>THE SAFEHOUSE >1100HRS.../// After giving the sandwiches to Gwen, Laine stepped out of the kitchen, spotting Laurie rousing from his nap. "If you're hungry, you might have to fight her for a sandwich, I just packed lunches for your hike." She removed her shoulder holster, hanging it with the Glock still strapped in on a coat peg. Laine put her hands on her hips, looking over the young park ranger. "You've been quiet, how're you doing?" "Fuck, it's alright. I'll eat but momma always taught me to grab some last if I can. The last bits of chivalry and all." Laurie rubbed his temple with a hand, pulling out his phone with the other to check the time. "I'm alright. I rode here after midnight and thought I'd be all badass pushing it through on no sleep but I guess I'm not as cool as I thought. Still pretty darned cool though. And yourself?" “It’s been a busy morning,” Laine replied, perching at the end of the couch, her seat near the edge. “You slept through the debriefing but I’m sure you’ll get caught up on your hike or what is it that Donnelley called it, a ruck? I’m fine, just...well actually now that I have you here I’d like to talk to you about Ranger Frank Wilkins, he’s the park ranger that found the victim.” Laine crossed her legs, laying her clasped hands on her knee. “So, I’m pretty sure coming from where you come from you understand small town solidarity, how no matter how long a man lives there he’ll always be an outsider if he wasn’t born to it.” She looked at him, his sleep creased cheek and tousled hair then continued, “Well, it’s like that multiplied here in Blackriver apparently. He’s afraid of retribution for talking to the feds. He gave us a lot of useful information and he wants a transfer in return. His higher ups are stonewalling him, not responding to his requests. I was wondering if you had any contacts in the National Park Service that might be able to help.” The Ranger raised both eyebrows as Laine promptly got to what was in her mind, and then his eyes widened. It was a pretty sobering thing she asked, bringing him to his senses faster than a coffee or cold shower could. "Doc I… I'm a nobody," he said, his chin trembling a little. He likewise ultimately had no goodwill to the feds, and if all the black stone shit he had heard of trickling into his ears was right then this fellow really did have some shit to be scared of from his neighbours. "I don't got any pull, I joined up because I like nature and animals and it helps with- well, it's nice and different from the shit I was expected to do." he said, deciding to not elaborate on his condition even if he felt it acting up at the very moment. His fingers curled and uncurled cyclically while his right foot shook restlessly. What could he do for this dude? He really didn't know. But the idea of leaving a brother behind soured his stomach more than the undead or mutilated dead ever could. He didn't want to be at the gates to heaven and have Saint Peter ask him why he let a man die and this had a quite quick effect on him. He stood up, pacing a bit with his fingers instinctually going to his pockets to fetch his Rubik's cube. "I-I hope you didn't make any promises to him Doctor, this could be real damn bad." Laurie stuttered. He looked down at his cube, finding a blue square amongst the otherwise perfect yellow. The man threw the thing, plastic pieces breaking off as it struck a wall and then bounced to the floor. Laurie sat on a chair opposite Heather, running a hand down his face to wipe his forehead in some vain attempt to also wipe his consciousness. "Alright. Alright. Here's what I can do." he started quite tentatively, biting a nail as he stared at the ceiling. "I don't know anybody who could make his higher ups move their asses and transfer him. But, we can arrange a little something else. My bosses were all hardasses or old guys but they know the struggle. If this fella is ready to move to Louisiana or maybe even New England or Utah then we can work something out. He can quit. If they don't take his resignation then tell him to move right away and wait for no pay to come his way then it's all real easy to do. Once he's out of here, I can hook him up with my old bosses and buddies, and he can get rehired for the same or basically the same position. It's the best I can do Doc but it's got to count right?" he asked, both of himself and his counterpart. Laine watched him fidget and pace, the ubiquitous Rubik's cube finally losing its battle against his stress. She stayed quiet as he worked through both moral and logistical dilemna she had set before him. “I promised him I would try my best,” she said, “That’s why I’m coming to you and Donnelley for help. I don’t know but few rangers and not very well, just men and women I’ve crossed paths with during work. But I know this place is hiding something dark, something terrible. Too many secrets and what Frank Wilkes saw, not just the body. He saw something else. He needs a chance to get the hell out of those hills. If you can swing this, that would probably work. I’d like to run it by Donnelley, he had the idea of reaching out to the witness protection program. I am just concerned how do we prove the threat? A gut feeling? That might not be enough.” She fell silent, looking across at Laurie. He was nervous but like Wilkes he would not turn away. Laine glanced at her hands, the dark plum polish gleaming against her pale skin then she glanced back up, meeting his eyes,. “It counts, Laurie. Anything we can do to help him, it counts.” Laurie swallowed nothing, face reddening but then slowly returning to its usual peach shade through Lane's speech. He was grateful the Doctor tried to assuage his fears, nodding in affirmation. "That's good. We're not cops, Doctor." he said, rubbing stubble near his neck. "We're not cowards, most of us anyway, but we just deal with bears and alligators and wolves and maybe drunks that couldn't hit the broad side of Mount Rushmore. We're in it 'cause we're nice dudes that liked helping little limping birds as kids. God gave me balls of steel if I say so myself but not to this guy and I can't imagine what it must be like to be alone as a stranger in a strange land that to top it off wants to kill you. Like I said, I can't do much but what I can I will." Donneley watched the exchange from afar, going unnoticed as he leaned against the kitchen sink, arms folded. He silently looked away for a moment when Laurie threw his cube and he listened to the talk. As much as he didn’t want to bring back Guzman and Chechnya, he knew there was only so much they could do to help Frank Wilkes. You could try to save the whole world, but in the end, it was only [i]a try.[i] “Might work.” Donnelley opened, “Getting rehired, after moving.” “Maybe under a different name?” Laine suggested, looking up at Donnelley, giving him a brief smile. “A new identity to start fresh.” "If he gets enough ID yeah that should work." Laurie chimed in. "To be real though, probably not even necessary. He can crash at the Ranger stations if he needs and folks there usually have guns on them. Besides I doubt local hicks will follow him across state lines for a little payback, but if they do he's in fairly safe hands with the boys." he said, referring to past and present coworkers as a collective. “But if he walks off the job here, it’ll be in the system that he quit and might not be listed as rehirable, unless,” Laine said, then thought for a moment, glancing towards the kitchen. “Unless...if we can’t get him an ID change then maybe Weissman could do a little touching up to his record." If she's the hacker she claimed to be, Laine thought wryly. Donnelley shrugged, “Maybe ask her when she gets back.” Donnelley posited, pushing off the counter and going for a window, sliding it open before pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. “The Drone Team gets back the day Wilkes is supposed to call Laine. He gets us the names of those hikers and I’ll push these fucking mountains out of his way so he can stroll out.” "Could work, definitely." Laurie said. "Might not even be necessary, depends if he's a seasonal worker and a few other things." She clapped her hands together once then smiled at the men, "Sounds like a decent plan. I knew we'd find a way to help." [hr] >CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA >STATE PD STATION >1800HRS.../// Donnelley cut the engine of the Suburban, and stepped out. The State PD’s visitor parking lot was mostly empty and he chose the far corner away from the other vehicles so they’d have some privacy. As Laine was busy with parking the Explorer, Donnelley busied himself with making sure the cigarette he just lit would get smoked. As the pair got out of the Explorer, Donnelley waved them over. “Any questions or concerns before we get started?” Donnelley raised his eyebrows and his eyes went between the three of them before he spoke again, “For Justin’s information, Detective Roy is our only friendly on this case so far. I want to get a hold of David Dulane’s case files and get a visit with him authorized in Beckley. If his story checks out, we can maybe get him out to the mines.” His eyes turned dark, “I’ve got a feeling Blackriver has a history we should know about. If Whitetree is a mining town then somebody at the mines knows the killer because he’s been pulling his bullshit for a while.” Tom had no questions for agent Davidson. He left the OD green tactical trousers on and black marine T-shirt. He didn’t change back into the suit and tie he had on earlier. His more recent mission was canceled at the last moment and he jumped in with Donnelley, Laine and Clark. Laine was still dressed in the monochromatic black she had worn to the park ranger’s office, the blazer in place to mask her gun. She nodded then said, “It might be a family owned business, you know how the hills and small towns are. We can look into it, maybe the library or state records. I wouldn’t trust some wiki article for that information.” Donnelley nodded, “Let’s do that. If they’ve been mining since the Civil War there has to be some books about the operations and superstitions. At some point, I want Dulane.” “He will be our priority, if we can get in and talk to him,” she agreed, “I could probably get in to interview him, just tell them it’s for some training manual I’m building for the Bureau. But to actually get him outside those walls, that’ll be some spook magic.” Laine grinned briefly at Donnelley then glanced up at the late slanted light over the buildings in Charleston. “We should probably get going, where are we meeting Roy?” “Her office. Let’s go.” He nodded inside, flicking his cigarette out into the sidewalk next to the parking lot. He made the walk and held the door open for Laine and Justin. It was almost like last time, though the lobby looked more modern and the State PD receptionist at the front desk looked up from his book to stare at their approach to his desk. “Yes.” He said, looking at the assembled and official looking retinue, before he settled on Laine, the least overtly threatening looking. “Ma’am.” Laine smiled politely, “We’re here to see Detective Roy, she’s expecting us. I’m Dr Heather Laine, FBI.” She opened her credentials, a brief flash of the bold three letters and a stoic ID photo of herself without glasses. “These are my associates, Special Agent Davidson and my student, Cadet Christianson.” “Okay.” The Cop got up from his desk and waved them along with him. They made their way deeper into the station until they reached an office door with a nameplate, ‘Det. Roy, Maryanne.’ The Cop flashed them a brief and tight-lipped smile before brushing past them. Donnelley knocked on the door and heard Roy on the other side, “Yes?” “Davidson and Laine.” Donnelley rose his voice. “Oh, come on in.” Donnelley opened the door to Roy’s office. It was clean from ceiling to floor, everything organized and pictures of her graduation ceremony from the academy and the college she went to were proudly displayed in frames on the wall. “Welcome in, guys.” She got up to shut the door and shook hands with the team before sitting back down at her desk, Donnelley following suit. “How’s the case? Jane Doe still Jane Doe?” Laine smiled a greeting and shook hands and took a seat in front of the desk. At the mention of the victim, her smile faded, “Yes, until we hear back from CJIS. It’s dental records and DNA, I’m hoping we get an ID tomorrow. I spoke with Frank Wilkins earlier today, you spoke to him at the scene? How did he seem to you?” “Real damn shook.” Roy frowned and nodded, “But he’s a Ranger, not a cop… per se. He’s not used to this, I could tell. You interviewed him?” “Yes, he was certainly shaken up by the body but I know seasoned agents that would have been, I’ve been at quite a few murder scenes and this was the worst,” Laine said, “And I specialize in serial murder, so...yes, he was disturbed by it all but he’s also scared. He basically told us what you did about Blackriver. About the sheriff being on ‘vacation’ when the Park Rangers tried to report lost hikers. About the superstitions and rumors about the mines, about David Dulane. Are you familiar with him?” Roy nodded slow. Donnelley wasn’t surprised Roy would know about Dulane. It was a pretty big case for Blackriver. Maybe the only one that ever made it out. Roy sighed, “Yeah.” She responded to Laine, “Dulane was the weirdest case. He’s a nut. What about him though?” Laine crossed her legs, resting her hand on her knee, “Wilkins mentioned him, what’s he in prison for?” “The murder of eighteen men using blasting charges to collapse a mine tunnel on top of them. He also endangered a lot more because the payload he used could’ve collapsed a few more.” Roy shook her head, “He confessed. He swore until the end he wasn’t crazy while at the same time spouting some bullshit about the devil. You visited the mines yet?” She asked, before continuing, “The big mining companies moved in right before 2010 but they still employ the locals. Their breathing equipment is shit.” She shrugged, “Thin air. Makes a guy go crazy. He freaks out, blows a tunnel up. Mine security handed him over to the Sheriff’s boys and we pulled him out of Blackriver. Beckley ever since.” “He sounds like he should be in a mental care facility,” Laine commented dryly then sighed, “I don’t suppose that was ever an option. We haven’t visited the mines yet, but we are interested in them. Do you know who used to own it before the big companies bought it out?” “MacOnies. Old money around Appalachia. Vera Corp moves in and gives them a shitload of new money.” Roy said. “Back in Dulane’s mining days, the Sheriff? Guess what his last name is.” “MacOnie. I remember, odd name to my ears. So this family, did they just sell the mineral rights to the mines or all the land? Do they have any residences near the park?” Laine took out her trusty notepad, clicking the pen to make a note. “All of it, except for the land they owned personally for the family. They owned a big manor up in the hills but they’re reclused up there. They opened up the town way back when they opened up the mines, real old family.” Roy shrugged, “Nowadays the MacOnies have moved away to the four corners of the States and left Whitetree and Blackriver. The old Sheriff MacOnie is pretty much the only one left in Blackriver.” "Is he? Because it seems like he's vacationing when anyone outside the county needs to speak with him," Laine commented then glanced at Donnelley before looking back at Detective Roy. "So old money, old power. Has there been any conflict with the Vera Corp employees and locals?" “Mines have a history of conflict. 1800s, the O’dhoules moved in and tried to muscle in on the minerals and set up moonshine distilleries to boot.” Roy narrowed her eyes, shifting to a corner in the ceiling, “Things were more cutthroat back then, you know? O’dhoules were pushed out when their homestead was burned down and their patriarch got kidnapped. Never found him, is the story. Ever since then, Whitetree’s been locals only.” “In the sixties, the MacOnies tried to expand their operations so they could open some mines in Kentucky. They hired some out of town people to be brought into Blackriver. Big riot. Some miners died and took security with them.” Roy sighed, shaking her head as she returned her eyes to Laine, “Nothing about Vera Corp, though. They keep a tight operation in their mines and they’re always on time when the ecological reports to the Governor are due. I can put you in touch with the Vera Corp suit they have organizing everything in Blackriver.” “It’s almost the end of my shift. I gotta get home to my mister and the kids, so…” Roy shrugged apologetically, “I’ll set some time away for you folks, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything, alright?” “Sure thing, Detective.” Donnelley smiled, getting up as Roy did and shaking her hand again. “When can we see you again?” “Next couple days, I’ll call you.” Roy smiled before checking her watch. “Anything last minute? Questions?” Laine noted the names and dates, then looked at Roy, "You've been looking into that place, we appreciate the information and I'll probably have another dozen questions next time. But just one thing, is there anything you've come across in your time about...I don't know like Indian superstition, ghosts or bad spirits stories. Maybe witchcraft. Something like that." Laine stood up, her hand resting on the back of the chair, "I know it seems silly but sometimes those old stories mask uncomfortable truths." Roy smiled a bit, “Looking to set up dream catchers on the roads? Put out an APB on females on flying broomsticks?” Roy shook her head, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve heard a few things about Blackriver, but I don’t put too much stock in that.” Roy grabbed her coat from her rack, slipping it on and adjusting it on her shoulders, “Check out the library. Oh, shit! Forrest said you’d want some of our case files when you came around.” She bent down and dropped a stack of Manila envelopes on her desk. “I was reading them myself when I got them, passing time. I grabbed anything interesting about Blackriver, whatever little we have,” she glanced knowingly at Donnelley and Laine, “Feds came through in the sixties and went to Mercy, Whitetree’s sister town. Pretty tight-lipped about everything they were doing up there. Weird folk too, IRS guy named Clyde Baughman was the lead. Him and his guys came in all rush and hush, left the same way. All we got out of it back then was reports of gunfire in the woods from the Sheriff department and nothing else.” “Anyways, I’ll be seeing y’all ‘round.” She brushed past them and left the three in her office. Donnelley stood and his eyes wouldn’t leave the stack of Manila folders. “Baughman.” He said, quiet. He grasped up the stack of folders, tucked it under his arm and left for the car. "The case files, of course," Laine said, mentally face palming herself getting wrapped up in ghost stories. "Thank you Detective Roy, we appreciate your help.” She paused at the name, Baughman, the sudden memory of his undead wife and her iron grip hit her. Laine swallowed hard then cleared her throat, coughing a little into her fist. “Excuse me.” [hr] >CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA >PUBLIC LIBRARY.../// The three of them again stood around the Suburban, idly smoking. Donnelley had been quiet for the duration of the short jaunt to the library. He hadn’t opened the case files yet, but his mind was busy wondering just what Baughman had been doing in Mercy with his team. The sixties were a bad time for Delta Green, and it must have been bad for them to be activated Stateside under the eye of the government. “Baughman.” He thought out loud as he raised his hand to take a drag from his cigarette. “That fucking name.” Laine was watching street lights coming on in the gloaming, the sky starting to change from blue to indigo in the slow summer style of stretching out the evening. Her face was turned from Donnelley, her hand tucked into the blazer pockets and she felt the hard edge of the box of Djarums. It was half full and she figured at this rate she’d smoke them down before the team was back from the hills. Giving in, she pulled one out and lit it, still staying quiet. The black cigarette balanced between two slender pale fingers, burning fragrant smoke as Laine smoked silently before finally she turned her eyes to Donnelley, “Baughman. Now I’m very curious as to why he kept a cabin in this area and what he learned..to you know.” Laine made a motion to her throat, not wanting to speak out loud the horror of the septic tank that had been Mrs Baughman, not out loud in the peaceful summer evening in a public parking lot. She pursed her lips, the cloves smoldering as she sucked on it, drawing the numbing smoke down her throat and into her lungs. “We should probably go through his things a little more, knowing what we know now.” “Probably.” Donnelley nodded. He flicked ash from the top of his cigarette, bringing it to his lips again, “Gunfire from the forests. Tom’s out there with the others now.” His eyes lingered on the growing darkness of the sky. Whatever was in those hills, maybe Clyde Baughman and his team didn’t finish the job. The hills in the distance seemed to loom. The longer he stared, he almost saw the tops of them slowly writhe like heat ripples until he rubbed at his eyes. Looking back at them, they stood still. Like they were supposed to. “Let’s go inside.” “He’s a Marine and an agent, they should be fine,” Laine said, sounding more positive than she felt. Her gaze fell on Justin, maybe he should have gone with them, he was a Ranger and not the Smokey the Bear kind like Laurie. “But we should contact Tom and let him know about what went on there in the Sixties. Probably locals with shotguns sitting on their porches but...” Wilkins terrified face and his description of the voice that lead him to the body [i] Come and see.[/i] “We don’t want to take chances,” she finished and snuffed out her cigarette in the concrete ashtray to the side of the steps. Laine pushed up her glasses, “Let’s do this.” “Mrh.” Justin grunted. “Shoulda’ fuckin’ gone with ‘em.” Justin mused, his own Pall Mall cigarette between two fingers. He was a door kicker, a fucking skull-cracker. But all the security helped, he figured. He idly brushed a hand over his SIG in its in-waistband concealed holster. He wasn’t used to it, never needed a CCW in the Army. Donnelley watched Laine go, a cloud of cigarette smoke idly drifting out of his open mouth before he blew it all out. He turned to Justin, “Trust me, I wanted myself out there too. After that fool in the car watchin’ us the first time we came to Charleston? Remember?” Donnelley took another drag, “Ain’t takin’ chances.” Donnelley decided to switch subjects. The prospect of sending the three of them in the forest out to their deaths was not a nice one for him, “How’s the Ranger Batts these days?” “Got us working our asses off with the whole ‘rapid-deployment’ shit. Runnin’ us like dogs and then we’re expected to be wheels up within 18 hours of a shot bein’ fired.” Justin spat. “Plus, mentioned the whole buttfuckery with my chain of command earlier.” Donnelley huffed a chuckle, blowing smoke out with it, “That, Staff Sarn’t, is an omnipresent source of bitchin’. Did my fair share of it everywhere I went in the Army. Whether it was Infantry, the Batts, the ODAs.” He shook his head, “My Captain in my ODA was a gloryhound fuckhead. When that Spook from Langley came around blowin’ smoke that he was Army Intelligence, Captain America basically HAHO jumped on his dick and told ‘em we’d follow where he went.” “And, boy, did we ever. Illegally crossin’ into Pakistan and dropping the wrath of God onto a little village in the FATA. Twice.” Donnelley chuckled ruefully, “We couldn’t tell if the mission was successful or a bust. We got back, weren’t even debriefed and Langley shook Captain America’s hand before hoppin’ on the first helo home.” “Afghanistan was fuckin’ [i]weird.[/i]” Donnelley took another drag. “God-damn.” Justin enunciated. “As much as I respect and adore the Berets, no fuckin’ way I’d get into that shit. Throw me into five compound raids a night, fine. But the second they pull that shit, no chance.” “Army Intel never bothered with us. Langley only once, and we were stateside. Figure you already read about that, whether it was the version with black ink or not, I ‘unno. Got me into a whole bunch of permanent contracts to never talk if I wanted to keep my stripes. Figure if I did talk, my only view would be the inside of Leavenworth.” “Langley didn’t even bother with the contract. Nobody’d believe our crazy asses anyways, what bullshit we saw.” Donnelley’s smile was present, though his eyes grew distant and the smile vacant before he shook his head and took another drag, “I can’t take personal responsibility for that shit you’re talkin’ ‘bout now. Guess I couldn’t if I was, anyways.” He winked. “Stateside Operations.” Donnelley shook his head, “This’n’s my first. West Virginia’s starting to get about as weird as Afghanistan.” He clucked his tongue, taking another drag, “Guess they both got mountains in ‘em.” “Found a lotta’ goddamn similarities over there. Eerie as fuck, those Pashtuns are the fuckin’ extreme but they’re pretty fuckin’ close to these people. Can’t say I saw a squad of SEALs [i]exsanguinated[/i] in the hills of West Virginia, though. N’ definitely none a’ those ‘slabs’, or whatever it was you n’ Tom were goin’ on about last time.” Justin explained. “Count yourself [i]real fuckin’ lucky[/i], son. Not that what you saw made you just peachy. Shit out there’s coming over here. You hear it from Laine yet?” He asked, grimacing with the knowledge, “Fuckin’ slab out in Olympic National Park. Now we got some [i]sick sum’bitch[/i] out here skinnin’ folk like it’s people season.” “Well, guess it’s our fuckin’ job to sort this shit out now.” Justin tossed the burnt out cigarette butt to the ground, treading on it with his boot. “Livin’ the dream, brother.” Donnelley flicked his burnt end somewhere beyond sight in the growing darkness of Charleston. [hr] The library was small compared to the one she had been used to visit as a kid in LA and at the university, even at Quantico but it had an extensive section of local West Virginia history and folklore. Laine made herself comfortable between two stacks of potential books, based on their description in the digital card catalogue. She thumbed through the indexes, looking for certain keywords. Blackriver. Mines. Native. Devils. Murder. Disappearances. She put a book about the mine riots aside and another on Shawnee myths, the tribe that was one local in the area of Blackriver as far back as the 17th century and beyond. Laine thumbed through another, [i]Ghost Stories and Campfire Myths of West Virginia[/i], it was less than scholarly but expanded on one of the legends mentioned about evil wind spirits. A fringe group of Shawnee, a cult most likely and she recalled from her anthropology classes that those were not uncommon among native tribes. The most famous being the Ghost Dancers, the last stand of resistance from the plains tribes. This particular one seemed a bit more sinister than desperate, mentioning a darker version of the Shawnee Cyclone Man, a nature spirit or god. She put the book into the pile, then picked up a tattered old book with frayed cloth wrapped hard back. The smell of the yellowed pages and the crackle told her it had been wedged in the shelves for awhile. [i]Backwoods Witchcraft of Appalachia[/i]. It was no Wiccan how to bless this mess or find a job, it was old and written by some local scholar in the 1930s and had only been published once. The first chapter was headed by a plate illustration of a woodcut, a black ink crude image of a goat on two legs and trees around it. A typical depiction of Satan, Baphomet maybe, but it was not quite the classic image. Laine flipped the page until she came across another plate titled [i]Lord of the Woods[/i] and she continued to another chapter, about Skin Walkers. She was familiar with those from the Navajo myths but apparently it was not localized. Dr Laine lost track of time, skimming the old book until she turned to a later chapter, this about a chief grieving his wife and trying to call her spirit back. Her blood ran cold and she felt the prickling goosebumps rising on her arms. Laine shut the book and got up, gathering the books together to check out. Donnelley turned his head at the sound of the doors opening and the click-clacks of Laine’s heels. He had busied himself with smoking and staring out at the hills before Laine was with him and Justin. “Found some good stuff?” Her arms were full of books, the top one the old frayed covered book and she met his gaze, “I am now the proud owner of a Charleston City Public Library card. And yes, there’s some stuff I need to show you, we should get back, the sooner the better. Was there anything else you needed to do here?” “I’d say drink, but,” He frowned, hands longing for his flask left in the Suburban, “I’ve got my own back at the house.” “I know you must have a stash, so you’ll probably need to break it out. Just don’t overindulge when we have Tom and the kids out camping,” Laine said, then glanced down at the books. “I know I’ll need a shot or two. We can divide these up and read, I’ll make dinner.” “Those reel to reel tapes, I want to try to find a way to view them tonight.” Laine suddenly pushed the books into Donnelley’s arms, “Hold on, I might be able to solve that.” Even in the four inch heels she ran up the stairs and walked quickly back into the library. When she came back, about ten minutes later, she was cradling a large box with a latched lid. The librarian was helping her with the cord and explaining how to set it up. “Are you sure you’ll have it back soon, Special Agent Laine? It isn’t really in the policy to lend this machine out,” the librarian, an older woman dressed in a long dress, stick thin with gray streaked hair pulled back in a braid spoke with concern. “We need it for our weekend showing of old local student films. Apparently it’s very popular among the young people, especially those with nice boys with the funny curly mustaches. They always bring the best coffee. Oh, don’t forget to change the reel before it runs out, it stresses the tape if it gets pulled taut. And you said you’d bring it back after the holiday, yes?” “Yes, thanks Mrs Clark, I promise I’ll have it back and you have the gratitude of the Bureau,” Laine assured her and nodded at the pair of men waiting. “They’re with me, they can take it from here.” She gestured at Justin to grab the heavy box that contained the reel to reel projector from her hands. Mrs Clark looked at both men, her gaze lingering on the burn scar on Donnelley’s face and his cigarette then she smiled tightly, “Well, as long as it is to help our country, right? It’s the patriotic time of year after all. Enjoy.” Reluctantly the woman relinquished the cords to them and went back into the library. Laine gave Donnelley a triumphant grin before unlocking the Explorer. [hr] >ROAD TO THE SAFEHOUSE >BLACKRIVER COUNTY.../// BANTER TIME Laine drove the Ford Explorer with Justin next to her, no doubt for security but she liked his quiet thoughtful presence. Unsure of his music taste, she set her phone in the holder and pulled up Donnelley’s contact information. They had just passed the city limits and she lead the way, letting Donnelley protect the rear. It felt strange, she certainly was not used to having to look over her shoulder despite the particular nature of the people she studied. The information from Roy and the books in the back that waited to be read and pieced with the mystery of what Wilkins had told her and Jane Doe, in her own way, had told them. It was dark and strange but fascinating, and she dwelled on what might be on those old reels of film from Baughman’s cabin. She gripped the steering wheel and wanted to get her mind off the racing ideas in her mind so she hit the call button, then the speaker. “Hey, when are we going to race?” she asked when he answered, trying to keep her voice light and fight back the darkness. “Next quarter mile, I’ll take you.” “Oh, don’t you tempt me now.” Donnelley chuckled after Laine’s call cut off Black Flag’s Rise Above. “Last thing we need’s a fuckin’ Deputy of all stupid fucks pullin’ us over. She laughed, “Just flash our badges, it’s a federal emergency that I beat the pants off Agent Davidson.” Glancing at Justin, she raised her eyebrows and gave him a sly grin, “What’s the fun in being a [i]cop[/i] if we can’t get out of speeding tickets.” “Joking, of course,” she called out, before the temptation became too great and her foot pressed the pedal, speeding up just a little, staying about five miles over the limit. Justin grinned, slouching back in the passenger seat beside Laine, munching on a Hershey bar, considering he didn’t have breakfast, and who says that chocolate isn’t a good substitute for a well-balanced meal? “Better slow down,” Donnelley chuckled as the Explorer shrunk farther ahead of him for just a moment, “You might scare our Ranger. Can we make a deal?” He asked, before speaking out again, “No talk about the case at dinner? I don’t want to have my whiskey soured by this shit.” He frowned and nodded appreciatively, “Huh. Whiskey sours. We should pick some ingredients up next time we’re in town.” Justin retorted. “Takes a fuckin’ lot to throw me off.” He chuckled. “Try bein’ in the turret of a humvee goin’ sixty-plus down some shitty Afghani road. Surprised I fuckin’ survived that shit.” He mused. He turned to Laine. “You know those fuckin’ humvees are death traps? There’s like a fuckton of soldiers die every year when those things roll over.” He transitioned topics faster than a crack-addict. “N’ I second that, no case talk at dinner.” “Well I’m cooking so I’ll agree, I don’t want you put off because of case talk,” Laine said, then laughed at the image of Justin bouncing around behind a machine gun like a ragdoll. “Good thing we’re not in a humvee and you have me driving. And that sounds good, I like a whiskey sour. Next time, to celebrate the return of our campers, we’ll load up.” She steered around a slow moving pick up truck, changing lanes with quickly and glanced back in the rear view mirror, “Don’t fall behind, Donnelley. I know you probably learned to drive in a hay baling truck.” “‘Least the- holy shit-“ He swerved past the truck and swerved back into his own lane, the truck’s horn blaring at him as he laughed maniacally. He’d be lying if he didn’t take a couple pulls from his flask, “Least the first car I ever owned wasn’t a pink electric Barbie Jeep, valley girl. And for your information, first thing I ever rode in was the saddle on my uncle’s farm with the reins in my fist. Genuine cowboy.” “Excuse me, Barbie Jeep? It was the Ferrari, thank you very much,” Laine scoffed and glanced at Justin, raising her brow in a silent request, a wicked twinkle in her green eyes. Then said quietly, “Hold on.” She floored it, the Explorer roaring past seventy then eighty and the Suburban dropped back as she took the sharp mountain road turn, letting the rear wheel drive truck drift around it. Laine tensed, feeling the weight shift in the SUV and then corrected before it could decide to tip and roll, a squeal and smoke from the tires as she tore down the straight away. “Catch this [i]valley girl[/i], cowboy!” “Christ almighty!” Justin called out, grinning as he held onto one of the cab handles, clutching the half-eaten candy bar in the other hand. Donnelley shook his head as he watched the Ford Explorer careen down the road, taking the turn sharp and throwing up a trail of smoke. His shit-eating grin would go unnoticed by them, but they could hear it in his voice when he spoke, “Goddamn, Valley Girl.” His Suburban was never going to make that turn at a high speed. He didn’t even bother chancing it, so while they tore down the road, he ambled back to the Safehouse in comparison. All in all, they made good time, cutting the hour long drive down to forty or so minutes. “Wow! Heather, are you trying to be the next Richard Petty?” Tom was a bit shaken by her driving, but he’d done worse, so it wasn’t that bad. Laine laughed, getting out of the Explorer, "Who is that? The singer?" She grinned at Tom with a little raise of her brow in mock ignorance, remembering his classic rock tastes then said, "I was establishing dominance, no one calls me valley girl. Besides it's the only way to beat traffic." “OK, you got here safe,” Tom smiled. “Well done.” [hr] Donnelley, Tom, Laine, and Justin set themselves to lounging for a bit in the Safehouse. Foster was undoubtedly in the garage on his computer and it was otherwise quiet in the house until Laine set herself to cooking. Donnelley was already on his first two fingers of Jim Beam as he smoked outside, rocking back and forth in his chair. The night was quiet, warm enough to not need a blanket or any other such covering. Nights like this reminded him of West Texas, and in some sort of commemoration he opted to feel the night air on his shirtless skin, his faded tattoos gotten in garages standing out on his slender torso. West Texas. Except a little more trees. Somewhere off in the tree line an owl hooted every so often, heard above the soft breezes through the branches. In all the quiet, his thoughts meandered from the Drone Team and to that scared kid named Frank Wilkins, to Clyde Baughman. Whatever Baughman’s team found in the woods near Mercy, he wondered if it still plagued the hills here. A quiet evil that stalked between the trees and preyed on men. He wondered if whatever Clyde Baughman had come to put down had gotten that Jane Doe. If the Devil in the mines was roused again from its prison. Movement? No. Something in the shadows that stood still through the swaying of leaves and branches. Something [i]tall.[/i] From the porch, it could’ve been the trunk of a tree with how it put a hole in the shadows like a tear in reality’s fabric. Like a sliver of the nothingness between stars. He gripped his handgun and stood, walked to the edge of the porch with his cigarette between his teeth. He leaned forward. What was it? He blinked and stared harder. Only a tree. Only a tree, only a tree, only a tree. He rubbed at his face and spat off the porch, swearing under his breath and with a need to be back inside. He threw open the door, flicked his cigarette off the porch and strolled inside. “What’s for dinner?” He asked, the shirt in his fist before he placed his handgun on the island table in the kitchen and slipped it back on. The triumph of her race to the cabin kept Laine buoyant as she took raised her hand in victory watching Donnelley pull in then went into the cabin to change. Her feet ached from her stilettos and she called back to Justin, "Do you mind unloading the stuff from the library? And I hope you're hungry, you missed the breakfast I made." Once she changed out of the business suit she was dressed casually in a dark charcoal pair of yoga pants and a white tank top, a pair of fuzzy socks on her feet that let her slide across the polished wood floor. Her own black ink tattoos covered her upper arms, beautiful shaded art work of macabre skulls and spiders intertwined with roses and leafy vines on one shoulder and the moon and ocean landscape on the other. One her back was an esoteric geometric abstract design that peeked out from the tank top. She slid playfully over to the refrigerator, taking out the two pounds of lean ground meat and placed it in the counter then gathered vegetables from the crisper. Onions, zucchini, garlic, red bell peppers, tomatoes went onto the cutting board. When the door opened, she glanced over then paused catching herself staring at Donnelley. She looked from his lean torso as he pulled his shirt on then flickered to the gun. His face, however, was hard to read but stress was there and of course it was with half his people up some haunted mountain. Laine stood by the large pot of water starting to boil. "Spaghetti Bolognese, I figured everyone likes spaghetti so it's a safe bet plus I can make a ton and leftovers are great." She padded over a few steps, eyeing him then the gun, "Nice ink. Everything alright?" “Clyde Baughman brought guns into Blackriver,” Donnelley smirked, “I’m keeping mine close. But, no, everything’s fine. You spend your life in warzones and you develop some habits.” He shrugged, “Chainsmoking, carrying, and cussing.” Laine nodded, there was no argument there. "Right, well I'm not going to cook strapped. Besides, if I run into trouble..." She picked up the large chef's knife, honed and bright from being new and slammed the blade through a red onion, halving it. "Trouble better beware," she said, keeping her tone light. No case talk during the preparation of dinner either. "Those tattoos, they look pretty ancient," Laine commented, glancing his way as she started slicing zucchini, "I mean...I just caught a glimpse, you know. Some DIY?" Laine turned away, suddenly feeling self conscious and stirred the browning ground beef the scent of onions and garlic along with it. Mushrooms would need to go in soon and the peppers, she made a mental note. “[i]A lot[/i] DIY.” Donnelley chuckled, “Bought my own tattoo needles and some ink way back when I was younger. Too bad I couldn’t buy artistic talent, but I think I did pretty well after some practice.” He gestured to Laine, “You got some too.” She looked over at him, shaking her head with a crooked grin, "I hope you didn't write anything backwards from looking in the mirror and yes, hundreds of dollars of paid for ink and talent. I figured if it's permanent I want it to be some art worthy of making a lampshade out of after I'm gone." Laine offered her free arm for him to inspect, the moon tattooed in great detail above a beach, surrounded by swirling clouds. "Several sessions each, my back is the most recent. Something different, I was going for more stark contrast rather than nuanced shading." She glanced at him, a smile quirking her lips, "I've got more, they're just hidden." Laine went back to cooking and tossed in sliced mushrooms to what would be the meat sauce. Donnelley returned her coy smile with one of his own. There was a silence that grew between them and the sizzling of the cooking. “What about you, Justin? Got some ink ‘sides your arm?” When the group returned to the safehouse, Tom went upstairs to get the parachute. He figured he could rig it outside in the field. He laid the thing out end to end insuring none of the parachute cords were crossed. He paid special attention to insure the chute itself were as straight as possible. Someone’s life, possibly his own would depend on packing this accurately. He also insured no foreign debris was mixed into the chute or the strings. He hadn’t rigged a chute with brake lines before, but made sure they were on top. He made sure the drag lines were straight. Wouldn’t want any twists in them as well. In order to straighten out all the lines, he had to fold the chute over itself a few times passing it between the lines each time. Once all the lines were straight, no longer twisted, he then pulled all the slack out and put them over his right shoulder facing the parachute. He worked all the lines to the outside leaving the tail against his body. He took great care to make sure there were no twists in the silk. The chute was divided into nine cells. He separated them all so they were not mixed with the others. He tucked cell one behind the left side of his body. Then wrapped each cell one by one around the side until all nine cells were wrapped around the left side of his body. These nine cells were then tucked between his legs. He grabbed the other side of the chute. He then separated the lines and slowly worked the parachute back to the pack. He finished the job and packed the parachute. Once the parachute was packed in the bag, he then systematically stowed the lines back and forth so they could spill our in the proper manner when the next person used the parachute. With the parachute packed, he returned to the house and stored it in the closet in this room. Before leaving the room, he grabbed a few more cigars and a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. He grabbed a glass from the kitchen where Donnelley and Laine were having a discussion about something. He didn’t listen. He was lost in thought, thinking about his wife back home. He would pour a glass of whiskey, grab a cigar and head outside to smoke and drink. He would then pull out his phone and give her a call. [hr] “How the fuck did I end up doing this again?” Donnelley had his hands on his hips as he surveyed the recently empty sink and the cleaned dishes he’d done for the second time today. He reached over and grabbed up his glass of cheap wine, taking a gulp of it and appreciating his work. He turned around to see Justin and Tom setting up the projector while Laine watched, sipping away at her wine. He sided up with her, “Wine was a good choice. What is this, Merlot?” He made a show of swirling the wine and sticking his nose in the glass to sniff at it, “Great vintage.” “Jill enjoys a warm glass of merlot,” Tom added. “I prefer Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio; bitter or pale, rather than sweet. I’ve seen too many that have a sweet flavor to them. Can’t stand that.” “Donnelley, I can do those dishes if you like? You don’t have to do them every meal,” Tom volunteered for the job. “Or do you just like to complain about it?” Tom added with a smile. “It’s a sense of normalcy thing. Some people fantasize about traveling the world, some people fantasize about doing dishes and going to bed late.” Donnelley shrugged, giving Tom his own smirk, “And I like to complain about it.” "It's Cabernet Sauvignon actually, I'm not a fan of Merlot, too dry mostly," Laine replied then grinned, "Yeah it's a 2008 vintage. Thanks for washing up, again." “It’s not bad. I’ll drink it.” Tom responded to Dr. Laine. He looked at Justin, “Hey Clark, how’s that projector coming?” “I was told I’d be a good House Husband.” Donnelley rose his glass to Laine, “One of my many talents.” She raised her glass in return, "To your second career one day. May you find the perfect vacuum cleaner." Laine chuckled and drank some of the cheap but tasty wine. She felt the growing anxiousness at watching the reels they had found at Baughman's cabin, part of her hoping it was old family movies rather than another clue to the horror unfolding in the hills. But the FBI agent in her wanted to see, the deep need to witness what he had left for someone to one day view. Not just anyone but them, a working group for Delta Green. She sat in the middle of the couch, her glass between her knees and centered on the white sheet pinned on the wall as a makeshift screen.. Finally, Justin had installed the earliest dated reel into the projector. Donnelley closed his eyes and sighed, downing the rest of his Cabernet and tucking the cigarette he’d had behind his ear between his lips. “I’m not going to lie. There’s a reason he hid these and we’re going to find out what that is. It might not be good dinner conversation.” He walked over to the projector, placing his hand on it in order to start it but pausing before he did, “Any objections to seeing this?” He asked, when no one spoke up, he nodded. “Good.” The projector was flipped on and he lit his cigarette, looking back up after. It was soundless, of course, but on the screen there was something normal going on. Men and women dressed normally, standing around and shaking hands, making conversation with drinks in their hands. It continued on for the next few minutes, showing the socialization of what could’ve been an average yacht club in some empty ballroom. Donnelley leaned in closer and his brow furrowed. The screen went black, darkening the entirety of the house for a few moments before the screen showed more after the transition. The people they’d been watching socialize like normal suburb families were now dressed in felt robes of black. The camera panned while they passed a dagger around the congregation. Donnelley stood, but the old camera the filmmaker had been using didn’t have the best resolution. The dagger appeared to be of the same material as the black shard, but he just couldn’t tell for sure. Something in him told him it was. Something in him hoped like hell it wasn’t. As the dagger was passed around, each man or woman tenderly laid their lips on it in a kiss before passing it on. Finally, the dagger changed hands over to a man with a mask fashioned to look almost like a nest of serpents. He rose the dagger and the people in robes exploded in ecstasy, screaming and writhing, their hands held up to the ceiling in a maddening dance. Donnelley couldn’t hear their screaming and wailing, but the sounds of Pakistan filtered back to his ears anew and he breathed, “Fuck.” Stepping to the back of the room, rubbing his face and looking back to the makeshift screen. They were dancing and screaming still. The man in the serpent mask walked to the other end of the room, the camera panning with him to reveal a small bundle of sheets topped with what looked to be a real black goat’s head. What looked like drips on the white bundle of sheets told the team that it was not taxidermied. The man in the serpent mask grasped one of the horns of the goat head and lifted it away from the sheets to reveal a girl staring out with sunken eyes. He recognized them, his little Tilly. The masked man raised the black dagger and Donnelley rushed to shut off the tape, the projector turning off. He stepped away from the projector, his steps stumbling as he turned away and slammed the front door behind him. Laine watched, sitting forward, her teeth clenched but determined not to look away as the flickering silent images became more disturbing. This was important, she had to see. To witness. [I]Come and see[/I] The dagger held her attention, the deep black so dark it looked like a hole in the film except it wasn't, it was real and deadly and the child. Laine gasped, her wine tipping and crashing to the floor, splinters of glass and red fluid slid across the wood. It was Colin, her nephew, the older of her brother's children. He stared back at her, huge dark eyes full of fear and she gasped a strangled scream just as Donnelley shut the projector off. "No...fuck no," she murmured and curled in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest. "How the hell..." It wasn't real, it was a trick. A trick of her mind, putting someone she loved in place of the blurred image of a child. She saw Donnelley take off and she jumped up, ignoring the sharp pain of a piece of glass embedding itself through her fuzzy socks and into her foot. Laine limped after him, leaving small blood smears to mark her progress to the door and out onto the deck, the door slamming behind her. Tom stared at the white sheet. He looked into the girls’ eyes and saw someone he knew. She was the spitting image of his mother. Her curly black hair and blue eyes were unmistaken. Meghan was his playmate for ten years of his life. He loved Meghan. She was his sister and his best friend. His eyes welled up with tears upon recognizing Meghan. ‘This was made in the 1960s. It couldn’t be her. She died in 1996. “What sort of sorcery is this horse shit!?” Justin sat there on the couch, likely one of the only ones left in the room. He was dead silent as his two dull green eyes stared at the screen, pupils dilated to fill the entire socket it seemed. Sunken eyes, skin of a slight brown, marred by scars and bruises. Afghani for sure. Of all the faces he saw over there, it was the one he’d never forget. There was no way. She was dead, her house in ruins by a midnight raid. She couldn’t have been six. She was an innocent, she got caught up in it all, left dead amongst rubble and a cache of AKs. [i]Two-one, light it up![i] That order pounded through his head and his heart pounded back. It was his fault. He was on the gun, had peppered the entire compound with the M134 on his Humvee. She was dead because of him. But how was she here, in this film? His sins coming back to haunt him? Was he truly damned? He continued to stare blankly into the screen, a hand clasped over his mouth. [hr] Donnelley sat slumped over in his chair, one hand limp with the cigarette still smoldering and the other over his face. He rose and wiped a forearm across his eyes and took another drag, sniffling before he blew it out. It was silent between the two of them on the porch. He tore his eyes away from the darkness around the cabin and caught the trail of bloody footprints that followed Laine. She looked to be in a bad way too. “You’re hurt…” He sighed, his head hanging again and he rubbed at his face, taking another drag and looked back at her, his lips parting to say something but he closed them again. He looked away from her, speaking a single word out on the air quiet enough almost to be mistaken for a breeze, “Tilly.” Laine limped over to him, trying to keep on her toes of her left foot to avoid putting weight where the glass had punctured in her arch. Her face was pallid, the dark makeup around her eyes more exaggerated as she had smeared it with the back of her hand. She moved next to him, leaning against the deck railing and put her hand gently on his shoulder, observing his expression and tried to push her own horror aside. "So are you," Laine said gently, "It wasn't her, it ..." Without another word she moved closer, rubbing his back in a comforting gesture, desperately grasping at reality. "It couldn't have been him." His hands hesitantly placed his cigarette to rest on the railing of the porch. He sighed, tentatively moving his hands to hers and coming away from her, the two of them closer than they’d allowed themselves to be. He held her eyes on his own reddened ones and offered her a consoling look before he offered her his seat. He didn’t want the image of Tilly in that bundle of sheets again. He needed to busy himself with something. The image of Tilly and the insinuation he would ever fail to protect her plagued him. When Laine sat, he gingerly took her injured foot in his hands. “Gonna need to come out.” He looked into her eyes, watching them and wondering what she had seen in that film reel. He’d already failed her once in Baughman’s cabin. Almost another failure in the long cracks of the road his life had paved thus far. He could help her now, with something, at least. His voice was careful, as coaxing as he could make it and as gentle. “Him? Who?” She met his eyes, the pain in them struck her. A pain that went past any she had seen when he had told her about Afghanistan. Laine nodded slightly, not trusting herself to speak and sat down, crossing her left leg over her right, her injured foot in his hand. The sock had a blood stain, and once it was off the shard of glass was visible. "I saw," she took a deep breath, "My nephew, Colin. He's seven...he...shit, Donnelley. Obviously it's not real but it felt so..." She looked at him intently, "Do you think we all saw someone different?" While she talked, he swiftly plucked the shard from her foot, she continued without noticing and he allowed himself a small smile at the deftness. He pressed his thumb against the now opened wound, bringing her foot closer to his chest for a bit more leverage and returned his eyes to her. He’d been listening, and he shrugged, “Apparently. I don’t know why.” He shook his head, “I know Clyde didn’t get all of them. Didn’t, or wouldn’t… for some reason…” Marlene flashed before him, her smiles growing more hollow in the glimpses of history between her and Clyde the pictures offered. Clyde bringing her back to life, the sting of his failures and grief at her passing ripping at him as if it had been his doing. The toying with forces ancient and unnatural for just one more chance to get things right. And failing. He swallowed, looking away from Laine before he came back to her, “I’m sorry.” He said to her. Sorry for bringing her into this. All of it. “What do you need? Make tonight not so shitty. Anything.” He offered her a lopsided smile, weighed down by his own troubles. He already knew sleep wasn’t an option for him tonight. No matter how drunk he got. Maybe he could at least help her. She hardly felt the glass being pulled out but felt him apply pressure, holding her foot against himself. Laine felt tears threaten again and she blinked rapidly, "I don't know," she admitted, hanging her head so her short dark hair fell forward. "I just...I need to check on them. I know it's silly, I know that right now Colin and Sophie are probably just fine. My brother and his wife probably trying to get them bathed and ready for bed. Or...shit time zones. I don't know, Donnelley. I feel...off. I want to get drunk but I can't there is too much work to do. " Her eyes met his and her need flickered there then she turned away, pulling back, her arms hugging herself, "We have a lot of work, to catch this guy. Thank you, for taking the glass out." Her foot came away from his hands and he was left there on his knee before her. There was an ache left in him, like the part of her in his hands was plugging it up. He looked at her, his eyes lingered on her as she looked away from him. He nodded once, stiff, before he regained himself. He folded the fingers of both his hands together and looked away from her for a moment. The words had to work at parting his lips, but he spoke, “Yeah.” He hesitated, still looking at her face, “Of course.” He pushed himself up to his feet, reaching over and grabbing his cigarette to relight it. He stood with his hands leaning on the railing, his back to her as he hung his head, blowing a long, slow stream of smoke from his lips to drift up towards the overhang of the porch’s ceiling, writhing in the deck light’s glow and mingling with the dancing bugs near the bulb. Once again, he felt alone with the cricket song and owl hoots, the treetops making jagged shadows in front of the night sky. Stars and moon shone down, but no comfort from the soft, pale light. It hurt her to leave him there but if she did not step away, the weakness she felt would cause her to seek solace in a place she knew she could not go. Laine stood up, looking over Donnelley's tense shoulders and the smoke drifting up into the darkness. Biting her lower lip to stay her urge to speak she limped back inside. Once inside her breath hitched and she tried to stifle a sob, pressing her hand against her mouth to try and keep the other men from hearing her cry. She considered hiding out in her room but she wasn't entirely wanting to be alone. Laine went into the kitchen, opening the last bottle of wine and drank from it, sitting in a wooden chair and she rested her arms on the table, leaning forward. [hr] Tom stood, grabbed the opened bottle of Jameson’s and followed Donnelley onto the porch. He took a chair at the other end of the porch, uncapped the bottle and downed about eight ounces in one pull. Then he bit the end off one of the Cubans and lit it up. “What the fuck did we get ourselves into, Joe?” The words were spoken softly, Undoubtedly Joe Donnelley did not hear him. He was busy in a conversation with Dr. Laine. Tom was lost in his own thoughts away from Laine and Donnelley. The effects of downing eight ounces of Whiskey were starting to take effect as Laine went inside. Tom barely noticed her departure and heard none of their conversation. Tom took another swig of the whiskey, feeling a bit light headed. [I]’How could that have been Meghan? She died twenty-three years ago and that film is over fifty years old. I don’t get it.’[/i] Tom took another swig of whiskey. [i]’This idea of me seeing my dead sister only begs to ask the question, what did Laine, Donnelley and Justin see? They couldn’t have seen my sister. By the looks on their faces, it had to be something traumatic.’[/i] Tom was lost in thought when he fell asleep. The porch chair wasn’t really very comfortable but the sedative he gave himself was enough to knock him out. Within several minutes, he was snoring. “Tommy!” a child’s voice called through the haze. “Tommy!” Tom focused on the voice. It sounded familiar. “Tommy!” The little girl voice giggled. “Meghan!” he yelled. “Tommy! Come here you silly,” she giggled, but Tom could not see her. It was dark. “Meghan, I hear you, but can’t find you.” Tom felt desperate trying to find his sister. He wanted to find her, to hold her to look upon her face. But his movement was impeded. He felt as though he was stumbling over something, falling down, struggling to get back to his feet. All the while Meghan’s voice was laughing at him. It was the children on a playground laughing, rather than anything else. Something seemed to be holding him down, He felt immobilized. Meghan’s voice started to sing, [i]”Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, A pocket full of posies, A tissue, a tissue We all fall down!”[/i] Meghan laughed harder now. She sounded like she was running. “Meghan! Where are you!?” Tom yelled out. She continued to sing the song, [i]”The king has sent his daughter, To fetch a pail of water, A tissue, a tissue, We all fall down!”[/i] She laughed loudly. “Tommy, I know a secret,” Meghan uttered coyly at her brother and giggled some more. “Tommy, want to hear my secret?” “Meghan, where are you?” Tom called out. “Come find me and I will tell you the secret,” Meghan giggled at her brother. “Come and find me.” But Tom could not move. He struggled to get to her. Frustration and anxiety took over pushing him towards consciousness… “I’m going to have a nephew,” she whispered in the darkness just as he woke up. Tom was sweating. He kicked just at the moment of consciousness freeing him from whatever held him down. Then he was awake looking around regaining awareness of his surroundings. The bottle of whiskey fell to the floor and whatever contents remained spilled onto the porch and soil below. [i]’I’m going to have a nephew,’[/i] Tom whispered to himself. [i]’wow, I need to go to bed.’[/i] Tom went back inside, climbing the steps and crawling into bed. [hr] Dr Laine was in the bathroom, she had left the half empty bottle of wine on the table and was now sitting on the toilet lid and bandaging her foot. She heard someone come inside and she peeked out, watching Tom struggle up the stairs to the bunkroom shared by the men on the team. He looked pale and exhausted, like the rest of them. What had he seen? It was obviously personal for each of them and as she had calmed down and the wine took effect she thought over the possibilities. Some sort of hypnotic effect from the action in the film was a possibility. The stone was there, that sliver of black void and Laine shivered, glancing down at her foot. It had just been a shard of glass, that was all but her thoughts returned to Jane Doe and her gruesome suffering before death. Everything she had been holding back from the day had been let loose after the vision of her nephew being murdered, whether it was an act of imagination or a trick of the film, she was still shaken. Her defenses now in tatters, she needed to regroup and get herself together. Grabbing some toilet paper she wiped her eyes now watering again. [i]Get your shit together, Heather.[/i] she scolded herself, hating that she had fallen apart when people needed her. Tossing the paper into the bin, she hobbled back out into the living room area, looking to see if anyone was around and went to clean up the broken glass.