by Aiden James
The main floor in disarray, it was hard to tell if things were where they should’ve been. Jack remembered the creepy feeling of being watched, when he was standing on the front porch. Inside the house, he felt someone’s presence. Perhaps hiding upstairs? Hard to say, but by the time the police and paramedics showed up he forgot about it. He hadn’t thought about it again until he visited the professor in the hospital four days later.
“No. Well, maybe.”
Peter raised his eyebrows motioning for Jack to continue.
“It’s nothing I can prove, but I’m pretty sure somebody was in the house when I arrived. I should’ve mentioned it to the cops, but it slipped my mind.”
“I see.” Peter frowned slightly. “You’re probably unaware the upstairs rooms were in much worse shape.”
“No, I wasn’t aware of that.” Definitely not, thought Jack, irritated.
“Okay. Let’s move on to the eighth of May, the night Dr. Mensch died. Did you visit him in the hospital before his death?”
“I tried, the morning following his attack. But the nurses on duty told me I couldn’t see him, because he was still unconscious. They said I could be there quite a while before he might wake. Dr. Sutherland was there and told me to go on home. I guess he could tell I hadn’t slept much. Said he’d call me when Dr. Mensch regained consciousness.”
Jack paused to drink. Peter used the opportunity to flip through a few pages while he sipped the coffee.
“A nurse named Annette Rison stated you came to see Dr. Mensch around seven o’clock the evening of the eighth. Tell me what happened from the time you got there until you left.”
“Dr. Mensch regained consciousness and I really looked forward to seeing him,” said Jack. “He was pretty weak with most of his head covered in bandages. But he was glad to see me, even if he couldn’t talk much. Most of my time was spent sitting in a chair next to the bed. I stayed there for half an hour or so, and then left.”
“According to the report, Nurse Rison stated you did leave around seven thirty-five p.m. What did you discuss?”
“Nothing much. He felt too weak to have real conversation. But, he did say I’d be welcome to join the trip planned for the summer.”
Jack winced as he reminisced.
“Are you sure? Nurse Rison stated Dr. Mensch handed something to you as she came into his room.”
Peter studied Jack, as if he’d just caught Jack in a lie.
“I honestly don’t recall that,” said Jack, somewhat nervous under Peter’s scrutiny. “If anything, it could’ve been a cup or something. I remember helping him take a drink at least once. That’s the last time I ever saw him, alive or dead. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral home.”
“All right,” said Peter, thoughtfully. “As you know, Dr. Mensch was strangled shortly after you left. The coroner’s report placed his death around eight o’clock that evening. Oh, what the hell.”
He closed the journal and laid it on the table.
“So, are we done?” Jack asked, hopeful. “I told you there wasn’t much to tell.”
Peter laughed quietly. “On the contrary, we’ve just begun. True, we’re done in regard to Dr. Mensch, at least for now. Remember, I’ve got other questions.”
“Man, I’ve told you everything I know! There’s nothing more I can give you! Go ahead and check whatever recordings y’all made since last night if you don’t believe me.”
He pointed to the surveillance cameras defiantly.
“Are you sure about that?”
Peter reached over and opened the attaché case. He pulled out a large envelope and a pair of old, tattered books. He set the books on the table and opened the envelope. He carefully removed the envelope’s contents and placed them in front of Jack.
“Recognize this?”
Jack couldn’t mask his astonishment. A pair of color photographs rested on the table. Both of the same object, a footprint, which most folks would guess as reptilian. Nothing extraordinary, unless one noticed the John Deere tractor. The tractor and the footprint next to it were roughly the same size.
Accompanying the photographs was an item he figured drew more curiosity. A reptilian scale, roughly the size of a standard football, sat beside the pictures. It refracted light in a rainbow array of colors. Dismayed, no one could deny the footprint and scale were related.
“Where’d you get this??” he demanded, his voice a whisper.
“From you,” said Peter, somewhat smugly. “Actually, this came to the FBI from Sheriff Joseph McCracken. He sent it to his nephew, Agent Marvin Depew. You identified these items for Sheriff McCracken nearly eight years ago.”
Jack stiffened.
“They accompanied a report sent to Agent Depew by Sheriff McCracken, confirmed by Carl Peterson, the local Fire Chief in Carlsdale, Alabama. You told them, and I quote, ‘a giant lizard that looked like a mix between a dragon and a ‘tyrannosaurus rex’ chased you through the woods behind your home.’ You further stated the enormous creature was a ‘fire breather’ and estimated to be around seventy feet in length. According to the report, the creature caused a fire that engulfed the woods, but mysteriously never spread to your property.”
He waited for Jack’s confirmation.
“Well, Jack? Is this what you truly encountered, or were these two gentlemen full of it?”
Jack remained silent. Sheriff McCracken and Carl Peterson died within a month of the incident. He still felt responsible for their deaths.
Carl was reported missing in early August that year, less than two weeks following the July event. His bloated remains were recovered from an abandoned rock quarry just outside Mobile, Alabama a week later. The case had been closed quickly, with the coroner’s office down in Mobile quietly stating the fireman committed suicide by swallowing the double barrel of a shotgun. Many unanswered questions remained surrounding his death, largely due to the rumors of an extra shotgun casing found a few feet from his body, lying near the splattered remnants of Carl’s brain matter and skull fragments.
Sheriff McCracken, along with a rookie deputy named Charlie Adams were found murdered in the dilapidated frame of an old barn. The unknown killer, or killers, left the nude bodies in an obscene position, piano wire wound tightly around their necks and bullet holes through their heads.
The sheriff’s briefcase contained incriminating papers and a small vial of pure cocaine, conveniently discovered outside. Enough to satisfy the ABI agents, they wasted little time destroying Sheriff McCracken’s squeaky-clean reputation as a law enforcement officer. According to the report, the sheriff lured poor Charlie to the barn for sex. An unidentified enemy, likely a miffed drug dealer, happened upon the two men and murdered them execution-style.
Jack had never believed either report.
“Could my answer get me killed like Sheriff McCracken?”
Surprised, Peter looked up from the journal. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Jack eyed him evenly. “I know y’all killed them both.”
“Do you mean me personally, or the agency I work for? I can assure you that we had nothing to do with their deaths.” Peter stood and leaned over the table, glaring. “I’m sorry that either man is gone, and partially from a selfish standpoint. I would’ve loved to talk to them, and not just you.”
In disgust he turned away, moving over to the wall nearest his chair. He seemed to be carefully considering the cinderblocks. He returned to the table, holding Jack’s gaze as he sat down.
“There’s so much to learn from you, and I believe we can help each other,” he said softly. “I have information that may prove useful to you, as well, Jack. I can help you tie some loose ends together of your own. But before I’ll do that, you’ll need to answer my questions. They aren’t many, but I need the truth, I need your complete honesty.”
Jack pondered the pros and cons of cooperating, reflecting upon the sorrow and torment he’d endured the past eight years. “I’ll give it a try,” he said.
<
br /> “I’m certain you’ll be glad you did.” Peter’s expression relieved, he leaned back in his chair. “Now, back to my earlier question. Is this a piece of a seventy-foot dinosaur that rampaged through the woods behind your place, and are these actual photographs of its footprint?”
He picked up the scale and photographs and moved them even closer to Jack, who motioned it wasn’t necessary.
“Yeah, they are.”
“And this thing actually breathed fire, like the mythical dragons we read about as kids?”
Peter appeared tentative, as if the question sounded absurd. And yet, the excitement on his face told Jack the man wanted to believe the existence of such a being.
“Yes. It could fly, too.”
Peter picked up the scale, giggling as it he could envision its appearance. “No shit. So it had wings, then?”
“Yes. But they hardly seemed big enough to support its body. It was covered in scales like the one in your hand, with horns on its head, and a pair of fan-like appendages on either side of its neck.”
Opening up put him at ease a little. Increasingly unconcerned with who observed them, he searched for clues as to whether or not Peter believed him.
“It must’ve been pretty harrowing to face something like that,” observed Peter, admiring the scale. “I would’ve probably pissed my pants. It chased you through the woods until you reached Ben Johnson’s farm. Are we still on the same page so far?”
“Well, sort of,” Jack replied, sitting up. “I lost track of the thing when I made it out of the woods. Sheriff McCracken was the one who said it’d eventually made it out of the woods and gone over to the Johnson’s place. I guess it tracked mine and Banjo’s scent.”
“The pet goat?”
“Yeah. One of Grandpa’s most prized possessions. He taught Banjo more tricks than any dog he owned.”
Peter nodded, reading a page in the journal.
“It states the dragon, or whatever it was, suddenly disappeared without a trace. Do you find that statement as hard to believe as the very existence of the creature?”
“Sure. But it’s true. I never saw or heard from it again, and neither did anybody else from what I gather.”
“Ah-huh. Well, at the very least it’s an experience few people on this planet will ever share. We may come back to it, but for now let’s move on. The next thing we’ve got here is the fact your historic antebellum home was completely destroyed by a tornado less than thirty-six hours later. Pretty weird sequence of events, right?”
“Yeah, most folks should agree on that.”
“I’ll bet most people would find it strange that only your house was destroyed. Your neighbors, the Palmers, suffered minimal damage. But there wasn’t a single thing left intact in your yard other than an old tool shed in the back. Correct?”
Something in Peter’s demeanor shifted slightly. The agent was on a covert mission and Jack worried about his role in the journey.
I wish he’d quit talking about this shit! Leave it in the past, man!
“Correct,” he finally answered.
“You, your brother, and your grandfather fled. At some point, the tornado overtook you, and hurled your vehicle into a field less than a mile away. What do you remember about that experience?”
“Actually, not a whole lot,” said Jack, determined to be less accommodating.
“Please tell me what you recall.”
“Well, it’s pretty hazy, other than jumping into Jeremy’s truck and speeding down Lelan’s Way. The tornado snatched us from behind before we made it to Baileys Bend Road. The last thing I remember was crashing into a ditch in the field. I didn’t regain consciousness for three weeks.”
Peter watched him, absently clicking a pen. Jack took the opportunity to speed things up, anxious to finish the interview.
“We recovered enough to visit what was left of our place, and it surprised us the tool shed was still standing. We lived with my uncle and aunt in Tuscaloosa for the time being. Once I saw the barren plot of land, I realized we’d never come back to live.
“Almost immediately, some dudes started following us. They looked like y’all. Dark sunglasses, stiff business suits and driving nice sedans, hard as hell to tell one from another. When we learned what’d happened to Sheriff McCracken and Carl Peterson, we figured they had something to do with it.
“The uninvited surveillance lasted until my freshman year in college, and then it stopped. Until this week.”
“Anything else you want to add to that, Jack?” asked Peter, frowning.
“Nope. That pretty much sums things up.”
Agent McNamee rubbed his eyes and sighed. For the moment he remained seated, still studying Jack. The silence quickly grew uncomfortable for Peter, however. He stood up and paced slowly across the room. Jack watched intently, praying to be set free. Intuition said otherwise, and a moment later Peter resumed his interrogation.
“I realize some of what we’ve discussed so far is unpleasant,” he said as he returned. “But I can’t stress enough how imperative it is you share what you know with me. It may seem like very little connects your past experiences with the most recent one involving Dr. Mensch. Though, I think you’d be surprised.”
He stood next to Jack, smiling as if he held some dark secret and was going to share it. Instead, though, Peter held off, perhaps waiting for the right opportunity.
“You know, there were witnesses among your neighbors who saw the tornado,” he continued. He sat on the edge of the table and leaned forward. The agent’s cologne, an expensive Ralph Lauren blend, filled Jack’s nostrils. “The Palmers swore they watched the twister blast through your house before turning on a dime to follow as you raced down Lelan’s Way in Jeremy’s truck. They watched it turn and come back after it tossed his vehicle into the field.
“Now, it may have been extremely foolhardy and dangerous, but Jesse and Linda Sue Palmer ignored the safety of their storm cellar to witness the tornado methodically obliterate everything. Except, of course, the tool shed. We’ve already agreed that your home being the sole target of the tornado was very weird. I’m not professing either of us are experts in meteorology or what is considered typical tornado behavior. But, doesn’t the fact this particular tornado came back and took a second pass seem preposterous to you?”
Sweat formed in tiny droplets above Jack’s temples and along his spine. He never knew the neighbors witnessed the horrifying events in the early morning darkness that fateful day. According to what he’d been told, no one living along Lelan’s Way ever came forward.
“I see it in your face, Jack. You’re holding out on me,” Peter chuckled. “Well, that’s fine, because I’ve got all night if need be.”
He stood up and returned to his chair. Before sitting, he took the two large books and held them so Jack could read the covers. Both were worn, one smaller and appeared much older.
“These two volumes are fairly old. I’d be willing to bet my life you’d love to get your hands on either one, if you knew what they were. The one on the right is the detailed journal of a man named Dr. Nathaniel Stratton, originally from Murfreesboro, Tennessee, but whose life took him throughout the world. He spent quite a bit of time in Carlsdale. His brother owned the farm that later belonged to the Johnson’s, the same place where that footprint was photographed.”
Jack stiffened noticeably. He’d seen the books, both interesting merely because they were old. Anxious for an opportunity to cut short the interview, he hadn’t bothered to get a closer look at either faded title. A look of recognition slipped through before he could hide it.
“Well I’ll be damned, Jack, we might finally be getting somewhere. I see you’re familiar with the name, Dr. Nathaniel Stratton. There’s a lot of interesting information in this journal. Much of which, I might add, pertains to your grandfather. It spans more than fifty years, from 1896 until his disappearance under mysterious circumstances in 1952.”
He laid the journal down and turned his attention
to the other, smaller book.
“This is much older than Dr. Stratton’s journal. It’s basically a collection of local legends from Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Each one is at least one hundred and fifty years old. Believe it or not, there’s stuff about your family’s history. Even some pretty interesting things about the founding of the town of Carlsdale in the late 1700’s.”
He stopped, obviously gauging Jack’s reaction, who couldn’t hide his fascination with the worn, black, leather-bound book.
“There’s a tale about your grandpa’s great-great-grandfather, Sherman Edwards. It might appeal to you since it describes, in detail, the personal challenges he went through in rebuilding the plantation home you grew up in. Did you know it was built on the very same spot where a previous house of your family once stood?”
Speechless, Jack shook his head.
“Most folks would find stories containing dragons, witches, and the like to be pure fantasy. That’s why both of these books were locked up and nearly forgotten in our Richmond archives. We’ve already discussed a dragon tonight, and there’s a piece of it on the table. So, what most folks think doesn’t apply. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, his respect for Peter slowly growing.
“Your house was built upon another’s foundation. Can you venture a guess as to the only thing still standing from the original structure?”
“Oh, my God!” Jack blurted, instantly ashamed of his inability to control his emotions. “The tool shed?”
“Yes. The tool shed.”
“Would you mind if I take a quick look at that?” Jack reached for the book.
“Uh-uh-uh,” Peter chided, waving his index finger. He removed the books from the table, placing them inside the attaché.
“Why in hell did you do that??” Jack’s face flushed with fury. He stood hastily, almost toppling his chair. “I mean, why go and tell me about that shit if you weren’t intending for me read it?”
Peter motioned to calm down and return to his seat. Jack sullenly returned to his chair.
“I’d love nothing better than for you to read each volume at your leisure, Jack. But, there’s much I need to learn first. Not so much about Dr. Mensch as I do about what really happened in July almost eight years ago. We’ve only scratched the surface so far, and I’d give anything to hear the rest. If you’ll trust me with what you’ve kept hidden, I’ll let you look over the books for as long as you like.”
