Another chapter of my continuing blog fiction...late as usual....
___________________________
DARKENING
STURGEONS
by John L. Harmon
Chapter Nineteen
The
scientific duo’s large white van comes to a sudden halt in the middle of
Stickler Woods, nearly causing the law enforcement duo’s generic grey police
cruiser to rear-end it. By the time the
Sheriff and the Chief Deputy unbuckle and exit their vehicle, the two doctors
stand together, waiting.
“The
energy has dissipated,” Samuel, holding the black gadget, quickly explains
before harsh driving words can be exchanged, “but we triangulated the
location.”
“Which way
do we head?” Benjamin asks, trying to suppress the tragic thoughts of Tommy
Schroder and Tracy Newcastle.
Sam nudges
up his thick black frames, glances at the gadget, and then points to his
left. “This way.”
“Very scientific,”
Clyde mumbles under his breath, slightly disappointed that no one heard his
sarcasm.
Deeper
into Stickler Woods the four souls venture on foot. Christine and Samuel lead the way in their
usual unison fashion. Clyde and Ben
follow in unconscious imitation as they turn together at the top of an incline.
As they
move through the dense trees, Ben’s currently chaotic mind hits on a memory
that clicks quickly into place. Before
he can explain it to himself or to the others, a name surfaces from his lips.
“Old Man
Stickler.”
“What did
you say?” Samuel stops and turns, facing the Sheriff.
“Old Man
Stickler,” Ben repeats, becoming fully aware of why this name came to him.
“Who is Old
Man Stickler?” Christine inquires,
folding her arms together tightly.
“The local
boogeyman,” Clyde mutters, turning away from what he considers absurdity.
“His was
one of many names an angry crowd spouted off last night at Gordon’s,” Ben
explains, glancing at the back of Clyde’s head, at Christine’s doubting face,
and finally at Samuel’s understanding eyes because he was there. “Names of people whom they believed
responsible for the disappearances.
Maybe Old Man Stickler knows something.”
Clyde
faces the stationary group, trying to hold back the childhood nightmares
spawned from that name, and growls low, “Complete and utter bullshit, Ben.”
“No, there
is…” Sheriff Benjamin Straker reaches and nudges the beige up to scratch an
itch. To scratch the itch clawing at the
back of his mind that there is something he is missing or forgetting. Suddenly another memory clicks into place. The last gift from Lawrence, now carelessly
cast aside and out of reach at Sturgeons Police Headquarters, “…the yearbook.”
____________________
JLH
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