Fade To Black (Into The Darkness Book 2) Read online

  John pumped a shell into the chamber and began to raise the shotgun.

  Dylan and Kevin quickly looked around, did not see any others, and picked up the trees to run away. Dylan looked over his shoulder to see that John had not moved.

  “Let’s go, John,” yelled Dylan. “We’ve got enough.”

  Kevin stopped running and turned to see John still slowly raising the shotgun.

  “Don’t do it, John. He’s unarmed,” yelled Kevin.

  The man screamed more loudly. John could not understand Spanish. He could hear the terrified man’s words, but the rage simmering in the cauldron of his mind was distorting reality. It should have been obvious that the man was scared for his life. John shouldered the shotgun and pointed at him. The man only had a hoe, which was not really a weapon compared to a loaded shotgun. If John had understood Spanish, he would have heard the desperate plea for mercy, but all John could hear, as his vision began to tunnel, was his wife yelling at him, Dylan giving him commands, and the humiliating laughter of the crowd as Kevin dragged him from the barn during the corn harvest. The man dropped the hoe and took a step toward John, arms outstretched and palms up, as he begged for mercy. At that moment, the screaming went silent in John’s mind. A voice in his head whispered, “Pull the trigger.” The noise of the shotgun blast erased John’s tunnel vision and brought him back to reality. His ears were ringing and he looked in dismay at the hand that had pulled the trigger, but he could not remember doing it. His hands began to shake. As his mind tried to make sense of the corpse in front of him, a women and small child came across the threshold. She dropped to her knees into the pool of her husband’s blood. The child cried hysterically. The woman’s long, dark hair draped over the hole blasted through her husband’s chest, and soaked in his blood.

  In a trance, John began to walk toward Dylan and Kevin. “It was self-defense. You saw it.”

  “That was cold-blooded murder, you sick son of a bitch,” growled Kevin.

  John turned back around to look at the carnage. His breathing became erratic and he looked down at his hands, shaking violently now. He looked into Dylan’s eyes for sympathy, and saw nothing.

  “I had to do it,” John pleaded. “I had to protect us…I have to protect the community.”

  Dylan shook his head and snarled, “I’m through with you.”

  John tucked the shotgun under his arm, put his hands on his ears and shook his head quickly, trying to erase from his mind the image of what he had done. Still clasping his head, John ran past Dylan and Kevin and into the field across the road. He disappeared.

  Dylan and Kevin quickly carried the small trees to the truck and drove away with their plunder. The truck rumbled back down the road to the winery. They remained silent during the short drive back. Both realized that John’s actions had most likely sentenced that woman and young child to death, too. Their eyes scanned the open fields they passed for any sign of John. He had vanished. Kevin pulled the truck into the vineyard and parked it by the El Camino. The other men had stacked clusters of raisins onto the El Camino, and now they were ready to fill the truck.

  Jim stood by the rear of the El Camino. “Where’s John?” he asked.

  “I’m through with him. He’s not stable,” said Dylan.

  Jim looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “John just killed somebody,” answered Kevin. “That’s what he means.”

  Joel and David arrived back to the vehicles. Each man was carrying two buckets overflowing with their harvest of dried fruit. A dried framework of stems still held the clusters of raisins together.

  “What just happened?” asked Joel, with alarmed concern.

  “I’ll explain,” said Dylan. He gestured for everyone to gather around him. “We got to the nursery, and Kevin found a cache of seeds inside it.”

  “Garden seeds?” asked David. He was frowning and holding the palm of his hand over his stomach.

  “Yes, bags of them. They’re in the truck.” Dylan tilted his head toward the truck. “John got moody and left. We found him outside, picking away at a rose bush. He acted strange and walked away from us. Then we went to get those trees that we have in the truck.” Dylan titled his head again toward the truck. “We saw that someone had started a garden there and realized that we weren’t alone. So we grabbed some trees, went to get John, and that’s when it happened.” Dylan shuddered. “A man walked out of a little building next to where John was standing. They were both startled, but John had a shotgun. The other guy was speaking, but not in English. I think he was Mexican. He was carrying a hoe, but he dropped it as John was raising the shotgun. We told John to walk away, but he stood there as if his mind had gone to another world and then, BANG! He pulled the trigger. Put a hole right through the man. Then John stood there and looked at his hands like he had just woke up from a dream.” Dylan shook his head solemnly. “Then a woman and child came out of the building. She must have seen it. That poor woman went to her knees next to that corpse. Then John walked over to Kevin and me and said it was self-defense.”

  “Cold-blooded murder,” said Kevin.

  “I told him I was through with him, and he ran away.”

  David doubled over and grabbed his stomach with both hands. His eyes grew wide, and he scampered away into the tall weeds.

  “Weak stomach?” asked Dylan.

  “No, he’s been eating raisins all morning,” answered Joel. “I think they’re going right through him.”

  “Somebody please make sure he washes his hands before he picks anymore.” Dylan picked up two empty buckets. “Let’s fill Tom’s truck and get out of here.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Days later, Dylan was in his backyard. The first rays of morning light reflected off tiny droplets of dew. The air was crisp. He stood on his patio and looked at all the dried stems and vines from the raisin harvest. As he looked into the tall weeds, he remembered raising his voice in anger at his children and throwing away the crude necklaces that he had found them wearing. He felt remorseful and wanted to make amends. The promise to hang a rope swing from their big walnut tree emerged from his memory, and he went to the garage to find it. Hidden from view on a high shelf was a plastic seat with two long ropes. Dylan took the swing to the walnut tree and looked for a sturdy branch. He chose a thick branch parallel to the ground. He wrapped the ropes around the plastic seat, tucked it all under his sweatshirt, grabbed a low branch, and climbed the tree. He positioned himself above the chosen branch. Then something odd caught his attention. Someone had shaved away a section of the dark furrowed bark, down to the white sapwood, and created a distinctly oval shape on the thick tree branch. Dylan leaned closer to it and thought he could see letters carved into the wood. He ran his fingers across the sapwood and felt the indentations. Dylan removed a piece of brown bark, crushed it into powder with his fingers, and sprinkled the dust onto the carving. The dark powder stained the gouge marks, and Dylan could now read the carving. Under his breath, he muttered each letter individually. “J-O-H-N.” He rubbed more crushed bark over all the exposed sapwood and brushed away the excess. He saw numbers below the letters, and read each one aloud, “Eight-two-four.” That asshole was in my tree. Dylan looked through the branches, and there was a perfect view of the window at the back of his house. He’s been watching us! Dylan was furious. He quickly knotted the ropes of the swing around the chosen branch and stormed into the house. Dylan slammed the door behind himself.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Dylan.

  Mary was sitting on the living room couch with Brad and Jennifer on either side. The children were tired and appeared to be half-asleep. Mary was getting ready to untangle Jennifer’s long hair with a hairbrush. She stood up quickly and shook the hairbrush at Dylan. “Watch your language!”

  Dylan looked down and went toward the dining room table. He knew that she was right. He was not being a good example to his children. Mary had become a surrogate mother to them, and he respected what she was trying to do. He
sat down at the table, clasped his hands together in front of himself, and tried to regain his composure.

  Kevin bounded up the stairs from the basement. “What is it?”

  Dylan was not able to restrain his anger at John. He turned toward Kevin, jabbed a finger toward the tree in the backyard and began to say, “That f—” before he bit his tongue.

  Mary stopped brushing Jennifer’s hair and shot a sideways glance at Dylan.

  “It’s John,” answered Dylan, calmly. “He’s been in that tree watching us.”

  “How do you know?” asked Kevin.

  Mary’s eyes began to volley between Dylan and her husband, listening intently.

  “I climbed the tree to hang a rope swing, and I found a section of bark shaved away. John had carved his name and some numbers into the sapwood. And I’m telling you, right where he was in the tree, you can see directly in our back windows.”

  Kevin went to a back window, looked toward the tree, and sighed. “I thought he was gone for good.”

  “So did I,” replied Dylan.

  “You’re sure?” Kevin inquired.

  “Positive,” said Dylan.

  “What were the numbers?” asked Mary.

  “Eight, two, and four.”

  Kevin’s mind raced with thoughts after his wife asked the question.

  “What does that mean?” Kevin wondered aloud.

  They did not notice Mary slipping away. She went to a pile of her belongings in another room, and began to rummage.

  “Some kind of date, maybe?” asked Dylan.

  Kevin rubbed his chin and shook his head.

  Mary walked quietly toward Dylan and her husband, and stood between them. Dylan saw the Bible in her hand. When she raised it and looked at Dylan, he rolled his eyes.

  “Dylan, there is something I need to tell you,” said Mary.

  “Not now, Mary. I really don’t feel like a sermon. I’ll watch my mouth in front of the kids. I’m sorry.”

  Kevin noticed the slight trembling in her hands. “What’s wrong?”

  “That carving is a biblical reference.” She held her Bible higher; pages spread apart, and clasped it tightly with both hands.

  “What are you trying to say?” asked Dylan.

  “Just listen. I’m going to read John 8:24.” She cleared her throat. “I told you that you would die in your sins; if you do not believe that I am He, you will indeed die in your sins.”

  Dylan felt a knot pull so tight in his stomach that it took his breath away. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, then ran his fingers through his hair and gripped his skull tightly before he took in a breath. “It wasn’t John,” moaned Dylan, before he went out the sliding patio door.

  He searched through a tall patch of weeds to find the crucifix necklaces made from sticks held together with vines. Then Dylan sifted through the debris they brought back from the vineyard and held one of the crude crosses next to the tangled vines. They matched. Grapevines held the crosses together, and the vineyard was next to the cult’s property. At that moment, the words Mary had just recited from her Bible resonated through his mind and echoed the words of the stranger he had caught in his backyard by the walnut tree, with his children, before the stranger had slithered away into the woods. The epiphany of clues coalesced neatly together, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He felt like a shipwrecked sailor floating in a sea of danger, who had just been nudged by a hungry shark.

  Dylan went back inside and tossed one of the crosses on the table. “Grapevines.”

  Kevin took the stick pendant from the table and rotated it in his hand, closely inspecting it. He remembered that the cult’s property was next to the vineyard.

  “I’m going to pay someone a visit,” announced Dylan, as the dry twigs of the other necklace disintegrated under his crushing grip.

  “I know where you’re going,” stated Kevin.

  “You’re staying here; I’m going alone.”

  “But—”

  Dylan interrupted. “No. You stay here and keep the doors locked.” Dylan went to get his rifle. “I’m going to put an end to this.”

  In the garage, Dylan slung his rifle over his shoulder and strapped his knife tightly to his right thigh. Kevin lifted the garage door.

  “What are you planning to do?” asked Kevin.

  “I don’t know yet.” He looked toward the open field. “I’ll have plenty of time to think about that on the way there.”

  “You should take the El Camino.”

  “No, I’m going in quietly. Maybe watch them for a while like they did us.”

  “Be safe.”

  Dylan nodded, and Kevin pulled the garage door down and locked it.

  He started toward the bike trail, but then he changed his mind and decided to continue through the field and cut across the golf course. It would be shorter. He looked back and saw Joel on his deck holding the bow, still waiting for a deer to walk through his backyard. He waved and walked on, the dry brown vegetation crunching under his shoes. The few remaining grasshoppers occasionally jumped and flew away when he disturbed them. On the fairway, the grass was shorter, and he traveled faster. He counted each flag and stopped at number eighteen. From this location, he could see the cult’s temple in front of him. Cautiously looking about, he crouched lower as he advanced toward the building. He crept closer and could see the details of the small building that was near the cult’s rear property line. It was a white cinderblock building with a gable roof. On one side of the structure, an extension ladder lay on a coil of rope next to an old push lawnmower. A concrete partition that hid two large, steel garbage bins was on the other side of the building. A torn and weathered couch sat next to the trash containers.

  To get to the outbuilding, Dylan walked around a patch of wild daisies. He walked past the white petals, remembering that they were his wife’s favorite flower. The beautiful blossoms were so dear to her that she gave her daughter the middle name, Daisy. The light-colored petals had reminded her of her daughter’s hair.

  He hid behind the structure and peeked around the corner. There was a terrible stench, and he wondered if it was the weathered couch or something decaying in the garbage bins. He tried to breathe through his mouth to avoid the smell. He crept to the front of the small building. Above the two steel double doors, he saw “PURGATORY” painted in large, red letters. The smell was even stronger now. He put his hand on the doorknob and began to turn it, then he heard the cult’s backdoor begin to creak open. He hid behind the little building again and watched a woman, wearing something like a toga, look out the backdoor. A long, black ponytail hung down the side of her neck. She placed a brick in the threshold to keep the door from locking shut behind her. The woman picked up an armful of cut wood and went back into the building. Dylan noticed faint wisps of smoke wafting from the temple’s chimney. The door remained propped open. He ran for the door and peeked through the dark, narrow slit of the doorjamb. He saw nothing, and it was just as silent. The door creaked again as he slowly opened it and once again as it shut behind him.

  A single candle flickered beside the door that led to the main room of the temple. The solid-wood door opened on metal hinges designed to swing in either direction when pushed. The center of the door had a rectangular window. Light from the main room came through the small window and mixed with the flickering candlelight. He put one eye to the window and looked into the room. Folding chairs sat in multiple rows in front of a wooden lectern. The lectern was on top of a broad, but shallow, podium.

  A small fire crackled in the large stone fireplace that Dylan remembered from the old furniture store’s advertisements. Cozy furniture had been arranged around the large marble hearth to give it a comfortable and warm appearance in the store’s commercials, now nothing more than a memory.

  He pressed against the door and walked into the main room. To his right, an open stairwell led to the basement. Galvanized metal pipes used as balusters and handrails surrounded the opening to the c
oncrete steps leading below.

  On the wall to his left, a large poster hung. It pictured the man Dylan had caught talking to his children. A golden circle of light surrounded his head, illuminating his dark hair, large head, and sharp facial features. The man’s eyes gazed upward while his hands clasped tightly near his chin. His thin smile appeared more like a sneer.

  Echoing from the basement, Dylan heard a cry for mercy, and then it became muffled behind a door that slammed shut. A lone person’s footsteps reverberated from the open stairwell. Dylan hid behind the lectern and listened to the ascending noise emerge from below. Light footsteps passed by him and, from a reflection off the large glass window of an empty office, he could see the image of the woman with the long, black ponytail. She was walking toward the rear exit. As she passed by, Dylan sprang from behind the lectern.

  “Don’t move,” Dylan commanded. He only partially raised his rifle.

  The woman screamed, stepped back, and gasped as she put a hand over her mouth.

  “Where is that man?” Dylan demanded. He raised his left arm to point at the poster and kept his eyes on the woman.

  She answered only with wide, terror-filled eyes.

  He raised the rifle and repeated, “Where is that man?”

  “The men are gone,” she said, with a tremble in her voice. Her eyes locked on the rifle.

  Dylan lowered the rifle and asked, “Where did they go? I need to speak with them.”

  When Dylan lowered his rifle, the woman’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. She hissed, “The men will deal with you, infidel. When Gabriel finds out—”

  The woman stopped speaking when a soft clatter of footsteps rose from the stairwell. At least a dozen women clustered together at the top of the steps and gasped in unison when they saw Dylan.

  Dylan quickly shouldered the rifle. “Hands up! Don’t do anything stupid.” He gestured with his rifle for the woman with the long ponytail to go stand with the others.