by Eric Wilson
“It would be a temporary setback at best,” the Consortium member emphasized. “Unless timed perfectly, violence tends to unite humans and redirect their attention to spiritual matters. Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything.”
Gerde’s fleshy features nearly hid his piggish eyes. “Then why’re you crouched beneath this stage?” The demonic breath came in gaseous waves.
Asgoth diverted his gaze.
Gerde gestured toward shadows where cobwebs swayed over coiled electrical lines. “It’s time for these good sirs to deliver you to your new wandering place.”
Claws dug into Asgoth’s ghostly fabric, although he could see no sign of his captors. Overhead, shoes clomped on wood, and klieg lights sliced between the boards while dancers moved into position. The crowd noise dropped to a murmur.
“You’ve been a wretched failure, Asgoth, botching your opportunities with Rasputin, Bill Scott, and finally Clay Ryker. This town could be useful to us, but we’ve learned more subtle methods than those you seem to favor. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance to the Consortium. You’ll be receiving that which you deserve.”
“What about Monde? Shouldn’t he get the same treatment?”
“How very noble of you, turning against your partner.”
“Where’re they taking me?” Asgoth’s struggle was in vain.
“Hell’s Canyon.” A wheezing laugh followed Gerde’s words. “It’s in eastern Oregon, near some old Indian burial grounds. You’ll be miserable. I guarantee it.”
The play’s soundtrack kicked through the speakers, muffling Asgoth’s scream as infernal claws took hold and whisked him away.
Clay and Jason had squeezed into saved bleacher seats beside Sergeant Turney and Josee. They enjoyed the play’s drama and humor but especially the dancing. At the conclusion, their enthusiastic cheers brought smiles to the troupe’s faces.
Clay let his eyes meet Digs’s, and he gave his co-worker a slight nod.
Digs nodded back.
Clay then smiled at Mylisha. She reciprocated, her face golden and vibrant under the stage lights. She seemed infused with fresh energy. Spinning around, she exited the Festival Park Stage with a sense of purpose in her step.
The crowd began to disperse.
“Clay,” Sarge said, “you gotta meet Josee.”
“So you’re Josee.”
“The one and only.”
“Sarge’s told me about you.”
“Better have been good.” Despite her tough exterior, Josee’s words were playful. She wore her black hair short and choppy; a silver ring hung from her eyebrow, and a vial dangled from a string necklace. Her turquoise eyes hinted at wisdom and pain beyond her years.
“He didn’t tell me you were so short,” Clay said.
“Hey now.”
“Then again, everyone looks short to me.”
“Guess I’ll let you slide this time,” Josee said.
In loose black jeans and a buttoned striped shirt, Sarge looked more relaxed than Clay had ever seen him; even at the Steamboat Inn, the investigative consultant had been focused on the job.
Sarge slid his hand into Josee’s. “How ’bout we all get somethin’ to eat? My treat. I bet our buddy Jason here is ready for some food.”
Jason perked up. “Food? Yeah!”
“You two’ve had a rough day.”
“A rough year,” Clay amended. “I’m just glad to have my son with me. The good thing is, it’s finally over.”
“Hmm, maybe not.” Sarge winked. “Let’s walk on over to DQ and find ourselves a place to talk. I’ve got a confession to make, and Josee’s got something to show ya.”
Once they had ordered and settled into a booth by the back door, Clay instructed Jason to wash up in the rest room. With his son out of earshot, Clay surrendered to his curiosity. “Okay, Sarge, let’s hear it. What’s going on?”
“Well, this ain’t easy to admit.”
“Come on. No stalling.”
“You remember your dive into Crater Lake? ’Course you do. Afterward you wanted to know if I’d found a wooden tube, the one from Engine 418.”
“Yeah. You asked me if an old cork counted.”
“That’s right, I found a cork. But I must’ve forgotten to mention that the cork was attached to the tube you wanted.”
“Forgot? You mean you lied to me.”
“I just left off some of the truth.” Sarge shrugged. He glanced across the Dairy Queen lobby, then tugged the smooth, carved wood from his pants pocket. “Just tryin’ to protect you, partner. Plus, I knew this artifact might be directly linked to an item of Josee’s. As it turns out, I was right.”
Clay took hold of the object, removed the cork. He found himself transfixed anew by the black king that slid onto the table. Tall and distinguished, the chess piece had an ornate cross atop its crown and Cyrillic text etched into stone.
“What does it say? Do you know?” he wondered aloud.
“Tmu Tarakan,” Josee replied. “It’s Russian, meaning a ‘place of desolation.’ We think it refers to a chamber where Rasputin hoarded ancient relics.”
“I’ve heard rumors of such a place. Does anyone know where it is?”
“Not yet,” Sarge said. “But we have some solid clues locked away in a vault.”
Josee spoke in a whisper. “The black king is key.”
With the chess piece at his fingertips, Clay felt a tingle brush over his skin.
“Hey, Dad, that’s cool.” Jason slid in beside Clay. “Where’d you get it?”
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Yep.” His son turned up his palms for inspection.
“Good job. Here, have a look.” Clay scooted the chess king toward his son. “A boy about your age found it. We’re gonna go visit him tomorrow.”
“You think it’s worth money?”
“Could be.”
Jason’s interest swerved toward an approaching teen girl in a DQ cap, his eyes widening at the fast-food delicacies on the red plastic tray. Clay uncapped his butterscotch sundae, Josee spread out a napkin and dumped out her fries, while Sarge acted as though his salad was the epitome of indulgence.
Sarge took a bite, then pointed to the black stone king. “I get the feeling there’s more to it than just cash, don’t you?”
Josee’s eyebrow ring swayed with the nod of her head.
“After all that’s gone on in the last few weeks,” Clay said, “I can’t put a lot of trust in my feelings. But yeah, in this case I’d have to agree.”
“Well then, I hate to say it.”
“Say what, Sarge?”
“It’s not over yet.”
Josee’s fingers slipped around the big man’s elbow as he rolled his neck like a prizefighter prepping himself for another round. Clay could relate. He thought of the work ahead and sucked in air to combat his weariness.
It’s your story, Lord. Do with it what you will.
Acknowledgments
Dudley Delffs, Don Pape, Carol Bartley,
Michael Warden, and the incredible crew (WaterBrook Press)
for personalizing this industry, showing care for art and artist alike.
Dave Robie (Big Score Productions)
for meeting me early on, knocking on doors, and getting replies.
Ted Dekker and Randy Singer (award-winning authors)
for slicing fact and fiction into manageable bites.
Cindy Martinusen and Tricia Goyer (authors and sisterchicks)
for encouraging e-mails, Austrian tales, and a sisterchick pin of my own.
Barbara Guise, Blanche Monaghan, Lynn Frost, Jacquie Manning, and numerous others (unofficial publicists)
for going out of your way to help me on mine.
Shaun Wilson (brother and lifelong friend)
for leading me along the Pacific Crest Trail, despite snow up to our knees.
Scott Shelton (scholar and gentleman)
for pointing to Hughes’s poem
s and Hawthorne’s short stories.
Johnson “Jay” Bell and Robin Taylor (coffee moguls in their own right)
for flexibility, sincere friendship, and the caffeine to fuel creativity.
Tim Stone and the FedEx Kinko’s crew (West End, Nashville)
for paychecks, helpful schedules, and a copy of the last draft.
New River Fellowship (Cool Springs, Tennessee)
for spiritual nourishment, connection, and creativity joined with integrity.
Bill, Shannon, and Caleb Cushman (family friends)
for laughs, long-term hospitality, and inspiration in the “blue room.”
The Connollys, Firas, Griffins, Hahns, Howes, Langs, McClendons, Ogles, Surratts, and many others (friends and spiritual family)
for meals together, tick-infested hikes, advice of all sorts, and shared war stories.
Rick Moore, Charliy Nash,
Brian Reaves, and Sean Savacool (fellow writers)
for encouraging words, inspiring articles, and books in progress.
Chuck at Café Coco (Nashville location)
for a spot to plug in the laptop while writing and people watching.
Temah and TraVonda (friends and co-workers)
Temah, for sharing your art; TraVonda, for sharing your name.
Elena Gadomski (Russian translator/advisor)
for keeping a straight face while correcting my mistakes.
Corporal Larry Larson (Junction City Police Dept.)
for investigative insights, despite any of my oversights.
Edmondson, Hermitage, and Donelson Public Libraries (Nashville, Tennessee)
for great service, selection, research tools, and enthusiasm.
Coldplay, Skillet, Jeremy Camp, Superchick, Thousand Foot Krutch, Toby Mac,
Pillar, Grits, and Chevelle (recording artists)
for chasing away my lethargy with sonic and spiritual energy.
Readers everywhere (fans new and old)
for delving with me into the mysteries of life and death … May you, too, reach out to feel God’s hand of providence!
I welcome your feedback at my Web site or e-mail address:
wilsonwriter.com
[email protected]