by Ballan, Greg
Her dead eyes kept staring back at him, looking through the coarse exterior of the man into his vulnerable side, the small remaining piece of his soul that hadn't been totally tarnished by the greed and corruption of his occupation.
“I'm sorry, Miss, you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, an unwitting pawn in a grander game of chess. Please don't hold it against me. It's just that I'm in too deep now, we all are. It wasn't supposed to play out like this. We were supposed to make easy millions on this operation,” he whispered as her dead eyes continued to bore through him. He tapped twice against the tinted glass, and it slid down into the wall partition separating the passenger and driver compartments. “Dispose of that, quickly.” He pointed to the body.
The driver pulled the car over into the abandoned area he was informed of earlier. The single tap on the glass was his cue to begin moving the car toward its destination. The driver got out of the car and opened the rear passenger door, and let the corpse fall out into a deep, large puddle of rainwater.
“Move her to that dry corner of the alley, please,” he instructed the driver. He would not give her the indignity of being found in a mud puddle. He felt he at least owed her that much.
The man walked over to inspect the body. He adjusted her arms, gently folding them across her chest with his gloved hands. He pulled a small black booklet from his coat pocket and mumbled something. The driver looked at him oddly as he made a sign of the cross over their victim. The driver escorted the man back into the car and they proceeded back toward Mr. Smith's townhouse.
The large car parked a block away, while the man studied the control now nestled inside his palm. He flipped a switch and a red button activated and began blinking. He looked out the window and stared at the distant townhouse.
“No loose ends.” He pressed the glowing button and the explosive that had been placed under the assassin's mattress went off with a satisfying pyrotechnic display.
Mr. Conrad smirked at the irony of the whole situation that just unfolded. The explosive and detonator were prepared earlier that day by the two men that the assassin had murdered earlier. Conrad had personally paid them a cash bonus for the extra work once they had completed modifying their army helicopter.
Pendelton Corporation had an understanding with the organization that controlled the blue light district in Worcester. This organization provided ‘companionship’ for visiting executives and important clients that did business with the large corporation. Once it was discovered that their hitman had a fondness for a particular female inside that organization, it was easy to utilize that business relationship to tie up that loose end. The organization was paid a hefty price for the loss of their call girl. All tidy, with no loose ends, everybody was happy.
Conrad poured himself another scotch on the rocks as the limousine headed back toward Boston. Deep down, he had to admit, he wasn't really happy. “More blood on my hands,” he whispered.
The game was getting too severe, the stakes too deep. He wasn't sure that he had the stomach for it any longer. He had just committed two murders. His company had illegally tunneled in a wildlife preserve area and unleashed some unspeakable horrors upon innocent people. He had literally participated in dozens of other unethical, bordering on illegal, business actions earlier in his career with little to no effect on his conscience. But what he had done in the past two weeks had been more than he ever bargained for.
He thought about Erik Knight momentarily, how seven years ago he had participated in the literal destruction and character assassination of what he judged to be a fairly likeable fellow. Fortunately, Erik Knight was resilient. Despite all odds, the detective had bounced back from the edge of oblivion. Conrad remembered the dozens of other poor souls who weren't so lucky. And lately, they numbered in the many—too many for his tastes.
He knew that if he tried to walk, he too would become a loose end and most likely share in the fates of the two people he just had a hand in eliminating. He took a long drink from his glass and settled into the heated leather seat. He could only escape this in sleep, and right now, he was extremely tired.
* * * *
Friday morning 8:00 a.m.
Erik was sitting at his booth staring down at his breakfast. Normally he enjoyed a hearty meal first thing in the morning, but today all he could stomach was a blueberry muffin and some coffee. This was not the most nutritional way to meet the new day, but there was still a big knot in his stomach from the events of the past few days.
Erik did admit to himself, after much soul searching, that he could not have prevented his friend's death. Nelson's words had gotten through. It didn't lessen the loss, but it alleviated the guilt, some of it anyway. There would always be that small piece of self-doubt, the never-ending ‘what if’ that always plagued men of good conscience and character.
Erik was deep in thought when the sound of a newspaper landing on his table snapped him from his stupor.
“I figured you would want to see this,” Jeff remarked as he sat across from him.
Erik picked up the paper and studied the headline: “Monsters on Murderous Rampage in Sleepy Suburb.”
“Oh, just marvelous,” he whispered as he scanned the story quickly.
Erik noted that his name appeared in several paragraphs, as did the officers who died out in the mountain. The story of the Reynolds saga, his involvement, the involvement of Halls and the police were all described in remarkable detail. Erik assumed somebody on the Hopedale police force couldn't keep his or her mouth shut. What particularly caught his interest was the reporting that another team of heavily armed men and equipment was being organized to hunt down and kill these creatures.
Erik looked up at his friend. “It seems our little township will become very busy over the next week or two.” He folded up the paper and placed it on the corner of the table.
“The Town Fathers wanted to be on the ‘Map,'” Jeff remarked ironically. “But I assume that this isn't what they had in mind.”
“I'm sure it's not.” Erik nodded in agreement as he took a sip of his coffee.
“They're going to come looking for you, you know that,” Jeff said suddenly. “'The only man to successfully defeat the creatures in two consecutive conflicts is a private investigator named Erik Knight, who runs a small informal operation out of a local dining establishment,'” Jeff recited, quoting the Globe verbatim. “You think they could have at least mentioned the name of the place,” he added lightly.
“Do you really want to play host for a bunch of reporters, photo hounds, and political officials, half of them who will try to pawn you for a free meal?” Erik asked.
“No, not really,” Jeff answered. “But a little publicity never hurts.”
“There's no such thing as a little publicity,” Erik responded.
“No,” Jeff said softly. “I suppose you're right about that. What will you do if they come looking for you? Are you going to go up there this time?” Jeff asked, pushing the issue.
Erik looked at his friend, his eyes becoming unreadable, blazing with some unknown fiery determination. “I won't go back there with another group of men, but I do have a score to settle, somehow. I don't know how or why I know this, Jeff, but these things won't just go away Armed soldiers are not the answer. If these creatures feel like they're in danger, they'll just disappear like they've done before and reappear somewhere else at a different location. We have to learn more about them before we can decide on the best way of coping with them. They can appear and disappear like a genie in a lamp, like some type of ghost or something.”
Erik paused as he thought about all the encounters with the creatures up to now. “All we'll gain from another assault on that mountain will be more dead bodies. I'm going to have to get involved sooner or later. I don't know why, it's just a feeling I've had ever since that day at the park. The way that thing looked at me, I could tell there was something more there, an anger—a hunger and a hate like I've never experienced. It knows somethin
g that we don't, those creatures seem as though they have a score to settle with us. But, for the life of me, I can't figure out with who or with what or why.” He added moodily as he finished his coffee.
“Just be careful,” Jeff cautioned. “Don't let yourself be ‘guilted’ into anything,” Jeff added as he stood.
“I won't,” Erik assured his friend.
He watched Jeff leave and turned back toward the newspaper, skimming through the last few paragraphs of the article. He thought more about the strange creatures; they seemed to be utilizing more than the trees, they actually seemed to have the ability to seemingly pop in and out of areas like people would use a doorway to go through one room to another. He wondered if the intense darkness that usually accompanied their appearance was related to their ability to jump in and out of spaces. He knew there had to be some reason for their ability to simply drop into areas undetected and then simply vanish into thin air. He also pondered the extreme drops in temperature that marked their arrivals.
Erik thought about it for several more minutes before dismissing any wild theories; he was no longer involved in the investigation. With any luck, the military would catch up with these things and scatter their bodies across the hillside with some heavy artillery. That instinct in the back of his mind, the one that usually warned him of danger, whispered that the next military expedition would fare no better against these horrors than he had when he encountered them. Erik casually leafed through the paper, getting himself caught up on current events.
Alissa quietly strolled over and refilled his coffee cup, and then cleared away the half-eaten muffin and unused butter. “You seem to be healing quickly,” she commented, studying the scars on the side of his face.
Erik looked up, and then rubbed his right hand across the side of his cheek. “Yeah, I sometimes forget that they're there, until I look at myself in the mirror, that is.” He let out a slight chuckle.
Alissa smiled briefly and walked back toward the kitchen, while Erik continued thumbing through the newspaper.
Erik's thoughts quickly turned back toward work. He had made enough money on the events of the past to carry him through the next few months. He decided that he would place a call to Martin Denton the first thing Monday morning and see if there was any freelance work that his firm needed to be done. Erik knew that Denton was always willing to utilize his capabilities, and he admitted to himself that at this point in time he had no other options.
He drank half of his second cup of coffee, gathered the rest of his dishes, and deposited them on the carousel outside the kitchen. He had to be at the elementary school to pick up Brianna by 2:30. He had enough time to catch up on some paper work and start his quarterly tax forms, as well as place the call to Denton before he would have to get his daughter, but first, there was something that he had to do.
* * * *
It was nearly ten in the morning when the Chevrolet 4x4 pulled up alongside the curb in front of a blue split-level house. The neighborhood was full of well-kept yards and impeccably trimmed bushes and hedges. Erik stared at the Forrest nameplate on the mailbox. He took a deep breath and made his way toward the front door, his stomach suddenly filling with butterflies. He rang the bell and heard activity inside the house. The door opened and an older gentleman answered. Erik saw a distinct similarity between this man and his departed friend; he knew that this was Steve's father.
“Hello, sir,” Erik began nervously. “I was wondering if I could speak to Carol for a moment.”
“Who are you?” the older man asked, his tone somewhat challenging. “Are you another reporter? If so, we have nothing to say.”
“No, sir, my name is Erik Knight. I was.... “He paused. “I worked with Steve. I considered him among my friends.”
The old man looked him up and down, as if assessing him as a potential threat. Erik suddenly knew that Steve's father must also have been a police officer. He detected the manner and demeanor of a law enforcement official.
“How many years?” Erik asked, attempting to break the ice.
“What?”
“How many years were you a cop?” Erik asked quietly.
“I put in 35 years in Boston,” the old man answered. “How did you know that?”
“You have the same look and manner that Steve had when he was studying something, the look all good cops have, the awareness, the alertness. I respected that in him,” Erik answered softly.
The man studied Erik closely, then stepped aside and gestured him into the house. “Come in, please. I didn't mean to be harsh, but there have been several reporters snooping around here the past few days; damn vultures, anything for a story,” he cursed as Erik followed the man into a modest living room.
“Carol,” he shouted toward the hallway, “you have a visitor.”
Carol Forrest slowly walked down the hallway. Erik wondered if she would recognize him; he'd only been to the house on three occasions, the last such occurrence had been over two years ago. Erik noted the haunted look in her eyes. She was carrying her youngest daughter, whom Erik knew to be only twelve or fourteen months old.
“Erik Knight,” she said as she put the baby in a playpen. “It's been awhile, almost three years.” She sat in a chair next to her child. “I saw you at the funeral, up on that ridge. Why didn't you come down?”
“You were with family. I didn't want to intrude,” he answered. “I said my goodbye once everyone else had departed.”
“Steve would have been glad that you came. Thank you”
“Mrs. Forrest—”
“Carol, please,” she interrupted.
“Carol,” Erik corrected himself, “I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. Steve was a good friend to me at a time when I didn't have too many. I was fortunate to know him. He always spoke highly of you and the kids, always showing off his ‘wallet-sized’ whenever he had the chance.” Erik adjusted his position on the couch. “I just wanted to come by and see if there was anything that I could do to help out.”
The baby started to cry as Carol was about to reply. She bent over, picked the child up, and carefully placed her over her shoulder, gently patting the little girl's back. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes, I do.” Erik answered.
“Talk to Collin, he's having all kinds of problems with this. He worshipped his father. He can't understand how his daddy could be gone. Steve talked to me a little about your past. I know you're an orphan, so you can probably relate to what the boy is feeling. It may help him if he can talk to someone who's been through it. Lord knows I don't know what to say to the boy.”
“I will,” Erik promised, but not really knowing what he could say to a young boy who had just lost his father.
“And one last thing,” she added as her voice began to waver.
“Yes, anything,” Erik replied.
“Kill them. Avenge my husband's death. If he was a friend to you, hunt those cursed things down and kill them. They tore my husband apart, piece by piece, left me with nothing but pieces to put in the ground, and I want them dead for that!” She said as she suddenly wept uncontrollably.
Steve's father escorted her back into one of the bedrooms, leaving Erik by himself. After a few minutes, the elder Mr. Forrest returned.
“I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Knight,” he apologized. “The pain is still too fresh, the hurt too deep.” His own eyes became tearful. “He was a good boy, my son. She's a good woman,” he added in a wavering voice. “They didn't deserve this.”
“No, sir,” Erik agreed. “They certainly don't. I'm so sorry for your loss.”
The two men exchanged a firm handshake and Erik headed toward the front door. Erik left the house and quickly made his way back to his apartment. He felt tired again; the memories of his friend and the voice over the radio as he met his untimely end kept playing over and over again in his mind. He decided that he would try and say something to Steve's son, but at this point, he didn't know what to say to a young boy who just lost hi
s father.
Erik thought back, trying to remember the scant memories of his parents. He had vague memories of the accident that killed his parents and grandparents. His father had shielded his small body, taking several jagged pieces of glass into his torso and head. He remembered waking up in a hospital room and the agony when he finally learned that all the adults in his life had been killed in one tragic accident. But they seemed like fragments from another life and another time. Erik was barely four years old, but he still could recall vivid flashbacks of that fateful day. Erik was glad that the boy still had a father figure in Steve's father, and a mother.
He arrived back at his office and quickly checked his phone for messages. As usual, there were none. He stared at the pile of waiting paper work with distaste. He walked over to his couch and sat down. He felt a dull pain shoot through his hamstring, reminding him that he still had not fully recovered from the ordeals that he had put his body through during the past week. He leaned his head back against a throw pillow and slowly closed his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep and he tried to fight the oncoming blackness, but was soon in a deep slumber.
* * * *
Friday afternoon 1:38 p.m.
Richard Pendelton sat at his large mahogany desk, staring out over the scenic Boston Bay. He enjoyed watching the jet liners departing and arriving at Logan International.
Sitting on his desk were several confidential memos from his most trusted staff, keeping him abreast of the various activities within his large conglomerate. He read the memo from Conrad with great interest. It was simple and to the point. “All the loose ends have been cut.” Richard exhaled heavily—one less thing for him to be concerned about.
The whole Hopedale Mountain dig had been a giant disaster. He had assumed that the project would go off without any complications. The mountain was desolate, never patrolled by game wardens or any other personage of official status. It seemed the perfect operation site to conduct a mining operation. He cursed himself for being too greedy.
