A Soul To Steal

by Rob Blackwell

  But the feeling receded like a wave and she shivered in the hot, smoky room. What had happened she wasn’t sure, but suddenly, Kate didn’t want to be there anymore.

  “Want another round?” Janus asked when the band had finished its set. “Numb-nuts here will buy.”

  “I swear to almighty God if you call me that again, you short little…” Bill said.

  “You’ll what? Come on, you’ll what?”

  Quinn sighed and looked at Kate.

  “Seriously, do you want anything?” he asked.

  She shook her head and looked at her watch.

  “Actually, I should get going,” she said.

  “See what you did,” Janus said, and looked accusingly at Bill.

  “Well, if you hadn’t been acting like a jerk, I’m sure she would have stayed,” Bill replied.

  “It’s been a great night, guys, it really has,” Kate said, and stood up. She lifted her jacket off the chair back.

  “Well, I was thinking of leaving, too, you mind if I walk with you?” Quinn asked.

  Janus nudged Bill in the stomach and both men chuckled. In a not-so-subtle move, Quinn extended his middle finger and scratched his eye with it. They took the hint, but chose to ignore it.

  “Sure,” she said, and glanced only briefly at Quinn.

  “See you guys later,” she said. Quinn waved and the two walked out the door.

  Kate pulled her jacket closer to her and shivered in the night air.

  “God, it got cold,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he responded.

  “You don’t need to walk me home,” Kate said, though in truth she felt like some company.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I could use the exercise.”

  He paused a minute.

  “So I hope you had a good time tonight,” he said.

  “I did,” she replied. “I really did.”

  She opened her mouth to say something more, then shut it. She liked Quinn, but what did she really know of him? It was unwise to say too much. It would raise questions she did not want to answer.

  “Good. It’s tough when you join up with a new paper. New editors, new beats. But we’re a nice bunch. At least some of us are, at any rate.”

  Kate laughed. “Who isn’t very nice?” she asked.

  “You don’t want to hear me gossip, do you?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’m dying for some good gossip.”

  “Well, Helen you know about,” he said.

  “Rebecca seems kind of controlling too,” Kate said.

  “She is that, but she is also good at her job,” he said. “Helen… well… Helen is good at coming up with ideas for other people. And Ethan thinks she just walks on water.”

  “Who’s Ethan?” she asked.

  “Ethan Holden-the owner of Holden Inc.,” Quinn said and laughed. “You’ll meet him soon enough. He is a piece of work. He pays us shit, then demands at every meeting that we need to work harder-with substandard equipment and crappy benefits.”

  “Seems like a great guy,” Kate said.

  “He also doesn’t have a backbone,” Quinn continued as they walked. “Last year, I had a great story about Paul Gibson, who is now the chairman of the board of supervisors. I had sources who told me he had taken money from developers on the side, all the while promising that he would stop development in the county. But Ethan wouldn’t let Laurence run it. Or at least that is what Laurence claims…”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Paul and Ethan are friends, of course. Ethan is friends with all the local politicians. Hell, he knows Senators Mark Warner and George Allen personally. He is one of the wealthiest guys in the state and gave pretty decently to their campaigns.”

  “And Laurence didn’t stand up to him?”

  “One thing I should warn you-in this job, don’t expect much support from Laurence,” he said. “Rebecca will fight for you, but Laurence would lose a boxing match against a one-legged man in a wheelchair. I’ve only seen him angry a few times, and even then, he didn’t do anything about it.”

  “My editor at the Gazette was a great guy,” Kate said. “I saw him yell at just about everybody-from advertising guys he felt had crossed the line by approaching reporters, to the publisher for interfering.”

  “Well, Laurence isn’t that,” Quinn said.

  “Why did you come out here?” she said. “People would kill for a job at the Congressional Quarterly. You didn’t say why you left the other day.”

  He paused before launching into the whole sordid story.

  “My parents died,” he said. “They had moved down here from Pennsylvania and just loved it. But some drunk guy from Hillsboro hit them one night and they were gone.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” Kate said.

  “I moved into their house for awhile while I sorted everything out and I suddenly felt I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to be in D.C. It was too self-involved and politics suddenly lost its appeal. It just didn’t seem to mean that much anymore.”

  “I can understand that,” she said.

  “So I sold their place and bought an apartment,” he said. “I couldn’t think of where to go and this just seemed right. So I stayed.”

  They were approaching the Leesburg Inn.

  “That must have been hard,” she said, “to lose both your parents.”

  “It’s one of those things that every time I think I’ve moved on, I get pulled back. I’m not sure I’ll ever really move on.”

  Kate nodded.

  They stopped in front of the hotel.

  “Well,” Quinn said self-consciously, and looked down at his shoes. “Here we are.”

  Kate stopped and looked at him. “Thanks for walking me home.”

  She wanted to say something more-about her own mother maybe-but she couldn’t. She felt overwhelmed by fatigue and didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  “Sure,” he said. “I hope you’ll join us again.”

  “Anytime,” she said.

  And then she did something unexpected for both of them. Without thinking about it, she leaned in and kissed Quinn on the cheek. Startled by her own action, she pulled back a little, so that their faces were only inches apart. It felt like something electrical crackled in the air and she pulled away as suddenly as she had started.

  “Thanks again,” she said.

  And then she was through the door and out of sight.

  Quinn stood outside looking up. He touched his cheek reflexively. Despite the cool October air, he felt warm inside, like he had drunk a gallon of hot coffee.

  He walked home in a kind of daze, not really sure what had happened. There had been something, he thought. And whatever it was, it was powerful. Something had seemed to move between them and only time would tell what.

  Across the county, Dee glanced at the waving branches around him and pulled his jacket closer to him. This place gave him the creeps. It had been Jacob’s idea, of course, and you couldn’t argue with him about something like this.

  He twitched reflexively and rocked back and forth on his heels. It was cold, it was dark and he was tired. He wished again for a cigarette and reached in his jacket pocket out of habit.

  But there was nothing there, and if Denise had her way, there would never be cigarettes for Dee again.

  “Fuck,” he swore, and nervously watched as the wind blew through the trees again.

  He didn’t like it, mostly because the way the branches blew out, it was as if some invisible giant was pushing them aside. It gave him the impression that things were happening all around him and he had no idea what.

  “Fuckin-A, Jacob. Where the hell are you?”

  As if on cue, he saw headlights appear around the curve on the side of the road. Why they had to come all the way out to Purcellville only God knew. Why they had to come out to the darkest, most isolated place in the goddamn county he was even less sure.

  The cops here don’t care, Dee thought. They never have and the
y never will. Maybe they were dumb to it, or maybe they just didn’t give a damn. What did he care? Either way, there was no damn reason to come out here.

  Dee watched as the car slowed down and pulled up next to his. He continued rocking back and forth on his heels.

  Jacob practically threw open the door to his old Volkswagen Jetta and stepped out.

  That was Jacob, Dee thought. Never does anything half way.

  “What’s up, gee?”

  It bugged Dee that some skinny white kid would throw around lingo like he was a brother or something, but he was used to it. His friends called Jacob a live wire and though Dee was confident he could kick Jacob’s ass, he also knew any victory would be short-lived. Jacob had friends and given who his father was, the temporary satisfaction of putting him down wouldn’t be worth it.

  “Not much,” Dee replied.

  Jacob came around the car and pulled a pack of cigarettes out. He held one out.

  “Want a smoke?” he asked.

  “Shit, man, you know I can’t,” Dee replied.

  “Right, right,” Jacob replied. “That bitch Denise got you wound around her little finger, doesn’t she?”

  “Don’t call her that, J,” Dee replied.

  J is what Jacob liked to be called. Dee thought it sounded stupid, although he recognized the irony in that.

  “Whoa, my brother,” Jacob said, and raised his hands in mock surrender. “No need to get angry.”

  “I’m not your brother,” Dee said under his breath.

  “What did you say?” Jacob asked, his tone shifting slightly to one more menacing.

  But Dee was not afraid. Careful, but not scared.

  “Nothing,” he said. “You got it, or not?”

  “Well, well, why don’t we cut right to the chase?” Jacob said. “I might have it, but just one question. If she won’t let you smoke, how does she allow you to do this stuff?”

  “That’s not your concern, man,” Dee said, and left it at that. He would meet Jacob on his terms, but he would be damned if he would let the little shit into his business.

  “You aren’t sounding too friendly, Dee,” Jacob replied. “I can always take my wares someplace else.”

  “We don’t need to go through this every time, J,” he said.

  “Don’t treat me like your bitch, then,” Jacob said evenly. “If you keep on doing it, you could find yourself in trouble.”

  “I meant nothing,” Dee said, but the words caught in his throat on the way out.

  Jacob stared at him for a moment, apparently weighing whether or not to do anything.

  “All right,” he said finally, and reached into his pocket.

  It was then that Dee first heard the rumbling. It was low at first, a kind of rhythmic beating that he couldn't place.

  Jacob glanced nervously about.

  “You invite somebody?” he asked, glaring at Dee.

  “Hell no,” he replied.

  They both looked down the road near them. As far as either of them knew, there was never any reason to come out here. It wasn’t even a spot people picked as a make out place. It was too damned creepy.

  The rumbling turned into a pounding and grew steadily louder, enough so that Dee could recognize it for what it was.

  “Who the hell would be riding a horse at this hour?” he asked out loud.

  Jacob shook his head.

  It was then that Dee noticed the air had become completely still. A few minutes ago, it had been active, and now-everything was silent. He didn’t like it.

  “The cops?” Dee asked.

  “No fucking way, man,” Jacob said. “They don’t ride horses around here. Probably some rich dude out for a ride.”

  Dee glanced at his watch.

  “How many fucking rich dudes you know that go riding at 11:00?”

  Jacob didn’t answer. The sound was now getting steadily louder-almost too loud, Dee thought. Should it echo like this?

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “Don’t be such a pussy,” Jacob said. “We’ll just let them pass by. If he stops, we’ll deal.”

  But Dee, already nervous here, didn’t care about the jibe.

  “You stay if you want to,” he said. “No weed is worth this.”

  Dee turned to go to his car.

  And then he saw it, tearing down the road in front of them. The sound seemed to come from all around them and Dee found it hard to take his eyes off him.

  The horseman was riding incredibly fast, his black cape swinging out behind him.

  “Holy shit,” Jacob said, but Dee didn’t look at him. He couldn’t look anywhere else.

  The galloping grew louder and the wind that had vanished came back with a vengeance. Dee felt blown backward, as if it was moving ahead of the rider in a wave. The branches on the trees above him bent backward and he had trouble breathing.

  “Shit, shit,” Jacob said.

  For a second, Dee tore his eyes away to look at Jacob standing on the road. It appeared he could not move either. He just stood there, almost directly in the horseman's path.

  Dee looked back at the rider. He had crossed the distance in remarkable time. Dee clenched his hands and felt sweat gathering on his forehead. He felt the urge to run but was rooted to the ground.

  “Holy shit,” Jacob said.

  Dee looked at Jacob to see what was the matter, but could see nothing.

  Looking back at the rider, he knew.

  The horseman coming at them-his cape billowing-had unsheathed a sword. And there was a second, much more urgent problem-the rider had no head.

  Both boys started screaming then.

  The Headless Horseman came full tilt at Jacob, never slowing or pausing. As Dee watched, the Horseman moved to his left side, letting his blade down on a perfect level for Jacob’s neck.

  Dee wanted to scream or run, but could do nothing.

  Instead, time seemed to slow down and he watched as the Horseman blew by them both, his sword clearly going through Jacob’s neck.

  And then he was gone, riding off into the distance. Dee watched him go, still yelling at the top of his lungs.

  When he looked at his friend, he wasn’t sure what he expected. But whatever it was, he was in for a shock.

  Jacob stood there, in the center of the road-his head still firmly attached to his body-screaming.

  Dee moved over to him and was immediately hit with a foul smell. Looking down, he could see that the other boy had wet himself, or maybe something worse.

  “What was that?” Dee asked.

  But Jacob didn’t respond, his lungs gasping for air and then screaming again. Dee looked for a sign of the blade, some cut or scratch.

  But instead there was nothing.

  All around them, everything had returned to its former shape.

  It seemed like the horseman had never been there at all.

  Dee ran to his car and got moving. He didn’t care about Jacob. He just wanted to get very far away.

  Blackwell| Rob

  A Soul To Steal

  LH File: Letter #3

  Date: Oct. 8, 1994

  Investigation Status: Closed

  Contents: Classified

  Mr. Anderson,

  The article on Weissman was a vast improvement. Even I wanted to cry after reading it. Such promise! Such talent! Such a tragedy!

  Your article made his death sing, it really did. ‘Bob Weissman stares at a photo of his son, who will now be 16 forever.’ Have you been saving that one up? ‘All they want to know is why.’ Well, you could have told them that, couldn’t you? Their son died because he is a sign of the rot that is eating this county from the inside.

  Bob Weissman should never have moved here. He’s not a farmer, he’s not even working class, like most of the Sterling residents. No, he’s just another suburbanite.

  They will take over LoudounCounty, I promise you that. They will overrun us like a plague of locusts, tearing down everything in their path so they can put up
rows and rows of shiny, metal boxes with no artistry and less personality than a concrete block. I know them, Mr. Anderson. They did it to FairfaxCounty already. Falls Church was once a small little town. Now, what is it? Just rows of street lights with tacky stores and sub-par restaurants.

  Can you imagine what Leesburg will look like in 10 years, or 20? It will be just another suburb of Washington, D.C., a lifeless carbon copy of Fairfax or Reston. Think of all the history that will be destroyed. Union troops marched through this town, did you know that? They fought with their Confederate enemies at Ball’s Bluff. Over in Waterford, there was actually a Union regiment from Virginia. Many of them died, holed up in WaterfordBaptistChurch yelling for their mothers as their Virginia brothers shot lead into the building.

  Weissman and his ilk will destroy this. They won’t mean to and that just makes it worse. They’ll come because they want a bigger house, and they won’t care about the added commute, or the acres of farm land that are plowed over to make their new dwelling space. Did Bob Weissman see his son much? Of course he didn’t. He had a 35-minute commute to RBS Industries in Rosslyn.

  That’s the tragedy here. He grieves for a son he barely knew. He worked so hard to “provide” for his family, he never truly had one at all. Did his son think of that, as he bled to death, slowly dragging himself away from me? He didn’t say much, I can tell you that. He just stared at me, whimpering.

  Will I stop the Bob Weissmans of the world? I can’t. I’m one person and the battle to save this land has not been joined. By the time others figure out what is happening, it will be far, far too late. But I will exact a price to pay. There are real ghosts here, specters that lurk just beyond the streetlight. I am their voice.

  Here I am ranting again, I’m afraid. I’m giving your police handlers lots to think about. Maybe I’ve joined a preservationist organization? I could even be a Civil War reenactor! What do you think?

  I’m glad you finally thought to use my name this time. I would have been so very displeased if you hadn’t. Of course, no mention of the letters-are you planning to save them? Maybe write a book when this is all over? And your description of me is so dry, so impersonal. “Police attribute the murders to a serial killer who calls himself ‘Lord Halloween.’” That’s it?