Saltar's Point (33 page)

THIRTY-FIVE

Jack sat with his back to the wall, churning thoughts in his head like butter. I suppose there’s a time in every man’s life when he sits at a crossroad, and Jack Darrow, back to the wall, sat at his. The revolver that his uncle had given him when he was just sixteen sat polished and idle in his lap. It was a Smith and Wesson thirty-two caliber and until tonight Jack Darrow had never considered shooting anything with it other than crows and cans. Tonight however, he considered the unthinkable, putting a slug through the center of his brain, a gentle squeeze, a loud bang, and then eternal sleep. To have Jack tell the truth –which would be a rarity- that option didn’t sound half bad. 

The decision that plagued him most was whether or not to take Abby with him. What would she do without him, if he were to selfishly take his life? Would she move on, find someone else to take care of her? Or was she capable now of taking care of herself? Would she miss him? He doubted it. They say a man’s life is judged by the number of people who attend his funeral and Jack Darrow, had a sobering thought, he wasn’t even sure if his own wife would attend his. And he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

He had moved his bedroom to the first floor, to keep the demon from whispering in his head. A box of bullets sat at his feet, their copper coated heads gleaming in the moonlight filtering softly through his bedroom window. With a shaking hand he pulled a single bullet from the cardboard container and loaded it into the cylinder. It slid in easily with a gentle click as it locked in place. He snapped the cylinder closed and spun it once with his left hand, listening to it whir before it fell gently into place.

If there were one guess I could make as to what was going through Jack Darrow’s mind at that moment it would be fear. You see I’ve known Jack for a long time, far too long if you ask me, and behind that hard exterior is a scared little boy. Perhaps his intellectual development stopped around the time his mother began beating him, perhaps his brazen attitude was nothing more than a front to cover the inadequacy he felt during his whole life, but one thing was for certain, faced with a choice Jack Darrow would almost inevitably choose the wrong one, and he was well aware of this. For this reason, tonight he decided to let chance determine his fate. He gave himself fifty-fifty odds, much better than he deserved in my opinion. The demon had begun to grow restless, annoyed at the fact that Darrow had moved his bedroom upstairs and had ceased, for the time being anyway, searching for more victims to feed the insatiable beast. Now he feared that the demon would seek retribution against him, why wouldn’t he? Darrow was just a pawn to him, a tool to get things done, and if that tool stopped serving its intended purpose then the demon would most likely discard it. So he was faced with a choice, kill Abby, kill himself, or seek another to take their place. He decided that he couldn’t kill his wife, as much as she pained him there was no way he could do it. He didn’t want to kill anyone else either, he was tired of it, the hollow feeling it gave him afterwards, and always fearing that the next knock on the door would be the feds, or worse, that jackass Jackson standing there ready to snap the cuffs on him, but he didn’t want to kill himself either. In Jack’s irrational mind it was either someone else or him. Three quick clicks, that was all it would take. If he survived he would seek others, if he didn’t, well then he wouldn’t have to worry about it now would he?

Darrow placed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. It clicked softly. Again he pulled the trigger, another click. Jack’s hands shook and beads of sweat poured from his forehead. If there were a God surely he would make him pay for all of the things that he had done, and right now would be his retribution, his reckoning. One more time he squeezed the trigger. The firing pin clicked in the empty chamber. Very well then, he thought, fate has decided, I was not meant to die this night.

Jack Darrow collected his thoughts and rose from his bed. He clicked off the light and stood for a moment in the darkness, it was soothing to him, nonjudgmental, and in its blackness he felt comfort. He embraced the feeling and then he turned and headed for the basement, the demon was waiting.

In her bedroom Abby lay still, the sheets wrapped around her tucked beneath her chin. It was cold again tonight, colder than it had been in a long time. She couldn’t place her finger on it, but she felt like a prisoner waiting for the guillotine to fall, and she had learned to trust her instincts. Jack was up to something and that could only mean trouble.               Piercing the darkness was a bone chilling sound she hoped that she would never hear again. It was the call of a raven. Slowly, she turned her head towards the window. The large black bird rested on the windowsill staring at her with those blood red eyes. She knew instantly what it meant. Jack was speaking to the demon once again.

THIRTY-SIX

Whoever developed the microfiche should have been strung up and quartered, at least that was Ellie’s opinion. She had been turning the dial in futility now for the last half hour, scouring the pages of newspapers written long ago. In the back of her mind a voice whispered to her that she was crazy, no doubt about it.

Finally an article caught her eye. It was dated April 4
th
1902. The headline read: prominent businessman makes home in Saltar’s Point. Beneath the article a small photo depicted two men standing in front of a half-constructed mansion, the Talcott mansion she figured. As she stared at the picture she had to force herself to breath. The man standing on the right was the same man she had seen in her dreams the night before. Impeccable groomed, three-piece suit, tidy mustache and beard, no doubt about it, it was George Talcott. Overwhelming anxiety flooded her with a mass of endorphins that caused her hands to shake and her brow to sweat. She felt as though she were going to faint but with resounding effort she forced herself to remain calm. More disturbing than Talcott was the figure on the left hand side of the picture. Ellie must have stared at his image for five minutes, taking in his features with an eagle eye. The slight nose, angular jaw, rounded eyes, it was almost as though she were looking in a mirror. She read the caption beneath the picture and as she knew it would be, the man was listed as John McGinty. She sat back in her chair, the finality of what she had just read ringing in her head. The dream was right. Not only did Talcott appear just as she had envisioned him but she had the name of John McGinty right, and that was too much of a coincidence for anyone to ignore.

With this sudden realization came great sadness, she was mired in a web of horror too great to be true. If the dream was correct about this then surely the facts about Cletus were true as well, he was not her grandfather. All these years he had lied to her, or at least been untruthful. Or maybe the dream was wrong, about that at least, after all dreams were unpredictable. Maybe her insecurities were weaving themselves into the fabric of her dreams. There was only one way to be sure, she would have to ask him. It was an idea that she did not relish.

It would be a furtive operation to be sure. Sensitive subjects were best broached with tact. She could not just come out and accuse Cletus of lying to her for all these years. That would most likely lead to him shutting down and providing less information than if she asked him. One thing was for sure. It had been kept from her for a reason, perhaps to protect her, perhaps to protect the family name, but she had to find out why.

She continued to scroll through the microfiche, determined to find out more information about John McGinty, relation or not. He was involved in this somehow, the nightmares and the odd occurrences that had been happening within Saltar’s Point lately were not by accident. The next article that caught her eye was dated nearly six months later, May 27 1902. The headline read, Local businessman dead at age 62. She scanned the article looking for McGinty’s name but it was nowhere to be found. The article was entirely about George Talcott, detailing his businesses in Missouri, his dabbling in the archeology rare artifact trade business, and his new acquired logging company right here in Saltar’s Point. His sudden passage had left his company in ruins and hundreds of loggers out of work. One line in the article was of particular interest. ‘Doctors think that his death may have been attributed to pneumonia.’ Ellie paused for a second. That seemed like odd phrasing for a cause of death. It sounded like a cover up to her. Perhaps Talcott had been killed or poisoned, that short of thing wasn’t unusual for a man with as many wheelings and dealings that Talcott would have had in his several business ventures. Some disgruntled employee or shunned business partner might have thought it easier just to off him instead of continue to do business with him, but why would anyone want to cover that up?

She continued to scan the microfiche but could find nothing more about Talcott or McGinty. In her dream Talcott had mentioned that McGinty too had died shortly after their return from Africa, but there was nothing more to find on him. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. She pushed her chair back clicked off the light and pulled the microfiche slide from the machine. Everything was just too odd for her to accept. How the hell could she have known so much about men she had never met, never even known existed until last night in a haunting dream? There was only one other thing she could think of to do. She would ask Cletus, even if he thought she was crazy, she had to know if he knew something about it all. Ellie had to know where she came from. Right now she felt like a thirty-five year old woman who had just been told she had been adopted, like one of those people she had seen on Unsolved Mysteries.
If you have any information about the whereabouts of Ellie’s family please call our number and speak to one of our operators.

Ellie placed the slide back in its box, the box back in the rack, slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the exit. She rounded the last shelf in the young adult section and slammed right into Beth Little coming the other way, causing the elderly librarian to drop the stack of books she was carrying.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” Was all Ellie was able to say. “Here, let me help you.”

The two women knelt down and began picking up the books.

“Oh that’s okay, happens all the time.”

“I should be more careful.” Ellie handed the last book to the librarian who stood up and eyed Ellie. A look of recognition crossed her face, darkening the lines that had etched themselves into her skin over the years.

“My God Ellie Pritchard, is that you?”

“Well actually it’s Ellie Jackson now.”

“Of course, of course. I heard all about the wedding and knew that you were back in town. I was wondering when I would run across you, I’m surprised it hasn’t happened until now.”

“Well I’ve never been much of a library patron.”

The elderly woman emitted a small chuckle. “That you haven’t my dear, that you haven’t.”

Ellie smiled in spite of herself, recalling the way Beth always repeated phrases as she spoke. It seemed nothing had changed, then again in Saltar’s Point things seldom did.

“Well then, what brings you out today?”

“Oh well,” Ellie didn’t know where to begin, “just doing a little research is all.”

“Well it appears you’ve bumped into the right woman, research is my life, maybe I can help you?”

Ellie remembered the way the old woman was always willing to lend a hand to those who needed help. It seemed as though Beth Little was as stagnant as the town she resided in, unchanging and undaunted. She wore the same conservative floral dress that she had worn so many years ago. Her hair, now completely gray, was pulled back in the same bun which she had always worn. Wire rimmed glasses and worn black pumps completed her image, adhering to the stereotypical image of a small town librarian.

“I don’t think so, I’m doing a little research on local lore, boring stuff you know.”

“Honey, what’s boring to most people is my life’s work. What have you got?”

Ellie weighed her options. She wasn’t sure she was willing to let the kindly old woman in on her bizarre undertaking? She might think she was crazy, especially if she told her that her inquiries were spurned by foolish dreams, but what did she have to loose, and what did she care what one woman thought about her anyway?

“I was curious about Talcott manor, and the man who built it.” She threw in a side comment, just to let Beth know she wasn’t crazy. “You know, just curious about the history of the town I live in.”

“Well George Talcott was an interesting man, and the Talcott manor is an interesting place, so I’ve been told. I’ve never set foot in there, but it has always piqued my curiosity. Why don’t you come with me and we can sit down in one of the quiet study rooms. I’d love the chance to catch up with you, if you’re not too busy that is.”

“No, I’m not too busy. Why not?”

“Very well then, follow me.”

Beth led them through a pair of doors marked “employees only” and down a narrow hallway to a small room with an oak table and four small wooden chairs. She motioned hastily for Ellie to take a seat and then closed the door behind them.

“I thought we were heading to a study room?”

Beth cackled once again, it had an unsettling quality for such a harmless little old lady, Ellie thought to herself. “Why we are dear, this is the faculty study room, where we do all of our best thinking. It used to be a general study room but now we keep it all to our lonesome. Now make yourself comfortable while I go and fetch us some hot lemon tea.”

And with that Beth Little vanished back down the hall and slammed the door shut behind her once again. Ellie peered around the room, it too was unsettling. The matted carpet was stained and crunchy beneath her feet, the last defense against countless cups of coffee, tea, and soda cans that had been carelessly toppled onto the floor over the years. Even in the so-called employee’s lounge crude graffiti scrawled on the desktop and on the walls. Half hearted attempts had been made to scrub away the markings with ill effect, leaving nothing more than smudged yet still legible bawdy haiku that rang true on some perverse poetic level. Her eyes were drawn to it with the insatiable appetite of curiosity that is human nature.

She thought he meant marry her

Instead he meant to bury her

Whew, that kid was a little creepy. Ellie turned her attention to the lone poster in the room. It was a drawing of a studious owl with the words “Learning is Fun-Damental” written below it. Those cheesy posters hadn’t changed from the time she was a schoolgirl. Her thoughts were interrupted by Beth opening the door and returning with two piping hot cups of tea as promised.

“Here you go my dear.”

She placed a cup of the steaming liquid in front of Ellie, who accepted it gladly. Then the elderly woman pulled up a chair and reached across the table to take hold of Ellie’s hands in hers. There was silence for a moment and then Beth shattered it with a direct line of questioning that only toddlers and the elderly seemed to possess.

“Now tell me child, what is it exactly you want to know?”