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Leviathan Rusts

By EleCivil

Chapter One

***

“You bastard!”

A single slap rang out across the hills of the Rise. Wesley Cole did not even have to look to know that it had left a mark across his face. He and Marissa Danbridge were sitting at one of the splintery wooden picnic tables scattered around the hills, which were deserted at this time of night. No audience but the stars and cicadas.

Huh, he thought. She’s a lefty when she’s angry. And she hits hard, too. She plays for keeps.

Of course, he had already known that. He knew everything about her. After all, he’d been dating her for three weeks. He knew that she would take a swing at him, striking out to cover up her frustrations. There was some genuine anger in there, sure, but it was mostly a front. Wesley smiled, in love with her self-deception.

“Why are you smiling? What’s wrong with you?” Marissa’s voice cracked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He told the truth. He always told the truth. They never believed him.

“I don’t believe you!” Her hands tightened into fists. “You…you…”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“You told me you loved me. You said…”

He fought the urge to look away, instead keeping his eyes locked on her face. This part was crucial. “I love the smell of sawdust. I love the way rain gets caught in spider webs. I love every one of these people I’ve never met.” He made a wide gesture to the city that stretched below the Rise, and leaned back against the table.

“That’s not…”

“I love you the way I love the convenience of automatic transmissions and all-night check cashing stores. I love you the way I love the efficient digestive system of the invasive zebra mussel. Why is that never enough for anyone?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Marissa stood, pushing herself away from the table.

“No,” Wes said, his voice steady. “I don’t get you.”

“Me? You’re the one who--”

“Not you, personally,” Wes interrupted. “People. I love them, but I don’t understand them. Not really. So…”

“So, what? All the questioning, all the interest in my past, my hopes, my feelings. It was…”

“Anthropology.” He’d been collecting people’s histories for years. Piecing together their pasts and presents, trying to make sense of what made them work. Collecting data. Marissa was just another case study. Another indecisive ending: predictable, but not understandable.

“I—”

“—Never want to see me again.” Wes sighed, taking a small notepad and a pen from his pocket and scribbling a quick note inside.

“F—”

“‘Fuck you?’ Yeah, I know. See?” He showed her the notepad, where he had written the following:

Marissa glared, at first, but then seemed to collapse into herself. She turned her back on Wesley and walked away, but not before he saw her eyes beginning to flood. He smiled again, turned to the next page and took a few more notes before heading home.

***

When Rosemary Bellacci stepped into Thomas Brenner’s office, he had expected it to be another infidelity case. That was all he had been getting. His entire livelihood, it seemed, was based on following people around and taking pictures when he caught them screwing. And rarely, he thought, were those pictures of anyone he would want to see screwing. His first thought upon seeing Ms. Bellacci was I swear to God, if I have to see one more banker’s ass…

Much to his surprise, the photo Ms. Bellacci handed him was not that of a middle-aged man with the sudden urge to "go bowling" at ten o’clock every night. Rather, it was a picture of a boy, probably in high school. A school picture, judging by the gradient backdrop and forced smile.

Rosemary Bellacci turned and dabbed at her deep brown eyes with a handkerchief. "I can’t believe I have to do this. Detective Brenner?"

But she’s not really crying, Brenner thought. What is this?

"I’m not a police detective, Ma’am, so you don’t need to use that title. I’m a private investigator. Just plain Brenner is fine with me."

"Honestly, I could not care less what you call yourself. My son. Coriander March." Rosemary sat down in one of the stiff, wooden chairs on the side of the desk opposite Mr. Brenner. "He’s run away."

If you gave me a goofy name like that, I’d run, too, Brenner thought. But he shook this thought from his head. This was something he had been waiting for. The kind of case that involved really helping someone in need, rather than just confirming the suspicions of spurned spouses.

"A runaway, you said?" Brenner leaned forward. "Okay. Any ideas about where he would go? A friend’s house? A favorite hangout?"

Rosemary shook her head. "He’s not in Detroit anymore. He’s taken my car." She set another picture on the table: a silver Pontiac Sunfire, with a license plate number written underneath. "And he’s gone to Ohio."

Brenner shifted in his chair, causing the leather to squeak. "Why do you think he’s gone to Ohio?" There had to be something behind it. When Brenner pictured a privileged teenager stealing his parent’s car and joyriding toward adventure, he thought of Vegas, or New York, or even crossing the border into Canada for its lower drinking age. Ohio did not exactly evoke that image of romance.

"It’s where his father lives. Near the center of the state. A nowhere town called Milkthistle. I’m certain he’s trying to find him."

"Since you’re here, I’m assuming you can’t just call his father, and tell him bring your son back?"

"I do not communicate with that man," she very nearly huffed. "I do not know where he is shacking up at the moment, nor do I care. If he has a telephone number now, I do not know it, nor do I wish to. He left us a decade ago, and we have not been in touch. To be honest, I am not certain he is still in Milkthistle." She seemed to sneer every time she mentioned the name of that town.

"Does your son know how to reach him?"

"I seriously doubt it. As far as I know, this entire trip of his is a fool’s errand. Not that this sort of behavior surprises me."

Brenner took a closer look at the picture. The boy’s brown hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing a stiff collared shirt. Brenner doubted that this was how the boy normally looked, however. His mother seemed to be high class, and she no doubt insisted on a certain appearance for school picture day.

"What else can you tell me about him? Anything could help me track him down."

"That picture is from last year, but it’s the most recent I have. He’s seventeen, at the moment, but he’ll be eighteen next week. That’s why I went through you instead of the police; he’ll be an adult, soon, and I didn’t want a car theft on his record." She shook her head and sighed. "Oh. And he goes by ‘Connie’." She sneered this name, as well.

"Ma’am, I will do my best to get him back in time for the two of you to celebrate his birthday, together." Thomas Brenner stood, straightened his tie, and stuck out his hand. Rosemary shook it with a mild grimace. Brenner ignored this.

"Just bring him back. And my car." She stood and turned her back to Brenner in a single motion and began to walk with brisk steps, as if trying to escape this environment as quickly as possible.

Brenner cleared his throat. "Ms. Bellacci?"

She paused, but did not turn around. "Yes?"

"I typically charge three hundred dollars up front to locate a missing person. This will also require a great deal of legwork and travel time. Mileage to central Ohio, possible expenses of staying in another city, and an additional charge for interstate work will apply. And this might take a few days."

Rosemary turned, and Brenner recognized her expression. Before she could speak, he motioned to several framed certificates on the wall behind him. "You can see that I’m licensed and bonded in both Michigan and Ohio. I am the real deal, and as the saying goes, you get what you pay for."

Brenner did not point out that this was the first time a job had required him to cross state lines and canvas an entire unfamiliar city. He took out a copy of his pricing sheet and circled a few relevant sections with his pen. "Take a look at this, and let me know what you decide."

"I’ve already decided, Mr. Brenner," she said. "I intend to hire you. Itemize your receipts for expenses. I do not intent to subsidize your nightlife. Other than that, do what is necessary. Wrap this up by Monday and I will make it worth your while."

"Very well," Brenner said, trying to hide his excitement. This was turning out to be not only the most interesting, but the most lucrative case he had taken. "Sign here, and I can get underway."

***

“Gentlemen! On your feet!”

Wesley’s eyes snapped open to the familiar sound of Charlie Winters’ boisterous voice resounding throughout the house. Wes counted backwards from ten, and as he hit zero, heard Charlie’s foot hit the bedroom door, sending thunder through the room.

“Wes!” Charlie shouted. “Drop your dick and hit the bricks! You’ve got class in a half-hour.”

Wes rolled out of bed and noticed that he was still fully clothed. “Hey, convenient,” he mumbled. “On it, Cap’n!” he called back to Charlie, who opened the door and tossed in a granola bar wrapped in foil. Wes tried to catch it one-handed, missed it by a mile, and fished around under his bed to find it again. It appeared relatively lint-free. The day was starting out all right.

Wes stumbled down to the living room where Charlie was now reclining on his bed, choking down a cup of coffee that he was clearly not enjoying.

“The pitiful routines of the addict,” Wes said, shaking his head.

Rather than remove the mug from his lips long enough to reply, Charlie simply made a gun gesture with his free hand and pantomimed shooting himself. Once he finished his gulp, he sighed.

“Be thankful for my routines. If I wasn’t around to wake you two up, you’d be long dead by now.” He shrugged. “Or occasionally inconvenienced.”

Charlie Winters not only woke up early every morning, he also took some sort of sadistic pleasure in pulling others from the throes of sweet delirium. Once he, Drew, and Wes began renting a house together, he took on the role of human alarm clock.

Drew Rowan, their other housemate, wandered into the living room, mumbling “G’morning” through a mouthful of cereal that he was eating from a plastic cup. “You know all the bowls are dirty? We should get on that.” He chewed each word.

“Rowan!” Charlie sat up straight. “Rent’s due. I need it in my hand by sunset, or I kick your ass to the curb, then back in here, then back out to the curb again. Why?”

“Because you’re just that hardcore,” Wes deadpanned.

Charlie nodded. “Earn it, borrow it, beg it, steal it, counterfeit it. I don’t care. Seriously, Wes is so brain-fried he can barely dress himself, but even he can make rent.”

Wes turned to Drew. “Should I be offended?”

“Of course not. That’s a compliment,” Charlie replied, jumping to his feet. “Now, I’ve got to go save the world, and maybe drum up some business. See you at sundown.” He slipped into his shoes and whistled his way out the door.

“I think I’ll pawn his laptop for rent money. You in?” Drew asked.

“Nah. I’ve got class.”

“You’ve always got class. You’re just too classy.”

“Yeah. Go figure – I come to college, and I’m always taking classes. You should try that, some time. Maybe you’ll graduate before I retire.”

“Tortoise and the hare, Wesley. Tortoise and the hare.” Drew made a big show out of stretching his arms and leaning back against the wall, eyes half closed. He started to fiddle with the small, tarnished buckeye leaf he had pinned to his collar. “You know what you need? You need a date. Marissa was like half a year ago.”

“Do us both a favor and drop that whole line of thought.”

“Wes. I’m begging you. A guy doesn’t get any…relief…for as long as you, and he ends up simultaneously mounting and head-butting a Coke machine out of sheer frustration. It’s the first corollary to Moron Theory. And you’re far too dignified for that. Now, Charlie? Yeah, I could see him doing that. But not you.”

“I don’t really have the time right now.”

“That’s no excuse.” Drew rolled his eyes. “Charlie’s brought home more girls than you, and he doesn’t even have a room. Or a car. Or manners. And he’s gay as a tangerine. Hell, come to think of it, why do they come back here with him?”

“Supernatural abilities,” Wes said.

“Maybe if you weren’t looking half dead all the time.” Drew shook his head. “You’re starting to look like Free Spirit Steve. And, no offence, but you can’t pull that off as well as he can. When was the last time you shaved? Or showered?”

Wesley paused. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“…April?”

“Are you kidding me? May, Wes. It’s May. Finals season.”

Wes’s eyes widened. “May? Oh, crap. I’ve got a final project due, and I haven’t even looked at it, yet.” He sat down on Charlie’s bed. “I’m taking a personal day. What’s a good excuse for skipping?”

“What class is it?”

“Health and Wellness.” Wes rolled his eyes.

“H.T. Dub?” Drew chuckled. “Don’t call off sick. I tried that, once. She wanted me to come in as an object lesson. How about a family emergency?”

“No good. She knows I wouldn’t care enough to go.”

“How’s she know that?”

“We wrote these essays…” Wes paused. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll take the hit for skipping. I’ve got to get to the library.”

Drew pointed over Wes’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

As Wes turned to look, Drew bumped into him from behind. When Wes turned around, Drew was holding Wes’ wallet.

“You can have it back after you clean yourself up.”

“When did you learn to…” Wes was going to complain, but the look on Drew’s face told him that he wouldn’t get anywhere. “Fine.”

“Am I going to have to mug you every time you need to shave?”

“It’s possible.”

“All right. But I’m taking all the money that’s in here to pay my rent. Consider it a personal assistant’s fee.”

“There’s like two bucks in there.”

“In that case, forget the rent. I’m getting some coffee from the gas station, and maybe I’ll knock over a bank on the way. When I get back, you’d better be showered up, or I’m turning the hose on you.”

***

May is one long, full-scale taunt of a month. Simply calling its name forces thoughts of uncertainty. Will the weather be decent, today? It May. It fluctuates from violent to peaceful, from overcast and deathly quiet to glaring and buzzing with yellow jackets, all pollen-drunk and petal-blind. So goes the mood of its human inhabitants, equally flower-gorged. Equally beauty-stricken. Equally surprised by the sunbeams stretching for their hibernating eyes.

Though he had already spent one full semester and most of a second in the small, college town of Milkthistle, Ohio, this was his first spring, and Wes hadn’t gotten used to it. The entire town took on a different appearance when the skies went gray. The grass seemed shorter, the people seemed older, and the footfalls on the pavement took on a slower, more erratic rhythm. It was like the clouds fed off the very energy of the city on these Gray Days. It was that sort of out-of-step day which Wes had walked through in order to reach the Standlow Memorial Library.

It was a two story building on the edge of campus with stone floors that echoed with each step, each breath, and each turn of a page. The library of Milkthistle State University was imposing in its silence. It was deserted at this hour of the day. Most students had already abandoned the Standlow Library for the warmer, more modern computer lab for their research needs, and those that hadn’t were either in class or asleep.

“Wesley Cole!” Amanda Howe was working the front desk, and she waved as Wes entered. “My favorite stack-monkey! What brings you back to the ‘Low?”

“Amanda. You’re working Thursdays now?”

“Well, ever since you quit, everyone’s schedule is messed up.”

“I didn’t just quit; I got a better job. I’m working with Winters now.”

Amanda shook her head. “I still can’t believe that. Charlie Winters and his Renegade Editors. You’re probably racking up all kinds of ethics violations.”

“Hey, we’re legit tutors, now. I got us registered.”

“The Renegade Editors aren’t renegades anymore? Lame.” A sudden, sharp smack echoed throughout the library, causing both Wesley and Amanda to jump. “That’s our new stack-monkey, dropping books again. He hasn’t learned the walk yet, and he still tries to carry way more books than he can hold. Please come back to work. We miss your silent…um, silence.”

“No can do. At least, not today. I’ve got too much class work.” Wes leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Speaking of which…can you keep this visit off the records? I’m kind of AWOL, right now. I’ll stay buried in the stacks, so nobody’ll need to know I’m here.”

“You want me to allow you to make use of our facilities without logging you in?” Amanda gasped. “Without swiping your ID card and recording the name of the class you’re working on? You have gone renegade.”

"Come on. Just this once? Favor for an former coworker?"

"One condition. Teach this new guy how to walk. Please? It sounds like he’s tap dancing back there. He’s driving me insane.”

“I can do that. Just remember, you never saw me.”

“Deal.” She glanced at the visitor’s log, confirming that there were no other students in the library, then cupped her hands around her mouth and called out “Yo, New Meat!”

A pile of books with legs stepped out from the biography section. A short-cropped head of reddish-brown hair and a pair of thin framed glasses poked out from one side of the hardbacks.

“Set them down and come here. There’s someone I want you to meet,” Amanda said.

The new guy set down his books on the nearest study table and stepped toward the counter.

“…Isaac? Isaac Ellison?” Wes asked.

“Yes?” He replied, blankly.

“Wesley Cole. Parson Middle School?”

“Oh. I didn’t recognize you,” Isaac said. "You look different."

“Well, I did take a shower this morning." Wes ignored the sideways glance Amanda gave him. "I didn’t know you went here.”

“Transferred in halfway through the semester.”

“I take it you two are acquainted, then?” Amanda asked.

“We hung out in middle school,” Wes said. That was an understatement. There was one summer, in particular, when Wes had slept over at Isaac’s house more than he had slept at his own.

Wes found himself unsure of how to continue. He hadn’t seen Isaac since the Ellison family had moved to Dayton, and that was nearly five years ago. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his notepad. He quickly flipped to the relevant page.

“Good to see you,” Wes read.

Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to the other and motioned toward his pile of biographies. "Well, I’ve got a lot more books to shelve, so…”

Wes scanned his notepad, again. He had expected something at least similar to one of the probable responses, or at least one of the more generalized responses he’d been memorizing. "You, too," perhaps, or "What’s up?" or even just "Yeah." Something. Some sort of acknowledgement. But…which of us is mistaken? Wes thought. Is he showing me an unusual reaction, or am I wrong in my predictions? He did not remember Isaac ever being unpredictable. Wes felt his grip tighten. He took a deep breath. Unpredictability always put his nerves on edge, and it was always worst with people whose code he had thought he had cracked. Yet, at the same time, it was a chance for some new data. Perhaps it was time to re-open the Ellison file.

“Hold up,” Amanda said. “Isaac, this guy is one of the best apes to ever man the stacks, and he’s going to show you a thing or two. It’s a personal favor to me, so pay attention.” She turned back to Wes. “Get to it.”

Wes shrugged and motioned for Isaac to follow him back to the bookshelves. Isaac’s footsteps rang out against the cold stone floor, echoing against the undecorated walls.

“Stop,” Wes said. “Listen.” He took a few more steps.

“What?” Isaac asked. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. The trick to this job is to never be noticed, to never be a distraction. But the ‘Low has this hard floor and all these echoing stone walls, so that’s not easy. Here. Watch. Heel first. Roll your foot forward. Think of your feet as a single unit, like a wheel, never breaking its spin.” Wes took a few more spider-silent steps. “Otherwise, you’ll make too much noise in here, and Amanda will glue your feet to the floor with rubber cement. If you check Periodicals there’s a pair of feet still stuck to the ground. The last guy had to saw through his ankles with a box cutter to get out.” Wes’ current notepad did not go back far enough to have any data on Isaac, but Wes remembered his sense of humor well enough to know that a dismemberment joke here or there could go a long way.

Isaac didn’t respond. Not a smile, not a nod. He simply studied his feet. Wes made a mental note of that, and he felt a grin sneaking across his own face. Isaac Ellison had changed drastically, and Wes would have the chance to find out why. This was going to be an interesting case study.

***

The stolen Pontiac overtook the Northern Rise, and a city of grass and rust spread out before Connie March’s stinging, bloodshot eyes. Milkthistle. The city’s name had been carved into his memory when he had been seven years old. The sky above it was overcast and the city itself was crumbling and dirty, but it still brought with it a decade of daydreams, making it beautiful in the boy’s eyes. Connie’s lips curled into a smile as he barreled through the empty backstreets. Potential. His seventeen years had taught him much more than his mother and his teachers had ever believed possible, and this quiet city, this half-dream city, was where he could finally put it all to use. The sun was beginning to set, the streetlights beginning to chase the shadows.

“‘And the Earth was without form, and void;’” Connie whispered, rolling down the driver’s side window and raising one hand to the rushing wind, “‘and darkness was upon the face of the deep.’”

He waved his hand vigorously, raised his voice, and shouted to the barely-lit streets: “Good evening, Milkthistle!”

There was no answer, the city went on with its business unaffected, but for the first time in years, Coriander March laughed loudly and deeply.

***

He hadn’t spoken to Isaac since the lesson in library walking, but their reunion kept replaying itself in Wes’s head. He didn’t want to lose a single second, a single word, a single glance. It was all too delicate, this science. It was too easy to take the quick answers, too easy to fall back on old patterns, rather than constructing and amending based on new data.

Wesley’s First Rule: never accept the surface. It made for a long, difficult project. He had to spend enough time with his case subjects to get them to drop their guard. He had to make the shy ones trust him enough to break down their walls, and the outgoing ones trust him enough to show what they were hiding under their easy smiles. In essence, Wes had to love them before he could ever hope to understand them.

Such is the life of a misanthropologist: study them, seek to understand them, but always remain apart, even if it hurts them. Maintain a passionate distance.

“The sun is down,” Charlie said, as he stepped through the door and caught sight of Drew channel-surfing. “And yet my hand remains unfortunately empty.”

“I’ll have your money tomorrow!” Drew said. “I swear it by the sun and stars!”

“Don’t swear by the sun and stars; I use those to see.” Charlie held out his hand. “Do you have the cash or not?”

“Here’s the first two bucks.” Drew placed the money in Charlie’s upturned palm.

“Hey!” Wes grabbed the cash from Charlie’s hand. “That’s mine.”

Drew acted crestfallen. "Well, there goes my down payment."

"Hey, no worries," Charlie said. "I would have booted your ass with or without the two bucks."

"You’re not really going to evict me, are you?" Drew asked.

Drew’s kidding, but not completely, Wes thought. He’s testing. He wants to see just how far Charlie will go, this time. How far will he go?

Wes pulled out his notepad and flipped to a page labeled "Winters at a Glance." After reading a few lines, he chuckled.

"No, I’m not evicting you from the house," Charlie said. "I’m evicting you from your room. You sleep in the living room from now on. I get the bedroom. At least, until you start paying your share of the rent again. And on time. Also, you’re doing all the moving. Get to work. I’m going to sleep in a couple hours, and that bed will be heavier once I’m in it."

Wes smiled and nodded to himself, quickly jotting a confirmation in his notepad.

Drew groaned. "You know what, Winters? One of these nights, I’m gonna leave the doors open, undo your traps, and just let you wander right into traffic. Wes! Good buddy!" Drew spread his arms, as if preparing to embrace his housemate. "Care to help me toss some furniture around? I’m willing to pay."

"Drew, you’re even more broke than me. And I’m a Humanities major, so that’s just pitiful." Wes said, walking toward his room. "Besides, I’ve got too much work to do."

"What, the H.T.W. project? Blow it off."

"H.T.W.? Oh…" Wes paused. "I forgot about that. I’ve got even more work to do than I thought. While you’re up moving furniture around, put on a pot of coffee, will you?"

"What?"

"Hey, I’m chipping in to cover part of your rent, too. The least you could do is caffeinate me."

Drew shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen, muttering about making coffee "as black and bitter as their shriveled hearts."

***

Wesley found that his file on Isaac Ellison was so old that it pre-dated his electronic records system. He hadn’t started transferring his findings into spreadsheets and databases until high school, and his observation notes on Isaac were from late elementary and early middle school. Worse still, they were from before he had perfected his form of shorthand and concise documentation. These observations stretched out for pages at a time in his old mini-notepads, taking on a narrative structure rather than his current, clinical style. Still, as he thumbed through his older files, he noticed that his eye for details had been sharp even at that age, and he expected that he could still use these old notes to piece together the reference material he would need.

This was a rare opportunity. Typically, his case studies were either snapshots -- short stretches of time, like with Marissa -- or they were on-going, with people he was in contact with for long stretches of time, like his housemates. This was his first opportunity to study a subject after years of separation. And one who had undergone such changes in their time apart! Anticipation mounting, he began to skim his old, hand-written pages.

Wes could still picture it. That sudden eruption of emotion, so clearly cutting through any attempts to remain "cool." Now that he thought about it, that had been a recurring pattern with Isaac: an inability to mask his feelings at any given time. His facial expressions and body language were so clear and forceful that they did not simply betray his thoughts, they broadcast them. It made Isaac one of the simplest case studies Wesley had ever done. After discovering that everything about the boy was genuine, it was simply a matter of watching. His fondness for codes and puzzles, his thirst to decipher the world around him, all led back to that sincerity.

At that thought, something began to catch at the back of Wesley’s mind. It was a subtle, desperate grasp with sweat-slicked fingertips, there and gone again, but a connection nonetheless. He felt the need to write it down, to document it, but he was not sure what he would be documenting. Not yet.

Not yet.

***

Leviathan Rusts is Copyright © 2010 by EleCivil. All rights reserved.

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