by Bob Avey
“No thanks,” Elliot said. “I’m just having a look around, that’s all.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but if you don’t have business here, I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”
“I never said I didn’t have business here.”
The officer motioned toward the street. “That your truck?”
Elliot nodded.
“Not from around here, are you?”
“No, just visiting.”
“Been in town long?”
“I’m only guessing,” Elliot said, “but I’m betting tourism isn’t very high on your list of economic stimulus factors.”
The officer smiled. The joke seemed to lighten his mood. “Well I wouldn’t say that, but when I see an out of town vehicle with the driver sneaking around on private property not more than two blocks from a break-in I just responded to, it tends to stir my curiosity. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“About what,” Elliot asked, “your curiosity?”
“Your cavalier attitude is going to get you into trouble one of these days. Maybe today’s the day.”
“Too late,” Elliot said, “That day’s long past.”
The officer put his hands on his belt. “Got any ID on you, son?”
“What seems to be the problem, Thomas?”
Another voice had joined the conversation. Elliot turned and saw a tall, slender gentleman dressed in a black robe, a habit, standing before him.
“Father Davenport,” the officer said. “I found this guy wandering around the grounds. Thought I should check it out.”
“You did well. However, there is no need for alarm, for I have been expecting this gentleman.”
The officer glared at Elliot. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Elliot didn’t know why Father Davenport might stick up for him, but he decided to play along. “Sorry. I guess I just wasn’t thinking.”
“So,” the officer asked, “everything’s all right here?”
Father Davenport stepped closer and draped a frail arm around Elliot’s shoulder. “Everything is fine, Thomas. But thank you for being vigilant. God will bless you for giving of yourself in such a risk-filled profession.”
The officer studied Father Davenport’s face, shot a glance toward Elliot, then turned and walked back to his patrol car.
Father Davenport watched the officer drive away. “All right, young man, you may go now. God has shown you grace today. You would do well to express your gratitude through seeking his forgiveness.”
“I’ll do that, Father. And thanks for helping me. However, I do have a reason for being here.”
“I see. And what might that be?”
Elliot wondered how he should proceed. Getting right to the heart of the matter seemed best. “Does the name Stanley Reynolds mean anything to you?”
The old monk’s expression remained stoic, though moisture showed in his eyes. “If, indeed, I had knowledge of such a person, how would such information benefit you?”
Elliot pulled his badge. “I’m a police detective, Father. However, I’m working independently, on a private matter. Father Reynolds had a great grandson, Stanley G. Reynolds III, who was a good friend of mine. He’s gone missing, and I fear his fate might be even worse.”
Father Davenport studied the identification and nodded, but his eyes held a question.
Elliot’s instincts told him Father Davenport was of a deep spiritual nature. It would afford him an advantage in relating to the problem at hand. “Bad things are happening, Father, and I believe they tie back to Father Reynolds, not that he had anything to do with it. The source was something he was hiding, perhaps protecting would be a better word.”
“Come,” Father Davenport said, “let me show you something.”
He led Elliot through the small graveyard, stopping at the headstone of Father Stanley Gerald Reynolds I.
Elliot decided not to hold back, but to explain the situation the way he understood it. “Numerous murders have occurred throughout the years, related to a dark force that I don’t understand, though I have experienced what I believe to be the outer edges of it. I have reason to believe Father Reynolds experienced it as well.”
Father Davenport looked away, his gaze becoming distant as if to study the grounds of the monastery. He returned his attention to Elliot. “In the summer of 1935, I found myself alone. Not knowing where else to go, I sought refuge at St. Gregory’s. It was Father Reynolds who convinced Father Abbot and the brothers to take me in.”
“You must have known him quite well,” Elliot said.
“He was the best friend I ever had, a brother and a father, and all from the same man. However, he was a troubled and desperate soul who tried to find peace here. I’m not sure he ever did.”
“Based on the evidence I’ve uncovered,” Elliot said, “Father Reynolds appears to have been a rare and caring individual, always placing the needs of others ahead of his own. He withdrew from society and the parish he loved to protect the people.”
“From the evil you described?”
“I know it sounds incredible, but I believe it to be true.”
Father Davenport did not seem surprised, but rather as if he’d come to know, at least in part, the trouble Elliot alluded to. “What do you hope to accomplish with the knowledge you seek?”
“Lives are being lost,” Elliot said. “I want to put a stop to it.”
Father Davenport’s face lost some of its color. “Father Reynolds was, indeed, a good and humble soul, a credit not only to the Abbey but to our faith as well. However, with respect to a certain possession, he was secretive, sharing little of the details even with me.”
Elliot studied the grounds of the monastery, going over the words of Father Davenport. “Could you tell me more about this guarded possession?”
“It was a small rosewood chest he kept hidden and draped with the cross of St. Benedict.”
“Were you privileged to know the contents of the chest?”
“Father Reynolds insisted it be kept secret. He said if anything should ever happen to him I was to guard it, but not open it, and never, under any circumstances was I to remove the protective crucifix.”
“Is it still here?”
“A few years ago, a man, whom I suspected to be the son of Father Reynolds came to the Abbey. No one knew Father Reynolds had a son, except for me, and they could not see the resemblance as I could. Before coming to the Abbey, Father Reynolds had resigned his position that he held at a small church in Poteau. I suspect it was the contents of the rosewood chest which drove his decision to do such a thing. He even found a wife and got married. He and his son visited alone in Father Reynolds’ quarters, and a few hours later, they left St. Gregory’s, claiming they were to have lunch and get better acquainted. They never returned. Later, we got word Father Reynolds had been in an automobile accident, and he and his son, whose name also turned out to be Stanley Reynolds, had been killed.”
Elliot stared at the grave of Stanley Gerald Reynolds I. The date of death showed the events spoken of by Father Davenport had occurred eight years ago, approximately one month before the murders in Stillwater.
With Gerald’s great grandfather and his grandfather both losing their lives on the same day, their wills, if there had been wills, would have dictated the distribution of their possessions, passing them on to the next of kin, which should have been Gerald’s father. But, had it happened that way? With Gerald’s father having been denied the family title, a rift could have occurred. Gerald was related to Professor David Stephens, and it was possible Stephens had come into possession of the artifact.
Gerald had written about the missing drifters in the school paper. His obsession with Spiro Mounds artifacts suggested he knew about the knife and its entanglement with his family history. He must have suspected his uncle, David Stephens, had come under its influence.
“Following through with what I’d promised, doin
g what I’d been asked to do,” Father Davenport continued, “I went to the quarters of Father Reynolds to retrieve the rosewood chest, but I did not find it.”
“He must have taken it with him,” Elliot said.
“Indeed,” Father Davenport said. “And a few months after we interred the body, someone named McDugan came to the Abbey to inquire about the possessions of Father Reynolds. Father Abbot was gracious and showed the young man his quarters, but I already knew there was nothing there. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”
Elliot thought about Langley Peterson in Poteau and his story about Charlie McDugan being found dead in 1935, having hung himself in his cabin. It seemed the murders only occurred when someone was under the influence of the knife. Had the curse of Laura’s ancestors, the ancient Caddo, backfired and given life, or a pathway of existence to the very evil they were trying to destroy? The tainted knife was once again in circulation. The question was: Who had taken it from Gerald? “It is,” Elliot said, “and the name McDugan has come up before in my investigation.”
“If you intend to see this thing through,” Father Davenport said, “you will need some help.” He removed the crucifix he wore around his neck and offered it to Elliot. Embedded in its center was a medallion. “The cross of St. Benedict,” he said. “It carries my blessing. I hope it will offer you protection.”
Elliot slid the crucifix around his neck. The cross was a possession surely dear to Father Davenport’s heart. He would not have given it or his blessing without reason. “Thank you,” Elliot said. “I’m honored to have gained your trust.”
Elliot turned and walked away. The newspaper man from Poteau had said he’d seen Father Reynolds at Charles McDugan’s house before he’d been found dead. Elliot decided to call him, to tell him what he’d found.
Someone answered, but the voice didn’t sound right. “Mr. Peterson?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Detective Elliot. We talked yesterday.”
After a pause, the voice said, “This is Chief Ludlow. Where are you, son?”
Elliot watched a couple cars drive by. “St. Gregory’s Abbey, in Shawnee. Where’s Peterson?”
“How long have you been in Shawnee?”
“About an hour, I guess.”
“What time did you leave here last night?”
“Around 8:00. Why?”
“That’s pretty much what Dick Hamilton said. He was across the street from the newspaper office, saw you leave.”
A sick feeling crawled through Elliot’s stomach. “What’s this all about, Chief?”
Ludlow cleared his throat. “Peterson’s dead. He called this morning, carrying on, nearly incoherent. I found him in his chair in the front office.”
Dizziness swept over Elliot, blurring his focus, threatening to again derail his reasoning. And Ludlow seemed unsure of himself, coming across as part interrogator, part confidant. “How did it happen?”
Ludlow didn’t answer.
“Let me guess, an animal attack.”
“He left a note,” Ludlow continued, “put it where he knew I would find it. It says to tell Elliot it’s Jeremiah. Does that mean anything to you?”
The name resonated through Elliot’s memory. “I can’t place it, but Peterson talked about the old days, and about his uncle, Charles McDugan.”
“Always told myself,” Ludlow said, “I wouldn’t get caught up in all the mumbo-jumbo. I’m not so sure anymore. I don’t know how much Peterson told you, but his Uncle, McDugan, had a wife and son. They didn’t stick around after the trouble started, packed up and moved away.”
Elliot squeezed the phone. He’d just met Chief Ludlow, but he knew veteran police officers didn’t rattle easily, and this man was scared. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“All caught up in the mumbo-jumbo,” Ludlow said. “The boy’s name was Jeremiah McDugan. He was Peterson’s cousin.”
A chill went through Elliot. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Do you think he had something to do with the death of Langley Peterson and the attack on Father Williams?”
“It’s starting to look that way. And to set the record straight, Father Reynolds didn’t kill Charles McDugan. He tried to save him.”
“From what, selling a few trinkets on the side to feed his family?”
Elliot found the crucifix beneath his shirt and wrapped his hand around it. “Charles McDugan pulled more than a trinket from the mounds in the summer of 1935, much more, in fact, than the curiously out of place Aztec knife it appears to be.”
“That was a long time ago,” Ludlow said, “and if what I’ve heard about his age at the time is correct, Jeremiah would be in his eighties now.”
“Maybe so,” Elliot said. “But I suspect McDugan’s son came into contact with the artifact, enough to be influenced by it. Could be he made it his life’s goal to find it, reclaim it for the family, a quest he recently succeeded in satisfying.”
“We’re starting to sound like the old timers around here, obsessed with burial mounds and curses.”
“Langley Peterson’s childhood fears were well founded, Chief Ludlow. What’s more, the source of it all, the knife his uncle dug out of the ground, is still out there and back in circulation, as is the malevolent force that seems to be attached to it.”
When Ludlow spoke, his voice echoed the stress he’d been under. “Karen McDugan had family in Sand Springs,” he said, “up near your neck of the woods. I suspect she took Jeremiah and moved up there.”
Chapter Forty
The house, rather drab and unimposing, sat atop a small hill alongside an asphalt and gravel road, just another sleepy bungalow in an aging neighborhood, a suburb west of Tulsa.
Elliot took his foot off the accelerator and eased the truck to a stop. A little work checking the records had paid off. He’d found the address where Karen McDugan had taken her son after leaving her husband and the trouble he’d embraced nearly eighty years ago. A gravel drive curved in an s-shape from the road to the doorstep, though no cars were parked there.
Elliot pulled in, shut the truck off and stepped out. As he neared the main entrance, a sensation of being watched crawled over him and, though he knew it to be impossible, the thought that the house possessed perceptual abilities played through his head, and that it was watching him, following his movements, anticipating, hoping even he might find his way inside.
Elliot climbed the stairs and stepped onto a small landing, but as he prepared to knock, a reflection of light coming from the back of the property caught his attention.
Constructed of wood that had long since turned a color just this side of charcoal, an outbuilding sat about fifty yards behind the house with a set of double doors large enough to accommodate farm equipment.
An uncomfortable notion crept across Elliot’s senses, telling him he should get back in the truck and drive away from this place, but instead he stepped off the landing and started toward the outbuilding. When he reached the double doors, he stopped and studied the structure.
The hasp that held the doors was secured, but the padlock that ran through it had not been fastened, but merely aligned to look as if it had been.
Elliot surveyed the rest of the property. No one seemed to be around. He had no warrant, but he wasn’t on official business in the first place. He’d gone too far to stop now. He removed the lock from the hasp, pulled his service weapon and slowly opened one of the doors.
The barn had no windows, and the sunlight that came through the open door did little to alleviate the darkness, but even in the dim light, the shape of a familiar automobile became visible.
Elliot’s knees grew weak. Holding the Glock in front of him, he crept into the dark confines of the barn. A few steps later, with his left hand holding the weapon cocked at a right angle, he ran his free hand across the car’s fender.
No doubt about it. He’d found Gerald’s Cadillac.
Along the south wall of the barn, an old workbench su
pported a large vise bolted to the wooden top. Fastened to the wall above the bench, a pegboard held a few tools. Near the workbench was a stack of bricks.
Elliot made his way to the driver’s side door of the Cadillac.
The keys dangled from the ignition.
Again the sensation of being watched came over Elliot, and he wondered if his arrival had been anticipated. He shook off the notion and opened the door to the Cadillac.
The smell of old carpet and well-worn leather wafted out of the interior. Gerald had probably loved the old car. Elliot leaned over and removed the keys from the ignition. Keeping his vigil, he made his way to the rear of the vehicle where he inserted the key into the slot and triggered the latch. With a steady motion, he raised the trunk lid.
Elliot uttered a prayer of thanks. Sitting in the center of the cavernous trunk was a small, rectangular box, but neither Gerald nor his remains had been stored there.
Elliot exhaled some of the breath he’d been holding. He pulled the flashlight from his jacket pocket and ran the beam of light around the interior of the trunk.
The material from which the box had been made, along with the intricate designs carved into it, left little doubt in Elliot’s mind as to its nature. Father Davenport had described it perfectly. It was the rosewood chest, the keeper of secrets for Stanley Gerald Reynolds I.
Elliot stowed the flashlight and lifted the lid from the box.
Inside, coiled upon a bed of blue velvet, was a chain of gold and attached to it a crucifix embedded with a medal.
Elliot pulled the cross Father Davenport had given him from beneath his shirt. It was the same as the one in the box, the cross of Saint Benedict. The special crucifix had not been the intended contents of the box but had been employed to offer a measure of protection against what had been in it. It was here, inside the chest of rosewood, that Father Stanley Reynolds had kept the knife of obsidian he’d taken from Charles McDugan.
A sound like people gathered in a hallway and whispering filled the corners of the barn.