Shadows of Eternity: The Children of the Owls (Frost and Flame Book 2)

by Rick Kueber

  His wife returned home from her visit with her parents later that evening to find Charles and his good friend and second cousin, Thomas, the local constable, in a deep discussion. She immediately saw the blood stains on his shirt and the redness that still swelled his eyes. Without even having a chance to ask for the truth, she fainted and collapsed to the floor. When she did regain consciousness, she felt as if she too would die, of a broken heart. She bawled endlessly, as she held her child, begging him not to leave her, and cursing God and her husband for this tragic slaughtering. For days and weeks after that fateful night, Amelia carried her grief outward for everyone to see, and also carried little John's tiny blue knitted blanket, either in her arms or over her shoulder. She could not let him go: her heart would not allow her to.

  Charles had made the decision to bury his son with a closed casket on the following Tuesday, but he thought it best to wait a few weeks to lay his mother to rest. He thought that with her already failing health and the loss of a grandchild, that most people would just assume it to be natural. He would have to have a closed casket for her as well, especially if she were going to be buried weeks after her demise. Though it seemed terribly morbid, Charles moved his mother's wheelchair into the boiler room, where no one ever went, and placed her in it. He laid the blood stained roses in her lap, and placed her hands across them.

  In the days and weeks that followed, the constable and the governing bodies of the county found ways to proceed with the funerals and documentation to make the entire situation appear as if it had been accidental, and not murder. This did not ease the stress or tension between Charles and Amelia. The two hardly spoke, rarely ate, and when they did, it was out of necessity and because of the three remaining children.

  Each day, the distance grew between them, and each day Thomas would make his rounds to check on the family and to ask if the men had returned or threatened them again in any way, occasionally staying for hours to visit and play with the children.

  Young Donnie had developed a nasty cough, and had become confined to his bed mostly, and when the constable would stop by, he would read a few pages from the Red Riding Hood book to the lad. One afternoon when Thomas was over reading, there came a loud knock at the front door. He sat the book down and rushed into the foyer drawing his sidearm and looking to Charles wide eyed and nervous, who drew his own weapon, and holding it hidden behind the door, proceeded to open it ever so slightly.

  “TELEGRAM! for a Mister Charles Bettiger.” The man in the uniform called out.

  “Yes, I'm Charles.” He replied with a sigh of relief.

  “Sign here please, sir.” With the scratch of a pencil, he signed for the telegram, snatched it from the young man, and with a short “Thank you.” closed the door abruptly. Thomas dropped his pistol to his side, wiped his hand across his brow, and looked to Charles.

  “Gee whiz. That about gave me a heart attack.” but as he spoke he could see the color leaving Charles' face. “What is it?” he asked with concern.

  “It's from the Boss, Martin's Boss.” He proceeded to rip open the telegram and read it out loud to Thomas.

  Mr. C. Bettiger, Allow me to convey my deepest condolences on the passing of your mother and young child. We have every intention of continuing to do business with you. Now that you no longer have to care for

  your ailing mother, and you have one less child, we hope you will reconsider your choice to end our business relationship. If you choose not to, I hope that should anything happen to the rest of your family in the near future, you will, once again,

  reconsider our business proposal. Regrets, Antony Capelletti “Aw, geez. Looks like I'm gonna tell Betty not to expect me home for a while, and I'll tell the boys at the precinct that I'm on a special assignment. I'll stay here with you and the family for a while just in case those thugs show back up.”

  “Thank you Thomas. My family...” he choked the words out, knowing the word family now included two less souls, “appreciate everything you have done, and continue to do.” And with that Charles reached out to his cousin, and embraced him with a truly heartfelt hug.

  Days passed without incident and it began to feel normal for Thomas to be there. He not only stayed throughout the day, but he would run the errands for them, and even sleep there. When almost a week had passed,

  “Looks like it's a man's day here, just you, me and the boys.” Charles said, patting Thomas on the shoulder. The two men made their way to the upstairs business room where Charles poured them both a stout brandy and they began to recant the days of their youth, remembering the typical things cousins do, hunting, fishing, teasing the girls, and skipping school to have childhood adventures, pretending to be civil war soldiers, and fighting over who would be the Yankee and who would be the Confederate. The conversation ran and the two men laughed at the innocence of their youth that was now long gone.

  A sudden noise came from downstairs. Someone had entered the home unannounced. Charles dropped his brandy glass and it hit the floor hard with a loud crack. Thomas and he rushed to the doorway, and through it only to find Martin, Mikey and Geno already coming up the steps, with pistols drawn. Thomas dove across the second floor staircase landing and drew his pistol, firing at the men through the banister spindles. Charles darted across the hallway and into the room where his boys played.

  “RUN! HIDE!” he shouted at them and the frightened children fled to the back of the room, and the secret closet passage to their father's business room. Reentering the stairwell, with pistol drawn and a vengeance he did not even realize he harbored, Charles squeezed the trigger repeatedly, and with purpose. Thomas and Charles, and the three men on the stairs exchanged a flurry of dozens of gunshots. In mere seconds it ended. All three cronies lay in a motionless, tangled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  Catching his breath, Charles turned to Thomas to congratulate him. “Dear God man! You've been hit!” He cried out.

  “What? I have?” Thomas asked and frantically looked himself over for a mortal wound. “Oh, this?” he calmly said as one hand pulled at the opposite upper arm to reveal a tear in his shirt and fresh blood darkening his blue constable uniform. “This is just a scratch. I don't even think I need to get sewn up.” He smiled back at Charles, “We showed those Confederate bastards, didn't we?” He jested about the childhood tales.

  “I suppose we did, my brother in arms.” Charles smiled back. Their smiles turned to grimaces as they forged a morose plan to 'get rid' of the slain thugs. The ideas and random bits of thought spewed out between them attempting to come up with a fool proof way to dispose of three bloody, bullet hole filled corpses without raising the suspicion of the neighbors.

  “Well, whatever we do, we have to get 'em off this landing and out of your foyer. Last thing we need is for somebody to knock on the door right now, what with a collection of dead goons in your entryway and all.” Thomas' voice had a tinge of worry, and Charles knew he was absolutely correct.

  “You make a strong point Tom. Let’s drag them down to the cellar, and then we can clean up the mess here. That will buy us some time, maybe.”

  “I hope so. Maybe we can sneak them out in the middle of the night, if we're careful. We just have to figure out what to do with them once we get 'em out. It’s a long way to the river from here.” Charles was growing more concerned by the minute.

  The two men made short work of dragging the three cadavers to the tiny and dank basement of the oversized house. Once the bodies were lumped into a grotesque pile of lifeless flesh, the two returned upstairs to the scene of the shoot-out.

  “You go tend to your little ones, and I'll start mopping up all of this blood and the broken picture glass. We can fix the frame, and get your walls patched another time.” Thomas offered to Charles.

  “Thank you, Tom. I should check on the boys and make sure they're alright.” Charles said, and then scurried up the steps and into the large room.

  He found the boys still hiding in the secret passage between the c
loset, and their fathers 'business room'. Though quietly sniffling back tears, the boys were fine. When Charles opened the door, the three youngsters rushed him, grabbing, and hugging his legs and waist, as if they had feared they might never see their father alive again. After spending some time with his boys, Charles returned to the downstairs where Thomas had just finished cleaning up. Charles thanked him many times over, as they found their way to the basement of the home and bodies that awaited them.

  “Into the boiler, I say.” Thomas said grimly. “Probably best...” Charles agreed. “No evidence and no risk... much better than trying to drag them out in the middle of the night, and toss them in the river.”

  So, Charles chucked a few more shovelfuls coal into the boiler, and Tom pumped the billow, to fuel the red hot coals. Then came the task of burning the cadavers. They carried the first one in, and tossed him through the massive door. When they pitched the first body, it didn't fully go in. The two men found themselves prodding and pushing with the shovel and fire irons to stuff the man fully into the chamber so they could fully close the door. The second and third bodies were even more challenging with the boiler already having extra coal and a full grown man inside, but eventually they managed to stuff all three corpses into the fire and the putrid smell of burning flesh filled the air.

  “I must thank you yet again Thomas.” He said as the two men ascended the stairs to the main living level of the house.

  “We are family, and that's what family does, we look out for each other.” The solemn voice of Thomas was beginning to show the strain and weariness that he had been feeling since this whole ordeal had begun. There was a feeling of relief, and Charles thought for a moment that life might return to normal, but like so often, feelings can be misleading, and even betray us.

  *** Time passed slowly, and Donnie's condition worsened. The local doctor made regular house calls, but his diagnosis was not promising. Charles and Amelia Bettiger watched as their oldest son, only eight, became shallow and hollow. Less than two months after the brutal slaying of his grandmother and youngest brother, young Donnie left this physical world behind, passing in his sleep one cold winter night.

  Though he had left the physical world, he did not go far. When his physical body ceased to function, and he drew his last breath, Donnie felt renewed, and amazingly, unexpectedly, alive. He stood beside his shell of a body looking on as his parents wept. The light through the window grew ever brighter and called to Donnie.

  'Come, be one with us, become a part of the eternal universe, where you can be anything and everything you can imagine and things you are not yet capable of imagining'

  They were not words, but feelings with compassion and purpose, and he longed to go to the eternal light, but there was an otherworldly feeling that caused him to turn from the light. Looking away from its beckoning warmth, Donnie felt the tug of little hands at his side, and looking down he saw the spirit of little John pleading silently with him.

  'Don't go bubby...don't go. I don't want to be alone. I want to stay here with Gramma and momma and daddy. Momma begged me not to go, and I promised her I wouldn't.' Looking beyond little John, Donnie saw the smiling face of his grandmother still sitting in her wheelchair, holding a bouquet of disorderly and withering roses that she would never let go of.

  Donnie had a hard decision to make, though he did not understand completely the consequence of his actions. He hugged his little brother tightly and turned back to the beautiful white light of the window just as it faded along with the voice of the universe calling him, and so, Donnie and little John stayed behind with their family, and grandmother.

  Over the next year, Charles felt his life unraveling like the sleeve of an overly worn sweater, unnoticeable at first, but eventually to the point of being unwanted and pointless. Before the winter's end, his remaining two boys died naturally as well... Brian at the age of six from pneumonia, and Timmy at four from scarlet fever.

  Only months after the death of their last son, the couple, now not quite as young, tried to rekindle their romance, and love for each other, but it was not the same, too much had happened and they had both changed. Amelia had met Charles at the bottom of the stairwell, and unable to understand her confused feelings, had made a decision.

  “I am going up to the children's room to think, and to read. I have to gather my thoughts, Charles... but I think I may have to go away for a while until I can clear my head.” She couldn't even bring herself to look him in the eye and she had found herself unable to cope with living day to day next to the man whose 'business' choices had caused the beginning of the end of her happiness.

  It was on that fateful day when Amelia was upstairs reading, that Charles had come up to join her, and plead with her not to go. They had discussed all of the problems they had, and the wonderful memories too, and when the topic of family came up, it became awkwardly silent. They stood facing one another trying to find the words to begin again, when the sound of an opening and closing door distracted them from their misery.

  Charles had reached the doorway to the steps, when a stout man in a gray suit pushed him forcefully back into the room. Amelia was terrified, and hid behind her husband.

  “It's been a year now, Chucky…” He snidely said. ”The boss says you ought to be ready to do some business by now.” “I have already said it too many times. I am through, and you aren't going to change my mind.” Charles puffed up his chest, and stepped nose to nose with the man.

  “Is that a fact?” He snorted. The two men were about to come to blows. Their breathing was heavy and noisy, hearts raced, and nostrils flared, but the man was not going to be intimidated. He quickly drew a pistol from under his jacket turning it swiftly upward. Charles could feel the cold steel of the barrel pressing uncomfortably hard against the soft spot below his jaw, where the neck and chin meet.

  “Now what?” He snarled. “You gonna get back in the business or you gonna end up as a mess? You gonna make this dame to wipe your brains off the walls?”

  Amelia was ravaged with emotions. Fear and anger and dismay overtook her, and she darted out from behind her husband and tried the separate the two men. This only infuriated the thug, and he with all of the force he could muster, he shoved Amelia hard, away from them. Then the world changed. The glass shattered, Amelia screamed, and her body plummeted from the second story window to the earth below. In that moment of passionate fury and adrenaline, Charles grabbed the gun and twisting it hard, pointed it at the man and fired two rounds into his chest, and then standing over him, he pulled the tiger once again, hitting the man in the eye, an act of vengeance for his mother's death.

  People were beginning to gather around Amelia's body, as it lay there unnaturally contorted, and lifeless. Thomas was passing by when he saw the commotion and rushed into the house. He found Charles upstairs, gun in hand, still standing over the body.

  “Oh, for the love of God, man! A fine mess you're in now. No easy way out of this one.” Thomas rubbed his forehead as he spoke.

  “Should we... you know...take him to the boiler room?” Charles voice was shaky as were his hands. “Heavens no!” Thomas exclaimed. “You are going to tell everyone that this man broke in to your home, pulled a gun on you, and in the midst of a scuffle, he pushed Amelia out of the window. You were so distraught, that you took his gun from him and shot him. A crime of passion” It was a good plan, he thought.

  “That is almost exactly what happened.” Charles explained. Amelia was rushed to the hospital as a protocol, and the authorities questioned Charles. He was taken to the county jail that night, and went before the judge the very next day. After his time in court and a long evaluation, Charles was told he had two days to get his affairs in order before he was to be taken to the state hospital when he would go through psychiatric treatment until which time they deemed him safe to rejoin society.

  Charles kept his mental state clear for a while, and was becoming well respected. He thought, surely, he soon would be released. Becomi
ng too comfortable with some of the staff, he began to tell them that the ghosts of his mother and his children haunted his home, and he would often times hear them calling out to him. The attending psychiatrists found his stories fascinating and thought perhaps a more invasive therapy might be what he needed. Experimental, mind altering drugs along with the power of suggestion were used for weeks, but he refused to deny the ghosts were real. It came to the point of shock therapy treatment, and soon after they began, Charles knew he needed to just play along with their game, and say nothing more about being haunted by his family, in fear that a lobotomy could be their next course of action. He had expressed such vivid tales of the spiritual visitation, that Charles was eventually committed to the Indiana state hospital, where he lived out the rest of his life. Though he may not have actually been insane when he was committed, he certainly was after several years of confinement. He would frequently cry out, asking to go home to his mother and children, which would only reaffirm the staff and doctors of his mental instability.

  *** Amelia had been rushed to the hospital and the doctor on staff that day found her to be miraculously alive. She had broken both legs, cracked several ribs, dislocated her shoulder, busted her head open, and broken her jaw. There was little chance of her survival, but the doctor worked feverishly trying to mend her limp and broken body. She lay in stitches, casts and bandages, in a near comatose state for over a week. Slowly she began to use some of her motor skills, first blinking her eyes, moving fingers, and so on. Her stay in the hospital was nearly eight weeks.

  When she was finally released from the hospital, she was torn between moving on or staying in the home that had so many horrible memories. She had decided to stay in the home next door, and sell the house that held so many dreaded memories and nightmares.