Blackened

by Erik Henry Vick

“The ones you see displeased me. The ones not worthy of the chase.” Herlequin looked down at the pile of bones, nudging a skull with his foot. “This one was particularly disgusting. Peed and shit everywhere and, if you can believe it, curled up in a ball to move no more.” He looked up and pinned Benny with his eyes. “Do you want to end up in this pile?”

  Benny’s gaze darted from the pile of bones to the children’s faces trapped in the tree. They looked terrified. The faces screamed and cried. He shrugged. “Doesn’t look like the others fared much better.”

  “Oh, but they did! The ones the Tree captures, the boys and girls who led me on a merry chase, they live like kings and queens in the bosom of the Tree.”

  Benny scoffed. “So why are they screaming?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing, Benny. That’s just for my benefit.”

  “You like to make children scream, don’t you?” Benny said with a hint of his earlier anger.

  Herlequin chuckled. “It’s my favorite thing. Fear is delicious. Terror is…” He shivered all over. “Ecstasy.”

  “How does anger taste?” asked Benny.

  Herlequin cocked an eyebrow at him, a sly smile twisting his ugly face. “It’s not as good as fear, Benny. But it will do.”

  13

  “It’s time to go, my love,” whispered Brigitta.

  Owen took his eye away from the scope, looking out at the carnage he’d wrought. Five people lay bleeding in the grass. Others cowered behind benches, trees, anything. It was like the first time, back in Vietnam, when the VC hadn’t known where he was, and he could kill at will. Delicious, he thought. Better than sex.

  Beside him, Brigitta pouted. “Better than me?”

  “No way, babe. I meant better than sex with any other woman. Nothing compares to you.”

  She beamed at him. “That’s better, my love.” She tugged on his shoulder. “But, it’s time to get out of Dodge.”

  “Why?” Owen flung a hand at the park. “These lemmings are no threat.”

  “Lómundr,” she laughed. “That’s perfect. That’s what they are. Rodents. But the danger is not from them.”

  He looked back at the remains of the church picnic. “Shame.”

  “Yes, my love, but it was grand while it lasted.”

  Owen sighed and patted her forearm. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and skinned down the tree trunk, quiet as a cat.

  “Besides,” she said, appearing out of thin air beside him. “It’s time for you to meet my father.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Taking me home to meet your parents already? This must be serious.” He grinned his best grin.

  She looked back at him, expression solemn. “Yes, my love. This is serious, indeed.”

  He didn’t know what to think of this latest turn, so he kept his mouth shut. “Will he…will he have expectations?” he whispered.

  Brigitta nodded her head. “He will, but you will fulfill them all. Don’t worry, my love. He will be very interested in you.”

  “And will he… Does he know about your…proclivities? Will he be freaked out about what we’ve been doing?”

  She laughed her tinkle-bell laugh. “No, my love. My father is never ‘freaked out.’ He will approve both of you and of my choice in the matter. My sisters, on the other hand…” Owen made a face and Brigitta laughed. “If you could see your face, my love.”

  Owen couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him or not, but the old, familiar anger was creeping up the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m a regular laugh-riot.”

  “No, my love. Don’t be that way. This is a good moment. Don’t sour it.”

  He forced a smile on his face and forced himself to let go of his suspicions. Brigitta was too perfect to drive away.

  That’s better, my love. Just enjoy this.

  He nodded.

  “I respect you, Owen Gray,” she said. “Your talents are unique and not often duplicated.”

  His smile felt a little more real, and he reached for her hand. She let him catch it.

  They came out of the woods about twenty feet from the Skylark, both smiling and staring at each other. When the station wagon with fake wood on the side roared by them, Owen’s gaze snapped up, and he had the rifle half-unslung before Brigitta’s hand restrained him.

  “No, my love. No time for that now. Let’s away.”

  “But they’ve seen us, babe. They’ve seen the car.”

  “It is no matter, my love. Come.” She pulled his arm, tugging him toward the car. With one last look at the station wagon speeding away, he let her.

  “Do you know the parking lot for the Thousand Acre Wood trailhead, my love?”

  “Yeah, right by where we popped Candy’s ugly ass.”

  “Go there, my love.” She turned and looked out the windshield as if they were out for a Sunday drive.

  “Back to Oneka Falls? No, babe. We’ve got to go somewhere else. The town will be hopping with cops after the grocery store.”

  She turned and skewered him with cold eyes. “My love, do as I bid you.”

  Again, the rage tried to creep up his neck, but he beat it back down. “Sure thing, babe,” he said with a smile.

  She treated him to one of her sun-eclipsing smiles and the coldness in her eyes dissipated. “Don’t worry, my love. I wouldn’t lead you into danger.”

  “Yeah, I know, babe. You want the Thousand Acre Wood trailhead, then that’s where we are going.” He put words into action and soon enough, they pulled into the parking lot. The deserted lot stood empty, frozen—not even litter blew in the wind. “Looks like you were right once again, babe.”

  She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Come, my love. My father is waiting for us.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “One day, you’ll have to tell me how you can talk to him like that.”

  She smiled again and patted his arm. “It’s like how I can talk in your mind, except both my father and I can see each other.”

  “Okay,” Owen said with a shrug. He reached into the back seat and grabbed the rifle by its stock.

  “No, my love,” Brigitta said. “We won’t need that.”

  He paused, half-in, half-out of the car, hand on the rifle. “Now that we are…active, I don’t want to go anywhere without my rifle.”

  “No, my love.” She shook her head, her expression leaving no doubt that he shouldn’t argue with her. “Not tonight.”

  He shrugged and fished the rifle out of the car. He walked around to the back of the Skylark and popped the trunk. “Don’t want to just leave it lying out in plain sight.”

  “That’s fine, my love. Now, come.” She held out her hand as a mother would to her child. “Father’s waiting.”

  Owen plastered a smile on his face and let her lead him into the woods. They walked for a long time, going ever deeper into the darkened heart of the forest. He’d never noticed it before, but the foliage up in the canopy was thick and dense. Instead of making him uneasy, the darkness felt like a lover’s caress.

  When Brigitta led him into the glade, the first thing he saw was the brat that had started all this. The little punk who sicced the cops on him in the first place. His breathing accelerated, and his fists clenched.

  “My love,” breathed Brigitta, a note of warning in her voice.

  “Daughter, who is this that stands in my glade and enjoys such vile thoughts about our guest?”

  “Father, meet Owen Gray. Owen, meet my father.”

  Owen forced his eyes away from the brat. Brigitta’s father stood shrouded in the shadow of a tree of enormous girth. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “This little guy has caused me no end of trouble. But then again, without him, I may never have found Brigitta again.”

  The thing that stepped out of the shadows was horrible. It was a gargoyle. A life-sized gargoyle.

  No, my love.

  Owen shook his head but kept the smile plastered to his lips. He knew how to deal with fathers, he’d been schmoozing them since he’d hit his first girlfriend back in hig
h school. Owen looked the thing in the eye and tried to keep his breathing steady.

  The thing quirked an eyebrow at Brigitta. “Again?” he asked.

  Brigitta nodded. “I first met Owen across the seas. I told you of him.”

  A sly smile crept across the thing’s face. “Ah, the one with the rifle.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  “Your daughter has helped me so much, both then and now. I don’t know where I’d be without her.”

  The thing turned its macabre gaze back to Owen. “Dead.”

  “Most likely,” Owen said, going for a wry laugh that sounded more like a chicken being butchered. Having that thing’s eyes crawling all over him unnerved him.

  “Call me Herlequin,” the thing snapped. “Think of me as a ‘thing’ at your own peril.”

  Owen dropped his gaze. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. This Herlequin could see right through him.

  “But of course,” said Herlequin. “And there is no question. No ‘most likely.’ You owe my daughter your life.” His expression hardened, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “And if you even consider harming my daughter in one of your ‘rages’ I will teach you what true rage is. Am I clear?”

  Owen snapped his gaze up and met Herlequin’s glare with meek acceptance. “Yes, sir. It was a moment of weakness. An old habit. And I would like to point out that at the time, I didn’t know my thoughts were not private.”

  Herlequin harrumphed. “You offer excuses?”

  “No, sir. It was wrong. I admit that. It was weak. Brigitta deserves strength, not weakness.”

  “I told you, Father.”

  Herlequin stared at Owen for a long time, not moving, not speaking. The little brat sidled toward the edge of the woods. “Oh yes, Benny,” hissed Herlequin. “You go ahead and run. I’ll be after you soon.” The kid froze, and Owen couldn’t keep the snide expression off his face.

  “You see, my love? My father has such delectable games for one such as this. Had I allowed you to shoot him, his pain and terror would have ended in a flash. This way, his suffering is eternal.”

  Owen’s gaze crawled to Herlequin’s face and smiled at the expression he saw there. “I’m beginning to understand, babe.”

  “I’m so glad you approve,” said Herlequin, but his expression softened a miniscule amount. “Come, my daughter.” He held out his arms, and Brigitta stepped into the hug with an air of long-lived familiarity.

  As they embraced, Owen let his gaze slither over to the kid. Benny, Herlequin had called him. “Help me,” the kid mouthed, and Owen laughed. “I’m the last person you should ask for help, brat.”

  Herlequin chuckled, and just like that the hostility between them evaporated. He put a taloned hand on Owen’s shoulder.

  Benny turned and bolted into the forest.

  Herlequin smiled. “He’s a treat,” he said. “But you didn’t come all this way to yap about the brat. Tell me, Owen, what are your plans?”

  Owen paused, glancing at Brigitta. “I assure you that I have nothing but good intentions toward—”

  “Oh, don’t start all that Daddy-talk again, Owen. Just be yourself. Besides, Brigitta is a grown…woman, capable of making her own choices. And if you think I have sway over her, then you don’t know her as well as you believed.”

  Owen smiled and winked at her. “No, she’s a strong woman. Good thinker, too. She’s like winning the New York Lotto.”

  “Damn right, my boy. Now, you were telling me about your plans.”

  Owen scratched his head. “Well, I had been planning on a little revenge. Already got that ball rolling. But, to tell you the God’s honest truth, after meeting Brigitta, and now you, that seems…a little bit…”

  “Too small?” Herlequin asked with a grin.

  Brigitta stepped close to Owen and linked her arm in his. “One should always strive to finish what one starts. Is it not so, Father?”

  Herlequin flashed a lopsided grin at her. “Oh, yes, my daughter. But, there are things—bigger things—that your love may do.”

  Owen smiled. “I’m all ears.”

  Herlequin laughed. “You were right, Brigitta. He’s perfect.”

  14

  Matt was bone tired as dawn broke across the horizon. He hadn’t slept since Friday night, and it was grinding him down. His eyes felt like they were using sand for lubricant instead of tears. Everything was too loud, and the sunrise was too bright.

  He opened the Fury’s door and put one foot out, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness and the urge to barf a gallon of the bitter, acidic coffee that sloshed in his stomach. The smell of the macadam almost pushed him over the edge.

  Matt had spent the night wrapping up the Meat World crime scene and had then driven over to help John Morton deal with the shooting at the church picnic in Cottonwood Vale. Two spree shootings in one day. It had to be the same, slimy little prick, but why he started his shit over in Cottonwood Vale was anyone’s guess.

  He wanted to—no, needed to—declare an emergency, but with Jim gone, there wasn’t much he could do through official channels. Matt was a big supporter of the Second Amendment and didn’t want to make law-abiding citizens into criminals, but he wanted to do something. Stop sales of .270 ammunition. Get a list of rifle owners. Put a moratorium on gun sales of any kind until Fergusson could he apprehended. All those things sounded like good reactions to the tragedies, but they wouldn’t work for the simple reasons that none of those steps would stop Fergusson from killing again, and none of them would retroactively save Fergusson’s victims. But, damn it, he wanted to do something. He just didn’t have any idea what to do. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the door jamb of the car.

  “Long night?”

  He opened his weary eyes. Jim Cartwright stood next to the car, looking wan and tired. Matt pushed himself up and out of the car. “What the hell are you doing here, Jim? You should be back in Cuba with Karen and the boys.”

  Jim cocked his head. “Have you forgotten that all of my boys are not in Cuba?” His tone bordered on churlish.

  “No, Jim, I haven’t forgotten about Benny. But he disappeared in Cuba, not here. Your best bet is to get back over there.” He kept his tone mild, despite the brief flare of irritation at Jim’s tone.

  Jim shook his head. “He’s not over there, and neither is the guy who’s got him.”

  “And who’s that, Jim?” asked Matt.

  “Don’t do that, Matt,” Jim snapped.

  “Do what?”

  “Use your bereavement voice on me. He’s not dead. I’d feel it if he were.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind,” Jim sighed. “I was up all night.”

  Matt rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. I’ve been up since Saturday morning.”

  Jim leaned forward, eyes pinwheeling with intensity. “You have a line on Fergusson?”

  Matt scoffed. “If only I did. He’s…been busy.”

  “What now?” demanded Jim.

  Greshin raised his hands and let them drop to his sides. “He shot up the Meat World parking lot yesterday. Killing two ladies wasn’t enough, so he bopped over to Cottonwood Vale, avoiding running down two little girls by a gnat’s testicle in the process, and shot up the Methodist picnic.”

  “Oh my Christ. How many?”

  “Counting the Jeffersons and Candy Burton, he’s up to ten shot. Eight of those are dead.”

  “Oh my Christ,” Jim repeated. “And he’s got Benny. It has to be him.”

  Matt made a moue. “I don’t know about that, Jim. If someone had shot Benny, I’d be with you. But why would Fergusson kidnap him? No, he’d just shoot him.”

  This time, it was Jim who raised and then dropped his hands. “Then who?”

  “Maybe Toby can tell us in a few days.”

  “Toby? Toby Burton?”

  “Yeah. Did I forget to tell you he came back yesterday?”

  Jim just shook his head.

  “He’s pretty br
oken up. Old Doc Hauser wants to send him out to the funny farm up in Rochester.”

  “And his mom is going for that?”

  “Well, fuck.” Matt rubbed a hand through his hair. “Look, Jim, a lot happened yesterday. Candy’s dead. Fergusson shot her out by the trailhead.”

  “Oh my Christ.”

  “Yeah. Look, let’s get inside and have a damn cup of coffee.” Jim nodded, and they walked toward Town Hall. “Craig and I came across Candy’s corpse lying in the road. She was still warm.”

  Jim shook his head.

  “Yeah, oh my Christ,” said Matt. “Think we interrupted Fergusson, though. Craig found a shell casing, and we got it over to the Troop E headquarters for fingerprint analysis.”

  “But we already know who he is. Randy Fergusson.”

  “Nope. We assume it’s him, but we can’t prove it, Jim. Anyway, the name Randy Fergusson is fictitious. It’s an alias. No records, nothing.”

  Jim sighed. “What do we do now?”

  Matt made them both a cup of coffee and handed one to Jim. “Good police work, Jim, is ninety-nine percent boredom and one percent ball-busting terror. We’re in that ninety-nine percent part.”

  “So wait? We just wait?”

  Matt shrugged. “Yeah. We’ve got irons in the fire, but until they’re hot, there’s not much to do, except hope Fergusson takes a day off.”

  “Excuse me, is one of you Chief Greshin?”

  “That’d be me, champ,” said Matt as he turned.

  “You sent over a shell casing?” The speaker was in a New York State Trooper uniform and had lieutenant’s bars on his collar.

  “I did, yes. They told my officer it won’t be ready for a while, though, so I don’t have the results yet. Sorry you wasted a drive—”

  “I rushed it.”

  “You rushed the fingerprint analysis?” asked Jim.

  “Yes. I read the report about Sheriff Jefferson’s shooting, and it rang alarm bells. When your shooter plugged the woman, I suspected I knew who the shooter was. Turns out I was right.”

  “Right about what, Trooper…” said Matt.

  “Sorry. Jonas Gregory,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Matt shook hands. “What was your suspicion?”

  “Your shooter’s real name is Owen Gray, and this isn’t his first rodeo.”