The Sacred Knife, page 23
Richard put his arm around Jason, “I’ll take him.” He turned to Pidgeon. “If it’s okay with you, when we get back from the hospital, I would like to stay at a hotel tonight. Your tech boys will want to go through the house, so probably it’s best if we’re out of your hair.”
Pidgeon caught on right away. There were still bodies in the house, and the kid’s uncle wanted to shield the boy as much as possible. “Yes, I understand. I’ll arrange a car to drive you.”
“Thanks, Walter. I appreciate that.” He turned to Edith. “Edith, would you mind staying with Jason while I go pack a bag for him and I?”
“Of course not,” replied Edith.
She was thankful. Richard was shielding not just the boy from the horrors of the house but her too.
Epilogue
Jason lay awake, unable and unwilling to sleep.
It had been almost two weeks since the terror of that day and sleep only brought nightmares about how close he had come to death. He could still feel the cold touch of steel against the back of his head, and that horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach as he waited for the fatal bullet to send him to whatever was waiting for him after this life.
His friend, Eric, had saved him.
Yesterday, they had buried that friend in a proper grave in the Simpson family plot.
Eric’s grave had been discovered in the cellar, and his remains had been exhumed. Jason was not present during the process, having been kept away by his uncle. He was, however, present at the funeral, and had openly shed tears for his friend. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he had detected some glistening in the eyes of his normally emotionless uncle.
Eric’s portrait now hung in the library, next to the painting of Matthew and Rose Simpson.
The police had asked a lot of questions, and Jason suspected that they didn’t completely believe the story his uncle had given them. His uncle told them that one of the men who had tried to kill his nephew had bragged about knowing a body was hidden in the cellar for years and had tormented Jason that he would be buried there, too.
All of the assailants were dead, so no one could contradict his uncle’s version of the facts—a version that Jason had corroborated. Yes, it was a bit of a stretch, but it was much more believable than the truth: that Eric himself had provided the location of his grave.
A guard had managed to kill one of the intruders before he himself had been killed, and his uncle had killed two others, which Jason found frightening, yet awe-inspiring.
They had told no one about Avery, whose body was gone, and his uncle only told him it had been “taken care of.” Jason didn’t know what happened to the dead villain, and he didn’t want to know. He still didn’t know why he and his uncle were the only ones who could actually see Eric. Of course, Avery had seen him too—but he was dead, gone.
Jason shifted slightly to make himself more comfortable, a pillow under his knee. The MRI had found the cause of the sharp, burning pain; a small bone fragment that had been missed during the initial operation was imbedded in one of the ligaments. It had only made its presence known when Jason bent or twisted his knee a certain way. The knee was now wrapped in a bandage, and all the screws, rods, and wandering pieces of bone had been removed.
Jason felt a chill in the room, accompanied by the now-familiar distortion of the air at the foot of his bed.
Hi Jason.
“Eric! I thought I’d never see you again.” Jason had not seen Eric since that fateful night and had thought the boy had finally left and found peace.
Eric smiled. I wanted to say good-bye.
Jason said nothing for a few seconds, knowing that this was the way things had to be.
“I’m going to miss you,” he admitted. “Will I ever see you again?” he asked hesitantly.
I don’t know the future, Jason, replied Eric. I do know the future is determined by our choices, but I am unable to see past the present.
Eric paused, as if in thought. Jason, your uncle loves you more than anything but he’s not very good at expressing how he feels – especially about you. He would never do anything to hurt you. But be careful. Your uncle is a dangerous man, and he cannot control events as much as he thinks he can.
Jason thought about this strange warning from his friend. “He is a little scary sometimes,” he finally said, “but he also makes me feel safe.”
Eric walked around to stand beside Jason, placing his hand on top of Jason’s head. Just like what had happened when Eric had removed the pain in his leg, the touch was cold, and then it became warm as a soft blue glow emanated from his hands. This will help with the nightmares.
Jason noticed a change in the room; there was another presence, but he saw nothing. “Eric, I think someone else is here,” he whispered, looking around.
Eric smiled. Yes, Jason, there is. A look of happiness settled on Eric’s handsome features. Mrs. Simpson and the Captain are here for me. He was looking up at someone Jason couldn’t see. It’s time for me to go.
“Where?” asked Jason.
The final image Jason had of Eric was the look of joy on his friend’s face as he replied, I’m going home.
Jason pulled the bed covers up over his chest. He was saddened that his friend was gone, but at the same time he felt happy for him. His name had been cleared, and he was now at peace. With that thought, Jason fell into a deep sleep, for once devoid of nightmares.
***
It was late the next afternoon before Jason and his uncle were alone. The police had dropped in with some follow-up questions, and several reporters were looking for more interviews. His uncle and their lawyer handled the police, while the formidable Mrs. Davies sent the reporters scurrying.
Richard was on the veranda, sitting in a large outdoor settee, sipping a cold glass of beer, his feet propped up on the railing. To a casual observer he looked relaxed, enjoying a drink while taking in the view of the bay. If anyone looked more closely, however, they might notice a slight tremor in his hands.
He had experienced that nightmare again last night. They were becoming less frequent, but nonetheless, it frightened him. In the dream he saw Jason standing, looking helplessly at the man who was about to shoot him. In real life, Richard had taken that man down, but in his nightmare, he missed, and the man had fired bullet after bullet into his nephew’s body.
He knew Jason was also suffering from nightmares, as on more than one occasion he had to comfort the boy who had awoken screaming in the middle of the night.
Richard had reached a decision that he would need to arrange for Jason to spend some time with a counsellor to help him deal with the trauma. He would need to talk to the boy about that, to reassure his nephew that seeing a counsellor was not a sign of weakness or that he was crazy, but was intended to help him deal with trauma that no child his age should ever have to face.
Jason came and sat beside him, leaning his elbows on his knees, his head cupped in his hands.
“I saw Eric last night, Uncle Richard,” said Jason.
“He’s still here?” asked his uncle in surprise.
Jason shook his head. “No. He came to say good-bye.”
He leaned against his uncle who put his arm around his shoulder. He sat quietly, letting the feeling of security from his uncle’s embrace settle over him.
He thought about how his life had changed since the accident, the terrible things that happened that were outside of his control. Through it all, it was his uncle who had stood next to him; it was his uncle who had never given up on him, even though many times he wanted to give up on himself. And most of the time, he had treated his uncle like a doormat.
“Uncle Richard … I’m sorry for the way I acted,” Jason said softly. “I acted like a real jackass.”
Richard tousled his nephew’s hair. “It was a tough time for all of us. We were both trying to find our way.”
After a few minutes Jason said, “I’m going to miss him.”
“Yes, I know,” said Richard, knowing who Jason was referring to. “He was definitely a special boy—like you.”
Richard looked down at his nephew. The boy had been forced upon him, turning his organized world into chaos. Yes, at first, he did resent the unexpected responsibility, now, he considered the kid his number one priority.
He said, “Mrs. Davies and I were talking. We were thinking about maybe having an end-of-summer party. It’ll be an opportunity to invite some of the local kids, so you can meet them before school starts. Assuming, that is, that you still want to attend school here, rather than having a tutor or going back to England.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, I like it here.”
Jason’s features creased into a worried frown. “What if the other kids don’t like me?”
Richard chuckled and added, “I’m positive they will, Jason.”
Jason was silent. Would they really like him? The past several months were anything but normal, and the only real friend his own age was a boy who had died a 160 years ago. He and Eric had killed a man—or whatever Avery had been. How would normal kids treat him? Could he ever be normal again?
Finally, Jason said, “I really liked Eric, but it will be nice to have regular friends. No more ghosts for me, thank you.”
The two sat in silence for a short time, enjoying the moment. It was early evening, but still quite warm, although a cooling breeze had replaced the humidity of the afternoon heat.
Jason thought about his feelings for his uncle. He loved him—he loved his dad, but he realized he loved his uncle, too. He wanted to tell that to his uncle but didn’t know how. They had a good thing going now, and he didn’t want to spoil it by saying something stupid.
Instead he asked, “Can I have one?”
“One what?” asked Richard.
“A beer.”
Richard thought for a moment then said, “Sure. In about eight years.”
Jason sat up and playfully punched his uncle in the arm. “Ah, come on. Just a sip.”
Richard passed the glass to Jason. “Just a sip, and don’t tell Edith. I’m in enough trouble with her already for messing up the house.”
Jason took a tentative sip of the beer and made a face. “Ugh. You like this stuff?”
“It’s an acquired taste,” responded Richard, taking the glass back.
“Richard Carver! What are you doing?” The shout had come from Edith, who stepped out onto the veranda, giving both Richard and Jason a disapproving glare.
Richard looked at his nephew with a grin, saying, “Looks like we’re busted, kid.”
Jason couldn’t help himself, and he burst out laughing.
Edith’s scowl changed to a smile at the boy’s laughter. There had not been nearly enough laughter in the house, and it was about time. “I came to tell you that dinner will be ready in about ten minutes—if you’re sober enough to find your way to the dining room.”
Richard tousled Jason’s hair. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go get washed up for dinner.”
They stood up to follow Edith into the house, then Jason stopped. “I’ll be in in a minute.”
He turned and walked to the railing. From there, he could see the path leading to the copse of trees where Avery had led him that terrible night. He still had the occasional nightmare, but at least now he could look at that grove of evergreens without his knees giving out.
He had Eric to thank for that, but it was still hard, sometimes.
There was something else he noticed—something that was missing. That air of sadness he had detected his first day at the manor was gone. In its place was peace.
Just as he was turning to go into the house, something caught his eye: a vague, shimmering distortion in the air. He held his hand over his eyes to shield them from the rays of the setting sun. There: two figures were walking along the beach, two young men. There was something odd about the pair; they wore unusual clothing, and he also noticed that they cast no shadow.
The two were walking along the beach, heading up the bay. They stopped and looked at Jason quizzically, as if surprised they had been seen. There were a few other people walking along the beach, but they seemed to take no notice of the two.
Jason understood why: only he could see them. “Umm … Uncle Richard,” he called. “I think we need to talk.”
***
Eight thousand kilometers away in Damascus, Syria, Ahmad Hussein studied the file on the table in front of him. He looked up at the man who had given it to him.
“Are you certain this is him?” he asked.
The man, who Hussein knew as Mohammad Abdul Assad, nodded. “Yes. It took a long time to identify who he was, and even longer to locate him. He covered his tracks very well, but even he is not perfect. He’s the man who killed your brother.”
Hussein regarded the other man thoughtfully. Hussein was a devoted servant of ISIS, who never thought twice about the innocent lives he took in pursuit of his distorted vision of Islam. But even he was slightly unnerved by the man standing before him; Assad was menacing just standing there, the blackness of his eyes displaying nothing but emptiness.
Assad placed a second folder on the table—one that was much thinner than the other one. Hussein opened it and was puzzled, as it contained a picture of a young boy, around twelve, maybe a bit younger.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Everyone has an Achilles’ heel,” responded the other man. “This is his. The boy is his nephew and is the key to getting at your man.”
Hussein shrugged. “Now that we know who and where he is, there will be no trouble killing him.”
Assad leaned over the edge of the table, peering intently into Hussein’s eyes. “Don’t underestimate either of them,” he hissed. “One of my kind made three attempts to kill the boy and failed and was destroyed in the process. The man is a professional, as your brother would attest to if he were still alive.”
Hussein was no coward, but even he couldn’t help but cringe slightly at the man hovering over him.
“Alright. We should work together, as you have suggested. I am sure that with our combined resources we will have no trouble settling accounts.” Hussein looked directly into the other man’s eyes in an attempt to regain some sense of authority. “But let’s be clear—the man is mine.”
Assad stood up straight and nodded. Assad was working on a plan, a plan that would result in the Rewera controlling this world. To accomplish that he needed the boy. “The man is yours, but we want the boy.” Not waiting for a response, he turned and walked out of the room.
Hussein picked up the file and stared at the photograph—the man who had killed his brother.
“Richard Carver,” he said silently. “I am looking forward to watching you die.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Allan McCarville is a Canadian author and historical researcher currently residing in Stittsville, Ontario with his family.
Allan McCarville has several published titles including:
The Sacred Knife: Book 1 of the Pegasi Chronicles
The Portal: Book 2 of the Pegasi Chronicles
The Five Kingdoms: Book 3 of the Pegasi Chronicles
The Council: A Nate Grimes Mystery, Book 1
Legends, Folklore and Other Tales: Stories of a Haunted Stittsville
Encounters of an Unusual Kind: A Trilogy of Supernatural Encounters
The Garden of the Dead
Titles available as eBooks only:
The Soul Thief
Fateful Encounters
For more information on Allan McCarville’s books visit his website at: allansbooks.com.
All of Allan McCarville’s books are available on Amazon.
Allan McCarville, The Sacred Knife
