Dreams of Shadow

By Wayne Cotes

Dr. Augustus Sebastian Bach is a world-renowned expert in matters of the occult. When five children are brutally murdered in the small town of Pierre, Arizona, their bodies displayed in a mimicry of an upside down cross and scarred by Icelandic staves, Dr. Bach and his partner, forensic specialist Dr. Sumner Jefferson, are called in to consult.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Westwood Books Publishing
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685367138

Wayne Cotes

Born and raised in Colorado, Wayne Cotes is a Marine Corps veteran and retired as a Lieutenant of Police after serving his community for twenty-seven years. He still serves his country as a Senior Chief Petty Officer in the United States Navy reserves and has done three tours overseas. He currently resides in San Ramon, California with his wife and is the proud father of an Australian Cattle Dog named Cheerio and a German Shepperd-mix named Ryleigh.

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Copyright © 2022 by Wayne Cotes.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Epilogue

There is a lot of support that goes into writing a book. There are the Beta Readers (thank you, Dan, Chip, Gus, Susan, and Joaquin), the proofreader who may or may not like the genre of book you are writing (thanks Mom), the cover artist, interior designer, editor (Thank you Denise and Matthew), and publisher who help tremendously to give you a finished product and get the book into the hands of readers, which is exactly where you want your book to be.

There is also the support you get from home—support from family and friends, and in my case, my wife, Jenn, who indulges me by allowing me to pretend that what I do in the cozy confines of my home office is work. Considering how often she catches me taking a nap on the love seat in said office, her indulgence is very generous. Thank you, Jenn, for all that you do that allows me the chance to live my childhood dream of being an author.

Prologue

Detective Rayshawn Turner rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to unsee the crime scene before him. It didn’t work, and he took a deep breath and continued to scour the area for any evidence that would lead the Pershing County Sheriff’s Office to the arrest and eventual prosecution, of the monsters who had perpetrated this heinous act.

There was no pooled blood around the five victims, an indication that they hadn’t been slain here but killed elsewhere and then moved to this location. Their bodies were posed in a twisted version of an upside-down cross. The oldest of the five created the center of the cross. His feet together, his arms stretched out perpendicular to his body. The youngest, barely four years old, formed the top of the cross. His arms were at his sides and his feet positioned so they rested upon the shoulders of the corpse that had once been his sixteen-year-old brother. The three other children of the Holmes family were likewise positioned to form the remainder of the cross. Their ages, eight, nine, and thirteen. In Ray’s dozen years as a police officer, he had never seen anything like this.

Do you have an estimate on the time of death? Ray asked one of the crime scene technicians who was poised over the body of the nine-year-old, with a thermometer in his hand. He didn’t ask for a hypothesis regarding the cause of death. That was obvious. Each of the victims had had their hearts ripped from their chests.

Six to eight hours. Roughly. It’s hard to be sure until an autopsy is completed. They were moved here, the technician stated, pointing out what should have been clear to any rookie investigator. If the temperature was cooler or warmer where they were held, that could alter my estimate.

Ray bit down a sarcastic remark about the obvious and simply nodded his head. In his mind, he was matching up the timelines. Mathew and Sarah Holmes had left for Utah in the early evening a few days ago. They had driven from Pierre, Arizona, where they lived, to Salt Lake City with their five children to attend a religious convention. That had been Friday. Based on interviews with their neighbors, the Holmes family had left around 6 p.m. According to friends they had stayed with in Salt Lake, they had arrived close to 3 a.m. Saturday.

That timeline fit. It was roughly a seven-hour drive from Pierre to Salt Lake. Factoring in stops for gas and bathroom breaks adequately accounted for the nine-hour drive. On Sunday, they left at approximately 4 p.m. At around 8 p.m., they stopped at a gas station in Panguitch, Utah. They purchased fuel for their 2009 gold Dodge Caravan and some snacks from the convenience store attached to the gas station.

Security cameras showed that when Sarah Holmes exited the store, she was approached by two women. She seemed unconcerned in the video and even comfortable with the two women approaching her. An indication that she might know them. There was a brief conversation, and then the three women walked toward the Holmes’ vehicle. Mathew and Sarah Holmes, their five children, and the two unidentified women, all loaded into the van and left the area. The video from the store’s cameras was grainy and almost useless. They couldn’t make out the faces of the two women who had approached Sarah and only knew it was Sarah because of the gold van and a gas receipt that put the Holmes at that gas station at the right time.

Mathew and Sarah Holmes were found shot to death several miles outside of Glendale, Utah, when a trucker called in an abandoned vehicle off to the side of Highway 89. That crime scene was being investigated by the Utah Highway Patrol. Ray had already been provided with the contact information for the detective working that case, and when he had something to report, he would call them.

Despite the cooler, morning air, Ray removed his cowboy hat and wiped the sweat from his brow before replacing the hat that was a standard part of the attire he wore while working. Along with the tan uniform shirt, he was wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots. The badge, a seven-pointed star, was attached to his belt by a badge holder. In a holster at his waist, he carried a custom Model 1911 .45 caliber handgun and magazine pouches for three extra magazines.

The only other thing he carried on his belt was a pair of handcuffs—handcuffs he hoped to use in the next forty-eight hours, the timeline he had that provided the best chances of solving this case. Ray replaced the hat on his head, his dark brown skin still glistening with sweat. Have to love Arizona in the summer, he mumbled to himself.

It was now a little past 6 a.m. That meant the children were alive for at least a few hours after the killing of their parents. Ray wanted to know what happened to them in those few hours, and he was hoping their bodies would provide the answers. Aside from the removal of their hearts, upon each of the children were carved symbols. Symbols Ray didn’t even begin to comprehend. If he had to guess though, he would say they were satanic in nature but realized that his hypothesis was driven more by the horrific nature of the crime scene than it was any scientific fact.

There was a man who had been in the news lately. A consultant for the Federal Bureau of Investigations on matters of the occult. He had helped the FBI recently to solve a high-profile case vaguely similar to what Ray was looking at now. Considering the murder of the parents had occurred in Utah and the children were found murdered in Arizona, the FBI was going to get involved. Ray thought he might want to reach out to that consultant before the case became federal. If he could solve the murders before the FBI stepped foot in Pierre, Arizona, so much the better. Ray would rather not have federal agents crawling all over his town, and he was sure that Sheriff Steele felt the same way.

Ray thought for a moment, trying to recall the consultant’s name. It came to him in a flash. Doctor Augustus Sebastian Bach, he said partially to himself. Not an easy name to forget.

The crime scene technician who had been inspecting the bodies looked up at him, What? He inquired.

Ray shook his head. Nothing. Just thinking of someone who could help us on this case is all.

Chapter One

The dreams weren’t always the same, but the variations were so minute that they made no difference within the twisted webs of the vision. I sat straight up in my bed, color draining from my cheeks as adrenaline coursed through my system and the capillaries near the surface of my skin closed. Years later, I would learn that it was a part of our survival response. When adrenaline hits your system, the capillaries close so superficial wounds don’t bleed and drain the energy you would need to either flee or fight. I was thirteen years old again, and that much hadn’t changed.

The scream that had woken me still echoed through the halls of the manor house we lived in. It was more than a scream, though. It was savage, full of rage and fear and anguish so deep it tore at my soul. Tears sprung unbidden from my eyes and left red ribbons along my pale cheeks. It was my father that voiced that primordial sound. In other dreams, it was my mother. Sometimes, it was both of them. What never changed was the tenor of that cry.

I bolted from my bed. The strength of my fear was evident in the spreading wetness at the front of my pajamas. Again, years later, I would learn that such bodily responses in the midst of an extreme flight or fight response were common. The body didn’t need the muscles that controlled the bladder in order to survive, so it dismissed them as useless. I could have no more controlled wetting myself than I could have stopped the beating of my own heart. Learning that it was normal helped me to move past that moment, but it took almost five years of therapy.

I paused at the threshold between my room and the hallway. In my room, there was safety, though I didn’t know how I knew that to be an absolute truth. I just did. In the waking world, that belief was grounded in much more than a feeling. Yet, just like I did every time I had the dream, I stepped out into the hallway and crept along the wood-paneled walls toward my parents’ rooms.

I could hear my mom sobbing and pleading with whomever or whatever was tormenting her. Where was Frank, the ex-Catholic priest who ran our household and had been my teacher and protector for as far back as my memory stretched? Where were Nana, the elderly lady who cooked our meals and cleaned our home, and her granddaughter Sumner who always visited when school let out? Sumner was close to my age, my companion and friend in the years that followed my parents’ deaths. In my dreams, they never materialized. Never came to save my parents from their awful fate. It was years before I forgave them for that. Nana had passed and Sumner had gone on to college before the words I’m sorry ever passed my lips. They all loved my parents and felt their loss almost as keenly as I did. Wallowing in the misery of that loss, though, I never extended to them the same empathy that they showed me. I wrapped myself in my sorrow and used it as a shield to keep them at bay.

In the dream, the closer I came to my parents’ room, the more the fear gripped me. My legs felt wooden, almost like they belonged to someone else and I was just borrowing them for the moment. I picked up my right foot and dragged it ahead of my left, the toes bending backward as they scraped the ground, making a soft whoosh sound on the carpeted floor of the hallway as I approached the door to my parents’ suite.

The door to their rooms was partially closed, leaving only a crack between it and the doorframe. I reached out to push the door fully open but hesitated. I could still hear my mom’s bawling pleas for her life to be spared. Please! Please don’t! I have a son! There was a wet-sounding punch and a cry from my mother that was the twin of the one that had brought me out of my sleep. Then, silence.

The trembling started in my hand and spread throughout my entire body. Tears ran in a river down my cheeks as I gasped for air, trying desperately to silence the sobs that escaped, unbidden, from deep in my chest.

I knew what I would see when I pushed open that door. In the dreams, I always knew. My mind rebelled at the thought. I tried to stop my hand from pushing the door, but no matter how hard I fought, it was inevitable.

At first glance, it appeared to be a man-shaped shadow standing above my mother. My father lay on the right side of the bed, his arms cast broadly, sightless eyes wide open in horror. There was a hole in the middle of his chest and blood was everywhere. It soaked the shade of the lamp next to him, casting the room with eerie red light. It painted the walls and the ceiling and spread across the sheets like a wave crashing upon the shore. The stark redness of the blood stood out even in the dim light of the room. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Something must have tipped the shadow that I was there. It turned, locking baneful yellow eyes on me. They were the color of sulfur, sickly and diseased. I had no idea what the creature was, but I knew instinctively that it wasn’t of this world. In its right hand, it held my mother’s heart. I had no idea at that age what a real heart looked like, but I was certain that’s what the shadow cradled in its palm. One of the numerous psychologists and psychiatrists I would be forced to visit by the courts told me that it was simple, deductive reasoning that led me to know it was a heart. The holes in my parents’ chests, the object in the creature’s hand—I merely connected the dots.

Almost in mockery of my own silent screams, the creature opened its mouth frighteningly wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow its prey. No sound came out, but I was pushed back, my bare feet sliding across the floor until I was once again in the hallway. The door slammed shut. I stood frozen to the spot, the palsy that had gripped my body continuing, rendering movement of any sort impossible.

I don’t know how long I stood there unable to move, but when I felt I had even a modicum of control over my legs, I bolted back to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I fumbled with the key to lock it, dropping it in the process. I fell to my hands and knees, desperately trying to find it. Some light from the dim lamps in the hallway bled through the crack at the bottom of the door and cast its faint illumination on the old skeleton key.

I was about to reinsert the key into the lock when a shadow temporarily blocked the light. Still on my hands and knees, I skittered back from the door, my breath coming in shallow pants until I hit the bed. Not thinking, I got down on my stomach and wormed my way under it. My wide blue eyes locked on the door.

The knob rattled softly and then harder, raising such a ruckus that I was sure it would wake Frank where the screams of my parents had not. My own scream formed in my chest, and I clamped my jaws down so hard to stifle it that I bit my tongue. The hot taste of iron filled my mouth as blood poured from the wound.

Off in a distant part of the manor, I thought I heard Frank’s voice yelling, demanding to know what was going on. The shadow moved, and light once again came through the crack unimpeded. I started to yell for Frank, but blood and bile flowed from my mouth as I retched so hard that my stomach twisted in pain.

I sat straight up in my bed. A cold sweat had plastered my dark, curly hair to my head. I was thirty-four years old again. I was in my room in the manor. The décor had changed as I grew older. Hard cover books on academic subjects replaced the paperbacks that I had read for enjoyment as a child. Comfortable leather chairs now occupied the space that used to be taken up by my toy chest. The queen-sized bed was the same. At least the oak bed frame. I had replaced the mattress several years ago.

I took a moment to let the comfort of familiar surroundings ease the tension in my body. I focused on a breathing exercise to help slow down the wild beating of my heart. When I had calmed sufficiently, I eased myself out of my bed and went to the attached bathroom to throw cold water on my face, in part to wash away the sweat brought on by the terror I had felt but also to shake off the last remnants of the dream.

In control now, I stepped up to the door leading to the hallway, took one more deep breath, and prepared to face the day. I had the dream rarely now, but when I did, it usually foretold something unpleasant.

I raised the rapier to block Sumner’s downward attack and then quickly swung the slender sword low to catch the strike coming from that direction. Sumner was seven inches shorter than my 5'10" frame, and where I was a lean 160 lbs., she was a stocky and powerful 170. The bo staff she was wielding gave her an extra five feet of reach if she needed it. She didn’t. Her attacks were not only fluid but so quick and relentless that I had to wield my sword in a constant blur of motion just to avoid being struck.

Sweat covered her arms and face, making her mahogany skin glisten, and her dark, naturally curly hair sent droplets flying every time she moved despite the tight, bushy ponytail she had pulled it into. We had been at it for nearly twenty minutes, and I was as covered in sweat as she was.

Quit, she said as she stepped back and then went on the defensive as I pressed my own attack. Toying. She swept the staff low so I was forced to shift my stance to avoid being clipped at the ankles. With. I brought the attack up high again, pushing the staff wide to my left. Me! I swept the staff far enough that she couldn’t stop the killing blow. My rapier lighted against the skin of her chest, right where her heart was. We both froze.

I needed to work some energy off, I said with a slight smile and a cock of my head. I eased the sword tip away from her body, swished it back and forth a few times to clear the sweat from the blade, and then brought it up in a salute, bowing low at the waist to honor her and the fight.

She likewise bowed, and we both stepped off the mats together and went about our post-workout ritual of cleaning the gym that occupied the top floor of the manor. When my parents were alive, the gym had been a ballroom. I had never understood why my ancestors had decided to put the ballroom three flights up, but the hardwood floors made it ideal for a gym. We even had a basketball hoop even though it was a game I lacked any skill in playing. My friendship with Summer required a great deal of give and take. I was a master swordsman, and with a rapier in my hand, I wasn’t going to lose our little sparring matches. Likewise, she was going to dominate me in a game of basketball, even though I towered over her or, she would wipe the mats with me if we practiced our Sambo or Jiu-jitsu.

You had the dream again? she asked as I wiped down our weapons and returned them to the racks on the wall and she cleaned the mats. We had quite the arsenal. Swords, daggers, and knives of all sizes and shapes. Morning stars, flails, staves, polearms, and so on, and we endeavored to train in each of them. Both to keep us in shape and to provide us an edge against any enemy we faced.

I was silent for a moment while I decided whether to answer her question or remain tightlipped about it. I finally decided to tell her. Yes. Same as always.

Explains why you were storming through the house at 6 a.m. this morning, yelling my name. Nearly gave Frank a heart attack, she said, sarcasm coloring her tone. Sumner had been named after the county her mother had grown up in before she had met Sumner’s father and moved from rural Tennessee to Detroit.

I required exercise, and you are my exercise partner, I responded nonchalantly.

I live in Nana’s House. If the small guest house a hundred yards behind the manor house had ever had any other name, Sumner and I didn’t know it. Since we were children, it had always been Nana’s House, and would most likely remain so when we passed from this world and into the next. A phone call would have sufficed. You can’t roam the halls of this old shack trying to summon me like a servant. I work with—

"—you, not for you, I said, finishing her sentence. Yes, yes. I know. You tell me a dozen times a week."

And I will continue to do so until it sinks into that arrogant skull of yours.

I didn’t think of myself as arrogant. I was accomplished without a doubt. I had earned my first doctorate of philosophy degree by the age of twenty-four and my second and third doctorates a few years after that. I had studied at Harvard and Columbia, earning degrees in cultural anthropology, history, and criminology. I was a recognized expert in matters of the occult and earned a comfortable living as a consultant, despite the fact that my parents had left me more money than I could spend in several lifetimes.

This isn’t an old shack, as you put it. This is Rosewood Manor, the ancestral home of the Bach family going back seven generations, I said, trying to change the subject. I knew Sumner well enough to understand that she had half a dozen examples of behavior I had exhibited in the past week that she would deem arrogant.

"It is old. The furniture in the parlor went out of style in the 1870s, and I’m fairly certain that the monstrosity you call a dining room table was built from the planks of Noah’s Ark."

The table could seat sixteen people, and if necessary, we could add in the leaves and expand that to twenty. In truth, the house could use a renovation. Other than replacing a piece of furniture here and there and the remodeling of the kitchen when my parents took Rosewood over, the décor had pretty much remained the same since at least my grandfather’s time. Perhaps it could use an upgrade, I mumbled in acknowledgment.

We finished cleaning the gym in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Sumner knew as well as I did what the dream signified. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that every time I had the dream, we were summoned to