The pistol reports and a waning day caused a snow owl to lumber into flight from a tall pine tree nearby and pull itself to a comfortable altitude. It swung over the valley in a wide, sweeping circle. Suddenly its wings paused their motion in flight and it glided in an ever tightening spiral. Far below, a figure stumbled blindly through the woods and down the snow-covered road. Deciding the creature was too large to lift with its razor-sharp talons, the owl peeled off and lazily resumed its nocturnal patrol.
The sound of an automobile engine roaring into life sent it deeper into the mountains in search of other prey.
~ 6 ~
“For God’s sake, Sheriff, your damn timeline just doesn’t add up,” Captain Rodney Stamper of the Vermont State Police, Criminal Investigations Unit, said irritably. He banged his fist down on the interrogation room table in the Waterbury Complex headquarters. An FBI agent, sitting in on the questioning, jumped nervously.
“We’ve been over this time and again, Captain,” Clay replied, feeling his blood boil. “I’ve told you what happened. Hitch was one of my best friends and I want to catch this bastard more than anyone.”
“Then help us.”
“How?”
“By telling us everything; there’s something missing here.”
“I’m telling you what I know!”
“Fine,” the Captain fumed. “Then explain how anyone can kill a full-grown, armed 200 pound-man without shooting or knifing him, strip off his clothes, remove the epidermis of his skull with medical precision, and then haul his body up those stairs, nail it to the door and close it again in about five minutes? Not to mention escaping and not leaving any footprints in the snow.”
“Perhaps there was more than one,” Clay answered.
“There was no evidence of anyone being on the estate except for you and Deputy Hitchcock. Not a cigarette butt, not a gum wrapper, not a used match, food container...not even a footprint – nothing!”
“And where the hell is his blood?” FBI Agent Stan Pritchard asked, joining in. “The autopsy showed that the victim was virtually exsanguinated. His vessels had collapsed – nothing left.”
The Captain, appointed lead investigator of a special investigative task force set up by the Governor of Vermont, sighed and calmed down slightly: “Let’s start again. You went into the foyer, heard some noises and fired three shots.”
“That’s right,” Clay replied.
“And your deputy was nowhere in sight.”
“He was outside round back.”
“But he could have come through from the back. You said he circled round carrying a Winchester. You’re an ex-Army Ranger and a former Florida Highway Patrolman with several commendations; you have a reputation for keeping cool under fire. Why did you discharge your weapon?”
“I already told you. I saw a shadow and it appeared to be carrying a rifle. Last year poachers had taken a shot at a game warden round there. I fired warning shots. I was letting her know I meant business.”
“Her?” Stamper asked, looking at him oddly.
“Her...him...whoever,” Clay responded.
“You saw a woman?”
“I saw a shadow; it moved like a woman.”
“So, you fired three warning shots into the outside door frame and the foyer wall!” Pritchard said, in disbelief. “And you have no idea how the front screen door was destroyed.”
Clay said nothing. After a few moments Stamper got up and stamped out of the room slamming the office door behind him. Sensing he was gone for good, Pritchard quickly followed.
Abandoned, Clay finally left the complex and drove back home. He felt miserable, angry and guilty as sin. Still, he couldn’t tell them everything. First, they’d never believe it. Second they’d wonder what he was trying to cover up.
For Clay, the subsequent investigation into his deputy’s death had become his second nightmare. Since it was likely that the perpetrators had crossed state lines, the County and the Vermont State Police had invited the Federal Bureau of Investigation into the case. At first it appeared Hitch’s murder was committed by a psychopath who had been hiding in the root cellar of the estate. Next they advanced the theory of a ritualistic killing by some kind of satanic cult. Finally, because of conflicting timelines, lack of supporting evidence pointing to a third person or persons, and an obvious hesitancy on the part of Sherriff Clay Montague to come clean, they began to take a serious look at the Sheriff himself.
A number of factors brought suspicion and confusion. First, his broken arm, contusions and cuts on his head and legs were not all consistent with a fall on the ice – a negative. Next, however, forensic analysis of the three spent slugs from his pistol, recovered from the door jam and wall inside the foyer, confirmed an absence of blood, tissue or hair and fit in with his story of warning shots – a positive. Finally, his explanation of what he was doing for the five minutes it took for the killer or killers to strike seemed vague and remote – another negative. As for the bags of blood allegedly stored in the refrigerator, when police returned to the scene, the appliance stood silent and empty. They knew he was hiding something.
On Clay’s part, there was no way he was about to tell them about a 70-pound kid with eyes like a wolf who picked him up and literally kicked his ass; he’d soon be a resident of a state institution where the sleeves of jackets extended well beyond his 33-inch arm measurement.
They were right, of course. There was much more to it. When police and emergency services had screamed back to the Baker place in a melee of sirens and flashing light bars, they found only the body. And, when they began to question Clay in the hospital, even though he was partially sedated from the setting of his arm, he had enough of his wits about him to omit certain details. After all, who would believe that a refrigerator ran without electricity or a little girl with superhuman strength could absorb three .45 slugs and walk away?
Because the victim was one of their own, they pulled out all stops to find Hitch’s killer. And, after due course, they stopped pussy-footing around and hinted that more and more, it looked like the Sheriff was either guilty or complicit. He had the means and the opportunity; they just couldn’t come up with a motive.
Hitch’s body was buried two days before Christmas. By then, all the testing, probing and dissection had taken place, the parts were hastily sewn back together and he was delivered to his wife Martha, relatives and friends for a Christian burial – closed casket of course.
The funeral and the week leading up to it was pathetically cruel. Never in his entire life had Clay experienced anything so horrific. He felt totally impotent, powerless to ease Martha’s suffering or shield her from the sordid details of the crime. He and Jody had watched her devastation as she fought with the awful knowledge that a man whom she had worshipped, a man whom she had loved so much, had been cruelly and horribly butchered in the most obscene fashion and then continued to suffer indignity after indignity on the pathology table as though he was a side of beef.
Clay and Jody virtually carried Martha through the funeral ceremony, her endless broken sobs promising to never cease.
Many of the town’s population of 3,200 people and a huge representation of citizens from Winder County turned out to say good-bye to a well-loved and respected member of the community; a man who had been born there, who had gone to school with many of the original citizens, and who had chose service to his community rather than head for the city, as had so many of his peers.
Townsfolk, tourists and Christmas shoppers silently lined the funeral route formed by Georgian, Federal Style and Greek revival homes and buildings, their heads bowed. The somber parade of automobiles, led by the silent black hearse made its way through the town, down Main Street and over the bridge towards the small cemetery on the hill just outside town. Unfortunately, administrative oversight had resulted in the failure to turn off the town’s PA system which continued to croon out Christmas Carols for the shoppers as the funeral procession passed.
In addition to the
hearse, three limos and more than 100 private automobiles, there were police cars carrying officers from as far away as Texas and even two Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers in full-dress red tunics; the officers were all silent and brooding as they gathered to pay farewell to a fallen comrade.
As though on cue, dark grey, rain-laden clouds tumbled through the sky on a wild, warm wind, and a single, unseasonable roll of thunder rumbled its presence.
The temperature had risen 20 degrees in the last 24-hours signaling a momentary reprieve from the harshness of the season. Snow had begun to melt and a light drizzle fell speckling the windshields of the cars and bringing wipers to life.
The trees swayed and bent as a monsoon-like wind increased in intensity; store awnings, prematurely unrolled to complement the unseasonably spring-like weather flapped madly; and, the fittings of the town’s Christmas decorations clustered on the replicated gas lamps and restored buildings were sorely tested. Christmas wreaths swayed and lifted, silver bells jingled frantically and plastic holly and trim threatened to break loose from their anchors and litter the streets.
The men cursed quietly, the women thought it fitting, and the children were strangely silent as though sensing the end of innocence and the advent of a darker era for their town. After all, this was the first time a Woodstrom police officer had died in the line of duty and it seemed to be an omen, a signal that their tiny, remote and supposedly protected community would no longer be shielded from the ritual horrors of the outside world.
Welcome to the 21st Century, thought Clay bitterly as he wished away the next few hours and tried to comfort Hitch’s wife who sobbed quietly between he and Jody in the backseat of the limo.
“Oh Martha...I’m so sorry,” Jody murmured soothingly knowing only time and tears would help.
“Nothing will ever be the same again,” Martha sobbed. “He’s gone...and so is my life.” She turned to Clay, her tone pleading, but with a tinge of accusation in it: ”Wasn’t there anything you could have done to save him? My God, Clay, he was your friend!”
Clay swallowed and reached for her, his own eyes threatening to spill over. He hugged her tightly. “Martha, I’d rather be Hitch right now...!” he whispered and she nodded, accepting the sincerity of his words. She buried her face against his uniformed shoulder and shuddered in grief. Clay looked over at Jody and saw the sympathy in her eyes. She reached across Martha and squeezed his hand; she knew it wasn’t his fault.
With the numerous eulogies still fresh in their minds, the mourners turned off the highway and bumped over the dirt road that twisted haphazardly up the hill making its way through scattered grey monuments poking through the snow.
Clay glanced idly at the tombstones, knowing that townspeople from more than 150 years ago were buried here, now resident landlords from a time when space wasn’t at a premium.
The older section of the graveyard had been left in its original state without the spaces between the older graves being filled in. Unlike many modern citizens, these people had grown up, died and been buried there with room to “breathe.” Somehow it would have seemed unfitting to crowd them after their century-old claim to the land.
As they made their way deeper into the graveyard, these older monuments eventually gave way to an orderly, staid rows of tombstones – the more recent departures. Each stone, Clay noticed, now featured a small, melting drift of snow on top, often sitting askew at a jaunty angle, like some morbid top hat signaling the willingness of those below to step out on the town and kick up their heels. Here and there small American flags fluttered, sad monuments to fallen soldiers, while sodden, dead bundles of flowers wilted in the wind.
Finally, the long line of automobiles slowed and stopped.
The mourners disembarked accompanied by the muffled thuds of dozens of car doors slamming as the mass of people moved forward. Ahead, the hearse was opened and a contingent of officers – a police honor guard – prepared to remove the casket. Clay’s broken arm prevented him acting as pall bearer. He looked over at the black hole of the grave chiseled into the ground and the heap of earth and snow beside it. Trampled, sodden grass around it had deteriorated into mud.
The ultimate reward, he thought, a three-by-six plot and six feet of dirt shoveled in your face. It was just a matter of luck that he wasn’t being laid to rest beside his deputy. He also doubted that he would ever be able to reveal to a single soul what had actually happened at the Baker Estate.
In retrospect, the reality defied believability and police investigators were not notorious believers in anything other than cold, hard facts supported by scientific proof and logic. Clay knew there would be more questions – harder, more probing questions as the investigation proceeded.
Scanning the crowd, he noticed two men in long black overcoats and dark pants with black, wide-brimmed slouch hats standing apart from the others. He could just make out clerical collars peeking through the scarves they had wound about their throats. He wasn’t surprised because they were strangers; there were more than enough of them in town for the funeral. He was, however, surprised because he’d seen these men about town many times before, but in other modes of dress: as skiers in colorful sweaters, as serious businessmen in suits, and in relaxed clothing acting like tourists and taking pictures. And, all the time they had been priests? Well, even God’s servants had a right to a vacation, he thought. And, it was nice of them to show up for Hitch’s funeral. He made a mental note to speak to them afterwards.
He left Martha with Jody and moved to the hearse to escort the coffin. His reasons were two-fold: First, out of respect for Hitch and second, to remind himself that he was, at least, partially responsible for the hapless death of a very good man.
~ 7 ~
The child’s tattered dress fluttered and snapped in the breeze as she stood under the bare branches of a leafless, gnarled oak tree and watched the crowd of mourners in the snow far below.
She did not feel the cold beneath her feet, nor did she feel the relative warmth of the wind; she merely existed for the moment, content to do her Master’s bidding as he waited for the night. Secure in a new location, the basement of an abandoned farmhouse, her Master was still largely nocturnal or a crepuscular being at best. Now, as thunder again rumbled in the darkening sky above her, she focused her attention on the one who had escaped. Later, she would report to her Master.
The group carried the ornate, walnut box with the shiny brass fittings to the hole in the earth and set it carefully down on strapping set above the opening. A man moved forward from the crowd and stood at one end of the grave. He shrugged out of his winter garment and she gave an involuntary gasp.
A low, nasty hiss escaped from her lips as she glimpsed the hated symbol – the golden cross on the chasuble the priest wore.
Soon words of praise directed at the Supreme Being drifted to her on the wind and though she did not understand them, she wilted and cringed in pain; agony wracking her body at the holy supplications and she stumbled back in the snow, her hands covering her ears.
The wind shifted, the words faded and the pain ended. She regained her footing. As she moved back towards the tree again, she felt the attention of one man below. Absentmindedly her finger strayed to the center of her chest, to one of the healed scar from when holes had been ripped through her body. Torn sinew and nerves still dangled from a crater-like open, bloodless wound in her neck. The Master would smooth it when he was ready to do so. Though the pain in her body was constant, she did not mind; it was now a part of her, one of many indignities her small being had suffered. She did not seek relief nor pay the transgressions any heed. They were just there, much as a human would feel a chill in the air or a hunger in the belly. This pain served no distraction and placed no limitations on her.
She looked down the hill again.
Though it was of great distance, she knew that this man who she felt watching her was responsible; that he was the one she had faced before and who wished her Master harm. She found her
lips curling back over yellowed teeth as the wind continued to snap her shift about her bare knees.
She smiled because she knew that his time would soon come.
The Master had promised.
~ 8 ~
After the honor guard had placed the coffin on the wooden slats, Clay stood at attention in a row with the others. Three Vermont State Trooper in full dress uniforms aimed their rifles skyward and, on cue, fired a gun salute – three volleys, three times. A New York Police Department Sergeant next stepped forward, hoisted his brass trumpet, and played Last Post.
Suddenly Clay found himself staring up the hill at a small, lone figure near an oak tree. He tensed, abruptly left the honor guard formation and began walking. As he moved past Jody, she looked at him in puzzlement. She spoke softly: “Clay, what is it?”
He didn’t answer but continued to stare up the hill as he moved away from her and strode through the encircling group of people.
Jody followed. “Where are you going? The service...!?”
“It’s her...!” he said, his tone betraying a savage and furious anger lacking even a remote vestige of civility. He reached the outer fringe of the crowd moving into deep, unblemished snow.
His tone frightened her: “Who...?!”
“It’s her,” he repeated, eyes on the hill and now moving more swiftly.
Jody tried once more walking after him: “Clay!”
He ignored her, running, falling on a patch of bared ground, ripping the knee out of one leg of his trouser uniform, getting up and rushing up the hill. He ran in despair, not knowing what he would do once he reached her, only knowing that he wanted to seize the scrawny little body and shake the truth from it.
He shifted his gaze to the rough terrain and the piles of snow, branches and debris that littered his path as he ran. He covered ground quickly, panting and stumbling drunkenly, catching himself, and rising to run again, boots sending a mixture of snow and frozen sod flying up behind him as he thundered up the ridge.
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