by C. J. Sears
The
Shadow
Over
Lone Oak
C. J. Sears
Copyright © 2016 C. J. Sears
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1520217123
DEDICATION
For dad, who has provided more and suffered more for me than anyone I know.
For mom, who gave me life and has been supportive of me throughout this endeavor.
For my aunts, uncles, grandfathers, grandmothers, and cousins, living or deceased, who have influenced and molded me into the man I have become.
For my fellow writer, Amanda, who caught many of the mistakes I wouldn’t have and whose name I hope to see in print one day.
Thank you.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Benefactor
Arrival
Local Color
Message in a Dream
Buried
Coffee and Killers
Crossroads
The Trials
Interview
Glitch in the System
Breach Their Flesh
The Damned
Under Siege
Separate Ways
Containment
A Heart of Darkness
The Evils of This World
The Box
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The publication of this novel wouldn’t have been possible without the support of my beta readers, without the teaching of my professors at Arkansas Tech University, and without the enormous wealth of family, friend, and fan support during my Kindle Scout campaign.
A special thanks to Maduranga of Sri Lanka for designing a wonderful cover for the novel.
Thank you and may every good cliché grace your doorstep.
BENEFACTOR
Detective James Black turned left off Main Street and pulled into the driveway of his one floor apartment. The white Dodge Charger rolled into the garage before coming to a halt. The shutter closed behind him as Black killed the engine. Darkness enveloped him. For a moment he sat in his car, uncertain if he had the energy to open the door. The numbing haze brought on by a lengthy day spent filing paperwork and interviewing witnesses had taken its toll.
He’d closed the case and put the perpetrators behind bars, and yet he could find no peace, not even in rest. Life as a detective had become a series of still images for him, grotesque frames of mutilated bodies, drug-addled minds, and perversions beyond his understanding. Runaways found mangled in ditches, prostitutes who shot up with drugs; they were all the same, an interchangeable sequence of death and desire. Yet they were still people, born to inhabit this earth same as he, warts and all. He forgot that more than he cared to admit.
The sounds of nature, the song of chirping crickets and bellowing frogs, pierced an intolerable silence. He unbuckled his seatbelt as the distant howl of a wolf beckoned in the darkness. He stepped out of the car with a sense of weightlessness; it was as if some unseen force had sucked his vitality through a straw.
Black meandered over to the door, grasping blind in the void for the light switch. His fingers brushed against a plastic shell and with a flick the fluorescents illuminated the diminutive hole he called a garage. He half-limped the last three steps to the cold brass of the door knob, turned it, and entered the kitchen.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and slapped it on the counter before collapsing onto the rusted metal chair. He took two swigs from the bottle before setting it back down and pulling up his right pant leg.
The wound was long past its expiration date. An eight-inch scar cut from below his knee to near the bottom of his shin. It had been six, no, seven months since it happened, but he could still feel the knife as it dragged through his skin and muscle and threatened the bone underneath. Nights like this, the ones after he’d buried himself in paperwork and bureaucracy, were the ones where it liked to flare up, liked to remind him of her.
Dark black curls cascaded about her round face, thick eyebrows calling attention to her sultry eyes and blood-stained lips. Her mouth formed no words, only terror. She was nineteen years old, fresh out of high school. Her body was bent inside the dumpster, warmed by cockroaches, used tissue paper, and spent condoms. Black remembered blue fingernails that clutched at nothing in the dank, stench-filled container. The perpetrator had clothed her in soiled bandages as if to preserve her.
The killer had been no one of importance, a vagrant with too little mind and too much on it. He’d been on a spree, hitting up woman after woman in dark alleys in cities across the county. He’d started with robbery and then moved onto assault and molestation. Then he killed. She wasn’t his only victim, but she was the last.
The killer never saw a trial. Black recalled a harried chase through an abandoned tenement, a carving knife embedded deep within his leg and trailing down, then gunshots, one, two, three; the first in the chest, the last two between his eyes and through his neck. The nine-millimeter had fallen from his hands after the body hit the floor. Black had keeled over, unable to hold back tears.
Meredith Black’s funeral was held three days later, a small affair attended only by himself, his ex-wife, and a contingent of the department. As the casket lowered into the ground, Black’s thoughts turned to the myth of Icarus’s flight toward the sun. There he’d stood, tears bubbling, his daughter’s corpse encased in a casket, and all he could muster was that old fable.
Black let his pants leg trickle back down to cover his scar, the pain having dulled enough he could stand again. The bottle tipped over, spilling liquor over the counter as his arm brushed against it. There were no paper towels. The laundry was still in the washer. Black left the alcohol where it was, another reminder.
The bathroom light was fading when he flipped the switch. He plunged his hands into the sink, splashed icy water onto his face. It dribbled down his squared chin; Black couldn’t help but gaze at himself with haunted eyes as each drop fell upon the floor. His once thick brown hair had grown ragged and thin and graying. Bright green pupils had faded to a dull teal. Wrinkles segmented his forehead as if he had aged ten years past his time.
An unmade bed beckoned to him in the next room. He cast his beige overcoat onto the bed, then kicked off his shoes before struggling to submit himself to the sheets. Black covered himself to his shoulder, flicked off the lamplight and shut his eyes. He had no recollection of how long he laid there, eyes bleary in the darkness. The events of the day swirled before him, a formless collage of meaningless death and pointless cacophony.
The urgent need to relieve his bladder prompted him out of bed and back to the bathroom. Dreary, he urinated and missed the bowl. His hand pushed the lever with some measure of inelegance. Black shuffled to the bed now feeling the weight that had forgotten him. He closed his eyes.
The phone rang.
* * *
The red rays of dawn broke through the darkness as Black drove his car into the vacant lot across from a strip club known as The Nether. His contact had said to be there at four-fifty in the morning. He checked his watch: it was half past four.
With minutes to burn, Black took a second to reconcile himself. The alley where the police found her body was less than a block from here, on the other side of the club. Behind him he could see the fire escape the killer had climbed when the chase happened. The fetid ranks of the homeless and garbage and misery washed over him like the coming tide.
Black didn’t believe in coincidences and knew that his contact had chosen this site for a reason; though he hadn’t deciphered the purpose behind it, he was certain it had something to do with his daughter’s murder. In the early m
orning hours, there was no scarcity of covert meeting places, not in this city. No, the man on the phone had meant to bring him here. Whether this was a trap or not, Black wouldn’t leave a loose thread like this hanging over his head.
A conspicuous white limousine pulled into the lot beside his Charger, idled for a moment, then quieted. Black hesitated, his hand atop the sidearm he carried at all times. The rear door opened and without waiting for his chauffeur a petite man in his mid-twenties eased himself out of the car. He must have been less than five feet in height and around one hundred thirty pounds. He appeared so fragile in stature that Black was concerned he might break apart by turning his foot the wrong direction.
His apprehension was misplaced: the short fellow bounced over to his car with the vigor of a cheetah. He twirled a necklace as he walked; unable to make out any of the characters etched onto its surface, Black kept his focus on the two mountains masquerading as men in the littler one’s wake. One was dark-skinned, wearing shades. The other was lighter, bearing a trucker hat.
The mismatched trio stopped outside his passenger side door and paused. He’d expected them to either knock on the door or motion for him to get out, but they stood there with the patience of a dozen saints. Black opened the driver’s side door at a pace that suggested he was being cautious but not afraid. He sensed that first impressions might be important to this man.
“Mr. Black, I presume?” asked the white bodyguard.
Black nodded. “Yeah, that’s me. What’s this about?” Once more, his hand drifted to the pistol hidden beneath his coat.
The guard wearing shades answered. “We have received word from our benefactor that you are wanted at a social event being held at his manor later tonight.”
He shifted his gaze between the two men, wondered why they had taken turns to speak to him. The small man was silent, a perpetual smile carved into his face. In fact, looking closer, Black could see that this was the case: someone had cut the man from ear to ear, clean through each cheek. Rudimentary stitches held the remnants of his flesh together. This didn’t aid his appearance.
“Uh huh,” Black said, “and just, ah, who is this benefactor you speak of?” He discovered that he couldn’t take his eyes off the man with the Glasgow smile. Despite being outmatched by the two larger men, it was that poor soul that unnerved him most.
“That you will learn in time, Mr. Black. Suffice it to say that it is as of immeasurable import that you meet with him tonight. This is non-negotiable. If you don’t agree to come tonight, this opportunity will expire,” said Shades.
Incredulous, Black narrowed his eyes at the dark-skinned man. “What opportunity? Look, if this is about my daughter, there’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know. Leave me be.”
Trucker Hat shook his head. “This is not about your daughter, Mr. Black, though I must admit the benefactor chose this location well. No, this is an invitation to something greater. Something beyond yourself. Something transcendent.”
The Smiling Man let out a giggle that must have been painful for him. Still no words followed. The urge to smack this man rose within Black. This was a sick joke, had to be. This song-and-dance was pointless buffoonery meant to humiliate him. The grip on his gun tightened.
“So, what, you asking me to join some kind of cult?”
Shades laughed. Black expected it from the Smiling Man, but not this grim-faced goon. “Nothing of the sort, but God is in the details Mr. Black. We cannot share the specifics with you, here, across from the filth that pollutes this city. This is, for lack of a better euphemism, a leap of faith that you’re going to have to take on your own.”
“When you’re ready for something other than drunken nights and broken dreams, come to this address.” Trucker Hat wrote a series of directions and the address of the home on a slip of paper. Black peered at the location: 121 Kennedy Boulevard. That was near the country club. “The party starts at ten this evening. Be there tonight, or not at all.”
With that, the trio turned and strode away. As the white limousine departed, Black made a note to run the license plate through the system. If there was any criminal history associated with N15 TU19 he would know about it. If not, then at least he might have an idea of whom he was meeting.
* * *
Silver orbs of light listed through the night air imprinting a series of circular shadows on the hood of Black’s car. He’d parked across from the monstrous stone gate hesitant to approach and press the buzzer. Years of work for the department had taught him that caution could be the difference between a bullet in the heart and a commendation. Yet the license plate search had turned up clean; failing to pay the parking meter was the only crime associated with that vehicle.
Still, these men weren’t his friends. They had appeared grotesque, had guilt him into agreeing to come here, and were altogether brisk in the manner they had passed this information to him. The men had been careful not to intimidate him. But they had known enough about his past to get him to not ask questions before he got where they wanted him to be.
The mansion was two stories high and measured twice as wide in either direction. An indoor pool could be seen through tall glass on the left-hand side. On the right, a significant portion of the building had been reconstructed as an outdoor amphitheater. Elevated higher than the first, the second floor converged to support a lavish balcony on the roof.
Black didn’t care for the extravagance of the manor. He’d never been fond of wealthy showmanship. He believed that a man could be proud of his success but not to the point of excess. The bells and whistles of extreme affluence created an image that was larger than life.
Trucker Hat and Shades greeted him at the door. “Good to see you, Mr. Black. I trust that our instructions were more than adequate,” said Shades.
“I had no problems,” he replied. Trucker Hat grunted. “Now, which way to your master?”
Shades pushed open the door. “Right this way,” he said, gesturing toward the central staircase. An assortment of socialites danced to classical music in the grand foyer. “Follow the stairs up and to the right. Maverlies awaits you at a bust of William Shakespeare.”
“Maverlies? Is that your boss?”
He didn’t answer, continued to point toward his destination. That didn’t sit well with him, but Black shrugged it off, marched up the stairs. He followed the abundant red carpet to the statue of England’s most prolific author. The Smiling Man was there, arms crossed. Black assumed that this was Maverlies.
“Show me the way,” he told the dwarf.
The Smiling Man nodded and rapped his knuckles against the head of Shakespeare. It plopped backward, revealing a button. He pressed it. The wall behind him moved, revealing a hidden room.
Black walked into the study. More humble than the rest of the manor, the room contained a single oak desk and a table lamp. It reminded him of a bank teller’s workstation. Scientific texts on ecology and biology lined the back wall. A white plastic fan hummed in the corner.
Sitting at the desk was a pale old man of average build. His hair was white as milk and his eyes as dark as black coffee. He was dressed in an elaborate robe, red with gold trim. One of the books from the shelves lay open in front of him. He’d bookmarked a page for study. His fingers shakily tracked the words, line after line. He looked up when Black loomed over him.
“Mr. Black,” he said, “I have to say that I am surprised you came. My name is Jackson Maverlies.”
His voice was raspy. Black noticed the stoma in his throat. He glanced underneath the desk and saw an oxygen tank and a folded wheelchair. A catheter ran down his leg to a pouch on the floor. He estimated that this man was in his last days.
Maverlies saw where his eyes traveled. “The doctors have given me about six months to live.” He seemed at peace with that fact.
“Why did you want to see me?”
The old man sighed. “There’s no changing my fate. I know that. But I find myself whistling the sorrow of a bygone d
ay. That’s where you come in.” Black waited for him to continue. “Years ago, my father owned a facility in a nearby town. It was quite profitable and endowed my family with the riches you see before you.” The hole in his throat pulsated with each word he breathed. “But one day, his workers stumbled upon something they should not have. The business collapsed. The wells dried up. My father was finished and his efforts nullified.”
There were holes in this story, missing pieces; that much Black knew. “I would appreciate it if you cut straight to the point.”
Maverlies coughed. Black looked away. “I have brought you here because I need your help to find this plague on my history. I have worked for years to trace the source of this menace, but every time I get close, victory is snatched from underneath me.”
“And?”
“You are a magnificent specimen of law enforcement. I know your story and I, too, have known loss. I seek an end to a misery that is relentless in its desire. If you would permit, I would like to hire you, privately, for the purpose of solving this mystery.”
He thought it over for a moment. “No.”
“Come now, Mr. Black, you and I both know that beneath that drunken facade beats the heart of a man desperate to prove he’s still capable of righting wrongs. You are not a man of money, so I won’t offer it to you. You are a man of soul. Mine, like yours, is restless.”
