Worthe's Village

by Ron Ripley

  They know the layout of the house, he thought, pulling back. And why shouldn’t they, if they’re here for me?

  His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he tried to think rationally. At first, his only thought was escape. His head wanted to turn towards the small bathroom window, but he knew he couldn’t get it open quickly enough before the men would be on him.

  He forced himself to focus, the adrenaline burning through his veins.

  The floor in front of the bathroom creaked and he remembered their night vision goggles.

  Marcus watched as the door began to move back into the hall and he closed one eye. When the door was almost completely open, he flipped on the light.

  Shouts of pain and anger filled the room, accompanying the bright glare of the 120-watt bulb over the sink. Marcus snapped open the eye that had been closed and lunged forward. As the intruders stripped off their goggles, Marcus sprayed the air freshener into the first man’s eyes and open mouth. He shouldered the gagging man aside and sprayed the second one. The third intruder struck the can away as Marcus pushed his way toward him. As the third man reached for him, Marcus drove the scissors down into the junction between the man’s neck and shoulder.

  His fingers were caught in the scissors’ handles and the point of the tool was buried too deep to pull out. Marcus found himself falling with the man, and a moment later something struck him in the back of the head.

  Chapter 12: Fury, Norwich

  “This is not how we operate,” Suzie Hatch said, letting the anger seep like venom from her words.

  Timmy Walton stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Two members of the grab team were in a private ambulance being treated for eye injuries. Amir Ranks was in a body bag in the back of a van on its way to the Village.

  “This entire scene,” Suzie continued. “Is going to have to be sanitized. But I want to know. No, that’s not true. I need to know, how does a 62-year-old man get the drop on four operatives?”

  Timmy shook his head. “Suzie, I have no idea. All the intel told us that he would be in bed. Asleep, just like he was every night. We knew he would be alone. Hell, nobody visits this guy. No one would look for him, because he had the long weekend off. And, let’s be brutally honest here, Suzie, who the hell expected him to be in the bathroom with a pair of garden shears?”

  “Scissors,” she grumbled, rubbing at her temples.

  “He killed one operative with a pair of barber’s scissors, and he incapacitated two more with a can of…” she paused, bent down and picked up the bottle and read, “Mountain Fresh Scent air spray.”

  “It didn’t help,” Timmy said, keeping the anger out of his own voice, “that he turned on the lights.”

  Suzie nodded. “Well, I told David that we needed new goggles. The ones we had can’t compensate for the drastic change in available light. But this, this is ridiculous. He’s a senior citizen, Timmy. A damned card holding member of the AARP. Seems like you’re lucky the scissors got stuck in Amir’s neck.”

  Timmy shrugged. “Way it goes, Suzie. So, how far are we going with this sanitation?”

  “All the way,” she remarked. She looked at him, the way his wiry frame seemed to sag with the conclusion of the night’s efforts. Suzie shook her head. “Get some rest, Timmy. We’ll pack up clothes for the old man. David is already lining up a body and the necessary adjustment to the dental records. The arson team will be in later to do what’s required. I’ll see you back at the Village.”

  Timmy nodded, and Suzie watched him walk away. She sighed and turned her attention back to the scene.

  What a mess, she thought, rubbing at her temples again. There is going to be so much paperwork to file on this.

  ***

  Timmy paused in the kitchen of the old man’s house. Behind him, he heard the rest of Suzie’s team gathering up the necessities to make the old man’s faux death believable. A glint of light caught his eye and Timmy looked at the kitchen table. In a battered wooden bowl, he saw a pipe, a folded bag of tobacco, and a silver Zippo lighter that had seen better days. Timmy picked the lighter up, saw there was an inscription, and angled it so he could read what had been written.

  Viet Nam, 125th ATC.

  Vietnam, Timmy thought shaking his head. Air Traffic Control. Guy’s a combat vet. No wonder he wasn’t rattled.

  Timmy hesitated, then he picked up the pipe and the bag of tobacco. He stuffed all three items into a side pocket and made his way out of the house, making his way quietly to the van waiting to bring him home to the Village.

  Chapter 13: Awakening

  Abel listened, his appreciation for Subject B increasing with every sentence David spoke. When David finished, Abel noticed how his employee watched him warily.

  Abel smiled in an effort to set the man’s mind at ease.

  “Fear not, David,” Abel said with a chuckle. “Evidently Subject B is far more than I believed him to be. I had merely hoped to gather information on an older gentleman’s experience in the Village. Granted, I did know he had served in the Vietnam War, but I did not believe it would be an issue for our acquisitions team. Please, inform them that I am in no way upset with their performance. Quite the contrary, actually. I am saddened, of course, to have lost an asset, but the experience and the information is, I must admit, worth the price. That, my stalwart fellow, is not a piece of information you need to share with them.”

  “Yes, sir,” David said with a curt nod.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Abel murmured. “Well, make certain that our team member’s remains are disposed of. All the necessary precautions, you understand.”

  “Yes, sir,” David replied.

  “Good,” Abel said, chuckling again. He rubbed his hands together vigorously and declared, “My, I am excited, David. Quite excited. Has Subject B been placed in 114 Broad Street?”

  “No, sir,” David stated. “I was holding back until I had confirmation from you, sir.”

  “And that, David,” Abel said, nodding with approval, “is why you hold the position that you do.”

  The faintest hint of a proud smile graced the man’s lips, and Abel thought, You should be pleased, David. Few men have ever succeeded the way you have.

  “Now,” Abel said, continuing aloud, “I would like him placed and prepped immediately. As soon as he is in position, and everyone is pulled back behind the fence, I will awaken him. Standard nonlethal methods should he approach the gate, yes?”

  “Of course, sir,” David said. “I’ll see that he is placed now.”

  Abel rubbed his hands again and nodded, then turned away from the door as David left the room. Within a minute, Abel had situated himself in his chair, had his notebook open and a glass of mineral water poured. The screens were all activated, and he had a full, 360-degree view of the Village.

  Leaning forward, he rested his chin in his hands and waited for the Subject to be ready.

  ***

  Marcus awoke with a bitter, metallic taste on the back of his tongue. His head ached, and he felt as though he had been thrown down a flight of stairs, then carried back up and thrown down again.

  Pushing himself into a sitting position, he realized he was not in his room, and the memory of what had occurred slammed into him with the power of a punch.

  He staggered to his feet and looked around the room. The walls were of horsehair plaster, jagged cracks running through them to the old tin panels of the ceiling. No door hung in the doorway that led into the hall, and the chipped, off-white six-panel door in the closet looked as if it was ready to fall off its hinges.

  The room was bare of decoration and furniture, but there was a small pile of his belongings against the left wall.

  And there was a hardline telephone as well.

  A quick glance around the room revealed a small camera in the corner above his possessions. As he looked at it, Marcus saw a small, red light flicker in steady, rhythmic pattern.

  Someone’s watching.

  No sooner had the thought cr
ossed his mind than the phone rang, startling him.

  On the second ring, Marcus bent down and answered the call.

  “Hello?” He kept his voice even, refusing to allow it to betray the confusion and fear he felt.

  “Good evening,” a man said on the other end. “How are you feeling?”

  The speaker had a pleasant voice, and the question was genuine.

  Marcus hesitated, then he sat down on the worn and warped floorboards. “I’m feeling a little under the weather, although I assume that’s from the narcotic administered to me.”

  The stranger chuckled ruefully. “Yes, and I do apologize for that. Generally, my men are far better at their job.”

  “And what job might that be?” Marcus asked.

  “Those four men were in my acquisitions department,” the speaker explained. “I was in need of a subject, and since you fit all of my rather vigorous requirements, you were chosen.”

  “How are your men feeling?” Marcus kept his tone pleasant.

  “Two are still in the hospital,” the man answered. “The third, the one you struck with the scissors, did not survive.”

  “Good,” Marcus replied.

  The other man paused, then laughed cheerfully. “You don’t feign regret. Oh, sir, I do like you. I feel extremely blessed to have stumbled upon you. I truly do.”

  “Tell me,” Marcus said, his anger growing and requiring increasing effort to contain. “Where am I?”

  “You are in my village,” the man said. “Specifically, you are in 114 Broad Street, recently removed from your own street.”

  “And what, pray tell, am I doing here?” Marcus asked.

  “Helping me,” the speaker said. “I have some theories, and you will assist me in proving or disproving them. And for that, I am extremely grateful, Mr. Holt. Extremely grateful. Now, I wish for you to know that there is a way out of this situation.”

  “Through the door?” Marcus asked dryly.

  “How very droll,” the speaker said, chuckling. “Oh, yes, I do enjoy your conversation. Perhaps, should everything work out for you, we could sit down and have a little chat. Man to man, as it were.”

  “Perhaps,” Marcus agreed, wondering if he could get his hands on the man and strangle him to death.

  “Well, back to the subject at hand,” the speaker said. “I want you to understand that there is a gate, and once you make it to the gate you will be allowed to leave the village.”

  “And that is all?” Marcus asked.

  “Indeed,” the man confirmed, “that is all.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Marcus said, and he hung up the phone.

  For several minutes he sat and stared at the device, and when it did not ring again, he turned his attention on those few items of his which had been brought with him. He saw his pipe, his tobacco, and his lighter, as well as a pair of jeans and battered sneakers, a tee shirt and an old, faded cardigan.

  It was then, looking at his clothes, that Marcus realized he was still clad only in his pajama bottoms.

  Muttering curses beneath his breath, Marcus quickly dressed. Once he had, he packed his pipe, lit it, and stood smoking, concentrating on his predicament.

  He drew in deeply on the stem, let the smoke curl out from his mouth, then turned and walked to the room’s single window.

  Through the glass he saw that the sun had set once more and that stars were shining. The moon, a half crescent, had begun its slow ascent into the night sky, and Marcus frowned. It took him a moment to understand that there was no ambient light cluttering the horizon.

  I’m not near any city, he thought. Not even near a town.

  Marcus glanced up and down the cobblestone street below the window, and he understood that the flickering street lamps were in reality gas lights. He saw at least eight other homes, but there were no lights on in any of them.

  This is a village, he thought. What theory does this man wish to test? What makes me an appropriate test subject?

  The world faded out of focus as he considered what his abductor had said.

  Marcus’ eyes widened with understanding.

  I’m single. Never married, so no children to check on me. I am perfect as a test subject because no one will look for me, he thought. I don’t believe that he will let me go, which means he has probably destroyed my home. A fire, perhaps? And a body to go with it.

  His mind struggled against the idea of it, and briefly he considered about the effort it would take to pull off such a crime.

  And while part of him didn’t want to believe it, Marcus knew he had to.

  His mere presence in the building was proof enough.

  I can see he has money, Marcus thought angrily. And plenty to spare at that. He called this his village. I can only assume that means he’s purchased each house. Exactly like he did 114 Broad Street. Purchased them and brought them here. But why?

  Marcus looked out the window again and examined the houses he could see.

  None of them were exceptional in regards to style or construction.

  The house he was in certainly wasn’t.

  So what is it? Marcus asked himself, turning away from the window and pacing the room. What makes this building special? Why buy it and bring it here?

  He forced himself to ignore the aches and pains, to relax and settle into the rhythm of thinking critically.

  He examined what he knew about the house, which, he realized, was preciously little. He considered the stories he had heard of the home, of the tales told by the older people in the neighborhood when he had first moved in.

  And he came to a sharp and sudden stop as a memory exploded to the surface and a scream came from the house’s attic.

  Chapter 14: 1983, The History of 114 Broad Street

  “That’s a terrible place,” Nathaniel said to Marcus, nodding across the pavement to 114 Broad Street. The building was old and battered and ill-kept, and there was a darkness that seemed to linger about the structure.

  “Here,” Nathaniel said, handing over a pair of tomatoes from the garden.

  Marcus took them, looked at Nathaniel, the man’s rheumy eyes narrowed as he nodded again towards the house in question.

  “Now, I was born here, across the street from that damned place,” Nathaniel continued, jerking a thumb behind him at the tall, dark blue Victorian. “My grandfather had the home built, and I was the first grandchild born in it. I had a pair of sisters, twins, but they passed on in the ‘30’s, bad case of the flu. Well, anyway, that’s neither here nor there, now is it?”

  Marcus didn’t answer. He knew the question was a rhetorical one.

  “No, 114 Broad,” Nathaniel said, “it was owned by the good and right Reverend Josiah Samuel. There was not anything good or right about him.”

  Nathaniel cleared his throat and spat a wad of mucus onto the ground.

  “I met the man,” Nathaniel said. “Only once, and for that I was thankful. You ever meet a man and know there’s something wrong about them? Something that just ain’t right?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “That was the Reverend,” Nathaniel said. “Something not right. Hmph. Well, we found out what wasn’t right, and that was shortly after he died. Maybe that was in ’45 or ’46. Leastways it was right after the war ended. Regardless, he died. Folks from his church showed up, which was right and just according to his will. The house was to belong to the church, and everything in it could be sold to profit the church. So, these folks showed up, all dressed in what I’m sure they thought were comfortable clothes for the job at hand. Hmph. Job was a little more than they bargained for.”

  Nathaniel paused, spat again and said, “Here, boy, hand me that bucket.”

  Boy, Marcus thought with a grin, passing an old bucket over to the man. I’m 27.

  Nathaniel plucked green beans from a climbing frame, the plunk of each bean emphasizing his words.

  “So, as I was saying, the congregation went into that house with a mind to strip it bare. The Reverend
collected antiques of various sorts and it was known that he had a fair amount of money tied up in them,” Nathaniel added. “They all knew he was a widower, his wife having been declared legally dead after she had run off with a traveling salesman, so it was only right that he left his worldly possessions to the church.”

  The old man straightened up, his back cracking loudly and a grimace flickering across his face. He took a red bandana from his back pocket, wiped the sweat off his neck and then tucked the piece of cloth away again.

  “Anyway,” Nathaniel said, returning to the green beans. “Seems as though the Reverend had one hell of a foul sense of humor, among other less savory traits. The folks from his church figured that out right quick when they went into the house. Most everything had been sold off before the Reverend had died, and where that money went, no one knew. What they did find was a letter, neatly written and left in plain sight on the dining table. The letter, I was later told, informed them that there was one last item, a precious one at that, secured in the attic.”

  Nathaniel paused, and Marcus looked at him. The older man frowned, cleared his throat, spat and said, “The Reverend was a terrible man, Marcus. And while I jest about certain facts and tease about the pompous nature of some of those folks of his, I truly wouldn’t wish it on them.”

  For the first time in almost an hour, Marcus spoke.

  “Wish what on them?” he asked.

  “The treasure,” Nathaniel replied, biting the words off. “They were greedy folks. No doubt about it. But still, they didn’t deserve it. As a group they rushed up those narrow stairs, barreled through the attic door, and, well, I heard the women screaming from my bedroom.”

  Nathaniel took a deep breath, gestured toward a small stone bench and said, “Come on, boy, let’s have a seat and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  Marcus accompanied the older man to the bench and sat beside him. Together they looked at the abandoned house, 114 Broad Street.