Poison in the Well

by Chris Tetreault-Blay

  ‘We’ve found them,’ Kramer blurted, stopping Callum dead in his tracks. The smile quickly faded as he pondered the words he had just heard. He was about to speak but Kramer answered the question before he could even draw breath, ‘Both of them’.

  The strength of a man’s heartbeat can sometimes make his chest feel like a hollow kettle, unable to contain the might of the muscle pounding beneath it. Callum felt his breath shorten, as if his larynx had suddenly constricted, an allergic reaction to the amount of adrenaline that was now pumping through him. He didn’t feel the chill as the cool breeze blew beneath his now-sweating armpits.

  ‘Spender needs you to take care of them,’ Kramer continued, knowing that the silence on the other end of his line meant he had Callum’s full attention.

  ‘When?’ Callum asked, his voice now hoarse.

  ‘Immediately.’ There was no hint of a choice given to Kramer’s request, which had come directly from the man who sat at the top of the Society’s hierarchy. This was his chance. Finally. Callum looked back towards the cottage, pushing the sweeping pang of guilt back down to the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ Kramer urged.

  ‘Yes of course I am!’ Callum growled, the irritation getting the better at him. He could picture Kramer’s smug face, thinking that he finally had Laing Jr. on the back-foot. ‘Just tell me where.’

  ‘Give me two minutes. I’ll send the location to your GPS.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  It actually took less than a minute for the co-ordinates to drop into the car’s GPS system, a blistering matter of moments for Callum’s route to appear on the screen mounted on the dashboard and another half-minute for him to finish his cigarette. Cheltenham on a Friday evening being what it was, however, it took over an hour to reach the motorway. Unlike the journey over to visit him mother, the volume of traffic and monotony of staring ahead at the stagnant line of red brake lights did not grate on his nerves. He felt strangely at peace.

  The whereabouts of the elusive Dean Morden’s hideout had long been kept a secret from men at his level. Not saying that Callum Laing was occupying a lowly rung of the Agency’s ladder by any stretch of the imagination. After all, he had people who answered to him. But only those considered to be the top brass had been privy to such information for so long.

  Callum spent much of his time in the traffic queue pondering one thing; did this mean he had finally been elevated to the elite in the Agency’s hierarchy? More than once, he felt a hint of a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, before he talked them back down just as quickly. He was close; he could feel it. But he still had a job to do and until he could deliver what the Agency had asked, they could just as easily dispose of him if he failed.

  No questions asked. No trace left behind. That was their style.

  Callum glanced down at the information on the sat-nav screen. His destination, although only seven miles away, was still calculated to take another thirty minutes at least at his current speed. Daylight was all but gone, and darkness would have taken full control by the time he got back, which was both a blessing and a curse. Arriving in darkness meant he had the cover to go – and remain – unnoticed for as long as he needed. The Agency supplied black cars to their agents for that very reason; they could easily remain invisible.

  Less than a mile ahead, Callum spied the traffic easing as more people filtered from the motorway onto the next slip road. Beyond there was clear road. He put his foot down early and raced up close enough behind the next car in front to only miss his rear bumper by inches as he swerved into the outside lane, leaving the line of sad, tired losers behind. The next exit was his and he took it without taking his foot from the accelerator. At the top of the slip-road, after a sharp left he followed the main road as it swerved into a thicker blanket of darkness.

  The unlit road was occupied at that time by no other traffic, allowing Callum the freedom to ignore the speed limit. The miles ticked down on the sat-nav display and Callum found himself staring at it more than he was looking at the road. He was unfamiliar with this territory and the night sky felt as though it were closing in, bearing down on him, sucking him into an eternal void. The trees bent in the breeze, like long spindly arms that were reaching out to snatch him away, pulling him into their suffocating embrace.

  His destination was close. The chequered flag up ahead on the moving map on the screen told him so. As he got within the last few hundred metres, he slowed the car almost to a halt. Had the Agency not invested so much in developing the most sophisticated navigation system outside of NASA, Callum knew he would never have stood a chance at finding Spinwood.

  Turning exactly when the sat-nav told him to – down a track narrow enough to be confused as only a gap in the trees – he found it. He drove slowly past the gravelled driveway, spying the front of cottage, made visible only by the faint lamplight in one of the first-floor windows.

  Callum drove past, found a clearing between more trees ahead. He reverse-parked his car between the trunks, far enough so the nose of his bonnet was hidden from sight. And he waited. Climbing between the front seats, he curled up on the back seat of the car, his knees drawn to his chest as closely as possible in order to conserve heat as he slept.

  Confident he wouldn’t be found, and knowing he was not needed until daylight, he slept.

  *****

  His sleep was fitful that night. Mostly because he could not escape the cold; his shivers had caused him to sweat and his clothes now clung to him, making him colder still. And also because when he closed his eyes, the enormity of the task at hand – the responsibility – finally started to sink in. Callum dreamed that night, but although he knew the visions that played out in his resting mind scared him to the core whilst he slept, he could hardly recall them when he awoke.

  His father was there, he remembered that. He always visited his dreams. Ironic really, Callum always mused, that his dad was with him more now than he ever was back in Wildermoor. Memories of him were always bittersweet. He had largely forgotten what he used to look like, but his presence still haunted him. Callum had always felt safe with him around, as little as that was come the end.

  Callum had pretended to be okay when his parents split up. They told him one afternoon after a day at the zoo. They had waited until he was bathed and in his pyjamas - the one time of day that should have been the most comforting, basking in the afterglow of a lovely family day out – to tell him. He still remembered the feeling now. It stung, as if a cold blade had been plunged deep into his chest. His father’s attempts to make it all better by repeatedly telling Callum that he was now “the man of the house” only made it worse, made Callum feel as though he had no choice but to swallow his tears.

  And so it went on over the following months. Time after time of continued disappointment and broken promises. His dad only had to take him on odd weekends or evenings after school, but that soon slipped, until in the end whatever they had barely resembled any kind of relationship. But much to his mother’s chagrin, Callum still buzzed about any time he was told he would get to see his dad. She knew better than most – as did Callum – that it was unlikely to happen. But with each cancelled reunion, each football game and school play Callum had to gaze out to the crowd to find that empty seat next to his mum, he began to react less.

  Inside he was screaming, pleading with his dad to just show he wanted to be with him, just once. But on the outside, mostly for his mum’s sake, Callum acted like it didn’t bother him.

  Such emotional turmoil should be too much to bear even for any full-grown adult. But Callum was six-years-old. Seven when the end finally came. The day his mum took him far away – the last time he ever saw his dad – lived with him still. He remembered vividly the journey that took them to Cheltenham that night. His mother never spoke. She cried silent tears as she drove, looking dead ahead, barely even blinking.

  By the end of the journey, and for weeks afterwards, Cheryl Laing remained in this near-cata
tonic state. To a boy so young at the time, it was confusing. It appeared that his mum simply didn’t care that he had been wrenched away from his father, from his hometown, his school and his friends. She had thought nothing of unleashing a childhood of confusion upon him, thrusting him into a life he neither asked for nor wanted. He resented her for it then and still did.

  As Callum grew up, he resembled his father more and more. In looks, in demeanour and – most frightening of all – in ambition. Cheryl Laing had witnessed her son choose the same dark path her estranged husband had. The police force took Thomas Laing from her, from them, and now it was happening all over again.

  She began to scream at him most nights, mostly out of nothing in particular. It was a raw, animal emotion that was born from her disdain for Thomas Laing. The man she once loved. The man she secretly still did. Yet she hated him. And now, she feared that she would grow to hate her son also.

  Somehow, Callum had known for a long time that his father was dead, even before his mum told him on his thirteenth birthday, saying that she had received notice of his passing only a few days earlier. So thoughtful of her! Another of her lies. He was so used to them by then that he mentally put this one in his back pocket with the others. When he eventually joined their ranks, the Society told him everything. They had the knowledge and – most importantly – the evidence of what had happened to him.

  This was the first hint Callum had received of the Society’s faith in him, and maybe even their vision for his future. The Society harboured many secrets, such knowledge of the world that their people literally killed to make sure none of it was ever found. For Callum, the mystery of what happened in and to Wildermoor in December 2012 was his holy grail. And they had gifted him the first kernel of truth, to his knowledge the only time they had bestowed any details of the incident outside of their ‘inner circle’.

  He was seven-years-old again, desperately straining to look out of the back window of the car as his mum drove away. The figure that was his father disappeared too quickly as they left Wildermoor behind. He shouted, his scream, he pleaded for his mum to stop.

  And then, drenched in his cold sweat, Callum awoke.

  ******

  With military precision, Callum could awaken from the deepest slumber at the smallest of sounds. More than once, his heightened sense had kept him alive. It was the sound of hurried footsteps on crisp autumn leaves that brought him back to life. He quickly, yet silently, leapt from the back seat of the car and stepped out onto the dirt track of a road. There, under the glow of the full moon, Callum saw him. The boy he had been sent for was running.

  Running away from the house.

  Callum smiled as he reached into his pocket for another cigarette. He arrogantly flicked open his Zippo lighter, ignited the tip and took a deep drag. He smiled sickly.

  ‘Perfect’, he declared. He checked his watch; it was a few minutes to midnight. T-minus-six-hours. His next arrival was due with the breaking of dawn and he knew that if all pieces of their plan aligned, the kid wouldn’t be back anytime soon. He stretched, his body aching for a decent resting place. Callum gently strolled down the dirt track, up the gravel drive and towards the wide-open door of the first building.

  He shook his head in mock admiration. The kid had made this way too easy. Not even a lock-pick was needed. Callum sauntered towards the open door, took one last look around the courtyard behind him, and closed it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘So this is it?’

  Callum had imagined having a much stronger reaction to finally stepping into the home of the ever-elusive Dean Morden. He had heard stories passed through the other agents about him. There was a particular aura, a mystique, surrounding this man. He didn’t know much about Dean Morden personally, other than he was both a trusted and feared confidante – in equal measure - of those in the top tier of the Society. There were rumours that this was the guy who had seen aliens and mythical monsters, yet somehow lived to tell the tales. Or at least, allowed to live for as long as the Society needed him to. If all – or even most – of the stories were true, it was easy to see why Morden was viewed by some as more of a threat to the inner circle than an asset.

  He simply knew too much. And that, inevitably, was what got him killed.

  Yes, Callum had heard that the Society had arranged Morden’s death and what’s more, he believed it. Knowing some of the characters he had crossed paths with in his own tenure with the group, Callum knew they were not to be messed with. The real mystery surrounding Morden now, however, was why he had been disposed of, when surely there were many other reasons or opportunities over the two decades he was associated with them to have done so.

  Why now?

  Callum lingered in the hallway for a few moments longer, looking at each of the framed pictures in turn as he walked toward the door at the end. None of them meant anything to him, and Callum sensed that they probably meant nothing to Morden either. They were all positioned as a decoy; the whole building was. This, after all, wasn’t the living quarters of the man himself. Kramer had the decency to kit Callum out with all of the relevant information about the estate.

  There was a quaint cottage situated on the other side of the second courtyard, behind the building in which Callum stood at that moment. The two-storey annexe, if you can call it that, resembled more of a tower and is the first part of Spinwood that greets you from the long gravel drive. Without a trained eye and sufficient inside knowledge, anyone could easily pass it by whilst walking through to the cottage behind, which from the outside appeared to be the true marvel of the estate.

  But Callum knew this was the place that held all of Morden’s secrets. The tower, as he liked to think of it now, was the perfect smokescreen. Doubling back from the locked door at the end of the hallway, Callum ran his gaze along each segment of the inside wall to his left. Something felt off. He knew the gnawing feeling in his gut was self-doubt, he had felt it a handful of times before. And he hated it. It was mocking him, telling him that he had missed a detail. Something he would rather lose a limb than admit to.

  But it didn’t take long to find the clue. It was right there, hiding in plain sight. Callum chuckled to himself, mocking his own momentary weakness as he realised the locked door at the end of the hallway did exactly as it was intended; to draw the gaze from the false wall he was now studying.

  What made it even easier, however, was the fact that the boy in his haste had left yet another door open, if only just an inch or two. But it proved to be the most important clue, and the boy’s most costly mistake. Callum nudged the door, it’s weight surprising him. A solid steel door, protecting the room beyond just as a vault in a bank would protect its most prized riches. Callum put his shoulder against the door and heaved it open.

  He waited for a moment for the dust to settle before walking towards the desk, observing the papers strewn across it. Haphazard as they were, all of the papers had clearly been removed from the same cardboard file which rested in the centre of the desk, nearest the chair that had been pushed in haste towards the window behind.

  Callum turned the file around so he could read the label; Wildermoor. The rush of elation and relief surged together within him in a dizzying embrace. He smoothed some of the sheets of paper apart, running his finger down the lines of the text as he read them hurriedly. He had not been afforded the time to conduct his own research; the Society were not paying him for that. A scavenger hunt was not on their agenda. Whereas the information contained in this building was one man’s legacy, any sight of it would bring the Society crashing down.

  Many men, Callum included, would have spent their entire lives searching for the knowledge, the evidence, contained within those walls. But Callum’s assignment, however, was to destroy it. He knew that he would find nothing of any interest anywhere else across Spinwood, and would gladly raze it all to the ground with no further thought – Heaven knows, in just a few hours he was due to do exactly that. But the file upon the desk – at
least, the few sheets of it even gracing his hands at that moment - was calling to him.

  It was, after all, as much his legacy as Zero Morden’s.

  Wasting no more moments in deliberation, Callum gathered up the file and every scrap of paper he could find on or around the desk and, clutching it tightly to his chest, ran back to his car.

  *****

  Many hours of meticulous planning had gone into what would go down that night. Each pawn had to play their part just right. And The Caretaker almost ruined it all by being early. Callum felt a flash of rage ignite in his belly as he walked back from his car just as the second black Mercedes disappeared around the corner and up the drive. Callum directed the anger inwardly, at himself. He had let his greed overrule his mind. His desire for the Wildermoor file now threatened to put this all in jeopardy. If he failed, it wasn’t just his position with the Society that would be for the chop.

  All he had to do was remain in the house and he would still have control. Even despite The Caretaker’s infuriating punctuality, he would have been in front of the target, not chasing it. Now he had to find a way back in unnoticed. The darkness could still play to his advantage but it was not guaranteed. The Caretaker had survived for too long to not have been prepared for just about anything.

  The Caretaker paused at the top of the drive, sensing something wasn’t quite right. He had told Zero to remain in the house and wait for his return. He was prepared that his warning would not be fully heeded, and the open door to the annexe confirmed his fears. There was no way Zero would leave himself exposed in such a way. It was too obvious to him to go forth and look for Zero in there. Either the youngster had bolted or someone else had found him. There was only one possibility for the latter, prompting The Caretaker to place a hand around the pistol on his hip as he approached the door.

  ‘No,’ he whispered to himself, changing his mind and instead rounding the courtyard towards the cottage. Callum observed the agent’s movements as he crept stealthily up the driveway, his own pistol already removed from its holster and now firmly in a tight grip. As The Caretaker disappeared from view, Callum quickened his pace.