The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  Ken stood and followed Tanner to the basement door. Once Tanner opened it, Ken peered down the steps before assuming that he was to lead the way. He stepped onto the staircase, then stopped. For several moments he stared at the arrangement of stools near the bottom of the staircase.

  “A blockade?”

  Tanner nodded. Mary joined them and stood beside Tanner, but leaned over Ken's shoulder.

  “Did you do that in your sleep as well?” Ken asked.

  “No. I did that before I went to sleep.”

  Ken looked at the chairs for a moment longer. “Why are they still upright? Wouldn't you have knocked them over on your way up the stairs?”

  “That was the plan – so when, and if, I did sleep walk, the clanging of the chairs would wake me.”

  “Apparently that didn't happen. Then, how'd you get upstairs?” Ken asked.

  “Something else!” Mary shouted. Ken and Tanner's eyes turned to the upstairs staircase.

  “Are you trying to wake Lainy?”

  “No, Honey, but I remember something else now. While I was sleeping –well, between sleep and being jolted awake, I remembered thinking, 'someone is talking to me. When I opened my eyes, not able to see that it was Tanner, I heard him saying something in a different language, maybe Arabic or Chinese. Then, you said a sentence in English... it was something like, 'All... All for this.' then you spit on the piece of my pajamas you cut off –,”

  “All for this?” Tanner said in a hushed voice with his head lowered.

  “You remember?” Ken asked and stepped back into the kitchen.

  “Barely, but yeah. Now I'm recalling it. I was looking at a girl – a soldier – but I really couldn't tell if she was a girl or not. I mean, I could, but the other guys couldn't.”

  “In the dream?”

  “Yeah. And they would have raped her if I didn't kill her because they didn't know she was a woman.” Tanner looked at the sleeves of his jacket, then took the name plate between his fingers and turned it up to his face. Ken silently interrogated his actions.

  “These are the dreams you have?” Mary snickered, incredulously.

  “This is what she wore. Exactly.” Tanner said, his trenchant focus inadvertently causing him to ignore Mary. He reached around to the shoulder of the sleeve, to the black and olive drab American flag. “Exactly this. But her name tag read 'Hamilton'. She was an American soldier.”

  “You even remember a name?” Mary asked and Tanner nodded. “That doesn't sound like a dream at all. But it's also strange that even in a dream you'd be attacking an American soldier. You even particularized her by saying she was American. Why not just say, 'she was a fellow soldier' or just, 'she was a soldier'? Maybe it was an internal fight or something.”

  Ken took hold of the open flap of Tanner's jacket. “You slept in this thing?”

  “No. I must've put it on before I went to your room.”

  “So, you prepared? Wow. Also, you forgot to give it back to dad when we were over there.”

  “He said that he had all of his.” Tanner said a moment before realizing that Ken already had another question prepared.

  Ken took the name tag on the jacket between his fingers. “So where'd you get this?”

  Feeling that jeopardizing the lives of his brother's family deserved some explanation, Tanner sat Mary and Ken down and relayed to them what Lee had told him, warning them that the information shouldn't leave the house. They both agreed, and for the first time in years, that maybe Lee Garay could have produced a lucid thought, though it still seemed a bit paranoid.

  Before Ken left the house for work, Tanner offered to go over to his parent's house, understanding that Mary might not be comfortable with just the three of them there. But Mary protested, telling Tanner that he could make up his indiscretion with the chores Ken had failed to do. Ken not only agreed to the idea, but marveled at it, at one point almost giving Tanner a hug. But the mischievous half grin that strode across his face, one of a child who'd been able to talk his parents out of washing the dishes and was now headed outside to play, remained on his face until he arrived at the police station.

  Ken arrived at work so early, that the patrolmen from the prior shift had not returned to the department and the parking lot designated for squad cars was virtually empty. The 'Nuub' car was there, as always – a 1985 Chevrolet Caprice with nearly a million miles – and Ken grinned in memoriam of his first year as a cop having to drive that beast.

  In the office, the supervising dispatcher, Julie Shaffer, rambled on an emergency call as Ken passed her desk. Usually he'd say a few words to her before getting changed and starting his shift, but on these occasions, he'd just have to catch up with her later.

  It was only after he'd gotten dressed and sat in the break room with the chief that he remembered the vast resource he had at the police department. After just a few minutes more of 'Maury', he excused himself, went back into the main office where several dispatchers worked calls – some chatting amongst themselves – and found an open computer at the far end of the office. It was vacant because no one wanted to walk an extra five feet, but the relative isolation from the main group of employees would prove helpful.

  Questions fell into his consciousness with no order as he sat in the desk chair staring at the login screen which came alive with a static hiss when he brushed his hand against the mouse. He typed his seven digit user login, then deleted it and entered the seven digit login of a former officer and friend, Lewis Flemming, whose information remained on the network, because of the generosity of the little paranoid IT guy who roamed around like a house mouse looking for some local government secrets. Password? Who else! Then he typed, 'svadlamani4me', and chuckled, a twist on the name of a local news anchorwoman Lewis salivated over, who he claimed would be 'the woman to settle him down'.

  Instantly, The Cobb Metro Police page lit the screen with the Chief's smiling, moon shaped face glowing in the top corner listed under 'City Leadership'. This was nothing more than a webpage, which, if he typed the word, 'Google', became a powerful data mining tool almost as extensive and scavenging as the thin, rectangular box that opened simultaneously at the bottom of the screen – almost.

  Ken maximized the window and the letters 'CMPD' appeared with a single text box below it, in the same manner as the Google site.

  He typed the words, “Tanner Garay”. The search engine returned:

  “Results: 0”

  Then he typed, “Military Tanner Garay”

  “Results: 0”

  Apparently, this search engine which contained a great deal of unlisted public and private information, had found no listings for a “Tanner Garay”, but as much was expected.

  That name he mentioned, Ken thought. Who was the guy that was after him? He sat for a moment in contemplation, but realized that soon someone would come strolling by and wonder why he was searching for information, though he was not yet a detective.

  He typed, “Military Hamilton”

  “Results:42,682”

  “Army Hamilton”

  “Results: 5,993”

  “Shit!”

  “Military Hamilton combat”

  “Results: 825.”

  “We're getting there,”

  “Female military Hamilton combat”

  “Results:3”

  Since tradition held that women could not fight in the military's infantry, though that was changing, the slim number of results were not surprising. Ken clicked the first link which took him to a federal intranet page about a Army woman named Pvt. Deborah Hamilton who was honored with a Purple heart for wounds sustained during combat. The second link was a page about the same Deborah Hamilton, but now Sgt. Deborah Hamilton and it discussed her promotion. This page looked more like a military newspaper and showed Sgt. Deborah Hamilton shaking hands with one of her superiors. The last was a 21 year-old woman whose squad was ambushed and killed by Iraqi soldiers in 2002. The picture that accompanied the article was of a rosy cheeked, andro
gynous young woman who looked closer to 16 year-old boy than a 21 year-old woman, smiling as if it was forced under the strain of too many, large, perfectly white teeth. Ken read a few sentences of the Army obituary, but felt terrible for the girl and whatever family she had left behind, and closed that window.

  Undaunted, he sifted through the few pieces of information Tanner had given him until, after a few seconds, the name 'Hart' popped into his mind. Ken deleted the words in the search box and typed in 'Hart'.

  “Results: 1,655,719.”

  “Hart Georgia”

  “Results: 249,131.”

  “Hart Tanner Garay Georgia”

  “Results: 246”

  Assuming that somehow these three words in combination had triggered an awaking of sorts of the data mining engine, Ken began searching through the most relevant returns. But after clicking on the top five links, he quickly saw that the name Tanner was not as unusual as he had first thought:

  “Corporal Tim Hart takes his leave after... events at John Tanner State Park in Carrollton.”

  “Governor Cherry Leach and her husband Tanner H... the Hart Supermarket chain.”

  Then the name 'Fred' popped into his mind. “Fred Hart!” Ken whispered. “That was the name Tanner told me!”

  “Fred Hart Georgia”

  “Results: 104”

  The refined 104 was not a bad number – not too high, and low enough that he would check far more entries than just five before attempting another search if this didn't turn up anything. Though, he really didn't know what he was looking for, he figured that he'd know it if he saw it. Ken stared at first result and worked his way down, scanning each website and moving on if he did not sense any relevance to his brother. However, after reviewing each of the first seven returned results, all exact matches, he realized that he was no longer looking into the 'Fred Hart' listings, now the search engine returned 'Hart's' in the federal government, county and country wide state governments, the military, prisons, corrections officers and policemen, all listed in alphabetical order after the name 'Fred Hart'. The one on the screen now was Alphonso Hart.

  “Maybe Ted or Theodore Hart.” Ken said, and scrolled down to the 'T's', but there was no such listings. When he scrolled up the page, it wasn't until he saw the name 'Gregory 'Greg' Hart' that he knew he had made a mistake and that this was the name Tanner had told him. He clicked the link and instantly he was startled by the translucence of the man's eyes in the photo, the remarkable contrast between his pale skin and Auburn goatee and the misanthropic snarl on his lips.

  “Gregory 'Greg' William Hart was arrested in 2003 in San Antonio, Texas on assault charges stemming from an arrest attempt by Atlanta Police Department Officer LeVon Jones in Atlanta, Georgia in May of 2002. Greg served five years of an eleven year sentence and was recently released from Jackson County Correctional Facility. No more information has been gathered on Gregory Hart.”

  “He's out.” The words seeped from his mouth, yet, he wasn't sure whether it had any bearing on Tanner at all.

  He had indeed found something Tanner said to be correct, but there simply no way of looking further into – That horse tattoo! Ken thought.

  Tanner had shown the Centaur tattoo on his chest to Mary and Ken while explaining to them what Lee thought about it, but seeing a Centaur tattoo wasn't at all common. He minimized the CMPD search engine page and maximized the regular Google internet page, then typed:

  “Centaur”

  “Results: 15,800,000”

  “Centaur Tattoo”

  “Results: 967,000”

  Ken typed quotations around the next reach to reduce frivolous returns.

  “Centaur Tattoo military”

  “Results: 15.”

  The first of the 15 results included a green font web link with the domain name of a Montgomery College. The names of the links below it were attached to local newspapers. He clicked on the first link and an article opened, headed by a blue and yellow banner that read ' Montgomery College'.

  Transgovernmental Queries

  By Kartikeya Patel & Lance Davis

  So close to the heart of this capitalist machine, so far from truth. Theories on questions and questioning theories until we find a miniscule fragment of truth, only to be diverted to the department of conspiracy theories and Langley's Operational Logistics (DCT-LOL) when we send a formal inquest to the Langley branch of this ubiquitous world government.

  Then, into our collective lap falls Jacoben Faust. Who is he? We don't know – and apparently he doesn't either! What does he do? He's a miner. Government agent, maybe? No. Just a miner. Where does he mine? That, my friends, is the $64,000 question. Again, he doesn't know. Then, why should you care?

  Jacoben Faust, as his story goes, has been working at a mining camp in Pennsylvania for the last (question mark) number of years. He doesn't know why he was there, how he got there or even what he did prior to his work at the camp.

  But on his chest was a tattoo of a centaur / soldier that we had never seen before (The picture is below). He doesn't remember how he got it, or why, but it looks strangely like a fraternal military (or CIA) tattoo of some kind.”

  Ken stopped reading the article and scrolled to the bottom of the page. From the Equine profile and torso of a soldier with an engaged, forward facing rifle, to the format of words scribed across the tattoo – though this one read FAUST JD – it was no different from the tattoo inked on Tanner's chest. The image stunned him and threw him back in his seat.

  After a few minutes of soaking up the image and understanding that whatever Tanner was experiencing was not rare to him, even down to the forgetfulness, Ken leaned back toward the monitor and read the rest of the article.

  He snatched a pen from a cup beside the desktop computer, tore the top page from a nearby writing pad and jotted down the words: 'Transgovernmental Queries, Kartikeya Patel, Lance Davis, Jacoben Faust, Montgomery College, and in parentheses (Centaur Tattoo SAME!!!) Also, mention Greg Hart'. In the bottom right hand corner of the monitor, the time was 7:01 am. He closed the windows on the desktop, returned everything to its place and ripped the top sheet of paper from the note pad. He had to get to work, but he'd be calling these college reporters soon.

  Chapter 21.

  After two days of scrubbing the rust stains from the toilets, washing clothes and sitting large bags of her dad's clothes in front of the garage for the Salvation Army pickup, Heather had virtually finished the work necessary to get the house ready to live in. It was work that Kathy hadn't had the capacity to do and work Heather never had the time to help her mother with. She regretted that, but there was nothing more she could do. And reliving regrets had a way of devouring a health soul, regressing it into something weak and sallow and not fit for –,

  She stopped herself in mid thought because the description sounded like the current state her mother was in. Kathy's regrets mapped the age lines of her face, regrets that would eventually consume her. The thought and the word she had deleted from it, would come to pass in due time. All of Kathy's possessions would be transferred to Heather in her will, which they had meticulously worked out while Kathy's was still of sound mind, since generations of accumulated property had passed down to Heath, then Kathy, and soon to Heather. All Heather could do now was visit Kathy as often as possible, and wait for that call.

  She had no idea what caused dementia, nor did any of Kathy's doctors, and her helplessness to the disease prompted her mind to believe that maybe a grandchild would be the solution that no one had thought of. She imagined walking into Autumn Gardens with little Amanda Elizabeth Kirby – Amanda, because she liked the name, Elizabeth, because it had a regal sounding quality, and Kirby, well, that couldn't happen now, but there was a time when it was plausible. She'd imagined Kathy springing up from her window-faced chair so vigorously, that the chair was thrown backwards. Kathy would sprint, not walk over to little Amanda, snatch her from smiling parents standing hand in hand, and memories – lost, buried, forgott
en, whatever the mind did with those precious synaptic connections – would come flooding back to her. Full and total recall, and the curse of that hideous malady would be lifted. She often equated Kathy to sleeping beauty, and the child's kiss being the elixir.

  It was nothing more than wishful thinking, but what else was there to hold on to? Phil had shacked up with his college sweetheart, and Heather, forty and counting, saw her fallopian tubes as two dried husks of straw; her uterus, an up ended burlap sack with the same ability to nourish a new life as an empty picnic basket.

  Inside of the house, her telephone rang and snapped the chain of her self-pity, and just in time. Moisture had crept into the corners of her eyes. She tossed the last bag of clothes onto the heap of four similar white bags and rushed inside. To her utter delight, which was strange to consider this a delight, it was Lucus.

  Please, Lucus! Please have it! “Hello? Lucus?”

  Across the line there was a long yawn. Then, “Hey.”

  “Lucus! It's been two days. What's been going on?”

  “You owe me, Heather. You owe me big for this one.”

  “Tell me you got it.” Heather begged.

  “We got it.”

  “Thank you, God!” She sighed in delight.

  “I'm talking about you, me, a bath –,”

  “Yes, yes, and conversation.”

  “Conversation? You kidding? Perhaps a hand job or something informal like that.”

  Heather laughed. “I assume you didn't go back to Whitewash.”

  “That didn't happen. I took the hard drive back, sure. And I told them that everything was repaired. Then they started asking me whether I made copies. Assholes. I told them that I understand what confidentiality means. They can piss off. You're paying me now!”

  “Just tell me your price, Lucus and –,”

  “Hand jobs.” Lucus said. “That will be an acceptable form of payment.”

  “Whatever, Lucus. Please don't make me beg you for this.”