by C. J. Sears
As he exited the diner, hand clutching the piece of paper with Susan’s phone number in his pocket, he decided that the food was, in fact, delicious.
* * *
The town hall was less spacious than he imagined, about the size of a community church. Arranged side by side, the foldout chairs reminded him of pews. He sat behind a plastic bench with one misshapen leg while Donahue ran down her statement about the few public details of Jane Harley’s case.
He took the podium next, found that he had to bend over to reach the microphone because the thing sat too low to the floor. Finch felt like a fleshy pink gorilla trying to feed its young via mouth-to-mouth like a mama bird. He ran through the tired words he’d spoken a half a dozen times over the past couple of years.
Posturing. That’s all the speech was meant to be when boiled down to its specifics. Finch told them what they expected to hear. He was a federal agent, there had been a murder that crossed state lines, and he was in charge. Everyone was a suspect. If anyone had any information, they needed to come forward.
The basics, really. For him, the real purpose was gaining insight into the people who made up the town’s governing body. Being able to lay down the rules and expectations was only a means to that end.
The sheriff had told him that Gary Moore was the dark-haired man in plaid checking his watch. By process of elimination, he’d guessed that the mayor was the overweight man in his fifties with the similar crooked nose. When they were introduced, the mayor had shaken his hand Roman-style, which Finch didn’t know whether to take as a sign of respect or mistrust. Given how obtrusive most people seemed to find his presence, he guessed it was the latter.
“B. B. doesn’t like government types in general,” the sheriff said when he asked about the man’s odd greeting.
“Why not?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “No one knows the whole story. None that I’ve talked to, anyway. But the rumor is that his family, his father and uncle, I think, were routine tax dodgers. There was no evidence, I believe, but it’s the story you’ll hear around town. ‘Course, we elected him anyway, so I guess tax evasion don’t figure into our politics.” The slip into the southern twang that she must have worked hard to overcome was endearing.
Finch continued to observe the crowd of people as Donahue pointed them out. Men and women on the council made up a small fraction of the attendees and none of them fit the killer’s profile.
Wayland Zachary, editor of the Lone Oak Gazette, was nowhere to be found. On vacation, his coworkers said. Hiding from the scrutiny of the sheriff was Finch’s bet.
The other participants weren’t any more forthcoming with potential involvement in the crime or solving it. Most were common townsfolk who didn’t seem to have anything interesting about them. Gardeners. Schoolteachers. Handymen. None of those screamed possible cult ties to him. Doctors. Engineers. Waitresses. Still nobody that resembled what he considered a personality type corresponding to the savage murder and incineration of a young woman.
He was beginning to think he’d hit an early dead end in the case. From the start, he’d assumed that the perpetrator was native to the town. Most people knew their killer on at least a familiar if not intimate level.
Ritual killings, on the other hand, often targeted a specific type of person who fulfilled the sacrificial need. Over the years, plenty of rampant murders, as well as mass suicides, with occult leanings had brought to attention the deluge of random, unaffiliated death.
But Finch knew the McAlister case, saw the similarities in the methods, and so he’d ruled out indiscriminate killing in favor of a connection between the criminal and the victim.
Yet here he was, introducing himself to this plumber and that janitor and he wondered how everyone could be so normal. The diner had shown that there were defunct people in Lone Oak and the parasite in the vial was an aberrance he’d never thought to encounter. In his experience, small towns were a breeding ground for quirks, family feuds, hidden secrets, and anomalies of every variety.
The town hall aimed to prove otherwise. The only thing unusual about these people was that they seemed almost universally pale despite many of them working outdoors. At every turn, Finch found his expectations molded, shattered, then reformed into something new and perplexing.
“Is this everyone?” he asked Mason while the mayor’s invitation to a private dinner occupied the sheriff.
Mason smirked. “Everyone in town? Ain’t no way. But the notable ones, the kind with a reputation? Pretty much all here.” He tongued the tobacco in his mouth, transplanted it from one cheek to another before adding, “There’s a few folk who might be out of town, but I can’t remember the names at the moment. That old saying about everyone knowing everybody isn’t literally true, Mr. Finch.”
The deputy’s arrogance and hostility toward him was as deep as an ocean trench, had been since the moment they met. Finch doubted that any one thing had set the man off; being an outsider poking around in the dirt and cobwebs of his town was enough. He’d dealt with the type before and it was always the same story. It was best to ignore it, give them the facts, and not to coddle them by toning down his personality. Not all of them came around, but enough did for him to consider the deputy a worthy challenge to win over.
As interested as he was in the soon-to-follow menial proceedings, Finch declined to stick around for the official town meeting. He followed Donahue and Mason past the rusty foldout chairs, through the double doors, and into the entranceway of the building. The faux golden plaque hanging above a pair of potted plants and below the United States flag had caught his attention when he came through earlier. Now he had time to examine it.
It appeared to be a series of names, an alphabetical register of the fifteen families who established the town of Lone Oak, arranged in three columns:
Albertson Gregory Sanford
Bradford Holland Travers
Deckard Jerrod Wilkins
Donahue Mason Woodrow
Farris Maverlies Zachary
Someone had vandalized several of the names with graffiti. The names “Bradford” and “Donahue” as well as “Mason” and “Woodrow” had once been crossed out with a black marker before someone attempted to scrub it clean. The remnants of the crime illustrated an idea that intrigued Finch; the founding fathers weren’t generating fond feelings from the artist responsible.
“Someone doesn’t like your last name,” he said, pointing to the list.
The sheriff wasn’t fussed. “I told you some folks still hold a grudge. It’s stupid, but it’s not like they’re planning to do anything about it. If I got upset every time someone spoiled something in Lone Oak, I’d have had two heart attacks and a stroke by now.”
Mason, on the other hand, seemed notably upset. “Bunch of punks,” he said, agitated. “Probably cruised in here on roller skates wearing hoodies; they’ve got no respect for anyone.”
Ah, the old myth of youth degradation. Yeah, back in Mason’s day they would’ve popped acid before painting the plaque with flowers and abstract faces. Finch had to fight the urge to laugh at his indignation; as if kids were so bored they concocted such schemes as to travel to the exciting town hall to cross a few names off of a list. No, whoever had done this had motive and intent.
Again he reminded himself that this wasn’t the case he was working on, so he filed the information away. Perhaps it was related, perhaps not. Either way it didn’t scream “die, die, die in a fire” so it stood to reason he should refocus on Jane Harley’s death and the cult’s possible involvement. If nothing else, at least he was learning more about the town itself. He considered himself a history buff, so the knowledge of conflict in the storied past of the town was nothing if not an enjoyable distraction. Tomorrow’s trip to the library was looking more and more like a fruitful necessity rather than a whim he’d based on his dream and the crime scene.
Neither the moon nor the stars were visible in the night sky when the three of them exited the town hall i
nto the courtyard turned parking lot. There were street lamps and the neon glow of an open convenience store across the road, but the otherwise blanketing darkness was something Finch found numbing. He felt as if the world was deadened to him. So used to the bright lights and sights of the city, remote towns like this always took him off guard.
He yawned, checked his watch for the time, saw it was approaching eleven. Without his regular coffee, his system liked to shut down before midnight. He’d have to find a motel soon, get his usual set up going for when a case was destined for long, sleepless nights.
“Sheriff,” he said, thrusting the key into his Jeep, “any place you can recommend for a decent night’s sleep? Doesn’t have to be fancy.”
“The Economy Lodge is the budget place that the truckers and overnighters use, about seven blocks from the station on your right, past Vale Street,” she answered, “but you could−”
Finch interrupted her. “That sounds perfect, sheriff, and thank you. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early. No need to stop for breakfast; I’ve got some donuts in the back. A little stale, but nothing a little dunking and some honey mustard can’t fix.”
With that, he got in the car and drove away, all the while thinking that the first thing he would do after checking into his room was call up Susan Edwick and tell her where he was staying.
As long as the rate at the hotel was fair.
MESSAGE IN A DREAM
The stone walls of a massive antechamber surrounded him. Emblazoned on the floor was a black, jagged, nine-pointed star encircled by a teardrop shape. On either side of the symbol, a row of lit sconces hung on heavy steel hooks. Finch made to step forward into the room and found that his feet glided instead, guiding him to the center. At once he felt his legs lift into the air behind him and he was floating, his face inches from the ground. He reached out to touch the surface of the symbol, his hands tracing the lines.
Something sticky caked his fingers. He pulled away, rubbing the substance between his fingers before pressing it to his lips. It was thick, like fresh paint, but too smooth, almost creamy, reminded him of blood. But the taste was all wrong, oily and not metallic. He spat it out. The goo hit the ground and changed. Finch watched as the symbol squirmed and thrashed, its shape becoming more and more distinct. It resembled an arachnid. The thing emerged from the ground, eight spindly legs jutting from its belly and piercing the soft dirt floor.
If the creature was aware of his presence as an intruder, it didn’t show it. Instead, it turned its ghastly black carapace away from him and faced an opening on the opposite end of the chamber. Hovering helpless in the air, Finch did the same, curious as to what the beast was waiting for. Whatever it was, the thing’s fixation was absolute, as it stood frozen stiff, like it had been captured in a photo.
White walls and tile were all he could see of the room beyond the opening, so miserable, sterile, and lifeless. Finch’s thoughts were of a hospital or an asylum. The seams between this earthen chamber and that pristine passage were undecipherable, so impossible that only dream logic explained how one began and the other ended. If a dancing dwarf or a pair of cherub angels or a dinosaur came barreling through, it wouldn’t have surprised him.
The shadows stirred as a contingent of eight cloaked individuals entered the room. In rows of two they filed inside. When they reached the creature, they split, four on each side. Finch realized it had to be the parasite, larger and more terrifying than he’d yet seen it. The cultists bent first their knees, then bowed. Their robes were a lighter color than the parasite, glinting in spite of the light. The thing hissed, so very much like a snake, but he couldn’t see where the sounds originated because the creature had no mouth.
A chant broke through, the words unintelligible, and Finch found himself entranced by the absurd worship that appeared to be taking place. The cultists were no longer bowing; instead they arched their backs into the air, palms pushing against the ground. Were they presenting themselves to the creature as a sacrifice? When he looked again, he saw that that wasn’t the case. The parasite stretched its legs towards its subjects and stroked them, like a mother caring for her young.
With each second the words became clearer as if he were being taught the language of the beast. The letters were sparse at first, letting him understand individual words in the strings of sentences. He heard “light” and “false” and “order” amidst gibberish that unraveled into English. The words repeated over and over, becoming less malleable and more rigid−as if they were things he could physically interact with−until he heard the full breadth of their song:
In the light of the master, we Pray.
In the light of the false, we decay.
In the light of order, we bring the end of days.
Oh, master, let us Reign.
Oh, master, let us end your pain.
Oh, master, they’ll never hurt you again.
Rhythmic and haunting, Finch made neither heads nor tails of it. The words faded as the room swirled with discolor. He fought to remember each line. As he drifted upward to the ceiling of the chamber he found himself pierced by a great glaring yellow eye. The pupil was a black dot, like that of a bird. Transfixed, he tried to shield himself from its view. But he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed. As the first pangs of the alarm clock penetrated his sleep, he knew one feeling with more intimacy than he cared to admit.
Fear.
* * *
The Lone Oak Public Library had been constructed in a clearing between two enormous pine trees. The clearing straddled the edge of a cliff, a sheer drop of five hundred feet. Finch felt the faintest chill as he gazed over the railing as if he had the compulsion to jump.
Lake Verity waited at the bottom, serene yet deadly in its invitation. Across the way he glimpsed a single log cabin, perhaps a fishing lodge, situated beside a row of docks. A family was parked near the bank, inner tubes and kayaks in the back of their truck, displaying a kind of blissful ignorance he’d come to admire.
He heard a car door slam behind him and turned in time to see Sheriff Donahue and Deputy Mason walking over to him from the patrol car. Finch saw the earnest face of Donahue as she approached. She was ready to get to work. Mason must not have had his morning coffee and cigarette. He looked irritable.
“Agent Finch,” Donahue said, eyeing him up and down, “you, uh, appear to have woken up in a Brawny commercial. Did you sleep well?”
The sheriff’s cheek caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected such levity from her. True, the flannels and jeans he wore today brought out a kind of outdoorsman quality in him. Perhaps the workman’s boots were on-the-nose, but the rolled-up sleeves he thought were a nice touch.
“Just thought I’d try to fit in.” The motel had been little more than a roadside monument. Besides the office, there had only been about a dozen rooms to select from. The manager had been stodgy, but the accommodations were fine. A bed, a bathroom, a television, and a telephone were enough. No need for anything more extravagant in his eyes.
“You sure? We’ve got a spare room at the police station that we planned to use as an off-duty rec room, but the budget never kicked in. It’s got a decent bed in there. Fridge and microwave too. You don’t have to stay at the cockroach inn−”
Finch held up his hand. “Sheriff, I’ll be fine. For now, just treat me like the outsider I am.” He inclined his head toward the library. “I believe we’ve got a date at the library. Shall we?”
“Oh, we could, Agent Finch, but that would require you to shut up,” said Mason.
Finch could see that at some point during their introductions he must have hit a nerve. The deputy didn’t strike him as someone talkative in the wee hours of the morning. He’d reasoned that the animosity was from his being a federal agent. Based on the glare he was on the receiving end of Finch knew there was more bubbling underneath the surface than professional jealousy.
“So I shall.” He waved them on as he opened the door to the library, being sure to make eye
contact with each of them as they passed. Mason narrowed his eyes at Finch as he entered. He relaxed them when he noticed the sheriff’s hand lingering over the nightstick tucked into her belt. She gave the deputy the stink eye as she stepped behind him and Finch closed the door.
The interior of the library was lit by four crystalline chandeliers that hung around six feet from the ceiling. Bookshelves lined the room from north to south on either end of the building. Fourteen feet high and layered with a black oak finish, the shelves towered over the three of them. Rugs made from bearskin dotted the linoleum floor. There was a lone receptionist at the front desk.
He leaned over and whispered in the sheriff’s ear. “Quite expensive for a library in a small town, isn’t it?”
“It was funded by some tycoon a few cities over. Claimed it was all to shine a light on the future of our country by getting them to read,” she said. She stifled a yawn and added, “Personally, I think he was just some rich nut with too much money to burn. Still, it has brought in more students than that tiny abomination at the school has ever been able to, so I’d say it was appreciated.”
The receptionist pointed them in the direction of the nonfiction section. When pressed about the specifics of looking for books on microscopic organisms, she shrugged and commented that she was only a temp. Left to their own devices, they scanned the bookshelves in search of anything related to parasites.
Biology: The Nature of Nature, The AVBs of the Microscopic World: Amoeba, Viruses, and Bacteria, and Infestation: The Tale of Microbial Diseases delivered little more than the most basic of details regarding different parasites. None of the parasites mentioned with even the barest of descriptions resembled the thing inside the jar. Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t common enough to be found in typical scientific inquiry into parasites.
