by Bob Avey
Elliot poured a cup of coffee and walked into the spare bedroom where he kept his computer. He switched it on and fed some key words into the search engine.
Doctor Cramer at the museum had described the artifact as having a blade of obsidian, essentially volcanic glass. The strange knife, Gerald’s obsession, an artifact created to inflict death, indicated a disturbing possibility. If he knew more about the history, if there was ritual involved, maybe he could understand it, and know what to look for.
Elliot couldn’t visualize Angela Gardner willingly doing such a thing, killing somebody in an ancient ritual. In addition, Shane Conley had seen something odd run past his car, and he’d indicated the suspect to be tall and athletic. Angela had been small and frail. And she’d certainly been in no shape to check out of the hospital and drive to Stillwater to fasten a note to the fuel line of the Harley. She had, however, been a student of archaeology, a science dedicated to the study of ancient civilizations and analysis of the material its people left behind, including religious artifacts. More importantly, Professor David Stephens had been her mentor.
Elliot scanned the monitor as the results of his search came into view from the typical people-finding sites. He chose one he’d used before and plugged in the name Stanley Reynolds.
The program pulled up two pages indicating various versions of the name.
However, when Elliot refined the parameters to include only those individuals named Stanley Gerald Reynolds the results narrowed significantly, down to three to be exact; Elliot’s old buddy Gerald, and his two predecessors. Strangely enough, Stanley Gerald Reynolds the II turned out to be Gerald’s grandfather. His father had been named Samuel. A generation, as far as the name was concerned, had been skipped.
A few minutes later, after digging into the family history, Elliot found the connection Terri Benson had mentioned. David R. Stephens, better known as Professor Stephens, turned out to be the son of Gerald’s great aunt Julia. The R stood for Reynolds. However, the uniqueness of the family name failed to render the results Elliot had hoped for. Gerald’s grandparents and great grandparents were listed as deceased while his mother and father still lived somewhere in the south of France.
An hour later, Elliot shut off the computer. The phone numbers he’d found were all disconnected or belonged to someone else. Directory assistance yielded the same results, as did the wireless companies. The chances of that being a natural occurrence were pretty slim. It appeared as if Gerald’s family had intentionally gone underground.
Elliot pushed away from the desk to get a refill of his coffee, but a sound from another part of the house, like liquid being poured from a bottle, caused him to rethink his actions.
Someone was in the house. Elliot reached for his service weapon but found only his ribcage. Of course he didn’t have it on him. He wasn’t dressed, wasn’t ready for work. He edged toward the bedroom doorway and peered outside the room.
There was no one in the hallway.
Elliot slid through the doorway and ducked into the laundry room.
The holster was there, on the hook where he’d left it, but the Glock was gone.
Elliot leaned against the wall of the laundry room and ran through his options. He considered the door from the laundry room into the garage but dismissed the idea. He didn’t have his phone. It was on the charger in the kitchen. And if he tried to exit through the garage, the only way out was the overhead door, and using it would make a lot of noise. He wanted to catch the prowler, not scare him off.
Elliot left the laundry room and crossed the hall, leaned into the bathroom, and flipped on the light.
His reflection in the mirror caused him to jump, but no one else was there.
He eased out of the bathroom and crept down the hallway to the spare bedroom across from the office. He rarely used the room, keeping it closed until he had guests. He opened the door and found the light switch.
No one was there.
Elliot stepped into the room to check the closet. If someone was inside, there would be no need to exercise caution or worry about alerting them. In such a confined area, like a caged animal the prowler would be ready to retaliate, maybe with the Glock. Elliot slung the door open.
No prowler stared back at him.
Elliot left the spare bedroom and eased up the hallway, stopping close to the edge of the wall where the hallway opened into the living room. From there, he made his way to the front entrance and turned on the light.
The room was as quiet and peaceful as it had ever been.
He checked the coat closet near the front entrance then went back through the living room and into the kitchen. He removed a knife from a drawer and crept toward the master bedroom.
Elliot eased into the room, and immediately a familiar scent of sweat and fermented fruit invaded his senses. It was the same odor that had hung like a cloud around the homeless man he’d questioned at the old house.
Elliot ran his hand along the wall and flipped on the light, the action leaving him in direct confrontation with the source of the odor. He’d half expected to find the old beggar, standing in the room, but he did not. What he saw instead could only be described as odd. He had made the bed but the covers were now disturbed, though only slightly where the weight of several items caused an indentation in the bedspread. Piled in the middle of the bed was the Glock, a half empty bottle of wine, and a business card.
Elliot placed the knife on the dresser, gently lifted the Glock from the bed, and checked it.
The weapon was loaded and ready, just as he’d left it, though it was now wet where the contents of the bottle had been poured onto it.
Elliot searched the entire house again, including the garage and the attic.
The doors were locked. The windows were secured. No glass had been broken. Someone had gained entrance to his home, showed they could take his weapon and destroy his property, and they had accomplished it without alerting him to their presence. Something like that shouldn’t have happened, and yet he held the proof in his hand. The business card was one of his, more specifically, the one he’d given to the homeless man.
Elliot stumbled back into the living room and lowered himself into the recliner, though any relaxation he might have gained through the experience was not to be. A feeling of being watched came over him.
The patio door drew his attention. The blinds for the glass door were open.
He jumped from the chair and strode to the patio door where he pressed his face against the glass and peered into the darkness of the backyard.
He saw no one, but the sensation of being watched did not subside.
He flipped the switch for the outside light.
A soft glow spread across the patio and some of the yard and in the illumination, something was there, but only for an instant. In a blur of movement, a subtle change in the formation of shadows, the silhouette of something streaked past the door.
Elliot still had the Glock in his hand. He checked it, hoping the wine dousing wouldn’t cause it to misfire. He unlocked the patio door and slid it open. Holding the weapon in front of him with both hands, he stepped outside, and though he figured the action would do little good, he shouted, “Halt.”
He saw nothing that should not be there, and he heard only the sounds of the early morning.
Stepping from the patio onto the grass, Elliot walked quickly across the yard, looking from left to right, holding the Glock like a shield. The thought that he should have grabbed a flashlight went through his head. The area behind his house, enclosed by a six foot stockade fence, had a lot of shadowy areas. The prowler had been moving from west to east. That part of the yard held the least likely prospect for someone to hide. There were no sheds or outbuildings, and it didn’t take long to determine no one was there.
Elliot gave up the search and stepped back inside the house, the smell of wine reminding him the events of the morning were all too real and not the product of his imagination. The business card had been intended
as a message. Exactly what the intruder was trying to tell him, Elliot didn’t know.
Outside, an automobile fired up and roared away.
Elliot grabbed his keys and scrambled into the garage. Finding the homeless man would not be easy but he had to try.
A few hours later, Elliot pulled onto another street where the downtown buildings loomed in the darkness before him. The city exhibited a different flavor in the early morning before the traffic started to build along the main thoroughfares and the side streets relinquished their hold on the shadowy quietness of the night. Elliot searched these areas but his luck ran thin. The street-people didn’t want to talk to him. They turned their backs and walked away.
Elliot headed north when he saw another prospect, a man in a tattered navy coat leaning against the black iron fence just across from the Ambassador Hotel on 14th Street.
The man in the navy coat turned his head when he heard the slamming of the truck door, and when he saw Elliot he pushed away from the fence and began walking away, heading west.
Elliot crossed the street and went after him.
The man quickened his pace, but his age and condition left his efforts with negligible results.
Elliot caught up with him and blocked his path. “I’m not here to hurt you,” Elliot said. “I’m looking for someone. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“You got the wrong guy, sir. I don’t know nobody. I’m not from around here anyway. Ain’t staying long neither. Just taking a little break, know what I’m saying, a rest before I hit the highway.”
“All right,” Elliot said, “but this is important. He’s a tall fellow with an army field jacket, walks with a limp?”
“Hell, that sound like half the people I know.”
Elliot smiled at the ragged man’s sense of humor. He pointed to the area where the old house had been. “I talked with him a few days ago. He was staying just down the street from here.”
The man stared at the vacant lot. “He your kin or something?”
“Let’s just say he helped me out once, and I want to return the favor. I’ve been asking around, but I haven’t had much luck.”
“Maybe I know who you’re talking about. And if you’re who I think you are, the guy you’re looking for, Jeremiah’s his name by the way, was expecting a little help all right. I guess you’re a little late, though. The people, they’re moving out of here, finding different parts of the city. Me, I’m leaving the whole thing. I might even leave the state. Ain’t nobody going to tell you nothing cause they scared they be next. The city knocked down that old slaughter house, but it didn’t stop the killing, no sir. People be leaving all right. Jeremiah, he gone and he ain’t coming back.”
A curious expression waved across the old guy’s face. A reflection of pity showed in his eyes. He shook his head but continued his journey down 14th Street.
The helpless feeling residing within Elliot grew more substantial. A subculture of the city, a population of lost souls who embraced anonymity, was being singled out, its members subjected to brutal murder only to have their remains secreted away, leaving their deaths as opaque to the eyes of everyday people as their lives had been.
A disturbing concept ran through Elliot. Psychopaths who commit murder on a grand scale typically thrive not only on the act itself but also on the attention and fear it draws. That did not appear to be the case in this situation. The killer seemed to covet anonymity, committing murder for murder’s sake or for some unknown agenda.
Elliot went back to the truck and headed north on Main, but when he glanced in the mirror a knot formed in his stomach. The grey Infiniti had fallen in behind him.
Elliot gripped the steering wheel. It was time to put an end to this little game. He turned east on 15th, picked up some speed, and caught the next street going north. When he reached 11th, he hung a right. Seconds later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Home Depot that’d been constructed behind where the old Warehouse Market used to be.
The increased speed coupled with some quick turns had given him a slight lead. A little luck was on his side, too. An old blue Chevy, 1980’s vintage, was in the parking lot, and it appeared to be unoccupied. Elliot came to a stop near the old car and scrambled from the truck. He squatted out of sight in front of the old Chevy, raising his head just enough to peek across the hood of the car.
The grey Infiniti pulled into the lot, cruised past, swung back around and stopped beside the truck.
Elliot worked his way around the Chevy and crept toward the truck, working his way behind the tailgate where he could observe his pursuer without being seen. The driver of the Infiniti did not exhibit the patterns of someone trained in the art of covert operations. Anyone with experience would have driven past, as if they had given up the search, but would come back and watch from a distance.
The driver leaned to his right and studied the truck through the passenger window. He opened the driver’s door and eased himself onto the pavement.
Even in the partial darkness, Elliot recognized the driver of the Infiniti. He stepped from behind the truck and strolled toward him, the fingers of his right hand brushing the handle of the Glock. He shoved the man into the side of the pickup with his left forearm, pinning him against the vehicle. “Nice disguise.”
Fear showed on the biker’s face. “I can explain.”
“That’d be a good idea.”
The biker had lost the Harley and traded the leather for a business suit and neatly trimmed hair.
“I knew something about you wasn’t quite right,” Elliot said. “What are you, someone’s attorney, a high-priced P.I.?”
The biker shook his head.
Elliot pulled the Glock from its holster. “I’ll let you in on a little insider secret, Jake. If you’re going to tail someone, you should do so as inconspicuously as possible. Not only is your ride too fancy, it has a distinctive sound. I should know. I’ve heard it often enough lately. Now that we’ve established that fact, the question begs to be posed. Why are you following me, Jake?”
“It’s a complicated issue.”
Elliot nudged the barrel of the Glock against the biker’s head. “Your complication is about to escalate into a crisis. Tailing me is one thing, but breaking into my home, that’s taking it way too far. Now I need some answers.”
“I’ve been following you, but breaking and entering is not my style. You got the wrong guy.”
“So you know the lingo. You a cop?”
The biker shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Why are you hanging around a college town pretending to be someone you’re not?”
“Like you, I’m trying to figure things out, only I’m doing it undercover.”
“Who’re you working for?”
“Nobody. It’s personal.”
Adrenalin surged through Elliot. He shoved his forearm against the biker’s throat. “Twice now someone’s broken into my house, and you were in the vicinity both times. I saw you. If you didn’t do it, who did? You were there. You must have seen them.”
“I didn’t see anything, except for you when you came tearing out of the house.”
Elliot eased the pressure of his chokehold. Logic seemed to be missing from the equation, but he believed Jake was being honest with him, at least on the point of the break-ins. “Why have you been following me?”
“It’s because of the questions you’ve been asking around Stillwater. It seems we have a common interest. Since you’re a cop, I thought you might lead me in the right direction.”
Elliot eased back on the pressure. “What sort of common interest are we talking about?”
“My brother and me,” Jake said, “we always looked out for one another. We got separated when I was young, but he stayed in touch, wrote me letters, just about every month. Something I could count on.”
“What does that have to do with me and Stillwater?”
“Corey, my brother, attended school at Oklahoma State, but it didn’t wo
rk out. He fell in with some people who lived in a commune near there. He thought they were kooky, but they treated him with respect and let him stay there until he could get on his feet. That was eight years ago, and it was the last I heard from him.”
Elliot thought about the newspapers he’d found in the old house where Laura Bradford had lived. The Gazette article had only mentioned several people had gone missing, downplaying the incident by emphasizing they were a group of drifters with histories of moving in and out of locations without notice. Gerald had taken a more sinister approach, though his reputation for tabloid style writing had acted to soften its impact. One of the names mentioned in Gerald’s article had been Corey Sherman. Elliot slid the Glock back into its holster. “What can you tell me about the commune where your brother was staying?”
“It was located on private property, just north of Stillwater.”
“Have you been out there?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t find anything. If people had been living there, it’d certainly been cleaned up. I got to feeling guilty, not having permission or anything, so I didn’t stay long.”
Elliot ran Jake’s explanation through his head. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere. “Do you know who owns the property?”
“Yeah, I managed to find out. His name is David Stephens. He used to teach at the University.”
Connections were starting to fall into place. Elliot was starting to like this guy.
“Someone showed up while I was out there,” Jake continued. “He came out of nowhere, asked me what I was doing there. He didn’t look too happy. I told him I was a treasure hunter, and I’d heard stories about an old tent camp located in the area. I got the idea from my mom’s boyfriend. He used a metal detector, was always looking for places like that. He took me with him a few times.”