Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Carson thumbed through his uncle’s files yet again, the sinking feeling in his gut getting heavier with each pass.
Crawford’s was definitely in trouble. Had been for a while.
Although he knew it wouldn’t be what his uncle wanted to hear, Carson wasn’t sure the company was salvageable.
If things continued as they were, the business would be six feet under within the next year. Two if his uncle was lucky.
Carson’s gut told him his uncle wouldn’t be that lucky.
He trusted his gut. It served him well in the business world.
Made his clients a lot of money. Made him a lot of money.
Did he consider going out on his own? Starting his own company?
Sure. But it was safer where he was, and his current position and finances allowed him to help others.
Allowed him to serve on boards and donate both his time and money.
Although he didn’t have much else going for him in the way of a personal life, what he had was fulfilling. He loved working with the Special Olympics. Felt good about the impacts he made sitting on the boards of the food pantry and the community lending nonprofit.
He definitely didn’t need anything complicating his life.
Unfortunately, that ship had sailed, crashed, and was burning to a crisp.
He shifted in his seat, immediately regretting his decision as the fire poker speared him for the millionth time.
Ever since coming back to Cloverfield, his life had been nothing but one gigantic pain in the ass.
First with Liz. Then with Dennis and his leg.
And then with the slew of emails and texts from townsfolk he hadn’t spoken to in years.
The calls he let go straight to voice mail.
Well, all of them except the ones from Agnes, Matty, and Arnold, which he answered.
It was bad enough coming back to town after his decade-long absence. But throw in a runaway raccoon and an embarrassingly public injury, and there wasn’t a chance in hell his name and contact information weren’t being discussed in almost every circle in Cloverfield.
So much for keeping a low profile.
A knock at the door pulled Carson from his musings, and he groaned. Not so much because of the interruption to his what-if-I’d-never-come-back-to-Cloverfield fantasy as because it meant trying to get himself upright. Again. “Give me a minute!” Or two. Maybe an hour.
“No rush! Take your time!” a male voice shouted back.
The thought crossed his mind to tell whoever it was that the door was open and to come in, but after whateverthehell it was that happened with Liz, he wanted to vet the people he let into his room.
After what felt like half a lifetime, he managed to shuffle across the room. Opening the door, he leaned against it and studied the man standing in the hallway. About his height, he looked kind of familiar. Was he from town? Someone he should know?
The man grinned, seeming somewhat apologetic. “Hey, man. Sorry to bother you. I’m Davis. Maya sent me.”
Oh, right. The younger innkeeper’s husband. Boyfriend? Something like that. “Hey.”
Davis lifted up a small container in one hand and pulled a pair of crutches away from the wall near the door with the other. “She, uh, thought these might help.”
Carson eyed first the jar then the crutches. Tried his best to stand tall. Took an icepick to the groin and failed horribly. “Ugh.” With a grimace, he blew out a breath and shifted his stance to get all the weight off his right leg.
Davis winced. “Believe me when I say I feel your pain.”
Carson barked out a laugh. “Somehow I doubt that.”
Pointing to his own leg, Davis said, “Partial meniscus tear four months ago. Got rid of the knee brace two weeks ago.”
Carson suppressed a snort and studied Davis. “Sports injury?” He looked the type. Probably something boring. Normal. And far less embarrassing than his own hellish racoon-fueled nightmare.
Not holding back a snort of his own, Davis shook his head. “Sure. If you count running away from a goat a sport.”
“Well, considering where we are…” Carson shrugged.
“Ain’t that the damn truth,” Davis muttered. “So, I hear you used to live here.”
Carson resigned himself to yet another person getting all up in his business. “Yep.”
“What brings you back?”
While his presence in town was no secret, the specifics were a different matter. He didn’t think his uncle’s business shortcomings were public knowledge. Not yet, anyway. “Business.”
“Ah.” Davis nodded as if that one word explained the entirety of his existence. “Been there. That’s how I ended up here, actually.”
“Huh.” Under other circumstances, Carson probably would’ve asked more questions, but the spasm squeezing his thigh short-circuited his brain.
Something that must’ve caught Davis’s attention, because he winced. “Sorry to keep you. Can I just, uh…” He held the container out to Carson.
Carson shot the crutches a look of disgust but took the jar and studied the label. Bruise Balm. Interesting.
“It’s something one of our locals sells. I can vouch for it. Worked wonders for me,” Davis said.
“On your knee?”
“Uh…” Davis pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose. “No. For the bruise on my face when I got slapped by a fish.”
“Dude.” Carson looked at Davis with fresh eyes. Maybe the guy did kind of feel his pain.
“Yep.” Davis popped the p for emphasis.
“This town seriously needs an animal control department.” Pointing to his thigh, Carson added, “Got jumped by a runaway raccoon. Did the splits.”
Davis grimaced. “I know. I heard. For the record, you win.” He gestured to the jar in Carson’s hand.
“I know it sounds hokey, but it worked wonders.” Removing the crutches from their resting place against the wall, he leaned them just inside the door to Carson’s room.
“There. Now I can say I gave them to you. Not that you need them. But from one wounded warrior to another, they really did help. I was walking around on a bum knee for a week. Hurt like hell. Can’t imagine that what you’ve got going on feels any better. ”
Carson tried Liz’s fire-starter glare on the crutches. It didn’t work. They sat there, leaning against the wall, mocking him.
“Anyway,” Davis added. “I’ll let you go. Nice to meet you. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, man.” Not that he needed to rely on anyone other than himself, but it was kind of nice to have someone looking out for him. Someone who probably understood the absurdity of his situation. At least part of it, anyway. Probably not the hallucination.
Davis turned to leave, then turned back around. “Oh. I don’t know if Maya or Clem filled you in, but there’s an event here tonight. You’re welcome to join in. Or not. Totally up to you.”
“Oh. Okay.” Hard pass on that.
“Just wanted to let you know. In case you hear stuff.”
Carson felt his eyebrow lift in interest. Not that he was interested. But Davis’s words pricked at Carson’s brain. Made him question if Davis might hear things. Or see things. “What kind of stuff?”
“People screaming.” The look on Carson’s face must’ve been something approximating horror or suspicion, because Davis was quick to add, “A murder mystery. We’re having a murder-mystery event here tonight.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a fundraiser for the old theater.”
“The Picture Palace?” Damn, he hadn’t thought about that place in years.
“Yeah.” Curiosity sparked in Davis’s eyes.
“From here, remember?”
“Oh, right.” He nodded as he sized up Davis yet again. “Hey. Would you by chance be willing to talk sometime? I’m working on a project you might be able to help with. Give me some insights on the town from someone who grew up here.”
“There’s plenty of people around who grew up here.”
“Yeah, but you don’t live here now.”
Ah. “Some kind of comparison between then and now?”
“Exactly.”
Carson shrugged. “Sure.” Might as well. He’d be out of here by tomorrow, but he’d be happy to answer whatever he could via phone or email.
“Great. Let me get through tonight and I’ll get in touch.”
“Cool. And thanks.” Carson held up the Bruise Balm.
“No problem. Us injured dudes gotta stick together.”
Carson felt the tiniest of smiles lift one corner of his mouth. Because yeah, it was definitely not the worst thing in the world to have someone in your corner.
It was also not the worst thing in the world to have a knife sticking out of one’s chest while lying dead in the inn’s game room. Especially since the knife was fake and he was stretched out on what was possibly the comfiest sofa in the world.
Following his chat with Davis, memories assaulted Carson.
Memories of Cloverfield. Of his childhood.
Of him and Matty at the Picture Palace when they had their Back to the Future marathons.
Of sneaking in to see The Exorcist when he was nine and not being able to sleep for a week.
Of getting to second base with Liz during a reshowing of The Lost Boys and getting in trouble when the manager caught them. And then called their parents.
Good God. That had been embarrassing. Not the second base part, but the part where his mom sat him down and made him watch The Miracle of Childbirth. With her. While she gave details about his own birth.
Scarred him for life.
While he’d rather not recall some of those memories, thank you very much, he couldn’t deny the role the theater played in them.
In his younger years. In the town. So he called the front desk and spoke with Clem about making a contribution.
Which she was most helpful with. Somehow during their discussion, he also agreed to help them out.
He wasn’t quite sure when it happened, but he found himself saying yes to her request by the time he hung up the phone.