by Lita Stone
As far as these authorities were concerned that was a genuinely plausible explanation.
And an entirely incorrect one.
“This is the bedroom where the daughter and son slept, eight and four.” Chambers waved Atticus into the room where purple plastered one wall and blue the other. A poster of a princess on the purple side and a poster of a large robot covered the blue.
The beige carpeted floor was soaked in blood, but not much of the children remained, save a head with long brown hair lying on the pink bed and a lower torso wearing ripped pajama bottoms halfway beneath the bed.
And more of the black flies dotted the purple and blue walls and bed sheets.
“Not much left,” Lt. Chambers said nonchalantly. “I suspect the fucker might be a cannibal and ate the remains. Or took them with him as souvenirs.”
It would have to be human to be cannibalism.
A bottle of Strawberry Shortcake shampoo lay spilled across the floor amongst the children’s blood and viscera.
Atticus re-entered the hallway. “Was anyone else present in the home?”
“As far as we can tell, no.” Chambers shook his head. “But there is a female occupant missing, the wife and mother. We have an APB out for her.”
A tingle crept over Atticus’ ribs and arms.
A wife-and-mother missing...
“What in Jesus H. Christ is this bologna-shit?” Chambers cried out.
A cold moistness sloughed off Atticus’ body—the Lunar Robe illusion gone. He stood in the hallway wearing his traditional black and green leathers and bandanna.
“What kind of game is this you little punk?” Lt. Chambers barreled toward him while retrieving his nightstick.
Atticus bolted down the hallway and burst into the kitchen. Two officers tried to block his path with outstretched arms. The others joined in pursuit.
“Raging damnation,” he muttered, escaping into the dining room where the father’s eyeless head still gawked at him.
Atticus rushed to the large window in the back of the room—the severed arm remained lying against the sill. Swallowing a sour knot, holding his breath, he carefully removed the appendage. It was cold, stiff and surprisingly heavy for a single arm.
“Don’t move!” Lt. Chambers stood in the threshold.
Atticus grabbed the window, shoved upward. It was locked.
“You’re surrounded,” Lt. Chambers said. “Give it up and make this easy as possible.”
Bathed in the moonlight that entered through the window, Atticus froze. His eyes switched from the two locking mechanisms on the window, to the cold, dead arm on the floor and back to Lt. Chambers and the others piled behind him in the kitchen. Craning his neck, the Glorious Seal felt cool against his chest. He faced the detective and stepped forward. “I’ll comply. I am sorry I deceived you. But I have a divine mission to complete.”
“What are you?” Lt. Chambers asked.
Atticus stood tall and confident. “I am a Paladin.”
The man looked amused. “If I find out you’re the one who murdered these people then I’m going to personally throw the lever when they fry your ass at Huntsville.”
Atticus hung his head. He could not explain how he’d fool them nor how he was about to fool them again—and though he couldn’t stomach that they thought he might be the murderer he had neither time nor method to convince them differently.
Lt. Chambers took a step just as the seal turned warm against Atticus’ skin. He uttered an incantation and turned his head.
“Stop!” Lt. Chambers ordered, but a wave of yellow light engulfed the room.
Lt. Chambers screamed, “Shit! I’m blind. I can’t see. Jesus H. Christ! I can’t fucking see!”
A gun discharged. The bullet burned past Atticus and shattered the glass window.
“Cease fire!” Lt. Chambers commanded.
The room remained frozen in a blinding yellow glaze, except for the portion of the room behind Atticus.
Atticus unlatched the window and threw himself out where he landed in the dead rosebush. The officer who’d been manning the position earlier was no longer there.
Leaping to his feet, he dashed toward his car. No one trailed him. But he didn’t slow until he reached his vehicle.
Tires screeched, as he sped away. Barely slowing, Atticus turned off the street, the rear of the car sliding on the sandy concrete. A burnt smell emanated. He glanced down. One of the four-points of the Glorious Seal pendant had burnt. The point of the metal shriveled from silver to a midnight black.
Atticus fumbled with the settings on the car’s dashboard before he spoke the name of the establishment Elder Cai had directed him to take shelter in. “Directions to Stonehedge Western Bed and Breakfast.”
The GPS lit up. “You are looking for Shoney’s breakfast buffet?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Before reaching Jimmy’s Auto Shop, Shane and Birch passed a Dollar General locked up tighter than Fort Knox and Pete’s Donuts with a dozen cars in the lot. The town seemed no bigger than Buckeye, but not even Buckeye had a Dollar General.
When they arrived, Jimmy was in the office doing paperwork, surrounded by the thick scents of coffee, motor oil, and new tires.
“What was wrong with the ol’ girl?” Shane asked.
Jimmy looked up, dropped his pen. “Clogged fuel filter, probably from cruddy gas.”
Shane gave the man his credit card. “Sure appreciate it.”
“You fellows say you headed to Buckeye, huh?”
“That’s right. Home sweet home.”
“Always been hearing them tall tales about the woods being haunted and strange animals roaming around out there.”
Shane laughed. “Like you said, it’s all a bunch of tall tales. It’s one of them towns that’s so small it’s only got half a horse and half a hole in the wall. When the locals get bored they get drunk, and when shooting out of the lights gets old they tell wild tales around the bonfire. And the next morning the whole town hears about the latest boogeyman.”
“Is that right?” Jimmy said. “I reckon I oughta get over there someday and see what all the hoopla is ‘bout.”
Shane got behind the wheel, hung his arm out the window. “If you do come to Buckeye, skip the woods and drop on by Roxy’s diner. Birch and me will buy you a slice of pecan pie.”
Shane lowered the visor as they rolled past a golden pasture with a herd of Brahman and Holstein cows chewing on a big heap of hay inside a rusted metal hay ring.
Ten minutes down the highway and the gold field ended.
Birch readjusted himself in the passenger bucket seat. “Called Lizzy.”
Shane jerked the wheel. A horn blared as a SUV sped by them. “You’re married!”
“And you’re in love, so you shouldn’t have asked for her number in the first place.”
Shane scoffed. He hesitated before asking, “Well, what’d she say?”
“It was number to Doyle’s Funeral home. She was fucking with you, dude.”
“Guess I deserved it.”
“Yup. But on the bright side Doyle’s is having a two-for-one sale on caskets.” Birch leaned the seat back, closed his eyes and laced his hands on his stomach, before muttering, “Should’ve spent the extra twenty bucks for Big Dave’s Hotel.”
“I really am a fuck up,” Shane said.
“Yup.”
“Got booted off the football team for fighting. Same goddamn thing in the Army and I fucked us over in Pecos; got the whole damn rig shut down.”
“Don’t forget about getting us thrown in a Mexican jail. Lucky we didn’t raped by Jesus. That biker dude looked like he could do some real damage.”
Shane took the on ramp to I45. The sign read: Houston 402. He set the cruise control to seventy. “I get why you want to leave the rig and I'm right there with you. I don’t belong there. Hell, I don’t belong anywhere.”
“And that night in Colorado last fall.”
“Technically that one wasn’t my f
ault. I didn’t realize that girl was a guy ‘til after I’d pinched his ass.”
Birch looked at him. “You know where you belong? With Amy, that’s where.” He closed his eyes again and turned on his side. “So just don’t screw that up and you’ll be fine.”
Shane smiled. “Yes, oh wise one.”
“The blood is thicker than water, young grasshopper. But you must store the past under the bridge and stock grain for the coming winter.”
Scooter was the only blood Shane had left. He hadn’t seen his old man in years. Last he heard, his mom was living in Topeka, with her latest boy toy. Probably passed out right now in some rundown studio apartment.
For the last five years, Amy had watched over Scooter right down to the parent-teacher conferences. When Scooter was laid out for three weeks with mono, she had pulled all-nighters patting his head with cool cloths. All day she read to him in between serving ginger tea, chicken soup and acetaminophen. During his freshman year, the kid received one hell of a shiner, prompting Amy to march into the school office and lecture the principal on developing a better zero-tolerance policy.
Amy might not be blood but she was family. And she’d been his sister’s friend, before Shane killed her, that is.
Shane thought back to the day she came back into his life, the day she agreed to move in with him and Scooter.
Crusted blood on his nose, his right eye black as night. He sat on the front porch of the trailer drinking coffee with Amy. “Thanks for staying last night.”
“You took a bad beating. I didn’t feel right about leaving.” She sipped her coffee. “I didn’t want to go home anyhow.”
“I just inherited a trailer and custody of my kid brother yesterday,” Shane said. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with him? My mother, the drunk bitch, threw a hissy and walked out on him...on us.”
“She never got over Vicki’s death, huh?”
Shane fingered his sore ribs, and sipped the bitter black coffee. “You still hear her voice, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You’re lying,” Shane said. “You just don’t want me to think you’re crazy.”
“I’m not lying.” She glared at him. “Until last night Vicki hadn’t spoken to me in over six months. She left my head ‘cause she didn’t want me to spend the rest of my life in a nuthouse. But she’s still watching over you and me, and that’s why she told me you were in trouble at that bar last night.”
Shane laughed and she glared at him again.
He held up his hands, as if in surrender. “I just got this mental image of you playing patty cake with my dead sister.”
“You’re a real comedian, jerk.”
Shane wrapped an arm around Amy. “Sorry.”
“I think Vicki knows you’re leaving and she can’t go with you. I can still feel her presence somewhere deep inside of me...and it’s a really sad presence.”
“Right.” He’d only been fifteen when he was screwing around in his old man’s truck, and disengaged the emergency brake. As it rolled down the driveway, Shane felt the hard bump and heard Amy’s earth-shattering scream. Vicki lay in the driveway, looking very, very wrong. Her little lips tried to form words but the only thing she spouted was blood. Brightest red blood ever. It trickled from the corner of her mouth and down her chin.
Amy’d only been twelve when she witnessed her best friend’s death, and at sixteen her dead friend started talking to her.
“I don’t think you’re crazy Amy. It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been fucking around in that truck and been so careless.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just a tragic accident. And I’m glad I could hear her voice. I know she’s always going to be watching over us both.”
“I guess everybody can benefit from a guardian angel,” Shane said. “Now that you’ve escaped the nuthouse where are you staying? I’ll drive you home.”
“Well,” Amy said, exhaling, “With this guy named Boone. We met in therapy and he’s got a small two-room house in Cedar Ridge.”
“So this Boon is a crazy?”
Amy laughed. “Yeah, like me. He’s bipolar.”
“You got some messed up thing for the crazies don’t you?”
She laughed. “I used to have a thing for you so you tell me.”
With a snort, Shane said, “I’m not crazy. I just ain’t no good.”
“It was an accident.”
“Accident? Semantics,” Shane said. “She’s dead. It’s my fault. My parents split. My dad’s God knows where and my mother is so strung out on booze and painkillers she doesn’t even remember she still has two living offspring.”
Amy kissed him on the cheek.
His arm still around her, Shane gave her a squeeze. “I never really noticed how much an attractive girl you grew into. Guess I still see you with pigtails and sticky hands from a Popsicle.”
She blushed. “I haven’t worn pigtails in nearly a decade.”
For the first time ever, Shane really looked at Amy. And not only had he seen a radiant yet humble beauty in her pale face, but he also a slight swell on the apple of her cheek. A thin sliver of a cut under her eye. White-hot anger shot through his veins.
“Boone’s roughing you up, isn’t he?”
“Nobody’s roughing me up.”
But Shane noticed the slight trembling in her lips. He brushed her blonde hair away from her collarbone. “I’ve choked enough guys in my life to know that those are finger marks.”
She recoiled. “He goes off his meds sometimes. That’s all.”
“I went out drinking last night ‘cause I wanted one last night of fun before Uncle Sam pays my airfare to Iraq. I can’t watch over my brother and you need a place to stay, so how about you look after him while I’m abroad? I’ll send you and Scooter money. I swear it.”
She looked at her feet and shrugged. “Boone really needs me.”
The front door opened and Scooter skipped down the steps between them, backpack full. He had a water jug under one arm and a pellet gun in the other. Tears streamed down his red cheeks.
“Where you going, buddy?” Shane asked.
Scooter strode up the dirt driveway. “Mom left. You’re leaving. That girl doesn’t want to take care of me either! I’m gonna go find dad. I hate you and that stupid girl.”
Shane sipped the last of his coffee. “That boy needs you a lot more than some crazy bastard. And he won’t hurt you.”
Twenty miles had gone by on the long Texas highway. Birch snored…loudly. Shane chuckled. If anyone had ever deserved a good ol’ fashioned ass kicking it had been that crazyass Boone. And it had been one of the best beatings Shane had ever had the pleasure of delivering.
Birch snorted and twisted.
One hundred and seventy miles to go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
January 1st
Today I confessed my visions to Elder Cai. I have been hesitant to do so and have struggled with the decision for the past few months. But these visions are a marauder in the dark that steals away my sanity night after night.
I informed Elder Cai of my intended path which did not surprise him. He said, “We are all enslaved by destiny.” He did not, however, press me to further describe my communications with the Dark Trinity.
I have always revered the Elder to the best of my abilities and never spoke my hesitations aloud. But after today, I suspect Elder Cai’s intuition greatly exceeds every other elder and Templar of the Order and Court.
But does he support my path in earnest?
Regardless of his support—or lack thereof—it sways my decision none. Whether I turn north or south, east or west, my future looks bleak. I must do what will benefit the Order, the Earth, the universes...
With a heavy heart, I went to my room to retire. There I noticed Atticus lying in bed, his hands clasped behind his head. He appeared dazed, as he had most of today.
He spoke of young Cassian and pretty Venora and the thoughts that ha
d possessed him as of late. I cannot blame my blood-brother—both maidens are quite striking. Most warriors could not ignore their delicate features and playful wit. Even I sometimes falter in their presence.
But I cannot allow their beauty and charm to distract Atticus. The fate of all existence depends on him remaining true to his convictions.
Years ago, I informed Atticus of the importance of frequently ‘stroking his sword’. Tonight I reminded him of that lesson in hopes that tomorrow he will maintain better focus.
~Rourn
“Your destination will be on the right,” the female GPS voice said.
Atticus turned his car into the shaded parking area of the Stonehedge Western Bed and Breakfast. A wrought iron fence, adorned with wagon wheels, surrounded the property, trapping and preserving the authentic western setting. A stone chimney poked from the top of the large brick home, themed after an 1800’s motel. The guest parking was located just outside the fence.
Wide open, a double-iron gate welcomed him.
Ragtime piano music accompanied by the sound effects of clinking glasses and muffled voices filled the lobby. Faux-wanted posters, sepia toned, featured photos of people named Roarin’ Roxy, Wild Boar Bowden, Mad Man Abraham, and others—locals of Buckeye, Atticus surmised.
“Well, well. What do we have here? Ain’t you a scoundrel of a young fella.” A middle-aged brunette woman with a young oval face stood behind an antique cash register, its edges rusted and corners bent.
“I would like a room,” Atticus said.
“Of course you would, sweetie. Why else would you be here? Let Miss Trish get you all fixed up.”
A poster was tacked to the parallel wall. Written in a large comical font:
Deemed haunted by the world renowned
Buckeye Paranormal Investigations (BPI)
The Stonehedge Western Bed & Breakfast
Offers no discounts for rooms already occupied
by the supernatural.
“Were you interested in staying in one of our authentic haunted guest suites?”
“Just a standard room, please.”
“Oh come now.” She gave him a sly smile. “Our ghosts are friendly enough. Nothin’ to be afraid of.”