by J B Murray
When the driver’s side door pops open, his legs spill out onto the ground. A pain soars up his back and spine, lodging itself in the base of his skull. He wants to scream, but hasn’t the energy to do so. He strains just to move his fingers.
“Easy now,” a voice calls from outside the car.
“Get the stretcher!” Someone else commands.
“Hang in there Detective. We’ll have you out shortly,” another speaks.
The rescue workers ease Reynolds out of the car, sliding him onto the backboard. For a split second he feels the barrier between him and the cold below. But soon everything numbs again. His eyelids falter, bouncing up and down as he tries to hold onto consciousness. But he’s tired. In pain. His endurance run its course. He hears the unfolding of the silvery paper he’s often seen them put over victims in shock. There’s a flash in his eyes from the man standing over him with a small penlight. He blinks away the light. Then opens his eyes fully, taking in those around him.
“Welcome back Detective,” the man above says. “Let’s get him in the van,” he says to someone out of view.
There’s some jostling as several men grab the backboard and lift Reynolds from the ground. The wind slaps at his face, though looking up, he sees the clouds parting. There’s but a flurry of flakes falling from the sky. The storm must be nearing its end. He feels a hand on his chest and looks to his side. Ben stands there, walking along with the stretcher toward the ambulance. He offers his big brother a smile.
“They’ll be coming out now,” Reynolds mutters.
“What was that?” Ben asks, shocked his brother has the strength to speak.
“The woods. They’ll be coming out of… of the woods by now. All three.”
“All three? What are you talking about Rey?”
“Safe,” Reynolds musters, his voice barely a whisper.
“Rey?”
“Safe,” he whispers again as his eyes close. Ben looks down at his brother with questions mounting.
“He’ll be all right,” one of the paramedics tells Ben. “His injuries don’t look that bad at a glance. A few fractures. A mild touch of hypothermia. But nothing life threatening.”
“Thank you,” Ben concedes.
He stands off to the side of the road, looking across it at his brother’s car for some time. Amazed Reynolds lasted the hours, lying upside-down in that wreck. Especially in the dropping temperatures. But what the hell was he talking about? He watches the ambulance pull away. Wants to go to the hospital with his brother, but he’s already late for the search for the missing boy.
Ben jumps in his cruiser and sets the lights ablaze, though he doubts he’s anyone to warn. The roads are just now being plowed and the occupants of Brookwise are fine and well with calling it a day in this kind of weather; just staying snug and cozy at home. He grabs up the receiver and calls into headquarters. Lets them know he’s back on his way to the Holly home to start the search this morning.
“Be advised,” the operator says. “There are now three children missing.” Ben nearly drops the receiver.
“Come again? Over.”
“The parents reported this morning that the older brother and a friend might have gone out looking for the young boy during the night. They’re also presumed missing for now. Over.”
“Copy. Over.”
Holy hell! Things just got a little deeper. Not only would they need to search for Brent Holly, but his brother and someone else as well? It’s going to be a long morning, he thinks to himself. But something the operator said sticks with him. Three. Three are now missing. And his brother said there were three. Could that be what he referred to? But he’d also stated they were safe. Coming out of the woods by now. Ben shakes his head, his mind overflowing with too many questions.
When he pulls into the drive, several other cruisers are already present. One from his station, and another from a town over who offered to spare a few officers. An ambulance is already parked in the drive as well. He knows there’s more to come. More cruisers. More volunteers. But it’s still early yet. He made good time getting to the Holly house.
The cruiser pulls slowly up alongside one of the others. Looking through the windshield, he sees the father and mother on the porch with one of his fellow officers. The mother sits on the stairs, a distant look in her teary eyes, while her husband stands, talking to the officer. He turns his head around, taking in the vast landscape before them. Assessing the situation yet to come. He sighs. It’s going to be a long morning indeed.
Ben pulls the handle to his door, and steps out into the cold. He’s setting his hat atop his head when he hears a screech. He looks up to see Trish Holly jump from the stairs. In a flash she’s off into the snow, stumbling forward. He wonders if his eyes are deceiving him. A young girl comes around the wood pile, stepping high, trying to make way in the deep white powder. Behind her, a teenage boy follows with a small boy riding piggy-back. He watches as Trish crashes into the three, her arms wide, wrapping herself around them in sobs of relief and joy.
“Safe,” Ben whispers to the wind.
ENGLAND, 1919
ENGLAND, 1919
The girl had been in bed for nearly three days now. She fell in and out of consciousness. Taken with fever, her mother came in often and sat with her, placing a cool, damp towel on her forehead. Her head snapped from side to side, the dreams in her head, the nightmares playing out there, allowing her little rest.
Her mother was thankful to have her back. She’d been unsure the day the strange man showed up at her doorstep. He spoke eloquently enough though, and reassured her she’d nothing left to fear from the Lillian. When questioned about her son, the man feigned a look of compassion and told her he’d be along shortly. He’d been left in Scotland to tend to some things. She didn’t quite believe him, but what choice did she have. She burst into tears when he strode down the stairs, opened the carriage door, and lifted her Lillian from it, bringing the child and placing her in her mother’s arms.
Three days, and no change. She knew she had to be patient. She couldn’t begin to fathom what the child had been through. She was aghast at first, when she stripped her daughter to dress her in something clean and comfortable. The girl wore bruises about her body like linen. She was draped in them. It had taken her mother a good part of the morning to clean the dried and crusted blood away. Wash the girl’s hair. And redress her before putting her in bed. But there she lay. Three days.
Tired and worn from her undying hope and care for the child, she stood from the side of the bed and bent over. Gave Lillian a kiss on the forehead. She saddened further as her lips met the clay skin of her daughter. Poor child. She’d never wish any horrors to become her. Her sobs broke the silence in the room as she remembered the events which played out before. The girl’s possession. The madness. The violence. She thanked God the whole thing was finally over.
She kissed Lillian again, brushing the hair back from her face. Made the sign of the cross and turned to exit the room. She left the door open, in case any change presented itself with her child. Her footsteps echoed along the hall, down the stairs until they became faint and altogether vanished. Lillian’s eyes popped open. She looked at the ceiling of her bedroom. Turned her head to take this new and foreign world in. She smiled, her eyes whirling with a crimson haze.
THE END
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
Reynolds couldn’t help, while laying in the hospital bed all those days, thinking on the events of the past couple of weeks. His mind drifted from one to the other. From the chase on the city wharf, to his discovery that Dori might have more to do with the serial deaths of girls all across the city, to the dreamlike instance when he stumbled onto the farmhouse and then the man with the monocle. Jakob? Was that his name? Some of it kept fading from his mind. But enough remained. Enough to consider.
His brother visited several times. He thought back on the first visit; his brother standing there in
the doorway to his hospital room, hat in hand, shifting from one foot to the other, nervous as he’d ever seen him.
“Well, you don’t just have to stand there,” Reynolds said, offering a crooked smile. “Take up a seat.” He was, in fact, pleased to see Ben. This far from Satin City, it was nice to see a familiar face. Especially that of his brother’s.
“How ya feeling Rey?” Ben asked as he strolled across the room toward the bed. He didn’t take a seat however. Only stood over his big brother.
“Better. Thanks. Still a bit bruised. But I guess bruised is better than broken. Or dead.” But Ben didn’t laugh. “You all right Ben?”
“I… well…” Ben’s eyes drifted off, trying to capture some statement which now eluded him. Finally, he set himself firm on asking and looked back at Reynolds. “How’d you know?”
“How’d I know what?”
“The kids Rey. How’d you know they were safe.”
Reynolds sighed deep. He knew this might happen. Part of him kept dismissing the memory of him telling his brother about the kids as nothing more than part of a dream. Most of him hoped it had been a dream. Especially when news reached him the three kids had been found safe and sound. With a little trepidation, Reynolds began telling Ben of his trek through the woods and his discovery of the farmhouse. He even, as his brother’s eyes grew wide, told him of Jakob and where he’d seen the three kids first. Ben listened without saying a word.
After the telling, the silence between the two brothers made Reynolds question whether or not Ben was beginning to think he’d lost his mind. But Ben simply nodded, chewing the inside of his mouth. Reynolds knew his brother was a religious man. Not unblinkingly devout, but convinced none-the-less that there was indeed a God. A heaven and a hell. A place which lay in between where souls were weighed and measured before being let through the golden gates. Reynolds expected though, that his brother never once gave consideration what that in-between might actually be like.
Finally, Ben patted Reynold’s arm, giving it a squeeze and told him to rest up. He’d be back soon. He turned from his older brother, a look of contemplation lingering in his eyes.
“Hey Ben,” Reynolds called. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“I… I…” His little brother faltered. “I don’t know what to believe Rey.”
“Fair enough,” Reynolds conceded.
Ben left, letting the door gently close behind him. Reynolds couldn’t blame his brother for disbelief. Though, he didn’t think Ben was writing the entire event off. He guessed if nothing else, his little brother would just consider it an out-of-body experience. But Reynolds knew better. And he could easily give Ben the proof he desired. He reached a hand up along his stomach to his chest. He pushed down on the fabric, rubbing an area still a little raw though miraculously scarred. A blotch on his skin the doctors had no explanation for. For all intents and purposes, they wanted to call it a burn mark. But given the accident, they didn’t see how it was possible. Reynolds wriggled in his bed, the identical mark in the center of his back itching a little as he thought on it.
Satin City
It feels good, walking through the front door of the precinct again. Reynolds carries a little limp as he strolls through, a remnant of his accident. A pinch remains at his hip, but the doctors assure him it’ll fade with time and use. He’s greeted at the front desk with a merriment of smiles and handshakes. Likewise, those in the office are elated to see he’s back and in good health.
He strolls over to his desk; pulls out the chair. Sits. He stares at the folders lying there, letting his mind calculate where to begin. Before long, his captain, Jim Rance pulls him into his office. The meeting is brief, only to relay his contentment that Reynolds is doing fine, and to inform him that he and Dori will no longer be working together. He also tells Reynolds of the events which took place. The apprehension and death of the man responsible for killing all those girls. Though Reynolds wonders in silence if they got the right man.
Jim also tells him he won’t be working with anyone else. Apparently, he’s recently been reviewed. His work, his conduct, and tireless efforts have been noticed by the higher-ups, and he’ll be made a senior detective soon enough. Reynolds himself can’t believe the turn of events. Nobody made senior detective within a year. Though something about it makes him wonder if there isn’t a higher power at work. Not one of God, but rather, one of manipulation. Someone pulling the strings behind the scenes.
Back at his desk, he breathes a sigh of relief. He considers one thing though, something he needs to see for himself. The patchwork man. As he stands, the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He doesn’t need to turn to know who stands behind him.
“Off somewhere?” Dori questions.
“Yes,” Reynolds answers, turning to ace him. “In fact, I am.”
“And where might that be.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m heading to the morgue. And as fate would have it, I thought you might want to accompany me.”
“Indeed,” Dori says, eyebrows raised.
The drive over to the hospital takes but five minutes, though seems like an eternity. The silence between the two hangs like a wet blanket in the car. Not that he cares, but Dori doesn’t offer Reynolds any sympathy or well wishing for his return. Instead, his eyes stay focused on the road ahead. Reynolds steps from the passenger’s side, shutting the door, then leans on the roof of the car.
“I know,” Reynolds states.
“Know what?”
“What you are. What you did.”
“Maybe, in regard to the latter. Though I highly doubt the first,” he offers, smiling from the side of his mouth.
“Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Don’t play games with me Dori.” Dori laughs at this, shaking his head.
“Haven’t you heard Rey? The thing responsible has been brought down. It took an entire police squad, but finally, the murderer is gone from this world.”
“I doubt that very much,” Reynolds adds.
As they stroll through the door, Reynolds realizes he won’t be able to goad Dori into expelling any bit of the truth. Only hints and suggestions will continue to pop up. Nothing more. But Reynolds is certain of one thing. They may have killed the patchwork man, but the murderer is far from dead. No. The murderer walks beside him at this very moment.
A pathologist walks the detectives down the hall and into the morgue. She looks a moment at a clipboard on the desk just inside the room. Nods. Yes, she shouldn’t have even had to look. They wanted to see the big man. He’d hardly fit in the freezer he was so large. She remembers well the day he came in. That had been just a few weeks ago. She’d wanted then and there to dig around in the man. He seemed so… odd. But orders were orders. And he was meant to be kept on ice until further notice.
“You guys decided yet what you’re going to do with it?” Reynolds didn’t think the word it was an accident.
“Yes,” Dori answers. “Soon enough we’re going to drop it in a very large hole.” Why was Dori smiling so?
“A shame. I’d sure like to take a look at its anatomy.”
“I bet you would,” Dori offers with a raise of his brow.
“Anyway,” she continues. “He’s here in number ten.”
The woman clicks the latch on the freezer door and swings it open. She reaches in and pulls on the tray, sliding it out in a burst of chill and fog. As the chilly haze settles, both her and Reynolds’ eyes grow wide. Rey turns toward Dori, but isn’t shocked that Dori doesn’t seem surprised in the least that the tray containing the patchwork man is empty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am always astounded at how many people are willing to set aside their time and lend a hand. Heather and Cassandra, thanks so much for plowing through this book, highlighting every mistake you could find and offering your insights on what you both loved, and disliked.
> Najlakay… whose artwork you will continue to see on books to come. Her watercolors astound me… and I feel fortunate to have stumbled onto her talents.
Mat Yan… who continues to create such wonderful book covers!
Every work of fiction is the creation of one individual. An imagining of wondrous things, pilfered from the recesses of the mind. Frightful, exciting, tedious and enlightening; much like the effort that goes into the writing of a book. But every finished work of fiction is the collected creation, a joint-venture if you will, of everyone who lent a hand. Thank you all!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR