Sins of the Fathers
Page 1
Sins of the Fathers
Sins of the Fathers
S. Gepp
A
Grinning Skull Press
Publication
PO Box 67, Bridgewater, MA 02324
Sins of the Fathers
Copyright © 2019 S. Gepp
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons — living or dead — is purely coincidental.
The Skull logo with stylized lettering was created for Grinning Skull Press by Dan Moran, http://dan-moran-art.com/.
Cover designed by Jeffrey Kosh, http://jeffreykosh.wix.com/jeffreykoshgraphics.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-947227-40-8 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-947227-40-8 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-947227-41-5 (e-book)
DEDICATION
For David & Larissa.
And for Clare S. from so long ago.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Grinning Skull Press for taking a chance on this obscure author and giving Sins of the Fathers a home.
Chapter One
1991
Smoke covered the ground, forming a swirling fog. The flickering fires in two large braziers gave the only light to the scene; the dull new moon was hidden by the thick clouds that also obscured the stars. A bird's sudden call silenced the few insects, plunging the area into a desolate silence broken only by the crackling of the flames as they consumed their meager fuel.
Gradually, other noises arose: the steady thud of slow footsteps pacing across moist earth, the rustle of heavy objects pushing past trees and shrubs, labored breathing. And with all that came a final, softer sound, one that was irregular and muffled, almost drowned out by the footfalls. Methodical, constant, and incessant, the slow march of weary soldiers, growing progressively louder.
At one end of the vacant clearing, the bushes rustled and shifted, and seven hooded figures trudged carefully forward, a long, wriggling plastic bag borne between them all. The one in the lead lit their way with a burning brand that was placed carefully in the first brazier they passed, releasing an explosion of sparks, living creatures fleeing the fires, rising desperately into the air before petering out.
The seven barely noticed as they made their way to the center of the small glade, the high trees that surrounded them giving it the feel of a natural fortress, of protection, of sanctuary.
They stopped and waited briefly. The one at the rear, whose hands cradled something inside the bag, nodded once, and they all carefully placed their burden on the ground. The movements within grew more frantic even while the other noises that tried to emerge remained distorted and blanketed. But the seven figures merely stepped back and watched.
An owl hooted, another responded in kind. One of the people cast a nervous glance around from beneath the cowl, but that was the only acknowledgment of the outside world. This same person then shrank down, the stance one of submission, lacking the confidence of the rest.
The one who had been at the rear moved a little, and the others followed suit so that they formed a loose circle around their package, the nervous one the last to move.
A pair of eyes, glowing yellow in the contained light, peered out from the underbrush, wary of the strange smells. The bag gave a sudden, violent spasm and the forest creature bolted, making a few nocturnal birds rise into the dark sky and disappear into the night.
Six of the figures did not flinch. They merely waited. Their time was not yet at hand.
Yet the head of the other bowed even lower and shook from side to side.
The action was ignored by the rest.
2012
"A funeral? Anyone I know?"
"That's hardly the question to ask." Troy Washington looked at his son and shook his head, scowling. "But, for your information, no, it's not anyone you know. It's for an old friend." He paused as he adjusted his tie in the mirror. "I haven't seen him for, hell, twenty-odd years, I reckon." He gave up on the tie. "His kid died."
"So, why are you going to his funeral?"
Troy faced the sixteen-year-old standing in the door of his bedroom. "It's hard to explain," he said lamely before offering a wan half-smile, the insincerity evident. "Look, Sam, I know I'm going to miss the game this afternoon…"
"It's the first final," his son grumbled with the faux dejection of someone who knew his words were futile but felt he had to make a token effort.
"And I appreciate that," Troy went on, "but remember, this is the first game I've missed all season."
"Sure, yeah." Sam shook his head. "Turning up for the last five minutes and playing with your phone is not the same as being there." He turned and stomped away, not bothering to wait for a response.
Troy merely stared at the mirror again, smoothed down his hair, then stepped back. He looked good enough for a funeral, he supposed as he ran his fingers over his wispy mustache. Now to go and make an appearance.
"So, seriously, who is this person?" He jumped a little and smiled half-heartedly as his wife, Ellen, joined him, making a final perfunctory adjustment to his tie and lapels, done on auto-pilot, the expression on her face bland.
"You were listening?" he asked with unconcealed irritation.
"Well, you've been in a foul mood ever since you got that thing in the post," Ellen shot back. Then she added, "Well, fouler than usual."
"Yeah, screw you," he grumbled, pushing past her to the bedroom door. "Now, I've got to get going."
She snorted at him. "Not going to tell me?" she muttered, her tone of voice bored. "Typical."
"Fine. It's not anyone you ever knew." He chewed his inner cheek. "It's not even someone I knew. His name was Simon O'Dowd."
"That car-crash kid? The one on the news?" Her expression showed incredulity. "Why in the hell would you get asked to that? I saw on TV last night it's being kept low-key and…"
"His old man was one of my best friends in high school. Happy?"
"And that's it? Why are you even going?"
Troy didn't respond as he made his way to the other end of the house. Hell, she was right; why was he going?
He knew. It was all because of…
No, he didn't want to think about it. Everything they had done, and all for nothing. And now he was going to the funeral of Sean's son. It hardly seemed worth it. Nothing hardly seemed worth it.
All for absolutely nothing.
1990
Five young men sat in a circle, each reading a separate book, their school uniforms in various states of distress. A few derogatory words were cast in their direction by other members of their school community, but lifetimes of such abuse rendered them virtually impervious to any verbal slings and arrows.
One of th
e priests who served as a physics and general science teacher walked past and gave them a friendly wave. Two of the readers responded in kind. Teachers tended to like them; their high grades and general classroom demeanor was exactly what the school wanted—even expected—from its students, at least from its students who did not excel at sports. And except for Julian, and to a lesser degree Francis, that was them—the very antithesis of sportsmen.
It was Julian who approached them all now and sat down in their midst. "And how goes the Round Table?" he asked. They all smirked a little at the name, one they had given themselves four years earlier when they had first come together, purely by chance.
"Hey, ain't you lot missing a dwarf?" laughed one of a pair of larger students, prominent members of the football team, as they walked past.
"And aren't you missing a brain?" Julian returned.
The other's face clouded over immediately, and he started forward. "What did you say?" he demanded. The six of them merely stared at him with complete disdain. This was not an uncommon occurrence, but one they knew from past experience would go no further than words.
"You heard," Julian stated, closing his eyes and lying back on the grass, "or are you deaf as well as stupid?"
The student continued to stride forward, eschewing all previous behaviors they had come to expect. He reached down and grabbed Julian by the tie, yanking him to his feet. "What did you say?" he repeated.
"That you've just screwed up your final year."
The larger student dropped and spun quickly, fists balled up tight enough for his nails to draw blood from his palms. Francis stood there, his uniform immaculate, a copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in his hands.
The football player now rounded on this new arrival. "What, just because you're the chief school nerd, you think you can…what? What do you think?"
Francis smiled. "Your word against mine?" He laughed once. "You won't be sitting final exams; you'll get kicked off the football team, you'll…"
"You threatening me?" The larger student was growing increasingly more furious.
Then Sean stood and stumbled forward, teetered briefly, then fell to his knees. Blood flowed down his face, but he was smiling. Then, in a blink of an eye, he fell and cried out. Luke rushed to his side before casting an accusing eye at the larger student.
"What… what…" the abusive football player blurted out, fear now suddenly taking hold of his emotions.
"Pretty sure we saw you do that," Brandon said.
Francis nodded. "And who are they going to believe? You? Or us?" he said quietly and calmly. "Say goodbye to going to university. That football career? Yeah, right. And do you really think Michelle Devereaux's family is going to let her keep seeing you after this?"
"You wouldn't." All color drained from his face. "You couldn't."
Brandon stood. "Maybe we don't have to," he stated. "Tell you what… If anyone says anything to us, does even the most pathetic practical joke, we'll blame you." The others held façades of solemnity on their visages, and, as one, they nodded their agreement.
"Like… like what?" the chastened boy mumbled, his eyes falling once again to Sean's bleeding forehead.
Troy pointed a little way off, to another larger youth watching with cautious curiosity. "He was an arsehole to us five minutes ago," he said. "Deal with him."
"Now," Francis barked.
Sean groaned louder and rubbed his forehead, spreading the blood around to emphasize the point. A long trickle ran down the side of his face. It was a trick he'd adapted from professional wrestling, but only these seven friends knew that from how often he'd done it to his older brothers; slicing through a dozen pimples and the upper layer of skin with a stone created a good blood flow.
Their antagonist said nothing more to them but walked away to confront the other boy, a fellow footballer. A subtle punch to the stomach doubled him over. No eyes fell back at the seven members of the self-proclaimed Round Table. But they all knew.
This was a perception of power—genuine power and influence; it was the first time they had ever felt anything like this in their lives. And for it to come now, at the beginning of their final year. The timing was perfect.
It felt good.
And they wanted more.
Chapter Two
2012
Troy sat at the back of his house, the chair nestled on the mud patch that had been waiting three years to become a deck or a porch or a verandah or anything, his seventh beer for the night in his hands, the other cans scattered on the ground around him. His head was buzzing, but in that unpleasant way he knew all too often led to nausea. Still, it was the only way he had been able to cope with the day.
In fact, just lately, it seemed to be the only way he could cope with anything.
No. Thinking like that was the path to… to what? Alcoholism? The dreaded "A" word his sister had used the last time he had spoken to her, maybe fourteen months earlier. No, he wasn't even close to being that far gone.
He threw the empty onto a pile of lawn clippings he'd promised to get rid of last weekend. Or maybe the weekend before. It didn't matter. Sam should do it anyway. He cracked the next can and settled back in the chair, trying not to think about the fact he'd been at the funeral of a seventeen-year-old boy, sitting with five of his six best friends from high school, close friends, friends until…
Her face flashed before his mind's eye.
"No," he whispered, trying to stop the unbidden tears from flowing too heavily.
Of course, seeing them again—especially at a funeral, especially at this time of the year—was going to bring her to mind. It made sense. It didn't make it any easier, but it did make sense.
He downed the rest of the beer without removing his lips from the metal container, the light-headedness washing over him immediately as the churning in his stomach rose uneasily to his throat. That can joined the last; number nine was taken up without hesitation.
A movement made him jump, but his bleary eyes were too slow in response. Probably a cat, that was all. Damn neighborhood seemed to be overrun with them lately. Just another cat, white and large and on his property. A large, white cat.
Very large.
He continued to gaze in that direction, chewing his inner cheek nervously. Whiteness… with more than a hint of gold?
Once more that face filled his memory. It was, until today, the face that only came to him in the depths of nightmares, one that had often proved impervious to the anaesthetizing effects of alcohol.
The funeral had been a bad one, and seeing those others, the Round Table, together again…
"Dad? You still out there?"
His son's voice sounded so far away. He looked at the second door, the one leading to the back room, the room they had given to Sam to give him a little more independence, leaving his old bedroom just right for when Troy felt the need to be away from Ellen for a night. Or a month. Or half a year and counting.
Troy stood uneasily on legs that no longer felt a part of his body and turned the handle.
It was unlocked.
That wasn't right. Sam never left his door unlocked, not since…
Hell, another memory Troy didn't need. Another time he was not proud of, and yet…
Troy opened it and strode boldly in, not giving these thoughts of the past any further purchase on his currently fragile grasp of reality.
He switched the light on without thinking. He was blinded. White dots flashed and flickered in front of his face. He stumbled about stupidly. A hand grabbed his shoulder. Life became a blur of movement, of color, of emotions he could not contain, of a brain not in control.
A face.
White and gold.
A blind panic; a manic flurry.
Reality returned.
So much blood. So, so much blood. Still gushing from too many wounds. Still fresh and wet. Still… everywhere.
He lifted the thin knife from the floor with hands that shook so much his sore, tired eyes could not fo
cus on it. His head swam, and he could not really comprehend what he was seeing, the scarlet fluid, the stillness, the mess…
Samuel Washington in the midst of it all.
He dropped the weapon and crawled across the putrid swamp and cradled his son's head in his arms. "Sammy," he whispered. "Please, Sammy…"
"D-Dad?" That voice, so weak, so pathetic. "Dad, she was beautiful." He coughed, a bubble bursting on his lips, releasing its crimson contents. "Why, Dad?"
Sam's eyes closed one last time.
Troy could not even bring himself to cry. He simply held his son as close as he could, trying to remember the young man's childhood but unable to recall anything. Not anything at all.
And that was how Ellen found him an hour later.
And then the screaming began.
1991
One of the hooded figures looked at a watch, then dropped his arm to his side. Another brushed something off a hidden cheek.
A sudden pop in the brazier that now held the burning brand made them all jump and glance at it uneasily. But none could look at the others, and each thanked the Powers That Be that their faces were hidden; each thought he was the only one who was scared and worried and downright terrified.
But they knew. They knew this would work. They told themselves they knew, and they told themselves they believed.
They told themselves this would make their lives perfect…
Six of them as firm in their convictions as they could be…
And one allowed the tears to flow down his shadow-enveloped cheeks. He had to stop this.
Chapter Three
2012
Francis Coulter stoically went through the indignity of a pat-down before allowing himself to be led into the small room, where he was seated at a table opposite Troy Washington. He'd seen this many times, but he'd never expected to be faced with one of his old friends on the other side, manacled at wrists and ankles, attached to a chair bolted to the floor, dressed in the drab colors of a prison uniform.