“Thank you. Now, where was I?” he asked under his breath. “Oh yeah. So, these Umbras are apparently, well, apparently they are not human.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Walter yelled, shocked at such a bogus accusation.
“Wait, now hear me out. I worded that wrong. They are humans. But, from the research that I have done, everything seems to say that they are…unlike humans,” he uttered slowly.
“What do you mean, unlike humans?” Walter asked, completely confused at what Allen was saying.
“People say they have sharp or pointy features. They say that their noses look as if they are sharp. Now, not just like they have a knife for a nose. But a real human nose, chiseled to a point. Same goes for the ears and chin. Sharp and pointy seems to come up in every account,” he explained.
“What people? Who are the ones reporting all of this information? I mean, if these killers are a group of shadow assassins, killing off everyone that gets in their way, then who is left to report the info?” Walter asked. “It’s kind of like that dream where your falling off of a cliff, but you wake up before you hit the bottom. And it felt like you were really falling. Some people say if you hit the bottom before you wake up, you die. But, if that’s true, then who has survived the fall in their sleep and lived to tell about it? Or, if it’s true, where are all the dead bodies? The ones that were found splattered in their beds,” Walter pondered.
“Damn man, I just tell it like I see it. There is probably a lot of lies in the stuff I research. But, that doesn’t make all of it false,” Allen justified.
“Your right, I’m sorry,” Walter humbly acknowledged. “Please continue.”
“So…Umbras, Umbras,” Allen repeated, trying to remember his place in the story. “Oh, yeah, pointy noses. So, besides the sharp, pointy features The Umbras are, my research also tells me, extremely pale. Almost see through. And their skin fits really tight to their face. They all wear the same clothes: oversized black trench coat, black slacks, black shoes, and a black extra wide brim fedora.”
“Do The Umbras also go by the name of the Men In Black?” Walter said jokingly. Allen stared at Walter with a look of disgust.
“Please don’t patronize me,” Allen replied defensively.
“Sorry, I was just joking. Come on, you got to admit they sound just like them,” Walter said laughing a bit.
“Well, so does a ninja if you describe it right,” Allen told Walter. “As I was saying. Their eyes are the only thing not described directly.”
“What do you mean?” Walter asked, puzzled at this comment.
“May I?” Allen asked, pointing at Walter’s hat.
“Uh…Sure,” Walter answered. He gently took his fedora off and handed it to Allen. Allen nodded at him and cracked a slight smile, thanking him without words.
“All the reports said that no one has ever seen The Umbras eyes,” Allen said. He placed the hat atop his head and pulled the brim down so that only his nose stuck out. “They all said that the hat covered the eyes. Completely covered the eyes, not even enough for them to see out. Which is odd, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, it would be pretty hard to see your target when your hat is covering your eyes,” Walter observed. “So, how do you think The Umbras killed him, and why?” Walter asked. Allen took the fedora off his head and handed it back to Walter.
“I don’t know why they did it. I guess he must have been into some pretty deep stuff to get the attention of The Umbras. But, I don’t know, that’s for you to figure out. What I do have, is an idea as to how they did it,” Allen said. Walter held the fedora in his hands, rubbing the brim between his thumb and index finger.
“Let’s hear it,” Walter said, nestling the hat onto his head.
“They use an untraceable poison, or, so we think. What I’m trying to say is, when a body is found that is suspected to have been taken out by The Umbras, it’ll have a small injection hole at the top of the spine. But after all the tests come back, nothing is found. So, whatever they use to kill people with, doesn’t show up in any tests. It’s like whatever it is, kills the person and then dissipates, leaving no trace evidence,” Allen explained.
“Interesting. The mortician ran some tests and said he found results that showed a toxin in Neil’s body. Something unknown to science, as he put it,” Walter said.
“It couldn’t have been The Umbras then,” Allen stated.
“Why?” Walter asked.
“Like I said, The Umbras toxin doesn’t leave a trace, period,” Allen said. His eyes flared toward Walter, insuring his statement was true. “It’s that or the mortician you talked to has a new and more thorough way to screen people for toxins, which is probably not the case.”
“I was talking to Frank Barlow about this. He said that when he showed up to the crime scene, there was already a crew of people there going through Neil’s belongings. He also said he couldn’t get any identification from them, but besides that they seemed legit. As far as you know, do The Umbras operate this way?” Walter asked.
“No, absolutely not,” Allen said stunned at the question. “The Umbras, as far as I know, operate only in the shadow of night. And, as far as I know, they operate alone. Having only one person to get caught, makes deniability a lot easier for them. And besides the needle mark on the neck of their victims, they leave no evidence. None. Also, the people who share their stories or experiences about The Umbras, all end up crazy. I don’t mean crazy literally, I mean they were literally locked up in mental homes and deemed crazy, or they disappear altogether,” Allen explained. “The Umbras make sure that anyone that has any information about them, is considered a menace to society, so nobody believes it, or they snuff them out.”
“So based on the fact that Eddie found a toxin when he ran his tests, which is abnormal. And the fact that there were unidentifiable people rifling through the crime scene, also abnormal. So based on this information, would you say that The Umbras did or didn’t have a part in this crime?” Walter asked.
“I’d say based on all that, The Umbras had no part at all in the death of Neil Darden,” Allen said with confidence.
“Do you know anything about the secret project Neil was working on?” Walter asked. Allen’s head cocked to the right with great interest.
“No, never heard about it,” he asserted.
“Well, Marcia told me that he was working on a secret project with one other person, at some unknown place,” Walter explained.
“Unknown?” Allen said in a confused tone.
“Neil was so secretive, he wouldn’t even tell his wife where he worked, or who he worked with.” Walter continued, “She thinks he was probably murdered by his co-worker. She didn’t say those words exactly. But, I could see that’s what she was getting at.”
“Why would his co-worker want to kill him?” Allen asked. Before Walter could get any words out of his mouth, Allen added, “And furthermore, why would they try to imitate The Umbras.”
“I’m not sure,” Walter said gazing at a pile of wires mixed with various articles of clothing. “They must think they have a good reason.”
“Hey, listen, I don’t mean to be rude or anything but, I kind of have a lot of work to do. So unless you have any more questions,” Allen said, standing from his chair.
“Yeah, okay. I should probably get going anyway,” Walter declared. “I wouldn’t know it from in here, but I think it’s getting dark outside.” He stood from his chair and shook Allen’s hand. “Thank you for your help. Please feel free to call me if you come across any information you think I should know about.” He handed Allen a business card and headed for the door, almost tripping on a snag of extension cords wrapped in old, fraying duct tape.
“Let me get that for you,” Allen offered. He held the door opened and stood beside it.
“Your gates not locked, is it?” Walter asked. He pointed at the closed metal gate.
“No, it’s unlocked. Drive safe,” Allen said. Walter left the house an
d headed down the path. He could hear the sound of the front door slamming shut. A series of locking sounds followed, then silence. It had just begun to get dark outside. The cool evening breeze kissed Walter’s face as he slowly opened the gate to Allen’s compound. The sun was low on the western horizon, and only a sliver remained. It was slowly slipping away behind the distant hills. A few rays of sunlight beamed through a section of trees, scattering across the land like a disco ball.
The only place Walter was able to find to properly park his car, was about a quarter of a mile away from Allen Black’s property. The walk back was peaceful though. Walter enjoyed the brief moments in time when he was alone with just his thoughts. He was always contemplating things: life, the cases he worked on, women. He could see the silhouette of his car in the distance, about twenty yards away. He could also see the silhouette of another vehicle. “Who the hell is that?” Walter thought to himself. He focused his eyes as he walked closer. He could now see that it was definitely a van. A black van to be exact. With no windows on the backs or sides. About ten yards away, Walter began to run toward the van. His feet kicked up dust on the dirty trail leading to the gravel parking lot. He noticed the window on the driver’s side door was slightly opened. Not enough to see in, but enough for the person inside to hear Walter as he screamed, “hey, stop right there.” The van’s tires squealed and kicked up tons of dust and smoke. Walter tried to see what the license plate number was, but with all the dust and commotion, he failed to see it. The smell of burning rubber filled the air instantly. “Stop,” Walter yelled again. The van’s tires had now gripped the gravel road and sped away at a very fast speed. The whole ordeal shot rocks and debris all over Walter’s car. His windshield was cracked beyond repair, with a few decent sized holes where rocks penetrated. The car’s body received numerous dents and paint chips. But this was the last thing on his mind as he quickly got into his car and started the engine. He put the car in drive and stepped on the gas. The car’s back-end lost control and slid toward the left side of the tiny gravel lot. He tried again, but still the car slid. “What the…,” Walter mumbled to himself. He stopped the car and turned the engine off. He knew what the problem was, he just didn’t want to believe it. The car door swung open and Walter stepped out. “Son of a…,” Walter yelled as he kicked the back left tire of his car, which was still spewing air out. A gaping stab wound adorned the tire. “Who the hell was that?” Walter wondered.
Chapter 5
Downtown Drive
“What a night,” Walter whispered to himself as he checked his mail in the hallway that leads to his office. He pulled his keychain out from his right coat pocket. A various assortment of all types of keys. He searched for the small, brass key. It was always the easiest to find, as it was so small. He held it up to the mailbox marked: Detective Walter Pierce. The key scratched at the keyhole, missing Walter’s every attempt to enter. Finally he entered the keyhole and unlocked the mailbox. The old, copper colored, metal mailbox creaked as Walter swung it opened. The inside was empty, as it usually was. He slammed it shut, sending a sound wave through-out the hallway.
The night before was rough for Walter. He decided not to bug Allen Black for assistance. Instead, he called a tow truck to come and get him. The truck took two hours to reach him. While he waited, the rain started. First it was a slow drizzle. Then after a few more minutes, it picked up to a downpour. Walter could do nothing but wait inside his car, which was leaking water through the newly broken windshield. He made it into town with no problems once the tow truck driver finally arrived. But, then the problem was getting his car fixed. The man at the auto body shop informed him that he would have to take a loaner car while they worked on his car for a day or two. The car was a pile…to say the least. A beat up two door hunk of metal. The interior was ripped to shreds. It seemed like every few inches there was a cigarette burn, or a stab wound. The car ran terribly. When it started the engine would smoke. It was only a little bit, but it was a dark black. Plus, the car had barely enough gas to get Walter to the gas station one mile away from the service station. Needless to say, Walter did not enjoy any of the experiences he had that night.
His office was stuffy. It was small, so it wasn’t hard to make it that way. Walter opened the window and turned the fan on. It stuttered a few times before it kicked into full gear. He pulled a cigarette out of his case and placed it on his lips. An orange flame shot out of the lighter, burning the excess paper on the tip of his cigarette. He sat at his desk and breathed deeply in the smoke of the cancerous stick.
His mind raced with thoughts. He wondered about the van he had encountered the night before. “Who was that?” he thought, “and why were they there? Were they watching me, or were they watching Allen?” The thoughts ran around his mind like a rat in a maze. Something big was going on, and he was clueless as to what. None of the pieces seemed to fit. The more about the case he found out, the less he seemed to know. He picked up the police report and began studying it thoroughly. Still, nothing popped out at him, nothing made sense. Was this case doomed to be, unsolved? Was the original cause of death, the actual cause of death, or was there more to it? Walter pondered these thoughts as he went over the report.
A loud ring from the phone jolted Walter out of his concentration. The phone rang loudly again, struggling at the end of its ring with an almost whimper sound. Walter sat still, and did not answer. It was a kind of weird policy of his to make the person wait three rings before he picked up. He did it just to see if the caller was dedicated enough. Another ring was let out of the antique. Walter swooped it up like a bird on its morning prey.
“Detective Pierce,” he stated. “How may I help you?” The voice on the other end didn’t reply. Walter could hear the sound of someone breathing. It wasn’t like the sound of creepy breathing, but more like the sound of urgent breathing.
“Walter, it’s me, Thomas,” the voice finally answered.
“Thomas?” Walter asked.
“Thomas Webster. You met me a few days ago at the morgue,” he replied.
“Oh, yeah. Thomas Webster,” Walter said, remembering the slightly chubby man that confronted him in the alley next to the morgue. “What can I do for you?”
“Something has happened that I think you should know about,” Thomas said. Thomas’s tone of voice put a sense of urgency into the air. Walter sensed it instantly.
“What?” Walter asked. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew it toward the fan. The airflow from the fan sucked the white smoke toward the window. The smoke swirled slowly and loosely at first. But as it got closer the fan, gathered tightly and swirled fast until it was eventually sucked out of the office and freed into the outside world. No words were uttered for a moment.
“Marcia Darden is dead,” he put bluntly. His forwardness came as a shock to Walter. He quickly sat up in his chair.
“Wait, what? She’s dead?” Walter wondered. “How? When…?”
“Look, just get over to the morgue and we’ll talk about it,” Thomas urged.
“Alright, I’m on my way,” Walter said. He heard a click in his ear as Thomas hung up. He did not move, physically. But, his mind moved with rapid translucent thoughts. The kind that don’t really make any sense, or don’t stay long enough to really understand them. Kind of like the mind of someone who is afflicted with A.D.D..
He was confused, distraught, to say the least. “Why would someone kill Marcia?” he thought. “What the hell does she have to do with any of this?” He grabbed his coat and hat and headed for the car.
The loaner car wasn’t going to give Walter a break just because he needed to be somewhere. Instead, it just puttered and popped as he tried starting it for the third time. A plume of black smoke billowed out from under the hood of the car, rich with the smell of burning oil. Walter pumped the gas pedal gently as he turned the key, the engine grinded loudly, followed by more popping. After a few more tries, Walter was able to get the car started. His hand firmly gripped the gear
shift and put the car into reverse. As he backed out of the parking lot, the car vibrated violently, shuttering throughout its frame. Walter pumped the gas once more and brought the car back to life.
Downtown Francis City, relatively speaking, is a very small area. Consisting of three named streets, and thirteen numbered avenues. All three of the named streets were one block west or east of each other, and the numbered avenues were one block north or south of each other. Both Walter’s office and the Morgue resided on the same named street: Carter St.. Carter St. was situated west of the other two named blocks: Main St., and Portland St. Walter’s office was on the corner of Third Ave. and Carter St.. The morgue was just an earshot away from Walter’s place of business, located on Twelfth Ave. and Carter St.. So the distance between the two is very small. It would normally take Walter about fifteen minutes to get from his office to the morgue, and that is with all the traffic, stop lights, and the usual thick fog that hung around the city like cobwebs in an attic.
The fog parted slightly as Walter put the car into drive and headed south on Carter St. to the morgue. He reached up to the rear-view mirror to adjust it and noticed a car behind him start up and it’s headlights turn on. He wasn’t sure if this was just a coincidence, or if this happened to be something more. So he studied the vehicle behind him the best he could in the rear-view mirror. At this point all he could see was the bright glow of headlights as they shone through the fog behind him. The stoplight on the corner of Third Ave. switched from green, to yellow, to red, forcing Walter to stop and observe the mystery follower. As the vehicle came closer, the features were easily made out. A tall black van, minimal windows, with just one person inside, the driver. The fog made it impossible for Walter to make out who was inside. But he knew this just had to be the van that was outside Allen Black’s property.
As Walter realized this, he became very anxious. His eyes shot back and forth from the solid red stoplight, to his rear-view mirror. A wet, salty drop of sweat beaded down the side of his head. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous, or scared. The feeling just hit him like a ton of bricks. His mind raced. “Who was this person? What did they want? Were they the ones that killed Marcia?” he thought. These questions trampled over each other in Walter’s head, creating more fear, and more paranoia. The stoplight seemed to take forever. No cars were coming in either direction, yet the light was still red for Walter and the van. His hands gripped the steering wheel with nervousness until his knuckles were white. Finally the light switched, sending a vivid green cascading throughout the fog. Walter quickly stepped on the gas pedal, sending his tires into a sort of spin before they gripped the asphalt. The van followed Walter’s move and also stepped hard onto the gas pedal. The van’s tires screeched and spun, echoing throughout Third and Carter. Judging by the vans actions, Walter now knew what he was up against. He was being followed by The Umbras, and the thought thoroughly scared him. As far as Walter was concerned, he was on the verge on getting deleted, or silenced. He was not going to let this happen.
The Umbras Page 4
