Blind Shadows

by James A. Moore

  “Not really, but let me tell you something. I don’t deal well with threats. In case you didn’t notice, I’m carrying a damn big gun, so saying you’re going to kill me if I don’t heed your warning doesn’t carry a lot of weight. And truthfully, fish breath, I don’t even know what your warning means.”

  “Means you go through the gate. Open the path.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Take the warning. Leave things alone.”

  Griffin said, “Probably not.”

  Griffin wouldn’t have thought such a misshapen creature could have moved so quickly, but the man lurched out of the breezeway with amazing speed and locked his fingers around Griffin’s throat. Griffin brought the pistol up and drove the butt of the heavy weapon down on the bridge of fish breath’s nose, making a wet, crunching noise. Fish breath staggered backwards, but the other figures seemed to flow like a wave from the stairs, washing over Griffin and bearing him to the ground.

  Griffin didn’t hesitate. He pushed the barrel of the gun into the closest attacker and pulled the trigger. One of the men went spinning away. Griffin managed to get to one knee and slam the .357 into the side of another opponent’s head. This one didn’t fall but kept clawing at Griffin. There seemed to be something wrong with the man’s head, as if his skull were too large and not the proper shape, but it was hard to tell in the semi darkness. Griffin hit him again and this time he crumpled to the ground.

  There were still too many of them. Their weight alone was sapping Griffin’s strength and one of them had managed to latch onto his right arm so that Griffin couldn’t bring the gun into play. He fired off a round anyway, hoping to startle the man into letting go, but the grip didn’t loosen.

  Then light exploded in front of Griffin and he heard an engine roar. He saw his truck bearing down on the group. That startled them. Griffin jerked his arm free and shot the nearest attacker. The next second another went flying as the truck struck him. Then the group was lurching and shuffling away. Griffin could hear sirens in the distance. He hurried around to the passenger side of the truck and climbed in.

  “Get us out of here,” he said. He looked at Charon. She was staring straight ahead and clutching the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles were white. “We need to go. The cops will be here soon and I don’t want to try and explain this.”

  Charon nodded and turned the truck around. Griffin said, “Just drive slowly, like nothing has happened.”

  When they were back on the road Charon said, “Those men were going to kill you.”

  “Sure looked that way. Thanks for charging in there.”

  “I didn’t think. I just realized they meant to murder you and I couldn’t think of anything to do but drive the truck into them.”

  “You did great, Charon.” Two blue and white Gatesville PD cars shot past them going in the opposite direction. Griffin said, “Pull over at that gas station and then I’ll take the wheel.”

  “I can drive us,” Charon said.

  Until the shock hits you, Griffin thought. He said, “I know, but it’s probably better if I take over.”

  Charon pulled into the parking lot and Griffin got out of the truck. A few seconds passed, then Charon stepped out. When both of them were in front of the car Charon threw her arms around Griffin’s waist and buried her head against his chest. Griffin put his arms around her and rested one hand on the back of her head.

  They stood that way for a few moments, then Charon leaned back and looked up at Griffin. She said, “When I turned on the headlights, I could see those...men clearly. Did you see them?”

  Griffin had seen. Fish breath had been right about being the prettiest. He wasn’t sure what he had seen in the momentary glare of the headlights. There had been at least a half dozen of the attackers. Some had looked like circus freaks. He had seen a hand with only two, long, deformed fingers. One of the things hadn’t had a face, just a livid pink mass of scar tissue. And the others. The others didn’t even seem to be complete human bodies. Not the right number or correct arrangements of limbs. Snake-belly white flesh gone mad.

  “I saw them,” Griffin said.

  “What were they?”

  “I don’t know, Charon. Right now we need to find a hotel and try to get our bearings.”

  “We could go to my place.”

  “They knew where to find me. They probably know where to find you. They said the warning was for both of us.”

  “What warning? The writing on the floor? But we can’t even read the god damn thing.”

  “I don’t think they care.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “It is, so let’s just find somewhere safe where we can rest and think this through. Somehow this all goes back to Jerry Wallace’s death.”

  “That was your friend?”

  “Yeah. All of this started when his body was found and when I brought you the symbols.”

  Charon said, “The man you were talking to before they all attacked you. What did he say?”

  “Just that we should take the warning. He said something about a path. I’ve no idea what he meant.”

  Charon said. “Me either, but I’m going to add that to what I already know about the symbols. Try and recall exactly what he said.”

  Having something to concentrate on seemed to be helping Charon deal with what had just happened. Or ignore it. Griffin said, “Yes ma’am.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound like I was giving you orders.”

  “Hey. Anyone who drives a truck into a bunch of madmen to save my ass can say anything she wants.”

  What had the man said, exactly? Something about going through a gate and taking a path. Well whatever path it was, Griffin had an idea he wouldn’t like the place where it led.

  * * *

  Carl couldn’t get back to the office fast enough. The Brennert County Sheriff’s Department stood by itself, but it was part of a complex of buildings that were attached to the town square in Wellman. The town wasn’t all that large, but it was big enough and central to the rest of the county. Wellman, Georgia had been his home for the majority of his life and he liked it just fine most days.

  Today he hated everything about the damned place.

  He’d been heading for home when the radio blared out that there’d been an incident at the jail adjacent to his office and that officers were down. He didn’t speak on the radio himself except to call for all available personnel to head for the offices and to demand radio silence. He was damned if he’d have anyone squawking out details for the gossipers.

  And he was also terrified. He felt a sick ice field spreading in his stomach, because the voice hadn’t belonged to one of his deputies. It had belonged to Laura Hedges, who was hired on as a nutritionist and dietician for the jail. That was fancy speak for she brought in the food for whoever was stuck in lockup.

  There was only supposed to be one person in lockup. Her exact words on the radio kept ringing in his ears. “Carl? Anyone? You need to come fast. There’s so much blood!” She’d sounded sick, not like she was feeling grief, but like she’d been ill already, like she’d been vomiting.

  He didn’t want to know what the hell she’d seen. He needed to know, yes, but he dreaded the knowledge.

  All he could think about was Jerry and the way he’d looked. There was no reason, of course. No correlation, except that Frank Blackbourne was in a cell and, oh, yeah, according to his own family, he was dead and buried for a while now. Not the sort of thought that offered him comfort as he tore down the road with sirens and lights to warn everyone to get the hell out of his way.

  He barely took the time to park as he moved for the building. There was a crowd gathering outside but Dave Osborn and Sandy Chambers were already there and keeping everyone outside. They were looking green around the gills.

  Sandy shook her head when she saw him. “Carl, it’s bad.” Her voice sounded wrong, her eyes looked wrong and she was shaky at best. That ice in his stomach kept getting c
older.

  “Paramedics?”

  “No need.”

  “Nichole?”

  Sandy nodded. “And Fred. Fred too.” Her voice broke and she stopped herself from breaking down with effort.

  “Blackbourne? He still in there?”

  “No. No, he’s gone.”

  Fuck.

  “Keep everyone out except CSI. When are they supposed to be here?”

  “On their way. They were going over the wreck on Euclid.” He clamped his teeth down to avoid screaming. Small counties had resources, but sometimes they were thin. CSI was looking over accidents because he had half his deputies staying around other crime scenes that were still under investigation.

  He put his hand on the butt of his pistol, not because he needed it, but because he wanted something familiar and something solid he could grip. Then he entered the offices and headed back for lockup.

  Nichole should have been at her damned desk. She should have been in reception and dispatch and she should have been making a smartass comment and he should have been making one back by now. Instead he walked through reception and past the doors that were supposed to be locked. They weren’t locked currently because something had forced them open. Solid metal doors, some of them had been bent, some of them had simply been forced.

  Oh yes, the ice was spreading. His stomach was lost in blizzard and he moved forward with slow, careful steps. Metal doors weren’t supposed to get knocked around. Sliding metal doors weren’t supposed to be bent out of shape. Oh, and Nichole was not supposed to leave her desk. She wasn’t supposed to go cruising into the lockup area and talk to dead men and she wasn’t supposed to leave the reception area untended. He’d have to have a little chat with her about that.

  No. No more time for games. No more make believe.

  He stepped into the lockup and looked around his personal hell for a few minutes. He didn’t walk far. He didn’t have to.

  And there was no denying that this was directly related to Jerry’s death. Someone was trying to do something. He didn’t know if it was supposed to be a ritual or a warning or what, but they were trying to get their message through and he was going to make sure he listened.

  Nichole was very dead. No denying that. She’d been done in the same way as Jerry Wallace. Only there were differences, out of necessity. Whoever had gone to town on her remains had been limited in what they had to work with. Instead of crucifying her, they’d used the torn metal from the bars of the cell—torn, he could see the stress marks where the metal had been bent out of shape by whatever had broken Blackbourne out of his cell—and they’d impaled her limbs on the bars. They’d also done in her eyes the same way, only because there were no nails, they’d used the same bars again. He could look at the stretched and malformed metal that had taken the place of her eyes and—could still see the institutional green shade the bars had been painted, and wasn’t that a sight because her eyes had always been the same shade of brown, not at all like the green and gray that had replaced them and of course she wore make up, she didn’t normally have bloody tears running down her round cheeks and in all of the time he’d known Nichole she’d never once had her mouth stretched open quite that wide before and of course she’d never have considered being naked in front of him. That was just ridiculous. She was a married woman and they were friends. She’d never even once mentioned a tattoo but there it was, a little four-leaf clover on her left breast, just below where someone had carved a marking into her. Who’d have thought it?

  He looked away from Nichole and saw that Fred was on the bent metal bars, too. He just hadn’t been so completely, well, splayed open. Whoever had done the deed had pretty much gutted poor Nichole like they were dressing a deer during hunting season and wasn’t that a peculiar thing to think, what with hunting season still a couple of weeks away.

  “Oh, fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck….” Carl made it from the room and reached the bathroom before he started dry heaving. He was absently glad that he hadn’t decided to eat his barbeque sandwich before he got the call. That thought send another wrenching spasm through his stomach.

  A couple of minutes later he’d mostly gotten himself under control again and he splashed cold water on his face before he stepped back into the offices.

  And from that moment on, he waited for the crime scene techs. He wouldn’t be staying around. They had to take care of the scene and he had to take care of other things.

  He had to tell John that his wife, Nichole, was dead.

  He had to tell Brenda Jean that Fred was dead, and there were the kids to consider. Fred Junior, and little Carrie. Oh, shit, no seven-year-old girl should lose her daddy that way.

  And he’d be talking to the GBI and the FBI and making sure that they left his case alone. Oh, there might be a few arguments, but he’d make it happen. The relationships he’d garnered over the years were good ones and they’d let him have this one. They might not like it, but he’d make it work.

  And then he had to find a grave, didn’t he? He had to make sure that Frank Blackbourne was as dead and buried as he was supposed to be, because if he wasn’t, that meant that Carl was dealing with some seriously fucked up shit. How fucked up? Easy. He had a fine eye for details. He saw all sorts of things before his stomach betrayed him. He saw, for instance, the way the metal bars had been bent. Oh, he could maybe try to convince himself that someone had somehow managed to get a truck into his office and wrap chains around those bars and pull until those bars had bent. He could just possibly pretend that a blowtorch had been employed. Or he could accept the evidence before his eyes and acknowledge that the damage had been done by something in the shape of hands. Really, really big hands. And he could also accept that he’d seen fingerprints in the paint that had stretched and warped along with the metal bars that had been twisted and torn before they were pushed through Nichole and Fred’s eyes.

  And if he could accept all of that, then really, it wasn’t so hard to think that someone had maybe dug Frank out of his grave, now was it?

  Or maybe something worse had happened.

  Maybe Frank had dug himself out of his grave when his precious Meemaw’s damned necklace got stolen. Wasn’t that a comforting thought? Didn’t that just sit so very well?

  Carl forced himself to take deep breaths. He made his hands unclench. He opened his jaw and slowly worked it, listening to the pop and crackle of muscles that wanted to lock.

  There was so much to do, and so little time.

  And somehow he needed to get everything done as quickly as he could, because now there were more murders to get to solving, before anyone else he cared for wound up dead and decorating a cell wall or a being turned into a scarecrow.

  And of course he had to find dead Frank and give him a reason to return to the grave.

  So much to do.

  It was enough to make a man want to scream and scream and scream.

  * * *

  Griffin stood in the hotel shower for a long time, letting the hot water roll over him. The stench from his attackers had lingered, but it seemed to be gone now. Having nothing else to wear he had sent his clothes down to be laundered. Fortunately it was a nice enough hotel to offer that service and to supply big terrycloth robes. Gatesville had added a big convention center outside downtown and several first rate hotels had sprung up close by. Griffin stepped out of the shower and slipped into his robe. A little snug through the shoulders, but otherwise fine.

  Charon was sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop propped on her knees when Griffin came out of the bathroom. She looked up at him and smiled. “Be still my heart.”

  “Did they say how long my clothes would be?” Griffin said.

  “Couple of hours.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Better than I was. Still a little freaked out by what we saw. Any new thoughts on that?”

  Griffin shook his head. “The only thing that I can think of is some sort of mutants, but that’s pretty thin.”

&nbs
p; “My thought too. I’ve been doing some research on the net, but I haven’t found reports of any mutations that come close to those things we saw. I’ve also done a bit of fiddling with the glyphs using the stuff the one guy said to you.”

  “And.”

  “Zilch. We may have to go to a higher authority.”

  “Is there one?”

  “I know a guy. Well, know is maybe too strong a word. I’ve never met him, though he is local. We exchange emails and chat online a lot. He’s one of my main sources for occult books and information. I haven’t approached him so far because you said you were trying to keep a low profile on this investigation.”

  “Yeah, I think the time for that has passed. Get in touch with him and see if he can help us.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes to put some stuff in an email. I’ll make some pdf copies of the glyphs.”

  Charon turned her attention back to her laptop, typing away at a furious rate. Griffin, a two-fingered typist on his best day, was amazed at how anyone could type so quickly, especially with the laptop rocking back and forth on her legs. Griffin sat down on the other side of the bed and made a quick check of the weapons he’d left on the night table. He had reloaded the .357 and he had two speed loaders for it. He had also taken his Beretta 9mm from its hiding place in the truck. It had a full magazine of sixteen rounds and he had two extra clips. Beretta didn’t sell the 16 round magazines anymore but Griffin knew where to get new ones in the aftermarket.

  Satisfied with the available firepower, Griffin picked up the remote and bumped the TV on. He channel surfed until he found the local news. Nothing about shots fired at a Gatesville apartment complex yet. That was odd, especially since there were probably at least two dead men and those weren’t exactly average citizens.

  “Done,” Charon said. “He may be asleep by now, but hopefully he’ll get back to me tomorrow.”

  “Hopefully,” said Griffin. “And speaking of sleep we should probably try and get some. Do you want me to sleep on the floor since there’s just the one bed?”