The Blood Gardener (The Dark River Book 2)
The Blood Gardener
The Dark River Series
Book Two
By Michael Richan
By the author:
The Dark River series:
A
The Blood Gardener
The River series:
The Bank of the River
Residual
A Haunting in Oregon
Ghosts of Our Fathers
Eximere
The Suicide Forest
Devil’s Throat
The Diablo Horror
The Haunting at Grays Harbor
It Walks At Night
The Cycle of the Shen
A Christmas Haunting at Point No Point
The Port of Missing Souls
The Downwinders series:
Blood Oath, Blood River
The Impossible Coin
The Graves of Plague Canyon
The Blackham Mansion Haunting
The Massacre Mechanism
The Nightmares of Quiet Grove
Other Titles:
The Haunting of Pitmon House
The Haunting of Waverly Hall
The School of Revenge
All three series are part of The River Universe. Some plot elements and characters overlap between the series. For a suggested reading order, see the Author’s Website.
Copyright 2015 by Michael Richan
All Rights Reserved.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.michaelrichan.com
ASIN: B0178F3NXA
A paperback version of this book is available at most major online retailers.
Published by Dantull (149517048A)
- - -
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Dedicated to the fans of The River series
The River:
The place where those with the gift go to see the things the rest of us cannot.
The Dark River:
A place within the River where those with the gift teach their children to never go.
Chapter One
He tossed for what seemed like hours — too hot, then too cool, trying to sleep. Thoughts were racing endlessly through his mind as he played out scenarios from the stresses of his life that would likely never occur. Pointless, he thought, trying to clear his head and failing.
When sleep did come, it was fitful. One eye popped open frequently to check the clock, seeing that it wasn’t morning; only an hour had passed since the last time he’d looked. It seemed to happen every hour. Each time he grew more frustrated.
In the middle of the night, it happened again. He turned his neck to look at the clock: 3:37. He wanted to roll over, but found he couldn’t. His head moved, but nothing else would.
Concern washed over him, then panic, accompanied by the sense that he was not alone in the room. His first instinct was to reach for the gun in the nightstand, but no matter how his brain ordered his arms to move, they wouldn’t. He raised his head to look into the bedroom, searching for the presence he felt. It was too dark to make out details.
Suddenly something moved, sliding onto the bed and on top of him. As it passed over his body, he felt weight; additional pressure holding him down into the mattress.
Now his panic shifted to terror.
A face hovered over him; skeletal, lacking flesh, reflecting the dim red light from the faint LEDs of the clock. He struggled, wanting to roll away from the horrifying image, confused and panicked at his inability to raise an arm to defend himself. The best he could do was to close his eyes.
The face moved closer, and he felt its breath; a hot, rancid steam that fell onto his face like a syrup. It cascaded over his features and down the sides of his head, coming to rest below his ears on the pillow.
He yelled for help, surprised that he could speak. It was loud; was it loud enough to wake neighbors? Unlikely.
The pressure on his limbs increased, and he felt more weight on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He concentrated on the next inhalation, feeling the resistance on his rib cage. It was forcing the oxygen from him, denying him air.
Then he felt the excruciating pain below, a razor-sharp piercing of flesh in his groin, and the warmth of blood flowing over his skin. Stabbed, he thought. He felt movement on his body, fingers clawing at his skin, and another powerful jolt of agony shot through him.
As quickly as it had started, the pressure released and he was able to suck in air. He tried to kick his legs and found them free, but the pain in his groin was so sharp and debilitating he couldn’t raise them. His arms flung up into the air, swinging at the figure, which was no longer in the room with him. He flailed until his hand landed on the nightstand light, flicking it on. Then he threw back the covers.
Blood. Blood everywhere, coming from his groin. His underwear was soaked red, the warmth seeping into the sheets.
What just happened? he thought, wincing at the pain. Rape attempt? It stabbed me...
He sat up, bending over to examine himself, lifting the elastic band of his underwear and pulling the front down. He yelled in horror at what he saw.
Not rape. Mutilation.
- - -
The grits ran through the tines of Derick’s fork on the way to his mouth. He didn’t see the problem because he was watching Franklin add the fourth packet of sugar to his coffee, and wondering how the man could tolerate so much sweetness.
“Runny grits,” he said, finally looking down at his plate.
“And they’re not very yellow,” Franklin replied. “You need to add butter.”
“This place is going downhill,” Derick said.
“You’re telling me. Brooksby said he found some kind of bug cooked into his waffle the other day. Disgusting.” Franklin finished with the fifth sugar packet and began to stir his coffee.
“How is old Brooksby?” Derick asked.
“You don’t stay in touch, do you?” Franklin asked. “When you retired, you cut all the strings.”
“Except with you.”
“Brooksby’s fine. Seems a little run down. Got a case that’s wearing on him.”
“Every case wears on him.”
“This one more so. Henderson said they’re widening the investigation, putting more people on it.”
“Brooksby was never a closer.”
“I’m not so sure he isn’t in over his head on this one. Turns out there’s someone breaking into…”
Derick held up his hand to stop his friend. “I don’t want to know.”
Franklin rolled his eyes. “It’s just shop talk.”
“I got enough going on in my retired life. I don’t need to hear about shop.”
Franklin studied his friend. “You look awful, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Derick replied, running a hand over his face, hoping it would wake him up more. “Not sleeping so well in the trailer. Just gotta get used to it.”
“I woulda been fine watching you at the motel,” Franklin replied.
“You were costing me an arm and a leg,” Derick said. “And I’m spending more time there now, so I had to find a better solution.”
He heard Franklin sigh, and he knew the man was missi
ng the extra work — and probably the extra money. When he needed to visit the Dark River, Franklin, also a recent retiree from the force, had been a reliable friend, watching over his body as he lay on a bed at the Riverview Motel. Going to the Dark River meant leaving his body unprotected, and even though most of his excursions were low-risk affairs involving the extraction of someone who someone else wanted removed, he felt better having a real person he could trust keep an eye on things in the normal world.
He and Franklin went way back; almost twenty years on the force together. They both moved to the area at the same time as rookies. Over the years they’d tested and proven each other’s loyalty, and since they retired at the same time, Derick found Franklin a reliable and available bodyguard when he needed to travel to the Dark River.
The motel might have cut it when all he was doing in the Dark River were simple extractions. Recently things had become more complex. Now he was spending more time there, going in unpredictably. Getting a room at the motel each time was starting to become an expensive bother. He needed better, more reliable access.
Using money he’d received from the Achernar Group, he bought a small trailer and negotiated a lease with a landowner on the other side of the river, not far from the abandoned house that marked the entrance to the Dark River. Mosquitoes were so plentiful in that area that the landowner was shocked anyone would want to park their trailer near the spot, but for Derick it was perfect; easy access whenever he wanted, no motel room needed. To alleviate the need for Franklin, he installed state-of-the-art security systems, including a legend shelf he acquired from a gifted in New York, who had calibrated and customized it specifically for his needs. Franklin lived only ten minutes away and was the first to be called if the physical alarm activated. The legend shelf, on the other hand, kept an eye on non-physical threats that might try to infiltrate the trailer.
Franklin had accused him of paranoia, but Franklin didn’t understand. Derick was now a wanted man; not wanted by the police, but by some of the most powerful people in the Dark River, and he wasn’t safe living his life as he had before. Both the real world and the Dark River were now places where a kidnapping or an attack was probable. He had to take steps to protect himself, even if it meant using a lot of the Achernar money that was supposed to be used for debts. Or Belize.
“We coulda worked out a bulk rate,” Franklin said. “It was easy work. Watch TV all day long and wait for you to wake up.”
“I was overpaying you,” Derick replied, switching to a spoon for the grits. He hated using the spoon.
“Well, I’m still available if you change your mind,” Franklin said, “but if you want me to watch you in that trailer I’m gonna add a deet surcharge. I don’t know how you survive down there.” Franklin’s phone buzzed and he reached into his pocket. “Speak of the devil,” he said, raising it to his ear. He answered it with a “Yeah?”
Derick waited while Franklin chatted with whoever had called. His grits were getting cold, so he accelerated the scooping.
“Well, he’s right here,” Franklin said, looking up at him. “OK…OK. I’ll tell him.” He hung up.
“Who was that?”
“Henderson. Wants me to ask you if you’d be willing to help out.”
“Help out?”
“With the Brooksby case.”
“Fuck no, Franklin!” Derick said. “You didn’t volunteer me, did you?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then why does he want me? I’m retired.”
“He knows you’re retired. It’s just that since he got involved with Brooksby’s case and saw the details, he thinks you might be able to offer some insight.”
“Insight?” Derick replied, irritated. “What kind of insight? I was no detective, Franklin. Just a street cop.”
“You should meet with him,” Franklin said, looking a little sheepish. “Hear him out.”
“Now I know this is bullshit,” Derick said.
“No, really, you should. The case is bizarre.”
“I have no expertise to offer.”
“That’s not true,” Franklin replied, stuffing waffle into his mouth. “Your abilities might break something open on the case.”
“My abilities?” Derick asked. “What abilities? I have no abilities, Franklin.”
“You know, all this weird shit you do, the place you go to. The creepy stuff.”
“You volunteered me, didn’t you?” Derick asked, now really perturbed. “What did you tell him, that I’m a psychic? Something stupid like that?”
“No, I didn’t call it that.”
“Then what?”
“I said you might be able to offer a perspective on it.”
“Why would they give two shits about my perspective?”
“Because they’re stuck,” Franklin replied. “No leads, no idea what to do next. They’re desperate.”
“What an honor,” Derick said. “I think I’ll pass.”
Franklin looked even more sheepish; Derick could tell he was hiding something.
“What?” Derick asked. “Spit it out.”
“He’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Who?”
“Henderson.”
Derick tossed his fork into the remaining grits. It clanged loudly, sending the grits flying out of the plate. “Goddamn it, Franklin!”
“He was insistent.”
“Fuck insistent!”
“There’s no harm in hearing him out, is there? You can always say no.”
“You’re under the misguided impression…”
Derick was cut short as Henderson slipped into the booth next to Franklin. He was a tall man in his late forties, almost entirely bald. “Well, Derick Hall!” he said as he situated himself. “Long time.”
“What, were you waiting in the parking lot?” Derick asked.
“Basically,” Henderson replied. “Don’t blame Frank. I kinda pressured him into it.”
“I don’t know what Franklin has told you, but…” Derick started.
“All I’m asking for is five minutes,” Henderson said.
Derick didn’t like the idea of being thought of as a weirdo psychic by the guys still on the force, and he couldn’t tell if Henderson was entirely serious. He looked at the man’s eyes, set back behind silver-rimmed glasses, and tried to ascertain the man’s sincerity. Can’t tell, he thought.
“Five minutes won’t kill ya,” Franklin said.
“You, shut up!” Derick replied. “This is your fault.”
“Five minutes,” Henderson repeated. “If you aren’t interested when I’m done, just say so, and I’ll drop it.”
A waitress showed up, and Henderson ordered a coffee.
“Well? What do you say?” Henderson asked. “I only ordered a coffee, not a full breakfast. That should tell you I’m not planning on staying long.”
“Just as well,” Franklin said, “the food sucks.”
Derick weighed his options. The first was to get up and walk out, which he was about to do, but the fact that Henderson was pressing so hard when Derick obviously wasn’t interested did intrigue him a little bit. The second option involved listening and then declining. He decided to go with the latter. “Say what you’ve got to say.”
“Alright,” Henderson replied, as the coffee landed in front of him and he lifted it to his lips before starting. “You know Brooksby?”
“Yes,” Derick replied.
“He got a case several days ago. A man, attacked in his bed. He figured it was a home invasion thing, someone or a group sneaking into a house at night while the occupants slept. He’s thinking burglary. They break in, the residents wake up and catch them, so they attack the homeowners. Sounds simple, right?”
“Right,” Derick answered.
“Nothing stolen, nothing rummaged through. They held the guy down in bed, and one of them took off his large right toe with a pair of tin snips.”
“Christ!” Franklin said, grimacing.
“Bro
oksby does the usual but isn’t getting anywhere, until two nights later, another break-in. This time a sixty-eight-year-old widow loses a patch of skin from the top of her hand. Similar M.O., nothing stolen. She reports the same story as the man who lost his toe; held down in bed while some sick fuck cuts at her and peels the skin right off. Now Brooksby’s stepping things up, since it seems to be an ongoing thing, not just a one-off. Next night, another break-in. A single woman, twenty-two, college student. Claimed her assailant held her down before flipping her over and slicing her leg. Doctors say a tendon was removed from her calf. A tendon. Very specific body part, right? Not just some indiscriminate slasher. Whoever’s doing this is performing surgery on these people.”
Derick found the story horrifying and intriguing, but he did his best to keep a straight, uninterested expression so Henderson wouldn’t know. Henderson looked at him, a little irritated that his retelling wasn’t eliciting a stronger reaction.
“So it goes on. A man who lost part of his tongue. A woman two nights ago, her nipple cut off. All with the same story — someone in the room with them, held down so they couldn’t move. They feel the amputation, then whoever did the deed just vanishes.”
“So you have a serial sicko,” Derick replied. “So?”
“Last night they hit Hauer.”
Derick was shocked. He knew Lance Hauer well. Moved from Oklahoma ten years ago. He lost his wife in an automobile accident a couple years back, and Derick had spent more than one long night at the bar with him, helping him through the grief in the months after her death. Hauer had his share of pain; he didn’t deserve more.
“What did they do to him?” Derick asked, as he watched Franklin finish off the last of his waffle.
“Sliced off part of his scrotum,” Henderson replied.
Franklin began to choke, and reached for his coffee. He downed several gulps, and came up for air.
“Not his balls,” Henderson continued. “Just the sack. Doctors at the hospital are trying to figure out what they can save, or if he’ll have to be castrated.”