Stone Groove

by Erik Carter

  “What is it?” Wilson looked exhausted, but given his standard bedtime was 9 p.m., he’d already gotten eight hours of sleep. Wilson tried for ten hours a night.

  “Put some clothes on. I got the call. We’re going to Manteo, North Carolina.”

  Wilson got dressed, and the two of them went out to Arancia. Dale slid into the driver seat, and Wilson grumbled as he contorted himself into the passenger side.

  “We’ll head back to the Sheriff’s Office,” Dale said. “After we get to the chopper, we’ll—” He turned the key.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again. Nothing. He had a sinking feeling

  He tried the lights. Nothing going.

  “Shit, Wilson. We’re going to need to jump it.” But as he said that and tested the power windows, something didn’t seem right. There was a foreign feeling about Arancia, like when a mechanic had worked on her and sat in Dale’s seat, messed with his settings. Something was off.

  Dale popped the front hood, beneath which were the fans, spare tire, clutch and brake cylinders, and battery. Except the battery wasn’t there. Where it normally sat was a note. Dale picked it up.

  “Dammit, Wilson. No one touches Arancia!” He put his hands on his hips and looked around in vain. “We’re going to have to take your beast.”

  They ran over to Wilson’s Custom Cruiser and got in. Wilson turned the key. Nothing. He looked at Dale.

  Under Wilson’s hood, his battery was gone too, and there was a note in its place.

  “Son of a bitch,” Wilson said. It was the second time he’d cursed during this case. “I’ll coordinate some wheels for us.” He headed for his room.

  Dale thought for a moment and grabbed Wilson by the arm. “You know what? I have a better idea.”

  If it was possible, the Beaver was shaking even harder than the last flight, jolting around erratically, dipping and rising. Dale was in the front with Butch, and Wilson was in the back.

  Dale looked behind him. Wilson was holding onto the side of the plane. There were no seats back there, and he sat on the floor amid a bunch of boxes, tools, and other assorted junk. He looked like he was going to be sick.

  “First ride in a small bird?” Butch said to Wilson, yelling over the roar of the engine.

  “No!” Wilson said. He put his hand to his mouth.

  The plane shimmied through some turbulence, and Wilson lost his grip. He slid backwards and smacked into a pair of rusty metal drums.

  “Sorry about that,” Butch said. “I yanked out all the backseats. More room.”

  Dale craned his neck around. “You can appreciate that, can’t you, station wagon man?” He winked at him.

  Wilson raised his fist, and for a moment it looked like he was going to flip Dale the bird. Talk about a cranky passenger. This assignment had really brought out the worst in him.

  Dale turned back to Butch. “Thanks for giving us another ride.”

  “As long as we get back by sundown. Got some dusting to do in Elkton.” Butch glanced behind him. “That there’s the pesticide you’re leaning on.”

  Wilson was resting against one of the metal drums. He quickly scrambled away.

  “Now hold on, boys,” Butch said. The plane veered to the east.

  Dale gripped his seat. Wilson screamed.

  Chapter 40

  Dale and Wilson stood with Sherry Conrad, the curator of The Lost Colony play in Manteo, North Carolina. Before them was the permanent outdoor Waterside Theatre, consisting of a massive stage with several wooden set pieces. There were four cabins and a background of ramparts crafted from logs. At center stage was the visual crown, a massive, pointed chapel. There was seating for 3,500 people facing the stage, and behind it was the water of the Roanoke Sound.

  Conrad was middle-aged and portly with a pinched face that made her look like a haughty archivist at a local historical society. Which, in a way, she was.

  “I’m afraid if anyone were going to come to our stage they would have done so already, Agent Conley.” She was more concerned with that evening’s performance—which wasn’t until 7:30, hours later—than she was with Dale’s query about kidnapped people stowed somewhere in her facility. For someone who made a living in the make-believe, her inability to suspend disbelief was perplexing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to prepare stage dressing. I’ve shown you the entire facility. Please show yourselves out.”

  “What a battle-axe,” Wilson said under his breath as they walked up the ramped path between the seemingly endless rows of seats. “You’re absolutely certain they’re here?”

  “Melodic beginnings. They’re here.”

  “She took us through every square inch of the place.”

  “Not every square inch,” Dale said. “Come on.”

  Dale cut to the right and along one of the rows of seats. He looked back to the stage, which now appeared significantly smaller below them. Sherry Conrad had her back turned to them. She was fluffing the moss on a tree prop with the partial word CROA written upon it.

  They crossed to the far side of the seating area and walked back down toward the stage.

  “What are you doing?” Wilson hissed.

  Dale didn’t respond, just turned around and shoved his finger to his lips in the universal shut up motion.

  They tiptoed along the edge of the stage to a wall behind one of the cabins. Sherry Conrad walked away and stepped inside a storage shed.

  “We don’t have to sneak around like this. We’re federal agents.”

  “Yeah, but I think that Sherry Conrad is hiding something. Either that, or she’s oblivious. Give me a boost.” Dale motioned toward the fence.

  “We need a warrant for this.”

  “A warrant? You’ve been watching too much television.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”

  Wilson cupped his hands, and Dale used them as a step to propel himself to the top of the fence. He reached back and pulled Wilson up. On the other side were more buildings, some for storage and others related to the historic tours. The Roanoke Sound was all around them. To either side, beyond the boundaries of the theatre, was beach. Waves lapped gently on the sand.

  They checked out the buildings. Nothing of note. Brooms, extension cords, buckets.

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Conley,” Wilson said.

  The truth was, so did Dale. But what else could the message mean? Melodic beginnings. Music? Dale knew of nothing associated with the Roanoke Colony that related to music. The colonists did all they could just to survive, and, if the legends were true, they had little to sing about. If the riddle was referencing music that was original to the colony, he could be in the entirely wrong spot. In which case, he was screwed.

  And so too were the people he was trying to save.

  “Conley,” Wilson said. “Look at that.”

  Dale turned. There was a light, something metallic catching the sun, coming from the beach to the west. It was blinking, moving.

  Dale squinted and peered down the beach.

  The light disappeared as someone in the distance sat down a piece of sheet metal. The person waved his arms in the air in broad movements. He was wearing dark clothing.

  The Man in Black.

  “That’s our cue, Wilson,” Dale said.

  There was a chain-link fence further away on the beach marking the edge of the theatre’s property. They ran down to the fence and vaulted over it.

  The sand sank beneath Dale’s heavy boots, making it hard to run. Wilson had even more trouble in his dress shoes and fell behind. Dale looked back and saw him taking them off.

  As he rounded a curve, a group of people appeared before Dale, six people wearing Marshall Village clothing and standing knee-deep in the water. They all faced out away from the beach. Well behind them on a small ridge stood the Man in Black. His arms were crossed over his chest, his legs spread wide. His clothes were the same as he’d worn before, black from top to bottom, and he had the Halloween mask on under his ho
od, which was tied tight around his face.

  Dale dashed toward the Marshallites, and they began slowly walking out toward the open sea.

  The Man in Black yelled out. “You’d best stop them before they stroll too far.”

  The voice. It was his. South Carolina Southern. It was Darnell Fowler’s.

  Dale sloshed out into the water, and his jeans clung to his legs. There was a splash behind him. Wilson.

  “Stop!” Wilson yelled to the Marshallites.

  The water was heavy, making it hard to move, but the Marshallites were moving so slowly that Dale quickly caught up with them. He caught hold of one of the children. Like Caitlin, this girl screeched and grabbed onto Dale’s leg, biting and clawing him wildly. Searing pain jolted through him from the girl’s teeth and claw-like nails, but he did his best not to hurt her. She was under someone’s spell.

  He got her in a full nelson, her back against his chest. The girl thrashed about and kicked her legs backwards. Her feet pounded against his stomach.

  Dale yanked her around, hooking her under his elbow, and started back toward the beach. He moved as fast as he could, but the water and the girl’s weight—not to mention the kicks to the abdominals—were slowing him down. He began to frantically plan the logistics of getting all of the people out of the water in this manner. And then it hit him.

  Wham.

  Something heavy nailed him hard on the side. He fell into the water. The girl was no longer in his arms, but he still had hold of her little wrist. She fought him violently. He put his free hand into the sand to push himself up, and something grabbed him around the neck, pulled him up.

  It was a pair of arms. Someone had him from behind. His neck was in the crook of a man’s elbow, and when he looked down, he saw that the arm was wearing a Marshallite shirt. The man squeezed tight, and Dale gagged.

  Dale threw an elbow into the man’s ribs, and he jerked to the side. This made Dale tug the little girl—who was clawing madly at his arm—down into the waves. Dale worried that he might have broken her wrist.

  He threw his head back, trying to smash the man in the face, and clipped his jaw. The man stumbled backwards, and in that moment, the girl slipped from Dale’s grasp. Suddenly the pressure around his neck disappeared. The man had released him. Dale fell to the water again.

  The gentle waves of the sound lapped against his face, and in his beaten state, he found it hard to get up. When he righted himself, he saw that the man and the little girl had resumed their progression toward the depths of the sound. They kept the same slow pace as the other people putting them several yards behind the leaders. All of them lurched forward like zombies.

  Wilson was ahead of Dale, behind the main line of people but in front of the man and girl. He was having his own troubles. His arms were wrapped around the waist of a man who was pummeling him on the shoulders. The man slipped free, and Wilson held onto him by his shirt. The man threw a right hook at Wilson, who dodged the blow.

  The people in the front were getting deeper and deeper in the water. The adults were up to their waists. The water had reached chest-level of the children.

  Dale looked up to the beach. The Man in Black—Darnell—was still there, watching with his arms crossed. Dale headed back for the sand. His legs were heavy, and they sloshed in the water. He tripped.

  As Dale stormed up the beach, Darnell made no attempt to flee. Dale sprinted up to him and grabbed him by his jacket. Darnell let out a howling, convulsing laugh as Dale yanked him in close. Dale went for his mask, but he wrestled with him for control. They tumbled to the sand.

  Dale threw himself on top. Darnell cackled again. “This how you’re gonna spend your time? Trying to get this mask off? Not much time left, Brad. Look.”

  Dale turned back to the sound.

  The people were getting deeper and deeper in the water. Wilson continued to fight with one of the men, their arms interlocked. The children were up to their shoulders.

  “What the hell have you done to these people, Darnell?” Dale said.

  “Call me the Man in Black. Say it. Or I won’t give you your next riddle and you’ll never save those people.”

  “Man in Black,” Dale spat through clenched teeth.

  He laughed again. “Very good. What was the name of the villain in your sixth book? The one you killed off with a pick axe.”

  Dale looked at him, hesitated momentarily, then sprinted back to the sound. The man Wilson was fighting had gotten the best of the agent and was now trying to hold him under water. Dale bounded into the water then jumped right in, swimming the remaining distance to Wilson. He stood up, grabbed the Marshall man’s suspenders, and yanked hard, pulling the two men apart. The Marshallite then calmly turned and resumed his march into the deep with the others.

  Wilson made for the people, but Dale grabbed him by the arm. “Wait. I have to solve his riddle. It’s the only way these people will stop.”

  “But—”

  “They’re hypnotized. Listen, he wants to know who the villain was in the sixth You’re the Detective book. Did you read it?”

  “What? No.”

  The children at the front of the group were submerged to their necks.

  Dale tried to think back to his books. He’d loved the first ones he wrote and spent time reading them himself. But by the sixth book, he was well into the corporate machine, churning them out as fast as he could. He was embarrassed that his name was on the covers, and he never took a second look at them once they were submitted.

  He didn’t remember a damn thing about them, let alone character names. His mind raced through the obvious. Bob Jones. Steve Smith. Joe. Mike. Jim. Bill.

  Nothing sounded familiar.

  The children were up to their chins.

  But the Darnell wouldn’t be looking for a common name. All the riddles so far had some sort of connection.

  Dale looked back to the beach. Darnell sat in the sand, watching, his arms around his knees. Sunlight bounced off his black plastic mask.

  Then Dale remembered.

  Once, during a late-night writing session, he’d decided to name a particularly nasty character after someone from his CAE experiences.

  “Darnell!” Dale yelled to the Marshallites. “The character’s name was Darnell!”

  The people all stopped walking. Slowly they turned around. The adults quickly pulled the children to a safer depth. Their faces registered absolute confusion. One of them spoke.

  “Who are you?”

  Wilson was panting. Water dripped from his nose. “How in the world did you remember that character’s name?”

  “Call it a lucky guess.” He turned to the beach. Darnell was gone.

  Dale used his hand to squeegee the water from his jeans as he walked up the beach. He hated the feeling of wet clothes.

  He stepped over to where Darnell had been. There, sitting in the sand, was the next stone. On top of the stone was written:

  He flipped it over, brushed off the sand. On the bottom was:

  The bell. Camden Marshall had referenced it for shock value. This was supposed to be the moment when Dale realized that the Marshall Village and the CAE were connected. But Dale had already figured that out. For once, he felt like he was ahead of Marshall.

  Then Dale got to thinking about the bell.

  Wilson walked up to Dale. He raised an eyebrow. “You got that look on your face, Columbo. What’s on your mind?”

  The bell hadn’t been part of the original layout of the CAE camp—it was purchased during the time the camp was operational. Glenn installed it in a moment of inspiration. Classical conditioning. He wanted the ringing of the bell to create a reflex response of fear in his followers.

  “‘Bell,’” Dale said, pointing at the word on the stone. “It’s a reference to the bell at the CAE camp. Glenn Downey installed it while the camp was operational. But Marshall was never at the camp. How would Marshall know about the bell?”

  “Why wouldn’t he know about it?” Wils
on said. “You said Marshall was a financial backer of the CAE.”

  “Yes, but he was in deep in the South American jungle the entire time it was in operation. Completely cut off from the modern world.”

  “Downey could have told him about it when he got back.”

  “Downey died in the fires, months before Marshall came back to the States.”

  Wilson shook his head, slightly frustrated, clearly not wanting to let go of the more logical storyline. “Well, he could have read about it the tell-all book your PI wrote.”

  “I mentioned the bell in one line. I gave no description of it. I didn’t want to give the thing any more power.”

  Dale’s first book, his exposé, was the only retelling of what happened at the CAE. None of the other survivors spoke publicly about their experiences. In his book, Dale mentioned the bell only in passing—a single line:

  “Downey also installed a bell that he would ring at key moments (White Nights, discipline sessions, etc.) to instill fear in his followers.”

  Brad Walker had been a journalist and a historian, so he had the obligation to include all the facts. He took that obligation seriously, but he cheated a little with his book, downplaying the importance of the hideous bell.

  “Seems to me he could have found out about it somehow,” Wilson said.

  “No. And I’ll prove it to you back in Staunton. Marshall wouldn’t have known about the bell.” Dale let the stone drop to the ground. “Which means Marshall couldn’t have been the one who left all these messages on the stones. We’ve been had, Wilson. Marshall isn’t the man in charge here. He’s as brainwashed as all the other Marshallites. He’s another kidnappee not the kidnapper. Darnell Fowler has been running this thing the entire time. He’s played us for fools.”

  Chapter 41

  Dale sat in the interrogation room of the Augusta County Jail. Camden Marshall was in the chair on the opposite side of the table wearing his orange jumper.