Death's Reckoning

  Murder Haven: Death’s Reckoning

  Book Three

  By

  Will Molinar

  Edited, Produced, and Published by Writer’s Edge Publishing 2015

  All rights reserved.

  © 2015 Will Molinar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Other Books by Will Molinar

  * * * MURDER HAVEN SERIES* * *

  Den of Thieves

  Gallows Pole

  Death’s Reckoning

  Rogues Gallery

  Lair of Killers

  Prologue

  “More digging, eh, Joseph?” A short bark of laughter sprayed out from a man holding a shovel. He was grubby with calloused hands and patched clothes that hung on his emaciated form like a scarecrow’s outfit.

  The silent man, Joseph, didn’t answer while they both continued to dig. Their shovels made noises similar to wood striking flesh. They smacked into the dirt, the metal clinking against small pebbles. The ground was hard and cold, the work grueling, and the moonlight spilled over their shoulders. Joseph stopped for a moment and wiped his forehead with a damp rag. It did nothing more than spread the grime accumulated across his skin. He sighed.

  Their graveyard occupied an area of land to most eyes would appear desolate. A wide expanse of rolling grassland situated atop a lonely hill. Braziers along the metal fence blazed across Joseph’s field of vision, crooked and dark, as if the surrounding air sucked out the meek illumination and drowned them in sorrow. The moon hid behind some clouds for several moments, and the darkness grew.

  “Hey you! Get your ass to work.”

  The digger grunted, and the one who had spoken, Travis, bumped him on the rump with his shovel. Joseph nodded, and they kept at it. The night wore on.

  They had a total of twenty graves dug by midnight. They laid out in two rows, side by side. The silent man spoke at last, breathing in a sigh of slight hope.

  “Ten more to go,” Joseph said.

  Travis, shorter and uglier, shook his head. “More diggin’, yeah, more diggin’. Never stops. They gonna work us all to death. I say and soon we’ll be diggin’ our own graves ‘fore long! Ha, ha!”

  He laughed until a coughing fit over took him, and he gagged. His face turned purple as Travis bent over his knees.

  Joseph got back to work, anxious to finish the job. He struck his shovel into the ground with a renewed vigor he didn’t feel. “Let’s get this done.”

  The other man finished his coughing fit and waved his hand. “Yeah… yeah, whatever you say, boss, whatever you say.” He laughed again and muttered something about needing a drink. The man stank as if he’d pissed himself hours ago and let it linger.

  Joseph tried to keep his distance and focus on his work, but the wind shifted and blew a nasty waft of air. The other man’s unwashed, piss stained body hit him with a wall of force that lingered all around them. He thought he might be better off in one of the graves with a nice stiff corpse. It would smell better. The thought of death, the specific end of his life, struck him hard, and as time went on and they dug more graves, the feeling of creeping fatality increased.

  A dog barked somewhere far off, followed by an answering call that was louder and more mournful. Then another bark, more vicious, and soon they heard the two animals fighting. The closest town wasn’t too far, and it wasn’t surprising to think animals would wallow near the graveyard, hoping for some scrap of man flesh, starving as they were.

  “Have you gentlemen been at this long?”

  Both gravediggers almost jumped out of their boots. The voice seemed to come from nowhere, from everywhere, and yet right behind them at the same time. With hearts in their throats, they turned, and standing before them on a slight rise in the ground was a man.

  His body wreathed in darkness, yet even the barest glimmer of what lay beneath bespoke of wealth and radiated power. The stranger wore a rich cloak, velvety and purple, rippling in the soft breeze that sprang up behind him. A wide brimmed hat adorned his head.

  “The profession I mean,” he said, his voice like silk, deep and resonant. “Been at it long?”

  The men stared. The overriding sense of menace all but dissipated, replaced by a sort of warmth and calm as if a placating wave of emotion wafted out from the lone man.

  Travis stammered and rubbed the back of his head. “I-I-I, uh, what ya mean?”

  “I been digging five years,” Joseph said, keeping a wary eye on the stranger. He couldn’t see his eyes or any of his face, but there was the impression the man had smiled. Perhaps it was what he heard in his voice.

  “Ah, I see. Good man. Five years is enough time to ply your trade for the deepest feelings. You’ve seen much of death.”

  The man said nothing further, and they could see he held a medium sized cane in gloved hands, topped with a smooth ball of amethyst. It was very catching. The stranger turned his head a tiny flick, and all of a sudden the air grew colder, frosty even, and the two gravediggers shivered.

  Joseph sensed that invisible smile again, yet there was something sinister to the man’s countenance. A low growl sounded behind him followed by another animal noise to the opposite side. The stranger put his hands out to the side and raised his arms.

  At that moment, two huge beasts strolled up and lowered their massive heads under his gloved hands. He petted them in unison, stroking their canine features. They were the largest mastiffs either digger had ever imagined. Their spiked collars were a simple adornment for such fearsome beasts, snarling with contained ferocity.

  The gravediggers gaped and backed away, but the stranger raised a hand.

  “Oh, dear me, I’ve frightened you. Forgive me. They are mere pets, nothing more. They are not worthy of your consternation.” He continued to stroke their thick necks, and they seemed to settle under his touch. They sat back on their haunches. “There now. Much better.

  Travis gathered his courage, and he swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “Um, what is it you want of us, sir? If I might inquire?”

  The smile flashed again, and at that moment the moon revealed a glimpse of his face. The sight boiled their blood.

  “You may indeed, my fine digger. Good on you. Be bold in your inquires. I do, in fact, require a simple boon of you.”

  The smelly digger gathered himself, stupid enough to believe any potential danger was passed. He heaved a nervous chuckle and rolled back on his heels.

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “Nothing more than a trifling, I assure you. A tiny favor of information.”

  Joseph felt a dull ache creep into his mind, and his head grew numb. As if he were watching the events unfold through another’s eyes, there was no control. When he spoke, his tongue felt heavy and thick, dry as a towel left too long in the sun. “What-what information?”

  “Good of you to ask, take the initiative my good man,” the strange
r said and stepped forward. The dogs growled but stayed where they were. The stranger’s motions were smooth and fast as if he glided across the ground like a winter breeze. He waved his hand in front of the taller man’s face and stepped back.

  Joseph coughed and blinked. A seizure wracked his frame, and the next instant he lifted his shovel and with two hands, and cracked his companion across the side of his head. The dirty man squealed and dropped to the ground. Blood spurted from his temple like a broken spigot. Travis’ body jerked and spasmed on the ground.

  Joseph stood over him, straddling his upper body. He struck again, then again, and the third whack split the skull open and spilled brains on the cold hard ground. Joseph raised the shovel up one last time, but the stranger raised a hand.

  “I believe that will do. Quite sufficient.”

  The digger, his face blank, dropped the shovel to his side but kept a hold on the handle. He stared straight ahead. His face drained of blood and emotion.

  The two hounds pawed up to the corpse. Sniffing here and there, one licked at the spilled brains, and the other tore into the guts. The stranger chuckled and watched them.

  “Carry on then. This poor fellow will give me little fare, have at him fellows.”

  The stranger smiled and patted the digger’s shoulder. His new servant leaned forward and then back again, almost losing his balance.

  “You’ll do well for me, my good man, very well indeed.”

  The clouds covered the moon again, and the graveyard plunged into darkness once more.

  Chapter One

  Police Captain Bartholomew Cubbins, aged twenty eight with short cropped hair, a rather cherubic face and a tall, athletic build, stepped out onto the streets of Sea Haven. The locals called it “Murder” Haven and for good reason. Behind him, in the tavern called The Rebel Rousers, the door banged shut. The ambient noise of raucous laughter, shouts of glee or anger, shut off with surprising abruptness as the door closed, and Captain Cubbins was alone.

  The streets always seemed so quiet at night, but the policeman knew better. Ten years as an officer in the murder capital of the Aberdine coastline had taught him that much. There was always something going on, and through paranoia he kept himself alive and sane. He was the longest tenured police captain in Sea Haven’s history.

  Two men and a woman mingled about on the other side of the street. He made a note of their appearance. One man was well dressed and on the wrong side of town, the other a regular tavern patron for The Rebel Rouser, and the woman was one of Madam Dreary’s girls, and that made her a prostitute.

  The two men flanked her, but Cubbins could feel their animosity from across the street. She tilted her head back and laughed at something the well-dressed fop said, but the other man looked annoyed. The policeman thought he might be able to leave it well enough alone, but he also sensed trouble brewing. He started to turn away, but he recognized the poor man’s raised voice, a dock worker named Taylor.

  Then both of them shouted. It happened that fast, and then Taylor shoved the other man while he tried to grab the girl’s hand. She resisted. Their voices increased in volume as Cubbins walked closer.

  “You listen here,” Taylor said and shoved the other man again much harder. “This is my regular girl, she is. I’ll not have her go on with the likes of you so toss off.”

  The other man was far out of his element, and to his credit put his arm around the girl and pulled her close. She did not protest. “My money’s as good as yours. In fact, it’s better. Leave us alone.”

  Without another word he turned and spun the girl around. Taylor cursed at him and pulled back his arm for a blow, but Cubbins was already behind him. A full head taller, it was a simple matter for him to throw his arm over the crook of Taylor’s elbow and grab the man’s head with the other.

  Taylor struggled and cursed. “What? Hey, now!”

  Cubbins bent his knees and sank his hips down, employing an old police technique on Taylor’s elbow. He twisted it into an odd, sharp angle inwards of his torso. “Relax, Taylor. No need to get too excited over this. She isn’t worth it.”

  Taylor recognized the voice, and he relaxed in an instant. Cubbins released his hold, and Taylor cursed again shoving him off. “Alright, alright, officer Cubbins, that’s enough.” He glared at Cubbins for a moment and then turned and watched as the couple walked away. Taylor didn’t take his eyes off of them. “Bastard rich folk. Think they’re better than us.” He spat and wiped his chin.

  Cubbins calmed his breathing. Control was important in such situations. Taylor was drunk and several other people had crept up to see the disturbance. Cubbins kept his eyes moving and his body tense. Anything could happen. Some cur might think an officer by himself was an easy mark. The police captain wasn’t since he never went unarmed and never carried money. All the shops let him pay off his tab at the end of the month.

  Someone could do something stupid if vigilance was not applied. He played it coy and patted Taylor on the shoulder. “Go home and get some rest. No need to make a big thing outta this. Go on home.”

  Taylor turned back with hate and anger in his bloodshot eyes, and Cubbins thought he might have a real fight on his hands. He kept his hands near his sword belt. Taylor didn’t look down, only stood there and huffed, but then the anger drained from his features, and he licked his lips. The drunk man muttered under his breath and walked off.

  Cubbins knew he was well within his rights to arrest the man, but if he did that every time a man got drunk and stupid in their city, their jail would overflow in less than a day. They were full as it was. They had a secondary location a lot of people didn’t know about, but it was understaffed and seldom used. Something could be done about that.

  Cubbins walked on. His head buzzed a little from the ale. He had too much to drink, but death stalked him at every corner. Might as well enjoy the pleasures of life while they were still possible. He was farther south than he realized, near the precinct. ‘Figures,’ he thought, ‘damned second home it is.’

  He had a small couch set up behind his meager office. He often slept there, in a tiny back room the previous captain had used for storage. That man had no imagination, but Cubbins made the space count for something albeit a utilitarian something. It worked. Stopping in the middle of the darkened street afforded a view of the skyline. City hall and the police precinct stood tall in the wane moonlight. Several torches lined up along the stone walls. It was an eerie sight so late at night. Things were not natural at this hour.

  Cubbins swore he could still smell the smoke.

  Somewhere a dog barked twice. Somewhere else a man yelled. Another shout of anger answered, incomprehensible. They were inside, nearby. Down another block, the police captain heard the clatter of metal striking stone. During the day that particular sound was familiar, most of the time a clanking or clattering in the shipping yard. At night they were disquieting sounds.

  The police captain shook his head and kept moving which was the wise thing to do. He heaved a mental sigh feeling silly for his misgivings of walking the streets of Murder Haven alone. But it was only natural to do so. Any sane person would. Cubbins was certain he was still sane though some days it was doubtful.

  A window rattled shut as he reached his block. He flicked his eyes over to the source of the noise and quickened his pace. Wind and perhaps vandalism had knocked out several street lamps down this block. He was lucky to live in a section of town that had street lamps, but Cubbins also knew he would hear the complaints about the missing lights sooner than later. It came with the job.

  He shared a floor with several other officers, but his rank allotted him a room to himself. The city provided the building, a sort of billeting such as it was, and this perk was one of the few that made a sensible person become a cop in Sea Haven. It was better than working the docks even though the death rate was high, as was the dropout rate for new officers.

  Cubbins reached his room and undressed, tossing his sweat stained clothes onto a sm
all side table near his bed. He grabbed a wineskin hanging on a wall near the room’s lone window. He sat on his grimy bed. The stuffed straw bent under his weight; the threadbare blanket scrunched against his legs.

  The wine tasted stale, but it wasn’t too far gone. It would get the job done. He’d never been much of a drinker, but that was before his imprisonment and near hanging.

  Something smelled foul; it was right under his nose. He sniffed the wine, but that it wasn’t what it was. It smelled putrefied, rotten like decaying flesh. Sighing, he put the wine flask down and looked under his bed. A dead rat again perhaps, crawling under his bed to die. They were common in town, even in somewhat nicer neighborhoods.

  He pulled up the edge of the blanket overhanging the bed and recoiled at the pungent odor that struck him full force in the face. Captain Cubbins paused and crouched for a moment. This was bigger than a rat.

  In an instant he was wary. Alarms alighted within his mind, and Cubbins jumped back and grabbed his sword. There was nothing but his own labored breathing. He kicked the bed backwards and stared at the ground. A severed arm met his gaze.

  He stiffened, his brow wrinkling. No explanation came. There was no reason. But the arm lay there in all its garish glory, pickled and sickly. It might have been stolen from a laboratory. It was shriveled and pitiful, bent at the elbow as if the person had been leaning at a table during a meal when they had it cut off under the shoulder.

  Cubbins peered closer and sniffed. There was the tinge of an odd, chemical smell he recognized. Dipped in preservatives; there was no question about it. The skin was greenish, and a puddle around the outline left no doubt to his observations.

  The feeling of being watched was omnipresent. He breathed deep and slowed his thinking. The window and the door were the only two entry points, but the motif lingered in the shadows. There were plenty of other ways to corner and kill Captain Cubbins should anyone desire it. Much better ways to go about it than this.