Title: The White Horse (8/?)
Author: klmeri
Fandom: Star Trek AOS
Characters: Kirk, Spock, McCoy
Summary: Jim Kirk was a strange man. A silent man. No one knew much about him or, if they did, were not willing to say what they did know, especially to the town’s newest magical occupant. Not that Leonard McCoy cared. He had an old curse to track down and unravel by the year’s end. Meanwhile a killer was tracking him. AU.
Previous Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7
or at AO3

Part Seven

That night (or day, or what was left of either) Leonard was released by his captors he pulled his car alongside a property that looked abandoned and slept fitfully. His body was still sparking from a long-ago adrenaline, from the memory of Decker’s wild eyes and Pike’s smooth talk. At last, when he could no longer pretend rest was within his grasp, he drove into Riverside’s downtown and bought himself a cup of coffee.

The old brick buildings and quaint, hand-painted business signs were disheartening somehow. It seemed to Leonard if he scratched beneath the veneer of the small town he was likely to find only more small town. Granted, places like these often had more secrets than the big cities did, but nothing struck him as abnormal from the start. In Esterville, and Manna, Illinois before that, he’d felt almost sick to his stomach as soon as he crossed their county lines. While making his way from Kentucky through Missouri, the same wrongness had been there even though it hadn’t struck him as strongly, leaving him unsettled. In a way the varying levels made sense now because whatever dark magic had passed through the two states had been gone at least two decades or as long ago as five.

Riverside, as far as Leonard could tell, was free of the resonance completely. That was what bothered him most.

He found a small park bordering the southernmost street of the downtown area and wandered it, pondering what it would mean if Riverside, currently drowsing under a blanket of early grey fog, didn’t have a past connected to the curse-maker he had been tracking. Had his search been doomed from the beginning because it was really the delusion of a desperate father?

He crushed his empty coffee cup in his hand and waited until a young jogger passed him on the sidewalk before meandering off the path. Between two trees, Leonard knelt to touch the ground. It was cold beneath his hand.

And silent.

No earth magic, wrong or otherwise.

Strangely, Leonard pictured Spock as he had last seen the man: a tall, lean shadow in a trench coat standing in silence on a rain-soaked road. Did Spock know how the earth felt, how nature strengthened the very seams of the world, every place he went—as his father was rumored to have known? They were both so different for all that they had looked alike. Sarek had worn his power like a great cloak of many colors but in Spock it was muted. Why? Out of habit?

Did the agent’s employers know who he really was?

Leonard imagined that they did. Worse yet, he imagined how they knew how to harness that power to their purpose. It would be hell, that was for certain.

He sat back on his heels with a slow, shocked inhale, thinking, What the heck?

Had he just felt sorry for the guy trying to kill him?

“You are one giant idiot, Len,” Leonard told himself and stood up, unnerved.

Pity kept him from taking advantage of every dumbass that crossed his path who wanted to see what a magic user could do. Compassion, on the other hand, was the most likely to get him killed. Until now, he thought he had stayed well out of that territory.

Raking a hand through his hair, Leonard started back the way he had come.

It was guilt—just guilt—that softened his perspective. Leonard had brought death to Sarek’s doorstep. Albeit he had done so unknowingly, but still: that didn’t make Spock’s father any less dead. The man had a right to feel angry and wronged.

Leonard stopped in his tracks and resisted the urge to fist his hands and beat them against his head. What was the matter with him!

With a determination inherent in his family genes, Leonard forced out any remaining thoughts of the Fed. “Time to find the Davis woman,” he declared to the morning air belligerently, as if it might be at fault for Spock’s presence in his head.

The air didn’t argue back.

The growl came from behind: “You’re late.”

Jim paused in his slinking around the edges of the bustling warehouse. He thought, Fuck you, then turned around and smiled to placate his boss.

Said boss eyed Jim’s expression and spat to the side. “Third time this week, Kirk.”

Jim hated it, absolutely hated it, when people maneuvered the conversation to where he was expected to reply, knowing well full what his limitations were. His fingers curled with a familiar anger but he kept it in check because while punching this asshole might be satisfying, it also meant he would be back to visiting the hell hole that was the local unemployment office. As things stood, there were too few opportunities left in Riverside that paid decently, or legally, and of those even fewer he could qualify for.

But oh, the temptation to hurt Ed was strong. What would the monster in him do? Render flesh from bone?

Jim chose instead to drop his gaze. It made him angrier to concede in that meek way but there was nothing else he could do.

Ed smirked but backed off, mollified and no doubt assuming he had given his employee the needed reminder that Jim was essentially a charity case for the company. “You’re on Caterpillar in number nine.”

Jim grimaced and started for the locker room. Of course. Relegation to freezer work was suitable punishment for tardiness. Only to assholes.

“Kirk!” Ed called not a moment later.

Several other workers stopped what they were doing to listen. Jim halted mid-stride, wiping his face clear of emotion in anticipation for the final jab. Ed Towler was the kind of guy who never stopped short of total humiliation.

“Late is still late. I’ll expect to see you in the office before you clock out. You can write down your excuse.”

Jim heard a snicker to his left and lengthened his stride to carry him as quickly as possible from sight. It was going to be another fucking fantastic day at work, he could already tell. Once inside the men’s locker room, he put his back to its other occupants and stripped off his jacket.

All these bastards would get what was coming to them, he promised himself, temper still at a simmer. And if that day didn’t come soon, he would find a way to bring them the white horse. Let them experience firsthand how it felt to be ruined.

Pleased at that thought, Jim smiled thinly at his reflection in the row of dented lockers and zipped up his regulation overalls in preparation for the day’s shift.

The County Sheriff’s Department looked like shit from the outside, but it was serviceable enough within. Christopher Pike made a detour to the officers’ lounge on his way to the small room that served as his private office. They had recently used part of the donations collected from their charity book sale (and hadn’t that been a ridiculous affair?) to buy a Keurig machine. By most of his staff’s standards, it was an extravagant, nearly illegal purchase. In that first week, no one had known what to do with themselves except stand around the coffee-maker, stroke it lovingly, and plot how they could hide the purchase from the auditors. Chris had been amused by the behavior.

He picked out a plain coffee packet and shoved it into place, then flipped the brew switch. When nothing happened, a bemused Chris slapped the side of the machine with the flat of his hand.

Not so much as a burble. He checked that it was plugged in, and it was.

“All right,” the sheriff growled as he turned around. “Who broke it?”

The young woman on the other side of the lounge paused in her perusal of a vending machine’s contents. “What was that, sir?”

“This damn thing isn’t working!”

His deputy turned to look at it then him critically. “Did you press the start button, Chris?”

“Funny, Uhura,” he told her flatly.

She shrugged and headed for the lounge door like a broken coffee-maker wasn’t a serious affair, claiming breezily, “I think Hendorff did it.”

Chris didn’t know whether or not to believe her. Hendorff was certainly cursed around electronics (which is why he wasn’t allowed to carry a taser anymore) but on the other hand, Deputy Uhura loathed her new partner.

Of course, to be fair, Nyota tended to loathe every person Pike partnered her with. He hadn’t figured out yet why that was, but to be honest he didn’t truly care. She was the least moronic of his deputies. So long as she didn’t ‘accidentally’ shoot a co-worker in the line of duty, she could be displeased with whomever she wanted. He knew from skimming the edges of her mind the emotion was more of a ruse than true hatred anyway.

He returned his attention to the Keurig machine, accusing it, “You’re just an expensive piece of shit, aren’t you?” He delivered one last smack to its side because, in Pike’s world, no morning coffee meant serious morning rage.

The machine hiccupped from the abuse and sputtered steam. Then coffee-colored water began to trickle into the cup positioned below its spout.

“Huh,” said Chris, and tucked his hands into his pockets to wait. Ten seconds later, his cell phone buzzed against his fingers. He pulled it out and checked the number on the screen before answering, “Sheriff Pike here.”

The man on the other end sounded dazed. “Chris? Hey, uh… I just… woke up?”

The poor fool. “Must’ve had a rough night. Come to think of it, you didn’t look so good when I left.” Matt wouldn’t know if he did or not, and it was his fault he trusted Christopher not to lie to him.

“Yeah? Yeah, I guess so. My head feels… stuffy. Maybe it’s the flu,” Decker slurred. “Hey, where’s McCoy?”

“I took care of it.”

“I don’t remember burying a body.”

“Hardly,” Chris said dryly, taking his now-full cup and sipping at it. “I told you we need him.”

His newest deputy, a fresh-faced Academy graduate by the name of Stiles, entered the lounge.

“Look, I’m on the clock. We’ll talk later.”

“Wait, but where—?”

“Riverside,” he answered shortly, voice low, “but don’t go looking. Kid’s already spooked.” That’s an order, he knew he didn’t have to add.

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” Decker sounded petulant, like a boy deprived of his favorite toy.

The deputy glanced Pike’s way in an antsy way. Chris said, “Go hunting.” Then he hung up and zeroed in on his companion. “What?”

The young man perked up and shuffled in Chris’s direction. “Hey, boss! I followed him, just like you said!”

“And?” Chris demanded, impatient.

“He had breakfast at the joint beside the hotel. Then he went out.”

“Where?”

“I followed him as far as Downers Road before I was called to break up a domestic dispute.”

Chris thought about that for a moment. “I know there’s an old mill out there.”

Deputy Stiles agreed, having lived in Riverside all of his life. “Sure, but the factory part is closed up. The warehouses got sold and turned into a distribution center for some big chain-store. That’s a good thing, you know? Employs lots of folk, even though the economy’s down.”

“‘Course,” Chris said, clasping a hand to the young man’s shoulder as he headed for the door. “Good job, son. Make sure to have a cup of coffee before you head back out.”

Stiles’ face lit up at the mention of the new coffee-maker. “Yes, sir!”

Chris smiled to himself outside the lounge, but that smile faded as he walked toward his office. Between Stiles’ report and what Chris knew which made that warehouse operation off Downers Road significant, events were happening faster than he liked and not necessarily in a way that would end well. Soon, he wasn’t going to have a choice in what he had do. It would mean he had to destroy the very person he once promised to protect.

If Winnie was watching him from the afterlife, he imagined she was going to be pissed.

Warehouse work had several downsides but there was one upside which was very important to Jim Kirk. His assignments were often quiet and solitary, and Jim preferred it that way—until his preference came back to bite him in the ass, that is.

Jim heard the red alarm go off above the door and had a split second to think that some jackass was locking him inside the freezer out of idiocy or maliciousness. He threw his Caterpillar into reverse. It protested this with a squeal of gears but still obeyed, backing down a long row of finished product which he had been organizing by lot number with a speed that rivaled newer models. Boxes spilled off the wooden pallet attached to Caterpillar’s forks as they flew. At the last second, Jim jerked the steering wheel to the right and swung the forklift free of the row with a blare of his horn, then switched the machine into drive.

He almost ran over a man in his blind panic.

Jim let out an unintelligible shout of alarm and slammed on the brakes. Caterpillar skidded to a sudden stop, and the momentum threw Jim forward into the steering wheel. He clutched at it in silent pain, staring at the guy he had just about hit. For the briefest of moments, when their eyes connected, there was an angry buzzing in Jim’s ears and a word in his throat.

He swallowed it down, released his death grip on the steering wheel and clambered down from the forklift.

At the same time, the stranger unfroze and stepped out of the path of the forklift to meet him. “Do you always drive so recklessly, Mr. Kirk?” he asked Jim.

Jim halted in the process of going forward to check if the man was all right, instantly wary that the person knew his name but he couldn’t say the same. The stranger inclined his head ever-so-slightly as though he had heard what Jim was thinking.

“I am Mr. Spock. I was told where to find you by your supervisor, Mr. Towler.” Mr. Spock turned to look behind him and added, tone oddly dry, “My escort seems to have disappeared.”

Jim looked towards the open doorway as well. The clear plastic flaps which were meant to contain the cold air of the freezer were perfectly motionless. Jim narrowed his eyes and peeled off his hard hat.

It was probably Finnegan who had sent the man in here, sans safety gear, and set off the alarm, knowing how Jim would react. He would be back in the main building by now, laughing his ass off with friends who had a smaller IQ than he did.

The pranks were becoming more and more dangerous.

“Mr. Kirk?”

Jim returned his attention to his visitor, feeling a coating of shame that he couldn’t apologize outright for nearly running the man down. He squared his shoulders and held out his hand.

Mr. Spock shook it briefly, like a person unused to and not comfortable with physical contact. That suited Jim fine. He didn’t like touching people either. He had been an affectionate child, his mother had often reminded him, before his accident.

Accident. Jim’s mouth twisted at the very word.

“You have a lunch break in six minutes.”

Mr. Spock stated the fact like he knew Jim’s schedule better than Jim did. It was disconcerting. Even more disconcerting, Jim thought, was the fact that Spock (for he couldn’t refer to the man as a mister in his head) gave the distinct impression he intended to share that lunch break with Jim.

Even if Jim didn’t agree to the company.

Jim ran his fingers through his hair which had flattened against his forehead and shoved his hard hat back into place. Then he gestured at Caterpillar and climbed on. Spock stepped around the side of the forklift, inspecting it with apparent distrust, before his eyes hooded slightly at the singular seat—which Jim was currently in.

Abruptly, he met Jim’s gaze. “I am aware that you do not talk.”

Jim didn’t know what to make of that. After a moment, he patted the handle bar built into the side of the cabin. With an air of resignation, Spock removed his long coat and folded it over one arm. He stepped up onto the footpad and gripped the bar with both hands.

Jim gave him a quirk of the mouth which meant hang on.

Caterpillar might have been beyond her years but she still worked like a champ. Jim made a detour to set down the pallet in his current work area; then they were off. The moment the forklift took a left turn out of the freezer, Jim shuddered with relief at the onslaught of warmer air. He had his coat and work gloves on, both heavy enough to withstand serious Midwestern snow days, but after spending half a shift in one of the freezers, nothing could prevent the coldness which settled into a man’s bones.

Technically no employee in inventory or shipping was supposed to spend more than an hour in a freezer at a time. Yet nobody ever pushed Jim to follow that rule. Jim didn’t like to think too hard about why, especially given that his disability limited his options to call for help. With the same disregard he had been given the walkie-talkie he carried. The device made him look like every other worker but it was essentially a useless tool in his hands.

He took them through the tunnel that ran the length of the warehouse until it reached the main thoroughfare which branched out into various shipping docks. Spock had not said a word for the duration of their trip. He looked ill-at-ease hitching a ride on the side of a forklift.

Whatever reason the man had for seeking him out must be an important one, decided Jim, to forgo complaint.

They pulled into one of the only shipping docks Jim frequented with any sort of regularity. As expected, the door to a small office area hidden behind a large weight scale swung open upon his arrival, and a teenager bounded out with a cry of “Jim!”

The enthusiasm with which Pavel Chekov said his name almost made Jim smile. He put Caterpillar into park and turned her off but obviously not quick enough for Spock, who had been flat-footed on the ground and shrugging back into his coat before the forklift had rolled to a complete stop.

Jim jumped down beside the man and held out Caterpillar’s keys to the bright-faced Pavel.

“It is time for food, da?” the teen said.

Pavel’s Russian accent was thick enough to make only half of his question sound like English but Jim understood him well enough. Maybe he liked Pavel because they both had that inability to communciate effectively in common. He nodded.

The teenager’s attention transferred to Jim’s guest, who looked out of place in his suit, tie, and polished shoes. “Who are you?” he asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

“I am Spock.”

Jim wondered why Spock had dropped the formalities.

Chekov’s eyes grew impossibly wider. “You are Government!”

The declaration was enough to startle Jim. He looked at Spock again, certain he couldn’t have missed something so obvious.

Spock said, unperturbed, “Your assessment is correct. I am employed by United States federal government.”

Jim felt his face heat. He pivoted on his heel and started to walk away.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Where had his sense gone? Since when did he automatically assume people seeking him out was a good thing?

Government.

Bitterness rose in Kirk’s throat.

What reason did Uncle Sam have to come after him? He’d been summarily rejected from enlistment in the Army because he was a mute. No, they wouldn’t want him unless—

He saw red. It wasn’t on his hands, but it was like a haze across his vision.

He was no one’s experiment.

All it took was for a hand catching Jim’s arm to set him off. He turned around, fist flying, but found himself in the next instant face down on the ground, one arm twisted behind his back and a shoe planted into the curve of his spine.

“Calm down, Mr. Kirk,” the Fed ordered.

Jim struggled until his arm threatened to pop out of its socket and the pain was overwhelming. Only then did he slap the concrete as a fighter did in the ring to concede and bow out. Spock let him go.

Jim rolled over and glared at the agent. He didn’t take Spock’s offer of assistance in helping him up. In the background, Pavel along with several others, were staring, mouths open. None of them looked like they dared intervene.

Spock said, irritatingly matter-of-fact, “I need to speak with you.”

The only flippant non-verbal reply Jim was good at included his middle finger.

Spock didn’t seem particularly affected by the vulgar gesture. He did, however, lower his voice. “It is a matter of urgency.” Jim would have ignored that except, after a strange scrutinizing stare, Spock added quietly, “I won’t take much of your time, Mr. Davis.”

Jim didn’t think twice. He grabbed Spock by the elbow and hauled the infuriating bastard out of earshot of the others. They exited the building via a side ramp beside the open dock. Jim released Spock then, once they were outside, and stalked across the parking lot toward a small picnic area that some workers favored for a smoking break. Gravel crunched under his steel-toed boots.

Two people were already leaning against a table. When they saw Kirk coming, they stubbed out their cigarettes, grabbed their cell phones, and left.

The shunning would have hurt Jim years ago. It didn’t touch him now. He went to the farthest table and leaned against it, expression bordering dangerous.

“I am sorry,” Spock apologized right off the bat, which slightly surprised his companion.

Jim rubbed at his sore shoulder.

The agent gave him a knowing look. “That, unfortunately, could not be avoided but it is not the regret to which I refer. I understand your mother changed your legal name in order to protect you and thus, by voicing it, I have risked exposing your secret without first consulting you.”

Jim crossed his arms as a sign that he didn’t feel forgiving and stared.

Spock’s stare was equally unrelenting. “Allow me to explain my presence here, Mr. Kirk. I will endeavor to be brief. Also, any question I may ask you will require only a yes or a no. Does this suffice?”

Jim had the gut feeling this guy wasn’t going to go away if he indicated no. So he nodded.

The agent drew something from the inside of his coat. It was a headshot of a displeased-looking man. “Have you encountered this individual?”

Jim shook his head.

Spock tucked the picture away again. “Then you must be informed this man will attempt to contact you within the next few days. He is currently under federal investigation, concerning matters which I may not disclose; however, you may assume he is dangerous. His… determination should not be underestimated under any circumstance. Do you understand?”

Jim didn’t, not at all. He nodded anyway.

“If he contacts you, Mr. Kirk, I need to be notified immediately.” Spock produced a standard white business card, blank except for a phone number. He held it out. “Can I trust that you will do so?”

Jim took the card, on the verge of laughing. He wanted to tell the guy that trust was always a lie. Jim didn’t trust Spock. Spock would be the government’s stupidest federal agent if he wanted to waste his time trusting Jim.

Jim ran a thumb contemplatively along the black embossed numbers across the card, then flipped it over to its blank side. He retrieved the pen he carried with him out of necessity and wrote, Why me? It was a question that covered a lot of ground. Spock’s answer would likely be interesting.

The man was silent for some seconds before he said, “You may provide him with an answer to a mystery he was given to solve.”

What mystery? Jim thought, letting the question show clearly on his face.

Spock’s expression shuttered to a complete blankness. “The nature of the mystery is irrelevant, Mr. Kirk. If the man in the photograph should appear in your vicinity, you will report it to me.” His tone of voice was a command and a dismissal.

Jim didn’t move and stared at the agent simply out of spite at being ordered around. Spock was the first one to break their eye contact and walk away. This satisfied Jim immensely. He hopped up onto the edge of the picnic table and watched Spock go. He stayed at the table, swinging his right leg in an absent motion for a while. The people who came outside to take a smoke break but didn’t want to sully themselves by being near him were greatly annoyed by his lazing about in their area. One of them would report him to Finnegan, and Finnegan would think it was his duty to concoct another hare-brained scheme to deliver payback.

Jim didn’t care. He left the picnic table five minutes before the end of his lunch break, just as a police cruiser was doing a slow drive-by along the main road, and snagged an apple and Caterpillar’s keys from Pavel inside the shipping dock. He was on his way back to the freezer having come to the conclusion that whoever was in the headshot wanted to find him because he was a Davis. Spock had found him for that reason, after all, so it stood to reason Mystery Guy thought it was important too.

But Jim wasn’t a Davis anymore. He was a fucking Kirk, which had something to do with his unknown father whom his mother had never talked about, not when he was a kid and not when he was certain he was old enough to handle the truth. Then she disappeared one night in his twentieth year and was found dead two days later inside her locked car, taking the secret of his father’s identity with her.

A tragedy, the Riverside news had called it. A tragedy and an unsolved mystery.

Jim knew way too much about both of those things. And here was someone bringing him more of the latter.

The tragedy part, he decided, biting hard into his apple, would be all theirs.

Leonard hated his luck—honest to god hated it.

The town hall records turned up no Winona Davis in Riverside. The phone book was no help either. In case she had married, Leonard had tried searching for her son’s name but nothing beginning with a J, not even John, appeared under Davis. If they both had new aliases, or never even moved here like the old man in Esterville had told him, Leonard knew he was stuck on this wild-goose chase for good.

Back at his car, he plucked a yellow parking ticket off his windshield, kicked at a nearly bald tire and clambered inside. He smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession, using the butt of the last one to turn the ticket into ash. Then he sat in silence for half an hour, struggling with his disappointment and darting glances at the glove box where he’d stashed his new burner phone. In the end, he knew he couldn’t use it. Calling someone was simply too risky, no matter how much he needed to hear a familiar voice.

The decision cost him another piece of his sanity and three more cigarettes.

He had no idea if Joanna was better or worse or just the same, and no idea what his dad thought about Christine showing up, if she truly had. He couldn’t get a report on whether or not Clay was keeping his promise to act like a doctor who gave a damn.

All-in-all, Leonard concluded, this last day of August was closure to a miserable failure of a month, and he wasn’t sorry to see it go, with the exception that it meant his little girl had one day less to live. September had better be the month of miracles.

He drove to a motel, booked a room for a week with a credit card that wasn’t his, and slept on a musty bed for three hours before he peeled himself off of its sheets and took a shower. The sun was past its zenith when he emerged from his room in a different pair of jeans and t-shirt. Leonard stood a moment in hesitation by his car, only then remembering Spock knew what he was driving.

“Damn,” he muttered. It had to go.

He took the car to an auto repair shop on the far side of town, dropping it off with some vague excuse that it made a funny noise (which was true, actually) and giving them a false name and number to call once they figured out what was wrong. Eventually, once the shop-owners realized he wouldn’t be back, they would have it impounded; then later either the car would be sold or scrapped for parts.

Leonard caught a bus and rode it back to the downtown area, hoping he could once again pull off the trick of talking with locals to find out about a woman named Winona. He didn’t think it was a common name, so he had some hope that he might succeed.

There was nothing edible in the house but stale bread and cans of mushy pet food. Annoyed that he had once again forgotten he needed to go grocery-shopping until the moment he was home, Jim exchanged his leather jacket for a grey hoodie, scratched his cat Jinx briefly on the head, and trudged back out to his mother’s car (not his, he’d never think of it as his) for a trip he hated to make. Cashiers were always so curious, no matter how often they saw his face.

It took him less than a minute to realize he was being followed. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed the black, unmarked vehicle two cars behind him. It looked like Spock didn’t trust him after all.

Jim smirked and changed lanes. What kind of fun could he have with this?

Speeding up, he cut someone off and ran a yellow light. Horns blared. He grinned, liking this sudden, newfound excitement.

After a succession of left and right turns, which surprisingly Spock figured out no matter how randomly Jim made them, Jim ran a red light, narrowly avoiding collision with a Mack truck (he laughed at the near-miss) and swerved off the highway, backing with the ease of someone who had once been a juvenile deliquent into a dark corner of a gas station. Less than a minute later, the black sedan drove by a snail’s pace but it kept going.

Jim raised his middle finger in salute. “You’re ugly, your dick’s small, and everybody’s afraid to fuck your mother!”

The speech was garbled, nonsense to his own ears, but he threw his head back and laughed hysterically anyway. It was some minutes before he could calm himself down enough to give the appearance he was in his right mind.

Since the agent was looking for him, Jim backtracked a couple of miles then took an obscure route only locals knew to a supermarket he rarely shopped at. He entered the building with caution but was pleasantly surprised when no one paid him any attention and spent more time than he normally would have pondering the variety of tv dinners in the frozen food section. Then he puttered towards the in-store bakery, because the cakes looked good and his cat liked frosting almost as much as he did. His stomach took that moment to remind him he hadn’t eaten more than an apple in over twelve hours. By the time he rolled his cart to the Self Check-Out, he knew he was way over his budget. It didn’t seem to matter.

Life was good for Jim Kirk until he unloaded his groceries into the trunk of his mother’s car. Then he started to shut the trunk lid and caught sight of a person exiting the bus at the bus stop.

At first, Jim thought he was hallucinating, that the federal agent had wound his brain up with all the subterfuge. But, after ducking down by his car, Jim thought fuck it, and stood back up for a second glance.

It was the man in the photograph, no doubt about it. Nobody else Jim had ever seen looked that particular blend of homeless and constipated. Jim watched the guy stand about like an odd duck on the sidewalk as the bus rattled away, slowly surveying his surroundings with a frown. Beyond the mystery of his presence, he looked as ordinarily human as anyone.

Then his head turned in Jim’s direction. Jim automatically held his breath in anticipation of being seen but that intense stare skipped right past him. It was such a great disappointment not to be recognized, Jim started forward in anger.

“Why, it’s little Jimmy!” a voice crowed before he had taken two steps.

An old woman, clinging to the arm of an older man, tottered directly into his path.

Jim recognized her almost instantly, and his stomach sank. He went back to holding his breath.

“Oh, how are you?” she asked him, only immediately to correct herself. “My my, I’m sorry, dear. I know you can’t answer that. Poor thing. Still seems just like yesterday your mama came into our Petey’s store, dragging you by the ear ’cause you’d—”

Mrs. Addison’s husband shushed his wife quickly like he was afraid talking about Winona Kirk might cause Jim to burst into tears in the middle of a busy parking lot.

Jim gave the couple a tight-lipped smile.

The woman, someone he remembered that his mother had genuinely liked, reached out to clutch sympathetically at his arm. Jim moved away so she couldn’t touch him, and his message was received loud and clear. Mr. Addison shook his white-haired head slowly but said nothing, mouth pressed thin, and urged his wife to move along to the supermarket entrance.

She bid Jim goodbye, maybe adding that she hoped he was doing all right, but Jim couldn’t seem to hear all her words. It was the pity in her eyes that held him fast. It had more power to hurt than cruelty or indifference. When he couldn’t stand that pity any longer, he slammed the trunk lid closed with unnecessary force and leapt into the car. He had to get away. People were staring again, all of them, remembering who he was.

Fingering the small change in his pocket, Leonard thought long and hard about going into the grocery store and buying a ready-made sandwich. Just as he had come to a decision, a ugly tan Bonneville almost flattened him in its wild flight across the parking lot. He threw a small rock after it and cursed the driver. The rock plinked off the license plate.

Fucking morons! They were in every town.

As he entered the market, Leonard inspected the hand with which he’d caught himself on the pavement and grimaced at the scraped skin and blood. Food would have to wait a little longer. He spied the sign that read Restrooms and set out towards it, already making plans to filch a bottle of disinfectant off the shelf on the way. Time and experience had taught him that it was always smart to cleanse an open wound before healing it, because sealing skin wasn’t the same as preventing infection.

Leonard sighed to himself, weary all of a sudden and feeling like he’d only just met the beginning of his trouble in Riverside.

What would be next?

He realized he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

Next Part

Related Posts:

• The White Horse (18/18) – from May 12, 2014
• The White Horse (17/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (16/18) – from May 10, 2014
• The White Horse (15/16) – from April 4, 2014
• The White Horse (14/16) – from March 7, 2014

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