by Matt Drabble
He didn’t bother to ask the woman how she knew where they were. Pearl Christian was a veritable sat nav of the island; if you needed to know anything, you just had to ask her.
“What are you going to do about the Niners, Dale?”
“Hmm?” he replied, only half listening to the woman as she badgered him.
“I said, what are you going to do, Dale?” she demanded again, only in a much louder voice.
“Mr Mayor.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, Pearl, I don’t think I will. Not today, not ever again. You will address me as Mr Mayor from now on; is that clear?”
He looked down at the woman for the first time and took no small comfort from the uncomfortable look she gave him back as she squirmed before him.
“Yes..., yes, Mr Mayor,” she finally replied, wilting under his glare.
“That’s better. Now then, Pearl, you are going to do something for me, and just to make it clear, I’m not really asking.”
“Okay.”
“You are going to spread a message for me because let’s be honest, that’s really what you do best, isn’t it? You are going to inform the whole town of something. Now, are you listening?”
Pearl nodded.
“Good. You tell them that the Niners don’t own the land they’re currently sitting on. The story about my ancestors granting them the land in return for some kind of service is just that - a story. There is no agreement, and there is no - and let me make this absolutely clear - there is no contract, no written evidence of any kind. You got that?”
Again, Pearl nodded.
“The Niners are illegal squatters on our land,” he finished. “Now go tell it on the mountains, my dear. Run along. Go ahead,” he prompted when she just stood there staring at him as though she didn’t recognise the man standing before her.
He watched her leave and nodded to himself. He didn’t blame her for not recognising him. He was a whole new man, after all.
----------
“What have you got, Doc?” Caleb asked as they entered Dr Simmons’s office.
“Constable,” Simmons greeted him. “Ashley,” she greeted his companion a little more awkwardly. “What were you hoping for?”
“Death by natural causes?” he replied hopefully.
“Sorry, can’t help you there. Should I... should we...,” Simmons said, nodding slightly towards Quinn.
“You can speak freely, Doc. Quinn is helping out. She’s been deputised.”
“You’re the boss,” Simmons said as she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “Filthy habit, I know.”
“There are worse,” Quinn retorted.
“Not many.”
“Doc? Haider Clayton?” Caleb prompted.
“Died from multiple stab wounds and the resulting blood loss.”
“Any defensive wounds?” Caleb asked pointedly.
“None on the hands or forearms.”
“But the stab wounds were to his front?”
“Yes, why?”
“You’re thinking he knew his killer?” Quinn asked, surprised.
“Maybe.” Caleb nodded thoughtfully. “Think about it: a Niner breaks into your home - and let’s not forget there were no signs of a forced entry at the Clayton house! But leaving that aside for a moment - a Niner breaks in and comes at you with a knife,” he said, miming the actions towards Quinn. “What’s the first thing you do?” he asked as he lunged at her with an imaginary knife.
Quinn’s own hands flew instinctively upwards to protect herself as Caleb jabbed.
“See?” he said as he touched her hands and forearms as he tried to stab through the guard. “His hands and arms should have been covered in defensive marks but they weren’t. Right, Doc?”
“Right,” Simmons agreed. “There’s something else that’s been bothering me.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been treating Haider for some time now. The man was practically bed bound and yet he was killed downstairs in the office.”
“Was he capable of getting down the stairs?” Quinn asked.
Simmons thought about the question for a moment. “Capable, maybe just about, but it would have taken some kind of monumental effort to get him down there.”
The three of them thought about the subject in silence for several moments.
“But none of this is evidence,” Quinn finally spoke. “Haider was an old man and a stubborn one, if memory serves. Maybe a Niner broke in and that’s what got him downstairs. Maybe he was surprised and couldn’t get his hands up in time.”
“He was an old sick man,” Caleb agreed. “The walk down the stairs might have taken all the strength out of him and he was unable to put up any sort of fight.”
“Sounds plausible,” Simmons agreed.
“But you don’t think so, do you?” Quinn asked, turning to Caleb.
“Dale?” Simmons exclaimed, and Caleb shrugged.
“I don’t know, but here’s the thing. You and me, Doc, we’ve both known Dale for a long time. He’s not exactly bravery personified. I haven’t taken his official statement yet, but I spoke to him enough on that night.”
“What was his side of it?” Quinn asked.
“He heard a disturbance, came into the office and found his father lying dead. He then saw a Niner turn and run out of the house. He says he knew it was a Niner because of the robes.”
“So what’s the problem?” Simmons inquired.
“Dale Clayton is the sort of man who would jump at his own shadow. According to him, he found his father lying dead and a Niner running from the scene, and you know what?”
“What?” Quinn asked impatiently.
“When I spoke to him, and he stood there with his father’s dead body lying on the floor next to him, Dale never looked or sounded calmer.”
----------
The group comprised a bad mixture of anger, booze and guns. Cooper Fox, with Anderson in tow as per usual, led Kelvin Moore, Tommy O’Brien, Sam Cartwright and several other mill workers on a mission.
Pearl Christian had found him earlier and told him the news about the Niners not having any legal rights to the land. She’d gotten it straight from Dale Clayton, although she’d called him Mr Mayor which had sounded odd coming from a woman he’d never seen give an ounce of respect to anyone before.
In truth, the news was the only thing he cared about and not the messenger. The Niners were living here illegally and not for much longer.
A bottle of hooch was passed around on a regular basis in order for the hastily assembled group to keep their courage up on high. It was a long hike out to the monastery, and Cooper didn’t want anyone being distracted by second thoughts. His future was too great and too close to allow anything to stand in his way now.
Haynes had paid him a decent sum to stir up trouble, but it was the drug business that was his real aim here. Tunstall grew the product but he kept his methods close to his chest - too close for Cooper to steal them.
The way he saw it, if there were no more Niners on the island, then there would be no more Tunstall and no more partner to split the money with. The only problem, of course, was that he needed the mushroom recipe, but he knew that he could make Tunstall spill his secret, and the more of a confusing mess he could make, the better.
Anderson kept on looking over at him nervously but he ignored the man. Anderson was fast becoming a liability but at least he was loyal, although he wouldn’t want to make the man choose between his best and only friend and the woman he still inexplicably carried a torch for. But to his credit, he did follow orders - the man was too dumb to do anything else.
The group kept up a steady pace. The rest of them were eager to secure a future for the island and their families, but Cooper had no intention of working for anyone other than himself, not ever again.
They traipsed their way through the woodland, heading towards their goal, angry men with bitterness in their hearts and finally with somewhere to place the blame, whether it was deserved or not.
Part of him, the part that was still vaguely human, did stop for a moment to wonder if this was a good idea. That normally silent part of him felt that this might get out of hand fast, that this heady mix of misplaced rage might end badly. But in the end, his sense of self was greater than his sense of responsibility, and the life of Cooper Fox would always mean more than anyone else’s.
The voices had grown quiet in the group again and he was worried they might all be starting to sober up, so he poked the fires once more with a rousing speech about the injustice the Niners were heaping upon the town, and soon, talking became shouting and temperatures were rising once more, just how he wanted it.
----------
Torvan gathered his men - or at least the ones he felt he could trust - outside of the monastery walls and far away from the prying ears of his father.
There were only 11 of them but it felt an apt number; greatness could be achieved with such a gathering.
He stood in the middle while his brothers knelt in a circle around him. Their faces were turned up and he could feel their desperation for leadership, for direction, for his guidance. There was a power vacuum within the Order and the young strong men currently kneeling around him would look to him to show them the way.
He had been speaking to them directly for some time now, chipping away at their loyalty and drawing them closer to him. He knew that there was a desire amongst this group for a firm hand, for a new direction, a stronger one that only he could lead.
Word about the newcomers in town and their plans for the island was rife amongst the Family. Land developers were coming for them, for their homes and this holy land. Father hoped to turn them away with his soft words and olive branch of friendship, but Torvan had been shown the way and it was not a gentle refusal.
“You all know what’s coming for us and you all know what they intend to take,” he started to his men. “This land is our home and they intend to take it from us.”
“I thought that Father turned them away?” Brother Nathan asked, his voice young and worried.
“Do you really think that the Devil can be turned away with a simple ‘no, thank you’, Brother? Father has led us well down the years but these are new times and call for new leadership. The old ways are the dead ways now, and if we want our family to survive, then we have to change before it’s too late.”
This drew a murmuring of agreement from the others and Torvan felt them draw in closer to him.
“I have been shown the way, Brothers. The gods have spoken to me directly and they have told me that we must defend our land, defend our home, defend the gods’ word and way!” His voice was rising now as he preached. “This is our land and we must defend it with furious vengeance. We must turn back the invaders and show the Nine Gods that we have not lost our faith, that they cannot take our grace from us, and we shall shed the blood of our enemies and SOAK THE GROUND IN OUR SACRIFICE!” he roared.
“Torvan! Torvan! Torvan!” the men started to chant as he stood tall in the centre of the circle, basking in their worship of him.
He knew that the war was upon them now and that the enemy would soon be at their gates. The gods had shown him the fire and brimstone battles ahead and now he had his army. He would take one brother over a hundred townies and now they were almost ready.
“Brother Jacobs,” Torvan called out as a 12th disciple joined them.
Brother Jacobs was pushing a cart along the woodland trail towards the gathered group. Metal clanged together as the implements on the rickety cart bounced together.
“What offerings have you brought us?” he asked the Order’s resident blacksmith.
Brother Jacobs was a squat but rotund man. His body was honed in the fires of the anvil, thickset and powerful with a long, red, bushy beard and a bald shiny head.
The blacksmith drew the cart up close before whipping off the cloth cover and exposing his wares.
The shiny weapons were all newly formed and sharpened. Blades, axes, heavy hammers and a few crossbows all lay glinting in the late morning sun. They were weapons to be in the holy war and they would be blessed by the gods themselves and wielded by agents of the heavens.
“Glory be,” Torvan mused. “Glory be, Brothers!” he reiterated as he picked up a huge battleaxe and hefted it in his hands, feeling the weight and the power.
“Arm yourselves, my brothers, and prepare for war.”
----------
“It could have been shock,” Quinn said as they emerged out of Dr Simmons’s office.
“Sorry?”
“Dale’s calm demeanour. It could have just been shock.”
“No... no, I don’t think so,” Caleb replied thoughtfully. “He seemed... different, somehow. I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too much into all this. Maybe I’d rather arrest Dale than have a war start on the island.”
“Or maybe you’re right.”
They climbed back into his car, but before he could start it, Dottie’s voice barked out of the mounted radio.
“Caleb?”
“Go ahead, Dottie.”
“Thank God! I’ve been trying to reach you for ages.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, fearing the worst.
“Cooper Fox has rounded himself up some kind of... I don’t know, posse, of sorts.”
“That’s all we need.” Caleb sighed to Quinn.
“He’s heading up to the monastery.” Dottie continued.
“What’s got them riled up?”
“Word is that a Niner killed Haider.”
“I know.”
“But what you don’t know is that apparently Dale’s let it be known that the Niners don’t own the land up there.”
“What?”
“According to Pearl, Dale told her that there never was a contract or agreement or anything. He says the Niners are up there illegally and now Cooper and his pals have decided to go on up and evict them.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quinn breathed.
“Okay, Dottie. I’m going to try and head them off,” Caleb finished before disconnecting.
“Shit, Caleb, there’s going to be trouble.”
“I know, but not if we get there in time to stop it.”
“You really think so?”
“Nope, but right now it’s all we’ve got.”
Quinn hung on as Caleb flew out of the doctor’s parking lot and drove at breakneck speed to try and stop a war before it started.
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CHAPTER 13
Shots fired, men down
Solomon felt the metaphorical storm about to break and ran to try and head it off. There was an uneasy silence that had fallen over his flock and the electricity was tangible in the air. People were scared and angry and that was never a good combination. He knew in his heart that it would only take the slightest spark to burn them all to the ground.
He had been meditating in his spot in the gardens when his thoughts had been abruptly interrupted. The winds were gathering and the sky overhead was starting to darken with angry intent.
Gwendolyn had come to him with naked dread in her eyes. She’d told him that Torvan had organised a gathering of his inner circle. Of course, Solomon knew about his son’s disciples but they had never been of real concern to him - not until now.
He had planned to integrate Torvan further to his side, to bring his son into the very core of the Order, to shape him for the future where the younger man would place his hand on the tiller to guide them all forwards. But now he wasn’t so sure.
Torvan had always been a strong-minded and strong-willed man. Even as a child he’d been intensely driven and committed to their life here at the monastery. But lately, that passion had turned decidedly darker and now he worried about Torvan’s heart and where the boy was headed.
Solomon ran through the monastery, ignoring the pleasant faces that turned up to meet and greet him.
He headed through the outer grounds until he breached the walls. His heart was racing as he ran, b
oth through the uncommon exercise and his own fears.
Torvan had already killed one man, and whether or not the man had been a threat to them was still up in the air, but his life had not been Torvan’s to take. The gods looked down and over them, and only they had the right to extinguish a life.
He reached the clearing and burst into it, but it was already empty. The men had left. All they had left behind was one of the carts that Brother Jacobs, the blacksmith, used. The sight of the empty cart was the scariest thing yet that he’d seen, but he didn’t quite know why - he only knew that it was bad.
----------
Torvan led his men through the woodland and started out on the long hike to town.
The hike was made more difficult as the weather worsened but somehow the approaching storm seemed apt, like it was an extension of his own state of mind and he was controlling the raging storm that was closing in fast.
They were 13 men, brave and true, and the battle that lay ahead was to be truly glorious indeed.
The weapons they carried were holy implements of the gods: handcrafted metal with honed edges, thirsty to spill the blood of the heathens that would try and take their land.
All of them were walking in silence, mentally preparing themselves for what was to come. They walked a virtuous path to glory; the gods would be pleased.
His blood was hot right now, but it seemed lately that it was always hot. He knew that the gods were infusing him with their power, that was why he felt so... righteous. Yes, that was exactly the right word for it: he was righteous.
----------
Cooper Fox led his men through the woodland on a direct path to the monastery. The men behind him were suitably lubricated and stirred up by the injustice of their situation. The Niners were trying to steal the very food from their families’ plates and these were not the sort of men to take that lying down.
Most of them carried a variety of hunting knives and other blades with the occasional hunting rifle thrown in. They were island men, used to living off the land, capable hunters who solved their own problems.
Cooper looked around to check his men and was annoyed to see that Anderson had disappeared. The man had now jumped from annoyance on his list to outright problem. If Anderson didn’t have the stomach to rough up a bunch of monks, then how was he going to rely on him to deal with Calvin Morrison and the drug deal?
