A Legacy Written In Blood: Rising

[M.J. Saulnier]

Introduction

​

"I prefer to go out at night, when the sun has rested after a long day of polishing the earth. The light is inherently forgiving in nature. It has a way of shining a false beauty over even the ugliest of situations. It gives cosmetic value to an otherwise worthless piece of merchandise. The light is the great deceiver, not the darkness. When the shadows close in around us and threaten to remind us of who we are, it's in the light we seek comfort and salvation.


I walk the streets of this forsaken city, past the dregs, junkies and whores. I see and hear everything that happens in these streets, this concrete Gomorrah.


I see a man, a spineless worm, unemployed and hooked on crack cocaine. He collects welfare checks from his brother's mailbox and lives with his girlfriend and her two small children. He spends every penny chasing a high he'll never satisfy and watches her kids suffer, neglected and deprived of a mother and childhood.


His eyes are fixed upon a young woman, a prostitute. Her long blonde hair, slim figure and schoolgirl face earn her the money she needs to care for the product of a trick gone horribly wrong. The uninvited seed of a low-life rapist. A foreign invader who left upon her both a gift and a curse. A bitter sweet signature left upon her world in the form of a pure, and life-long maternal love, marred by the memory of her violator every time she looks him in the eyes.


The pipe in his left coat pocket is still warm, and his mind races, the pane of glass between himself and reality slightly cracked and smudged. Only two things rest on his feeble, one-track mind. That perfect backside and the sexual release it will offer him, and the $600 which rests in her purse beside a loaded .45. Nothing good happens tonight, nothing that can be summed up beautifully, or packaged neatly by a deep moral observation.


People hide within the light, hoping, praying that all of their superficial bullshit is in any way true, or in any way will protect them from the cruel reality of the human condition... evil. Sin, and the capacity to commit sinful acts of violence, greed, or deviance dwell within us all. The road to heaven is paved with corpses... so watch your step."


—Preacher

Chapter 1

Darkness Ensues

This story is dedicated to Sunal Wolfsbane, my dear old friend
​

The night was hot and humid. The streets of New Haven were quiet and eerie. The orange light from lampposts was polished into a fine, dense glow by the heavy moisture in the air. It was one of those nights when the empty streets felt both inviting, and menacing. For Deputy Sheriff Owen Reznik, this particular night had been quiet, uneventful so far. He sat in his squad car eating a hamburger and listening to the radio at a low volume. He was putting in a solo shift tonight. New Haven was a fairly small, relaxed town. Deputy's often worked the graveyard shift alone, although backup was never too far, should it be needed.


Owen was a caucasian male of thirty-two years with short black hair and a hansom, defined face with bright green eyes. He had a small, jagged scar above his upper lip from when he was eleven years old. During a little league baseball practice, he had taken a fly-ball straight to the mouth after failing to catch it with his glove. Funny thing, fear. He never quite shook that one day, that one incident. As a result, he became a benchwarmer and didn't return for a second year. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, if I had caught that ball, that fateful day, could I be playing for the Yankees right now? Fate is not to be taken lightly, you see. Even if you don't believe in it. For fate in of itself does not exist, it's just a word we use to make the course of our lives more tangible; To vindicate our failures and glorify our successes. You get up in the morning and consider calling in sick. Instead you get in the car to drive to work, and you're T-boned by a semi two blocks from your home. Was it fate, or random chance? Could you have actually stayed home, or by your own will and admission, was it your destiny to cross that intersection that morning? It's enough to drive you insane. Luckily for Owen, he was a simple, new world man of simple beliefs. As far as he'd be concerned, fate would play no part in the events which were about to unfold.


The dispatcher, Carey came over the radio.


Owen. You're around Kennedy Park, right?"


He rewrapped the burger and put it down in the passenger seat, swallowing that last bite. Grabbing the microphone, he answered Carey. That old familiar doubt and anticipation lingered in the back of his mind. You never knew what your next call would be. What you'd be going into. A kid caught shoplifting, or a standoff with six heavily armed criminals. You could say it was like a box of chocolates, you never knew what you were going to get.


"Yeah, Carey. I'm sitting on Park Lane right now."


"I need you over on Agricola. Some sort of disturbance between two men. It's the alleyway by 85. Doesn't sound serious, but be careful anyway."


"Copy that, dispatch. Heading there now."


Carey was a sweet young girl, only 19. She was attending university to be a criminologist. Owen liked her. Figured if things were a little different, if he hadn't met Allison... but there we go, dabbling in that fate nonsense again.


He pulled away from the curb he'd been parked at, heading north on Park Lane toward Agricola Street, which was only a few blocks north-east of his location. Kennedy Park was a nice area during the daytime, but it seemed to change after dark. It got more gritty and dangerous. So this call came as no surprise.


Cruising slowly down the street, he came to the alley near 85 Agricola. He shut the lights off and stopped discretely, assessing the scene. He made eyes on a man hunched over and mounted atop another person. He quickly called for backup, exiting the vehicle afterward.


He approached the scene with his sidearm grasped firmly, the suspect directly between his sights.


"New Haven Sheriff's Department! Put your hands in the air where I can see 'em!"


He couldn't see the victim, but the person wasn't moving at all. The suspect however, slowly stood up with a menacing, hunched posture.


Owen's stomach tightened. "Easy! Keep your hands where I can see them, or I will open fire!"


The man slowly turned around, locking eyes with Owen. He held something in his right hand. Looked like a knife, or something long and metallic like a blade.


"Put the weapon down, and those hands up! Last warning!"


The suspect didn't comply, but rather advanced on Owen, as if to will his gun away and attack him as he had the poor soul laying behind him.


Owen panicked and squeezed the trigger as he'd been trained to for years.


A round exploded from the barrel and found it's mark in the suspect's chest. It pierced the left side of his breastplate with a vicious shockwave of recoil surging through tissue, flesh and clothing. What should have been a direct kill shot, seemed to have avoided him all together as he pressed forward still.


Owen squeezed the trigger again, horrified with disbelief. The man absorbed yet another 9mm round at close range. This one he actually seemed to feel. It slowed his pace, almost staggered him. That's when Owen heard the squealing of brakes pinching rubber. His backup had come crashing in at the sound of gun shots.


The suspect finally yielded, turning from Owen, dashing into the darkness of the alley, dropping the tool he'd been holding in the process. Owen took a few calculated steps to pursue, firing two more rounds which may or may not have found a mark.


What the hell just happened? Could what just happened have really happened? No time to really digest it.


His sight moved down toward the unidentified weapon. A long, metal spike, bloodied at the tip. This night couldn't get any stranger. With so much adrenaline and emotion surging through him, he almost picked it up, contaminating the evidence.


Settling down a little, he holstered his sidearm and rushed to the victim as another Deputy ran down the alley after Owen, gun drawn.


"What the hell's goin' on, Reznik?" the Deputy asked in a panic, looking around the scene frantically. He'd never had a call like this before. Shots fired and all. New Haven was a model American Town. Nothing like the neighboring city of Blackwater, which was full to the brim with crime and violence.


Owen kneeled next to the victim. There was blood everywhere. On the ground around him, soaked into his cloths, and all over his neck and face. As Owen went to check for a pulse, he took notice of two evenly spaced puncture wounds on the left side of the neck. He tightened his brow, perplexed even more than he had been. It would take a week to come off this adrenaline rush.


Hands slightly shaking, he checked the man for a pulse. No good. He was already dead.


Owen stood up slowly, glancing around the alley, inebriated with fear, shock, and confusion.

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

Owen and Allison Watson sat together in a nice restaurant in downtown New Haven. It was their favorite spot in town. Owen brought her here on their first date four years ago, and they have been coming here since.


Allison was twenty-five. She had long brown hair, fair skin and brown eyes to match her hair. She laughed out loud, smiling.


"I'm not kidding," Owen said, taking a sip of his coke. He had to drive home tonight, so Allison was drinking wine alone. "It was ****ing crazy, there was a pack of wolves just staring at me. One of 'em had the brightest blue eyes. I don't know," he said, pecking at his food. "Felt like they were gonna attack me or something."


Allison giggled. "Whatever."


"I'm serious."


"So what happened?"


"I shot one of 'em and the rest ran away." Allison's jaw dropped. "I'm kidding," Owen said, laughing as he tried to get the words out.


After the laughter died down, Allison got more serious.


"Anything else weird happen at work lately?" she asked, sipping her wine.


He was a little put off and it left a tell.


"What do you mean?" he asked her, his mind racing at this point.


She smiled. "Steve put me up to it. He's worried about you, and now so am I."


Owen leaned back in his chair. He was upset that his best friend and partner would sandbag him and ruin a dinner with his girlfriend like that.


"It was nothing."


"It wasn't nothing, it sounded pretty serious. He just wanted ME to talk to you."


He granted a tiny, wee little smile. "Fair enough, but it was nothing... just a... Look, it's better if you don't know the details."


She rolled her eyes. "Fair enough. Just promise me you're okay."


He smiled wide. "I'm fine."

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

Owen nervously entered the office of New Haven Sheriff Ed Wilson. The Sheriff requested to speak with him and Owen had no idea why.


Wilson was in the middle of a phone call. As Owen entered, he leered at him from under his brow.


"I'll call you back," Wilson told the person on the other end of the line, a serious tone in his voice and look in his eyes. He hung up the phone swiftly, resting his elbows on his cluttered desk.


"You gonna sit down, or stand there lookin' stupid?" Wilson asked him sarcastically.


Owen timidly grabbed a seat, visibly uncomfortable.


"You, wanted to see me, Sheriff?"


"I've never been one for these sorts of conversations, Reznik. So I'll go ahead and get straight to the point," Wilson said, leaning back in his chair.


Owen nodded nervously.


"Word travels pretty fast around here, Owen."


Wilson had never used his first name before.


"That it does, sir."


"Look, kid. You gotta let this thing go. I know you're shook up. You want answers, closure. But this thing, this... Incident, it's over now. And we'll probably find this guy's body in a ditch somewhere any day now. What you have to do is move on. You understand what I'm saying to you, Owen?"


Owen hesitated. "I understand, Sheriff, it's just that," Wilson cut him off abruptly, leaning forward onto his desk again.


"I don't think you heard me, Reznik. This case is closed! Maybe two weeks suspension is the time you need to really get a handle on this thing..."


Owen remained silent for a moment, swallowing his pride and frustration.


"No, sir. I understand just fine."


"Say it."


"The case is closed. I've moved on."


Wilson leaned back, picking up the phone. "Shut the door behind you."

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

Owen and his partner Steve Randell sat in their squad car staring intently out the windshield.


"I gotta say... I didn't believe you at first," Steve said plainly, eyes still fixed ahead of their cruiser.


"I'm not crazy, Steve," Owen said, breaking his line of sight to glance over at his partner.


The car was parked in a small lot outside of New Haven facing a dense tree line. A lone wolf with grey and black fur and piercing blue eyes sat motionless, glaring back at them.


"What should we do?" Steve asked.


"Drive away."


"Yeah!" Steve agreed quickly, starting the engine. "Then we get something to eat."


"Sounds good," Owen said, checking his phone for new messages.


There was a brief moment of silence as Steve got on the road, headed for downtown New Haven.


"I hope this doesn't end up feeding your obsession with whatever you're chasing. It's just a wolf, brother. We got hundreds of 'em around here."


Owen looked up from his phone as if offended by Steve's words.


"How come I haven't see any before last week?" Owen asked defensively.


"A drop in the local rabbit population. How the **** am I supposed to know? I'm a cop, not a wolf whisperer."


Owen chuckled, shaking his head as he sent Alison a text on his phone, asking her how her day was going.


"All I know is, you gotta let it go, man. Shit like this can seriously get in the way of a guy's career."


Owen rested the phone in his lap, looking over at Steve.


"It starts out with something innocent like this. Before you know it, your fellow officers start thinkin' you're crazy. Ain't long before the brass has to act on it."


Steve matched Owen's gaze and they shared a moment of silence.


"Dude, I'm just saying. Everyone knows this thing has you goin' crazy. Weaver even said you've been snooping around Kennedy Park off duty, questioning homeless people and shit. What the **** is that?"


"The man took two bullets to the chest at close range and walked away, Steve! What the **** is that?"


"MDMA, whatever other kinda ****ed up drugs are comin' outta Blackwater these days," Steve snapped back at Owen. He then changing his tone and locked eyes with Owen. "It's not impossible, man..."


Owen sighed heavily, glancing out the passenger window. He felt so alone since that night.


"I mean, you haven't been the same since all this shit happened... It's like you're lost in space all the goddamn time..."


Owen took a moment of deep thought before he spoke. "I've been hearing about a secret file Wilson keeps to use as dirt on someone."


Steve pulled the car over, shutting the engine off. "What?" he asked, giving Owen his undivided attention. He'd probably want to be stationary for this one.


"A box of files Wilson keeps off-record. Buried and covered-up cases, names, information, all to be used as ammunition against someone. I just can't figure out who, or why."


"Oh my god," Steve moaned dramatically, resting his forehead on the steering wheel.


"I've gotta find that box, Steve. This thing goes so much deeper than I could have imagined, and I think Wilson's involved somehow."


"Even if there was a box of secret files to further indulge your paranoid delusions, you think Wilson would keep it under his desk?"


Owen didn't answer him.


"... You're thinking about breaking into his house?!"


"I didn't say that!" Owen reassured him quickly, with a stern brow.


"But if it has to go that far, I'm willing to do it."


Steve was beside himself. "I-I can't be involved in this conversation..."


Owen gathered his thoughts and picked his phone up to check his messages.


"What conversation?" he asked with a smile, glancing at Steve. "Come on, let's get somethin' to eat. I'm starving."

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

"Oh man, I'm stuffed!" Owen declared. He sat on his living room sofa wearing jeans and a black button-down.


Allison snuggled under his right arm, resting her head on his shoulder. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, babe."


He kissed the top of her head. "It was amazing. Thank you."


"Next time you have to cook," she said with a smile.


"Fair enough."


"I love you, Owen," she said softly.


His heart fluttered. It wasn't the first time she had said it, but it seemed to feel better every time. He held her tighter.


"I love you two, Ali."


"I don't wanna freak you out, but... I was thinking maybe..." She hesitated, and he smiled, nudging her gently.


"Spit it out, weirdo," he said with a giggle.


"No. The moment's all wrong now."


"Ohhh, come on!" Owen said with a wide smile.


"It's been built up too much!"


"You were going to ask me if you could move in."


Allison sat up, smiling wide. "What?"


"You've been hinting at it for weeks now. I've been waiting for it to come up naturally."


"That's not what I was going to ask you. But... If I had, what would you have said?" she asked, trying to mask her anticipation as best she could.


"**** that! I couldn't live with you," Owen replied coldly, turning his head to look at the television.


Allison burst into laughter, punching his arm. "Screw you, you asshole!"


Owen couldn't keep a straight face anymore, and her joined in the laughter.


"I'd say hell yes. I've been waiting for you to ask since the moment we met."


She threw her head back. "Oh my god!" she looked back at him, raising a palm to his face. "Cool the jets, Casanova."


Owen laughed vibrantly, wrapping his arms around her.

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

Allison stood alone in the sun-kissed street. She couldn't be sure how she got here, or where she was. She knew she was inside of a dream by that surreal, foggy feeling that clouded her mind and emotions. She was somehow content with being in the street, although she didn't know where or why. The street signs were stranger, written in a language she didn't recognize. The town was eerie and vacant. No vehicles travelled the roads. No pedestrians navigated the sidewalks, and the shops along the cozy, welcoming street appeared empty, though the lights were on, and some of the doors were propped open.


She gazed off to her right, following the houses and streets as they crawled up a sloping mountainside. The mountain range continued into the horizon for miles, penetrating the clouds above. She was a long way from New Haven.


Though she knew it was just a dream, it all felt so real. Every sight, sound, touch, and taste. The crisp, cool air dancing across her skin, playing with the tendrils of her hair. The hissing of the leaves as they sway at the mercy of every gust. It was almost as if she was actually standing there, alone in the ghostly town.


She takes a single step. Then another. Progress now, she's moving slowly down the street in search of something. She knows not what she is searching for, but she knows that she must search for something. Perhaps she's always been searching for it. Something lost. Something that she finds herself incomplete without. But what? Who? Why? Is there an answer? Can you find something if you don't know what it is? Was she searching for it, or had it been searching for her since the dawn of time?


As she made her way down the street, scanning for activity of any kind, she came upon a small café. Several circular tables were set up outside with umbrellas for shade. A single man sat at one of the tables with his back to Allison. His right leg was crossed over his left and he held a newspaper over his lap. He wore a fine, black pin-striped suit with black shoes that produced a powerful gleam from the brightness of a mid-day sun. He was bald with long ears that rose up into subtle points which have him a menacing, unsettling appearance.


He sat alone and perfectly still. The café doors were open as if one could walk in and order, but she couldn't see any people inside. As she examined him, trying to decide what to do or say, he slowly turned the page of the newspaper. An article written in English caught here eye. The headline read: Flash of Light in Night Sky Stumps Locals.


She drew closer to him, trying to read more of the article, but as she did so he spoke to her.


"Do you know why you're here?" He asked in a calm, yet commanding voice. She was startled, and took a step back.


"I don't even know where I am," she answered him. He remained silent, turning the page again.


"Who are you?" Allison asked, sizing him up nervously with her angelic eyes. Without warning, the man slammed the newspaper into the glass surface of the table, twisting around in his chair. "The man you're going to kill!" he yelled with a malicious expression and hateful tone of voice.

*****

​

Allison's eyes shot open in terror. She lay in Owen's bed next to him, heart pounding out of her chest, sweat stippling her pale face...

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

Owen shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He was fidgety, restless, and his focus scattered erratically. The Department psychologist's office was the last place he wanted to be right now—hell, ever! He picked at, adjusted and fiddled with his uniform as the shrink gazed at him from over the frames of his thick glasses. The Doc was an older man. He was balding but still had some scraggly grey hair around the sides. His face was wrinkled and dotted with liver spots. His arthritic sausage fingers idly played with a fountain pen above a notepad.


"How are you sleeping, Owen?" the Doc asked with a makeshift concern.


"Like a baby—look, I'm fine. So if there's any way we can just get me back out there, you know, put all of this behind us. That'd be great, Doc."


The psychiatrist smiled, writing something down in his notepad. Owen lowered his brow in scrutiny. He leaned forward, trying to read what was being written. "I haven't said a whole lot since I came in here, but somehow you got half a page over there."


The Doc stopped writing and looked up at Owen. "Does that make you uncomfortable?" he asked plainly, that smug look never leaving his face. Why is every therapist so impressed with themselves?


Owen grew frustrated. "I don't like being analyzed," he answered with a vague sense of hostility.


"This is routine Mr. Reznik. Whenever an Officer uses their sidearm a standard assessment is done. You should know this. You are the cop, and I am the psychiatrist, after all."


"So what's the end game here?" Owen asked. "What do you need from me?"


"How did it feel when you shot that man?"


Owen hesitated, drawing a deep breath. "I felt fear, adrenaline... Disgusted... Normal human reactions to shooting another human being."


The Doc remained silent, forcing Owen to keep talking. He shrugged with frustration. "I don't know what you want from me!"


"Honesty. But beyond that, I need you to be open to this," the Doc explained.


Owen chuckled, covering his face with his hands. "Oh my god... I'm being honest with you, Doc!" Owen said with a sense of desperation and defeat.


"You maintain that the suspect fled the scene after you shot him twice in the heart from close range," the Doc explained, reading from a file.


"That's right," Owen added quickly.


"But here in your report, you clearly state that you killed the suspect."


"What? No. No, I never said I 'killed' anyone!"


The Doc passed a file across his desk to Owen. He scanned the report quickly. As he came upon the portion in question, he grew extremely agitated. "No! That's not my report! Those aren't my words!" He threw the file back across the table into the Doc's chest. He flinched as the papers hit him. He removed his glasses, collecting the papers neatly.


"You truly believe you shot a man twice in the heart and he walked away from you? Out there somewhere, alive right now?"


Owen closed his eyes, lowering his head. "... Yes..."


The Doc closed all files, placing the fountain pen on his desk. "That's all I need, Mr. Reznik."

 

[M.J. Saulnier]

Owen sat at a cluttered desk surrounded by officers, clerks and detectives. He tapped a pen against the metallic surface repeatedly, glancing around with annoyance and resent. He was beginning to hate everyone around him. As far as would be concerned, they were all against him, or involved somehow, whether they wanted to be or not. And just how long had this, whatever it was, been going on right under his nose? Could he be the only poor fool in the dark, or could Bill Parsons, a second year rookie and a Class A ****-up, really know more than he did? He had dedicated years of his life to his career. He never crossed anyone, made any enemies. He was a model officer and friend. It must go far deeper than the Department.


Owen swiftly rose from his chair, briskly making his way to Bill Parsons' desk. Bill was a short, slender man of the middle twenties. He wore glasses and had a shaved head of dirty blonde hair.


Owen leaned against his desk with his arms crossed, peering down at him. Bill's gaze slowly crawled up to him. "What's up, Reznik?" he asked with confused curiosity. Bill was a somewhat timid young man. He usually worked the desk or on smaller, less dangerous cases.


Owen shot a quick, upward nod of his head. "What's up, Parsons?" he returned his question.


Bill cast a gaze away from Owen momentarily, dumbfounded by his odd behaviour. "Nothing?" he replied with some hesitation. He had no idea what was going on, but he assumed by now it was just another meathead picking on him again. He would play dumb, as if to make his aggressor seem the fool in the grand scheme of things.


"You heard or seen anything weird lately?" Owen asked.


Bill stared at him with a clueless expression on his pasty face, and Owen began to realize that this man knew nothing. He couldn't possibly be in on whatever is going on.


"You," Bill answers him bluntly.


Wilson catches Owen's eye as he barrels out of his office with Deputies Folton and Weaver. He would be heading down to McLaren Ranch to investigate a corpse found roadside. This was his chance to gain access to Wilson's office and find the files he so desperately needed. They would connect these dots; fill in the vast quantities of blanks.


He moved with haste, stopping at the water cooler to detour any attention he had picked up. This wouldn't be easy and he was hesitating out of pure fear. If even one person saw him enter Wilson's office and decided to do or say something, he'd be busted, and probably lose his chance to search the office. This was preferable to invading the man's home in search of the files. Luck would either be on his side, or stab him in the back.


He tossed the flimsy paper cup in the trash receptacle. With a swiftness that was precise yet casual, he made his way to the office door, grabbing a random file off of a random desk, opening it as he walked down the stretch of desks toward the wooden door. When he arrived he slowed his pace, pretending to be enthralled within the document. He turned his back to the door, scanning the file intently, the length of the room before him. He shot quick glances around the room, waiting for a moment to slip in.


Three officers ahead of him shooting the shit, laughing loudly at poor jokes and bragging about arrests, golfing, and other random bullshit idiots fill their day with. Most of the room is occupied, but one officer at her desk keeps looking his way. Now that eye contact has been established, she looks toward him even more. Hanna. Hanna Moss is her name. Desked after she blew a knee playing a game of football. Tragic story, and now a pain in Owen's ass.


He waits for her to look back at her computer, and bolts through the door as fast as he can, shutting it quickly behind him. He moves hastily toward the desk, standing there with the file in hand. He waits for the possibility that he's been made. Some gung-ho Detective busting in to question his motives. He'd play it off as a file drop; Sheriff's orders.


He stuffs the file under a stack of similar folders and wastes no time in searching every drawer of the desk. The bottom drawer, third down from the top on either side, is a large, deep drawer. The right side is locked. Wilson is a lefty. Locked drawer, big enough to hold a small box of files.


Grabbing a letter opener, Owen pries the lock open, bending the metal drawer and damaging the letter opener in the process.


Lady Luck has spared him misfortune this day. A small cardboard box. Removing it, he peers inside. Files stacked ten, twenty high.

*****

​

Wilson's office door swung open, and Owen discretely slipped back first in order to conceal the small box in his arms. He immediately walked to the left, the area of the room which led to the holding cells, it saw the least amount of traffic. He rushed down the length of tile floor, the suspense eating away at his already distraught nerves. As he made a break for a doorway leading to the underground parking lot, Detective O'Riley darted from a cubical, brow stern with scrutiny.


"F*** are you doin', Reznik?"


He reacted with perfect form and timing.


"Cold case Wilson wants me to take back to Stewert." He would not be stopped after getting this close.


O'Riley paused, looking him over from head to toe. "Whatever, I'll ask him about it when he gets back."


Owen continued on his way, shooting a glance of his shoulder to make sure O'Riley was occupied before he shouldered through the exit stairwell with the box in his arms.