Pirate's Moon

By Wyatt Harvey

An ill wind blows beneath the Pirate's Moon...

Bath, North Carolina. Historic. Quaint. Forgotten to time. Forgotten to crime...or so people believed. When murder moves to town and hangs up its black cloak to stay, the State Bureau of Investigation takes up residence, too.

When a mother is murdered and a young girl is taken, Agent

• Language: English
• Publisher: terebinth tree publications
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781646330287

Wyatt Harvey

Wyatt Harvey is a North Carolina native and is currently writing the sequels to Blood Rains. He and his wife are teen and young adult counselors and are constantly looking for new ways to open up young minds to the love and compassion of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Book preview

Pirate'S

MooN

Pirate'S

MooN

a Mick Priest novel

WYATT HARVEY

Pirate's Moon

Copyright © 2018 by Wyatt Harvey. All rights reserved.

______________________________________________________________

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or

transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy,

recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author, except as

provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is

purely coincidental and probably very entertaining, delightful and

stimulating. Enjoy.

_____________________________________________________________

Published by Terebinth Tree Publications

"A place of true inspiration."

Terebinth Tree is committed to publishing truly inspired, uplifting works of literature. It draws its name and fundamental belief from the Scriptures,

Genesis 18:1

"Then the LORD appeared to him by the terebinth trees of Mamre..."

It was near those trees that God appeared to Abraham and it was there

Abraham would be given great promise and inspiration.

Book Design Copyright © 2018 Interior, Layout, Cover by Wyatt Harvey

_____________________________________________________________

Published in the United States of America

I would like to thank first and foremost

my Lord and Savior

Jesus Christ

God of all things.

Magnificent and Wonderful and Glorious.

My sincere hope is that all

would come to the knowledge and awareness of His Love.

It is through Him and by Him that all Blessings flow.

My Best Friend, my Brother, my Father, my Inspiration,

I did not know life until I knew Him.

The New Testament Book, The Gospel of John

Chapter Three, Verses Sixteen through Twenty-one

(John 3:16 – 3:21)

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved. He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God. And this is the condemnation, that the light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For everyone practicing evil hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed. But he who does the truth comes to the light, that his deeds may be clearly seen, that they have been done in God.

For Tara

and for Tamara,

For Joleen

and for Sarah,

For Amara

and for Caria,

For...

My love.

Whatever name you wear

on the page

I love you and you are

always with me

inspiring me

even on paper.

Always

A special thanks to Taylor.

People underestimate

how fiercely

an adoptive father can love his

adoptive daughter.

We are joined neither by

blood nor by law

but by spirit

and that is all that

matters.

Prologue

Fog crept onto the shoreline like a living thing borne on the tide. The nocturne’s moon birthed an eerie light in it, the music of the night sky melting into an unearthly glow. It then grew, thinly masked behind the veils of spider silk clouds.

A strikingly attractive woman watched from high above the water’s calm. She posed against a balcony banister, oblivious to the orchestras of nature. Her mind wandered far away from fog and moonlight. A single ring glimmered from her right hand and she turned it about on her finger, clearly distracted.

You need a ring for that other hand, her admirer toyed.

He had often referred to her playfully as Snow White and it surprised her that he neglected to do so. He always said it was because of her thick, lavish hair, so blonde it was nearly as white as snow.

It meant little to him, obviously, that Snow White had been a brunette.

You bought the others, her voice gently lilted in a French accent. You should have maybe offered the big deal first, mon cher, no?

She twisted a finger into her necklace, her smile playful.

I like to live dangerously, he countered, his mouth pulled into a grin.

But I may say no to the one for that hand and then where will you be? she added in an airy whisper, her soft, pink lips plumped into a false pout.

Night shadows played on his features, giving him a depth of visage that made him look even more masculine. He leaned beside her, one arm over the railing of the massive, upper story deck. His dark eyes took a moment to review the night sky.

I’m confident. We’ve been seeing an awful lot of each other, he said.

Considerably taller, he looked back down at her with a suggestive sensuality.

She tossed back her mane and batted very long lashes.

There has to be more than seeing one another before anything is for certain.

Oh, much more. But, so far, you’ve refused, he said, his smile carnivorous.

She slapped him across his big shoulder in mock disgust.

Bad, bad man, she chimed. You know how I feel about that.

I know, I know. I’m only teasing you, he said and laughed deeply.

Well, it’s chilly out here, Dekker, she stated matter-of-factly. I’m going inside. Will you bring wood for us?

He watched the woman’s lithe body, wrapped tightly in white satin and Lycra, sashay away. She entered double glass doors that led back into the house.

The second story held a bathroom and all of the home’s bedrooms. It featured an amazing library and sitting area wrapped about a large fireplace where the stairs leading up from the ground floor landed.

Smugly, he imagined a victory of some kind; he had not gotten her into his bedroom but he had at least moved her up to the second story. He was so pleased with himself that he hummed while he stacked his arms with firewood.

When he spun for the doorway, arms full, the woman’s young daughter came onto the deck through those big, glass doors.

Her puffed, curly black hair poked every which way after being asleep. Tiny, seven year old hands were rubbing her big eyes, working to clear them. Her little arms goose bumped immediately, her only clothing a small, pink night shirt with no sleeves. The little girl yawned with the urge for more slumber.

Leo had a bad dream again, she mumbled sweetly.

In her arms she cradled a stuffed lion, plush and bright white.

Chelsea? the man half exclaimed in surprise. Girl, I thought you were asleep.

Where’s mommy? she asked.

She’s inside, Chelsea, where you should be, he said and sighed. Here it is midnight...

The young mother waited in the powder room even after a long dressing of her hair, though it did not need it. She was in love, or so her eyes said in the glass of the mirror, but she wanted to ignore it. The urge for another good night kiss from her little girl beckoned. It would be an opportunity to regroup and a chance to clear her mind of things.

Things like temptation.

Suddenly, the night air erupted with a shrill cry for help.

The young mother jolted as Chelsea screamed for all she was worth. The sound was born out on the deck but it ripped through the house and lanced the stillness. The very air dripped with the bloodcurdling cry.

Snow White bolted down the hall. She lost her heels in flight, never slowing. Her lithe body was so fast that it seemed to soar above the floor, never touching its surface. Inside she screamed but her throat released no sound. Instead, the woman’s voice raged only inside herself, drowned by her own silence. Her limbs felt drugged, thick and heavy, while in reality she plunged ahead with wild abandon.

The glass doors to the deck exploded from the hinges as the mother’s impact shattered them. She toppled into a mess of wood scattered here and there on the deck, white Lycra and pale flesh careening out of control.

She did not even notice the blood, neither hers nor the blood around the discarded wood. She looked up immediately from the deck, eyes desperately seeking her child.

What she saw chilled her to the marrow of her bones and stole her breath. It left her mouth cursed to open and close silently, her mind frozen with utter disbelief and terror.

Horror from a thousand nightmares came to life while her mind swirled in an attempt to hold on to reality. Her little girl, unconscious, floated in the grasp of a form both manlike and ethereal. A figure of pure shadow, the color and substance of the nightshade and river fog themselves, wore no face, no discernible features of any kind. The presence denied any definition. It was there but not there...and it had her child.

Then the shadow’s free arm slowly floated upward like the mist it seemed to be.

The woman found the voice to cry out for the man she loved and that is when she realized she had not seen him on the deck. It dawned upon her struggling mind, finally, that her would-be lover lay face down on the decking, half hidden in shadow, half buried in firewood. Blood spatter painted his back. He could neither help her nor Chelsea.

The woman snapped back to herself then, knowing she was all that stood between her little girl and the monster in the mist. She no longer considered the horror, the fear. She never pondered her own fate. All that was forged in the fires of her urgency was protecting her little one. Something inside her gave way. She screamed for Chelsea and raged to her feet.

The apparition laughed ominously. The inhuman voice rang with cold malice.

The mother began to pray and cry together as she charged the monster. Her French was cold, crisp and laced with whimpers on the night wind. She could see her breath in the chill and watched what would be her last words hang in a cold cloud.

Oh Cher Père dans le ciel, Sauveur, Seigneur Jésus, se il vous plaît protéger ma fille…Peu importe ce qui me arrive, la sauver, se il vous plaît…

A twitch of the shadow and blood ran free, the world of a young mother turning crimson.

#

I snatched myself upright in the bed with a shout, splitting the silence. The soft covers fell down to my waist, baring my upper body, the silken materials just a bundle of castaways in the voyage of the night. I held my cross fiercely in my hand.

Tears lined my eyes as I struggled to see in the darkness of my room. I tasted the coppery flavor of the woman’s fear. Cold sweat ran down my body, rolling over the muscles and the scars. The fire of terror was easily quenched, even in the cool of night.

Some unknown thing, somewhere, stealing a child? The murder of two people I did not know? I had experienced their feelings, their thoughts and their last moments.

But was it real...or just a nightmare? Would a call come?

I studied the telephone that stood charging on its base. Silence. Then I looked at the clock beside it. Midnight.

Would a call come to tell me what it meant? I often dreamed and saw visions, gifts given me by God that revealed the unknown. Sometimes the dead themselves were allowed to speak to me.

Long moments passed. Finally, I started to relax again.

Abruptly, a rapping sounded on the door to my bedroom.

You okay, Mick? a soft, feminine voice called.

I’m alright, I answered, opening the bedroom door in my jogging pants.

Anna Bradbury-Wells wobbled into my room.

Mick, you were shouting in your sleep.

Sorry, Anna. Nightmare. It was a rough one.

She leaned against the doorjamb and yawned. Okay, I just wanted to wake you, you know, make sure you were okay. I hate it when nightmares ruin my sleep. And since I’m dreaming for two… she trailed, holding her stomach.

Anna, you look exhausted. Get back to bed.

She giggled despite herself and asked, You wanna carry my baby for a while?

That’s a categorical and energetic ‘no’, my dear, I sighed.

This kid’s gonna be late, I can tell ya. Just like her daddy, she said, hand in the small of her back. Her other hand briefly rubbed her large midsection.

I grinned at her penguin march as Anna waddled closer and hugged me. I kissed her on the top of her head then insisted she go back to sleep. She declared I would still have her present for the next few days. She was not going home to rest up for her husband’s return. She was planning to continue taking care of me while her husband was away.

I watched her leave again then, waddling back down the hallway, yawning.

My surrogate mother, daughter, and sibling, thirteen years my junior, Anna had begun doing that long before she was pregnant. The young woman had come to live with me and my wife, part-time, when she was about thirteen years old. She had troubles in her home life and we had counseled with her as church youth counselors. We had half adopted her. She had half adopted us.

Sometimes, she almost seemed to think herself the parent.

Either way, I looked on her aging with a bittersweet pang in my heart. She had grown up right in front of me, gone to college, worked jobs. She had taken care of our horses and stables for years. She was family, plain and simple, whatever adoptive position she held.

In the past year she had gotten married and stood ready to have a baby.

I was proud of her and missing her already.

A half hour passed. My nerves calmed, my body relaxed. I chanced lying down again.

The nightmare of a child being taken, however, and the rage…they remained. I heard the woman’s last words in what sounded like French to me.

Oh Cher Père dans le ciel, Sauveur, Seigneur Jésus, se il vous plaît protéger ma fille…Peu importe ce qui me arrive, la sauver, se il vous plaît…

Could it just be a dream? How could it? I asked myself. I don't speak French.

The nightmare haunted me but I knew the haunted feeling already. I rolled my head to look the vacant pillow beside me.

My wife, my beloved Tamara, had died over two years passed. I felt colder at the thought of her absence and shivered down into my covers. I prayed then for the mystery enveloping the dream and for understanding.

A long while later, sleep found me hiding in soft covers and poignant memories. When sleep did come, however, I slept soundly, the mother’s voice little more than a whisper on the winds outside my window.

ONE: The Poor In Spirit

They said snow and we just get more fog, she said.

A deputy sheriff stood not three feet from her, a grimace on his face.

Been a warm, wet winter, the young man said. At least it ain’t rain.

The woman rolled her eyes. She pulled the collar up on her blazer and pushed back her black hair. Water from the ambient moisture in the air dripped into her shirt and ran down her back. She shuddered.

Close to them stood another woman, a lovely Hispanic lady with blonde-streaked hair pulled up in a bun. She wore a leather bomber jacket zipped to her neck and dark jeans, her badge on her belt.

Want me to run a check on the area? she asked the first woman.

Perimeter is set one mile, each direction, the deputy answered instead. Sheriff Allan gave the order when the call came in. They’re stoppin’ cars, checkin’ pedestrian traffic, the whole package.

The woman with the glasses gave him a nod, adding, Good. Won’t help. But good.

She wore a matching skirt suit and high heels, all in navy blue. Her hosiery was immaculate, just like her fingernails.

The Hispanic woman pointed at the house in front of them. Two deputies were parked there alongside one Crime Scene Unit SUV, all with their lights going.

We got another couple? she asked.

Gwen Askew looked back to her partner with a half nod.

Looks like it. Gordon’s county boys took the call, like usual, but they called us immediately. Home owner is a summer visitor type, only it ain’t summer. Go figure on that one. I haven’t been inside yet; we’re still waiting for CSU to give us the green light. But I think we’ll find what we have so far with the others, the suited woman said as she adjusted her sleek glasses.

From an upstairs balcony on the front of the home, a CSU officer leaned over the rail and hailed the two women from the State Bureau of Investigation.

Special Agent Askew, Special Agent Melindez, the woman called. We have a new problem…

They looked up at an aging, straw haired woman, her face half concealed in shadow. A black windbreaker with white CSU lettering was clear enough for recognition.

What is it, Parker? the suited agent answered.

The CSU investigator held a stuffed lion out into the night sky. Blood dripped from it.

I think there was a little kid here.

No, Agent Sarah Melindez gasped as if she had been struck.

You think? Agent Gwen Askew snapped. What do you mean ‘think’?

The CSU grimaced, saying, The couple here is missing…like the last. We’ve taped off where their bloody silhouettes are on the floor but there’s no sign of a child being hurt one way or another. From the scene, Melotti and I feel the child was taken.

The Hispanic woman hissed through clenched teeth. After an angry blur of Spanish, she muttered, Ain’t it bad enough we’re losing couples? Now-

Gwenneth Askew dropped her head and interrupted with, I’ll call the Director.

The case loomed like a tsunami in their minds, threatening to overwhelm them at any moment. Couples were being murdered...as far as they could tell, anyway. Law enforcement found the scenes where it was clear there had been murderous violence but no bodies were present. Enough blood was left behind each time, however, to leave no doubt that the victims were dead...wherever they were.

You gotta plan, Agent? Any ideas at all? the deputy asked. I mean, ya’ll are the State Bureau of Investigation. Unless we pull in the Feds, ya’ll are the big guns.

No plan. Not yet. Not unless this madman left a clue this time. But, if it’s like the others… Sarah Melindez mumbled. Then she asked, Who called it in this time?

Our same local that claimed to have seen a pirate ship the night of the first murder, Deputy Josh Brent said sarcastically. Fishin’ from the bridge again. Says he saw ‘weird shadows’ on the house’s balcony. Says he left the bridge and went to make the call.

He’s eighty plus years old, right? Jackson Cole? she clarified.

Yep. Eighty-one. Don’t get me wrong. No way he did this, not at his age, and I’m not saying he did. He must’ve really seen something, too. I can’t imagine him prankin’ us. It’s just too bad we can’t get him to remember what he’s seeing, more than shadows and pirates, the young man said.

He’s old and eccentric. I doubt he can clear any of it up in his own mind, much less for the rest of us, Sarah Melindez said then added something softly in Spanish.

Too bad for us the old man is all we got. It ain’t like you can interview dead people.

She had a far off look in her eyes, the fiery, brown orbs shining. Her plush lips parted with no words. Then she snapped her gaze back to him.

What did you say? she demanded with a flare in her eyes.

He looked around then looked back to her.

I said, unless you can interview the dead, that old man is your only option.

She abruptly began mumbling in Spanish, her slender hands fumbling in her pockets.

What? the deputy asked.

She pulled her telephone free and punched a couple of keys. She whispered a name.

What is it? he asked her again.

She stared at him deeply, almost through him, then said, I need to make a phone call.

#

Priest, I mumbled into my phone, only one eye open.

The sounds of splashing water and gusting wind chilled me. A soft voice rode that wind.

Ma Fille… the French lilt whined.

Who is this? I asked, though I knew the answer well enough.

An airy moan lamented great loss. The sound raked icy nails through my bones.

Then a different voice spoke to me. It was slow and smooth, like a soft hand running over velvet. The new voice did not come with the cold of the dead.

Mick, it’s Sarah. You don’t recognize my voice?

My throat tightened. My heart raced. Sarah Melindez.

No. Wait, what? Yeah, I do…I mean, I couldn’t hear you, I muttered.

She cleared her throat.

I mean, how are you, Sarah? I stumbled.

Not so good, she admitted. I got a case that’s goin’ nowhere.

I nodded, invisible to her. The call had come. It was a few hours behind but there it was.

Still traipsing around the crawlspaces of my mind, the dream from the previous night returned in vivid detail. It wandered through my thoughts, knocking at the doors of comprehension. With the mystery back in the forefront, the answers were calling.

Mick? Melindez pressed softly.

I’m still here, I said. What’s happening?

We’ve got a situation in Bath we’d like to have you look into.

We? I asked.

We. The SBI, she clarified.

In Bath?

Afraid so. I know the place is right out of the 1800s and nothing happens here but-

What’s the population? Three hundred people, maybe? And about four real streets?

It’s murder, Mick.

I took a deep breath and asked, Tonight?

Just the latest victims. And, technically, this is early morning, so last night. Of course, the way you keep in touch, anybody can tell you have no concept of time.

Sarah, I know it’s been a little while since we talked-

Six months, Mick, she interrupted. She was hurt. I could hear it.

I’m sorry, Sarah. I am. I was going to call you again but things have been so busy-

I know, she sighed. I’m pretty busy, too. We all are. It’s hard making time, even when it matters. Let me tell you, though, this matters.

You matter, too, Sarah.

Right now, only the case matters. We need your help.

Tell me, I said, though I already knew.

She fell quiet. The silence strangled us, danced between us as if alive. I felt almost afraid she would just hang up if I did not say something quickly.

Sarah?

Somebody’s killing people down here, Priest...and now they took a little girl.

I braced a hand against the wall. Horror rose in my chest, smothering me.

Someone’s killing couples. We have no idea why. We find a scene, spots where it looks like a couple has been killed, she confessed, her voice wavering. "No bodies, just more blood than can be imagined and silhouettes of the couples we think are dead, couples that must be dead with that much blood loss.

Tonight, though, it was a couple with a kid. The kid, at least, is only missing, no silhouette, no blood…as far as we can tell.

A young mother screamed in my head. A man lay bleeding, dying, and a part of the night itself grabbed up a child. The mother softly prayed before her blood reddened my senses. Her child was taken, stolen, by the night itself. The terror was palpable, choking me. Her child, her horror and her anguish became mine in an instant.

I saw a flash of a stuffed lion lying in a pool of blood.

I’ll leave now, be on my way in thirty-

I have to put something in motion, Mick. Wait until morning. You know, the daylight kind of morning. I’ll be at the waterfront in Bath, at Bonner Point. See you then.

See you soon.

I put the phone back on the base and looked at the time again. It was after three in the morning. I pulled up my covers, closed my eyes and pretended to go back to sleep. There would be no sleep, however.

#

Monday morning in Durham came hard and fast. Sleep deprived and anxious, I did what I did each morning. I prayed. I prayed fervently. I also prayed about the dream.

Then I gathered a few things, dressed and headed downstairs.

Anna was already up and about her cleaning. She came to me immediately.

You’ve got a case, she said. Something about the dream, isn’t it?

Yes. God showed me something. Then a call came later.

She smiled. He takes care of us. You have to trust. He has a plan.

Amen, Anna. Amen.

We were talking about my favorite person, Jesus Christ. God. My Savior and best friend.

I had learned in my twenties to have a relationship with Jesus more than a religion, and peace had finally come to me. That was something so wonderful that I had to share it and sharing had opened my paths into youth counseling. In turn, that had brought a very young Anna Bradbury into my life.

I’ve got to go pretty quickly, I said, checking my pockets for keys. It’s serious.

She hooked one arm in her soft, down-filled jacket as she dressed to go, too.

Help.

I tugged the coat onto her imbalanced frame.

Anna was going home but not for long. She would be back. I wondered sometimes if Anna would ever truly leave. She worried for me. She had invited herself into taking care of my house as much as the stables, staying for hours each day.

Mick, I’ll be back to tend the stables and house. Stay gone as long as you need.

I followed the rounding Anna to the door. She paused by a table and rested against it.

The table stood alone outside my dining room as a sentry in a big, empty hallway. A pale, greenish-gray color shaded the walls behind a white, intricate lace tapestry that covered its entirety. Over the fabric were framed pictures and posters of my past with Tamara. They gave me respite from an ever-changing world, a hallway into a time gone by.

So, go get off your feet already, okay? I said.

She smiled and asked me, Still protecting me? You know how old I am now, Priest?

Please. It makes me all the older. Just because you went off and got married and got...got... I stuttered, gesturing at her swollen womb. I cleared my throat. You know. Anyway, doesn’t mean my work is done. I’m just getting started watching over you.

Anna flipped her short hair back away from her face. She had chopped off all the flowing curls. Someplace along the way, being pregnant became hectic. Somewhere on the road of life, Anna had grown up and started being practical.

She popped up on her tip toes and kissed my cheek then pressed on for the door, her strength regained, her body stable.

I propped against the wall and let the anxieties drain from me. I stared at the eight by ten picture of my dear Tamara, my wife, where it hung over the telephone and table. The picture was a black and white shot of her speaking on that hall phone, waving me away from her as she tried to concentrate. She was laughing, giggling in the photograph.

I stared at the deep eyes and my own eyes filled with tears.

I gotta go, I whispered. I touched the cold, flat glass of the picture frame and sighed.

Near my front door, I caught up with Anna as she pulled her purse from my coat rack.

Anna, pray with me.

Anna and I prayed for the little girl, for the couple, for the law enforcement. We called out to God, to Jesus Christ, to have mercy on all of us and to use me to help find justice. And we believed He would.

Anna faced me squarely. The young lady put her hands on my face, one on each side.

Mick, you have to catch up with time. It’s leaving you behind.

I took her hands down and held them in my own.

I love you, Anna, but not this, not now. I can’t do this again right now.

You have to stop lingering in the past, in that hallway, she pointed. That place you sealed away from age, from time. It isn’t normal, Mick. I love you but you have to catch up with the rest of us. You need-

Anna, I interrupted. I have to get going.

Well, Tessa wanted to see you today. She was really hoping I would hold you here until she got here. I mean, she’s all but handed me a note to give you that says, ‘I like you, do you like me? Check yes or no’. She’s interested in the mysterious Mick Priest.

A horse vet who’s ten years younger than me? If she’s interested in me it’s probably a passing crush on the ‘older man’ who-

Mick, only I know you to be the big softie you are. Come on, you’re six foot and some change, rock solid, you do dangerous work, you have the shaved head and goatee, edgy look, that deep voice…the last thing that cute vet is thinkin’ of is your age!

Anna, I sighed.

You think Tamara would want you alone the rest of your life? I can’t imagine you believe that. And I can’t imagine Tamara wanting that. I know you have to go but, when you get back, you need to give Tessa-

Time to be going.

She tossed her hands about us, fully intent on continuing, but I turned her for the door.

I’ll be back tomorrow, she mumbled, turning back to hug me.

I held onto her, hesitant to let her go. Time was leaving me behind, just as she said.

Okay, get going, Anna, I said reluctantly and released her.

Oh, here. You need to walk to the mailbox once in a while.

She handed me a bundle of mail on her way out.

When she was gone, I leafed through the envelopes.

The bills were piling up on me, overtaking me. Tamara and I had made a great team. With her lucrative income as a computer programmer, software developer, and I.T. specialist, coupled with my freelance writing and investigations, we had carved out a great life, with God’s blessing.

The truth was that Tamara had been the powerhouse with the money, by and large the significant source of income, and even she could not have done it alone. It took both of us and certainly took more than me. So, over two years after her passing, my income was not making it happen. The dream, like Tamara, felt like sand slipping through my fingers and the tighter I clutched at it the more I seemed to lose.

I wondered how much longer Marty, my regular attorney and good friend from church, could wield the torch and hold the wolves off me.

Enough, I told myself. A child’s life is hanging someplace in the balance. Move.

Two: They That Mourn

She felt small in the dark place. Her fingers searched desperately for anything in the expanse. Her heart raced with wild abandon. The fear, the anxiety clutched at her so tightly that she thought she would choke.

The black flowed thick, as if alive; it seemed tangible. She could feel it, touch it and imagined it doing the same to her. The urge to start crying again squeezed the breath from her. No one came even when she did cry. The little girl wanted to call out for her mother, too, but her throat was sore already. Alone, in the dark, unable to see anything at all, she could find only the walls when she bumped into them.

The tears ran unasked and the sobbing wracked her. Little fingers followed the mortar lines and she imagined the red and brown of the bricks under her hands. It calmed her. She knew brick. She did not know the dark.

Meticulously, she probed the lines from one angle to another, counting bricks. Her young mind counted to focus on something other than the dark and the way the shadow man had just appeared in the night and taken her. Her fragile psyche wanted to forget it. Her mind desperately sought to deny the fact that the shadow man could be right there with her in the darkness…without her even knowing he was there…

The little girl screamed.

#

Time rushed by me so quickly that I barely had time to ponder the case.

A little more than two fleeting hours into the ride, I slowed outside the village of Bath. At a tiny, wooden country store, my ice white, Suzuki Boulevard cruised into a gravel lot. I stopped at the first of the only two gas pumps there.

There were five vehicles at the small location. Most were big hunting trucks with ‘dog boxes’ in the beds. The sun glinted from the stainless steel, mobile canine prisons.

I noted the porch of the brown, paint-flaking structure and the window’s open sign. I stepped off the steel horse, arched my back and it popped. Twisting my shoulders to pop them as well, the joints gave way with sharp relief.

Fool to be ridin’ that thing, an old man barked. Make ya old before your time!

He sat on one of the benches that lined the covered porch. Several other aging retirees, all gathered to gossip on the benches, exploded with laughter. The four picnic tables in the surrounding lot held quite a gaggle of hecklers, too.

I took off my Serengeti sunglasses and smiled.

Probably already has, I offered with a wave, making my approach.

The silver haired man adjusted the orange hunting hat and guffawed with the crowd.

Beyond them, a large poster plastered the inside of the glass doorway. It was a busy, colorful design. With fast boats, lots of people and plenty of waterway pictures, all in a collage of sorts, the spectacle advertised an ongoing event.

‘Treazure Dayz’, it announced, was going on for Christmas. Sponsored by the local Historical Society, it presented catered, staffed treasure hunts with waterway guides and rally events hosted by none other than the Mayor, Maxwell Pike. It was the third annual of its kind, too.

‘Come follow in the paths of North Carolina’s most famous pirates! Come search for long lost treasure!’ It beckoned to tourism with all the subtlety of a squealing pig. ‘Going on for the whole Christmas Season! What better Christmas present than a treasure hold full of gold?’

What tackier way to abuse one of the holiest times of the year? I thought and swept the door back, the advertisement with it.

Inside, an elderly woman grinned behind a long, narrow counter.

Get’cha somethin’? she quipped, the smile never waning.

I just need gas for that bike out by the pump, I said.

The rather short, bespectacled lady giggled. She pushed brown hair, recently dyed and still smelling of the beauty salon, back from her face.

That thing out there good on gas?

Good as it gets, I laughed and