When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  Okay, she thought, let’s make this happen. God, please be in this with us.

  5:11 P.M.

  PIZZA WAS BEING stuffed into the mouths of two still-willing-to-participate police officers. Brent gave all of them—his wife, Jenna, and Karen—who was interacting by video conference—the lowdown on how they would proceed.

  “Karen, did you get the clue sheet that I scanned and e-mailed?”

  “Opening it right now,” she responded; her voice and video stream impressively clear.

  “Good. You and Tara are responsible for doing some research on possibilities. We’re going to need background on the Picti people—the ancient ones. What is there to know about them? Why did their religion go away? Why is their religion so important to these new Picti that they would be willing to break the law?

  “As for what they want to accomplish, John, Tracy, and I will be responsible for that research. We’ve got only these clues to work with.

  “Jenna, you are going to be responsible for a couple of different things. You can shift back and forth in research. Keep an eye on what both the ladies and the men are doing. Try to mentally piece things together. Nothing is too far-fetched at this point to be ruled out, so as soon as you think you have something viable to add, you let me know.

  “Your other responsibility is this whiteboard. It’s divided into ‘Soft’ and ‘Hard’ information categories. When we are confident that we’ve figured out a piece of this puzzle, it goes onto the hard side. Any possibilities that we think may have some merit, those will go on the soft side. Got it?”

  Jenna nodded quickly; listening, her eyes intense.

  “Okay, hop to the board.”

  Jenna stepped to the board and picked up a blue dry-erase marker, opened it and waited.

  “All right, everyone, what do we know?”

  “There’s likely to be an orchestrated car accident, with the intention of killing the driver and/or passenger,” answered John Eldredge.

  Jenna wrote below ‘HARD’ Car Accident - death

  “At least part of whatever we’re trying to prevent is scheduled for around 1:00 a.m.”

  Jenna looked. That was already on the board, among the list of clues that her dad had placed up there:

  Th. a.m. A.C.

  • “AEA”: D.M. Rem. Tran. – ABCS & Arm. Sen. – Approx 1:00 a.m. -50

  • A.C.: S.O. BB/Cad. Pch.

  • Est. Ali.

  -18!

  Brent looked at them. Having been hand-written, they almost seemed to be a whole new set of clues.

  Karen chimed in. “Maybe we should assume that the ‘C’ in ‘A.C.’ is ‘Ceremony.’

  “Jenna, put that in the soft category,” instructed her dad. “Anything else that we can know for sure?”

  After a moment, Tracy Larkin spoke. “Yeah, we can know for sure that we can’t let that 10-18 happen.”

  A feeling of fear, cloaked in resolve, seemed to rest upon everyone at that moment. All in the room, including Karen, already knew what that -18 meant.

  If the words ten-eighteen came out of the mouth of Chief Connor in the morning, it would mean they had been too late.

  THE OPS CENTER had been abuzz with activity for a little over an hour. Jenna was excited, scared, and very aware that she was playing an important role in a life or death situation.

  She would probably have nightmares about this night, especially if they didn’t figure this all out in time. Unfortunately, though, not another piece of the puzzle, hard or soft, had yet found its way onto the whiteboard.

  She found that the most important thing that she could do in the midst of all of the activity was listen. Listen for something that she could enter into the browser of her own laptop and hopefully find a piece to the puzzle.

  She was searching, now, for anything to do with “AEA” associated with “accident”. Then she Tried “AEA” with “car” and then “auto” and then “automobile.”

  Nothing that seemed to be a fit.

  She overheard her dad saying, “The A.C., if it is a ceremony, seems to be the key event here, not the accident. It appears in the header, then it follows the accident. So the A.C. is the climax to whatever’s scheduled to take place.

  “Do you want either of us to focus on one or the other?” asked Tracy.

  Her dad thought for a moment. “Either of you have an automotive background at all?”

  “My dad is a mechanic,” answered John. “Used to hang around with him quite a bit before entering the academy.”

  “Then you’ve got the accident. Tracy, I want you on the A.C.”

  “Got it,” both men said in unison.

  Jenna was watching her dad with new eyes. He had always been her hero, but now she was watching him do what he did best, be a hero to anyone who needed him, whether they knew they needed saving or not.

  She had never been so proud to be a part of this family.

  “God,” she whispered, “please, help my dad and all of us get this done before it’s too late.”

  TARA AND KAREN were trying to coordinate their efforts so that they wouldn’t be looking at same Internet sites. The easiest way to prevent that seemed to be just announcing the name of the site that one or the other had just entered.

  So far they had dug up mostly repeated information. There was far less information about the Picti than either of them had supposed. The whole Pecti-Wita witchcraft thing didn’t really seem to go back further than maybe a hundred years.

  One piece of information that both of them agreed was particularly interesting was a man named Kenneth MacAlpin who had apparently been the one who defeated the Picts back in 843 A.D. He had apparently, also, slaughtered the King of the Picts and the remaining heirs to the throne by plunging them into a pit filled with spikes.

  In several of the websites it was repeatedly called “MacAlpin’s Treason.” They would keep this information at the forefront of their minds as they continued searching for more relevant information about the Picti people of northern Scotland.

  Their perusing of site after site after site had also shown that there was a strong connection between the Picti and hundreds of what were called ‘standing stones.’ They populated northern Scotland, and recently a group of anthropologists came to the common belief that the symbols on the stones may actually be the original Pictish language.

  MacAlpin came back to the forefront of Tara’s mind, yet again.

  “Jenna?”

  “Yes, Mom?” Jenna walked up to her.

  “Something for the board. MacAlpin’s Treason. See how it’s spelled? Soft side of the board.”

  Jenna nodded and walked to the large white board.

  Karen spoke up. “I think you’re right about that. Just a hunch. Also, I think I may have found something else. I Binged the year 2011 and Picti, but didn’t come up with anything. But when I made it 2011 and Pictish, I got several news articles out of Scotland, England, and Ireland talking about pieces of archaeological finds that had been stolen. Here, I’ll send you some of the links.”

  Tara received them and began to read the articles.

  Hmm… This sounds familiar. But where would I have… Donna!

  Tara picked up her cell phone and dialed Donna McNeill.

  “Hi, Tara! Was just thinking about you!” She sounded as cheerful as always. But then her voice came down to a near whisper. “How are things with Brent?”

  Tara had to smile at how her whisper over there was supposed to keep Brent from hearing. “Brent?” She looked over at her husband who heard his name mentioned and met her gaze. “Brent’s fine. It’s all good.”

  “I’m so glad. I was worried.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Seems like my stalker’s gone and it’s back to life almost as usual. So happy about that! But I’m still concerned about David’s activities.”

  “I don’t blame you. Donna, remember when you were talking with us about your trip to Scotland and Ireland with David?”

&nbs
p; “Of course. What about it?”

  “Just a quick question. Does the Key of Bridei or pieces of a broken standing stone sound familiar to you?”

  “Why, yes! David and I got to see the Key of Bridei at Trinity College in Dublin! He was very excited about it. I have to say that it was the nicest of the objects that we saw on our trip. Well, of the stone objects, anyway. The Book of Kells at the college was amazing, too! The artwork. Oh, Tara, you should have …”

  “Donna, thank you so much for the information. Something’s come up and I’ve got to run.”

  “Oh! Okay, Tara. Have a good evening!”

  “You, too, Dearheart.”

  She ended the call.

  “Brent!”

  He was there in a moment. “What is it?”

  “I think Karen and I just found the first true link to a crime. And we can connect David McNeill to it.”

  “Tell me.”

  She had Brent read two of the articles. One dealt with stolen pieces of a standing stone from Portmahomack, Scotland and another pertained to the heist of an object called the ‘Key of Bridei’.

  “Okay, what’s the connection?”

  “David and Donna had visited Trinity College, specifically to look at this key.”

  “So, somehow the objects in these two heists are interconnected. What’s the relationship between the key and this particular standing stone?”

  “We’ll search.”

  “Jenna!” called Brent.

  “Yes?” she said with a sly grin, already listening over his shoulder.

  “Cute. Go write stuff on the board.”

  “Got it!”

  “Okay, guys,” announced Brent, “The girls are winning this race. Let’s ramp it up!”

  Stephanie reflected upon all of the activity surrounding the events of the coming evening. The majority of the Home Coven was already at the farm. Several were out at MacKay Hill, prepping the site for the Appeasement Ceremony. They had dug out a shallow basin in the top of the mound. The freshly exposed dirt would allow blood to quickly seep into the ground. Visqueen plastic sheeting was laid around the basin’s perimeter in case of splatter. The last thing that needed to be detectable on any of the surrounding blades of grass was evidence of a crime having been committed. Especially a bloody one.

  Brendan and David were downstairs in the dining room going over how to make sure that any and all evidence would be removed from the property.

  Chief Connor, Dean McClain, and Brook Shaw were out on the other side of the town on some out-of-the-way stretch of rural road. Somehow arrangements had been made to capture the MacAlpin girl there and cart her back to the farmhouse property.

  Stephanie stood in the third floor spare bedroom, a cold glass of lemonade in her right hand. The especially-warm evening had prompted her to call down to David and request a glass. It was always warmer upstairs in the old house, especially on the third floor where there was no air conditioning. She could feel the perspiration rising to the surface of her skin. She tilted the glass back, drained the last of its tart contents, and set it down on an old dresser of drawers.

  It would be here, in this room, that the MacAlpin girl would be dressed. Stephanie laid the white dress down on the bed, the hem just inches off the floor. Whoever she is, she is going to look beautiful in it, she thought.

  She felt again a sensation in the pit of her stomach that she had been playing off as just-so-much nervous energy. She wanted to be done with the ceremony.

  But why?

  Why wasn’t she anticipating it instead? For nearly thirty years she had given herself to this. It was to be the beginning of everything she had hoped for. Power, purpose, and fulfillment.

  Maybe it was the channeling of the Hag about which she was having such misgivings. No pleasurable thought there, to be sure. But she had survived it once, and she would survive it this time, too. Besides if Brendan required it…

  Trophy! Whore!

  Why could she not rid herself of those words?!

  Because you’re being used, and you know it. She had to admit that to herself. But it had always been her role. All of them had a purpose. This was her purpose. Right?

  “You were everything that I wanted to be.” Tara’s voice echoed in her mind; echoes from their dinner together at Dekkers.

  “…the One you call enemy. He wants you as his daughter.”

  “Stop it!” Stephanie hissed, just above a whisper. “Just shut up!” She threw her hands up to the sides of her head as if to create a barrier of protection for her mind.

  “God, the Father, Stephanie. The Creator of the Universe.”

  Anger cycled through Stephanie; the gnawing replaced with an urge to lash out. She marched down one flight of stairs and into her bedroom. Walking over to her vanity, she angrily snatched up her cell phone and quickly walked down the last flight of stairs. Reaching the landing, she took care not to slam into the screen door as she exited the house. She didn’t want to alert Brendan to her current emotional state.

  Standing on the porch she looked to her left and out to MacKay Hill. Tiki torches were lit around its circumference. It looked mystical. But she cared little about that for the moment. She walked down the three porch steps and turned right to go around the house and head back toward the garage. There she would be afforded some privacy.

  She had Tara’s home phone number. Though she had doubted it would ever get used, she had still taken the time to program the number into her cell phone. Finding the number, she selected it and pressed “send”.

  JENNA RAN TO grab the ringing phone on the closest end table in the living room. She looked at the caller ID. Just a number, no name.

  “Hello?”

  There was silence.

  “Hello?” she asked again.

  “Is Tara Lawton available?”

  “Yes, one moment, please. Mom? For you.” Jenna walked the phone over to her mom.

  “Hello?”

  “You do not know me, Tara! Don’t ever assume that you do! Those lies about your God…! You were trying to get into my head. Weren’t you?”

  “Stephanie?”

  That got everyone’s attention.

  “Just watch yourself, missy. And just leave me the hell alone!”

  The call went dead. Tara sat stunned, slowly lowering the phone from her ear. She could hardly process what had just happened.

  A perplexed look overtook her facial features. “That was Stephanie.”

  “What did she want?” asked Brent.

  “Just to chew me out, it would seem. She said something about what I had said to her at the restaurant. She ranted about God being lies and that I was trying to get into her head.”

  Karen’s voice came up out of her computer. “She’s lashing out, Tara. She’s lashing out the same way that you did. Remember? On our backpacking trip? You wanted everything that I had said to you about God and salvation to be lies, and you made sure I knew it.”

  The revelation shook Tara to her core. “I’m sorry, everybody. I’ve got to go pray.”

  “Yes, you do, dear friend. Be her hero,” replied Karen.

  Tara got up from her chair and was about to walk away when she heard Karen’s voice again.

  “Tara will you face your laptop’s camera toward the whiteboard for me?”

  Tara took care of that immediately. Looking to Brent, she said, “You know where I’ll be.”

  She headed for the stairs.

  “Say some prayers for us, too,” he called after her.

  Brent looked at his watch, then spoke to the room. “Okay, gang, we’ve got just over three hours to find a very good reason to call in the state troopers. Let’s find it. We can do this!”

  9:00 P.M.

  NIGHT WAS DESCENDING upon the rural outskirts of Pittston. Jim Connor watched the blinking red and amber lights above the intersection; Donna McNeill’s lights were red. Dean McClain’s were amber.

  Blink. Blink. Blink.

  He stood in the middle of th
e road, facing the direction from which David’s sister would be arriving.

  Twins. He wondered if David would sense something the moment that his sister perished. He made a mental note to ask him someday.

  The Pittston police chief heard Brook race her car’s engine behind him. She was ready for another dry run. He looked down the street to his left and saw Dean finish backing his truck into position. He flashed his headlights indicating that he was ready for another go.

  The International F4900 dump truck was used quite a bit on Dean’s farm, which was about twenty-five miles to the east in Mantua Corners. It featured a 250 horsepower diesel engine and could get up to speed pretty quickly for something its size. It sported a short and shallow bucket which made it light on the back end, but the front was near the size of a standard all-purpose dump truck and would put a hurtin’ on any car that ended up in its path.

  Dean had called a local repair center about his truck earlier in the day, complaining about a hydraulic leak below the bucket. The owner of the place told him he could bring it in and leave it in their parking lot to have it looked at some time during the day on Thursday; a valid reason to be driving these back roads late on a Wednesday night. If asked about getting back home, he would have been intending to call a cab to complete the return trip.

  Connor gave a wave above his head, signaling the vehicles to approach the intersection again. Dean would be approaching without headlights on. The derelict store on the corner would allow ample reason for not having ‘had time’ to stop his truck as the car strayed into the intersection without having stopped for his ‘right of way.’ Unfortunately, the store was also the reason that the timing hadn’t been quite right yet.

  They didn’t matter too much, these practice runs. After all, one could never predict the reaction of Donna McNeill when the impossible happened. Would she hit her brakes? Forget about them as a result of her own fear and pain?