by Sean Platt
Fortunately for IT, The Darkness died with the hosts, forever undiscovered. But now, one of ITS hosts had been captured, still alive, and brought to Black Island, which meant that ITS enemies knew IT was here, robbing IT of ITS advantage of working in the dark. Now IT would have to speed up ITS search for the vials.
To that end, IT had managed to find a host inside Black Island Research Facility who might soon give IT an advantage. While the humans might know IT was here, they did not know IT was already among them, nor did they yet have the technology to find the infected among them.
IT had to be smarter, though, more strategic when choosing hosts. Otherwise, IT would never survive, let alone thrive.
Finding The Church of Original Design had worked brilliantly. Already, IT had found 24 people to infect — both within the organization and among The Church’s members — deeply flawed subjects, ripe for the plucking.
Another human truth: When people were lost, they would beg for someone or something to turn their lives over to, knowing that any answer, even the wrong one, was better than the dull ache of simply not knowing and being lost.
IT had found Marina quite by accident, the most fortunate accident since ITS crossing to this world.
One of the people IT had nested a part of ITSELF inside, a man named Peter Eccles, was a high-ranking member of The Church. Through Peter’s perception, IT picked up a strong sense that Marina was somehow touched by The Darkness. So, IT figured she might lead IT to where the vials were stored on this world.
So, “Steven Warner” entered the picture, rising to become Marina’s head of security, in hopes of finding her connection to The Darkness and the vials. IT had considered infiltrating her, however IT was unable to for some reason IT wasn’t quite sure.
Once IT grew closer to her, IT realized that she hadn’t been the one who’d been touched by The Darkness, at least not directly. Instead, if his religious teachings were any indication of the truth, it was The Church’s founder, Marina’s father, J.L. Harmon, who had been in contact with The Darkness. But he was dead and buried, along with his secrets. IT had sifted through many minds in The Church’s inner circle, including Marina’s, but so far none had known of the vials’ existence, leaving their location an absolute mystery.
Still, this was as close as IT had come to them so far, so Steven stayed around. Soon, IT realized that The Church was fertile ground for building ITS army once the time came to move to the next phase, but IT had to be careful in ITS selection of people; some in The Church were strong-willed and could prove tough to control. The last thing IT wanted was to lose command of a host so close to ITS home.
For now, IT built slowly, using The Church’s newfound popularity with the “resurrection and prophecy” of J.L. Harmon to position ITSELF for the right moment when the vials were discovered. Then, nothing could stop IT.
IT stared out at the window, then closed ITS eyes, trying to connect with ITS other parts to see if anyone had yet stumbled across someone It could use to find the vials.
It focused on the collective memories gathered since ITS last meditation, rapidly sorting and sifting through memories like files on a computer, searching for anything which stuck out as particularly unusual or useful.
IT was inside the memories of a homeless man, Kenny Watkins, who was standing outside a hotel by the airport, when IT saw something that brought a low and rumbling tremor to Steve’s body.
The tremor rolled, shoulder to toe, then left IT with chills.
No, it can’t be.
He’s here?
IT slowed the memory, inspecting it closely, to be certain. A man who looked just like him, or rather the man he’d been before, Boricio Bishop. This was his Earthly counterpart: Boricio Wolfe.
Boricio Wolfe, the murderer turned protector to Luca Harding, had been touched by The Light, had it flowing through his blood, which made him a looming threat.
Why is he here?
Is he searching for me?
On one hand, IT was curious to know more. On the other, IT wasn’t so strong that IT could allow a human emotion, such as curiosity, to lull IT into complacency.
IT should — must — eliminate the threat early.
IT reached out into the world to find ITS closest hosts.
IT shared Kenny’s memory with the others, and with it, a message:
Find Boricio Wolfe, and kill him.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — Brent Foster
Brent sat at the computer, staring at his latest freelance assignment, which wasn’t even close to finished, while he held the phone in his right hand, waiting for Lara Andrews to answer. He was going out on a limb calling his former colleague, but if anyone could help him get into Harrison Psychiatric, it was her.
He’d tried to get a hold of the hospital’s director, Mindy Benson, but she was conveniently out of the office and not returning his calls. It was sickening how so many so-called friends — or at least acquaintances who pretended to be so nice to him — while he had been working at the paper, turned out to be ghosts when he needed them most.
He hoped Lara wouldn’t turn out to be another ghost. She was an investigative reporter with a pit bull’s tenacity and a bloodhound’s instincts to follow a trail, and she knew plenty of people on the inside of Harrison, following an exposé she did on the place a few years ago, prior to Mindy Benson coming on, which led to massive reforms and greatly improved working conditions.
Lara picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
She sounded out of breath. It was Friday morning, and there was a good chance Lara had just finished her morning jog before going into work.
“Hey, Lara, it’s Brent, Brent Foster,” he said, not sure what number or name showed up on caller ID when you used a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell phone.
“Oh, hey, Brent, how’s it going?”
“Good,” he said. “How’s the paper?”
“Same as it ever was, long hours, little help, and a battle of who could care less between bosses and readers. And you, how are you doing?”
“OK,” Brent said, trying not to sound as depressed as he’d been feeling through his most recent stretch of forever. “Working freelance, which alternates between writing awesome stuff that I actually like and a ton of other stuff that’s too sucky to mention, so, in other words, pretty much the same, minus the health insurance.”
Brent laughed but knew it sounded hollow, then since Lara wasn’t one he needed to waste small talk on, he got to the point, “You still tight with anyone at Harrison Psychiatric who can pull some strings?”
“Depends on what strings need pulling, and why; what’s up?”
“I’ve got a lead on something big, something I can’t talk about yet, but I swear I’ll give you first dibs if it pans out. But I won’t have anything unless I can get in and talk to a patient there.”
“Did you already try?”
“No, but someone I know did. They’re not letting anyone but family talk to this guy, and unfortunately, he doesn’t have family, at least that I know of.”
“Who’s the guy?”
Brent paused. This was where Lara would either tell him to fuck off, say that she wasn’t getting involved, or sign up immediately. Not only did Lara know the patient, she had been the first to interview him after the shootings.
“Roman Rosetti,” Brent said, bracing for impact.
For a moment, Lara was silent. When she spoke her voice had shifted to serious. “What’s this about, Brent?”
“I can’t really say, not yet.”
“Bullshit, Brent. It’s not like you’re asking me to set up an interview with the school janitor. You want my help to see Roman Rosetti, I need to know what in the hell is happening.”
Brent sighed, looking at the computer screen and the work he was in no rush to return to — another meaningless SEO article on some shitty product some company was hawking to people wanting to get rich on the Internet. He knew he could trust Lara with anything, but couldn’t be
certain he could tell her the truth about what happened on Oct. 15 — not without her thinking he’d lost his fucking mind.
But if he was going to expose Black Island at some point, he had to tell someone who could help him. Right now, Lara was probably the only person who had the cache to tell the story.
“OK,” Brent said, “but you have to hear me out before thinking I belong in a padded cell beside Rosetti. And you can’t tell Jack.”
He knew Lara hated Jack as much as he did, though for different reasons, since Jack hadn’t stolen Lara’s wife, but rather screwed her on a story that went south and nearly got her fired.
“Fuck him,” she said. “Whatcha got?”
“It’s a story I’d rather tell in person,” Brent said. He needed to see Lara’s face in order to know how he should proceed, and just how much to tell her. He was more persuasive in person than on the phone. And something told him he’d need his every drop of persuasion to win her over. “Can we meet somewhere today?”
“I’ve got some interviews this morning and a staff meeting in the afternoon. How about after work? Say, 7, my place? You remember where I live?”
“You’re still in the same apartment?” he asked. He’d hung out with her a few times back when he first started at the paper and she was showing him the ropes. They were good friends, and might have been more if he hadn’t been married to Gina. He always felt like Lara had nursed a small crush on him, but never once acted on it, even after his divorce.
“Same place,” she said. “See you at 7?”
“See you then,” Brent said hanging up the phone, feeling a lot closer to something big, and in no mood to write his damned articles.
* * * *
CHAPTER 6 — Michael Blackmore
New Jersey
September 2013
Mike sat at the table across from Margie, chewing through yet another silent dinner.
As he sliced into his steak and stared at the pink juices spilling across the white plate and into the potatoes, he wondered how many more dinners they’d sit through until finally deciding to kill the charade their marriage had become.
He glanced up at Margie and noticed she was staring to her left and out their front window. He wondered if she was staring at the tire swing dangling from the maple’s lowest branch. While it wasn’t the same tire that they’d once pushed Amber from — in what seemed like another lifetime ago — the new rope and tire hung from the same branch on the same tree, making it too easy to flash back on happier times.
Times before long, silent dinners.
“So, how’s Gail?” he said, asking about Margie’s friend that she’d gone to lunch with earlier.
“OK,” Marge said, looking at Mike, or through him, then down at her plate. “How’s the book?”
“Going slow,” he said, though saying he was slow was like saying a 30-year-old Lincoln got shitty mileage. Mike was stalled, and couldn’t find his story. He was on the sixth book in his Detective Jacob Solomon series, and was running close to his deadline. He wasn’t even halfway through. While he’d earned some grace with the publisher because of strong sales and a core audience eager for the next book, this was the second time Mike had found himself running late on a book. The last one was 19 days behind deadline, and the publisher gave him hellfire, talking about shelf space they’d lose, author interviews lined up that they’d need to reschedule, and advertisements they’d have to scratch.
In actuality, the publisher didn’t cancel a thing. They’d designed the schedule with some cushion, telling Mike the manuscript was needed three weeks earlier than their hard deadline. So, Mike probably had an extra two or three weeks beyond the month he thought he had left now. Still, he didn’t want to push things to the last minute, or piss off his publisher. His numbers were good, but publishers were under their own stress, trying to stay relevant in the era of e-books. He’d already seen a few mid-list authors get dropped by the same publisher.
“I’m sure you’ll pick up your pace,” Margie said, not asking for details on the book, why he was going slow, or if maybe he wanted to run some ideas by her. Once upon a time, she was his biggest fan and eager to read every story he had to tell. Those days were dead. Now she wanted nothing to do with his violent books.
“There’s enough real bad things in the world without wanting to read made-up tragedies,” Margie had said a few months earlier when Mike tried to bounce an idea off her.
He couldn’t argue with her reasoning. Even though she never saw the crime scene photos, or had to identify Amber’s dismembered body, she had been devastated by their daughter’s murder. Amber’s passing had also been the death of her happiness, and their marriage.
He sipped his wine and stared out the window, following Margie’s attention: the tree and the tire swing, spinning in the cool evening breeze, as if a ghost were riding.
**
After dinner, Mike helped with the dishes, thanked Margie for making a delicious meal, then kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, sighing as she rubbed her temples and announced yet another migraine. “I’m going to go lay down, do you mind?”
“Go ahead, Honey,” he said, kissing her on the head this time. Truth was, Mike was perfectly happy to spend the night without sitting like a zombie in front of the TV watching mindless sitcoms for two to three hours until Margie was finally ready to start hugging the pillows. While the sitcoms gave her comfort, reminders of happier times with fictional happy families and friends, they did nothing for Mike, but remind him how much time was slipping away night after night. Every moment wasted in front of the TV was another he wasn’t doing what he knew he needed to do.
As bad as he felt thinking of it this way, Margie’s headaches were often gifts to him — treasures of time which ushered his work forward, albeit slowly. However, the definition of “work” had changed in the past few months.
While Mike started out most nights attempting to write something, he often surrendered after a half hour or so, eager for a return to his search. He was obsessed with finding Amber’s killer; with no leads, Amber had become just another cold case that would never be solved, at least not by the cops. The only way the killer would ever see justice was if Mike nabbed the bastard himself. He wasn’t looking for the sort of justice you found in a courthouse, either. No, this would be a father’s justice — the only kind that could ever fill the void left by Amber’s death.
Through his law enforcement contacts and private investigators he’d hired since Amber’s death, Mike had built up a profile of the killer, and had even linked two other murders to the same man, even if the police had shit.
Usually, when Amber came up with friends and family, people expressed surprise that the cops weren’t any closer to finding her killer. Having been a cop himself, Mike was anything but shocked. People carried the odd notion that the police and FBI had these massive databases tracking every murder, linking similar crimes and searching for patterns. It might be like that on TV and in the movies, but in reality, agencies were fractured, databases limited by budget cuts, and law enforcement crippled by disparate systems from one department to another. And then, of course, you had ego and politics, both of which undermined any efforts to share information in a better or more logical way.
Crimes were usually solved despite technology, and by officers who put in long hours, often off the clock, working cases until they were closed. While his former colleagues had put in the hours following Amber’s death, eventually they had to move on.
Mike was bitter at first, pissed that nobody seemed to care as much as he did, but then he saw it as the blessing it was: If nobody else was looking for her murderer, perhaps he could find the man first. And if Mike killed the man, there was a greater chance he’d get away with it if nobody knew who he was, let alone his connection to Amber’s death.
Mike opened his e-mail and saw a daily report from Franklin Weatherly, one of the private eyes working for him, compiling information he found on police websites, public information
searches, and in newspapers around the country.
Most days, Weatherly had little to offer, but today’s report featured a subject line that immediately jolted Mike to sitting: Sexual Predator Found Murdered, Drawings in Victim’s Blood Discovered on Body.
Mike read the file — details of an open case from two months before, about a man named Hank Carol in Fairfield, Colorado — a sexual predator who was found in the woods, beheaded, his head placed between his legs. Doodles covered his body: Pervert, Pedo, and Short Eyes.
The use of the term “short eyes” led police to believe the man had been killed by someone who’d spent time in prison. Carol had spent three years in prison for sexually assaulting a child and got out early for “good behavior,” so there was a good chance he’d made an enemy on the inside who found him on the outside — or had someone else find him on the outside — and exacted revenge. Another suspect in the case, though only briefly, was a woman, Mary Olson, who had filed a report against the man after Carol had approached her daughter at a bus stop a month prior. Since the pervert had done nothing illegal, and technically didn’t violate terms of his parole, the cops couldn’t do anything except tell Mary to file a restraining order against the man so he wouldn’t come near the child. Mike wondered why the man had no stipulations in place already not to go near children.
Why force someone to file a restraining order just to keep him from their kids?
Mrs. Olson was cleared, though, since she had an alibi and the cops didn’t like her for the crime. If it was hard to find the dedication or resources to solve murders of innocents, you could bet your last dollar most cops weren’t about to put in overtime trying to solve a child molester’s murder. With no other leads, the cops dropped the investigation. Mike was damned sure they hadn’t looked for other crimes that involved a beheading and drawings on the vic’s body.
