The Dark Mansion

Kern watched through the high powered binoculars.  He followed the dust plume on the road far in the distance, the size of which shrank down to the point on the road where the long necked chopper and the leather clad rider were speeding towards a large stone mansion on a rise.  He tapped his cell phone.

“What is it Kern?”

“Mr. Domo, the boy has arrived at the mansion.”

“You know what to do. Don’t take too long, I want that shard here by the end of next month. If it’s not…” Domo did not finish the sentence, and Kern was rather glad he hadn’t.

“I understand Mr. Domo.”

“I doubt it Kern, – just make sure that shard arrives here, in London, at my house before next months end.  In case you are too stupid to understand, that means you have exactly forty three days, and I don’t imagine getting something that big to London has a quick turn-around.  Get the boy taken care of quickly – and quietly!  The last thing we need is the Americans to start snooping around Dark mansion!”

“I under–” But Domo had already hung up the phone.

Kern looked back through the binoculars.  The dust plume was gone and the bike stood visible outside the front of the mansion.

–##–

Kyoko Waterfallen was also watching the dustplume from the front porch of her house.

“Dad, someone is over at Dark mansion!”

Kyoko’s father grunted and continued to study the circuit board he was working on.

“Dad!”

“I heard you Kyoko.  The boy is back.”

“What? What boy?”

“Quentin Dark, the son of Adrian and Maria Dark.  When I was in town this morning I heard from the recorder, Ms. Simpson.  She said that the son of the Darks had returned to the house. I suppose it makes sense, he was only eight at the time.”

“The place is a mess, nobody could really live there!”

“It was his home Kyoko, I supose now that he is eighteen he has to get rid of it – I hope he does and then moves on. –And Kyoko?”

“Yes daddy?”

“I don’t want you going over there – I know you have been…curious about that place.  There is nothing good about the Dark mansion, and I don’t want you around that boy.”

Kyoko said nothing, That was the wrong thing to say daddy! she thought to herself.

As if sensing what his daughter was thinking, Cochise Waterfallen stood to his full height of six and a half feet. “Kyoko, I mean it.  You are to stay away from Dark Mansion and anything to do with it!”

But Kyoko was already at the mansion in her mind.

–##–

Quentin stood before the massive oak door, now sun-bleached to a white gray.  Ten years ago this door was a deep reddish brown, and there was no blackened hole in the stonework to the left side of it, now boarded up with plywood, a faded warning trespassers.   The air here was so hot and dry that the key hole appeared to still be new.

I wonder if the key still works. Quentin thought to himself. He slid it in and turned it easily, but the door was stuck in it’s jam.  He kicked it with his boot, but it was as solid as if it were made of iron. Damn! He looked at his shotgun, but thought better of it. Pushing at the plywood covering the hole he realized that it was not really attached. The nails had cleverly been cut from behind to give the impression that wood was securely covering the hole.

Someone has already been here.

Quentin shove the wood aside and crept into the dusty blackness of the old house.  Adjusting to the dim light coming through the linen that covered all the windows Quentin suddenly was filled with memories, and a strange anxiety that made his hands start to shake and he fell to his knees.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

“Get back Quentin! Run!”

“But Mommy–” Quentin’s mother gripped his hand and pulled him towards the front door of the house.  A sound like bones cracking and wet flesh slapping on a hard surface came from the basement below.  Whe Quentin and his mother reached the front door she stopped and croached down with the boy.

“Listen Quentin, you must promise me you will do what I say!”

“I promise Mommy!”

“I love you Quentin.  You must wear this and never take it off.” From her dress pocket she pulled a yellowed linen rag and unwrapped it.  Looking furtively towards the sounds that were still approaching from the basement, she continued to unwrap the cloth. Inside was leather cord attached to what appeared to be a twisted and knotted spring of a strange gold and black metal. “Never take this off Quentin, and you will be safe.” With that she tied the necklace around the boy’s neck.

“But Mommy! What about you and Daddy?” but his mothers eyes filled with tears, and her mouth moved without sound, as blood began to trail from her lips.  And then Quentin looked up to see the black hulking shape behind her.

“Mommy!” Quentin sobbed into his leather gloved hands on the dusty floor of his house. And then he lifted his face, the boyish memory now turned to rage.

Home?

Black hair coiled back snapping behind his head, black wrap-around aviator goggles encased his eyes, black leather covered his body as he sped through the long miles of empty road towards Jerome Az., a town that was more of a ghost village, filled now only with artisans, odd loners, old hippies, and individuals who simply did not want to be found.  Once upon a time it was considered the wickedest town in America – back when it was a copper mining camp.  It had been the perfect place for a “mad” scientist, his father, to build a home and do his work. Quentin had not been hear for ten years, and it looked no different.  The hot merciless sun  and the dry red dust colored everything about the place, only the scrubby mesquite differentiating the landscape from something in a photo from a Martian rover.  Rt 89 zig-zagged in a lazy hairpin up the hill towards the summit of  “Cleopatra Hill” which started at a dusty wooden sign that read “Jerome, Billion Dollar Copper Camp” and ended at a cheesy, giant letter ‘J’ at the top of the hill. Quentin gunned the engine of Absinthe and began the ascent.

Driving past the numerous art galleries, he did not even glance at the locals who stared after him,  The sound of motorcycles pipes echoed off the brick buildings lining the street in the main part of town. Don’t Blink, Quentin thought to himself, or you’ll miss it all.  He sped past the little town and started in the direction of Prescott National Forest on a seldom used back road.  After about a mile he saw the house, and swallowed, his thoughts a jumble of memories and emotions.

The gate had been locked and was overgrown with some crawling vine and mesquite bushes.  A paint scrawled sign read: “Warning, Private Property, No Trespassing!” and a large rusted lock was holding a chain across the gates. Smiling to himself, Quentin pulled a short shotgun from a sling that mimicked the front fork of his bike and opened the lock.  Extracting the shell that was in the gun, he replaced it with a special round he had in the left saddle-bag.  Pointing the gun at the rusted lock, he fired, and the resulting explosive sound echoed several times over the surrounding hills, but the lock was shattered and hung limply from the chain.  Quentin got off his bike and kicked the gate open just as a police car rounded the bend and pulled up behind his bike.  The door of the squad car few open.

“Drop that weapon boy, you are in a heap of trouble!”

Quentin slid the gun back into the holster on the bike, not looking at the officer.

“I said drop that weapon to the ground!”

“It’s holstered, what’s your beef?”

“Boy, is your ears full of crap or are you doped up? I want you to drop on that ground now or I will…”

“Or you will what? Shoot me? I am, as you can plainly see, unarmed.” Quentin started walking towards the officer with his hands raised. “And you sir, are on private property.”

“Dammit! What the hell! Yes this is private property and you are trespassing!”

“I own this place, so you sir, are the trespasser.”

The trouper stood up and squinted at Quentin, but kept his revolver pointed at him. “I know the owners of this place, and you ain’t them!”

Dropping his hands and turning to look at the house, Quentin replied softly, “The owners you know are dead. ”

“Yes, that’s true, but you…”

“Are the only living relative.  Their son.”

The officers mouth dropped open, and then he shut it, and then he started to lower his weapon, but thought better of it, “Show me some ID.”

“Sure.” Quentin slowly pulled his wallet out and extracted his drivers license for the officer.

“Quentin Alfonse Dark.  Well I will be stuffed and mounted, that is not a name I expected to ever hear again.  How long has it been.”

“It has been ten years since the murder of my parents in this house Sargent…?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Sargent Fontain.” The officer handed back Quentin’s license. “So, what are your plans here, the house is not in too good condition by now.”

“My plans are simple Sargent Fontain, to find out what I can about the persons who did this to my parents and to… well, let’s not go there.”

“You know I worked that case…I knew your dad.  I am sorry…”

“Yeah.  Everyone is sorry.  Me? I’m just pissed off. Now if you will excuse me.”

“I suppose you have all the deeds and legal stuff…”

“Already sent to your records department, and if you find anything amiss, I am sure you can contact my lawyer, now again, if you will excuse me, I want to go home.”

“I will be watching you Quentin.”

“I am sure of it.” With that Quentin remounted his bike and drove through the gates that had not admitted traffic for a decade.

Officer Fontain watched him for a long moment, and then got back into his squad car.

David T. McKee