The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  She dropped the duffel bag at the door, removed her Glock and quietly walked inside, moving from room to room, listening for noise. The act was futile since, if they were here, they'd know how to best trap her.

  When she got to the room, she saw the company phone on the dresser, picked it up activated it – and nothing. Dammit! She had unplugged the device from the charger, thinking that she should take it with her before deciding not to, and the battery had died. She hooked it up to the charger, tried it again, but the phone wouldn't come alive. Knowing that it would take at least 30 minutes for the device to get enough energy to activate, she laid the gun on the bed and started packing.

  After an hour of lugging bags and boxes to the front door, while Pavel, Cal and Patrick loading them into the cars, Heather gave them the keys to her storage unit and they left. But only a second after leaving, Jean Grimes appeared on her front porch. Her white face glowed as if she were a ghost. Heather waved and when Jean saw the gesture, she ran full speed across the road.

  “Hi, Jean!” Heather said from a distance, but Jean didn't say anything until she stood huffing, out of breath, in Kathy's driveway in front of Heather. “Are you okay?” Heather asked and rubbed the woman's back. Something had bothered her, something only Heather could help her with.

  “There's someone in there.” Jean whispered and pointed with her eyes at the house next door to Heather. “I'm certain of it.”

  “Have you called –,”

  “No I haven't. I should, though. Damned, Tommy.” Jean said. Heather was taken aback by the woman's mild vulgarity. “Tommy left for a convention around 6 am and took Sarah to drop her off at daycare. I was already up, so I decided to walk Petey. When I was close to home, I heard someone fumbling with that upstairs door.” Jean nodded with her head towards the second level of the house next door. Heather casually looked, saw the patio and the door behind it, and returned her eyes to Jean. “But I kept walking, you know. Then, I hear someone yell, 'One moment, please! I'm in the shower.' That's when I stopped. That voice didn't belong to Bjorn. I know his voice.”

  She didn't need Jean knowing what she did for a living, yet she had already, in so many unstated words – said that she'd check it out.

  “What do you want done about this?” Heather asked. “I mean, if the Kerlinsson's left someone in charge of their house while they're away, there's not much that can be done except to find out who it is, maybe, and ask them when they'll be back.”

  “I agree with that.” Jean said staring hard at Heather as if to convey some unspoken message, which Heather understood immediately.

  “You want me to go over there and find out, don't you?”

  Jean smiled as though Heather had read her mind. “Heather, I'm – I'm just scared is all. If you can't, I understand. But if you would, that would be wonderful.”

  Heather sighed. “Okay, Jean. I think I can do that for you. Just let me go inside and get my cell phone, then I'll go over there.”

  Heather changed into the t-shirt and sweatpants she had had on two days ago and checked her phone. This time it came on, and though it had only a 5% charge – and she would not be able to detect whether she had missed a call – it was enough for her to check her voicemail.

  “You have two messages. Message one: “Hey, Heady, it's Lucus! I hope you get this before you leave. Brian called the mining camp yesterday morning. He didn't tell me this because he figured we already knew. Asshole. Anyway, he kept calling back – maybe twenty or so times – when this Hispanic sounding lady answered the phone. He said she was with the cleaning service and got tired of hearing the phone ring. Brian, pretending to be a Hunt Mining executive, asked how many people were there. You know what she said? Four. He asked if they were there now. She tells him that the supervisor and his assistant went home for the night and the other two guys live in some trailers on site. “Two guys?” he asks, “Shouldn't there be more?” She says that the supervisor had the other three guys transferred. They're not there, heady. It's a wasted trip if you go. We'll be looking into where they trans... If you want to replay the message, press one. To save the message, press two. To archive the –,

  Heather pressed the pound button and put the phone back to her ear.

  “Message skipped. Message two: “Heady! Lucus again. You know, I don't think they were transferred at all. I think... I think they might have escaped. I found some addresses I think might be a lead to where some of these guys are. Apparently, someone in the agency hired a prostitute named Erica Kitterly to help track one of your guys. The files were modified as recent as three days ago! I'm going to check them out now, but please call me! I need to know if you'll be back in town by 9 am tomorrow.”

  “Damnit, Luke!” She blurted out. “Why didn't you leave the addresses?” She ended the voicemail call, then called Luke. The phone rang for four times.

  “Hello?” Lucus said.

  “Where are you? We just got back in town and I –,”

  “Could you speak up a little? I'm having trouble hearing you.”

  “I said,” She spoke louder. “We just got back in town few hours ago! They weren't transferred! You were right! They did escape! Where are you and –,”

  “Ah! I'm sorry. I'm just messing around. I'm not in right now. Either leave me a message, or call back and listen to this recording again. Your choice.”

  Chafed, Heather ended the call and for a moment, wished that the cell phone was an old rotary phone with a handset that she could slam down. She wasn't calling him back.

  She dropped the phone in her pocket, took her Glock from the bed, shoved it into her waist band at the small of her back and went next door.

  On the porch of the home, Heather knocked on the door several times with no response.

  “Hello?” She yelled. “Is anyone here?” She leaned closer and waited for the sound of someone shuffling toward the door, but there was only silence. She turned back to Jean's house and in the upstairs window she saw that the curtains were pulled back on one side. Upon further inspection, as her eyes adjusted to the dim morning light, she saw a figure in a bright blue wind breaker standing in the window. Heather shrugged. Jean pointed her finger across her body, suggesting Heather walk around back. Heather dropped her head, sighed and jumped from the porch to the walkway.

  As she rounded the house, she first noticed a bike that looked as if it had been thrown into the side yard separating the Kerlinsson's house from an empty lot beside it. Upon noticing the bike, a faint stench of a dead thing took her attention. No longer thinking about the house or its occupants, Heather searched the ground and the grass for the dead object. She followed the smell, her attention keen on finding it, until to her surprise she was standing on the porch at the back door. Maybe the Kerlinsson's like to kill what they eat before they eat it! She thought, then noticed two gray trash cans on a concrete pad beside the porch.

  “That's where it's coming from!” She said, satisfied. She knocked on the glass door with the back of her hand to no response. Then, she knocked again and tugged on the handle of the sliding door. Instantly, the door slid open just an inch and through that inch came the rancid sensory overload of mass decomposition. “Shit!” She held her breath until she was able to cover her nose and mouth with her shirt. She stared at the gap, no longer thinking about her guys, or even when Cal, Pavel and Patrick would return, but pondering on what could be causing that smell.

  She removed her Glock, and used it to push the door further open. “Hello?” Her voice echoed. She called around the house. “Anyone home? Your neighbors are worried!” The mild glow of morning halted inches from the sliding door. Upon her entrance it seemed as if she'd emerged into darkness as fathomless as deep space and as consuming and lightless as a black hole. Even the light that did fall on the linoleum through the glass door seemed to stop, to be held back from further penetration, but at the point where the blackness and light met, she saw the beginnings of a trail of dried, browned, blood.

  Chapter 23.


  With the torn sheet of note pad paper tucked in the crease of the dashboard, Ken didn't change clothes before he left the Cobb Metro PD locker room, but rushed home.

  The time was just minutes after 5 pm when he pulled the squad car in the driveway. His lunch bag, weapon and personal briefcase sat on the seat beside him and would remain there. He had questions on his mind – that seemed to flutter and sweep away on an imaginary breeze – he hadn't bothered to write down, and he wanted them to remain as fresh as possible until he got inside. At the front door, he reached in his pocket for the keys, but remembered that they, too, were still in the car, left in the ignition in his haste. Tanner was in the living room picking up Lainy's Barbie toys, saw Ken immediately and opened the door.

  “Big bro, you're here!” Tanner said. Then leaned into Ken and whispered. “Could you possibly save me from her?”

  “Oh, stop it, Tanner.” Mary, in the kitchen, swatted at his remark. “It wasn't that bad.”

  “Mary, I think you had me move that ottoman three times to three different locations, only to return it to where we started out!” Tanner smiled and Mary laughed.

  “You men. All the same. Complaining about a little work.”

  “A little work, you say. I felt like I was in prison camp or something.”

  The two had obviously become closer acquainted, to Ken's delight; Tanner had even removed his jacket. Ken grabbed Tanner by the arm and headed for the basement. “That's great, you two. Sounds like y'all hit it off.”

  “Tanner's a funny guy, Ken. He's got your sense of humor. We really need to find someone for him so that... hey! Where are you taking my help?”

  “One minute, Mary. We'll be back.” Ken opened the door to the basement and lead the way, summoning Tanner to follow. “Close that door, Tanner.”

  Ken stood behind the bar and Tanner took a seat on a stool in front of it, laying his arms across the granite counter top. “What's the matter, Ken?”

  Ken took a shot glass and reached up for his bottle of Maker's Mark, but grabbed what was in its place – an Absolut Vodka Bottle. Then, quickly returned it and appraised the glass shelf's many rows. “What the hell?”

  “Oh, right. Well, Mary was down here cleaning earlier and... you know the rest.”

  “Shit on a stick! Where'd she put my Maker's?” Tanner shrugged. Ken searched the shelves a little longer, visibly perturbed, hoping somehow that the bottle would reappear. “Forget it. It's not important now. We need to talk.” From a small refrigerator below the bar, Ken pulled two New Castle beers and slid one to Tanner. He used a bottle opener on the counter for his beer, and Tanner used his teeth.

  “Talk? About what?” Tanner spat the bottle cap into his free hand.

  “That... thing on your chest.”

  “My tat?” Tanner rubbed his chest, then cut his eyes to Ken. “You haven't been trying to figure out what this is, have you? I mean, like an internet research, have you?”

  “What if I have?”

  “Ken! For God's sake, man! You can't do that! The government has computer programs that scan the internet, email and all internet traffic for specific keywords. If you use one of them maliciously, they can contact the Internet Service Provider to which the IP address resides and find the person who's been making those inquires!”

  “How do you know that? Is that part of this special knowledge that you have now?”

  Tanner dropped his head. “Dad told me.”

  “Dad is a lunatic, Tanner. Listen to him at your own peril. What I have here is serious.” Ken pushed the piece of note pad paper to Tanner and smiled, watching Tanner's questioning eyes scan it. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Tanner briefly look on the back of the paper as if more information awaited there. “I think that you're the lunatic! Where'd you get this?”

  “From work. We use a federal database. You don't recognize any of that?”

  “I recognize this, and the Centaur comment that you wrote, but nothing else.”

  Ken perked up. “Oh?” He said. “Where from?”

  Tanner pointed to his chest. “From here.”

  “No. I mean, do you remember it from anywhere else? Maybe someone else you know got the same tattoo?”

  “Ken, I don't know anyone with this tat.”

  Ken laughed. “Well, my friend, someone else has it. A guy name Jacoben Faust. It's right there!” Ken pointed at the jagged edged paper.

  Tanner returned his eyes to it and read the name several times aloud. “It does sound familiar.”

  “Only familiar? This guy lays out a story to a couple of college kids in Silver Springs, Maryland about working at a mining camp in Pennsylvania. The two guys think his story has some government connections, but then again,” Ken took a quick swig of his beer. “Their little newspaper did seem a bit... cooky, at best.”

  “Jacoben Faust. Jacoben Faust.” Tanner muttered. “I swear I’ve heard that name before.” Ken said nothing and doctored his beer hoping that a recollection of the name might spark new insights into Tanner's past. “Then again, I might have simply heard it somewhere.”

  “You don't remember anyone by that name? Think, Tanner.”

  Tanner rolled his eyes to the paper, sipped his beer and shrugged. “I got nothing for you, Doc.”

  From above, someone banged on the basement door.

  “Yeah.” Ken shouted.

  “Dinner?” Mary said.

  “What about it?”

  “What do you want?”

  “How should I know? Just fix something. I'll eat it.”

  “Judith called. Wanted to know if we wanted to come over for steak.”

  “They buying?”

  “Of course.”

  “I'm in.”

  “I'm taking Lainy and heading over there. Just come when you're ready. Lee's not starting without you two, so hurry.”

  Ken didn't reply, and heard her waiting at the door for a few seconds before leaving. Suddenly, he noticed his laptop – closed, but plugged in – on the desk beside the sofa. He took the paper from Tanner's hands. “Maybe you'd recognize the picture if you saw it!” He smiled to Tanner and left the bar.

  He opened his old Dell laptop and pressed the power button. Several seconds after the computer started, it was ready to go to work. Hovering over the computer with Tanner sitting on the arm of the sofa, Ken opened a browser, typed in 'Google', and entered the first words he'd written on the paper, 'Transgovermental Queries'. While the page loaded, Ken proceeded to explain the gist of the website. After five seconds, as Ken was deeply entrenched in proving his viability or his father's, Tanner pointed to the screen.

  “It's done.” Tanner said. Gleeful, Ken turned back to the screen.

  “Results: 0”

  Not wanting to waste time asking Google to search its vast interdependent network of data, Ken typed 'Montgomery College' and the homepage of the school opened. In the schools own website search engine, he again typed his query.

  “Results: 0”

  He recoiled, then relaxed. Though, not as internet savvy as a network administrator, he knew ways to find what he was after.

  “Looks like you're striking out.” Tanner grinned.

  “Not at all. The guys who set this page up probably didn't use the newspapers title as a search possibility.”

  “That's ridiculous. That would be the first thing they used.”

  “Regardless, I'm using this instead.” Ken said. Into the text box, he deliberately typed the name 'Kartikeya', alternating his eyes between the paper and the keyboard for maximum accuracy, not bothering to add the last name because the first was simply too unique. Then, he pressed 'Enter'.

  “Results: 0”

  The art of refining a search often began broad, then narrowed as appropriate qualifiers were added. With this name, however, he figured that a step was simply missed, and returned to the Google page retyping the name.

  This time he found a match and a string of five photos with five different
poses of a smiling young Indian man, topped the Google search results.

  “Bingo!” Ken said. The first link below the pictures was a newspaper link, with no association to Montgomery College. Ken wanted to believe that maybe this Patel kid no longer attended college, but had graduated and found a position with a local newspaper, and since he had forgotten to scribble down the newspaper in which the article was written, surely that would have been the reason his 'Transgovernmental Queries' no longer appeared on the college website. However, the word 'Obit' in the forwarding information of the link made his hands unexpectedly numb. He clicked the link anyway.

  “Kartikeya “Karti” Patel will be remembered as an outgoing spirit. Hardworking, questioning and loyal to his friends and family. Since moving to America in 1990 at age 2, Karti had long desired to be a writer and eventually was accepted into the communications program at Montgomery College. Karti leaves behind his father and mother, Ravi and Lakshmi Patel. American services will be held at the Francis J. Collins Funeral home...”

  “He's dead.” Ken said and as he continued reading the obituary, Tanner said.

  “Just died. Internment is set for tomorrow.” Tanner placed his finger on the screen and Ken followed.

  “But that article, I’m sure of it, was only written a day or two ago. I know I saw the date. I just can't remember. Now, its gone from the website.”

  Tanner playful punched Ken in the shoulder. “Better luck next time.” Ken angrily swiped his punch away.

  “Stop messing around, Tanner! I saw this shit and now it’s just gone?” Ken returned to the sheet of paper, took the second name 'Lance Davis' and in the same browser with considerably less effort, typed in the name. The query returned numerous findings since the name Lance Davis was not particularly unique. But one link containing the name 'Patel' stood out. He clicked it and the results nearly stumbled him.