When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  Brendan had kept the identity of the “sacrificial lamb” a secret. Apparently the recent lapses in security within the Home Coven had kept this information on a need-to-know basis, and Brendan was the only one, up to this point, with a need to know. Stephanie, however, suspected that it would almost have to be a girl that they had located in the Cincinnati area a couple of years prior. She was the closest, and she was a confirmed MacAlpin.

  The Appeasement Ceremony was set to take place in the dark hours of the morning on Thursday, but that was dependent, according to Brendan, on whether Uilliam—Chief Connor—was able to make arrangements for a certain “All-Eyes-Away” diversion to take place. Neither Stephanie nor David were privy to those details either.

  Stephanie understood and accepted, for the most part, that she and David were not back on the fully-trusted list yet. It was disappointing, of course. They had gone from being on the front lines of all the planning to waiting on the periphery. So be it. She, at least, would work to re-earn Brendan’s trust. At the moment, though, Brendan looked as though he was pondering how much information to reveal to them.

  “Suffice it to say, that the woman is identified and is beyond any doubt a descendant of MacAlpin. Uilliam is making preparations for her and for the event that will keep the police from having any eyes in the area of the farm. I talked with him in depth about what arrangements need to be made. He’s confident that everything will be in order come Wednesday night.”

  This is where we all find out what kind of metal we are made from, Stephanie thought. This knowledge alone will be an identifier of Picti loyalty.

  She wondered about the stoutness of the hearts of the remaining nine members of the Home Coven. Wednesday night would not be for the squeamish, to be sure. That night, in the wee hours of the morning, no one in the coven could ever exit back into “normal” life again.

  Cailleach the Hag, to whom the entire Pictish nation had sworn allegiance, had made it very clear that the blood sacrifice must take place in order for the other Pictish gods to rise again to their former standing.

  Stephanie imagined it to be akin to a perennial plant coming back to life after a long, hard winter. In this case, though, the gods needed blood, not water and warmth, to facilitate their return to glory.

  “Aileen,” Brendan continued, “I will need for you to channel Cailleach again. We will need to hear her voice—her instruction—prior to the sacrifice. Are you willing?”

  An involuntary chill coursed through Stephanie’s body, but she answered without hesitation. “Of course, my priest. Whatever you need of me.”

  6:37 P.M.

  BRENT AND JOHN sat in the Lawton family room staring at a photocopy of the crumpled piece of paper that John had pulled from his chief’s trash can. John could tell that the Millsville police sergeant was quite tense. He could also tell that it had little to do with the piece of paper that the man held in his hands. Regardless, both men settled in on the couch to make an attempt at deciphering the five lines of words and numbers on the list.

  Th. a.m. A.C.

  • “AEA”: D.M. Rem. Tran. – ABCS & Arm. Sen. – Approx. 1:00 a.m. -50

  • A.C.: S.O. BB/Cad. Pch.

  • Est. Ali.

  -18!

  “Anything about your chief’s background that might help in getting some answers to this riddle?”

  John shook his head. “Already put my head into that question.”

  “The minus 50 and minus 18, you think those were hand-written by your boss?”

  The short list had been typed and exported onto an 8 1/2” X 11” sheet of paper, probably by using a home inkjet printer, then cut-in-half with a paper cutter. The cut was too straight to have been scissors. The only hand-written information on the page were the two numbers.

  “I would think so. He often uses a Sharpie to make corrective edits to reports.”

  “Okay. ‘Th. a.m.’ That seems to be a given. Thursday morning. Sound right?”

  “That’s my guess,” agreed John.

  “Any ideas on the rest of it?”

  “Not a clue. Except for maybe the third bullet. Maybe ‘Establish Alibi’?”

  “Sounds like the thing to do after two prior bullet points of criminal behavior. If that’s what they are.”

  The two of them spent the next fifteen minutes punching word variations into the Bing browser that was open on Brent’s MacBook Pro before them.

  “Whoever put this list together—of course we’re assuming it’s that Brendan Cadeyrn character—knew how to keep us at bay,” decided John.

  “No. I refuse to think that he’s that clever. We’ll get this figured out.”

  “We’ve only got three days.”

  “We will figure it out, John,” remarked Brent, with maybe a little too much emphasis.

  Tara walked in with two plates, a homemade hamburger with fries on each. Setting them down, she remarked, “Let me know when you two need some help.” She turned and headed back to the kitchen.

  John laughed. Brent, not so much.

  “Great gal, your wife.”

  “Yeah, well…” he started, not wanting to, “… you don’t know the half of it. We’ve been through a lot together. She’s the best thing God ever gave me.”

  “You know,” pondered the younger man, “maybe God is the factor that we’re leaving out of this. Maybe we should pray for his help and insight?”

  With that question, Brent stood up. “I should wash my hands.”

  Uh oh, thought John as Brent walked from the room.

  Tara walked back in with two glasses of iced tea. “Hope you like it sweet.”

  “The only way to drink it.”

  “Good. Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  “Is Brent okay?”

  Tara shook her head without delay. “No. No, he’s not. He wants to mete out some payback for what happened to us Friday night. I’ve been trying to stay out of his way today, hoping he’ll just leave the poker in the fire.”

  John understood the metaphor. Anyone ruled by intense anger was going to make everyone around him uncomfortable.

  “Maybe I picked the wrong day to call him.”

  “No, it was definitely the right thing to do. He’s got something to work on now. Without it he’d likely lash out again.”

  Tara looked instantly uncomfortable with the statement she’d made. “He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong. I’ve just never seen him like this before.”

  “A vendetta can be as powerful as a drug, and as damaging.”

  They both heard Brent’s footsteps approaching. Tara smiled and turned away.

  “Hon,” she asked as he appeared from the living room, “anything else I can get you?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  He walked back into the family room and, to John’s right, again sat down on the couch. “Well, now, this definitely smells good.” He picked up his burger and took a large bite.

  John closed his eyes and said grace.

  Officer Brent Lawton sat at his desk. And that was all that he was doing, at least physically.

  His mind had done little but contemplate throughout the day. What would he do if … when … when he got his hands on these self-proclaimed Picti people?

  Riding his desk had to be as physically painful as sitting in his cruiser, but he knew that his broken rib would just create more problems if he ended up having to deal with someone breaking the law. He was none too pleased with his current state.

  Neither was his captain.

  Brent shook his head again.

  There was no way that Brent was going to tell his boss that his house had been invaded by evil spirits sent by the Pittston chief of police. He’d lose his job for sure with a comment like that. Instead the explanation had gone something like, “It was the darndest thing. Who knew standing on a chair with wheels, while changing a chandelier light bulb, could be so dangerous?”

  He sighed. He couldn’t believe he’d even developed the lame e
xcuse.

  For the third time in the day, he pulled out his own photocopy of the list that John had brought over to the house the day before. He was having no more clarity today than he did then.

  Eldredge and he had racked their brains for another solid hour before the Pittston patrolman had headed home. Even then, Brent hadn’t been able to stop trying to break the code. If it was a code.

  More than likely it’s just abbreviations and acronyms. I will figure this out.

  After getting up, forcing a few very-unpleasant coughs, and making a dozen copies of Chief Connor’s note, he spent the next half hour plugging in more possible solutions for the letters and partial words on the page.

  Th. a.m. A.C. = Thursday morning (A.C.?)

  • “AEA”: D.M. Rem. Tran. – ABCS & Arm. Sen. – Approx 1:00 a.m. -50 (Rem. Transport? / Armed Sentry?)

  • A.C.: S.O. BB/Cad. Pch. (Cadillac? Porsche?)

  • Est. Ali. (Establish Alibi?)

  -18!

  Brent took out another of the sheets and tried again. Something was going to happen on Thursday morning and people that he knew about, at least one of whom Tara knew personally, were going to be involved.

  But knowing meant nothing without proof. Knowing meant nothing if he didn’t have jurisdiction. Knowing might also mean nothing if Eldredge couldn’t muster the chutzpah to deal with his boss.

  The only thing that they had that could break this thing wide open was a bunch of meaningless letters and numbers. For all Brent knew this could be an abbreviated grocery shopping list.

  Was there a lynchpin within the fifty-nine letters and numbers sitting before him? Was one of these lines or numbers all that was needed to crack the rest? Brent stared, willing the answer to come to him.

  Tracy Larkin walked into his office.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant Lawton.”

  “Hey, Trace” responded Brent without looking up.

  “How’s the desk?” Brent didn’t see the man’s smirk.

  “Just terrific.”

  “Having a bad day?”

  “Something like that.” Brent still wasn’t looking up.

  “Hey, you know what I heard?” said the man in an exasperatingly jubilant tone.

  Brent peeled his eyes from the piece of paper. He hadn’t been able to concentrate from the moment Larkin stepped into the room anyway.

  He sighed. “What is it, Tracy? I’m not really in the mood to—”

  “I heard you were feeling a little under the weather, so I brought you a little something.”

  “Please, don’t—”

  Tracy walked back to the hallway and grabbed something on the other side of the wall. Bringing into the office, he displayed two things: An annoying cheesy grin and a white folding step stool with a red bow tied to it.

  “Some of the guys and I pitched in. Figured we’d be good Samaritans and help prevent another chandelier incident.”

  Brent looked at the man, then the stool, and back up at the man. He raised his right eyebrow and tried to generate a facial expression that said, “I’m laughing on the inside, I’m irritated, and I don’t want to talk with you.”

  “Cute, huh? They had black, but I thought you might trip over that one in the dark and break something else.”

  Apparently the facial expression that Brent had mustered hadn’t communicated a single thing he’d intended.

  “Cute,” he said with a half-smile that would hopefully display that he was appropriately humored and would then welcome the man to exit the office.

  “What’re you working on?”

  “You’re lousy at reading body language. You know that?”

  “Yep. Fully aware. So, what are you working on?”

  “Really? This is the way my shift is going to end today?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Brent saw his smirk this time. Now he couldn’t help but let a small grin of his own escape as he shook his head.

  He picked up one of the photocopies and handed it to Tracy. “What do you make of this? If this were a clue, a prelude to a crime, would you find anything helpful in here?”

  Tracy took the sheet of paper and studied it. He looked up at Brent for a moment, then back to the paper. “This have anything to do with a potential crime in another city?”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “Yes,” confessed Brent. “A hypothetical public servant from a certain hypothetical city … may have come across this at his workplace. Something passed from a certain religious group into the hands of …” Brent thought of the best way to conclude his sentence. “… into the hands of upper management.”

  “I assume, then, that this hasn’t crossed Morelli’s desk.”

  Brent shook his head with a hard stare.

  Tracy just nodded acknowledgment. “Have you cracked any of this?”

  “‘Thursday morning,’ and the bottom bullet could mean ‘establish alibi.’”

  Another nod.

  “And the two hand-written numbers in here?”

  “Assumed to be written by upper management.”

  “Well, ‘A.C.’ probably means the same thing in both places.”

  Brent’s turn to nod.

  “Can I hold on to this? I do enjoy a good puzzle.”

  Brent raised his eyebrows.

  “Don’t worry. Mum’s the word.”

  So now he’s able to interpret my facial expressions.

  6:37 P.M.

  STEPHANIE WAS A mixture of thoughts and emotions. She walked around MacKay Hill several times just trying to focus and gain some perspective. Things were reaching a zenith, and in a couple of days everything for which she had been practicing the craft all these years would become a reality. Unspeakable power would be handed down from the ancient gods of the Picti.

  Why was she so melancholy, then? Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she just didn’t want to go through, yet again, the immense pain that came from channeling such a powerful goddess as Cailleach.

  Maybe she didn’t love Brendan.

  She stopped. Stood still. She looked around as if her thought had been announced through a public address system! Her heart beat hard in her chest.

  You’re his trophy, his whore.

  That is not true! she rebuked.

  He’s controlling everything about you. When is the last time you had any semblance of a life of your own?

  “Shut up,” she whispered. She was losing composure. What would Brendan say if he knew?

  See? You fear Brendan.

  “Shut up. Shut up!” she said more forcefully. The thought struck her to call on Aldinar, her spirit guide, for clarity.

  She walked over to the Picti Key Stone and knelt before it, the dirt now hard and uncomfortable beneath her knees.

  Closing her eyes, she began to whisper, “Aldinar, friend of old, come to me, your thoughts be told.”

  She waited.

  “Aldinar, friend of old, come to me, your thoughts be told.”

  She waited again.

  Nothing?

  She tried a third time, then a fourth.

  Where are you?

  She got up off the ground, dusted the dirt off of her blue jeans, and looked at the concrete standing stone before her. It was magnificent.

  It’s flat and it’s cold.

  Her thoughts were beginning to really startle her. These were her thoughts; she could tell the difference. But they were so out of kilter!

  She reached her right hand forth and touched the rough concrete fixture. It was warm, contradicting her thoughts. The sun still beat down upon it.

  It’s flat and cold.

  She backed away, staring at the monolith.

  The standing stone is flat and cold. You fear Brendan. You’re just a trophy and a whore.

  Stephanie couldn’t take the thoughts any more. She put tightly-clenched fists to her temples and let out a scream—a loud reset button.

  She rapidly walked from the stone and the mound, ma
king her way back toward the farmhouse. She was still a good twenty yards away when Brendan came out of the house, a look of concern on his face.

  “Aileen? Are you okay?”

  Do you really care?

  Again she wanted to scream! The first scream hadn’t fixed the problem.

  “I’m fine, my love,” she lied. “I’m just frustrated with my mistakes and how I’ve let you down.”

  The right side of Brendan’s mouth lifted into a smile. It was saying, That you have. Now get back on the shelf, trophy! But his actual voice said, “Aileen … all has been forgiven. I thought I made that clear. Anyway, two evenings hence, all will be made right and we’ll never have to think about past misgivings again.”

  Stephanie’s visage became contrite. She continued to approach the front porch and looked up at Brendan with eyes that conveyed both appreciation and love.

  She climbed the three steps and walked into Brendan’s waiting arms. He held her tight. She could hear him as he breathed in the scent of her hair. His hands caressed her back and waist.

  “Come inside with me. Let’s forget this. We’ve got some time before Cowan arrives.”

  She followed his lead and walked into the house.

  Trophy! Whore!

  6:41 P.M.

  “AND FATHER, PLEASE drive it into Stephanie’s heart and mind that what she’s pursuing for her life is just death and destruction. Open her eyes to what she’s giving up for the sake of a power that has all been just a lie from the outset. Make it clear to her that she’s being used. I ask this in the name of Jesus. Amen.”

  Tara got up off of her knees and wiped away the tears.

  Tara had had enough.

  Enough of the silence. Enough of the avoidance. Enough of the loss of a good man.

  Oh, she knew the good man was still in that body somewhere. And it was time for that man to resurface.

  She stood in their spacious kitchen, watching the entranceway from the living room at her right. Standing on the opposite side of the kitchen island, she made sure she was directly in front of the coffee maker. Her lower back was pressed against the counter and she rested the palms of her hands on its edge, waiting.