by Aiden James
Jack quietly pondered the pros and cons of cooperating with Peter’s request, reflecting most upon the sorrow and torment he’d endured the past eight years. “I’ll give it a try,” he said, finally.
“I’m certain you’ll be glad you did,” Peter assured him, his expression relieved. He leaned back in his chair. “Now, back to my earlier question. Is this a piece of some 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 to do so.
“Yeah, they are.”
“And this thing actually breathed fire through its mouth, like one of those mythical dragons we all read about as kids?”
Peter appeared tentative, as if the question sounded absurd once it left his mouth. Yet, the excitement written all over his face told Jack the man wanted to believe the existence of such a being, if only he would confirm it.
“Yes. It could fly, too.”
Peter reached over and picked up the scale, snickering nervously while he examined it, as it he could envision its appearance. “No shit. So it had wings, then?”
“Yes,” said Jack, his tone serious. “But they hardly seemed big enough to support its body. It was covered in scales just like the one you’ve got in your hand, and had horns on its head and a pair of fan-like appendages on either side of its neck.”
Opening up like this put him at ease…a little. Increasingly unconcerned with whoever else observed them, he searched Peter’s face for clues as to whether or not he really believed what he said.
“It must’ve been pretty harrowing to face something like that,” observed Peter, still admiring the scale in his hands. “I would’ve probably pissed my pants if I’d been there. 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,” said Jack, sitting up straight in his chair. “I lost track of the thing when I made it out of the woods. Sheriff McCracken was the one who told us it’d eventually made it out of the woods and then gone over to the Johnson’s place. I guess it had tracked mine and Banjo’s scent.”
“The pet goat your grandfather kept?”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “One of Grandpa’s most prized possessions. He taught Banjo more tricks than any dog he ever owned.”
Peter nodded while reading another page in the journal.
“It states here that this ‘dragon’ or whatever it was suddenly disappeared without a trace. Don’t you find that statement as hard to believe as the very existence of the creature in the first place?”
“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 that’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 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 even stranger that only your house was destroyed. Your next-door 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. Just like the Palmer’s place, it wasn’t harmed at all. Correct?”
Something in Peter’s demeanor shifted, ever so slight. Only the most observant eyes would’ve caught this. The agent was on a covert mission and Jack worried about his role in this 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 from your home. 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, more evasive.
“Please tell me what you recall.”
“Well, most of it’s pretty hazy, other than jumping into Jeremy’s truck and speeding down Lelan’s Way. The tornado snatched us up 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, and had no idea if my brother and grandfather were even alive.”
Peter studied him in silence, absently clicking his pen. Jack took this 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 all that the tool shed was still standing,” Jack continued. “We lived with my uncle and aunt in Tuscaloosa for the time being. Once I saw the barren plot of land that used to be our home, I realized we’d never be coming back there to live.
“Almost immediately, some dudes started following us around. They looked like ya’ll. 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 these guys had something to do with it.
“The uninvited surveillance lasted right up to 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 the young man in the faded Metallica T-shirt sitting across from him. When the silence grew uncomfortable, he stood up and paced slowly across the room. Jack watched him intently, praying to soon be set free. His intuition told him 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 to the table. “But I can’t stress enough how imperative it is that you share what you know with me. It may seem like there’s very little here that 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 in a way that hinted at some dark secret he wanted to share, but instead held off, as if waiting for the right opportunity.
“You know, there were witnesses among your neighbors who saw the tornado that early July morning,” 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 your family as you raced down Lelan’s Way in Jeremy’s truck. They watched it turn and come back up the street after it tossed his vehicle into the field we’ve discussed.
“Now, it may have been extremely foolhardy and dangerous of them, but Jesse and Linda Sue Palmer ignored the safety of their storm cellar to witness this tornado methodically obliterate everything in your yard 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 that 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 direct pass on your property seem preposterous to you?”
Sweat formed in tiny droplets above Jack’s temples and along his spine. He never knew his next-door neighbors witnessed those horrifying events in the early morning darkness that fateful day. According to what he’d previously 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. Just before sitting down he took the two large books and held them up so Jack could read the covers. Both were worn, though one was smaller and appeared much older than the othe
r.
“These two volumes are fairly old. I’d be willing to bet my life that 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 his time in Carlsdale, where his brother owned the farm that later belonged to the Johnson’s—the same place, as you know, where that footprint was photographed.”
Once again, Jack stiffened noticeably. Sure, he’d seen the books on the table. Both volumes looked interesting merely because they were old. Anxious for an opportunity to cut short the present 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!” enthused Peter. “I see that you’re familiar with the name ‘Dr. Nathaniel Stratton’. There’s a lot of interesting information in this journal of his. 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,” he continued. “It’s basically a collection of local legends from Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Each one in this book is at least one hundred and fifty years old. Believe it or not, there’s stuff in here about your own family’s history as well. Even some pretty interesting things about the founding of the town of Carlsdale in the late 1700’s.”
He stopped for a moment, obviously gauging Jack’s reaction, who couldn’t hide his fascination with the worn, black leather-bound book before him.
“There’s even a tale in here about your grandpa’s great-great-grandfather, Sherman Edwards,” advised Peter. “It might especially appeal to you since it describes in detail the personal challenges he went through in rebuilding the farmhouse you grew up in. I’ll bet you never knew it was erected on the very same spot where a previous house built by your family stood. Did you?”
Speechless, Jack shook his head to acknowledge he didn’t.
“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 archives down in Richmond. We’ve already discussed a dragon-like creature here tonight, and there’s a piece of it on the table right in front of us. So, what most folks think doesn’t apply to us. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, his respect for Peter steadily rising. He was hooked, scarcely believing his eyes and ears.
“Your house was built upon another’s foundation. Can you venture a guess as to the only thing still standing back then from the original structure?”
“Oh, my God!” Jack blurted out, feeling instantly ashamed at his inability to better 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 both books from the table, placing them back inside the attaché case.
“Why in hell did you do that??” Jack’s face flushed with fury. He stood up hastily, almost toppling his chair again. “I mean, why go and tell me about that shit if you weren’t intending for me read it myself??”
Peter motioned for him to calm down and return to his seat before he would explain his reasons. Jack did return to his chair, though sullenly.
“I’d love nothing better than for you to read each volume at your leisure, Jack,” Peter told him. “But, there’s much I need to learn from you first. Not so much about Dr. Mensch as I do about what really happened back in July almost eight years ago. We’ve only scratched the surface in what we’ve discussed so far, and I’d give anything to hear the rest. If you’ll trust me with what you’ve kept hidden all these years, I’ll let you look over both books for as long as you like.”
Jack slowly sank back against his chair, eyeing Peter curiously.
What in the hell do you really want from me?
Everything on the table engendered a bevy of questions. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Peter was after something specific and different from what they’d discussed so far.
After considering the proposal another moment, he shook his head. He wasn’t sharing any more information. Whatever Peter and his pals had gathered up until now would have to suffice, regardless of the book offer.
“Why are you so reluctant?” Peter persisted. “What have you got to hide? What could possibly be that important to where you’ve kept it bottled up for so long??”
Jack looked away, gazing down at his distorted reflection in the table’s surface. He sighed and defiantly shook his head.
“You’d never understand,” he said, sadly. “Unless you’d been there yourself, there’d be no way in hell you’d ever get it!”
But the sadness underlying his heated tone revealed how terrible a burden he did carry within. Peter stood from his chair, moving over to him. He stooped to his knees, and soon peered up into the trembling young man’s face. He slowly brought his arm around perhaps to comfort Jack, but stopped short of doing so, as if afraid how this simple act of compassion would be perceived.
“Jack”, he began, his own voice quivering. “I have my own reasons for wanting to know what you know…. I’m about to take a huge risk here that could cost me dearly. Beyond the complete exposure of my personal demons, it could cost me my livelihood. That’s how badly I need to know everything that happened to you. You’ll soon see that my hell and yours are connected. Perhaps in ways you would never imagine.”
Jack turned enough to face him, narrowing his eyes in a determined effort to discern the true depth of sincerity in Peter’s words. Difficult to know for certain, it appeared Agent McNamee was on the verge of tears. A volatile mixture of bitter sorrow and anger seemed to bubble and boil within the agent’s eyes, turning them into dark pools of sadness.
“Does the name Bobby Northrop mean anything to you?”
Peter remained in his awkward stance, peering anxiously up into Jack’s face. For the moment, Jack gave no indication he had any idea what the agent just asked him.
“I’m going to take a chance and assume that you have heard this name. Even if for some reason you haven’t, I hope you’ll bear with me as I tell his story. Can you do that for me?”
Jack nodded he would.
“All right.” Peter paused, seeming to gather his thoughts until ready to begin. “About three months after the destruction of your home in Carlsdale, in October, Bobby Northrop celebrated his ninth birthday. Up until that day, he was a beautiful and happy child. His parents had recently purchased a magnificent home in Shipley Farms, located near the edge of Bienville National Forest. That’s just to the east of Jackson, Mississippi. Ever been there, Jack?”
“No. I can’t say that I have,” said Jack, quietly wondering where this detour would lead.
“Yeah, I guess it’s most likely you haven’t.” Peter sighed, gazing briefly toward the wall to his right. “I suppose you haven’t been out of the state of Alabama much. Except for baseball and your recent journey here.”
He forced a weak chuckle.
“Well, that day promised to be special,” he continued. “And, it did turn out to be an extraordinary day, though not for the reasons anyone hoped for or even dreamed of. Bobby’s parents, Robert Northrop Sr. and his wife, Eileen, had prepared quite an event for Bobby. Maybe because their little boy’s birthday was the first ever to be celebrated in their fabulous new home.
“Kids everywhere, the main level of the house was completely decorated with expensive garlands and balloons. You may have seen a video of the event later on CNN and the major networks, as Robert recorded it with his digital camcorder. Bobby looked up and smiled at his dad
dy, right after blowing out the last candle on his birthday cake. His eyes sparkled with excitement. Such a simple pleasure only the innocence a kid his age can know….”
Peter’s voice trailed off and he looked down. He shifted his weight to relieve the pressure on his knees, and then looked back up into Jack’s face again. Tears welled in his eyes.
“As soon as the cake was cut and everybody had their fill, Bobby’s parents took him outside to open his birthday gifts, stacked high on the back deck. Are you familiar with Raven Wolff?”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, thinking of the cartoon superhero of his youth. His tongue thick and slow, he cleared his throat. “That was all the rage back then, I remember.”
“Yes it was,” Peter responded thoughtfully. “It’s pretty much all little Bobby talked about. For his birthday present, his mom and dad really splurged and bought him a Tower Den Clubhouse. Are you familiar with that, also?”
“Complete with the double slides on either end? That Tower Den??”
Jack remembered how much he wanted one.
“Yes, that Tower Den. Bobby’s dad and uncle, Lawrence Northrop, spent the better part of two days setting it up. How they kept Bobby from finding out about it before his birthday celebration is a story in itself...perhaps for some other time. It truly was a magnificent piece of equipment.”
“I would’ve died for one of those things when I was a kid,” Jack admitted. “But, no way in hell would Grandpa ever shell out two grand for something like that.”
“It may have been pricey,” said Peter, “but the thing was definitely worth it, you’d have to admit. It had the spiral slides you mentioned and all kinds of other fun stuff between them, and could keep up to twenty kids occupied for hours. I thought the coolest thing about it was the clubhouse on top, fifteen feet above the ground and large enough to hold five or six kids at once. You could only reach that part of the Tower Den by way of a rope ladder or a striped fire pole. Hell, if it wasn’t for all of the outdated Raven Wolff insignias plastered across the damned thing, I’m sure most any kid would still dig it now.”
