Agents of Shadow (The Keepers of White Book 1)

by Richard Crofton

  “Did someone give it to you?”

  “I think so, though I couldn’t tell ya who. My memory don’t go back that far, but I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. So it just don’t feel right not to wear it.”

  “Do you know what the symbol is supposed to mean?” Megan’s curiosity grew as the conversation went on.

  The man hesitated as if he really didn’t know. “Protection, I think.” He let out a loud, unhealthy sneeze.

  Megan chortled. “Really? And how’s that working for you?”

  “I ain’t dead yet, so I s’pose it works.”

  He didn’t say anything else on the matter, and Megan ran out of questions to keep the subject going. She wanted to ask him if she could see his necklace, but the interior of the Volkswagen provided hardly any light with which to see it clearly. Besides, she was having enough of a challenge keeping her eyes fixed on the road. She supposed she should once again have to take the initiative if she were to avoid any more spells of awkward silences from taking over. But she was not much of a conversationalist, and Cliff was no David Letterman either… he was funny though, she’d give him that. Frustrated with nothing she could think to say, she resorted to the only over-used, boring, but failsafe option left: weather. “Sucks about this rain,” she mentioned finally. “It started out to be such a nice day. And there’s a full moon tonight; shame we can’t see it.”

  “Well,” Cliff commented, “at least the werewolves won’t be out then.”

  Megan laughed again. Her homeless passenger was certainly on a roll tonight. “Now, tell me you don’t believe in things like that, do you?”

  “Nah. Though I gotta tell ya, ya see some pretty weird shit out there sometimes. S’cuse my French. But nothin’ like that though.” He turned back to face her again. “I wonder if your pastor guy thinks they’re real.”

  “What? Werewolves?” She kept laughing. “Why would you say that?”

  “I dunno. He had this really freaky statue in his office.”

  “Oh, you saw that?”

  “Yeah. Before the meetin’. I asked him what it was, and he said it was symbolic or somethin’.”

  “He said that to me too, when I asked him about it. It’s supposed to be a representation of how man can become a monster. If you looked real close, you’d see that it’s only the head that’s a wolf. The rest looks like a normal man. He said it’s designed that way to show that monsters are made from men, that we have the capacity to do good or evil. Not real monsters, though. It’s all symbolic. Just an artistic depiction of good against evil; humankind’s oldest struggle.”

  “I kinda felt sorry for the wolf-man, though,” Cliff mentioned. “He had a freakin’ sword through his chest.”

  “Yeah,” Megan considered. “I personally don’t like the look of that sword. Sometimes I think it looks as evil as the werewolf does. But it’s supposedly made of silver. The legends say only silver weapons can kill a werewolf. I don’t know much about the folklore; this is all according to Father Paul. But the sword through the werewolf represents good’s triumph over evil. He said this statue represents hope, in a way, because good hasn’t overcome evil in the world, but it can.”

  Cliff was quiet again, gazing out his window.

  “I guess you can tell I asked him about it pretty extensively, huh?” she concluded.

  The homeless man was now looking up at the sky through his window, as if he could actually see the full moon that was shrouded by the darkness of rain clouds above. “It’s interesting that whoever sculpted that statue would choose a werewolf to represent evil,” he pondered with a philosophical softness in his voice.

  “What do you mean?” Megan inquired curiously.

  “Well there are other, lesser known stories out there.”

  “Such as?” Megan was intrigued by the man’s sudden mysterious tone. It made her feel like a girl scout at a campfire, who was with wide eyes, anticipating a ghost story from an entertaining troop leader.

  “In certain, Native American folklore, werewolves were the protectors of nature, usually an honorable member of a tribe chosen by a great wolf spirit.”

  “Really? I wonder why they would have legends so contradictory to other cultures.”

  “Well, think about it. A lot of Indian tribes respected and admired the wolf. They studied the way wolves would hunt and try to develop similar tactics. Some tribes saw wolves as their brothers in nature. Then came the white man, who was very inconsiderate of the land, something the natives respected more than anything. They saw the waste and ruin that the white man caused in his path. They saw their homeland being stripped from them by a race that showed no regard for trees, animals, or rivers. Greed was what drove them; greed and conquest. So the natives began telling stories of the werewolf amongst their tribes, about how the creature would unleash its fury against anyone who would pose as a threat to the land. Some tribes even believed that, since they respected nature, the werewolf would protect them from the white man. The stories were probably developed to instill a sense of hope in the face of the genocide that was wrought upon them.”

  Megan was entirely entranced by the Cliff’s story. She looked at him, and for the first time she did not see a poor, lost, wanderer of the streets, but an educated, pensive man. She was also amazed at the change in his voice. The slur was no longer there. He spoke with such articulation and intelligence, she could have sworn she was back in Mr. Taylor’s English class. She started to wonder if the man was perhaps a teacher before his life changed, before he lost whomever he loved so much. She wondered if the loss of his loved one, or loved ones, was what may have driven him to the streets, to live in rebellion against a society that had possibly wronged him so. For a moment, she felt great concern for her father, praying he wouldn’t end up the same as this man.

  At any rate, regardless of what may or may not have happened to Cliff in the past, she believed there was more to him than he was letting on. “I’ve never heard anything like that before,” she almost whispered. “The only stories I’ve ever known were ones where the werewolf was an evil monster.”

  “A lot of cultures throughout the ages have their own myths and legends about wolves and werewolves. Most cultures saw them as evil, however. I’m sure if you tried to research, you would probably have difficulty finding any stories that show them as potentially good creatures.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “For every, one story that has survived through the ages, there are probably five others that have not… they just die out in time. You also have to consider this: many of the legends that have been passed down through the centuries have changed little by little as they were told and retold. People would add, subtract, or twist one or two little details as they would retell what was passed to them. It would be just a minor detail, but after so many hundreds of years…”

  “That’s kind of like the telephone game,” Megan observed.

  “The telephone game?”

  “One of my history teachers had us play it in class once. He whispered a sentence to one student, then that student had to whisper the same sentence to the next person, and so on. Usually by the time the sentence got to the last person in the classroom...”

  “The sentence was completely different?” Cliff guessed. Megan nodded. “Good history teacher.”

  Megan, had so far been thoroughly engaged in the mysterious philosophy of the evolution of folklore, but it slowly dawned on her that her head was starting to throb a bit of dull pain. Not only did she have an excruciatingly stressful day at work, but she also had to pass up a sufficient dinner in order to get to Bible Study on time, settling for a granola bar on the go to hold her over. Not to mention the fact that she was trying to focus the majority of her attention on driving through the unfavorable weather outside, but all the while her brain was in full gear as she wanted to take in everything Cliff was telling her.

  Now, suddenly dwelling on her concerns for her father’s well-being seemed to be the final
ingredient needed for a perfect, ready-to-serve headache. She often appreciated learning new points of view, but it would have been more enjoyable on a less stressful day; one in which her schedule wasn’t totally full. She decided to simplify the conversation to avoid any possible migraines in the immediate future. “It’s funny. When I was a kid, I saw a movie about a werewolf. I was so scared, I never wanted to be outside during a full moon. Sometimes, on a full moon, I even ran to my parents’ bed and asked if I could sleep with them.” She tried to force an awkward laugh.

  “Again,” Cliff continued in the melodic, story-telling mode he had recently switched to, “the stories have been twisted ass-backwards. There’s more light at night during a full moon than any other night. Logically, it doesn’t make sense for people to make stories of things that go bump in the night during a full moon.”

  He paused for a moment, then added one final comment. “No, Megan… it’s during a new moon that the night is darkest. It’s during a new moon… that the real monsters come out.”

  So much for simple. Cliff’s ghost-story-telling tone invited an eerie mood that engulfed the interior of the vehicle like a fume through the vents, and Megan felt the goose bumps manifest themselves about her skin, though the warmth of the car’s defrost was more than adequate. She didn’t even want to know what he meant by that last comment, so for once, since he only seemed to talk when she prompted him, she remained silent. She had had enough “gather ‘round the campfire” kind of fun for one night. It was wonderfully educational and enjoyable up to a point, she thought, but a girl can only take so much crazy. True, during their short trip together, Cliff surprisingly proved himself entertaining, funny, and mysteriously deep, but he clearly had his issues as well.

  A large, green sign, indicating that Route 30 would bear to the right, leaving the simple street surrounded by shopping centers for a faster paced expressway, alerted Megan to the overpass ahead. She pulled into the last parking lot before the exit, which was rather vacant as the shops were nearing their scheduled closing times, and came to a stop. After placing the gearshift into Park, she turned to her passenger. “The overpass is right there,” she pointed.

  “Can’t thank ya enough for givin’ me a lift and savin’ my legs the trouble, ma’am.” Back to the slur and crude voice of the bum.

  “My pleasure. I actually enjoyed the company. And it’s Megan; not ma’am,” she smirked. “I work for a living.” The man mirrored her smirk with his own, hesitating, or so it seemed to her, to open the car door to exit. “You gonna be alright?”

  “Yeah,” he affirmed, reaching his right hand into his opened jacket. “You got a kind heart, Megan. That’s why I feel bad about this, but I haveta ask ya to open that pretty little purse o’ yours and give me whatever cash ya got in there.” Then he pulled out a black, menacing looking pistol, and held it flush against his abdomen with the barrel pointing in an upward angle toward her suddenly vulnerable head.

  Chapter XIX

  Megan sat motionless and awestruck. The gravity of the situation, though it had registered in her mind rather quickly, was all the same too unbelievable to shake her frozen state, one that would make a deer in headlights appear safe. She thought she was trying to produce words from her gaping mouth, but no sound emerged.

  “Your money. Now.” Cliff spoke calmly, but with a firmness that was effective enough to break her from her spell of paralysis. With her stunned look now transforming to one of betrayal, Megan quickly opened her purse and rummaged through the clutter.

  How could I be so stupid? she yelled at herself in her mind. She was actually believing her night was ending on a good note, and now after her gracious kindness toward a man in need had been rewarded with such ungrateful greed, the note had suddenly gone sour and discordant.

  She found a twenty-dollar bill after several seconds of searching, pulled it out, and flipped it to him in disgust. “That’s all I have,” she spoke just above a whisper. Anger, fear, and confusion plucked her nerves like a banjo. This was the poor man who put money in the poor box. This was a man she perceived to have genuinely good soul. Why would he do something that she was convinced to be out of character for him? Perhaps the full moon brought out his darker side. Perhaps he was the one who got the stories ass backwards.

  Cliff picked up the bill with his unarmed hand and put it into his jacket pocket, not taking his gaze off his victim. “Now please, just go,” Megan half pleaded and half demanded.

  “Sorry kid,” the homeless man shook his head. “We’re not done here. Ya gotta give me the necklace too.”

  The headlights became high beams, and the deer’s eyes widened to saucers. This demand was not something she could process as easily or as willingly as that for money. The man was now ordering her to relinquish something that was a part of her; something she would no sooner part with than she would her ability to breathe. She placed her right hand against her chest, blanketing the cross underneath her jacket and shirt, as if the gesture would further hide it from her passenger and cause him to forget that he wanted it in the first place.

  Cliff nodded at her as he slightly teetered the pistol, reminding her of his sudden dominance over the situation. “Come on now, I haven’t got all day.”

  Megan slowly gripped the cross underneath her clothing. “Please,” she begged with a low and frightened voice, “I can’t…”

  “’Fraid ya don’t got much choice, kiddo,” the man said plainly. “Give it to me.”

  “What could you possibly need it for? It’s not worth anything! You wouldn’t get more than a couple dollars for it!”

  “It’s worth more than ya realize,” Cliff countered, as calm and steady as one enjoying a pleasant book in the park. “Now hand it over.”

  Megan’s eyes showed defiance and fear all at once. Not only was she betrayed by one whom she showed compassion to, but now he was adding insult to injury by threatening to rob her of the one thing with which she felt closest to her mother. Never would she have believed anyone could stoop so low. If her eyes had mouths, they would scream every obscenity she could recall at him. Instead, her own trembling lips whispered with less power and anger than her eyes exhibited: “No.”

  The man looked at her.

  “I won’t give it to you,” she continued just above a whisper. “Now get out of my car.”

  The man gave an expression that indicated he was not impressed at all by her efforts to come off as resistant. For a moment he closed his eyes and breathed out, as if he really didn’t want to do what he was about to, but he did it anyway, and the next thing Megan knew, the barrel of the pistol was pressed against her forehead. Megan’s eyes, now terrified and watery, never left his. The lighting inside the car was very dim, but still she could see them clearly. They were cold and blue, as if made of steel; incredibly awe-striking. Two blazing supernovas of ice that bored into her very core.

  Still, she saw something minute buried deeply under the hardened steel of his eyes; the tip of an exposed slipper protruding from under a curtain, whereas behind there might be something more. She believed a wisp of goodness hid in the shadows of his being, and she found the smallest droplet of courage with which to relieve the aridity in her vocal chords. “Cliff,” she pleaded weakly, fearful to make the slightest nervous twitch, as the gun remained pressed against her head, “if there is any decency in you; any humanity that you still hold onto, if you have any honor whatsoever, then please don’t do this. Just take my money and walk away.” The man tilted his head, regarding her words. The gaze of her helpless, begging eyes held his. “Do you really want to kill an innocent woman over a piece of fake jewelry?”

  The homeless man, though he appeared to take no pleasure in his actions, kept his grip on the pistol against her. He looked upon her with a stillness and patience that could wait for the end of days. Finally he answered, doffing the slur and crude speech yet again; replacing it with the articulation he had voiced earlier: “Let me ask you Megan, do you really want to die over a pie
ce of fake jewelry? Be reasonable now; you’re young, and you haven’t really lived yet. There’s so much to experience: career, travel, marriage, a white-picket fence around a fresh, green yard where your children would laugh and play. All of life’s little treats. Hundreds and hundreds of precious moments that are waiting for you in your future. Moments that make life worth living. And you’re about to pass all of it up… for a necklace? Don’t you think your mother would rather you live your life than to throw it all away... because of her cheap, old crucifix on a cheap, old chain?”

  The watery eyes in her head could no longer hold back the tears, and they broke free of her corneas, sliding down her cheeks. Not only was this bastard robbing her, but he was now taking advantage of her in a completely new and unfathomable light when he used her dead mother to strengthen his persuasion. “How could you?” she managed to whisper. “You son of a bitch!”

  “I understand that necklace is very important to you,” Cliff responded with no acknowledgement of her name-calling, “and I’m not proud that I have to deprive you of it. But I don’t want you to die, Megan. You’re a good person; I meant what I said before. So if you want that future I’ve described for you, you’re going to have to let go of your past. Take it off your neck, hand it over, and I promise you everything will be alright. If you don’t give it to me now… you will die.” Megan started to breathe faster the more he spoke, tears streaming down.

  Her eyes remained closed, but opened immediately when she heard the cocking of the gun’s hammer. “Give me… the fucking… necklace.”

  The small display of irritation in his command suddenly freed her of her paralysis. With the hateful eyes of one deceived, she quickly reached down her shirt and pulled the necklace over her head, holding it out to him with a shaky stretched arm. Cliff quickly snatched it from her and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket. His pistol was still trained on her head as he produced from the same pocket, a white handkerchief, which he gripped the inside handle of the car door as he opened it. He stepped out into the rain with ease, not yet releasing her from the sights of the gun, and shut the door. Then he wiped the outer handle with the handkerchief. “Afraid I can’t leave any prints for you. No doubt you’ll be calling the police when I’m gone.”