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

by Willem Killian

“He's,” Troy stopped. “He was an insurance broker here in town.”

  “A friend?” she asked, feeling the guilt grow inside her again.

  Her hands felt warm and itchy. She wanted nothing more than to wash Sam's blood from them.

  “An acquaintance,” he answered. “Keep going,” he urged.

  Eleanor nodded. “Uhm. Where was I?”

  “You saw movement, you came over, you saw someone leaning over Sam's body. That right?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor nodded, her eyes drawn to the dead man. “I couldn't see what he was doing, but when he turned around, he had blood on his hands. I told him not to move, he lunged towards me, and I TASED him. He fell over there,” she pointed at the spot that Troy had noticed earlier.

  “You always walk around with a TASER in hand?” he asked.

  “Only when I'm alone,” she answered dead pan.

  “And the Chief's Special?”

  “I have a license and a permit to carry,” she answered.

  “Okay,” the sheriff nodded. “We'll corroborate that later. What happened next?”

  “Well,” Eleanor said, licking her lips involuntarily. This was the part where she needed to be careful. The police didn't take kindly to people discharging their weapons without a valid reason.

  “I didn't know if I had any charge left on the TASER, so I had the .38 in hand when the guy came to,” she paused, the sheriff nodded in support.

  He looked like someone you could trust. Someone who had your back. Someone you could open up to. She knew the type. It was all a front. This was how they got you to trust them and then incriminate yourself. To him, she was a suspect.

  “I was a little distracted talking to your dispatcher, when he whirled around. He had a knife in his hand, but not a normal blade, it looked curved,” she embellished the lie by drawing an outline of the supposed blade in the air.

  Eleanor figured that a curved blade would be closer to the Thing's claws than a normal blade.

  “So, I just pulled the trigger and he ran off,” she pointed the way in which the stranger had actually fled.

  “How many shots?” the sheriff asked.

  She was prepared for this and produced three empty shells from her pocket. “I reloaded,” she said and gave him the casings. “So, three.”

  She had placed the fourth shell in her sock. Eleanor would not have been able to explain why she had fired the first shot much earlier. It was something she couldn't explain away, so she decided to stick with only the last three shots fired. In the end, if she hadn't hit anyone with that first stray shot when she had TASED the stranger, then they wouldn't be able to prove anything without the bullet.

  The sheriff fumbled in his pocket and produced a roll of small paper bags that resembled lunch bags. He offered another one to Eleanor and she placed the three shell casings inside. He put them in his pocket.

  “Only three shots?” he asked.

  It was meant to sound as an afterthought, but Eleanor knew better. This guy wasn't some small hick town sheriff. He was smart. She would have to be careful going forward. She simply nodded, making it appear as if the question wasn't important enough to warrant a verbal confirmation.

  “He ran off this way?” The sheriff pointed straight at the stranger.

  He had quietly appeared from behind the tree and was standing only a few feet away. Eleanor couldn't believe it and immediately reached for her .38. To her dismay it wasn't there. Without blinking an eye, she reached for the TASER and brought it up.

  Troy saw her reaction and pulled his weapon as well, trying to come between her and whatever danger she saw, spinning around. A warning froze on his lips, his heightened sense of danger crashing down to nothing as he drew his weapon on an invisible threat.

  There was no one there.

  He immediately turned on the woman, expecting her to be aiming her 50,000 volts at his face. At this close range, he wouldn't be able to do a thing before she pulled the trigger. In a moment he would join the unfortunate Sam Fabre on the ground. Only he would be twitching and jerking, all his muscles as tight as piano wire, drool dribbling down his chin.

  And yet, when his head whipped back to her, she was still looking past his left shoulder, her weapon still aiming that way.

  She looked at Troy, confused.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted. “Don't look at me! Arrest him! Or get out of the way so I can zap him again!”

  The initial look on the sheriff's face should have warned her, but Eleanor had been so shocked at suddenly seeing the tall, strangely dressed man, that she was caught floundering.

  It suddenly clicked into place. Is he a Glitch, she wondered, or something else?

  The tall, handsome stranger was another one of those creatures that was invisible to the human eye. At the same time, Eleanor also realized that he was different from the Thing. Perhaps it was the warm, fuzzy glow that encircled him and somehow made her feel at ease. The glow hadn't been so prominent when he had been lying passed out on the ground. In fact, Eleanor had completely forgotten about it, until now. Somehow, something told her this was a friend, rather than foe.

  The stranger was also surprised. He lifted his hand, and she followed the movement. Her eyes tracking his hand caused a frown on his forehead. He seemed to come to a decision, the frown disappeared, he nodded towards her and then moved back into the woods.

  Eleanor was about to call out to him and follow him, when Sheriff Troy Troger stepped into her line of sight.

  “I think you need to give me the TASER as well,” he said, slowly holding out his hand.

  Eleanor complied slowly as if in a dream, looking over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger before he disappeared again, but too late.

  The glowing man was already gone.

  CHAPTER 30

  Eleanor was well-versed in police procedure. She wasn't too happy giving up her .38, but there was nothing to be done about it. The bureaucratic wheels were put in motion and the best thing to do was to just watch them turn. Once going, there wasn't much point in trying to stop them. They had to run their course.

  She voluntarily gave her fingerprints when asked, gave her sworn statement and was then left waiting in an interrogation room until the sheriff arrived. She waited a good hour but didn't stress about it. She knew the score. They were busy with formal background checks, checking her firearm permits, calling people in the NYPD she had worked with before.

  Sheriff Troger and a deputy named Giles grilled her for a good hour. It was a proper grilling. They went back and forth several times, asking questions in a hundred different ways, and had her recount different details, important and inconsequential a thousand times. They were looking for holes in her story. Trying their best to trip her up. At times they played the fool, joked around, were nice to her. Other times though, they seemed like they were schizophrenic or downright bipolar. They were condescending and downright nasty. It never lasted long though and they always broke the sudden change in mood by cracking a joke. And then it would start all over again.

  Eleanor didn't take it personally. She knew they had a job to do. They had to make sure she wasn't the killer. Or that she had forgotten or was hiding some vital part of information from them.

  It was emotionally draining, but in the end, she got through it.

  Despite that the fourth bullet casing was burning a hole in her sock. Not thinking about it had been the hardest part of the interview. Not looking at it. Not scratching at it. Not moving it to a more comfortable position.

  She stuck to her story, despite her shell anxiety. Her story remained exactly the same throughout the emotional ordeal. She didn't stray from the events, didn't try to embellish any details. The success of any lie hinged on the details. Sometimes it was the lack of detail. In this case, she had just been through a very traumatic experience. Anyone happening upon a hurt jogger bleeding out would not remember the finer details. When you're trying your best to save someone's life, you don't focus on wha
t the time is, or where the sun is in the sky, or whether the wind is blowing. You focus on the man's eyes. The blood gushing forth making its way through your fingers, irrespective of how much pressure you apply to the wound. You focus on the man's breathing, willing him to take every breath.

  And then you have to keep one eye on the guy lying next to him. The guy who you think is the killer. You don't really look at him, except to see if he moves. All your attention is focused on the guy bleeding out. Only when his eyes glaze over, do you start to focus on the killer. But not on his clothing, shoes, hairstyle. You focus on his posture and his breathing. Looking for subtle changes. Waiting for him to come to and pounce.

  And that's what she stuck with.

  In the end, it was enough to see her through. Sheriff Troger was eventually satisfied with her story. He didn't offer to return her .38 just yet, but he wasn't going to throw her in a cell either.

  In the end, the sheriff seemed genuinely concerned for her well-being and voiced the opinion that she was probably suffering from early onset of PTSD. Tactfully, he didn't mention the invisible man again and he didn't push Eleanor to admit anything on record. He knew who she was, which meant he knew her past.

  Eleanor admitted in her statement to thinking that she had seen the stranger, but was now convinced that it had been her imagination. That she had been under immense stress and that Sam Fabre's death had brought up old memories.

  Sheriff Troger was a real gentleman and didn't push her on this. Perhaps he had been able to track down her old therapist and had learned something that made him feel sorry for her. Troger obviously thought she was looney, but not a danger to others. In order for her to get home, he insisted that she see his doctor tonight. Eleanor reluctantly agreed just so she could get out and back home. She was starting to get worried about the girls. Whilst waiting for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn, she had phoned the girls and assured them she was fine. She warned them to stay vigilant and subtly asked if they had the shotgun and shells. Rosewater acknowledged that they did. They had also decided not to go to the barbecue and subsequent party. They would stay at home, keep their doors locked, eyes peeled and ears open. That soothed her mother instincts slightly. She still itched to get home though.

  When the sketch artist finally arrived, Eleanor spent the next two hours describing the man she had seen. She saw no harm in describing him exactly as she had seen him. If he was able to remain invisible, then no one would ever get to see his handsome face anyway, so what was the harm?

  As the image took shape, Eleanor had to remind herself that she was describing a potential killer to the police. She could not appear to be infatuated by the man. That would certainly have the sheriff calling for the straight jacket and a one way ticket to a padded cell. Or put her second on the suspect list. Accomplices were equally guilty in her eyes and she knew most lawmen felt the same.

  Eleanor tried to remain neutral and thought of the poor jogger often. Sam Fabre. Broker. Family man. She couldn't help but feel guilty. If it hadn't been for her, Mr. Fabre would have finished his run and returned to his family. Instead, they would be visiting him in the morgue.

  Eleanor shuddered.

  It could so easily have been her. That thought made her feel even more lousy. A man was dead and it was her fault. Indirectly, yes, but she still had a role to play in his demise. And here she was thinking of herself and just wanting to get home.

  She thought of the stranger as well. Not just the way he looked, but also the way he had moved, like the Thing. Like a predator. Stealthy. Self-assured. Sure-footed. She also thought of his strange clothes and wondered where he had come from.

  The answers didn't come. Instead, she faced a constant barrage of questions from the sketch artist.

  Near the end, Sheriff Troger quickly peeked in. He shook his head when he saw the nearly completed sketch. “Tall, you said?” he asked Eleanor.

  “Well over six foot, yes,” she answered. “He’s taller than you.”

  The stranger wasn't as tall or broad shouldered as the Thing, but he would probably have been near to ducking his head walking through a door frame. She said as much to the sheriff, who just nodded.

  “Thanks to the molds we took at the scene, we think he's around a size fourteen, maybe fifteen shoe. I don't know anyone with such big feet. It supports what you said about his height, which makes it strike three.”

  “Strike three?” she had asked.

  “Big feet, very tall,” he held his fingers aloft. “And I haven't seen that face around town. The closest likeness is Bobby Sanderson, out on the Elmore Farm, but he's a short shit at five-six. I'll take the sketch to him tomorrow nonetheless. Maybe he has a family member visiting.”

  With that, he left the small interrogation room and she only saw him again half-an-hour later when he escorted her to a waiting patrol car. Deputy Giles was going to drop her off at home and already had the engine running and headlights on. It reminded her of how late it was. Her watch said it was almost one o' clock in the morning.

  She thanked the sheriff when he opened the passenger door for her. Eleanor was thankful that she didn't have to sit in the back and offer her neighbors some much needed gossip.

  Before Sheriff Troger closed the door, he placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a soft, reassuring touch, devoid of menace or force. This was the touch from a friend.

  “It's late, but I called Doc Black earlier and he said he'd make a house visit, no matter the hour. He might even be there when you get home, I just gave him a call. He'll give you something to relax and to sleep soundly. I also asked Giles here to stay outside your house and keep watch tonight.”

  “That's not necessary,” Eleanor objected.

  What would a deputy be worth anyway? He wouldn't be able to even see the Thing, she thought.

  “It is,” Troger insisted. “If not for yours, then for my peace of mind.”

  “Thank you,” she relented and shook his hand as he removed it from her shoulder.

  She was surprised that it was calloused and rough. This wasn't a pencil pushing lawman. He might be an ally worth having, she thought as he closed the door behind her, bidding her good night.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Walther...”

  He was immediately awake, his eyes wide open. He didn't sit bolt upright, as if waking from a nightmare. He also didn't jump out of bed as if something had scared him into motion.

  Instead, Walther Black lay dead still in his bed. It wasn't that he was playing possum, but was rather frozen to the spot. Not only did his limbs not respond, but he was also ice cold. He was covered in little bumps and his spine felt like it had retracted into the base of his skull. As a physician, such a thought would normally have him in stitches, but not tonight. Tonight it did feel as if his spine wanted to roll up and hide inside his skull. It was a ludicrous thought, but nonetheless, that was how he felt.

  And then there was his clammy, goose bump-marked flesh.

  Goose bumps! His mind rebelled. He didn't know what goose flesh looked like and always thought it should have been called chicken bumps. Everyone knew what raw chicken looked like. Chicken bumps also made more sense in his current situation. He was sure his skin was white and clammy, like that of a corpse.

  Walther was terrified. A chicken analogy seemed more apt than making comparisons to a goose. Geese could fly away. Chickens had to hide from what scared them. And therein lay the problem. By nature, he wasn't a man prone to irrational fears. He was, by and large, an optimist and always approached challenges head on.

  This state he found himself in was something new.

  He was terrified.

  Frozen solid in position.

  He had never felt so hopeless in his life. Walther was devoid of feelings of hope and good will and joy, the usual mix of his emotions.

  Tonight, there was only darkness. And the fear it breathed.

  And it had been building, hadn't it? This feeling of utter darkness had been coalescing over the last th
ree days, becoming more and more solid. Entrenching itself into his life and his psyche.

  Walther somehow knew that things were nearing an inevitable conclusion.

  And he didn't think he was going to survive it.

  He was reminded of when it all started. The exact same way he had been woken just now. An utterance of his name, as if by someone standing right beside him. His body had had the same reaction as now.

  But that time he had been able to whirl around to where the sound had emanated from. He immediately regretted it.

  Walther Black was a man of science. He was a physician at the local county hospital and was respected in his field. A man of wisdom and compassion. A man with a keen intellect. A man of reason.

  Who would have thought that his name would be the word that could trigger his descent into madness? And surely it must be madness, he reasoned. As a man of science and reason, he didn't believe in ghosts, goblins, demons, or other fairy creatures. The only explanation was that he was losing his mind. He probably had a lesion somewhere on the frontal cortex. If he managed to survive the night, Walther promised himself an array of tests tomorrow.

  Making promises didn't help his current situation though. He was still frozen to the spot, unable to even move his head around to try and identify if there was a physical reason for his dread.

  He lived in suburbia, but there were still thousands of untamed acres of woodlands not too far away. Perhaps a wild animal had managed to get into his room and his body had defaulted back to its baser instincts.

  But what animal could get into his house? And into his room on the first floor? Yes, he slept with the balcony door ajar for fresh air in the summer, but the pragmatist in him had always left the door only slightly open, lest an unexpected storm caused water damage to his beloved oak wood floors from the turn of the last century. Would an animal be able to slide the glass door open? No. There was no animal Walther Black knew of, that possessed that kind of intelligence.

  So, a dangerous animal was out of the question.