Blind Shadows

by James A. Moore

  “Don’t be stupid, Griffin,” Charon said. “I think we’ve established you can be trusted not to ravage me despite my best efforts to be seductive.” She leaned back on the bed and struck a pin-up pose with one hand behind her head.

  Griffin suddenly wished he were wearing something under his robe. He cleared his throat and said, “You can get under the covers and I’ll sleep on top of the spread.”

  Charon chuckled. “You are too straight for words. I don’t want to sleep in my clothes so I’ll grab the other robe.” She got up and went into the bathroom. She came back a few minutes later, wrapped in her robe and climbed into bed with exaggerated primness. She had scrubbed off her make-up and as a result looked even younger, making Griffin feel guilty about the thoughts he’d had earlier. He turned off the lights and lay back, very aware of the beautiful young woman stretched out right beside him. It took Griffin quite some time to go to sleep.

  * * *

  The sun wasn’t up yet, but Carl still was. He hadn’t slept and doubted that he would. He hadn’t felt this way since, well, not in a long while at any rate. Best not to think about her. It would distract from what had to be done.

  Instead he’d gone through his rather substantial collection of weapons and found the ones he thought would do him the best. He’d also “borrowed” a few from the weapons lockup at the jail. It was amazing the shit people left in their houses and how much even a small office like his had managed to confiscate over the years.

  The preliminary reports were in, of course. There was no doubt as to the cause of death for his two deputies. And there were fingerprints, of course, but none that were usable. They were all distorted, bloated and warped out of shape by either extreme pressure or something worse.

  Frank Blackbourne. He’d grown bigger somehow.

  Carl knew it in his heart. He’d thought that man seemed larger when he’d last seen him, and he’d pushed the thought aside, because people don’t just grow bigger. They might have growth spurts in high school and they might come back from a long vacation a few inches taller while in the throes of puberty, but as a rule, no, people didn’t grow bigger.

  Or come back from the grave.

  It hadn’t been hard to find the location of Frank’s gravesite. The county records weren’t all perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but he’d found the right cemetery and the right plot with relative ease. He just looked for the headstone with the gaping hole in front of it and he was halfway there. Damnedest thing: the ground had not been dug up. It looked more like it had erupted, complete with large chunks of soil that were locked into place by the root system that had grown over the grave in the twenty odd years since Frank had passed.

  Two decades, long enough for a body to decompose, maybe just to a skeleton, maybe all the way back down to organic mush. Frank had either come back from that, or he’d never really been properly decomposing. Either way, he wasn’t exactly normal.

  Normal had gone straight out the window and much as he didn’t like to think about it, Carl was going to have to accept it.

  And he was also going to have to warn Wade. His friend was a hardass, he was maybe even into the sort of work that Carl refused to think too much about, and had probably done a few things he shouldn’t have over the years, but despite the fact that he could handle his own, there were limits. Frank Blackbourne had apparently ripped through steel bars with his bare hands. He’d also done unimaginable things to two human bodies with the same hands.

  And while there were differences between what had happened to Jerry and his deputies-best not to think of them as Nichole and Fred right now, because that would start him wanting to go a little crazy again, there were enough similarities that Carl had little doubt that the killings were somehow connected.

  He dialed without letting himself think. The phone rang twice and while it rang Carl looked out the window and saw only the darkness of the pre-dawn morning.

  “Hullo.” The voice was sleep slurred.

  “Shit. Wade? It’s Carl. I wasn’t. I didn’t think about the time.”

  “What’s wrong?” Wade woke up fast. That was hardly a surprise.

  “You know the fella I had in my lockup? The big boy named Frank Blackbourne. He got out and he took a couple of my deputies out in the process.”

  “He killed them?”

  “Yeah, and they didn’t die easy. But here’s the thing about Frank. Wade, he’s been dead for a little over twenty years. His grave was opened. I mean it. Either someone’s taking a lot of effort to make it look like Frank came back from the dead, or he actually came out of his grave. Either way, he’s dangerous and he’s connected to Jerry’s murder. There are some differences, but he used the same sort of methods to kill Nichole and Fred.

  “I’m sorry about your deputies.” Carl made a noise to acknowledge the condolences. “You have an address for this guy?”

  “Yeah. The Hollow. Or maybe his grave, but I kind of doubt that. Wade, he’s officially listed as dead. You won’t have trouble spotting him if you see him. I mean it. He’s almost seven feet tall and built like a tank.”

  “Did you say almost seven feet tall?”

  “Yes. I stared him in his ribs. He’s a very big man.”

  “We need to talk, Carl. I had a run in with a few guys who looked like they were supposed to be miscarriages and didn’t figure it out.”

  “In person. You at home?”

  “No. I’ll meet you. Where?” There was someone else with Wade. He heard a female voice. He couldn’t make out the words but she sounded sleepy and maybe worried. It was irrelevant. It didn’t matter at all. Still, it was information and Carl stored it away automatically. He was in cop mode and wouldn’t be coming out of it for a while. Every detail, every piece of information had potential as an important fact. He couldn’t afford to ignore anything.

  “Wade, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we need to figure this out.”

  “I know, Carl.” The man sighed. “I know. We’ll get this taken care of.”

  Carl nodded his head. Damn right. One way or another, he intended to take care of Frank and anyone else he found associated with the case.

  “Same place for the meet. Same as last time. I need some coffee.” He didn’t even want to say the Waffle House on the phone. He was starting to get paranoid.

  Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing when people came back from the dead.

  Paranoia kept people alive.

  He looked at the weapons spread across his bed. Sometimes guns kept people alive too. Well, and other weapons.

  * * *

  “So this is where you grew up?” Charon said, indicating the countryside beyond the truck window. The first tinge of rose was just showing on the horizon as they rode into Brennert County.

  Griffin pointed east. “Technically over there is where I grew up. The town of Wellman is beyond those trees.”

  “It’s hard to imagine you as a kid.”

  “It is for me too these days.” Griffin pulled into the parking lot of the Waffle House and killed the engine. Through the big glass window, he could see Carl in his usual booth near the back. Griffin and Charon got out of the truck and crossed the parking lot. The wind was up and there was the smell of coming rain.

  Once inside they went quickly to the back booth. The restaurant had only one other patron and he was seated as far from Carl as possible. Seeing Carl’s face, Griffin didn’t blame the guy. He let Charon slide into the booth opposite Carl, then sat beside her.

  “Charon, this is Sheriff Carl Price. Carl, Charon is the friend I told you about who was working on the symbols.”

  “Sheriff,” Charon said.

  “Call me Carl,” Carl said. “This thing has turned way personal and I’m not feeling much like a sheriff this morning.” He looked at Griffin. “How much does Charon know?”

  “Most of it. She was with me when the freak brigade attacked.”

  “Tell me a bit more about that,” said Carl.

  A w
aitress came by just then and Griffin and Charon ordered coffee. Then Griffin gave Carl a concise but detailed account of the events of the previous evening. Carl sat quietly for the most part, nodding occasionally.

  When Griffin finished, Carl said, “You know where we are now, don’t you?”

  “Not precisely,” said Griffin.

  “You know the part in the horror movies where the dumb ass heroes have seen evidence that something supernatural has happened, but they keep going on about how it’s not possible until a couple more cast members get eaten? That’s us. We’re staring at something we don’t understand and we don’t need to waste any time being incredulous.”

  “Incredulous is a pretty big word for a small town Sheriff.”

  “Ain’t it though? Thing is, Wade, Frank Blackbourne did some things that just aren’t possible. And it sounds like those boys you ran into weren’t too far from that.”

  Griffin said, “As malformed as some of them were, I can’t even see how they were alive, let alone up and moving around.”

  Carl said, “So there we are. Now are we going to sit around denying the obvious or are we going to find out what’s behind this?”

  “I vote for option two,” said Griffin. “We can worry about whether all this can be explained or not later. I’m willing to put my reasonable mind on the shelf until the lowlifes who killed Jerry are screaming in their own special spot in hell.”

  Carl said, “I like the way you think. But we have to be even more careful now. Those ugly sons of bitches were sent to give you a warning. You didn’t take it, so that means next time they’ll deliver a stronger message. It also means we need to start thinking about who sent them and why. What are we supposed to be warned off?”

  Griffin heard a buzzing noise and Charon dug a cell phone out of her purse. “Text,” she said. She looked at the screen for a moment, then said. “Shit, Griffin! It’s my friend the book collector. Says he’s been emailing me all night and I need to call him as soon as I get this. I’ll take it outside.”

  Charon jumped up from the table and hurried to the door. When she was gone Carl said, “What is she talking about?”

  “She knows a guy who she thought might be able to give us more information about those symbols. She sent him some copies last night.”

  “Was that a good idea?”

  “We’re at a dead end. Figured it was time to try something else.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. You were right about Charon being hot too.”

  “And twenty-five.”

  “Hell, Griffin, ten years isn’t that big a gap.”

  “It was with Beth.”

  “This one isn’t Beth.”

  “Let’s just table any talk of my love life and get back to business, Carl.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I’m sure as hell not the guy to be giving advice on that subject. So any idea where to go from here?”

  “Didn’t you say you confiscated Jerry’s notebooks and his work computer? Might be something there.”

  “With all that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to check that stuff. How about you handle that end? I’ve got some leads of my own I want to follow.”

  “Glad to, but should you be releasing that stuff to a civilian? Rules of evidence and all that.”

  “You really see this ever going to court, Wade?”

  “Not really, no. Where is the stuff?”

  “Evidence locker at headquarters. I’ll have one of the men get it together for you.”

  Charon came hurrying back to the table. She said, “Griffin, my friend thinks he has some idea what the glyphs mean but he didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

  “Sounds a little paranoid,” Griffin said.

  “Mr. Pot, meet Mr. Kettle,” said Charon.

  “Good point. When can he meet us?”

  “Now. He said to come to his house right now. He gave me his real name and his address. He lives on Church Street in Marietta.”

  Griffin looked at his watch. Not even seven yet. The guy was an early riser. He said, “You want to go along, Carl?”

  Carl shook his head. “Like I said, I have my own leads to run down.”

  “All right,” Griffin said. “I’ll let you know what I find out when I come to get Jerry’s notes.”

  “And I’ll call if I learn anything on this end.”

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, Griffin and Charon were rolling along Church Street, approaching downtown Marietta. Church Street was the quintessential tree-lined avenue and Griffin had read somewhere that some of the homes that stood on either side of the street dated back to the Civil War. Sherman hadn’t gotten them all, apparently.

  “He said it was a Victorian style house,” Charon said. “I always wondered who lived in some of these big houses.”

  “People with a lot more money than me,” said Griffin. “Isn’t that the street number he gave you?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Jeez, Griffin. That’s not a Victorian style house. It’s a Victorian era house.”

  Griffin scanned the house as he pulled into the driveway. It had two floors, a wrap around porch, and lots of gables, turrets, and dormer windows, giving it the gingerbread house look that the Victorians were so fond of. The house had been painted a pale gray, with darker gray trim which blended in with the heavy oaks in the yard, especially now that autumn had stripped the giant trees of most of their leaves. Despite its age and grandeur this wasn’t the home of someone trying to be noticed.

  “Your internet buddy is rich apparently. What was his name again?”

  “Carter Decamp.”

  For a moment, Griffin thought he recognized the name but the memory flitted away when he tried to grasp it. He and Charon got out of the truck and wandered up the leaf-strewn walkway to the front porch. The front door swung open and a tall, slender man stepped out. He looked to be in his early to mid fifties. He had thick, graying hair and a closely trimmed beard.

  “Good morning,” the man said. “I’m Carter Decamp. Nice to finally meet you, Charon.”

  “You too,” Charon said. “Though I wish we were here just to see your home. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. You must be Mr. Griffin.” He extended his hand.

  Griffin took the proffered hand and shook. Decamp had a good grip. Griffin said, “Just call me Griffin. Most everyone does.”

  “Your pal the Sheriff doesn’t,” Charon said.

  “He knew me back when.”

  “Well come in,” Decamp said. “We’ve much to talk about and none of it will be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

  They followed Decamp into a wide entrance hall and then through a large parlor full of heavy wooden furniture. Charon said, “Oh my God. Is all of this furniture authentic?”

  Decamp paused and looked around. “Ah, yes it is. This house has been in my family for generations and some of the rooms have the furniture that belonged to my grandparents a few times removed. My study is a bit more modern, however. This way, folks.”

  Decamp led them into a long, spacious room. The middle of the room was dominated by a huge desk fitted out with several computers and monitors. An old, leather book with iron clasps and a padlocked hasp sat on one side of the desk. Three of the room’s walls were covered by bookshelves, packed tight with books, but the fourth wall, the one behind the desk, was decorated with one of the more astonishing collections of weapons that Griffin had ever seen. Everything from a Gurkha Knife to a Scottish Dirk and from a flintlock pistol to a pair of Uzis.

  Following Griffin’s gaze, Decamp said, “One of my other hobbies, Griffin.”

  “I’m impressed. That looks like a real Damascus steel salawar.”

  “It’s quite authentic,” Decamp said. He took a seat behind the desk and nodded toward two chairs in front of him.

  Griffin and Charon sat down. Decamp turned one of the flat screen monitors so that they could see it. He tapped a few keys and a set of the familiar symbols appeared. Griffin immediatel
y noted that these weren’t copies made from his tracings. These seemed to have been made with something like a calligraphy brush, but there was no mistaking the form or arrangement of the glyphs.

  “Where did you find that?” Griffin said.

  “This is a copy from a very old book. Not one of these,” he added, waving toward the shelves which surrounded them. “No I’m glad to say that I don’t own that particular tome. However I knew someone who could provide me with this copy.”

  “Do you have any idea what it says?” Charon said.

  “Given the vagaries of translations and time, I know exactly what it says. That’s why it was so imperative that I talk to the two of you. No one on this continent should have any idea how to write these words. The language is almost unimaginably ancient and the words refer to something I hoped I’d never hear of again.”

  “No offense, Decamp, but what the hell do the glyphs say? People have been murdered in connection with them.”

  “More people than you imagine,” Decamp said.

  Charon said, “But what do they say?”

  Decamp took a breath, then said, “Accept this unseeing one and open thy gate that we may bestride thy path.”

  Charon looked at Griffin. “That creepy man said something about gates and paths.”

  “What man?” Decamp said.

  “I was attacked last night by a group of men. They were horribly deformed, but at least one of them could talk and he said that if Charon and I didn’t take his warning we would go through the gate and open the path. What path is he talking about? Is this some sort of satanic thing? Are they trying to open a doorway to hell or something?”

  Decamp said, “Hell? Hell is for the dead, Griffin. No, the place they’re trying to find is for we, the living, and if they succeed, it will make Hell look like a summer vacation spot.”

  * * *

  Another day in paradise. Though it took a few bribes, a few threats and the promise to actively hunt down and kill the loved ones of anyone who broke silence, Carl managed the nearly impossible and kept the connection between the murders quiet. So far no one had been foolish enough to leak any photos or to speak as an anonymous source. He didn’t know that it would last, but the reprieve would help for as long as it survived.