And then, finally, because he couldn’t put it off any longer, Ash looked at the corpse. Rhea had pulled back the blanket to reveal the dead man’s head. The skull was crushed and misshapen from what looked like repeated blows. There was blood and brains in the hair, and one side of the face was a bloody ruin, but even so Ash recognized who it was immediately. It was Lucas DeFrenz, the man who claimed to be possessed by the angel Michael.
Suzanne rocked back and forth in her chair, hugging herself tightly to keep from shaking, and carefully not looking at the body. Rhea looked up at the Sheriff, her face professionally calm and unmoved.
“Do we have any witnesses as to when and how he died?”
“No,” said Erikson quietly. “Suzanne came home half an hour ago and found him lying there. He hasn’t been dead long. The blood is still tacky in places. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. He still has his wallet. The money and credit cards haven’t been touched.”
“Are you saying this was murder?” Rhea stood up and stared at Erikson, actually shocked. “There hasn’t been a murder in Shadows Fall for centuries. That’s part of the nature of the town. Such things can’t happen here!”
“Looks a pretty painful way to commit suicide,” commented Ash. Rhea glared at him.
“I’ve sent for Doctor Mirren,” said the Sheriff quickly. “He should be here soon. He won’t be able to do much, though. We don’t have the facilities for a proper forensic examination. We’d have to go outside the town for that.”
“No,” said Rhea immediately. “If word of this were to get out, the whole town would soon be overrun with outsiders. We can’t allow that. There are other ways of getting information from the dead. We’ll use those.”
There was a long pause, as they all stared at the dead man.
“Who the hell would be crazy enough to kill an angel?” said Ash.
“Good point,” said Erikson. “Michael always scared the shit out of me.”
“So our killer couldn’t have been just an ordinary man,” said Rhea. “Whoever did this had to be pretty damned powerful in his own right, just to get near Lucas. Someone so powerful that even God’s Assassin couldn’t stop him…”
Suzanne shivered suddenly. “And right now, that killer is walking around loose in Shadows Fall, probably already looking for his next victim. We have to warn people.”
“If word gets out too soon there’ll be a panic,” said Erikson.
“The Sheriff’s right,” said Rhea. “We have to keep a lid on this for as long as we can. If the town’s nature has changed so fundamentally, we have to find out what caused the change. And what else is now possible in Shadows Fall.”
“Lucas came back from the dead once,” said Suzanne quietly. “Perhaps he’ll do it again.”
“That’s a possibility,” said Erikson. “But I don’t think we should count on it. There are records of quite a few revenants in the town’s history, but I never heard of anyone coming back twice. Unless you know better, Leonard?”
Ash shook his head. “Just because I’m dead, that doesn’t make me an expert. Your guess is as good as mine. But there’s one question no one’s asked yet. Why was Lucas killed here?”
“Someone must have told him to come here,” said the Sheriff slowly. “Someone who knew Suzanne would be out.”
“Which would imply it was someone Lucas trusted,” said Rhea.
“You mean he knew his killer?” said Ash.
Rhea shrugged. Erikson looked thoughtfully at Suzanne. “Was Lucas a close friend of yours, Suzanne?”
“Not really. I knew him fairly well before he died, but when he came back with Michael he was changed, cold. I didn’t even like being in the same room as him. No one did.”
“Or to put it another way,” said Ash, “there’s no shortage of suspects. Michael said he’d come to judge the unworthy, and there’s never been any shortage of those in Shadows Fall. Presumably one of them beat Michael to the punch.”
CHAPTER TWO
Unexpected Answers
It was past midday, and well past the time for a midday meal, when the bus dropped James Hart at the crossroads and roared off in a cloud of exhaust. Hart looked round hopefully for some sign of civilization, preferably a cafe that served hot food and cold drinks, but all around him the land lay wide and open and empty, for as far as he could see. There were no landmarks, only the two crossing roads heading off into the horizon, both of which had the dusty, faded look of routes that saw little traffic from dawn to dusk and liked it that way. Hart felt a strong temptation to run after the bus and shout for it to stop, but he didn’t. His determination and his grandfather’s map had got him this far, and he was damned if he’d give up now. He wasn’t going to let a little thing like being stranded alone miles from anywhere bother him. Or the fact that he’d had nothing to eat or drink since a very early breakfast, and his stomach was getting restive. Hart’s mouth tightened into a straight line. Being hungry didn’t matter. Being tired didn’t matter. He’d spent four days of hard travelling to get here, and he wouldn’t give up now.
He took out his wallet, removed his grandfather’s letter and carefully unfolded it. He didn’t need to look at it. He’d read and reread the letter so often he could have practically recited it word for word by now, but looking at the map helped. Helped him remember why he’d left everything he’d had or hoped to have behind him, to go chasing off into the middle of nowhere in search of a dream. A dream called Shadows Fall. He studied the single sheet of paper carefully, as though looking for some clue or sign he might somehow have overlooked.
The paper was browned with age, and cracked where it had been folded and unfolded many times. It was a letter from his grandfather to his father, written in that immaculate copperplate hand that no one can be bothered to learn any more. It was the only thing of value Hart had inherited after his mother and father died in the car crash. His mind stumbled over the last part of that thought, as it often did. They’d been dead six months now, and he still found it hard to believe they were really gone. That they weren’t there any more to nag him about his clothes or complain about his haircut, or criticize his lack of ambition. He’d gone to the funeral, stared down at the single grave they shared, by their instruction, and said goodbye, but even so sometimes he caught himself listening for the sound of their voices, or a familiar footstep.
The reading of the will hadn’t helped much. What money there was went to paying off the burial arrangements and other debts, and the only thing that was left was an envelope, bearing a short inscription in his father’s handwriting; To be opened only in the event of my death, by my son James and no other. Inside the envelope he’d found his grandfather’s letter, giving clear concise directions on how to find the small, out-of-the-way town of Shadows Fall. The town where James Hart had been born thirty-five years ago, and which he had left when he was ten years old. A town he had no memory of at all.
He couldn’t remember anything of his early life. His childhood was lost to him, surfacing only rarely in troubled dreams he could barely remember on awakening. His parents had never talked about it, and refused to answer any of his questions, though sometimes he’d overhear brief muttered conversations when they thought he was out of earshot. He heard enough to know they’d fled Shadows Fall in a panic, pursued by someone or something so terrible they wouldn’t even hint at it, even with each other. Whatever their secret was, they’d taken it to their grave.
Now he was on his way back to Shadows Fall. And one way or another, he was going to get some answers.
James Hart was an average-height, average-looking man, carrying a little more weight round his middle than he could really afford, but not so much that it worried him. He had more important things to worry about, and it showed in his pinched face and haunted eyes. He wore sloppy, comfortable clothes, and had his long dark hair pulled back in a thin pigtail. It was only midday but already he looked as though he could do with a shave. He also looked very much like someo
ne prepared to stand where he was for one hell of a long time, if that was what it took.
Though if truth be told, it wasn’t just stubbornness. He stood there, a man alone in the middle of nowhere, and wondered uneasily if he really wanted to take this last, final step of his journey. Whatever it was that had scared his parents into leaving Shadows Fall twenty-five years earlier, it had been so bad it kept them silent for the rest of their lives. It was only sensible that he should have strong reservations about walking blindly into possible enemy territory. But the bottom line was, there was a great gaping hole in his life, and he needed to know what he’d lost. Part of what made him tick, a central formative period of his life, was a mystery, and he had to try and solve it if he was ever to be at peace with himself. Anything would be better than the endless horror of not knowing who and what he really was. Anything.
He sighed and shrugged and scuffed his shoes on the ground, and wondered what to do next. The map had brought him this far, but it ended at the crossroads. And the final instructions in the letter made no sense at all. According to his grandfather, all he had to do now was call to the town, and it would do the rest. He looked carefully about him, but the world stretched away alone and empty for as far as he could see.
This is crazy. Grandfather was crazy. There’s no town here.
He shrugged again. What the hell. He’d come this far, he might as well go the whole hog. Arise ye prisoners of reality; you have nothing to lose but your marbles. He carefully refolded the letter, tucked it back into his wallet, and put it away. He cleared his throat uneasily.
“Shadows Fall? Hello, Shadows Fall! Can you hear me? Can anybody hear me?”
Nothing. No response. The wind murmured to itself.
“Dammit, I’ve come a long way to be here, so show yourself! My name is James Hart, and I have a right to be here!”
The town was all around him. There was no fanfare of trumpets, no sudden rush of vertigo or swimming senses. Just one minute there was nothing, and then Shadows Fall was there, looking real and concrete and inflexible, as though it had always been there. He was standing in the outskirts of the town, and the streets and houses spread out before him, open and pleasant and indisputably real. There was even a charming little sign, saying Welcome to Shadows Fall. Please drive carefully. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been expecting, but this ordinary everyday location wasn’t it. He looked behind him, and wasn’t at all surprised to find the crossroads had vanished, replaced by rolling grassy fields and low hills.
He smiled briefly. Whatever happened now, he’d finally come home. And he didn’t intend to leave without some hard answers. He looked slowly about him, but none of it looked familiar. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised; a town can change a lot in twenty-five years. And yet even as he thought that, something that might have been memories danced at the edge of his thoughts; dim and out of focus for the moment, but still full of hints and implications and meaning. He didn’t try to force them. They would come out into the light when they were ready. He realized suddenly that all his doubts and uncertainties had vanished. There were answers here; he could feel it. Answers for all the questions he’d ever had. Somewhere in this small town his lost childhood was waiting for him to come and find it, and with it the early lives of his parents. And perhaps he’d also find what he really came to look for; some kind of meaning or purpose in his life.
He walked unhurriedly down the street and into the town. It looked open, warm, even friendly. Nice houses, neat lawns, clean streets. There weren’t many people about, but they nodded pleasantly enough to him as he passed. A few even smiled. To look at, Shadows Fall could have been any town, anywhere; but Hart didn’t think so. A feeling, then a certainty grew in him as he made his way through the town, heading for the centre as though by instinct. This was a place of possibilities. He could sense it, feel it in his bones and in his water. He had a sudden strong feeling of deja vu, of having walked this street before. Perhaps he had, when he’d been younger. He tried to hang on to the memory, but it slipped away and was gone in a moment. It didn’t bother him. It was a good sign, and he had no doubt the memory would return when it was ready. Perhaps it would bring a few friends back with it. Probably felt lonely out on its own.
He smiled, feeling pleasantly light-headed. His confidence was growing all the time. A feeling of simple peace suffused him, together with a sense of belonging, of coming home, he’d never felt before. Certainly not in any of the faceless houses and schools he’d attended down the years as he followed his father from posting to posting. The Company didn’t like its people having roots or preoccupations outside the Company. It wanted to be thought of as home, family and loved one, first and foremost. It didn’t like the idea of conflicting loyalties. And as long as the Company kept its people in a constant state of flux, unable to form outside attachments, it worked quite well. Hart smiled, nodding to himself. He’d never thought of it that way before. Just being in the town had cleared his mind like a whiff of oxygen. He was thinking more clearly, understanding things that had puzzled him for years. It was only too clear to him now why he’d turned his back on the Company and its kind, and become a journalist, a seeker after secrets and hidden truths. Even then, he’d really been searching for his own secret truths. Sublimation is a wonderful thing.
A steady putt-putting sound nagged at his attention, and he looked round vaguely, trying to place it. It sounded like one of those old-fashioned lawnmowers that produce far more noise than its work can ever justify. He finally noticed a handful of people looking up at the sky, and he tilted his head back to see what they were looking at. And there, hanging high above them, was the source of the noise; a First World War biplane, puttering through the cloudless sky. The plane was bright crimson in colour, and it moved lazily, effortlessly along, its short stubby wings held together by thin metal struts and good faith. Hart grinned up at the plane. He wanted to wave at it, but was worried the others would look at him, so he didn’t.
And then another biplane appeared out of nowhere, a faded khaki colour with British markings. It plummeted down towards the red plane like a striking bird of prey, and Hart’s jaw dropped as he heard the unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire. The red plane banked suddenly to one side, sweeping out from under the other plane’s attack. The British plane plunged on, unable to stop, and the red biplane swung round in a viciously tight curve that put it right on the tail of its enemy. Once again there was the harsh chatter of gunfire, and Hart winced as the British plane shuddered under the impact, dodging desperately from side to side to try and escape the hail of bullets.
The two planes swooped and dived around each other like squabbling hawks, neither able to gain the advantage for long, both pilots pushing their planes and their skills to the limit and beyond. The fight could only have lasted a few minutes, but to Hart it seemed like hours, both planes escaping death and destruction by inches again and again. They flew at each other like Japanese fighting fish, all fury and aggression, attacking and retaliating, swooping together and roaring apart while Hart watched, entranced. And then suddenly smoke billowed from the British plane, thick and black and shot with flying sparks. The nose dropped and the plane fell like a stone, flames leaping up around the engine casing.
Hart watched the plane fall, his hands clenched into fists, silently willing the pilot to bail out while there was still time. But there was no sign of the pilot anywhere. Hart looked at the small crowd of people watching with him.
“Why doesn’t he jump? If he doesn’t jump soon there won’t be time for his parachute to open!”
An old man looked at him sympathetically, and when he spoke his voice was calm and kind and utterly resigned. “He can’t jump, son. That’s a First World War plane. Pilots didn’t have parachutes then. Wasn’t enough room in the cockpit for a pilot and a parachute.”
Hart gaped at him. “You mean he’s…”
“Yes, son. He’s going to die.”
The plane smashed into a low
hill some distance outside the town, and exploded in a rush of flames. Hart watched numbly as shrapnel from the explosion pattered down like hailstones. Black smoke rose up in billowing clouds, and high above the red biplane soared on, alone and supreme and unchallenged. The old man patted Hart reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Don’t take it so hard. This time tomorrow they’ll be up there fighting again, and maybe then the British plane will win. He does sometimes.”
Hart looked at him. “You mean that wasn’t real?”
“Oh, it was real enough. But life and death aren’t that simple in Shadows Fall. They’ve been fighting that duel for as long as I can remember. God knows why.” He smiled at Hart, not unkindly. “You’re a newcomer, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Hart, making himself look away from the crashed plane and concentrate on the old man. “Yes. I’ve only just arrived.”
“Thought so. You’ll see stranger than this after you’ve been here a while. Don’t let any of it worry you. Things happen here. That’s the way it is, in Shadows Fall.”
He nodded a goodbye, and then continued on his way. The rest of the small crowd was already dispersing. They went on about their business, chatting quietly as though this was just another day. Hart looked up at the cloudless sky, but there was no sign of the red biplane anywhere. He moved slowly away, his racing heart only now beginning to slow.