The Rings of Hesaurun Read online

  That look troubled him, and his breath caught in his throat. But what surprised him most were her eyes—mirror-like orbs, black as obsidian, reflecting his immense image. Seeing himself reflected in those terrifying eyes sent chills cascading through Stone like a winter storm. She wasn’t dead, but her eyes were. At least he thought so.

  His eyes searched the child, finding no sign of a ring. He thought that puzzling, considering he hadn’t seen a ring on her parents, either. But I can still feel a ring’s presence somewhere! If the kid didn’t have a ring, what force was working on her? Earlier, he had discounted her as being insignificant and irrelevant. Seeing those dead eyes instantly dispelled that notion. Stone sensed she was dangerous.

  The sky also had a word to say about her. It spoke volumes as sparks began gliding down around him, and he felt the heat. The message was undeniable. Those embers provided all the proof he needed to know; the kid was both significant, relevant and that he had made a big mistake by writing her off too soon.

  A firestorm was brewing in the heavens, spitting sparks at him. The hot embers seemed focused on him alone; he was at the eye of the storm. Misjudging the girl had been an error, but underestimating her placid expression might be even worse. Although he could not read her eyes, Stone’s gut told him she intended to make him pay for what he’d done to her parents.

  “What’s your name, little girl?” Stone asked, trying to sound as harmless as possible.

  “Valerie Dunne,” she stated without emotion.

  Stone almost laughed. “You are Valerie Dunne? Now there’s a coincidence!”

  Still, the girl stared up at him as if sizing him up, calculating her options. The name Valerie Dunne is synonymous with the five rings of Hesaurun, he thought. They were virtually one and the same. But the Valerie Dunne he knew of wasn’t a crumb-snatcher like this little one. That Valerie Dunne was the original keeper of the rings, not a snotnosed brat. If she were alive—which she couldn’t be—she would have to be thousands of years old, which disqualified this pint-sized witch.

  As Stone burst out laughing the wind picked up, swirling around them, and he immediately realized he shouldn’t have laughed. Hot cinders began spiraling around him as if he were at the center of a firestorm. Stinging embers landed on his head and shoulders, and Stone rushed to pat them out. Now he was afraid because he knew what she had in mind.

  Time’s running out. You need to strike first if you want to live.

  Swirling embers passed within inches of Stone’s face. He sized the little girl up, set himself, and summoned the power of his ring. But it was too late. Little Valerie Dunne struck first—or was it the towering fourarmed stick figure suddenly standing directly behind her?

  Who’s that? Stone croaked, then gaped in awe. Having never looked up at anyone his entire adult life he stared up at the creature, slack-jawed. Where had it come from? And what was it doing here? The thing looked like a cross between an eight-foot-tall scarecrow and the bronze effigy of a Roman god, punctuated by a hairless pear-shaped head the size of a rugby ball. But what really terrified him was the creature’s eyes; large, deep-set eyes, incomprehensible, obscure as obsidian— just like the awful little girl.

  Stone realized he had seen enough and wanted no more of this kid or her friends. In a panic, he backpedaled, lost his balance, and fell to his knees. Paralyzed by fear and confusion, he pointed a trembling finger at the towering four-armed bronze creature. His mind swirled in chaos as his mouth moved wordlessly.

  The girl stared menacingly, watching the man who’d murdered her parent’s babble. Pent-up anger and pain of her loss erupted from little Valerie Dunne in the form of a great fireball, a conflagration the color of hot lava. The discharge of energy, amplified by the massive alien, hit the big man hard, hurling him high into the air like a blazing meteor shrieking all the way. When he hit the ground, a cloud of sparks detonated around him. High above, the sky stilled while the wreathing man’s clothes burned like a torch in the darkness.

  ________________________

  Valerie would remember little of what happened to her parents that day and nothing of her confrontation with their killer. The inner power used to defeat Stone that night was immature. It withdrew, locked safely away into the dark places beyond the child’s knowledge and consciousness. Wiped from her memory, the source of her power remained, crouching in the darkness, developing, growing to maturity. It would wait to emerge from the darkness much as her antagonist, Egan Seamus Stone, had done.

  The warm memories Valerie had of riding in the car with her parents, arriving home, and carrying groceries into the house with them that last time would be long cherished. Every detail of the surprise attack and the deaths of her loved ones seared into her consciousness, something she would never forget. Hidden throughout her formative years, the mysterious power drawn on that day would continue developing, evolving, germinating, and shaping her character.

  The rage spent, the child’s body and soul were drained of energy. Mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted, Valerie wobbled into the house and sat with the cat cradled on her lap, staring at the blank television screen. As she descended into shock, time was lost to her—until the phone rang. She didn’t answer; in her mind, the ringing telephone made her think of her Aunt Angie. As the ringing ceased, she picked up the phone. After pushing the pre-dialed number, she began shaking.

  “Hello?” Angie answered. There was no response, but the sound of the child’s breathing was enough to identify the caller. “Valerie? Are you there?”

  Moments of silence passed.

  “A man hurt my mom and dad,” the little voice answered, then continued. “Can you come get me? I want you.”

  The shock and trauma in the child’s voice were impossible to miss. Angie’s heart leaped in her chest, pounding so violently she nearly blacked out. She was frantic. Despite that, she held herself together long enough to respond coherently.

  “What happened, dear?” she said, trying to sound as calm as possible. Then with her hand held over the mouthpiece, she shrieked at Jim, her husband, “Jim, get in here- now!”

  “A man hurt my mom and dad,” repeated the child.

  Jim almost jumped out of his skin. Panicked, he flew into the kitchen like he was shot from a cannon. “What’s wrong!”

  “Valerie said a man hurt her mom and dad.” Angie choked on the words. “Start the car; let’s go now!”

  Jim’s face paled. As he snatched the car keys, Angie tightened her grip on the phone.

  “Stay right there, honey,” Angie cooed into the receiver, her voice cracking. “Jim and I will be right there. Okay?”

  “Alright,” Valerie replied, then hung up without saying goodbye.

  Jim already had his car out of the garage. Angie vaulted inside, fear and grief surging inside her. The instant the car door slammed, Jim stomped on the accelerator so hard the tires screeched.

  “My God, she’s only four years old!” Angie cried.

  “What happened?” Jim shouted, never expecting an answer.

  Angie didn’t have to tell Jim to hurry; he drove like a maniac. With trembling fingers, she dialed 911 and told the operator what she knew. After giving Colin and Janet’s address, she pleaded with them to hurry. Still, they beat the county sheriff there by ten minutes.

  Jim and Angie were horrified at the destruction they found in front of the home. Twisted car parts were mixed with what was left of their loved ones. The front yard was obliterated. The devastation was so complete they never considered looking for survivors. Evidence of their macerated bodies was distributed over more than an acre of ground.

  The yard looked as if it had been pummeled by a wrecking machine. Fences, landscaping, even the concrete driveway were all obliterated. Trees were either snapped in half or uprooted. Jim and Angie assumed a blast had occurred; no other possible cause made sense.

  Jim began picking his way through the field of debris while Angie headed straight for the house to hunt for Valerie. “V
alerie? Valerie, honey!” she cried out in anguish. Once inside, she found Valerie unresponsive, the cat on her lap, the young girl staring at the blank television screen shaking like a leaf. Her gaze was locked in a thousand-yard stare. Blood ran from a nasty gash on her cheek and onto her shirt. Angie guessed correctly that the little girl was in shock but didn’t know what to do about it. The best she could do was comfort her until help arrived.

  Upon closer inspection, Angie was horrified to notice the child’s clothes were blood-spattered. Globs of sticky red goo were stuck to her shoes, her tiny dress, and in her hair, but only on her left side. That’s odd, Angie thought. She surmised that whatever had happened here narrowly missed Valerie but was kicked back at her when it smashed into Colin and Janet.

  Valerie’s cat, Orson, meanwhile posted himself on the girl’s lap, staring into her face like he was in a trance, his large blue eyes locked on hers. At first, Angie thought it was sweet that the old cat cared so much for his person—but that abruptly changed when she tried pushing Orson aside to comfort the girl. Frustrated by his refusal to move, she pushed and then shoved, but it was no use. Not only did the animal refuse to budge but he also seemed unmovable, hard as a rock, impossible to move.

  Oh well. That cat’s not hurting anyone, Angie thought to herself, realizing there was nothing she could do. It was as if the animal was made of stone. Angie had never seen Orson—or for that matter, any animal—act this way or seem so unmovable. It seemed to her as if the cat had supernatural strength.

  The old boy must be getting up there by now, thought Angie. Colin and Janet had been married for about ten years. Before Valerie came along, Orson had been Colin’s cat, but for how long? How long do cats live anyway? She had never heard of one living longer than twenty years. Orson had been a fixture in the family’s life for as long as she could remember. But what was going on now was unexplainable. It gave her a chill.

  Anxious for help to arrive, Angie felt relieved when she heard sirens coming. The county sheriff arrived first, followed by an assortment of emergency vehicles and Washington State Police. While the medics treated Valerie, the sheriff’s deputy questioned Jim. Soon, Jim had a small crowd of first responders gathered around asking questions he couldn’t answer. Having just lost his brother and sister-in-law, Jim wasn’t in the mood to talk, which led to a confrontation with one of the state patrolmen.

  “My niece called and asked us to come,” Jim repeated irritably, “so we rushed right over here. We found it like this.”

  “Why are you here?” the officer asked again.

  Jim sighed, tired of being questioned. “My niece,” he said again, more urgent, with an annoyed wave of his hand, “who is in the house with my wife, called us, so we came as quickly as we could. We live ten minutes from here.”

  “Tell me what happened. And why are you here?”

  Jim’s face darkened. “You already asked that question, Bob,” Jim responded with mock civility. “And I already told you. We live ten minutes from here. My niece called. We rushed over here. My wife is in the house with her. Now get off my back!”

  “You never answered the question!” the patrolman shot back. “I stood right here and asked you three times. Tell me: why—are—you—here?”

  “Maybe I’m not close enough for you to hear me—Bob!” Jim snarled, stepping forward until he was face-to-face, nose-to-nose looking down on the shorter patrolman. With balled fists and face beet-red, Jim yelled.

  “I SAID MY NIECE CALLED! WE RUSHED RIGHT OVER HERE. WE DIDN’T TAKE THE BUS, AND DIDN’T STOP FOR DOUGHNUTS! GOT IT?”

  “Leave him alone, will ya, Bob?” interrupted Cheryl, the patrolman’s partner, stepping into the fray. “The poor guy lost loved ones here. Give the man a break.”

  The doughnut comment galled Bob, who was prepared to take the confrontation to the next level. But he relented as Cheryl grabbed Jim by the arm and dragged him back a step, defusing the confrontation.

  “Sir, why don’t you go sit in your car until this is over,” Cheryl advised.

  Good idea, Jim thought, unballing his fists and agreeing with a nod. I’ve had enough of being badgered.

  But before Jim made two steps toward the car, he was waylaid by two men wearing dark suits.

  “Sir? Agents Rice and Timmons with the FBI. Can we have a word with you?”

  Jim groaned, wondering when the questions would ever end.

  “Sir?” repeated Rice.

  “Yes?” Jim sighed with a resigned shrug.

  “Can you tell me what type of device was detonated here?”

  “And we will need your name,” insisted Timmons.

  ”It’s Jim—I’m an attorney, not a demolition expert,” he snapped, glaring at the agents. “Ask the bomb squad when they get here.”

  Then Jim turned and hurried to his car and was safely sequestered inside just as the KNOB-TV News mobile production unit pulled up. Before the camera-laden beast rolled to a stop, every door on the vehicle popped open simultaneously, disgorging its complement of smooth-faced talking heads and film crew. Jim was delighted when the TV crew shined bright lights in patrolman Bob’s face and started asking him questions he could not answer.

  Got out just in time, Jim thought.Those KNOB’s would have had me in a headlock for sure!

  Since everyone at the scene believed a bomb had detonated but didn’t have any evidence to support the theory, the interviews were brief. The only witness, Valerie, wasn’t talking, so the investigation was stymied. The four-year-old was too young to be considered a reliable witness anyway. The investigators had no credible witnesses, no clues, and no leads to follow. All they had to work with was a yard full of debris and the widely broadcast remains of two local professionals.

  There was no evidence of explosive residue anywhere. Moreover, the windows and doors on the house were all intact. The authorities were even more confused when they noticed the debris field was funnel-shaped.

  “I don’t get it,” Agent Timmons grunted.

  “Me neither,” Agent Rice replied grimly, scanning the home. “Something strange about that kid, though.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Go back to square one,” Rice said. “Whatever the cause, it’s pretty clear the blast originated at a single point near the center of the yard.”

  Timmons nodded. Blasted wreckage and blackened earth all pointed in one direction. The affected area appeared to have been subjected to a shaped charge. However, the demarcation line was razor-sharp, which was considered impossible by any means. The one thing they were all able to agree on was all evidence pointed to a focused explosion. Beyond that, answers were few.

  If a bomb didn’t cause the destruction, what happened? No one had an answer to this very fundamental question. Therefore, every piece of the car and the decedents was bagged, tagged, and sent to the FBI lab for further evaluation. However, no one was ever able to put a label on the cause. In the end, it was ruled an accident for lack of evidence.

  ________________________

  With the child suffering from shock, the medics recommended her emergency transport to Arlington General Hospital for treatment. There she was given sedatives, cleaned up, and the gash on her cheek sutured. She was admitted for observation and spent the night with Angie watching over her.

  The next day, Valerie and her cat Orson went to live with Jim and Angie permanently.

  In the immediate days following the murders of Colin and Janet Dunne, Valerie continued to be reticent and aloof. Angie assumed she was unwilling to talk about the tragedy; however, the truth was far different. The child was simply unable to remember much of what happened. Her mind had blocked out the most tragic events of the day. Ultimately, she remembered only what was safe for her to remember.

  Fortunately, both families had agreed to exchange mutual wills naming each other as beneficiaries. Jim, a lawyer, prepared the documents which were on file, and the firm managed a trust account for the child. Their foresight relieved them of any lega
l entanglements regarding custody of the child, property, and investments. ________________________

  His clothes burned and smoldering, Egan Seamus Stone survived the blast by escaping into the forest behind the Dunne’s house. Staggering blindly through the trees, the remainders of his still-smoldering clothes trailed smoke and ash. He stumbled and lay twitching in the grass, his heart pounding, clutching at his wounds. Growling and howling like a wild animal, Stone struggled to his feet, his world one of intense pain and misery. Driven by the torment, he pushed on in a delusional attempt to outrun the agony and the evil thing that set fire to him. I’ll get even with the little beast, he told himself, over and over. No matter how long it took or what he had to do, he would find a way to make her and that bronze scarecrow pay for what they had done to him.

  As he stumbled into a neighborhood, the big man blundered in front of a garbage truck. Startled, the driver stood on the brakes, sending the cumbersome vehicle into a sideways skid. The tires screeched as it skidded to a halt inches short of flattening the smoking man.

  For a moment, the startled driver wasn’t sure of what happened or what he’d seen. His first impression was of Bigfoot stumbling in front of his truck. The sight of the smoldering creature lumbering across the road momentarily confirmed the impression. Sasquatch must have caught fire, and crossed the street right in front of him! He would have sworn on a stack of Bibles a mile high he saw Bigfoot on fire until he noticed the shoes on the creature’s feet. Last he heard, Bigfoot went barefoot, so the driver jumped from the truck to get a better look.

  What he found there staring up at the front of the big truck wasn’t Bigfoot at all. When he realized what he had nearly run over was a badly-burned man, he jumped back in the truck and radioed dispatch for help. Alarmed, Stone took off running.

  It wasn’t long before another startled driver spotted the smoldering man and called 911. Plenty of ambulances were already in the area due to the Dunne murders. One arrived within minutes and took the still-delusional Stone to Arlington General Hospital—the very same hospital treating little Valerie Dunne. However, both patients were sedated, preventing anyone from linking them. Consequently, neither of them would ever know they were in the same emergency room immediately after their first encounter.