Canyon Shadows

by C R Langille

  “Goodbye.” With that, Garrett hung up the phone and dug into his breakfast.

  Garrett devoted himself to finding artifacts and curios that belonged to the mysterious order of holy knights. The drive came from his father, Kenneth, also an antiques collector before dying in a plane crash. Kenneth always believed there was more to the Knights’ story than that told in history books, that their influence stretched further than ever imagined, even reaching parts of the Americas long before Christopher Columbus was even conceived. After Kenneth’s death, Garrett inherited his father’s collection.

  Garrett devoted most of his time studying his father’s things, looking for clues or anything his father may have missed. He hated that his father’s name was a joke in the archaeologist community. Garrett tried to find anything that would solidify his father’s theory.

  Garrett finished breakfast then went to his study. When he logged on to his computer, he found an email already waiting for him. He opened the email, looking at the pictures Childers had attached.

  It was a typical longsword, yet the pommel held the Templar symbol of duality which was two knights riding upon a horse. However, there were other markings on the blade, crude pictographs which appeared hand-painted. He had never seen a blade so decorated. Something about the sword, other than the pictographs, piqued his curiosity.

  Mr. Childers hadn’t been totally honest with him. Although there wasn’t any rust on the blade, half of the cross-guard was missing as if something broke it off. It was this detail that burrowed into his mind, eating away at his core until it hit him.

  Garrett rushed to his office and grabbed a cardboard box from the top of the filing cabinet. He rummaged around in the box before swearing and dumping the entirety of its contents onto the carpeted floor. He sifted through the papers and pictures with a frenzy like a junky looking for a lost score. His heart skipped a beat when he flipped over an old Polaroid photograph.

  It was a picture of a Mayan relief found near Chich’en Itza. It depicted a bearded person holding a sword. The hilt on the sword was broken.

  Garrett’s father had a chance to study the relief before sending it off to be studied further. The plane that carried the relief, as well as his father, crashed in the Gulf of Mexico on its trip to the States. Rescue crews never found the wreckage or his father. Having never been analyzed properly, many archaeologists doubted its authenticity.

  Garrett decided that he needed to examine the sword in person. He found Randall Childers’ phone number at the bottom of the email. Garrett picked up the phone and punched the numbers in.

  “Hello?” answered the same rough voice.

  “Mr. Childers, this is Garrett Porter. I would like to see the sword in person.”

  “Excellent! I thought you might call me; I have other items of the same nature.”

  “Great, I want to see everything you have. I’ll be there tomorrow. Email me the directions please.”

  Garrett hung up the phone and ordered his plane tickets. The next day, he flew into Salt Lake City, Utah. He rented a car and headed to Canyon Shadows.

  ***

  Canyon Shadows, Utah

  Sheriff Dan Blackwood pulled his department Bronco into the parking lot of Turk’s Country Store. He loved the Bronco and fought tooth and nail to keep the vehicle, even when the rest of the department switched out to newer cruisers. Dan must have had it in good with management because they let him keep it.

  He ran a hand through his disheveled black hair and put on a beat-up ball cap. He threw on a pair of large aviator sunglasses and stepped into the hot summer air, letting the heat wash over his skin. Unlike most people, Dan didn’t mind the heat. He had grown accustomed to hellish hot temperatures, and the day’s sun-torched sky did little to bother him.

  He shut the door to his Bronco and stretched. His joints popped and crackled, complaining at him for sitting in the truck for so long. Dan took a couple of steps to shake the weariness away. He cocked his head to the side and engaged his radio.

  “Dispatch, I just arrived at Turk’s. I’m going to talk to Wendell now and get a report of what happened,” Dan said.

  A moment later the radio buzzed to life.

  “Copy that, Sheriff, be advised the individual may still be in the area,” said a deep voice from the other side of the speaker.

  “Thanks,” Dan responded.

  He scanned the area looking for the suspect mentioned. It wouldn’t have been hard to spot the man if he was close by. Someone wearing green cargo shorts, white tube socks, a Hawaiian shirt, and camouflaged Crocs while holding a stolen handbasket full of duct tape would have stuck out to him, or anyone else in Canyon Shadows for that matter.

  His job as Sheriff of Canyon Shadows wasn’t his favorite. He’d had other, more exciting careers before and had longed for the days of yore. However, as time went on, he grew to love it.

  The small town had less than two thousand residents and generated most of its revenue with its main tourist attraction—the Anasazi cliff dwellings outside of town. Most of Dan’s time was spent observing and keeping the peace, yet every so often other duties would surface. Even rarer still were the special notices from lower management.

  Turkmen’s Country Store was small and quaint. The local newspaper called it “picturesque,” and it wasn’t hard to see why. It held a rustic quality reminding Dan of the Old West. Beat-up wooden planks lined the outer walls of the store, and it even had a porch with its very own rocking chair. Every time he walked in, he felt like he should have been walking through a set of hinged saloon doors. A barrel of fresh apples, hand-picked from local orchards, sat next to the door. He picked up a particularly large one and polished the dust off the side before biting into the crisp red fruit. The juice of the apple sprayed across his chin filling his mouth. Dan closed his eyes enjoying the heat as well as the apple.

  A rusted cowbell rang as the door to the country store opened. Dan turned as Wendell Turkmen walked out. A stained white apron sat on the man’s hunched frame.

  “Now you know why Eve couldn’t hold back,” Wendell said.

  Wendell’s voice was an aural representation of his age. It was quiet and subdued but hid hints of a bygone strength.

  “Sometimes we all make bad choices,” Dan said taking another bite.

  Wendell pulled his wire frame glasses off his face and cleaned the lenses, looking out at everything and nothing.

  “So, tell me about what happened,” Dan said.

  “Well, a man walked into my store about an hour ago, maybe a bit less. He was dressed strangely. He was muttering to himself the whole time he was in the shop, but I couldn’t hear what he said. Anyway, he came up to the counter with a basket full of duct tape. He cleaned me out.”

  Dan finished the apple and threw the core into a nearby wastebasket. He wiped his hands clean and grabbed a small notebook from his breast pocket. He jotted down a few notes and then nodded to Wendell.

  “Go on,” Dan said.

  “Well, I’m not one to judge, and duct tape is pretty useful, so I rang him up. He paid me with these.”

  Wendell fished in his pockets for a moment and handed a wad of bills to Dan. The bills had been crumpled badly at one point, and Wendell took the time to lay them flat. They were old and large, but that wasn’t the strangest aspect. They appeared to be Civil War bills, from the Confederate side.

  “I thought it must have been a joke, but when I looked up, he was gone. I never heard him leave, didn’t hear the door open. But I’ve searched everywhere Dan, not a sign of him. It’s like he just up and vanished,” Wendell said.

  “These real?” Dan asked.

  “Not sure. Doesn’t matter anyway. They aren’t going to pay bank now, are they?”

  “Might be worth something if they are genuine,” Dan said eyeing the bills.

  “Maybe so. Maybe Jared at the pawn shop wou
ld know, or Randall,” Wendell said.

  The old man’s voice wasn’t interested too much in the money. He seemed to be fishing for a response from Dan. He looked at the sheriff with expectation.

  “Anything else of interest; anything unique about the man?”

  “Well, you would definitely know him if you saw him. Other than his clothes, he was balding but wore his hair long like a hippie, well what was left of it. He talked to himself a lot too.”

  Dan made a couple more notes and then put the book away.

  “Going to have to keep the money as evidence for now. You might get it back later. No promises, though,” Dan said folding the bills and putting them in his pocket.

  “No problem.”

  “I’m going to have a look around and see if I can’t find him or anything else that may help,” Dan said.

  “Help yourself.”

  The cow bell clanked again as he opened the door. The store was stuffy and cluttered. Old signs, mile-marker posts, farm implements, and pictures sat on the walls. All manner of items adorned the shelves, ranging from feed to toiletries. Dan walked up and down the aisles trying to find anything that may point him to what the man was up to, but other than an empty spot where the duct tape used to sit, there was nothing else of interest.

  When he walked back to the front of the store, Wendell was behind the counter drinking a cup of coffee. The smell of the freshly ground beans hit Dan’s nose, and he took a deep breath.

  “Well, I don’t see anything else missing. Do you know if he took something other than the tape?”

  “Nope,” Wendell said.

  “Well, if anything comes to mind, let me know. I’ll see if I can’t find him and get your tape back, or some real money to pay for it,” Dan said.

  “Sounds like a plan, Sheriff.”

  He was about to walk out the door when he remembered. He turned back to Wendell.

  “What do I owe you for the apple?”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ve already paid enough for the first one,” Wendell said with a wink.

  Dan let out a half-hearted chuckle and walked out the door. A bad smell of rotten eggs, a stench he was all too familiar with, hit his nose as he stepped outside. He stopped in his tracks and looked around searching for the source, his hand automatically resting on the grip of his gun. After a few seconds, it disappeared, replaced by the fresh mountain air. He looked back through the window and saw Wendell staring back. The old man smiled and waved.

  Dan let it go and walked back to his Bronco. His mind tried to focus on the robbery, but it kept returning to an earlier time in his life. The smell didn’t sit well with his mind. What does lower management want now? After a moment, he turned the key and brought the vehicle to life. It was time to search for the mysterious man with the duct tape.

  Chapter Two

  May 20, 1180

  I fear for Sir Geoffrey. Ever since we undertook this quest, he has preoccupied himself with that infernal book. We can all sense the evil permeating from it, yet Sir Geoffrey continues to gamble his very soul by reading the forsaken thing. I urged him to show restraint, yet it is painfully obvious he will not deter from his chosen course of action.

  We hear him cry out in the night as if something attacks him. We hear him talk with things that are not there. As each day passes, Sir Geoffrey falls further away from his very sanity.

  We all pray for Sir Geoffrey. He is our leader, but we all watch him carefully. I hope we find the source of this evil soon; not just for Sir Geoffrey’s sake, but for all of us.

  -Sir William Brock

  Twin Falls, Idaho.

  A month ago, Colonel Edward Grimes was a well-respected officer in the United States Air Force. He served long tours in Desert Storm, Enduring Freedom, and Iraqi Freedom. Col. Grimes flew A-10 attack aircraft during each campaign and had made quite a name for himself within the military community. A month ago, Col. Grimes was a shining example of what it meant to be a real American Hero. All of that fame and glamor fell out the window when the Colonel decided to suck-start the business end of a Colt 1911, .45 caliber pistol.

  An Air Force representative notified Susan Grimes of her husband’s suicide on a sunny afternoon day. A butter-bar lieutenant and a Chaplain knocked on the door and shattered the nice day with their horrible news. They were professional, very plainly stating a fellow officer found Col. Grimes. They offered their condolences and any assistance that Susan might need and then they left.

  Despite the grisly circumstances of his death, Col. Grimes was given a military funeral: an honor guard, twenty-one-gun salute, and a folded flag given to Susan. Troy Grimes watched on in silence as they lowered his father into the ground.

  During most of his childhood and even now through his twenties, his father had been gone a lot, always deploying or going on Temporary Duty or TDY as the service called it. So, when Edward said he was leaving for a couple of weeks, Troy and Susan didn’t think much of it. He seemed preoccupied, more than normal; however, they thought it due to the rising conflict in the Mid-East, which inevitably meant more time spent away from home.

  The suicide had come as a shock to both Susan and Troy. Edward never seemed like the type to take his own life.

  It was hard for Troy to be sad with all that rage boiling behind his blood, but the tears still broke through. When the service was over, Troy urged his mom to get back to the vehicle. He didn’t want to wade through the parade of people and their condolences.

  As Troy and Susan walked back to their car, a squat Air Force captain interrupted them. He recognized the man from some of his father’s photographs but had never met him personally. Emotion resembling nervousness and agitation seemed to darken the captain’s face.

  “Troy Grimes? Susan?”

  “Yes,” Troy said.

  Troy’s voice held a sharp edge to it, and the captain winced a little. Susan continued to stare at the man silently from behind her very large sunglasses while fidgeting with her blonde hair.

  “I’m Captain Mauricio Hernandez. I knew your father. We flew together in Iraq.”

  Troy nodded; he wasn’t in the mood to reminisce about the good old days with one of his father’s crew dogs.

  “Captain Hernandez, what can we do for you?” Troy asked.

  “Uh, yeah, um—this is for you.”

  Captain Hernandez looked around like a meerkat searching for threats and then pushed a large package wrapped in brown paper toward Troy. It was heavier than Troy expected, and he almost dropped it.

  “What is this?” Troy asked.

  Hernandez continued to scan the area, looking for something or somebody. He rubbed his hands together nervously, constantly shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Your father wanted you to have that. I was able to get it before they found us.”

  Troy looked up from the package. The quiet sobs of his mother reached his ears. The sun’s heat blasted down upon the cemetery, and the day’s events caught up with Troy. He could only imagine what his mother was going through.

  “Mom, why don’t you go to the car, I’ll be there in a sec. I want to ask Hernandez something.”

  “I think I will, don’t be long,” she said. She took out a small white cloth handkerchief and wiped her eyes under the sunglasses as she walked off.

  Captain Hernandez nodded respectfully as Susan left.

  “Sir, although I appreciate that you gave me his things, I think that maybe this wasn’t the best time,” Troy said. He moved the box under his arm.

  Hernandez stopped fidgeting and stared at the package. His eyes glazed over as if he were on drugs. The captain began to mouth some words.

  “Sir? Captain Hernandez? Hello?”

  Troy reached out and gently shook Hernandez. The captain jumped from the touch and resumed surveying the area.

  “Troy, like I
said, the things in there are for you. I was able to get them... not for me, for you.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “We need to talk, but not here. There are things you need to know. I was there when he did it, Troy.”

  “What are you talking about? What do you know?”

  The edge returned to his voice as the anger flash-boiled in his blood. He shook the captain with more force, and the man’s eyes grew wide with terror. Troy caught a glance at the captain’s face. The look of fear in the man’s eyes gave him pause. Troy realized what he was doing and snatched his hand away from the man.

  “Sorry, I’m under a lot of stress,” Troy said, forcing composure.

  Hernandez didn’t respond to the apology. He stared at the box again for a few seconds then tore his gaze away.

  “Not here. I’ll call you soon. I have your number.”

  With that, Captain Hernandez turned and hurried away. Troy watched the man disappear into the crowd and then he went to join his mother in the car.

  “Who was that man?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t know, Mom. He said that he knew Dad. That he worked with him or something.”

  Susan watched the scenery as Troy drove, silent and still. Trees and fence posts zipped by as the car rolled down the highway. Now and then, Troy could hear her crying. Seeing his mother in such despair only fueled the fire of his anger. Suicide never sat well with him; he thought it was a selfish, cowardly way to deal with things. That his father had copped out, leaving him and his mother alone, simply didn’t compute.

  Troy had recently turned twenty-three, and his future was wide open; however, now he had to help his mom through this mess while figuring out a way to deal with it himself. It was hard not to express his fury in front of his mother. He wanted to be the exemplary pillar of strength, but his own emotions were constantly threatening to explode like a caldera. He did his best to comfort her and keep his opinion to himself.

  “He gave me a package, said it was Dad’s. He said that Dad wanted me to have it. That guy was acting pretty damn weird, though. Do you think I should call someone about him?”