With his flashlight out of commission, he snatches his cell phone from his pocket and hits the home button, lighting his own face in a blueish glow. A few fumbled screen swipes later, he finds the flashlight app on his phone that he gave so much shit to Kirsten for installing. He told her at the time, what the hell do I need this for? I already have a flashlight. The irony of that moment doesn’t escape him, and he’s grateful for the light source.
With a quick tap of the app, a burst of blinding, white light ignites from his phone. Once his eyes adjust to the change in lighting, the earth in the immediate vicinity of the cinder block half wall shows drag marks leading away to the darkness from the vacated spot. Holt sucks in a deep breath and begins to swivel his body and the light.
“Holy Fuck!” Holt stammers, nearly pulling the trigger before recognizing the familiar face in his flashlight as Latravious Wadlow. Holt’s mind swells with wild thoughts. How’s Latravious Wadlow unscathed by the hail of bullets that I just unleashed in his direction? Why didn’t he say something during the shooting? What’s he doing in the crawlspace with that thing? And why the fuck does he look so calm? The steady precipitation of questions accumulating in Holt’s mind pushes hard on his restraint. It succumbs to the pressing weight and fractures like a late-spring snowbank. The resulting avalanche of questions come spilling out.
“What the fuck? I almost blew your head off! What the hell are you doin’ in the crawlspace? Why didn’t you say something?”
“Good evening, Detective Holt.” Wadlow grins.
“Don’t ‘good evening’ me! What the hell was that thing? And why are you down here with it?”
“This is my house, Detective Holt. I should ask what you are doing in my house. Making a ruckus no less.” Wadlow’s face remains free of tension in spite of the gunshots.
“The front door was open.” Holt studies Latravious Wadlow. Glasses. He’s not wearing his glasses.
“And?” Latravious delivers a sideways glance.
“And there was some suspicious activity on your street. Thought you might need some assistance.” Holt defends himself, but if Latravious Wadlow decides to make a big deal about this, Holt knows he stands on shaky ground with flimsy justification for his actions.
“Do you mind?” Latravious motions for Detective Holt to retreat a step.
Once Holt obliges the request, Latravious begins the laborious climb of the cinder block half wall. His feeble arm quivers under his body weight as he plants it on the top of the cinder block wall and strains to hoist his body over the wall. Holt holsters his gun as Wadlow gains his footing on the concrete basement floor.
“What are you keeping down here? What was that thing?”
“What thing?”
“Oh, Bullshit. Don’t play stupid with me, old man. The thing I just unloaded a clip into. That thing! What have you done?” A maelstrom of anger churns in Holt’s chest.
“You just shot my cat, Watson, Detective Holt. If that’s what you’re referring to.”
“Unless your cat’s a fully grown leopard, no, that’s not what I’m referring to.”
“Just a Maine Coon, Detective.”
“That’s not what I saw. What are you keeping down here?”
“Nothing, Detective, I assure you. Just me and my cat—or what was my cat before you decided to recklessly turn my house into your own personal shooting gallery.” Wadlow raises his eyebrows at Holt. A twinge of amusement pulls up on the corners of his lips like invisible strings. He’s enjoying this! Too damn calm. Too comfortable. Planning something. Gotta be. Not good.
“If it’s just you and your cat, how do you explain all the blood?” Holt gestures to the basement floor.
“I spilled some red paint is all.” Wadlow settles his keen eyes on Detective Holt, studying his every subtle movement.
“Nice try. Paint doesn’t coagulate, professor. Try again.” Holt’s comment elicits a perturbed scowl from Latravious Wadlow. “What? Am I taking up too much of your time?”
“Think maybe it’s time for you to go,” Wadlow growls.
“I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to get some stuff figured out, you and me. Why was Brady Palmer here?”
Latravious Wadlow’s wrinkled face lights up. His eyes gleam with a youthfulness and vigor that contradict his years. It’s as if the mention of Brady Palmer’s name takes away twenty years in an instant.
“Brady Palmer was here, you say?” Latravious Wadlow delights as he rubs the tips of his thumbs over the undersides of his gnarled fingers. Holt’s growing more uneasy as Wadlow’s behavior and mannerisms continue to diverge from his personality. Professor Wadlow’s always a bit aloof, but Holt’s picking up on a malevolent undertone that unsettles him, a wholesale change to everything he’s experienced with Wadlow in the past.
“What’s your connection with the kid?”
“Oh, I have many connections, Detective Holt. Connections undeterred by the passage of time. Connections I follow relentlessly. It’s only for these I still live. As unfailing as the Farmer’s Almanac is the perseverance with which I do my work. You can count on that. Persistent as the coming of the changing seasons. And so too shall the winter come. Their fruit will wither on the vine of retribution.” Latravious Wadlow unsheathes a slanted, toothy smile.
“Enough of the mumbo jumbo,” Holt barks, nostrils flaring. “Looked into your story. You were on that visitor log dozens of times. Not a couple. What’s your real connection to Brady Palmer?”
Professor Wadlow lets out a devious chuckle. “I dare say a strong one. Though the boy probably doesn’t know the significance of it. But he’ll come to find out soon enough. The deed will not go unreturned.”
“Just what is it that you’re planning? Are you planning to harm Brady Palmer? Did you have something to do with Cam Givers’ death?”
“I did not set these events in motion!” Latravious Wadlow roars as his top lip curls, displaying an underpinning of anger. After a brief pause, the indignant outrage leaves his face. It’s replaced by cold determination, that of a zealot, and he continues. “But the fruit will be plucked. Sweet and ripe with the bloat of guilt, they are. An unfortunate inheritance to be sure, but one that requires a collection. A reparation due.”
“You know what? No. That’s enough. I’ve heard enough. I think it’s high time you had a psych evaluation, Mr. Wadlow.” Holt shines his phone light into Wadlow’s eyes.
Latravious Wadlow takes another step in Holt’s direction. Driven by instinct, Holt’s hand lands on his holster, leveling a silent insinuation of mistrust. Wadlow’s eyes drift to the gun before he raises his sunken eyes, his thin, grayish lips parting in a gratified smile.
“So, you’d shoot an unarmed old man then?” Wadlow jests, but the inflection in his voice lacks any concern whatsoever.
“No, but I’d say you got some explaining to do. And best you do that at the station.” Detective Holt makes an aggressive reach, grabs a handful of Wadlow’s jacket, and tugs. Holt’s eyes swell, and he’s met with an exalted, toothy smile from Latravious Wadlow.
Holt relinquishes his grip and recoils in horror. It’s not a jacket at all. It’s skin.
“What the fuck are you?” Detective Holt mutters as he backpedals.
“I’m what’s always been, and what will be. The ascension. Master of this dominion. And they’ll all get repayment in full.” Wadlow unleashes a maniacal grin as he rises taller, straightening the aged bend in his posture with ease.
Detective Holt snatches his weapon from his holster. “Lay on the ground! Face down! And put your hands over your head!” Adrenaline courses through his body.
Wadlow begins to crouch in compliance with the instruction given before exploding into a backward jump. Holt wheels back with surprise. A nimble Wadlow lands on the top of the cinder block half wall with the precision of a grasshopper and pauses there for a moment in a crouched position. He delivers a teeth-gnashing grin as his face begins to undulate and morph. A flash of blue swirls through
his eyes, before he springboards into the cover of darkness in the crawlspace.
Holt’s tightening chest heaves out of control as the color retreats from his face. A spell of dizziness deluges his head. He’s stricken with a crippling concoction of anxiety and bafflement that’s pumping doses of paralysis into his heavy legs. Unadulterated fear, like he hasn’t felt since childhood nightmares sent him running from the boogeyman in a night terror, clutches onto him. Troubling flashes of Kirsten invade his thoughts. Troubling, because this is what you see before you die, the past, the present, the future, the ones you love, and the things left undone. Funny how you’d trade years for five minutes at a given moment.
Attacking his fear, Holt corrals his breathing and fends off the unfamiliar beginnings of an ensuing panic attack. With some semblance of his faculties restored, and against all of his instincts making a desperate tug on him in the opposite direction, he forces himself to inch forward. Gun readied and raised in his trembling hand and his cell phone light wobbling at an equal clip in the other, Holt prepares himself for what portends his end.
Without warning, a grayish-white blur rockets at him from the darkness. Two blips of orange muzzle flair flash in the darkness as he hurtles his body sideways. His shoulder careens into the base of a wall. Professor Wadlow’s cat, Watson, bounds the basement staircase. As Watson disappears Holt’s head hits the concrete floor, and a huge exhale presses out from his lungs. A quick inventory of his body reveals he’s unscathed other than his tender shoulder. Fortunate his heart still beats in his chest; it’s not shy about reminding him of its pounding presence.
Chapter 49
Lineage
WE ALL CONGREGATE at the top of the steps outside of the library doors, tugging at the hot, stagnant air to catch our breath. Our faces glisten in the summer sun, cheeks ripe as harvest-time strawberries. My parents. I wish I could tell them. Warn them about what’s coming. What’s lurking. But what would I say? How can I explain this? I can barely comprehend it myself. They’d surely think me crazy. The other boys stand there with vacant eyes, their grim expressions hinting at similar disheartening journeys deep into their subconscious.
Devin finally breaches the pregnant silence. “How did we beat them here?”
Robby pauses his pacing outside the Harper Pass Library and shakes his head at Devin. “I don’t know. Let’s just go inside.”
Tee shoves Robby on the shoulder. “We’re not leaving Angela!” Robby recoils, and his face shrivels like a dried fig.
“Dude, they left us! Remember?”
“Yeah, they’re probably just freaked out man. I mean, they had a car. They should be fine, right?” Devin reasons.
Tee rubs the nape of his neck, his head set to a slight rock and his wide eyes roaming.
Robby takes a step forward and softens his voice. “Angela’s like family to me too. They’ll be fine. You saw them. They passed us on High Street. So, if that thing couldn’t catch up to us, it’s certainly not going to catch up to her.”
“But I don’t like it. She’s with Brady.”
“Tee, he is the one who saved us in Shiners’ Gorge. I know they got their history, but maybe that’s the best person she could be with right now. Bet they’ll be here any minute. Why don’t we just go get a head start on this? Get this thing figured out.” Robby motions to the library door.
Tee’s resistance crumbles, and he musters a frowning nod. Robby springs into action. Within a second, we’re all filing into the Harper Pass Library. The sneaker squeaks of four young boys moving into the library draws the librarian’s eyes from the book she’s reading. She scowls at us before returning her eyes to her book.
We move a few paces deeper into the library and huddle together. I scan my unfamiliar surroundings, this just my second time ever setting foot in the Harper Pass Library. And the bewilderment on the other boys’ faces indicates they share my confusion on the logic behind the organization of this place.
Robby turns to address the group. “We need to look up the history on Shiners’ Gorge, the old quarry, and Grief Hollow. Find out everything we can.”
“Dude, I’ve never even been in this library. Where do we even start?” Tee trumpets.
The librarian lifts her eyes from her book and delivers a stern shhh in our direction. As the sole person in the library except for us, it’s clearly for her own benefit. And her agitated glare denotes deviations from the library’s normal decorum won’t be tolerated.
Devin keeps a sideways eye on the librarian and whispers. “Let’s just look and see what we can find. Should be organized by section.”
We fan out inside the library, set to aimless wandering in the rows. Robby roams an aisle of books. He pauses, pulls out a book from one of the middle shelves, and inspects the cover to approximate his bearings. Good idea. I replicate the strategy in my own aisle. The book I pull features a shirtless man on the cover, striking a triumphant pose atop a shiny white horse. The man’s long mane of silky hair cascades his broad shoulders and falls onto his muscled chest. Tee moves in behind me and snickers.
“So that’s the kinda dudes you like, huh?”
“NO!”
A rush of heat pours into my face. Tee’s face ignites into a joyous grin. I give Tee a nudge.
“Screw off, man.”
“We’re not going to find what we’re looking for with ole Fabio here. I mean, maybe you will.” Tee smirks through a chuckle.
“Ha, ha. Laugh it up. Did you find anything in your area?”
“Nope. Just a bunch of little kid’s books. Dr. Seuss, stuff like that.”
“Oh, so your reading level then?”
“Brooks Raker. Hot Damn, I’m proud of you!” Tee celebrates my barb like a professor whose prized student and protégé goes on to win the Nobel Prize.
After a few moments, I cast eyes in the direction of the librarian. “I think we should ask.”
“For real? I like you, man, but you’re crazy.”
“Seriously. We’re wasting time.”
“All right, big man. Go get it done.” Tee fans his hands forward at his wrists.
Tee falls in behind my timid approach to the desk. The librarian detects my presence and lifts her eyes, peering at me with disdain through her bifocals.
“May I help you?” The haughty words roll off her tongue and ring disingenuous.
“Me and my friends…” I clear my throat. “My friends and I are looking for stuff on the history of the town. You know, for a school report we’re doing.” The words fumble from my mouth.
“It’s summer.” She funnels her narrowed eyes through her glasses at me. I freeze in her icy glare. Tee responds without hesitation.
“Oh, yes ma’am. It’s a summer project.”
“Very well.” She lets out a deep sigh, no attempt to hide her annoyance. She lays her book on the desk. “Follow me,” she mumbles as she waddles out from behind the counter.
“We pretty much looked in all the rows.” I offer a small smile with my attempt to tamp down hostility.
“Well, it ain’t in the rows. It’s on microfiche. In the basement. Some books. Mostly microfiche,” the librarian responds robotically, unimpressed by my superficial goodwill gesture.
The librarian leads us to the rear of the library. Robby and Devin join in the parade. We pass through a door and descend a staircase into a musty basement.
“Those cabinets there. That’s the microfiche. Microfiche reader is over there. You boys know how to use microfiche?” She peers judgmentally over the rims of her glasses. I nod.
“Oh, yes ma’am.”
“Good. Clean up after yourselves. No shenanigans down here. The two microfiche readers on the left don’t work. Use the one on the right. And put the microfiche back where you found them when you’re done. I don’t want to have to be cleaning up after you boys. Understood?”
“Yes ma’am,” we respond in unison.
With that, the librarian lumbers up the stairs, anxious to rejoin her book and rid h
erself of us. It takes a good deal of searching, but we find microfiche on Davis Quarry and Grief Hollow. While I prepare the microfiche, Robby skims the limited book titles in the basement. Robby pulls two very old-looking hardcover books from the shelf. He nestles into a dusty cubby while we surround the lone working microfiche reader.
After some focusing on the first slide, I pipe, “Guys, check it out.”
Devin raises his brows. “Whoa, dude. That looks old.”
“It is. It’s from 1932. Says here, in July of 1932, twin girls, Myrtle and Thalma Davis, disappeared in Grief Hollow. They were playing there and never returned home.”
“What happened?” Tee’s voice crackles.
“I don’t know. Just says they couldn’t find ‘em.”
“What’s the date on that?” Devin points to the top of the newspaper article on screen. “It’s a newspaper, so they probably didn’t know a whole bunch when they printed it. We need to find the next article.”
“July 9th, 1932. Saturday, looks like.”
“Got it! Sunday July 10th, 1932.” Tee pulls the slide from the cabinet and hustles to hand it to me. Tee peers over my shoulder as I position the slide.
“What’s it say?”
“Hold on, still looking for it. Wait. Got it.”
“Read it!”
“Do you wanna do this, Tee?”
I read aloud.
"Search for Missing Davis Girls Turns Dire
"Following the disappearance of Myrtle and Thalma Davis, granddaughters of the land and timber baron, Walton Davis, a large search party was assembled and sent into Grief Hollow on Saturday, July 9th, 1932. The search was unable to locate the missing girls but did uncover some foreboding signs of foul play. One of Thalma’s shoes was recovered near Copperhead Creek. Eyewitnesses said that the shoe was stained with blood. A torn and bloodied scrap of Myrtle’s dress was also recovered from a nearby branch according to witnesses.
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