Knock Three Times

16. Innocence Lost

               DEBATE WAS THE FURTHEST thing from their young troubled minds when the final bell rang throughout the halls of Centennial Secondary School. Christine Davidson and James Rhoads said their goodbyes to their friends Hamish and Miranda, as they parted ways before the small yellow school bus, waiting just outside the side-entrance doors in the parking lot. They leaned against the bus side-by-side, watching their two friends part and begin their walk home in separate directions.

    'Think she'll be okay without you until we get back?' asked James, knowing that Miranda had never been alone in the Davidson house before, not without Christine.

    'She'll be fine. My parents just bought her a new bed and some furniture for her room. The police delivered her clothes yesterday morning. I guess it's no longer evidence.' she shrugged.

    James thought of the outfit Miranda had worn that day, mere jeans and a t-shirt.

    'Wait, so she had access to her regular clothes, yet she chose to wear yours? A bit odd, don't you think?'

    'Not at all.' the ginger teen shrugged. 'Miranda seems rather glad to be rid of them, actually. They just sat in the corner of her room, stuffed in black garbage bags. I think she's enjoying her new look on life. I'm quite proud of her actually.' she smiled, thinking of the extreme difference in such a short period of time.

    'I've never seen this side of her.' his thoughts ran ramped. Her pessimistic viewpoints and lack of personal drive was the only thing stopping James from taking a real interest in Miranda. The physical attraction had always been there, but now that she was taking herself seriously, he couldn't help but follow suit. 'Your parents must be some influence.'

    'Yeah, they're pretty great,' she beamed. 'But I think it's more than that. Having so much one-on-one time with her lately, I can't help but get the feeling she was sort of molded in such ways. Given her upbringing, I'd be shocked if she didn't turn out the way she did. I think our friend's finally seeing that she can be much more than what her environment intended.'

    'What sort of monkey suit are you wearing?' James suddenly noticed her official school attire, dark grey dress pants over an emerald vest. Beneath was a perfectly pressed white shirt with two buttons unlatched from the collar.

    'Don't get too comfortable, Mr. Rhoads,' stated Mr. Dixon appearing from behind the bus. 'We're expected at the theatre in half an hour and you have yet to change.'

    'Change?' he was taken aback. 'What's wrong with what I'm wearing?'

    'You represent our school, and today we will be debating against other schools in the district. Nothing too challenging, but the winner of this debate moves on to provincials, which will present a whole new level of difficulty. Then, the winner of that competition moves forward to National finals. This is where scholarships are born, Mr. Rhoads. So, I suggest you suit up.' he grinned, handing James a school blazer covered in thin plastic and dangling from his fingers by a coat hanger.

    'Perfect.' he grimaced, glaring at the unwanted attire. James snatched the blazer from his teacher's grasp in a manner displaying his obvious protest, and followed Christine onto the bus. Likewise, he flopped onto the rear passenger seat just behind her, tossing his book bag quite aggressively.

    'We aren't going, far, so I suggest you hurry.' Dixon warned. 'Keep that fire in your blood, James; you're going to need it once you take the stage.'

    'Just how many people will be at this thing?' Christine asked.

    'A hundred—maybe two. The municipal debate doesn't draw much of a crowd, mostly parents and friends in attendance, and a fair few more. I assume you're both comfortable with public speaking?'

    'Doesn't bother me in the slightest.' James replied, removing his shirt. Though Christine and a few others evaded their eyes, allowing him a bit of privacy in the rear of the bus, she couldn't help but look, albeit only a second's glance.

    'You don't have to look away, Chris. It's not like I'm changing my pants, really.'

    'Common courtesy.' she replied with a blushed grin.

    'No more than wearing swimming trunks.' he replied, pulling his arms through the white dress shirt that came with the blazer. The young man noticed her glance in his peripheral vision, and rather enjoyed the attention. Though it had only been a quick sideways glance, Christine was picturing his perfectly sculpted abs and toned chest, blushing with the thought of dark but short hair over perfectly carved pecks, only adding to his masculinity and far exceeding his age. She found herself a bit flushed in the moment, her cheeks surprisingly warm and tingly with the thought.

    Mr. Dixon stepped away as the bus took off to address the school photographer and journalist, ensuring that the event was covered for the school paper and local media outlets.

    'Hey, just a quick suggestion.' Christine began as he pulled the sleeves of the official school blazer over his shoulders. 'I know there's a lot going on with your family at the moment, so please don't think I'm purposely trying to clutter up your life or anything,' she paused as he finished buttoning up his shirt. It was a slightly loose fit, but comfortable nonetheless. James was impressed that Mr. Dixon was able to guess his size to such a close measurement. As Christine paused, he knew exactly what she was about to ask, reading her nervous tone, and he intervened before she got the chance.

    'The Halloween Dance; that's what you were going to ask, right?' She sat frozen, unsure if she should proceed. 'Hey, don't freeze up on me now. I've been thinking about it lately, myself.' he revealed.

    'So, you're still going?' she asked with a hopeful heart.

    'Might be good for a dash of normality amongst the chaos, right?' he forced a smile, unhappy and squirming in the official school uniform.

    'I was thinking exactly the same thing.' she replied, an excited grin forming as he seemed optimistic about the idea. James hadn't quite made up his mind whether to go solo or take a date. He had planned on asking Christine in all honesty, but there was a slight debate lingering in his thoughts. James had been thinking about asking Miranda only recently, but since she never bothered to ask in the first place and doubted she would even attend, he replied.

    'Sure, I'd love to go with you.'

    Unsure of how to respond, Christine celebrated in her own head, not realizing that she was staring blankly, her eyes a bit wider than usual.

    'You alright?' he asked, chuckling slightly.

    'Yes.' She replied much louder than she had planned. 'So, that's . . . good.' She straightened her posture as though she were trying to be professional.

    'So, should I meet you there?'

    'I'll pick you up. You're not far from the school, right? Cool if we just walk over together?'

    'Yes . . . that is cool.' She stated in a robotic manner, her thoughts running ramped, unsure of how unusual she was appearing. In that moment the blushing ginger noticed how uptight she must look, and tried to remedy it immediately.

    'Let's say 6:30pm then? The dance starts at seven so that should give us enough time, and I like to be fashionably late.'

    'I'll be waiting.' The words slipped out in an overly seductive manner, and before James could reply she turned her back to him. Now out of his vision her jaw clenched, eyes even wider.

    'I'll be waiting?' she whispered to herself, not able to see James' left eyebrow raised with a curve in the corner of his lip.

    'Okay then.' He replied awkwardly. '6:30pm it is.'

    Though the destination wasn't far, there were many thoughts squeezed into such a short amount of time. Christine was genuinely worried that Miranda might be upset, knowing that she had a thing for him. But she kept telling herself that she never made a move. But then again, with her mom in the nuthouse, and all the spooky stuff going on her life, that wasn't exactly her fault, she reasoned. There was a glimmer of guilt in the young teen's eyes as the bus made its way into the downtown area of their hometown.

    The historic Empire Theatre was located at the heart of the downtown core. The area itself had undergone many renovations and major reconstruction recently, hoping to revive Belleville's landmark stature with only slight success. Amongst several pillars of the community that were actually making a difference in bringing life back to the area was one Marc Richot, the owner of the Empire Theatre. For years he had brought many well-known musicians to the city on the Bay of Quinte, promoting Canadian talent to help promote national pride. Most recently was Tom Cochrane, Kim Mitchell, The Tea Party, Sum 41, and Our Lady Peace, only one of which James had attended, but Christine hadn't missed a single show. The Davidson's were huge music fans, and never missed out on an opportunity to celebrate the blooming musical presence in their hometown, thanks to Mr. Richot.

    Marc always took the time to address anyone who took the stage in his theatre, no matter if it was a Rock'n'roll legend, or a couple of high school debate team students. When they pulled into the back entrance of the establishment his face was the first they saw. Stepping off the bus, James looked properly prepared in his blazer and ready for action as his teacher demanded, the deep green colour of the fabric bringing out his matching eyes.

    Though he hated the idea of a uniform, James had to admit that he was strangely comfortable wearing the school emblem upon his left breast now that the fabric had a bit of time to shift in all the right places.

    As the soles of his shoes touched the smooth freshly laid asphalt, he noted Marc Richot standing before him with his hand out. As he shook the hand of the middle-aged man he noted his French goatee, slim build and kind eyes, completed by his grey newsboy hat. The man dressed well in casual attire, his dark blue denim jeans and perfectly unscathed leather shoes appeared to be purchased that very same day, completing the look of a man who'd be well suited with a saxophone in hand.

    'You must be the talent. My name is Marc Richot, the owner of the Empire Theatre and your host for this evening.' He handed each of them small envelopes, which they both opened right away.

    'What is this?' asked Christine.

    'Tickets to Finger Eleven, front row center for each of you. Nobody walks away a loser at the Empire, a concept to which I am most insistent.' his spine straightened with pride and generosity in his work. 'Whether you win or lose tonight, you are all winners in my book. So, kudos on your ambition and drive to participate, and I look forward to seeing you strut your stuff on my stage. Now, if you will follow me, the other schools have already arrived.'

     As they made their way into the theatre, the narrow hallways made James feel somewhat claustrophobic, and the uneasy feeling only increased when they reached the stage within. Before the small stairwell which lead beyond the curtain and onto the main stage, a strange man stood with his arms crossed, his judgmental eyes piercing through both teens as they approached. His perfectly groomed hair, designer glasses, and freshly pressed suit were not what set James on edge, but his overall vibe. Something about this man made him feel uneasy, and he was more than pleased when Marc Richot wedged himself between them, as they climbed up the small staircase. Christine couldn't help but notice a bit of tension between the suspicious man and Marc, as the look of kindness she had noticed in the parking lot was abruptly more agitated, perhaps even protective.

    The students took their seats amongst four other high schools from the area, and the debate began only a few moments later. From the side of the stage, Marc Richot watched them carefully, his well dressed companion's stare rather indifferent with a slight glimmer of menacing intent, James noticed. He found his glare distracting as the debate raged on.

    'You weren't supposed to be here to greet them, Ben.' Marc said rather sternly, not taking his eyes off the stage.

    'Do you really think I care what you prefer?' he replied.

    'There's a warrant out for your arrest, Shackleton. If the police found you here—'

    'We own the police, you half-wit. The warrant will disappear the moment we dispose of Jenson . . . her and the Rhoads woman. The son has some serious potential though, which is why it is imminent to secure him now, before the sister has a chance to persuade him differently. James Rhoads can get close to them both and remove the cancer accordingly. Ashley will abide by her brother's persuasion once the mother is out of the picture.'

    'I thought you had already secured Meredith Rhoads?'

    'As we thought the good detective as well. The girl is more powerful than we had anticipated. Every moment of every day there is a powerful barrier we cannot cross. Young Ashley protects her family at all costs. However, the brother's benediction cannot be broken by an Oracle, if indeed that's what she is. We will secure the boy tonight, and the rest of the dominos will fall in suite.'

    'It's not right, what you're doing.' he stated, although the menacing sideways glance of Benjamin Shackleton could be felt before seen. 'She's just an innocent girl, young Ashley, Oracle—or otherwise.'

    'That innocent girl will bring about our destruction if given the chance, so spare me the ethics lecture, Richot.'

     Marc's hatred for the man was more than obvious in his frustration of the topic. He knew Jennifer Jenson well, as her father was another great pillar of the community before his untimely demise. They had discussed many details of the city's dealing in countless town meetings, and he was aware of the relation between Jenson and the Rhoads boy who debated on the stage before him.

    'I am aware that my words hold little merit in the eyes of your master, Shackleton—'

    'Our master.' he insisted with an ominous tone, but Marc did not correct himself.

    'Just know that I don't approve, and rather despise your cause to my innermost core. I also realize that you've backed me into a corner in this issue, so do what you must and get the hell out of my theatre.'

    The corner of the lawyer's mouth slightly curved, knowing just how powerless Richot truly was to stop the inevitable.

    'Your distaste for our master is well noted, and I will personally deliver the message.'

    His words were met with a slight glimmer of fear, knowing full well how involved and interwoven the Shadow Man truly was in both municipal and personal affairs, not to mention the musicians who had previously attested to his involvement in their careers. He had spent many nights with these famous artists and rock legends, and only while inebriated had they mentioned the Dark Man, but always with a note of fear and disgust—even wavering humility. Otherwise, nobody would dare speak of him.

    'I have never hidden my opinion, Shackleton. Not all who comply are so easily manipulated. A pure life gives little leverage to those poisoned enough to use one's faults against them. As I said, do what you must, and then you can piss off. I never want to see your vile face again.'

    As Marc walked away Shackleton observed him carefully, his blank and emotionless glare locked. Though he delighted in the entrepreneur's forfeit to the powers that be, there was a slight worry that he may betray their sinister agenda. Richot was not an official minion of Caine, as he possessed desire for neither fame nor fortune; hence he had no reason to sign an infernal contract. His career was built on sheer will and determination, factors which work against their general cause. Want, in Marc's case was simplicity, which marked him as a troublesome cog in the devilish machine. Shaking hands and raising a bottle, helping the city he loved thrive, and attending to the needy was his only true desire, and promises of neither money nor fame could convince him otherwise. The humble man sought not the desires of the corrupt or greedy, which made his involvement problematic.

    As Marc climbed the stairs to the upper balcony, a great guilt overcame him. He listened to James Rhoads debate to the best of his ability from above. The way he spoke was most impressive, echoing the firm stature of his father; no doubt a promising future awaited him, but soon to be tainted by the demons which plagued his beloved Belleville. There was a glimmer of familiarity in the boy, reminding him a bit of himself when he was just a young lad, unwise to the world and still trying to prioritize the most important aspects of life. Richot wanted nothing more than to stop the debate and warn the children about what was about to happen; that when they left the theatre that night they would no longer be innocent.

    In a way, he felt he was deliberately handing them over to the darkness, a feeling which weighed on his conscience like a dumbbells on his shoulders.

    'Quite the talent aren't they?' said Mr. Dixon, who was sitting comfortably on the private balcony as he watched his students rage on, the debate growing heated and passionate. James Rhoads seemed to know how to control his temper well, however, deliberately allowing his opponents to grow frustrated while he calmly waited for his turn. Marc did not agree or disagree aloud. 'I've taken great steps to ensure he made it here tonight. The Davidson girl was quite useful in persuading him. James Rhoads is not so easily convinced, however; he's got his father's fire in him, no doubt. Quite remarkable, what a set of pretty eyes can accomplish.'

    'I don't care.' he lied, knowing what they were preparing for the children below the theatre. 'This will be the last of our dealings. You got what you wanted, all of you. I'll be glad once you've gone, so that I may live in peace once more.'

    Mr. Dixon laughed at the thought.

    'Find something funny, do you?'

    'He's not going to let you go, Richot; can you not see that? You are His to command—peace is a delusional goal—'

    'I will not be his puppet, Dixon.' Marc stood firm and borderline aggressive.

    '"You are neither hot nor cold, and because you are lukewarm I will spew you from my mouth."'

    'I'm in no mood for bible quotes.' Richot replied rather hostile. 'Considering the source, anyway.'

    'Yet you know the book of Job well, my friend. You should heed that particular lesson well. God can swallow the opposing values of an enemy, as he does his allies, but even the maker Himself cannot stomach those who sit on the fence like a coward.'

    'I will not choose a side in this conflict.' he spoke through gritted teeth.

    'I hear you loud and clear, Richot. I'm just letting you know that God can, at least, respect his opponent, as does our Dark Lord. Those who refuse to pick a side are a joke on both sides of the chessboard, and will be treated accordingly.'

    Marc wanted to strike him, and it took every bit of his will not to act. This man had abused both his position and his student's trust to lure them into harm's way, and there was nothing respectable about it, despite what he may claim.

    'Get used to it, because there is much work to be done in the coming years. You are his tool to twist and use as he sees fit, and don't you forget that.'

    'I am nobody's tool.'

    'Really?' Dixon smirked. 'Yet here you stand powerless to stop the inevitable, cowering in your little guitar room upstairs, and basking in memories of his famous minions. You worship the puppets, but not puppeteer himself, yet you claim not to have chosen a side. Allow me to speak your language, that of Canadian old fogy talent, since you are not in the mood for scripture. "If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice."' He quoted Rush, a band Marc had been trying to get on his stage since the beginning of his career.

    'You miss the point of the song, Dixon. Likewise, I choose free will.'

    'You're a very strange man, my friend.'

    'I'm not your friend, you vulture.' he spat at his feet, though Dixon would not take his eyes from the stage.

    Marc Richot was hot under the collar; he wanted nothing to do with the dealings of such evil company. More than anything he simply wished to be free of them, but as Dixon's shrill words shook him to the core, he reasoned he was correct. He didn't exactly worship the music legends with whom he commonly raised a glass, but certainly admired and respected their talent and individual contribution to the industry. Now more than ever he felt a great swell of pity for them all. Each musician yielded such immense talent, but they could never really bask in their own success—not with the presence of the Shadow Man constantly weighing them down. He was a plague in the industry, one that had corrupted the scene he loved for far too long.

     Richot would never escape this if his co-operation remained unchecked, and there was nothing he could do to rid himself of such insidious evil . . . or was there?

    'So, this is what you do, huh George? You let these people corrupt the very children you are sworn to educate and protect? How the hell do you sleep at night?'

    'Comfortably . . . in a king-sized bed, in my lavish east side home, you self-righteous prick.' he shook his head, and Marc turned to consider the career teacher. 'Do you have the slightest clue what a public school teacher earns in this economy? You've sat on the city council—you know what these people are like. Politicians and their lip service bullshit about children being our future? My garbage man brother-in-law makes more money than me. This government cares more about their fucking trash than their own children's education—'

    'That's right, Dixon, justify your actions.' Richot shook his head.

    'At least a garbage man gets to go home at night and put their feet up. We're never off the clock—always programs to put together, homework and projects to grade, parents and school board meetings—'

    'That's the beauty of free will, George. If you don't like your job than you can choose to quit—shit, choose to stay,' he shrugged. 'Look at your students, Dixon.'

    As he pointed to the stage George Dixon could barely look at them.

    'These are good kids. You're a teacher—you're supposed to show them windows of opportunity—to give them as much choice as possible, not take them away—'

    'You say that now!' he barked back, Dixon's spine straightened. 'Wait until you have that shadow demon breathing down your neck, you judgmental asshole. So excuse the shit out of me if I take a few luxuries to ease the conscience once and a while. I used to love my job; shaping the future minds of tomorrow . . . I was so passionate about it when I was young.' The teacher's gaze seemed to drift, recalling the man he used to be. 'When you watch enough of your own students graduate and make more money than you . . . then you're just forgotten, like my efforts didn't matter in the slightest. Wife leaves you, you haven't a penny to your name, but at least I have my dignity right?'

    Marc tried to understand his point of view, but there was no justifying his actions.

    'Dignity doesn't keep you warm at night, but maybe my king-sized bed and warm, cozy home will.'

    'Well . . . at least now you can be honest about it.' Marc scoffed. 'Take a good look at your students, George. They are the price of your comfort, so I hope their sacrifice as worth it. By the end of the night they'll barely be human, and that fault will rest on your lax shoulders.'

    As the students fired back at one another, Marc straightened his cap and turned his focus on the debate, his gaze avoiding the narrowed eyes of the menacing, morally compromised teacher.

    'You know, I've heard plenty about this . . . Dark Man over the years. I'm not sure I'm all that afraid of him to be quite honest with myself.'

    'Then you are an utter fool, Marc Richot.' Their eyes met for a brief moment. 'Just because he's got no leverage with you, doesn't mean you have nothing to lose.

    'I am not his puppet.'

    'Your establishment is crucial for his plans, but won't be required for much longer. You serve no other purpose. In other words—'

    'He has no reason to keep me alive once he's done here. Yes, I've figured this much out on my own.' Marc sighed with frustration.

    'Then choose a side, and be done with it already.'

    Deciding he could take no more of the conversation, he chose to step outside for some fresh air, before losing his temper any further. Once in the rear parking lot, he leaned against his building, taking in a large gulp of fresh autumn air, his intentions settling in. Glancing around to be sure he was alone, he removed his cell phone from his pocket and opened up his browser. Searching the police directory, he located the phone number of Detective Jennifer Jenson, and sent a quick text.

    "You want him? Shackleton is currently at the Empire Theatre. They have the Roads boy."

    'How's this for choosing a side, you son-of-a-bitch.'

    The second he hit "send" there was an unsettling feeling that gripped his stomach like a demon claws clasping its wretched fingers. Marc had gone along with their plans against his own will and better judgement, but never had he blatantly intervened until this very moment. He thought of James Rhoads and Christine Davidson, hoping he had made the right decision so he could sleep at night with a relatively clear conscience. He looked upward, reasoning that if such evil existed in the world, that there must be something out there to counter it—some source of good in the universe that sided with his choice to stand, alone as he may feel in that worrisome moment. Though Marc Richot was never much of a believer, he took a deep breath and whispered to the gathering clouds above.

    'I really hope you know what you're doing.'

    Stepping back into the theatre, he made his way through the narrow hallway, the very journey toward the stage all his performers had walked throughout the years. Though the stage entrance was straight ahead, he turned to his left and climbed up a flight of stairs just as narrow as the hallway. Reaching the top landing, he stepped into a museum of sorts, a large sitting room where many guitars and other stringed instruments hung from the walls. This is where the musicians would come to relax, and even rehearse before and after shows—a legendary attraction to all those gracious enough to come to his beloved Belleville to perform.

    He stepped past the countless frames that hung between the instruments, each picture a testament to the music legends who gathered in that very room, thinking of all the work he had accomplished in his career. Then, Marc shook his head and stepped behind a small bar which stood at the corner of the room. He recalled jamming with Tal and Randy Bachman, knocking glasses with Gord Downey and Dallas Green, and filling rhythm with Jeff Martin. These were his childhood heroes, he thought as he grabbed a green bottle of lager from the small refrigerator beneath the bar. Prying the cap off the rim, he held the base of the bottle in the air, downing half of its contents at once, and then let out a refreshed sigh—a gasp of now liberated guilt.

    He reached for his preferred instrument which sat next to his favorite chair, overlooking the street below.

    'We may not make it out of this one, old friend.' he addressed his guitar like an old chum—like a veteran who had fought by his side since the beginning. The midnight black Gibson acoustic was the first guitar ever mounted in the room, and he played as though it was his last serenade, picking the intro to his favorite song. "Going to California" by Led Zeppelin was played to perfection as police sirens could be heard in the background, growing louder by the second. The authorities were on their way, and with—or without their intervention, Marc was sure he would now have to fight for his life.

                                                                ~

        The evening had been uplifting and over all positive for Chelsea Ellis. She had spent hours in some of the shadier parts of Hollywood roaming from store-to-store with her new friend Damien, purchasing a respectful array of new clothing and accessories. Hers was a collection which suited her much more that the ball gowns and diamond embedded jewelry that had been offered to her thus far. She sat in her ripped jeans, trashy tank top and high-heeled leather boots upon one of the couches in her fancy royal suite, drinking a glass bottle of root beer. The limo driver sipped on champagne and indulged in a platter of rich pastries laid out upon the white marble coffee table.

    'I can get used to this.' Damien put his feet up, stretching his arms behind his head as Chelsea flipped through a tattered leather book, full of original songs she had written over her many years of composing.

    'Yes, for the love of God, help yourself. I can use a break from my usual company.'

    'So, what's your beef with these people anyway? Don't seem like you're exactly underprivileged from this angle.' he asked, his dreadlocks now dangling rather than tied back, collar loosened and blazer hanging off the side of the couch.

    'There are many forms of imprisonment, my friend. I fear I have forfeited my freedom for a life of luxury, but now that I'm free to record my own work . . . I feel a little better about the situation.'

    'Ah, Chief's got you by the balls, I see.'

    She leaned forward putting her book aside, unaware that Damien was familiar with the mysterious man.

    'What do you know of him?' she asked.

    Damien looked around, not without good reason, checking to see if they were indeed alone.

    'Look, I can't say much from personal experience, just what I heard from the celebrities I escort around town.'

    'And what have you learned?' she asked, and he took his time, swallowing the last of his chocolate puff pastry.

    'Everyone seems terrified of him—enough to know we shouldn't be having this conversation.'

    'Yes, I figured that much, but you have no idea who he is . . . who he really is, I mean?'

    'He's a bad mothafucka, that's all I can tell you. Everyone who crosses him pays the price, and in the worst possible way.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'What I mean, Cher, is he targets family first and foremost. Everyone I drive around, at one point in their inebriated state has broken down, scared shitless and worried what he done to their loved ones.' he warned, the Cajun accent breaking through.

    'You mean if they screw up—acted against their contract, right?' she asked, and he just shook his head, his dread locks bouncing around.

    'Nah Mon Cher; if you've signed a contract with the Chief, he already in deep with your family. Whoever you have in mind right now, as we're having this conversation, the Dark Man's got against the wall, believe that, child.'

    She thought of Meredith and her beloved niece and nephew. If what Damien was saying was true, the Godfather had already gotten to them. Chelsea simply couldn't bear the thought. She had been high and drunk, indulging, shopping and living the high life whilst her loved ones were in peril.

    'You think he's already made a move on them?' she asked in all seriousness.

    Damien leaned forth, and whispered.

    'Long before you ever met him, I guarantee.'

    Without hesitation Chelsea retrieved her phone and called her sister. Her rapid heartbeat settled as the phone was answered within a few short rings, hoping her imagination was exaggerating.

    'Hello?' asked Meredith.

    'Mer, thank God. I was worried you wouldn't answer.'

    'Why wouldn't I answer my little sister's call?' she asked, sitting alone in her apartment in Belleville. Ashley had gone with the priests, James was off at some school event of which he had remained vague of the details, and she had taken a brief leave of absence from her jobs, just until Jenson had sorted out the details of the case. Her sister had called at an opportune moment, as for the first time since the separation Meredith didn't quite know what to do with herself. She had already cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, and felt restless and fidgety with nothing to do.

    'Just . . . keep answering when I call, okay?'

    'Yeah, of course. What's happening, Chelsea? Is everything alright with you? You don't sound . . . like yourself.'

    'Yes,' she lied. 'I'm okay.' A moment lingered in awkward silence. Both sisters wanted desperately to talk to each other about what was going on in their lives. The circumstances on either side were strangely supernatural—too unusual and worrisome to discuss casually. Meredith worried that she would seem less competent, unable to handle her own kids without help; where Chelsea was afraid to appear weak, like she couldn't handle the pressure of stardom. These acted as a barrier to which the sisters could not overcome, both too prideful to ask for help.

    'How about you; everything going smoothly in the Rhoads household?' another awkward moment lingered in the air, but after Meredith contemplated filling her sister in on what was happening with her daughter, she again, decided against it.

    'Oh yeah, we're all good here. Just another day in paradise, you know.'

    Both sisters were blatantly lying to one another, and both could tell.

    'Well, I'll let you go about your day then.' Chelsea slumped her shoulders, knowing that something was up.

    'You aint gonna tell her about the Shadow Man?' asked Damien, right before she was about to say good bye.

    'Wait, what?' Meredith's expression turned cold as ice. 'What did he just say?'

    'Nothing.' Chelsea blurted, her piercing eyes angry at her new friend.

    'Bullshit nothing! What the fuck did he just say, Chels?'

    'I said nothing!' she replied awkwardly, but in a stern tone, unsure of how to react—or even if she should be talking to her sister about the Godfather at all, especially since she hadn't a clue as to the details of her infernal contract.

    Chelsea's words gripped her sister's heart with an iron gauntlet, and her reaction, in turn, alerted Meredith that the Godfather had, in fact, been involved in their lives.

    'Don't say another word, Meredith. We'll be in touch soon, okay?'

    'Uhm . . . right.' Meredith read between the lines, knowing her sister was on the same page. 'I love you, Sis.'

    'Love you too Mer.' Chelsea quickly hung up and jolted to her feet. A rush overcame her—an energy which trumped any feeling she could ever experience on stage. Her big sister was in trouble, and she was positive it was her fault. Without knowing any better, the rising talent naturally assumed she had put her loved ones directly in harm's way; a dire problem she meant to correct immediately.

    'What's up?' asked Damien, slowly getting to his feet.

    Chelsea opened the note pad on her phone and began typing. But as she did, she kept talking.

    'I have no idea what to say to her anymore, really.' she shrugged. 'She's gotta understand that we can't be discussing certain subjects, especially when it comes to the Godfather. I'll just make something up; my sister will believe anything I tell her; Meredith is pretty stupid.' Her heart hurt just letting the lie slip from her lips, but it was not without good cause.

    'Good call, Cher. You don't wanna break that contract of yours, after all.' he replied, but a blank stare came upon him when she turned the phone and he read the words that she had typed on the screen. Giving his head a shake, she lowered her phone, knowing full well that there were ears everywhere, eyes on them at all times. 'Hey, you wanna maybe go grab a regular bite to eat? This fancy shit can't compensate for the flavour of a Big Mac, you know?'

    'That sounds good, I must admit.' Chelsea agreed with believable delight.

    As Damien put on his blazer and escorted her out of the room, she quickly deleted the words she had typed on her phone that read:

    "Take me to the airport?"

                                                                ~

        Constable Leonard Dawson sat opposite Frederyk Maracle in the Belleville precinct's interrogation room, the air thick with apprehension. The painted grey cinderblock walls and basic furniture gave the room a dungeon-like feel, a single overhead lamp the only light in the otherwise darkened space. A two-way mirror faced the suspect, many eyes watching from the adjoining room. The school councilor of Sir John A. Macdonald Elementary had been in custody for several hours, and denied his legal right to a phone call. He had been kindly asked to provide fingerprint samples to help aid the ongoing investigation, if only to eliminate him from suspicion, but Maracle refused without an official warrant or charges.

    Dawson's partner had her hands full dealing with the disturbing circumstances of the Rhoads family, while they waited for multiple search warrants to come through. The Chief Forensics Officer, Malcolm Turner had already submitted his laboratory results, and the BPD had been busy behind the scenes, connecting the dots and building the strange and puzzling case.

    As Leonard carefully observed the weasely man, he noted his restless left leg which seemed to move independently beneath the table, and his fidgeting fingers which had to be tapping or cracking at all times. The rodent-like man seemed to be growing more apprehensive by the second.

    'Can I get you a Xanax or something? You seem rather nervous, Mr. Maracle.'

    'Unavoidable habit, I'm afraid. I am prone to anxiety.'

    'If I didn't know any better, I'd think you had something to hide.'

    'Certainly not.' he didn't skip a beat. 'I may take you up on that Xanax, actually.'

    'Sure thing.' Dawson waved toward the two-way mirror, and just a few short seconds later his personal prescription bottle was delivered, along with a plastic cup of water. He removed one from the container and placed it in the palm of his suspect's hand.

    'Actually, I wouldn't mind some coffee, if it's not a huge issue.'

    'I don't see why not; would you like some donuts while we're at it?' he asked, but Frederyk couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic; but alas, he waved at the mirror once again. 'Coffee and donuts, if you please.' he requested. 'I'm sure one of the boys were on their way out for a Tim's run anyways—should be a requirement in Canadian law, a phone call and a double-double, am I right?' he smirked, trying to keep a light mood.

    'Speaking of which, I still haven't got my phone—'

    'You will momentarily, I assure you. We're strictly by the book here; you can rest assured, Mr. Maracle.'

    'I see you have problems with anxiety yourself?' Maracle noticed the prescription bottle with Dawson's name highlighted.

    'Recent events have put me a bit on edge, I'll admit. The precinct's registered therapist thought it might calm my nerves in tense situations. I'm not supposed to share prescriptions, but I'd wager you could use a break from the pressure.'

    A moment of silence ensued as the constable waited to see if his leg stopped bouncing, which it did not.

    'So . . . what can I help you with, Officer?' Frederyk began as Dawson kept his casual yet intimidating glance.

    This man had been in contact with Ashley Rhoads on a regular basis, and Dawson found it no coincidence that these mysterious episodes had only gotten worse with regular sessions of one-on-one time, as of late. Picturing the weasely man alone with the young oracle boiled his blood; the vision of her possessed features flashed over and again every time he opened his mouth, knowing this man had something to do with it.

    The overhead light radiated much more heat than necessary, but the constable wasn't bothered by it, not like the suspect whose gaze never seemed to stay put. The patient interrogator simply stroked his moustache and leaned back in his chair, considering his strategic play. Maracle seemed restless, his beady eyes, narrow shoulders and receding hairline already set the basic profile, but he had no idea what the policeman was planning—or the immense weight of the discussion that was about to unfold.

    Frederyk was seemingly brought in as a safety precaution—at least, that's what Detective Jenson wanted him to believe. The evidence against him was much more damning and severe than they had let on.

    'Am I going to be able to speak to a lawyer or not?' he asked for the umpteenth time. 'I appreciate the hospitality, really; but I have nothing to say without representation.'

    'Sure, no problem.' Dawson shrugged, casually sliding his cell phone across the table. 'You're welcome to give him a call. It is your right, after all.'

    'I want my own phone.'

    'So you can text your secret society, devil worshipping friends and warn them? Fat chance.' He chuckled.

    'You are mistaken, Constable.' he stated plainly, but Dawson watched his every move—every minute reaction, reading him like a book and separating truth from fiction with every spoken word or gesture.

    'The Canadian Charter of Rights is perfectly clear, Maracle; one phone call, but you are not entitled to use your own phone. You can have it back when we're done here. For now, I have provided you the means to make said phone call.' he grinned, already knowing the outcome.

    Maracle quickly dialed a phone number, and the expression on his face went limp as the voicemail prompt could be heard.

    'Hey, Ben; this is Frederyk Maracle. I've been detained at the BPD precinct with no charges or foreseeable cause. I need you to get here as soon as possible. I've been here for hours and they won't let me go. See you soon.' Hanging up, he noticed the wide smile on Dawson's face as he handed him back the phone.

    'What's so damn pleasing to you, Constable?'

    'Well, here's the thing, Mr. Maracle: we keep having run-ins with pieces of shit like yourself, Samuel Higgins, and a few more who won't be mentioned at this time,' Dawson watched him closely and there was neither denial nor surprise in his expression. 'And everyone we detain or investigate seems to have regular contact with the same scumbag lawyer. We're starting to presume that Benjamin Shackleton may be the prime connection to all of this.'

    'All of what? He's the best defense lawyer in town, and well known for it; hardly a connection, Constable Dawson.'

    'The last guy we arrested was streetwalking scum, unemployed he would have us believe.' he shrugged. 'And we've seen your salary, Mr. Maracle. I can hardly believe either of you could possibly afford an attorney at such cost or prestige, and Benjamin Shackleton is hardly the type to work pro-bono, as he clearly lacks a conscience of any sort. But that's not why I find your situation entertaining.'

    Maracle suddenly seemed worried, unsure of what the officer was about to divulge.

    'You see, Shackleton and his shithead client Samuel Higgins—or "S-Dawg" if you'd prefer, are both currently wanted for questioning in the City of Belleville. Both seemed to have vanished without a trace, and don't seem the type to turn themselves in. Good call on their part, considering some of the allegations in regards to some rather shocking and damning evidence that has recently come to light—'

    'I get another phone call.' Maracle shot back quicker than expected.

    'I'm afraid you've already exercised your rights to a legally entitled phone call, Mr. Maracle.' he waved his phone in a child-like manner, rubbing it in his face. 'So, either Shackleton miraculously shows up, walking right into our midst as a wanted man . . . and I think we both know him to be much smarter than that, or you're going to be here for a very long time.'

    'What the hell do you want from me?' he barked back.

    Dawson had pushed the councilor against the wall, right where he wanted him.

    'I want to know everything you know about Ashley Rhoads, and why you and your creepy-ass friends seem to be so interested in her. I want to know your association with these Black-eyed Kids, and what they want with the children of our quaint little harbour town. People have died, and we mean to get to the bottom of it before any more bodies turn up.'

    'I don't know what you're talking about.' he lied. 'You've detained me based on some supernatural urban myth? The press is going to have a field day.'

    Dawson simply grinned, knowing the strange phenomena was only the tip of the iceberg, and the school councilor's involvement was much deeper than he was letting on.

    'I don't need a lawyer to know you can't hold me without a charge for any more than forty-eight hours. This has nothing to do with me, I assure you. Less than two days from now I'll be out of here, and you would have wasted both of our valuable time.'

    'Nothing to do with you?' he repeated in a monotone, not believing a word. 'Here's the problem with that statement, Frederyk—may I call you by your Christian name?' Maracle's eyes narrowed with the use of the word "Christian"; a minute detail not overlooked by the sharp mind of Leonard Dawson. 'You see, my partner—Detective Jenson and I—we followed up on a probable cause suspicion into a seemingly condemned house located at the end of Charles Street, right here in the Friendly City.' he tapped his finger on the table. 'Now, that place is all kinds of fucked up in ways I can't legally divulge without sounding like a complete loon to my superiors. Doesn't look good on paper, under oath, you can imagine. But what my partner found in the basement of that house was . . . rather alarming.'

    'Again, what does this have to do with me? I don't know anyone who lives on Charles Street.' he claimed, but his subtle facial gestures revealed otherwise.

    'I'm getting to that, Frederyk.' he replied, noting the sweat now beating on the suspect's forehead, even though he remained leaned back, out of the heat of the overhead lamp.

    Dawson began flopping many files onto the table, and spread them out individually like oversized playing cards so that Maracle could see every photograph paper-clipped to the front of each. He flipped the first file around so the suspect could see a school picture of a young boy, smiling pleasantly at the camera on picture day. The child seemed happy, a generally bright disposition in his joyous expression.

    'Xavier Hawthorn: black male, age nine; diagnosed with severe ADHD and many theorized behavioral issues. He was one of your children was he not?'

    'He was a good kid, but had some underlining psychological issues, as I noted in my report.' Maracle revealed, a slight sigh accompanied the lowering of his gaze. 'I couldn't really help him, unfortunately. I'm only qualified to go so far, after all. I did, however, recommend further mental analysis.'

    'Yes, so it reads in his profile, written by your own hand. The boy was quite the handful; an orphan too, the poor thing.'

    'He wasn't orphaned, Constable. Xavier was a foster child, removed from an abusive environment. His birth parents were neglectful, prone to aggression and violence in the home.' he corrected.

    'My mistake; you are the expert, after all. So . . . what happened to the kid?'

    'Well, the emotional trauma of a hostile environment and generally violent parents, I'm afraid was more than he could cope with, unfortunately.'

    'So, you recommended his doctor up the dosage of prescribed Ritalin, and anti-depression pills which were delivered regularly?'

    'His foster parents had to forcefully administer the drugs every morning before school. As I reported, the boy was specifically difficult to deal with.' A look of regret followed, but Dawson couldn't tell if it was faux or genuine, and so he prodded further.

    'Must be difficult—frustrating even, to deal with such troubled youth on a regular basis, most certainly when there's only so much you can do to help a restless boy such as Xavier Hawthorn.'

    'I didn't choose my profession to be comfortable, Constable. My job is to help, and I do the best I can with the tools I'm provided. I'm sure we share this trait in our field of employment.'

    'Most certainly.' Dawson nodded, finding common ground with the suspect, as was basic textbook protocol in the subtle tactics of interrogation. 'We've both seen our share of lost causes—those simply too far gone to merit further efforts.'

    'I wouldn't call Xavier a lost cause—'

    'It's all right here in your own writing, Frederyk.' Dawson flipped open the file and read his notes aloud. '"Xavier is beyond my help, or any behavioral treatment I can provide, I fear. In my professional opinion, I would recommend institutionalizing him until suitable medical treatment can be provided." Certainly sounds like you gave up on the boy . . . a lost cause.'

    Maracle lowered his brow, knowing how he must look on paper.

    'It's just an unfortunate part of the job, Constable. We can't get caught up in emotions when dealing with certain types—'

    'Yet shortly after increasing his dosage, stuffing him full of anti-depressants and washing your hands of him, Xavier Hawthorn mysteriously went missing, I'm sure you are aware.'

    'The boy's foster family moved out of the area . . . he certainly didn't go missing.' he insisted with a nervous, unconvincing chuckle; more subtle hints not ignored by the Constable.

    'Oh, I know that's how it looks. But you see, I've been trying to contact Xavier's foster parents with no such luck. Turns out whatever city they moved away to, they never quite reached their destination. Imagine my shock as I learned from their neighbours that they hadn't notified anyone of any intentions to move. One day there's a happy and wholesome family living right next door, and the next a vacant home; all their belongings just vanishing in the middle of the night. I'm sure you can take a wild guess who arranged the sale of their home.'

    'How would I know?' Maracle shrugged. 'What Xavier's foster family does with their personal property is none of my concern.'

    'I suppose it wouldn't shock you to learn that Benjamin Shackleton began his career in real estate law. I didn't even know that until we checked with the provincial bar association. If anyone could sell a house and forge documents to make a family disappear without suspicion, it would be him.'

    'That's . . . unfortunate to hear. If Shackleton is involved in such a wildly conjected conspiracy it has nothing to do with me, I assure you. Needless to say, I'll have to secure alternative representation.'

    'That would be a wise move.' Dawson smirked.

    'So . . . why don't we call it a personal favour, and let me make another phone call?'

    'Yeah, that's not gonna happen.' he sighed. 'So, with Xavier's foster parents just up and disappearing, I thought I'd get a hold of their relatives, friends—anyone who can attest for their whereabouts, and I was disturbed to find that said relations simply didn't exist.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'I mean, Frederyk, that their names weren't real. No driver's licenses, health documentation, passports—not even a fucking library card in their name.'

    'What do you think happened?'

    Dawson's eyes narrowed, the point of his investigation zeroing in on a heinous crime.

    Child Protective Services had never heard of Steven and Margaret Thatcher, much less their newly adopted son, Xavier. Then I got to thinking like a Satanist piece of shit, looking for kids to sacrifice, like your friend Shackleton, for example. Here's what I think really happened to the boy: We have a young kid from an abusive home in a different province, the boy initially from a known ghetto area in Calgary, Alberta. Xavier had no identification, no social insurance number, so by all counts he doesn't really exist in any system, other than child protective services, of course. A stranger comes knocking one day claiming to be child services. They look official enough—know the lingo well, and insist the child be taken out of custody temporarily; according CAS files, it certainly wasn't the first time. This "worker" takes the boy, and the biological parents who were drugged out of their minds barely put up a fight. He was then brought here to Belleville, for one reason or another. Xavier was placed into a faux foster home, giving Frederyk Maracle just enough time to analyze the boy, looking for specific traits.'

    'Okay, in this completely fantasy based reality, what kind of traits would I be looking for exactly?' he asked, rolling his eyes.

    'Not baptized for one; we know that much for sure. In a practical sense, a splash of water shouldn't matter, but baptism is certainly a factor to whoever is pulling the strings. This tells us that there is a definite religious angle to this case. But whatever traits you were looking for took time and a psychologically practiced hand to reveal.'

    Maracle's lack of denial only increased his suspicion.

    'Again, for what possible purpose? What could be so important that we'd be willing to abduct a child, theoretically speaking, of course?'

    'I don't know.' Dawson replied honestly. 'Perhaps it has to do with the boy's biological lineage—or maybe it's a medical thing, like a blood type or DNA connection. Now would be the time to clarify, Frederyk, if you have anything to say about this.'

    The two men paused, sizing each other up.

    'Continue your theory, Constable. I'm curious as to where you're going with this.'

    'Certainly.' he agreed as the door opened, and two paper coffee cups and a box of donuts were placed before them. Maracle stirred in his preferred amount of cream and sugar as he listened to the officer continue, pausing briefly to take a sip of his hot beverage.

    'When you finally discovered the unknown traits—or lack thereof, that's when the foster family mysteriously moves in the middle of the night, and their home sold within the same week. Xavier Hawthorne becomes a memory, and nobody bothers to go looking for just another troubled kid from the hood. By the time the biological parents come around, the boy is long gone, no sign of him in any legal documentation, no direction to even point a figure.'

    'For what purpose? I mean, there are easier ways of kidnapping a child, Dawson. Why would Shackleton go through all this trouble?'

    'Why indeed?' the officer considered the man. 'You see, Xavier's unfortunate case is not an isolated incident. Each one of these kids share this repeated pattern, like a well organized formula of child abduction. A full board of missing children stands out, which would be increasing difficult to keep out of the public spotlight. But underprivileged children who are legally removed from abusive homes every day, not so much; the process encouraged even. In some cases, where the child doesn't come from a broken home, it looks as though dangerous issues were conjured out of thin air. Any excuse necessary to take the child from their home, am I right?' he asked as Maracle reached for a honey-dip. 'My guess, Frederyk, is that you needed time to assess these kids. You are the one who decides if Xavier Hawthorne,' he gestured to one file after another, 'Charlise Lahey, Chastity Ellis—or Pamela Whyte are worthy candidates to become one of these Black-eyed Kids, sacrificed for ritualistic purposes, or god knows what else.'

    'That's insane, Constable! I don't know what kind of crazy imagination you'd have to possess to cook up a theory like that, but if you're really that concerned, why aren't you out there trying to find Benjamin Shackleton instead of badgering me with one little coincidence.'

    'Because it's not just one "little coincidence" as you say.' He firmly implied, spreading out each file, each school picture a different child he had once counselled. 'There is a clear pattern to this madness. You see, Maracle . . . we found plenty of DNA clogging the drain in the crawlspace below the House on Charles Street. Every sample matches a child who was under your care at one point or another. Each one of them from a different province, and each with fake foster homes and faux foster parents, every one of them up and selling their houses, and vanishing in the night. What we're looking at here, is a masterfully orchestrated kidnapping ring, with you, Samuel Higgins and Benjamin Shackleton at the core of it all.'

    'I want another lawyer.' he pushed, but Dawson ignored his request.

    'Convenient, is it not, dealing with traumatized children? I mean, who would miss problem kids; those who have already been abandoned and forgotten, am I right? You've probably convinced yourself it was an act of mercy, snuffing out each one. I mean, why condemn these troubled kids to a life of ongoing trauma when they can be used as a sacrifice to your bullshit Devil?'

    'Someone is clearly stalking my work, Constable. Shackleton's obviously setting me up!' he yelled now getting to his feet.

    'Sit your ass down, Maracle!' Dawson slammed his fist hard against the table, raising his voice, and the councilor lowered himself back into his chair, his worrisome gaze reaching a point of devastation. 'You see, I have what you may call a bleeding heart for these so-called lost causes you deem beyond help, but I don't think you completely inhuman.' He leaned back, considering the man. 'I mean, maybe you were ordered by these . . . secret societies to analyze and dispose of these kids for whatever reasons.'

    'Theories, Constable—conjected theories spread too thin to take seriously in a court of law. If you're not going to charge me with anything, and you won't allow me my basic right to council, I wish to be escorted back to my cell. I'll wait out the two days rather than being accused of child abduction.' Maracle turned his gaze, shaking his head with bitterness and conspicuous worry.

    'We gave you the benefit of the doubt, Frederyk. That is . . . until we learned that you hadn't been at Sir John A. MacDonald Elementary for more than a month. You put in a transfer from your previous employer the week after Xavier and his foster family disappeared, but just to another school within the same district. Your involvement in these disappearances was becoming obvious, or maybe the guilt was weighing you down.'

    'I just . . . needed a change of scenery.' he lied.

    'Perhaps.' Dawson shrugged. 'You have no family in the area; in fact you grew up in Toronto, didn't you?'

    'I prefer a small city over urban lifestyle.'

    'I would think a change in scenery would bring you to a different district, like Kingston or Ottawa, but you chose to stay in Belleville for some strange reason. Then it hit me; you need to stay in this area, don't you? There's something about Belleville that keeps you here. So what could it be?'

    'I have no loyalty to Belleville.' he countered.

    'Wouldn't have anything to do with the Rhoads family separating would it? I mean, Sir John A. McDonald wasn't the first time you had Ashley Rhoads under your wing, right? Her transfer to a new school coincided with your own. I mean, a smarter man would have vacated the area and changed his name, ridding himself of such men as Benjamin Shackleton. Could your attraction to this area actually be one Ashley Rhoads?'

    'She's just another case file, Dawson—nothing more.'

    The constable's brow crinkled with intrigue, knowing he had touched on a complex topic. Maracle's tone quickly changed with the mention of the child's name, which revealed more about his real agenda than the entire conversation thus far.

    'And an interesting one at that; am I right? She is baptized, which leaves a box unchecked, the only child thus far who is. Xavier Hawthorne was the last to go missing; so, we can safely assume you and your company were looking for someone in particular, and when Ashley Rhoads' file came across your desk, the search was over. You had been searching the whole damn country, and the kid you were looking for was right in your own backyard the whole time. Her case was so interesting—so damn important to your cause that you were willing to transfer schools to continue your work with her.'

    'I want to go back to my cell, Constable. This is basic harassment without my legal counsel present.' he pushed, getting to his feet in a rage, but Dawson didn't care.

    'You aint hearing me, Maracle.' his gaze turned stern. 'We're going to charge your ass. You're not going home; you will neither pass Go, nor collect two-hundred dollars; you're going directly to prison, where you will grow old and die behind bars.'

    The suspect turned a sickly pale, eerily quiet and still, an overbearing sense of desolation gripping him without mercy, as Frederyk Maracle allowed the seriousness of the moment to sink in.

    'What? Wait, what the hell are you officially charging me with?' his jaw clenched, growing more irate by the moment.

    'So far, six counts of child endangerment, and conspiracy to murder. That's just if we don't find your prints at the scene, or your DNA on the bodies of the missing kids. If by chance we do, we're looking at multiple charges of murder in the first degree, and the inside of a cage for the rest of your miserable existence.' he smirked, knowing that he had him right where he wanted. Maracle sat back down, his expression vacant and cold—borderline mad.

    'You don't have my fingerprints.'

    'Don't I?' Dawson waved his cell phone yet again, placing it in a plastic bag, not needing his permission to match prints, even if Maracle refused. 'On the upside, you'll make history as the most ruthless serial killer in Belleville's history—really put us on the map, don't you think? I mean, they'll probably turn your house into a museum when it's all said and done—'

    'You got the wrong guy, Dawson!'

    'May I remind you what happens to child murderers in the pen? A man of your less than sizable structure would be turned inside out in ways that could only be described as violently pornographic. So, I suggest you start squawking, cause the only way you're getting out of this is with either a lifetime of stitches in yo ass, or with a loose tongue. And mark my words, Maracle; I will go to great lengths to ensure every inmate knows the details of these horrible crimes.'

    Frederyk Maracle was a broken man, tears now streaming from his cheeks as his imagination took hold. He was not the culprit they were looking for—not even close to the true puppet master. Dawson could see the devastation in his eyes, a look he had seen countless times before, where the suspect wondered how their situation had come to this, past the point of no return. This was the moment he was waiting for, to make his strategic move.

    'I'll get straight to the point.' He took a second to compose himself, thinking on his next choice of words carefully. 'I'll be frank, Frederyk, I don't take much pleasure in putting you away, honestly.' he held up a hand like swearing an oath.

    'You could've fooled me.' he kept his gaze low to the floor.

    'I've always prided myself on possessing a good judge of character—always able to look a man in the eyes and figure out what he's about. That's what has made me a good cop, the ability to read a man's intentions. You, my weasely friend, are not difficult to read. There is compassion in your eyes, and deep in your heart, I don't doubt for a moment. As I said, I don't think you inhuman.'

    'Well, I appreciate that.' Frederyk forced a smile, despite the "weasely" comment.

    'During this entire interview, of all the lies you've told me thus far—don't deny it.' Dawson caught him with a stern point of a finger, just as Maracle opened his mouth. 'One truth stands out.'

    The accused took a deep breath and leaned into the lamp light, curious as to where he was going.

    'You do the best you can with the tools you're given. I don't think you wanted to hurt anyone.' 

    Maracle stared blankly into nothingness, his mind deep in guilt and shame.

    'You're right, I don't.'

    'I think you were coaxed into this position under threat—possibly even blackmail. If given your way, I truly believe you would have ran to the hills a long time ago, and turned in your co-conspirators to the proper authorities. You're trapped, aren't you?'

    Tears ran down his cheeks, and Maracle buried his crinkled face in his hands. This moment of honesty was devastating in every way. So much regret and anguish had been bottled up for years, every waking moment of his life looking over his shoulder, terrified the Dark Man would come for him if he hadn't followed through with his work. He began his career with the best of intentions, but had allowed this dark presence to turn a once thought noble man into something evil.

    'You have no idea.' he replied, tears saturating his eyelashes.

    'Okay,' Dawson leaned forth and patted his arm, finding compassion for the cornered man. 'Let us find common ground on the principles of common decency, shall we? Neither of us wants to see any more innocent kids get hurt.'

    'Agreed.' he wiped the tears from his cheeks and sniffled.

    'The law be damned; we need your help, Maracle.'

    He sat up straight, curious as what the Constable and the BPD could want from him.

    'You have a chance to set yourself on a path of redemption; it's not too late to make this right.'

    Redemption had been so far out of grasp for so long, the thought felt almost foreign to him.

    'I'm not admitting to anything, let me make that clear.' he was sure to clarify.

    'Okay, well—'

    'However, I chose my career to help children. I too was once a . . . lost cause. If I had known—' he clenched his teeth with a huff.

    'I'm all ears, Frederyk.'

    There was a moment of mutual respect and empathy shared between them. Though it was his job to interrogate and extract crucial information by any means necessary, Dawson's benevolent approach was genuine.

    'Are you seeing this? Dawson's got some skill.' said Detective McMasters as he watched from the other side of the glass, sipping his coffee. His beige trench coat hung over the back of his chair as he listened closely, his attention on every minute detail of the interrogation. He needed to know just how much Maracle was willing to reveal, well aware of how vast and interwoven the conspiracy truly was.

    'Oh yeah, Lenny's the man. You think he's ready to make Detective?' asked Janine, checking to make sure the camera's settings were steady and rolling without flaw.

    'There are no open Detective positions currently available in the BPD, but I have put in for Inspector, myself. I'm technically a Detective Corporal, but if I get the position he'll be a shoe in for the job. Impressive work, I'm sure we can all agree.'

    'Well, he's got my vote.' she shrugged, grabbing a French cruller from the box between them, rather enjoying the show.

    'So tell me, Frederyk . . . I know Shackleton pulls your strings, and Samuel Higgins as well, but who's the Dark Man; the puppet master who pulls them all?'

    Maracle's eyes widened, as a surge of fear came alive within him.

    'I—I don't know what you're—'

    'I know he's the one interested in the Rhoads girl, which is why you were ordered to study her at great length—to learn her weaknesses and keep her subdued. We are well aware that she may have the means to stop the son-of-a-bitch. I know he's been abducting these kids to find Ashley, and now that she has surfaced he will stop at nothing to get to her. We know he's building an army of Black-eyed Kids, and I've seen what they can do. What we don't know is to what end? Why Belleville of all places? Why was our little harbour town specifically selected for this insurrection?'

    Maracle was beyond apprehension, a genuine sense of humanity abundantly visible in his remorseful demeanor. Dawson had hit the nail on the head in almost every assumption of the investigation. Although the career councilor wanted desperately to co-operate, as though the information was just about ready to burst out of him at any given moment, a foreboding sense of dread washed through him, knowing the Dark Man could kill him with a snap of his finger, his eyes and ears everywhere. He wanted perilously to see Benjamin Shackleton answer for his many crimes, but the cost of his own life was the only impending price.

    'I . . . can't say any more.' he shook his head, his beady eyes piercing, hoping the Constable would somehow understand. 'I fear for my life, if you can possibly comprehend.'

    Dawson shook his head in frustration, letting out a disappointed sigh.

    'I'm sorry Frederyk, really I am; but you leave me little choice but to move forward with the charges, if you cannot point me to the real culprit.'

    'I want to co-operate, Constable, really—'

    'That's not good enough. It's not you I want, but you're not giving me much of a choice here. I want to know everything, and I want Shackleton, Higgins and this dark, demonic asshole behind bars for life, along with anyone else involved.'

    'Okay, first of all, I don't think he's even human, so putting him behind bars is not an option. Second, if you think a handful of people are capable of this alleged mass conspiracy of child abduction, then you're not thinking straight.'

    'What do you mean?' he asked, reaching for doughnut.

    'What I mean, Dawson, is that Canada was not unique in the Dark Man's exhaustive hunt for the girl. He's been looking for Ashley since she was born, tracing the Ellis bloodline back countless generations.'

    Maracle moved Chastity Ellis' file toward him, and Dawson looked upon more than a few familiar features, noting the pale skin, chestnut brown hair, bright emerald and uniquely shaped eyes. Chastity could have easily been a distant cousin of Ashley and Meredith Rhoads.

    'Her mother, Meredith's maiden name is Ellis. Xavier Hawthorne, Amelia Lahey . . . Chastity Ellis—all of them are part of a unique family tree stretching back countless generations. There was an active global effort in locating Ashley for many years. This isn't just a small group of people you're up against here. This is a sinister secret society with vast integrated ties, like a Satanic spider web, interwoven into every single community around the globe.'

    'Certainly explains how these Black-eyed Kids were being reported everywhere.' Leonard recalled the original briefing of the case with Detective Jenson, outside the Charles Street house, and remembered Father Theron specifically mentioning how authorities around the world would somehow forget or abandon any investigation involving the strange phenomena, save one detective of the Belleville Police Department.

    'But these aren't your average Satanists, Constable. We're not talking about a handful of scuzzy-looking tattooed freak shows, who wear nothing but black and pentagram pendants around their necks. These people don't advertise.'

    'Enlighten me.' he pushed, his demeanor more intrigued by the second.

    'I mean, they're people like me, already intergraded into strategic positions of value in order to further his agenda. The Dark Man doesn't recruit followers and take the time to move them into place within any given society. He gets to them while they still hold these positions of power and use, by means of blackmail or threat—some are even willing, the faithfully devoted.'

    'And are you devoted, yourself?'

    'You mean, am I a Satanist? No; actually a great majority of us are atheists. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing man he didn't exist. Besides, God has no interested in a man like me . . . not anymore.'

    'There's always time to make it right, Fred.' Dawson assured.

    'You don't know what it's like, waking exhausted from a nightmare from which you have no control over your own flesh. His minions take control to do his bidding; meanwhile we the puppets have no say in our own actions. We can see and feel what is happening all around us, but there's something else in control. We belong to him, Constable.' he lowered his brow, ashamed of actions that were not his own. 'These Satanists . . . they surround us at all times. They are not just school councilors like me, an attorney like Shackleton—or a streetwalking piece of shit like Samuel Higgins; we're talking judges, cops, garbage men, city council members, neighbours and even close family. They could be masking themselves as Christians at your average church, the patient sitting next to you at the doctor's office—or even a do-gooder detective like your partner—'

    'Jennifer Jenson is no fucking Satanist—'

    'And how the hell could you possibly know?' Maracle slammed his hand on the table, the heat of conflictions churning fear and apprehension with every passing moment.

    Dawson's jaw was hanging, thoughts of the vast conspiracy taking the wind out of him. What was once thought mere theory seemed all the more plausible as the conversation pushed forth.

    'For all I know you could be one of them. There's a part of me that half-expected to never make it out of this room alive, if I talked to you.'

    'Hey, I got you.' Dawson assured. 'I sure as hell aint no bullshit Satanist, and as long as you're in my custody, no one's gonna get their slimy devil-worshipping hands near you, you hear me?' he leaned forth and put his hand on Maracle's shoulder, a once faux empathy seeming almost genuine. 'You can trust me.'

    'You don't understand; I'm already a dead man walking, just telling you what I have so far.'

    'You'll have witness protection, but we need you full compliance—'

    'You think walls can protect me, Dawson—protect you?' he sighed, hanging his head low in despair. 'He sees everything—hears everything. You cannot stop what's coming with your guns and laws. The Dark Man has no jurisdiction, no code of conduct or walls he cannot breach. The only laws that matter now are those set in opposition of his demonic nature.'

    'That's why we have the Vatican priests here in Belleville, Fred. We're ahead of the curb, and ready for whatever this Shadow asshole can throw at us.'

    'You are a fool if you actually believe that, Dawson.'

    Maracle stared blankly before him, his thoughts not dwelling on spending the rest of his life in prison, but the repercussions of divulging everything he knew to clear his name. Inside his head, he was weighing the sheer mass of his next move. The decision was simple, yet the consequences harsher than the cool and collective policeman before him could possibly imagine. The choice was between life in prison or certain death, and in that moment, the latter seemed the obvious choice.

    'These priests . . . they know how to stop him?'

    'The elder one you met earlier, Father Theron . . . I watched him pull the fucker right out of the girl with a few words and some holy water. Don't let this asshole let you believe he's invincible. If he's as demonic as you believe, then there's got to be something divine that can stop him, Fred—there's just got to be. In fact, I overheard them talking about Holy ground being the safest place.'

    'Maybe you can convince them to put me into witness protection at the Vatican?' a slight glimmer of hope could be seen in his demeanor. For the first time in years, the thought of standing his ground against the Dark Man was an actual possibility, though his gut protested.

    'I don't think I can make that promise—' Dawson's train of thought was derailed when a text message alerted his cell phone, and he read the message through the plastic bag.

    'Looks like our search warrants just cleared for the Charles Street house, and all of Shackleton's properties and holdings. Is there anything you want to say before we proceed? Are we gonna find your prints in an inconvenient place?'

    'I didn't kill anyone.' Maracle said softly, shaking his head.

    Dawson erected out of his seat, taking the files and his cell phone along with him.

    'I take it we have a deal; you're gonna tell us everything, right?'

    'I never once physically harmed any child, not directly anyway. I want you to know that.' he replied as Dawson opened the door, but stopped and leaned against the frame.

    'I have your word, Fred?' he asked, his tone stern and direct, being sure to speak clearly.

    'My word . . . I never physically harmed a child.' Maracle sighed, allowing what was left of his bravery to speak for him. 'I'll tell you everything you want to know, but I want legal immunity and full protection, and that means Vatican protection as well.'

    'Full immunity?' he looked to the two-way mirror, waiting for the knock from Detective McMasters on the other side. If there was no knock, that would mean there was no objection to Maracle's terms. 'You get full immunity, only if you are truly innocent of murder.'

    'I am innocent.' He assured yet again.

    'You'd better be, or you can kiss this deal goodbye. We want the whole damn network. That means every Black-eyed Kid, anyone involved from hooker to cop, judge—I don't care if he's the fucking Prime Minister of Canada, their names better be included on your list.' Maracle's eyes shifted, suggesting the PM may not entirely be in the clear, which only aroused shock and suspicion in the next room. 'If you testify with full compliance, we can put you into police protection. I can't guarantee church participation, but I'll personally speak with Father Theron about their sanctuary laws, and pay whatever price necessary to make it happen. Considering the magnitude of these crimes, I'm confident they can make arrangements to accommodate.'

    'Not good enough. I want guaranteed Vatican protection, or you can just go right ahead and charge me.' he was certainly insistent, but Dawson knew a bluff when he heard it.

    'Your life is not something to bluff with, Councilor.' Dawson remarked with a warning glare.

    'We're talking certain death if he gets near me, Constable; not a just a possibility, but a certainty. Immunity and both police and Vatican protection . . . that is my offer.'

    Dawson considered Frederyk Maracle for a moment. To agree with his terms the precinct would have to somehow convince the Vatican to take him into protective custody indefinitely, with around the clock surveillance, change of identity—the works, for the rest of his life. It was a lot to ask, but not out of the realm of possibilities.

    'I doubt my superiors will agree, but it can't hurt to ask.' he nodded but as he moved to vacate the room Dawson paused. 'Before we get rolling, there's just one thing I gotta know.'

    'What's that Constable.'

    'The blood and hair in the drain at Charles Street . . . what happened to Xavier Hawthorne, just for my own peace of mind?' he asked, needing to know as he had a soft spot after reading the boy's profile.

    'He was sacrificed upon an altar by a new recruit—a young lady with red hair. I was just entrusted to clean up the mess.' he shrugged. 'It'll all make sense soon enough.

    'Thank you.' Dawson nodded to the suspect and vacated the room with his curiosity somewhat satisfied.

    Next door, Detective McMasters watched carefully along with the two uniformed officers to witness, the video camera still rolling. Dawson leaned against the door casually, awaiting his response.

    'Well, what say you, Detective?' he asked. 'You think we can convince the papacy to take him in permanently? I mean, if this demonic asshole can't be caged, it's our only route, right?'

    McMasters seemed disappointed despite their incredible progress. It was a huge idea, going after such a vast network of child abductors and devil worshippers. This was potentially the beginning of a long and winding road, but there was an obvious fear in his expression, confliction more than excitement. Dawson felt more alive than ever, a case of this magnitude guaranteed to skyrocket his career into high rank and fame, so he didn't quite understand why the detective wasn't as pleased.

    'I . . . have some friends I can call. I'm sure we can arrange something.'

    'You aren't seriously buying this Dark Man bullshit, are you?' asked Constable Murphy with his usual Irish accent. 'I mean, he's delusional, right? We can't keep him in protective custody forever.'

    'He's not crazy, Murphy.' Leonard looked to the career policeman with all seriousness. 'I've seen these Black-eyed Kids and what they are capable of. If they exist, this Dark Man does too, and may be just as dangerous as Maracle suggests.'

    'I find that hard to believe.' the Irishman chuckled.

    'It don't matter what you believe; just what they believe. If Frederyk Maracle can provide what he says he can, I'll protect him from fucking Bigfoot if I have to.' Dawson stood his ground.

    'This is history in the making, Lenny. Seriously, you kicked ass in there.'

    'Thanks Janine.' he smiled, noticing the flirtatious look in her eyes.

    'Shit; we'll buy him a fucking church if it means weeding out the corruption within the whole damn country.' She seemed as stoked as Leonard felt, but McMasters just sighed. 'I mean, did you see the way his eyes shifted when you mentioned the Prime Minister? I knew I didn't like that smug little creep.'

    'Don't look at me, I wouldn't vote for a pussified drama teacher, boyo.' said Murphy.

    McMasters made up his mind, knowing the media and press madness that was about to be unleashed once this spider web abduction conspiracy was officially unraveled in the public eye.

    'I hope you're ready for the shit storm of a life time, and a cluster fuck of historic proportions.' he warned.

    'Are we sure we want to proceed? I mean . . . this will be big.' Dawson took a deep breath. 'There's no going back, right?'

    'Listen to me carefully, Detective Dawson,' McMasters' brow stiffened, his eyes piercing like never before. 'The law is about doing what's right, not what's convenient. Never lose sight of that, you hear me?' Leonard nodded, assuring himself. 'Give the little weasel what he wants, and be sure you're up for the fight of your life. But mark my words . . . this will not end well.'

   'Can do.' As he walked away the Constable turned to correct his superior. 'Oh, and it's Constable, Sir—not Detective.'

    'Not anymore.' he replied with a confident smile. 'Janine, put the paperwork together with my personal recommendation immediately.'

    'Certainly.' she agreed rather confused, knowing there was no such position available.

    Dawson smiled from ear-to-ear, rather pleased with his own work on the disturbing case, and his long overdue promotion.

    'Thank you, Sir.'

    'Just make sure there's a clause in the agreement that forgoes any leniency if we find evidence implementing his hand in murder directly. Now, get back in there, Detective. The camera's rolling so make sure he speaks clearly. I want everything by the book in this case.'

    As Dawson turned away, McMasters removed his badge from his belt and handed it to Janine.

    'Be sure the Chief gets this.'

    'Wait, I don't understand . . .'

    The newly promoted detective reached for the doorknob of the interrogation room, but as he touched the knob there was a strange sensation that rushed through him, like a dense weight of despair filling his lungs. Leonard pulled the door opened, but suddenly felt the knob slip from his grasp, and the steel door slammed violently back into its frame—so hard that the cinder blocks in the encasing wall cracked with its immense force.

    'What the fuc—'

    Suddenly there was a spine-wrenching scream from behind the door. Startled, Dawson pulled with all his strength, but the door felt solid, like it was welded shut; a familiar trick he had seen once before.

    'No, no, no, come on Freddy!' He frantically rushed to the accompanying room, listening to the sound of tearing meat behind the two-way mirror, but the light within the room had blinked out.

    McMasters was frozen in place, utterly speechless and terrified stiff.

    'What the fuck is going on in there?!' yelled Murphy.

    'Do something!' Dawson screamed, grabbing a nearby chair and slamming it against the glass window. Before he could fully break through, the light within the interrogation room had come back on, and the newly anointed Detective's grip let slip the chair he had used to crack the two-way mirror. Eyes wide, he stood shocked and speechless at the horrific mess before him. His stomach queased, jaw hanging and traumatized beyond rational thought.

    The three cops looked upon the table, where a bare human skull glistened under the overhead light. Its eyes remained inside their sockets, no lids—no brow, all facial muscles and tendons exposed. The suspect's body sat limp and keeled over in the chair beyond. The entirety of Maracle's skin was still intact, an empty glove of formless flesh, complete with a receding hairline, still attached somehow. The corners of his mouth had been ripped open, flesh violently torn as though an unseen force had severed the bones in his neck and somehow pulled Frederyk Maracle's entire skull through his own mouth.

    Dawson could not move, utterly petrified for a brief moment, but then fumbled backward into the hallway as vomit suddenly shot from the back of his throat, just missing a nearby garbage can. A moment passed as he attempted to stand erect, but he crouched back down, hands shaking as many officers gathered with the commotion.

    McMasters stepped outside the room, his vacant stare seemingly lost and beyond disturbed. The detective could not scream, his voice locked in his throat. He had sweated through his shirt in seconds, and tears dripped from his eyes.

    'What was it, did you see anything?' Dawson looked up at his superior after he spit the traces of vomit from his mouth.

    'It's him . . . he's here.' he said in a monotone, face blank and white as a ghost.

    'Who—what did you see?' Dawson asked again.

    'It's done; it's all at an end.' he let slip from his trembling lips, head shaking back and forth.

    Dawson finally managed to get to his feet, though his stomach still groaned.

    'You're not making sense, Sir. What's at an end?' he tried to shake him back into reality. McMasters glared at him with a piercing stare, a hint of madness in his eyes as he seized Dawson's arms with a sudden jerk.

    'Everything! Don't you see?!' he screamed, sanity slipping with every word as more officers quickly crowded the hall. 'We're dead—WE'RE ALL FUCKING DEAD—YOU JUST DON'T KNOW IT YET!'

    'NO!' Dawson yelled, but without another word McMasters removed his Glocke, placed the tip of the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

    The sound echoed through the walls of the precinct as blood and brain matter sprayed and splattered the wall behind him, and Detective McMasters' body fell limp to the floor, the back of his head blown wide open.

    The entire precinct was in a frenzy, panicking at what had just transpired, but Dawson simply backed up, terrified beyond rational thought. He tried to catch his breath, holding himself up against the frame of the interrogation room door, as he felt his knees buckle under his own weight.

    'It's all falling apart.' he sighed, still in shock. 'What the fuck is happening here?' his voice trembled with fear, but as he heard his phone go off, he looked up, and caught a slight glimpse of a shadowy silhouette reflected in the cracked two-way mirror, standing behind Frederyk Maracle's lifeless corpse. The man wore a wide rimmed campaign hat and a black trench coat, his facial features blackened by the darkness of the room. Turning quickly, he looked to the empty space behind Maracle, then back to the reflection, but the Dark Man was gone.

    'What the fuck is happening to my city?'

    Trembling, he checked his alerts, and saw that Jenson had texted him.

    "Shackleton is at the Empire Theatre. I am stuck in a situation. Get down there now, and bring as much backup as possible."