by H. T. Night
As for Sheriff McCracken, he along with a rookie deputy named Charlie Adams, who had recently joined the Carlsdale Sheriff’s Department, were found murdered in the dilapidated frame of an old barn. The unknown killer, or killers, left their nude bodies in an obscene position, with piano wire wound tightly around their necks and a pair of bullet holes through their heads.
The sheriff’s briefcase contained some very incriminating papers along with a small vile of pure cocaine, conveniently discovered just outside the barn. Enough to satisfy the ABI agents assigned to the case, they wasted little time destroying Sheriff McCracken’s squeaky-clean reputation as a law enforcement officer. The ‘real’ Joe McCracken was secretly a perverted deviant who preyed on younger, vulnerable males like Deputy Adams. According to their report, the sheriff lured poor Charlie to the barn for sex. An unidentified enemy, likely a miffed drug dealer, happened upon the two men and murdered them both execution-style after torturing the pair first.
Jack never believed either report.
“Could my answer get me killed like Sheriff McCracken?”
Surprised, Peter looked up from his journal. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Jack eyed him evenly. “I know ya’ll killed them both.”
“Do you mean me personally, or the agency I work for? I can assure you that we had nothing to do with their deaths!” Peter stood up immediately and leaned over the table, glaring at Jack. “I’m sorry either man is gone, and partially from a selfish standpoint. I would’ve loved to talk to them, and not just you!”
In disgust he turned away, moving over to the wall nearest his chair. He stared at the cinderblocks in silence, perhaps gathering his thoughts. When ready to continue, he returned to the table, holding Jack in his gaze as he sat down again.
“There’s so much to learn from you—and I believe we can help each other,” he said softly. “I have information that may prove useful to you, as well, Jack. I can help you tie some loose ends together of your own. But before I’ll do that, you’ll need to answer my questions. They aren’t many, but I need the truth—your complete honesty—in answering each one.”
Jack quietly pondered the pros and cons of cooperating with Peter’s request, reflecting most upon the sorrow and torment he’d endured the past eight years. “I’ll give it a try,” he said, finally.
“I’m certain you’ll be glad you did,” Peter assured him, his expression relieved. He leaned back in his chair. “Now, back to my earlier question. Is this a piece of some seventy-foot dinosaur that rampaged through the woods behind your place, and are these actual photographs of its footprint?”
He picked up the scale and photographs and moved them even closer to Jack, who motioned it wasn’t necessary to do so.
“Yeah, they are.”
“And this thing actually breathed fire through its mouth, like one of those mythical dragons we all read about as kids?”
Peter appeared tentative, as if the question sounded absurd once it left his mouth. Yet, the excitement written all over his face told Jack the man wanted to believe the existence of such a being, if only he would confirm it.
“Yes. It could fly, too.”
Peter reached over and picked up the scale, snickering nervously while he examined it, as it he could envision its appearance. “No shit. So it had wings, then?”
“Yes,” said Jack, his tone serious. “But they hardly seemed big enough to support its body. It was covered in scales just like the one you’ve got in your hand, and had horns on its head and a pair of fan-like appendages on either side of its neck.”
Opening up like this put him at ease…a little. Increasingly unconcerned with whoever else observed them, he searched Peter’s face for clues as to whether or not he really believed what he said.
“It must’ve been pretty harrowing to face something like that,” observed Peter, still admiring the scale in his hands. “I would’ve probably pissed my pants if I’d been there. It chased you through the woods until you reached Ben Johnson’s farm….. Are we still on the same page so far?”
“Well, sort of,” said Jack, sitting up straight in his chair. “I lost track of the thing when I made it out of the woods. Sheriff McCracken was the one who told us it’d eventually made it out of the woods and then gone over to the Johnson’s place. I guess it had tracked mine and Banjo’s scent.”
“The pet goat your grandfather kept?”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “One of Grandpa’s most prized possessions. He taught Banjo more tricks than any dog he ever owned.”
Peter nodded while reading another page in the journal.
“It states here that this ‘dragon’ or whatever it was suddenly disappeared without a trace. Don’t you find that statement as hard to believe as the very existence of the creature in the first place?”
“Sure. But it’s true. I never saw or heard from it again, and neither did anybody else from what I gather.”
“Ah-huh.... Well, at the very least that’s an experience few people on this planet will ever share. We may come back to it, but for now let’s move on. The next thing we’ve got here is the fact your home was completely destroyed by a tornado less than thirty-six hours later. Pretty weird sequence of events, right?”
“Yeah, most folks should agree on that.”
“I’ll bet most people would find it even stranger that only your house was destroyed. Your next-door neighbors, the Palmers, suffered minimal damage. But there wasn’t a single thing left intact in your yard other than an old tool shed in the back. Just like the Palmer’s place, it wasn’t harmed at all. Correct?”
Something in Peter’s demeanor shifted, ever so slight. Only the most observant eyes would’ve caught this. The agent was on a covert mission and Jack worried about his role in this journey. I wish he’d quit talking about this shit! Leave it in the past, man!!
“Correct,” he finally answered.
“You, your brother, and your grandfather fled from your home. At some point, the tornado overtook you and hurled your vehicle into a field less than a mile away. What do you remember about that experience?”
“Actually, not a whole lot,” said Jack, determined to be less accommodating, more evasive.
“Please tell me what you recall.”
“Well, most of it’s pretty hazy, other than jumping into Jeremy’s truck and speeding down Lelan’s Way. The tornado snatched us up from behind before we made it to Baileys Bend Road…. The last thing I remember was crashing into a ditch in the field. I didn’t regain consciousness for three weeks, and had no idea if my brother and grandfather were even alive.”
Peter studied him in silence, absently clicking his pen. Jack took this opportunity to speed things up, anxious to finish the interview.
“We recovered enough to visit what was left of our place, and it surprised us all that the tool shed was still standing,” Jack continued. “We lived with my uncle and aunt in Tuscaloosa for the time being. Once I saw the barren plot of land that used to be our home, I realized we’d never be coming back there to live.
“Almost immediately, some dudes started following us around. They looked like ya’ll. Dark sunglasses…stiff business suits and driving nice sedans—hard as hell to tell one from another. When we learned what’d happened to Sheriff McCracken and Carl Peterson, we figured these guys had something to do with it.
“The uninvited surveillance lasted right up to my freshman year in college, and then it stopped. Until this week.”
“Anything else you want to add to that, Jack?” asked Peter, frowning.
“Nope. That pretty much sums things up.”
Agent McNamee rubbed his eyes and sighed. For the moment he remained seated, still studying the young man in the faded Metallica T-shirt sitting across from him. When the silence grew uncomfortable, he stood up and paced slowly across the room. Jack watched him intently, praying to soon be set free. His intuition told him otherwise, and a moment later Peter resumed his interrogation.
; “I realize some of what we’ve discussed so far is unpleasant,” he said as he returned to the table. “But I can’t stress enough how imperative it is that you share what you know with me. It may seem like there’s very little here that connects your past experiences with the most recent one involving Dr. Mensch—though, I think you’d be surprised.”
He stood next to Jack, smiling in a way that hinted at some dark secret he wanted to share, but instead held off, as if waiting for the right opportunity.
“You know, there were witnesses among your neighbors who saw the tornado that early July morning,” he continued. He sat on the edge of the table and leaned forward. The agent’s cologne, an expensive Ralph Lauren blend, filled Jack’s nostrils. “The Palmers swore they watched the twister blast through your house before turning on a dime to follow your family as you raced down Lelan’s Way in Jeremy’s truck. They watched it turn and come back up the street after it tossed his vehicle into the field we’ve discussed.
“Now, it may have been extremely foolhardy and dangerous of them, but Jesse and Linda Sue Palmer ignored the safety of their storm cellar to witness this tornado methodically obliterate everything in your yard except, of course, the tool shed. We’ve already agreed that your home being the sole target of the tornado was very weird. I’m not professing that either of us are experts in meteorology or what is considered typical tornado behavior. But, doesn’t the fact this particular tornado came back and took a second direct pass on your property seem preposterous to you?”
Sweat formed in tiny droplets above Jack’s temples and along his spine. He never knew his next-door neighbors witnessed those horrifying events in the early morning darkness that fateful day. According to what he’d previously been told, no one living along Lelan’s Way ever came forward.
“I see it in your face, Jack. You’re holding out on me,” Peter chuckled. “Well, that’s fine, because I’ve got all night if need be.”
About the Authors:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
H.T. Night is the author of two novels, Winning Sarah’s Heart, and Vampire Love Story, and the romantic comedy screenplay, Getting Yours. Night lives in Southern California with his son, Joshua. Please find him on Facebook, keyword: H.T. Night.
Aiden James resides in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Fiona, their two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and a feisty terrier named Gypsy. An avid researcher of all things paranormal, he spends much of his time investigating haunted locales throughout the Deep South. Please visit his website:
www.aidenjamesfiction.com.