Stirring Embers: An urban fantasy action adventure (The Light and the Void Book 1)

by Willem Killian

  Troy swore softly and hoped that it wasn't a drunk holidaymaker hunting squirrels. He got on the two-way radio and told Celine at dispatch that he was closest, no one else had to respond.

  Some idiot had probably taken his pistol into the woods and was taking pot shots at cans and bottles, forgetting that he was close to the public park. It had happened before. Sometimes, it wasn't even a New Yorker who showed such a dazzling display of stupidity. Sometimes he had to cringe and bite down on his teeth when it was a local.

  His favorite quote came to mind.

  Human beings can always be relied upon to exert, with vigor, their God-given right to be stupid.

  In Troy's book, no one had ever come closer to understanding human nature than Dean Koontz.

  Lack of common sense. Plain old stupidity. Troy shook his head. That was always the biggest problem he had to deal with. People not using their God-given common sense. Brains seemed to be in short supply when it came to the human species. Some people couldn't think past the here and now. They couldn't imagine the consequences of their actions.

  Troy just hoped that he would find the trigger-happy moron quickly enough, before someone got hurt.

  “But I didn't mean to, Sheriff,” was the most common phrase he heard following a brain fart.

  He parked his modified Ford Explorer near the western most entrance to the park, checked that he had his radio and that it was turned on, and that his side-arm was safely clipped. He made his way over some grassy embankments and headed for the main trail. Herb Becker was standing at the head of the trail, signaling to him. It was Herb who had phoned it in.

  “Afternoon Sheriff,” he nodded.

  “Herbert,” Troy acknowledged. “You heard gunshots?”

  “Only a single one,” Herb said, holding up a finger. “I told Celine as much,” he said in his defense.

  Troy immediately thought that he was going to waste his morning on a wild goose chase in the woodlands.

  “I know what you're thinking,” Herbert said. “But I clearly heard it. I know what a gunshot sounds like.”

  A regular at Bullz Eye Shooting Range, Troy had to concede that Herbert probably knew better than most what a gunshot sounded like. The man also wasn't prone to drinking, especially not at five in the afternoon.

  “Okay, Herb, thanks.” Troy said. “Which way?”

  Herb pointed towards the northeast. “Want some company?” he asked.

  Troy nodded. “Might as well,” the Sheriff answered and the two men headed deeper into the woods.

  “How's Marie?” Troy asked as they started the trek.

  “Well, thanks.” Herbert answered. “Doc Black is a saint.”

  Marie had been struggling with crippling arthritis in her wrists for the last two years and nothing seemed to help. It was only since Doctor Black at Havensford General started treating her that there had been an improvement.

  “Marie is able to cook again. Can you believe it?”

  Troy patted the man on the back. “That's good news, Herb.”

  “She still wakes up at night, but it's much better than it was six months ago.”

  “Slow and steady, right?”

  “Yip,” Herb answered. “As long as there's improvement in her quality of life, I'm happy for it.”

  “Good,” Troy smiled.

  His genuine concern for people was what made him a good sheriff. Troy Troger had been Sheriff for six years now, and before that, he had been a deputy for over twelve years. Keeping the people happy and on your side was a must for any elected official, but Troy Troger excelled at it. Mainly because he was genuine. People liked and respected him as a professional because he was compassionate, but also knew when to turn the screws.

  With a military buzz cut and standing at 6’ 1”, Troy looked the part, too. The cropped hair hid some of the gray, but Troy felt more and more aware of his forty-four years as he got a little older. He was wiser and a little more compassionate when handling the drunks, but his younger days on the force had created the image of a stickler for the rules who didn't take anyone's crap.

  Troy came down hard on stupid people, but was also lenient enough to excuse small, first-time infringements.

  “Everyone deserves a second chance,” he always said, “but if you endanger the life of an innocent, I will kick your ass.”

  Firm but fair, that was his creed.

  Today he needed to be firm with whichever idiot it was that was firing a weapon in a public space. Yes, the woods weren't technically a place that the public frequented often, but there were still people in here jogging or hiking. A stray bullet can cause just as much trouble as an intended one on target.

  Troy and Herbert reached a fork in the road.

  “Got your phone on you?” Troy asked.

  Herb nodded in the affirmative.

  “It charged?” Troy asked.

  Herbert took his phone from his pocket and checked. “80 percent.”

  “Good,” Troy replied. “You got signal?”

  Herbert checked again. “Three bars.”

  “That's plenty,” Troy nodded.

  Some networks had limited service in the woods, but Herbert seemed to be on the right network. Troy took out his own phone.

  “Give me your number,” he said.

  Herbert recited a number from memory and Troy dialed. Two seconds later, the phone started ringing in Herbert's hand. Troy cringed at the ring tone. It was a Nickelback song from at least twenty years ago.

  Some people, he thought. Just like common sense, not everyone had good taste.

  Troy still favored Pearl Jam when it came to classic bands and it said a good deal about his personality. He liked flannel shirts as well.

  “Should I answer?” Herbert asked, looking at the still rocking device.

  “Yes,” Troy answered, thankful for the silence that followed as Herbert answered.

  Troy smiled as the man brought the phone to his ear out of habit even though they weren't about to converse over the phone. Troy kept his own phone in hand, well away from his ear.

  “Put it on speaker,” he instructed, doing the same to his phone. “And keep the call going. If you see or find anything, let me know.”

  “Sure thing, Sheriff.” Herbert gave a mock salute and walked off, choosing the path to the left, skirting the common area of the park.

  Troy would be heading deeper into the woods where it would be more likely to come across the culprit.

  “Herb,” he called before setting off himself. “Be careful. And don't start calling people names if you come across someone doing target practice. Leave the ass whipping to me.”

  “Gotcha,” Herbert responded. “I'm just a spotter.”

  “Good man,” Troy said, heading deeper into the woods.

  Ten minutes passed without any incident and no feedback from Herb. This was part of the job. Sometimes it was consumed by tedious time-wasting activities. Like going for an hour stroll in the woods, looking for someone who had fired a gun in public. Most times, as he suspected would be the case now, he wouldn't find the guilty party.

  He had just gone around another bend and climbed over his third log, when the radio at his belt crackled.

  “Chief?” Celine called.

  Troy groaned. Whenever Celine called him Chief, there was a serious problem.

  “Go for Troger,” he answered.

  “I just had a call from a woman in the woods where you are. She says someone has been killed and she managed to Tase the assailant.”

  “Where in the woods, Celine?”

  This part of the woods accessible to the public, spanned over 117 hectares of forest paths for hikers, mountain bike routes, and running trails. Deeper in, there was the odd animal path, stretching deeper into the Pootatuck Woods that stretched over an area of 1,200 hectares. People often got lost in there and it made finding someone difficult.

  “She sent me her GPS coordinates,” Celine said. “I just forwarded it to your phone.”

&nb
sp; “Thanks,” Troy answered, immediately minimizing the ongoing call to Herbert and opening his map.

  The app took a second or two to find his exact location and then it showed him that he was less than a mile away.

  “Got it,” he spoke into his radio. “Who’s on the way?”

  “Miles and Frank are two minutes away from the park. Emergency services to follow. Hammy and Giles are not too far behind. Ten minutes tops.” Celine said.

  “Good,” Troy answered. “I'll let you know when I reach her.”

  He broke the connection and started sprinting.

  Troy was one of those rare backwater law enforcement officials who still took their job seriously. This meant staying in shape as well. He sprinted every morning around his block for twenty minutes. His body might be getting older and he might not be as fast as he used to be, but Troy Troger took pride in his appearance and being able to outrun most of his peers. His fitness level came in handy in situations like this.

  This particular part of the trail seemed to be for the more advanced trail runners. For a hiker, it wasn't much of an effort, but there were many twists and turns and dips and rises and the occasional log to climb over or stream to cross. For a trail runner, this would be more of a challenge. Troy smiled and accepted the challenge gladly.

  He looked at his watch after a while and saw that five minutes had passed since he had started jogging. It was seven minutes since his last check-in with Herbert. Herb hadn't encountered anyone except a couple of hikers who didn't look like, in his words; “gun-toting hillbillies”.

  Thus far, Troy hadn't seen anyone.

  The app told him he was getting close, less than two minutes to go at the pace he was keeping.

  Suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by three quick gunshots and a woman screaming in anger.

  The shots had been close.

  Troy broke into a full out run.

  CHAPTER 29

  “How long?” Eleanor pleaded with the police dispatcher.

  “He's almost there,” the woman on the other end of the phone said.

  “He better hurry,” Eleanor replied. “I think the guy is coming to.”

  “The Sheriff is almost there,” the woman said in a placating voice.

  Eleanor was surprised at how little she knew about local law enforcement in her hometown. It was the complete opposite to what had been the case three years ago. She had known many of the beat cops, detectives and even a few big players in the NYPD back then. She had worked closely with them. Here however, she knew no one.

  She knew the name of the sheriff, but had never met him. Had never been inside the small police station either. Would they even have the firepower to take down the Thing?

  It didn't matter, she realized.

  How on Earth would she ever convince them that there was an evil creature running around town killing people?

  She looked down at the dried blood on her hands. The trail runner had passed away a few short minutes ago. The wound at his neck had been too deep. She wasn't able to stop the bleeding. Eleanor tried her best not to look at the man. She felt responsible for his death. If she hadn't decided to go after the Thing, then this man would still be alive.

  Eleanor didn't recognize him. Havensford had a permanent population of around 18,000, which swelled to over 20,000 during the summer months. Was he a local? she wondered. Did he have a family?

  Of course, he had family! Who doesn't have a family?

  Orphans, the cynical realist answered.

  She tried to ignore her internal struggle and turned her attention instead to the man who was lying next to the runner. He wore strange clothes. Not just the style, but also the material seemed out of place. His tan pants looked like leather, but felt soft and malleable to the touch, almost organic, like cotton. His short sleeve, khaki shirt seemed to be made of cotton, but the cut and the buttons looked weird. With him lying down, it made it almost impossible to really have a good look. She also didn't want to get too close.

  She had taken a chance reaching out and touching the hem of his pants a few seconds ago. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her and she just had to get a better idea of what that strange looking fabric felt like. Her heart had been in her throat and she decided not to push her luck after those few stolen seconds.

  By now Eleanor had decided that the man wasn't the Thing, disguised as a human. Where would it have found these strange clothes? And what would be the purpose of shape shifting from the frightening, dark skinned, lizard-like Thing to this handsome man?

  Regardless of whether he was friend, foe, or innocent time-traveling bystander, she treated him as a suspect. She wasn't about to take any chances. Good looking or not. Her eyes stayed on him, the gun pointed at the soil near his chest.

  “Come on, Sheriff,” she breathed, glancing at her phone.

  As if sensing her break in concentration, he rolled to his feet, did a little jink to throw off her aim, and disappeared behind the trunk of the nearest tree. Eleanor squeezed off three shots, one hitting the tree, the other two speeding off who knew where.

  She uttered a shriek of frustration.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she admonished herself through tight lips.

  She reloaded her weapon quickly and heard approaching footsteps. Someone was coming down the path at a pace. Whoever it was came running from the opposite direction in which her suspect had disappeared. She stepped away from the depression in which the body lay and stood in the path, half-facing the person running towards her, and the other half facing the way where the man had disappeared to a few seconds before. Her eyes flicked back and forth, gun held towards the woods, away from the approaching person on the trail. She hoped it was the Sheriff.

  “Eleanor Kraye?” a man called from up the pathway.

  Eleanor turned towards his voice and saw a man in his late thirties, perhaps early forties around six feet tall, light brown, short hair, bushy eyebrows, crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He was dressed in the expected sheriff garb. The badge on his chest and the revolver in his hand confirmed her suspicions.

  “That's me,” Eleanor answered. “Sheriff Troger?”

  “Yes,” he said, eyeing her .38, which was pointing off towards the woods to her side. His own sidearm pointed at the ground at her feet. “You the one shooting?”

  Eleanor nodded and lowered her weapon, which was still pointed at the woods. “He ran away. I had a charge left in the TASER but didn't think to use it again. I am so stupid, I'm sorry.”

  “That's okay,” he said with a soft voice. “Tell me what happened. Did you hit him?” he said, his eyes jumping between her eyes and her revolver.

  Eleanor could tell that he was still deciding whether she was a threat or not.

  “No,” she answered shaking her head. “I don't think so.”

  She lowered her weapon in response to his questioning gaze.

  “Mind giving me that?” he asked, indicating the .38.

  “With a killer on the loose? I think I'll hold on to it, if you don't mind.”

  “I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist, Eleanor,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “Look,” he said, using a softer tone of voice. “I know who you are and that you know how to handle a sidearm. That's not the problem.”

  “Then what is?” she asked, surprised that he knew who she was.

  The sheriff let his gaze drift down to her hands. “You know protocol in a situation like this. And you have blood on your hands. Literally.”

  The possible double meaning didn't escape Eleanor. She nodded, knowing there was no point in resisting. She pulled the ejector rod and expertly flicked open the chamber and offered the weapon to him.

  Troy rummaged in his pocket for an evidence bag and held it out to her. Eleanor emptied the cylinder first, dropping the shells into the paper bag before the .38 followed. The sheriff took the bag from her, finally giving her the opportunity to check her hands. The dried blood was beginning to flake and s
cream at her.

  “I was too late. He bled out,” she said sadly and indicated with her head toward where the jogger lay.

  She didn't need to see the man again, but she followed the sheriff nonetheless. She noticed that he never turned his back to her and kept his gun hand firmly planted on the butt of his service pistol.

  “Shit,” he mouthed as he knelt next to the deceased.

  Troy recognized the body immediately as a corpse. The skin already had that grainy look to it. He reached out and felt for a pulse anyway. He took his time looking at the wound to the victim's neck, and then surveying the scene. There was a patch of flattened ferns not too far from the body. Someone had lain there, and not too long ago. Scuff marks on the ground indicated that someone's feet had changed direction suddenly. After a good thirty seconds, he gave up on a pulse.

  “What happened?” he asked, standing up.

  Eleanor had her story worked out and was ready with an answer.

  “I was on a stroll,” she gambled that no one would have seen her running in here. These paths didn't enjoy a lot of traffic. “I hike a lot,” she added as explanation. “I heard someone call out, I walked faster, towards the cry, I wasn't far away,” she turned and indicated the direction from where she had come. “I rounded that bend there, saw movement over here, got closer, saw blood and then I saw a man kneeling over the uhm,” she wasn't sure what to say, “the deceased?”

  “His name was Sam Fabre,” the sheriff shocked her.

  “You knew him?” she asked.