0968348001325302640 brenda huber shadows

by Unknown

  Shadows

  palms down his slacks to shake the wrinkles free.

  God’s will be done.

  He climbed into his car and eased from his parking space. He didn’t need to follow the sports car. He knew exactly where it was going. The sinner was taking the same route he took every Friday night. He’d stop home long enough to change clothes.

  Then he’d head out of town, drive along the interstate for half an hour. He’d stop off at a fast food drive-thru, then he’d slip from his car three blocks farther on where he’d proceed to lose most, if not all of his paycheck in a few sweaty hands of Texas Hold’em. The loss of his weekly wages wouldn’t matter though. Come Monday he’d recoup his losses from the bank’s funds.

  Not this week.

  This sinner had more than enough opportunity to see the error of his ways. God had given him another chance, in the form of a winning scratch ticket. Instead of repenting, instead of confessing his sins and turning the funds over to those he’d stolen from as God had surely intended, the sinner had merely anteed up in a higher stakes game.

  He’d lost, of course.

  Well, what could one expect when one relied on the Devil to hedge his bets?

  He circled the block, and pulled into the parking space beside the empty sports car in the back of the dark, nearly vacant parking lot. He killed the engine. Pulling a paperback from the glove box, the Apostle settled himself in to wait.

  Almost two hours later, the back door of the illegal card room opened. Mayor Chuck Hughes stepped into the night. His tie was loose, the ring of graying hair around his head stood in cockeyed tufts, his wrinkled suit coat draped over his arm.

  Apparently, he hadn’t had time to stop at home this evening before he’d come to gamble away his soul.

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  His shoulders bowed as if the weight of the world rested upon them.

  Rough night at the tables, old man?

  As Mayor Hughes tugged his keys from his pocket, the Apostle rolled his passenger window down and leaned across the seat.

  “Evening, Chuck.”

  A dropped pin would have echoed like a crashing cymbal in the ensuing silence. Hughes became a granite statue of shame. Motionless. Breathless.

  Then he stirred, lies filling his shifty eyes. “Oh, ah…

  I didn’t see you there. What are you—”

  “I’m waiting for you, Mayor.” Oh, the effort it took not to let anger and revulsion color his tone.

  “Me?” Hughes affected an innocent pose, edging toward his vehicle. “Well, now, I—”

  “We need to talk…about a certain bank account, Chuck.”

  All the color drained from Hughes face. He visibly forced a swallow. Perspiration began beading across the barren expanse of his wide forehead. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Now, you and I both know that’s not true, Mayor. Why don’t you get in the car? We’ll go for a little drive, talk a bit.” Then he tightened the noose.

  “I’d hate to have to go to the council…and Cam…with my information.”

  Deadpan, cornered, the mayor nodded and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Put your seatbelt on, please, we wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen.”

  “Look, you can’t say anything about this.” Hughes twisted in the seat, bracing a hand on the dash, ignoring the seatbelt request. His eyes pleaded for understanding. A thin trail of sweat trickled passed his receding hairline and down his temple.

  “This will ruin me. What will it take to make this all go away? I’ll cut you in.”

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  The Apostle eased his vehicle out onto the interstate. “So, you think to bribe me now?” He cast a quick glance at his passenger, then monitored the road ahead. “With what? Stolen money? Embezzled funds?”

  “No one would be able to trace the money. I’ve been very careful.”

  “Obviously not careful enough…or I wouldn’t have found out.”

  Hughes ran a nervous finger around the collar of his shirt as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “You gotta understand. Being mayor in that backwater town…it’s an honorary title. There’s no money in—”

  “What about your day job, Mayor? Doesn’t that count for anything? Last I checked, loan officers earn a decent income.”

  “Jeanie…Jeanie bleeds me dry.” Everyone in town knew about the mayor’s ex-wife. She saw it as her personal calling to stimulate the economy, every chance she got. But that was beside the point.

  “You stole the money, not her. Thou shalt not steal, Chuck. You siphoned it off dozens of accounts.

  Then, what you didn’t give to her, you gambled away.” He flashed a condemnatory smile at the accused. “Then there was that scratch ticket last month. Where’d all that money go, Chuck? Thirty thousand, wasn’t it?”

  “Now see here,” Hughes objected, banging the heel of his hand hard against the dash. His face took on a livid hue. “That’s none of your damned—”

  “Isn’t it, Mayor?” He kept his voice calm as he eased the car off the interstate, pleased that Hughes was more concerned with defending his actions than paying attention to their destination. “What do you think your citizens would have to say about the true state of the city’s finances? How many others are aware the account for the new Rec Center is all but empty? How many thousands did you go through 225

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  there?”

  Hughes blanched.

  The Apostle slowed the vehicle, navigating through the twists and turns of a forest-shadowed road as he angled toward his favorite little spot in the woods. It was as if God had reached his own hand down from heaven and blessed this precious corner of the world. Parking a short distance away, he reached in front of the mayor and opened the glove box. “I have something for you.” A flash of silver glinted against his palm in the moonlight. He let the rosary drop until it dangled by two fingers, and he held it up for Hughes. The small silver cross sparkled with the promise of redemption.

  “Go on,” he encouraged. “Take it.” Hughes eyes locked on the bit of silver. The moment the cross landed in the mayor’s greedy palm, the Apostle swung the gun around, driving the grip hard against the mayor’s temple. Hughes slumped forward on a strangled whoosh of breath.

  Easing his passenger back against the seat, the Apostle retrieved the rosary from the floor of his vehicle, then placed it reverently in Hughes’ palm once more. Reaching down, he popped the trunk latch, and climbed out of the car to retrieve his tools.

  Slinging two long coils of rope over his shoulder, he stuffed a clean handkerchief into his pocket, snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and shuffled around the car to the passenger door.

  He reverently polished any dirt from the floor, and any lingering prints, from the rosary, before securing it in his pocket. He looped a quick knot around the mayor’s wrist, and dragged the mayor’s inert body from the car, slinging him over his shoulder with a slight grunt. Whistling the opening bars of “Amazing Grace,” he trudged down the hill toward a tall oak.

  By the second verse of “Old Rugged Cross,” he’d 226

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  secured the kneeling Hughes to the oak with the first length of rope. The Apostle looped the second length of rope around Hughes’ wrists, and wrapped the loose end of the rope around the stout trunk of an elm a few feet from the oak. He tugged the slack from the rope until the mayor’s arms stretched taut before him, as if in supplication, and he tied the rope off. The Apostle gently placed the rosary in Hughes’

  cupped, ruddy hands before gently patting the man awake.

  The moment lucidity settled in the mayor’s mind, he began fighting his restraints with every ounce of his strength, cursing and ranting until he grew hoarse, his eyes round with helpless fear.

  Squatting on the forest floor, the Apostle opened the small duffel bag he’d retrieved while Hughes had still been unconscious. With methodical resolve, he drew forth
his blessed tools of redemption. A bible. A small bottle of holy water. A sterile, razor-sharp hacksaw. Then he drew forth a thick plastic bag filled with the Devil’s tools. Cold, crisp cash and a couple handfuls of poker chips.

  After carefully arranging the chips and the cash, he settled back to wait for Hughes to repent and accept his judgment. At last, when Hughes’

  struggles grew week, the Apostle stepped forward, bible in one hand as he made the sign of the cross with the other. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost…” Reaching out, he adjusted the rosary until Hughes held the first single bead in his limp fingers.

  “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth…”

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  Chapter 16

  The reading lamp in the parlor flickered off.

  Frowning, JJ set her book aside, and flipped the switch a couple times. Nothing happened. She retrieved a light bulb from the pantry and switched it out. Still nothing. Gnawing on her lip, she glowered at the lamp.

  Lifting an uneasy scowl to the darkened windowpane, JJ crossed her arms over her chest.

  The twin to this lamp was in the shed. Outside. In the dark. All the way across the back yard. It was ridiculous she should be afraid to set foot outside her locked door in the darkness—she was a grown woman after all. But the thought of crossing that dark yard was near paralyzing. Fear gripped her by the throat and shook her like a rag doll.

  Chiding herself for her cowardice, she paced the length of the room and chewed on her thumbnail.

  It wasn’t so much the need for that particular lamp. Any other lamp in the house would work just as well. It was the principle of the matter. Why shouldn’t she be comfortable going outside after dark? Why shouldn’t she be able to go to her shed and get a damned lamp?

  Recognizing the pep talk for what it was, she groaned aloud and forced herself to walk toward the back door. Cam had replaced all the locks on the main floor before his dispatcher, Emma-of-the-green-hair, had called him in on a domestic disturbance while the deputy on duty had been off on another call. He hadn’t gotten around to replacing the porch 228

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  yet, a job he assured her would take at least a solid two weeks if not longer, and he had extracted JJ’s solemn oath she would avoid stepping anywhere on the front porch…for any reason…until he’d replaced the entire structure. It wasn’t safe, he’d insisted.

  Even while part of her chafed over his domineering, caretaker mind-set, another part of her secretly delighted in his solicitous attentions.

  He hadn’t tried the whole ‘ me, big strong man, you little helpless woman, go get my beer’ thing.

  Yet.

  So she figured, all in all, she could let him off the hook…for now. After all, he was seeing to her safety.

  JJ’s hand hesitated on the shiny new lock on the back door. Cam had told her—in no uncertain terms—that she was to remain inside tonight while he was gone. While he was gone…as if he lived here or something. Danger lurked in the woods. He’d tried to make it sound creepy. Done a pretty damned good job of it too. Except she now knew not everything out there was malevolent.

  Her wolf was out there—somewhere.

  She trusted her wolf to keep her safe. Was he out there even now?

  What would Cam think of her not-so-little friend?

  She should get her gun. Cam would have a fit if he knew she’d even considered stepping out the door without it. But her one-sided conversation with her wolf had opened her eyes, so to speak. She was becoming dependant on that gun. It was a crutch.

  The whole reason she’d bought this house was because she’d wanted to start over. Yet, she continued to carry around the fear, carry around the reminder that she couldn’t trust anyone. No, she wouldn’t run for her gun every time something went bump in the night.

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  She did not need her gun to get some damn lamp.

  To hell with it. She’d go out, get the damned lamp, and be back inside before you could scream Jamie Lee Curtis. After securing a flashlight, JJ

  scurried across the pitch-black yard, holding her breath every frightening step of the way.

  She wasn’t afraid, she told herself. But the reassurance was flimsy at best.

  She’d dug through the darkened shed with minimal help from the thin beam of her flashlight and secured the lamp in question. No creepy monster had crawled from the shadows. She started to feel pretty cocky. It hadn’t been so bad. She’d just psyched herself out, that was all there was too it.

  Stepping back out into the night, she propped the lamp against the side of the shed and reattached the lock. A blood-curdling shriek shattered the stillness, sending a river of razor-sharp icicles arrowing straight to her heart. The piercing wail went on and on, like a wounded animal being viciously tortured.

  Only it was a human voice screaming for help, screaming for mercy. Then the scream died…or rather, it gurgled away, strangled off.

  She stood immobile, paralyzed with horror.

  Someone was out there. Someone needed help. She knew that feeling all too well. The terror. The pain.

  The need for help that did not come. Common sense urged her to race to the house, barricade herself inside, and call for help.

  Human compassion refused to let her hide.

  Neither would she be a fool. Sprinting back to the house, the lamp completely forgotten, JJ ran up the stairs and grabbed the gun from her nightstand.

  She raced back down the steps and from the house in time to hear one last sickening wail.

  An eerie silence fell.

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  The shadows weren’t nearly as intimidating as that first night she’d made a similar, foolhardy foray into the unknown. Strong, silvery moonlight sliced its way through the canopy of foliage overhead. She hesitated, just inside the tree line, and thumbed her flashlight off. Her grip on the gun tightened as she slipped the flashlight into her back pocket. There was more than enough light for her to see by, and, as on that first night, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Not that it had mattered then.

  Hopefully it would make a difference now.

  She slipped around the trees, wending her way through the woods on nearly silent feet, careful to keep her bearings as best she could. She should have brought breadcrumbs to guide her way back home.

  Stifling a nervous giggle, she crept forward. The security of her yard light slipped farther and farther away. The trees began to close in on her, surrounding her until she had difficulty distinguishing which way was back, and which was forward.

  Staggering to a halt, she dragged in a long, deep breath and centered herself. She could do this. She could. Someone was out here, hurt and needing help.

  She couldn’t turn her back and walk away. Patting her back pocket, she breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  At least she had her cell phone should she find anything she couldn’t handle alone. She wouldn’t call 911 until she had a better handle on the situation. People in town probably thought she was crazy enough as it was.

  Leaves rustled somewhere to her right. Far to her right. Praying she’d meet her wolf and not another bear…or worse…she changed directions and slunk toward the sound. What was that anyway?

  That strange shuffling and thumping?

  The shuffling grew silent, and the night grew still. Unnaturally still. A sick ball of dread settled in 231

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  the pit of her stomach. She had to be close. The rustling sound had seemed to come from just beyond those big pines. She veered closer.

  Was she too late to help? Should she turn back?

  With trembling hands, she reached out and clutched a fragrant branch of the nearest evergreen.

  Its bristles poked her skin, fracturing beneath her touch, releasing a fresh wave of pungent aroma. Sap stuck her fingers together.

  Forcing a swallow, she
drew the branch down and away. Her eyes widened, and her startled cry choked off on a smothered gasp. For a moment, the world tilted on its axis. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t rationalize beyond the gruesome sight before her eyes. Oh, yeah…she was in way over her head.

  She’d been too late to help, though by the steady stream of blood coursing from the stumps of his wrists, she hadn’t been too late by more than a minute or two.

  An icy wave of shock washed over her, numbing her to the unbelievable violence in the secluded, blood-spattered clearing. Even in the silvery shadows, the colors were vibrant, the details inescapable to her artist’s eyes. All around the body, trees and small clumps of bushes—pulsing vivid green with life—were slashed with dark, unmistakable crimson arcs. Glistening, scarlet pools had formed at the base of the old oak, one on either side of the kneeling man in the gray suit. The pools grew wider by the moment as his life’s blood drained from arms that hung limp at his sides. The grisly drizzle tapered to a slow drip before her stunned gaze.

  The man was bound to the ancient oak with the length of a thick, sturdy rope secured around his chest. His head lolled forward, chin to chest. She could see little of his face but for his receding 232

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  hairline. His banker’s tie looped around his throat and up over his shoulder like a noose.

  But the most shocking, most disturbing aspect of the carnage was not the body, nor was it the frenzied splashes of blood. It was the small pile of cash—

  sprinkled with party-bright poker chips—strewn on the ground a few feet from the dead man. Upon the small, haphazard pile of crisp bills rested a pair of severed, blood-soaked hands. The cash beneath the hands greedily absorbed the spilled blood, just as a sponge would filthy water.

  And those hands…

  Those lifeless hands—cupped as if in prayer—

  clasped a beautiful rosary with a gleaming, silver cross.

  Lurching back, letting the pine’s branch swoosh back into place to conceal the horrific sight from her unblinking gaze, JJ slid to her knees and gasped for air. The gun fell to the ground at her side with a soft thump. Help…

  The useless word echoed inside her head. Oh, please… Somebody, help me…