Authors: Wayne Batson
Jack watched for a few moments. It had turned out even better than expected. His father would likely stay alive long enough for the storm to unleash its rage. The water and mud would pour in, and the sinkhole would swallow Jack’s father alive.
Jack had driven the utility vehicle back to the farmhouse. He’d planned it all out. He’d known that the storm would wash away every single trace of his journey back from the sinkhole.
At age fourteen, Jack had gotten away with his first murder. It would not be his last. Not by a long shot.
There came a mechanized hum from the elevator shaft, and Jack checked his watch. “Home early again,” Jack whispered. He looked guiltily at the Manifesto. “I haven’t gotten much accomplished.”
The elevator doors opened and shut. “Jack, Jack, where are you?” Dr. Gary called, urgency in his voice.
“Kitchen!” Jack called. “Why, what’s wrong?”
“Not what’s wrong,” Dr. Gary said, his smile an alabaster trench beneath the heavy mustache. “What’s right?”
“I could use some good news,” Jack said, glancing sidelong at the laptop.
“Ah,” Dr. Gary said. “Words coming slowly again?”
“My thoughts are heavy,” Jack replied. “Each word I write, each sentence, feels like closer to the end. Makes it harder.”
Dr. Gary nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can help you with that, if you think it would help.” He waited. Jack said nothing. “Well then, let me lighten your load. The FBI has finally reopened our case.”
Jack felt the tears coming on. “Erica served her purpose then,” he said.
“Yes, in a mighty way,” Dr. Gary replied. “The Deputy Director himself flew in to Pensacola. My friend Marc Jacobs—”
“He runs security at the clinic, right?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Gary said. “He told me we’ve got agents from Jacksonville and Mobile swarming into town.”
Jack sighed and put his head in his hands. He tried to fight the sobs, but they came shuddering through.
“Hey, hey, now,” Dr. Gary said, sitting down. “I thought this would be good news.”
“Don’t you see,” Jack said. “This is really it. The FBI will be on us and soon.”
“Not so soon,” Dr. Gary said, cupping Jack’s chin in his hand. “We’ve been very clean, and the trail they need to follow to find us will be very, very long. And in that time, we must not falter. We must not fail to make our message clear. Millions of women are counting on us. All that we’ve done, all of our planning and efforts, it has all been for this moment. And so, I think, we need to make our message clear. Even before we release the Manifesto.”
“Another body?” Jack asked, tears already drying.
“Yes,” Dr. Gary said. “I think we must make her count in an increasingly profound way.”
“May I choose?”
“Of course.”
“Pamela.”
“Excellent,” Dr. Gary said. “She has changed of late, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, and not for the better.” Jack sneered. “When?”
“Not tonight,” Dr. Gary said. “I have planning to do. I have the location, but I need to figure out the arrangement. And…I want to give you time to work on the Manifesto. Do you think you can finish the rationale this evening?”
“Yes,” Jack replied, looking at the blinking cursor. “I will finish.”
Dr. Gary leaned down and kissed Jack full on the mouth. “Don’t forget, we have one more grand party to attend.”
“I won’t forget,” Jack said.
Dr. Gary stood up to leave, but paused with his hand on the corner of the wall by the elevator. “Tell me something, Jack,” Dr. Gary said. “Do you blame your father or your mother for all that you have become?”
A chill ran up Jack’s spine. The question had so many layers. But Jack had explored every nuance ten-thousand times. “I don’t blame my father or my mother,” he said. “I hate them both for what they did to me, but I do not blame them. I live for much, much more than revenge.”
Dr. Gary smiled proudly. “I could not have asked for a better partner in life,” he said. Then, he disappeared around the corner.
* * *
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* * *
The cursor still blinked on the same line.
Jack had gone deep into his mind, remembering Dear Father and Dear Mother…and tracing the steps that led to today. He’d lied to Dr. Gary. Jack did blame his parents…for everything. They had warped him body and soul. Jack thought about all he’d been through, how it had shaped him utterly. In fact, how easily the pronouns flowed, even in thought: he, him, his…
But it was all an act. From Father on down the line, they thought they could take identity away, force identity to their own wishes, and by brute force turn fantasy into reality. But all they had ever really done is turn reality into fantasy.
Jack slid her hand across the material of the flannel shirt, felt the bulge of her breasts, painfully flattened by the gauze, but still there. Then, she reached down and let her hand rest lightly on her right thigh. She would never have a child of her own.
They had taken that away. And they would likely take her life in the end. But Jack shrugged. It would all be worth it if she could make them all understand. Then, maybe, no one else would have to suffer under the iron grip of a society that took everything away from women…even their most sacred, private choices.
Having finished her rationale, Jack closed the Manifesto. The more she considered the title, the more she hated it…but approved of it all the same.
A Reditum Ad Tenebrosi Temporis
A Return to Dark Times.
Chapter 25
Sooner or later, I’d have to face Forneus the Felriven.
I need my silver case, and not just because I was hungry. Though to be truthful, one hour after sunrise, I was ravenously famished. It didn’t help that I’d passed three Waffle Houses as I’d driven north on Route 231. I stared straight ahead, until each of the black-lettered yellow signs passed behind me. I may have mentioned I have a weakness for hash browns.
Food money aside, my silver case had all of my tools—except for the Edge. Without those tools, my chances of success on the Smiling Jack case were exponentially diminished. But if I went back to Forneus without first delivering the message, I’d likely lose the silver case and the mission. Even if I delivered the message to Anthriel as directed, there was still a reasonably high chance of me ending up…ended.
I was mindful of the possibilities related to Forneus’ message. The ancient Knightshade hadn’t been given his names—Felriven, Despoiler, Spirit Prince—by accident. Whatever the contents of the scroll, it would likely cause epic-level chaos. But what kind of message would lead others of my own order to end me if I delivered it to anyone but Anthriel? Had I done something, something I’d washed from my memory? No, the message wasn’t likely about me. Forneus didn’t know me from a Guardian.
Was it some top-level secret that I wasn’t supposed to know? Something that would necessitate a superior ending me? And what would such a message mean to a warrior of Anthriel’s level? I would warn Anthriel, of course. And then, good-or-ill, I’d find out my fate.
Unfortunately, Anthriel wasn’t a local. And the nearest Waypoint was several hours north in Jackson County, Florida. I glanced over at the mile markers. I was still about thirty miles away from Sweet Deliverance Cemetery and the Waypoint hidden within. That’s when I noticed the tail.
In highway traffic, I don’t much like to cruise in the fast lane. I prefer to find a car in the right lane, one doing reasonable speed, and then I just fall in behind him. But, on this journey, I ended up stuck several times behind cars going just south of slothful. It was the darting in and out of the fast lane to get around such pedestrian drivers that helped me spot the tail.
Gray sedan with silver trim; very sporty, aquiline features for a big luxury car. Headlights were slanted like snake’s eyes and stayed on, maybe due to the overcast skies. The windshield was as dark as the shadow beneath a storm’s mantle. And it didn’t seem to cruise on the highway, but advanced rather with a relentless prowl.
So far, the sedan had mirrored my traffic moves. I saw a rest stop up ahead and decided to test my theory. If I was right, I wouldn’t pick a fight there. Too many innocents could get in the way. But, I couldn’t very well have them follow me to the Waypoint either. This might call for a touch of creativity.
I slipped into the far right lane and drifted into the exit. The rest stop was packed. Tour busses lined up like fat caterpillars on the east side of the building, the roof of which, oddly enough, was shaped like a leaf. The rest of the parking lot burgeoned with a technicolor mix of tractor trailers, cars, campers, and utility vehicles. I slid the assassin-mobile behind a hulking U-Haul truck and slipped quickly out onto the sidewalk.
As I walked to the restrooms, I kept half an eye on the gray sedan and watched it pull into a spot about ten cars away from my U-Haul. I wondered if they’d leave the car or just wait for me. I figured it depended on their purpose.
If it was the FBI, as I suspected, they’d likely just want to keep tabs on me. But maybe they’d play it safe and send someone inside, just to make sure I didn’t disappear. No big deal. If it was someone else, well…anything was possible, including violence. I looked around. There were kids everywhere. I would not let a fight go down here…even if it meant I had to run. And I am not fond of running.
I passed by the restrooms without going in. I thought I might slip around the flank of the building and see what I could figure out about my pursuers. I had to wade through a thicket of travelers—mostly kids—at the snack machines. The smell of every chip ending in -itos hit me like a salty bat. I watched a teenager rip the top off a snack-sized bag of Cheetos and dump the contents into his mouth. That’s where the creative spark hit me.
I’d never been called the Prince of Nonviolence, but hey, there was always a first time. If I could pull this off, it would eliminate the threat of violence and keep whoever it was from following me.
I slid around the backside of the building as planned, but instead of finding a hiding spot for spying purposes, I waited. A couple of truck drivers emerged from the restrooms. As they joined the crowd departing that side of the building, I blended in beside them. We walked past the rows of cars, including the gray sedan. When we came to a couple of vans parked next to each other, I slid between them.
Five minutes later, I circled back around the building and emerged from the front side as if I’d just used the facilities like any other traveler. I stopped in a sunbeam that strayed through the cloud cover, and I made a big show of stretching and yawning. I wanted to be certain they saw me. I got in the car, backed up, and drove slowly away.
I watched in the rearview mirror as the gray sedan backed out of its spot.
Wait for it,
I thought.
Wait for…it.
The driver of the gray sedan let a family cross the parking lot in front of the car. Then, he pulled forward.
I watched intently. Ought to be right about…now.
The back end of the gray sedan suddenly dropped about a foot. One of the back wheels, a stub of axle still attached, wobble-rolled away, and the car came to a grinding halt. I watched the driver and two passengers practically leap out. Not FBI, not in those designer threads. La Familia, more than likely.
It didn’t matter. They were out of play, and I had a cemetery to visit.
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Sweet Deliverance Cemetery sat upon 25,000 acres of prime Florida real estate. I pulled through the high arched gates and noted the horn-blowing cherubs worked into the wrought iron fence decor.
“Right,” I muttered, shaking my head and creeping along the winding cemetery road. I passed perfectly manicured gardens full of perky flowering shrubs and a manmade lake where seagulls, ducks, geese, and peacocks wandered. Yes, peacocks. Complete with spectacular sprawling plumes of tail feathers. The grass was lush, immaculately cut, and greener than any grass grown in Florida heat had a right to be. It was the perfect, peaceful place to live.
Ironic, I thought that the dead had better property than most of Florida’s living.
The sun had scarcely appeared all morning, and given the thickening mantle above, I figured I wouldn’t be seeing it again anytime soon. It threatened rain but seemed to me more like the all-day soaker kind of storm. No thunder and lightning. No divine violence.
I soon found myself in an ocean of grave markers: tall, stately crosses, headstones of granite or marble, blocky crypts, saintly blank-eyed statues, and mausoleums the size of summer homes. Like I said: ironic.
I’d been to Sweet Deliverance only once before, but it had been a very long time ago. I thought I still remembered the way to the Waypoint, but even if I got mixed up, it wouldn’t take me long to spiral in on it. It would be the mausoleum that the Shades stayed farthest away from.
Anthriel did not suffer the presence of the enemy.
And make no mistake, Shades by the scores liked to hang out in graveyards. Knowing it was an unnecessary risk, I flexed my inner eyes and went to Netherview.
The somber gray sky turned to a roiling mixture of purple and black. Any measure of peacefulness that existed in Earthveil dissolved into spiritual chaos. Pale, luminous Shades stirred and careened around the ethereal, mist-shrouded atmosphere. Dozens of them perched on gravestones like carrion birds waiting for something to die.
Yes, the gravestones and other monuments were still there. No massive, turreted castles or fortresses existed here in this place. Just the graves and the stone structures that marked them. But they were no longer whitewashed. Now their surfaces were sickly yellow or marrow-toned, strewn with all manner of creeping green lichen.