by Matt Drabble
The car pulled in under a large barn in what seemed like a deserted field. The horizon was bleak and desolate save for the gentle calls of the crows circling overhead.
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Dixon pulled into his driveway. He leapt from the vehicle almost before it had stopped and slammed the truck door behind him. His blood was boiling and his expensive paint job paid the price. He hadn’t felt this way since he was 12 years old. He had put a lot of time and effort into becoming the sort of man that others would cross the street to avoid. He was now a big man around town and he carried a certain amount of weight with him. He was a man to be feared and respected, but Tommy Marsh had wandered back into town and taken his authority away without even trying. Ally had been his and he had been her rock. He had been the one that she turned to in her many hours of need. He had nursed her through the drug dependency, through her battered self-esteem issues and brought her back to life. He had married her at her request and had divorced her at her request as well. He had bought the diner for her and only used the restaurant to launder small amounts of money. And yet after everything that he had done for her, she still turned to lean on her childhood crush.
He angrily jammed his keys into the front door lock and shoved the door open hard enough for the handle to leave a small hole on the inside wall. He stepped into the dark interior and only then did he listen to his instincts that were battering against his mind for attention.
He stooped down and took the small silver revolver from his ankle holster. Normally he wouldn’t have even bothered being armed, but despite popular opinion he wasn’t a stupid man. His business, regardless of what the TV portrayed, wasn’t a particularly dangerous one. He was middle management and rarely saw the need for firearms. But ever since the prospect of Arnold Trotter possibly being on the loose was raised he had started carrying the piece.
The large house was dark and seemed empty to the naked eye, but his senses were buzzing. He ducked low across the open atrium and slipped into the kitchen. The chrome appliances glinted under the moonlight that cascaded in through the large window. He couldn’t hear anyone, but he could feel an alien presence in his home.
He crouched and moved slowly into the large open lounge. He paused as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy light. There was what seemed like a darker shadow sitting in one of his expensive hard crafted Italian armchairs. Without taking his eyes off of the shadow he felt his way up the wall and to the light switch. He steadied his aim as he felt the switch. He flipped the overhead light on as he tried to slow his heart rate and control his nervous arm.
The room exploded into light and his trigger finger tensed. Subconsciously he knew that he was expecting to see the specter from their pasts. He was expecting to see Arnold Trotter “The Captivating Cosmo X” sitting resplendent in his cape and top hat, his mad eyes gleaming and shark’s teeth smiling, hungry and eager. Despite Dixon’s image as a hard man, he still suffered from the same dark nightmares that affected his former friends.
For a split second he saw his fears incarnate. He saw the magician back for revenge and waiting patiently to slake his thirst. His finger was a fraction of pressure away from firing when he really saw the man.
“JESUS CHRIST!” He exclaimed as he somehow managed to stop his finger from pulling.
“Good evening Russell,” the man greeted him coldly.
“Jesus boss, I could have shot you!”
“Sit down Russell,” Adrian Todd ordered him, “We have business to discuss.”
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Tommy dropped PJ back home and it was with some regret that he had agreed to drive the man. Ally lived in an apartment above the diner and she had cast him a look that told him that he didn’t have to leave if he didn’t want to. PJ unfortunately had been in no fit state to walk home at that point, let alone drive. He had been attacking the diner’s supply of vodka pretty hard throughout the evening and Tommy had been somewhat concerned to find the empty bottle sitting on the table. As far as he could remember, no-one else had actually taken any slugs from the bottle. Ally had set it down for medicinal purposes and PJ had gone to town before anyone had noticed. After Gaines and then Dixon had left the diner and them to their thoughts, the conversation had turned decidedly morbid. Both Ally and PJ were scared but somehow Tommy had felt calm. It seemed like he had spent his whole life dreading this moment, yet when it had finally arrived it was almost a relief. To her credit whilst Ally was undoubtedly frightened she was equally determined. PJ however seemed to be enveloped by a black cloud of defeatist depression.
He had made sure that Ally locked every door and window before he left and she refused his insistence that she come with them. She said that she was tired and wanted to go to bed. For a moment her eyes had locked with his and electricity had crackled the air between them as they both shared the same thought. He had checked that her landline phone was working and that her mobile was charged and switched on. He had programmed his number into her phone and double checked that he had hers correctly. Then he had reluctantly left to drive his friend home.
PJ’s house was a small one storey building that, despite his occupation of maintaining other people’s gardens his own had gone to pot. The front lawn was overgrown and littered with the metallic carcasses of broken lawnmowers. His front windows were thickly covered with dirt and the paint was peeling in sad strips from the woodwork.
Tommy hefted his friend’s weight and half carried him into the house. He was unsurprised to find the man’s front door unlocked. There had been a time in his childhood when Denver Mills doors were commonly left open; it was a quaint memory of a past life.
He half dragged PJ into the lounge and used one hand to brush various pieces of clutter from a musty sofa. He only pondered for a moment about hoisting PJ up the stairs to his bedroom before discarding the idea as a bad one. If the downstairs of the house was anything to go by then he really had no desire to see the other half.
He lay PJ down and covered him with a tartan blanket that was draped over a nearby chair. He was about to leave with visions of Ally in his mind when his friend stirred.
“Don’t go Tommy,” PJ slurred half through the vodka and half through sleep. “Please.”
It was that last word that broke Tommy’s heart and brought every ounce of regret and guilt back strongly. Like it or not he was responsible for these people again. PJ was his friend no matter how many years had passed. He could no more run out for selfish reasons than he could chew his own arm off.
He sat down in the armchair and intended to wait until PJ had fallen asleep. He was thinking about making sure that he checked all the doors and windows before he left when the warm veil of sleep overtook him.
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The taxi driver had gotten out of the cab and closed the doors to the large barn behind them and for a moment McEwen had sat in the darkness. The loud hum of a generator sparked into life and a powerful spotlight exploded brightly through the car’s front window, illuminating his captor.
“Out of the car Mr. McEwen,” a high pitched voice commanded.
McEwen obeyed his instructions and exited the taxi. He stood on shaky legs on the straw strewn floor of the barn. There were hay bales surrounding him on all sides stacked up high to the beamed ceiling. The pungent aroma of the dusty straw tickled his sensitive nostrils and he held back a sneeze.
“Here,” the figure commanded again.
McEwen walked forward in a daze. The tall shadow was dressed in a long flowing black cape that was drawn over its head and hung low enough to obscure the face. Due to the powerful light behind him it was in silhouette but McEwen felt that he had little need to see the face for he could imagine it clearly. He had watched the man a million times in his dreams and painted him a million times in his darkest works. The figure’s arms were stretched out in welcoming pose and McEwen walked towards it with leaden feet and inevitability in his heart. It was always supposed to end this way. It was always preordained since that twelve birthday par
ty and all of their fates were sealed. It didn’t matter that the figure was covered in a hooded cape with its features obscured. As far as his own mind was concerned it didn’t matter that he couldn’t identify his attacker, he had always known that this day would come.
There was a semi circle of bales arranged at the front of the barn. They looked fit for an audience and McEwen took a seat in the middle. In the front was a large sheet covering something tall and cylindrical.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the figure began. “What I have for you tonight is an ancient illusion that emanates from the dark corners of Indian in the 19th century.”
McEwen watched as the performer whipped the sheet off of the object with theatrical flair to reveal a large wicker basket.
“This trick was considered by western magicians to be a hoax and was perpetrated in 1890 by John Elbert Wilkie of the Chicago Tribune newspaper,” the shadowy cape continued. “There are no known references to the trick predating 1890 and later stage magic performances of the trick were inspired by Wilkie's account.”
McEwen sat and watched the performance through the haze of his well travelled dreams.
“In the simplest version, the magician would hurl a rope into the air. The rope would stand erect with no external support. Next the assistant would climb the rope and then descend. But tonight I present to you however, this classic version. Where the rope will seem to rise high into the skies and disappear from view.” The figure explained, “Now what I am telling you boys and girls may get me kicked out of the magic circle, but this is a birthday party after all and I’m sure that we can all keep a secret.” It explained to the room.
McEwen couldn’t help but smile along with distant but leaking eyes.
“In this version the assistant will climb the rope and be lost to view. The magician would call her back and on getting no response, become furious. The magician, armed with a knife or sword would climb the rope, vanishing too. An argument would be heard, and then limbs would start falling. Presumably cut from the assistant by the magician. When all the parts of the body, including the torso, landed on the ground, the magician would climb down the rope. He would collect the limbs and put them in a basket. Or collect the limbs in one place and cover them with a cape or blanket. Soon the assistant would appear, restored, and cue the applause,” the shadow chuckled broadly.
Part of McEwen’s brain was screaming at him to run. But his feet stayed firmly rooted to the spot with a mind of their own.
“Unfortunately I seem to be without an assistant tonight,” the magician said mournfully as he exaggeratedly looked around his makeshift stage. “I’m going to need a volunteer from the audience.”
To McEwen’s horror he felt his own arm raise high into the air without his consent.
“Ah, how about you young man?” the shadow welcomed.
McEwen stood and walked forward. His face was a frozen mask of a broad insane grin and his eyes were leaking salty tears that spilled down his cheeks. He climbed over the hay bale seats and stood before his nightmare.
The figure flipped off the wicker basket top and gestured grandly with furious concentration.
Despite everything McEwen felt his hands begin to slap together as a thick rope shot upwards in defiance of the laws of gravity. The rope twanged and vibrated as it became rock solid and still.
“If you would like to test it young sir,” the caped figure gestured.
McEwen reached out and took a firm grip and the rope. He pulled it and found no give.
“How about you try and climb it young man,” the shadowy shape ordered. “Up you go.”
McEwen obeyed and began pulling one hand over the other. He sobbed as he climbed inch by inch. He wished that he had Dixon’s rage or Tommy’s brains, anything other than his own meek surrender. But still he climbed until he reached the top. Somewhere below he heard the magician’s voice addressing the non-existent audience.
“And this is the part of the show that I’m looking forward to the most,” the figure whispered conspiratorially. “I’m just not sure if after the limbs fall, I am going to be able to make the boy reappear again,” it giggled.
McEwen shivered as he heard the telltale sound of sharp metal blades clanking together. He hung to the rope as he felt the weight below begin to climb up behind him.
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The crows that had landed on the barn’s roof soon took off in startled flight as the screams from inside shattered the deserted night air. The sound was mercifully short and was only followed by the noise of several wet splashes on the hard ground below.
14.
no calm before the storm
Gaines stood in front of another crime scene. It was already becoming depressingly familiar.
Someone had taken Graham Moss, trussed him up, stuck him in a barrel, and then shoved enough machete blades through the wooden container to puncture every vital organ in his body.
Moss’s secretary had raised the alarm when he hadn’t come into work that morning. According to her he was usually punctual and prompt. A few quick phone calls had ascertained that no-one had seen Moss since he’d left the office yesterday afternoon. Normally Gaines wouldn’t have been too worried, but Moss had been the prosecutor on the Trotter case. He had decided to spend today visiting with those people that he thought might in danger and Moss was on his list. When he had been alerted to the lawyer’s absence from work, he had felt a cold slab of concrete land in his gut.
Moss had taken his car and driven away from his office late yesterday afternoon and had not been seen since. The one stroke of luck that Gaines had fall into his lap was that Moss’ expensive car was equipped with an anti-theft tracking device. He had followed the GPS signal until he discovered the car several miles outside of the town centre and a long way from Moss’ home. He had parked at the end of a dirt track lane and had just sat staring at the lawyer’s car for what seemed like an age. His body was frozen and he could not will himself to step out into another nightmare. Just beyond Moss’ car was a tornado swarm of thick blackness. Whatever the crows were fighting over, it was something that he didn’t want to see.
Eventually he had radioed for backup. He had called Katy Jacket instead of either Freddie Burns or Henry Trinder. She was the youngest of the three deputies, but she was also the most level headed. Burns was more likely to grab his phone and start filming and Gaines did not want whatever mess Moss was in to be beamed across the internet by nightfall. Trinder on the other hand was more likely to puke his guts up and corrupt the crime scene.
He sat waiting until the very last minute when he heard Katy’s car approaching in the distance. Only then did he force himself out of the car on shaky legs.
He staggered slowly towards the crow feast acquiring a stronger confidence with every step. Gaining control over his emotions and locking away the fear that was eating him from the inside. This was his town and this was his job.
He stopped at Moss’ car, reached in through the open window and pressed the horn hard. The swarm of crows immediately shot into the air unveiling the mess that had been hidden beneath their bloody feast.
A body was strapped inside a barrel. There were at least eight machete blades sticking through the barrel and out the other side of the body. The man’s face was stripped bare of flesh and his eye sockets were dark and empty. The barrel sat in a large spread of sticky redness that had turned the mud beneath crimson in color.
Gaines suddenly felt a threat beyond the murder as the crows began to circle and dive again, seemingly angry at their interrupted feeding frenzy. Eventually he had to fire several shots into the air before the birds dispersed. Even then they only sat on telephone wires. Their beady black eyes seemed to stare straight through him with murderous intent. It was only when Katy’s car pulled up did he feel a return to any sort of normality and dismissed the crows as merely gruesome observers.
“What have we got?” Katy asked with barely concealed trepidation in her voice.
“Grah
am Moss,” Gaines answered. “Or at least what’s left of him.”
Katy started to walk forward and Gaines wanted to stop her, but he knew that she had a job to do as much as he did.
“Kind of looks like the old swords through the box illusion don’t you think?” Katy mused.
Because of the horror of the scene Gaines hadn’t really taken in the details. Now that Katy had mentioned it he could see a magician’s theme in the murder. He began to think about the other deaths.
“You know that Larry Taylor was found sawn in half and the defense attorney at the Trotter trial is still missing.” Gaines speculated aloud.
“You’re thinking about Trotter? What about Dale Midkiff?” Katy responded, resting her hand on her cheek as though thinking and not hiding her blemish.
“He was the foreman of the jury at Trotter’s trial. He was sprayed in the face with some kind of acid, but there were some petals found at the scene.”
“Petals?” Katy asked with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe he got squirted by a delivery guy, you know through the bouquet.”
“Sounds more clown than magic,” Katy scoffed.
“We’re not exactly dealing with a rational mind here Katy are we?”
“Fair point,” she conceded. “So we’re really saying that The Captivating Cosmo X is back in town and taking out anyone that he holds responsible?”
Gaines could only shrug.
“So what do we do?” She asked eagerly.
Gaines suddenly felt powerless. He was an old man now and all he really wanted to do was to retire somewhere warm and peaceful. He had perhaps been the only person in town that had believed that Trotter may have been innocent. But by the same token had he really done enough? And wasn’t he the catalyst for sparking Arnold Trotter back into life again after he had visited him at the hospital? He had been the one who had lain out his theory over the trial and those responsible and all for the sake of his own peace of mind. He’d wanted to retire after first clearing his own conscience and now he may very well be responsible for all of this death.