Part 28: Late Fees

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— The gang learned more about what the Inquiry is after and how they are going to get it. Seven pieces of their demon queen. Seven rituals. Now, they’d just have to figure out which were already taken. That is, until the door to McCroy’s slammed open.

The rest of the diner whipped around, surprised by the newest soul seeking some good ole greasy spoon.

We’re behind. We’re behind, Frank thought as he added to the list.

Blevin looked it over while he tried to maneuver butter out of its plastic cup with a fork. Harlow handed him her knife, begrudgingly, and he chimed in as he adorned some toast.

“Your dad might not have the Throat anymore,” he said through a bite. “Every storm they get released. Or put up for auction. That’s closer. They can get stolen, but will stay put if there’s no takers. I guess even after he collected all the secrets, Carlisle Vines didn’t trust his family to always use their gifts correctly.”

Harlow snorted. “A Vines man with trust issues?” She put one hand to her chest. “Well, I do declare.”       

“Digs? Now?” said Frank. He turned back to Blevin. “So they have to do the sacrament all over again? The throat pully-out-y thing?”

Blevin shot Frank a finger-gun in lieu of a yes. Better than a high-five, but barely. Still: Progress.

“He could risk it—that no one will try and nab it from him—or he can do it all again.” A stool at the diner counter opened up and two tourists, waiting in their coats by the door, pounced.

Blevin pointed at them. “First come, first served.” 

“How do they know when?” said Frank.

The door opened again, ringing the welcome bell and blowing in a fierce blast of cold. It needs a way in, he remembered.

“The record player. In the reel. And last night. Today in the woods. Something about that tune. That’s when you can get a Gift. Like ‘Avon Calling,’ but a demon.” 

“And somehow less of a scam.” Harlow slowed her chewing, thinking over the new rules of the world. “If you’re in the middle of one, a sacrament, and someone else finishes theirs, there’s no coming back.”

They all nodded, a bit unsure, but realizing they were right. Frank felt like a child again. A child learning 10th grade sacred geometry. 

“Your dad sure took his sweet time in the video,” said Harlow. “I’m not saying I could sew through my throat any faster, but what if someone else was going for it too? I think I’d put a little giddy in my up.”

“It might not be a competition! Wait, no. It’s my family. But maybe they’ve all got a favorite? If I like basketball, I’m not gonna enter the football challenge.” 

“Strange as that metaphor is considering ‘football challenge,’ you’ve got a point.” 

Jean appeared back at the table, coffee pot in hand. Frank noticed Blevin sliding So You Want to… under one of his legs, a glint of understanding.  

“You kids have, uh, gotten my memories churning,” Jean stammered. Frank remembered the Christmas coffees. “I tell you what. That photo with your folks, Harlow? I keep remembering more people. You know classmates. I never see anything of them anymore, and was feeling all selfish but then I remembered Kent and Darren Davis both drowned the summer after the summer after senior year. You wouldn’t know them except maybe from…”

“Banners in the pool. Frank had stared at their names for years at swim practice. The Davis brothers held a combined seven records at Carlisle High to this day. 

“And the Drawson boy is still missing,” said Jean. “They found a note, but that’s odd, isn’t it? What kind of teenage boy writes notes?” Jean’s tattooed eyebrows jumped. “Frankie, were you a big note writer in high school?” She winked, but it looked involuntary.  

Before he could answer, the door swung open again and slammed against the statement jukebox near the front. Snow whooshed in with the chilling wind, forcing the patrons waiting by the door to huddle closer. The most recent offender flipped down his hood and greeted the staring McCroy’s diners with a decades-trained winning grin. 

 “My goodness. So sorry everyone,” he said, rubbing his chin with the most disarming amount of stubble. 

 “Speak of the devil,” said Jean. She smiled at Frank as she poured coffee into his water glass. “Hey, Rick!” 

Jean turned back to the kids, her face a ruddy grimace. A beat or two late, her smile popped in—wide enough to crack the lipstick in the corners of her mouth. “Harlow, hon, what was the name of that book again? The one with the old photo?”

Harlow swallowed hard and looked to the boys.

“Just an old yearbook,” said Frank. Jean rested her hand on one hip, sloshing the hot coffee up towards the orange plastic rim. 

“Don’t be silly, Frankie. That’s too small to be a yearbook. Lemme see it.” 

Frank watched the coffee pot, held against Jean’s hip by nothing more than a pinky and shouted in his head. 

Please, Blevin. Don’t.  

“The book please, hon,” she said, extending one hand toward the librarian. Her forearm rippled with taut muscle and blue veins. Blevin looked up at her without moving his head. 

“Actually, Jean…ma’am,” he added, correcting himself. “It’s a library book and while you really do seem great, I’m just not sure if I should trust my late fees to someone I’m not in a committed relationship with. Maybe after the holiday I could—.”

“The book.” 

Blevin slid it out while Frank tried to think of something, anything, to explain. Was it too late to dine-and-dash? Terrible, yes, but Jean wasn’t that sturdy. Couldn’t be? Taut forearm or not, Blevin had an easy hundred on her. He could knock her over by accident reaching for the salt. Probably no lasting injuries, and if she breaks something, they could visit in the hospital. Well, no. Rosalind worked there. But they could definitely send a card!

Oh my god, who I am becoming? thought Frank.

“Jean,” said Frank. “If we could just explain…” 

“SHHH!” said Jean as she held her hand in front of Frank’s face. Harlow and Blevin each gripped a piece of their silverware. The spoon and knife, respectively, vibrated in their closed fists. “Listen…” 

Frank heard it all at first. The diner noises: chewing, utensils, plates moving. Cheery chatter. Polite requests for more of this. A tv humming low in the corner above the curved counter. Kitchen sounds. The jukebox music, lowering. All of it, steadily.

He could hear his own breath. Then, his heart. The world went quiet. Silence for a complete, perfect moment before they all had to start fighting for their lives again.  

Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum.