Saltar's Point (29 page)

“There are no markings.” Talcott said. Disbelief was thick within his voice. “Why are there no markings?”

“Because the markings are on the pillars,” McGinty answered. “Look each one is scribed with a single etching.” He pointed to each one and translated the words carved into the stone. “Death, Famine, War, Pestilence.”

“The four horsemen of the apocalypse,” Talcott whispered.

McGinty nodded his head.

“But why is the fifth one blank,” Talcott asked.

“Because it forms the centerpiece, the keystone if you will.”

“Why? These four pillars could easily support the ceiling.”

“Because it’s not there for support, it’s there for symbolism.”

Talcott huffed quietly to himself. “Please elaborate John, for those of us less versed in cryptology.”

              “Here, look. Trace lines between each pillar and see what I’m talking about.” He pointed to each pillar and drew an imaginary line with his hand to each pillar opposite it.

“My God,” Talcott managed. “We’re standing in the center of a giant pentagram.”

Outside in the pulverizing wind-driven sand Baresh ran into the darkness. He labored with great effort to pick his feet up from the desert sands that sucked at his boot heels. It was the flight of a madman, one driven insane by fear. He ran in no particular direction with only one thought on his mind, away, he must get away. For nearly ten minutes he ran over endless sand dunes until at last he could run no further. He collapsed into the sand on his hands and knees, laboring to draw a breath in the storm. The wind howled in his ears, drowning out his own voice as he screamed, the sudden realization dawning on him that he had run out into the desert and now was hopelessly lost. He bowed his head down, trying to block the sand from stinging his eyes while he gathered his thoughts.

Even in the pitch darkness he saw the shadow. How can a shadow be cast where there is no light he wondered? The presence that cast the shadow drew near. Baresh was too tired and too petrified to run. He stayed on his hands and knees as the presence loomed above him. He looked up into the dark face, his own eyes gone completely white.

“Master of the Bedouin,” was all he was able to say. It was the last time he ever spoke.

THIRTY

McGinty took a swig of his ale and tried not to cough. The man sitting across from him had changed somehow. He couldn’t quite explain it but he was different. There was a new light in his eyes, a light no doubt fueled by his exuberance, but also a light with a dark side as well. The man had always been egotistical, of that McGinty was sure, but now Talcott bordered on a Theo-complex.

Talcott drew inward on his cigar and looked across the table at his Irish colleague.  The whisky had coated his eyes a thin sheen of transparent silver.

“Something on your mind John?”

The Irishman forced a smile. “Nothing of importance.”

A low rumble emerged from Talcott’s barrel chest. “Nonsense! You have never been able to spin a lie McGinty. I read trouble in your face as if I had written it there myself.” He slapped his big hand down on the table causing McGinty to jump in his chair. “Out with it John. What troubles you so on what should be the most glorious day of your life?”

“I fear we have meddled where we should not have.” McGinty said with a lowered head as if he were talking to the table.

“Ha!” Another loud thump on the table with a thick hand followed. “Ha, McGinty. Scared of a little fame and fortune are you? Scared of the written word carved by religious zealots centuries ago? Your fortitude is laughable John. Here, drink with me and build your courage.”

He slid a shot glass across the worn oak table. The drink oscillated before smoothing into a placid brown reflection pond. McGinty stared down into the glass and caught his image briefly before throwing the drink back and relishing the slow burn as the whiskey calmed his blood.

Talcott slapped him on the back. “There, you see John, nothing like a good slug of whisky to calm the old nerves.”

McGinty tried once again to force an ingenuous smile but this time it would not come. He watched as Talcott filled their glasses once again.

“Perhaps tonight is not the night for celebration George.”

“Oh? And why is that John?” Talcott’s bearded face twisted into a façade of false pretense. “Because we lost another laborer?”

“A man John!” McGinty shouted. “A good man with a family, and a life outside of this deranged treasure hunt.”

“This deranged treasure hunt was your idea!” Talcott fired back. “Your idea John, not mine! The only difference is I will not stop until I have achieved my success. If you want to sully yourself with guilt you go right ahead, but I’ll not do such a thing. I wash my hands of it.”

Talcott clapped his hands together in front of him. In the flickering light of the overhead oil lamp long shadows grew. McGinty leaned across the table, his own courage bolstered by the whiskey.

“You mean you’ll wash your hands in the blood of the innocent.”

“Still your tongue John. It is not I who killed those men and though I will not shed tears over their deaths I also do not celebrate their loss. Do not make me out to be some kind of monster.” Talcott downed his whisky and poured another.

“A monster?” An air of amusement permeated McGinty’s face. “Not you George. The monster lies in your precious marble box.”

“I do not believe in monsters John and even if I did what then would you have me do?”

“Bury it!” McGinty shouted. “Put it back in the earth ten feet below where you found it! Let the desert sands bury it once again until no man alive can remember its location. Have you not noticed that the men are dying three times as quickly since we dug it up? And today, a man crushed beneath its weight as we tried to leverage it. It’s evil George. Can’t you see that?”

Talcott paused a moment, then: “You are a fool John.”

“Perhaps then that makes two of us.”

              McGinty rose and nodded to his partner before turning and exiting the room.

“Perhaps you are right John.” Talcott spoke aloud then finished his whisky.

This time it tasted sour.

THIRTY-ONE

October 1, 1999.

A few months after Jack Darrow’s turbulent arrival to Saltar’s Point, life in the small town began to return to normal. During the next year there were no murders, no abductions, no missing people to file a report on. In fact, you might say life had become boring again.

Ellie and Randall were wed in a small ceremony at the Church of Good Hope. Aiden served as the ring bearer. Almost a year older and several inches taller he appeared stately in his small tailored suit. Denny was Randall’s best man, Laura the maid of honor, and Cletus gave Ellie away without reservation to the man who had become like a son to him.

It had been a whirlwind ride for Ellie Jean Jackson, but it had been well worth the trip. She had returned home to escape her problems and instead found the answers where she least expected them. She had spent ninety days in rehab, a tedious and painful journey that could not have been completed without the love and support of her friends and family. She still had her difficult days where all she could think of was a quick fix, but she lived life the fullest extent of the cliché, one day at a time.

Randall had stopped the real estate business all together. He never did have a passion for it and Ellie didn’t care about the extra money, not as long as there was enough to keep a roof over the heads and food on the table. She had begun to wait tables at the bar and clerked occasionally in the general store, providing a little extra cash here and there. The Virginia Shore investigation had all but dried up, ditto with Sheila Bradley, and over the past six months Randall had seen very little of detective Peterson, although he did call Randall every once and a while to ask if he had any new leads, and of course he didn’t. Jack Darrow still remained a person of interest but without any solid evidence or an eyewitness there was no way to obtain a search warrant let alone indict him, and so the case had gone cold. All they could do now was wait and hope that someone out there might come forward with some new information or perhaps some clue they had over looked would become glaringly obvious.

About the only person around Saltar’s Point that was extremely busy was Abby Darrow. While others about town were going on with life at a slow and leisurely pace, Abby had been readying herself for what would prove to be the most difficult challenge of her life, escaping from Talcott Manor and the clutches of Jack Darrow. As far as she knew, there might not be another living soul other than Jack that even knew she was alive. She had lost contact with her family, her friends had all abandoned her years ago when she married Jack, and she had been locked away in this mansion in the woods for over a year now. Jack’s apparent lack of trust extended so far as to not install a telephone line, completely blocking her from all outside communication. And then there was Brenda, the little girl who had met such a tragic end and still tried to help Abby from a similar fate, she was nowhere to be seen, and Abby feared the worst, assuming that the demon had something to do with her disappearance.

The demon himself gave Abby motivation to vacate the manor as soon as possible, as if she needed anymore. Night after night she heard the demon shriek from the basement below, and one night she could have sworn that she had seen him standing just at the top of the grand staircase peering at her as she wheeled herself down the hall and into the bathroom, but that was probably just her imagination.

She had grown strong over the last year. Darrow had taken on a part time job as a laborer, not for the money but for something to pass the time as he struggled with his sobriety. Abby was amazed at how long he had gone without a drink, all on his own without any outside pressure. It seemed that he truly wanted to change and Abby supposed she appreciated him for that in some ways. But the damage had been done, and the years of abuse and neglect had finally left Abby with no other option, she had stood by Jack Darrow for too long. While he was at work Abby took the time to strengthen herself further. Wheeling herself about the second floor had become an easy and routine task. She spent a lot of time rolling up and down the ramp that led to Porter’s study and her other free time reading his books, all of this of course without Jack’s knowledge. He could tell she had grown stronger, anyone could see that, but Abby made sure not to let him see exactly how strong she had become, still feigning weakness or the need for assistance for routine tasks that she did easily without his help when he wasn’t around. She did countless pushups and pulled herself along the floor for great distances. She descended the stairs and pulled the wheelchair and herself back up without much difficulty, and she dismounted and remounted her wheelchair like it was a pommel horse.

Recently she had begun to venture outside, pushing herself down the dirt paths where Jack took her on their evening strolls. This had become their normal routine, he spent hours pushing her through the woods in the evenings. He had no idea that Abby had used their walks to study the trails and the terrain, plotting the quickest and easiest route through the hills to the town located just a couple of miles away.

Her greatest challenge would be the large hill that she had to climb just across the footbridge where the creek denoted the end of the property line. She had hoped to be strong enough to traverse the steep incline in the late summer but it had proven to be a much harder task than she had imagined. The chair, designed to aid her in her movements became a liability when trying to maneuver uphill, and the outdoor terrain made it all the more difficult. Now the summer had slipped into the fall, and the relentless rain of the Pacific Northwest had left the ground a virtual mud pit that sucked at her wheels and turned the hillside into a dirty waterslide. An awful realization occurred to Abby. She would have to wait until spring to make her escape, possibly even the summer when the ground once again became solid and her traction returned. The thought of spending one more day as Jack’s prisoner sickened her, but she had no other choice.

It was Tuesday, nearing four O’clock. Jack would be home soon to take her outside and then make her dinner. She would put on her usual charade, pretending to be happy to see him and faking enthusiasm about the swill he prepared for her. She rolled herself from the hallway into her bedroom where she quickly disrobed and slipped into her nightgown. She had become very proficient at pulling her useless legs through her clothing and the process only took her about five minutes. When she was done she tucked her clothes back into the closet and climbed into bed. Not many women had to experience what she went through everyday and few could manage such a horrid lifestyle, but then again as Abby had come to find out over the past year, she was no ordinary woman. She lay in bed for about fifteen minutes before she heard the deadbolt downstairs turn in its cylinder. Welcome home Jack, you worthless piece of shit she thought to herself. Let’s get on with the dog and pony show. After all, my time here is limited.

Randall drummed his fingers steadily against his desk mired in thought.

“Do you mind cutting that out?”

Randall jumped back to reality with a sudden jerk of his head. Denny had a perturbed look on his face.

“I’m trying to play solitaire here.” Denny said as he clicked away at his computer.

“Sorry to disturb your important police work.”

“If there was any work to do, I’d be the first one to volunteer, believe me. This office detail is getting old.”

Randall didn’t answer. Instead he peered long and hard down at the open file on his desk. Denny studied him a moment longer.

“Man I told you, you gotta put that thing away for awhile. You’ve done nothing but stare at it for the last ten months.”

In black felt pen the name on the manila file tab read: Virginia Shore. It was the only homicide that Randall had ever investigated and having it sit unsolved on his desk was eating through him like hydrochloric acid. He couldn’t help but think that there was something in the file that he had overlooked, that would jumpstart the investigation once again. Virginia Shore had proven to be an enigma wrapped in a mystery. She had been homeless at the time of her death, had no apparent living relatives, and few friends, other than a couple of junkie prostitutes with long term addictions and short term memories. He began scribbling randomly on the yellow legal pad next to the file. The pen had long since run out of ink and the metallic tip scraped against the paper. Denny got up from his desk and snatched the pad out from under Randall’s pen.

“Look Randall, I know it’s been tough on you. Hell, it’s been hard on everyone in this small town, but if you don’t have an angle then you’re never going to be able to solve this case, and focusing on it night and day isn’t doing a bit of good. You’re going to end up in the nuthouse.”

“I’ve got an angle.”

“And what’s that?”

Randall pointed to the notepad in Denny’s hands. He peered down at it. Amid the doodles and scribbles he had written “Jack Darrow” and circled it about fifty times nearly wearing through the top page.

“Awe come on Randall, we’ve been on that guy like stink on shit and its turned up absolutely nothing. He may be a little strange but that’s about it. I don’t think he’s even smart enough to pull off a murder and get away with it.”

“He’s smarter than you think,” Randall said, “and anyways that’s not the angle I was thinking of.”

“Not this Abby angle again. For all we know this wife of his might not even exist. He could have just been blowing smoke up your ass for the hell of it.” Randall opened his mouth to speak but Denny cut him off. “And don’t start with the whole ‘help Abby’ thing again. You know I love Ellie too but she was drugged out of her mind and had a hallucination, that’s all.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that she just happened to hallucinate the same name as our prime suspects wife.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you. You probably mentioned it to her one time in conversation and just don’t remember it, and she used that memory to create her hallucination.”

Randall shook his head. “Impossible, I never discussed the case with her, not ever. And I’m positive this Abby exists, even if no one has seen her. Darrow had no reason to lie about having a wife, and if she is an invalid then she has no reason to leave the house now does she? The problem is, I have no way to get in touch with her. Darrow doesn’t even have a phone line.”

“Why don’t you just write her a letter then?” Denny quipped.

Randall stopped his thoughts in their tracks. “What did you say?”

“Send her a letter, you know how’re you doing, how’s the weather up there, long time no write, that kind of stuff.”

“You know Denny, you just might be on to something.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake Randall I was joking.”

But Randall was already dialing the phone. Peterson picked up on the other line. Randall paused for a second, expecting to get voice mail. Peterson was rarely in the office.

“Peterson, Randall Jackson. I’ve got an interesting proposition for you.”

“You know that just might work. What do you think Wooding?”

“No harm no foul, worth a try anyway.”

Randall sat in Peterson’s office. He had made the twenty-minute drive the second he had gotten off the phone. Now his excitement had begun to spread to the detectives, although they did their best to remain indifferent. They were excited. It was etched into their expressions. Peterson pressed him for more details.

“Okay, so Abby’s has some sort of serious medical condition, and I’m willing to bet that Darrow is greedy enough to try and profit from it if he were given the opportunity. So we send a bogus lawsuit letter, you know the kind some ambulance chasing lawyers send out from time to time, saying that Abby’s eligible for some sort of compensation. When he replies we send a detective over there to get her signature, maybe question her a bit, at the very least get an inside view of the mansion.”

“And then where do we go from there?” Wooding asked.

“Hell, I don’t know, but maybe it will give us some kind of lead. More than we got now anyway.”

“All right.” Peterson said. “I’m in. Wooding, confer with legal and get to work drafting up a believable letter.”

Wooding nodded and left the room. Peterson eyed Randall one more time.

“You know Jackson, you might make a pretty good detective, you ever thought about getting out of that backwoods sheriff’s office and coming to work at a real agency?”

It was about as close as Peterson ever came to giving a compliment, but it struck Randall the wrong way. “You know detective? That thought never even crossed my mind.”