Dark Places of the Soul: Dark Soul Trilogy - Book 1

by Paul Donaldson

  “Stephanie,” he said without opening his eyes, “there are things in the world we don’t understand. Some think they do… they are only fools.” He turned his head toward her and studied her fine complexion of youth. “Your father stood up proud, in a moment when life and death mattered, but I think we failed.”

  “How… how do you sense failure? Nothing has changed. The world is still pretty much the same as it always was.”

  “The evil thing breathes.”

  “Satan is not ours to defeat,” she returned. “You’ve preached that from pulpits in the past. He is ours to reject… but we can not defeat him.”

  “The thing we fought is not Satan. If it were, I’d let God take me home as a loyal servant. This thing… some say it is nothing more than a man… but I know that it is spiritually evil.”

  “…And my father,” Stephanie continued for Abner. “He and his brother both believed you.”

  “As did Lonnie Wilkerson,” he responded.

  Abner Hollis added nothing else to their conversation. He closed his eyes again and his gentle snoring announced to his driver his decision to seek sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Noah knew the handwriting couldn’t be the same. The previous author, of notes received during his college years, had taken his own life. After settling his nerves, Noah had re-read the entire letter carefully. A restaurant called the Iron Skillet was mentioned briefly in one paragraph, a taunt, the location of a meeting eighteen years ago. No one knew, or should have known about the deal made with the Albany businessman.

  John Hamilton, an identity Noah discovered years later, was willing to pay for proof of his young wife’s affair. A picture of the unfaithful wife had been supplied by the spurned husband. Noah desperately needed the funds. By hiring Noah Cote, John Hamilton was killing two birds with one stone. Noah attended the same school as the wife’s boyfriend and Noah also took great human interest photographs for the college newspaper.

  Noah wasn’t a private investigator and that fact had pleased John Hamilton even more, someone who belonged on campus, a venomous snake waiting patiently in the tall grass. The blond thirty year old spouse, an employee of the college and her lover were going to become targets of Noah Cote’s photo layout. Only this collection of snapshots would never be seen by the nosey public.

  Last night Noah found sleep was not going to be forthcoming. Just after midnight he climbed behind the wheel ’73 Ford Ranchero. He purchased the wannabe truck four years ago and had clocked half of the vehicles hundred and eight thousand miles since then. The interior had witnessed better days. A tear in the driver’s seat had been covered with gray duct tape, an effort to keep the foam stuffing from bursting out of the wound. The exterior had a small dent in one quarter panel and the paint had lost the battle to retain its original color. The vehicle ran strong though, and Noah was confident it would be able to parade into Richfield Springs without too much black smoke.

  The trip took four and a half hours. He had stopped along the way for a cup of coffee at around three in the morning, rehashing in his mind the single sentence with the mention of the Iron Skillet. ‘Every morning, I sit in the Skillet and remember what you agreed to do.’ The Skillet, the Iron Skillet, Noah had never once gone back to the tiny restaurant in the last eighteen years, until today.

  He pulled his Ranchero up to the curb across the street from the restaurant. It hadn’t opened yet. From where he sat he hoped to view every customer as they entered.

  ‘Every morning I sit in the Skillet.’

  Who in their right mind would do such a thing? Sit in the same hole-in-the-wall, probably eating eggs cooked the same way with bacon on the side. He wondered about the sanity of such a person just before he began to wonder about his own.

  After a half hour of waiting, Noah watched a late model Chevy pull into the parking area along side the restaurant. An elderly couple got out of the vehicle. The woman eased out from behind the steering wheel and assisted a crooked man with a cane from the passenger’s side. They were right on time. Someone in the restaurant had just turned the sign in the door from closed to opened. The old couple entered and Noah waited for another vehicle to enter his field of vision.

  ***

  The Winnebago pulled sluggishly from the toll both at the foot of exit 30. The heavy vehicle seemed to take forever to get up to speed. James turned left, toward the town of Mohawk and onto route 28. His destination was only twelve miles away. At the junction of New York routes 28 and 20 he took another left. On his right there would be a small restaurant. The type the locals would frequent.

  The town brought him back in time, to someplace simpler. To someplace where a man might like to start over. This was a place where he wouldn’t have to be James Lansing. He could be just Jim, the guy living next door with the well kept garden and a nice wife who visited the neighbor’s wife a couple times a week for coffee or tea.

  James passed the Iron Skillet on his right. He decided to turn around on a side street and park across the street, heading west on route 20, rather than pull into the narrow parking lot just past the building. After maneuvering the vehicle down a maze of side streets James pulled over along the shoulder of the main road. The Winnebago barely got off the road far enough. He left about a half a car’s length between his camper and one of those cars made to look like a pickup truck.

  “This the place you dreamed about?” Keri asked, leaning across the center console.”

  His answer came with a quick nod of his head followed by a low rumble of acknowledgement which escaped from his throat.

  “I liked the place where you picked me up more,” she said into his moment of solemn concentration.

  “I’m going to go in and take a seat by the side window,” he commented.

  “Not without me you don’t.” She got up from her seat and grabbed her rumbled jeans from the pile of clothing too dirty to wear. “Loan me a pair of your BVDs,” she said while trying to shake a few wrinkles from her pants.

  He turned in his seat, giving her a smile she didn’t expect.

  “Well,” she said to his wordless smirk, “denim is a little rough against certain parts of the body and like I said…”

  “You’re not puttin’ dirty panties on against clean skin,” he mimicked her previous protestation.

  She nodded, agreeing with his interruption, still holding the pair of worn jeans up in front of her.

  “In the bedroom… under the bed,” he said, “there’s a couple suitcases with stuff. The black one’s got some extra briefs.”

  “Knew you didn’t look like a boxer man.”

  She turned to go down the hall, but before she was out of earshot he added, “This I gotta see.”

  She leaned against the wall, placing her head against the plastic jam. Slowly she inched the shirt she wore over a bare hip. “Maybe you’ll get lucky,” she purred.

  ***

  Noah watched the young couple get out of the Winnebago behind him. The slender woman in the well worn jeans and oversized shirt caught his eye. The female portion of the couple looked unruly, still watching her brought him the sort of pleasure he usually denied himself. The young girl was not the type to stand beside a pastor. She could never dress conservatively, or sit quietly with a Bible in hand. That was the type of woman he chose for himself. The girl from the Winnebago had a sinful way of moving. Temptation filled his loins and he chastised himself. He was a minister, but he still possessed the desires of a man.

  The man with the girl seemed to be a little older, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. Noah noticed the man take hold of the girls hand as they hurried across the street after allowing a lone vehicle to pass. He wondered about the status, if any, of the relationship between the two. His lonely lifestyle festered an avalanche of thoughts he wasn’t proud of.

  After the couple had entered the diner Noah got out of his vehicle and crossed the state route. At this time of the morning traffic was sparse. He didn’t have to wait before making
his journey across the black barrier.

  When Noah entered the interior of the restaurant he noticed the couple sitting at a window seat along the far side of the dining area. The male looked at him and when Noah looked away his spine still felt the stranger’s attention. The male portion of the couple was in no way familiar. Noah sat at the counter, making sure the couple by the window was visible in a strategically placed mirror.

  The next face to pass through the door Noah would have recognized if a hundred years had passed between meetings. The dark, handsome features of John Carver gave way to little change over the last eighteen years. The man from the college years nodded to the minister and took a stool next to him.

  “You’ve changed little,” Noah said.

  “The changes my life has taken on you would know little about… Noah.”

  Chapter 7

  The smell of bacon permeated the walls of the Iron Skillet. The character of the small community was plastered in every corner. John Carver felt at home here. He didn’t feel that way in many other places.

  The waitress placed a coffee down in front of John Carver, his usual, black with no sugar. She looked to be midway through her forties, short blond hair and piercing blue eyes took the attention away from a scar across her forehead. John Carver knew the disfigurement was from an auto accident five years ago, particulars beyond that fact he wasn’t privy to.

  “Coffee?” She asked the question at Noah.

  “Yeah… coffee and… maybe a cinnamon roll… if you have any.” His voice seemed to betray his nervousness.

  The waitress answered with a simple nod, poured him a cup of his morning poison before dropping three creamers on the counter.

  “I thought you…” Noah paused, leaving the statement undefined.

  “Failed,” John Carver responded, then quietly continued, “suicide is more difficult than most would imagine. Took me years to recover and even longer in the asylum… biding my time.”

  “You know… I wasn’t responsible…”

  “For her death,” John Carver cut into Noah’s claim of innocence.

  “Yes… her death.”

  John Carver spun in his seat, looking first to the young couple by the window and taking note of the girl’s curly blond hair. His vision shifted to the old couple at the opposite end of the room. The Johnson’s were married fifty years last August. They had breakfast at the Skillet twice a week. They were good people.

  “She was beautiful Noah,” Carver said, “tortured by a man who possessed… but didn’t love her. I loved her… the bird that she was… seeking flight and returning to me only when… she needed to be loved.”

  “What do you want from me?” Noah asked. “I don’t have money… I have very few possessions…”

  “I want nothing from you!” John Carver turned to face the minister. His eyes darkened with an unquenched hatred. “Penance Noah… you need to offer penance for your sins… and though they may not be many… they are great.”

  ***

  “So what happens now?” Keri asked.

  “We wait… and watch… the dream will soon take shape.”

  She nibbled on the corner of an English muffin while staring down her breakfast partner. “Are you gonna fill me in or am I gonna have t’ figure it out on my own?”

  His attention was focused on the two men at the counter and not the curly haired blond sharing his table. “The two men at the counter… they are the subjects of the latest dream. The second one to walk in holds a vendetta against the other.”

  “Go on,” she said after he paused.

  “You have a role to play here,” he continued, “You must remain safe when the time comes to act.” He touched her hand on top of the table. “Careful of your reaction to what I’m going to say next.” She nodded her head as if she understood, she didn’t. “The second man is concealing a small caliber weapon.”

  She looked over her shoulder at the ongoing conversation at the counter. “I’m good,” she commented.

  “Knew you would be.”

  She took another small bite from her muffin. “What about them?” She tipped her head back toward the elderly couple who were involved in two rather large omelets.

  “Don’t know. They’re in the dreams peripheral. The one man who the dream has called me… us to protect will be shot in the next few minutes… after leaving the restroom. I have witnessed the second man committing suicide after the shooting, but…”

  “I know,” she said, “like the woman with the red hair. His life is not on the menu to be saved.”

  “The one who followed us in… he will go to the men’s room at the rear of the diner.” He watched Keri’s eyes glance over his shoulder toward the hallway and the small sign with ‘Restrooms’ printed in black on a faded white background. “I will follow him… he needs to be warned. In the dreams… he is shot in the doorway… every time.” James Lansing, the high school English teacher, looked directly into her blue eyes. There was no questioning the sincerity in his voice. “You need to stay safe when the shots are fired.”

  “Do you care that deeply?” She teased as her foot, minus a sneaker rubbed his leg beneath the table.

  ***

  It happened, just as he’d said it had in the dreams. The man who had entered the diner behind the two of them got up from the counter and headed toward the hall where both restrooms were located. Keri took note of the patch of thinning hair on the top of the man’s head and estimated his age to be just past forty.

  James followed just as he said he would and suddenly she was very aware of the other man and his concealed gun. She didn’t want to be noticed. Instead she wished to seep into the background, to be a witness to the nightmare about to unfold and not an active participant. She scratched the inner part of her leg, where the scar branded her. The vile mark on her flesh always itched when she felt nervous.

  She looked toward the counter, wishing she hadn’t. The guy concealing the gun caught her glance and like a deer frozen in the beam of headlights she couldn’t look away. His face was streaked with tormented wear. He wore a week’s stubble and weary unseeing eyes. Her slender form was in his field of vision, but not in his sight. His tortured mind lived in some realm beyond the tiny Restaurant in New York State.

  She watched him survey the empty tables and booths. He studied the old couple and in a nostalgic manner smiled almost knowingly. Finally he turned back to her and with eyes no longer glossy he nodded his head in acknowledgement of her presence.

  When, and she still hoped if, the shooting started would the elderly man and woman be able to find safety. For some strange reason the thought of a stray or intentional bullet finding one of the old people bothered her more than the thought of her own peril. They were as oblivious to the present threat as they were to most of the world’s evils.

  She felt time slow itself to a labored crawl. The man looked away from her and toward the hallway where the restrooms loomed. His hand reached inside his sports coat and for the moment Keri’s concentration centered on the tweed garment, the way it bunched against his hip when pushed aside to make way for the weapon. She caught a glimpse of the white handle sticking out from the front of his waistband. His right hand embraced it, sensuously, as if he were handling a lover’s supple breast.

  The men’s room door opened and closed.

  ***

  “Reverend Cote?”

  The minister was washing his hands at the sink when the stranger addressed him. He lathered his hands as if with every cleansing a little more sin washed away.

  “You are… Noah Cote… are you not?” The voice of the stranger asked again.

  “Have we met before?” Noah tossed out a tentative question to the reflection in the mirror.

  “In a way yes… but you wouldn’t recall.”

  Noah studied the man behind him through the mirrored image. Confusion crept into his mind. He wondered if the man he’d watched enter the restaurant with the curly haired blond was in league with John C
arver.

  “Do you know the man at the counter?” James Lansing asked the minister. The thinning area on the top of Noah Cote’s head seemed to lose even more hair beneath the overhead lights of the men’s room.

  “College friend,” Noah answered without taking his eyes off the mirror. “Why do you ask?” It was time for the minister to offer his query. He felt a bead of sweat build up on his forehead. In recent years he had become more aware of his nervousness.

  “He is a man bent on revenge.”

  “Revenge!” Noah burst out after a pause which made his single word exclamation seem false. “And how would you know such a thing?”

  “When you step through the door,” The stranger in the mirror instructed, “make sure you immediately make eye contact with your… friend at the counter. Watch his every movement. Allowing yourself to focus anywhere else will be fatal. When he draws his weapon you’ll be too startled to react. Know this, John Carver is armed and intends to take your life as payment for some past transgression.”

  “You’re nuts,” Noah allowed the statement to flow across his lips before deciding if this stranger behind him presented any degree of danger, an emotional response, something he was often prone to.

  “I’ve been accused of worse.”

  James Lansing moved to the sink beside the one Noah used. “My name is James,” the stranger commented while offering his hand. Noah didn’t except the open palm of friendship. The refused hand cupped beneath the soap dispenser. “Do you sometimes wish sin could be washed away as easily as dirt can be washed from your hands?” The stranger had no reason to wash his hands and Noah wasn’t certain if he could answer the question.

  “Only God can do that,” the minister responded.