The Digger's Rest

by K. Patrick Malone

  “They say it ‘appened on his way home from ‘ere last night. Can I go now?” she said, shaking and sobbing. Deck let go of her arms and sat back down, putting his head in his hands, a tear of relief running down the side of his cheek, relived that it wasn’t his Mal.

  Mitch put his arm around him, holding him up. “It’ll be alright. Take a breath. It was a bad scare, but it wasn’t him. Take a deep breath.”

  And he did, a deep heaving sigh of relief, and looked at Mitch, “What are we going to do?”

  Suddenly Simon heard the soundless voice again. “Maybe he went out to the castle,” it said. Simon’s lips moved, repeating it out loud, unable to stop himself, an unearthly echo in his voice. Mitch and Deck both looked at him, then each other.

  “Let’s go.”

  ***

  The door to Malcolm’s car was open when they got there, but no one was inside. Mitch was the first to see the shirt in the path as they headed in. It was Malcolm’s, the one he had been wearing the night before at the bar, caked with dried blood.

  A few feet ahead were his trousers; more blood, then his socks and his shoes. Deck picked them up as he went along. By the time they got to the site, they weren’t sure what they’d find but at least they knew he was there.

  “Malcolm, it’s Mitch. Are you here?” Nothing.

  “Mal, it’s Deck. Where are you?” Deck called out, his voice distraught. Nothing.

  Mitch and Simon were about to go around the perimeter when they heard the sound of rocks falling somewhere in the central area.

  Deck dashed off toward the sound. “Mal, it’s Deck!” he shouted again, then heard the sound of more rocks falling in the distance over in the corner of the central area, and headed in that direction.

  He stopped in his tracks when he heard the growling. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “Mal?” he called out quietly, going toward the sound, turning the corner into the pit where Malcolm had been working the day before, and stopped. He couldn’t move.

  Malcolm was crouched down on all fours in the corner of the pit. Naked and covered in blood and dirt, he snarled at Deck, his bright white teeth sharp and bared, thick clumps of saliva trailing out of the corners of his mouth like a mad dog, his blue gray eyes no longer his brother’s, but something…inhuman.

  Deck’s poor mind fractured. What he was seeing was beyond all of his human understanding, his brother had gone mad. “Mal,” Deck said quietly and went towards him, “It’s Deck.”

  There was a sound and movement to the side, it was Mitch and Simon. The Mal-wolf turned its head toward them, rearing on its hind legs. Mitch pushed Simon behind him instinctively and for a split second, saw its eyes and felt his spine shrivel as the creature barked and snapped at him. “Mal,” Deck called out to it again. The Mal-wolf turned back to Deck but before he could get another word out, the Mal-Wolf crouched back on its haunches and lunged at him, sinking his teeth into Deck’s calf before he had a chance to leap clearly away.

  Deck went down screaming. The next sound was the tinny whine of a shovel as it struck the back of the Mal-Wolf’s head; the ear splitting cry of a wounded animal as it went down, its blood-covered body twitching maniacally as it fell back into the pit, collapsing into a heap.

  When Deck looked back up, Mitch was standing over him with a shovel in his hand. Thinking quickly, Simon limped as fast as he could to the tent to get some rope and the first aid kit.

  Mitch and Simon tied the Mal-wolf up, wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle, then Mitch went back to Deck and knelt beside him. They looked into each other’s eyes and knew—without saying it, they knew. Malcolm had killed that boy.

  Shuddering with pain and on the verge of going into shock, Deck grabbed hold of Mitch’s arm and looked pleadingly into his eyes. “They’ll lock him up, Dr. Bramson…or put him in an asylum for the rest of his life. Please, don’t let them do that to him. He’s never hurt anyone in his life. You saw him, that wasn’t my Mal in that pit. He’s sick…they’ll hang him. Please help him Dr. Bramson, please,” Deck cried, breaking into heaving sobs.

  Simon listened silently as he knelt down tend to Deck’s leg and looked to Mitch. “We’ve got to get him into the stream and wash the blood off, as soon as possible,” Simon said, with certainty in his voice, as if he knew what Mitch would do before he did.

  Mitch understood and knew they had to cover it up. Everything inside Mitch told him that thing in the pit was not Malcolm Farthing and nothing…nothing would let him stand by and watch that poor sick kid swing for it.

  Mitch looked back to Simon, his green cat eyes intent with another decision he’d just made. “I…” he stressed, “…am going to do this and it’ll make me an accessory to murder. If we’re caught, Deck and I will both go to jail, but I didn’t pull you out of Holy Family to sacrifice you to a jail cell. I don’t want you to have any part in this. Do you understand me?” he said, pointing his finger commandingly at him.

  Without hesitation, Simon looked back into Mitch’s eyes, his big blue eyes resigned and more adult than Mitch had ever seen them before and said, “Where you go, I go. There’s no other way for me.”

  Mitch took a deep breath and let it out, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Just promise me that if we’re caught you’ll let me protect you and save yourself.” Mitch looked to Deck, his face smeared with dirt and tears. He understood the pact, and nodded. He would shield Simon, too, for what Mitch would do for Mal. The pact was sealed.

  “Okay, see if there’s anything in the tent we can scrub him with, brushes, rags, soap, anything,” Mitch said and turned back to Deck. “Can you help me carry him?” Deck nodded, still shaking from both the physical and emotional trauma. He knew what was at stake and would do what he had to.

  After they got Mal back to the tent, they dressed him with whatever they had, bundling the bloody clothes they’d found along the path to burn in the furnace at the inn. Simon gave him his tee-shirt, Deck’s over shirt, Mitch’s socks and khaki shorts, then carried him, still bound, to the SUV.

  Chapter XV

  IVY

  I know a girl from a lonely street

  Cold as ice cream but still as sweet

  Dry your eyes, Sunday girl . . .

  J’ai peur que fait, Sunday girl.

  (I’m afraid of what you’ll do, Sunday girl.)

  Sunday Girl

  ………As performed by Blondie

  Pacing back and forth outside the kitchen door, Mitch waited for Deck to come out, listening to the muffled voices coming from within. “…a coma! I want to go!” he heard Ivy’s shrill voice shout, then Deck’s.

  “I’m as worried as you are, but there’s nothing you can do tonight. He’s quiet and not in any pain. It’s the best we can hope for until the tests come back tomorrow.”

  Mitch’s conscience got the better of him. He couldn’t just stand there and let Deck take it all on himself. He pushed through the door. Deck turned, fear coming into his eyes again. “I don’t think…” he said when he first saw Mitch come through the door, then when he saw Mitch’s face, just shook his head, threw up his hands and quietly went out though the back door.

  Ivy was leaning against the sink, her arms crossed, her face flushed with confusion and concern for her brother. When she looked up at Mitch, her eyes changed from worry to fury as he walked up to her. “I just want to tell you how sorry I am. I’ll do anything I can to help,” he said softly, shaking his head and looking down, trying to avoid her icy stare.

  “Haven’t you done enough!” she shouted at him,

  “Please, I just want to help,” he said, ready to take whatever he had to.

  “We don’t need your help, and I don’t want it. Why don’t you just leave?” she hissed at him. “Look what you’ve done! You come here and destroy our lives. Now my brother is lying in a hospital bed because of you and your little expedition.” He looked up at her and saw the pure hatred in her eyes. “You want to help? Get out! Go back where you came from
and leave us alone! Get out!” she shouted as she came at him. “I hate you! I hate you,” she screamed, pounding on his chest.

  Mitch grabbed her by the arms, trying to hold her still. She was hysterical, her face almost purple with rage. Without thinking, he pulled her close and kissed her, hard on the mouth, then let her go.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked, drawing back violently in disgust, black rage in her eyes, and slapped him, hard across the face. He didn’t flinch. He just took it. She slapped him again, this time with the full force of her body behind it. He looked up at her, his own anger welling up uncontrollably from a place below his waist.

  Before he could stop himself his own hand was in motion slapping her back, the full measure of his large hand landing on her cheek, spinning her hard against the sink behind.

  She turned back to him, flying at him like some wild thing, throwing herself against him, tearing at his hair, clawing at his face. “I hate you! I hate you!” He grabbed her by her wrists and closed his eyes to keep her from doing any real damage. The next thing he knew her lips had found his, pressing hard, her tongue forcing his mouth open and felt himself being pushed back onto the large block kitchen table, the full weight of her on top of him.

  ***

  Upstairs Deck had just closed his door, not hearing anything from downstairs. He was so worried about Malcolm and what could come of it, he’d completely forgotten about the bite on the leg that Malcolm had given him.

  He couldn’t get that image out of his mind, Malcolm, his Malcolm charging at him like a…like a…wolf. He would never have believed it, still couldn’t believe it. Looking into his brother’s eyes as he leapt was like looking into the face of madness itself.

  His leg started to throb and he looked down. His pant leg was torn and bloody. His head started to spin. He started to shiver and had to sit down. He barely made it to the chair before he collapsed, the throb in his leg suddenly turning to a shooting pain that seemed to take his leg right out from underneath him.

  When his head settled, he took off his boots; undid his jeans and pulled them down from the waist, wriggling out of them to avoid having to stand up again. The jagged bite mark almost made him faint. It was larger than he would have imagined and deeper. The dried blood around the edges had turned black and the inside was weeping thick, yellow ooze. His sock was soaked with it.

  He reached into his bedside table and took out a wad of handkerchiefs, dabbing it dry then tying it closed with what was left. He had to make it to the bathroom to clean it out.

  Holding on to the table, the bed post, the wall, whatever was sturdy in his path, Deck worked his way around the room to his bathroom and sat himself down on the toilet seat. That poor sad boy. Could Mal have really done that to him, torn him limb from limb, into pieces like…a butcher? Not his Malcolm. Deck’s mind didn’t want to believe it, but his heart told him it was true. He’d seen it with his own eyes, Malcolm covered in blood not his own, and the way he’d come at him. Mal would’ve torn his throat out if Dr. Bramson hadn’t hit him from behind, and he was his own brother. He’d killed that boy and if it hadn’t been for Dr. Bramson thinking as quickly as he had, he’d have killed him, too. Did we get it all? he wondered about the blood. He didn’t know. He had to count on Dr. Bramson’s cool head and experience.

  Even as he sat there, his own blood and ooze leaking out of his leg, he couldn’t get that picture out of his head. The way Malcolm looked, seething, ferocious, his teeth bared like…an animal’s, and all that blood, on his face, in his hair. Fuck, he was covered in it. He must have ripped that boy’s flesh from his body with his own teeth.

  Deck’s vision began to narrow, he was going gray. He grabbed for the sink ledge to hold himself up. With what little strength he had left he hoisted himself up to the sink and vomited. His head stopped spinning, but then his leg ached, burning like fire.

  He opened the medicine cabinet over the sink and grabbed what he could; an antiseptic, iodine, gauze and tape before letting his weight take him back down to sit on the toilet. He went to take off his sock. It was already stuck to his foot with the drainage from the wound.

  Gritting his teeth, he gave it a pull, wanting to cry out loud but managed to keep it to a low whimper. He wrapped his foot in a towel from the bar beside the tub and poured the antiseptic over it. The foam it released sent up a cloud of gas into his face that made him want to vomit again, thick with the smell of infection.

  How can that be? It hasn’t been more than a few hours. He held back his gag reflex until the feeling passed, then poured the iodine. It stung him so bad he was sure he’d faint, leaning his head on the sink ledge until it passed. Then with what little energy he had left, he covered the gaping wound with the gauze and used the tape to pull it closed, reinforcing it with strap after strap of tape. It took him a while to recover, but when he did, he used all the strength he had left to drag himself over to his bed, pull back the covers and slide himself in. Then he closed his eyes.

  Chapter XVI

  SEAN

  See me, Feel me, Touch me, Heal me…….

  Tommy

  ……...As performed by The Who

  Deck opened his eyes the next day, still in the clothes he went to bed in. He thought it had all been a bad dream, Malcolm, the murdered boy and…his leg, then he pulled back the covers. He still had the bandage on his leg. God, it wasn’t a dream. But at least he could be grateful that the pain was gone.

  He got up and undressed on his way to the shower, unwrapping the bandage when he got into the stall. The wound had stopped leaking and had sealed itself shut, but it was still black around the edges and had started…flaking. Small, thin, black discs of dried skin came off on the bandage, falling onto the shower floor as he moved his leg, but at least it was closed and didn’t hurt. He felt nothing at all around it, dead flesh.

  As he washed over it with the washcloth, more flakes, and he could see that the skin underneath was black too, and green. He took the antiseptic bottle again and dowsed it. It foamed again, but there wasn’t the same infected smell as there was the first time, and he sighed a deep breath of relief.

  When he got out of the shower he treated it with more iodine and rewrapped it tightly, then dried off and got dressed to go down stairs to do…What? What am I supposed to do now? His first thought was to go back out on the dig, assuming Dr. Bramson would still have him. “But why?” he asked himself. “Because you owe him,” was his first answer. “You owe him for saving your life. You owe Simon for thinking quickly and cleaning Malcolm up before they took him to the hospital so no one would ever know what he did to that boy.” He was sure Dr. Bramson would agree. “They would have to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, so no one would get suspicious. They’d agreed to something. What?…something…a stone had fallen from one of the walls or the tower and had hit Malcolm on the head, that was how he got knocked out. He heard Dr. Bramson tell the doctors that when they took him to the hospital, and that’s what he told Ivy when he came in,” but it all seemed so muddled and cloudy, like a thick fog had rolled through his brain and was just then clearing in the daylight. Yes that was it, I remember now. It was settled.

  He would take Ivy to the hospital so she could see Mal for herself then go back to the dig. He looked at the clock on his bed side table. It was ten o’clock. He had to talk to Dr. Bramson before anyone else did, and Simon. They’d all agreed it was a rock and as long as they didn’t find any blood, nothing could be proven. Malcolm would be safe and Ivy would never know. No one was ever to know.

  When he went down stairs, Mitch and Simon were waiting for him in a booth. He went over and sat down with them. He was so preoccupied with what they were going to do that he didn’t even notice the scratches on Mitch’s face and neck, like he’d been scratched by a cat. “Listen and say nothing,” Mitch said to him in a deep serious voice. “This is what we’re going to do…” and he outlined again the plan they were going to stick to.

  It was just as
Deck had remembered; a rock had fallen from the lower tower. Malcolm was working underneath it. It struck him on the head.

  Mitch was sure that he and Simon had scrubbed all traces of blood off Mal in the stream and since they’d each donated a piece of clothing, there was nothing left to connect Malcolm to the murder. It was just lucky that he’d had another pair of shorts in the tent for when it got hot.

  As far as he could figure, Malcolm was clean, and even if there were microscopic traces of blood on him, they’d have no reason to test for it since they’d taken him to the hospital on the opposite side of Exton from where the boy was killed, not to mention that the way the boy was killed would lead the police to look for an animal and not a human.

  As long as Mal stayed in a coma and didn’t come back as the thing they’d seen, it was pretty well covered all the way around. But what none of them could explain to each other, or themselves, was what had really happened.

  What could have driven Malcolm into such a deranged state of insanity that he could believe himself to be a wolf and do such a thing to another human being?

  ***

  Three thousand miles away, Jack Edgeworth was looking at a printed copy of the second email from Simon. Maddie abandoned the project? he thought and read it again. Can’t be. Not the Maddie I know. She’d be on it like a hungry pit bull on a bone. Something must have happened, and he heard his little voice speak to him in the back of his mind. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Alida,” he called into the box on his desk. “Could you try to reach Lord Cotswold for me, remember it’s England and it’s five hours later there.”

  “Chess, Dr. Edgeworth,” Alida’s voice came back through the box.

  ***

  Less than a thousand miles to the north, another secretary in another office called into another black box on another desk. The name on that door read, “Julian Bramson III, President and CEO.”