Evil Agreement Page 3

  He felt foolish for trying so obviously hard to be dashing and debonair. He was sure that his faint effort to play off the famous James Bond line was so badly bungled that this woman would think he was, at best clumsy, or at worst a clown.

  “I think we can arrange that, Mr. Bond. I will be back in a moment with your martini.”

  Just then he took notice of her nametag. Her name was Korie. He watched Korie turn and walk through the maze of tables in search of his requested martini. He found her very attractive and part of him wanted to ask her for a date. The other part of him said, Slow down Aaron.

  He pulled the envelope out of his left coat pocket and opened it up. He removed a hand written document that he immediately recognized had been written by his late Aunt Laura.

  At the bottom of the envelope was a smaller envelope. He opened this smaller envelope and found it contained a long slender key, stamped with the number 4497.

  His waitress, Korie, arrived with his martini just as he was about to begin to read the documents.

  “Would you like to order dinner now, or would you like more time?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m ready to order,” he said as he handed her back the menu without having so much as glanced at it.

  “Very well then, what shall it be?” she said with a slight smile.

  “Let’s see, I want your soup of the day for an appetizer. I also want a large spinach salad—hold the onions and the dressing. I want a baked potato with sour cream, summer squash and the large cut of prime rib cooked medium well. Oh, and I would like a bottle of your most exclusive red wine.”

  “Very good, Mr. Bond,” she said continuing the small game that they had begun earlier. “And is there a particular wine that you wish, vintage Beaujolais perhaps?”

  “I will leave that to you, surprise me! I like surprises.”

  “I was under the impression that nothing ever surprised 007,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. Before he could offer a witty come back, she had turned and moved away.

  He noticed that she didn’t write anything down.

  This ought to be interesting, he thought.

  He took a sip from his martini. It was glorious, simply the finest martini he had ever had, even though it was also the first one he had ever had. He decided to put aside the papers from his aunt and to settle in to enjoy his dinner. He would read them after dinner. He had plenty of time on his hands and he had money to spend. He sort of liked the money part, after all, for the past nine years he had lived off his teacher’s salary which, though adequate, would never allow him much in the way of extravagance.

  He took another sip and let his attention turn to the silent and expansive gray blue waters that filled his window side view. He could see several sea gulls holding fast in the sky as they caught thermal winds blowing towards the ocean. In the far distance, at the horizon, a sailboat’s profile was barely noticeable. Down below, the harbor was still. Not one boat was coming or going. Dozens however, gently rose and declined at their moorings with each gentle ocean swell.

  5

  The Game Warden, Walter Yandow, pulled his four-wheel drive pickup truck, with the State of Vermont seal on the side doors, along side the body of the dead woman. The young boy and the other man had dragged the dead man’s body down the hillside and now placed it next to the woman’s body. The two were sweating profusely from the strain.

  “Go git their clothes and stuff,” said the Warden to the young boy.

  The other man lowered the tailgate of the pickup truck. He climbed up into the truck bed and unfolded a large tarpaulin across the floor of the truck bed. He jumped down from the truck and stood next to the Game Warden. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow.

  “Let’s put her in first,” said Yandow. He bent over and lifted her body by her shoulders. His big muscular hands, with their powerful fingers, dug deep into her now lifeless body.

  The other man picked her up by her knees placing her lower legs under his arms. They swung her body back and forth a couple of times and then tossed her body onto the tailgate. Yandow climbed into the truck’s bed.

  “Bob, hold on to the tarp while I pull her in.”

  Bob held onto the tarp as her body was dragged to the front of the truck bed. The process was repeated for the dead man’s body.

  Sammy had made three trips to recover the belongings of the two dead hikers.

  “Sammy, toss their stuff up in there on the side of the bodies,” said Yandow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bob climbed up into the truck. After the dead hikers belongings were placed next to their bodies, he pulled the oversized tarp over the entire collection. He lifted a cement building block from the rear corner of the truck bed and tossed it on top of the tarp to hold it in place. He jumped over the side of the truck onto the ground while Yandow closed the tailgate.

  For just a moment the three of them just stood there in the summer sun. Overhead a couple of swallows fluttered about and the intermittent buzzing sound of cicadas could be heard emanating from several different directions. There was a slight breeze blowing from the southwest.

  The young boy wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tee shirt. He bent over and picked up his rifle.

  “Sammy, did you pick up the bullet casing?”

  “Yes, sir. Like I was taught.”

  “Now, Sammy, you’ve got to clean your rifle as soon as you get home. Okay? I’m sure Reverend Mitchell will want to personally speak to you about your part today.”

  Sammy nodded that he understood. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  “You’re heading straight into town?” inquired Bob.

  “Yup. I’m going to take them to Foley’s. Reverend Mitchell will want to see them before we decide what to do with them.”

  “Okay, I’ll take Sammy with me.”

  With that, Yandow climbed into the cab of his truck and started it up. He put it into gear and pulled away slowly as he turned left to head back to the trail and down the mountain. Sammy and Bob walked over to the woods where Bob had parked his U.S. Army surplus jeep. The two of them climbed inside the jeep and were soon following the Game Warden back down the mountain. Several minutes later, the two vehicles crossed over the small, single lane wooden bridge that spanned the swiftly moving Sutton River.

  Yandow’s truck turned to the right onto a narrow dirt road to head into town with Bob and Sammy following close behind. In this area there are only a handful of year around homes. The front and side yards are filled with abandoned appliances, cars and snowmobiles. The narrow dirt road twists and turns gently downward for a couple of miles, where it suddenly meets another dirt road. Here the two vehicles turn to the left, paralleling the westward flowing Winooski River. This road is wider and more heavily traveled and as a result, its surface resembles a washboard’s roughness. This road has more homes, but the surrounding landscape is the same. While people notice the vehicles as they drive by, no one waves or acknowledges the two vehicles. They move along this road for a couple of miles before it intersects with another road. This new road is paved. The two vehicles now separate. The Game Warden heads to the right, towards the center of Sutton. Bob and Sammy turn left and head toward the southern end of town. The two vehicles blend in with the normal everyday traffic.

  Several minutes later, Yandow pulls his pickup truck around to the back of Ed Foley’s Washington County Animal Shelter. The truck’s tires make a crunching sound as it crosses the graveled back driveway. Yandow, a big man, steps out of the truck. He stands six feet four and weighs at least two hundred and seventy pounds. His belly hangs prominently over his wide black leather belt. His matching forest green uniform pants and shirt are stretched to their limits. His shirt sleeves display the traditional slashes indicating the rank of sergeant. He carries a sidearm holstered on his wide leather belt. It is a State of Vermont issued nine-millimeter Glock Police Special. He leaves his hat on the truck’s front seat. He seldom wears h
is hat. The underarm of his uniform shirt is heavily stained with perspiration. His pants are also stained with blood from the two victims.

  Without knocking, he bounds up the back steps to the rear, enclosed porch, pulls open the door and lets himself in.

  In the faraway distance there is a rumble of thunder as a summer storm is building in the heat of the afternoon. The storm will move through the Winooski River Valley cutting west to east through the Green Mountains of Vermont.

  Yandow walks across the porch as the floor creaks and groans from his weight. He steps inside the open back door into an examination room, where he finds Ed Foley working on a sedated German shepherd. Ed’s daughter Lisa is assisting him. The two are finishing up work on repairing the dog’s broken right front leg. Ed looks up and nods to Walter who nods back.

  Lisa smiles at the Game Warden, “Hello, Mr. Yandow. It sure is a sticky one, isn’t it?”

  He proffers a smile in return. “It sure is Lisa. I sure could use a cold drink. Ed, do you mind?”

  “Nope, go on and help yourself.”

  Yandow moves towards the white enamel colored refrigerator tucked into the corner and pulls open the large door. Inside, mixed in alongside various temperature sensitive drugs, is half a case of diet cola. He takes out a can and closes the door. Leaning against the wall, he pops the can’s lift tab and in a couple of seconds drinks down the entire twelve ounces. He holds back a belch and burps silently to himself.

  Ed Foley looks over at Yandow and asks, “What have you got for me?”

  “We bagged two in season.”

  Lisa blushed when she heard the expression “in season.” She knew it meant they had caught a young couple having sex.

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re in the back of my truck.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yup, old Bob Senecal and I took out the man and young Sammy Porter shot the woman right in the throat. That Sammy is a good one, he is.”

  Lisa looked over at Yandow and said “I dated his older brother for awhile a couple of year’s ago. They’re such a nice family. His older brother had his share of silencings. It sure was a loss when he died in that car crash. Anyway, I’m glad Sammy got his first. It is his first, isn’t it?

  “Yeah, it’s his first all right,” said Yandow.

  “Lisa, give me a hand with the dog,” said her father.

  They carried the dog into an adjoining room, where it was put into a large cage. There were several other animals in cages in this room. They each began to make loud, almost frantic noises as if they were pleading to be freed. After the dog was placed into the cage, Ed took a needle out of a small tray that was sitting on top of a cage that had a black and white short-haired tuxedo colored cat inside. He also picked up a vial from the same tray. He carefully stuck the needle into the end of the vial and withdrew a measured amount of medicine. He put the vial back into the tray. Next he bent over and stuck the needle into the dog’s side, near the now splinted left front paw.

  “Lisa, could you stay with Mrs. Kenard’s dog until I get back?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Yandow and the Vet headed out to the backyard to examine the dead bodies.

  “Oh, and Lisa, please call the Reverend and tell him what we have!” said her father from over his shoulder as he led the way to the back yard.

  “I will, Daddy.”

  The two men climbed down the back porch steps and headed over to the back of the pickup. There was a cluster of flies buzzing about over the side of the tarpaulin nearest to the front of the truck bed.

  “Damn flies, they’re on to the blood,” said Ed Foley.

  “I hate flies, Walter. I sure hate flies,” said Ed as he pulled down the truck’s tailgate.

  6

  His waitress placed a very large plate directly in front of him. The aroma of the prime rib drifted up from the delicious looking plate of food. The vegetables were attractively presented alongside the steak. Earlier the bottle of wine he had ordered had been opened and presented by a young man from the bar. Aaron sampled the wine and pronounced it superb. He had already consumed half a glass when his dinner’s main course arrived. Korie, his waitress, removed the empty salad dish and refilled his glass of water.

  “Please be careful, the plate is quite warm, you wouldn’t want to burn yourself.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be careful.”

  “Can I get you anything else?” asked the waitress.

  “No, everything is fine, thank you.”

  “Do you approve of the wine?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s just perfect.”

  “Very well. I’ll check back later. If you need me for anything, just glance my way and nod.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “Enjoy your dinner!”

  With that she turned quickly and went over to another table, three tables away, and began to take their dinner order.

  Aaron picked up his steak knife and fork and cut out a morsel from the prime rib. He sampled this piece and found the steak flavor to just burst into his mouth.

  What could account for this wonderful taste? he thought. Was it the cut, the preparation, or could it be the wine? Perhaps it was the combination of all three.

  He proceeded to cut several more pieces from the steak. He cut open his baked potato and filled it with sour cream. After consuming a couple of bites of the savory steak and a second glass of wine, he decided to read the papers from his Aunt Laura. He unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read.

  September 14, 1993

  My Dearest Aaron,

  These words I write to you are the hardest thing I have ever had to do. You are reading these words after my death, because I haven’t the courage to speak of these matters to you in person. I regret my weakness, please forgive me.

  I have tried to provide you with a generous inheritance with which to build your life. Some of the inheritance came from my mother and before her, her mother and so on. This wealth began in our family many years ago and it is only proper that it remain for the benefit of a family member.

  Now I must reveal to you some deep, and yes, dark secrets that I have kept from you since your birth.

  Aaron, I am not your Aunt Laura, my real name is Elizabeth Corbin Powell. I am your mother. Your birth name is Aaron Corbin Powell. You were born at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts, on November 11, 1966. With these papers is a copy of your birth certificate and baptism papers. I legally changed your name with the help of some friends to Aaron Bailey. I did this to protect the both of us. If I hadn’t, your very life would have been in mortal danger.

  I beg your forgiveness, Aaron. I wish that our family had never been caught up in this horrific nightmare, but we were. I raised you as a son, but under the guise of being your Aunt. It was a weak attempt on my part to protect you. I know I should have spoken to you directly, but I kept hoping that what my own mother had revealed to me was wrong. Unfortunately, she was not wrong, Aaron. Our family has been hunted for the past seven generations. With this letter, I shall try to give you a glimpse into your heritage.

  My dearest son, Aaron, you are the first and only male born in our family since 1843. In 1804, the Powell family settled in Sutton, Vermont, where they took up farming in the Winooski River Valley. The family was modestly prosperous and bought more land, until they owned hundreds of acres of fertile valley land. They also began an orchard, a gristmill and a general store. They belonged to the Church of Everlasting Faith. In 1841, a new pastor arrived to head this church, since the older pastor had died during the winter of 1840 from small pox. Soon everything changed in Sutton. This new pastor was a dark and evil person. It was widely known that he promoted fear and paranoia in that small community.

  This pastor, who called himself Elisa Porter Cummings, began a secret cult. This cult became a church within his church. The cult grew powerful and was very secretive about its affairs. The Reverend Cummings tried several times to get our ancestors to join his i
nner flock. They resisted at first, but after a while they began to reconsider.

  Aaron, I can’t possibly speak of all that went on back in 1843, except to say that eventually this cult took to worshipping Satan. They offered sacrifice to him, including human sacrifice. They referred to themselves as “Keepers.” Reverend Cummings had convinced his followers that Satan wished to take on human form. He said that Satan had made a covenant with everyone who would participate in this transformation, that they would enjoy untold wealth and power, and even immortality. The ritual of raising Satan was set to occur on October 31, 1843. Our ancestors, led by Sarah Powell, our great grand mother, seven times removed, turned down this Reverend and his evil followers. As matriarch, her decision swayed the entire family who now refused to participate. The ritual failed because the coven was incomplete, and everyone blamed our ancestors. These coven members went to the family home and proceeded to curse and threaten everyone. Then they nailed boards across the doors and windows, and following that they set the house on fire. Everyone in our family died that night, everyone, except a tiny baby girl. A faithful servant by the name of Cora Jackson hid out in the root cellar. She dug at the side of the cellar’s dirt walls and piled the damp clay up against the door. While the house burned down that night, Cora and the baby girl miraculously survived in that cellar.

  At the first sign of light, Cora managed to climb out of that cellar with the baby in her arms. She escaped into the woods and managed to keep moving until she had traveled several communities away. She later was taken in by a widowed lady, a Mrs. Marcoux, who lived in Shelburne, Vermont. This lady let Cora and the baby live with her. The baby’s name was Irene Powell. After hearing of the horrors of that dark and evil night, Mrs. Marcoux proceeded to adopt Cora and raise her as her own. Cora, Mrs. Marcoux, and the baby moved away to Philadelphia. Later, as she grew up, she went to a fine school for young women, thanks to the generosity of that widowed lady.