The Ring of Remembrance

By J.D. Hilton

Memory is an important facet of all our lives. If we lose these packages of pain and pleasure called memory that are so instrumental in establishing our humanity, then we lose the essence of who we are. That is what has happened to the dark-hearted Killer described in this story, who is out there now! Have you ever been at a location and wished you could witness and experience the events that happened in that space in the past? The Killer chronicled herein has that power! The Ring of Remembrance is the contemporary story of this ruthless murderer with an unbridled mind, who, by harnessing supernatural forces and the powers of his mysterious ring for the past thirty years, has stalked the darkness of Christmas night, slaughtering one family per year. Throughout the past three decades, everyone who has ever trailed the fiend has either been murdered or driven insane. The FBI has squashed media coverage, convincing the public that the horrors are over, but this Christmas, the truth is revealed, and FBI special agent Justinian Rooks, having just sealed his first big case, is summoned by the director to take on a new investigation. As the Killer begins to break his signature, one piece of evidence just may have the best chance ever of bringing the monster to justice: the Ring of Remembrance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642145991

Book preview

The Ghost of Christmas

Listen, my son,

One thing I’ve learned

And I know it.

Bombers can open bomb bays.

Love all you can

This precious thing

Called your own life.

Remember, bombers can open bomb bays.

—Bill Ward, Bombers [Can Open Bomb Bays]

Upon the Eve of Moon Day, upon the eve of Christmas, at 536 Harris Street in the small town of Concord, North Carolina, about twenty miles from Charlotte, the Queen City, Derex, a brilliant little boy, was trying as best as he could to force himself to sleep so that he could be done with Christmas Eve and get started with Christmas itself. He stared out of his bedroom window, first at the clear winter sky, then at the mesmerizing aquamarine, almost-fluorescent Christmas lights that were dangling from the gutters of the roof outside his window. They were his dad’s favorite. As he stared, transfixed, he nestled himself more tightly into the warm comfort of the covers. Though, no doubt, he was eager to open Christmas presents the next morning, his mind was preoccupied with more than just the anticipation of new toys. Indeed, it was his nature, despite his young age, to delve into life’s little nuances. The subject of his current wonderings was his father.

Why did his father seem sad when Derex’s kindergarten teacher, Ms. Short, told him that Derex was first in his class and was truly an exceptional young man? It was true that no one else seemed to detect his father’s sadness, but Derex knew it was there. He could feel it. His dad had been sincerely smiling; however, at the same time, something was hurting him.

Derex thought he might have spied a lone snowflake fall, glistening by the light of the moon. Snow would be nice. Maybe it would make things right for his father. Maybe it would heal his pain. Finally, sleep possessed him . . . and the wind wept.

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Derex felt a soft hand brush over his forehead and heard a quiet whisper.

Merry Christmas, Derex’s mother said.

He smiled.

Merry Christmas, Mama.

It was 5:00 a.m. Derex went into the living room to begin opening presents.

Where’s Daddy? he asked.

Right here, you little chainsaw.

Derex smiled, even though he still didn’t believe that he snored, much less, so loud as to be compared to a chainsaw. His dad was smiling. He seemed to be genuinely and completely happy. Good. Derex thought.

Derex had finished opening his presents. He and his mom were now going to go to his grandma’s house and open his presents there (Santa Clause always seemed unsure as to where Derex actually lived since he spent so much time at his grandmother’s house). It was still completely dark outside. As his mom backed out of the driveway, a strange feeling overtook Derex. Then he saw something.

At the end of the driveway on the other side of the fence parallel to the driveway, in the neighbors’ yard, Derex saw a tall figure. It was wrapped in a white furry robe. A hood was over the figure’s head, and darkness was its face. The figure stood completely still, save for the rotation of its head, as it kept its apparent gaze locked onto Derex, its arms seemingly folded under its robe. Derex somehow knew that his mother couldn’t see the figure, so he said nothing. While his mother turned on to the main road, Derex never took his eyes away from the figure. Likewise, the figure looked on at Derex. Only they knew . . .

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Back inside the house, Derex’s father was finalizing the solution to his depression question, a note that Derex would understand. It was their connection. It read,

FIND ME IN HEAVEN.

Chapter II

The Pickler

You will get out of this army what you put into it. Work and you’ll be fed. Fight and you’ll be respected. Die and you’ll be remembered.

—General Bethlehem

The Postman

Somewhere in the countryside of Virginia, on the day of the sun, Voskresen’e , the day of the Resurrection , Christmas Day, an eighteen-month-old little girl in a little white dress and a little white bonnet wandered scared and lost through a field in dusk’s twilight. The orange-white light of the sun shone through the branches of shadowy trees and onto the top of her head, like a halo, giving her the appearance of a most innocent cherub. Whining, pouting, and bewildered, she called for her mommy.

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Not too far away, a young FBI special agent, Justinian Rooks, was coordinating with other agents, police, and SWAT for a raid on the house of the man suspected of being the notorious and gruesome serial Killer the media had indecently, however properly, named The Pickler. This depraved psychopath had the habit of eviscerating his victims, especially Middle Eastern men, and filling their insides with a potpourri-like substance. He would then place the victim in an old bathtub, oil drum, or other container and literally pickle them in either vinegar, alcohol, or formaldehyde. The profile the bureau had come up with said that the Killer probably had a military background and suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

According to Rooks’s friend in the CIA, some believed that this maniac was part of a spooky organization that does not exist called the Delta Sect, not to be confused with Delta Security Incorporated (then again maybe it was Delta Security Inc.). Supposedly, the group’s goal was to root out all evil from the world as much as it could. It was made up of and funded primarily by wealthy surviving family members of victims of the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks in New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania, as well as surviving family members of other acts of terror and violent crime. Its mission statement: America must be refined; the taint of evil must be purged from the face of the earth and from all of creation; this could be done only by routing all enemies within the state and by toppling evil nations abroad and baptizing their evil governments in the fires of infinite justice. Again, according to Justinian’s CIA friend, the Delta Sect’s goal was to prevent what it called the Injustice System to get in the way of what it referred to as its own system of infinite justice. In any case, it was Rooks’s duty to uphold the law, and that is just what he intended to do here.

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By now the little girl was in despair. Little liquid pearls streamed down her cheeks like twin waterfalls. In the distance, through the trees, she saw what appeared to be a series of old shacks with rusted tin roofs. Was her mommy in there? she wondered. She continued to call for her. Her mommy wasn’t there, but something was.

She heard a stick crackle and turned. A huge black shape scooped her up in a blur. She screamed with every bit of strength her little lungs could muster. All to no avail. A dark hand covered her mouth and muffled her screams.

The Killer now watched from a treetop as several government figures maneuvered through the woods. Today his bloodlust was up. Despite having just finished off his latest victim, he was ready for more. His territory was being violated by people who did not understand him. He was unraveling. He knew that he couldn’t possibly kill all these government agents, but he no longer cared. As he drew an arrow back with his compound bow, he imagined that this must be how God felt right before striking someone down with a bolt of lightning.

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Agony itself devoured SWAT sergeant Max Meyers as a razor-blade-tipped arrow perforated his neck, slicing his spine. He clutched his neck with one hand and reached out toward Rooks with the other as he fell. A spray of red mist left his lips, and a silent scream burned itself into Rooks’s memory forever.

Rooks shouted In the trees! as he trained his Glock .45 pistol on the assassin, who was now rappelling down the tree from his one-hundred-foot perch. Several high-powered rifles cracked the air as the sun set. None of the shots appeared to hit their mark, however, since the Pickler was on the side of the tree opposite the agents. Rooks conserved his rounds for a sure shot and raced toward the spot where he estimated the Killer’s line came to an end.

Rooks arrived at the bottom of the tree from which the Pickler had just rappelled down. There was nothing there save for the rope, the harness, and the karabiner.

Off to the right of the tree, Justinian saw a series of old shacks. Rooks motioned for the SWAT team leader to come up to him and whispered to him, I want you to take your teams and make a sweep of all these areas just as planned. Leave this shack—he pointed to one in particular—to me.

The team leader nodded and disappeared back into the trees.

To date, this was the biggest case in Special Agent Justinian Rooks’s short career with the FBI. He was excited, yes, but it was not the reckless excitement of a rookie. He had seen much action before he joined the bureau. Now, with his back against a tree, his Glock held close with both hands, he eased his way toward the nearest shack—the shack that he felt the Killer had fled into. While he did this, he accessed in his mind everything about the Killer’s profile.

Rooks had talked to some of the Killer’s old fellow service members from Korea. They had told him that no one would ever use SGT Sagard’s computer because of the goo that was always left on his keyboard. SGT Sagard suffered from some dermatological disease that caused his hands to crack and blister and leak diseased fluid. It didn’t matter that the army office didn’t have enough computers. No one got near to the one Sagard used.

In a rush, Justinian gave the door a hard side kick. The wood splintered in every direction, complete with the rot inside. Rolly pollies, termites, and mold flew everywhere, including down his shirt. He ignored them and secured the room, training his gun in every direction. When he noticed no immediate signs of the Killer therein, he casually, with one hand (the other, along with his eyes, scanned the room) fiddled with his shirt, trying to shake out the bugs. The scent of mold dominated the place. There were several stacks of pornographic magazines in the far corner going halfway up to the ceiling. Old rusty farm tools hung on the walls and from the ceiling. Half-burned garbage was strewn about the rest of the room.

He inspected the stacks of porn more closely and kicked them out of the way. Too late, he realized that move was careless, given this guy had attended survival school—the same SERE that Rooks had attended.

Fuck! he said out loud as an old rusty scythe, apparently spring-loaded with an old Ford Mustang suspension system, came slashing down at him. He dove just far and fast enough to suffer only having the back of his coat torn completely away and being nicked all the way down his back. That will cost me a tetanus shot, he thought as he cursed himself for an idiot, took a crowbar that was lying on the floor, and very carefully pried open the small door that was now revealed on the floor. He pulled out a device with a screen that showed him that no one was in the room directly below. For good measure, he then flashed his light down into the hole and saw that it was about a ten-foot drop. His trained eye detected no more traps. He jumped down. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he sprang into action, training his weapon left, right, up, and down. There was no Killer to be seen. He felt safe for the time being, as safe as one could feel in his particular predicament.

A string was dangling in the darkness. He pulled it to turn on the light. It was a large room and seemed to be designed as a hurricane or bomb shelter. The peculiar thing was that the shelves were completely stocked with preserves of every kind. There were several shelves of jelly, peaches, pickled tomatoes, cucumbers, hard-boiled eggs, and peppers of all types. Besides the homemade pickles, there was an entire wall of jars of Penrose hot sausages and pigs’ feet.

Rooks looked on and walked over to the door that led to an adjoining room. He kicked it open, surveyed the room, and resisted the urge to vomit.

To the left and right, lining the walls of the room on either side, there were glass tubes, almost like huge mason jars. The room was complete blackness, but Justinian could see what was contained therein from the florescent, halogen, waterproof lights that were inside the containers, illuminating the contents. Preserved perfectly in each tube was a human corpse, by what Justinian suspected must be vinegar, alcohol, formaldehyde, or some other substance. They all appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, and all appeared to have been severely tortured before their demise. To top it all off, their bodies had been profaned and violated, especially since they were all Muslim, by the body parts of swine that floated around in the containers with them: pigs’ snouts, pigs’ feet, pigs’ gastrointestinal tracts, etc. One body even had an entire pigs’ head over its head, like a mask.

The Pickler, scrunched up in a makeshift foxhole, was excited. His heart throbbed violently from the exhilaration of the recent kill and the anticipation of the killing to come. He was in ecstasy, soaked in sweat from the endorphins that coursed through his entire body. The sweat had caused his face paint to melt away. That simply would not do. The gods might not smile upon him if his face were not painted. The paint pleased the gods, especially if you used the gods’ colors. Besides that, the darkness seemed to smile and wink at him whenever he painted his face. Darkness enjoyed the paint, and so did he. And after all, he was about to make his most critical and famous kill. He was about to kill one of the prestigious FBI men.

He finished making up his face and smiled for an imaginary mirror there in the shadows. He then turned to the video feed on his Toughbook laptop, thinking to himself, if Death was there in the darkness or above walking with the FBI man, the Pickler knew he would be smiling at someone and smiling on someone. The Pickler knew that if Death was smiling at him, all that he could do . . . was smile back.

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At the center of the room on the far side, Rooks saw a computer screen. He approached slowly. On the keyboard he saw a slimy, pus-like substance. The multicolored bees that acted as the computer’s screen saver swarmed about. Rooks wiggled the mouse. The monitor’s wallpaper was revealed, showing large bright-green letters, which read ICU. Rooks never even considered that the letter stood for intensive care unit. It registered at that moment that the light on the computer’s built-in web cam was on. He immediately understood the true nature of the message: I SEE YOU!

Rooks spun clockwise, in reality, as fast as lightning; though to him it felt like time was slowing down. In the midst of his slow turn, he heard the floor behind him explode as the Killer burst upward, like Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th, clearing the hole in which he was hiding and soaring about four feet up into the air. In this fraction of a second, Rooks noticed every detail about the maniac via the dim lights of the glass tubes. It appeared as if Rooks’s adversary, the adversary of justice, was a winged angel from hell. Some material floated and fluttered around the figure like the heinous wings of a bat out of hell. But Justinian knew better; it was not wings that the Killer was enveloped by, but a gillie suit.

The Killer was a large man, about six feet two inches, probably about 240 lbs. And though Rooks knew that this former SGT Sagard of the United States Army served in Operation Iraqi Freedom at Abu Ghraib Prison as a 97 Echo human-intelligence collector, he was now wearing the chocolate chip desert camouflage uniform worn by soldiers in Operation Desert Storm, complete with boonie cap. Under the cap and over his face, he wore night vision goggles. But the thing that concerned Rooks most was what he had in his arms, an M249 squad automatic weapon (SAW). Besides that, the Killer seemed to be smiling.

Rooks finally completed his spin and leapt backward, throwing himself, back first, smashing into the computer monitor. Rooks got off the first three shots, then the darkness fled from the mighty SAW’s muzzle flashes, and the bullets ripped and tore through the air in a long burst. As Rooks fell backward, the sound of the machine gun brought back memories. If the weapon was on your side, it was comforting. To the enemies of the weapon, it was demoralizing. The computer was destroyed, yet Rooks, by skill alone, was left unscathed. He hit the ground hard but rolled backward to help absorb the impact. The Pickler was hit in his left shoulder, sternum, and right shoulder, with only the chest shot being absorbed by his flak vest. Before he had ever made his descent from his leap, he was thrust backward where he impacted on one of the hard glass tubes and would have been relieved of his SAW were it not that he had made use of its strap. Rooks got to his feet.

Freeze, motherfucker, FBI!

The Pickler didn’t move. It was as if he were unconscious. Justinian approached the inert body slowly and carefully. Then he heard someone call his name.

Rooks?

It was SWAT team leader Lieutenant Martin.

Here I am, Lieutenant. I’ve got the Killer. Be careful.

Just then Lieutenant Martin came through the threshold of the room.

Oh my god, he said as he put his hand over his mouth. Then he retched.

Compose yourself, Lieutenant! Rooks shouted.

He had taken his attention away from the Killer for an instant. Suddenly, the Pickler was alert, alive, and very much active. He lunged at Rooks and butt-stroked him in the head with the SAW, causing Rooks to stagger back several paces and to literally see stars. Justinian almost lost consciousness. The lieutenant had composed himself and unloaded a burst of rounds from his MP-5 submachine gun into the Killer’s back. Stunned and staggering, the Killer turned and began to spray. The burst from the SAW was not a burst but a constant stream of lead. He did not release the trigger. As he turned, he shot through one of the body capsules. It shattered. As the flammable liquid began to wash over him, the Killer trained his SAW on the lieutenant and continued to fire. The lieutenant was cut down several times over. The body from the glass tube fell onto the Pickler, causing him to stumble back, and though his grip on the trigger was no longer constant, as he staggered, he managed to let out a short burst now and then.

A second SWAT team member came in the room. As the Pickler stumbled, one of his stray rounds found its way to the newcomer’s right knee and disintegrated it. Then the hulk regained his balance and tramped toward the screaming man who was clutching what remained of his lower leg. He picked him up by the throat with both hands and slammed him against the wall, pinning him there. As the Pickler choked the poor wounded warrior, slime began to ooze out of the blisters on his hands in great globs.

The agonizing screams of the wounded SWAT team member had been like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in Rooks’s face. He came to his senses and took aim at the Pickler just as the Killer flung the lifeless body of the man whom he had just asphyxiated several yards toward Justinian. Justinian unloaded the rest of his magazine, and in so doing, a spark ignited the foul embalming fluid on and around the Killer. The scene became a lake of fire. It consumed the Killer, along with the body of the lieutenant and risked igniting the other tubes. With a tinge of guilt for not being able to save Martin, Rooks picked up the body of the other SWAT member in a fireman’s carry and fled through the only door he had not yet passed.

While carefully navigating his way through the sick room, he got on his radio, gave his location, and summoned the firemen and the paramedics.

It was over. The man who had had his knee blown away and who had been choked had now been revived. He would make it. Now all the red and blue flashing lights around the scene were giving Justinian a headache. He approached an officer of the Virginia State Police, who had in custody a babbling inebriated man.

What’s with the drunk, officer?

We picked this scumbag up passed out under a tree not far from here. His eighteen-month-old daughter, who was with him, had wandered dangerously close to this crime scene. Luckily, one of our officers snatched her up before any harm came to her.

A scumbag indeed, Rooks thought as he got in his car. He tried to always see the good in things. Sometimes it was hard. Now he had to write his report. At least the girl was safe, and the Pickler was no more.

Chapter III

Surreal-Estate

The point is that you can’t be too greedy.

—Donald Trump

Alekxander Deveraux was a greedy man. He had inherited quite a large sum of money from his family, so he could have lived modestly well for years—if properly invested, perhaps the rest of his life. But that wasn’t good enough for him. Alekxander Deveraux was a despicable man. He was highly intelligent, brilliant really, and knew just how to exploit a situation for his own personal, financial gain.

He got a job once, in his younger days, at a bank. He thought of it as a lowly job. But he had gotten it simply for the challenge of manipulating someone in the seat of power. This happened to be his boss. His boss had been himself a miser, stuck-up, self-centered, and high and mighty in his own opinion, a legend in his own mind. He treated his employees badly, and Alek allowed himself to blunder and make mistakes so that he would be the brunt of much of his boss’s negative attention. That is, until Alek conjured up the dirt on his boss.

That was the day when Alek did what he had read from Machiavelli’s The Prince. Machiavelli had said something to the effect of If you’re going to do a bad thing, do it once, but do it royally. Alek did just that. He had blackmailed his boss so that the man had had to cut Alekxander in on a substantial embezzlement scam.

Alekxander’s demeanor had changed completely on that day when he revealed his knowledge to his boss, and the boss was totally taken aback. No longer was Alekxander the sniveling one. No. Alek’s sniveling had been an act, a charade. When Alekxander confronted his boss with his own knowledge of the boss’s secret, the boss had then groveled before Alekxander.

Even now, as he pulled out of the driveway of his Texas estate, driving in his 1976, suped-up, fully restored Chevrolet Camaro (he called it the OVERLORD machine), he was headed off to Arizona on business to make a lot more money.

He loved his car. It was the second love of his life. When he had first bought it, he’d planned on taking it on a road trip. Back then, in 2000, it was in pretty bad shape. People had said that it would never make the nearly four-thousand-mile trip he had planned. It had made it. He had shown them. Before he had any serious work done to the car, he had driven it straight from North Carolina, through Georgia, down to Florida, then back up and over to Texas and on to Arizona and California. Then he drove it back from California to Texas, where he finally had it fully restored and upgraded quite a bit.

He opened up the engine on one of Texas’s many seemingly, infinitely long roads and kicked his speed up to 130 mph. He blasted Ozzy Osbourne for miles (Ozzy’s was the only music that played in the OVERLORD), thinking to himself that this was the life, this was freedom. After a couple of hours of this, he saw some flashing lights behind him. It was a Texas mounty. He knew that he could outrun the cop if he so chose, but he didn’t have to run. This cop wouldn’t dare try to give him a ticket. Alekxander pulled over.

Alekxander sat there while the cop did his thing in his car behind him, checking his plates, finding out who he was. He continued to blast his music until the cop finally came up to his window.

Turn your fucking music off!

Alekxander complied and handed Buford his license and registration.

Alekxander Deeveraxe, huh? What kinda name’s ’at?

It’s Deveraux. It’s Cajun.

The cop stared at Alek’s license for several minutes, not saying anything. Finally, he spoke. He was cheerful and friendly.

Man, I can’t remember the last time I saw one of these beauties in such good shape, he said, looking at the OVERLORD.

Yeah, he’s a real beauty, Alekxander returned. You wanna see the engine?

Yeah, yeah, let’s see it.

Alek got out, popped the hood to display a flawless, shiny chrome Engine.

There it is, Alek said, a Lamborghini’s twelve-cylinder engine with wiring harness and control box. As a kicker, it’s also got nitrous.

Alekxander went on for quite some time, describing all the different features of his Camaro, features that were on no other Camaro, features that were completely illegal. In the end, Alek and Buford were laughing like old friends. Then the two went their separate ways.

Alek turned his mind back to his original objective, his next matter of business. It was one concerning real estate. Real estate was among his specialties, among his passions. The house in question in Arizona, he thought, would be a real bargain. After he closed the deal and made a killing, he’d have to go out, find some women, and celebrate.

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Alek reached the neighborhood where the home he planned to purchase was located. He still had about an hour before the attorney who would represent the surviving extended family members of the owners of the home was scheduled to arrive, so he decided to take a little walk around the block. It was a quiet neighborhood. The sky was overcast. Though it was early afternoon, it appeared to be late evening. He followed a curve that winded around the back side of the entire neighborhood. There was a fence that surrounded the entire perimeter. Tall grass stood on the opposite side of it. On his side of the fence stood a row of dark and foreboding trees. The foreboding appearance enticed him. Slowly, but surely, the clouds above him parted. Just as it began to drizzle, the sunlight broke free of the darkness of the weather and shone down upon him. As the rain steadily increased in intensity, he said to himself, "Huh, the devil must