Ash Return of the Beast

CHAPTER 31



A Few Hours Later…

In a low-rent trailer park on the outskirts of the city, 72-year-old Pastor Pete Kane––arthritic and partially confined to a wheelchair––sat in his trailer staring at the TV. As he mindlessly scratched the itch on his arm beneath the floppy sleeve of his drab gray bathrobe, the reporter on the screen stared back at him from her location just outside the church where the latest victim had been found. He fumbled with the remote and turned up the volume.

“…number seven in a string of recent deaths. And again, as in each of the previous cases, there were no eyewitnesses and there are no suspects in this case as far as we know. Police are remaining tight-lipped when it comes to any details concerning their investigation of these bizarre incidents. However, we did receive confirmation about those Batman coins previously rumored to have been found stuffed into the mouths of the victims. Now, with a little detective work of our own, we were able to find such a coin at a local retail shop that specializes in vintage comics and related memorabilia. These coins came in sets of nine, each individually numbered ‘one’ through ‘nine’ and… can we get a good close-up of this?...and I don’t know if you can see, but this one happens to be stamped with the number ‘four’. We have gathered some information––unconfirmed at this point––concerning these coins. It seems the perpetrator of these crimes is using these coins in sequence. The coin found in the mouth of the first victim was stamped with the number ‘one’. The second victim, number ‘two’ and so on. So it seems that the mystery killer––”

The old pastor clicked off the TV. His wrinkled hands were shaking. Something was stirring in the dark recesses of his mind. That coin… I know that coin… Oh, dear God...

He wheeled himself around and rolled down the short narrow hallway, past a cheap velvet painting depicting Christ surrounded by a group of adoring children. He continued on past a photo of his son, Brian, graduating from the police academy. He maneuvered into his tiny bedroom and came to a stop in front of a tall dresser. He paused a moment, drew a deep breath, and scooted his pale, hulking body to the edge of the wheelchair. With a final, painful effort, he dropped to his knees in front of the dresser and opened the bottom drawer.

Inside the drawer was a lifetime of forgotten items: a discarded hair brush; a broken watch; miscellaneous papers; wrinkled receipts; several pencils with erasers that had turned hard and brittle; a crucifix on a broken chain; a tattered book of hymns from an earlier life; and then finally… the box.

He brought the small cedar box to his lap, removed the lid and shook the contents onto the floor. There, amongst a stack of old photos and several of his forbidden keepsakes, he saw the coin. “Oh, my God,” he muttered under his breath. He stared at the coin for a long moment, trying to remember. Worth, Worthy. What was it? Duck…worth! Ronnie? No… Rodney. That’s it. Rodney Duckworth!

He picked up the coin and searched for the number. Squinting through his bifocals he found it: No. 9. The coin dropped from his trembling fingers. He swallowed hard and fell back against the wheelchair. Dear God. He’s coming for me.