The darkest valley, p.1
The Darkest Valley, page 1
THE DARKEST VALLEY
GROUP X CASES • BOOK 2
J. A. BOUMA
CONTENTS
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Author’s Note
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Copyright © 2022 by J. A. Bouma
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PROLOGUE
You know what I wish for, friend—above all else in the universe?
Smell, that’s what.
Sometimes I wish I could smell. Taste, too, but those sort of go hand in hand. Or, so I’m told. Yessiree, of all the five senses, smelling would be at the top of my list.
Sight I’ve got. Same for touch and hearing. Talking, too—though I know that’s not really a sense, in the traditional sort of things. It is in my neck of the universe, the back and forth between us and our kind, you and your kind.
Though that’s another story, for another time.
Smell. That’s what I want, in the traditional sense of it. Where hundreds of molecular chemicals skate across thousands of olfactory sensory neurons until they land in the brain just right.
Take that bakery across the street, selling fresh-baked bread and sticky buns, along with cups of Joe. From what I hear, those dueling scents of baked goods and coffee are the bomb. Nothing like it in all the world. At least, according to one of my confidants.
Others would rank grilled steak or chicken right up there with bread and coffee, slathered in BBQ sauce and charbroiled with the smell of woodsmoke or charcoal still lingering. Not my cuppa, but to each their own. Got enough of that charbroiled stench in my neck of the universe, if you get my drift.
So, yes, smell.
And yet, I’ve adapted, growing to appreciate the lesser obvious scents from humanity that waft my way. Not what is conscious or obvious. No, no, no. The stuff of life, my friend. That which simmers just below the surface but manifests itself upon my own olfactory, the only one I’ve got.
Fear.
Anxiety.
Dread.
Now that is worth sniffing—like the finest bouquet of roses, they are! It’s also far more lucrative in my neck of the universe than a loaf of bread.
And much more fun.
I have heard it said around my parts, quoted from my compadres from time to time, there once was a god who claimed to have become death itself.
I am become Death, this god quipped, destroyer of worlds.
Death. How pedestrian. How finalizing.
What a yawn.
In fact, I’m doing it now. Yawning in the face of such a ridiculous ambition! Why kill when you can devastate sheeple to the point they’re curled up in a corner bawling their eyes out without an ounce of hope left? Why end life when you can make sheeple wallow in its miseries?
I am become Death, destroyer of worlds. Bo-ring!
Not me. I am something better than death itself.
Despair…
I am Despair, destroyer of worlds!
Not the world, but individual ones. The mousy sheeple that trot across this ill-begotten land, full of insecurities and unfulfilled desires. Those so wrapped up in their neuroses and marinating in panic-porn fueled fear that they’re one neuron firing on the wrong cylinder away from losing their marbles.
Or worse…
Tossing the whole kit and caboodle overboard.
And the quickest way I have found to leapfrog from the sunny side of the fence headlong into the clawing, cloying oblivion of mawing darkness is to leverage the worst of human emotion and the inner workings of their very souls.
Comparisonitis, envy, jealousy.
Hopelessness, gloom, misery.
Impulsiveness, passion, rashness.
The world is awash in it all.
Not the least of which is my own specialty—
Despair…
These are the tools of the trade—the tools of my trade. The ones I’ve been using for generations, hammering and honing their application to take down the mousy, mewy, miscreants that tread upon the world crafted by the Name-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless. What he sees in them, I’ll never understand it.
What we see in them…now that’s another story.
When I look upon the expanse of all that exists—all that has existed over the generations—what I see are poor, helpless souls in need of an extra push. Something to send them barreling into that which they deserve, yet don’t have the guts to go after.
Yet our Adversary puts up roadblocks at every turn. Stymying our progress to eliminate his Image from the face of Earth. Or at least bring it to the belly of life’s darkest valley.
Chief roadblock: his Church, inspired by his own heroics.
Some think we are unfamiliar with the Good Book. Nay, that is incorrect. The farthest from the truth, actually. For it was the Master who first perfected the art of memorizing the Nameless One’s words, then spitting them back into his face! As well as those who bear his Image, the bipedal creatures that deserve far less than his love.
And yet, as I consider this town of mine, and all the others like it scattered across this Third Rock from the Sun, those words spring to mind. I cannot avoid them. The one’s from the book penned by the chap known as Matthew:
Then [the Nameless One] went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.
Then again, from that wretched Mark’s tract on the Nameless One: ‘As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.’
I snort a laugh, my breath billowing from these heights.
Like sheep without a shepherd is right.
Sheep are the dumbest animals on the Nameless One’s green earth—especially humans. So easily led astray, sheeple are! So easily manipulated and managed, conned and coaxed into giving up the only thing that truly sets them apart from the rest of the created world.
Freedom.
If there is one thing I’ve learned that greases the skids for part of their identity being wrenched from their cold, dead fingers, it’s dragging them through the valley of death’s shadow.
And now is the moment to make our move.
My move. To ruin all that the Nameless One holds dear.
His Image Bearers.
Time to stay the sheep's bleating; time to provoke the sheep’s bleeding.
One by one.
For I am not Death, but Despair.
I am Despair, destroyer of worlds.
Your world.
And I’ve got you in my crosshairs, bucko.
CHAPTER 1
Elijah Fox was in a real pickle.
He was supposed to meet his boss, Silas Grey, Master of the Order of Thaddeus, at 10:00 a.m. sharp for coffee—which also happened to coincide with his daily morning bagel-coffee ritual, something he never missed. Win-win for him.
But he was lost.
All wrong, they are!
No thanks to some Frenchy who prided himself on symmetrical city planning but managed to absolutely screw up what any sane person would view as logical urban navigation.
That’s the French for you.
Pierre L’Enfant, he was. How’s that for a perfectly ridiculous French name? Although, it means Peter in English, so Elijah figured he shouldn’t be too snooty about it, since he was named after one of Jesus’ three amigos.
Anyhoo, Pierre L’Enfant came to fight in the Revolutionary War and later became George Washington’s trusted city planner. Had grand plans for the city, envisioning it to be laid out like a grid, where east-west streets were lettered and north-south streets were numbered. But that wasn’t all. No siree! Had he left it there, it would have been fine. But on top of those streets, he introduced other “grand avenues” (yeah, right!) intersecting those letter-number streets at 45-degree angles, forming circular and rectangular plazas. Sort of like those crazy British roundabouts that gave him a headache at grad school in Cambridge University years ago.
One of the most idiotic parts of the whole cockamamie plan was the fact the numbers and letters started over! With the U.S. Capitol Building anchoring the center of the grid, numbers radiated east and west, then the letters radiated north and south, with Independence and Constitution Avenues serving as those starting points—repeating them in both directions!
Madness, I tell ya. Madness!
But that wasn’t all of it. No siree! After all, it’s the French we’re talking about.
To interpret it all, you need the cypher. The key, the code, the abracadabra incantation to navigate the cockamamie scheme! Without it, you’re screwed.
Which probably explained Elijah’s current pickle. That, and he disavowed smartphones a few months ago, content with his dumb phone now. A Jitterbug Flip2 that was advertised as an easy-to-use flip phone for seniors.
Now though…lost in some sector of the District, hot and sweaty and becoming more anxious—wished he’d disavowed his disavowal and joined the rest of humanity staying plugged into the WeShare matrix. At least he’d have a map, directions, the cypher to his destination. Because his granny phone wasn’t going to cut it. Neither was the Frenchy’s grand plans.
The quadrants were the key to it all, see. Northwest, Northeast, Southwest, Southeast. 8th and M Southeast versus 8th and M Northwest was the difference between getting a glass of Côtes du Rhône with beef bourguignon for a hot date or getting mugged and shot in the kisser for your sneakers.
Probably the dumbest part of it all was there was no J Street. Nope. Skips from I to K. Something about some grudge against someone whose name started with the letter (rumor has it, Chief Justice John Jay). Same for X, Y, and Z Streets (except there’s no discernible reason why, because: French!). After W, the roads were named after trees, flowers, presidents and other local figures.
And right now, Elijah was about to cross one of those other roads!
Quebec. Figures. There’s a Frenchy for you.
So there Elijah sat, idling at a red light behind an over-the-top, bright yellow Hummer, which for DC was saying something. Thought those things went out of style back when the Backstreet boys tried to kiss and make up with their comeback album that only landed them in a revolving Vegas Strip gig at the Bellagio.
At least its shadow offered some relief. Because on top of lost, Elijah was stifling and sweaty to beat the band in the middle of a DC summer straight from hot Hades. Oh, yeah, another brilliant move by the Frenchy: He built his grand plan on a swamp! Again: the French for you!
He revved his BMW R 18. Definitely not one of those hippy Harley hogs that smacked of biker cliché. Not a Honda, either, or other Japanese variety. No Yamaha or Kawasaki for him as well.
Nope. What Elijah rode was the only motorcycle worth its salt.
Pure German-engineered mechanics, sporting the dexterity and temerity of a modern cruiser combined with the nostalgic sense of classic beemer design.
And yes: beemer. With two Es and one R. Not a bimmer, with one I and two Ms, which is the American bastardization for cars of the original moniker for BMW motorbikes.
Beemer, not bimmer.
Boy, did Elijah love his motorcycle, mostly thanks to Dad. He’d been a hog guy himself, riding a hippy Harley to his pastor gig. But he didn’t hold it over Pops since it was a mid-life crisis buy. Would ride that thing day in and day out to their country church down the road from their country house in Paducah, Kentucky. Or Kenturkey, as he liked to call it. Then to get groceries or get nails for the endless honey-do list Mama kept tacked up on the refrigerator.
Took Elijah along, of course, the pair of them racing through the country roads, wind whipping their hair, the smell of pine and pigs heavy.
He smiled at the memory, Dad gone nearly two decades now, revving his engine while he waited. With all of the potential power in those handlebars, and the 91 horsepower at 4,750 revolutions per minute propelling him forward, giving him all the control he needed to go wherever and whenever—and as fast as ever—he wanted.
Power and control.
The two things in his life he’d never had. Not over his life, certainly not over where it went. Not even his own body, his emotions and brain and body triggered by stimulus and circumstances outside of his control, and leading to less-than-ideal reactions he had little power over.
But now, without knowing where he was and where he was going—and this blasted red light still red, on top of the hideous view of the backside of a Hummer from before he still had braces—he felt himself starting to fray at the edges. Not good.
The mounting anxiety triggered his stimming trick, or tried to anyway. Except his gloved hand gripping the throttle wouldn’t allow for it. No way for his thumb to press against his index finger, then his middle, and to his ring finger and pinkie. So he’d have to settle for the next best thing.
Whistling “Amazing Grace.”
Was especially effective inside his helmet, the high pitch music to his ears along with the vibration of his lips a balm to his rising anxiety. Stimming or stimulating for autistic people like him was like drinking water. Couldn’t not do it when the thirst came. Was a matter of mental and emotional survival.
Elijah pushed his sleeve back to check his watch—a Christmas gift from Dad.
And yelped.
“Oh my cheeps!” he exclaimed, his grumbling, rumbling stomach putting the exclamation point where his helmet muffled his surprise.
It was quarter past 10:00!
Not only was he late for his meeting with the boss man. He was missing his mid-morning coffee and bagel break!
Raisin bagel with cream cheese. Plain, non-fat. And a cup of dark coffee.
Every morning.
With. Out. Fail!
He couldn’t deviate from his rhythm, his routine. It would throw off his entire day, his equilibrium!
Had to take action. Set the world back in order.
So he did.
Spinning out from his spot, he punched it in the middle of the road named after some Midwest state, nearly clipping the front end of a black Audi and getting pancaked by a rusting delivery truck and sending up angry horns and even angrier words.
Elijah blamed the Frenchy for his ridiculous roads. You could blame the French for a lot of things, if you thought about it.
He raced down the road—Wisconsin Avenue, apparently—spotting the spires of the Washington National Cathedral as he zoomed between cars giving him the middle-finger salute (how rude). Its Indiana limestone shone bright in the clear morning, the HQ for the Order of Thaddeus. Didn’t know how he got so turned around, and an embarrassing heat raced up his neck at the realization. Should know the city like the back of his heel after working in it for so long before getting canned by J. Edgar Hoover’s boys and sent packing. But he didn’t get out much, so he’d never really explored the city.
