Heritage (The Slendervale Series Book 2)

by Sean Mannette

  He slowly peeled back the sheets of the bed. Despite the habits of a night owl and the brief nap he had taken earlier, Adam longed for sleep. The relatively early hour wasn’t going to do anything to stop him from indulging his desires. He crawled into bed. Darkness covered him with the sheets, and he fell into a deep slumber.

  Cold stone pressed against Adam, and the reverberating sound of drums pushed open his eyes. He couldn’t see anything of where he was in the dimness. A cave, he thought, and didn’t question how he knew. The stone felt hard and clammy under his palms as he pushed himself up onto his knees. Glancing around, he saw a light in the distance: a flickering orange glow, like a candle flame. He stayed on all fours, crawling across the filthy stone toward the light; in the darkness he could easily dash his skull against an outcrop of stone. Slowly he made his way forward, feeling with is fingertips.

  As the light grew closer, so did the drumbeats. Adam’s right hand slipped on the slimy stone, and his right shoulder went down, hard. He cried out, his chin connecting with the stone. The taste of blood pricked at his mouth. The drum beats never ceased, nor did any voice respond to his outcry, but for some reason Adam knew it had been a mistake to cry out. He hauled himself back to his hands and knees and soldiered on.

  Not a candle, but a bonfire revealed itself as Adam crept closer. Large, thick branches were tied together in a cone, while smaller blocks of wood burned from inside. In front of the bonfire itself was a large stone slab, smooth from age and chipped around the corners. The sight of its façade brought with it a strange sense of déjà vu. The light of the bonfire revealed that it was not the same stone that the cavern was made out of: rather than a wet and sickly brown, the stone slab shone a pale gray.

  The drumming was louder now, but Adam couldn’t see the source. He was reluctant to approach too closely to the fire lest he reveal himself, but was drawn onward by curiosity. The drumming was low, rhythmic, and primal; without the flair of modern rock bands, instead more similar to something tribal.

  Creeping low to avoid detection, Adam circled around the fire. He felt himself caught between the urge to push onward and the need for caution. Halfway around the bonfire, the slab of gray stone disappeared behind the flames. He saw no one, and the volume of the drumming remained unchanged. Adam paused for a moment to consider. He approached the stone slab, watching for any signs of life aside from the hidden and persistent drumming.

  The fire, which should have felt warm as he passed, crackled quietly, sending shadows dancing across the face of the stone. Adam rose cautiously to see. In a split second he lost control of his muscles and reeled, falling backward into the cavern floor.

  Stars swarm in his vision and across the blurred ceiling. What he had seen, his mind failed to comprehend. Adam’s stomach heaved, and he threw up harsh bitter bile onto the stone next to him. The smell was terrible, this close to his face, but the thing he had seen was more terrible by far. Trying to recall it sent his stomach roiling again, but he wasn’t able to recall anything particularly unsettling beyond the sheer wrongness of the thing. Vague geometric shapes rose in his mind, but none of them made any sense to him. Acute angles were behaving as if they were obtuse, and lines meant to be straight traced a curve. The more he tried to remember, the more it eluded him, unsettling his mind and threatening to wrest control of his body from him again.

  What was more, the stone was covered with dry, rust-colored stains, layered one on another from the center of the rectangle. The stains, as unspeakable and taboo as they must have been, found on such a stone rather than a butcher’s block, were the only thing that Adam’s reeling mind could possibly make sense of.

  Rough hands encircled him and heaved him up. Others gripped his ankles wordlessly and carried him forward, belly-up. He struggled against them feebly, staring upward at the yawning chasm of darkness above his head. Of his attackers he could see nothing, not even as his struggling brought him twisting and turning against them. Panic set into him, hot fire racing through his veins. They were carrying him back to the stone slab. Adam kicked against them frantically. He screamed like he hadn’t ever before, and his voice broke, ragged. It burned with fire in his throat; he felt his vocal chords crack under the strain. He had no memory of taking a breath before his screaming started again.

  Stone once again pressed against his back. This time not cold, but warm, like the flesh of a living being. Bands of rough leather were buckled around his wrists, ankles, and midsection with swift and practiced motions. He could see his captors now, silhouetted in the light of the bonfire. Black robes with heavy hoods adorned them, and their motions were fluid and rippling.

  A low chant began, penetrating beyond Adam’s screams, and the weird rhythm of their words drew him in. Soon he had stopped his screaming altogether. The words of the chant engulfed his attention and expanded to fill his entire world.

  The chant rose higher, and a single voice sounded out amongst the crowd. It seemed somehow familiar to Adam. The shadows that stretched above him where obscured, dominated by a darker shadow. This one had broad shoulders, and a fixed aura of absolute control. Doubtless his was the voice which dared break from the litany.

  The chant grew more frantic, and as it reached a crescendo Adam felt the same practiced motions undo the knot on his sweatpants. He struggled against them, but the cuffs which bound his wrists held no slack and permitted almost no movement. They forced his pants down, underwear with them. Hands, cold and dispassionate, gripped his cock and held it upward. Sitting up the inch or so that the strap across his chest permitted, Adam could just barely see it out of the bottom of his eyes. The man, steady and confident, produced an instrument from his dark robes. Silver flickered in the firelight for no more than a second before he stabbed it downward. Adam had never felt such pain as the fire that lanced through his urethra. The process was made without explanation or comment, silent save the incessant drumming and chanting. Then, without the sound of a motor or crank, the thing they inserted inside him began drilling. Adam lost all sense of himself, and merciful darkness swept over him once more.

  Chapter Six

  Tiny lights illuminated 10:20 in pale green against the black face of the digital clock. Adam woke with a sheen of sweat glistening on his face, breathing hard. He surveyed his room frantically, but nothing stirred in the cover of darkness. Adam rubbed his sore throat and sighed.

  He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to steal back up on him. The dream he’d had was a troubling one, possibly the worst he’d ever had. He fought against instinctively starting to recall the dream. Instead, Adam conjured in his mind the image of a cartoon frog, singing an old-timey tune and dancing across a stage. He focused on it as best he could. He visualized every kick of the frog’s leg and every shift in tone with absolute precision. It was an old tactic, one his mother had taught him during the frequent nightmares of his childhood.

  It brought her to mind. His mother was not a woman who held the power of banishing nightmares on her own; the cartoon frog was an uncharacteristic act of kindness on her part. Donna Church was a stern woman, and rigid in her ways. As a staunch Catholic, she enforced her doctrine rigidly enough to earn the approval of the nuns who oversaw Adam’s early education. The nuns were ferocious in their own right, and Adam did his part to free himself from their grip. At the first available opportunity he had dropped out and fled half a country away.

  The ghost of the nightmare finally banished from Adam’s mind, he gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. It was Susan who had seen something in him, perhaps the first person not to condemn or press guilt. His appearance was bordering on derelict at the time, borne from years of couch surfing with college students on campus. He was making what he could selling the underclassmen alcohol at inflated prices, along with sometimes less legal intoxicants. Susan had been the one to convince him to try his hand at legitimate business.

  For all the good that had done him.

  Sighing, Adam kicked off the sheets. It was clear that he ha
d slept all he would. He stretched at the foot of his bed, then strode over to the window and opened the curtains. Adam gasped as the light filtered in; he had slept more than 13 hours. He drew the drapes closed once more and shuffled over to the coffee maker. Slapping a small bag in, he activated it, and waited impatiently as small drops of brown liquid trickled into the half-sized pot.

  Adam gulped it down impatiently. The coffee burned hot in his mouth. He stood up, pacing, waiting for the tingling pain to fade from his singed throat and tongue.

  His eyes flicked over his wife’s things, and his gaze was drawn to the package that sat waiting near the doorway. He watched it nervously, but it didn’t move. Adam sighed, set down his coffee, and strode over to where the box lay waiting.

  It was a squat rectangle, laying on one of the shorter sides where it had fallen when Adam kicked it. He picked it up. There was nothing remarkable on the outside; it was a plain brown box, sealed with brown packing tape. No label had been written on it. He slid his index finger beneath the flap at one end and pulled at the tape. It came off clumsily, with much tugging and swearing.

  Inside the package was a notebook, yellow paper bound at the top with a thin metal spiral. It was replete with handwriting: Susan’s handwriting. The first page was the address of the Tower. It held notes indicating that the first two floors were for the lobby and conference rooms, and the third, fourth, and fifth floors were office spaces, occupied by several LLCs and Corporations, which she named. The sixth floor through the thirteenth were marked as hotel, while the fourteenth through the thirty-second were listed as apartments, punctuated with a question mark. Likewise, there were several names listed frequently with room numbers, or possible ones.

  Adam was in the process of turning the top page over when his gaze was drawn back to the box on his bed. It lay there innocently enough, but something akin to anxiety crept in his thoughts. There was something sheer within the box that appeared to be made of a pale blue fabric. Adam dropped his hand and the notebook to his side, his mind fixated on the cloth. He approached the bed slowly with his other hand raised, as if to avoid startling a sleeping beast.

  The fabric he pulled from the box was familiar to his touch, some kind of slippery, smooth cloth. It was a woman’s shirt, formal wear, but the pale blue surface was marred with rusted crimson. Small dots of red peppered the smooth touch with their dry, rough presence. It was blood. The shirt was his wife’s.

  “Blouse.” Adam muttered aloud, recalling the numerous times Susan had corrected him when he had referred to it as a shirt.

  He looked it over, shaken from his revelry. It was certainly intact, and hadn’t been punctured in any way; likewise, the stains were splattered against the cloth, but showed no pool or source of the blood.

  Adam sank onto the bed. Questions flooded his mind. Was she hurt? The splatters could have easily been from defensive wounds.

  Adam strode to the phone on the nightstand. He punched in the number for Slendervale Police’s missing persons department. The phone rang. He struggled to recall the day of the week. The phone continued to ring. He scowled, confident he could get someone on the phone, even if it was a weekend. Someone had taken his wife, maybe had even hurt her. Whoever had was taunting him. The phone’s ringing was cut short by a click.

  “Slendervale Police Department, is this an emergency?” A young woman asked.

  “No.” Adam barked out harshly, the roughened tone of his coffee-burnt throat surprising him. It certainly felt like an emergency, but Caputo had chastised him more than once for answering ‘yes’ to the introductory question. More than that, it had proven unproductive. It always rerouted him to their dispatch team to send officers to his location. “My wife is missing, and I have new information on the case. I’d like to speak with Detective Caputo immediately.”

  “One moment please,” she mumbled hurriedly in response.

  The phone rang again as he was connected.

  “Detective Caputo, Missing Persons,” the detective’s deep baritone spoke after a few short rings.

  Adam drew a breath and prepared himself to describe the evidence that had been dropped, literally, on his doorstep. Suddenly, another thought came to the forefront of his mind. It was so complete he had clearly been brooding over it for some time, if only subconsciously. What if it was someone else’s blood? The splatters on the blouse could easily have come from someone else. It might even be likely, given how they were sprinkled across the front with no definite source.

  “Caputo, Missing Persons,” the voice repeated.

  Adam hung up the phone. He needed time to think. He needed another drink. His gaze fell on the minibar. It was still before noon. He sighed, shaking his head. Now more than ever, he couldn’t afford to do anything stupid. He sat on the bed with the blouse resting heavy in his hands, considering his options.

  He looked back at the phone, desperately. Maybe there was someone he could call.

  ♖♖♖

  “Adam!” A warm voice called out. A large, firm hand clapped him on the back.

  “Mr. De La Poer.” Adam responded shakily, careful to pronounce the name the way he had heard Francis say it. He just managed to extend a hand; Francis shook it.

  “Call me Francis, please,” he began, “Mr. De La Poer is for those who stand on lower footing.” He nodded confidently at his own words. “Like my associate Ms. Moore here.” He gestured to a tall, young woman with expressionless, almond-shaped eyes. She held out her hand in a curt, businesslike manner.

  “I’m Alisha, nice to meet you. Mr. De La Poer seems to think you’re something else.” Her words were warm, but her voice was flat to the point of being almost toneless. The smile she flashed at Adam for the briefest of moments was equally sterile.

  “Ms. Moore is quite the talented accountant. Point of fact, she practically runs my businesses for me. I’d been meaning to introduce the two of you for some time. I imagine we’ll get along swimmingly.” Alisha scoffed affectionately at the praise.

  “I only handle the day-to-day. Without Mr. De La Poer’s strategic insights our ventures would have failed long ago.” She smiled her shark smile.

  “You are too kind.” Francis began, inclining his head toward her, before turning away. “Adam did ask for a moment, so if you’d be so kind, Ms. Moore.” He opened the door and waved her through, closing it after her before turning his eyes again to Adam.

  “Now, Adam, I must admit, your tone was a little alarming. Why don’t you tell me what is going on?”

  Adam exhaled steadily and handed over the package cradled under his arm. Francis opened it tentatively, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Someone left this outside my room yesterday. I just… I don’t know what to do about it, really...” Adam stumbled over his words as Francis produced the pale blue shirt from the box. He unfurled it in front of him, examining it in the warm natural light of the office.

  “Your wife’s?” Francis asked, not looking up from the shirt. Adam thought to nod, but didn’t move. “It looks like blood. Not a lot, in the grand scheme of things, but more than you’d see on a day to day basis.”

  Francis tossed it back into the box, Adam winced at the rough treatment.

  “What do the police think?” He inquired, looking at Adam.

  “The… The police... I started to call, but I was worried.” Francis cocked his eyebrow again in response. Adam steeled himself for the words he was about to say aloud. “The blood on the shirt– it might not be hers. I was worried that they would assume she had… Hurt someone.” Francis shook his head.

  “Unless you really think she would, I doubt that’s likely.” He glanced toward Adam, then continued after taking a moment to read his expression. “I thought not. But I’m of a mind with you. The stains probably didn’t come from anyone wearing the blouse.” Adam scolded himself silently. It was a blouse, not a shirt. “But I doubt it was worn at all when the blood spilled.”

  “What do you mean? She bled over her suitcase?” Adam felt h
is chest tighten. The vivid image of a silhouette creeping up on his wife entered his mind. She was packing a suitcase. Maybe she was coming home to him. The shadow descended, clubbing her in the back of the head with some object. Susan fell forward, blood flowing freely into the suitcase she had been packing. Francis’ voice shook him from the downward spiral.

  “I doubt that. But it seems more likely the blood was put there by the same person who delivered the package. It may be Susan’s, or it very well might be that of whoever took her.” Adam started at that. “They may be trying to intimidate you. Or soften you up for a demand, a ransom of some kind. Was there anything else in the box?” Francis asked.

  Adam could feel the dampness of his palms. The notebook felt heavy in his back pocket. He would have appreciated Francis’ input on that too, but Susan had been there to investigate some kind of secret society in the Tower. Adam wasn’t sure he could trust Francis with her notes, given that they might expose something. He shook his head.

  “No, no note or label. Just the shirt. I mean, the blouse.” Adam liked Francis. His gut said it was right to trust him, but Susan’s notes implied otherwise. She had only mentioned him once that Adam had seen, but it suggested that his ownership of the Tower made him complicit with some kind of group.

  Francis studied his face, then nodded slowly.

  “If there was no note telling you not to go to the police, that could only mean one of two things. Either you’re dealing with amateurs,” He pronounced the word like ‘tours.’ “In which case involving the police is likely a better route, or whoever took your wife is assuming you’ll go to the police with this. In any case,” he paused for a moment, “I see no downside.” Adam nodded, feeling silly for his earlier doubts.