When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  BRENDAN AND THE rest of the Home Coven approached the ceremonial mound and ascended to the top. They took positions standing in a circle around Stephanie, Brendan at her head. He watched as the woman struggled, but now she didn’t say a word. She was no longer begging.

  “No time like the present,” Brendan began. “I see no reason for a lot of ceremony for what we are about to do. But we will be calling on Cailleach the Hag. The goddess, herself, will guide us in this act of revenge and will let us know if the appeasement of the Pictish gods has been accomplished. Then…” A big smile lit up his face. “Then we will celebrate! For this is the day of our redemption!”

  He looked into the eyes of each of his followers. Smiles and excitement were evident on every face, man and woman alike.

  Brendan threw his head back, stretched out his arms, and said with a shout of exclamation, “The Redeeming Age is about to begin!”

  STEPHANIE STILLED HERSELF as best she could. Her heart raced and she could not take a steady breath. Her whole body trembled uncontrollably.

  This is it. This is it.

  She gasped for a breath. It felt as though she might vomit. Her eyes shot back and forth between Brendan’s face and the ceremonial knife, a ballock dagger that he was holding in his left hand. It was a long blade with a blue agate hilt. Stephanie had seen it on many occasions. Brendan had once told her that he would pull it out from time to time to remind him of the importance of what they were doing.

  The beautiful and dreadful instrument had been handed down to him from his father’s brother. His uncle had created it with the belief that he was the one to usher in the Redeeming Age. It was covered with Pictish scrollwork and symbols. Beautiful it might be, but now it was every bit an object of terror.

  “Kneel, faithful Picti,” commanded Brendan in a steady, calm voice. He was peering directly into Stephanie’s eyes as he sank to his knees.

  God the Father, Stephanie, came Tara’s words again. The Creator of the Universe, the one you call enemy. He wants you as his daughter.

  It can’t be true, she lamented inwardly, unable to pull her eyes from Brendan’s gaze.

  He loves you, Stephanie. He loves you passionately.

  “Cailleach, goddess of the Picti people!” Brendan began, arms once again outstretched. “We invoke your name and seek your power and guidance. Into your hands I give myself. I am your vessel. Enter. Fill. Fulfill.”

  All was silent, except for the sound of Stephanie’s own pulse and ragged breathing.

  Brendan remained kneeling, arched backward, head back.

  Though Stephanie had personally experienced what happened next, it still caused her blood to run cold to see it take place. Brendan’s eyes shot open and his mouth opened wide, as if pried apart. She heard him gasp in pain as Cailleach began to enter. His throat got wide, as if swallowing a softball. He was a snake ingesting an overly-large prey. His back then arched further back, into an impossible horse-shoe shape.

  A softly-emitted cry began to form. Whether from pain or from the goddess, Stephanie didn’t know, but it grew in intensity. Louder and louder and impossibly long. His lungs couldn’t have held that much air.

  Stephanie’s eyes left Brendan, hoping to find a source of help from those around her. But the Picti were terrified, several of them holding hands over their ears. Stephanie wanted to do the same. She yanked at her restraints.

  She pulled at them again with all of her strength. “PLEASE!” she howled, her scream combining with Cailleach’s.

  Then it stopped. Silence again.

  Stephanie arched her neck backward to see Brendan’s body become upright once again; his back making popping noises as the vertebrae repositioned. The sound was sickening.

  When Brendan’s body was back in proper human form, he brought his eyes down to stare into Stephanie’s. His face had contorted into an evil scowl.

  Then he—it—spoke, a voice as old and dry as Death Valley; a voice that less than a month prior had ushered forth from her very own mouth.

  “Remember? Few survive.”

  Tara and Jenna kept their distance behind the last of the police vehicles that had sped by them, but she still kept pace. They weren’t using sirens, but the light bars of the six cruisers and one SUV illuminated the night.

  They approached the turn-off that, according to Tara’s GPS, would lead straight to the Baird farm, yet another two miles down the road. Suddenly all seven of the light bars went dark just prior to the vehicles making their turns. Tara hoped that as they made the turn, their van would be perceived as just another responding unit.

  They sped along the rural road until they were about a quarter of a mile away. Then all of the vehicles seemed to start coasting, not using brakes.

  They don’t want anyone to see brake lights, Tara thought.

  She looked over at her daughter. Her eyes and face were intense, but she didn’t seem panicky.

  The police officers rolled their vehicles to a stop in the center of the road. They obviously weren’t going to allow any traffic to get by. She stopped her van on the right shoulder, using her emergency brake to bring it to a stop. No lights.

  The police officers and sheriff’s deputies were already out of their vehicles and assembling. She could see that they were all wearing protective vests, some emblazoned with STATE POLICE in white, others reading SHERIFF in yellow.

  Tara and Jenna got out of the van and quietly closed the doors. As Jenna walked around to the driver’s side, two Summit County deputies ran toward them, weapons out, but not aimed.

  “Stay where you are!” called one, short of a shout.

  As they approached, the second deputy said, “Hands where we can see them! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  Tara and Jenna were startled, but compliant.

  “My name is Tara Lawton. This is my daughter. My husband is up there.”

  The first deputy spoke again. “Your husband, is he on the farm or is he a cop?”

  “My husband is the one who led the investigation. He’s up there now.”

  “Ma’am, show me some I.D.”

  Tara opened the door of her car to reach for her purse.

  “Slowly, Ma’am.”

  She pulled her purse out and set it on the ground, so that the deputy could have a downward look into it. He leaned down and shined his tactical light into the bag. She pulled out her wallet and withdrew her driver’s license.

  The first deputy looked at it and returned it. “Ma’am you have to stay back here. You can’t enter the property. Do you understand?”

  Tara nodded her head in disappointment. “But we can stay right here?”

  The second deputy responded. “Only if you remain behind our cruiser.”

  “We will.”

  The deputies took off to catch up with their team.

  THE REQUIRED INTRODUCTIONS had been made. Lieutenant Given maintained jurisdictional authority over the scene. It was time to set up the raid.

  Four state troopers took positions on the drivers’ sides of the two cars in front of the house, training scoped rifles at the ceremony on the mound.

  There were a total of twenty-three law-enforcement officers, plus Brent. As much as he wanted to be at the forefront of what was about to happen, he understood his place. Without a badge, his authority was little more than that of a rent-a-cop.

  He was told that he would have to stay to the left side of either of the two cars. He chose the police chief’s cruiser, closest to the house.

  Brent could see that the remaining force of eighteen police officers, still hidden behind the stand of trees, were formed and ready to assault the mound. Weapons were drawn, rifles and shotguns were positioned.

  Lieutenant Given stepped out from the tree line with a bullhorn. He was about to lift it to his mouth when a cry came from the front door of the farmhouse.

  “Noooo!”

  A lone man holding a rifle rushed out onto the front porch and trained the rifle at the mound. He aimed and fi
red!

  The bullet cartridge’s report drew two hand guns in his direction, one of them Brent’s. And one of them fired, opening a hole in the right side of the man’s ribcage, collapsing him to the ground.

  With the element of surprise gone, the lieutenant dropped the bullhorn and yelled, “On me!” bringing the force of eighteen men around the tree line with him.

  Brent, and the state trooper who had discharged his weapon, ran to the farmhouse to clear the scene. Brent reached the rifle first and kicked it away. The trooper went for the door, bobbing his head in front of it to get quick peeks into the residence. He opened the door and entered.

  CAILLEACH HAD ONE last comment to make before using Brendan to thrust the ballock dagger into Stephanie’s rib cage.

  “The power that we grant today comes from the ancients of days. It is ours to bestow and take away. Remain faithful and remain blessed.

  “Princes! Powers! Authorities! I prepare for you a feast!”

  Brendan’s left hand, clasping the dagger, rose above his head before finally…

  STEPHANIE HELD HER breath and closed her eyes. She would now know what it felt like to have life wrenched out of her body.

  I deserve this.

  That was the last thought she was granted before she heard someone scream “Noooo!” and a gunshot rang out from her right. Then another. She kept her eyes closed, barely distracted from her own imminent demise.

  Her lungs were beginning to feel the burn of having air that needed to be expelled, but the anticipation of her death played on. The expected agony, resulting from the puncturing of skin, the breaking of bone, and the rupturing of vital organs, still hadn’t happened.

  She risked opening her eyes and exhaled. With sight came the realization that not only was the blade still suspended in the air, but chaos had erupted all around her. The Home Coven was scattering into the field away from…

  Stephanie turned her head in the direction that Brendan’s was now facing. Police! A lot of them! They were rounding the trees that hid the driveway!

  Her heart leapt!

  Then it about shriveled within her as she heard Cailleach release a scream of such fury and evil that she thought she may die from the sound alone. She looked up. Brendan’s eyes were on her chest again. No longer accepting the distractions, he lifted the blade up a few more inches in order to drive it down with maximum force.

  A hole that wasn’t there a fraction of a second prior curiously appeared in his right temple. His eyes went unfocused as a spray of pink mist ejected from the left side of his head.

  The blade fell from his hand as Brendan collapsed forward, narrowly missing Stephanie’s face and landing across her left shoulder.

  She screamed.

  ELDREDGE AND GIVEN saw their target, and he was running away just like all of the others dressed in white. Weapons in their right hands, flashlights in their left, the two Pittston police officers had the advantage of seeing where they were going as they gave pursuit across the field.

  A glint of light, a reflection that was periodically visible at Connor’s right side indicated that he still had his weapon. If he were to make it into the trees and find a good place to hide, this could get bloody.

  Given called out, “Chief Connor! Drop your weapon and stand down!”

  The man apparently realized he had been found out. His pace dropped from sprint, to jog, to a walk, then to that of a middle-aged man circling in the grass out of breath.

  As Eldredge continued to approach at a run, he could see the handgun drop from Connor’s hand. The chief walked a few steps back in their direction and ‘assumed the position.’ Dropping to his knees, he interlaced his fingers above his head, crossed his feet behind him, and waited.

  John reached him first. “Get on your stomach, Chief,” he commanded, his 9MM Glock semi-automatic trained on the man’s chest. “Hands behind your back.”

  Connor didn’t say a word. The look on his face was that of a man bewildered. This obviously hadn’t been part of the chief’s plans for the night.

  Eldredge could hear the sounds of a dozen or more police officers giving chase, making arrests, and plowing through the woods. Dropping his flashlight, John grabbed handcuffs out of one of the pouches on his belt. He waited for Lieutenant Given to arrive and cover him so he could holster his weapon and secure the alleged perpetrator of a murder that was already under investigation on the far side of the Village of Pittston.

  Eldredge dropped to one knee and placed the chief in cuffs. As he began to help him up, the Lieutenant began to read, very carefully, from a small card that he had pulled from his chest pocket.

  “Chief James Connor, you have the right to remain silent…”

  Brent sat on the porch, his back against the wood siding of the house. He cradled a head with thick dark hair. The man was having trouble breathing. And for good reason. The state trooper’s bullet had pierced the man’s right lung from behind and tore a ragged hole through his chest. The oxygen required to enrich his blood and feed his brain was being received in his chest at half-of-normal capacity. Even that would soon end, though. There was no way for Brent to stop his bleeding.

  He knew who the man was. It was David McNeill. He was older by some years, but still recognizable from all of the pictures that Donna had shared from their trip to the British Isles.

  David’s eyes tracked upward to meet Brent’s. He spoke through a gurgle of blood—red foam— that filled his mouth.

  “They killth … mah … my shis-ster.”

  Brent nodded.

  “We… wuh wrong. Lied to … ush.”

  “David, listen to me. Jesus. Call to him. He loves you.”

  “Hurts… cold…”

  “David, Jesus. He will forgive you. Ask him to be your Savior. He will forgive you.”

  David’s eyes were getting glassy. Each breath becoming shallower and further apart. He was departing this realm.

  “David, can you hear me?”

  David’s body stiffened. His breath caught. Brent knew this was it.

  One last exhale with one last word. “Jee-zush…”

  He was gone.

  IT HAD BEEN five agonizing minutes since Tara and Jenna had heard the three rounds of gunfire. They held each other, mother reassuring daughter that everything was okay. What Tara would give to have someone doing the same thing for her just then.

  They stood just left of the sheriff deputies’ vehicle; the one they were supposed to be remaining behind. Since the moment they had heard the shots and the screams of a woman that sounded very much like Stephanie, they began inching—quite literally inching—their way forward. How could anyone have been expected to stay put? It was cruel.

  Tara heard something. She angled her ear to listen behind them, down the road. There it was again. A siren.

  More police?

  “Mom, do you hear that?”

  Tara nodded, still paying attention to the sound. The low guttural trilling sound of the siren could be heard in short blasts. She recognized the sound.

  “It’s EMS.”

  “An ambulance?” Jenna looked into her mom’s eyes. “Mom?”

  Tara could feel her daughter’s breathing quicken. Jenna no longer wanted to be held. She let go.

  Jenna must have interpreted the action as permission, because she turned and sprinted for the driveway to the farm.

  “Jenna!”

  Tara ran after her. By the time she reached her daughter, she realized she didn’t want to stop her. She wanted to pass her. Adrenaline pushed her faster than she thought herself capable.

  “Oh, God,” she prayed, her voice vibrating with each step. “Make them be all right.”

  She slipped on some loose gravel and nearly fell as she made the left turn up the driveway, but she regained both her balance and her momentum.

  Two police officers returning to their vehicles saw them approaching and commanded them to stop. But she ignored them. They would have to tackle her from behind if they could
catch her.

  Tara could see the end of the trees, followed by two cars and a house. She pressed forward, not easing up from her sprint.

  Tara and Jenna finally reached the clearing and pulled up when they reached the vehicles. One of them was a police cruiser. Their heads and eyes darted around, taking in the scene. Torches to their right by a hill. Police officers milling about. Two men lying on the porch of the house.

  Tara did a double take and screamed! “Brent!” She was already moving forward again when she saw blood all over his shirt. Jenna’s panicked cry added to her need to reach her husband.

  Brent’s right hand flew up. “Tara, stop! Stop right there!”

  She did. Just short of ascending the first step.

  “Stay down there. I don’t want you to see this. The blood isn’t mine. I’m okay.”

  Tara intercepted Jenna by grabbing her left arm as she began to bound up the steps. It caused Jenna to lose balance and fall on the stairs.

  “Ouch!”

  Tara was out of breath. She let go of her daughter’s arm and doubled over, hands on her knees. “I’m sorry, Jenna,” she panted. “You heard. You can’t.”

  She found enough breath again to stand up and look into Brent’s eyes, deliberately avoiding the body he was cradling.

  She had to know. “Who is it? Is it…” She stopped.

  “It’s David McNeill.”

  Tara’s emotions were about to get the better of her again. “Oh no. Dear God, no.” She turned away, her right hand coming to her mouth. It was then that she saw the woman. Silhouetted by the torchlight from the mound, she was being escorted by two police officers toward the house; one of them wearing a Millsville police uniform; Tracy Larkin.

  Tara stepped slowly away from her daughter, who was remaining obedient to her dad’s directive, and she walked toward the woman.

  It’s her. I’m sure of it.

  She picked up her pace. The woman was close enough now that the illumination from the porch lights showed her face. It was Stephanie. She had obviously not yet been identified as a suspect, as her hands were still free of handcuffs.