Welsh Road (The Depravity Chronicles) (6 page)

Anna was shocked
that the commissioner would make a personal visit. She had heard a lot about
him, though they had never met. From what she understood, he made a genuine
effort to emulate his namesake. She stood in silence, not sure what to say.

“Forgive my
manners,” Commissioner Jackson said. “You’re probably wondering why you’re
here.”

“Well, I think I
have a pretty good idea,” Anna said.

“Sheriff Kelly,”
he said in a monotone voice.

“The very one,”
Anna agreed.

“Rumor has it
that a few of your boys found him hanging from a tree,” he continued.

“That’s true,”
Anna confirmed.

“And none of
those boys are alive to tell the tale.”

“That’s about
right,” Anna said, a wave of sadness rushing over her.

“Is it also true
that you were a witness to this through your extensive camera setups in those
woods?”

“It is,” Anna
said, also monotone. She wondered how he could possibly know that.

“Don’t worry,
Sheriff,” the commissioner said jovially. “Ron and I were good friends. He told
me all about it.”

Anna wasn’t sure
if she believed Jackson. She also wasn’t sure if she trusted him. Knowing Sam
as well as she did, she could tell that he felt the same way. During the
conversation, Sam had gradually moved closer to them, making it obvious that he
was listening.

Commissioner
Jackson circled the bodies a few times, whistling at the complexity of the
scene. Anna took a moment to allow herself the opportunity to process what she
was seeing.

The bodies were
hanging upside down, a thick rope wrapped around their ankles and feet. It was
difficult for Anna to even discern the victims’ genders, let alone age or race.
They were covered in blood from head to toe. Every possible surface area that
wasn’t still clothed, which might reveal skin, was caked with both dried
and
still-moist blood. And these were the least offensive realities of the
immediate landscape.

The bodies were
facing each other, their hands extended outwardly and in a prayer position.
Anna moved closer to examine how their hands were able to remain stationary.
Gravity usually wins the day when you’re hanging by your toes from a tree.

“Each of the
victim’s hands has a ten inch spike driven through to keep them together,”
Commissioner Jackson said. He nodded approvingly as Anna studied the clues.

“I see that,”
she said. “But how are their arms extended like this, straight out from their
chests? Shouldn’t they be above their heads?”

“You would think
so, right?” Sheriff Bubba Hoover interjected. Commissioner Jackson crinkled his
nose at Bubba, making Anna like the city slicker a little more. At least now
they had something in common.

Anna ignored
Bubba. Sam joined her as he pulled latex gloves over his hands. “May I?” he
asked.

“Be my guest,”
Jackson said. “I’m sure you know how not to disturb a crime scene.”

Sam smiled,
knowing full well that he was the most experienced man in these woods when it
came to dead bodies. His time in the FBI would make the majority of these kids
piss themselves. As gingerly as he could, he tapped his pen against one of the
victim’s arms.

“Damn,” Sam
said. He turned to Anna, handing her the pen. She followed suit.

“Is that what I
think it is?” Anna asked, turning to the commissioner.

“We can’t be
sure until we get everything processed,” he said. “But yeah, I think it is.” He
watched Anna as she worked through her thoughts.

“It was
important enough that the victims be in a prayer position that the killer put
casts on their arms so they’d be immobile,” Sam said, more to himself than
anyone who might be listening.

“Did you say
they have casts?” Anna asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because the
casts would have to be around their arms, chest, and shoulders to make that
work,” Anna said. “Do you know how many hours that would take to dry?”

“What are you
saying?” Jackson asked.

“I’m not saying
anything,” Anna shrugged. “Just pointing out the fact that someone was really
invested in this set up here.”

Sam nodded.

“Interesting,”
Anna said as she walked to the base of what she first thought had been two
separate trees. Instead she found a tree with twin trunks that shared a large
base and roots. Sam and Jackson joined her, followed by Bubba.

“What’s
interesting?” Bubba asked.

Anne ignored
him. “What’s this?” she asked as she bent to one knee. There was a small group
of rocks at the base of the tree. “Why isn’t this marked?” she asked as she
glanced up at Commissioner Jackson.

“Edison!” he
shouted. A small framed man with thick framed glasses and a camera made his way
over to the tree. Jackson simply pointed and grunted. Edison knew what to do.

“And this?” Anna
repeated, this time on the opposite side of the tree. It was another grouping
of small rocks, but something was distinctly different from the first.

“They’re
different colors,” Sam said. He looked at Jackson. “Did you see this?”

“I did,” Jackson
said, and Edison stopped taking photos and looked at his boss. Jackson
continued. “Truth? I wanted to see if you would see it too. See if you folks
over there in Crimson Falls could actually help us out.”

“I don’t like
being tested,” Anna said firmly.

Jackson laughed
heartily, trying to diffuse any tension. “My apologies, Sheriff. But you must
understand, these murders here, they’re clearly cult related.”

“And that made
you think of us why exactly?”

“Simple,”
Jackson said. “It’s been
exactly
a year since all those murders in your
town.”

Anna and Sam
exchanged glances.

“And if I’m not
mistaken, the killer was Alan Brickton, who was involved heavily in the
occult.”

“That’s right,”
Anna lied. It was the only cover story that had made sense. The injection of
even the smallest piece of truth can make even the most fantastic tales seem
possible. The whole truth, of course, would have proven much more difficult for
people to believe. Impossible, even.

“I’m putting
together a team to investigate this,” Jackson said. “I have a sneaking
suspicion that Mr. Brickton wasn’t working alone.”

Anna too had a
sneaking suspicion. Her intuition was screaming in her head, sounding the alarm
bell. Anna suspected that, by the looks of it, whoever was behind this grisly
scene had no connection to Alan Brickton. Where Alan had been reckless, this
guy was calculating. Where Alan had been unprepared and sloppy, this guy gave a
whole new meaning to premeditation and precision. 

“So, what do ya
say, Sheriff?” Commissioner Jackson said to Anna. “Can we count on your help?”

Anna offered her
hand to Jackson. “However we can be of service, just let us know.”

Jackson took
Anna’s hand and shook it gratefully. “It is most appreciated.”

“Before we go
any further,” Anna said, “I have a question. Who are the victims?”

“Funny you
should ask,” Bubba answered. “I think the killer wanted us to know.”

“Why do you say
that?” Sam asked.

“Because of
this,” Bubba said as he led them a few yards from the tree. There, on the flat
surface of a large rock, was what appeared to be a makeshift shrine in memory
of the victims. Their drivers’ licenses were propped up and surrounded by rose
petals. Blood had been intentionally sprinkled around the rock. Drawing on
their experience underneath the Brickton mansion, both Anna and Sam also
recognized the various paraphernalia that was used solely for supernatural
purposes.

Behind the
bloody rock was a large area of burnt vegetation. On top of this debris were
the remnants of a massive animal carcass. The intricate attention to detail was
staggering.

“Why would the
killer build something to memorialize the victims?” Commissioner Jackson asked.
“And what’s with the crispy critter here?”

“This isn’t a
shrine, Commissioner,” Anna said. “Not even remotely close to a memorial.”

“Then what is
it?” Bubba asked, clearly irritated that he had to defer to a woman.

“If I’m not
mistaken, I would say that this is the residue of his ritual,” Anna explained
as she pointed to the carcass and splattered blood. Then she gestured toward
the rock itself. “
This
, however…this is an altar.”

“That makes
perfect sense,” Commissioner Jackson said.

“It does?” Bubba
asked.

“Sheriff Hoover,
thanks for your help today,” Commissioner Jackson said as he put an arm around
Bubba’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to your station and set up a command
post. I need someone I trust heading that up.”

Bubba beamed
with misplaced pride as he strutted away confidently.

“What a friggin’
idiot,” Commissioner Jackson said in that same monotone voice as he watched
Bubba walk toward his cruiser. He turned to Anna and Sam. “
Now
,” he said
with enthusiasm. “
Now
we can get down to business.”

Here we go again
, Anna mused.
She cringed at the thought. Sam squeezed her shoulder, his facial expression
reflecting a similar outlook on their situation.

1

The drive home
from the hospital was uneventful. Jena leaned her head against the window,
feeling overwhelmed and tired. She turned on the heated seat, grateful for the
luxury of her mother’s Mercedes SUV. After what seemed like hours, her mother
pulled into the driveway and parked in the garage. Isabelle got out of the car,
but Jena didn’t move.

“Are you okay,
honey?” Isabelle asked uneasily as she returned to her position in the driver
seat.

A glazed,
distant expression haunted Jena’s eyes.

“I knew it,”
Isabelle mumbled. “You should
not
have been released from the hospital
this soon.”

Suddenly Jena’s
eyes rolled into the back of her head. Isabelle found herself staring at the
whites of her daughter’s eyes. She laid on the horn, hoping her husband would
come to the garage. She expected Jena to begin convulsing, but something
entirely different ensued.

Jena began
speaking, but it wasn’t her usual voice. The sound was raspy and had an echo to
it, as if there was more than one person talking. It sounded like baby talk to
her mother, until she picked up on a word she thought she recognized.

“I don’t
understand you, baby,” Isabelle said, trying to stroke Jena’s hair. “What did
you say?”

Without warning,
Jena grabbed Isabelle’s wrist. Her grip was firm and slightly painful.

“Quia hic factus
est in senectute, qui in regeneratione,” Jena said in that same strange voice.

Isabelle gasped.
It had been years since she studied it in Catholic school, but she was
confident that her daughter had just spoken in Latin. She was too wrapped up in
her daughter to hear her husband walking into the garage and toward the car.

“Isabelle?” Hank
called through her window, causing her to scream.

“Jesus, Hank!”
she cried. “Don’t sneak up on me!”

“I’m not the one
honking the horn,” he responded. “What’s going on?”

“Are you blind?”
Isabelle asked, emphatically pointing at Jena’s eyes. When she turned to look
at her daughter again, her eyes had returned to normal.

“I don’t know
who you’re talking to, Mom, but if you stick your fingers in my eyes then
I
will be the one who’s blind.”

“Would someone
like to tell me what the hell is going on out here?” Hank asked, clearly
confused.

“I wish I
could,” Isabelle said softly. Had that just happened? It reminded her of The
Exorcist. 

“What’s that
supposed to mean?” Jena asked. “Did something happen?”

Isabelle shook
her head. “No, everything’s fine.”

“Then why did
you use the horn?” Hank asked.

“I figured you
would want to see your daughter,” she lied.

“Of course I
do!” Hank said with a wide smile. He circled the car and opened the passenger
door. Jena crawled out of the seat and into her father’s arms.

“Hi, Daddy,”
Jena sang. She patted him on the back.

“Is she on some
kind of medication?” he asked Isabelle.

All she could do
was shrug.

“Well let’s get
some food into you and see how that works,” Hank said.

“Yum, that
sounds good,” Jena said. Hank quickly made three sandwiches. Once they were
finished, Jena yawned dramatically.

“Right, time for
you to lie down a bit,” Isabelle said in her motherly voice.

“But I’m not
tired,” Jena complained, resisting her mother’s advice.

Why do I feel
like she’s five years old again?
Isabelle thought to herself. She didn’t
want to let Jena out of her sight. Plus, everyone still needed to process what had
happened the previous night.

“Why don’t you
lie down on the couch?” Isabelle suggested.

“I think I’ll be
more comfortable in my own bed,” Jena countered. “Besides, I want to shower.”

“Jena, I think
it would be better if…” Isabelle began, but Hank cut her off.

“Ease up, babe,”
Hank said. “She’ll only be right up the stairs. Nothing is going to happen.” He
nodded to Jena.

“Thanks, Daddy,”
she said, giving him a quick hug and peck on the cheek. She could tell that her
mother was fuming, so it was in Jena’s best interest to get to her bedroom as
quickly as possible. “Please don’t disturb me until tomorrow. I will text you
and let you know I’m fine. I just need some alone time.”

Isabelle just
stared at her. Hank looked at his wife, paused, and then looked at his
daughter. “Okay, Jena,” he shrugged. Isabelle looked like she wanted to
strangle both of them, but she nodded and walked out of the room.

Once in her own
bedroom, Jena began to panic. She sat down at her desk, taking deep breaths,
trying to calm her mind. She had no memory of the drive home from the hospital.
Somehow she needed to master whatever was happening deep inside her brain. Then
there was the other small problem of her parents. It would take an act of God
to keep her mother from knocking on her door at least once during the evening,
especially around dinnertime. She had a hard time giving Jena her well-deserved
privacy.

Now would be a
good time to pull a Ferris Bueller
, she thought to herself. She leaned
over and rested her forehead against the desk and stared at the floor. A large
paperclip sat between her feet, and it didn’t take long before Jena decided to
test her skills. That might be the only way she could break through this mental
barrier she had in her mind.

With the
paperclip at rest on the floor, Jena leaned forward in her chair and focused
her attention on making it move. Frustration set in when her brain didn’t
become tired. She laughed at herself when she imagined what she must look like
if her mother walked into the room. Jena was about to learn the first rule of
telekinesis: distraction is
not
your friend.

After naming
that place in her brain that gets tired “the Weird,” she concentrated once
again on the paperclip. Curious about her power of compartmentalization, Jena
tried to split her attention between the paperclip and the Weird. She immediately
felt connected to everything around her. There was a buzzing sound in her
thoughts, almost like the low hum of a bug zapper. Gradually the buzzing became
louder, and the Weird wasn’t getting tired. Instead, her body was. Jena could
feel herself slipping in and out of consciousness. Without warning, she snapped
herself out of the haze.

“Whoa,” she said
aloud. That sliver of anxiety she had felt at the hospital returned, and like
before, she ignored it.

She cracked her
knuckles for good measure.

Paperclip. The
Weird.
Paperclip
. The Weird. Paperclip.
The Weird.

Jena continued
like that until the two concepts, and realities, melted together. She imagined
the paperclip moving, the energy surrounding it being regulated by her eyes.
She moved her eyes to the right.

The paperclip
remained motionless.

Next, she looked
to the left.

Again, no
physical response.

Jena repeated
this several times, becoming increasingly frustrated. She leaned back in her
chair and threw her hands in the air. The paperclip soared straight up and
stuck in ceiling.

Jena was
astounded. “My hands,” Jena hushed in a whisper.

A pen was the
next item that caught her attention. Still connected to the Weird, she flicked
her right wrist upward and the pen stuck in the ceiling next to the paperclip.
Following the pen, she wanted to test the physics of distance, weight and
gravity. She pointed at a trophy across the room and slowly moved her hand
toward her chest. Sure enough, the trophy levitated and then began inching
toward her. Just before the trophy reached the desk, Jena nearly fainted. The
statue dropped heavily into her lap and she silently swore at the pain.

At least it
didn’t drop on the floor,
Jena told herself. It was then she recognized that
she was no longer connected to the Weird. She cautiously flexed her fingers.
Then, with even more caution, she moved her hands. Nothing in the room moved.
Yep. Disconnected.

Then, without
even having a tired brain, Jena fell out of her chair to the floor,
unconscious.

The next thing
she knew, she was standing in front of a door with a fancy number engraved in
the center: 334. Nervously, she pulled her long hair up and tied it behind her
head. She took a deep breath and knocked three times. Three was a lucky number,
right?

Apparently not. Something
on the other side of the door exploded.

* * * * * *

2

“So, like, who
is this Jena March chick?” Trevor asked Anish.

“It’s Jena
Marsh
,
Trevor, and she is a junior at Taylor’s Landing High School.”

“Well that
doesn’t seem very important,” Trevor rebutted.

“Why, because
she’s not famous?” Simon asked.

“I don’t know,”
Trevor sighed. “I just thought we were actually going to do some fieldwork
today.”

“Who said we
weren’t?” Anish countered. “If you are to pursue this line of study, gentlemen,
you are going to need to learn patience.”

“I’m patient!”
Trevor said, somewhat impatiently.

“That’s pretty
sad,” Simon said, grinning.

“Jena was
involved in a demonic attack,” Anish said, totally out of the blue.

“Well you
should’ve told us that,” Trevor said. “That makes her important.”

“All of this
talk about her importance,” Anish said sternly. “I suppose you feel like you’re
somehow important, do you?”

Trevor fell
silent. He understood Anish’s point.

“Good one,
Anish,” Simon said with a laugh. “So, she was attacked by a demon?”

“That would be a
‘demonic attack,’ Einstein,” Trevor observed.

“Indeed,” Anish
said, ignoring Trevor’s sarcasm. “She survived unscathed, so to speak. But her
boyfriend, well, that is a different story.”

“Please, tell
us,” Simon said.

Anish recounted
what Jena and Nicholas had endured, ending with his coma and her imminent
arrival.

“How do you know
all this?” Simon asked. “I mean, didn’t she pass out again after you found her
near your house?”

“Before losing
consciousness, Jena described the demonic assailant.”

“Did you
recognize the description?” Trevor asked excitedly.

“Could be a
Mantis demon,” Anish said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a pipe.

“You look very professor
ish
,”
Simon said.

“A Mantis demon?
That sounds kind of stupid,” Trevor said, elbowing Simon.

“Do you know
where the term originated?” Anish asked.

“No, but I’m
sure you’re about to tell us,” Trevor said.

“
Mantis
comes
from the Greek, meaning prophet. When they studied the insect, they noticed the
connection between the upraised front legs of the mantis and the hands of a
prophet in prayer.”

“Cool,” Simon
said. “So, the praying mantis in demon form.”

“So to speak,”
Anish answered. “The Mantis demon is a low level demon. They are easily
controlled and easy to kill.”

“Well that’s
good news,” Simon said. “So it shouldn’t be hard to track this bitch down and
kill it.”

“It has already
been killed,” Anish corrected.

“What? By who?”
Trevor asked.

“By whom,” Anish
added, “By Jena Marsh.”

“I can’t wait to
hear what she has to say,” Trevor said.

“She has no
memory of having killed the demon,” Anish explained.

“Then how do you
know that she killed it?” Simon asked.

“I watched her
do it.”

“Oh, okay. Wow.
That’s pretty solid evidence.” Simon laughed. “Then why bother going through
all this? I mean, if the demon is dead, shouldn’t we move on to something
else?”

“Mantis demons
do not act alone,” Anish said.

“You mean they
travel in packs or something?” Simon asked.

“Or something,”
Anish responded. “Inherently, the Mantis breed are somewhat simple minded. They
are utilized primarily for their speed and their discretion. It’s also
important to point out, I might add, that the Mantis demon is a “guns for hire”
sort.”

“So they work
for other demons and are kind of like their assassins or whatever,” Simon said.

“Indeed.”

“Then our target
is this demon’s boss?” Simon asked.

“Yes,” Anish
said flatly.

“That could be
anyone,” Simon said, frustrated. “Demon
or
human.”