The Dark Trail

by Will Mosley

  “After three years of study at Montgomery College, Lance Joseph Davis joined our Heavenly Father on March 8, 2014. Following his father, Lawrence Lance Davis, into eternal bliss after nine years. Lance joined the Mt. Calvary Baptist Church at the age...”

  Ken could not read further and sat down. Tanner, however, continued to read the article. Once he finished, he closed the laptop and returned to the sofa's arm.

  “I had planned on calling these guys and seeing if I could get in touch with that Jacoben Faust guy.”

  “Now what?” Tanner asked. Ken hung his head for a minute, partly wondering who would have taken the lives of these men so early. It only made sense that murder was the cause of death since both men who had written the article were now dead.

  “You think that this is coincidence?” Ken asked. “I know what I saw, Tanner, and it's enough proof that you and this guy may know each other.”

  “It's no proof at all, Ken. You say our tat's are similar? Fine. How many similar tattoos have you seen in your life? Hundreds, maybe? You're a cop. You probably see ten of the same tattoo in one night! What does that prove?” Ken shrugged and shook his head. “I came here to move on, not remember the stupid shit I did years ago. And if anything I did would cause any harm to your family, I'd leave in a minute and let that harm follow me. If I felt that I was in any harm –,”

  “Greg hart!” Ken shouted. “You said he was after you. I found out he was released from prison recently. What does that mean to you?”

  Tanner breathed deeply. “That's part of my past. He doesn't know where I stay, and even if he did, I'm the last thing on his mind. That guy was a career criminal and if he was released recently, he'll end up back in prison in a matter of days.” Tanner slid off the arm of the sofa and sat next to Ken. “I'm asking for your help, Ken, not to rehash the mess of a life I've lived, but to start anew. To be part of your life and not a hindrance in it. Looking for stuff in my past will only hinder yourself. Help me move forward, Ken. Please.”

  There was no doubt in Tanner's eyes, no lies nor maleficence that would cause Ken to do anything more than try and guide his little brother in the right direction. Ken embraced Tanner and when he pulled back, a translucent glaze coated his eyes.

  “Don't cry, you big baby.” Tanner said.

  “My fault, man.” He roughly swiped the backs of his hands across his eyes. “I was just thinking about those young guys being killed – dying – before they could get to enjoy,” He stood up and took his Newcastle from beside the laptop. “This!” Then he turned up the bottle and finished it. “Lord knows I'll need this while listening to dad's bull.”

  “They're college kids. They were probably drunk while they wrote that article you read and probably have at least half of the STD's available on the market! They're free from this now, Ken. Don't worry yourself with it, nor me, anymore.”

  Ken looked at the Newcastle label briefly, then dropped the bottle in the trash. “If you say so, sissy boy.”

  “You're the one crying.”

  “Hey! That's in the past now.” Ken shouted. “Don't be repeating that shit.”

  Tanner slid two pinched fingers across his lips as if he were pulling a zipper. “Good. You ready to go dad and mom's house?”

  “Not quite. Unlike you, I was apparently roaming this morning and ended up straddling my brother's wife.”

  “She apparently didn't like what you had to offer.” Ken chuckled.

  “I don't know, Ken. I mean, I have been alone with her all... day... long. Anything could have happened during that time you were away.” Tanner said with a smirk.

  “You're a freak show, punk! You coming?”

  “I'm gonna catch a quick nap,” Tanner took his shoes off and stretched out on the couch. “Your wife is a task master. She worked the shit outta me!”

  “Better you than me.” Ken started up the stairs. “I can come back and pick you up if you want, but –,”

  “I'll walk. I know the way.”

  Ken closed the door to the basement. He walked through the kitchen, then his footsteps faded as he walked upstairs. Minutes later, the sound of footsteps was loud in the living room and the front door opened and closed. Footsteps on the porch... a car door opened, then slammed shut... an engine roared to life... gears shifted and the roar of the engine faded from the driveway, into the street, into nothing. Tanner got up.

  Laying on the couch in the near silent basement waiting for Ken to leave almost lulled him into sleep, but he wiped his face, reached over and took the laptop from the desk and sat it on his lap.

  An urge within him wanted to protect Ken from something, but he didn't know from what. Was it a physical danger? Was it the danger of finding out about his past? Those options were only blurred remnants, fragments of an incomplete novel whose chapter titles – Francis J. Collins funeral home, the Centaur Tattoo, Jacoben Faust (a name that rang warning bells in his mind when Ken mentioned them) – stood out in bold, black, font.

  While reading Kartikeya Patel's obituary, he saw the name Francis J. Collins on the screen and thought that Ken might have remembered his mentioning it only days ago. It became a fear when he realized that it was supposedly the name of the rehab clinic he'd enrolled himself. Tanner lifted the monitor of the laptop and typed, 'Francis J. Collins Rehabilitation Clinic' in the text area on the Google search page. Funeral home? Tanner thought. Surely there couldn't be a Francis J. Collins Funeral home and a rehab clinic by the same name. Certainly families would not want the memories of their deceased relatives unintentionally associated with a drug rehab clinic. Would they?

  And he was right. The search engine returned nearly 120,000 results, all in some way referred to the funeral home – not one to a rehab clinic. He refined the search with quotations and resubmitted it.

  Results: 0

  No results. Wouldn't they have a website? He thought, but didn't linger long on that question. “Unless this place doesn't exist.” He wondered aloud.

  There was no need to panic. Tanner simply leaned back, closed his eyes and relaxed his mind for a few seconds. Never before had he taken the time to analyze the Francis J. Collins Rehab Clinic because, before his father's cryptic analysis, before Ken's federal archive search into his past, before now, there was never a reason to.

  He thought about the walls of the room he stayed in at the clinic. His mind gave him cement block walls painted pasty white with no décor. The esthetics were that of an operation room, clean and surgical, florescent light splashed crystalline pale white from its walls. He recalled a blond female doctor – tall and elegant, a very simple gray dress under her white coat, and cross-training shoes – moving through that room until she was swallowed by a drifting blackness. The room he'd imagined, swirled into the black/white mix and soon, it too was engulfed. Realizing what was happening, Tanner leaned forward, tried to get to his feet, tried to keep the blackness from disabling him as it had done countless times, but it was swift, taking him – his vision, his mind, his power to move, to stand. He blindly wobbled on a bent leg. The laptop slid from his lap and slammed to the floor. He slapped at his thigh in an attempt to save it long after the computer was destroyed, his knee crashed into the keyboard, sealing the fate of the machine and, as if he were merely a rag doll, he collapsed to the floor atop the broken laptop.

  Part 3. Chapter 24.

  “How you feeling?”

  “How am I suppose to feel?”

  “Like a man who's $3,000 richer, that's how.”

  Ben grimaced, shook his head at the floor and muttered, “That was a baby, Greg.”

  “That was a Carrity, Ben. You think I want that kid growing up, finding me and wanting to exact revenge on the man who killed his daddy? That's a pussy move. Remember I told you that.”

  “Sure, Greg.” Ben, sarcastically. “I'll do that.”

  “I'm wide awake now! You up for another proposition?” Greg turned to Ben and smiled. “I mean, while we still got the truck.”

  “We're
going to be late returning it! Hell, we're already late for that.”

  “He'll be alright. We're probably saving him from a DUI since he'll be drunk off his ass.”

  “I – I don't think I can –,”

  “$10,000?” Greg said.

  Ben said nothing, but through his mind ran images of fast boats, even faster cars, and women. The relativity of his poverty had a way of turning trivial sums of cash into great abundance. He sighed. “$10,000?”

  “$10,000.”

  “And this is it?”

  “Yep. For a while, anyway.”

  Ben sat his elbow on that window ledge and propped his hand against his head. To his left, he could feel the radiance of Greg's fiery eyes and twisted grin burning at him, staring into him, almost knowing what his answer would be, “Fine.” Ben relinquished his soul. “But, the address is at my house.”

  Greg pulled onto Ben's road and parked in front of the duplex. Ben ran inside and returned within a minute. Greg didn't wait for Ben to close the truck door upon his entry and sped off.

  “You want the address or not?” Ben said pulling the door closed against the air flow rushing over the truck. “You're trying to fucking kill me over here!”

  Greg laughed, then shrugged. “It won't help unless I have directions.” I don't know my way around very well, Ben. Remember, I was in prison?”

  Ben took his cell phone from his pocket and tapped a map application. When it loaded, he typed in the address from home and the address from the paper. In seconds, the site returned step-by-step directions to their destination. “You'll need to get back to highway 316 or Interstate 85.”

  “Which one?” Greg shouted. His words jarred Ben only because Greg's pistol sat in his lap with his hand wrapped around its butt and his finger precariously nudging the trigger, all the while the weapon was pointed at him.

  “Uh – either, Greg. You're the one driving! 316 merges into I-85.”

  “Ben, make a damned decision!”

  “316, Greg! Okay? Geez. Turn left up ahead and angle that gun away from me.”

  Greg looked in his lap at the direction of the gun's barrel as if he were considering the proposal, then followed its direction to Ben with his eyes. “I don't think I will. I think I kinda like where it's pointed. It'll keep you on your toes.”

  Ben gave Greg directions to the destination, certain to give the next direction many times, even five seconds before the turn, so that Greg's red hot anger would remain directed toward his next victim and not at him. When they got to the address, however, Greg didn't stop. He passed by the house, took notice of the small brick ranch, the orange light radiating from the open front door and windows, the police car in its driveway and passed it by.

  “It's a cop’s house.” Ben coyly stated.

  “So?”

  “So? Come on, Greg. Two cops in one night?”

  “This asshole can't be no cop. They probably heard something and called the cops. We'll keep driving and when that cop leaves, we'll make the visit.

  In a vehicle filled with silence, Greg circled the block three times. Each time he passed the house, he stared into it, his eyes thinking, trying to picture the layout of the house in his head so that entry and execution of his plan would go off quickly and without a hitch. Inside, there were four people: two men and two women. He thought that he saw a child at one point, but he wasn't absolutely sure – and it wouldn't matter anyway. But the squad car was still parked there, no other policemen had shown up and no one inside looked to be wearing a uniform.

  Instead of making another pass, Greg drove from the neighborhood and into a Krystal's restaurant he saw on his way. He ordered a sackful of twelve Krystal's burgers, fries and two drinks, and parked. The two men scarfed down the burgers, belched and farted once the meal was complete, all in total silence.

  “You're usually talking my damned ear off. What's gotten into you?” Greg asked.

  “This stolen truck.” Ben said.

  “We didn't steal the truck –,”

  “Greg, we haven't returned it yet. And due to what I told that guy, and what he told me, the truck is officially stolen.” Greg's pistol sat on the dashboard and was not a threat. “He could've called the cops by now! You're not thinking this through, man! I'm afraid of that, too! You threw that baby out the window and since that, you suddenly –,”

  “Aw, shit! You're still thinking about that? Don't be such a pussy, Ben!”

  “I'm not! What I'm saying is that you seemed fine and everything was going along smooth. Then, that happened. It's like you threw logic out the window with that kid!” Thinking about that sound the child made when his tiny body met the concrete, made Ben drop his head. He felt inexplicable tears welling up in him, but dared not release them in front of Greg.

  “So, I'm stupid. Is that what you're saying?”

  “Greg. Seriously?” Ben's tone pleaded with him. “No, Greg. That's not what I’m saying. Think this shit through, man. That's what I'm saying. If we need to come back, cool, we come back.” Ben said. Greg seemed to contemplate this and furrowed his brow. “If we need to call your brother for help –,”

  A snarl bent his lips and that explosive anger reemerged as he spun to Ben. “To hell with him! I don't need his help!” Greg snatched the pistol from the dashboard and pulled off.

  Within ten minutes, Greg drove the truck past the brick ranch once more. This time, there was no 'thinking' in his eyes. “We're doing this shit now!” He said. Ben sighed, picked up his Glock and released the magazine. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No, Greg. No problems.”

  “You sure?” Though Greg stared into the oncoming darkness up ahead, in his lap, his pistol was still angled directly at Ben, his finger eagerly taunted the trigger. “With or without, you, Ben. With or without you. What's it gonna be?”

  Ben studied the magazine, slammed it back into the butt of the gun, cocked it and rested it in his lap.

  “I'm with you, Greg.”

  “Good boy.” He confirmed with a slow nod and redirected the gun.

  Greg parked the truck one block from the house and he and Ben walked back. Neither of them checked their surroundings so that they wouldn't look too suspicious. After five minutes of walking, with their weapons securely tucked into their waists, they stood on the front porch.

  “Check the paper.” Greg nudged Ben.

  Ben pulled the torn piece of paper from his pocket and read it. “Looks like this is it.”

  “You ready?”

  “Let's get him.” Ben said. Greg wrapped his knuckles on the glass storm door, smiling to the lady who approached. On the inside of the house, he heard a voice yell, “Jude, get that, will ya?”

  Chapter 25.

  Danger.

  To Heather, the color red, as it did for car makers, the military, and horny boys seeking promiscuous young girls, meant danger. She never wore that gaudy red lipstick, nor did she own a red Tahari Kayla dress, but she lusted for danger and would charge any hill for any commander if she knew that danger and the occasion to prove valor could be earned on the other side.

  Dark red, maroon, unlike its vibrant cousin, did not elicit those hot, primitive feelings in her, and car commercials seldom showed cool kids driving the pacific coast highway in a Maroon Ford Mustang, or a Maroon Corvette. Even the word sounded helpless. Maroon. Isn't that what happens to ambushed soldiers, to hikers lost in the wilderness, to Gilligan and Mary Ann and the Professor?

  It simply meant that the danger was over, that someone needed help, but has long since gone without. Someone was in danger and their body spilled this... then they were dragged somewhere and the danger is long gone. Heather kicked at the streaked blood to see if, by chance, it were recent, or if her eyes were playing tricks on her. It was not wet and did not smear. The sight of the blood seemed entrancing. It was so real, so immediate. This wasn't Somalia or Kosovo where, when the body of an enemy combatant fell, it deserved no more attention than stepping on a roach, this was
a house on 1234 Main street, Anytown USA – Anytown that just happened to be hers.

  She closed the sliding door and pulled the curtain shut to restrict as much light as possible and allow her eyes to adjust to the dark. Soon, objects in the house shone darkly with an obsidian sparkle. She reached over and swiped at the kitchen light switch. Though, two switches flipped up with a 'pop', nothing happened and she figured as much.

  “Anyone here?” She said softly, her curiosity urging her on, past the kitchen table. She opened the basement door and descended the stairs, where the intensity of rank death seeped through her t-shirt. Covering her nose and mouth, she moved into the darkness of the basement with chary resolve, as if its blackness were draped, heavy silk, her Glock thrust forward into it like some spear, behind it its champion who was not as certain in this environment – cautiously easing her way down the stairs into the basement – as she had been when Pavel Ozerov took fifteen rounds to the torso in Kosovo, 1995. The gunfire did not stop, however. But then, as had happened recently in this house, blood was shed, and in her mind the lever between good soldier and human was flipped. As her sparse and spread out fellow combatants covered her from a 5 story gutted building, another from behind an overturned Mercedes-Benz, Heather did not drag him, but placed all 136 pounds of herself under him, anchored him on her shoulders, planted her feet and heaved the man from the concrete/metallic rubble on wobbling legs, one careful step at a time, as not to topple them and start the process over. The occasional round of ammunition plucked at her feet and spit up quick plumes of soil, but they were merely fireflies.

  “They're nothing but fireflies,” she grunted, repeating to herself, recalling some playful time in childhood where Matthew Spicher and his booger finger were the closest things to danger. Unlike the military, her group of soldiers didn't have the luxury of a medic and the walk to the extraction point would be five miles.

  Even if it was war – preemptive war, if it can be called that – there was an understanding in that place and in the black arts of covert operations: The enemy had his ground, she had hers. Each defended their ground until the other occupied it. The end. Maybe beers later. After all, humans did that. She never hated the enemy combatants, because they were like her, fighting for something that someone else deemed important. This nonsense ahead of her, only a few feet now, and its stench could not be created by a human, could not be produced by the same genetic material that had produced her friends Cal Anderson and Pavel Ozerov and her, and PK – it could not be the work of human hands.