Dark Rite

Chapter 1

The unrelenting blanket of green shrouded the world as far as the eye could see. Only a sprinkling of snow atop the highest peaks broke the monotony. Somewhere in this wilderness was the turnoff to Wallen's Gap. At least, that's what the map promised, though the GPS had other ideas. If the device was to be believed, the little town sat isolated between two mountains to the west with no means of ingress or egress. It was as if the forest had wrapped its arms around the town and refused to let it go.

His cell phone vibrated and he took it out, surprised he actually had coverage in the middle of nowhere. Voicemail. He must have caught a brief moment of reception. He punched up the message and pressed the phone to his ear.

Grant, it’s Suzanne. I was hoping you’d answer. Listen, I know this is a bad time and all, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell you before you left. I mean, you just found out about your dad and all.

Long pause.

I think we need to take a break.

A longer pause.

No, I can’t drag this out. I’m moving out. I’ve put up with your stupid dreams long enough. You never finish anything, Grant, ever. You start something, it gets tough, you quit. We both know this music thing is just going to end up as another of your failures. You’ll do it for a while, something will go wrong, or you’ll get discouraged, and you’ll be moving on to the next pipe dream. I want to be with somebody who’s actually going somewhere in life. There are things I want and you can’t give them to me. Anyway, I really am sorry to tell you this way. Hope things go okay in Virginia.

Grant ended the call and tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. He stared ahead, stunned as the trees zipped past on either side. Three years together and she couldn’t even tell him to his face. What the hell? Maybe she was right. Perhaps a college degree and a safe career choice would be better for his future. He had a vision of himself trying to teach anthems to hormonal teenagers in a high school band and the very thought made him itch all over. He was a damned good musician and he would make it. Screw Suzanne. She’d be sorry when she saw him rocking out arenas. Besides, he’d loved his guitar a lot longer than he had loved her. But the coldness of her message shocked him. His GPS flickered and he cursed. He rapped on it twice before realizing what was really going on.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Blue lights flashed in his rear-view mirror and with them came the icy feeling in the pit of his stomach that always accompanied a traffic ticket. “Haven't seen a damn soul for miles and the first person I meet is a cop.” Could this day get any worse? He hadn't been speeding but, with all the attention he'd been paying to his phone and GPS, he had doubtless had trouble staying on his side of the center line on the winding mountain road.

He scanned the roadside for a place to pull over but there was precious little space. The mountain rose up to his right at a steep incline and to his left fell away into a dark valley. The cop was riding his ass now, and cold sweat trickled down the back of Grant's neck as he wondered if the guy was getting impatient with him for not pulling over right away. What was he supposed to do? Stop in the middle of the road?

He was about do to that very thing when he spied a turn-off to his right. He winced as the encroaching shrubs scraped the paint job on his '68 Camaro. Finally far enough off the road to feel safe, he killed the engine and, careful not to make any sudden moves, took his wallet from his back pocket.

He turned to roll down the window and gasped, jerking involuntarily and dropping his wallet. A dark shaped loomed in the window, gleaming teeth bared. Heart pounding, he blinked and the image came into focus. A man in a beige uniform, mirrored shades, and a wide-brimmed hat. How had the cop gotten to Grant's car so fast?

Still grinning, the cop tapped the window with a yellow fingernail.

“Sorry,” Grant called, cranking the handle for all he was worth, wishing for an automatic window. “I'm a little lost and I was trying to look at my…”

“Just get your license and hand it to me, son.” The cop had a nasal voice with a touch of mountain twang, but his big hands and authoritative manner chased away any feelings Grant might have had of city superiority. His name tag read “J. Barton.”

He handed over his license, proud that his hands weren’t trembling. Biting his lip, he waited for a chance to explain himself and possibly ask for directions, but was hesitant to be the first to break the silence.

Barton held the license up. “Grant Shipman,” he read aloud. He pursed his lips and tapped his chin. “You Andrew's boy?”

Grant's heart sank. “Yes, officer.” His mouth was dry and his voice scratchy.

“Sheriff.”

“Sorry, Sheriff. Yes, Andrew was my dad.” He paused, searching Sheriff Barton's face to see if the admission had any obvious impact, but could see none. “I'm headed to the memorial service, but the road to Wallen's Gap isn't showing up on my GPS. I was trying to look at it and check my directions. I know I shouldn't do that when I'm driving.”

“Damn shame about your daddy.” Barton handed back Grant's license. “Damn shame. He was a good man.”

“Thank you.” There wasn't much else Grant could say. He and his father had never been close, and the elder Shipman had moved to Wallen's Gap a long time ago.

“You going to see to his affairs? His house and the like?”

“I suppose so. But not until after the funeral, of course.” Grant grimaced. He didn't relish the thought of sorting through a dead man's possessions, especially a man whom he felt he should have known better, should have cared for more deeply.

“It's just a dirt road into town from this side of the mountains. You'd best follow me.” Barton turned and strode back to his patrol car.

Grant sagged against the headrest, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. He had avoided a ticket and found himself a guide to town. Perhaps this day was about to get better.

Cassie took a deep breath and stepped into the community center beside the tiny Wallen's Gap supermarket. Her heart hammered and her nerves made her angry. She needed help and wouldn’t let pride get in the way.

“Hello, Cassie.” The gray-haired woman at the desk greeted her with a smile that was more genuine than her too-white dentures.

Cassie ground her teeth. Everyone knew everyone in this tiny craphole of a town. “Hello, Mrs. Golding.”

A moment's uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

“You'd like to see the counselor?” Golding eventually asked, her voice gentle.

Cassie nodded, not quite able to meet the woman's eye.

Golding stood, favored Cassie with a kind smile, and stepped away down a corridor. Moments later she returned. “She's free. Second door on your left.”

Cassie tried not to roll her eyes. The only counselor in a small town where half the people thought psychology to be just one of the many tools of the devil wasn’t likely to have people beating down her door for appointments.

The woman in the office had a familiar face, but Cassie couldn't place her. “Cassie Brunswick, is it? I'm Doctor Houghton. Please come in and sit down.”

Cassie took the offered seat. Houghton. She'd gone to school with a Clare Houghton, but they had never been close. This must be Clare’s mother. She took in her surroundings in a quick glance: a sofa and chair, a tiny bookshelf stuffed with self-help books, and a spartan, metal desk, neatly organized, above which hung a framed diploma from Stuart College. Two whole hours away! By Wallen's Gap standards, this woman was a world traveler. Cassie supposed she should get on with it before she changed her mind. “Everything we talk about is confidential, right?” she asked.

Houghton took a pad and pencil from her desk and sat in a chair opposite. “Yes, absolutely. You can be open and honest and nothing needs to ever leave this room. Unless I think you're about to commit a crime or harm yourself. That's not the case, I presume. Is it?”

Cassie shook her head and stared at her hands in her lap. She'd bitten her nails down to the quick. Her grandmother would have had a fit. The room seemed to press in on her as she searched for words. She had no idea where to start.

“It's all right,” Houghton said softly. “Tell me what's on your mind.”

“I've been seeing this boy, Carl.” She stopped, unsure again.

“How old are you, Cassie?” There was no trace of judgment in the woman's tone.

“Just turned eighteen.”

“Carl is twenty, isn’t he?”

“Twenty going on twelve.” How had she not seen what an immature jerk he was? She'd known from the start he was broken, but didn't count on just how badly.

Houghton nodded, and scribbled on her pad. “Take all the time you need.”

“Well, it's just everything really.” Inside, a floodgate opened. “He scares me and he's always getting wasted, he smokes so much weed, and has all these stupid ideas about stuff. I want to break up with him, but he says he couldn't live without me. And he says I need him too.” She stopped, dragged a breath in, determined not to cry.

Houghton laid the pad on her knees. “Let me get this straight. You'd like to end things with Carl, but he makes you think you can't leave him?”

Cassie nodded.

“You can, you know. You can do anything you want.”

Cassie made a derisive noise that was half-cough, half-snort. “Oh sure. Anything I want. Like what? I can't go anywhere. I can't get out of this stupid town. Besides, nobody would like it if I left him.”

“What do you mean?” The counselor frowned.

“Never mind.” Cassie gazed at the floor.

“Has he hurt you, Cassie?”

“No.” Heat prickled the back of her neck and she felt the same old urge to defend the loser. Her loser.

“Have you two had sex?”

The boldness of the question shocked Cassie briefly, but she bit it down. “No. Well, not actual sex, no. I never have.”

Houghton jotted something down. Cassie imagined the woman writing EIGHTEEN YEAR-OLD VIRGIN in big block letters and almost managed a smile.

“Has he pressured you about that?”

“Not exactly. It's kind of weird. He likes to, you know, fool around.” Her cheeks burned at the admission. “But he doesn't push me to go farther. I don't want to anyway, but every guy, you know, wants to. It doesn't make sense. He acts like he doesn't want to go all the way with me, but he wants to own me or something. He always wants me to get him off. But never all the way. I don't really want to be with him, but when I start talking about us maybe taking a break, he gets so mad. I'm scared most of the time.” The last bit came out in little more than a whisper and Cassie dropped her gaze to her clasped hands.

Houghton nodded, scribbled again on her pad. “You know, you don't have to be scared of him. You can…”

“I'm not just scared of him,” Cassie interrupted.

“What else?”

Cassie paused, breathing deeply again. It was harder than she thought it would be to talk about the real problem. The real fear. “He says I sleepwalk.” The word seemed so inadequate.

“Do you?”

“Maybe. He says I sleepwalk and he has to try to get me back into bed without freaking me out or anything. That's another thing that's been holding me back. Carl says if I leave him, who's going to look out for me at night then?”

“So you sleep together? Share a bed, I mean?”

Cassie nodded. She was still looking at her hands and couldn’t see the woman's face, but she thought she registered a note of mild disapproval. Typical for this town. Just about every girl got initiated in the back seat of somebody's car during her freshman year, but as soon as they became parents themselves, you'd think they'd worn a chastity belt until they were thirty.

“I do sometimes. I usually stay at home, but I don't want to be there when Daddy gets really drunk, so I crash at Carl's.”

“Do you sleepwalk at other times, when you're not at Carl's house?”

Cassie couldn't say anything, a lump of nerves sitting heavy in her throat like a cold rock.

“Cassie?” Houghton's attention was fully upon her now. The note pad lay forgotten on her lap.

“Sometimes I wake up and my feet are muddy. Once my nightshirt was all torn and there was blood on it.”

Houghton shifted forward, elbows on her knees. “Blood?”

“I couldn't find any cuts or anything.” Cassie bit her lip, not sure if she should say the rest. Then again, what was the point of seeing a counselor if she didn't spill her guts? She blurted the words out before she could change her mind. “I don't think it was my blood.”

“Whose was it then?” Houghton articulated each word in careful, measured tones. The woman was trying too hard not to sound judgmental.

The tears started despite Cassie’s best efforts. “I don't know.”