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

by Willem Killian

  The bleeding had stopped, he didn't want the kid to aggravate the cuts again. He also didn't want the kid to get upset when he saw the deep gashes.

  “I don't know little man,” he answered truthfully. “It was the weirdest thing ever.”

  His son's eyes seemed to come alight as the kid looked at him and actually smiled. “That's exactly what I thought! I said to myself, ‘Self, this is the weirdest thing ever.’”

  Troy couldn't help but smile back. His kid was resilient. Good. He was going to need that in life.

  “Let's just wait and see what the doc has to say first. We can discuss what happened later. Just rest, okay?”

  “Kay.” The kid said and stared up at the ceiling. “You know what else was weird?” he said after a few seconds. He had a frown across his forehead and the freckles on the bridge of his nose seemed to be scrounged up into a single line.

  “I heard a voice.”

  This immediately got Troy's attention. He looked intently at his boy.

  “A voice?”

  “Yeah. When I was lying on the ground. It whispered in my ear.”

  “What did?” Troy asked. He realized this was the wrong question to ask his traumatized son.

  “Something invisible,” the kid answered, making Troy immediately think of Eleanor Kraye.

  She had also been convinced of someone invisible being at the scene of Samuel Fabre's murder yesterday. What the hell is going on, Troy wondered. What are the chances of two different people referring to an invisible man one day apart?

  Troy didn't have any answers. He did, however, feel that something was off. There was a feeling of wrongness about town these last few days. It seemed to be getting worse. It was like there was a pent-up energy in the air. As if a storm was building, only this was no ordinary, natural storm. It was something the sheriff had never felt before and he didn't know what to make of it. All he knew for sure was that something was definitely brewing.

  “What did you hear?” Troy asked, knowing he was going to regret it.

  His son hesitated. The kid looked at him briefly, a flash of guilt in his eyes and then he looked away. Troy didn't push him. Eventually, the kid turned to him and reached for his hand. Troy enfolded the small ten-year old hand in his own.

  “It said something like,” Jimmy paused for a second, and then it just gushed out. “Say goodbye to your dad. He's going to die soon.” He looked at his father; pain, uncertainty and fear in his eyes. “You're going to be okay, right?”

  Troy was shocked by the haunted look in his kid's red eyes. He was also touched by his son's love and concern for his old man. Here he was lying in a hospital bed, obviously in a lot of pain, and he was thinking about the well-being of his dad. Troy couldn't help but feel his heart swell. He squeezed his son's hand.

  “Don't you worry about that,” he said. “I'll be fine. Your dad isn't the sheriff for nothing. They only choose the toughest for the job,” he winked.

  “Kay,” Jimmy said biting his bottom lip with his left canine. “You'll be careful, right?”

  “Part of the job,” Troy soothed him. “Don't worry, I got this.”

  “How are you going to catch an invisible man?” Jimmy asked earnestly.

  It sounded ridiculous to Troy's ears, but he could see the kid was dead serious. Jimmy was convinced that an invisible man had attacked him. And an attack it was. The wounds proved it. They were deep and the scars would stay with him for the rest of his life. The cuts were nasty and they were going to need stitches. There were a few things that bothered Troy about the wounds though.

  First, the bleeding had stopped. For cuts this deep, that was unusual.

  Secondly, there seemed to be blistering on parts of Jimmy's skin. Some of it next to the cuts. He even had an angry looking red welt on his chin, neck and hands - almost as if the kid had had an allergic reaction to something.

  And then thirdly, there was an issue with the cuts themselves. They didn't seem like cuts. Living out here in a town near thousands of acres of woodlands, he had seen his share of animal attacks. And these marks looked like they had been caused by claw marks. No human being could have done this.

  Doctor Walther Black entered the room with a smile. Troy immediately stood up from the edge of the bed where he had been sitting, and extended his hand. He was still old-fashioned. The post-Covid world and being in a hospital didn't detract him from an inborn compulsion to shake the hand of someone he knew.

  “Hi, Doc,” he said.

  “Troy,” Walther kept smiling and returned the shake.

  Troy noticed that his friend's hand was somewhat cold and clammy.

  Walther turned his attention to his patient. “Hello Jimmy, what seems to be the problem?”

  Jimmy tried to shrug his shoulders and winced. “Not sure, Doctor Black,” he said. “I was attacked by something,”

  “Something?” Doctor Black murmured as if finding it interesting. “Let's have a look,” he said and lifted Jimmy's torn soccer shirt, throwing away the bloody rag of the spare shirt that had been used as a gauze.

  He uttered a soft “Hmmm,” dropped the torn shreds of Jimmy's shirt gently and looked earnestly at his young patient. “Well, Jim,” he said and paused. “I have some terrible news for you. This might be the worst thing you have ever heard and I am sorry, I truly am. I know how much pain this is going to cause you,”

  “What is it?” Troy piped in, but Doc Black didn't even look at him. The doctor kept his eyes on Jimmy and held a hand up towards Troy, telling him to back off.

  “What is it?” Jimmy stammered.

  “I hope you are brave enough to hear this,” the doctor seemed to contemplate this for a second, then he looked back at Jimmy. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut off your beloved soccer shirt,” he winked and smiled.

  Troy saw both the wink and smile. He relaxed with the wink, but something worried him about the smile. It seemed off somehow.

  Jimmy didn't seem to notice. He returned the smile and looked relieved. Like his dad, he had been expecting terrible news about his wounds.

  Doctor Black winked at Jimmy again, turned and said, “He'll be fine,” and patted Troy on the shoulder. “I'll be right back,” he announced to the room and walked out.

  He returned a few seconds later with a shiny, silver pair of surgical scissors in hand.

  “Problem is,” Doc Black said as he stood by the bed, scissors in hand. “If we try to get the shirt off you in the usual way, I'm afraid it's going to hurt a lot and the bleeding will start again. So, I have to go in and operate on your shirt. That okay big guy?”

  Jimmy nodded and for some reason, Troy was relieved when the doctor bent down and started cutting the garment and he couldn't see Walther's face anymore. He hadn't liked the way that Doc Black had been standing there with the scissors in hand, looming over Jimmy.

  What the hell is going on, Troy thought.

  First, I have this bad feeling that something big is going to happen. Then I have my first murder in town in years, with the possible perp being invisible. Then my son gets attacked in broad daylight by something unknown. And now, I don't trust one of my best colleagues and friends. Is it only me, or is the whole town starting to go crazy?

  He kept a close eye on Walther's hands as the razor sharp scissors snipped away at the rags of polyester.

  Without complaint from the patient, the shirt was quickly and expertly cut away from his body. Doctor Black was about to throw the shirt in a bin in the corner of the room marked “Medical/Organic Waste. For incinerator” when Jimmy stopped him.

  “It's my favorite shirt,” he pleaded. “Can I have it?”

  Doc Black frowned. “You won't be able to wear it again,” he said. “It's ruined.”

  “That's kay,” Jimmy answered. “Maybe I can put it on my wall?”

  He looked at his dad expectantly. Troy nodded.

  The doctor conceded and gave the shirt to Troy who resisted the temptation to lift the shirt up and inspect it. He wo
uld do that later, in the privacy of his own home. Instead, he looked at the wounds across his son's chest.

  They looked terrible. The wounds were deep and raw, the surrounding flesh swollen and pocked with blisters here and there. There were three, almost vertical gashes, equally spaced in distance from each other. To Troy, they looked like claw marks.

  “Nurse Anderson,” Doctor Black called and a petite, five foot two, dark haired pixie faced woman in her mid-twenties, splendidly dressed in a sharp-pressed nurse's uniform, appeared almost instantly. “Prep the patient, we need to take him to Theater 3. It's open. I'll call Doctor Rosenberg.”

  He turned his attention to Jimmy. “I'll be right back,” he said and escorted Troy out of the room. “No need to worry,” he said quickly. “I just want him in a sterile environment where we can patch him up. He's going to require a lot of stitches and we're going to need to sedate him for it.”

  “Won't general anesthetic work?” Troy asked, as was the usual case for stitches.

  “The wounds are quite big and I'm worried about the lack of blood. There is blood, sure,” he conceded, holding up his hands, “but I expected a lot more blood. And it shouldn't have coagulated so quickly. It's a little weird. I want to get him on an operating table so I can check for internal bleeding. It's just a precaution. The fact that he's awake and lucid is a good sign.”

  Troy nodded. “Okay,” he sighed. “You know best.”

  “He's in good hands, Sheriff,” the doctor replied. “By the way,” he said before turning away and making the necessary preparations, “what did this to him? Did you see it? It would help to know what kind of animal it is.”

  “Why do you think it's an animal?” Troy asked.

  The doc had a strange look in his eyes. He looked almost smug. As if he was hiding something.

  “The wounds,” he said with a half-smile. “They look like claw marks.”

  Something was definitely off. Troy could feel a strangeness in his bones. Walther looked as if he was keeping a huge secret from him. And then there was that amped up feeling of impending danger. Instinct told him to make a break for cover. Troy even looked around, expecting masked terrorists to storm the hospital. His instincts were screaming bloody murder, and yet, he couldn't see anything out of place, except for that half-mocking little smile plastered on the doctor's face.

  Before Sheriff Troy Troger, stood a man he had known for almost two decades, but it suddenly felt as if a stranger was standing in front of him. He couldn't shake the feeling, and that damned smile on Walther's face didn't help, either.

  “So?” Walther asked. “Did you see what it was?” The question was asked as if he knew the answer, but he wanted Troy to confirm it.

  “I didn't see anything,” Troy answered defensively.

  “Oh,” Walther Black said, as if disappointed. “Sounds suspiciously like Eleanor's story of the invisible man, don't you think?”

  “Leave the police work to me, Walther okay? You just take care of my son.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Troy didn't like the tone it was said in. It sounded like a threat.

  “You okay?” Troy said, ignoring his instincts and stepping closer to the man. He needed to look him in the eyes. “What's going on Walther?”

  “I don't know,” Walther smiled. “I'm just an old physician.”

  And just like that, with the two men staring into each other's eyes, Troy's hackles lowered. His body's state of high alert just switched off. It had gone from DEFCON 1, all the way to 5 in a millisecond.

  “How are you doing?” Doc Black asked. He looked like the same old humanitarian. The smirk and taunting look in his eyes were gone. They were replaced with concern and compassion. “Are you okay, Troy?”

  Troy nodded and stepped back, feeling almost ashamed that he had been in Walther's face like that. What the hell was that about, he asked himself. He wasn't used to such a roller coaster of emotions.

  “Yeah,” he nodded slowly. “It was a long night, that's all. And then this,” he pointed with his head at the room where his son lay.

  “I think you are long overdue for some rest, my old friend.”

  Walther placed a hand on Troy's shoulder and squeezed for a second. Troy wondered for a moment at the strength of the older man's grip. There’s still a lot of steel left, he thought.

  “Should I prescribe the same sleeping pills I did for Miss Kraye? They have very few side-effects.”

  “No, thanks Doc. I can't afford to sleep now. I'll talk to you again when Jimmy's out. How long do you think it will take?”

  “An hour tops,” Walther answered. “Then we'll move him to a nice sunny room. He'll sleep for the rest of the day, but you and Mel are welcome to be in the room with him.”

  Troy nodded and added a heartfelt thank you.

  He dreaded the next hour's wait. Worrying about your kid in an emergency room was bad enough but now he needed to share the news with Melissa as well. Hearing that Jimmy had to go into the operating room was going to freak Melissa out. The next hour was going to be tough on the hardened sheriff.

  CHAPTER 39

  The more Troy thought about it, the more confused he became. Things didn't add up. The preliminary autopsy performed on Sam Fabre indicated that the jogger had died from acute blood loss caused by the wound on his neck and throat. The cause of those lacerations was still unclear. Off the record though, Doctor David Palmer, the county coroner, had told Troy that it looked to him like claw marks, but the likes of which he had never seen before.

  Then there was the attack on his son this morning. Above everything else, that made even less sense. It started with the referee blowing his whistle for the start of the second half. And then the two kids closest to the ball couldn't seem to get to it. Then the ball imploded. No, Troy thought. That wasn't right. The thing had exploded. As if an invisible force had applied too much sudden pressure on the ball from the outside and it had simply popped. It had to have been a downwards force because the ball had been flattened. The next thing, Troy heard his son scream. The kid was on his back, thrashing about. When Troy reached him, Jimmy's blue soccer top had turned mostly purple, and it was in tatters around his chest area. Troy could see the deep wounds poking through the shredded fabric without having to lift the shirt up. The wounds screamed through in bright red. Something had savaged his kid in broad daylight, with probably eighty witnesses around, and no one had seen a damn thing.

  It didn't make sense.

  On a whim, he had taken photographs of his son's chest before he was carted into the OR. He felt like a ghoul for doing it, but his gut told him it was the right thing to do. He told Jimmy that they would keep the photos as trophies. It would be something he could brag with one day and the kid seemed to like the idea. Boys always wanted to appear tough, didn't they?

  While he and Melissa had settled in for an uncomfortable wait, he had sent the photos off to Doc Palmer via his phone. It wasn't long before David phoned back, saying that it looked like the same claw marks to him. Of course he wanted to compare the wounds first-hand before he could make a definitive decision on the matter and was dismayed when Troy told him the wounds belonged to his own son. The coroner expressed his relief that little Jimmy wasn't on the slab at the morgue. Sometimes, Doc Palmer had about as much graceful tact as a rock.

  And then there was Eleanor Kraye. An ex star reporter for the New York Newsday publication. Troy had done his homework on her the previous evening. On paper, she was a solid citizen, but she had had her run-ins with the dark side of humanity back in the city. The David ICK serial killer case had been national news. And Eleanor had been the one to stop his killing spree. But not before he had butchered four kids.

  Troy had an idea why she had moved back to her hometown and was now employed as a researcher. Life in New York had become unbearable. But why? That was the question.

  Had she lost her marbles?

  Some form of PTSD?

  He was thinking along those lines because o
f her strange behavior in the park.

  Why would she claim to have seen someone that wasn't there, and then later retract that bit of information when it was time for her formal statement? Having been an award winning journalist and working close with the NYPD, you'd be hard pressed to find a more credible witness.

  And yet, in that moment, she had been screaming about seeing a man that hadn't been there. She had been convinced that someone was there with them.

  Thinking back on the incident, Troy had believed her when she had pointed the TASER at the woodlands behind him. At that moment, her body reaction and facial expression made him believe that someone had actually been there.

  But no one had been there.

  So, did she suffer a psychotic break? The stress from happening upon a recently murdered person could do that. Especially given her background. Had that been it? Her mind had snapped and conjured up a villain?

  Sure, that was the most plausible explanation. She had eluded to as much herself.

  But Troy wasn't one hundred percent convinced. Like the overall feeling he had of dark storm clouds gathering around his town, he had the same feeling of unease at yesterday's crime scene. Something had been off, and it wasn't just Eleanor's loopy behavior.

  Troy prided himself on being a well-grounded policeman, but someone who also followed his gut. He had good instincts, that some hinted, were being wasted in a small county like this.

  Sam Fabre had been the first murder victim in Havensford in seven years. The one before that had been a drunken brawl in O'Malley's parking lot that had turned ugly. Three years before that, it had been a jealous husband who had walked in on his cheating wife. He had shot the wife, the lover, and then himself with his pistol.

  Three murders in ten years were good stats to have. Especially when the perpetrators were always easily identified and the cases easily closed.

  But now this.

  The broker's death seemed senseless. Random even. The guy had no enemies. He was a devoted husband. Went to church on Sundays, helped with rallies and food drives. There was no reason for someone to have killed him.