by Erik Carter
Susan momentarily made eye contact with him. He grinned at her. She pretended she didn’t notice. Icy. Which only meant he’d have to smolder extra hard.
Brian was speaking to the girl. “How about your family?” he was saying. “Can you tell us about them?”
The girl gazed forward blankly, not looking at Brian or anyone else. “Father,” she said.
Again the girl gave Dale pause. She hadn’t said “Father” like she was calling out to her daddy. She’d said it like a title.
“Who is your father?” Brian said.
“Father. Father and the Man in Black.”
The nurse stood up and approached the two agents. “That’s all she’ll say. ‘Father’ and ‘the Man in Black.’”
“What’s her name?” Dale said.
“Now, how would we know that? Unless her name’s ‘the Man in Black.’” His eyes flicked up and down, as if scanning Dale to find the precise cause of his stupidity.
Dale fought the temptation to punch the little man right in his greasy face. Short guys are often confrontational. Short guys with an irrational sense of self-esteem are even worse.
Susan walked over, looked quickly at her brother and then turned to Dale. “There’s no way of knowing anything about her yet.”
Dale nodded. At least she’d acknowledged his existence. That was progress of a sort.
“And the Man in Black?” Wilson said.
The sheriff cut in. “Don’t know that either. We’ve been trying this for twenty minutes, and neither of these two,” he said, motioning toward Brian and Susan, “can get a damn straight answer out of the kid.”
Susan put her hands out in a mediating manner. “Sheriff Brown, please, try to understand. What we’re attempting to do here is—”
“Susan, for Christ’s sake,” Brian said. “Can you be the doctor here and take command of this damn situation?” He looked at Brown and Dale. “Gentlemen, this girl has been through incredible trauma. Trauma we don’t yet understand.”
Dale looked at the girl.
“Man in Black,” she said. “Father and the Man in Black.”
“Johnny Cash?” Dale offered.
Susan whipped around to him, looking aghast and angry. A little joke never hurt anyone, but it appeared to have offended the hell out of this woman.
“What methods have you tried?” Dale said to her.
Brian answered for her. “We’ve attempted gentle, non-intrusive, oral communication.”
“In other words, you’ve tried talking to her,” Dale said. “Don’t fancy it up, nurse.”
Steam shot from Brian’s ears, but he said nothing. A guy like this was like a limp-dick on a disco floor—all show, no go.
Dale looked right into his sweaty little eyes. Urging him. Daring him. If the twerp wanted confrontation, he was gonna get some. Dale stepped toward the girl, past Brian, slicing straight through his personal space. The nurse looked as scared as he did angry.
The girl breathed slowly, her gown rising and lowering at a steady, even pace. Dale waved a hand in front of her face.
“Father,” she uttered.
Dale leaned down, put his face in her line of vision. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”
“Man in Black. Father and the Man in Black.”
“Bet you’ve been going through some real rough times lately, huh?” He put his hand on the bed, about ten inches from her arm, and eased it toward her. What Brian was doing wrong was that he was keeping his distance from her. If Dale could make contact with the girl, he reasoned he had a good chance of getting through. The power of touch and all that.
“Father,” the girl said.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened to all your friends and family. Everyone here, we all want to help them.” He guided his hand closer to her arm. Three inches away.
“Father and the Man in Black.”
“You want us to help your friends and family, right?”
His fingers touched her skin. The girl closed her mouth, quieting for the first time. Dale gazed deeply into the girl’s eyes.
In his peripheral vision, Dale saw Susan nod appreciatively.
The girl’s lips began to part …
… and she shrieked wildly, lunging at Dale. She swiped at him, clawing at his face. Her nails raked across his cheek, tiny razors.
“Only Father and the Man in Black!” she screamed, her small face pink and twisted with violent rage. “Only they may know, only they may speak!”
Dale staggered back, holding his cheek. “Son of a gun!”
He put pressure on his face and wondered how clean that girl’s nails were—especially after spending an indeterminate amount of time in the woods. There was blood on his fingers.
Brian and Susan rushed over to restrain the girl as she thrashed about wildly.
Brian yelled out. “Susan, we need more diazepam!” He turned to the sheriff and the agents. “You three, out. You’ve brought enough chaos.”
“We ain’t going anywhere until the doctor tells us to,” Brown said.
“Susan,” Brian implored. “Jesus, come on!”
“Yes. Go,” Susan said. Her gaze rested on Dale for just a moment. “Out. Now.”
“Come on, boys,” the sheriff said to Dale and Wilson.
The three exited the room.
They strode briskly away from the room. Dale dabbed at his cheek. There were what felt like three or four scratches going diagonally down his cheek, nearly meeting up with the wound on his lip from Willard Ledford.
Dale looked at Wilson. “That girl’s been brainwashed. I saw it in her eyes. I know the look.”
Wilson tilted his head and frowned. “Come on now, Conley.”
“I’m positive.”
Brown said, “You two mind letting me in on what you’re talking about?”
“Agent Conley spent some time at the hands of … a cult,” Wilson said. Dale could always count on Wilson to provide blunt truth when needed.
After college, Dale struggled in the wide world, barely keeping his head above water. Just before things reached a cataclysm, his friend Vance came along and bailed him out. He offered Dale a position as a reporter at his startup newspaper, The Worldwide Weekly Report, whose goal was to explore the eccentric type of news stories that traditional papers wouldn’t cover—conspiracies, paranormal activity, government cover-ups. Dale had no experience in journalism, but Vance knew that Dale had eschewed his study time in college to write the novel he was just certain was going to make him rich and famous. As such, Vance also knew that Dale had writing chops—unsuccessful though they might be.
Toward the end of Dale’s second year on the job, the WWR got a scoop about a strange group of people calling themselves the Collective Agricultural Experiment. They were a socialist Christian community led by a man named Glenn Downey on the coast of South Carolina. This, in itself, was strange but certainly not titillating enough for the WWR. It was only when there were rumors of disciplinary beatings and armed guards that Vance decided to investigate, sending Dale and a young intern photographer named Spencer Goad in undercover.
The problem was, their covers were quickly blown. And the repercussions had been terrible.
“I was at the Collective Agricultural Experiment,” Dale said to Brown, “and I saw people acting just like that girl in there. That same glazed-over, crazy look.”
Brown stopped abruptly. “You were one of the CAE survivors?” His mouth hung open.
Dale nodded.
“So you think the Marshall Village was a cult too?”
“I didn’t at first. But now … yes.”
The idea had been bouncing around his head since he first crossed under the police tape at the village. He’d tried to keep the thought away, but the girl’s maniacal behavior showed that his initial intuition was right. Her chant-like repetition of Father particularly bothered him. At the Collective Agricultural Experiment, Glenn Downey had his followers call him Father.
Brown nodded, and a lo
ok of realization came to his face. “You know, that might explain a few things.” He hoisted his belt up over his big belly and jogged away toward the exit.
They watched him leave.
“This is your investigation now, Mr. BEI,” Wilson said. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to be my research assistant.”
“Come again?”
“The clue on the stone. We need to—”
There was yelling from the opposite end of the hallway. “Hey!”
Dale and Wilson both turned and looked.
It was Susan. And she was pissed. She rushed toward them from the girl’s room and walked right up to Dale. “What the hell was that in there?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“In her room. Johnny Cash? Really? Are you that insensitive?”
“You mean, what I said?” Dale had to think for a second before he realized what she was talking about. He’d made a little quip about Johnny Cash when the girl said “Man in Black.” It had seemed an appropriate time to cut the razor-sharp tension—and to give a nod to a living legend. Dale wasn’t a particular fan, but who didn’t love “Ring of Fire”?
“Yes, what you said,” Susan said. “And how you’ve been acting this whole time. You’re awfully cavalier for someone investigating a mass kidnapping.”
Wilson took a step toward her. “Dr. Anderson, if I may, I assure you Agent Conley might seem like a real rogue, but I know he has nothing but the safety and well-being of the missing people on his mind.”
Dale bit his lip, fought back some fake tears. “Wilson …” he said and put his hand on the other agent’s shoulder. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said about me.”
“You see?” Susan said. “Why don’t you try growing up, Mr. Conley?”
“Well, although I’d like to stay here and have you show me the errors of my wicked ways, Agent Wilson and I are investigating a mass disappearance. So, if you please.” He gave Susan a deep bow then turned back to Wilson. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”
Dale and Wilson walked briskly to the exit.
As they pushed through the doors, Dale looked back down the hall. Susan stood where they had been. Her arms were crossed with one leg kicked out to the side. Dale waved at her. She turned on her heel and stomped back toward the girl’s room.
Dale watched her leave then pushed through the exit door.
If only he wasn’t embroiled in this case, he would have been chasing her with unhinged zest. Susan Anderson was smack-yourself-across-the-face attractive. She was also cross and contentious, and Dale relished confrontation.
But he had to stay razor-sharp, understanding now that the Marshall Village was the same breed as the Collective Agricultural Experiment. If things ended at all like they had for the CAE, the missing Marshallites were in even more trouble than he had thought.
He hated thinking of the CAE. And he hated that he was now going to have to reflect on his experiences there to help him solve this case. It had been four years. But he could still hear that damn bell.
Chapter 14
The bell rang incessantly. It was a sharp noise, the kind that feels like it’s stabbing through your skull.
Dale sat at a chair facing the desk. On the other side was a cracked leather office chair, turned away from him. He could see only the top of Glenn Downey’s head. They’d been like this for the last two minutes since Dale came in and was told to take a seat.
Dale had wanted to resist. He wasn’t one to take orders, particularly from captors. But the odds were stacked heavily against him. There was a man standing in the corner with a gun, and Dale had a feeling he knew what this impromptu meeting was about. The only thing it could be about. They’d discovered who he was and why he had come to the Collective Agricultural Experiment. They found out that he wasn’t a true believer. That he was, in fact, a reporter.
This was two days before his first attempted escape. With Spencer. Through the woods. When they were caught and beaten.
The clock on the wood-paneled wall ticked between the clangs of the bell. Glenn’s chair remained unnervingly still. Darnell Fowler stood in the corner holding an AK-47 across his chest, one of the many gifts the CAE received from Soviet sympathizers. He sneered at Dale, his eyes never looking away from him the entire time Dale was there. He was about five-foot-six and muscular for his small frame. His hair was short and red with the texture of a Brillo pad.
When Dale and Spencer had first arrived, they were quickly introduced to Darnell and his Blue Guard. Darnell was like Covey, the infamous slave breaker in Frederick Douglass’s autobiography. He was everywhere at once, a specter, appearing at random throughout the camp. Behind buildings, popping out from bushes. Always with a club or his whip. And though Darnell certainly wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar, Dale imagined he had been quite bright back in the real world. The owner of a successful lawn care business, something like that.
The bell finally stopped ringing.
The chair squeaked and turned, and then there was Glenn Downey, his eyes registering stifled anger from behind his tinted glasses. He threw a wallet across the desk. It was Dale’s. He and Spencer had been forced to surrender any personal items when they first entered the camp. This blew Dale’s original idea of using pseudonyms.
“I knew your name sounded familiar,” Glenn said. His voice had a heaping helping of Texas in it. He held up a newspaper—a copy of the Worldwide Weekly Report. “Didn’t you think anyone would catch on?” He dropped the paper on the desk.
And here Dale was thinking no one read the WWR.
There was an article by Dale’s Prior Identity on the front page. A small, smiling picture of him was next to the byline.
Dale wasn’t one to back down, but at the moment he was more scared for his life than he had ever been. “We’ll leave. We’ll leave right now, and you’ll never hear from us again.”
“Really?” Glenn placed his fingers together in a bridge under his nose. “I have your word on that?”
“Yes. My word of honor.”
“Your word of honor.” Glenn smiled and looked at Darnell, who chuckled. Glenn stood up. He was short, only an inch or two taller than Darnell, and thin as a rail. His thick brown hair was a helmet hairsprayed firmly to his skull. The mustache on his sunken face made him look like a macabre cowboy, and his tan shirt and brown suit pants hung off him like big-and-tall clothes on a cancer patient. “Somehow I don’t trust that honor of yours. After all, didn’t you lie about your intentions when you came here?”
“Let us go, please. Spencer’s just a kid. He’s our college intern. He’s only twenty years old.”
“There are infants in this camp. I think a twenty-year-old can fend for himself. And you too. No, I won’t be letting you leave. You’ve been here for a week now.” He pointed at the leering man in the corner. “As you’ve seen, Darnell and the Blue Guard have all means of escape well guarded. Not that it’s entirely needed. Up until you boys came here, everyone who joined the CAE did so of their own free will. Only a couple of escape attempts. And those who have tried have been very disappointed afterwards.”
Darnell took a step forward, hoisting the gun up higher across his chest. He smiled wider. His skin shined in the light coming through the blinds.
“I think we are really going to learn to love each other,” Glenn continued. “You’ll be my greatest challenge yet. Can I convert two nonbelievers? I’m willing to bet I can.”
Dale had known all his life that few people around him could match his will and his independence, but this place had taken one hell of a toll on him after only one week. As Glenn and Darnell stared down upon him, he wondered if Glenn might be right. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough.
Chapter 15
It was quiet, and it smelled like books.
Dale sat at a table in the library of Madison College. There were the usual sounds—books opening and shutting, pencil scratches, a door quietly closing in the distance. The very atmosphere of a
library was conducive to mental expansion. A few years back, when he was publishing his mysteries, he did much of his writing in libraries.
Madison was Dale’s alma mater. It was a fitting place for his interest in history, having been named for James Madison, the fourth President of the United States and principle draftsman of both the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. It was a small school and was mostly sheltered from the turbulent ’60s. Dale hadn’t been one for partying or joining silly groups with well-meaning causes and goofy names. But he did pick up one good friend, his potluck freshman year roommate, Vance.
Sitting on the table in front of him was the stone from the village. He’d put it on a plastic garbage bag to protect the table. The college students gave sideways glances as they walked by. The words scratched into the bottom were much deeper than those spelling ROANOKE on the top. The carver had obviously wanted them to stand the test of time since the message was to be buried in the ground for years. Dale touched the letters. They were a good eighth of an inch deep and must have taken a long time to carve.
He shut the book he’d been reading and rubbed his eyes, stretched his back. He had just a cursory knowledge of the Dare Stones, and he and Wilson had only found one text with any information. Fortunately it was a good one.
The story of the Dare Stones was almost as fascinating as that of the Lost Colony itself. A tourist from California named Louis Hammond discovered the first Dare Stone while looking for hickory nuts off U.S. Highway 17. This was 1937, a year which just so happened to be the exact 350th anniversary of the Roanoke Colony. The Lost Colony musical was also opening that year to commemorate the anniversary. This improbably perfect timing of the stone’s discovery was one of the main reasons that it was deemed a fake.
The stone’s message was allegedly the work of John White’s daughter, Eleanor, and described an Indian attack that wiped out most of the colony, including Eleanor’s husband, Ananias Dare, and their daughter, Virginia. Though the stone could have easily been lost to time as nothing more than an elaborate hoax, it found a supporter in history professor Haywood Pearce, Jr. Despite the inconceivable timing, Pearce held that the stone was authentic.
