Outer space with gravity and air. And railroad ties.
He could feel the wood beneath his feet, roughly hewn, yet well worn. Had he been standing on it long enough to polish the surface so smooth? He couldn’t recall. Maybe.
He looked down at his feet again. He noticed that he was wearing the pants of some sort of uniform. Police?
That’s right. I used to be a police officer.
Still, something wasn’t right about that. They weren’t blue pants; they were white.
Barefoot, with white pants.
How long had he been here? A day? A thousand years?
Maybe he just couldn’t remember what he used to wear. Maybe white pants were what one wore in this place. This dark place.
He raised his gaze again and turned around to his left. He continued his turn until he once again faced his starting point, known only by the way his feet felt on the railroad tie.
The pieces of wood that made up the visible surface around him lay close together, though not tightly. There were gaps between them—an inch, maybe. Pitch black spaces.
He started to count the beams of wood. How far did they extend around him?
Sixteen. There are sixteen rows ahead that I’m able to see.
He turned around.
Sixteen.
To either side of the timber on which he stood, he could see two others, almost perfectly end-to-end, before they, too, faded into blackness.
Five across. Sixteen ahead and sixteen behind. An almost perfect rectangle.
He turned around again to regain his original orientation. Why he kept returning to it, he didn’t know.
What lies beyond the edges? I should know.
I should know.
Why can’t I remember?
How was it that he could remember the blackness and the wood, but nothing beyond that?
How long? How long have I been in this place?
Brent wasn’t afraid; the darkness held no emotional grip on him. More than anything, he was curious.
Yes, I’ve been here before. As a boy. I remember….
His thought was cut short.
An intense shaft of light shot downward before him from … from the black upwardness. There appeared to be no end to the height of the vertical light shaft. It appeared to exist without a source, and it seemed to stream down and stop on the same horizontal plane on which he stood, far in the distance.
This happened before. When I was a boy.
It dawned on him that something bad was likely to start occurring at any moment … something that he should remember, and quickly. Something that was going to strike raw fear into him.
The wood. The wood beneath his feet would begin to….
The railroad tie on which he stood shifted, and the left end began to slowly sink.
Instinctively, Brent quickly stepped onto the next tie ahead, but it, too, began to move beneath him.
They’re going to fall! There’s nothing below them! Nothing below any of them! The recollection from his boyhood ushered him into a near panic.
Again, he quickly stepped forward. Solid. His eyes and mind quickly calculated what was before him.
Again, sixteen ties.
To his right he saw a tie slowly sink completely out of view. He turned around and saw that both of the ties he’d previously stood upon were spiraling down into darkness.
Brent’s heart and mind raced. Going backward would never be an option. He felt the thrumming pulse within his neck. His arms and legs instantly became cold with fear. His fingertips began to tingle.
His mind became keenly aware of what he needed to do next.
He turned back around and jumped!
Would there always be sixteen pieces of wood laid out before him? Was he merely on a giant bridge that was always collapsing behind him?
He leapt over two ties to take station on the third, but it, too, began to move.
No!
They started disappearing in front of him as well!
Brent didn’t hesitate any longer! He knew where he was supposed to go.
The beam of light before him was a fixed, unwavering beacon of direction, offering the only hope he was likely to receive.
A shadowy memory from his past flickered across his mind as he began jumping and running toward the illuminated planks, still far ahead.
There’s a flower. A daisy.
Somehow, he knew; he remembered.
Timber after timber began to fall all around him. He came to a sudden stop. He had to choose his next landing point carefully.
Brent jumped and immediately began to lose his balance when, to his brief relief, his feet touched another piece of wood ahead and to his left. Again, he instantly jumped toward the nearest stable-looking piece of timber but lost his footing and fell forward. His hands slammed down upon the adjacent tie. It, too, began to fall!
Lacking any balance, or a specific destination for his effort, he was forced to take a leap of faith. Pushing off with his feet, he lunged forward and landed hard on a series of three ties that had remained solidly in place, his right shoulder taking a painful blow.
Quickly, he stood. The field of black timbers had become entirely scattered. Very few were now lying next to one another. The gaps between each grew larger and larger. Few of them were less than three or four feet apart.
Falling! Falling everywhere!
He could see many of them as they cascaded into the black void below, some striking others, careening out of existence.
The light shaft was close now. And there it was! A potted flower—the daisy—fifteen or twenty feet ahead perhaps? Hard to judge.
Brent was now terrified by how few safe landing opportunities lay before him. So little wood existed between him and the deck-like surface on which rested the rust-colored clay pot.
C’mon! Come on!
His eyes darted back and forth. There!
To his left, he jumped to a beam that was nearly three feet away. The moment his feet touched the surface, he jumped to his right, toward the light. He’d made it again, but the railroad tie on which he now stood began a counterclockwise spin.
Brent twisted back and let fly! He struck the next beam with his chest. His right arm lashed out and wrapped around it, his left arm and both legs dangled below.
His strength was waning.
No! No, no, no!
Brent brought his left hand upward, fingers reaching the surface of the beam. It allowed him the wherewithal to force his right leg upward and over the top.
Thank God! Thank God!
Both legs now on the surface, he pushed himself back to his feet.
The timber on which he stood was moving forward, maybe because of the momentum created by his body slamming against the wood. He was only a couple of feet from a secure-looking platform of timbers, the flower’s resting place.
With one final leap, Brent reached safety. He hoped.
Brent leaned forward, gasping, hands planted on his thighs. He panted through the pain he felt in his ribs and the muscle strain in his legs.
He forced himself to look at the flower glowing under the brilliant stream of light, so out of place in this world of absence.
Thank God, he thought again. Thank you, God.
Brent straightened, his heart and lungs finally starting to ease. He took a step forward toward the daisy and suddenly remembered what had happened in the nightmares of his childhood.
Every single time, the flower and its supporting railroad tie had fallen, tumbling downward into the abyss below. That’s when he would always awaken, either crying out or weeping.
Was he dreaming now? Was this all just a dream from which he would soon awaken?
What if it wasn’t?
Of course it’s a dream. It’s gotta be.
He took another step forward. He was maybe another three steps away.
Brent swallowed hard and took another step. He stopped
as curiosity took hold.
Turning to his left, he saw past the thick decking on which he and the potted flower rested. There was now nothing but darkness around him. He’d barely caught a glimpse of one remaining railroad tie, a good distance away, as it tumbled out of sight. The only things that remained now were the daisy, the wooden deck, and him.
This is the whole of my existence: heartbreaking isolation.
Brent released a silent sigh.
Well … here goes.
He had nothing to lose outside of the flower, and he knew he was about to lose that too.
He took two steps toward the daisy, knelt down, and reached for the pot. His fingers came within a fraction of an inch of the container before the timber below gave way, falling into darkness, and the daisy with it.
Despite knowing it would happen, Brent panicked. He watched as two planks behind the plant fell away as well.
This wasn’t the same as his childhood dream. This time, the nightmare wasn’t ending! And he didn’t wake up.
What do I do? What am I supposed to do?!
What?!
The flower! It had been his reason for hope as a fifteen-year-old boy, and it was the only focal point of his existence now.
The flower! It’s ALL about the flower!
Before Brent could think things through—reacting like a lifeguard at a swimming pool—he leapt and plunged through the opening before him, diving deep into the darkness.
Except that it wasn’t dark. He was bathed by intense, empowering light! He felt himself coming alive, more alive than he’d ever felt before!
He could see the falling flower, still distant.
God, help me! Please!
Then, as if pushed from behind, he felt a surge of speed! Faster and faster he fell—or flew—toward the daisy! Within moments, it was again within reach. He stretched forward with all that he had, his right hand fully open to receive the flower the moment he made contact with it.
C’mon! C’mon!
He felt the rough surface of the clay pot touch his fingers, and he clasped his hands shut! He’d reached it! He’d captured it! He’d saved it!
Brent awoke with a start.
Chapter 13
T
ara drove south on Maple Street.
Marysville wasn’t, by appearance, a very big city. That it claimed some twenty-four thousand residents seemed a bit of a stretch.
The homes—at least the ones she was driving by now—had been built in the nineteen-fifties or earlier and were situated far enough apart that they didn’t seem constrictive.
Quaint, some of them.
Of course, she hadn’t really driven around the city to know what the downtown area was like, though she had seen from a distance what looked to be a beautiful clock tower atop some sort of large old building. Perhaps she’d drive through town this time after her visit with Stephanie.
The drive from Millsville took a little over two hours and had actually been somewhat relaxing with the Jeep Grand Cherokee’s windows down. Thankfully, the interstates had been relatively traffic-free for most of the drive.
As she approached Collins Avenue, she slowed to a stop at the intersection. She could smell coffee being roasted at the large Nestlé facility across the street.
I could certainly use a cup of that right now.
But there was no place to stop before reaching the women’s reformatory. She turned right onto Collins and drove about a mile before seeing the familiar bulbous white water tower on her left as she cleared a thick area of trees. The three large black letters painted on the tower—ORW—announced that she’d finally arrived at her destination.
Tara turned left onto the road the led into the campus of the Ohio Reformatory for Women. It didn’t matter the amount of times she’d been on the property over the past year and a half; it still felt ominous.
She approached a heavily gated area in which, she supposed, prisoners were transported in and out of the facility.
She made a right turn onto a perimeter road that would lead her to the west side of the prison and a large parking area for those blessed to be able to both enter and leave.
Freedom for me. Razor wire—lots and lots of it—for them.
Being the wife of a cop for so many years, she thought she would have had some immunity to a quickening pulse, but she knew.… ‘There, but for the grace of God’ goes Tara Lawton.
She pulled into the lot and found a relatively close parking space. Getting out of the SUV, she began to walk to the Entrance Building.
She came to a sudden stop, pivoted, and walked back to her vehicle. She had absentmindedly picked up her purse to bring into the facility. That was not allowed, nor was the cell phone she carried in her hand. After placing them onto the floor behind the driver’s seat, she grabbed a small neck pillow and placed it atop her purse to help hide it from view.
Oh! Shoot! Keys.
Out of her purse, she grabbed her tangle of keys, key chains, and store reward cards and unclasped the Jeep’s key fob. She stepped back from the SUV for a moment.
Okay. Anything else I’m not allowed to bring in?
After a moment’s contemplation, she concluded that she’d be permitted into the facility without being redirected back to her vehicle.
Car locked, she headed back toward the Entrance Building. Once inside the small building, she found that she needed to wait for a few minutes before she could sign the visitor’s log and provide her confirmation number for the visit.
The processing to enter the prison went smoothly. Apparently, she was becoming quite adept at entering a prison. Tara was then escorted from the Entrance Building to where she would spend the next few hours of her day basked mostly, she figured, in artificial light.
As Tara waited for Stephanie to be escorted into the Visiting Hall, she sat patiently at a table surrounded by four chairs and watched several other visitations take place around her. She gazed at the faces of the inmates, in particular. It was a curious thing, she thought, that the majority of the women wearing prison clothing didn’t look like they could commit the crimes that had placed them into a position such as this—life with limited contact with the outside world.
It’s heartbreaking, God. Please, do something in the hearts of these women.
Her mind began to revisit thoughts about the woman with whom she was about to spend time and what had led to her incarceration.
Stephanie O’Leary had been sold a bad bill of goods: promises of power and elevated social status, not to mention control over unseen spiritual forces. The idea of being able to control and shape people’s lives on a whim must have been quite tempting. After all, who doesn’t dream of having some form of real control in his or her life?
Stephanie had been recruited decades before and indoctrinated by a man named Brian Baird. The guy had given himself the name “Brendan Cadeyrn” to help in the portrayal of his Pictish heritage.
The ancient Picti people that Baird spent his life revering had lived in a country called Pictland, which was subjugated then wiped out by an Irish conqueror named Kenneth MacAlpin who set himself up as king. That had been the beginning of what was now Scotland.
There were clues—secrets—that had been left behind by the ancient Picts, though. One of the last kings of Pictland had devised a means for keeping their history as a people safe. It ended up being hidden for centuries in plain sight. Erected all over the country, and covered with indecipherable symbols, was a plethora of grand standing stones.
Brian Baird had discovered the means by which to translate these ancient stones and was convinced that by doing so, he would be able to not only discover his heritage, but also reclaim the ancient birthright of his forefathers, including their religion and their mythical, supernatural power.
It was with the promise of becoming a people of “high station” and power that he was able to find others—multiple hundreds of others, through nearly thirty years of
research—to blindly follow him. Each of them had been confirmed to be from ancient Pictish bloodlines by a man named David McNeill. David’s sister, Donna, would ultimately end up dead, a victim of Brian Baird’s grab for power.
Baird’s research also included information on one very naïve young woman named Stephanie O’Leary, one of his very first followers.
Tara remembered sitting next to Brent in the courtroom over the span of several days, listening, as this woman—conned into believing that she, too, was of noble Pictish blood—attempted to defend herself against charges for her own malevolent practices within the cult.
Stephanie revealed that she had been convinced that she would reign as the high priestess of a new worldwide religion alongside her lover, Brian Baird, whom she continued to call “Brendan Cadeyrn” throughout the proceedings. What Brian had never told her, however, was that he was keeping her close for only one reason: to sacrifice her to his gods when the time was right.
It turned out that, unknown to Stephanie, she was actually of a different noble bloodline, that of Kenneth MacAlpin, the very one who had been responsible for the slaughter of most of the Picti nation.
Baird believed that sacrificing someone of MacAlpin’s bloodline would not only satisfy the anger of the Pictish gods but also give him and his followers all of the legendary power that the Picti people had enjoyed for several centuries.
In the end, Stephanie ended up with her wrists and legs staked down upon a ceremonial mound, surrounded by a dozen modern Picti believers, and leaning over her, Brian Baird, prepared to plunge a blade into her chest.
But a state police sharpshooter’s bullet found its way into the man’s head, putting an end to all of his evil plans and saving Stephanie’s life.
It was partially by playing the victim card that Stephanie ended up with a shorter sentence than some of the others who had been captured that night, including then-Pittston Police Chief Jim Connor, who had orchestrated the murder of David McNeill’s sister, Donna, in the very town he’d been hired to protect.
As for Stephanie, she had been indicted on two key charges related to the death of the woman, who had also recently become Tara’s friend. Charge One: Accessory to Murder in the First Degree, and Charge Two: Conspiracy to Commit Murder.
That Dark Place Page 8