visit him on the web at: http://www.kealanpatrickburke.com or http://kealanpatrick.wordpress.com.