“What happened just now?” she asked as she followed him down the dirt driveway. “The thing with the handcuffs? More magic?”
“Pretty much,” Michael answered simply. “When he put his knee on my back, made physical contact, I was able to tap in to his mind and trick him into cuffing himself, while implanting a suggestion that he was seeing himself cuff my hands instead. He didn’t see what he really did until I was ready for him to. Not a strong spell to be honest.”
“No,” Megan said sarcastically, “not strong at all. So how are we getting out of here?”
Before she even finished the question, she saw the motorcycle parked on the side of the driveway several feet ahead of them.
When they reached the bike, Michael gave her the helmet that he took out of a side compartment. He then mounted it and she hopped on behind him. “Hold tight,” he told her. She wasn’t much into bikes, but she knew what a crotch-rocket was… and how fast they could go. Before he even started the ignition, she had wrapped her arms around his waists and held on for dear life. He didn’t seem to mind.
Seconds later, the two newly acquainted allies were racing down the main road, tearing through the night. Megan hadn’t asked where they were going. She didn’t care. Anywhere was better than the horror she endured in that storm cellar. Anywhere right now was freedom. For the first time in a fortnight, hope had finally reentered the chambers of her heart, and the farther they rode, the stronger hope nurtured inside her.
Chapter XXII (Epilogue)
Stephen Madsen barged into his neatly organized office located in the Life Sciences Building of Gettysburg College’s main campus. Not concerned with discretion or stealth, he flicked on the light and practically slammed his briefcase on his desk, nearly knocking his plastic inbox with last-minute term papers onto the floor, along with a stapler, and his prized miniature statue that was identical to the ones owned by others of his Circle. If he drew attention to any campus security officers who happened to be making their nightly rounds in his wing at the time, their heightened concerns of a possible break-in would soon be disarmed once they would see that it was him. They might casually question his visit at such a late hour, especially now that the semester had ended, but he could easily explain himself, having established quite a reputable status as a tenured faculty member. But after the unfortunate events earlier in the night, he knew that his days of teaching courses in Behavioral Psychology and Childhood Development at this facility were over.
For a moment, he stood motionless, staring down at the inbox which teetered on the brink of his desk as if considering the need to reset it back to its proper position; keeping all of his desk items in place came as second nature to him, as it was practically in his DNA to maintain order and structure among all aspects of his profession and livelihood. Just as he was about to save the plastic organizer from the eventual influence of gravity however, instead he violently swatted it with the palm of his hand and watched it fly across his office. Term papers and manila folders became instantly airborne as they ejected over the short walls of the inbox before it smashed into the nearby wall, and they sank toward the floor like a room full of butterflies whose lives all abruptly ended at the same time.
Madsen would have continued on with his impulsive tirade; such rage and frustration he had only known once before, which happened to be the last time this impudent prick (Michael something-or-other) thwarted his Circle’s dream of completing a Dark Year. The boy who had shot him point blank in the face with a paintball gun many years ago had once again appeared as a thorn in his side, had once again proved himself more than just a nuisance, having once again blown apart their carefully and meticulously crafted schemes that took years of constructing.
Regardless, destroying his well-kempt office in a mindless rampage, albeit a justifiable one, would solve nothing right now. He had to think, as haggard and distraught as he was. Even now, composure meant everything to a man of his stature. Besides, his energy was all but spent. Teleporting from the secret lair in Lancaster to his home outside of Gettysburg had drained him, and his adrenaline from such an intense episode within the cellar prevented him from feeling the effects afterward but allowed him the strength to pack all of his essentials into his second vehicle and make his way to campus. Now that he had a moment to still himself, he could feel exhaustion as his head spun and his hands shook. He needed rest more than ever, but not until he grabbed what he needed from his office and got himself somewhere safe. But first, he had to sit down lest he collapse on the cold, linoleum floor.
Madsen plopped into his leather chair and began to rub his aching temples. He opened the top, right drawer of his desk and fondled through some meager office supplies until he found a packet of aspirin. He popped both pills into his mouth and chewed them, hoping to ease his ailments more quickly, then swiveled toward the mini-refrigerator against the nearby wall, retrieving a fresh, cold bottle of water. The cool liquid revived him slightly as he took large gulps until he had left just enough to pour the last ounce into his cupped left hand, splashing it against his face.
Though he still felt, and probably looked, like hell, the water and aspirin were just enough to rejuvenate his mind so he could organize his thoughts. After several deep breaths, he pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tweed sports coat. So far, he had only attempted to call Father Paul, the head of the Primary Circle. But with no answer after several attempts, he could only assume the worst. Everyone else in the room had met a bloody end, as he witnessed first-hand before escaping.
Everyone but Diana.
Madsen didn’t see her amidst the chaos. She had gotten out, he believed. He also knew that, if Paul Cunningham had met his demise, it would be up to him to formulate a plan. Diana was more powerful than he, Madsen admitted to himself. He was not too proud to acknowledge that fact. But, though she kept a solid poker face most of the time, she was not known for keeping a cool head when shit hit the fan. Where she surpassed him in knowledge and understanding of the dark magic they practiced, she lacked in self-control. Though she would never admit it herself, she would need him to center her. As soon as he could, he would have to contact her and arrange for them to regroup.
But first he needed to follow the protocol set in place for emergencies such as this one. Madsen took a few more deep breaths, and began to remove contents of importance from the drawers, packing them into his briefcase. Lastly, he picked up the statue, held it momentarily, gazing at the meticulously crafted artwork. The wild, triumphant eyes of the knight, with his armored foot planted on the back of the dying beast, fascinated him like it was the first time he’d inspected the figure. “No great quest won without great cost,” he said softly, as if speaking to it, then carefully secured it into the briefcase before closing the zipper.
When he decided he had enough strength, he rose from the leather office chair and picked up his phone. As he quickly found the direct number to the Agency and pressed “Send,” he held the phone to his ear while scanning his surroundings. One last look at the captain’s quarters. A part of him would miss this place, as it had been his assignment for many years, and he had become comfortable with what he considered to be his own realm of expertise. Now he would have to start fresh, and the thought of it caused his anger to stir once again.
The call connected. “This is Agent five-six-one of the Primary Circle,” he announced into the phone.
“Agent five-six-one,” a professional voice responded on the other end, “we’ve received word of the situation from Agent six-two-two not long ago.”
Agent six-two-two: Diana’s I.D. number. So, Diana had escaped, and had already contacted the Agency for assistance, he realized to his relief. That was helpful; it would save him the time of having to explain the Primary Circle’s failure. “Yes,” Madsen confirmed. “No other survivors that I know of besides the two of…”
As he spoke, still gazing around his beloved, private office that he took pride in keeping in such pristine order, his eyes st
opped at a disturbing sight. The file cabinet behind him, in which he kept nothing he would need from this point forth, appeared to have been tampered with. A stack of hanging files filled with student records and documents lay neatly on top of it, files that were always set in alphabetical order in the top drawer of the cabinet.
“Will you need a transfer sir?” the voice presumed on the line.
Madsen didn’t respond, too distracted by the files that he knew he had not pulled out. Slowly, he approached the cabinet.
“Sir?” the voice prompted.
Madsen stopped in front of the file cabinet. “I’m sorry,” he answered finally, “say again?”
“A transfer of assignment, sir. Do you need us to process…”
“Yes,” he interrupted. “Relocation is in order too.” Slowly, he opened the top drawer of the cabinet and peered inside. Immediately, his eyes widened as the stirring anger began to boil.
“Very well sir,” the voice complied. “We’ll have a crew move your household goods until transfer orders have been established. Should I have your representative contact you during regular business hours, or do you require immediate assistance?”
Madsen barely heard the voice on the line. All of his focus strained on what he saw before him. Within the cabinet drawer, almost completely filling the space, was a massive pile of yellow paintballs.
On top, one single sheet of paper with writing in black marker:
Professor Stephen Madsen, I hope you now understand that you will have no leverage over me by threatening those I care for. Tell your people that if another of my loved ones is ever harmed again, I’ll retaliate against you ten times more damaging than I did tonight.
He flipped the sheet of paper, revealing one final, taunting sentence written in the same black ink:
MICHAEL MESSENGER SAYS HELLO
“Sir?” the voice spoke again. “Agent Madsen?”
The professor fought through the suddenly enhanced shakiness in his legs and gripped the top of the file cabinet to steady himself. “Whatever it takes,” he finally said in an unexpectedly calm but rugged tone when he found his voice. “Get me that transfer order now, agent. Priority one, do you understand me?” Without waiting for a response or answering the operator’s other questions, he disconnected the call.
So, this is why the piece of shit let him live: he had wanted to send a message of his own, and he had selected Madsen to be his errand boy. Another wave of whatever adrenaline he had left in reserve began to surge within him as he picked up the sheet of paper and stared at it with both reverence and hatred in his eyes. Then, when it felt like an eruption transpired within him, he crumpled it up, slammed the top drawer shut, and used both arms to tip the cabinet over violently. Then he moved on to take his frustrations out on the other pieces of office furniture, to hell with composure, completely trashing his once, well-kempt office.
About the Author
Originally from Wilmington, Delaware, Richard Crofton now resides in Florida with his family, where he works as an instructor in the art of Shaolin Kempo Karate. However, his heart has always felt truly at home in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and this work of fiction by no means should imply that anything dark or sinister lies within its tranquil farmlands, nor among its neighborly residents.
Richard Crofton can be contacted/followed at:
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: http://fb.me/richardcroftonauthor
Twitter: www.twitter.com#richardcrofton@writercrofton
Blog: https://richardcrofton.wordpress.com/
Other Novels by Richard Crofton
The Keepers of White series:
Book I: Agents of Shadow (available now)
Book III: The Paladin’s Redemption (coming soon)
From The Keepers of White,
Book III: The Paladin’s Redemption
Horrid screams filled the dark room abruptly, springing Michael awake in an instant as he sat upright from the bed and drew both pistols from underneath the pillow next to him, aiming them at nothing but shadows. He turned his head and could see Megan thrashing about under her covers as she wailed. Gathering his bearings and sensing no danger, he dropped his weapons onto the bed and flicked on the light. “Megan!” he shouted.
Neither the sound of his voice, nor the sudden intrusion of the bright luminescence of the motel room’s bed lamp awoke her from the apparent night terror that invaded her sleep. She repeatedly swatted herself violently with her hands as if millions of wasps were stinging her all over and continued to scream as if in full panic, yet her eyes were wide open.
Michael went to her quickly, grabbing her arms and holding them still, and proceeded to call her name forcefully until she finally broke free of the haunting dream. Megan stopped, breathing heavily as she looked all around her, as if trying to remember where she was, then looked back into his eyes with horror in her own.
“It’s alright, Megan,” he spoke softly. “You’re okay.”
His voice soothed her somewhat as she gazed at him for a few more seconds, then she broke down into frightful sobs. “Oh my God,” she cried with a shaking voice. “Michael…”
He shushed her as he let her head fall into his chest. “It’s okay, darlin’. It’s okay.”
“Fire,” she managed to voice in between her choking sobs. “Everything burning. Skin… melting. The heat… it was horrible!”
Michael stroked her long blonde hair. “No, you’re fine. Just a bad dream is all.”
“Oh God,” she repeated. “Ryleigh! He killed her, Michael! Burned her alive…I saw it happen!”
“Ryleigh?” Michael said the name questioningly. “Your friend...”
Megan released more cries that sounded of both mourning and fear. “Ben too!”
“The apartment fire,” Michael recalled. “Who killed them, Megan?”
“Sonny!” she blurted out. “He was… my boyfriend… but he’s one of them!”
“Sonny,” Michael repeated. “The young man I saw you with at Mass that one Sunday.”
Megan nodded, wiping away tears that were only replaced by fresh ones. “He’s the one that abducted me.”
“Then he killed your friends.” Michael’s voice seemed distant as he gave a pensive expression.
“He didn’t just kill her,” she answered. “He beat her… tied her up. He… he raped her…” Her voice became more hysterical as she recounted the event. “When Ben came home… he tried to stop him…” She broke into terrible sobs again. “Sonny snapped his neck! Then he poured gasoline… all over her. Oh God!”
Michael held her tightly. “It’s okay,” he repeated as he rocked her gently. “Breathe, Megan. Slow, deep breaths.” He waited some time, caressing her softly and breathing in slow, methodic patterns of inhaling and exhaling, trying to model the activity for her. Megan started to follow, every now and then her breaths became stuttered as her sobbing resumed off and on.
When several minutes had passed, and she had mostly calmed herself, Michael loosened his arms that were wrapped around her shaking body.
Sniffing back a runny nose and wiping her eyes again, she pulled away slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m a mess.” When he didn’t respond, she looked in his direction to find he was looking away from her, a peculiar expression on his face. Guilt? She thought strangely. “What is it?” she asked worriedly.
“Megan,” he said in a low voice, “you said you saw it happen. How exactly can that be?”
She took a few more deep breaths, willing herself the strength to talk. “It’s a vision. It’s like I’m there. Her gift to me.”
-ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Paladin's Message Page 36
