Daemon of the Dark Wood

by Randy Chandler

  * * * *

  The idea was to empty his mind even as his body labored mightily to spirit him along the mountain trail, arms and legs pistoning on automatic pilot, gutting it out until the ache in his lungs and the fatigue in his legs disappeared and he achieved that Zen-like state known as the “runner’s high,” but this morning Rourke’s mind would not be stilled. His thoughts were astir with the nagging disappearance of Judy Lynn Bowen, and he continuously turned it over in his mind the way a dog worries a bone, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing …

  Lucy Fur, his Irish wolfhound, loped ahead of him, occasionally glancing back as if to say: “What’s the hold-up, Hairless Master? I thought you wanted to run?”

  When the pager clipped to the waist of his jogging shorts beeped, Rourke slowed to a walk, unclipped it, held it up to his eyes and saw the numerical message.

  999: HQ’s signal to get his ass to the nearest phone and call in for further instructions, pronto.

  “Come on, Lucy,” he called breathlessly to his dog. “Home, girl!”

  The wolfhound responded immediately to his command, turning around and running past him, leading the way back to his house in Goat Head Hollow. Rourke turned and jogged after her, his mind racing to the conclusion that the emergency page had to be about Judy Lynn Bowen.

  But he was wrong. The dayshift dispatcher told him that Sheriff Gladstone had been admitted to Dogwood General for emergency treatment of a head wound suffered in a domestic attack. Rourke was to report for duty ASAP, rather than wait for his 3-11 shift.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, still breathing heavily from the morning jog.

  “They don’t know yet,” said Alice Marsh, the nubile dayshift dispatcher. “They’re taking X-rays now. Sheriff’s conscious but confused. He’s saying his wife did it to him. Whacked him over the head with an iron skillet.”

  “What! That’s crazy! Shirley Gladstone? I don’t believe it. The sheriff must be out of his head.”

  “That may be,” Alice said, “but they haven’t been able to locate Mrs. Gladstone to get her version of the story.”

  “Jesus,” said Rourke, immediately thinking of the missing Judy Lynn Bowen.

  “We’ve got two units looking for her now. Deputy Venture is still at the scene.” “Okay. I’ll be in as quick as I can get there.” “Deputy Rourke? Doesn’t this mean you’re Acting Sheriff now?”

  “Yeah,” he said, suddenly realizing that he would be responsible for running the investigation of the assault on Sheriff Gladstone, as well as running the whole damned department. “That’s what it means.”

  * * * *

  “Good thing the old man’s got a hard head,” said Deputy Carl Venture as he pointed a latex-gloved finger at the black iron skillet on the tile floor of the Gladstone kitchen. “That thing’s heavy enough to crack open a skull and spill out the brains.”

  “Jesus, Carl,” Rourke said. “We’re talking about the sheriff here.”

  Venture shrugged. “I’m just saying …”

  “Don’t say it again.” Rourke looked at the spatters of blood on top of the kitchen table and the pool of blood on the floor next to the overturned chair. Then he looked back at Carl Venture and said, “Tell me what we know.”

  “Well,” Venture said, consulting his notebook, “when the sheriff didn’t show up at his usual time, the dispatcher called his home, thinking maybe he’d overslept, that last night’s thunderstorm might’ve knocked out his power. When she didn’t get an answer—this was around nine-thirty—she decided to dispatch a deputy—yours truly—to his house. I arrived here at nine-forty-three, entered the house when nobody answered the door, and found the sheriff in his jammies, unconscious on the kitchen floor. I saw he was still breathing and tried to rouse him, and when I couldn’t revive him, I called for the ambulance. The paramedics arrived at ten sharp—they made damn good time, didn’t they?—and the sheriff came to as they were loading him onto the stretcher, at which point he said, ‘My wife. She tried to kill me.’ Then he was in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently mostly. But I did catch something he said as they were putting him in the ambulance. He said, ‘Made her crazy. She couldn’t help it.’ Then they took him away.”

  “No sign of forcible entry?”

  “Nope. Hard as it is to believe, it looks like it probably went down just like he said. His wife brained him with that fucking skillet, then hoofed it out of here for parts unknown. The family car’s still in the carport, next to the sheriff’s cruiser.”

  Rourke stared at the black skillet on the floor and wondered what could drive a sweet-natured God-fearing woman of late middle-years to do something like this.

  “Sure makes you think, doesn’t it, Rob?” Carl said. “Married to a woman for umpteen years and then out of the blue—whap!—she turns on you for no good reason. Bet it makes you glad you’re still a bachelor, huh?”

  “The only thing it makes me is sad,” he replied. “Lift whatever prints you can off the skillet. We know Mrs. Gladstone’s prints will be on it, and maybe the sheriff’s, but we need to be sure no third-party’s prints show up. At this point we can’t rule out the possibility that someone else assaulted the sheriff and kidnapped his wife. The sheriff could be confused about what happened because of the blow to the head. For the time being, we have to consider him a questionable witness.”

  “Okay, Sherlock.” Carl grinned. “You’re the boss. For now.”

  Rourke gritted his teeth and let Venture’s sarcasm pass. “I’m going to the hospital to see if the sheriff’s clear enough yet to tell me what really happened. Until we get this thing nailed down, there will be no public comment other than ‘Sheriff Gladstone is being treated for a head injury.’”

  As soon as he was back in his cruiser, Rourke radioed the dispatcher and told her that he would be at the hospital for awhile. Then he added, “You did a good job of handling things this morning, Alice. You earned yourself a commendation. That will be my first official act.”

  “Why, thank you, Rob, I mean … Acting Sheriff Rourke.” He could hear the playful smile in her voice.

  “Unit Two, out,” he said, wondering if she could hear the smile in his voice, as well. She was twenty-seven, and he was forty-two, but the fifteen-year difference in their ages hadn’t prevented their ongoing mutual flirtation. Rourke recently had become hopeful that the flirtation could develop into something more serious, but as yet, he hadn’t made any serious move in that direction. And just now, the timing didn’t seem right for such a move. As Acting Sheriff, any romantic involvement with an underling might open himself up to charges of sexual harassment; not that he thought she would ever pursue such a drastic course, but as a public official, he had to be conscious of appearances, and even the appearance of impropriety could prove damaging to his future career (he wanted to be more than Acting Sheriff).

  Pulling into the parking lot at Dogwood Medical Center, he pushed aside his thoughts of romance and tried to mentally prepare himself for interrogating his boss, The Honorable Rufus D. Gladstone, Sheriff of Arcadia County.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  “I think I’ve lost my angel!” Julie Archer said, jamming her foot on the brake pedal and bringing the van to a rough stop in front of the arched gateway of Mountview Villas.

  “Goddamn it, Jools, don’t do that shit!” said Angela Raynor, glaring at Julie through the smudged lenses of her dark glasses. She shifted her rump on the passenger seat and angrily adjusted the seatbelt strap so that it was no longer mashing her right breast.

  “I’ve asked you not to take the Lord’s name in vain, Angela. It’s no wonder that Michael’s deserted me, with all your cursing.”

  “Oh sure,” snapped Angela, reaching for a cigarette, “blame me for running off your imaginary friend.” She stuck the cigarette between her lips and lit it with a butane lighter. “I’m beginning to think this whole thing is a big mistake. I never should’ve let you talk me into moving up here in the god … the gosh darn hil
ls.”

  “Thank you,” said Julie, cool and perfunctory. “And Michael is not my imaginary friend. He’s my guardian angel. My muse. And you know it.”

  “I know you think he is,” Angela countered, blowing smoke through her flared nostrils.

  Julie giggled. “You look like a dragon when you do that.”

  “Give me a break, woman. I’m in no mood for your melodramatics. It’s already been a long day, my ass is numb from sitting so long, and I think I’m getting my period.”

  “Aha! PMS. I knew it.” Julie smiled, doing her best to relieve some of the tension between them.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Post-Millennial Shock.” Angela’s deadpan expression collapsed around a grin, then she laughed in spite of her pique.

  “Good one, Ange.” Julie shared the laughter, forcing it a little.

  Angela removed her dark glasses and ran a hand through her short blonde hair. “You don’t really blame me for chasing off Mikey, do you?”

  “Of course not. No guardian angel worth his salt would leave on account of something so trivial. Not unless I was the one blaspheming.”

  “He’s probably just taking a little break,” offered Angela. “You know, like he had to get out and stretch his wings or take an angelic leak or something. Oops! There I go again, offending the Heavens. I’m sorry. I’m just an unreconstructed heathen. Always was, always will be.”

  “That’s all right. Michael enjoys your perverted sense of humor almost as much as I do.”

  “Yeah? He told you that?” Angela looked askance at her dark-haired friend.

  “Well, he doesn’t really talk to me,” Julie explained. “Not with words. But I can sometimes feel his moods. And I can feel his laughter when you get off a good one.”

  Angela shook her head in mock wonder. “You’re a trip, Julie Archer. A one-way trip, destination unknown. And like a fool, I’m along for the wild, crazy ride.”

  Julie turned her attention to the complex of brand-new townhouses beyond the gateway before them, encircled by walls of somber gray stone. “There’s home,” she said. “Mountview Villas, townhouse number six. And we’re the very first ones here. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Kind of spooky, if you ask me. Which, of course, you just did. And I could do without those gargoyles squatting on that ugly wall like they’re about to shit stones. But I’m sure you love that Gothic crap, being a famous horror writer and all.”

  “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Did I tell you I suggested those gargoyles to Daddy?”

  “Only about a thousand times. At first Daddy Warbucks didn’t like the idea, but you persisted and he finally saw the wisdom of your idea, blah, blah, blah …”

  “You’re such a smart-ass.”

  “And proud of it.” Angela stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “Well, Miss Archer, shall we cross the threshold of the illustrious estate and find our new abode, posthaste?”

  “Yes!” Julie shouted cheerfully as she stepped on the gas pedal. The white van shot forward, carrying them through the arched entrance and onto the grounds of the complex of buildings her father had designed and built himself (under the auspices of his company, Archer Enterprises). Although the grand opening was scheduled for the first week in July when the first rent-paying tenants would start moving in, Julie’s father had agreed to let his daughter and her roommate move in two weeks early; all they had to do in return was keep the swimming pool clean and chemically balanced until the groundskeepers and maintenance crew reported for duty a week before the grand opening. It was, as Angela had said upon learning of the arrangement, “a really sweet deal.” Julie’s father had already had their unit furnished, so all they had to do was carry their personal items from the van to the townhouse. The cable TV hook-ups weren’t ready for service yet because the big satellite dish on the roof of the stately clubhouse needed fine tuning, but Julie didn’t care about that anyway. She planned to spend much of her time working on her new novel (tentatively titled: The Ravenwood Horror), and in her off time, reading some of the classics of literature she’d never found time to read before.

  Having promised never to disturb Julie when she was writing, Angela planned to work on her tan during the sunlit hours and audit a few night drama classes at Dogwood Community College before actually beginning her enrollment as a fulltime student in the fall. She had dropped out of the University of Georgia back in 2004, pleading lack of motivation, and went to work as a waitress at a Hooter’s in an Atlanta suburb. There she had fallen in with some theater types and aspiring actors, and had gotten caught up in their enthusiasm for the stage and all things theatrical. “It’s the thespian life for me,” she was fond of saying, enjoying the odd looks of those who thought “thespian” had something to do with sexual persuasion. She harbored no grandiose plans about going to Hollywood and becoming a movie star; Angela wanted to be a stage actor, be it in summer stock, off-Broadway or diminutive dinner theaters. She wanted to play juicy roles in front of live audiences. Though her stage experience was limited to a minor role in her high school’s inevitable presentation of Our Town, she wholeheartedly believed she had real talent, and Julie agreed.

  Hazy sunlight glinted off the inviting blue-green water in the Olympic-size swimming pool as they drove past, prompting Angela to say, “Stop right here. I’m gonna take a baptismal dip. I’m serious. Stop.”

  “You’re seriously disturbed,” said Julie, stopping beside the pool. “We’re in the mountains now, remember? That water’s gonna be really cold.”

  Angela jumped out of the van. “Come on, you pussy, let’s go skinny dipping.”

  “Not me. I’ll give you two minutes, then I’m driving off. I want to get unpacked and settled.”

  Angela dashed to the pool, stripped off her shorts and T-shirt, shed her bra and panties, then dove into the water. Julie left the motor running, and impatiently drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She surveyed the surroundings, checking to be sure that there was no one else around to see Angela’s nude swimming exhibition. But of course there wouldn’t be anyone else. They had the place all to themselves. Julie expected that they would have the run of the place until late summer when the units would fill up with college students from wealthier families.

  Angela surfaced, screaming shrilly. “Jesus Christ! It’s cold as a witch’s tit!” She hopped out of the pool, threw on her shirt and shorts, and ran back to the van with her undergarments clutched tightly in her hand. Through chattering teeth, she said, “Yu-yu-you’re ri-ri-right, it’s cu-cucu-cold.”

  Julie drove slowly forward, following the narrow little street up an incline and stopping at its zenith so they could look down into the quadrangle behind the clubhouse. It was an elaborate rock garden with a bubbling fountain and imposing statuary, enclosed by thick sharp-edged hedges of dark green.

  Forgetting her shivers, Angela cried, “Holy shit! An army of angels!”

  “Surprise!” said Julie, laughing like a naughty child. “Mountview Villas, where the angels come to roost.”

  “How the hell did you talk your dad into this? It looks like a fucking cemetery.”

  “It does not. It’s a meditative rock garden. The angels were done by world-famous sculptors. Cornelia, Dickinson, and even Father Brankin, who studied at the Accademia di Belle Arti in Rome. To name just a few.”

  “That must’ve set the old man back a pretty penny. But I have to admit, it does look angelic as hell. Very impressive.”

  “You want to get out and look?”

  “Nah. I’m not in a meditative mood. Right now all I want is a hot shower and a hot toddy.”

  “You’re hopeless,” said Julie, goosing the gas pedal.

  “Hey, can I help it if I do my best meditating on the porcelain throne? All those angels make me as nervous as a ho in church.”

  “Hopeless,” Julie repeated, pretending to be offended.

  Less than an hour later, the van was unloaded and all their things were inside the two-story apartment. Julie laid
claim to the bedroom overlooking the quadrangle of angels, and Angela took the room across the hall with a towering view of the mountain’s tree-lined summit. Both bedrooms had adjoining bathrooms, and Angela was warming up from her cold dip with a steaming shower. Julie had just finished setting up her workstation on the desk in her room (she could’ve turned the spare bedroom into a study, but she liked having her workstation close to her bed so she could get up and bang away on her laptop in the middle of the night if she felt like it—as she often did). She turned on the power to make sure everything was in good working order. With a low-pitched hum, the system came online, the screen glowing a dark blue.

  “All systems go,” she said to herself. But she knew that wasn’t altogether true. Something was missing. Certain it was more than a silly superstition, Julie had come to think of her angel as her semisecret muse, and now that she no longer felt his benign presence, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to write without Michael at her shoulder, offering silent guidance and inspiration.

  “Where are you, Michael?” she whispered. “Why have you deserted me?”

  Julie’s angelic guardian had been with her since prom night of her senior year in high school. That night as she was climbing into the backseat of a friend’s Chevy, she felt a feathery touch on the back of her neck and was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed with a feeling of impending doom and abject sadness. Her date asked her what was wrong. And then she knew; and she whispered: “Death car.” She got out of the car and tried to talk her friends out of their joyride, but they just scoffed at her and went ahead, leaving Julie and her sullen date on the curb. The four students in the car all died later that night in a head-on collision with a tractor-trailer. Julie realized that the feathery touch and the dire warning must have come from a guardian angel. From then on, she tried to keep herself attuned to the otherworldly realm of angels, and she gradually learned to sense the guardian’s presence (it felt something like warm sunlight on a bleak winter’s day). He never actually spoke to her; he communicated by means of angelic radiation, which Julie received as premonition, inspiration or validation. Of course, there had been times in the dozen years since prom night when Julie doubted the existence of guardian angels, and times when she thought she must be delusional for having believed that some divine entity was watching over her, but now she had no more doubts. Michael was real. And for some reason, he had left her alone and unprotected. Had she done something to anger him?