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“And his name is what?” Betty’s sensible heels are muffled by the worn carpet. FBI Headquarters is a dump.
Betty has worked in morgues with more charm. They were cheerier too.
“Jughead. It’s a nickname.”
“Well, I should hope so.” Betty does hide and note of incredulity. She doesn’t even try. Archie makes an abrupt turn and summons a creaking elevator.
“Don’t mind the screeching,” Archie says casually. Betty minds.
“And he has another nickname?”
“Spooky.” Archie leans against the dented mental wall. This elevator is taking forever. Are they going to Hell?
“Spooky,” Betty can’t help repeating.
“You’ll see why.”
Betty can’t wait. “And his real name?”
“Somehow worse, if you can believe it.” Betty can’t. “But he'll have a fit if I tell you, and I can't handle more than one of his fits per day.”
“And I should call him?”
“Jones.”
“Of course.” Betty’s head is starting to hurt, and she’s been on this assignment for all of 17 minutes—the time it took for the receptionist to summon Archie and wave a distracted hand at the new agent.
“Don’t be fooled by his desk, by the way. He’s a great agent. A little unorthodox is all.”
And why would Betty judge a man called Jughead? Willingly?
“Where are we going?” she blurts. She wasn’t aware the nondescript building had this many floors. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe Archie is taking her into an underground cavern to kill this Jughead/Spooky/Embarrassing Name/Jones character.
“Your office is in the basement. Trust me, it’s nice.”
Now, why doesn’t Betty believe that for a second?
Her office—if you can call a cinderblock box with no windows and no ventilation an office—is not nice. It’s clear they’re stuck Jones (Jughead? Really?) down here to keep him away from the normal FBI agents.
Not that Betty has a fondness for most FBI agents. She’s type-A and by the book, but some of these people might as well be automatons in suits.
Her desk—which is, thank fuck, an actual desk, and not a door on blocks—faces another desk. A flop of hair is bent over it, an elegant hand moving feverishly.
“Jones,” Archie says, exasperated. “Jones!” He looks upon the second bark of his surname.
The flop of hair and elegant hands belong to an unfairly attractive man with a razor jawline, high cheekbones, a smattering of beauty marks across the aforementioned razor jawline, and a smirk that belongs in a museum.
“This is Betty Cooper,” Archie says pointedly, and Betty’s lungs reinflate as she starts breathing again. When Jughead doesn’t respond, Archie continues. “Your new partner?”
“I know who she is, Andrews. I got your memos. All 16 of them. He points to a haphazard stack of paper balanced against his computer monitor. He turns to Betty, raises an eyebrow to go with the smirk, and says, “Hi, I’m Jughead Jones, your new partner. You can call me Spooky, if you want. Personally, I find it dull and uninspired, but hey, it’s the FBI. Not big on creativity around here.”
Betty feels a smirk of her own ghost across her face.
“Or you can call me Jughead. I’ve had that name since I was a weird kid. I won’t respond to my given name, because it sucks, as I’m sure you’re not well-aware.”
“Speed it along,” Archie sighs. "I kept your secret."
Jughead ignores him and nods at Betty.
“I’m Betty.” Betty clears her throat. “Betty Cooper. Obviously. You can call me…well, not by my given name. I hear you there. My mother named me after Queen Elizabeth for fuck’s sake. So, Betty, or…Cooper, I guess. To match.”
“You got it, Cooper.”
When Archie finally leaves them to get acquainted—muttering under his breath about rogue FBI agents who bang on about UFOs and ignore the chain of command are turning his hair orange instead of red, which seems to bother Jughead not one bit—Betty settles in.
Jughead leans back in his chair, cross his legs on his desk.
“So, what have you heard about me?”
Betty, arranging her pencils in a cup and straightening a pile of notebooks, winces.
“Um…”
Jughead hoots. “I knew it! Spooky Jones, haunting the basement with his crazy theories, right? Right?”
“Um…”
Jughead waves his elegant hand about. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I get shit done. That’s what matters.”
“For what it’s worth,” Betty says softly, “they also told me you’re one Hell of an FBI agent.”
Surprise flits across Jughead’s face.
“About time they recognized that.”
Betty keeps her desk relatively orderly. She has two pictures: one of Polly and her twins, and another of her college best friend, Josie, at the latter’s wedding. Betty’s blond hair stands out in the line of bridesmaids clad in soft purple dresses. She also grabbed one of her parents, but she stuck it on top of an unpacked box before the she left in the morning.
She doesn’t need Alice Cooper’s pinched, disapproving face judging her during her workday. Alice will call when she walks in the door of her empty apartment and judge her then.
Her niece Juniper bought her one of those dancing sunflowers for her birthday, and Betty thinks it will provide a bit of whimsy in this dank box. She’s glad she brought a cardigan. She’ll keep one in her desk.
“I’ve seen those pencil cups at office supply stores, but I’ve never seen anyone use one.”
“Wait until you need a pen, Jones. You’ll be glad I’ve got them on hand.”
“My desk may look like…” he searches for a word.
“Swampland?” Betty arches an eyebrow.
“…but I know where everything is.” He folds his arms and stares her down.
Half an hour later, after he’s thrown everything on his desk on the floor, creating a vortex of papers and debris up to his ankles, Betty slides the pencil cup towards the seam of their separate desk.
He rolls his eyes and silently selects a pen. When it glides across his paper, he looks mildly annoyed.
“So, tell me, Cooper,” Jughead likes to start conversations when Betty is least expecting them. A month after she descending into the basement, she’s in the middle of compiling a witness list for a bank robbery case. Jughead was not pleased to get that case.
“This isn’t weird!” he protested. Archie looked overjoyed.
Once she’s looked up, he pounces.
“Do you believe that there are things we can’t understand? Things that defy description?”
Betty mulls the questions carefully. She’s heard the office gossip about Jughead—the FBI is worse than the theme park where she worked when she was 17—about how he believes in vampires and werewolves and little green men. She’s seen for herself that despite his eccentricities, he’s thoughtful, clever, and brilliant.
He might believe in little green men, but he isn’t naïve or unintelligent.
“I believe there are things we don’t understand, but in my experience, the answers are available.”
Jughead lifts a waiting eyebrow.
“Logical answers, grounded in the natural world.”
“That’s a pity,” he says. “Give it time. You are gonna see some shit. And by the way, Cooper, don’t let popular culture fool you. Aliens aren’t little or green.”
“The pictures,” Jughead says, startling Betty who’s about halfway through a report on Philip Schwartz, the world’s most inept embezzler. This time Jughead’s complaint about, “this fucking boring case” could be heard one floor up. “Who are they?”
“Oh. The wedding picture is my friend, Josie, and some of our college friends. “That’s Val and Melody. Those three are in a band. And the picture on the right is my sister, Polly, and her twins.”
Something in Jughead’s jaw ripples and flexes at the word sister, but Betty doesn’t ask. She’s only known her partner for two weeks, but she knows he reveals exactly what he wants when he wants.
“The twins are Juniper and Dagwood.”
Jughead’s eyes widen to take up half his face.
“I know, but there was no talking her out of those names. Her spiritual husband, Edgar, picked those them.”
“Her what now?”
“She…lives on this farm. A cult, really.” Betty pulls at her hair, yanking some strands out of her ponytail. “Nothing supernatural about it. Just a creepy, charismatic weirdo making everyone live off the land.”
“Damn. Those names, though. They make my name sound normal.” Betty, who was lost in thought of her sister dresses in pristine white and lecturing her on her connection to the earth, perks up.
“It’s straight out of the 19th century. That’s all I’m gonna tell you.” Jughead leans over to tap Betty’s desk. “Philip Schwartz awaits.”
“Algernon? Cuthbert? Ebenezer? Abraham?”
Jughead doesn’t even have time to smile smugly at her wrong answers because Archie chooses that moment to sail into the room to check up on Betty’s report.
“Forysthe,” he crows, slapping a stack of papers on Jughead’s desk. “Gotta crunch some numbers to complete the report, Jones. And we’re not gonna make Betty do all the work.”
Not one to be deterred by the mundanity of work, Jughead fills Betty in one of his nemeses, Hiram Lodge.
Jughead “Spooky” Jones does not have just one nemesis, which seems to thrill him.
“Have I told you about the Syndicate, Cooper?”
“If I tell you yes, will that be in the end of this?”
“Don’t let Lodge fool you, Cooper,” Jughead says, as if Betty has not registered a complaint. “He knows about the existence of aliens, and if they colonize Earth, he’s to blame.”
“If they what?”
“And man, that guy smokes. I can’t believe he’s not in an iron lung.”
Their third assignment comes on a Tuesday.
Jughead spent Monday groaning over a stack of paperwork and lamenting his decision not to go into cattle ranching.
“I bet they don’t have to sign a whole mess of shit,” he grumbled.
“Yeah, but it’d get hot with that hat on.” Betty gestures towards his beanie. Jughead swore when he pressed his pen against the requisition form he’d been glaring at and found it empty. He rolled his eyes when Betty nudged her pencil cup in his direction.
“That’s true. At least I can get away with wearing my beanie.”
Jones gets away with a lot of things.
Betty, who has just returned from lunch with a dynamic, friendly agent called Veronica Lodge, is in a great mood. Making friends as a doctor/FBI agent is very difficult, but Veronica has already texted her proclaiming their future status as best friends.
She decides to share her happiness with Jughead.
“Archie says they’re gonna send us somewhere on assignment.”
“Ooh.” Jughead’s interest is piqued, and he pushes his stack away disinterestedly. “I wonder where we’re going. I hope it’s Iowa.”
“Iowa?” Betty modulates her voice. “No offense at all to the great state of Iowa, but people aren’t so enthusiastic about visiting there.”
“Picture it, Cooper.” Jughead constructs a box with his hands. “Chasing some unknown creature through a cornfield, all the rustling and screeching. Nothing like it.”
“If you say so,” Betty says, not meaning it.
“Or New England would be good. Creepy sounds and creaking footsteps in an ancient, gothic inn.”
“Not why most people go there, Jones.”
“Nebraska would be okay. They have corn there too.”
“Well, that’s…”
Archie appears as if summoned by Jughead’s starry-eyed ruminations on past cases involving inns and corn.
“Got an assignment for you, Cooper. Jones.”
“How come Betty’s name is first?”
“So many reasons, Jones. No time to list them all. Chop, chop.”
“This case,” Jughead says, speaking over Archie, “is it lame? Are we gonna have to investigate some bald loser having a midlife crisis? Is it weird? Please says it’s weird.”
Archie blows out a gust of hair. He looks like he regrets making Jughead happy. “Oh, it’s weird.”
Jughead looks delighted.
“Where do we have to go?” Betty wants to know.
Archie’s sigh is prolonged and heavy. “Iowa.”
Jughead looks happier than Betty has ever seen him.
Archie stops by to brief them the following day, using words like, “mauled,” “ripped apart,” “taller than any human” and “growling.”
Betty is confused. Jughead is grinning.
Before he leaves them, Archie slaps two plane tickets on their desk, flashes a company credit card, and says, “No aliens, Jones. Sorry to say.”
Jughead waves an arm breezily. “No aliens that you know of, Andrews. The signs aren’t always obvious.”
“Aliens?” Betty calls desperately after Archie after he turns to walk away.
“Sorry, Cooper,” Archie calls back as he presses the elevator button.
Jughead fills Betty on Iowa trivia during the three-hour flight. Three and a half hours and Betty is counting every second.
“It doesn’t make sense to send you separately,” Archie said regretfully.
“So, we’ve discussed corn…” Jughead opens a bag of Cheetos and shoves his hand in.
“Do we have to do it more?”
“Cooper, these people are very proud of their corn. And if we’re going to gain their trust, we’ve gotta meet them where they are.”
“In a cornfield?”
“Precisely, Cooper. Cheetos?”
“I’ll stick with my granola bar.” Betty fishes one out of her purse.
“If you prefer cardboard to synthetic cheese, so be it.”
Betty chews while Jughead talks, pretending her granola bar does not taste like cardboard.
“So, Carson, Iowa. About a thousand people, give or take. Almost all of them work on farms, usually second-generation or more.”
“Wait, how do you even know all this?” Betty grimaces at the shard of granola lodged in her teeth.
“That thing sucks, doesn’t it? Taste bad and endangers your mouth. I did some research, Cooper. World Wide Web. I hate that modem noise, but it had to be done. He screeches like he’s waiting for the AOL welcome screen. “Encyclopedia Brittanica and the city website helped.”
“Okay, so you’re a tech whiz. Great.” Betty pauses to accept a cup of soda from the flight attendant and passes one to Jughead too. “And we know this town is full of farmers whose families have lived there for centuries. What’s the problem?”
“Unexplained deaths. Bodies found in a cornfield, ripped apart. Three so far in the past…” Jughead consults his notes, “month.”
“How old? Similarities?”
“Hannah Simkins, age 17; Gerald Mathis, age 71; Gina Carr, age 33.”
“Different genders and ages. Did they…”
“Know each other? Sure. But everyone in this town knows everyone else.”
“Anyone report anything else strange?”
“Oh, yeah.” Jughead puts down his cup and tents his fingers, smirking. “From the cornfields. Growing, snarling, an enormous shadow among the stalks with claws and fangs.”
“Well, that could be…” Betty purses her lips.
“A human? Really?”
Betty sighs and gives Jughead the side eye.
“I know, I know.” Jughead rips open a bag of Bugles. “You don’t believe in the supernatural. Give it time, Cooper. You will.”
Betty adjusts her seat and pretends to fall asleep.
She remembers a conversation with Polly a few days ago, on one of her sister’s designated phone days, and she almost sounded like the old Polly.
After a solid 20 minutes of Betty’s complaining about her new partner, Polly giggled and interrupted her.
“Are you sure you’re not attracted to this guy and that’s why you find him so annoying?”
Betty’s sputtered, “no” was unconvincing. She added quickly, “Did you not hear what I just said? He’s arrogant? He doesn’t play by the rules? He believes in all sorts of mythical creatures?”
“Oh, I heard you. Ooh! Coworkers and opposites who annoy the shit out of each other! All the components of a great love story!”
Before Betty had time to register a complaint, Polly was back to talking about how Edgar wanted them to eat only beige foods, and Betty didn’t know whether to be grateful for the shift away from Jughead—to whom she was not attracted, thank you very much—or to be furious at Edgar Evernever for being such a slimy, manipulative piece of shit.
Now, she tucks one hand underneath her head and pretends she’s never noticed the C-shaped curl that falls on Jughead’s forehead or the elegant hand that pushes it away.
She can hear Jughead crunching all the way to Iowa, his greasy fingers flipping through a stack of papers.
They pick up a sensible, government-approved sedan for the four-hour drive to Carson.
“Just once, I wanna drive a Camaro or something,” Jughead grumbles.
“Those are pretty low to the ground. Not great on dirt roads.”
Jughead pauses, his hands gripping the two suitcases he’s about to heft into the trunk and waits for further elaboration.
“I just to work on cars with my dad. Even restored a few.”
Betty doesn’t understand how, but Jughead manages to extract information from her with disturbing, surgical precision.
Stoic, immovable Betty Cooper, MD, is malleable at the hands of Jughead “Spooky” Jones.
Betty has never sworn so much in her life. Her neighbors probably think they’re living on a loading dock.
“Hmm.” Jughead narrows his eyes in thought. “I know there was more to you, Cooper.”
“Gee, thanks.” Betty rolls her eyes and pulls her blouse away from sticky skin. And then, “there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”
It sounds more flirtatious than she intends it to, and a cock of his head shows her he understood the implication.
“Don’t mention it. I’m driving.”
Jughead drives like a bat out of Hell, and she isn’t surprised.
Betty’s harmless confession about her love of restoring cars with her dad—she’s sure Jughead knows a lot more about Hal Cooper than he’s letting on, but she isn’t going to be the one to bring it up—has made Jughead chatty.
He even puts the Fritos bag aside to talk.
“You mentioned you had a sister.”
“Yep. Lives on a farm with this cult.”
“Like…a demonic cult? I know you said not weird, but...”
“No. At least that’d be interesting,” Betty mutters and Jughead chuckles. “It’s your standard confess your sins, worship a creepy guy and bear his children cult. And demonic would still be weird.”
Jughead clears his throat, and it sounds quite difficult.
“I have a sister. Had. Have.”
Betty is startled. “I had no idea.” She’s not sure if she should ask the question she wants to. She tries a middle option. “Is she…you don’t see her anymore?”
“Buckle up. Metaphorically. I’m about to tell you why they call me Spooky, Cooper. I had a sister too. Jellybean. That’s what we called her. She wanted—she’d just started to switch to JB, but…she’s Jellybean forever.”
Betty licks her lips and opens her mouth, then closes it.
“You can ask.” He takes a deep draw of his soda.
“Had?”
“She disappeared.” Then he corrects himself. “She was taken.”
“By—” Betty almost says people, and then she realizes.
Jughead takes pity on her.
“It was late November. Cold, so cold. My parents had this house at Martha’s Vineyard, and…we went for a walk, just…around the property. My parents were watching the late news. That was so boring, you know? For an eight and twelve-year-old?”
He looks at Betty for assurance that it isn’t unusual or deviant for kids to find Walter Kronkite boring.
“My sister and I used to hide in our room so we couldn’t hear the news.”
“So we were walking, and it cold. I think I said that. The leaves were crunching underneath our feet. I’ll never forget that sound. And Jellybean was—and God, she was a few feet behind me. Maybe. And she was talking. She loved to talk.”
Jughead’s eyes have taken on a hazy, unfocused quality, lost in a memory Betty thinks he’s never fully left.
“Telling me about this kid in her class who—so normal—and…there was…an eerie, noise. Low and piercing. And a light—a light in the sky. And…more than one, and a whirring overhead.”
Betty thinks about offering Jughead a hand to hold, and then thinks better of it.
“And Jellybean…she asked what was happening, but I was frozen. Too frozen to answer. Then I realized she had gone silent, so silent, so I looked behind me. She was gone.”
“And you haven’t…”
“That was the last time I saw my sister. So now,” Jughead looks up suddenly, fixing Betty with a penetrating gaze, “do you understand why I believe in aliens?”
“Yes,” Betty says without hesitation. That doesn't mean she believes in them.
Jughead nods, satisfied. And then because he seems to be able to read her mind, he unwraps a Snickers bar and says, “We’ll get you there, Cooper.”
He takes a massive bite—half the bar at once—and Betty pivots.
“The victims…in Iowa…the ones we’re investigating…you said they were torn apart.”
Jughead nods, mouth full of chocolate.
“What do you…mean exactly?”
He’s kind enough to swallow before answering.
“Chests ripped open, organs removed, gouges all over their bodies, blood saturating the ground.”
Betty doesn’t ask what he’s thinking because she already knows.
She settles in for the rest of the drive, drifting in and out of sleep, and dreaming of humans morphing into beasts, and a confusion she can’t acknowledge.
They’re staying at the (only) local inn, a great place to integrate themselves with the locals and gather gossip.
The motel owner—who hears all the gossip from his place at the front desk—introduces himself as Zebulon Adams, and then, before Betty or Jughead can register a response, adds flatly, “I go by Jack.”
Betty introduces herself, utterly charming Jack, and grins cheerily. “This is Jughead, but his real name is even more unusual. You should ask him about it!”
Jack looks delighted when he peruses their reservation and announces he only has one room available, and he’s really sorry.
He doesn’t look sorry, and his level of remorse doesn’t change when he adds, “There’s only one bed too. A queen, at least.”
In fact, he looks positively gleeful.
“Don’t worry,” Jughead says as they climb the stairs to find their room, “I don’t steal the covers.”
Betty clamps her mouth shut so she doesn’t reveal what really scares her.
The room is exactly what anyone would expect from a motel in small-town Iowa—plush, ruffled, floral, and decorated with ceramic figurines of animal families.
The bed is startlingly tiny.
“We’ll have to cuddle up,” Jughead says cheerfully, and then, before Betty can reply, adds, “Let’s pull out these files once more, before we start interviewing people.”
Jack (Zebulon, Jughead snickers until Betty calls him Forsythe) is the perfect first interview. His family is third generation in Carson, he’s a local high school football hero (he scored the touchdown that secured the Carson Cougars’ first state championship in 70 years), and knows absolutely everybody in town.
“So, tell me what you know about the victims?” Betty has her hair tied back, a professional notepad in her hand, But she keeps her smile winsome and disarming, and Jack is utterly charmed. He is ready to spill all.
“Hannah Simkins.” Jack shakes his head sadly. “A senior in high school. Planning to go to Iowa State next fall. Engineering, I think. Cheerleader. Such a sweet girl.”
“Did she have lots of friends?”
“I’d say…” Jack drums his fingers on the counter. “Two or three. But she got along with everyone. Hung out with different groups, that sorts of thing.”
“How about a boyfriend?” Jughead asks, wanting to be included since he is an actual FBI agent and all.
Jack blinks like he forgot Jughead was there. And given the hypnotic quality of Betty’s eyes, Jughead can’t blame him.
Jack closes his eyes in thought and then snaps his fingers.
“Yes! Andy Walters! About two years, maybe three? Word around town is she broke up with him recently. Poor kid was crushed.”
Betty hums.
“Andy Walters plays football,” Jack says sternly. “He’s a big guy. But he isn’t strong enough to disembowel someone.” He continues before Betty can say anything. “Hannah had a great relationship with her parents. Everybody loved her.”
“Who found her body?” Jughead asks.
“Her best friend. Kim Lightner. Girl’s barely left the house since then.”
“Great, great.” Betty smiles. “This is all great info.” Jack beams.
“Did you know Gerald Walsh?”
Jack’s eyes take on a misty sheen.
“Knew him? He was my best friend for 60 years. Met when we were 11, playing middle school football. I was the best man in his wedding. Yeah, I knew him.”
“I am so sorry for your loss.” Betty’s eyes are a little glassy as well.
“That’s part of why I want so damn much to find out who—or what—did this.” Jughead nods approvingly. “Gerald was a good man. Great husband to his wife, Annie, god rest her soul. Great dad to his kids, James and Willie. Worked as a machinist down at the appliance factory in Kent. He, uh...” Gerald rubbed his eyes and tried to do it discreetly. “He didn’t deserve this.”
“Did he…” Betty didn’t need to finish her sentence.
“Have any enemies? Hell no. Jerry was the heart and soul of this town.”
And because Jack is clearly grieving the friend he lost just a week ago—and because he’s a kind-hearted man not used to sharing his feelings—he pivots to Gina Carr without being asked.
“I didn’t know her as well, since she’s new to town.”
Betty interrupts with a rustle of her papers.
“It says here she moved to Carson five years ago.”
Jack doesn’t blink.
“Right. New.”
“That’s new in small towns, Cooper.” Jughead pokes her for emphasis. “People tend to raise families here and their kids stay, and then their kids stay…”
“Exactly.” Jack nods semi-approvingly at Jughead, perhaps accepting his existence for the first time.
“What do you know about her?” Jughead gets in on the questioning at last.
“She had a daughter, 14 or 15. Alexis, I think it is. Maybe Alexa? Popular at the high school, a cheerleader. Gina worked at Phyllis’s restaurant just off Main.” Betty takes a note.
Gerald taps the counter. “I can’t say this for sure. It’s just a rumor, mind you,” he adds, as if he hasn’t been sharing rumors all morning. “But supposedly she had an angry ex-husband out there. I guess she moved here to get away from him.”
Predictably, Betty latches on to this lead.
“Do you know if anyone has seen him?”
“No. Ask Phyllis. She knows even more than I do.”
After thanking Gerald—profusely—Betty’s bright smile reddening his ears, Betty and Jughead stroll down Main Street, deciding to meet Phyllis’ before the families.
“We don’t know it’s the ex-husband, Cooper.”
Betty huffs out an angry breath.
“No, but it’s a solid guess. She ran away from him? Took the daughter? Men have killed for less.”
In lieu of admitting she has a point, Jughead asks an annoying question.
“Why kill Hannah and Gerald, then? They didn’t betray him.”
“Maybe they got in the way. Maybe he was just pissed off. I’m just saying, don’t dismiss the possibility.”
“As long as you don’t dismiss the possibility of—”
“Oh, look! Here’s the restaurant. After you, Jones.”
It turns out Phyllis does know a lot. She knows how to make mean apple pie, she knows how to crochet doilies for each table, and she knows that Gerald Walsh was afraid of some creature in the woods.
“Hannah and Gina mentioned one too.” She waves one ruddy arm as if such a thing is commonplace.
“But Gerald? He used to come in two days a week—Tuesdays and Fridays—for our meatloaf special.” She leans in as if confessing a secret. “Before his wife passed, she made him promise to watch his cholesterol. Sometimes he got fries on the side, but not that often.” Phyllis moves on from Gerald’s commitment to healthy eating. “So anyway, he and I would chat—we were all friends, him and I, with our spouses, God have mercy on their souls. Well, Gerald used to like to walk in the woods. Right on the edge of the cornfield. Made him feel closer to Melinda. And for the past…oh, few months…he saw this…creature.”
“What’d it look like?” Jughead rushes in before Betty can say something skeptical.
“Tall, much taller than a human. Covered in a kind of brown fur. Bristly, he said. Massive antlers. And it was stomping through the forest, and there was this awful stench and then a chill in the air. Gerald said it was like he was made of ice.”
“And then?” Betty can’t help but lean in.
Phyllis snorts. “Then he got the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of there!”
“But?” Jughead prods gently.
Phyllis dabs at her eyes with a folded napkin. “But he kept going back. He wanted to know what that…thing was. Gerald was always too curious for his own good. And then he went missing. I reported it, along with a few other folks, like Kenny down at the hardware store. Gerald used to go in there a couple times a week, to get supplies for his birdhouses. Sherriff Callahan found his body two days later. All…ripped open. Torn apart.”
“I’m so sorry, Phyllis.” Betty has a very comforting voice, and Phyllis nods gratefully.
“We won’t take up much more of your time. What about Gina and Hannah?”
“I didn't know Gina well, but I do know she darted through the woods to get to work, and Hannah would meet her boyfriend there. I guess her parents didn’t approve.”
Phyllis sniffs like she doesn’t approve either.
"Did Gina ever mention an ex-husband?" Betty asks.
"Just that she had one, and he was sick. Terminal, I think."
“We appreciate your help, Phyllis,” Jughead says.
“You’ve helped so much,” Betty adds. And because Betty has an unmistakable gentleness beneath her steel and tenacity, Phyllis manages a small smile.
“Anything to figure out who…” she pauses meaningfully “…or what did this.”
Betty waits until they’re out on the sidewalk.
“I know what you’re thinking. Humans can he tall, cold, and smelly.”
“Do humans have antlers? Are they covered in brown bristles?”
“It was dark, Jones. They were scared. And we don’t know how Gina and Hannah described whoever—”
“Or whatever.”
“—did this.”
“Have you ever heard of a Wendigo?”
“No. But let me guess. Tall, smelly, icy, furry, with antlers?”
“How’d you guess?” Jughead points at a convenience store, which means he wants to go in. “They’re cannibals. An insatiable hunger for flesh. And they tear people apart just like Phyllis described.”
As if he considers the matter settled (which he probably does), Jughead opens the store door with a cheery greeting and heads straight for the chips.
Bill and Caroline Simkins don’t want to talk about wendigos either. They don’t want to talk about anything.
Whatever words Bill once possessed appear stuck in his throat like sap, and Caroline looks beyond all of them, at a better reality only she can see.
Their house—Betty can tell Caroline was once a stickler for tidiness, though she seems unbothered by letting the place disintegrate around her—features Hannah as a decoration. Pictures of her adorn every wall: in her cheerleading uniform, pom-poms aloft; at her kindergarten graduation, her hair in strawberry blonde pigtails; running in a sprinkler, her toddler body chubby in a striped bathing suit; patting a cow at a 4-H competition.
Jughead wonders if it helps to see Hannah around them, all this evidence she existed, or if there comes a point when you can’t hurt any more than you already do.
In halting tones, Bill gives them ten minutes. He grips the sides of the couch until his fingers are bloodless. Hannah is—was, he corrects, and Caroline keens—a good kid. Kind, bubbly, friendly. People like her. Her boyfriend is respectful and doting.
They were looking forward to touring colleges with Hannah—she was considering colleges in Minnesota: close enough to visit home when she wanted, but far enough to spread her wings. Planning her funeral was never on the radar.
Betty keeps her voice low and gentle.
“Where would she go for fun?”
Movies, Bill says. Friends’ houses for video games. Drives through the countryside.
"And she had a boyfriend?" Betty passes Caroline a Kleenex.
"Andy," Caroline sniffs. "A good kid. Hannah broke up with him because they weren't going to the same college. I think she regretted it. I know what you're thinking. He couldn't have done this. He's barely hanging on."
“You mentioned places Hannah liked to go. Do you think Hannah might have gone places you weren’t aware of?” Jughead keeps his voice gentle.
Bill blinks, as if the thought is just now occurring to him. He takes Caroline’s hand.
“Sure. It’s possible. I guess you can’t be sure, can you?”
And then his face crumples in unbearable pain, as if he’s realized there is a secret part of his daughter he will never understand.
Jughead tells them how sorry they are, and he means it.
Betty hates leaving them there, suffocating in a cloud of pain.
Andy Walters is sobbing so hard he’s barely comprehensible, and they catch “love,” and “beautiful,” and “gone,” until Betty puts a hand over his and tells him how sorry she is. Hannah was amazing, she says, and Andy wipes at his face, dabs at his eyes with a flannel shirt, and says she was.
His voice shakes when he says was.
“You weren’t there that night, is that correct?” Jughead makes direct eye contact.
“No. I was going to meet Hannah there, to talk about maybe getting back together, but I had burgers with the guys first, and that ran late. I texted Hannah to let her know, but…I think I was too late.”
“Did you meet there a lot?” Betty asks gently.
Andy’s cheeks pinken. “Hannah’s parents are great, but…privacy…”
“Did you ever see or hear anything strange on the edge of the cornfield?” Betty can’t begrudge Jughead for asking.
“Twice. Some growling. A scraping noise. Rustling. We shoulda stopped going.”
When he starts weeping again, Betty offers him a hug and turns him over to his parents.
Kim Lightner has mostly taken to her bed, but she appears at the foot of the stairs, a wraith in stained pajamas, eyes dim and haunted, to tell them Hannah said something weird was happening in the cornfield.
“You found her…” Betty says softly, letting Kim fill in the rest.
Kim seems to be beyond crying.
“We searched everywhere for her, but only a few people knew her and Andy’s spot. I went there on my own, didn’t want her parents to see. She…she barely looked human.”
Neither agent can stand to torture Kim any more so they thank her and leave.
The door closes with a thwump and Jughead opens a can of Cherry Coke with a hiss before he asks, without sarcasm, “Something weird going on around here, huh?”
“It seems like it. We’ll have to find out what sorts of animals roam the woods.” Then Betty snaps, “Quit looking smug,” but given what she’s learned about Jughead over the past three months,
No one knew Gina Carr well, not with her being so “new” in town, and cursory interviews of Kane Taylor, who runs the drugstore for his dad (Gina’s daughter had a lot of prescriptions, and Kane isn’t bothered much by confidentiality), and Melissa Yancy, who bartends at the only dive bar in town, the Whyte Wyrm, Gina was moderately friendly but guarded, and she wasn’t interested in making friends or even friendly acquaintances.
“If you ask me,” Melissa says, leaning over the bar with a rag in hand, “she didn’t just leave her husband. She ran from him.” She scoffs and huffs out a breath, a 60-year-old woman in a 30-year-old’s body. “Ask me how I don’t.”
They don’t ask, just thank her and leave.
Gina’s coworkers tell a similar story. Closed off, reluctant to socialize, seemed sad. Sometimes Gina smiled, mentioning her daughter’s straight A’s or talent with the guitar, and then snapped her mouth shut, as if she’d accidentally revealed too much.
But Maddie (Jack was way off on the name) Carr has been whisked away by her grandparents, so one can talk to her, finding out if her mother ever mentioned anything suspect or scary by the cornfields.
“Or anywhere else,” Betty adds pointedly.
And Gina, who never admitted her favorite brand of cereal, certainly didn’t anyone if she was afraid.
Jack at the inn arranges a meeting between the agents and James Walsh, the only one of Gerald’s sons who’s still in Carson.
“Willie lives in Chicago,” Jack reports with a note of mild disapproval at choosing a life of one’s own.
No one asks if Jack should or will sit in, he just does, leaning his chair back and watching the front door for any customers.
“Did you talk to your dad often?”
James is a slight man, and soft-spoken—Jack tells them later he’s a lot like his dad—and they have to lean into her him.
“Two or three times a week. Two if business is slow. Oh. I run an HVAC business,” he adds, as if this factoid has no meaning. “My dad helped me…”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
James nods a wordless thanks to Jughead.
“What kind of things did you talk about?”
“Kind of basic, everyday life stuff. How business was doing, my son’s softball games, my daughter’s soccer games, my wife’s real estate business. Um. Dad’s golf games, his time at the Rotary Club. That sort of thing.”
Betty taps her pen against her cheek.
“Do you know…did he like to go on walks at night?”
James nods. “Every night. He loved the fresh air. And retirement was hard for him. He got bored, especially with Mom gone. He felt cooped up, you know? The walks helped.”
“Um.” Jughead seems to be choosing his words. “So, you know that your dad was found…”
“On the edge of the woods, by the cornfields. Yep.”
“Was that a place he went often, do you know?” Betty slides a glass of water towards James.
“Yes,” Jack interrupts.
“Did you tell you?” James asks abruptly. He doesn’t wait for Jack to answer. “A couple months ago, my dad started telling me he heard…things there. Crunching and rustling and growling. Maybe chewing. I told him to find somewhere else to walk. I thought there was a coyote or something. But he refused. I knew he would.”
“Was that place special to him?” Betty leans in.
“He and my mom…she died of cancer a couple years ago…they used to walk there when they were dating. In high school. So…”
“It was special,” Betty summarizes.
“He said he felt close to her there.” James’s voice shakes. “Even when they found the bodies, he went anyway. I had Willie call and try to talk some sense into him, but no. So, I asked him…please call me when you get back from your walks, so I know you’re safe. And he did. He chuckled at me being paranoid, but he did.”
The air in the room is thick and buzzing.
“Until one night, he didn’t. I called a couple buddies…I thought Dad had a heart attack. He had high cholesterol. But…well, you know what he looked like.”
At this point, James is crying not just sniffling, and he seems like the kind of man who likes to seem stoic, so Betty and Jughead thank him for his time and rise to leave.
“We are working our hardest to find who did this.”
James fixes Betty with a flinty stare. “Or what. I saw him at the morgue. What.”
They head to the woods next, stopping by their room to grab a flashlight, windbreakers, and their guns.
Jughead’s food pit stop is mercifully abbreviated. The sun is low in the sky and the wind is picking up. It’s not dark, but they only have about an hour and a half before sunset, and even seasoned FBI agents would rather avoid being in the woods with a deranged sociopath (Jughead is dubious at this possibility) or a vicious creature.
“Cooper.” Jughead keeps chewing as he talks, peering into the bag to make sure he’s got another piece of beef jerky after this one. “Can you honestly tell me you never saw anything in medical school that defied description?”
Betty felt flustered and tried to hide it. Jughead’s raised eyebrow indicated she was unsuccessful.
“Of course. Doctors see unusual things all the time. But,” she continued cutting him off before he could say what she knew was coming, “we always found a logical explanation in the end.”
“Beef jerky?” Jughead holds out the bag.
“Offering your last piece? I’m flattered.”
“There’s a convenience store right there. It’s not really a sacrifice. Anyway, you always found answers in the end, great. But weren’t there times it took you awhile to get there, and you were confused and unsure along the way?”
“Well, I—yes. Lots of times.”
“Look at this case at you did those. Maybe you’ll find a logical explanation in the end.”
“Probably.”
“Maybe. But for now, nothing makes sense. Everything is possible.”
“Everything including a human bat.”
“You’ve been reading my books, huh?”
“Sometimes I’m bored at lunch.” Betty huffs out an annoyed breath. She's already annoyed. He's a great cuddler, and she likes waking up to find him wrapped around her more than she cares to admit. “Stick to the question.”
“Especially a human bat. I wonder if they have Corn Nuts in that store. Seems like a place that would. Haven’t had those in years.”
“I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
Jughead whistles and holds the door for her. He buys a Snapple, too, to get some fruit for the day.
“Gotta look out for your health, you know?” and then the fucker winks, and Betty feels absolutely nothing. Maybe a little concern for how it might feel to have scurvy, but that’s it.
The woods are creepy at night, but by this point, Betty and Jughead have conducted three in-person investigations, and two of them involved the woods.
It turns out the woods are great dumping grounds for serial killers, drug traffickers, and hungry wildlife.
“It could be lots of things,” Betty hisses just to argue. Jughead’s flashlight bobs, and she swears he’s stifling a laugh.
(He’ll confess later he was.)
“People in small towns are susceptible to urban legends, Jones.”
He doesn’t bother to argue with her—a first for him.
Instead he stops, leans up against a particularly foreboding tree, and says, “Remember how I mentioned wendigos, Cooper?”
“Oh, I remember,” she says, sounding like she wishes she didn’t. “You said Phyllis sounded like she was describing one.”
“Did you know the wendigo is a Native American myth?”
“Considering I had no idea wendigos were a thing—not a real thing, mind you—until yesterday, no.”
“The original wendigo was a man, a lost hunter, He had to survive in the brutal elements, the horrible cold. After resorting to cannibalism, he developed a taste for human flesh.”
“And what? His insatiable hunger turned him into a beast?”
“Precisely.” Betty can see Jughead’s pleased smirk in the circle of light emanating from his flashlight. Do you see the point here, Coop?”
“A nickname? Heaven help us all. No, I don’t.”
“That even the more unbelievable legends are born out of logic. Hunters get lost in the cold and snow. Cannibalism exists. Creatures evolve.”
Betty attempts to steer the conversation to something that doesn’t sound so batshit crazy. They’re moving again, and almost to the heart of the woods, the darkest part, and the wind is making the nearby cornfield whistle.
“So, Phyllis described a creature—relay other people’s descriptions—similar to a wendigo. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Not just Phyllis. How many people described that same creature?”
“This is a small town,” Betty argues. “People talk. Details get mixed up and turned around and—”
Whatever futile argument Betty is about to make is drowned out by the sound of a repeated scratching noise, a violent clomp through dry leaves, and a strangled roaring sound.
“That could be anything,” Betty hisses.
She can make out Jughead’s grin even in the growing dark.
“Do you think we should try to capture it?” Betty fingers her gun.
Jughead pulls both of them behind a tree.
“Wendigos can’t be stopped by bullets.”
Betty opens her mouth to say they don’t even know this is a wendigo—and wendigos probably don’t even exist—but the snuffling and clicking of very large fangs shuts her up.
“So…what then?”
“Silver. A bullet or a stake.”
“And I suppose you have one?”
“Not on me, Cooper. Back in the room.”
“You travel with a—”
“Just be grateful I have it.”
And Betty kind of is, although she’d never admit it.
But they won’t be able to use it on the whatever it is, not tonight.
Big, hairy human, Betty insists stubbornly.
Whatever is lumbering and snarling retreats into the cornfield, flattening stalks and spraying kernels as it goes.
“The kills are coming exactly eight days apart,” Jughead says as they walk back to the car. “That must be how often the creature feeds.”
He gives Betty the side-eye to see if she’ll interject with something logical. She rolls her eyes instead.
“It’s been six days since Hannah Simkins was killed. So, we need to come back in two nights to prevent victim number four. Tomorrow for research”
Betty wishes that the residents of Carson would stay the hell out of the woods, considering how there’s a whatever on the loose, but considering the occasional whoops, sighs, and whispers they heard while they waited, it appears this town inspire risk taking or stupidity.
“And you’ll bring…”
“The silver knife.” Of course. And then, just to be kind, he adds, “And my gun. Can’t be sure what we’ll need.”
He’s sure all right, Betty thinks, that smug bastard. And then she doesn’t think anything else, like how attractive she finds his quiet confidence.
There’s nothing at all of note the following night, and after a lazy day chatting with Jack and sampling the local delicacies (“Have you ever had a Moon Pie, Cooper?” he asked, as if he’d been transported directly into Heaven.), Jughead seems almost disappointed not to see some action.
It turns out he and Betty like the same books, overlap on some movies, and don’t live in the same century when it comes to music. They both cuddle, but neither of them mention it. And if Betty sometimes spends a few moments feeling his soft hair on the back of her neck before she wakes him up, well...she gets cold easily.
He sheathes the gleam of his silver knife with a mournful sigh.
“I bet you’ll get to kill something tomorrow, Jones,” she says, trying to console him.
Jughead pouts for the entire walk back to the inn.
They spend the following day doing paperwork in their respective rooms—Betty wonders if how he can keep Archie informed of their progress without using the word wendigo.
“Archie?” He looks confused. “Oh, right. Andrews. I don’t. I’ve used the word wendigo seven times. So far.”
Betty has quickly learned that Jughead considers “paper pushing” to be a waste of FBI resources, and of his own time, so this brief question provides him the perfect opportunity to waylay her with tales of various supernatural creatures.
Gargoyles. Soul eaters. Werewolves.
“We’ll hack into the FBI database when we get back. I’ll show you.”
At Betty’s look of scandalized alarm, Jughead adds, “Well, we won’t. I know these three guys, the Lone Gunmen Wait ‘til you meet Dilton.”
When they head back to the woods, Jack calls after them with an ominous, “Good luck out there,” which Betty considers a very good sign. Or a very bad sign.
Jughead is whistling, spinning his knife cheerily.
Betty wishes she was back in the morgue, cutting Y’s in corpses and adjusting her headlamp to see damage to internal organs and crushed ribcages.
The air has a bite to it, with Jack promised them happened sometimes in July, as if he wanted to reassure them that there was something normal about this town.
Of course, he also muttered, “be careful out there,” and locked the inn door behind them when they left, so he wasn’t all sunshine and roses.
“I think I heard the cock of a shotgun,” Jughead says as they walk. “Very prepared.”
Betty thinks she heard that too, but she doesn’t give her partner more than a grunt. He’s already satisfied enough, and they haven’t even caught this thing.
Person, Betty corrects herself sternly.
“There are fewer people in the woods tonight,” Betty says, noting the occasional muffled voice.
“Probably because it’s cold,” Jughead says cynically. “Not because this town’s kids are smart enough to stay home when there’s a wendigo—sorry, a person with claws—on the loose.”
They hear a cluster of kids giggling, a plume of white smoke rising, and then a low snarl, a wet snuffle, and a scrape along a pile of crunch leaves.
“Ah, there it is,” Jughead says, gripping his knife.
Betty puts a hand on her gun, just in case.
The giggling turns to screams, and Jughead takes off at a run, yelling behind him, “Just stay here, Cooper!”
“I’m an FBI agent too, you know,” Betty mutters, and takes off behind him.
The four high school kids, clad in flared jeans, beanies, and puffy vests, aren’t laughing and smoking pot anymore. They’re flat on their backs in the damp grass, whimpering and scrabbling to get away.
A great beast stands over them, growling and clicking its claws. It has an exposed ribcage, a snout dripping with blood, and a rack of sharp antlers.
“Hey!” Jughead yells. He’s standing about 10 feet away. “Don’t I look tastier?”
The creature looks back and forth between his meal options a few times, as if pondering Jughead’s point.
He charges, but he isn’t fast enough.
Jughead sinks his silver knife into the creature’s heart before it can breathe hot puffs of air into his face.
It falls with a thud but makes no other noise.
“What is that thing?” one of the kids asks, his eyes saucers and his hands shaking.
“Some kind of moose, I think,” Jughead lies.
That’s enough for the kids, who bolt from the woods, probably going to go get high somewhere else. Jughead can’t blame them.
“What should we…” Betty gestures towards the corpse.”
“Bury it,” Jughead says instantly. “No way to explain this to the town.” He remembers a hardware store on Main Street.
“So…” Jughead says, tossing a pile of dirt behind him. “You admit this is a wendigo.”
“I never said that.” Betty points her own shovel menacingly.
“Didn’t have to, Coop. You know what is.”
“There are data points for your position, but we can’t say for sure.”
“Mm-hmm. We should get ice cream after this. I saw a little place near the inn.”
As soon as Betty has taken her first bite of her mint chocolate chip cone, Jughead looks up from his ice cream sundae to try to trap her. He has a dot of chocolate fudge on his lip, and Betty does not find it adorable.
“Well?” he asks. “Do you believe now?”
“I admit it was weird.” Betty grits her teeth. “That doesn’t mean I believe in the supernatural.”
“Wait ‘til you see some crop circles.” Jughead swirls some ice cream on his spoon. “You’ll believe then.”
Betty grinds her teeth and resists the urge to kiss—no, kick—him.
“I think I’ll get a shake, too. Ooh, cookies and cream! Or a nice strawberry shake. Those are always good. Whoa, they make their own waffle cones! How did I miss that?”
Jughead looks almost as delighted as he did while he was sticking a silver knife through the heart of…whatever that was.
Once they return to DC, Jughead does not let up on his campaign to convince Betty of the existence of the supernatural.
Unfortunately for her, he has ample opportunity.
*
“Well?” Jughead asks with a smirk as they wrap the Flukeman in a shroud and roll him into a back corner of the sewer. “Do you believe now?”
They’re climbing out, with Betty brushing off her suit like she can’t will away fetid sewer grime.
“We can’t be sure what that was?”
“Right.” Jughead offers Betty a hand as she wobbles on the last step. “Lots of humans bite people and try to inject worms into them. That’s totally how we reproduce."
“It looked like a mummy,” Betty says defensively.
“And walking mummies are a thing?”
Betty throws herself into their government-issued car and tries to ignore the smell.
“I admit it was weird.”
“Aha!” Jughead shouts triumphantly over the judder of the car’s engine, as if he’s won. “Weird” is a strong word for Betty, and he’ll take it.
*
“Well?” Jughead asks. He’s typing up a report about the Jersey Devil and he doesn’t even bother to look up. Betty can feel his smirk on the side of her face.
“All mammals need to feed their offspring, Jones. Even feral ones covered in mud.”
Jughead just hums over the click-clack of his vintage Underwood typewriter.
“Still weird?”
“Yes,” Betty replies, grinding her teeth.
*
“Well?” Jughead asks, draping his coat over Betty’s shoulders.
It’s cold here on the side of the highway, where the Chupacabras have disappeared into the mist of the night.
“Goddammit, Jones.”
“It’s gonna take a while for our ride to get here, Cooper. Indulge me.”
“The eyewitness testimony was vague. We know there were brothers fighting over a girl.”
“But…”
“Weird, Jones. Really fucking weird.”
“Ooh, a swear word.”
“Shut up, Jones.”
*
“Well?” Jughead asks, asks as he cuffs Eugene Tooms’ arm to Betty's’s bathtub.
She straightens her clothes and re-holsters her gun.
“There are all kinds of genetic mutations, Jones. Even bizarre ones with connective tissue differences.”
“Weird, right?”
“Very weird,” Betty allows.
Very is an improvement. She’s close. Jones will take it.
Even Tooms scoffs. He looks slightly affronted.
*
“Hmm, how should I put this. Oh, I know. Well?” Jughead asks, leaning his chair on two legs against the paint chips on the wall. He’s just finished barring the hotel room door with a dresser, a nightstand, and a little table. It won’t do much, but he liked the idea of using everything available. There was nowhere to shove in the chair.
“Just admit it, Cooper. There’s nothing else to do in this shitty room.” He ignores a low growl and skittering outside the door.”
Betty grinds her teeth.
“I heard that, Cooper. Total tell. Just get it off your chest. You’ll feel better.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” The motel room door rattles in its frame.
Betty raises an eyebrow and cocks her head towards the sound.
Jughead waves his hand dismissively. “I know how to deal with that thing.” He taps his head with a finger. “I did my research.”
“Don’t look smug, Jones.”
“But you like it.” He raises his voice meaningfully. “Anyway, you were about to admit something.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, fine.” Jughead bounces on the balls of his feet. “I love you, okay?”
“Yes. How sweet it is. And?”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Always, Cooper.” It’s a lie, but Betty lets it pass. “One more confession. It’s good for the soul.” He taps his chest, as if it’s an ideal location for a soul.
“I love you isn’t enough?”
“You’d think so, but…”
A stomping nose shakes the floor.
“Weird isn’t enough?”
“Not anymore, Cooper. Sorry to say it.”
“You are not sorry.” Betty flops on the bed, spreading her arms around in a starfish pose. “So…fucking hell…I admit it.” She wonders if it’s too late to become a ballerina. She’d look adorable in a tutu.
“Admit what?” Jughead grins. “It is so vague, wouldn’t you say?”
“I admit there’s a chance—a good chance—that supernatural beings exist. And there’s one outside this room.”
Jughead whoops, so loudly and joyously that the creature outside is rendered mute momentarily.
“This is fucking great.” Jughead looks unbearably smug.
“Yeah, yeah.” Betty curls into a ball so she doesn’t have to see Jughead’s unbearably smug face.
Jughead claps his hands. “Okay, so. This door doesn’t seem all that sturdy so…” The door in question shifts ominously. “Would you help me drag the nightstands to bolster our fortress? Then grab an ugly lamp to hit it over the head if need be?” Betty drags herself off the bed. “Oh, and make sure to grab your gun.” Betty unplugs the lamp.
“I’ve got salt, which will slow him down.”
“I’m grateful for your research,” Betty admits grudgingly.
“I love to hear it. Oh!” He snaps his fingers.
“Do you also need a wooden cross or something?”
“Oh, Cooper. Mixing up vampires with demons? Still so much to learn. No. I love you too.”
Betty beams.
“Not convinced about aliens.”
“We’ll get there. You want to believe, too. Now pick up one end of that nightstand. Lift on three.”
The nightstand proves to be useless when the door crashes to the ground with a mighty thud and the demon fills their doorway. It does not look like it believes in the beauty of true love.
Jughead shrugs and grabs the salt. He believes, and that’s all that matters right now.