The Origin (The Sighting #2)

by Christopher Coleman

  This was a lot closer than Danny had intended to get to his story, and it was time to shut it down. Time to lie. “I don’t know what that means, officer. I had my phone. I was listening to music and humming along. And the boy—he told me his name was Shane—came out of nowhere and surprised me.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “What did we talk about?” Danny scoffed. “I don’t know, what you talk about with most nine-year olds: you know, our trade deal with China. Instability in the Middle East. That type of thing.”

  The officer smiled, but Danny knew it wasn’t from his joke. It was because now Danny was coming off as defensive, rattled.

  “I have to go now, Officer Calazzo. It’s been a traumatic day. Physically and emotionally. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course. You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

  Danny shook his head and waved his open hand in the air. He then turned to the female officer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  The woman handed Danny a card with her name printed across the top. Officer Renata Benitez. Danny held the card up and flicked his wrist, indicating he would keep the card for future reference.

  “One more thing, Mr. Lynch,” Calazzo said, in the matter-of-fact way TV detectives always seemed to.

  Danny was standing now, rubbing his head with the towel one last time. “Sure.”

  “Do you think what happened here today has to do with this?” Calazzo handed Danny a folded section of a newspaper.

  “What’s this?”

  Calazzo nodded for Danny to take a look.

  Danny flipped up the fold and almost shrieked at the image at the top of the page. It was the image that had changed his life forever, the black head of the sea god that he had captured on his phone the day of the first sighting.

  “Is There Something Lurking in the Waters Off Rove Beach?” read the headline from the Rove Beach Rover. Sarah’s article. The one that had been written by a serious journalist and printed in a small but respected paper as real news, but which was laughed off by the town, mocked by the locals, and thus never seen by the rest of the world.

  It was proof of a life form that was unknown ever to have existed, and it had simply disappeared in plain sight.

  Until now.

  Danny handed the paper back to Calazzo and repeated, “I have to go.”

  He stood and dropped the towel on the chair, and then clutched a fist in an open hand, rubbing them together, trying to keep himself warm as he prepared his walk home.

  “We can give you a ride, Danny. Plenty of room in the cruiser.”

  “I’m good. Thanks though.”

  Danny was about ten yards away from the officers when they called his name again. He turned and lifted his head.

  “You’re not where you were,” Calazzo called to him, his face calm, as if he’d just imparted some great words of wisdom to Danny.

  Danny paused waiting for more, and then asked, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Calazzo chuckled. “It means we don’t believe in Bigfoot in Wickard Beach. Know a little bit about your story, and I’m willing to keep it at ‘a little bit.’ You got a chance for a fresh start here, son, and I suggest you take advantage of it.”

  Danny looked off to the side and scoffed lightly. “Just want my community to be safe, sheriff. Haven’t you heard?” Danny turned his focus to Officer Benitez. “I saved a couple of lives today.”

  Calazzo gave a cold smile and a slight twist of his head, indicating that in his mind, that point was still in question.

  “And from reading the paper, that’s a hell of a lot more than you’ve done over the past few months.”

  Calazzo’s smile fell immediately, and Danny knew he’d perhaps gone too far with this last jab.

  “We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions, Mr. Lynch,” Officer Benitez said, and then placed her hand on her boss’ shoulder, coaxing him back toward the incident scene.

  Calazzo let his eyes linger on Danny for a few moments longer, and then he turned and walked away.

  Chapter 9

  “Samuel Cook.”

  Samuel heard the call of his name but kept walking, lost in the images floating through his head, a load of kindling across one shoulder and an axe across the other. The familiar sound of his name had entered Samuel’s ears, there was nothing wrong with his hearing, but he didn’t register them as coming from the outside world. This was the new state of being in which Samuel found himself most of the time now, this awakened state of dreaming. When he looked back on the hours of his days since Nootau’s killing, Samuel found he could recall very few specifics. It was as if he had slept through them.

  “I know you have heard me, Samuel Cook,” the voice called again.

  Samuel took two more steps and then stopped, looking around in confusion, first to his right and then back to his left. He saw nothing initially, but with another quarter turn to the left he saw Nootau’s uncle—or cousin—sitting on the wooden bench that ran along the outside of Nootau’s family’s wigwam. The man’s thin legs hung below him, and though they looked no different from any pair of functioning legs, the useless limbs captured Samuel’s attention the way a lame doe triggers the urges of the wolf.

  Samuel stood still for several seconds before finally lifting his head, meeting the eyes of the crippled man. The Algonquin grinned at Samuel’s lack of manners, and seeing no fear in Samuel’s eyes, his smile broadened. He took a long swig from a thick stone container, and the pleasant grimace that followed indicated to Samuel the vessel was filled with mead.

  “Come to see me now, Samuel Cook. Son of Morris Cook, the great adventurer who has left us to return to the land of devils.” Nootau’s uncle or cousin patted a space next to him on the bench.

  Samuel stood frozen, and he could see from the corner of his eye a pair of women move quickly away, their eyes toward the ground, clearly not wanting to become embroiled in this encounter.

  Samuel swiveled his head in both directions, not moving his feet. The rest of the road was empty, as was the central square. For the moment, he was all alone with the crippled man who had invited him to sit.

  “I have to get the wood back home before supper. My mother is waiting.”

  “You don’t have a spell or two for the uncle of your best friend? Surely you do. Nootau would have wanted you to spend a little time with his favorite uncle, Kitchi.” Kitchi’s eyes thinned and the smile on his face grew wider.

  Samuel swallowed and walked toward the entrance, trying to force his own version of a smile, the formation of which felt painful. He wasn’t frightened of the man physically, obviously, since, Samuel noted, the man couldn’t even shit by himself.

  But Samuel knew this man was smart, and he was known to have a general dislike of anyone in the colony. He was a trouble-maker, an instigator, and had even invoked talk of rebellion and war some months back. Most in the colony dismissed him because of his limitations below the waist, but Samuel’s father always spoke of him as if he were a problem to be addressed, someone who would eventually need to be dealt with. Samuel even suspected the only reason his friendship with Nootau was allowed was because of his proximity to the man now before him.

  Samuel stopped a few paces short of the wigwam and was now standing directly in front of Kitchi. “Where has everyone gone?” he asked.

  “It is the time of the harvest prayer,” Kitchi said irreverently. “So many of these older fools in the village still believe that the squash and pumpkins are concerned with what we have to say about them.” Nootau’s uncle began laughing hysterically now; it was a sinister tone that Samuel immediately recognized as drunkenness.

  But Samuel connected with Kitchi’s irreverence. The last four days of his life had been spent reliving activities of the beautiful beast Nootau had discovered for him. There was no doubt in his mind: Samuel considered the ocean beast his new god. He would continue to speak Jesus’ praises on Sunday, at least for
as long as he lived in his father’s home, but in his heart, he would pray to only one deity from that day forward.

  Kitchi abruptly stopped laughing and then used his arms to scoot his torso forward on the bench. He raised his head, his eyes pleading. “Have you seen the Croatoan, son of Morris Cook?” he asked. “Did you see it kill my nephew?”

  The words sounded as if they had been screamed from the heavens, and Samuel suddenly felt like he was back in his awakened dream.

  The Croatoan.

  Samuel had never heard this term before, and the name rang beautifully in his ears. He now had a name to put to his new god, since there was little doubt as to what Nootau’s uncle was speaking.

  “I can see the truth in your face, young Samuel Cook.” Kitchi was sober now, his voice steady, awed by the truth he had just confirmed. “You have seen it?”

  Samuel glanced around the grounds nervously, measuring his surroundings, searching for an escape from the accusations being hurled in his direction, some person that could act as a distraction.

  But the roads and square were still clear. Most of the colony was already inside for supper, and the natives, according to Kitchi, were conducting some harvest ritual.

  “I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” Samuel said, the tears already beginning to fall down his cheek. “There was nothing to be done for Nootau. I swear it.”

  Kitchi just stared at Samuel, and for a moment, Samuel thought the man was preparing his lungs to scream, to alert the village that a murderer was in their midst and that someone should come quick to take Samuel away. He would go to the gallows, or perhaps to a holding prison where he would await his death by stoning or burning, acts the Algonquin were rumored to perform. Samuel had seen no evidence of this practice occurring on the island, but that was of little concern now.

  And yet, there was no scream from Kitchi, only the wide-eyed look of wonderment. “You will take me to it, Samuel. You will take me to the Croatoan.”

  Samuel took a deep breath of relief, but then a new fear gripped him almost immediately. He shook his head. “I couldn’t go there again. I don’t think I even know the way. And how could I get you there anyway?”

  The steady smile of Kitchi’s face slowly grew menacing, and a string of saliva begin to drip from his mouth. “You will take me there. That is if you wish to keep the skin upon your body and your mother from being sunken to the bottom of the sound.”

  “My mother doesn’t know anything!” Samuel cried.

  Kitchi closed his eyes and leaned his head back so that it was resting against the outer wall of the wigwam, a relaxed smile still on his face. He looked as if he were about to fall asleep. “I knew it was true,” he said. “I always knew it was true.”

  Samuel stood in front of Kitchi for what must have been a full minute, staring at the man as if he were a type of human exhibit in a museum. And then, hearing nothing else from the man, Samuel turned slowly and started back to his home. Perhaps in the morning Nootau’s uncle would forget any of this conversation, Samuel thought. His own father was known to be belligerent after a night of ale, and then the next day he would act as if nothing at all had happened.

  But Samuel wasn’t past the perimeter of the wigwam’s property before Kitchi spoke again.

  “You will come tonight,” Kitchi instructed. “I will be in the longhouse.” Without opening his eyes, Kitchi nodded in the direction of a structure about forty paces to his right.

  “The longhouse? There is an unfinished roof?”

  Kitchi shrugged. “They bring me there many nights due to my snoring. I don’t notice the temperatures by then.”

  “It is far to the sound,” Samuel pleaded. “Too far. How will I get you down there?”

  “Lucky for you, I’m as slight as a teenage boy. And as you say, most of the way is downhill. There is a wheelbarrow in the longhouse. You will use that to take me there.”

  “But I could never get you back. There is far too much slope from the sound to the village. It is impossible.”

  Kitchi didn’t respond to this latest rebuke. “Tonight,” is all he said. “When all are asleep, you will come for me and we will visit the Croatoan. If you don’t show, prepare for punishment in the morning.”

  Chapter 10

  “Are you ready, Shane?”

  At the sound of his father’s whisper, Shane DeRose grabbed his Baltimore Orioles cap and backed out his room, holding a small pouch against his belly with one hand and flicking the light switch down with the other. He closed the door gently behind him and began adjusting the pouch on his hips, snapping the plastic buckle into place.

  The light pouch was too small for him, he had had it since he was six or so, where it had sat upon a shelf in his room for years, unused, the black and orange face of another smiling oriole looking back at him all the while. And while it wasn’t the ideal item for his purposes tonight, it was all he had in a pinch. If his dad asked him about why he was wearing it, Shane would just tell him he was bringing a snack for later. But he doubted his dad would notice; he had other things on his mind tonight.

  Gerald DeRose met his son in the hallway after giving the same careful effort to his own bedroom door, cautious not to wake his wife. He held a finger up to his mouth and nodded for his son to move it outside, which they both did quickly.

  “Are you sure about this, dad?” Shane whispered. He stood outside on the porch now, hugging his arms, averting his eyes from the direction of the sea, knowing that with the sky clear and the moon nearly full, he would be able to see the water from where he stood. “Maybe we should call the police. You know, like you wanted to do.”

  Shane studied his dad’s reaction, praying that he was selling this lie, not overacting it, and that his dad was still too angry about Shane’s story to see through the drama.

  He told me to meet him at the beach, Shane had told his dad. After he got me and Brian in from the water. He told me to come meet him at the beach tomorrow.

  Shane had been taken to the hospital within minutes of being found, sitting alone on the beach, well away from where his brother and the man had lain shivering in the fetal position. Shane thought of yesterday morning, of the water and the feeling that the beast would arrive, and how he had felt almost nothing at the time. A slight chill had come upon him a little later, but well after he had left the beach.

  Shane was sure he was going to be punished for what he had done, for what he had put his brother through especially, but there was only concern about his health. Punishments would come much later, if at all.

  But he and his brother were fine, released from the hospital that same morning, their mother weeping in the way she often did in times of crisis. By lunchtime, they were home. By two o’clock, Shane was asleep in his bed, dreaming of his next encounter.

  Of course, his father was far less fussy than his mom and had plenty of questions, the most obvious concerning why Shane had gone to the beach that morning. And why he had nearly drowned his baby brother. I wasn’t there to drown him, Shane remembered thinking. I was there to offer him.

  Instead, Shane quickly thought of the man from the previous morning, and he told his father that he had gone to see him.

  He told me I had to come to the beach that morning, Shand had lied. And that I had to bring Brian.

  When Shane’s parents asked how the man even knew about Brian, and why Shane had gone into the ocean with his brother in a backpack, Shane just shrugged and started crying. He had no good answer to give, it was all too much.

  And that was fine. He didn’t need an answer, he was only nine after all.

  Later that night, Shane had listened carefully as his dad explained to his mother that he did believe Shane’s story, of course he did, but there was no way to prove any of it to the police. And besides, even if he did have evidence, going to the police would just scare the man away. He looked like a drifter, and as soon as word got out that he was attracting legal trouble, he would drift on to the next town.

&nbs
p; No. No cops. Gerald DeRose would handle this matter his own way, just like he handled all his business.

  But Shane knew his dad had other reasons for not calling the police. He was afraid of the cops and had been for as far back as Shane could remember. Shane didn’t know the details of his father’s ‘business,’ but he knew it was very different from whatever his friends’ dads did for work. And he was pretty sure it was illegal.

  So, Shane built a new story about the man at the beach. He told his dad the guy had instructed Shane to come back the next day, to a certain spot in front of his house, that he had whispered the instruction to Shane just before the ambulances came. It was an outrageous story, of course, but why would Shane tell such a dramatic story unless it was true. And Shane knew his father would never tell his mother about it, because she would have insisted on calling the sheriff’s office.

  “I think this guy might just need a good old-fashioned talking to, Shane. Some guys are just like that, you know? For some guys, it’s the only way they listen. You understand what I mean?”

  Shane frowned and nodded trustingly, giving his dad a look which indicated he’d just been imparted with the wisest words any man had ever spoken. He then walked in silence beside his father toward the beach, and within minutes, they were standing on the sand directly in front of Danny Lynch’s rental house.

  Shane’s dad took in the crumbling structure of Danny’s house, shaking his head at the disrepair, mumbling about the crap that was bringing down property values. Shane looked in the opposite direction, studying the ocean. Absently, he moved his fingers across the bulge in his pouch, making sure he could feel the outline of both the phone and the ice chipper.

  “We still have about twenty minutes until sunrise,” Shane’s father said, “so let’s go over this one more time. It’s simple, right? I’m going to be right back there.” He pointed to a thick patch of shrubs that shrouded a short dune about forty yards from where they both stood currently. “When this perv...when he comes out—if he comes out—I’ll be moving in right behind him. Not but a couple feet away, okay? He’ll probably see me right away, and then I’ll take it from there. You don’t have to do anything.”