Chapter 3: THE KING OF BANSHEE
Morning light cuts through the apartment window, waking me before the alarm. I lie still, taking inventory. No pain. No lingering injuries. The healing is complete.
I touch my arm where bone pierced skin two nights ago. Smooth. Whole. Like it never happened.
What am I?
The question doesn't scare me. It should, but it doesn't. Instead, there's curiosity. Clinical interest in my own impossibility.
I shower, dress in the deputy uniform, check the badge and gun. Everything in place. Everything correct. Deputy Marcus Webb reporting for his first full day.
Lucas is already up, drinking coffee at the small kitchen table. "You sleep?"
"Some." I pour my own coffee. Black, no sugar. Tastes bitter. Good. "You?"
"Enough." He sets down his cup. "I've got budget meetings today. Thrilling stuff. You're on patrol. Get to know the town, let them see their deputy's up and moving."
"Anything specific I should know?"
"Kai Proctor." Lucas's voice flatens slightly. "Local businessman. Owns the meat packing plant and half the commercial property in town. People respect him. Some fear him. He's the real power here."
"More than the sheriff?"
"Way more. I'll meet him eventually. For now, just observe. Don't engage unless necessary."
I file that away. "Got it."
"And Ben?" He waits until I look at him. "Whatever you are—those abilities—keep them quiet. I saw you healing. Others might not be so understanding."
"I'm not planning to advertise."
"Good." He stands, grabbing his keys. "Radio if you need anything. Otherwise, stay out of trouble."
He leaves. I finish my coffee alone, then head down to the street.
The patrol car is standard issue. I've never driven one before—at least, I don't think I have—but muscle memory kicks in. Controls feel natural. Radio, lights, computer. All familiar, like remembering how to breathe.
I pull onto Main Street. Morning traffic is light. Shops opening, people starting their day. I drive slow, watching. Learning.
The town is small. Maybe five thousand residents. Working class, mostly. Homes range from modest to struggling. A few nice properties on the outskirts. Church on the corner. School past that. Standard American small town.
But as I drive, something prickles at the back of my awareness. Not sight or sound—something else. A sensation like pressure building. Some buildings feel heavier than others. Some cars passing trigger a response I don't understand.
I turn left, following the sensation. It leads me to the industrial edge of town.
The Proctor Meat Packing Plant sprawls across several acres. Large building, loading docks, refrigerated trucks. The sign is professional—PROCTOR MEATS—but underneath the legitimate business, something else pulses.
I slow the patrol car. From here I can see the guards. Two at the main entrance, both armed. Not obviously—concealed carry—but I notice the weight distribution, the stance, the way they track movement.
Armed guards at a meat plant.
That's not normal.
The pressure sensation intensifies. Whatever part of me is reading this place screams one word: valuable. Something here matters. Something here is worth protecting.
"Interesting," I mutter.
I don't stop. Don't investigate. Just note it and move on. But the feeling lingers—awareness of something significant hidden behind legitimate business.
I continue the patrol, but now I'm actively searching for that sensation. Testing it.
A delivery van passes. Normal. No response.
A car with tinted windows. Minor ping. Something worth noticing, but not urgent.
A truck heading toward the plant. Strong response. Whatever it's carrying triggers that awareness.
By noon, I've identified three locations that generate the strongest response: the meat plant, a warehouse near the train tracks, and a strip club on the highway. Different businesses. Different purposes. But all carrying that weight.
I park at a diner, grab lunch. A kid sitting with his mom waves at my badge. I wave back, smile. Simple interaction. The mom relaxes—her son trusts the deputy, so she trusts the deputy.
How many people in this town trust a badge without knowing the man wearing it?
I eat my sandwich, thinking about trust and deception and the weight of stolen authority.
"Deputy Webb?"
I look up. An older man stands by my booth. Maybe sixty, weathered face, nervous hands.
"Yes, sir?"
"Just wanted to say—glad you're okay. Heard about the crash. Terrible thing."
"Thank you. I'm recovering well."
He hesitates. "My shop's two blocks over. Hardware store. You need anything, you just let me know. We take care of our own in Banshee."
"I appreciate that."
He nods, starts to leave, then turns back. "You ask about Mr. Proctor's business yet?"
The question is careful. Testing.
"Should I?" I keep my tone neutral.
"No. No, I don't think so." He glances around, lowering his voice. "Just advice from someone who's lived here thirty years. Mr. Proctor's business is Mr. Proctor's business. Best to leave it alone. Understand?"
I understand perfectly. Fear wrapped in respect. "Thanks for the advice."
"Take care of yourself, Deputy."
He leaves quickly. I finish my sandwich, mind working.
Kai Proctor. Local businessman, philanthropist, power broker. And something else. Something the hardware store owner knows better than to discuss openly.
I pay, leave a generous tip, and head back to the patrol car.
The rest of the afternoon is routine. Noise complaint—resolved. Lost cat—found. Parking dispute—mediated. Small town policing at its finest.
But all the while, that awareness hums in the background. Tracking value. Sensing patterns. Learning Banshee's hidden architecture.
By four o'clock, I have a basic map in my head. Money flows through this town in ways that have nothing to do with legitimate business. And all of it connects to Proctor, directly or indirectly.
I'm circling back toward the station when my radio crackles.
"Deputy Webb, you there?" Alma's voice.
"Here."
"Sheriff wants you back at the station. Says he's got someone he wants you to meet."
"On my way."
I drive back, that awareness still tingling. Something's about to happen. Some new piece falling into place.
Lucas is waiting outside the station, leaning against his car. As I pull up, I see his expression. Tight. Controlled. Worried.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Just..." He runs a hand through his hair. "The person I came to Banshee to find. She's here. Living here. Under a different name."
Understanding clicks. "The woman from before."
"Carrie. She's the district attorney's wife."
Oh. Oh.
"That's... complicated."
"Yeah." He meets my eyes. "And tomorrow, we're having dinner at their house. Official welcome for the new sheriff and deputy. I need you there."
"To keep you from doing something stupid?"
"To remind me who I'm supposed to be." His voice is rough. "I spent fifteen years in prison thinking about her. And now she's married. Has a life. I need to see it. Need to face it. But I can't do it alone."
I nod slowly. "Okay. I'll be there."
"Thank you."
We stand in silence. Two men carrying secrets too heavy for words.
"How was patrol?" he finally asks.
"Productive. Learned some things."
"About?"
"Kai Proctor. His operation. This town." I gesture at Banshee around us. "There's money here. Real money. Moving through channels that aren't legal. All of it connects to Proctor."
Lucas straightens. "You sure?"
"My gut's sure."
He studies me. "Your gut. The same gut that told you how to heal from a car crash that should've killed you?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'll trust it." He pushes off the car. "Be careful with Proctor. Whatever he's doing, he's powerful enough that nobody talks. That kind of silence comes from fear or loyalty. Either way, it's dangerous."
"I'm not planning to poke that bear. Just noting it exists."
"Good." He starts toward the station, then stops. "Ben? About tomorrow night—"
"I've got your back. Whatever happens."
He nods. Relief flickers across his face. "Partners."
"Partners," I confirm.
He heads inside. I remain in the parking lot, looking at Banshee as evening approaches. The sun casts long shadows. Lights begin to glow. The town prepares for night.
Somewhere in there, a crime lord runs his empire. Somewhere in there, people hide secrets. Somewhere in there, Lucas's past waits to explode.
And I'm right in the middle of it all, wearing a dead man's badge, carrying abilities I don't understand, partnered with a thief playing sheriff.
I should be overwhelmed.
Instead, I feel focused. Clear. Ready.
The awareness pulses one more time. That sensation of valuable things hidden in plain sight. I don't understand it yet. Don't know what it means or how to use it.
But I will.
I'll learn this town. I'll learn these people. I'll learn what I'm capable of.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll figure out why I'm here.
Tomorrow brings dinner with secrets and lies. Tomorrow brings Lucas's confrontation with his past. Tomorrow brings complications.
Tonight, I'm just Deputy Webb, finishing his shift, heading home to the apartment above the bar.
The wolf is patient. The wolf can wait.
But the wolf is also hungry.
And Banshee has plenty to feed on.
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