A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  “And they came after you? Is that why you fell?”

  “No,” I said, smiling despite the serious nature of the conversation. “I’m a klutz. Always have been. I just ran out of ground to walk on and fell into the river. Thank God, you found me.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.” He let out a long whistle. “What an experience.”

  “Lew, I gotta tell you, you may be putting yourself in danger by keeping me here. In case you haven’t guessed by now, that thing in my backpack is their Holy Grail, their highest treasure, and they’re not going to stop looking for it.”

  “You can stop worrying about that. This is my land and I’ll defend it against anyone who crosses the wrong line.” He scratched his head, thinking again. “You know, there’s a hunting cabin on the western border of my land. It’s empty most of the time, but hunting parties use it from time to time to rest, grab a quick meal, or sometimes stay the night in bad weather. I could get out there in a few weeks, when you’re up and around a bit, and leave a note for someone to send a plane up to the lake, get you out of here.”

  “Jesus, a few weeks—”

  “You won’t be up and walking for at least another week, and that’s gonna be with the help of a crutch. Someone’s gotta be here to cook for you, take care of you.”

  Again, I felt as helpless as a child. “I know, I know. Just thinking that a few weeks is a long time.”

  “Yeah, but you’re lucky. Death’s even longer.”

  I shut up. He had a good point.

  The next hour passed quickly, both of us running our mouths until our throats were sore. I told him more about my experiences at the camp, about my life in Philly. He told me about how he’d met his wife, the time spent overseas while in the military. At twenty minutes past ten o’clock, we said our goodnights, and soon after I was asleep.

  5

  Two weeks later…

  “All right!” I yelled. “That’s the biggest one of the day.” I watched Lew as he slowly walked to shore, the clear water moving swiftly around his rubber waders. He plopped the fat trout to the ground—where it flipped from side to side—and gave me a big smile. In the weeks I’d been here, under Lew’s care, a bond had formed between us. It was as if the dire circumstances had allowed us to forgo the usual stepping stones of friendship, and progress directly to the strongest of relationships.

  “I think I’ll nail three or four more keepers and we’ll call it a day, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’m going back and grab us a couple more beers.”

  He looked at me, the worried expression that I had already learned to dread creasing his face. “Maybe I’d better—”

  “Now, don’t go looking at me like that, Lew. You know damn well I can walk just fine with the crutch you made.” I picked up the heavy pole and waggled it in his direction. “It’s a two-minute walk to the cabin.”

  “Well, you be careful,” he said, dropping his trout into the cooler with the other fish. “Look out for holes and rocks. And watch out for all those tree roots. There’s some monster roots around this river. I’ve tripped on them a few times myself.”

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “And, hey, some of those roots are hard to see.”

  I could still hear the old guy chattering away with his warnings when I reached the cabin. I took two frosty bottles of beer from the kitchen cooler and a pack of Oreo cookies from the counter and limped into the den, looking for Lew’s pipe. He allowed himself two smokes a day, and I thought he’d probably enjoy one after all his hard work. I spotted the old bulldog pipe on the bookshelf next to a stack of thick aircraft reference books and what looked like a photo album. I grabbed the pipe, and absently flipped open the album cover.

  Four rows of small black-and-white photos covered the first page. Each picture, faded and yellowed with age, was attached by tiny adhesives on the corners. The first three pages of the album held childhood memories—images of a young boy with a baseball cap on backwards, riding the shoulders of an older man. A child atop a painted horse on a merry-go-round. On a tire swing. In a cute little dark suit, holding hands with a smiling mother and father.

  The middle pages held memories from older years. Bare-chested men crouched on the wing of a WWII bomber. A young Lew trying to look street-tough in full dress uniform. A smiling beauty who must have been Carmella. A simply wonderful shot of Lew and Carmella, arm in arm, on their wedding day…

  I heard something behind me and whirled, almost losing my balance.

  Nothing.

  Suddenly, standing there looking at the pictures from years long past, I felt guilty for probing into my friend’s life without being offered an invitation. Hurriedly, I snapped the photo album shut and as I turned to leave, a single picture fell from its pages and fluttered to my feet. I pushed the photo across the floor with my crutch until I had a better angle at which to retrieve it, bent slowly, and pinched the picture with two fingers. I wiped the dust from the print and almost put it back in the album without looking at it. I spun it very slowly in my fingers, like a playing card, brought it to my face, and almost fainted dead to the floor.

  Oh…

  my…

  God!

  My heart trip-hammered.

  Had to be a mistake.

  Had to be.

  I stared at it for a breathless moment, then stuffed the photo back into the album and started for the river, barely using the crutch, grunting in pain. Act as if nothing has changed, I thought. It could be a mistake. It truly could. But if it’s not, I need to buy some time to think this over. Just act as natural as possible.

  But I knew that was going to be damned near impossible because all my thoughts—sad and very frightened thoughts—were centered on that photo. The small black-and-white picture which had showed a horrifyingly clear image of a smiling, few years younger Lewis Perkins, standing next to New Order’s founder, Lucas Ransom, in front of the congregation’s holy temple.

  6

  Dinner that night was a pair of fat trout and baked potatoes out on the front porch. Autumn twilights this mild were rare for the valley, and Lew wanted to take advantage of the pleasant breeze.

  After the meal, I sat back on the step with the night’s last beer and stretched my leg. Lew rocked himself in his chair, smoking his second pipe. We sat mostly in silence, which was rare for us. Finally, Lew broke the quiet.

  “You been thinking of home today?”

  “Huh?”

  “You been mighty quiet all evening. Thought you might’ve been thinking about back home, missing your friends.”

  “Yeah, I guess I have been. Wondering how much longer it’s going to be.”

  “Shouldn’t be too long now. A hunting party’s bound to see my note anytime soon. Just keep hoping.”

  “It’s all I can do.”

  “You know…I’m really gonna miss you like the dickens when you leave here. Hate to say it, but it’s almost gonna feel like when Carmella passed on. Like I lost a part of me. Just all quiet again.”

  I wanted to say so many things, wanted to say that he was like the father I never knew, wanted to stand up and embrace the old man right there on his front porch in the middle of the dark wilderness, wanted to ask for a simple and clear explanation for what I’d seen. Instead, I just took another swig of beer and watched the stars dance their lonely dance in the endless night sky.

  7

  I could tell by the sun that it was mid-afternoon when I finally regained consciousness. Bright sunlight usually streamed through the window until just after lunch, when, at that time, the trees blocked the rays. The room was in warm shadow now. I tried to blink the fog from my eyes, but it didn’t help. My head pounded, no doubt from whatever had been in that final beer the night before.

  It had been pretty easy to figure things out after I came to and found my legs and arms bound to the bed once again. He’d fooled me good, he sure had; I just hadn’t figured the old guy was going to make a move so soon.

 
; Footsteps.

  “It’s not what you think, Bill.”

  I laughed and it came out harsh and angry. “And just what the hell am I supposed to think, friend? You drugged me, knocked me cold, and strapped me to my damn bed. What am I supposed to think, huh? I’m being punished for leaving the toilet seat up?”

  “I know you saw the pictures.”

  “I saw one damn photo, you bastard.”

  “Please don’t be angry with me.” His voice trembling now.

  “If you’re a part of their crazy clan, why didn’t you just turn me in? Get it over with. Why didn’t you tell them I was here with you?”

  “I’m not a member of the New Order…not anymore. Haven’t been for years. I lied to you. I lied to you about a lot of things…I never left a note in the hunters’ cabin. Never went there at all.”

  “Jesus,” I whispered.

  “And I do know the story of the Sinner King, the story you told me about the Holy Grail. I know it all too well.

  “Ten years ago, Carmella and I lived at the camp. Worshiped there. We had been there for four years and both of us were held in high standing by the priests. Carmella was an educational leader, and I was one of the guardians of the Grail. But I made a terrible mistake, misunderstood the improper advances of a neighbor’s wife. Accidentally encouraged these advances.”

  He stopped, loud sobs shaking his body. “I, too, am what you call a Sinner King. I, too, like the man you watched them burn at the stake, failed in my duty to the Lord. But that was ten long years ago. I have never heard of the sacrifice you described, thank God. They excommunicated us, forced us to leave the camp and abandon the practice of their faith. My dear Carmella died three years later, worn down by grief and shame.”

  My journalist’s mind working full speed, I spotted a ray of hope. An opportunity. “That’s okay, Lewis. It’s all okay. Help me get back to Philadelphia. Help me find someone to fly me out of here. I can write a story that will change the New Order forever, a story that will avenge both of our losses—”

  His eyes widened in surprise…in fear.

  He shook his head rapidly, silencing me. “No, no, no. Don’t you see what all this means? Can’t you see? It became so clear to me last night. You. The Grail. Falling to me from the heavens. It’s a second chance. A second chance to prove that I am worthy. That I am pure enough to protect and watch over the Holy Grail.”

  I saw the madness in his eyes then. Eyes no longer tired or sad. Eyes that danced with desperate insanity. He brushed a strand of hair from my face, gently, lovingly, stroking my brow, and I thought I might be sick.

  “You must stay here with me, Bill. I’m old and will not live forever. Don’t you see? You and the Grail—you were sent to me. The Grail will need a guardian when I pass away, and you…”

  8

  Six weeks later…

  The restraints are no longer necessary. Even if I still wanted to escape, it is not possible. I know that now…after two failed attempts. My leg still bothers me, and I don’t know the land well enough to survive a single night, much less an entire journey. To leave now, in the midst of winter, would be suicide. The cabin is my home now.

  It’s all rather strange. We still talk into the long hours of twilight. Comfortable, easy conversation, spotted with much laughter. We are rarely apart. Eat our meals together. Fish and hunt together when the weather allows. Read or play cards by the fire.

  Lew keeps the Holy Grail on the mantle, balanced on a fancy wooden stand we spent the better half of a week carving and sanding. He kneels and prays before it each morning, and then again in the evening. He keeps after me to join him, like a father badgering his son to go to mass each Sunday. He swears that the Grail speaks to him in the voice of God, comforts him. That if I join him, I too will hear.

  What he doesn’t know yet is that I already hear. As each day passes, the voice inside my head grows louder, clearer, stronger. Tomorrow morning, I will join him before the Grail, and I will listen.

  It is night now, a beautiful winter sky blankets the valley, but I anxiously await daybreak. Lew will be so happy with my change of heart. He never lost faith in me. He tells me each morning, without fail, arms outstretched, that this will all be mine one day soon: the cabin, the valley, the Holy Grail.

  And I think he may be right.

  A SEASON OF CHANGE

  1

  If it wasn’t for the headlights, I never would’ve seen it.

  The house was a spiderweb of shadows, the porch and front lawn lost in darkness. It was after one in the morning, and I was a little drunk and a lot tired. Four hours of Loughlin’s Pub entertainment was all I could handle for one night. Despite a soft spray of moonlight, I never would’ve seen the broken paper clip if a car hadn’t slowed and turned the corner as I reached for the door, its headlights sweeping across the lower half of my home, sparking a tiny glint of silver in the keyhole.

  I reacted predictably at the sight of the tampered with lock. I cussed—not once, but twice—and kicked the door. Made me feel better, too. I knew the key wouldn’t make a fit but, seeing that I was pissed off and pickled and the all-too-familiar combination formed a good enough excuse, I tried anyway.

  I felt the key push the paper clip further into the hole and immediately wondered why the bastard who’d jammed the lock hadn’t stuck around to do the job right. Dog-tired and drunk, and I gotta deal with a goddamned prank. No justice in this world.

  I started to turn around and in midturn, my mind flashed: Or maybe they just didn’t have time to finish the job, maybe they’re still nearby.

  To my right, under the bay window, one of the shadows moved, and instinctively I moved away from it, knowing that my last thought had been a correct one. A second shadow, to my left this time, elongated and the rosebushes exploded. I heard clothing tear and a grunt of pain. And then I felt my head explode and heard nothing at all.

  2

  The first thing I saw when I came to was the moon. And the pointy son of a bitch was laughing at me.

  I was flat on my back, underneath the den window, a few yards to the right of the porch. Taking deep, slow breaths, I reached down and touched the emptiness in my waistband.

  “Son of a bitch,” I whispered. Wasn’t gonna look good. Over ten years on the street, and a couple of damn thieves kick my ass, take my gun, and roll me under a bush like a dead bird. No sir, wasn’t gonna look good at all.

  My head roared when I moved to check the time. The familiar glow-in-the-dark dials told me that only fifteen minutes had passed. And the fact that I still had the two-year-old Seiko on my wrist told me that the guys who’d nailed me weren’t petty crooks.

  I felt the back of my skull and my fingers came away wet to the knuckles. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered again, shaking my head.

  I struggled to my feet, after a couple of sad attempts, and walked very slowly to the porch. My keys were gone, of course, and the door was still closed. Didn’t mean the bastards weren’t inside, though. With another flash of pain, I bent and checked for the paper clip. It was still in place. This time I didn’t bother to try the lock. I’m not that stupid.

  I crept around the house and found the extra back-door key that I keep hidden underneath the plastic birdbath. The sliding glass door looked untouched; I unlocked it and stepped inside. In addition to my gun cabinet, which I showcase in the den, I keep an extra 9mm in the garage. I swung right in a crouch, slipped through the cluttered breezeway, and retrieved the gun. Then I searched the rest of the house, hitting the downstairs first. I’d turned on just about every light in the house and checked every room except the bathroom when, as I crossed the hall, I itched my forehead and my fingertips came away smeared an obscene red. Too glossy for blood. I flipped the bathroom overhead on and stepped in front of the mirror.

  The harsh light stung my eyes, but I could see my reflection clear enough to start my entire body shaking. My hair was slicked with sweat and blood and a patch near the back was spiked and tangled from w
here I’d rubbed it. My eyes were wide and nervous, my cheeks flushed with pain and adrenaline. I’d looked worse before—hell, I’d looked worse without having my ass kicked—but what scared the very crap out of me was the word that had been written, in smeared lipstick, across the length of my forehead.

  The word that read: MAILMAN

  3

  It took all of six seconds for my brain to register what the word meant and another six for me to reach the phone. I punched the number and waited. Dead air. Nothing.

  “Shit.” I hung up and hurried down the stairs, falling on my ass the last six or seven steps. I grabbed a backup set of keys from the kitchen, pushed the back door open, and staggered across the side yard. I unlocked the truck door and had the radio transmitter in my hand before my ass hit the seat.

  It was worse than I had feared. Much worse. They didn’t even have to run a check for me. They’d been trying to call, but there’d been problems with my phone. Bastards must’ve cut the line. I flashed my lights and hit the I-95 exit at a clean eighty.

  Ray York, my partner for the past six years, lived one exit south of me, ten minutes closer to Baltimore City. He was a good cop and a good friend. A big bear of a man, he was always happy, always smiling, always seeing the bright side of a situation. Downright unnatural for a cop. We spent plenty of off-duty hours together, but Ray was a big-time homebody, and most of the time we watched videos or ball games in his basement. His family consisted of his beautiful wife Connie—I’d been the best man at the wedding three years ago—and a pampered golden retriever named Cowboy. Cowboy was an only child, but it wasn’t likely to stay that way, Ray always joked. He claimed that as soon as Connie got promoted, they were going to start working on a family. He wanted five kids. Just the thought made me cringe.