When the Goddess Returns to Eden

By Nicholas Moon

When the Goddess Returns to Eden introduces two interdimensional and universal entities who are enemies and in pursuit of each other through space-time. The setting of their at present encounter is a fictional small town and county in south central Kentucky.

There the antagonist, Turner Ashton, infiltrates a local drug cartel who is plotting the death of the protagonist, Rhea Michaels, an educator. She is encouraged by an elderly friend to make contact with the county attorney, Max Hastings, who is also a main character threatened by the cartel.

The plot weaves the fictionalized main characters and supporting cast in a web of crime, torture, mayhem, and murder.

The connecting element of the initial book and subsequent releases is a professor, Bradford Wainwright, who has received the manuscript from an unknown source with the directive to be read by him alone with the promise a future manuscript will identify him as the author.

Once Wainwright finishes reading the initial manuscript and he is speaking to his agent, the second book arrives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662480089

Book preview

cover.jpg

When the Goddess Returns to Eden

Nicholas Moon

Copyright © 2022 Nicholas Moon

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-8007-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-8008-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Bradford Wainwright

Invocation to the Muse

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Bradford Wainwright's Break and Review 1

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Bradford's Wainwright's Break and Review 2

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

Epilogue

Bradford Wainwright's Break and Review 3

About the Author

Bradford Wainwright

As Bradford Wainwright opened the door for his early morning walk, the letter carrier had his fist raised to knock, almost hitting Wainwright's nose.

Dodging to the right to avoid the carrier's fist, Wainwright exclaimed, Whoa!

Oops. The letter carrier steadied himself. Sorry, Professor, I wasn't expecting to be greeted so abruptly.

Wainwright coughed. Hmmm—he looked at the package—what now?

A package requiring your signature, sir.

Wainwright eyed the package. There must be a mistake. He realized this young man was new. What happened to—Wainwright gestured with his hands—well, what is that young man's name?

Sam—he had a family situation. Needed a couple of weeks off. I'm the sub.

I see. Wainwright paused, wanting to ask but decided it was none of his business. Well, young man, he said, still looking at the box, I'm not expecting anything. It has to be for someone else.

No, Professor, it's definitely for you. The letter carrier turned the package in order for Wainwright to verify he was the recipient. It's certified with a returned receipt and restricted delivery. Whoever sent this to you was determined you and only you receive it.

Wainwright eyed the return address. What if I refuse?

Professor—the letter carrier's tone was adamant—it would be a lot of trouble for me if you don't accept this package. Wanting to continue with his route, he said, I really need to be on my way.

Wainwright huffed. All right, I'll sign and accept the damn thing. See what's so important. He stared at the trees in the park across the street. Probably nothing though. It had just started to snow.

Never can tell, Professor, never can tell. The letter carrier turned to leave, only to stop. Oh, I almost forgot. Happy holidays, Professor.

As Wainwright closed the door, he replied, Yeah right, you too!

Placing the package on the end table by his recliner, Wainwright said, Now for my walk, but during his trek, Wainwright determined, I'm not going to begin another reading for God knows who. I'm tired of being taken advantage of—period. Looking up at the trees between the sidewalk and street, Enough is enough! A young couple walking in the opposite direction smiled but said nothing and continued on their way. Guess they think I'm a crazy old man talking to myself, he thought only to answer himself, Hell, who cares—I'll talk to myself if I damn well want to.

But after returning from his excursion and while removing his coat and scarf, Wainwright studied the box's dimensions. Looks thick—will take a lot of time. I wonder what she's sent me now. For there was no guessing from whom the package had been sent: Mina Sille, Lexington, Kentucky.

Mina Sille, a former student whom Wainwright did not remember, had sent him a manuscript earlier that summer. The lengthy short story was about an educator who had experienced numerous transgressions against her by the school's administration. The plot development placed the main character, Emmaline Singer, experiencing a series of events, revealing the worst case scenarios of adult bullying in a professional environment.

Still looking at the package, Wainwright continued to argue with himself, Why me?

But when there was no mental answer, Wainwright's curiosity won the battle, pushing him to open the box. Pulling out the contents, Wainwright read the introductory note.

Dear Professor Wainwright,

I trust you are well, but more importantly, I hope you have had sufficient time to read the first submission, and you are making the necessary connections to ensure its publication. While Emmaline Singer is a work unto itself, you will see a continuation of that work's backdrop in this manuscript. However, this work is somewhat more pertinent to the present—should I say—and the continued existence of mankind.

I was warned not to give you the details how I obtained this work. I was told to send it to you and you 'd know what to do. Also, the note to me stressed highly that I was to inform you not to seek the advice of your partner, Professor Schmidt. Could it be, Professor, you listened to your writing partner and failed to do as you were told concerning Emmaline Singer? I know the answer is yes! For future reference, do not discuss this work with anyone else until you are told to do so—especially Professor Schmidt.

Now Wainwright remembered what his writing partner, Bertie Schmidt, had encouraged him to do when he had mentioned the work to her and the circumstances under which he had received the contents, I don't think you need to get involved, Bradford. Doesn't sound on the up and up to me.

Wainwright set the latest submission from Mina Sille on the end table then paused, trying to remember where he had placed the initial work. Where is that envelope? After a few moments of retracing his movements and steps to find the buried manuscript, Wainwright realized it was in the trunk next to the book shelves.

Searching through stacks of literary, journals, and magazines, Wainwright discovered the work at the bottom under a pile of his own rejected writings. Pulling the envelope from its cache, Wainwright placed the envelope on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I'll reread this one later—then returning his focus to the newest submission from Mina Sille—and see what we have here. When he began to read, Wainwright realized Mina Sille's tone had not changed.

But now to this work—this narrative-you hold in your hands has a contemporary setting with supernatural elements. While concrete elements give it the realism needed for any work during this space-time cycle, the abstract denotes—by its title—what the messenger wants to relate to the audience. The individual chapters are identified in Arabic numbers. I suppose the author wants to present this work as an epic—only modern—written in prose.

The author sent this typed message with the manuscript:

Professor:

While the characters are not representative of anyone known, the plot in which the characters and supernatural message are woven is pertinent for justifiable mention and notice. While man's creation and destruction is debated on a daily basis by millions in all races, religions, and creeds, no one seems to have heeded the warnings in many evidential works and landscapes—spiritual or secular—for millennia. The verse gives Homo sapiens sapiens what the future holds if an evolution of mind and spirit does not occur. Recent acts of terrorism, whether they be secular or otherwise, have not gone unnoticed, and if not stopped—regardless of religious ideologies and what its followers believe or do not believe—will lead to the annihilation of Homo sapiens sapiens without hesitation or remorse. It is obvious to the watchers and guardians the species is very good at worry and talk, but their actions reveal the opposite. The prose segment places the characters in existential situations yet reveals their ignorance of paranormal encounters and what can happen when they make assumptions. The species was placed on the planet as caretakers for all fauna and flora—not destroyers—that role belongs to another entity. Not one sect, religion, creed, or race has the right to overthrow and control others. Consider this work to give—I guess you could say—a final chance.

It is important that you do your part as you have been chosen to do. There is no point to question—you have already done that sufficiently in this lifetime. Now discover through prose and verse what might just be the truth about other dimensions and universes. For things are not exactly the way they appear to be—they never have been.

Wainwright leaned backward in his recliner. What have I gotten myself into—why me of all people? Turning to the next page, he read the last few lines from Mina Sille.

Again, Professor, I urge you to take time and do as you are instructed. It is true that I was skeptical at first, but when I had paranormal existential encounters of my own, I decided it be necessary I contact you. Evidently, as I, you have a role to play in this scenario and, as I, have no choice in the matter.

Mina Sille

Sighing, Wainwright turned the page and saw the author had set the work exactly as he intended with the title being When the Goddess Returns to Eden. The author also wanted to be identified with the nom de plume Nicholas Moon. Subsequent pages were in order of An Invocation to the Muse, prologue, then chapters. A prayer to the Muse? How unique? A different approach—something new by using something from the ancients.

Read, Wainwright's mind encouraged.

With his curiosity elevated, Wainwright turned the page and began to read slowly and intently.

Invocation to the Muse

It timely—timely indeed

I beseech the aid of thee,

For I need speak true

Of what be—of what due.

I come from ancient See

Who knows all

With Eye not glee.

And it be true—

Message I bring

In scroll forsooth;

For all need message

When fire join water

And end be seen.

If not heed message clear

Age not matter

When Cosmic Mother takes her place.

But if I falter in message free,

The Word need come from thee in spree.

Yes, Calliope, I seek thee

To help me tell degree times three,

But if message burden thou eye

And be more than Thou can spy—

Please seek Clio and Melpomene

To weave their tales of history's tragedy.

For thou trey know forsooth

How to spell more than due.

For if message be not heed,

What worry now

Be more than true.

For the tale of woe

Seen by Me

Need be spoken with timely speed.

For space time stir the rue,

When Cosmic Mother's thought shifts

Through hidden face,

Speaking words, Now—time be for Me.

Prologue

The first rays of Hyperion's orb kissed the earth's cheeks, blanketing the sleeping landscape. A soft breeze rippled through the air, caressing the May morning's dew covered grasslands. With his magic brush, Apollo spread his arrows of light across the nearby rolling hills, opening a new day, leaving behind the night's hidden secrets and evil-spirited deeds.

On a knoll, not far from a stand of trees, a newly dug grave lay apart from the adjacent community of interred. If a passer-by listened closely, an interchange of horrific screams, pathetic pleads, and forlorn sobs continued within the confines of an oak box, holding the woman who had been buried alive in the earth's womb just before dawn.

Scratching against the coffin's lid, the female knew no villager would worry about her absence or question her disappearance, for it had been the townspeople who were the designers of her premature burial.

Crying now, pleading to die, the woman remembered the first sound of a faint tapping at her portal. When she failed to acknowledged the mob's beckoning calls, the taps became forceful knocks, followed by bellicose beatings against her door.

Grasping her breasts, the female listened to the obscenities, the jeers, and the accusations, but she waited quietly, pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in front of the fireplace. Her failure to respond to their threats only angered the mob further, heightening its determination to enter the woman's home at any and all costs.

It had not taken long to subdue the woman and drag her from her abode for the miscreants were a collective with each member determined to satiate his or her lust for anyone's death but the human's own.

The female's plight had been effected from a series of misguided thoughts, which gave birth to hateful words, which begat harmful sentences which created catastrophic paragraphs of inquisitorial attacks. Lie after lie after lie fed the villagers' fear and hatred of the woman. What had been her attempts to heal had been rejected as evil, giving the mob a reason to kill without remorse.

Now on Sol's day, with the sun's rays blanketing her grave, the woman realized her pleads had been heard and her release was at hand. With one final exhale, the goddess lifted upward—upward from her clay form—and grasped Apollo's beams, riding his banded rays to be carried through infinite space-time.

1

Maxwell Aaron Christian Hastings leaned over a stack of notes lying atop his office's mahogany desk. What lay before him, he knew, was nothing less than macabre in every sense of the word. Now memories of the crime scene flooded his thoughts. There is no way I saw what I saw. A door had been opened to something so sinister and ominous even now Hastings found the horrific visions too surreal to be justified by any concrete evidence. Whatever the forensic detectives might deduce, he knew there was much more to the story. For the images had elements of a fictional narrative equivalent to paranormal meetings with supernatural forces, alien encounters, or maybe a little of both.

Picking up his almost empty pack of cigarettes, Hastings pulled a stick, set it between his teeth, and grabbed his silver lighter with a gold M engraved onto its surface, igniting the stem's tip without once removing his piercing blue eyes from the writings lying beneath his gaze. He had always been a fan of science fiction, but now, he wondered how the characters in those series—even films would approach this crime scene, for it definitely had alien characteristics.

"Beep-beep. Beep-beep."

Hastings looked at the phone, then pushed a button. Patty, I can't talk to anyone now.

The Eaton County Fiscal Court had allotted moneys to Bell City's council to help the funding of a causeway, connecting the town proper to the county's park and recreation center. Bell City's businesses, especially the diners and specialty shops, needed the park and city connected to encourage local citizens as well as tourists to experience the city's vending hospitality. Addison Haslett, judge executive, intended for his tenure in office to be as progressive as possible not only for the county but also the city.

For years, the lake resorts, amusements parks, and nature trails had attracted tourists from not only the state at large but also surrounding states. After the Eaton County Fiscal Court proposed to build a park and recreation center with a substantial auditorium to offer a variety of activities throughout the year, the response had been overwhelmingly positive. Bell City, Kentucky, was no music capital, but local plays and a few well-known acts had already been drawing cards for a lucrative purse at the door. With the general population's heightened interest and the county's increased revenues, Bell City's councilmen decided to approach the members of the fiscal court, requesting additional funds to help with upcoming projects.

It's Ad Haslett. Patty Parks had not been in a very good mood most of the morning. Her latest trip to the salon had not delivered the results she had been promised. The color and trim had not produced the results she had expected. That morning, observing herself in the mirror while applying lipstick, she said, I'm ruined. Next time, no experimentation on me. It will be my natural color or else.

Frowning, Hastings ran his fingers through his thick, full-cut, black, wavy hair, part of his genetic code from the marriage between his Anglo-Saxon and Cherokee ancestry. He shook his head. Don't have time, maybe later. I'm in the middle of something.

I tried to tell him, Patty volunteered apologetically, but he insisted that he speak to you.

Hastings grimaced, stopping to exhale. Tell him to talk to Ross Jackson.

Acknowledging Hastings's reply, she said, I'll say you're tied up and will get back with him later.

All right. Hastings paused to take a draw from his cigarette. Do I have anything this morning?

You have two—the first is an EPO.

Oh yes—the incident from this weekend.

And the second one is—Patty scanned the appointment book—with Rudd Dewey and Otis Borden.

Okay, right now, I have to finish this paperwork.

All right. I'll tell Ad then warn Ross.

Hastings pressed his torso against the back of his wing-backed, navy swivel chair, setting his gaze on five newly delivered paintings of the artist's mental and visual interpretation of Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, Chief Sitting Bull and Chief Crazy Horse of the Lakota Sioux, and Chief Cochise and Chief Geronimo of the Chiricahua Apache. He verbalized his thoughts, What would you do? You faced foreign adversaries. What would you have done differently to defeat your enemy? For Hastings knew the force facing him and the community crossed dimensional boundaries, connecting with an abstract power beyond any standard investigation could determine. Maybe Bell City has become the modern hunting ground. He continued his gaze. But who or what is it?

With piercing eyes and countenances of fortitude from across space-time, the portraits of the shamans and warriors returned his stare with unrelenting courage and determination.

It's the beginning. But the beginning of what?

Setting his reading glasses atop his forehead, Hastings closed his eyes, letting the previous evening's scenario filter through his visual memory, helping him to relive the mnemonic images to the minutest of details.

Hastings had been in the middle of preparing a case for circuit court, concerning insurance fraud. A local lawyer, Eldon Nolan, had been arrested and indicted for planning scenarios with clients to cause accidents which forced companies to pay millions in damages as a result of the client's dismemberment. At first, Nolan had been successful with his plans of deceit. He had even been able to help clients defraud the welfare system.

But the tables turned against Nolan when he misjudged a client whom he considered to be beneath his own scale of intellectual prowess, cheating the client of his share of the promised settlement, resulting with the client's seeking revenge and volunteering state's evidence.

Hastings and Nolan had been enemies both professionally and personally for most of their legal careers. Nolan had attempted more than once to run against Hastings for Eaton County's District Attorney. Now while reviewing the dossier, Hastings suspected Nolan's criminal activity descended to the depths, and it was only a matter of time before additional crimes surfaced. Nolan, you definitely won't be running against me next year.

The police scanner's mechanical verbalizations had interrupted Hastings's deliberation, blasting enunciations, directing all available state, county, and city law enforcement officers to the park.

Ordinarily, detectives from the Kentucky State Police investigated the crime scene only to submit their findings to the district's Commonwealth and county attorneys. But sometimes, Hastings also visited crime scenes, and last night had been extraordinary, for no verbal forewarning by the sheriff could have prepared him for what lay before his eyes.

The couple was sitting in an old truck. While some investigators searched through the field and brush for projectiles, others talked in hushed tones. Another group formed a barrier around the perimeter.

Hastings looked at the twinkling stars and watched a blinking light as it trekked across the navy sky, only to shift his focus to the moon following its beams over the secluded landscape, eventually directing and leading his eyes to the outside of the truck. A twin-engine plane hummed in the distance. Stopping momentarily, Hastings's auditory senses detected the pilot's flight plan was definitely from south to north.

The second layer of black paint had been chipped off with the remaining sections fading to a dull gray. The back bumper had been ripped from the body with the license plate wired to the bed's release handle. The right front tire was flat with the glass of both headlamps splattered sporadically in front of the vehicle. There were no identifiable unusual footprints around the immediate vicinity, but both side mirrors had been ripped from their sentinel stations and lay about twelve feet away on either side. The front glass was cracked with the rearview mirror twisted to the north-south vertical.

Hastings walked around the truck, stopped momentarily, and returned his focus to the night sky, noting the moon's position. Following its beams across the secluded landscape, he again directed his eyes to the truck—this time to the interior.

The man and woman were sitting in the seat with the doors ajar, focused toward the open field and a line of trees along the bank of Green River. It appeared they had decided to rest between coitus because two empty cans of beer were overturned on the dusty dashboard. Leaning closer to examine the couple's pose, an involuntary groan erupted from Hastings's inner voice. Momentarily, his body froze only to step mechanically backward, not believing his eyes.

What did I tell ya? Ross Jackson stood behind Hastings. Thought I'd let ya see for yourself. He was always in competition with Hastings. 'Cause you'd never would've believed me—not in a million years.

While both cadavers' orbs were set toward the form who had taken their blood and viscera with it, their stretched skin over their skeletal skulls remained frozen in a continuous scream. Fluids and muscle had been withdrawn from their bodies with no visible evidence of removal—cut, bite, or slit.

Hastings noted the lovers' visages in their last moments of recognition. It was obvious the sudden removal of their personalities revealed neither victim had time to pay Charon, the ferryman, for the journey across the River Styx to the remotest corner of Hades or the shores of Roman Elysian Fields.

They're screaming, Sheriff Jackson analyzed, just don't have nothin' to scream with.

Hastings nodded, leaning forward to get a closer look at the deceased faces.

Hey, look at this, Max, Jackson flashed his light across the hood of the truck.

What is it?

See for yourself, Jackson countered, not so much with an arrogant tone as with one of utter disbelief, pointing to the latest clue to the puzzle.

Hastings leaned closer then stepped back, looked at Jackson, then read the inscription silently. It's Latin. He read the lines slowly and carefully, Paulum morati, serius aut citius seden properamus ad unum.

Irritated, Jackson asked, But what does it mean?

"Paulum morati, serius aut citius seden properamus ad unum,—he stood back from the truck and looked Jackson squarely in the eye—means we all must die one day. Hastings noticed a reptilian scale lying at his feet. What's this?"

Ross Jackson looked at the scale. Don't have a clue. Never seen a scale that big before.

Never. Hastings turned it over, measuring it in the palm of his hand. Neither have I.

Jackson shook his head. And from the size of it, whatever it covered has to be pretty big—too big for anything 'round here.

Here, Max, let me see, a man requested from Hastings's right.

He turned toward the source. Hey, old buddy, what're you doing here? Hastings was surprised to see one of his law school alumni at the site. When did you get here?

Just a few moments ago. The man eyed the scale. Could I have a look at that? he asked, motioning toward the vehicle. Carbon monoxide—you think?

Astonished to see an old friend, Hastings replied, Carbon monoxide didn't kill those two, and you know it. He handed the scale over. I didn't know you were in law enforcement now?

Yeah. The man turned the evidence over carefully. I'm with the—

Max, who're you talking to?

Turning toward Jackson, he said, I want you to meet— but when Hastings returned his focus to the investigator, the man had disappeared.

Ross Jackson appeared puzzled. Whom do you want me to meet, Max?

I-I'm talking to—

There's no one there, Max.

You didn't see a man standing there a few moments ago?

You were talking to yourself.

I was talking to an old law school buddy.

There's no one there, Ross Jackson countered then noticed Hastings's empty hands. Where's the scale?

Looking at his empty hands, Hastings replied, I gave it to…he wanted to check…

Max, there was no one there, Jackson replied, exasperated. Hell fire! We need to find that damn scale.

Hastings scanned the investigative party, and for a second, he sensed time had frozen.

For no one appeared to have seen anything out of the ordinary—even their movements had ceased.

Returning to the present, Hastings set his glasses across his nose bridge. What am I missing?

He answered himself, Well, old boy, something is rotten. Hastings shook his head. On the other hand, maybe even… He picked up his notes. Yes, that might be the case. He remembered one of many episodes about aliens visiting earth. A bona fide cosmic visitor. Only this time, they chose a different species other than cattle.

"Beep-beep. Beep-beep."

Yes, Patty?

Your ten-thirty is here. Patty paused. And Ross Jackson called—he'll talk to you later.

Hastings closed the folder, placing it in the lower left drawer of his desk. I'll be right there. Give me a minute. Hastings rose from behind his desk to continue with what he expected to be a busy day.

Located in south-central Kentucky, the citizens of Bell City, the county seat, had always been in competition with Will's Store since the origin of their charters. Initially, Will's Store was larger, so to balance their heightened rivalry, each town was granted certain rights and responsibilities. Two important events during the year were the annual October Festival sponsored by Bell City and the February Fair hosted by Will's Store. The residents in Villa, a small village located in the southern portion of the county, had vied for commercial development but had never been successful with any industrial endeavors.

With the three towns lying along the meandering banks of Green River, the citizens of each community had to worry about the annual spring inundations. This year had been no different with the floods traversing its serpentine banks, carrying everything from prized silt to beer cans to rusty refrigerators.

From its spring origin, the swollen streams fed the main river flow with any and all items of rejection. Today, partial body parts of a known petty drug dealer had been discovered two miles downstream.

Needing to hurry across the street to the courthouse, Hastings waited only momentarily for the oncoming traffic to let him pass.

Laughing and leaning out of his window while honking his horn, Sam White teased, Hey, Max, you're breaking the law.

Acknowledging the greeting, Hastings returned the greeting, Yeah, I know! But what can I do? Still laughing outwardly, Hastings stepped onto the first concrete slab, just off the Main Street thoroughfare.

At the turn of the twentieth century, the main businesses in Bell City were three blacksmith shops, two general stores, a buggy shop, two hotels, and two saloons. A plaque about three quarters of a mile from the city limits informed both north and south bound traffic that John Hunt Morgan and his men had stopped at the Maple Branch Boardinghouse on one of their raiding missions. No one could verify the story, but the plaque posted it as the truth. The most believable story about Morgan's Raiders was their razing a farm owned by northern sympathizers on Station Ridge. Former friends of Morgan had moved to the area after the Civil War had begun. Resenting what he considered betrayal to him and his family, Morgan swept the ridge, killing everything in his path, leaving nothing but scorched earth.

Today, there were two car dealerships, three clothing stores, one antique, gun and pawn shop, an ice cream parlor, a bakery, a cinema, skating rink, and a gaming facility with pinball machines and pool hall. Competitive fast-food chains were located on opposite sides of the bypass. Antonio's Pizzeria was located downtown, while the family owned Luigi's Pasta and Pizza settled at the corner of US 127 and Hwy 2323. At least, four family restaurants with what most people liked to call home cooking were scattered throughout the area with each offering its specialty of culinary delights.

Developers were planning a shopping center to be completed in two years, but the battle between Bell City and Will's Store had caused a stalemate. Recently, the citizens of Bell City proper had followed the same suit as neighboring towns and counties, voting to reinstate liquor sales. The argument to entice restaurants and entertainment for the park and recreation center outweighed the local bootleggers' threats and the clergy's warnings of damnation.

Ross Jackson stood just outside the main entrance of the courthouse, waiting for Hastings. Descending the steps, Jackson approached cautiously, looking around to check for eavesdroppers. There's other bodies and maybe a sighting.

Momentarily shocked, Hastings replied, Like…and you say sighting?

No and yes and maybe. Jackson shifted his gaze toward a row of benches where men were whittling pieces of wood, trading knives, and exchanging their tales for the day. Different location. Milton's Ford, Ven Packard's, and the high school.

What happened at Milton's Ford?

Buster Benton was found by some noodlers—Jackson turned his head from right to left—you know he's been missin'. He looked straight ahead then returned his focus to Hastings. Had been stuffed in a log. Jackson inhaled deeply then upon exhale, he said, Just before they left, Fred Mead decided to check under a particular tree. You know he always goes for one more. Well, his last one for the day was Buster.

Max Hastings turned his head toward the stoplight. The east–west traffic had stopped. Shifting his body's weight from one foot to the other, he asked, How long had he been there?

According to Fred—who is still shaken up, I might add—it's like it was meant for Buster to be found. Somebody knew they'd be fishin' at that particular spot.

Hastings nodded. Really…so he was still identifiable.

Yeah, but his neck was ripped open.

By what! Realizing he had spoken too loudly, Hastings lowered his voice to a whisper. "What do you mean neck ripped open?"

He'd been gnawed on too. Jackson paused to cough a round of phlegm then spat. Body parts.

A mental, visual image flashed in Hastings mind's eye. Body parts?

Yeah. Jackson verified Hastings's thoughts. Dismembered. Fred said once the main torso was out, he didn't go digging for any more.

Hastings shook his head. Let me know if your friend volunteers anything this time.

I will, but Benton's murder may scare her away.

Max Hastings looked across the street toward the Eaton County Bank, noticing that the computerized clock had stopped. The county newspaper, the Messenger Budget, displayed a collage of favorite editorials for the past twenty-five years. And then, the message set in the window of Albert and Ariel Stanley's Drug Store and Soda Shop with a diner almost finished drew Hastings's attention away: Sandwitches Will No Longer Be Served.

"Ariel misspelled sandwich."

What? Jackson was irritated. Hastings seemed to be ignoring him and talking to himself.

"Sandwich, Ariel has sandwitches. Hastings shook his head. Why have they stopped serving sandwiches?"

Had one of their fights. Jackson laughed. Albert didn't buy the right name brand of mayonnaise. Ariel went off. Said if Albert didn't care what the food tasted like she did. And she wasn't using generic anything. The soda shop was filled to capacity. Everyone laughed, including Albert. And let me tell ya, that was not the thing to do. Just fueled Ariel's anger more.

That's where I get my supper. Do you think something else is wrong? Ariel doesn't seem to be herself lately.

I don't know—Jackson shook his head—but look, they've made up…at least for now. Ariel is removing the sign. I knew she wouldn't stay mad very long. She never does. Jackson's tone was almost resentful. He had more than liked Ariel Stanley for a long time.

Lucky me. What about Ven Packard's? What happened there? He's made a lot of enemies.

Jackson lowered his voice, scanning the courthouse's parking lot. It seems there had been a card game, and Ven's hand ended with a bullet through his temple.

Any idea who killed him?

Oh, they've been caught. Jackson observed the three knife traders. Carr Tiers and Pete Mangles.

Hastings was tired, and the heat of the afternoon's sunny and cloudless sky knifed his face. Did they confess?

Nah, still at the scene. I guess you could say Carr and Pete had the same visitor as the loving couple in the park. It seems they were visiting Packard, got into it, then shot him. But upon their escape, our park visitor just happened to be waitin' for them as they were fleein'. Both men were lying flat, shoes on, but like the couple, no blood, no guts. Jackson kicked a pebble from the concrete slab. Oh yeah, and their last utterance had to be a scream.

How's that?

Their mouths were open, set, but they weren't grinnin'.

Any messages?

Eyeing Hastings as he extended a scratch piece of paper. "This was scratched on a shed: omnia mors acquat."

Death levels all things, Hastings interpreted, shuddering. Maybe I was right. He turned his head toward the stoplight. The east-west traffic had started to move. Anything else?

Sheriff Jackson hesitated then handed Hastings a plastic sandwich bag. I found this.

Hastings eyed a large feather.

Just this—are you sure? Hastings inhaled deeply, waiting. No scales.

Jackson's chest swelled. Yeah, only the feather—no scales. He paused. By the way—

No. Hastings answered the question before Jackson had time to finish the sentence. I haven't found the scale. Then he volunteered, I'll call William and ask him what's he found out about the scale.

Ross Jackson stared into the distance, avoiding Hastings's eyes. Max, there was no one there the other night. You must've dropped it.

I know you think I'm losing it—Hastings turned his head—but I tell you, I saw my law school buddy. Again, he shifted his body's weight from one foot to the other. It would appear that we're being baited—would it not?

It would appear that way. He thought about what the scale from the park and the feather from Ven Packard's could really mean. Maybe it's something else entirely. Jackson erupted another round of phlegm from his sinus passages and spat on a patch of the newly mowed grass. But I don't know how long we're gonna be able to keep all this hidden. Haslett wants to know what's goin' on. When he called me, his exact words were ‘Ross, I want details. I've got to be on top of things, ya know.'

He's been trying to talk to me too. Hastings shook his head.

Max, somebody's bound to slip up and talk, or worse yet, start snooping around. But either way, we're gonna have a lot of explaining to do. As I said, right now, Buster Benton and drugs is all the talk. And as far as Ven Packard is concerned—well, people just think it was a poker problem. As for the park, well, I think everything is still contained, but who knows what's next?

What about the high school?

Teenagers were messing around the construction site, intending to steal some copper wiring.

What stopped them?

Well, they saw something strange—they said big, hairy, and with a tail.

I see.

They were scared enough to turn themselves in—still holding the copper wire.

Hastings thought about what the deaths could mean as he returned his focus to Jackson. There may be more to this than I want to admit.

Yeah, me too. But I guess we'll just have to wait and see what the autopsies reveal.

Agreeing, Hastings turned toward Albert Stanley's Drugstore. I need a sandwich before Ariel changes her mind again. Then looking at Jackson, Let me know if your friend volunteers anything. It looks like we're gonna need all the help we can get—from whoever or whatever.

Buzz-buzz, Jackson acknowledged the text.

Well, it would appear things have been taken out of our hands.

What do you mean?

Jackson paused, looking at the feather. The bodies—all of them—have been taken.

Taken. There was an accident in Anderson County. The transport landed in a ditch. The recovery vehicle didn't make it to Frankfort.

I guess we were right all along. There is more to this than we know.

Exasperated, Jackson turned toward the courthouse steps. Yeah, I guess so, but who or what?

With determination, Hastings promised, That I don't know, but I intend to find out.

How?

There's someone I know who might have some answers. I'll let you know what I find out.

If you're talking about your friend from the other night, there was no one there.

Ross, I saw him just as plainly as I see you right now. Maybe it was you who was distracted or something?

No, Max, there was no one there, and that is fact—not fiction, only fact.

I'm still going to contact William. Let me know if anything else happens. I don't think this is the end. Hastings sighed as he considered what they might be facing. Could be the beginning.

Agree. Ross Jackson turned and walked up the concrete steps. A man wearing a dingy, white T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the left sleeve, hugging his shoulder, stood just inside the entrance, coughing. You okay, buddy? Entering the glass doors of the courthouse, Jackson thought, Smokers—walking dead people. That's all they are, walking dead people. He had never smoked a cigarette. And it would take a lot to make him want one. Women were his addiction.

Upon Hastings returned to his office, Patty was typing a letter, I don't want to be disturbed. I have phone calls to make. And I want to be left alone.

As Hastings passed Patty's desk, he said pointedly, I don't want to be disturbed. I have phone calls to make. And I want to be left alone.

2

It was this year's first in-service training for Eaton County High School, and like every other faculty and staff member, Rhea Michaels wanted to be anywhere but there. Thinking about all the chores needing her attention, she thought, Surely, they could figure out a better way. It's summer. I need a break.

Well, old girl, you wanted to be a teacher, now didn't ya?

If I had only known then what I know now—no! Waiting for the meeting to begin, and engaging a mental conversation with herself, Rhea reviewed mnemonically her career encounters with cantankerous administrators, disgruntled parents, and citizens at large. She had experienced numerous set-ups and practical jokes, even three death threats. These experiences ensured Rhea's extrasensory antennae were always ready for unwarranted attacks. Sighing, Rhea scanned the room. I wonder how many new faces there'll be this year? Since she had been at Eaton County High, faculty turnover was the norm, stability and security nonexistent.

Controversy had surrounded Eaton County High School's grounds for the past forty years. While some claimed the land was an ancient Native American campsite, others circulated ghosts stories about disgruntled African American slaves, especially when a series of unexplainable incidents occurred down the east-west corridor and in certain rooms in the old part of the building. Oral historical accounts—later documented by pen and paper then recorder—revealed unsanitary conditions, torture, and even death for many slaves waiting to be returned to the most southern states of the Confederacy.

Remembering her first year and the day-to-day chaos, Rhea sighed. The principal then was Raymond Redcliffe, and if there were not one fight during the day, there were two or more. On one particular fall day,