The Reverend nodded his head, saying nothing, only casting a quick glance to both Grant and Jackson. “Yes, I imagine that it would—but, come, dear fellow. We’ve once again interrupted your story for no good reason. Do please continue.”

Henry saw Grant glance again at the long knickknack shelf above the bar. “What is it?”

Grant turned. “Beg pardon?”

“When you guys started talking about Linus, you looked at something on that shelf. What were you looking at?”

The Reverend placed a gentle hand on Henry’s forearm. “One story at a time, okay?”

Henry nodded. “Okay…but you guys have to tell me at least one of the stories behind something on that shelf or I’m gonna be mad.”

The three of them stopped their lighthearted banter and looked at Henry.

“You feeling any better yet?” asked Grant.

“A little. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Grant. “You finish your story and help the rest of us clean up after Last Call, and you pick any item up here and ask us about the story behind it.”

Jackson coughed. “What’s this ‘…help the rest of us clean up…’ shit?”

Grant smiled. “No such thing as free lunch, Sheriff.”

Jackson sighed. “Fine, I’ll help.” Then, to Henry: “So what happens next?”

Henry got a refill on his coffee and asked for more popcorn. “Well, Timothy Beals…”

Part Three:

The Mount of Mercury

“Every thought and its resultant action should be judged by what it is able to draw from suffering. Despite my dislike of it, suffering is a fact.”

–Albert Camus, Notebook IV, January 1942 – September 1945

“…I saw the hideous phantasm…”

–Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Chapter One

Timothy Beals was still looking for the damned Phillips-head screwdriver when Steve Morse—one of three fulltime supervisors at the Spencer Halfway House—looked across the worktable and said, “Okay, that’s it for me. It’s starting to sound too damned nasty out there.”

Tim looked over his shoulder to the only window in the garage and saw that the storm was turning into one mother of a whompbompbaloobomp, as Little Richard might say. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and looked back to Morse.

“Can I just find the screwdriver and get the casing put back on this thing?”

“You know the rules, Tim.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘Residents must be accompanied by a supervisor after normal curfew hours,’ cha-cha-cha. Look, you can stand right at the sink and keep an eye on me from the kitchen window. It’s not like there’s a second door I can sneak out of. Besides, you think I’d try taking off in this ‘burg after all the flattering press I’ve gotten the last couple months?”

“You might. People here have tried dumber things.”

Tim located the Phillips-head, proudly displaying his triumph to Morse. “Steve, I’m…asking...please? Working out here on all this busted crap is the only real enjoyment I get out of the day.”

“Me and my sparkling personality will try not to take that personally.”

Tim reached across the worktable and gently gripped Morse’s shoulder. “Look, Steve, I’m asking you for ten minutes out here by myself, okay? I’m not gonna hang myself or drive a screwdriver through my eye into my brain or manufacture a nuclear device. It’s just that…look, since I got out I haven’t had any time to myself except upstairs at lights-out…then I just lay there and stare at the ceiling and think about…a lot of different things, y’know?”