Prodigies of the Valley

By Joel Vincent

A young heiress and a family of mystery and intrigue. 

 

Jefferson Cain is a man who's definitely not on a mission.  He's been assigned to a mundane job in rural Virginia.  All he wants to do is get in, get it over with and get out.  He has no plans or desires to get involved in the issues associated with a long-standing family feud.  He needs only to have their cooperation so he can get his assignment over and done with.

 

However, things don't always go as simply as planned, particularly for a man teamed up with an unlikely band of like-minded and similarly curious cohorts.

 

A mysterious plea for help and a cryptic message is the key to the mystery which reveals more than everyone bargained for.  Jefferson Cain and his team must face choices much bigger than their mundane expectations, choices which touch the lives of everyone involved and beyond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wasteland Press
• Release date: Jun 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781681114149

Joel Vincent

Joel Vincent hails from Washington DC and Northern Virginia, originally. He currently lives and writes in Honolulu, Hawaii.

Book preview

ONE

They made my arrival in town as pleasant as they could. Two professionally dressed individuals at the exit gate were holding a sign with my name on it. I saw them because they were in front of everyone else, all very efficient, like a well-oiled machine. They relieved me of the weight of my luggage. I was politely asked how my flight was before being ushered to my limo: a brand-new custom, silver Mercedes Sprinter van. I imagined the others would have already enjoyed such courteous and efficient treatment or they would, shortly. Inside the van, I tried to allow the comfort of the plush leather and the new aroma of the vehicle’s interior to calm me as I was whisked off to my quarters which would be my dwelling for the unknown future. It was not an easy thing for me to do.

My name is Jefferson Cain. I’ll accept if you call me Jeff or even JC but none of that Jeffrey crap. Jeffrey is no part of Jefferson and I don’t particularly care to sound like I’m hocking merchandise for Toys R Us. I’m thirty-five years old, a father of one, a divorcee, a professional and a total wreck.

I have issues, okay? So many of them, in fact, that I should be selling subscriptions. I have anxiety for which I should probably be medicated but I refuse to end up dependent on dope. I have good days and bad. On the real bad days, I become an avoidant, going as far as telecommuting just so I won’t have to go into work and be around people. I have obsessive compulsive disorder although I don’t give much of a damn beyond anyone else about clutter or messy rooms. Mine rears its head in other ways. I may get to that soon enough. Mostly, I’m angry. I’ve had anger issues for the better part of my adult life, probably as an indirect result of my anxiety. I want to be clear. I have anger issues but I’m no asshole. I’m not one of ‘those people.’ You know the ones I’m talking about: Angry at the world and the only thing that makes them happy is to make everyone else as miserable as they. That’s not me. I’m content to keep my anger internalized most times although if certain people knew what I’d like to do to them in a particular moment, I suspect they’d keep their distance.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go where I’m headed. I’m not supposed to be here. I was hoodwinked and hustled into this current situation. I was supposed to be headed to the United Kingdom, working on my biggest project yet. If my calculations are correct, a team would be leaving on a jet in approximately one hour, en route to that exact location. A team that I was supposed to head. Instead, here I sat in a limo somewhere in rural Virginia on a near impossible assignment that nobody else wanted. This wasn’t a consolation prize it was a joke. Unfortunately, the joke was on me.

I can still recall vividly, the conversation that was supposed to be private between my manager, Clifford Rawlings and our vice president. The conversation which was supposed to be hushed and behind closed doors had become heated and loud instead. I was good but I wasn’t international team material. Sorry, but it wasn’t going to work out. Clifford already had his dream team in mind and I was the odd man out. Putting me on the team in the first place had been a hiring mistake. In fact, if I were to remain on the team, it meant Clifford Rawlings was off the project entirely, no two ways about it. It was either me or him. The VP, a lily-livered corporate man had easily caved under the weight of the ultimatum.

It wasn’t fair. I’d been there longer than all of them. Clifford had only just replaced my prior manager who’d been transferred six months ago. He couldn’t find his own ass with both hands and a searchlight when he’d arrived. I was the one who’d trained him. I was the one who subsequently trained every one of his men who’d quickly followed him from Nevada to New York, completely blind to the fact that I’d been bringing my own replacements up to speed. What a sucker I’d been!

Clifford didn’t like me. He’d hidden it well in the beginning, his contempt showing only after he’d learned enough about the job. I still knew more than he did, and everyone knew it. So, he’d gotten rid of me at the first opportunity. It was corporate politics at its finest and I’d been blindsided.

I blew up at the news of being shipped here. It was one of the rare times I’d let my anger get the best of me. It had been mostly the shock of realizing the extent to which I’d been blindsided but almost as much, I’d just grown tired of it. I’d gotten tired of playing nice for the good of the company. I’d grown tired of lily-livered corporate execs who cared more about their six figure bonuses than anything else, who possessed neither the will nor the morals to do the right thing. The anger had gotten the best of me and I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t felt good. Maybe I said a little too much. Maybe I’d gotten a little too personal and honestly, I guess I’m lucky to still have a job. But they had it coming and then some. All of them. I fumed in the back seat as the anger greeted me like an old friend.

There’s where it stands, Mr. Cain, a friendly voice said from the seat in front of me. The Hidden Hills Mines. Used to be the town’s lifeline. I’m afraid there’s not much life left there now.

The voice was both chipper and forlorn. It belonged to Meredith Barley. She and her husband, Morris Barley managed the company house where I’d be staying. Morris was one of the men who’d greeted me at the airport. The driver, introduced only as Harold, had been the other gentlemen who’d taken my bags. The driver was one of four other staff members who worked there. Apparently, their duties covered everything from chauffeur to chef.

The Barleys were a charming couple, both in their late sixties. Morris had thinning and somewhat unruly gray hair and a thick gray mustache. He looked like the prototypical grandfather, with worldly advice and wisdom at the ready. Meredith’s face was round and jovial, giving the impression that she spent much of her life in a state of euphoria. Perhaps she did. Her hair was a mixture of equal parts gray and black. She too, gave off a grandparent-like feeling.

They knew the situation, they had to. I hadn’t been the first person ever assigned here, I was just the latest. They knew it was likely a dead end. They were trying their best to be pleasant and I wouldn’t take my anger out on them. I followed the familiar routine: Smile through it, sound cheerful, maintain and persevere. The anger would retreat soon (but not far, never far). Just give it time.

Just Jeff is fine, I said, at least sounding the part of an amiable soul. No need for formalities.

Oh. Jeff then, Meredith said, sounding somewhat relieved. I’d wager she’d had to deal with her share of unpleasant charges in the past.

What happened to everyone, anyway? I asked. It’s been over ten years now, hasn’t it?

Well, after the mines closed, most people just stayed. They didn’t know where else to go, Morris Barley said.

But how do they survive? How do they make a living?

A slight shuffle from Morris told me perhaps I was asking too much too soon but he was polite about it. This and that. Some became farmers or tried to. Some opened stores in town. Problem is, nobody had much money, so customers were sparse. Most of them went out of business.

And the rest?

Morris fell silent.

Welfare, mostly, Meredith picked up. The children though. They’re beginning to leave now that they’re older. There’s nothing for them here and they know it.

These are proud people, Mr. Cain, Morris said.

Jeff, please, I reminded him.

Morris nodded and grunted acknowledgment. Proud coal miners. It’s been that way for generations. They may not have the highest educations, but they don’t want to be on Welfare, taking handouts from the government. They don’t have much choice is all.

Somebody needs to remind them it’s not a handout. They and the generations before them paid into the system. There’s no shame in using what you paid into when it’s needed, I said, feeling a need to justify the situation for some reason.

Hmph, Morris said in agreement, immediately becoming less guarded at the realization that his passenger was at least sympathetic. Well, they don’t get paid much. Government only gives them enough to scrape by. They ought to pay them more.

The road narrowed from six lanes to four, mostly lined with trees and hillside with the occasional country gas station breaking the scenery. We passed a truck stop which included a restaurant, a convenience store and a motel in addition to another filling station.

That there belongs to the Amants, Morris said, referring to the truck stop. About the most profitable business in town aside from the Madison’s dairy. Truckers always need supplies, food, rest and whatever else.

The name caught my attention. It was the one thing I’d been briefed in detail about before my arrival. The Amants? Would this be the same Amants who—

Yep, the very same, Morris said, not needing me to complete the question. I suspect you’ll be learning more about them, first-hand.

The road further narrowed into two lanes as we entered town. Downtown consisted of a series of charming, mom and pop stores, one major grocery store, a hardware store, a farmer’s market and a handful of specialty shops where you could buy everything from clothes to electronics. There were no big retailers here. I imagined a trip to the nearest Walmart or Costco must be the stuff day-long family outings were made of in these parts. It was all very novel at first sight for a man used to the hustle and bustle of the big city. I wondered how I would feel about it, months down the road.

We left the business district (if you could call it that) and entered the residential area. This told the real story of the town. Old homes, mostly in various stages of dilapidation, dotted the land. Old, broken down vehicles occupying lawns of said houses were not an uncommon sight.

Commonwealth Plains, for all its storied history was nothing more than a dying town. It was so much like many other towns I’d heard and read about whose main source of business had dried up and left. It broke the heart if one allowed oneself to dwell on the plight of the remaining population for too long.

Commonwealth Valley, where I was presently headed, told a different story. There is where the unscathed resided, those fortunate enough to have had the wealth to sustain themselves even as the surrounding area suffocated under the weight of its own misfortune. Viewed mainly with disdain and a hint of envy by most of the town’s residents, it was not without its own mysteries and scandals. Those people lived in The Valley. They were the people who held the key to the town’s future and who, many accused, were the cause of the town’s downfall in the first place. The conspiracy theories abounded about those people even as they were looked upon with hope. I was to join those people although, as an outsider, I wasn’t sure how I’d be viewed.

Am I the last to arrive? I asked.

Almost, Morris said. We had one no-show. The girl. Was supposed to pick her up this morning. They told us she’d be here tomorrow instead. The three others are already getting settled in.

See that? Meredith said. We had entered Commonwealth Valley now and the land was much more expansive than in town, the properties much more spaced out. Meredith was pointing at what looked like a large barn. That’s Madison Farm. The Madisons supply most of the dairy products to town and elsewhere, as far away as New Jersey. You’ll see delivery trucks coming and going all week. I could tell she was proud of this.

What’s that? I asked, spotting a building about a half mile from the farm.

That’s the Amant’s place, Meredith explained.

"That’s somebody’s home? I asked, surprised. It was a concrete structure and not particularly attractive. Certainly not what one would expect of a wealthy family’s dwelling. It looks like a warehouse."

Oh, believe me, it’s gorgeous inside, a mansion. Wesley Amant didn’t want it to look too flashy with all that was going on back then. They own all the land you see behind it.

There was quite a bit of it. Neatly tended greenery surrounded by woods which seemed to stretch for miles dwarfed the home that sat on it.

Also, I’m afraid Wesley was a bit of an eccentric, she continued.

Runs in the family, Morris said. Meredith shot him a disapproving look to which he shrugged.

Down the hill is where you’ll be staying, Meredith said, foregoing any words to her husband. The Turbine House. It’s right next to the Amant’s property.

I could hold back no longer, I had to ask. What happened here, anyway? I heard some stories but what really happened? My question was followed by a quick look between Morris and Meredith. Then, a second shrug from Morris, as if to say, he might as well know.

Family tiff for starters, Meredith said, cautiously. Wesley’s will. What he did shocked everybody. The Amants still haven’t gotten past it.

Oh, why don’t you just say it? Morris said, impatiently. "Adelaide went crazy, and things aren’t going to get better until they straighten that out."

Meredith looked hurt by this. She’s not crazy, she needs help. She’s a nice young lady.

Maybe she was once and that’s in doubt, Morris said.

She still is, Meredith countered in a way that only long married couples do. Not argumentative, just fussily disagreeing as if it were second nature. Adelaide Amant is Wesley’s youngest daughter. Everyone calls her Adele. Poor girl. I think the pressure of all her dad left to her has been too much. You and the others are invited over tomorrow for lunch. Perhaps I’ll introduce you.

If she’s coherent, Morris added, needling his wife.

––––––––

we pulled into a long driveway which curved its way up the lawn, finally leading us to our destination. Turbine House may have been located in the boondocks of rural Virginia, but there was nothing rural or simple about it. In fact, it had once been the crown jewel of the company’s employee lodges. Although since surpassed by others in innovation, it remained a spectacle to behold, a supposed reward to pacify those unlucky enough to have been assigned here.

The gray exterior was comprised of granite and limestone. It was a three-level structure with a large, pillared front entrance. The tall windows on the ground floor hinted of vaulted ceilings. A few steps inside and the hint was revealed to be true. With walls that seemed to go up forever, marble floors and chandeliers throughout, it was no wonder it was considered a corporate mansion.

The others have picked out their rooms already, but I assure you there are still many to choose from, Meredith said. There’s a pond out back and the rooms which overlook it seem the most popular.

One of the house attendants, a gracefully slim woman of about thirty who looked like she could be a model, came and informed us my three colleagues who’d arrived ahead of me had already taken a trip into town. I had to this point never met them as we’d all been sent here from different offices across the country. As far as I knew, none of the others had met prior to this day. Just great, I thought. I’d missed an early opportunity to bond with my peers. My anxiety spiked and I made a conscious effort to tramp it back down. I told myself there would be plenty time for bonding later if that was what I wanted. I just needed to work at it.

The Barley’s handed me off for the moment to the same house attendant who had delivered the news (I’d been instructed not to refer to them as maids or butlers). Dressed in a dark blue skirt, matching blazer and a light blue blouse, she resembled a flight attendant more than any type of servant. Her name was Priscilla Matese and she was as professional and efficient as any executive I’d ever heard giving a presentation.

Priscilla also had a hospitable quality about her which, I guessed made her perfect for the job. She took me up to the third floor and confided that while it was true the most popular rooms faced the pond and the three others had all chosen such, the rooms on the side of the house facing the Amant’s property were, in her opinion, the best for sunset gazing.

I took her word for it, telling myself her model looks had nothing to do with the ease of my agreement. Besides, having a little distance and privacy from the others appealed to me, the need to work on bonding be damned. I thanked Priscilla and after an awkward moment where she had to assure me tips were no part of the Turbine House practice, I embarrassingly bid her goodbye.

I unpacked as I marveled at the room. It was large and over-the-top luxurious. The bed appeared to be at least two times bigger than the standard king size. A man could get lost in a bed of that size, which I fully intended to do later that night. Turbine Matrix had put a lot into making their house an adequate consolation offering. I had to give them credit. If I were going to be stuck in the boonies, working with God knows who on a go nowhere project which amounted to nothing more than busy-work, I couldn’t beat a place like this to do it from.

I came back downstairs, my mood considerably buoyed for the moment. It was 2pm, too late for lunch and still too early for dinner. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.

Morris Barley was standing by one of the big front windows. He’d been waiting for me. He asked if I were hungry. I told him I wasn’t and preferred to wait for dinner which was scheduled for 5pm.

I can arrange for a driver to take you into town to catch up with the others, he said, and I noticed now that we were no longer in the car, his tone had become less personal and more professional. Or I can have Priscilla give you a full tour of Turbine House. There’s quite a bit to see.

I had no interest in venturing back into town at the moment and, while the idea of spending more time alongside the lovely Priscilla Matese had its appeal, I preferred to slowly discover the wonders of Turbine House on my own.

I thought maybe I’d go out, have a look around if it’s okay, I said.

Morris thought this a brilliant idea and brightened. Good! I always think our guests should get better acclimated to their immediate surroundings. He looked around quickly as if searching for a house attendant. Finding nobody near, he said, "Well, let’s see. I can arrange for someone to take you around or we have golf carts you can use. Sorry, we don’t have off-road four wheelers or motorbikes. There are plenty trails if you like to hike, and we do have mountain bicycles.

I like to hike but a bicycle seemed the best choice for covering the most ground on my initial look-see. I told Morris my preference, he pulled out his phone to speak to someone and within five minutes a pristine Cannondale bicycle was at my side, complete with a helmet and sunglasses, brought to me by yet another house attendant. This one, a granite block of a man who Morris addressed only as Roscoe. He looked like he could double as a secret service agent. I could get used to this kind of efficiency, I thought.

Morris cautioned me not to venture so far that I became disoriented but to call him if I did. I assured him no such concern was needed, and I was off.

––––––––

The day was still young and the weather was cool. It was the middle of May and spring still had a month of life remaining in her. It was an ideal day for a little exploring. I had roughly two and a half hours before dinner, more than enough time to adequately look around.

I did a lap around Turbine House just to take in the magnificent structure. There was, indeed, much to be seen of it as Morris Barley had said. But further inspection would have to wait. My lap around the proud structure had only been cursory.

Along the side of the house where my room overlooked, a trail led into the woods which surrounded the property. This is what had caught my interest. The dirt trail was wide and smooth from use. The Cannondale took it with ease, and I felt an exhilaration as I entered the tree lined path. The natural smells of the woods engulfed me almost at once. It was a mixture of damp leaves, pine trees and soil. A city boy like myself didn’t get to experience this oneness with nature often enough. The parks to where I normally ventured couldn’t come close to this feeling of serene isolation. It added to my calm, pushing my earlier angry feelings even further away.

A mile in and the main trail began to offshoot to other trails, most wide enough to accommodate my bicycle but some only narrow enough for foot traffic. I understood at once why Morris had warned me about becoming disoriented. I imagined too many twists and turns in these woods could leave someone unfamiliar with the terrain quite confused. I decided to stick with the main trail for today.

Further in, the woods thickened and at times the trail became a challenge to negotiate. I was slapped in the head more than a few times by damp leaves from intrusive branches. I became aware of the sounds of the woods: Birds chirping and cawing, rushing water from a creek as yet unseen, a crashing sound as if a branch somewhere nearby had fallen from a tree. That made me wonder about animals in the woods. I was woefully unaware of what kinds of wildlife were known to inhabit this part of the world. I was a city boy who’d only had run ins with the occasional stray dog up to this point. I suspected deer were probably common here but what else? Bobcats? Cougars? Wolves? Bear?

Oh God, I was letting my imagination get the best of me. I’m sure Morris would have warned me if there was any danger. Still, as the woods thickened and seemed to close in on the trail, I became more aware of the sounds around me.

The trail was beginning to ascend, and I thought if it went up much further, I may get a magnificent view of the Amant’s place. By my calculations, I was headed directly toward it.

Another crash in the woods, this one closer, unnerved me for a few seconds. I stopped. I wanted to see if it would come again. It didn’t and I chastised myself for being spooked by what probably amounted to nothing more than a rabbit, startled by my presence. I started peddling again. It wouldn’t be long before I was high enough to look down onto the Amant house. I had a curiosity about its rather plain structure, I wanted to see if it was as mundane as it appeared from afar.

Another noise from the woods. This time it was a rustling, even closer than before. Even I knew a startled rabbit wasn’t likely to chase after what startled it to get a better look. I slowed down, intending to come to another stop so that I could get a bead on where it was coming from. I didn’t need to. A distinctive crack as if something had stepped on a downed tree branch came from my right. I heard leaves rustling as they were pushed aside then I glimpsed movement through the trees. Something was coming my way, fast. I felt at once like I had been stalked, like prey. Could still be a deer, the rational corner of my mind tried to reason. Fuck that, the survivalist in me answered, loudly. I stopped, whipped the bicycle in the other direction, figuring I’d pick up speed heading back downhill much faster than trying to outrun whatever it was, headed up an incline.

Something burst out of the brush beside me just as I got the bicycle turned around. It wasn’t a deer or a bear. It was a human which should have been a relief, but this was no tame individual. With animal-like quickness, he advanced on me. He was dressed in baggy clothing which appeared to be caked with dirt in places. His hair was wild, obscured most of his face and was full of what looked like leaves and who-knows-what-else. I caught just a glimpse of a snarled expression of rage before realizing he was armed. He swung at me with what I could make out in my terror as either a bat or a club. I ducked in time and heard a sickening, whoosh, as the club passed above my head. My attacker let out an outraged, high-pitched cry of frustration at his miss.

Every horror movie I’d ever seen with strange people living in secluded areas who killed innocent visitors welled up in me. One thought sprang to mind: Oh shit, a savage! Taking advantage of the fact that his miss had thrown him off balance, I took off back down the trail.

He recovered quickly and was now right behind me. Why wasn’t I gaining any distance? My panicked mind asked.

I heard a determined shout of, Gyah! A half second later the club or whatever it was, struck my rear wheel. I fought for balance, almost lost it, then regained it again. I pedaled faster. Another high-pitched cry of outrage at this from the savage behind me. And damn, he was still keeping pace. How?

I heard another, louder shout, GYAH! A harder shot to my rear wheel. I was knocked off balance again. I fought, almost regained it and, whack, another hit. This one sent me off the trail and down the incline that lined one side of it. Suddenly, I was descending rapidly. I realized I was airborne for a few seconds. Then I touched down. I was out of control as I felt wet grass and upended branches slapping at my legs and ankles. I barely missed colliding directly with a tree, instead broadsiding it hard enough and with such bright pain that I was certain I’d broken an arm and possibly a few ribs thrown in for good measure. I was tangled with the bicycle now, no longer riding it but hanging on as if it were some sort of life preserver. I crashed through a final tangle of small trees. The before unseen creek came into view now that I was beyond the woods. There was a bit of a drop-off to the creek. I had time to calmly think to myself, Oh, there it is, and realize with certainty that I was going in. That was the last thing I remembered for a while.

––––––––

I didn’t know if i’d been out of it for a few seconds or a few hours. I didn’t even know for sure if I had really awakened for when I opened my eyes, I was beside the creek, laying flat on my back in the grass. The savage was there, a few feet away and staring down at me.

Uh huh. Awake now, that’s good. That’s fine, the savage said in what I was surprised to hear was perfect English. Much more surprising, the voice was female.

I must not be awake, I thought. I must be dreaming. Yeah, sure. Strange things happened in dreams all the time. A bathtub could become a swimming pool, a swimming pool could become an ocean and uncivilized, savage men could transform into phantasmic women who spoke perfect English in an instant. It didn’t need to make sense.

You sure got what you deserved, mister. A good bump on the noggin. Maybe it knocked some sense into you. She threw her head back and laughed loudly at this.

Female or not, I realized I was in the presence of a potentially dangerous person (that’s if I was really awake). The laugh sent birds flying from the trees and chills down my spine. There was something about her eyes, too. They were unfocused and vacant.

There’s nothing for you here, She said, sobering yet still unfocused. You can stay on your own property too. We don’t want you. Go back home like the other thieves who tried before. She picked up her club, turned and started off, back toward the trees which I’d crashed through prior. Thieves snooping around, looking for something to steal. Next time, I don’t drag you out. The next time you can drown. Go home!

She was gone. I was left, laying in the grass. I was soaked and my head was still a bit fuzzy. As I slowly came to my senses, I realized I hadn’t been dreaming after all. The anger began to creep back with this realization. I’d been attacked. Woman or no, I’d been attacked by someone wielding a damned club. Thirty-five years I lived in New York. Not once had I ever been mugged or even harassed. One afternoon in this shit-hole town and I’d been chased into a damned creek and knocked unconscious. It didn’t matter if I’d been knocked out by her club or if the fall had done it. I’d been knocked unconscious.

The bicycle was still in the creek. I could see the back-wheel protruding from the water. I went to retrieve it, eager now to leave these woods. Neither my arm nor my ribs were broken but they were both singing a low chorus of pain. I was cold from my dip in the water and my teeth began to chatter. I’d make haste on my return trip and take a nice, hot shower before dinner. It was already 3:40 by my watch so if I hurried, I could make it back with plenty time to spare and tidy up.

I picked the bike up by the back wheel and began to drag it out. It didn’t come easily, and I thought it had caught on something but, no. Further inspection revealed the front wheel had bent like a pretzel somewhere during my fall and wasn’t moving. There would be no haste made this afternoon, that was for sure. I stood for a moment in the creek, staring at the mangled wheel, my anger swelling to a boiling level. If my name had been a certain David Banner, this would be the moment where I’d transform into the Incredible Hulk and start smashing things. But I wasn’t David Banner, I was Jefferson Cain. I was a man stuck in bum-fuck Virginia in the middle of a cold creek, soaked with chattering teeth while the men who stole my rightful job were, at this very moment, thousands of feet in the air, living it up in first class.

Fuck! I yelled at the top of my lungs to nobody but the birds who, for the second time that afternoon were scared out of the nearby trees. I threw the useless bicycle across the water to the grass. That actually felt good; the yelling, scaring the stupid birds and throwing something. At once, I was relieved nobody had witnessed it.

Well, I may not be up a creek without a paddle, but I certainly was down a trail without a bicycle, at least not one that was worth a damn unless I could figure out how to pop a wheelie all the way home. That skill was beyond me, so I grabbed the contraption by the mangled front wheel, letting the still good rear wheel roll along the ground. I would lug the thing back with me so that Morris would at least see what the holdup was.

––––––––

My return home seemed to take an eternity. Oh wheels, it hadn’t seemed like I’d covered much ground. On foot, it was a different story. Of course, the journey wasn’t made any easier towing a busted bicycle. I was tempted to ditch the damned thing more than once and let one of the house attendants find it but that didn’t seem right. An absurd picture of the lovely Priscilla Matese picking amongst the dirt and trees in search of it came to mind although I knew she wouldn’t be the likely candidate to retrieve it. My knee hurt as, in addition to my head, arm and ribs, I’d bumped it as well. It was scraped up pretty good but thankfully, not bleeding profusely. It took me the better part of an hour to reach Turbine House and when I did, I wasn’t happy.

Morris Barley was outside the front entrance with the same house attendant (Roscoe, I thought his name was but couldn’t remember at the moment) who’d brought me the bicycle earlier. Morris was on his phone, a look of concern on his face. When he saw me, relief swept over him, replaced quickly by renewed concern when he saw the condition of the bicycle and my frazzled appearance. I was still damp from the creek but probably more so from sweat by now. I’m sure my knee looked worse than it really was.

We tried calling you, are you alright? What happened? He asked, frowning in his concern. Roscoe (I thought) relieved me of the bicycle with ease and did I detect just a hint of disdain? In my state of anger at the moment, I didn’t trust my own mind to make that call.

My phone. I’d forgotten all about it. If Morris had been trying to call me, why didn’t I hear it? A quick search of my pockets revealed that it was gone. I’d either lost it during my fall and it was likely now somewhere in the creek or the savage in the woods had it someplace, playing a nice intense game of Scrabble. Why not? She spoke perfect English, after all.

I took a pretty good spill off one of the trails, as you can see, I said, nodding toward the crippled bicycle. Must’ve lost my phone in the fall. I wasn’t concerned about the phone. It was company issued and I could have a replacement within a day.

I don’t know why, but I was now embarrassed to tell Morris I’d been attacked. I’d certainly intended to tell him the full story and perhaps chew him out for not warning me the woods were inhabited by angry, hill people or whatever she’d been. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it in front of the statue-like attendant who looked like he could ward off any attacker with a flick of the hand.

Some of those trails, they’re tricky and the drop-offs are steep. One misstep and straight down you go, Roscoe commiserated. I don’t know if he were just being professional in his understanding or if it was genuine, but it made me feel worlds better. I forgave the previously interpreted look of disdain.

Well, I sure found out the hard way, I said, deciding then that I would never bring up the attack. I waved off both their offers of first aid although I probably should have had my head looked at both due to the fall and for allowing myself to be assigned here in the first place. It was now 4:45. I’d go clean myself up quickly and be back down for dinner on time.

Very good, Morris said, still looking a little concerned. The others are inside already.

I rushed inside, not caring at the moment if the others had returned. I wanted to dash up to the washroom and get myself sorted before dealing with formalities. I was stopped in my tracks, however, by a skinny man with mocha skin and dreads. He was wearing small, round, professor-like glasses. The whole of his appearance gave him a rather cartoonish look.

Mr. Cain, I presume, he smiled and said in a deep voice which contradicted his smallish frame. He stuck out his hand. "Earl Richter from Orange County, California. Sent here because I couldn’t conform with... What happened to you?"

I shook his hand, amused with his delayed realization despite myself. Opossum attack, I said in solemn seriousness. "Be careful out there, boys those things are vicious.

The two other men stood further into the living room. One was a boyish looking man who couldn’t be more than thirty at most. He had a chubby, baby-like face with short, curly blonde hair which only further added to his childlike appearance. The second man had dark brown hair, cut into a short neatly combed style that reminded me of a school kid, ready for his yearbook photo. His face was also chubby but in a different way from the first man. Where the first man’s face conjured images of baby fat and pacifiers, this second man’s face reminded one of unfollowed diets, a few too many midnight snacks and perhaps, high cholesterol. In other words, it was the look of many a middle-aged man. I’d put him in his mid to late forties. Differences aside, both men’s faces bore identical expressions of wonder.

I’m kidding, guys, I said to the hushed and uncertain trio. What really happened is I challenged the trail out back and the trail won. And if you think I look bad, you should see the mountain bike I was riding on.

They all looked simultaneously relieved there weren’t really any human attacking opossum in the woods. I wondered if I should warn them about club wielding hill people and decided against it for the moment.

Oh! Earl Richter said, clutching at his heart in relief. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to invest in a BB gun just to walk around out there.

At least, the dark-haired man agreed, thumbs hooked into his belt loops. In addition to being chubby in the face, he had a large belly which hung slightly over the waist of his jeans. He had a rather dowdy expression as if he’d seen enough that nothing much excited him.

The curly headed man, in contrast, found the whole thing funny and became quite animated. Eee-eee-haw-eee-eee-eee! He began to laugh in a high-pitched voice that did nothing to dissuade the illusion of youth beyond his actual years. Jeffrey takes a fall on his first day out! Eee-hee-haw-eee-eee! The giant opossum did him in!

Earl Richter gave an eyeroll and said, Dabness Vermillion, pointing to the dark-haired man. Baby Huey there is Charles, Call-Me-Chuck, Winslow. Me and Dabness have been putting up with him all day.

They both came over to shake my hand. Very nice, fellas but I got about ten minutes for a quick clean-up or I’m also late for dinner on my first day here. So, if you’ll excuse me. I hurried toward the stairs intending to make it down on time.

Be down on time, Jeffrey. If you’re late for din-din, we feed yours to the opossum! Chuck Winslow called after me.

Shaddup!

Reviews for Prodigies of the Valley

[Robert Frederick · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Hell of a good story with just enough twists to keep me guessing. The characters were well developed and easy to identify. After all, who hasn't met a Dabness Vermillion or Chuck Winslow a time or two in our lives? Bravo!!