Sons of Darkness

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Thank you for waiting with me,” she said, including Travis with a glance in his direction. “But I’ll be all right. I’ll call my daughter, and she’ll come stay with me a while. We already discussed it. Henry and I had a good long time together, and I imagine we won’t be parted long,” she added with a sad smile. “I’ll see you at Mass in the morning.”

  Travis and Ryan drove back to the rectory in silence. By this time it was dark, and despite the streetlights and the warm glow from inside the houses they passed, Travis still felt chilled to the bone.

  Ryan’s cat, Lilith, met them at the door. They hung up their coats and headed into the kitchen. Ryan took down a bottle of scotch and poured them both a liberal draught. “Talk to me,” he said, sitting across from Travis. “What happened back there?”

  Travis was quiet for several moments, then gave Ryan as much of an account as he could bring himself to put into words. “I don’t know why the rite still works for me,” he admitted. “Because I stopped believing when I left the Sinistram.”

  Ryan shrugged. “The Eternal Power of Creation—call it by any name you choose—is not the same as the Church, and it’s heresy to say otherwise. Although that’s an unpopular opinion in some circles. You lost faith in a fallible human organization that often failed to live up to its ideals, and which, at its worst, hurt as much as healed. That’s as it should be. Blind faith is a recipe for exploitation.”

  Travis took a swallow and let the liquor burn down his throat. “Better be careful who hears you say that.”

  “You know me, Travis. I won’t say anything behind someone’s back I wouldn’t say to their face.” Ryan took a slug of his own drink. “Lucky for me, there’s a priest shortage.”

  “Still doesn’t answer my question.”

  Ryan met his gaze. “It works for you because the energy you’re calling forth in the rite belongs to itself, not to anyone else. You believe in it , so it doesn’t matter if you don’t believe in them . You don’t have to completely understand. Just accept it as a gift, like your other abilities, and use it for the right reasons.”

  Travis wasn’t completely convinced, but it was the best answer he was likely to receive, and so he nodded and raised his glass in salute before knocking back the rest of it. He was surprised when Ryan refilled both their glasses.

  “I should probably drink less,” Travis said with a sigh, regarding the amber liquid.

  “Maybe,” Ryan allowed. “Then again, life is short, and we should take comfort where we can.”

  “I don’t remember them saying that in seminary either.”

  “Life taught me a lot of things they didn’t cover,” Ryan replied.

  Travis sat back in his chair and toyed with his glass. “How did a low-level demonic infestation happen to pick a guy like Henry Laszlo? Do you believe his wife, that he didn’t have some awful, hidden sordid secrets?”

  Ryan considered his answer before speaking. “None he ever confided to me,” he said. “And while no one ever really knows another person’s heart, I don’t think he was a serial killer or a secret rapist or a child molester. The worst I saw of him was his grief when the doctors diagnosed his wife’s cancer.”

  Travis looked up, surprised. Ryan nodded. “They lost a son, last year, in a car accident. Henry took it hard. Then he found out Helen’s cancer had come back—stage four, this time, so there was little anyone could do about it—and he was inconsolable.”

  “Was he desperate enough to do something like trying to bargain for her life?”

  Ryan raised an eyebrow. “I really can’t imagine Henry Laszlo striking a crossroads deal. He was honest to a fault.”

  “There’s got to be a reason why the hell-maggots picked him,” Travis mused.

  “Not necessarily. Sometimes, random shit happens, and we wear ourselves out trying to make it make sense.”

  “You said there’d been other cases like this?” Travis sipped the whiskey, savoring the taste. Ryan didn’t allow himself many luxuries, but the scotch was one of them.

  “Yeah. But until I saw a pattern, I didn’t think it was more than bereavement. In the other cases, there was family to help intervene. They got a doc to give a sedative to the person who wouldn’t release the body, and then other relatives made sure the body went right for cremation.” He wrinkled his nose. “There wasn’t really any other option since the corpses weren’t fresh. In a few cases, we didn’t realize there’d been a death for quite some time.”

  “Cremation, huh?” Travis replied thoughtfully, absently tracing the rim of his glass with one finger. “Purifying fire.”

  Ryan nodded. “Which destroyed those particular infestations, but doesn’t solve the bigger problem of why it’s happening.”

  Travis rubbed his temples. “When I get back to Pittsburgh, I’ll see what I can find at the Archives. Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t blab to the Keepers.” The Archives was a secret repository of arcane knowledge deep in the underground warren beneath the Duquesne University seminary library. Travis retained access because of his history with the Sinistram. The Archive’s librarians, the mysterious Keepers, were monks who dedicated their lives to preserving the old—and often dangerous—occult tomes. Many Keepers had taken a vow of silence.

  “Creepy bastards,” Ryan replied. “They’re probably ninja assassins.”

  Travis grinned. “They’re all older than Methuselah. Unless the rumors are true, and they’re actually immortal.” Seminary students gossiped like everyone else, although no one would dare have said a word within the hearing of the fearsome librarians.

  “I’ll keep my ears open,” Ryan agreed. “Maybe I can figure out a pattern. Do you think that these…hell-maggots…caused Henry’s death, or are they, I don’t know, some kind of demonic soul-scavengers?”

  Travis took another sip of his drink. The whole concept was disquieting. “No idea. I’ve never even heard of that kind of infestation before. Sort of like satanic scabies.”

  “Let me do some digging,” Ryan offered. “After all, I’m really only aware of what goes on in my congregation, unless something becomes newsworthy enough to get talked about down at the diner. Maybe there’s been more happening than I know. I’m also overdue to have lunch with Pastor Jonas and Reverend Harmond,” he added with a wink.

  “That’s very ecumenical of you,” Travis replied with a wry smile.

  Ryan shrugged. “Cooper City is a small town. Individuals may bicker, but behind the scenes, Jonas and Harmond and I—and some others—do a lot of collaborating on the food bank, the women’s shelter, that sort of thing. Doesn’t make sense to not work together. So I’ll see what I can find out from them. And I’ll ask Mrs. K,” he added, referencing his housekeeper, “and find out what the ladies down at the beauty shop are saying. They know everything that’s worth knowing in these parts.”

  “And if you would, keep an ear open for anything about a freaky black truck,” Travis said. “Not that I think it’s related, but I-80 comes right past here. So might that truck.”

  “You think there’s something supernatural going on?”

  Travis nodded. “I’m not sure what, but I don’t think it’s as simple as kidnapping. As if that isn’t bad enough.”

  “I’ve heard about the disappearances. I think people are edgy about them,” Ryan responded. “There’s talk. Nothing but a rehash of what’s been on the news, but I’ll tell you if I hear anything really interesting.”

  Ryan made a pot of decaf, spiked with Jameson’s, and they finished the last of the pie, then retired to the living room to stream a recent superhero movie. Travis’s attention drifted in and out of the plot, but he enjoyed the rare camaraderie of being able to hang out with a friend without either of them feeling the burden of the collar.

  He finally headed to the guest room around midnight, and the buzz of his phone surprised him. A glance at the ID puzzled him even more.

  “Trece? Where are you?” Trece Baldwin was a long-haul trucker whose routes took h
im up and down the Eastern seaboard and back and forth across the heartland.

  “Passing the exit for I-99 on I-80. I need to talk to you, man. I’ve been seeing shit, and you’re the only one who’ll believe me.” Trece’s far sight worked a little differently from Travis’s own sporadic clairvoyance. Travis caught glimpses from the past, present, and future, and saw distant happenings as they unfolded in real time, but usually without context or any ability to intervene.

  “Tell me.”

  “I saw a big black pickup stop beside a car pulled off on the side of the road.”

  “Saw with your eyes, or saw with your gift?”

  “With my gift,” Trece snapped, “else I wouldn’t have cause to call you about it, now would I?” He was quiet for a moment. “Anyhow, there was a lady in the car, and she had the hood up, so I guess she’d had trouble. The black pickup stopped, and then it took off again, and the woman was gone. I never saw anyone get out…”

  “But?” Travis prompted.

  “But I got a glimpse through the front windshield.” Trece’s voice choked with fear. “Couldn’t make out a face, but Travis, whatever was driving had glowing red eyes.”

  Chapter Four

  “I just don’t figure Brian Mason to be the kind to kill himself.” Doug Conroy led the way through the forest underbrush, and Brent followed a couple of paces behind.

  “People do things for all kinds of reasons that only make sense to themselves,” Brent replied.

  “There’s something weird about this, Brent. I wouldn’t have dragged your ass out here if I thought this was just business as usual.”

  Doug left the Pittsburgh police force about the same time Brent left to start his PI business. He and his wife, Cheryl, used to be neighbors to Brent’s family down in Columbia, SC, where Doug had been a cop before moving north for a promotion. He’d been on the scene the night Brent’s family had been murdered and done his best in the aftermath to hunt the one responsible. It had been Doug’s recommendation that got Brent the job in Pittsburgh, and they remained friends and fishing buddies, despite the difference in their ages. Now, he served as the Cooper City chief of police, which also covered the little hamlet of Merrick’s Corners.

  “I’m guessing all the easy stuff got ruled out? Debts, drugs, looming scandal?”

  Doug snorted. “Brian wasn’t an angel, but there was nothing shady about him.”

  “How about mental health issues?” Brent pressed. “Depression? Anxiety?”

  “No more than anyone else. But the thing that gets me is, how come we’ve had five suicides from a town the size of Merrick’s Corners, in the last four months, and all of them out in the same stretch of woods?”

  Brent frowned. “Any link between the victims?”

  Doug shouldered through the underbrush, which scratched against the sturdy tan canvas of his field jacket. “None anyone’s turned up, other than just knowing each other from around town. Not related, didn’t go to the same church, didn’t even bowl in the same league. Not the same age. Hell, they weren’t even poker buddies, and they didn’t all drink at the same bars.”

  “Had any banks go belly-up lately? Bad investments?”

  Doug shook his head. He still had a full head of hair, though it was steel gray now, instead of the silver-flecked brown that Brent remembered from his time on the force. “Nope. I do recall how to be a cop, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brent replied, respect hidden by a layer of sass.

  “None of that. I need your help, Brent. I don’t think that these deaths are normal .” The emphasis he put on the last word left no doubt in Brent’s mind as to what his old friend really meant.

  He fought down a shiver. “What’s so special about this stretch of woods?” Brent looked at the land around them. The trees were large, probably fifty to a hundred years old, he’d guess, although not much beyond that. As he studied the contours of the ground, he saw remnants of a road. Elsewhere, he spotted what remained of the foundation for a building, and an overgrown section of stone fence.

  “That’s what’s left of Peale.” Doug pointed to a clearing ahead. “Mining town, back about a hundred years ago. Built up out of nowhere when the mines around here opened, got bigger than Cooper City in just a year, and then dried up when the coal seams tapped out. Some folks stayed on into the early 1900s, but there weren’t jobs, and so when they died, so did the town.”

  Curious, Brent followed Doug through the woods to see for himself. Time had taken a toll. If he had expected a ghost town like in the movies, full of rickety wooden buildings, he would have been disappointed. Depressions in the ground and the growth patterns of the grass and scrub bushes suggested where houses and stores once stood. Brent couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, and chalked it up to his imagination.

  “Anything unusual about the bodies when you found them?” he asked.

  “Three were gunshot wounds,” Doug replied. “Two intentional overdoses of prescription medications plus alcohol. One man slit his wrists with his hunting knife.” He walked a few paces farther down what had long ago been Peale’s main street. “Found Peter Jessup over there,” he said, pointing to the left. “Neil Ellison by those stones,” he indicated. “And the other three were all between here and the old mine entrance.”

  “You think maybe someone’s cooking meth in the mine?” Brent and Doug walked toward the old archway on the other side of town that had once been an entrance to the Lucky Pines coal mine. Rusted railway lines led away from the mine toward the tumble-down remains of the tipple and breakers, and then on to the horizon. No trains had run on those rails for a century, but pulling them up wasn’t worth it, and so the trains and the miners moved on.

  “Doubtful,” Doug said. “We checked the entrances around Peale first thing, thinking drugs or vagrants. They were locked up tight, and when we did go in, we didn’t see any evidence that people had been inside since they closed.” He looked away, and Brent thought he saw a shudder run through the older man. “Although—”

  “Yeah?”

  Doug shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “If there’s anyone who’d understand, it would be you, I guess. Something about this whole area—and especially the mines—gives me the creeps. I’m not an imaginative man. I don’t get the willies walking around in the dark. But lately…”

  “I don’t think that what’s been going on lately is normal, in any sense of the word,” Brent replied. “Do you happen to know if people are talking about seeing ghosts? What’s the local gossip?”

  Brent and Doug waded through thigh-high weeds as they walked along the old railroad tracks. “I’d have to ask Cheryl what she’s heard. Most people watch their mouths a bit around me, except for down at Hanson’s Pub. The boys down there haven’t mentioned ghosts per se, but I did notice from what they’ve been saying that they don’t seem to be wandering as far afield scoping out hunting spots or rambling in the woods. That’s new.”

  Brent nodded. “I’d be interested to see what the ladies are saying. Are there any places around here that are supposed to be haunted?”

  “Well, all of Peale,” Doug said, taking in the abandoned town with a sweep of his arm. “In Cooper City, there are a couple of old houses that people tell tales about, and the old feed store, if you can believe it.” At Brent’s side eye, Doug chuckled. “There’s a story about an unlucky guy named George who was standing in the wrong place when a pallet of bagged fertilizer fell. Helluva way to die.”

  “Seriously?”

  Doug wheezed with laughter but held up a hand as if to solemnly swear. “I shit you not,” he said, and then doubled over at his own joke.

  “Funny,” Brent replied, rolling his eyes. “How about the cemeteries? Or the railroad tracks closer to town? Maybe a crossroad that’s had more than its share of bad accidents?”

  Doug wiped his eyes, then grew serious. “I’ll put Cheryl on the case. Get my granddaughter, Cici, to see what the teenagers say. Wouldn’t do for me to go asking
about ghosts, but they can do pretty much any damn thing they please.”

  “I’d be obliged,” Brent replied. “Because I think you’re right. There’s something going on here, and I don’t think it’s just a run of bad luck. I hope with all my heart that we’re wrong and that it’s not really my kind of thing.” Even as he spoke the words, Brent felt sure his intuition was on point.

  “You’ll have your own chance to ask Cheryl tonight at dinner,” Doug said, jolting Brent out of his thoughts. “When she heard you were coming to town, she insisted on feeding you. And of course, you’re welcome to stay at our house. It’s not fancy, but we have a guest bedroom.”

  Brent grinned. “Dinner sounds fantastic, and I’ll take you up on a hot shower. As for staying the night…I was thinking of coming back here with the truck and sitting up to see what I see.”

  Doug nodded. “You always were a ballsy bastard. Just make sure you have a charged and working phone with you, and extra flashlight batteries. I don’t want any of this movie-of-the-week preventable danger stuff.”

  “I’m all about preventing danger,” Brent replied. “And I might end up with nothing to show from it except a crick in my neck. But since I’m here…”

  “Yeah. I get it. And I sort of figured you would. But if you change your mind in the wee hours, c’mon back.”

  “Deal.”

  They walked back to Doug’s truck, but Brent couldn’t shake the feeling that something was aware of their presence and watching as they left. When he came back tonight, he intended to bring all the tools of his trade, and see whether he could find out what really lay behind Peale’s run of bad luck.

  Doug and Cheryl lived in a comfortable split-level house that, despite dating from the 1960s, was one of the newer homes in Merrick’s Corners. Most of the houses dated from before the Second World War, and the stretch of red brick shopfronts downtown boasted cornerstones or keystones from the turn of the past century.