by Ron Ripley
The only motivation he had in life was revenge, and that, some nights, was only barely strong enough to keep him from pulling the trigger.
“There can’t be anyone else,” Shane answered. “I’m the only one. But this will be the last. I promise you that, Courtney. As soon as I put them into the ground, I’m going to stay here. I’m not going out anymore. I don’t want to hunt anymore.”
Her voice came closer as she spoke.
“Do you promise?” she whispered.
Shane nodded. “I promise.”
A knock sounded and Shane straightened up.
“David’s here,” Frank said through the door. “He said he has something we’re going to want to see.”
“I’ll be back,” Shane said.
Courtney responded with silence.
Shane sighed, stood up, and exited the library. He hurried down the stairs, meeting up with Frank, David and Marie in the study.
“What’ve you got?” Shane asked, dropping down into his chair.
David nodded to Frank, saying, “I got this at lunch time. This is footage of the Watchers gathering information about the One. They’re as blind as we are when it comes to the history of this place, this person. All of it.”
Frank brought up the email footage David had brought, cued the video and hit play.
The image on the screen flickered, and then came into sharp focus. They watched in silence as someone with a camera mounted to their headgear progressed through a forested area. Soon the individual arrived at a burial ground and a house.
It took Shane a moment to understand that the people sitting on the ground weren’t propped up corpses, but still living and breathing. Their attention was focused upon a little boy.
The sight of the people as they rotted away churned his stomach.
But his repulsion at what he saw was quickly replaced by shock as the boy raced towards the camera.
Then the image flickered out as the camera went dead.
Shane stared at the screen, focused on it as David began to speak.
“I’ve been told that something came out of the dead boy’s mouth,” David said. “I’m not sure what. It was strong though. And black, similar I’m guessing to those creatures we saw in Borgin. It latched onto the investigator’s leg and managed to dislocate her ankle before she was pulled far enough away.”
Frank started to ask a question but Shane interrupted him.
“I know him,” Shane whispered.
He could feel the eyes of everyone on him.
“What?” Frank asked.
Shane couldn’t take his own eyes away from the screen.
“The boy,” Shane said. “I know him.”
“You can’t possibly know him,” Marie said. “Shane, he looks like he’s been dead for three hundred years.”
“That’s about right,” Shane murmured.
“How do you know him?” David asked.
“Because,” Shane whispered, “we’re family.”
Chapter 23: A Cold Silence
Everyone stared at Shane.
“How?” Frank asked, breaking the silence. “How is that even possible?”
Still stunned at the image of the boy, Shane couldn't answer. Instead, he got to his feet, crossed the room, and went to a barrister bookcase set against the right wall. He took an old brass key from atop the case and unlocked the cabinet. His hands trembled as he replaced the key and then squatted down, then lifted the glass door up.
Old brass hinges squealed in protest and Shane could appreciate the complaint.
The last time it had been opened was in 1985, when he had been eleven years old.
As he remained in front of the cabinet, staring at the contents, the smell of aged papers and old books drifted out. The scent brought back memories of his mother, of the hours she would spend pouring over their family’s history.
With difficulty, he pushed the memory away, reached in, and removed a small, dark gray cardboard box. He held it against his chest, the smell of his mother’s perfume, faint and delicate, caused his breath to hitch in his throat.
Shane returned to his seat and held onto the box for a moment longer. The others watched him, surprise etched on Frank and Marie’s faces.
Lowering the box to his lap, Shane tried to speak. His voice failed him, and he cleared his throat twice before he found the words.
“My mother,” Shane explained, “was an amateur genealogist. She had told me our family had been in the area since the beginning, but I didn’t understand that. Plus my dad would tell me not to get her started on the subject. He hated to hear about it. Said it was like someone reading the numbers of the stock market out loud.”
Shane took a deep breath, let it out, and forced a smile.
"Anyway," he continued, "I would sit with her, watch her go through old books and letters. Back before the internet. Every once in a while, she would get a picture or something in the mail, and I'd look at it with her. Then, one day, she got this old portrait."
Shane opened the cardboard case. He withdrew an object wrapped in tissue paper. The crinkling sound the paper made was loud and abrasive as he removed it from the item. Soon he held a black, oval frame. The glass was bright, and beneath it, the portrait was stark and crisp and as frightening as it had been thirty years before.
The boy from the video stood beside a chair, his hand resting on the back of it. There was no joy in the child’s smile. His eyes lacked any mirth, filled as they were with hatred. If the portrait had been a photograph instead of a painting, Shane would have sworn the shadow in the chair was a trick of the eye.
But the long dead artist had gone to the trouble of placing the image there.
It was nothing more than a hint of darkness.
Yet it was enough to know it was real, especially with the evidence on the film.
“This is Samson Coffin,” Shane said, handing the portrait to Frank.
“What did he do?” David asked as the image was passed along to him for inspection.
“I don't know," Shane replied. "But a journal came with the portrait, and after she read it, she stopped her research."
The image of Samson made its way back to Shane, and he returned it to the box.
“I found her in here one night, the portrait in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other,” Shane said as he closed the box and stood up. He walked over to the barrister bookcase, put the box away, and closed the cabinet door. “There was an empty bottle on the desk beside her. It was one of the few times I saw her drunk. I didn’t think about that then, or why she might be. I just thought she’d had a few more drinks than usual. I asked her if she had found out any more about Samson.”
Then he sighed and shook his head. “My mom said she knew enough.”
“And what was that?” David asked.
Shane turned around and faced the others before he answered.
“She said she knew where the bodies were buried, and she didn’t want to know anything more.”
Chapter 24: With His Dogs
Larry Wilton stumbled a little as he walked along the dirt path to the kennel. He had run out of whiskey and had to switch to the back-up bottle of red wine he kept in the cupboard for emergencies.
Like when he ran out of whiskey.
His stomach gurgled and Larry grimaced.
The wine never sat well on top of hard liquor, and it was always a challenge to keep it down. He didn’t appreciate vomiting.
It was a waste of good alcohol.
Well, he thought, reaching the kennel door, maybe not good, but at least it’s alcohol.
Larry’s hands shook as he undid the latch and let himself in. The dogs howled as he flicked on the light, the fluorescents sputtering like old gas lanterns. His dogs, all fourteen of them, were Kentucky hounds.
And they were loud.
“Oh, hell, shut up!” Larry hollered as he closed and locked the door behind him. “Ain’t none of you gonna eat if you don’t shut it.”
It wa
s an empty threat. Larry loved his dogs, and his dogs loved him. In spite of his issues with alcohol, Larry always took care of the canines. He raised them and bred them, taught them to be trackers and sold them only to hunters he knew, or who were recommended to him.
And anyone new had to be vetted first.
His dogs didn’t go to people he couldn’t trust.
“Hold on, hold on,” Larry grumbled as the dogs whined in their individual stalls. He turned to the control box on the wall and punched in the code that opened each kennel door. The locks released with loud clicks and the doors swung wide.
Yips and yaps, and howls of joy filled the air as the dogs rushed toward him. When they had almost reached Larry, they came to a stop.
The happy sounds vanished and deep, guttural growls of fear emanated from their throats. Their ears flattened against their skulls and tails dropped down and were tucked between their legs.
Frowning, Larry looked at them and said, “What in the absolute hell is your problem?”
“I think they’re afraid of me,” a small voice said behind him.
Larry spun around and nearly fell doing so.
He looked in surprise at a small boy who stood in front of the door. The child was dressed in clothes that made Larry think of the American Revolution.
And the little boy was beautiful. A perfect child. Like something out of a painting or a drawing.
The small boy was perfection personified.
“Why don’t they like you?” Larry asked.
The boy shrugged. “They never have, I’m afraid. You look tired. You should sit down.”
Larry smiled. He was tired.
He sat down on the floor, his back to the dogs.
The boy grinned.
“Aren’t you hot, with that shirt on?” the boy asked.
And suddenly Larry was hot. He could feel sweat on his back and chest, under his arms and soaking the fabric of his shirt.
“I don’t mind if you remove your shirt,” the small child said.
“Thank you,” Larry murmured with relief. He stripped off his shirt and dropped it to the floor.
The boy looked around for a moment before he asked, “Do you have a knife, or something sharp?”
“I have a knife,” Larry answered. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his old Swiss Army knife. It was a battered tool. While the blade was no longer as keen as it used to be, it was still sharp.
“Now,” the boy said, sitting down, “why did you come in here?”
“To feed the dogs,” Larry answered.
The boy nodded. “They seem quite hungry. Do you love your dogs?”
“I do,” Larry whispered.
“Will you show me how much you care for them?” the boy asked, leaning forward. “Will you show them?”
Tears sprang into Larry’s eyes as he said, “Yes.”
“Share with them what you ate,” the boy said, winking. “show us the depths of your affection.”
Larry grinned, opened the knife blade, and plunged it into his stomach. He didn’t make a sound as he cut himself from left to right, his intestines spilling out onto his lap.
And he stroked the heads of his dogs as they buried their snouts in his stomach and ate their fill.
Chapter 25: A Discussion on Mental Health
“He seems like he’s getting worse,” Marie said.
Frank sat with her and David at the dining table, the remains of a take-out meal spread out before them. A guilty feeling crept over Frank as he looked at the other two. It felt wrong to talk about Shane behind his back, yet at the same time, he knew she was right.
Shane was far more emotional than when Frank had first met him, and the man was spending too much time in the library with Courtney. There were even moments when Frank was certain he would find Shane dead or hear a gunshot in the middle of the night.
“I can’t say,” David said. “I’ve only known him a short time.”
“He’s taking more risks,” Marie added, taking a sip of her water. “And it can result in more danger for us.”
Frank rubbed at the scar on his face. After a moment he spoke.
“I’m worried about him,” Frank confessed. “I won’t deny that. But he’s our best bet in finishing the Watchers off. He always survives. No matter what.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” Marie demanded. “What if he makes the situation worse?”
“He can’t,” David said.
Frank and Marie looked to the older man.
David shrugged. “It literally cannot get any worse. Either we defeat the One, who the Watchers seem to have found. Or we don’t, in which case they continue on with their plan.”
“I don’t like it,” Marie snapped.
“No one does,” Frank said. “But we need him, and he needs us. If we can get this done, I think he’ll be alright.”
She snorted and shook her head. “He’ll never be alright. There’s something wrong with him.”
There was a bitterness and pain in her voice that spoke volumes about Kurt Warner’s death, how she had felt about Shane Ryan, and their brief relationship that had ended poorly.
“Regardless of how we feel about him," David said, raising an eyebrow at Marie’s tone, "he seems to be our best chance right now. Frank, do you think he’ll be stable enough to make it through to the end?”
Frank’s gut impulse was to say no, but he squashed it and forced himself to think about it.
“Yes,” Frank finally said. “I do. It may be rough. But we’ll get through with him.”
Marie snorted in disgust and looked away.
“Well,” David said. “now that we’ve got that settled, we need to figure out what we’re going to do while Shane finds out more about Samson.”
“Keep it simple,” Marie replied.
“How so?” Frank asked.
“Keep hitting the Watchers,” she said. “Hurt them until it’s time to go to Amherst.”
“Do we have enough information on the various places?” Frank asked.
“The map gives us most of what we need,” David said. “But when it comes down to which locations are most important, no, we’re on our own there. Most of the work we did was focused on bigger places. Kurkow Prison, Lake Nutaq, Slater Mill and Borgin Keep. Doesn’t really apply anymore.”
Frank nodded, the names of the places bringing up difficult memories. “What happened to your source?”
David frowned and a concerned look flashed across his face. "I don't know. I'll call later. Try and connect. As of right now, we're on our own."
Frank hesitated, then said, “Maybe not.”
David and Marie looked at him and waited.
“There may be someone else,” Frank said, getting to his feet. “I’ll see if I can reach them.”
“Who?” David asked.
Frank shook his head and left the room. He walked along the hallway to the stairs and climbed them at a quick pace.
He needed to find Eloise, to see if she would take him into the walls to speak with Lisbeth.
Chapter 26: Family History
Shane sat in the study, the room cold and dim. Carl stood by the hearth, his form waxing and waning. The dead German eyed Shane for several minutes in silence.
“What is it?” Shane asked in German.
“I am concerned,” Carl replied in the same language. “You do not seem well to me, my young friend.”
“I’m not,” Shane stated. “I’m miserable. Courtney is dead, because of me. Mason and his wife are dead, because of me. Hell, I had to bring my friend’s head down into the root cellar and have it tucked away. I’m just thankful he moved on. I don’t think I’d be able to handle it if he was trapped here.”
“What will make you feel better?” Carl asked, stepping forward. “Those many years ago, when you found my bones in the oubliette, you saved me. I would do the same for you.”
Shane smiled. "Thank you. For now, all I can do is try to learn about Samson Coffin."
C
arl nodded. “I am afraid I cannot help you there. I know nothing about your family.”
“I know,” Shane replied. “Keep an eye on the others, will you? Marie didn’t look too pleased with me today. She may speak to the other two about me.”
Carl gave a short bow. “I will.”
The dead man slipped through the walls of the room and Shane was alone. For several minutes, he stayed in his chair, staring at the barrister bookcase. He knew what he needed to do, but it hurt him to think of it.
Taking out the portrait had been difficult. He had last seen it with his mother. Going into the case meant touching the items she had, at one time, loved and cherished.
Shane closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep the tears at bay. Each day he thought of his parents and tried not to imagine the different ways in which they could have died. Searching for Samson’s history would be a painful reminder of Shane’s own status as an orphan.
Finally, with a sigh, Shane stood and crossed the room. He found the small, leather-bound journal which had come with Samson's portrait and returned to his chair. From the small side table, Shane retrieved his glass and filled it with whiskey. He emptied the cup with two long gulps and placed it back on the table.
The liquor burned in his stomach, and he allowed himself a bitter smile as he lit a cigarette. When he was finished, he reclined in his chair and opened the journal.
The handwriting was delicate and graceful, the old ink looking like frozen waves upon the old paper. On the first page was a name.
Sarah Coffin, June 10th, 1733.
Shane scanned the lines of text and saw that it would take some time for him to decipher it all. The words were written in the style of the time, with 'f’s' similar to 's’s' and abbreviations he didn’t recognize.
He knew he would learn about them soon enough.
Shane lifted the book, knocked the end of his cigarette off into the ashtray, and began to read.