If you don’t give it to me now… you will die.
Yes, she would die. She did as she was forced to do and handed Cliff her precious necklace, but she would die anyway. She didn’t know how she would die, but she knew that the death that waited for her behind the cursed door would be unendurable. Unless she died before then… before the new moon. Whatever they had planned for her, she could spoil it here and now. If she could find the strength.
Megan opened her mouth, and brought the tampon to her lips. It was possible that she could force it down her throat and choke herself with it. She probably would have been the first to have gone out this way. Death by tampon, she thought to herself and would have laughed if not for the fact that tears were streaming down her face as she contemplated her end. Her sudden decision was not an easy one; her faith had forbidden suicide. Ever since she had the ability to reason, she had lived under that edict that there would be no eternal life waiting for her if she deliberately ended her mortal one. Her soul would not be saved.
On the other hand, she feared for her soul should she keep herself alive for the evil that awaited her. Would she be damned either way?
The tears flowed more profusely. Megan felt trapped in all ways; physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And she had nowhere to turn. Her mother once told her, before she had died, that all Megan needed to do when hope was all but gone, was to hold onto her necklace, think of her, and pray. But now there was no necklace for her to hold.
Megan dropped the tampon back into the paper bag and sobbed into her arms. No answers came to her. No comfort for the damned.
She allowed herself time to get through the moment of misery; not her first in this dreadful place, probably not the last. But as the tears slowed and she gained an amount of control over herself, she did the only thing she could. Megan, ignoring the remainder of tears in her eyes, got up and dragged the dirty mattress to her new designated corner, fell with her knees upon it, clasped her hands together, and prayed through the sobs that broke up her speech.
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.”
When she finished the prayer she had memorized after her mother’s funeral, she took a few deep, silent breaths. “Mom,” she prayed again as new tears fell, “I need you. Please. God, please, I’m scared. I’m alone, and I don’t know what to do. Please be with me in my time of need. Please, God. I don’t want to die. Please be with me now.”
She could say no more. The thought of what awaited her caused her sobbing to return. She remained kneeling with hands clasped and eyes shut, and cried for an eternity.
Time passed as she prayed silently. Eventually the tears stopped; the weeping ceased, and silence returned to the room of agony. Sometime during her prayers, either from her own heart or from a place of another planar existence, a small voice whispered as if in an echo that travelled from miles away along a vast canyon.
Hang in there, kiddo.
It was thin and distant, and though Megan felt for a brief second an inner peace that she had not known since her abduction, she was sure that she had merely imagined the whispering voice. And if she hadn’t, if she had truly heard it, then it only confirmed one truth: that her mind was rapidly collapsing.
****
Thirty miles east, in the quaint room of a motel set along a country road in between two adjacent towns, the man sat Indian style on the cheaply thin carpeted floor beside his bed; eyes closed, breathing slowly and steadily, holding in two hands that were clasped together, a cheap necklace with a crucifix at the end.
The motel was not the ideal place for tourists; amenities were scarce, but it was the kind of place he preferred: the sign at the main office that read, “No I.D., no service,” could be overlooked if you paid handsomely in cash. The man had offered a generous amount, enough in advance to cover an extended stay, and more than enough to change the policy of the sign to, “No I.D., no questions asked.”
The man had been quite busy since his stay in the area, and he needed time to meditate. The activity was necessary, and one that was required of him daily. Searching within oneself was always the first step, and it was the steepest; even if one engaged in it twice a day, morning and night, as he had done, it would still take years of doing so to pass into the metaphysical realm that he needed. And years, he did not have. Not even a week.
An hour had passed, then two, finally a third, and the man was still at the first step: breathing. Nothing felt different. No sign or sense that wasn’t already tangible in the physical world around him. His methods were correct, but clearing his mind was the greatest challenge for him, as it had been for years. Too many regrets. Too much hurt. Yet he continued, constantly reminding himself to go back to the basics.
Just breathe. Nothing exists in the world but the breathing.
It had worked before. He felt it when he saved a little girl from drowning weeks before. But then, his intentions were pure and noble. This was different. He had a mixed agenda in this particular quest, and his intentions this time did not completely adhere to the Code.
The ends justify the means, he pleaded with the forces that might not approve of his conduct. For the good of all humanity, for the sake of the innocent, use me as the vessel to see this through, or find a more suitable one. Don’t abandon them, don’t allow the unnatural, all because of my tainted soul.
Breathing. Meditating. More breathing.
Then, something. Not what he was hoping for, just a small trace of something more than his own inner thoughts. He had a fix on it. But it was dim; blurred. Nothing he could pinpoint. Nothing he could see. But he could feel…
Somewhere, channeling through the artifact in his clasped hands, he was receiving pain. There was anguish. Fear. A despair that was already known to him. At first it was faint and barely sensed, but for a moment, it surged through his hands and shot up his arms, until it permeated his heart. And it wasn’t his own, but someone else’s.
Her.
The man did not discover what he wanted to know, but through the strange transmission, he knew that the other was grieving. She was losing hope, and in one final effort before the inevitable darkness that brought her suffering, she was reaching out, praying in spite of her desolation, for a miracle. He tried to focus more intensely, to get a stronger fix. But even as he deepened his breathing, the sensation was beginning to fade. The more he tried to pull it back, the farther it escaped his mental grip. In a few seconds, it would be gone altogether.
Quickly, before the connection was lost, he lifted his clenched hands to his lips, opened them up like a book, revealing the necklace within them, and whispered at the piece of jewelry as if it had ears of its own…
“Hang in there, kiddo.”
Part II
Enter the Paladin
Chapter I
Toms River, New Jersey was too busy a town for Jim Panco’s liking. The congestion of traffic raised his stress levels for the first time since he had driven east out of Philadelphia, across the bridge that led him into the Garden State. Though it was only mid-May, and a Tuesday evening to boot, the premature commencement of summer life had evidently fallen upon the township, considering that it shared a border with the Atlantic beach known as Sea Side Heights, complete with its famous boardwalk, rental homes, and towering condos. Jim guessed that within weeks, the town which had already sprung to life to prepare for the economic boom that accompanied summer, would be in full effect.
From what he had gathered from a quick chat with a friendly cashier at a nearby gas station, a good number of New Yorkers had purchased property here with which to migrate from their rat-race lives once the season arrived. The attendant had referred to them as bennies, meaning the beneficial well-to-do’s, such as doctors, lawyers, and others with successful in
comes. Though they were good for business in the summer, they were not well liked by the locals, as they were perceived as arrogant and rude, coming into their territory, ruining their beaches and then leaving their messes, and stench, for someone else to clean up after.
Apparently, the cops in town adopted a hobby of scoping out any vehicles with New York plates and finding any excuse to pull them over and administer fines. Every now and then, one might see artistic graffiti sprayed along the side of an abandoned building or along an overpass that would read, “Bennies go home.” Despite the harassment they would receive, the bennies continued to take over the area every summer. They seemed to have no problem avoiding the lower social classes by sticking with their own kind. The attendant at the gas station was kind enough to explain this characteristic of New Jersey’s beach towns, but only after Jim had assured him that he was not a benny himself, but merely visiting a sick relative for a few days. Observing the condition of his pickup, and his simplistic attire, the clerk had no trouble believing him.
Driving along Hooper Avenue, just north of Route 37, where he had recently exited, Jim doubted that the winters would put the beach town into hibernation, given the excessive number of traffic lights at jug handles, which could direct commuters into the overabundant shopping centers that had established dominion over the area. The drive was slow-going at this point; there was no intersection where he didn’t have to stop and wait five minutes for the light to change. According to his printed directions, he was within ten miles from his destination, yet, with so much traffic, it could very well take another half an hour to get there. Jim had just left his hometown this morning, and he had already begun to miss it. If Fruitcake was right about him possibly never returning to Meadville, he seriously hoped his new residence would not be close to the Jersey shore.
Jim tried to ignore the fact that he was out of his element and focused on the task at hand; one he would have to carry out within the next ten miles of driving. The moment would occur soon; the moment in which anything could come about. Not knowing who or what he would face when he would arrive, there was really no way to prepare. He could only rely on his ability to think on his feet and adapt to whatever situation presented itself.
After some time, continuing north, he started to pass by fewer shopping centers and jug handles. When his printed directions prompted him to turn left, he had almost missed it. The road at the turn was quite a paradox to the massive bustling of Hooper Avenue. A single-lane road that had no dividing line painted in the middle met him as he made the left. On both sides of the road, the brush and trees began to thicken, and soon he found that he had entered a more residential section. Farther still, he came to an area that was quite secluded. No neighborhood streets connected to the road after about two miles. Jim then made a series of left and right turns that led him to a road with nothing to be seen but thick wooded scenery.
Finally, the paved road came to an end, and Jim slowed his truck as he came upon a dirt path that only encouraged him to continue forward by the two parallel indentations along the path, worn down by vehicle tires. Posted on a large pine tree at the start of the road was a black sign with red lettering: “Private Property: No Trespassing.” Jim had been made aware of this sign, and he knew to ignore it.
The sounds of traffic were left behind in the past as Jim followed the path. They had been replaced by the songs of locusts, birds, wind, and the crackling and snapping of stones and sticks that scattered along the dirt road. This bumpy ride had gone on for another two miles before Jim finally reached the gate.
It was a massive, solid piece of iron that seemed out of place in this wooded area of solitude, like a barricade to one of the Army bases he had been stationed at during his service, only there was no guard shack. At the side of the road however, just before the gate was an electronic box with a speaker and a call button. Jim took a moment to study it. He also noticed a surveillance camera set upon the top of the call box, which clearly would show his face to whoever was monitoring. He wouldn’t have been surprised if there were another camera hidden somewhere behind him that revealed a complete view of his vehicle and license plate. Jim took a deep breath, flipped over the index card, which had been resting in his lap, and pressed the button.
After several seconds, the speaker came to life: “May I help you?”
Reading from the card, Jim replied, “Um… I’m looking for Roger Clemens.”
For a moment, Jim thought for sure that whoever was speaking to him would either laugh at him or dismiss him as an idiot. Instead, the speaker immediately inquired, “Who’s asking for him?”
“Joe Pepitone,” Jim answered with a sheepish tone.
“Roger’s retired, Joe,” the voice replied. “He spends his time camping nowadays.”
“So I’ve heard,” Jim stated, following the script in front of him, “but I can’t find the KOA where he’s staying, so I thought I’d try the central office. Is this the correct address?”
“You’ve come to the right place. Roger is an employee.”
Feeling awkward about reciting the odd script, Jim took one more glance at the card, making sure he didn’t miss any parts of his dialogue. “Well, I brought my glove if he wants to play ball.”
“You’ll need a clean uniform too. We’re fresh out here.”
“No problem,” Jim responded according to the final line on the card, “I did my laundry before I came.”
No more replies came from the speaker, but within seconds Jim heard the churning of metal gears sprung to life by an electronic hum as the gate slowly slid perpendicular to Jim’s vehicle and opened to the right, now giving him access to the continuing path before him.
Jim put his truck back into gear and slowly accelerated. Shortly after he had passed the gate, he heard the same electronic hum, indicating that it was now sliding shut behind him. No turning back now.
Another full mile of dirt road amidst the thickening forest. Then the ranch house came into view in an enormous clearing as Jim curved along the path to the right. It was a solid structure, though ordinary in style, having a U-shaped design with a brick foundation, a hipped roof, and a moderate-sized, white, unattached garage that lay to the right of the main house. A recessed porch overshadowed the entryway in the center. Other than four white roof supports that defined the border of the porch, there were no other decorative elements except for the black shutters on the sides of the picture windows; the interior of which were shaded with horizontal blinds that were shut tightly, offering privacy for the resident within. There was no paved walkway that extended from the porch, nor was the detached garage met with a driveway. Only thin grass surrounded the home to serve as one, large front yard surrounded by the dense forest, its tree line lay roughly fifty yards from the house. Though there were no vehicles parked outside, Jim could see that the healthy growth of grass was impeded by the tire tracks that led up to the garage. The rest of the yard had been recently mowed, and was well maintained.
Jim was about to pull his truck forward up to the garage, keeping along with the tracks, but thought better of it and decided to maneuver to the left, then back in… just in case a quick getaway was in order. Once he put the gear stick in park, he turned off the ignition, remained motionless for a quick second, then adjusted his flannel shirt to hide the bulge that protruded from his beltline. Before he departed the gas station, he had taken his pistol from the glove box and shoved it into the front of his jeans after loosening his belt, then untucked his shirt to hide the grip. He had also inserted one spare magazine in each of his front pockets, which were deep enough to keep them concealed as well. Before getting out, he double-checked that the safety was on. It would markedly add to his already bad day if it had accidently gone off in its current position.
Stepping out of his truck, approaching the porch, Jim steadied his breathing, clearing his mind to ready himself for any encounter. When his nerves were as settled as he reasonably could accomplish, he gently knocked on the solid, white doo
r with his left fist; his right hand resting on the grip of the pistol under his shirt.
No footsteps could be heard approaching from the inside; for several seconds Jim detected nothing but an eerie silence. Then unexpectedly, an electronic buzz gently vibrated before him, followed by the clacking sound of the door unlatching. The same voice from the main gate sounded through a tiny speaker on the wall to Jim’s right, which he did not notice when he first approached: “The door’s open, Joe. Please come in.”
Jim hesitated for a second as his left hand wrapped around the brass knob. He felt that it would be the last moment in which he could do so. From here on out, there would be no room for pause; any moments of hesitation could result in a fatal error. He had no idea who or what waited for him in this residence, but he would not allow himself into territory as uncharted as this, in a situation where any threat could present itself, that he would assess it without the means to gain any control of it. He let out a breath of hotness as his adrenaline began to do its work, then turned the knob, quickly flinging the door open toward the unknown with noticeable force and simultaneously drawing the pistol from his jeans, aiming it forward…
Thousands of possible predictions had played in Jim’s mind over the past several hours as to how this moment would present itself. Of all the potential scenarios he had considered, what he discovered as soon as his eyes focused on his surroundings turned out to be the last thing he would have expected.
The Paladin's Message Page 17