Dark Justice: A Supernatural Thriller

by Donnie Light

  Galen and Audra left the bar. The Mustang was parked facing a small, dark patch of woods. Audra pulled the keys out of her jeans and unlocked the door.

  “Stupid drunks,” she said, swinging the door open. Galen stood on the far side of the car looking toward the woods.

  “I can’t believe some -”

  Audra gasped as a hand wrapped around her mouth cutting off the rest of her sentence.

  The singing drunk had come from the shadows, grabbing her from behind.

  Galen froze when he saw the gleam of a steel blade in the sparse light.

  “Let her go, pal,” Galen said smoothly, not wanting to spook him.

  “Screw you!” the man yelled.

  He began to rub his stubbly-bearded face against Audra’s smooth cheek. He reached the hand that held the knife in front of Audra, crossing her breasts with his arm and pulling her toward him. The knife came to rest at the base of her neck and wildness showed in the drunk’s eyes.

  – Chapter 12 –

  The baying of the hounds was still some distance away. Tobias knew how quickly they could cover ground. He pictured in his mind the men on horses following the running dogs. Tobias leaped to his feet, thinking of entering the river. He looked at the captured rabbit, its eyes wide with fear. He was about to release it, then had an idea.

  He pulled at the tattered legs of his britches, pulling off a couple of long strips. Placing one leg over the frightened rabbit to hold it down, he tied the strips securely to its hind legs. It was a challenge to tie the strips with one hand, but by using his stump arm pressed against his thigh, he succeeded in affixing the strips of cloth to the frightened rabbit.

  Tobias removed the rabbit from the snare being careful not to injure it. He used his stump arm to hold the terrified creature against his chest and made his way to the river.

  He looked around for a log or branch, anything he could hold onto while floating down the river. Seeing nothing nearby, he glanced downstream and spotted a tangle of logs and fallen trees about a hundred yards away. He walked to the bank of the river, still clutching the rabbit. He waded ankle-deep into the cool water.

  “Mista Swamper, I guess you better run like you ain’t never run before,” Tobias said. He carefully released the rabbit onto the bank. He watched as it streaked along the edge of the river before springing into the woods.

  Tobias took the pouch into his left hand, wrapping the leather strings around his wrist. He glided out into the current and quietly swam toward the logjam. When he reached it, several turtles entered the water with a plop! He scanned the sun-bleached branches and other flotsam for something he could pull loose. A fat water moccasin sat coiled upon one of the branches and began to silently slither toward the shore as Tobias began tugging on a large branch. He settled for a smaller log of about four feet in length. It rolled free with little difficulty. Tobias laid his arms over it, keeping his head above water.

  He could hear the sound of the dogs growing closer every minute. Tobias began kicking his feet to speed his progress around the first bend of the river.

  The sun had now dropped below the horizon. The woods along the banks cast long shadows across the water. A Great Blue Heron lifted itself from the riverbank, its powerful wings carrying it into the twilight.

  Tobias steered himself toward the north bank of the river using the overhanging branches as cover as he drifted along. After about a half hour in the water, he heard the dogs barking wildly. He pictured them in his mind, approaching the bank where he had entered the water, sniffing the mud, then crashing along upstream following the rabbit that carried his scent. He listened intently and heard the sounds of the dogs grow fainter in the distance. He pictured the rabbit leaping over fallen logs, darting through the briars. He hoped the strips of cloth remained attached as the rabbit fled the snarling hounds.

  With any luck, the rabbit would remain free until full darkness and the slave catchers would wait until morning to resume the chase. That would give Tobias time to get back to the plantation.

  Tobias continued to drift down the river. As the moon began to rise in the clear sky, Tobias climbed ashore.

  The Richards’ plantation lay to the northeast, about four miles away. He would soon be on Richards’ land, crossing the fields he had spent so much of his life in.

  Tobias’ pulse quickened as thoughts of this land and what had happened here came back to him. He sat for some time just thinking, remembering and grieving.

  The sky overhead was deep blue and flecked with stars. He began to make his way across the land. The magical thing in the pouch continued to feed him small amounts of the warm energy. His body was too beaten to have made much progress without it and Tobias continued to pray to the gods, thanking them for it. The nearer he came to the plantation the more his hate for Richards grew. He thought of the many injustices his people had suffered at the hands of rich white men. He remembered how his family had been so tragically broken; erasing the effect of the years of love they had shared. He thought of the suffering of the slaves still being held.

  Soon he could make out the familiar shapes of the buildings on the plantation. He planned to skirt the slave camps and to spend the night in the stable’s haymow.

  He feared meeting up with any of the other slaves, worrying they would hold him and turn him over to Richards. He realized that any slave would want to help him, but to do so would mean a severe beating. He did not want to place any slave in that position.

  Nobody would be in the stable at this time of the night, the horses themselves being the only occupants. Tobias felt he could easily slip in during the darkness, and wait there in hopes of meeting Master Richards before his morning ride.

  He slipped unseen around the shacks of the many slaves and approached the center of the plantation. The plantation was quiet and Tobias trod from building to building, keeping to the shadows.

  When he at last approached the stable, he noticed a glow from within. He could hear voices inside. He shrunk against the outside wall, and listened. He heard two voices. One was definitely Master Richards and the other, Tobias thought, was Raymond. Tobias cautiously peeked around the corner of the stable and peered down the long center hall. The light and voices came from one of the stalls.

  Tobias knew immediately that Daisy, Richards’ favorite mare, was ready to foal. Richards had been anxiously awaiting this time since having the mare bred by a prize stallion from a neighboring farm.

  Richards treated the horses much better than he did his slaves, pampering them to no end. It had been Tobias’ job to feed and care for them and he knew that no expense concerning the horses was too great.

  He continued to listen to the voices, wondering who else might be in attendance. Tobias knew if he had still been on the plantation, he would be in there now ready to help with the delivery.

  He imagined that Chester may be in there. He was sometimes assigned to help Tobias with the horses and seemed to Tobias the only other slave that Richards would put in charge of his precious livestock.

  By the sound of the conversation, the foaling was near. Tobias heard Richards shout Chester’s name along with a string of orders. It was likely only the three of them were inside, but entering the stables at this point would be out of the question.

  Tobias walked around the outside of the stable and sat along the wall. He positioned himself under the window of the stall where the mare was about to give birth and listened.

  He listened to Richards give orders to both Raymond and Chester as the mare began delivery. After what seemed to be hours, Richards laughed heartily.

  The colt had been born.

  Raymond asked to be dismissed, having seen enough of the stables for one night. He did not share his father’s passion for the animals, as his father wished he would.

  Raymond left the stables and Tobias heard the gate shut with a clank!

  Richards stayed on, inspecting the new colt. He prided himself on his veterinary knowledge. Satisfied that everything
was fine, he also dismissed Chester. He said he would only be a few minutes longer himself.

  Tobias quickly jumped to his feet and made his way to the path leading to the big house. He would intercept Richards there and fulfill his mission.

  He positioned himself among the bushes along the path and waited. Tobias’ stomach swirled with nervousness. After all the struggling, the time of faith was nearly upon him. His head began to pound, the pain centered between his eyes. He said a final prayer to the gracious gods.

  Within a few minutes he saw Richards fumbling noisily with the gate Tobias had quietly climbed over. Richards carried a small lantern, which cast a yellowish light upon the path.

  Tobias gripped the pouch tightly in his left hand as it began to heat up rapidly. It felt alive in Tobias’ grip, vibrating smoothly. The energy pulsed through him, giving him the strength and courage to face Richards.

  Tobias did not know what to expect, or how he should approach Richards. He only hoped the gods would again help him to succeed.

  When Richards was only a few feet away, Tobias stepped onto the path in front of him. Richards had been looking away from the path and did not see Tobias until he was right in front of him.

  He gasped and almost dropped the lantern at the sight of the slave. He held up the light, unsure of who was there.

  “Tobias,” he gasped.

  Richards looked frightened and Tobias thought he might begin calling for help. He wanted Richards to be quiet and not call any attention to the two of them. Tobias decided to give Richards the upper hand for the moment to keep him quiet, make him feel as though he were in control.

  Tobias fell to his knees, “Masta, please,” he said. “Have mercy on me! Please forgive me, Masta!”

  Richards was indeed surprised by Tobias’ appearance, but a smirk crossed his face. “Do you think you can just be forgiven for killing a man?” Richards said.

  “I…I didn’t mean to kill him, Masta. I swear I didn’t.”

  Richards feared Tobias would become violent so he just told the slave what he wanted to hear. “I suppose you want to come back now and that you will behave?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, Masta. You can beat me for runnin’. I know I deserve a terrible beatin’ for the wrong I done!”

  Richards walked closer with the light. He gasped again when he saw Tobias’ condition. The slave’s face, normally full and round, was sunken in to a point where it now resembled a skull, covered by thin, leathery skin. His lips were dry and cracked. Several large gouges covered his face, swollen and obviously infected. Pus ran from a few of them leaving yellowish-white trails down his face.

  Richards then noticed the missing hand.

  “Tobias! What has happened to you, boy? What has happened to your hand?”

  Tobias tried to change the subject.

  “Masta, I be hurtin’ pretty bad, and I’m terrible sorry for what I done.” He brought out the pouch and held it before him. “I think I’m gonna die, Masta. I want you to have this. This here is a gift what I got for ya’.” He struggled to speak and held the pouch toward Richards.

  “What is it, Tobias?” he asked, not really wanting to touch the pouch.

  “It’s the only one in the world Masta, and I got it for ya’.”

  Richards took the pouch, mainly just to satisfy the sickly-looking slave. After seeing his condition, Richards felt he could handle him should he become violent like he did with Frederick. He would just pacify Tobias now and then beat him to death for his crime tomorrow, when he could have plenty of help. When Tobias let go of the pouch, he did so reluctantly. Its warmth instantly disappeared. Tobias felt weaker and was in considerably more pain. He gasped as Richards took the pouch, as if someone had stolen his breath.

  Richards felt the pouch. Inside he felt something resembling a ball. He could feel points upon its surface. He opened the drawstrings and dropped the object into his hand.

  Tobias watched, himself having never seen the object.

  Richards was amazed at its beauty. It seemed to be made of glass or crystal and reflected the light of the lantern. He noticed the object beginning to glow from within. It became warm to the touch. It frightened Richards and he dropped it as if it were a snake.

  The object never hit the ground. It stopped itself and hovered about a foot above the path. It began to glow brightly, lighting the entire area like sunshine.

  “What in God’s name…” Richards said as he backed away from it.

  Tobias sat on his knees, amazed by the sight. He had never imagined such a beautiful thing. He watched as Richards walked backward, the ball of light steadily approaching him.

  Richards tripped over a bush and Tobias could see the terror on his face. “Tobias, what have you done?” Richards shouted, scrambling to his feet. He had no time to say more as Richards began to run toward the big house with the ball in steady pursuit.

  “Karmanna, Masta Richards. My name is Karmanna,” the slave whispered as he watched in amazement.

  – Chapter 13 –

  John Paxon pushed the opened fifth of whiskey toward the back of his desk. He gathered up the papers concerning the Eater of Hearts and rummaged through the desk drawers for a large paper clip.

  He thought about Albert Gaston being dead as he gathered his things to leave. He tossed the stack of books and papers onto the credenza behind his desk. He then screwed the cap back onto the whiskey bottle and stashed it in the bottom drawer.

  He wondered if the man who had called was truly serious or if this was some kind of joke. It was not like Gaston to play jokes. He reflected briefly on the memories of Gaston, the old man with the sharp wit. If anyone could have found the Eater of Hearts, it would have been him.

  Paxon had a love-hate relationship with Gaston. He admired Gaston, yet he was also resentful. He would not admit to himself that he was actually jealous of Gaston’s success, but in reality that was closest to the truth. Gaston had been living Paxon’s dream for years. Since early in his career, Paxon had dreamed about the kind of success that Gaston enjoyed. He wanted to be recognized by his peers so badly he could taste it. He always figured if he could achieve half of the academic success that Gaston had, it would give him the kind of credibility to move into other areas of interest, like writing novels, just as Gaston had.

  He pondered the situation for a moment and realized he truly did believe Morris, which was why he was in his office so late on a Saturday night. He felt somewhat foolish. He wondered how something like the Eater of Hearts could be real. Even though he had seen and experienced things in his life that he could not explain, this seemed to be on an entirely different level.

  Paxon had been one of Gaston’s associates early in his academic career. Looking back on it, it seemed a lifetime ago. Gaston had taught anthropology and Paxon had been a student teacher. He had accompanied Gaston on several trips to such places as Columbia, West Africa, Australia, and the desert southwest of the United States. They had studied the natives of these lands, lived with them, shared food with them and listened to their stories.

  Gaston had gone on to become one of the most noted anthropologists in the world. Paxon had gone to teach at several different schools, the latest this rinky-dink school he was serving now. Nobody ever heard of Baxter College and because of that, nobody ever heard of John Paxon.

  Gaston, on the other hand, had written several books concerning his travels and the people he studied. He had even been the focus of a National Geographic special on TV. After retirement, Gaston had gone on to publish a string of bestselling novels as well. Gaston became much more famous because of his novels than from his academic works. Paxon had published two papers a few years ago, neither of which caused much stir in the anthropology circles. He had also accumulated many rejection notices from publishers regarding his first novel, which he had written many years ago. He had not written since then, unable to accept that no publisher wanted his book, after all the hard work he had put into it.

  He would never leave
this school on his current credentials. He needed a big hit. He needed something that the world would sit up and take notice of.

  He gathered up his things and headed for the door. He glanced around the room looking for anything he might have forgotten. He noticed the bottom drawer of his desk was still open. The bottle of whiskey was peeking at him. It silently coaxed him. Paxon sat his armload of things on the chair and pulled the bottle from its hiding place. He quickly unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. Paxon kissed the cool bottle before he put it away. He gently slid the drawer closed and locked the desk. He locked the door to his tiny office and walked down the hall.

  He still felt somewhat foolish as he drove home. Here he was, a college professor, chasing something from a legend. He needed to talk to this guy again, this Mr. Morris from Illinois. Then he would ask him some questions, some real questions about the Eater of Hearts. He would figure out if this guy was telling the truth. Nobody was going to make a fool out of John B. Paxon.

  He drove to his home, about fifteen minutes from the school. The small house looked depressing to Paxon as he stepped out of his old Toyota. The yard needed mowing, the small hedge out front needed a trim and the whole place needed painting.

  The inside was equally depressing. The living room carpet showed a worn path from the recliner to the kitchen. The kitchen counter was piled high with the empty boxes from his frozen dinners. The trash can had overflowed long ago but Paxon hadn’t found the time to take it out lately. The same way he had not quite found the time to take the several garbage bags from the garage to the curb on Thursday mornings.

  He cleared the desk in the small spare bedroom he called his home office and put all the information he had found on it. He walked back to the kitchen and found his best friend’s twin brother—another fifth of whiskey.

  Paxon took a swig on the way back to his office. The warmth of the whiskey was the only warmth Paxon knew. He had few friends, and those were just acquaintances. His love life consisted of an occasional hooker, or perhaps a young female student in need of a better grade. The bottle was his best friend—and his worst enemy.