The Keeper: Part III
Colin Morgan stood at the water’s edge, watching the muddy flow of the Mississippi River as the sun rose in the east. The channel meandered in a U-shape at this spot, and on the opposite bank, the floodplain was covered by a thick belt of forest that obscured the farmland beyond. Those fields would be fallow by now, their crops of cotton and soybeans harvested with the waning of autumn. Six weeks ago, he had been a third-year law student in Nashville, and though he hardly seemed destined for a promising legal career – he had been on the verge of flunking out when his life had taken an unexpected turn – the slow-motion failure of his old life seemed almost bucolic in hindsight, the American Dream reflected through a broken mirror. Now, his belly rumbled (he had not eaten for twenty-four hours), and breakfast would be a dismal affair at a roadside café whose selection consisted primarily of starch and grease. The motel was equally bad, thirty dollars a week in cash and a half-step ahead of homelessness. Now, he spent every waking moment in a state of barely suppressed terror, waiting for the thing that slept in the empty warehouse to murder him with each setting sun. You had everything, his mind whispered. And then you fucked it all up.
A heavy truck rumbled past, carrying its load to the railroad depot, and when it passed, he became frozen with fear. A police car was parked across the street, and its occupant watched him intently. Colin thought briefly of running, and if he ran fast enough, perhaps he could make it all the way to New Orleans, or back to Nashville, back to his old life, but he knew even before the door of the police cruiser opened, that it was hopeless. Be careful what you choose, someone had told him in the early days of his addiction, because you’ll wake up one morning and find that you have no choice. It was still sleeping in the warehouse, waiting for sunset, and when it awakened, Colin would never run fast enough or far enough to outdistance his pursuer. The cop, a stocky kid with shaved head and tattooed forearms, crossed the street in long strides, and Colin deflated as he sat down, waiting to be arrested.
They spent two days in Lexington, and though Stephanie White was nowhere to be seen, a sick feeling of disquiet wormed through Park’s belly. Clarissa Downey, eighteen, had been a high school dropout and a runaway from Arkansas, a lost girl who had meandered along the interstate, perhaps making her way toward Nashville. She had been picked up twice by the police, once in Memphis and again in Lexington, and her disappearance had been reported by her boyfriend, a pimply kid who looked barely old enough to shave. Perhaps she just moved on, Liz thought. The only clue to her whereabouts was a grainy image on a gas station security camera, of a thin girl walking past with a stranger. She had argued about it with Eckhart.
“It’s him. He’s thinner and dirtier now, but the face is the same.” Park was certain, but her partner remained unconvinced.
“You’re grasping at straws. Colin Morgan is a law student, a rich kid. There’s no way the guy in the picture is him.”
She lingered at the threshold of belief, half-convinced by the string of assaults, by the girl whose countenance changed with frightening suddenness, by the door of a police cruiser torn from its hinges, and if the last step forward took her over the precipice, at least she had come prepared – last week, she had gone to the priest and received the Sacrament of Penance, her confession rolling from her tongue in fluent Korean. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” She had sworn to uphold the law, and the breaking of an oath, even in contemplation, was a serious transgression. What, the priest had asked, was the occasion for her sin? When she told him the truth, they sat in silence for a long time.
“In Pyongyang, they punish the citizens for the slightest offense, and disobedience to the laws of the state is no sin. Here, the laws are not immoral or unjust, and if you cannot arrest this man, I would advise you to leave him alone. God will deal with him in his own time.”
Park had nodded slowly, half-afraid to speak. What, she had asked, about the other?
“I find it difficult to believe that such a thing exists, but if I am wrong, then act with your best judgement, and take care that your actions produce no evils greater than the one that you fight.”
Fair enough, she thought, gritting her teeth. Colin Morgan had unleashed something dark and terrible, and it hardly mattered that they could charge him with nothing – Lexington was a dry hole, and with the disappearance of her final lead, there was nothing more to be done. The marshals would eventually run down Stephanie White, and she would return to her regular caseload, her regular life. Coming here had been a long shot –
The phone on her hip rang.
He blanched a little as he read the sign over the door (Office of Public Safety – New Madrid, Missouri), but they fed him and left him alone in the interrogation room, and Colin laid his head on the desk and fell asleep.
“Wake up, mister Morgan.”
The tattooed patrolman closed the interrogation room door, and a large man took a seat at the far side of the table. Detective Earl Nolan offered a hand, and Colin glimpsed the ring – University of Arkansas, Class of 2012 – as thick fingers encircled his palm. He squirmed a little in the heat of the interrogation room, but if the sweltering air bothered his counterpart, Nolan gave no sign – not a trace of sweat gleamed on the dark skin of his shaven head. The detective’s suit jacket, its dark fabric offset by a white shirt and blood-red tie, was unbuttoned to the waist. He smiled, and Colin relaxed a little.
“How are you doing – did they give you something to eat?” Colin nodded. The burger and fries were not especially good, but he had devoured every bite with relish.
“Anything else you want before we get started? A bottle of water, maybe? You need to use the restroom?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
In truth, what he needed at the moment was the vial that rested by his bedside table. It was never far from his side, and Colin felt a little sick at the prospect of someone entering his room, finding the bottle, cataloging it into evidence, but it was just as well – if the vial had been on his person, they would have taken it when they arrested him, and though he doubted that its contents would reveal anything of significance, it was one more avenue for unwanted questions. They need a warrant to search your room, and as long as you don’t give them anything, they can’t touch you.
The sedan roared into the parking lot at half-past one, and Park eased off the gas. It was an unmarked car with no emergency lights, and technically, she was required to obey all traffic laws, but they had covered the distance in record time. I’m going to find the son of a bitch. If they were pulled over en route, she would ask for forgiveness later.
“You sure about this?” They had discussed everything on the drive, and though Eckhart remained skeptical, he had cautiously agreed to her plan. If they were caught, if she was wrong – hell, if she was right – it meant the end for both of their careers.
“Just keep him talking,” she said grimly.
“You really want to stick with that story?” Earl Nolan’s voice remained quiet, but the detective was no longer smiling. “We fished two bodies out of the river last week, and a witness placed you at the scene. Gave us your name and everything.”
“I already told you,” Colin said, his voice tinged with weariness. “I don’t know anyone in town. How could she know my name?”
“So you think it was a woman who called us?”
“I don’t know,” Colin shrugged. “I don’t really know why I said that. Are we done yet?”
“Not quite.” Nolan’s voice became low, deadly. “I got a couple of detectives from Nashville who want to talk to you.”
Park circled the block and drove toward the river, passing rows of cotton gins and grain silos. She was looking for an old place, somewhere away from the daylight, where a casual observer would be unlikely to check, but the town was built on a floodplain, and she thought it unlikely that the low brick buildings or surrounding farmhouses would have a space below ground. Then where does that leave me? A levee followed the river channel, and as her eyes wandered over the landscape, Park spotted a solitary figure stood atop the earthen mound. She jammed on the brakes as she threw open the car door. The figure, perhaps seeing her movements, vanished down the far side, and Park ran, one hand moving to the pistol at her waist. The narrow strip between the levee and the water’s edge was overgrown by a thick belt of forest, and the trees along the water’s edge leaned precariously, their roots undermined by the river’s encroachment. Among the tangle of branches, she spotted a glint of metal, the tin roof of a warehouse, long-abandoned as the Mississippi slowly reclaimed its own. That has to be the place.
From behind, someone gave her a hard shove, knocking her to the earth.
She caught herself with one arm, rolling as she fell to protect her wrist. The pistol was on her right hip, trapped between her body and the soft earth, and if she did not move quickly – Park had seen the aftermath of each incident in Nashville – she would die in the assault. She acquired her target as she freed the pistol from her holster, and Park took aim, her weapon gripped in both hands as she aligned the sights. Stephanie White stood mere feet away, staring at her with wide, frightened eyes.
“That place.” She pointed with one thin arm. “I can’t go in there.”
“Anything that you can do to help us, we would be grateful.” Eckhart spoke softly, his questions circling with the lazy interest of a cruising shark. “Has she tried to contact you?”
“No.” His suspect relaxed a little, perhaps grateful that the afternoon’s questions had been so easy. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Then I must have heard wrong, because we spoke to several people, and they said you were acquainted.” Eckhart waved one hand dismissively. “Mistakes like this happen all the time. Maybe you could help me to clear up a few other things…”
The warehouse was a ruin, its walls collapsing and the roof open to the sunlight, but a small shed at the end was mostly intact. A new padlock secured the door, but the hinges were fixed to rotten wood, and three sharp kicks convinced the door to give way. A rush of foul air met her, and Park staggered away, nauseous, before unclipping the flashlight from her belt. She peered into the darkness. A rectangular crate, perhaps seven feet long, rested atop the cool earth, and its wooden slats, new and solid, were out of place with the rotten planks of the shed. There was a crowbar in the trunk of the car, and if she could pry loose a couple of the boards –
“Elizabeth.” A wave of blackness hit her, and Liz Park’s mind was filled with the beating of dark wings, whispered secrets of dreadful things, dreams of fire and blood. She knew in that moment that she would never be able to look upon the thing that rested in the cool darkness. “Elizabeth… Come to me.” She gritted her teeth, desperate to shut away the whispered command. A notion slowly overcame her that it would all be so simple, so right, to find Colin Morgan and put two bullets into his head – then she could be the keeper. “From the dawn of time, man has been stalked by the spectre of death.” The words came to her unbidden, darkly enticing, and filled her with fear. “A select few have cheated the reaper and gained eternal life through service and obedience.” The thing in the crate was offering her a deal, its own life in exchange for her damnation. She backed away from the shed with difficulty.
Stephanie White was waiting atop the levee as she returned to her car, and Park retrieved what she needed from the trunk. Maybe it would be enough to cure the girl, she thought with a tinge of hope. When it was done, she returned quickly to her car, eyes resolutely forward as the spectacle unfolded behind her. Stephanie was gone again, just as Park had hoped – she needed no witnesses to her crime.
“Just one more thing,” Eckhart said. “You’re sure that you never met her.”
“Positive,” Colin replied. He looked toward the door as a siren passed on the street outside.
“Then perhaps you can explain this.” He slid a series of photographs across the table. “These were taken six weeks ago at a party – there, you can see Stephanie White, this one is an old man that we’ve been unable to identify, and who is this? You haven’t showered or cut your hair in a few weeks, but if I didn’t know better, Colin, I’d swear that was you.”
“No.” Colin shook his head, but his confidence wavered. “That’s definitely not me.”
“Oh, I think it is you.” The noise from the sirens grew louder, but Eckhart kept his own eyes squarely fixed on Colin’s face. “This one is my favorite – see that? You’re standing right next to poor Stephanie, and she’s looking away from you – I’d say she was afraid you would catch her looking in your direction – just before you poured that stuff into her drink. The aftermath of that little stunt was pretty memorable, Colin, but I think you knew that already. So, the only question left is what did you give her?”
“I think we’re done.” He cast a nervous eye toward the door and cocked his head, perhaps listening to the sirens. “I think I need a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?” The gentle smile on Eckhart’s face never wavered. “Well in that case, I guess I have nothing more to ask.”
Eckhart tapped on the door of the interrogation room and was led into the hall, where Earl Nolan waited. His host’s face was impassive, but he cast a quick glance toward the exit, a man in a hurry.
“You get anything useful?” he asked, and Eckhart shook his head.
“Afraid not. It was a long shot from the beginning, with only surveillance and no toxicology on the girl. How long can you hold him?”
“Twenty-four hours, but unless he gives us something we can use, we’ll cut him loose at midnight – free up space for when the drunk drivers start rolling in. You good with that?”
“I guess I’ll have to be.” He pulled a battered pack from the inner pocket of his blazer and placed a cigarette between his fingers. “I’m gonna step outside for a smoke before my ride shows up.”
Nolan watched as the older man shuffled to the exit, cigarette in hand. Damned strange to split up like that, he thought. Eckhart’s partner was twenty miles away in Sikeston, following another lead on their missing fugitive, and though Nolan thought their tactics unsound – one man working alone was easy prey without backup – the big city cops had their own way of doing things. Damned strange, he thought again as the radio crackled to life. Nolan spoke into the microphone and breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the response on the other end – the initial reports had been wrong, and there were no casualties. It was, in all likelihood, the work of a couple of kids with more time than sense.
“Well?” The car was already moving as he slid into the passenger’s seat. “Find anything?”
“Just an old box.” Park’s voice was carefully modulated, but she gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. “I couldn’t bring myself to look inside.”
“Then how do you know?”
Because our fugitive was here, she thought. She slipped up on me like a damned ghost, and I could have taken her out when she knocked me down. Instead, I let her get away, and God only knows what she’ll do when the sun goes down. Liz Park inhaled deeply, saying nothing – perhaps when they were back in Nashville, when the memory of the frightened girl and the noxious odor of the box had faded from her mind, she could tell the truth. For now, she had no answers.
“I just know,” she said.
He grew restless as the evening wore on, and though they fed him again – a second meal in the space of one day felt positively luxurious – Colin paced the narrow confines of his cell, anxious to be away. Every few moments, his thoughts returned to the vial on his bedside table.
“Morgan.” A deputy banged on the door of his cell. “Collect your things.”
He made his way quickly through the empty streets, seeing no one as he crossed the railroad track and passed the hulking shadows of the grain bins. They had returned his room key, and once he was safely back at the motel, a few drops from the vial would allow him to think, to plan. Colin’s mouth watered a little at the thought of that taste, bitter and slightly rancid, settling comfortably upon his tongue. They would need to leave in the morning, to go somewhere far away where there were no police, no memories…
He stopped dead in his tracks. The door to his room was standing open.
Colin rushed through the open door. The vial was where he had left it, but even before he pried off the stopper, he knew that something was wrong – the liquid inside had congealed, leaving only a sticky residue. He sniffed at the mouth of the bottle and caught a whiff of smoke. Water, he thought, rushing for the bathroom sink. He fumbled with the tap, and as he bent over the sink, Colin missed the shadow, reflected in the bathroom mirror, that slipped into the room.
“Hello, Colin.”
Stephanie White stood in the doorway, and as Colin flinched at the sound of her voice, the vial slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound emanated from his lips.
“There was a fire today, down by the river.” Her right hand held a long blade, the same knife he had used on the girl in Lexington. “Someone took a gas can and burned an old warehouse to the ground. The firefighters were sure they heard screams coming from inside, but when they put out the fire, they found nothing at all – no body, no bones… only ash. What do you think that means?”
His shoulders slumped as the truth sank in. If the box was gone, if He was gone, then further discussion was pointless. She came closer, and the blade gleamed in the moonlight as he finally found his voice.
“I think it means that my life is over.”
Ok that’s a twist I was not expecting! Can’t wait for the next chapter!