“No thanks, I never could stand smoking cigars,” Walter replied pulling a cigarette from his case and igniting it. “Continue,” Walter said waving his arm from left to right implying he has the stage.
“Well, when I finally found someone who would talk to me and asked them for I.D., he said that they were government employees and that the F.C.P.D. had no more jurisdiction on this case, as far as investigating goes,” Frank said. “I started to get really pissed off. I demanded to see some physical identification. And when he refused, I got even more mad.”
“What did he do?” Walter asked.
“Ha,” he laughed. “He got really close to my face and got extremely serious. He told me that Neil Darden had died naturally, and that was what I was to report to anyone that asked. Or else!” Frank said puffing on his cigar, unleashing another plume of smoke.
“Or else what?” Walter prodded. It was all starting to make sense to Walter now.
“Well…the man didn’t say. He just looked down at Neil Darden’s corpse and looked back up at me. I knew what he meant though. Interfere and die.” He paused and looked around the room. “Never in the ten years that I have been Detective have I ever been that nervous. Whoever these people are, they’re big. Real big.”
“So do you think that they’re trying to cover up these murders?” Walter asked. Frank’s eyes shifted around and tiny glistening beads of sweat trickled down his face.
“No,” He put bluntly. “With exception to the unprofessionalism, everything seemed in order. I had no reason to believe at the time that there was any foul play. ”
“Then why did you threaten Edward Brussels the same way that these men threatened you?” Walter asked.
“Ha. You’ve been talking to Eddie too?” Frank asked rhetorically. “That man is a damn fool. I didn’t threaten him. I simply relayed the message I got from the government officials, or whoever they were.”
“My sources say you threated him with death, and slammed him up against the wall,” Walter said.
“What? I did nothing of the sort. I was there for less than five minutes. I told him that the case was closed and that higher-ups have control now. Then I left.” His voice became much louder. Franks sternness was a window that Walter could see right through. On the other side of that window, fear. An obvious kind of fear, masked with sheer, intense, uncontrollable anger. Not a good thing after a couple stiff, straight shots of whiskey and ice. “And just who the hell are you, huh? Coming into my office and accusing me of bad detective work,” Frank said trying to change the direction of the conversation. Frank jammed his cigar into the ashtray on the desk. Embers were sent flying in all directions from the furious force. Walter sat silently. “You used to be a good cop Walter. We were the best team on the force. What happened to that?”
“You started drinking heavily. You became a complete asshole. You pretty much gave up on yourself. I wasn’t going to let that happen to me,” Walter said defending himself.
“We’re not all perfect Walter. Sometimes things happen that can’t be changed. You need to understand that,” Frank said bringing his voice from a raging torrent to a calm sprinkling.
Walter and Frank had a long history together at the F.C.P.D.. They had once been partners. In those days, either one would have taken a bullet for the other with no second thought about it at all. They would probably still be partners today if it hadn’t been for Frank’s actions on the last case they worked on together.
A murderer with a deadly obsession for young girls. He got his kicks by raping and torturing the girls to death, then leaving the bodies in school playgrounds for other children to find. A sick, sinister man, void of all feelings. For months Walter and Frank had nothing for leads. Then they got the tip they were looking for. A man named Charles Knebly was the murderer, they were sure about it. They had a name, an address, witnesses, and a murder weapon with matching fingerprints. All was quiet when they arrived at the scene. Frank banged on the door like only a cop knows how.
“F.C.P.D. Open up Knebly. We have a warrant,” Frank yelled. Frank stepped out of the way and Walter kicked the door down, throwing shards of wood and metal into the air. Standing directly across from the Detectives stood Charles Knebly. He stared at the detectives, completely silent in the shadow of the room. He held in his arms a very young girl. Her hair was stained with blood, and fresh cuts ravaged her forehead. She was covered in some sort of bed sheet that had been crudely torn to fit her, much like a poncho. This too was stained with excessive amounts of blood. The young girl was trying to cry out for help, but Charles had his left hand pressed so tight over her mouth that only a muffled sound was allowed to escape. Walter was first to notice the six inch bowie knife Charles had up against the young girls neck. Charles was pressing the knife so hard up against the girl’s neck that a small stream of fresh blood slowly dripped from her neck.
“Charles, please put the knife down and release the girl,” Walter said calmly, training his .357 magnum sights directly onto the center of Charles’s irregular shaped forehead.
“Get back, I’ll do it. You know I will,” Charles yelled, swinging the knife around at the detectives. His hair was a wild brown mess, covering only half of his head. The sweat poured profusely. His eyes were shaky, unsure, confused, and disturbingly blue. The jean over-all’s he wore were soiled with a random assortment of stains. All blending together to make a sort of grimy tie-dye effect.
“Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot,” Frank hollered, his gun already aimed at Charles. Tension was building as the three men and the little girl continued their stand-off.
“Put the guns down or she’s dead,” Charles yelled backing away from the detectives. His actions were frantic, much like that of a rabid, cornered cat. Charles Knebly knew his reign of terror was coming to an end. And he was more than willing to end it with death right then, and right there. “If you think for one second I care about her or myself, your wrong.”
“Listen Charles, we can talk about this,” Walter bargained.
“There is nothing to talk about,” Charles replied.
“I will shoot you if you don’t release the girl,” Frank repeated.
“Frank, don’t push him. Just wait for a minute, I think we can handle this without any violence,” Walter whispered to Frank. The hammer of Frank’s gun clicked as Frank cocked it. “Frank,” Walter yelled. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You’d better listen to your partner,” Charles added smiling ferociously and taking another step away from the detectives. Frank had had enough with this situation. With one swift movement, he squeezed the trigger of his gun and let out one, very powerful bullet into Charles’s head.
“Frank, no,” Walter screamed, frozen with shook. Charles swayed, still holding the girl. With the last bit of life left in him he brought the blade of the knife cleanly into the young girls throat, spewing blood everywhere. Charles hit the ground with a very loud thud. The young girl fell to the floor with Charles and tried to scream, but the laceration proved to be too deep, only a gurgling sound was emitted from her mouth. Walter ran over to the girl and tried to put pressure on the wound, but to no avail. She died in his arms with a sudden shudder. Her eyes turned into a cold steel blue. Lacking the normal luster a child’s eyes hold.
“What have you done Frank?” Walter yelled. Frank stood silent, still holding his gun in the same position. He had made the wrong decision, and it cost a young girl her life.
From that point on, Frank became a raging alcoholic. He separated himself from Walter, and internalized all his problems. Walter could no longer watch Frank’s self-destructive life. The partnership was over. Walter decided to start his own Private Detective business, leaving Frank to his own demise. The two detectives never really talked much about the last case they worked on together. They just went their separate ways.
“I understand that the past can’t be changed Frank, more than anyone,” Walter answered. A long moment of silence followed. A very awkward silen
ce. The kind that only gets more awkward as time passes. Finally Walter asked, “So, what do you think about the injection wound on the victim?” The question caught Frank off guard a little.
“Now you’re starting to sound like Allen Black,” Frank replied, with a little hint of humor in his words.
“I’m sorry, who?” Walter said. His eyebrow almost reached the brim of his fedora.
“Allen Black.,” he put bluntly. “He’s this whack-job conspirator that’s constantly harassing me with conspiracy theories. You know the type.”
“Yeah…I know the type,” Walter stated.
“He called me when he got word of the Darden death. The son of a bitch knows about everything we do here. Anyway, he said he had some information on the so called, ‘killers’, but I was sure of the legitimacy of the case, so I never called him back,” Frank explained. He sifted through one of the many stacks of papers on his desk. “Ah-ha, here it is,” Frank said handing Walter a small, folded piece of paper with black ink visible from the heavy ink seepage. “That’s Allen’s home address. I’m sure you’d get a kick out of him. Or at least some useless information.”
“Thanks Frank. I do appreciate it,” Walter said. He stood from his seat and extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Oh and Walter,” Frank said as Walter opened the door to his office.
“Yeah?” Walter replied.
“Be careful out there.” A concerned look flashed upon Franks face for just a moment as he said this. Walter stood in his door, not saying anything. He just stared into Frank’s eyes. The eyes of a man he had left behind years ago. The eyes of an old friend. In the place, where it all started.
Chapter 4
The Shadows
The late afternoon air was crisp. The fog lifted from the ground like the uncovering of a blanket. The deep, orange setting sun attempted to warm the earth, but was fruitless in its endeavor. Evening dew soaked through Walter’s aged dark brown Top-Sider shoes as he walked through the winter grass outside of Allen Black’s property. “Son of a…,” he whispered shaking off the excess moisture from his shoes. He could feel the wetness penetrate his socks.
Allen’s property was grand, to say the least. A secluded complex tucked away from the rest of the world. There wasn’t another person around for at least five miles in all directions. A giant fence with razor-wire surrounded the entire fortress, with signs that read: No Trespassing, Keep Out, and Beware of Dogs. Walter didn’t see any dogs anywhere within his viewing range. A very small house dotted the inside of the complex. It appeared to be built into the shape of the letter, L. Two tall radio towers stood behind the house and poked at the sky like the skeletons of a weathered obelisk. The house was made of red brick that showed signs of deterioration. And the roof of the house was completely flat, like that of an office building. An eerie English Ivy clung to the outside of the house, engulfing most of the sides with an elfin green color that seemed to accentuate the faded brick red exterior. A single window was cut out of the ivy incrusted wall. Pale venetian blinds shielded the view to the inside. A single gate, locked from the outside, by a chain and padlock, offered the only entrance to the property.
Being denied access to the house, Walter decided to walk the perimeter. Tall, dying weeds lined a path that encircled the fence. He followed the path intently, searching continuously inside the property for any signs of Allen Black. In the distance, he could see the shape of a man. He was kneeling down on one knee facing the fence. He appeared to be doing some sort of work on something, but it was unclear at that point. Walter silently crept up on the man, not to scare him, but to catch him off guard. He could see a head full of brown hair. It was flattened down and parted toward the left side of the head, and just barely inching it’s way over the tops of his ears. The man was skinny and tall, this could be seen even as he crouched toward the fence. Walter came to within about seven feet of the man and said, “Excuse me.” The man jumped up to his feet and turned to face Walter.
“Whoa! Where’d you come from?” the man shrieked. His eyes were wild with fear. And his posture was that of a man ready to fight for his life, or run for it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m looking for Allen Black, are you him?” Walter asked. The man stepped back a few steps and eyed Walter up and down.
“Who are you?” he asked rhetorically. “C.I.A., F.B.I., what?”
“None of the above,” Walter chuckled. “I’m Private Detective Walter Pierce. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about a case you said you had information on.”
“What case?” the man said curiously. He took another step back, still showing a lack of trust in Walter.
“Detective Frank Barlow said you called him in regards to the Darden case, is there any validity to this?” Walter asked. A fierce look came across the man’s face as he asked this.
“Listen man, I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen anything either,” he begged, slicing his hands through the air. “Just please, leave me alone. I won’t say anything to anyone ever, I promise.”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m really just a detective. Here take this,” Walter said handing the man his credentials. He studied the badge closely for a moment. A quick and fierce breeze came from the north, blowing the man’s hair away from his face. The man took a shallow breath and looked around. His piercing eyes appeared to be a solid black and deeper than the deepest of all wells known to man. The dilation of the pupils was simply phenomenal, like the sun in full eclipse. He handed the badge back to Walter. He said nothing for a moment. His mouth moved as if he was silently talking to himself, but no sound came out. It was like he was trying to make a decision about the legitimacy of Walter’s credentials. “He’s obviously more of a paranoid person than I originally assumed,” Walter thought.
“Follow me, it’s not safe out here,” he whispered. “We’ll talk inside. And yes, I’m Allen Black.”
The chain and padlock made a loud clanking sound as Allen unlocked and pulled it from the fence.
“What’s that for?” Walter asked.
“It keeps the unwanted out,” he stated simply.
“Ok,” Walter said ending the conversation. They walked the path from the gate to the front door of Allen Black’s house. Allen stuck a key into the door and unlocked the handle. Then he proceeded to unlock the three dead-bolts that adorned the door. The issue now, seemed to be the hardest one of them all. Allen Black just stood there. He didn’t turn the handle and go inside, he just waited, with his back turned to Walter, silent. “Is there a problem?” Walter said curiously, stepping forward toward Allen.
“Well…,” he whispered. Another silence followed. “Never mind, it’s nothing. Please, come in.” He finally gripped the handle to the door and turned it. The door swung open to reveal a mess of paper and wires. The entanglement of wires covered most of the furniture and floor. A rainbow of colors twisted and turned around his small house. “Sorry about the mess, I’ve been working,” Allen said pushing a pile of papers off a chair and sitting in it.
“Working on what?” Walter asked as he closed the door.
“Nothing of importance,” Allen replied. He pushed another pile of papers off a half rusted folding chair. “Sit,” he offered, brushing his fingers through his hair. The room was lit like an old tavern. One lamp sat atop an old end table. A small lamp, with a bronze base shaped like a tree. Layers of dust covered the lampshade, making it hard to see the lush forest green color underneath. The light bulb had definitely seen better days. It shone a dim caramel color throughout the room. A few rays were allowed to penetrate the mess for the sheer purpose of general lighting. It made it hard for Walter to be able to tell where he was in the house: a living room, a bedroom, or a bathroom.
“So, what do you know about the Darden case?” Walter asked bluntly.
“Wow, right to the point,” Allen said leaning back on two legs of his chair. The chair released a high pitched squeal, like fingernails dragg
ing slowly across a chalkboard. “So, I guess I’ll get right to the point as well,” he uttered sarcastically. “I have an idea as to how Neil Darden was killed, and who did it.” He waited for Walter’s approval with a child-like grin.
“Ok, go ahead,” Walter said. He could tell he was going to get a lot of useless information, as warned by Frank.
“Alright. Have you ever heard of, The Umbras?” Allen asked. Judging by the tone of Allen’s voice, Walter sensed Allen’s enjoyment, and eagerness to explain.
“No, I haven’t,” Walter answered. Allen sighed with disappointment.
“The Umbras are an underground, shadow government agency. They work for the sole benefit of deleting people that interfere with their,” he stated then paused. He continued, “with their objectives. I’ve heard everything, from taking out people that are in politics, people that invent something that’s a little too ahead of its time, everything. There is simply no discrimination with them.” The lamp started to flicker, dimming and brightening in odd rapid pulses. Allen lifted his foot and stomped the ground, sending a violent shake throughout the room. The light stopped flickering and returned to its normal dim self. “I hate it when it does that,” Allen added.
“Neil’s wife, Marcia, kind of told me about them. She said Neil was into that kind of stuff, and basically said he kind of feared for his life from them. Uh…What’d you call them?” Walter said.
“The Umbras,” he put simply. “Umbras is Latin for shadows. So it’s, The Shadows, essentially.
“I see. Do you mind if I smoke?” Walter asked, getting ready to light up a cigarette.
“Ooh…Actually, yes, I do mind. Those things kill you and everyone else around you. Don’t you know that?” Allen cautioned.
“Yeah, I know. I just don’t care,” Walter said putting the cigarette back into his case, and then into his inside coat pocket.
The Umbras Page 3
