DARK VISIONS

by James Byron Huggins

  DARK VISIONS

  James Byron Huggins

  WildBluePress.com

  DARK VISIONS published by:

  WILDBLUE PRESS

  P.O. Box 102440

  Denver, Colorado 80250

  Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.

  Copyright 2018 by James Byron Huggins

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  WILDBLUE PRESS is registered at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Offices.

  ISBN 978-1-947290-49-5 Trade Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-947290-48-8 eBook

  Interior Formatting/Book Cover Design by Elijah Toten

  www.totencreative.com

  For Sarah

  My heart

  My daughter

  My reflection

  The torch shall pass to you

  As it should, my love

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  ONE

  Sitting upon a bough, the raven watched.

  In the dying of the light the little boy swung slowly from the tree, his body broken, a noose around his neck. And at the edge of the forest a car burned and the raven watched as flame rose from the heat like hate rising from the heart of the sun.

  The raven and the boy were together as the fire burned and burned and began to fade in the last of the day but still the raven did not move. It stayed upon the bough and did not leave the boy alone until the sun had descended and was gone.

  The raven watched as the boy was claimed by the darkness of the night. It watched as the fire smoldered and the smoke vanished in the evening gray that overcame the day. It watched and it watched and it watched and it watched until something else had begun to burn in the dying of the light …

  Fire rose in the raven’s eyes.

  * * *

  Joe Mac felt the gray November cold more completely than he’d ever felt it before because he could no longer see the leaves fade from rust to gold or gaze upon the skeletal silhouettes of trees etched against the gray November sky.

  Now he lived in the world of the blind, so feeling the cold was all that remained. The rest was darkness and he would inhabit this darkness until the day he died and they buried him in the dirt and this darkness.

  The raven came as it always came; it descended with the sound of enormous wings to land with a thunderclap on the home Joe Mac had built for it.

  Three years ago they met as Joe Mac was first learning to live in the world of the blind. The raven had come to him every day as he sat alone in the back of the barn, and Joe Mac named him “Poe” after the old poem. And every evening they would sit together in the back of the barn in Joe Mac’s eternal night.

  Poe did not rise or even seem to notice the familiar Mrs. Clemens as she approached, but then Poe rarely flew away when someone came close. Rather, he seemed to know the exact distance for danger and ignored anything else.

  Mrs. Clemens brought Joe Mac his supper – an act Joe Mac reckoned to her uncommon human kindness – and spent a moment to inquire about his health. But Joe Mac sensed something different in Mrs. Clemens tonight. Her steps were halting and seemed to wander before she laid a hand on his shoulder.

  Lifting his face, Joe Mac asked, “What is it, Mrs. Clemens?”

  Mrs. Clemens shuffled, and Joe Mac felt the strength lessen in the hand; it was not much of a change, it was true, but a hand with little strength is even more revealing when what little strength it possesses is diminished ever more.

  Joe Mac repeated more sternly, “What is it, Mrs. Clemens?”

  “Oh,” moaned Mrs. Clemens, “it’s horrible, Mr. Joe Mac. Just horrible. Oh, god, I don’t know how to tell you.”

  “Just say it.”

  She faltered, “It’s about your grandson, Mr. Joe Mac. It’s about Aaron. The poor thing disappeared from daycare today.”

  Joe Mac’s left hand tightened on the arm of the chair. “How could they lose a four-year-old boy? Have they called the police?”

  “Your poor daughter has called everyone! We’re all scared to death something terrible has happened!”

  With a shrill cry Poe erupted into the night sky as Joe Mac stood pulling his wool coat more tightly across his chest; he snapped his cane to length. “Why didn’t someone tell me about this earlier?” he demanded.

  “They’ve been too busy searching for him, Mr. Joe Mac! They’ve looked everywhere! And you can’t even …”

  She let the sentence die.

  “Take me to my daughter,” said Joe Mac. “And compose yourself, Mrs. Clemens. We don’t know that anything terrible has happened. Compose yourself! Stay calm. And take me to my daughter.”

  TWO

  “Here’s the case file on that little kid.”

  Jodi Strong raised her eyes as the file was laid upon her desk. The veteran New York City detective, Thomas Grimes, who delivered the file pulled up a chair and leaned back, folding hands on his chest.

  “What do you want with this thing, Jodi?” Grimes asked and didn’t attempt to conceal either his curiosity or confusion. “There’s already a million cops on this, and we got twenty cases of our own to work.”

  “I took the original call last week when I was in uniform,” said Jodi. “I interviewed the daycare workers, the mother, the father. And then they found the little kid but he was already dead. Just like the others.”

  Grimes spoke in a weary monotone, “Jodi, it was your case when you were in uniform. It was your case when you took the missing person report. But you got promoted to detective three days ago, and it ain’t your case no more. It belongs to the task force and you ain’t on the task force, neither. So what are you doing?”

  Jodi shook her head, “Grimes, I know it’s always a mistake to get personally involved in a case but –”

  “Then don’t.”

  “But that scene at the house really shook me up,” Jodi continued. “I saw the little boy’s room. I saw his picture. I felt like I knew him. And then he ends up … like he ended up.” She slapped the file. “I’m tired of this psycho!”

  Grimes sighed, “Jodi, the FBI has a thousand people on this. We’ve got about a million. One more cop ain’t gonna make no difference in this. And we need you here.”

  Jodi made a slight sound as she sucked breath through her teeth. Then she said, “He’s made a mistake, Grimes. They’re just not finding it. Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Well, this psycho is pretty close to perfect because right now the task force guys tell me they don’t have a clue. One of ‘em told me they’re no closer to catching him now than they were four years ago.”

  Jodi opened the file and leaned back; “Aaron Roberts. Four years old. Abducted from the playground of his daycare. His body was found one hour after sunset –”

  “Same as the rest of ‘em.”

  Jodi continued reading as Grimes stood and leaned over her desk.

  “Jodi,” he began in a patient tone, “listen to me; I’m glad you made detective. I think you’re a natural. But you’re wasting your time. Whatever mistake this guy made ain’t gonna be in no file. There’s no fibers, no hairs, no prints, no DNA. There’s no witnesses, no video, no tracks.” He pointed toward the door. “This guy has killed t
wenty-four people, and he could walk through that door right now and confess to everything we’ve got and we wouldn’t be able to pin him to a single thing. He doesn’t take anything. He doesn’t leave anything. He has no motive. He has no face. He has no name. He’s a ghost.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Jodi lifted her face to see an exceeding large man standing on the far side of her desk at the same moment she realized he was blind.

  The man was slightly less than six feet but built like a brick. His body seemed one uniform size from his linebacker shoulders down through his barrel chest to his waist and weightlifter legs. His head was a square granite block set on a short neck. His white hair was standard military high-and-tight. His arms were heavy and the hand holding the cane was thick with strong-looking fingers although he held the shaft with a fisherman’s touch.

  Jodi was instantly curious why the man’s presence gave her a palpitation of alarm. There was certainly nothing obviously threatening about him. And yet an aura of doom seemed to cloak him even more than the knee-length undertaker coat or the impenetrable black glasses; it occurred to Jodi that his appearance could not have been more unsettling if he’d been wearing a black funeral veil over his face. In all he reminded Jodi of a Texas tombstone she’d once seen that read, “As you are, I once was. As I am, you will be…”

  Jodi whispered, “Good god …”

  Grimes turned, gaped, and grabbed one of the man’s blacksmith arms. “Joe Mac Blake! I haven’t seen you in years, Joe! How ya been, man?”

  “You’re lookin’ at it,” said Joe Mac. “They still got you in robbery, Grimes?”

  “Same ‘ol same.” Grimes theatrically lifted a hand toward Jodi as she rolled her eyes; he’s blind, you dolt. “Jodi, this is ex-homicide detective Joe Mac Blake. Joe is a legend! Joe, this is Detective Jodi Strong. She’s the newest member of the team.” A laugh. “Well, this is a blast from the past, buddy. What are you doing downtown, man?”

  Joe Mac lightly tapped the desk with his cane. “Got a seat for me?”

  “Sure.” Grimes pulled up a rolling chair. “Sit down.”

  Joe Mac felt, found the chair, and sat. He turned his face toward Jodi, “Nice to meet you, Jodi. Grimes is a good man. He’ll help you get the lay of the land around here, but it won’t take you too long.” He paused. “Can one of you tell me who’s handling the Aaron Roberts case? He was the little boy that got killed last week.”

  “Officially that case belongs to the task force,” said Jodi. “He’s another victim of a serial killer we’ve been trying to catch for a long time.”

  “The Hangman?”

  Jodi stared, then, “We’ve been ordered from on-high not to use that phrase, but, yeah, it was ‘The Hangman.’” She glanced at the file. “But as it happens, Joe, I’ve got a copy of the file right here.”

  Joe Mac lifted his face. “Have you had a chance to look at it?”

  “No. I just got it. What can I do for you, Joe?”

  “Aaron was my grandson.” Joe Mac’s face was stone. “I know I can’t contribute to the forensics, but if you have any personal questions about Aaron, maybe I could help you out a little bit.”

  Jodi stared. “I’m sorry for your loss, Joe.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  After expelling a long breath Jodi said, “Look, Joe, they’ve got a task force briefing in about twenty minutes. Why don’t you come with me? The FBI will be there along with Captain Brightbarton. He’s in charge.”

  “I don’t have a badge anymore.”

  “You’re with me. You’ll be okay.”

  Joe Mac rose, his hand moving his cane.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Joe Mac knew he was seated in the third row from the back, the second chair from the right side of the room. He’d been here many times during his thirty-five-year career as a New York City uniform patrol officer and then as a gold shield homicide investigator, and he knew every line of this place.

  He also knew that the front few rows would be filled with investigators and uniform patrol supervisors. The next rows would contain FBI personnel. And the last few rows would be filled with forensics experts, psychologists, and people like himself.

  Captain Steve Brightbarton announced, “All right, gentlemen, you’ve all had a chance to review the forensics on four-year-old Aaron Roberts. As of this moment we can confirm that Aaron was killed inside that warehouse. The suspect used blunt force trauma to break all his bones – the same thing he did to the other victims – and then he hung him by a noose around his neck. Same as the rest. Forensics says the tool used in the attack was a club coated in bronze, so keep your eyes open for a plain-view search. Crime Scene didn’t recover any DNA. No hairs. No fibers. No prints. Not even any touch-DNA. We don’t have him on video. We have no witnesses. The car was stolen from a police impound lot, and that’s all we got. At this time I’ll turn it over to FBI Special Agent Jack Rollins.”

  There was little to hear besides the rustling of clothing as Jack Rollins stood and Brightbarton took a chair.

  “Afternoon,” Rollins began, “you all know me. But for the uninitiated my name is Jack Rollins, and I am the Special Agent in charge of the FBI task force. Everything Captain Brightbarton just told you is accurate. I’ll only add that the murder of Aaron Roberts is consistent with the twenty-three murders preceding this, so confidence is high that we’re dealing with the same suspect. As usual, the suspect left nothing behind. The rope he used was standard clothesline that you can purchase at any hardware store. He torched the vehicle with a half-gallon of gasoline inside a one gallon milk jug armed with a two-dollar, off-the-shelf egg timer so we have no prints, no fibers, and no DNA.

  “We have nothing further on a description. We know he uses disguises, and we have him on traffic cameras as an old man, a young man, a poor man, a rich man. The only thing we know for sure is that it’s a man. We have isolated no salient physical characteristics that would make him easier to identify. He could be me. He could be you. All we can tell you is that we believe he’s a white male in his mid-thirties. He’s about six foot, 180 pounds. He very, very strong physically, and we believe he has a superior IQ. So our strategy is for the NYPD to continue their stop and frisk strategy of any and every person of interest. We want you to continue priority patrols and stakeouts of secular daycares, church daycares, schools, malls, playgrounds, parks. Meanwhile, we at the FBI will continue to work forensics and continue our enhanced surveillance of every name the computer spits out. Now, we do not know if this psychopath is armed but, of course, you know to approach him as if he is.” He paused. “I know I certainly will. And now I’ll turn this over to Dr. Marvin Mason. He’s assistant senior anthropologist for New York’s American Museum of Natural History. He also has a doctorate in archeology, and he is continuing to work with our Division of Behavioral Science to keep an up-to-date profile on this guy. So, Dr. Mason? Would you, please?”

  The chamber was subdued, which allowed Joe Mac to hear Dr. Mason’s soft steps and then the microphone was turned, apparently to accommodate his height.

  “Thank you,” said Mason.

  Imperceptibly Joe Mac nodded; yeah, from the depth of his voice Mason wasn’t big, but he wasn’t a lightweight, either. Joe Mac estimated him at a few inches less than six feet, about 170 pounds. His accent was native Long Island.

  “All I can tell you is what I’ve already told you,” Dr. Mason began. “As you know, this subject takes the time to break every bone in a victim’s body, and then he hangs them by the neck from a tree. We’ve done extensive research, and we have found this manner of human sacrifice, or punishment, to be so prevalent in ancient cultures that we can’t isolate any specific cult or religion or sect or civilization as the primary instigator. He could have taken it from the Jews or the Gaelic tribes or the Vikings or various Asiatic cultures. All we can say is that we believe you’re looking for an individual who kills in this highly methodical manner because he is motivated by some
kind of pathological religious psychosis.” He paused. “We know you guys are working hard, and all of us at the museum want to help. But that’s all we’ve been able to come up with. There’s just nothing exotic enough about what’s he doing to narrow it down to any one culture or religion. It’s barbaric and savage. But it’s not exotic. Throughout recorded history it’s something that’s been done by almost everybody.”

  Jodi said, “Dr. Mason?”

  Mason paused. “Yes?”

  Beside Joe Mac, Jodi stood; she was leaning on the chair before them. “Doctor, how long is he going to keep this up?”

  “We believe he’s going to keep it up until you catch him or kill him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Just like we don’t know what kind of obsession is motivating him, we can’t say with any certainty when this obsession will be fulfilled,” Mason answered. “I think it’s safe to say that you’re dealing with someone who is very smart and very cautious but also completely insane and I see no reason why he will stop doing what he’s doing.”

  “History doesn’t suggest a motive?” Jodi asked.

  Mason sighed; “The closest thing we’ve found to a motive are rituals used in turn-of-the-century Europe to destroy werewolves.” He cleared his throat. “In Europe, when they caught someone they suspected of being a werewolf, they would put them on a rack, break their bones, hang them, and set them on fire. They did the same thing to people suspected of witchcraft. Even in this century. Even in this country. But we don’t think he’s doing all this because he suspects someone of being a werewolf or a witch. We think he’s doing it because he’s afflicted with a bizarre religious psychosis that is totally beyond the understanding of any sane person and probably beyond his understanding, too. We don’t think even he knows why he’s doing what he’s doing. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it, but he can’t stop himself. That’s how crazy we think he is.”