Canyon Shadows

by C R Langille

  “I come bearing a message,” the man said.

  The man’s voice was soft and steady. His fingers continued to drum on the clipboard.

  “Say it and get out, and next time, if they want to say something to me, tell them to say it themselves. I loathe talking with you dogs.”

  The fingers ceased their roll. A slight sneer appeared on the man’s face but disappeared in an instant. He stood up and walked close to Dan. Dan readied himself, mentally scanning the room for others. He made a mental note that the fire poker was within arm’s reach.

  “They told me to remind you that failure is not an option. We don’t want a repeat of last time. You will stick to the orders given: nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Yes, I’m to watch out for a unique individual and observe. What’s so important about this person anyway?” Dan asked.

  “Not your concern.”

  The man turned and walked out of the cabin. Dan let out a lungful of air that he had been holding and relaxed. Whatever lower management wanted with the mysterious person, it must have been important. The last time they sent an emissary to him was over ten years ago. Perhaps this is my ticket out.

  Chapter Seven

  July 5th, 1180

  Sir Mounford and Sir Pons came back with Sir Geoffrey in tow. Sir Geoffrey’s clothes were torn and bloodied. We restrained him with a length of rope, ensuring he was always under guard. We all prayed together, pleading for God to save Sir Geoffrey from whatever devilry had hold of his soul.

  While I prayed for his sanity to return, I kept my distance from him as we moved through the jungle. At times, it was as if I could hear him whisper in my ear. I dare not repeat what he whispered.

  Sir William Brock

  Canyon Shadows, Utah

  The town of Canyon Shadows nestled up against tall red-rocked mountains. It was a small town, taking its namesake from the way the sun hit the nearby mountains, creating a blanket of shadow. A deep gouge in the mountainside must have been the ‘canyon’.

  The place had a sleepy feel as the streets were fairly empty. Tall cottonwood trees littered the parks and streets with a dusting of white seeds. Garrett thanked the gods that he wasn’t allergic to the things. Otherwise, he’d be sneezing up a storm. He found out the hard way he was allergic to hay and spent an entire two weeks constantly sneezing, blowing his nose, and rubbing his eyes during a dig in a remote part of South Dakota. He must have gone through a hundred boxes of tissues then.

  As Garrett drove through, he kept his eye out for Mr. Childers’ place of business. He passed by a pawn shop as he drove down the main street. There was a man standing in the window staring at him as he drove past. The man’s nose was bloody, and he shot Garrett a look that held zero percent hospitality.

  Canyon Shadows looked normal enough on the outside, but there was something wrong with the town. He’d felt it in his gut since he arrived. Maybe it was the strange encounter at the gas station, or maybe it was just his own imagination running wild, but Garrett wanted to meet with Childers and go home as soon as possible.

  Randall Childers’ antique store, Old Chilly’s, was located on a small rise overlooking the entirety of the town. Garrett walked into the shop, pleasantly greeted by the hollow ring of a cowbell over the door. A myriad of different knick-knacks adorned every surface of the walls. He recognized a lot of items, but some of them were so strange and foreign, he couldn’t even pinpoint the culture they belonged to. It was as if he was in a museum—a rundown, privately owned museum. The entire scene gave him the urge to open that bottle of rum and lose himself in one of the many, leatherbound volumes adorning the rustic shelves.

  Before he had a chance to look around, a short man wearing a purple silk shirt walked out from an office. He wore thick-rimmed glasses which reminded Garrett of military issue or the kind you would find on some people who liked that ‘retro’ look. His hair was thinning but still held a very dark brown luster.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m Garrett Porter, I’m looking for Randall Childers.”

  The man’s face lit up like a five-year-old on Christmas.

  “Oh, you made it! Excellent! I didn’t think you would be here this fast! I’m Childers, but please call me Randall.”

  “Okay, not to be rude, but I’ve had an interesting trip so far, and I would like to get down to business,” Garrett said.

  “Of course, of course. I have the sword in the back. Please, follow me.”

  Randall led Garrett into the back office where he found himself staring at a wide array of weaponry. Randall was into anything sharp, as was evidenced by the swords from many different countries and eras lining the walls of his small office.

  “Impressive collection,” Garrett said.

  “Thank you. It has taken me a long time and a lot of money to get these. They’re all real, I can assure you.”

  Randall started to spin the dial on a tall safe while Garrett inspected some of the edged death-dealers on the wall. He was admiring the detail of a Japanese katana when Randall made a small coughing noise. Garrett turned and saw that Randall had put the Templar sword on the desk.

  It looked just like it had in the picture; the Templar seal of duality adorned the pommel, the cross guard was broken on one side, and some pictographs decorated the blade. Garrett pulled some cotton gloves out of his pocket, placing them on his hands. He reached his hand out but before touching the weapon looked up to Randall.

  “Go ahead, please,” Randall said, urging him on.

  Garrett hefted the blade from the desk to feel its weight. This was no replica from a cheesy catalog. The forged weapon had a sturdy feel to it, and even the though the hilt was broken, it still felt as if it were capable of causing massive damage to a human body.

  Garrett flicked a finger across the flat of the blade and was happy to hear a nice ring emanate from the blade. Everything looked authentic, but the pictographs kept him doubting. There was a crude picture of a hill, or mountain, surrounded by figures. Most of the people had a ruddy hue, but one stood out painted in white.

  Garrett placed the sword gently on the desk. “Any idea what these pictures are?”

  “Not too sure, but the style looks very similar to the Anasazi pictures I’ve seen on their cliff dwellings.”

  “Do you know someone who is an expert in the Anasazi culture? I would like to ask them a few questions.”

  “I know someone that might be able to help. I can call him if you like?” Randall asked.

  “Please do. I would like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

  Randall stared at the antique and asked the million-dollar question. “Do you think it’s real?”

  Garrett looked up at him and chose his words carefully. “I’m not totally positive yet, but, yes, I think it is authentic. It is strange, though. Has the sword ever been officially authenticated by anyone?”

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t had it authenticated yet,” Randall said.

  “That’s okay. I know someone who would love to look at this. I’ll call her in a minute. You mentioned you had some other items?”

  “Yes, I do. I’m sure you’ll find them just as interesting.”

  Garrett walked out into the parlor and took out his phone. He found the contact information and called. Allison Montgomery answered, and he brought her up to speed before asking the question.

  “Of course, I can help. Besides this sword sounds very cool,” Allison said.

  “Thanks. Really,” Garrett said.

  “No problemo. I’m guessing you aren’t going to send me the sword, right?”

  “No can do. I still need to study it, and it technically still belongs to Mr. Childers.”

  Allison let out a sigh loud enough that it came through the phone’s receiver. Garrett knew her well enough that she was as excited to see the sword as he
was, and the sigh was merely for dramatic effect.

  “Okay, I’ll get my stuff and be out there tomorrow. You owe me, though.”

  “Whatever you like. Thanks again,” he said.

  “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.”

  Garrett ended the call and headed back into the sword room where Randall was busily getting the other artifacts out for display.

  He thought of Allison as Randall arranged everything on the desk. He had met her three years ago when he traveled to Arizona to look at some old paintings. She was there researching the same paintings for a college paper, and they hit it off instantly. This was one of the few trips that Garrett had brought his wife along, and both Trisha and Allison seemed to “click” like they had been childhood buds. She quickly became a good friend of the family, as well as being a great “go-to” person for authenticating items. Having her out here would give him the confidence and backup he needed to get the answers he wanted.

  “Mr. Porter, it’s ready.”

  Randall Childers stood behind a table which displayed the rest of the Templar relics. He smiled a sheepish grin and tugged absently at his goatee. His eyes constantly shifted between the items on the desk and Garrett, searching for a hint of approval or excitement.

  Garrett nodded as he walked to the table. In front of him, lying on the table almost like tagged evidence from a crime scene, was a rusted chainmail coif, a tattered cloak, and a broken piece of pottery. The last piece was the most intriguing, for it didn’t fit with the motif. At first glance, it looked like any an old shard of Native American pottery. On second glance, he could see that the design was the most peculiar aspect.

  Lining the top and bottom of the shard was the Templar cross. The scene itself depicted armored figures battling creatures coming from a mountain in the background. What they were fighting was unknown, for the shard was only a piece of the puzzle, and like all aged puzzles, not all the pieces were there.

  “Randall, do you have the rest of this pottery?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Did you get in touch with that Anasazi expert yet?” Garrett asked. His gaze continually shifted back to the pottery.

  “I did, but he won’t be able to make it out until tomorrow. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  “I guess not. Randall, I think all these items are probably authentic. I have a good friend coming out to help me with the authentication process, and then we’ll know for sure. That being said, I don’t know what to think about the pottery.”

  “No problem at all Mr. Porter. Like I said, he’ll be out tomorrow, and we can talk.”

  It was getting late. Time had come and gone, and the day’s events played back in his mind. He let out an involuntary shudder when he thought about the gas station encounter.

  It was like someone flipped a switch, and all his thoughts turned to the bottle of rum in his car. He wanted to have it. He could see himself sitting down with a glass full of ice, cola, and that rum. The thought made him smile, filled him with comforting thoughts.

  “Well, I think I’m going to head into town and check into a motel or something—kick back and have a drink.”

  “Sounds good. I will be here in the morning.”

  “Do you recommend somewhere to stay?” Garrett asked.

  “Yeah, go to the Buena Vista Motel. I know the guy who owns it, Morty. He is a decent guy and will take care of you.”

  Randall drew him a crude map and explained how to get there. Garrett tried to listen, but thoughts of breaking open that rum and having a nice cool drink dominated his thoughts.

  “Thanks, Randall. See you tomorrow.”

  “Have a nice night. I know it sounds cliché, but tell Morty that Randall sent you, and he’ll give you a good rate.’

  “Will do.”

  Garrett drove off and found the motel without issue. It was built close to the canyon wall and gave customers a good view of the canyon itself.

  He found Morty behind the counter and immediately could tell that he and Randall were brothers. They had the same facial features and sported the same taste in large rimmed glasses. Morty’s hair wasn’t thinning, but it was receding.

  “So, Randall sent you, eh?” Morty asked.

  “Yes, he did. Said you’d hook me up if I dropped his name,” Garrett said.

  “Yes, I can. I can give you the special rate. It will drop it to $45.00 a night.”

  “Great,” Garrett said.

  His thoughts ran back to the rum.

  “Say, where’s the ice machine?” Garrett asked.

  ***

  Dan watched Garrett walk out of the office of the Buena Vista. Is this the guy they are interested in? Doesn’t look very unique to me. Dan sat in his Bronco and sipped at a cup of coffee. He waited until Garrett got to his room. Dan was about to turn the key in the ignition when he saw the duct tape bandit round the corner and walk to a room. Dan couldn’t believe what he saw. The mystery of what the man had done with all the duct tape became clear. He had created an entire trench coat out of it.

  Special Agent, huh? The stranger pulled an odd device out of his pocket. He waved it around the door, scanning for something. After he had finished the sweep, he entered his room.

  It was time to get some answers. Dan exited the vehicle and radioed dispatch, letting them know that he was about to apprehend the suspect and to send backup. He got the key from Morty and walked to room 211. After Dan had unsnapped the strap that held his gun securely in place, he knocked on the door.

  “Sheriff’s Department! Open the door!”

  Someone shuffled around in the room. After a moment, there was a knock from inside the room.

  “This is Special Agent Doyle L. Johnson! You open the door!”

  Dan couldn’t help but look at the door, confused at what just happened. Then he knocked again, louder this time.

  “This isn’t a game, open the door now. You are under arrest for theft.”

  “You’re damn right this isn’t a game. We have a Charlie Protocol!” replied the voice.

  Dan had enough. He used the manager’s key and opened the door with his weapon drawn. Sitting on the floor was Special Agent Doyle L. Johnson, wearing his brand-new duct tape trench coat, as well as a large smile on his face.

  “Hello, Danno,” Doyle said.

  Special Agent Johnson reached into the folds of the coat and pulled out a very large revolver. Dan squeezed the trigger of his weapon, but instead of the ear deafening thunder of pistol fire, there was only the disheartening click of a misfire. Special Agent Johnson’s smile grew even larger.

  Chapter Eight

  July 6th, 1180

  Sir Brock had us restrain Sir Geoffrey and place him under a watchful eye. I pray for his soul and hope our Lord God will deliver him from the evil that has dominion over him; however, in the same heartbeat, I wish he was gone from our presence. His diabolical whispers continually haunt me. When we found him in the jungle, covered in blood, he stared at me; he stared straight through my soul smiling like some fool—a smile that was in no way jovial and in every way demonic.

  At first, his whispers were unintelligible, but now, unfortunately, they have become hauntingly coherent. Sir Geoffrey speaks of my demise; it is specific and grisly in detail. In summary, he states that I am the lucky one—I am to die before we get to He who waits deep in the mountain.

  -Sir Pons of Montpesat

  Twin Falls, Idaho

  Troy dropped the phone as a shiver raced up his spine. Time stopped, and the only sound was his heart beating frantically, like a beast trying to get out of a cage. He stumbled to his car and fumbled for his keys. A cold sweat spread across his hands, and he dropped them onto the asphalt.

  He bent down to pick them up, and someone whispered in his ears. The sound echoed from all directions, and he couldn’t
pinpoint its source. He could, however, pinpoint its owner—his father.

  His father’s voice sounded like it was coming from a tin can in water, and Troy couldn’t understand anything. He jumped to his feet and looked, but nobody was nearby.

  He scanned the area once again before reaching for the fallen keys. Troy didn’t waste time. He wanted to get the hell out of there and go home. When he stood, there were two men reflected in the window of his car. One was Mauricio, smiling that unnerving smile, and the other was Raul. He had never met Raul or seen a picture of the man, but deep down inside, he knew.

  Raul was a mangled, bloody mess. Half of his scalp disappeared, revealing a blood-covered skull. Raul smiled in a terrible grin, his lower jaw torn aside, revealing a portion of his puffed-up tongue and teeth. Like Mauricio, Raul stared right at Troy.

  Troy spun around, coming face to face with Mauricio. Raul was gone. Troy stole a quick glance back into the window, but it only showed the captain.

  “Mauricio, what the—?”

  Troy lost his words. The captain’s nose gushed blood from both nostrils. It rained from his face in a steady stream, painting the pavement red.

  “Go to the mountain, Troy. He’s waiting for you. He wants to show you things, wonderful things.”

  Troy tried to find his words, but they were forced down his throat when Mauricio grabbed him. Pain lanced into his forearm, and he tried to scream, but the captain’s eyes kept him silent. Troy watched the orbs lose all humanity. Within seconds, there was no color left, no iris, no whites, just black, like a big pupil and nothing more. Then, they smoldered, like a piece of coal fighting for life, or, in this case, a dying ember.

  He locked gazes with Mauricio, and for a brief moment, Troy knew things. Knowledge poured into his mind, blocking out the pain and the fear. Images flashed in his mind’s eye, and he saw things. He knew that the man sitting in the third seat of the bus passing by was a serial rapist; he knew the man walking out of the Chinese restaurant with the petite young girl at his arm was planning on killing her soon; he knew that the teen boy on the corner, dressed in a high school lettermen jacket, had thoughts about slitting his wrists, and it was too easy for Troy to strengthen those thoughts.