Synopsis: Jack and Rayne are finally allowed a little downtime, in which the two are able to talk, but it is nearly ruined when Jack has another episode, which may have been noticed by her.

Author's Note: So I think I finally know how this story is going to end. I came up with it while I was watching Brewster's Millions starring Richard Pryor and all I need to do is put it into action. Just as a warning, some of the chapters following this one, well, also including this one may become a little explicit, though I will not label them as anything above general. I don't think that anything should be censored, but, what it is explicit for is psychological, not violent or sexual in nature. So, I figure that most people can handle it. Anyways, please enjoy this chapter, and do whatever it is you cool cats like to do. Peace out.
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Chapter 13: Starrider

“A man,” Rayne asks me, “he was just standing there?”
“Yeah . . . he was just standing there.” I reply. “Then he started to tell me that Blackjack had basically sent him. I can’t believe he found us out here.”
“Well, he is a very powerful freak.” Rayne says with a chuckle. “But we put that town behind us. He may know where we are, but that doesn’t mean he has immediate access to us. He can wave his hands and teleport himself short distances, but not three hundred miles.”
I am silent for a little while, my eyes looking up at the side of that old, dilapidated church that I parked the truck next to. I’m not sure what to say and I don’t have much of an appetite. Rayne sucked down that sandwich and the chips and her drink in a matter of minutes. She acted like it was the best food she’d had in a long time, but, for as much as I know about her, it may be true.
We left that town long behind, that’s true, but I don’t think that we left Blackjack behind, or David and Daniel, his poor puppets. We crossed over the Missouri River just an hour back, just after stopping at a gas station to refuel. It was free because the gas attendant was too freaked out to try to charge us. I didn’t argue.
By the time that we crossed the Missouri, the sun was going down and Rayne was becoming stir crazy. I wasn’t too bothered with her constant cries to stop the truck and find a room because the scenery had changed from a scraggily wasteland to an extensive system of fields and orchards. It kinda reminded me of back home.
I frown slightly as I turn and look towards the road, thinking of how long it is going to take me to get home. We’re not even out of South Dakota and it’s already Tuesday. Hell, I might not be able to get home until the day after the wedding and then what? I’ll be screwed, that’s what!
“What’s wrong?” Rayne asks.
I turn my head back to her and feel my face relax a bit. She looks to my face with a glimmer in her eyes from the lights on the side of the truck. Then she looks down to the plate of food sitting in front of me which I have hardly touched. I can’t bring myself to eat any of that, despite how my body cries out at me.
“Nothing . . . nothing at all,” I reply.
“That’s bullshit.” She says. “You haven’t eaten any food and when I poked my head through the window . . . it looked like you were crying.”
“I wasn’t crying!” I cry out at the top of my lungs.
She jerks her head back; her tall silver, black-tipped ears folding back to hide within her short, puffy black hair. Her lips even tense up, as does the rest of her body. I take a deep breath, shake my head and then look down towards my food. I pick up a handful of cold French fries and suck them down pretty quickly.
“The man,” I say between bites, “the man that found us . . . he was my uncle. I was sent out here by my mother to stay with them for awhile and apparently they were Blackjack’s employees for years back in seventies and eighties. They were the ones that took me to see his show in the first place. The younger of the two was the one at the truck.”
I stop and don’t resume talking, instead picking at the fried chicken, attempting to display fake feelings of interest while my mind swims around in my skull.
“So, Blackjack may have influenced them?” She slowly adds.
I nod my head.
“When I saw David, he was standing there like a statue. When he turned to face me, he didn’t even care that I wasn’t . . . human anymore. He just started saying how much he wanted me back at home. But he wasn’t dressed normally.” I say and begin to leave the food alone once more. “He even rode a motorcycle I’ve never seen before. But his eyes . . . they seemed milky-white, frosted over . . . hollow.”
“Are you saying that he was a zombie or something?” She asks me with a chuckle.
“Not a zombie.” I say without losing my serious, questioning tone. “Like a puppet, like he wasn’t really himself. It’s like a house when somebody’s on vacation. The lights are all on, but nobody’s home.”
“Well, he did spend a lot of time with Blackjack. And I did tell you about Jekyll, how he used to be this great man, this Dr. Jekyll and now he’s this monstrous Mr. Hyde. Blackjack may have . . . done something to them.” She says her voice sarcastic at first and then becoming frank and serious.
I flash a look of discomfort to her but don’t say anything because, despite not liking that thought, I know deep down that it may well be true. Turning my head, I look to the church again. The building is an old white, wooden-walled building with black shingles, a brick base and a high church spire at the front.
But the paint on the wood is flaking, the windows are dusty and dark and the building has fallen into disuse as people moved away over the years. Rayne wasn’t too happy when I chose to park the truck here because she wanted to sleep in a decent hotel for the first time in awhile, which is what I had planned.
But now with two magical puppets following us, who knows when they’ll catch up? She argued for awhile, but I convinced her that this abandoned Methodist church would be the last place that Blackjack would look and a motel would be the first. I added near the end that I hoped that he couldn’t enter the building for fear of bursting into flames.
The wind whispers through the chilling air and the growing corn that surrounds the old plot begins to wave and hiss out its discomfort. I slowly twist my ears to listen and then turn my eyes to match my ears. The slowly growing crop is no higher than my waist, but soon it will be up above an elephant’s eye and ready for market.
“Does it remind you of home?” She asks me out of the blue.
I turn towards her to silently ask if what she just asked was a joke or not. But when I see her staring at me expectantly, her shoulders square and her tail lying across her crossed legs like a blanket, I lick my lips and nod. Then I turn towards the church and watch the sign that hangs off of a small support sway around in the wind, the rusting hinges creaking.
“I grew up in Amish Country,” I say, “so I became used to sights and smells that nobody else really gets to know. People always ask me why it stinks but I don’t notice because there was a Mennonite farm next door which raised cows and swine so I didn’t ever notice it. But I still always noticed baking whoopee pies or Fasnachts when the time was right and then. . .”
Slowly I quiet down and look to see Rayne staring up at me with those glimmering eyes again, as if she’s totally enveloped in her own little world. I become quiet and then look towards the ground. She sits back up a little bit and cocks her head to the side.
“What’s wrong?” She asks.
“Then it all went away.” I reply, frankly.
“Why?” She continues to prod.
“It just did.”
“So if you grew up in Pennsylvania, why were you out with those two men in Montana?” She asks me. “You didn’t answer me the last three times.”
I lift my head and fold my ears back, my lips clenching up and my eyes narrowing in anticipation for a jab at her, ready to push her away for evening trying to ask me that question again. But then I see her soft face and calm myself down. I figure screaming at her as loudly and as quickly as I can won’t help at all.
“My Mom sent me out here.” I say quietly. “I just want to go home.”
Rayne is silent for a little while and then she cocks her head to the side. Then she reels back her head and crosses her arms tightly, her tail twitching to and fro. The look on her face, as I lift my eyes to meet hers, looks like an expression of disgust.
“If you just want to go home, why didn’t you just steal a car from the parking lot?” She asks me, her voice slowly becoming louder and more demanding. “Why did you have to go to Blackjack? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Alright,” I scream, “I fucked up! I should have known, but how could I? Oh, right, because I’m fucking psychic! And why did you go to him, little-miss-perfect, if you like answering questions so fucking much!”
Her eyes widen and her head sits straight, as if it was just thrown up through a basketball hoop. Rayne’s jaw drops open and she prepares herself for a loud and angry rebuttal, but, something happens. She calms herself down and immediately her eyes look away, towards the church.
We sit in silence, with me huffing and puffing, ready for another heated argument like I’m so used to all the time. But she, once appearing as if ready to do the same, suddenly pulls on the reins and stops herself from doing anything. My tail whaps around behind me and then lays across my lap like her luxurious tail does. I take a deep breath and then look down to my food.
“I’m sorry.” I say and run a finger through the French fries.
“No-no, I . . . I went to Blackjack two years ago, because I had nowhere else to go and didn’t want to spend another night at a bus station. I didn’t know what kind of man he was, like you did before you really met him. I thought he was fair and found out he really corrupted. He was only interested in himself, his money, his power, rather than the people he served. I saw all the slaves and still went to him.” She says as if she doesn’t wish to be talking at all, but doesn’t care anymore. “I met the devil at the crossroads and signed away my soul.”
“Then you’re a regular Robert Johnson.” I reply.
She turns to me and smiles a bit, as if amused by my allusion, but then frowns again. Her tail flicks up and lies across her chest and she hugs it as if it were a pillow, rubbing it against her face. A little purring sound begins to emanate from her lips and I cock my head and watch her. It’s amazing how animal-like we are and how not we are at the same time.
“I never thought that I would escape.” Rayne continues. “He never beat us or raped us; he isn’t some Michael Vick beating his dogs. He played . . . games . . . games you could never win. He liked to gamble, a lot, and would gamble any odds for just about anything object. He would do anything to win a game of chance. But, he had anything on his side. All he would have to do is wave those white gloves and . . . he just won. That’s how most of us are kept as his slaves. We’re too stupid or naïve to believe we could ever really win.”
“Nobody ever tried running away like me?” I ask.
She shakes her head. Then he readjusts herself so that she is more comfortable down on the ground. Immediately she begins hugging her tail once more.
“It’s a prison without walls, without guards, only a warden. He didn’t have to have walls to keep us there. We just knew. We knew that he knew. We knew that even if we did run away, he’d find us . . . just like he’s found us already. We’re seven hundred miles away from his circus and he knows where we are. We could go to Paris, Columbia, Afghanistan and he’d find us!” She solemnly declares. “And he can’t be killed. Some have tried. Only magic can kill him and he’s the only magic there is.”
“But what about all the props,” I ask, “you know: the stuff you use in the show.”
“Just that: props. They may have a little magic in them, but you would need something more powerful, more violent, and more intimate to kill him. You’d have to get him to make you something for you to use it against him.” Rayne explains.
There is a long pause before I look to her again.
“Do you think that’s the only way out?” I ask. “Do you think that us running is pointless and we have to face him?”
“I don’t know. I hope to God not. We wouldn’t survive.”
We are both silent for the longest time and then finally she just sighs, turning her eyes down towards the ground. Then she slowly begins to uncross her legs and stand up. We’ve been sitting out here in the warm air on the grassy ground for nearly twenty minutes and even I’m becoming tired. Then again I’ve been awake for the last eighteen ours basically.
“I’m going to go to bed.” She says as she stands up straight. “You don’t mind if you don’t sleep in the camper tonight, right?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you want.” I say before she can continue.
She smiles a little bit and then turns away from me. As she strolls by me, that long, luxurious tail of hers runs beneath my nose, whipping across my face and then rubbing through my own fur. I close my eyes and try not to breath, but I still get a whiff. I then keep still until she has opened the door, climbed in and slammed it shut.
I open my eyes and let out my held breath. Looking around, I sort of wonder how I got here for a few seconds before pushing the thought away. Then I look towards the windows that look into the camper and frown a bit. I can’t believe the absurdity and the absolute improbability of this whole situation. I mean, do normal people go through stuff like this?
Putting a hand around the Styrofoam container, I lift it up and then begin to awkwardly stand up. Getting my paws out onto the ground is more difficult than I thought and standing up too quickly is all but impossible. But after a little while of difficult stumbling around, I rise up and begin towards the truck.
In silence, I cross the parking lot and climb into the cab of the truck where I figure I’ll try to sleep. The seats are impossibly uncomfortable and become hot during the night, but, I’ll manage. As I climb inside, I put the food up onto the dashboard and then sit in the silence for awhile before slamming shut the door.
I scarf down the chicken there, knowing it’s probably bad for me because it hasn’t been refrigerated for hours, but, I don’t care. If I get sick and die, it’ll be a godsend. Then I put the empty box down onto the ground and lie down for awhile. In the darkness and near-stillness of the cab, I sit and sigh.
I begin to wonder what is going on back home. My mother is no doubt either working or out with him. My entire body begins to boil at the thought of that toothless monster, the complete bastard. I just begin to wish he gets hit by a Greyhound doing eighty on the interstate. But I know that no matter how much I wish and pray, he’ll still be there when I get back home.
I just know that no matter what he is compared to me, I’ll know that that ring on his finger won’t protect him from a bullet. Rolling onto my back, I put my arms up behind my head and look towards the rearview mirror where I can see my own reflection. I look over the canine form once more and sigh.
My head seems bigger with the huge, sensitive ears sitting on top. Even my hair, which sits high up, nearly encompassing my ears, seems bigger than before. But what is even worse is that my facial hair is gone, hidden behind the white fur which covers most of my underbelly and whatever would be considered my ‘underside’ and the dark-gray, nearly black fur which covers everything else.
Taking a hand from behind my head, I run it across my chin, letting the soft, supple fur brush against the exposed pads on my hand. Still watching my reflection in the mirror, I lift my hand away and look to my hand. Then I begin to smile and then laugh a little bit as I stare at the five huge claws sticking out from the ends of my fingers.
Yeah, that’s how I’m gonna doing it. When I get home, all I have to do is confront Dick and maul him to death. I mean, who in their right mind would call the police and tell them that they just saw a werewolf maul to death a guy in broad daylight. I’m sure the cop would piss themselves and just tell him to call Hugh Jackman instead because he has more experience with killing werewolves.
“That’s it, Jackie boy; let’s start plotting to kill people.” My reflection in the mirror suddenly says its head turning towards me.
I drop my hand and immediately stare towards the rearview mirror, wondering how in Jesus’ name he could have found me out here! I watch as he twists towards me, lifting up hands of his own to press against the glass. Soon he is peering through the mirror towards me, looking around as well.
“You’ve got some cramped quarters here today, dipshit, what happened?” He asks me sarcastically. “What? Did you sleeping in the same room with that bitch suddenly become illegal under the third amendment?”
“Shut up!” I suddenly cry at him in a whisper. “What in hell’s name are you even doing here?”
“You shut the fuck up, Jack!” He cries back at a boom. “The real question is what is she doing here? What? Are you too fucking pussy to kick her out, leave her at a bus station, anything?”
“No, I’m not going to abandon her.” I say. “That wouldn’t be right!”
“Who gives a shit about right, you pussy?” He demands. “What? Are you still clinging to those stupid fantasies that right is right and wrong is wrong?”
“I’m not dealing with you.” I say.
I roll onto my side and quickly force myself up into a sitting position. Turning, I open the door and tromp out. The door slams behind me as I force it shut, nearly rocking the entire truck and no doubt either disturbing Rayne or waking her up completely. But I don’t care, I’m sure she’ll just figure that I’m going to take a piss or something else.
“You can’t avoid me!” He screams from the side view mirror.
“The hell I can’t!” I yell back as I march away from the truck, not daring to look back at him.
Above the stars pour their light down upon the earth, bathing the dirt parking lot surrounded by growing corn with an eerie white powder. The church, the siding rotting and the boards falling clear off, seeming to rise above the land like Kilimanjaro above the Serengeti. But this Kilimanjaro is a creepy, deeply unsettling type.
But I don’t care; it’s away from the truck and, more importantly, away from Rayne. He won’t abate his assault until he’s either pleased with himself or ashamed of me. The least that I can do is get into a place where I can be alone. Although there are no reflective surfaces around me for him to peer through, I can still feel him.
I’ve always known that he’s been around me. He’s like a horse sitting upon my chest, a deadweight that refuses to be lifted off. His presence is a foul stench in the air, an acidic taste in the mouth, a weight upon the very air around me. And, although he doesn’t always talk to me, I always know that he’s there; watching, waiting for his moment to strike.
Charging across the open parking lot, I push open the rotting green door that leads into the side of the church with a heavy kick and then stomp inside. As I delve into the unfamiliar darkness, I stop in the doorway and let my eyes adjust. Despite it being so dark that most people would be blinded, my canine eyes reveal a strange world to me.
The church is very large, but the roof is low and the rafters have been revealed over the years of disuse. The stand, to my right up on a slightly raised platform, is covered with dust and a cobweb hangs from its side. Copper or brass candlesticks each the height of a man flank its sides, as do many small tables. An organ and risers sit in the corner, covered in a layer of dust so thick it’s hard to distinguish what color the wood is.
To my left are row after row of pews. They are all completely wooden and some of them are falling apart. On several of them, the legs have given way and let the seats fall to the ground at a haphazard angle while the other end refuses to buckle. Several bibles and magazines are strewn about the room, on the floor, on the tables, on the chairs, all of them covered in dust and grime.
Through the broken windows the moon and starlight flow like water, filling the room with ghastly shadows. At the far end of the one room church house, above the red door leading to the road, a broken stained glass of an indistinguishable figure lets green, blue and red light onto the ground.
“So you’ll run from the truck to a church, eh, dipshit?” He demands from me.
Turning my head around, I see that he leans against the wall in a standing mirror in the corner near the front row of pews, his arms and legs crossed. A door is there, no doubt leading into a bathroom or the preacher’s private room. My lips curl up and I feel my hands clench into fists as they hang at my side.
“You know, you really are a piece of work.” He says, stepping away from the wall and uncrossing his limbs. “I tell you that she’s a spy and to get rid of her and what do you do? You let her come with! Hell, you didn’t even put up a good fight when you did manage to tell her you wanted her to leave!”
“She’s not a spy, dammit!” I yell in response. “She’s as much of a victim as I am and you damn well know it! I’m not just going to throw her out onto the street because you think that I should!”
“Then how did Blackjack find you, you fucking idiot!?” He demands.
I open my mouth and take a step forward, an erect finger ready to argue back, but then I falter. Turning my eyes towards the ground, I close my jaw and then stand up straight again. I don’t really have any idea as to how Blackjack could have found us, all these miles away, and he knows that.
“If she isn’t a spy, than how did Blackjack know to use your uncles as puppets to track you down? Worst of all, he found you within hours of your escape!” He screams. “You’re no Willie Sutton, that’s to be sure!”
“He’s magic, for Christ’s sakes, that’s how he found us!” I yell. “I mean, he can just wave those gloves of his and turn people into monsters! It’s only logical to assume he can do a lot more things than we can believe.”
He chuckles and walks towards the mirror, not stopping until he leans onto the glass, his right arm up over his head. His tail whips around behind his back and I realize that mine is as well. My fur feels as if it is standing up on end, despite pressing against my jeans, my shirt, my jacket. My heart beats as fast as it can and I feel like I’m in an oven.
“Oh, God, forgive his taking the lord’s name in vain, he is only a fool. A town in Maryland is missing its idiot.” He mockingly says towards the roof. “What’s worse is that he’s fallen in love with a whore!”
Suddenly something strikes me upon the chest, as if a baseball has landed upon my ribs and forced my breath out. Gasping for air, I twist my head and stare towards him, standing in the glass. He turns his eyes back towards me and begins to smile, chuckling to himself through clenched teeth.
My neck twitches and I blink rapidly. Licking my lips, I begin to step forward. But I don’t go directly towards the glass, instead veering off towards the pulpit. Grabbing one of the brass candlesticks, I heave the heavy object over my shoulders and charge towards the mirror as quickly as I can, teeth born and ears folded back.
“I’ll show you whore!” I cry out.
As I near the glass, I let the candle stand fall and smash the mirror into a thousand pieces. Despite having his link to this world smashed apart, I can hear him laugh and see his shining teeth as the pieces fall to the ground. Pulling the candle stick back, I turn around and begin to look around. His laughter begins to fill the empty void, the darkness that feels as if it is thicker than mud.
“Shut up!” I cry out to the darkness. “Stop that cackling, you monster! Stop it!”
Wheeling around, I look for the source of that menacing laughter, but find that it sounds as if it is coming from everywhere. The walls, it’s coming from the walls! Or maybe even the things in the church, it’s coming from everywhere! Where is he? Marching forward, determined to put an end to the laughter, I swing the brass candlestick over my shoulder.
It delves into the wooden pulpit and smashes it to smithereens. The other candlestick falls over with a bang to the wooden floor. Swinging myself around, still hearing the noise, I step forward and smash one of the pews into splinters and then destroy the one right across the aisle from it on the return swing.
Finally the laughter sounds as if it is coming from behind me and I turn around and look past the broken pulpit. Staring directly towards the pipe organ sitting in the corner, I put the candlestick up onto my shoulder and then take several quick steps forward. Throwing the stick like a javelin, I launch it from my shoulder.
It sails through the air like a missile from a tank and then sinks into the pipe organ with a loud, animalistic clatter of air rushing up through the pipes, wood crunching and ivory keys curling. As the organ smashes completely, a gust of air flies up through the iron pipes and makes a loud scream, as if somebody slammed down onto the keys.
Suddenly I hear a smash come from my right and the laughter disappears, wood splintering and metal banging onto dirt. I hear silence once again and stand in it, huffing and puffing. Slowly I turn my head towards where I heard the noise come from and see a dirty dusty window looking out towards the truck.
Gently, I turn and meander between two rows of pews and to the window. As I near it, stepping over broken pieces of the church that I’ve left in my uninhibited, unadulterated rage. As I near the window, I step up to the pane and place my pads onto the thick layer of dust.
One of the panes has been wiped clean and outside, I see a crate smashed on the ground and a rusty milk can rolling back and forth, obviously having been thrown over. Lifting my eyes up, I look towards the truck and then sigh, wondering silently to myself. Then I shake my head and turn.
Immediately I sink down into one of the pews. With a quick hand, I wipe clean the pew around me and beneath me. I even lean far out to get some of the farther ends of the thing. Then, beginning to feel lightheaded, I lie down onto the old, warped wood and become still on my side.
My mind, once a running mass of thoughts and processes is now nearly silent. Only one or two little streams of thoughts, fragments of sentences, flutter through the darkening void. I close my eyes and then curl up into myself, my energy completely spent. I then disappear into a black, bottomless abyss.