by C. J. Sears
The doctors had been correct that the man could talk, but it was all nonsense designed to send him into a fit of frustration. Someone had coached Jeb to give up enough to incriminate himself but not to compromise the operation. Whoever the man in charge was, whether he was the leader of the cult or unaffiliated with it, he wasn’t stupid.
His organization taught him that certain leniencies could be applied in select conditions as long as no permanent harm befell the suspect. Finch stood up, reached into his coat pocket, and procured a ball-point pen. He leaned over Jeb and asked, “Who are you working for?”
“The one-armed man.”
With that, Finch drove the pen into the bloodstained bandage covering his leg, digging into the hole. Jeb cried out. Finch covered his mouth. The man struggled to bite him, but he pushed up on the chin with his thumb to prevent it.
“When I take my hand off, you better give me the answer,” he said. He twisted the pen, eliciting a squeal from Jeb. “If you don’t, this goes deeper. Understand?” The bootlegger nodded as best he could with Finch’s hand holding him in place.
He let go, pen still submerged in the bandage. Jeb spit blood; he’d bitten his tongue. “I don’t know his name,” he wheezed, “just that he’s pretty old, got to be in his sixties. Has a limp, I think. He pays us to make the product and deliver it to customers in the more rural parts of the area. I don’t ask questions, he just gives us the money and we start working.”
Not much to go on. “Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
The pen drilled into his gaping flesh. He changed his tune.
“Okay, okay! Stop you freakin’ lunatic,” Jeb begged. Finch glared at him, waited for the information to spill. “We meet at a bunch of different places, usually in public venues where you can’t even hear yourself think much less other people’s conversations.”
“Where?”
“Fast-food joints. Concerts. Anywhere that you can hide in a crowd.”
Finch clenched the pen. Jeb’s eyes went wide. “Alright, there was one place that we’d meet that didn’t match up with the rest. It was some old mansion in the woods. We’d go there for the bigger payoffs for the largest deliveries. We always did it on a Wednesday, around ten at night.”
“The Bradford house?” Finch asked, though in his mind he guaranteed that was the answer.
“Yeah, that’s the place. Don’t know why he likes it there. Creeps me out.”
He removed the pen. Jeb relaxed. “Happy? Leave me the hell alone.”
Stepping out into the sterile hallway of the hospital, Finch relayed the information to the sheriff.
“That can’t be a coincidence. The words on the wall, the moonshine, the parasite; it all points to that location.”
Finch and the others decided to stake out the Bradford residence. In the event the man described by both Jeb and Rhinehold entered the house, they would pursue. Tonight, this case was coming to a close.
BREACH THEIR FLESH
The rocky, unpaved road twisted through the forest, made all the more harsh in the dead of night. Curves with edges sharper than a butcher’s knife proved perilous to traverse as Finch rounded them in his Jeep. Another squad car containing Officers Plinkett and Wilkins followed behind. Sheriff Donahue and Deputy Mason brought up the rear.
Back-up was on standby in case of trouble at the Bradford residence. Before they left the station, he made sure they dug up all the information they could on the mansion including blueprints. He suspected that the architecture of the house wouldn’t be friendly. Every bone in his body, every thought in his mind screamed that the man described by Jeb handled Harley’s murder and the proliferation of the moonshine.
He’d sneaked in a nap at the station. Thirty minutes were enough to refresh him, clear his head. With renewed focus, he set out to end this madness. Intuition, skill, and a little of lady luck’s fortune would be his bedfellows tonight.
A dip in the road jarred Finch in his seat. His knee hit the side of the console. Wincing, he looked up in time to prevent himself from crashing into a road sign pointing to their destination. He spun the wheel, swerved right of it and keep on the path. The sheriff buzzed him on the radio to ask if he was alright. Miffed as he was that his body continued to be assaulted in this investigation, he confirmed that he was fine.
Forty-five minutes remained until the meeting time with the mystery man was supposed to occur. Jeb had been telling the truth, that much Finch was sure his methods had gained him. If the suspect figured out he was short his middleman before they got there this was all pointless. There was no telling where the operation would move to if he caught wind of the shootout at the train yard.
They parked in an orange grove about three hundred yards from the house and switched their lights off so they wouldn’t be seen. He picked up the radio and hailed the sheriff.
“Rhinehold wasn’t kidding when he called this place a mansion,” he said.
The Bradford residence reminded him of a plantation house. An outer gate, flanked on either side by stone recreations of Joseph Smith, opened into an expansive squash garden. A cobblestone trail bisected the greenery leading to the estate. Tall white columns served as the introduction to the front porch. They extended to the second floor where a dining balcony marked the lavishness of the occupant’s lifestyle. Twelve sets of windows on both floors indicated a number of rooms beyond human need. Finch couldn’t see how far back the house extended, but he noted an outer staircase added to the west wing exterior. There was no sign of disrepair other than minor overgrowth on the windowsills. Thorny bushes were planted underneath. Examining the blueprints had been one thing, but the sight of the real deal surpassed his expectations.
“Yeah,” said the sheriff, “you’d think the Bradford family never left. Our un-sub must hire a caretaker while he’s away.”
Thunder crackled in the sky, signaling a storm. The cover of darkness protected them for now, but a lightning flash at the wrong moment might reveal their position. As the first drops of rain fell, Finch suggested they move the cars and stake the place out on foot. He didn’t want to be struck by lightning, but the risk was worth it to catch this killer.
After stowing the vehicles further away from the building, Finch and the others scurried to find a decent spot to place a lookout. He noticed a nook between one statue and the perimeter fence. One of the officers could wait there, hidden from view, then radio them when their man showed up. Officer Plinkett nominated himself for the job.
“Are you sure?” asked Donahue. He was still a rookie in the ranks, even if he’d established himself capable earlier in the day.
He nodded. “Absolutely. I can do it. I used to hide in lockers to avoid bullies back in high school. I know how to stay invisible.”
Back at their cars, they anticipated Plinkett’s message. More than once, he thought he heard wheels slogging through the mud. Then he would listen again and know that he’d imagined the sound. Nevertheless, Finch had confidence that the officer would deliver on his promise.
Around a quarter to ten Plinkett radioed to let them know a pair of headlights was shining bright on the gate. He said the car looked like an old Dodge Charger and the man inside it had thin gray hair. That had to be their unknown subject, their un-sub. Minutes passed with no further word. With Donahue, Mason, and Wilkins in tow, Finch headed for the entrance and hoped that Plinkett hadn’t given himself away.
The gate was shut when they arrived. He could see through the metal bars that the suspect’s vehicle had come to a stop inches from the porch. The man must already be inside. He didn’t think the officer had been caught. They would’ve heard a fuss or a gunshot. But he was nowhere to be found.
Pushing the matter aside, Finch studied the gate. It was too massive to move by hand, even with help. The iron bars ended in sharp points shaped like arrowheads. Climbable, but it would hurt like hell if he screwed up. He looked to the fence. It rose higher than the gate. Boosting someone to the top
might work to get someone to open it from the other side. Failing that, he could break the thing down with his Jeep, but it was noisy and he might hurt himself and the car in the process.
He grasped the bars, started to pull up. No good. The rain made it slippery. Sighing, he motioned for the sheriff to get ready to go up over the fence. He crouched, hands cupped together, ready to throw her up like back in the ritual chamber. Wilkins and Mason stood guard, guns in hand should anyone else turn up.
There was a low beeping sound coming from inside the garden. An alarm? Finch drew his gun. With a rumble, the gate retracted. Exercising caution, they advanced, weapons trained on the gap where the iron bars used to be. A man whispered to them. It was Plinkett.
“Where did you disappear to?” Mason asked.
Plinkett explained that he dived into the squash garden before the gate closed. “That got our guy’s attention,” he said, “so I had to keep quiet. It wasn’t until he left that I saw that button and pressed it.”
“Good work, officer,” said the sheriff. “Stay with the car, see if there’s anything inside that might identify who he is. Registration or something.”
The car had to be at least thirty years old. Paint had been reapplied numerous times yet the beginnings of rust shown through. The tires were new, bought direct from the manufacturer. Tinted windows made it difficult to see through. At one time, it might have served as a police vehicle. Leaving Plinkett behind to investigate, Finch walked to the porch and jiggled the handle of the door. It was unlocked.
Whatever the exterior said about the state of the mansion, the interior implied otherwise. No lights were on in the main hall. He felt around for a switch, flipped it. No electricity.
The sheriff turned on her flashlight, aimed it around the room. The floors were extravagant marble but cracks splintered the beautiful stone throughout. Paintings hung loose on the walls; many had fallen from their roosts. Doors were torn off their hinges on either side of the room. In the center, a dilapidated staircase led to the second floor. If someone wanted to make the journey up from here, they would need an unprecedented vertical leap. It looked like an earthquake had swept through the main hall.
None of it made sense. Why rebuild the outside, add an outer staircase and who knows what else, but keep this miserable heap in perpetual disorder? Perhaps no one lived here, but then why renovate at all? Were they keeping up appearances, making sure that no one asked these sorts of questions? If so, it was a poor waste of money for a businessman running a vast moonshine operation.
“Seems like a cheery place,” Mason commented. “I know that if I were the sort of guy who wanted to play the man in the shadows, I would do so in a run-down mansion in the middle of the woods.”
He knew that the deputy still wasn’t on board with the premise of their un-sub being at this location. The knowledge that the evidence for it came from two different people who had no known association with each other hadn’t dissuaded him from protesting that it was a false lead. Ignoring him, Finch consulted the blueprints to see which door led to the basement.
The set of double doors on their right would take them to the kitchen and dining room, not where they needed to be. The door adjacent led into a hallway that ran straight until it hit the edge of the house, then turned and ended at a door that led outside. Bedrooms lined that path at intervals of twelve feet. On the opposite side another pair of double doors opened into a library. The west wing was enterable through a door at the far end. It curved in a similar manner to the east wing, culminating at a door that connected to the outer staircase.
With light provided by the sheriff, he found the basement in the architect’s plans. If they cut through the library and went through the back hallway where the master bedroom was, the basement door would be situated across from it. Finch would stake his life that if the suspect in this building waited for Jeb, it would be there.
A door slammed in the distance, startling them. Another painting crashed to the floor. They drew their weapons, directed their flashlights at each of the gaping passages. If he were anyone else, the chill that crept up his spine and nightmares conjured in his mind would’ve overcome him. After the mine, he knew what shape they would take. Finch listened for skittering feet, but he was certain it had to be their man entering the basement.
Empty bookshelves intimated that no one had taken up reading at the mansion for decades. Years of dust coated the floor, sending Officer Wilkins into a sneezing fit. Worried that it might attract unwanted attention, the sheriff covered his mouth with the sleeve of her jacket. His eyes narrowed, and the sensation struck him again. Donahue removed her sleeve, now slathered in snot.
A battery powered lamp adorned a lone wooden table in the middle of the room. Slips of paper were stacked underneath it. Finch pressed the button on the lamp. It flickered to life and brightened the papers on the desk. Familiar handwriting decorated the sheets. The flourishes of the T’s and F’s were familiar, but not an exact match. Perhaps the man’s penmanship skills had deadened with the passage of time.
March 18th
First day of new case. From what I can gather, I’m in the right place. They call it Lone Oak. I’ve asked around about the quarry. No one wants to say anything about it and I haven’t got permission to go there. I’m tracking down a different lead in the meantime.
So, an investigation by this man guided him down the same path. At what point had he first come here, seen the words on the wall of the basement? Finch rifled through the papers, found another entry.
May 29th
The local man I asked about was in Daleport. I asked him to take me to the mansion in that book. He seemed reluctant, but went along with it after I promised to pay him. I’m here! I finally found it.
“That confirms that Rhinehold and Jeb were talking about the same person,” Donahue said, lurking over his shoulder. “He went looking for the parasite, found it in this fun-time horror house, then decided to start up a bootlegging operation in an abandoned mine. What does he want? What does the cult want?”
Finch skipped forward, struggled to find a more recent entry, but these were all from the late 1990s. A note in the summer months caught his eye.
August 7th
It’s under the skin. No one knows its name. I found where it was buried, traced it to that mine right outside town. Maverlies lied to me. He knew exactly what was down there. But he’s dead now. I can’t drop what I am doing. I have to finish what he started. What I started.
It’s no use. I can’t do it. Nothing I try works. They’re all dead but it’s still there. I need help. Outside, I need the outside.
Shaking his head, he handed the rest of the documents to Officer Wilkins. “Take these back to Plinkett and see what he’s found. Piece together what you can, radio us if you learn anything.” Wilkins started to argue, but thought better of it. With the papers in hand, he retreated back to the main hall.
Mason took point as they trekked through the next door into the back hallway. The wallpaper in this room was marginally more intact compared to the rest of the house. Peculiar black stains indicated that someone had either been playing with fire or flinging tar at the walls. Based on the letter B carved into the elaborate golden handle, Finch guessed the door in front of them belonged to the master bedroom.
He shifted his gaze to the basement door. The knob was broken. That must have been why the un-sub slammed the door. Mason nudged it with his gun. It creaked open. A lit candlestick at the base of the stairs illuminated their destination.
They descended with soft steps, wary of bumping into each other and alerting the suspect. Finch sniffed the air. No spores or moonshine, but it reeked. He’d only encountered the smell once before, early in his teens. He’d left a half-eaten ham in the fridge one night. The power went out for three days while he went on vacation and he’d left the door ajar by accident. When he came back, the meat was festering, slick with stickiness. Maggots had sprouted inside, their pale bodies writhing to break free.
He remembered throwing up and his father scolded him for being so careless. That was what he sensed now: the stench of spoiled meat.
It grew stronger as they reached the bottom. Finch tried to breathe through his nose, but it was like fighting the ocean tide on a body board. Bile rose in his throat. He exhaled and let the smell wash over him. Ahead of him, Donahue and Mason did the same. They paused, attempted to acclimatize to it. The stench never went away, but it dulled enough for them to proceed.
The source became apparent as soon as they ventured inside the room. Strewn over the floor were animal carcasses in various states of decomposition. Dried blood caked the white sheet that concealed a nearby workman’s table. There were knives laid out on its surface. Logs burned in the furnace; only the smell of death had masked the wafting smoke. A case containing syringes and a pouch full of white powder sat atop a chair at the far end of the room. The un-sub wasn’t here.
Hopping over the corpses, Finch jogged over to the case. He didn’t need a lab analysis to affirm that he was looking at heroin and cocaine. The sheriff called him over to the table. He grabbed the case, snapped it shut, and joined her. She motioned for him to examine the knives. The blades spanned the spectrum from scalpel to machete. All of them were saturated with blood.
“Bag these up,” said Finch, “I’d bet my car that at least one of them matches Jane Harley.”
“What about the animals? Could be their blood,” she said.
That was baffling. He had the craftsmen’s tools, so to speak. He had the murder weapon in the form of the drugs. They knew where the ritual had been conducted. Between the notes and the car, they had enough to identify the suspect and prove his guilt in court. But that didn’t change how out of place the rotting carcasses were in light of the other evidence.
“Could just be something that wandered in,” suggested Mason, who seemed to be coming around to the truth of their un-sub as the man behind all of this. “Like pests that he had to eliminate. Not sure why he wouldn’t clean up afterwards.”
